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Volume  is  for 
ERENCE  USE  ONLY 


THE 

RIDPATH  LIBRARY 

OF  UNIVERSAL 

LITERATURE 


JOHN 

CLARK 

DPATH 


RENAISSANCE  EDITION  DE  LUXE 
rt>  QMS  -moKtaai  COPIES 


SEE  TITLE  PAGE  OF  VOLUME  I  FOR 
REGISTERED  NUMBER 


THE  M.  FREDERICK'S  COMPANY 
MINNEAPOLIS 


The  Ridpattt«r|ry  'of 
Universal  Literature 


A  Biographical  and  Bibliographical  Summary  of  the  World's  Most 

Eminent  Authors,  including  the  Choicest  Selections  and 

Masterpieces  from  their  Writings,  Comprising 

the  Best  Features  of  Many  Celebrated 

Compilations,  Notably 

®&e  &ttent&2>  Collection    W$t  3Be  $htp  Collection 

Collection 


CAREFULLY  EDITED  AND  ARRANGED  BY  A  CORPS  OF  THE 

MOST  CAPABLE  SCHOLARS 

EDITOR  IN  CHIEF 

John  Clark  Ridpath,  A.M.,  LL.D. 

Anther  of  "Ridpath's  History  of  the  United  States,"  "  Encyclopedia  of 
Universal  History/'  "  Great  Races  of  Mankind,"  etc.,  etc* 

WITH  REVISIONS  AND  ADDITIONS  BY 

WILLIAM  MONTGOMERY  CLEMENS 

Author  of  "  The  Life  of  Roosevelt,"  *  The  Life  of  Marie  Twain,"  "  The  Life  of  Kipllui."  Of  the 
Editorial  Staff  of  tue  "Encyclopedia  Americana,1'  etc. 


TWENTY-FIVE  VOLUMES 


THE   M.  FREDERICK'S  COMPANY 

MINNEAPOLIS 

1933 


KEY  TO  PRONUNCIATION 


a  as  in  fat,  man,  pang. 

a  as  in  fate,  mane,  dale. 

a  as  in  far,  father,  guard. 

a  as  in  fall,  talk. 

a  as  in  fare. 

a  as  in  errant,  republican. 

e  as  in  met,  pen,  bless. 

e  as  in  mete,  meet. 

e  as  in  her,  fern. 

i  as  in  pin,  it. 

I  as  in  pine,  fight,  file. 

o  as  in  not,  on,  frog. 

o  as  in  note,  poke,  floor. 

6  as  in  move,  spoon. 

6  as  in  nor,  song,  off. 

6  as  in  valor,  actor,  idiot. 

u  as  in  tub. 

u  as  in  mute,  acute. 

u  as  in  pulL 


ii  German  ii,  French  u. 

oi  as  in  oil,  joint,  boy. 

ou  as  in  pound,  proud. 

s  as  in  pressure. 

z  as  in  seizure. 

ch  as  in  German  ach. 

Scotch  loch, 
n  French  nasalizing  n,  as 

in  ton,  en. 
€h  as  in  then. 
H  Spanish  j. 
G  as  in  Hamburg. 

'  denotes  a  primary,  "  a 
secondary  accent.  (A  sec- 
ondary accent  is  not 
marked  if  at  its  regular 
interval  of  two  syllables 
from  the  primary,  or  from 
another  secondary.) 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  X 

PAGE 

FISKE  (fisk),  JOHN 7 

FITZGERALD   (fits  jer'  a,ld),  EDWARD n 

FITZGERALD.,   PERCY   HETHERINGTON 16 

FLAMMARION    (flamare  on),    CAMILLE 19 

FLAUBERT  (flo  bar) ,  GUSTAVE 22 

FLEMING    (flem'ing),    PAUL 26 

FLETCHER  (flech'  er),  ANDREW 31 

FLETCHER,  GILES    33 

FLETCHER,  JOHN    36 

FLETCHER,  JULIA  CONSTANCE 38 

FLETCHER,  MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY 42 

FLETCHER,  PHINEAS 45 

FLINT    (flint) ,  AUSTIN 47 

FLINT,  TIMOTHY   48 

FLORENCE  PERCY  (f lor' ens  per' si),  see  ALLEN,  ELIZA- 
BETH AKERS 

FLORENCE    WARDEN    (f lor' ens   war' den),    see    JAMES, 

FLORENCE    

FLORIAN  (flo  ryon),  JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  DE 50 

FOLLEN  (fol'  len),  ADOLF  LUDWIG 55 

FOLLEN,  CHARLES  THEODORE  CHRISTIAN 57 

FOLLEN,  ELIZA  LEE  CABOT 59 

FONBLANQUE   (fon  blangk'),  ALBANY  WILLIAM 60 

FONTENELLE  (font  nel),  BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE 68 

FONVIELLE  (fon  ve  el),  WILFRED  DE 73 

FOOTE  (fut),  MARY  HALLOCK 75 

FOOTE,   SAMUEL   78 

FORBES  (forbz),  ARCHIBALD 84 

FORBES,  EDWARD    86 

FORD    (ford),   JOHN 90 

FORD,    PAUL   LEICESTER. 94 

FORD,  RICHARD  97 

FORSTER  (fors'ter),  JOHN 99 

FORSYTH  (for  sith'),  JOSEPH 102 

iii 


iv  LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  X 

PAGE 

FORTUNE   (for' tun),  ROBERT 105 

FOSCOLO  (fos'kolo),  NICCOLO  UGO 108 

FOSDICK  (foz'  dik),  CHARLES  AUSTIN 113 

Foss,  (fos),  SAMUEL  WALTER 117 

FOSTER  (fos'  ter  or  fos'  ter),  JOHN 120 

FOSTER,  STEPHEN  COLLINS 124 

FOTHERGILL  (fot'h'  er  gil),  JESSIE 126 

FOUQUE  (fo  ka),  FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL 135 

FOURIER    (fo'rier;    Fr.    forya),    FRANCOIS    CHARLES 

MARIE    143 

FOWLER  (fou'  ler),  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT 149 

Fox  (foks),  CHARLES  JAMES 154 

Fox,  GEORGE   164 

Fox,  JOHN  WILLIAM 170 

FOXE    (foks),    JOHN 171 

FRANCE    (frofis),    ANATOLE,    see    THIBAULT,    JACQUES 

ANATOLE  

FRANCILLON  (fran'  sil  Ion),  ROBERT  EDWARD 177 

FRANCIS  DE  SALES  (fran' sis  de  salz),  SAINT i8t 

FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI  (fran'  sis  ov  as  se"  ze),  SAINT 183 

FRANCIS,  SIR  PHILIP iSS 

FRANK    FORRESTER    (frank  for' ester),    see    HERUERT, 

HENRY  WILLIAM  

FRANKLIN    (frangk'  1m) ,   BENJAMIN 194 

FRASER  (fra'zer),  JAMES  BAILLIE 213 

FRECHETTE   (frashet),   Louis  HONORE 217 

FREDERIC  (fred'  er ik),  HAROLD 221 

FREEMAN  (fre"  m^n),  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS 224 

FREEMAN,  MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS 233 

FREILIGRATH  (fri'  lig  rat),  FERDINAND 251 

FREMONT  (fremont'),  JESSIE  BENTON 262 

FREMONT,  JOHN  CHARLES 266 

FRENCH   (french),  ALICE 279 

FRENEAU  (fre  no'),  PHILIP 283 

FRERE  (frer),  JOHN  HOOKHAM 287 

FREYTAG  (frf  tag),  GUSTAV 303 

FROBEL  (fre'  bel),  FRIEDRICH  WILHELM  AUGUST 310 

FROISSART  (froi'sart;  Fr.  frwasar),  JEAN... 314 

FROTHINGHAM    (froth' ing  am),    OCTAVIUS    BROOKS 324 

FROUDE  (frod),  JAMES  ANTHONY 329 


USX  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  X  v 

PAGE 

FULLER  (ful'er),  ANDREW 344 

FULLER,  HENRY  BLAKE 349 

FULLER,  THOMAS    352 

.  FULLER-TON  (ful'er ton),  GEORGIANA  CHARLOTTE 357 

FURNESS  (fer'  nes),  HORACE  HOWARD 35^) 

FURNESS,  WILLIAM  HENRY 361 

FUSINATO  (fo  se  na'  to),  ARNOLDO 364 

G 

GABORIAU   (gaboryd),   SMILE 36; 

GAIL  HAMILTON    (gal  ham' il  ton),  see  DODGE,  MARY 

ABIGAIL  

GAIRDNER  (gard'ner),  JAMES 371 

GALDOS  (gal'  dos),  BENITO  PEREZ 375 

GALILEI  (ga le  la'  e),  GALILEO 379 

GALL   (gal),  RICHARD 385 

GALLAGHER  (gal'^ger),  WILLIAM  DAVIS 387 

GALT  (gait),  JOHN 391 

GALTON   (gal' ton),  FRANCIS 398 

GAMBOLD  (gam' bold),  JOHN 401 

GARBORG    (gar' burg),   ARNE 403 

GARCAO  (gar  san'),  PEDRO  ANTONIO  CORREA 407 

GARDINER   (gar' diner),  SAMUEL  RAWSON 410 

GARFIELD  (gar'  feld),  JAMES  ABRAM 420 

GARLAND  (gar'  l^nd),  HAMLIN 441 

GARNETT    (gar' net),   RICHARD 447 

GARRISON  (gar' i  son),  WILLIAM  LLOYD 453 

GASCOIGNE  (gas  koin'),  GEORGE 459 

GASKELL  (gas'kel),  ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN 461 

GASPARIN  (gas  pa  ran),  AG£NOR  ETIENNE  DE 468 

GASPARIN,  VALERIE  BOISSIER  DE ; 470 

GATH  (gath),  see  TOWNSEND,  GEORGE  ALFRED 

GAUDEN  (ga'den),  JOHN 47^ 

GAUTIER  (gotya),  JUDITH 475 

GAUTIER,  TH£OPHILE  482 

GAY  (ga),  JOHN : 489 

GAY,  MARIE  FRANCOIS  SOPHIE 494 

GAY,  SYDNEY  HOWARD 498 


pISKE,  JOHN,  an  American  philosopher  and  his- 
torian; born  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  March  30, 
1842;  died  at  East  Gloucester,  Mass.  July  4, 
1901.  His  name  was  originally  Edmund  Fiske  Green, 
but  he  assumed  that  of  his  maternal  great  grandfather. 
As  a  boy  he  resided  at  Middletown,  Conn.,  where  he 
studied  philosophy  and  languages,  and  was  well  ad- 
vanced in  learning  when  he  entered  college.  His  edu- 
cation was  completed  at  Harvard  University,  and  at 
the  Dane  Law  School,  from  which  he  graduated  in 
1865.  In  1869  he  was  appointed  Lecturer  on  Philoso- 
phy at  Harvard,  in  1870  Tutor  in  History,  and  in  1872 
Assistant  Librarian,  which  office  he  held  until  1879. 
He  early  determined  to  devote  his  life  to  the  study  of 
the  origin  and  progress  of  the  human  race,  especially 
along  the  lines  of  Christianity,  evolution,  and  general 
history.  His  lectures  on  American  History,  delivered 
in  Boston  in  1879,  were  repeated  by  invitation  before 
university  audiences  in  London  and  Edinburgh.  He 
published  Myths  and  Myth-makers  (1872)  ;  Outlines  of 
Cosmic  Philosophy  (1874);  The  Unseen  World 
(1876);  Darwinism  and  Other  Essays  (1879);  Ex- 
cursions of  an  Evolutionist  (1883);  The  Destiny  of 
Man  Viewed  in  the  Light  of  His  Origin  ( 1884)  I  The 


8  JOHN  FISKE 

Idea  of  God  as  Affected  by  Modern  Knowledge;  Ameri- 
can Political  Ideas  (1885);  The  Doctrine  of  Evolu- 
tion (1892);  History  of  the  United  States  (1894); 
The  War  of  Independence  (1894) ;  Old  Virginia  and 
Her  Neighbors  (1897) ;  The  Dutch  and  Quaker  Colo- 
nies in  America  (1899);  Through  Nature  to  God 
(1899)  J  New  France  and  New  England  (1901)  ;  and 
Essays  (1901). 

THE  SCIENTIFIC  MEANING  OF  THE  WORD  "FORCE/* 

In  illustration  of  the  mischief  that  has  been  wrought 
by  the  Augustinian  conception  of  Deity,  we  may  cite  the 
theological  objections  urged  against  the  Newtonian  theory 
of  gravitation  and  the  Darwinian  theory  of  natural  selec- 
tion. Leibnitz,  who,  as  a  mathematician  but  little  in- 
ferior to  Newton  himself,  might  have  been  expected  to 
be  easily  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  theory  of  gravita- 
tion, was  nevertheless  deterred  by  theological  scruples 
from  accepting  it.  It  appeared  to  him  that  it  substituted 
the  action  of  physical  forces  for  the  direct  action  of  the 
Deity.  Now  the  fallacy  of  this  argument  of  Leibnitz  is 
easy  to  detect.  It  lies  in  a  metaphysical  misconception 
of  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  force/'  "  Force "  is  im- 
plicitly regarded  as  a  sort  of  entity  or  daemon  which  has 
a  mode  of  action  distinguishable  from  that  of  Deity; 
otherwise  it  is  meaningless  to  speak  of  substituting  one 
for  the  other.  But  such  a  personification  of  w  force  "  is 
a  remnant  of  barbaric  thought,  in  no  wise  sanctioned  by 
physical  science.  When  astronomy  speaks  of  two  planets 
as  attracting  each  other  with  a  "force"  which  varies 
directly  as  their  masses  and  inversely  as  the  square  of 
their  distances  apart,  it  simply  uses  the  phrase  as  a  con- 
venient metaphor  by  which  to  describe  the  manner  in 
which  the  observed  movements  of  the  two  bodies  occur. 
It  explains  that  in  presence  ol  each  other  the  two  bodies 
are  observed  to  change  their  positions  in  a  certain  speci- 
fied way,  and  this  is  all  that  it  means.  This  is  all  that 
a  strictly  scientific  hypothesis  can  possibly  allege,  and  this 
is  all  that  observation  can  possibly  prove. 


JOHN  FISKE  g 

Whatever  goes  beyond  this,  and  imagines  or  asserts 
a  kind  of  "  pull "  between  the  two  bodies,  is  not  science, 
but  metaphysics.  An  atheistic  metaphysician  may  imagine 
such  a  "  pull,"  and  may  interpret  it  as  the  action  of  some- 
thing that  is  not  Deity,  but  such  a  conclusion  can  find  no 
support  in  the  scientific  theorem,  which  is  simply  a  gen- 
eralized description  of  phenomena.  The  general  consid- 
erations upon  which  the  belief  in  the  existence  and  direct 
action  of  Deity  is  otherwise  founded  are  in  no  wise  dis- 
turbed by  the  establishment  of  any  such  scientific  theorem. 
We  are  still  perfectly  free  to  maintain  that  it  is  the  direct 
action  of  Deity  which  is  manifested  in  the  planetary 
movements;  having  done  nothing  more  with  our  New- 
tonian hypothesis  than  to  construct  a  happy  formula  for 
expressing  the  mode  or  order  of  the  manifestation.  We 
may  have  learned  something  new  concerning  the  manner 
of  divine  action;  we  certainly  have  not  "substituted" 
any  other  kind  of  action  for  it.  And  what  is  thus  obvious 
in  this  simple  astronomical  example  is  equally  true  in 
principle  in  every  case  whatever  in  which  one  set  of  phe- 
nomena is  interpreted  by  reference  to  another  set.  In  no 
case  whatever  can  science  use  the  words  "force"  or 
"  cause  "  except  as  metaphorically  descriptive  of  some  ob- 
served or  observable  sequence  of  phenomena.  And  con- 
sequently at  no  imaginable  future  time,  so  long  as  the 
essential  conditions  of  human  thinking  are  maintained, 
can  science  even  attempt  to  substitute  the  action  of  any 
other  power  for  the  direct  action  of  Deity. —  The  Idea 
of  God. 

THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  settlement  of  New  England  by  the  Puritans  occu- 
pies a  peculiar  position  in  the  annals  of  colonization,  and 
without  understanding  this  we  cannot  properly  appre- 
ciate the  character  of  the  purely  democratic  society  which 
I  have  sought  to  describe.  As  a  general  rule  colonies 
have  been  founded,  either  by  governments  or  by  private 
enterprise,  for  political  or  commercial  reasons.  The  aim 
has  been  —  on  the  part  of  governments  —  to  annoy  some 
rival  power,  or  to  get  rid  of  criminals,  or  to  open  some 


io  JOHN  FISKE 

new  avenue  of  trade;  or,  on  the  part  of  the  people,  to 
escape  from  straitened  circumstances  at  home,  or  to  find 
a  refuge  from  religious  persecution.  In  the  settlement  of 
New  England  none  of  these  motives  were  operative 
except  the  last,  and  that  only  to  a  slight  extent  The 
Puritans  who  fled  from  Nottinghamshire  to  Holland  in 
1608,  and  twelve  years  afterward  crossed  the  ocean  in  the 
Mayflower,  may  be  said  to  have  been  driven  from  Eng- 
land by  persecution.  But  this  was  not  the  case  with  the 
Puritans  who  between  1630  and  1650  went  from  Lincoln- 
shire, Norfolk,  and  Suffolk,  and  from  Dorset  and  Devon- 
shire, and  founded  the  colonies  of  Massachusetts  and 
Connecticut.  These  men  left  their  homes  at  a  time  when 
Puritanism  was  waxing  powerful  and  could  not  be  as- 
sailed with  impunity.  They  belonged  to  the  upper  and 
middle  classes  of  the  society  of  that  day,  outside  of  the 
peerage. 

Mr.  Freeman  has  pointed  out  the  importance  of  the 
change  by  which,  after  the  Norman  Conquest,  the  Old- 
English  nobility  or  thegnhood  was  pushed  down  into  "  a 
secondary  place  in  the  political  and  social  scale."  Of 
the  far-reaching  effects  of  this  change  upon  the  whole 
subsequent  history  of  the  English  race  I  shall  hereafter 
have  occasion  to  speak.  The  proximate  effect  was  that 
"  the  ancient  lords  of  the  soil,  thus  thrust  down  into  the 
second  rank,  formed  that  great  body  of  freeholders,  the 
stout  gentry  and  yeomanry  of  England,  who  were  for  so 
many  ages  the  strength  of  the  land."  It  was  from  this 
ancient  thegnhood  that  the  Puritan  settlers  of  New  Eng- 
land were  mainly  descended.  The  leaders  of  the  New 
England  emigration  were  country  gentlemen  of  good  for- 
tune, similar  in  position  to  such  men  as  Hampden  and 
Cromwell;  a  large  proportion  of  them  had  taken  degrees 
at  Cambridge.  The  rank  and  file  were  mostly  intelligent 
and  prosperous  yeomen.  The  lowest  ranks  of  society 
were  not  represented  in  the  emigration.  To  an  extent 
unparalleled,  therefore,  in  the  annals  of  colonization,  the 
settlers  of  New  England  were  a  body  of  picked  men. 
Their  Puritanism  was  the  natural  outcome  of  their  free- 
thinking,  combined  with  an  earnestness  of  character 
which  could  constrain  them  to  any  sacrifices  needful  for 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  n 

realizing  their  high  ideal  of  life.  They  gave  up  pleasant 
homes  in  England,  with  no  feeling  of  rancor  toward 
their  native  land,  in  order  that  they  might  establish  in 
the  American  wilderness  what  should  approve  itself  to 
their  judgment  as  a  God-fearing  community.  In  the 
unflinching  adherence  to  duty  which  prompted  their  enter- 
prise, and  in  the  sober  intelligence  with  which  it  was 
carried  out,  we  have,  as  I  said  before,  the  key  to  what 
is  best  in  the  history  of  the  American  people. —  American 
Political  Ideas. 


pITZGERALD,  EDWARD,  an  English  poet  and 
translator;  born  at  Bredfield  House,  near 
Woodbridge,  Suffolk,  March  31,  1809;  died 
at  Merton,  Norfolk,  June  14,  1883.  His  father,  John 
Purcell,  took  his  wife's  family  name  on  her  father's 
death  in  1818.  In  1816  the  family  went  to  France, 
and  lived  for  a  time  at  St.  Germains,  and  afterward  in 
Paris.  In  1821  Edward  was  sent  to  King  Edward 
VI.'s  School  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  where  James  Sped- 
ding,  W.  B.  Donne,  and  J.  M.  Kemble  were  among  his 
school-fellows.  He  went  up  to  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, in  October,  1826,  where  Spedding  joined  him 
the  next  year,  and  where  he  formed  fast  friendships 
with  Thackeray,  W.  H.  Thompson,  afterward  Master 
of  Trinity,  and  John  Allen,  afterward  Archdeacon  of 
Salop.  He  took  his  degree  in  January,  1830.  His 
father's  family  resided  at  Wherstead  Lodge,  near  Ips- 
wich, from  1825  to  1835,  and  subsequently  at  Boulge 
Hall.  His  life  at  this  time  was  a  quiet  round  of  read- 
ing and  gardening,  occasionally  broken  by  visits  to  or 
from  friends.  His  chief  friends  in  the  neighborhood 
were  the  Rev.  G.  Crabbe,  the  son  of  the  poet,  and  vicar 


12  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

of  Bredfield;  Archdeacon  Groome,  and  Bernard  Bar- 
ton, the  Quaker-poet  of  Woodbridge,  whose  daughter 
he  afterward  married.    Every  spring  he  used  to  make  a 
long  visit  to  London  to  see  his  friends.    There  he  con- 
stantly met  Donne,  Spedding,  and  Thackeray,  and  was 
a  frequent  visitor  at  Carlyle's  house.    Lord  Tennyson 
and  his  brother  Frederick  had  been  his  contemporaries 
at  college,  but  it  was  in  London  that  they  became  inti- 
mate; how  fast  the  friendship  was  is  best  shown  by 
Lord  Tennyson's  dedication  of  Tiresias.    His  great1 
outdoor  amusement  was  yachting;  and  every  summer  < 
was  spent  cruising  about  the  Suffolk  coast,  especially 
near  Lowestoft  and  Aldeburg,  the  latter  locality  be- 
ing of  great  interest  to  him  as  associated  with  the 
poems  of  his  favorite,  Crabbe.    He  enjoyed  the  rough, 
honest  ways  of  the  sailors  and  fishermen ;  and  he  liked 
to  collect  their  peculiar  words  and  phrases.    But  he , 
could  not  escape  "  the  browner  shade  "  which  Gibbon 
ascribes  to  the  evening  of  life,  and  the  sea  gradually 
lost  its  charm ;  one  old  sailor  died,  and  another  griev- 
ously disappointed  him;  and  he  at  last  gave  up  the 
yacht  for  his  garden,  where  his  favorite  walk  was  the 
"  Quarterdeck."  > 

Fitzgerald's  literary  fame  rests  upon  his  translation  ( 
of  the  Rubdiydt  of  Omar  KhayySm  (q.v.)  which  he 
published  in  1859.  All  his  writings  were  produced  con" 
amore;  so  that' a  fair  estimate  of  his  literary  tastes  may 
be  gathered  from  his  publications;  which  included 
Euphranor,  a  dialogue  on  youth;  Polonius  (1852)  ;  a 
translation  of  Calderon's  Plays  (1853);  a  version  of 
the  Persian  Jami's  Saldmdnand  Absdl  (1856) ;  the 
Rubdiydt,  already  mentioned;  besides  other  transla- 
tions, and  a  selection  from  the  writings  of  his  Quaker 
father-in-law.  His  Letters  and  Literary  Remains, 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  13 

edited  by  W.  Aldis  Wright,  were  brought  out  six  years 
after  his  death. 

Concerning  his  translations,  it  has  been  well  said 
by  a  recent  critic,  that  "  he  possessed  to  an  extraordi- 
nary degree  the  power  of  reproducing  on  his  reader  the 
effect  of  the  original;  and,  though  the  original  ideas 
are  often  altered,  condensed,  and  transposed  in  an  ap- 
parently reckless  manner,  these  lawless  alterations  and 
substitutions  are  like  those  in  Dryden,  and  they  all  tell ; 
the  translator  becomes  the  '  alter '  and  not  the  '  dimi- 
diatus  Menander/  " 

The  Edinburgh  Review,  speaking  more  particularly 
of  his  Letters,  calls  him  "  one  of  the  casuals  of  litera- 
ture ; "  and  goes  on  to  say  that  "  he  had  no  desire,  in 
his  own  opinion,  no  capacity,  for  achievement.  His 
special  endowment  he  considered  to  be  taste — 'the 
feminine  of  genius ; '  and  he  felt  entitled  by  this  com- 
fortable theory  to  take  his  ease  as  a  privileged  onlooker 
with  no  corresponding  duties  of  performance.  Stroll- 
ing through  life,  so  to  speak,  with  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  unpremedi- 
tatedly,  and  against  all  reasonable  expectation,  did  just 
one  or  two  things  supremely  well." 

CARLYLE. 

I  suppose  he  is  changed,  or  subdued,  at  eighty;  but  up 
to  the  last  ten  years  he  seemed  to  me  iust  the  same  as 
,when  I  first  knew  him  five-and-thirty  years  ago.  What 
a  fortune  he  might  have  made  by  showing  himself  about 
as  a  lecturer,  as  Thackeray  and  Dickens  did;  I  don't 
mean  they  did  it  for  vanity,  but  to  make  money,  and 
that  to  spend  generously.  Carlyle  did  indeed  lecture  near 
forty  years  ago,  before  he  was  a  lion  to  be  shown,  and 
when  he  had  but  few  readers.  I  heard  his  Heroes,  which 
pow  seems  to  me  one  of  his  best  books.  He  looked  very 


I4  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

handsome  then,  with  his  black  hair,  fine  eyes,  and  a  sort 
of  crucified  expression.— From  Letter  to  Professor  Nor- 
ton, of  Harvard. 

APOLOGIA. 

All  I  can  say  is  to  say  again  that,  if  you  lived  in  this 
place,  you  would  not  write  so  long  a  letter  as  you  have 
done;  though,  without  any  compliment,  I  am  sure  you 
would  write  a  better  than  I  shall.  But  you  see  the  orig- 
inal fault  in  me  is  that  I  choose  to  be  in  such  a  place  as 
this  at  all;  that  argues  certainly  a  talent  for  dulness 
which  no  situation  nor  intercourse  of  men  could  much 
improve.  It  is  true;  I  really  do  like  to  sit  in  this  doleful 
place  with  a  good  fire,  a  cat  and  a  dog  on  the  rug,  and 
an  old  woman  in  the  kitchen.  This  is  all  my  live-stock. 
The  house  is  yet  damp,  as  last  year;  and  the  great  event 
of  this  winter  is  my  putting  up  a  trough  round  the  eaves 
to  carry  off  the  wet  Why  should  I  not  live  in  London 
and  see  the  world,  you  say?  Why,  then,  I  say  as  before, 
I  don't  like  it.  I  think  the  dulness  of  country  people  is 
better  than  the  impudence  of  Londoners;  and  the  fresh 
cold  and  wet  of  our  clay  fields  better  than  a  fog  that 
stinks  per  se;  and  this  room  of  mine,  clean  at  all  events, 
better  than  a  dirty  room  in  Charlotte  Street. —  From  a 
Letter  to  Frederic  Tennyson. 

HIS  WORK  IN  PERSIAN  LITERATURE. 

To-day  I  have  been  writing  twenty  pages  of  a  metrical 
Sketch  of  the  Mantic,  for  such  uses  as  I  told  you  of.  It 
is  an  amusement  to  me  to  take  what  liberties  I  like  with 
these  Persians,  who  (as  I  think)  are  not  poets  enough  to 
frighten  one  from  such  excursions,  and  who  really  do 
want  a  little  art  to  shapen  them.  I  don't  speak  of  Jela- 
leddin,  whom  I  know  so  little  of  (enough  to  show  me  that 
he  is  no  great  artist,  however),  nor  of  Hafiz,  whose  best 
is  untranslatable  because  he  is  the  best  musician  of  words. 
Old  Johnson  said  the  poets  were  the  best  preservers  of  a 
language:  for  people  must  go  to  the  original  to  relish 
them.  I  am  sure  that  what  Tennyson  said  to  you  is  true : 
that  Hafiz  is  the  most  Eastern  —  or,  he  should  have  said, 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  15 

most  Persian  —  of  the  Persians.  He  is  the  best  repre- 
sentative of  their  character,  whether  his  Saki  and  wine 
be  real  or  mystical.  Their  religion  and  philosophy  is 
soon  seen  through,  and  always  seem  to  me  cuckooed  over 
like  a  borrowed  thing,  which  people,  once  having  got, 
don't  know  how  to  parade  enough.  To  be  sure,  their 
roses  and  nightingales  are  repeated  enough;  but  Hafiz 
and  old  Omar  Khayyam  ring  like  true  metal.  The  phi- 
losophy of  the  latter  is,  alas !  one  that  never  fails  in  the 
world. —  From  a  Letter  to  Mr.  CowelL 

SALAMAN   AND  ABSAL. 

When  they  had  sail'd  their  vessel  for  a  moon, 
And  marr'd  their  beauty  with  the  wind  o*  the  sea/ 
Suddenly  in  mid  sea  reveal'd  itself 
An  isle,  beyond  imagination  fair; 
An  isle  that  was  all  garden ;  not  a  flower 
Nor  bird  of  plumage  like  the  flower,  but  there; 
Some  like  the  flower,  and  others  like  the  leaf; 
Some,  as  the  pheasant  and  the  dove,  adorn'd 
With  crown  and  collar,  over  whom,  alone, 
The  jeweird  peacock  like  a  sultan  shone; 
While  the  musicians,  and  among  them  chief 
The  nightingale,  sang  hidden  in  the  trees, 
Which,  arm  in  arm,  from  fingers  quivering 
With  any  breath  of  air,  fruit  of  all  kind 
Down  scattered  in  profusion  to  their  feet, 
Where  fountains  of  sweet  water  ran  between, 
And  sun  and  shadow  chequer-chased  the  green, 
This  Iran-garden  seem'd  in  secrecy 
Blowing  the  rosebud  of  its  revelation; 
Or  Paradise,  forgetful  of  the  dawn 
Of  Audit,  lifted  from  her  face  the  veil. 

LOVE  AND  FATE. 

O,  if  the  world  were  but  to  re-create, 

That  we  might  catch,  ere  closed,  the  Book  of  Fate, 

And  make  the  writer  on  a  fairer  leaf 
Inscribe  our  names,  or  quite  obliterate ! 


i6         PERCY  HETHERINGTON  FITZGERALD 

Better,  O  better  cancel  from  the  scroll 
Of  universe  one  luckless  human  soul, 

Than  drop  by  drop  enlarge  the  flood  that  rolls 
Hoarser  with  anguish  as  the  ages  roll. 

Ah  love !  could  you  and  I  with  fate  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  scheme  of  things  entire, 

Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits,  and  then 
Remould  it  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire ! 

But  see !  the  rising  moon  of  heaven  again 

Looks  for  us,  sweetheart,  through  the  quivering  plane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  will  she  look 
Among  those  leaves  —  for  one  of  us  in  vain ! 

And  when  yourself  with  silver  foot  shall  pass 
Among  the  guests  star-scattered  on  the  grass, 

And  in  your  joyous  errant  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  one  —  turn  down  an  empty  glass ! 

—  From  Omar  Kliayydm. 


pITZGERALD,  PERCY  HETHERINGTON,  an  Irish 
novelist  and  biographer ;  born  at  Fane  Valley, 
County  Louth,  in  1834.  He  was  educated  at 
Stonyhurst,  Lancashire,  and  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
was  admitted  to  the  Irish  bar,  and  was  appointed 
Crown  Prosecutor  on  the  Northeastern  Circuit* 
Among  his  works  are  Never  Forgotten;  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tillotson;  The  Bridge  of  Sighs;  Bella  Donna; 
Polly;  The  Sword  of  Damocles;  The  Kight  Mail; 
Diana  Gay;  The  Life  of  Sterne;  The  Life  of  Garrick; 
Charles  Townshend;  A  Famous  Forgery,  being  the 
life  of  Dr.  Dodd;  Charles  Lamb;  Principles  of  Com- 
edy; Pictures  of  School  Life  and  Boyhood;  The  Kcm- 


PERCY  HETHERINGTON  FITZGERALD          17 

bles;  Life  and  Adventures  of  Alexandre  Dumas;  The 
Romance  of  the  English  Stage;  Life  of  George  IV.; 
The  World  Behind  the  Scenes;  A  New  History  of 
the  English  Stage;  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Man; 
The  Royal  Dukes  and  Princesses  of  the  Family  of 
George  III.;  The  Recreations  of  a  Literary  Man; 
Kings  and  Queens  of  an  Hour;  Records  of  Love, 
'Romance,  Oddity,  and  Adventure;  Lives  of  the  Sher- 
idans;  The  Book-Fancier;  Chronicles  of  Bo^<u  Street; 
Henry  Irving,  or  Twenty  Years  at  the  Lyceum;  Pic- 
turesque London;  and  Fifty  Years  of  Catholic  Life 
and  Progress  (1901). 

GOLDSMITH'S  COMEDY. 

That  delightful  comedy,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  would 
indeed  deserve  a  volume,  and  is  the  best  specimen  of 
what  an  English  comedy  should  be.  It  illustrates  ex- 
cellently what  has  been  said  as  to  the  necessity  of  the 
plot  depending  on  the  characters,  rather  than  the  char- 
acters depending  on  the  plot,  as  the  fashion  is  at  pres- 
ent. How  would  our  modern  playwright  have  gone  to 
work,  should  he  have  lighted  on  this  good  subject  for  a 
piece  —  that  of  a  gentleman's  house  being  taken  for  an 
inn,  and  the  mistakes  it  might  give  rise  to?  He  would 
have  an  irascible  old  proprietor  who  would  be  thrown 
into  contortions  of  fury  by  the  insults  he  was  receiving; 
visitors  free  and  easy,  pulling  the  furniture  about,  ran- 
sacking the  wardrobes,  with  other  farcical  pranks,  such 
as  would  betray  that  they  were  not  gentlemen,  or  such 
as  guests  at  an  inn  would  never  dream  of  doing.  But 
farce  would  be  got  out  of  it  somehow.  .  .  . 

Very  different  were  the  principles  of  Goldsmith.  He 
had  this  slight  shred  of  a  plot  to  start  with;  but  it  was 
conceived  at  the  same  moment  with  the  character  of 
Marlow  —  the  delicacy  and  art  of  which  conception  is  be- 
yond description.  It  was  the  character  of  all  others  to 
bring  out  the  farce  and  humor  of  the  situation,  viz.,  a 
character  with  its  two  sides  —  one  that  was  forward  and 
VOL.  X.— 2 


i8         PERCY  HETHERINGTON  FITZGERALD 

impudent  with  persons  of  the  class  he  believed  his  hosts 
to  belong  to,  but  liable  at  any  crisis,  on  the  discovery  of 
the  mistake,  to  be  reduced  to  an  almost  pitiable  state  of 
shyness  and  confusion.  It  is  the  consciousness  that 
this  change  is  in  petto  at  any  moment  —  that  the  cool 
town  man  may  be  hoisted  in  a  second  on  this  petard  — 
that  makes  all  so  piquant  for  the  spectator.  To  make 
Marlow  a  mere  exquisite  would  have  furnished  a  con- 
ventional dramatic  contrast;  but  the  addition  of  bash- 
fulness —  and  of  bashfulness  after  this  artistic  view  — 
more  than  doubles  the  dramatic  force.  A  further 
strengthening  was  the  letting  his  friend  into  the  secret; 
so  that  this  delightfully  self-sufficient  creature  is  the 
only  one  of  all  concerned  —  including  audience  —  who  is 
unaware  of  his  situation.  .  .  . 

One  could  write  on  and  on  in  praise  of  this  delicious 
comedy.  What  was  before  Goldsmith's  mind  was  the 
local  color,  as  background  for  Marlow  —  the  picture  of 
the  old  country-house  and  its  old-fashioned  tenants,  its 
regular  types  of  character,  as  full  and  round  as  the  por- 
traits on  the  wall.  Then  there  is  the  artful  contrast  of 
the  characters,  every  figure  in  it  separate,  distinct,  alive, 
colored,  round,  and  to  be  thought  of,  positively,  like  peo- 
ple we  have  known.  Young  Marlow,  and  Tony  Lump- 
kin —  Old  Hardcastle,  and  Diggory,  and  Mrs.  Hard- 
castle —  these  are  things  to  be  recalled  hereafter,  from 
being  framed  in  an  admirable  setting  at  a  theatre  in  this 
metropolis,  where  the  background,  the  atmosphere,  the 
scenery,  and  dress,  is  like  a  series  of  pictures,  and  helps 
us  over  many  shortcomings  in  the  play.  With  excellent 
playing  in  one  leading  character,  Tony,  it  haunts  the 
memory  as  something  enjoyable;  and,  to  one  who  goes 
round  the  playhouses,  it  is  as  though  he  had  been  stop- 
ping at  'some  cheerful  country-house  from  which  he  was 
loth  to  depart.  .  .  . 

What  a  play!  we  never  tire  of  it  How  rich  in  sit- 
uations, each  the  substance  of  a  whole  play!  At  the 
very  first  sentence  the  stream  of  humor  begins  to  flow, 
Mrs.  Hardcastle's  expostulation  against  being  kept  in 
the  country,  and  her  husband's  grumbling  defence;  the 
alehouse,  and  the  contrast  of  the  genteel  travellers 


CAMIUUE  FLAMMARION. 


CAMILLE  FLAMMARION  19 

misdirected;  the-  drilling  of  the  servants  by  Hardcastle; 
the  matchless  scene  between  Marlow,  his  friend,  and 
the  supposed  landlord;  the  interrupted  story  of  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough,  unrivaled  in  any  comedy;  the  scene 
between  the  shy  Marlow  and  Miss  Hardcastle;  Hast- 
ing's  compliments  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle;  the  episode  of  the 
jewels;  Marlow's  taking  Miss  Hardcastle  for  the  bar- 
maid; the  drunken  servant,  and  Hardcastle's  fairly  losing 
all  patience;  and  the  delightful  and  airily  delicate  com- 
plications as  to  Marlow's  denial  of  having  paid  any  at- 
tentions; the  puzzle  of  his  father;  the  enjoyment  of  the 
daughter,  who  shares  the  secret  with  the  audience  — 
all  this  makes  up  an  innumerable  series  of  exquisite  situ- 
ations, yet  all  flowing  from  that  one  simple  motif  of  the 
play  —  the  mistaking  a  house  for  an  inn!  Matchless 
piece!  with  nothing  forced,  nothing  strained,  everything 
natural  and  easy.  "  Gay "  would  be  the  word  to  de- 
scribe it.  We  regret  when  it  is  over,  and  look  back  to 
it  with  delight. — Principles  of  Comedy  and  Dramatic 
Effect. 


pLAMMARION,  CAMILLE,  a  French  astron- 
omer and  novelist;  born  at  Montigny-le-Roi, 
Haute-Marne,  February  25,  1842.  He  was 
educated  in  the  ecclesiastical  seminary  of  Langres, 
and  at  Paris,  and  studied  in  the  Imperial  Observatory 
for  four  years.  In  1862  he  became  editor  of  the 
Cosmos,  and  in  1865  scientific  editor  of  the  Siecle. 
He  is  the  author  of  La  Pluralite  des  Mondes  Habites 
and  Les  Habitans  de  I'autre  Monde  (1862)  ;  Les 
Monde  Imaginaires  et  les  Mondes  Reels  (1864)  ;  Les 
Merveilles  Celestes,  translated  under  the  title  of  Won- 
ders of  the  Heavens  (1865);  Dieu  dans  la  Nature 
(1866) ;  Contemplations  Scientifiques  and  Voyages 
Aeriens  (1868);  Lumen  (1872);  Ly  Atmosphere 


20  CAMILLE  FLAMMAR10N 

(1872) ;  Histoire  d'un  Planete  (1873) ;  Lcs  Torres  du 
del  (1876);  Histoire  du  del  (1877);  L'Astronomie 
Populaire  (1880) ;  Dans  le  del  et  sur  la  Terre  (1886)  ; 
Uranie  (1889) ;  Qu'est-ce  que  le  del  (1891)  ;  and  La 
Planete  Mars  et  ses  Conditions  d'Habitabilite  (1893). 
In  1868  Flammarion  made  several  balloon  ascents  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining  the  condition  of  the  at- 
mosphere at  great  altitudes.  In  1882  he  founded 
U  Astronomic,  a  monthly  review.  Stella,  a  romance 
of  love  and  astronomy,  published  in  a  Xew  York 
newspaper  in  1897,  was  credited  to  his  pen. 

Gubernatis  speaks  of  Flammarion  as  "  an  illustrious 
astronomer  and  a  brilliant  writer ; "  and  after  refer- 
ring to  his  personal  qualities  and  the  honors  heaped 
upon  him,  says :  "But  his  glory  is  in  having  elevated 
the  philosophy  of  astronomy,  and  in  having  in  every 
way  popularized  it  with  superior  intelligence  and  un- 
limited devotion." 

INFINITE    SPACE. 

There  are  truths  before  which  human  thought  feels 
itself  humiliated  and  perplexed,  which  it  contemplates 
with  fear,  and  without  power  to  face  them,  although  it 
understands  their  existence  and  necessity;  such  are  those 
of  the  infinity  of  space  and  eternity  of  duration.  Im- 
possible to  define  —  for  all  definition  could  only  darken 
the  first  idea  which  is  in  us  —  these  truths  command  and 
rule  us.  To  try  to  explain  them  would  be  a  barren  hope; 
it  suffices  to  keep  them  before  our  attention  in  order 
that  they  may  reveal  to  us,  at  every  instant,  the  im- 
mensity of  their  value.  A  thousand  definitions  have 
been  given;  we  will,  however,  neither  quote  nor  recall 
one  of  them.  But  we  wish  to  open  space  before  us,  and 
employ  ourselves  there  in  trying  to  penetrate  its  depth. 
The  velocity  of  a  cannon-ball  from  the  mouth  of  the- 
cannon  makes  swift  way,  437  yards  per  second.  But 
this  would  be  still  tpo  slow  for  our  journey  through 


CAMILLB  FLAMMARION  21 

space,  as  our  velocity  would  scarcely  be  900  miles  an 
hour.  This  is  too  little.  In  nature  there  are  movements 
incomparably  more  rapid:  for  instance,  the  velocity  of 
light.  This  velocity  is  186,000  miles  per  second.  This 
will  do  better;  thus  we  will  take  this  means  of  transport. 
Allow  me,  then,  by  a  figure  of  speech,  to  tell  you  that  we 
will  place  ourselves  on  a  ray  of  light,  and  be  carried  away 
on  its  rapid  course. 

Taking  the  earth  as  our  starting-point  we  will  go  in  a 
straight  line  to  any  point  in  the  heavens.  We  start.  At 
the  end  of  the  first  second  we  have  already  traversed 
186,000  miles ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  second,  372,000.  We 
continue:  Ten  seconds,  a  minute,  ten  minutes  have 
elapsed  — 111,600,000  miles  have  been  passed.  Passing, 
during  an  hour,  a  day,  a  week  without  even  slacking 
our  pace,  during  whole  months,  and  even  a  year,  the  time 
which  we  have  traversed  is  already  so  long  that,  ex- 
pressed in  miles,  the  number  of  measurement  exceeds  our 
faculty  of  comprehension,  and  indicates  nothing  to  our 
mind;  there  would  be  trillions,  and  millions  of  millions. 
But  we  will  not  interrupt  our  flight.  Carried  on  without 
stopping  by  this  same  rapidity  of  186,000  miles  each  sec- 
ond, let  us  penetrate  the  expanse  in  a  straight  line  for 
whole  years,  fifty  years,  even  a  century.  .  .  .  Where 
are  we?  For  a  long  time  we  have  gone  far  beyond  the 
last  starry  regions  which  are  seen  from  the  earth  —  the 
last  that  the  telescope  has  visited.  No  mind  is  capable  of 
following  the  road  passed  over;  thousands  of  millions 
joined  to  thousands  of  millions  express  nothing.  At  the 
sight  of  this  prodigious  expanse  the  imagination  is  ar- 
rested, humbled.  Well !  this  is  the  wonderful  point  of 
the  problem:  we  have  not  advanced  a  single  step  in 
space.  We  are  no  nearer  a  limit  than  if  we  had  re- 
mained in  the  same  place.  We  should  be  able  again  to 
begin  the  same  course  starting  from  the  point  where  we 
are,  and  add  to  our  voyage  a  voyage  of  the  same  extent; 
we  should  be  able  to  join  centuries  on  centuries  in  the 
same  itinerary,  with  the  same  velocity,  to  continue  the 
voyage  without  end  and  without  rest,  and  when,  after 
centuries  employed  in  this  giddy  course,  we  should  stop 
ourselves,  fascinated,  or  in  despair  before  the  immensity 


22  GU STAVE  FLAUBERT 

eternally  open,  eternally  renewed,  we  should  again  under- 
stand that  our  secular  flights  had  not  measured  for  us 
the  smallest  part  of  space,  and  that  we  were  not  more 
advanced  than  at  our  starting-point.  In  truth  it  is  the 
infinite  which  surrounds  us,  as  we  before  expressed  it, 
or  the  infinite  number  of  worlds. 

Hence  it  follows  that  all  our  ideas  on  space  have  but  a 
purely  relative  value.  When  we  say,  for  instance,  to 
ascend  to  the  sky,  to  descend  under  the  earth,  these  ex- 
pressions are  false  in  themselves,  for  being  situated  in 
the  bosom  of  the  infinite,  we  can  neither  ascend  nor  de- 
scend; there  is  no  above  or  bel'ow;  these  words  have 
only  an  acceptation  relative  to  the  terrestrial  surface  on 
which  we  live.  The  universe  must,  therefore,  be  repre- 
sented as  an  expanse  without  limits.  Neither  dome  nor 
vaults,  nor  limits  of  any  kind;  void  in  every  direction, 
and  in  this  void  an  immense  number  of  worlds,  which  we 
will  soon  describe.  —  Wonders  of  the  Heavens. 


pLAUBERT,  GUSTAVE,  a  French  novelist ;  born 
at  Rouen,  December  12,  1821 ;  died  at  Croisset, 
near  Rouen,  May  8,  1880.  His  father  was 
Chief  Surgeon  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  in  Rouen.  His 
brother  also  was  a  physician,  and  he  himself  studied 
medicine,  which  he  relinquished  for  literature.  In 
1849  lie  sct  out  on  a  journey  through  Northern  Africa, 
Asia  Minor,  Syria,  and  Southern  Europe.  During 
his  travels  he  studied  enthusiastically  all  that  related 
to  the  past  in  the  countries  he  visited.  On  his  return 
to  France  he  engaged  in  authorship.  His  first  pub- 
lication was  a  novel,  Madame  Bovary,  which  appeared 
in  the  Revue  de  Paris,  in  1857.  A  writer  in  the 
London  Academy  said  in  1904:  "It  may  he  worth 
while  to  mention  that  the  story  of  Mme.  Bovary  is  a 


GU STAVE  FLAUBERT  23 

true  story,  and  that  all  its  leading  characters  are  pho- 
tographically copied  from  living  originals.  The  orig- 
inal Charles  Bovary  was  a  wooden-headed  youth 
whom  Flaubert's  father  helped  to  pass  his  medical 
examinations.  The  original  Emma  was  a  Delphine  D., 
the  belle  of  certain  assembly  room  balls  in  Normandy, 
and  a  great  reader  of  novels  from  the  circulating 
libraries.  Her  dramatic  death  occurred  exactly  as 
Flaubert  describes  it,  on  March  8,  1848.  There  re- 
mains of  her  grave  only  a  fragment  of  stone  over- 
grown with  moss,  on  which  her  name  can  with  diffi- 
culty be  read  and  the  inscription  "  Priez  Dieu  pour  le 
repos  de  son  ame." 

In  1858  Flaubert  went  to  Tunis,  and  then  to  the 
ruins  of  Carthage,  where  he  remained  for  a  long  time. 
This  journey  resulted  in  the  production  of  the  author's 
greatest  work,  Salammbo,  published  in  1862,  and 
which  has  been  called  the  "  resurrection  of  Carthage." 
It  is  founded  upon  the  revolt,  tinder  Spendius,  of  the 
Barbarian  followers  of  Hamilcar  Barca,  after  the  first 
Punic  war,  their  siege  of  Carthage,  and  their  terrible 
punishment.  The  heroine  of  the  tale  is  Salammbo, 
the  daughter  of  Hamilcar,  whose  story  has  been 
grafted  by  the  author  on  the  historical  foundation. 
Among  Flaubert's  other  works  are  Sentimental  Edu- 
cation (1869) ;  The  Temptation  of  St.  Anthony 
(1874)  ;  Herodias;  St.  Julian  the  Hospitaller  and  A 
Simple  Heart  (1877),  and  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet 
(1880),  completed  a  few  weeks  before  the  author's 
death. 

UNDER  THE  WALLS  OF  CARTHAGE. 

From  the  surrounding  country  the  people,  mounted 
on  asses,  or  running  on  foot,  pale,  breathless,  wild 


24  GU STAVE  FLAUBERT 

with  fear,  came  rushing  into  the  city.  They  were  flying 
before  the  Barbarian  army,  which,  within  three  days, 
had  traversed  the  road  from  Sicca,  bent  on  falling  upon 
and  exterminating  Carthage.  Almost  as  soon  as  the 
citizens  closed  the  gates,  the  Barbarians  were  descried, 
but  they  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  isthmus  on  the  lake 
shore.  At  first  they  made  no  sign  whatever  of  hostility. 
Many  approached  with  palms  in  their  hands,  only  to  be 
repulsed  by  the  arrows  of  the  Carthaginians,  so  intense 
was  the  terror  prevailing  throughout  the  city.  During 
the  early  morning  and  at  nightfall  stragglers  prowled 
along  the  walls,  A  small  man  carefully  enveloped  in  a 
mantle,  with  his  face  concealed  under  a  very  low  visor, 
was  specially  noticeable.  He  tarried  for  hours  looking 
at  the  aqueduct,  and  with  such  persistence,  that  he  un- 
doubtedly desired  to  mislead  the  Carthaginians  as  to  his 
actual  designs.  He  was  accompanied  by  another  man, 
of  giant-like  stature,  who  walked  about  bareheaded. 

Carthage  was  defended  throughout  the  entire  width 
of  the  isthmus;  first  by  a  moat,  succeeded  by  a  rampart 
of  turf;  finally  by  a  double-storied  wall,  thirty  cubits  high, 
built  of  hewn  stones.  It  contained  stables  for  three  hun- 
dred elephants,  with  magazines  for  their  caparisons, 
shackles,  and  provisions,  as  well  as  other  stables  for  a 
thousand  horses  with  their  harness  and  fodder;  also 
casernes  for  twenty  thousand  soldiers,  arsenals  for  their 
armor,  and  all  the  materials  and  necessaries  for  war. 
Towers  were  erected  on  the  second  story,  furnished  with 
battlements,  clad  on  the  exterior  with  bronze  bucklers, 
suspended  from  cramp-irons. 

The  first  line  of  walls  immediately  sheltered  Malqua, 
the  quarter  inhabited  by  seafaring  people  and  dyers  of 
purple.  Poles  were  visible  on  which  purple  sails  were 
drying,  and  beyond,  on  the  last  terrace,  clay  furnaces 
for  cooking  saumurc.  At  the  back  the  city  was  laid  oat 
like  an  amphitheatre;  its  high  dwellings  in  the  form  of 
cubes  were  variously  built  of  stone,  planks,  shingles, 
reeds,  shells,  and  pressed  earth.  The  groves  of  the 
temples  appeared  like  lakes  of  verdure  in  this  mountain  of 
diversely  colored  blocks.  The  public  squares  levelled  it 
at  unequal  distances,  and  innumerable  streets  inter- 


GU STAVE  FLAUBERT  25 

crossed  from  top  to  bottom.  The  boundaries  of  the  three 
old  quarters  could  be  distinguished,  now  merged  together 
and  here  and  there  rising  up  like  huge  rocks  or  spreading 
out  in  enormous  flat  spaces  of  walls  —  half-covered  with 
flowers,  and  blackened  by  wide  streaks  caused  by  the 
throwing  over  of  filth;  and  streets  passed  through  in 
yawning  spaces  like  streams  under  bridges. 

The  hill  of  the  Acropolis,  in  the  centre  of  Byrsa,  dis- 
appeared under  a  medley  of  monuments;  such  as  tem- 
ples with  torsel-columns,  with  bronze  capitals,  and  metal 
chains,  cones  of  uncemented  stones  banded  with  azure, 
copper  cupolas,  marble  architraves,  Babylonian  buttresses, 
and  obelisks  poised  on  the  points  like  reversed  flambeaux. 
Peristyles  reached  to  frontons;  volutes  unrolled  between 
colonnades;  granite  walls  supported  tile  partitions.  All 
these  were  mounted  one  above  another,  half-hidden  in  a 
marvelous  incomprehensible  fashion.  Here  one  felt  the 
succession  of  ages,  and  the  memories  of  forgotten  coun- 
tries were  awakened.  Behind  the  Acropolis,  in  the  red 
earth,  the  Mappals  road,  bordered  by  tombs,  extended  in 
a  straight  line  from  the  shore  to  the  catacombs ;  then  fol- 
lowed large  dwellings  in  spacious  gardens ;  and  the  third 
quarter,  Megara,  the  new  city,  extended  to  the  edge  of 
cliffs,  on  which  was  erected  a  gigantic  lighthouse  where 
nightly  blazed  a  beacon.  Carthage  thus  deployed  herself 
before  the  soldiers  now  encamped  on  the  plains. 

From  the  distance  the  soldiers  could  recognize  the 
markets  and  the  cross-roads,  and  disputed  among  them- 
selves as  to  the  sites  of  the  various  temples.  Khamoun 
faced  the  Syssites,  and  had  golden  tiles;  Melkarth,  to 
the  left  of  Eschmoun,  bore  on  its  roof  coral  branches; 
Tanit,  beyond,  rounded  up  through  the  palm-trees  its 
copper  cupola;  and  the  black  Moloch  stood  below  the 
cisterns  at  the  side  of  the  lighthouse.  One  could  see  at 
the  angles  of  the  frontons,  on  the  summit  of  the  walls, 
at  the  corners  of  the  squares,  everywhere,  the  various 
divinities  with  their  hideous  heads,  colossal  or  dwarfish, 
with  enormous  or  immeasurably  flattened  bellies,  open 
jaws,  and  outspread  arms,  holding  in  their  hands  pitch- 
forks, chains,  or  javelins.  And  the  blue  sea  spread  out 


26  PAUL  FLEMING 

at  the  ends  of  the  streets,  which  the  perspective  rendered 
even  steeper. 

A  tumultuous  people  from  morning  till  night'  filled  the 
streets;  young  boys  rang  bells,  crying  out  before  the 
doors  of  the  bath-houses ;  shops  wherein  hot  drinks  were 
sold  sent  forth  steam;  the  air  resounded  with  the  clangor 
of  anvils ;  the  white  cocks,  consecrated  to  the  sun,  crowed 
on  the  terraces;  beeves  awaiting  slaughter  bellowed  in 
the  temples;  slaves  ran  hither  and  thither  with  baskets 
poised  on  their  heads,  and  in  the  recesses  of  the  porticoes 
now  and  again  a  priest  appeared  clothed  in  sombre  man- 
tle, barefooted,  wearing  a  conical  cap. 

This  spectacle  of  Carthage  enraged  the  Barbarians. 
They  admired  her ;  they  execrated  her ;  they  desired  at  the 
same  time  to  inhabit  her,  and  to  annihilate  her.  But  what 
might  there  not  be  in  the  military  port,  defended  by  a 
triple  wall?  Then  behind  the  city,  at  the  extremity  of 
Megara,  higher  even  than  the  Acropolis,  loomed  tip  Ham-* 
ilcar's  palace,  —  Salammbo. 


?LEMING,  OR  FLEMMING,  PAUL,  a  German 
lyric  poet ;  born  at  Hartenstein,  Saxony,  Octo 
ber  5,  1609;  died  at  Hamburg,  April  2,  1640. 
While  he  was  a  young  child  his  mother  died,  and  his 
father,  a  clergyman,  was  transferred  to  a  higher  charge 
at  Wechselburg,  and  the  boy  grew  up  under  the  kind 
treatment  of  an  affectionate  stepmother.  He  was  sent 
to  school  at  Leipsic,  where  he  developed  a  generous, 
manly  character,  and  gave  evidence  of  poetic  genius. 
On  attaining  his  majority  he  was  driven  from  Leipsic 
by  the  horrors  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  About  this 
time  the  Duke  of  Holstein  resolved  to  send  an  embassy 
to  Persia  for  the  purpose  of  negotiating  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  closer  trade  relations  with  the  Oriental 


PAUL  FLEMING  27 

countries.  Youn£  Fleming  secured  a  subordinate 
official  position  in  the  expedition,  which,  having  met 
with  some  obstruction  at  Moscow,  was  delayed  for  a 
year,  the  leaders  returning  to  the  Duke  of  Holstein  for 
instructions,  leaving  the  inferior  officers  at  Reval,  a 
fashionable  seaside  resort  on  the  shores  of  the  Baltic. 
Fleming  was  received  in  the  best  families  of  the  place, 
and  fell  in  love  with  a  German  maiden,  to  whom  he 
indited  many  charming  sonnets,  full  of  the  ardor  and 
confidence  of  youth,  but  with  a  nobility  of  mature 
expression,  evincing  ability  to  grapple  with  the  more 
serious  problems  of  life.  Early  in  1636  the  embassy 
again  got  under  way  and  reached  Ispahan  in  1637. 
During  the  three  years  the  expedition  was  abroad 
Fleming  wrote  many  lively  poetic  descriptions  of  the 
strange  sights  he  saw  in  the  foreign  lands.  Returning 
to  Reval  in  1639,  he  found  his  inamorata  the  wife  of 
another.  He  transferred  his  pliant  affections  to  a  cer- 
tain Fraulein  Anna,  to  whom  he  was  soon  betrothed> 
and  he  returned  to  Leipsic  to  study  medicine  with  the 
intention  of  settling  down  at  Reval  to  practise,  but  the 
fatigues  of  foreign  travel  had  undermined  his  health, 
and  he  died  when  thirty  years  of  age,  while  on  his  way 
to  Reval. 

In  1624  Martin  Opitz,  a  talented  Silesian  poet,  pub- 
lished a  treatise  on  the  art  of  versification,  in  which  he 
counselled  a  departure  from  the  monotonous  Alex- 
andrine, which  had  been  the  favorite  style  of  the  poets 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  while  he  still  clung  with 
mathematical  precision  to  the  rules  of  rhyme,  he  in- 
jected more  life  into  the  lines  and  more  poetic  feeling 
into  the  theme.  Fleming  became  a  disciple  of  Opitz, 
and  erelong,  though  unconsciously,  he  surpassed  his 
master  in  intensity  of  feeling  and  melodious  metre. 


28  PAUL  FLEMING 

Without  any  apparent  straining  after  effect,  he  is  cele- 
brated for  the  aptness,  beauty,  and  variety  of  his 
phraseology.  His  Spiritual  and  Secular  Poems  ( 1642) 
are  justly  admired  for  the  melody  of  their  versifica- 
tion. Among  his  religious  poetry  is  the  well-known 
hymn,  beginning,  "  In  alien  meinen  Thaten."  His 
works,  both  secular  and  religious,  were  collected  and 
published  after  his  death  under  the  title  Teutschc 
Poemata  (1646). 

"  He  was  not/*  says  The  Leisure  Hour,  "  a  great, 
but  a  truly  good  man.  No  one  could  desire  to  have 
a  more  sincere  and  trustworthy  friend,  a  more  amiable 
companion.  Purity  of  heart,  benevolence  of  dispo- 
sition, were  the  most  prominent  features  in  his  charac- 
ter. His  mind  was  richly  stored  with  learning"  and  ob- 
servation. His  best  poems  are  some  of  his  spiritual 
sonnets,  and  his  hymns.  Feelings  and  ideas  are  here 
so  distinctly  expressed,  that  the  plainest  man  cannot 
but  thoroughly  understand  them,  while  his  heart  is 
warmed  with  their  devotional  aspirations.  The  sim- 
plicity of  the  words  is  best  adapted  to  the  sublime  sub- 
ject; while  the  well-observed  prosody,  the  flowing 
melody  of  the  verse,  bears  the  test  of  the  keenest 
criticism." 

His  "  Traveler's  Song,"  on  A  Long  and  Dangerous 
Journey,  was  written  in  1631,  while  on  the  journey  to 
Russia  and  Persia.  This  is  considered  one  of  his  best 
hymns,  and  is  much  sung  in  German  congregations. 
The  original  —  which  begins  "  In  alien  meinen 
Thaten  " —  loses  in  translation  some  of  its  force  and 
beauty;  but  the  rendering  by  Miss  Winkworth  seems 
to  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  pious  poet,  as  well  as 
his  thought  and  expression. 


PAUL  FLEMING  29 


THE  LONG,   PERILOUS   JOURNEY. 

Where'er  I  go,  wliate'er  my  task, 
The  counsel  of  my  God  I  ask, 

Who  all  things  hath  and  can; 
Unless  he  give  both  thought  and  deed, 
The  utmost  pains  can  ne'er  succeed, 

And  vain  the  wisest  plan. 

For  what  can  all  my  toil  avail? 
My  care,  my  watching  all  must  fail 

Unless  my  God  is  there; 
Then  let  Him  order  all  for  me 
As  He  in  wisdom  shall  decree, 

On  Him  I  cast  my  care. 

For  naught  can  come,  as  naught  hath  been, 
But  what  my  Father  hath  foreseen, 

And  what  shall  work  my  good; 
Whate'er  He  gives  me  I  will  take, 
Whatever  He  chooses  I  will  make 

My  choice  with  thankful  mood. 

I  lean  upon  His  mighty  arm, 

It  shields  me  well  from  every  harm 

All  evil  shall  avert; 
If  by  His  precepts  still  I  live, 
Whate'er  is  useful  He  will  give, 

And  naught  shall  do  me  hurt. 

But  only  may  He  of  His  grace 
The  record  of  my  guilt  efface, 

And  wipe  out  all  my  debt; 
Though  I  have  sinned  He  will  not  straight 
Pronounce  His  judgment,  He  will  wait, 

Have  patience  with  me  yet. 

I  travel  to  a  distant  land 
To  serve  the  post  wherein  I  stand, 
Which  He  hath  bad*?  me  fill; 


30  PAUL  FLEMING 

And  He  will  bless  me  with  his  light, 
That  I  may  serve  His  world  aright, 
And  make  me  know  His  will. 

And  though  through  desert  wilds  I  fare, 
Yet  Christian  friends  are  with  me  there, 

And  Christ  himself  is  near; 
In  all  our  dangers  He  will  come, 
And  He  who  kept  me  safe  at  home, 

Can  keep  me  safely  here. 

When  late  at  night  my  rest  I  take, 
When  early  in  the  morn  I  wake, 

Halting  or  on  my  way, 
In  hours  of  weakness  or  in  bonds, 
When  vexed  with  fear  my  heart  desponds, 

His  promise  is  my  stay. 

Since,  then,  my  course  is  traced  by  Him, 
I  will  not  fear  that  future  dim, 

But  go  to  meet  my  doom, 
Well  knowing  naught  can  wait  me  there 
Too  hard  for  me  through  Him  to  bear; 

I  yet  shall  overcome. 

To  Him  myself  I  wholly  give, 
At  His  command  I  die  or  live, 

I  trust  His  love  and  power: 
Whether  to-morrow  or  to-day 
His  summons  come,  I  will  obey, 

He  knows  the  proper  hour. 

But  if  it  please  that  love  most  kind, 
And    if   this   voice   within   my   mind 

Is  whispering  not  in  vain, 
I  yet  shall  praise  my  God  ere  long- 
In  many  a  sweet  and  joyful  song, 

In  peace  at  home  again. 

To  those  I  love  will  He  be  near, 

With  His  consoling  light  appear, 

Who  is  my  shield  and  theirs ; 


ANDREW  FLETCHER  31 

And  He  will  grant  beyond  our  thought 
What  they  and  I  alike  have  sought 
With  many  tearful  prayers. 

Then,  O  my  soul,  be  ne'er  afraid ! 
On  Him  who  thee  and  all  things  made 

Do  thou  all  calmly  rest. 
Whate'er  may  come,  where'er  we  go, 
Our  Father  in  the  Heavens  must  know 

In  all  things  what  is  best. 

— Translation   of  CATHERINE  WINKWORTH. 


pLETCHER,  ANDREW  (commonly  known  as 
Fletcher  of  Saltoun),  a  Scottish  patriot  and 
orator;  born  at  Saltoun,  Haddingtonshire,  in 
1653;  died  at  London,  in  September,  1716.  He  was 
educated  under  the  care  of  Gilbert  Burnet,  then  minis- 
ter of  the  parish  of  Saltoun;  traveled  extensively  on 
the  Continent,  and  in  1681  became  a  member  of  the 
Scottish  Parliament,  distinguishing  himself  for  his 
vehement  opposition  to  the  arbitrary  measures  under- 
taken by  the  English  Governftient  of  Charles  II.  He 
fled  to  Holland,  and,  failing  to  appear  before  the  Privy 
Council  when  summoned,  his  estates  were  confiscated. 
He  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  Revolution  of  1688, 
which  placed  William  III.  on  the  throne  of  England. 
His  estates  were  restored  to  him ;  but  he  soon  became 
as  ardent  an  opponent  of  William  III.  as  he  had  been 
of  Charles  II.  and  James  II.  He  opposed  to  the  last 
the  union  between  the  kingdoms  of  England  and  of 
Scotland,  and  when  the  union  was  consummated,  in 
1707,  he  withdrew  from  public  life.  He  wrote  Dis- 
course of  Government  (1698);  Two  Discourses  Con- 


32  ANDREW  FLETCHER 

cerning  the  Affairs  of  Scotland  (1698);  Speeches 
(1703),  and  The  Right  Regulation  of  Governments 
(1704).  These  were  published  in  a  single  volume  in 
1737;  and  in  1797  appeared  an  essay  on  his  life  and 
writings  by  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  Fletcher  is  the 
author  of  the  fine  saying,  which  has  been  erroneously 
attributed  to  the  Earl  of  Chatham :  "  I  knew  a  very 
wise  man  that  believed  that  if  a  man  were  permitted 
to  make  all  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who  should 
make  the  laws  of  a  nation." 

STATE   OF   SCOTLAND   IN    1698. 

There  are  at  this  day  in  Scotland  —  besides  a  great 
many  poor  families  very  meanly  provided  for  by  the 
church-boxes  with  others,  who,  by  living  on  bad  food, 
fall  into  various  diseases  —  two  hundred  thousand  people 
begging  from  door  to  door.  These  are  not  only  no  way 
advantageous,  but  a  very  grievous  burden  to  so  poor  a 
country.  And  though  the  number  of  them  be  perhaps 
double  to  what  it  was  formerly,  by  reason  of  this  present 
great  distress,  yet  in  all  times  there  have  been  about  one 
hundred  thousand  of  those  vagabonds,  who  have  lived 
without  any  regard  or  subjection  either  to  the  laws  of 
the  land,  or  even  those  of  God  and  nature.  No  magis- 
trate could  ever  be  informed,  or  discover,  which  way 
one  in  a  hundred  of  these  wretches  died,  or  that  ever  they 
were  baptized.  Many  murders  have  been  discovered 
among  them;  and  they  are  not  only  a  most  unspeakable 
oppression  to  poor  tenants  —  who,  if  they  give  not  bread, 
or  some  kind  of  provision,  to  perhaps  forty  such  villains 
in  one  day  are  sure  to  be  insulted  by  them  —  but  they 
rob  many  poor  people  who  live  in  houses  distant  from 
any  neighborhood.  In  years  of  plenty  many  thousands 
of  them  meet  together  in  the  mountains,  where  they  feast 
and  riot  for  many  days;  and  at  country-weddings,  mar- 
kets, burials,  and  the  like  public  occasions,  they  are  to  be 
seen,  both  men  and  women,  perpetually  drunk,  cursing, 
blaspheming,  and  fighting  together.  These  are  such  out- 


GILES  FLETCHER  33 

rageous  disorders,  that  it  were  better  for  the  nation  they 
were  sold  to  the  galleys  or  West  Indies,  than  that  they 
should  continue  any  longer  to  be  a  burden  and  curse  upon 
us. —  Discourse  on  the  Affairs  of  Scotland. 


pLETCHER,  GILES,  an  English  clergyman  and 
poet;  born  at  Watford  in  1584;  died  at  Lon- 
don, in  March,  1623.  He  was  a  brother  of 
Phineas  Fletcher,  and  son  of  the  Rev.  Giles  Fletcher 
(1548-1610),  an  author  of  some  repute.  The  younger 
Giles  Fletcher  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  became 
Rector  of  Alderton,  on  the  coast  of  Suffolk,  where 
"  his  clownish  and  low-pated  parishioners  valued  not 
their  pastor  according  to  his  worth,  which  disposed 
him  to  melancholy,  and  hastened  his  dissolution."  A 
few  months  before  his  death  he  published  The  Reward 
of  the  Faithful,  a  theological  treatise  in  prose.  While 
at  Cambridge  he  wrote  several  minor  verses  and  his 
great  poem,  Christ's  Victory  and  Triuwfyh,  in  Heaven, 
in  Earth,  Over  and  After  Death  (1610).  From  this 
poem  Milton  borrowed  much  in  his  Paradise  Regained. 
Hallam  says,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of 
Europe:  "  Giles  seems  to  have  more  vigor  than  h'is 
elder  brother  [Phineas],  but  less  sweetness  and 
smoothness.  They  both  bear  much  resemblance  to 
Spenser." 

THE  SORCERESS  OF  VAIN  DELIGHT. 

The  garden  like  a  lady  fair  was  cut, 

That  lay  as  if  she  slumbered  in  delight, 
And  to  the  open  skies  her  eyes  did  shut; 
The  azure  fields  of  Heaven  were  'sembled  right 
VOL.  X.— 3 


34  GILES  FLETCHER 

In  a  large  round,  set  with  the  flowers  of  light: 
The  flower-de-luce,  and  the  round  sparks  of  dew 
That  hung  upon  their  azure  leaves,  did  shew 
Like  twinkling  stars  that  sparkle  in  the  evening  blue. 

And  all  about,  embayed  in  soft  sleep, 

A  herd  of  charmed  beasts  aground  were  spread, 

Which  the  fair  witch  in  golden  chains  did  keep, 
And  t^em  in  willing  bondage  fettered: 
Once  men  they  lived,  but  now  the  men  were  dead, 

And  turned  to  beasts;  so  fabled  Homer  old, 

That  Circe  with  her  potion,  charmed  in  gold, 

Used  manly  souls  in  beastly  bodies  to  inmould. 

Through  this  false  Eden,  to  his  leman's  bower  — 
Whom  thousand  souls  devoutly  idolized  — 

Our  first  destroyer  led  our  Saviour; 
There  in  the  lower  room,  in  solemn  wise, 
They  danced  a  round,  and  poured  their  sacrifice 

To  plump  Lyaeus,  and  among  the  rest, 

The  jolly  priest,  in  ivy  garlands  drest, 

Chanted  wild  orgials,  in  honor  of  the  feast    ,     .    . 

A  silver  wand  the  sorceress  did  sway, 
And,  for  a  crown  of  gold,  her  hair  she  wore; 

Only  a  garland  of  rosebuds  did  play 

About  her  locks,  and  in  her  hand  she  bore 
A  hollow  globe  of  glass,  that  long  before 

She  full  of  emptiness  had  bladdered, 

And  all  the  world  therein  depictured: 

Whose  colors,  like  the  rainbow,  ever  vanished. 

Such  watery  orbicles  young  boys  do  blow 
Out  from  their  soapy  shells,  and  much  admire 

The  swimming  world,  which  tenderly  they  blow 
With  easy  breath  till  it  be  raised  higher; 
But  if  they  chance  but  roughly  once  aspire, 

The  painted  bubble  instantly  doth  fall. 

Here  when  she  came  she  Jgan  for  music  call, 

<\nd  sung  this  wooing  song  to  welcome  him  withal : 
Love  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows 
Everything  that  lives  or  grows: 


GILES  FLETCHER  35 

Love  doth  make  the  heavens  to  move, 

And  the  sun  doth  burn  in  love; 

Love  the  strong  and  weak  doth  yoke, 

And  makes  the  ivy  climb  the  oak; 

Under  whose  shadows  lions  wild, 

Softened  by  love,  grow  tame  and  mild: 

Love  did  make  the  bloody  spear 

Once  a  leafy  coat  to  wear, 

While  in  his  leaves  there  shrouded  lay 

Sweet  birds,  for  love,  that  sing  and  play: 

And  of  all  love's  joyful  flame 

I  the  bud  and  blossom  am. 
Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 
Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be.    ,    .    , 

Thus  sought  the  dire  enchantress  in  his  mind 

Her  guileful  bait  to  have  embosomed: 
But  he  her  charms  dispersed  into  wind, 

And  her  of  insolence  admonished, 

And  all  her  optic  glasses  shattered. 
So  with  her  sire  to  hell  she  took  her  flight; 
The  starting  air  flew  from  the  damned  sprite; 
Where  deeply  both  aggrieved  plunged  themselves  in  night. 

But  to  their  Lord,  now  musing  in  his  thought, 

A  heavenly  volley  of  light  angels  flew, 
And  from  his  Father  him  a  banquet  brought 

Through  the  fine  element,  for  well  they  knew, 

After  his  Lenten  fast,  he  hungry  grew: 
And  as  he  fed,  the  holy  choirs  combine 
To  sing  a  hymn  of  the  celestial  Trine; 
All  thought  to  pass,  and  each  was  past  all  thought  divine. 

The  birds'  sweet  notes,  to  sonnet  out  their  joys, 

Attempered  to  the  lays  angelical; 
And  to  the  birds  the  winds  attune  their  noise; 

And  to  the  winds  the  waters  hoarsely  call, 

And  echo  back  again  revoiced  all; 
That  the  whole  valley  rung  with  victory. 
But  now  our  Lord  to  rest  doth  homewards  fly: 
See  how  the  night  comes  stealing  from  the  mountains  high. 
—  Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph. 


36  JOHN  FLETCHER 


^LETCHER,  JOHN,  an  English  poet  and  dram- 
atist; born  at  Rye,  Sussex,  December  6, 
1579;  died  at  London  in  1625,  The  name  of 
John  Fletcher  and  that  of  Francis  Beaumont  are  in- 
separably connected  in  literary  partnership  (see  BEAU- 
MONT, FRANCIS,  vol.  3,  p.  10).  The  works  written 
by  Fletcher  alone  include  The  Elder  Brother;  The 
Spanish  Curate;  The  Humorous  Lieutenant;  The 
Faithful  Shepherdess;  Boadicea;  The  Loyal  Subject; 
Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife;  The  Chances;  The 
Wild-goose  Chase;  A  Wife  for  a  Month;  The  Cap- 
tain; The  Prophetess;  Love's  Cure;  Women  Pleased; 
The  Sea  Voyage;  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn;  The  Two 
Noble  Kinsmen  (supposed  to  have  been  revised  by 
William  Shakespeare) ;  The  False  One;  The  Lovefs 
Progress;  and  The  Noble  Gentleman  (which  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  written  with  Shirley) ;  Love's 
Pilgrimage;  The  Night  Walker;  The  Queen  of 
Corinth;  The  Maid  in  the  Mill;  and  The  Nice  Valour. 

TO  SLEEP. 

Care-charming  Sleep,  them  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince;  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers ;  easy,  sweet,  light, 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  Night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses ;  sing  his  pain, 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  gentle  rain. 
Into  this  prince,  oh,  gently,  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers,  like  a  bride. 

—Valentinian. 


JOHN  FLETCHER  37 


SONG  TO  PAN. 

All  ye  Woods,  and  Trees,  and  Bowers, 
All  ye  Virtues,  and  ye  Powers 
That  inhabit  in  the  lakes, 
In  the  pleasant  springs  and  brakes, 

Move  your  feet 

To  our  sound, 

Whilst  we  greet 

All  this  ground 
With  his  honor  and  his  name 
That  defends  our  flocks  from  blame. 
He  is  great,  and  he  is  just, 
He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honored.    Daffodillies, 
Roses,  pinks,  and  loveliest  lilies, 

Let  us  fling, 

Whilst  we  sing: 

Ever  holy,  ever  holy, 
Ever  honored,  ever  young, 
Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung. 

—  The  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

LOOK  OUT,  BRIGHT  EYES. 

Look  out,  bright  eyes,  and  bless  the  air ! 
Even  in  shadows  you  are  fair. 
Shut-up  beauty  is  like  fire, 
That  breaks  out  clearer  still  and  higher. 

Though  your  beauty  be  confined, 
And  soft  Love  a  prisoner  bound, 

Yet  the  beauty  -of  your  mind 
Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear ! 

—  The  False  One. 

The  False  One  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by 
Fletcher  in  collaboration  with  Massinger. 


38  JULIA  CONSTANCE  FLETCHER 


pLETCHER,  JULIA  CONSTANCE  ("GEORGE 
FLEMING")?  an  American  novelist;  born  in 
Brazil  about  1850,  where  her  father,  the  Rev. 
James  C.  Fletcher,  was  a  Presbyterian  chaplain  and 
Secretary  of  the  United  States  Legation.  He  was  also 
United  States  Consul  at  Naples  from  1873  to  1877. 
In  1876  she  visited  Egypt,  and  wrote  her  novel  Kismet, 
which  appeared  in  1877.  She  resided  for  some  years 
at  Rome;  and  in  1886  she  removed  to  Venice.  She 
has  written  Kismet  (1877);  Mirage  (1878);  The 
Head  of  Medusa  (1880) ;  Vestigia  (1884) ;  Androme- 
da (1885);  The  Truth  About  Clement  Ker  (1889); 
For  Plain  Women  Only  (1895);  and  Little  Stories 
About  Women  (1897),  She  has  also  written  several 
plays  including  A  Man  and  His  Wife  (1897) ;  The 
Canary  (1899)  ;  and  The  Fantasticks  (1900). 

Speaking  of  her  novel  The  Head  of  Medusa,  the 
Saturday  Review  said :  "  *  All  claret  would  be  port  if 
it  could/  and  most  American  novels  would  be  by 
Henry  James  if  they  had  the  luck.  The  Head  of 
Medusa  is  no  exception  to  this  rule.  The  situations, 
the  *  international '  combination  of  English,  Americans, 
and  Italians,  are  constructed  on  the  model  of  Mr. 
James's  stories.  The  book  is  full  of  talent/' 

The  London  Academy  called  her  Vestigia  "a  de- 
lightful and  yet  irritating  novel  —  delightful,  because 
the  simple  love-idyl  of  which  it  consists  is  told  with 
peculiar  grace  and  charm;  irritating,  because  one  of 
the  chief  motives  of  the  story  is  palpably  absurd ; "  and 
the  Nation  said  of  it :  "  It  is  not  the  solving  of  a 
riddle,  but  the  development  of  two  or  three  simple, 
noble  motives.  The  action  is  much  simpler  than  any- 


JULIA  CONSTANCE  FLETCHER  39 

thing  the  author  has  before  attempted,  and  her  style 
has  gained  correspondingly.  There  is  only  so  much 
of  the  fair  Italian  sky  and  sea  as  to  throw  into  relief 
the  figures,  but  so  deft,  so  sympathetic  is  the  choice, 
that  the  few  pages  give  the  sense  that  all  Italy  is  in 
the  book." 

THE  FIRING  OF  THE  SHOT. 

The  candle  had  burnt  itself  out  in  its  socket.  There 
was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  weary  sleeper,  and  the  ticking  of  Valdez's  watch, 
which  lay  before  him  on  the  table.  He  sat  there  count- 
ing the  hours.  And  at  last  the  dawn  broke,  chill  and 
gray;  the  dim  light  struggling  in  at  the  window  made  a 
faint  glimmer  upon  the  glasses  which  stood  beside  the 
untouched  food.  To  the  old  man  keeping  his  faithful 
watch  beside  the  sleeper,  this  was  perhaps  the  hardest 
of  all  —  till  the  darkness  wore  slowly  away;  the  sky 
turned  to  a  clear  stainless  blue;  and  all  the  city  awoke  to 
the  radiance  of  the  April  Day. 

Soon  the  bells  began  their  joyous  clash  and  clamor. 
It  was  hardly  eight  o'clock  when  the  two  men  stepped 
out  into  the  street  together,  but  the  rejoicing  populace 
was  astir  already  and  hurrying  toward  the  new  quarter 
of  the  Macao. 

Rome  was  in  festa;  heavy  and  splendid  Rome.  Bright 
flags  fluttered,  and  many-colored  carpets  and  rugs  were 
suspended  from  every  available  window.  All  along  the 
Via  Nazionale  a  double  row  of  gaudily  decked  Venetian 
masts,  hung  with  long  wreaths  and  brilliant  flapping 
banners,  marked  the  course  where  the  royal  carriages 
were  to  pass.  But  it  was  farther  on,  at  the  Piazza  dell' 
Independenza,  that  the  crowd  was  already  thickest.  The 
cordon  of  soldiers  had  been  stationed  here  since  early 
morning.  Looking  down  from  any  of  the  neighboring 
balconies  upon  that  swarming  sea  of  holiday-makers,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  even  the  great  Piazza  could  con- 
tain more;  and  yet  at  every  instant  the  place  grew  fuller 
and  fuller;  a  steady  stream  of  people  poured  in  from 


40  JULIA  CONSTANCE  FLETCHER 

every  side  street;  peasants  from  the  country  in  gay  festa 
dress;  shepherds  from  Campagna  in  cloaks  of  matted 
sheepskin;  and  strapping  black-haired  girls  with  shrill 
voices  and  the  step  of  queens  who  had  come  all  the  way 
from  the  Trastevere  to  look  on  at  the  spectacle  —  there 
was  no  end,  no  cessation,  to  the  thickening  and  the  grow- 
ing excitement  of  the  crowd. 

Dino  had  taken  his  place  very  early.  It  was  exactly 
at  the  corner  of  the  Piazza,  where  a  street-lamp  made  a 
support  for  his  back,  and  prevented  him  from  being 
brushed  aside  by  the  gathering  force  and  pressure  of  the 
multitude.  He  had  found  a  safe  place  for  Palmira  to 
stand,  on  the  iron  ledge  which  ran  around  the  lamp-post. 
The  child's  little  pale  face  rose  high  above  the  crowd; 
she  was  quiet  from  very  excess  of  excitement,  only  from 
time  to  time  she  stooped  to  touch  her  brother's  shoulder 
in  token  of  mute  content. 

Valdez  stood  only  a  few  paces  behind  them.  He  had 
kept  the  revolver  in  his  own  possession  to  the  last  mo- 
ment. It  was  arranged  that  he  should  pass  it  to  Dino  at 
a  preconcerted  signal,  and  as  the  King  came  riding  past 
for  the  second  time. 

Dino  had  scarcely  spoken  all  that  morning,  but  other- 
wise there  was  no  sign  of  unusual  excitement  about  him. 
He  was  deadly  pale;  at  short  intervals  a  faint  red  flush 
came  and  went  like  a  stain  upon  his  colorless  cheek. 
But  he  answered  all  little  Palmira's  questions  very  pa- 
tiently. The  morning  seemed  very  long  to  him,  that  was 
all.  He  stood  fingering  the  handkerchief  in  his  pocket 
with  which  he  was  to  give  Valdez  the  signal  for  passing 
him  the  weapon. 

It  was  more  than  twenty-four  hours  now  since  he  had 
tasted  food,  and  the  long  absence  was  beginning  to  tell 
upon  him;  at  times  his  head  felt  dizzy  and  if  he  closed 
his  eyes  the  continuous  roar  and  chatter  of  the  crowd 
sank  —  died  away  far  off  —  like  the  sound  of  the  surf 
upon  a  distant  shore.  At  one  moment  he  let  himself  go 
entirely  to  this  curious  new  sensation  of  drifting  far 
away;  it  was  barely  an  instant  of  actual  time,  but  he  re- 
covered himself  with  a  start  which  ran  like  ice  from 
head  to  foot;  it  was  a  horrible  sensation,  like  a  slow  re- 


JULIA  CONSTANCE  FLETCHER  41 

turn  from  the  very  nothingness  of  death.  He  shivered 
and  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  looked  about  him.  He 
seemed  to  have  been  far,  far  away  from  it  all  in  that 
one  briefest  pause  of  semi-unconsciousness,  yet  his  eyes 
opened  on  the  same  radiant  brightness  of  the  sunshine; 
a  holiday  sun  shining  bravely  down  on  glancing  arms 
and  fretting  horses;  on  the  dark  line  of  the  soldiers 
pressing  back  the  people,  and  the  many-colored  dresses, 
the  laughing,  talking,  good-natured  faces  of  the  gesticu- 
lating crowd. 

One  of  these  mounted  troopers  was  just  in  front  of 
Dino.  As  the  human  mass  surged  forward,  urged  by 
some  unexplainable  impulse  of  excitement  and  curiosity, 
this  man's  horse  began  backing  and  plunging.  The  young 
soldier  turned  around  in  his  saddle,  and  his  quick  glance 
fell  upon  Palmira's  startled  face. 

"Take  care  of  your  little  girl  there,  my  friend,"  he 
said  to  Dino  good-humoredly,  and  forced  his  horse  away 
from  the  edge  of  the  pavement 

Dino  looked  at  him  without  answering.  He  wondered 
vaguely  if  this  soldier  boy  with  the  friendly  blue  eyes 
and  the  rosy  face  would  be  one  of  the  first  to  fall  upon 
him  when  he  was  arrested?  And  then  his  thoughts  es- 
caped him  again  —  the  dimness  came  over  his  eyes. 

He  roused  himself  with  a  desperate  effort.  He  began 
to  count  the  number  of  windows  in  the  house  opposite; 
then  the  number  of  policemen  stationed  at  the  street  cor- 
ner; an  officer  went  galloping  by;  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
the  glancing  uniform,  until  it  became  a  mere  spot  of 
brightness  in  the  distance. 

Hark! 

The  gun  at  the  palace.  The  King  was  starting  from 
the  Quirinal.  All  the  scattered  cries  and  laughs  and 
voices  were  welded  together  into  one  long,  quavering 
roar  of  satisfaction  and  excitement. 

There  —  again !   and  nearer  at  hand  this  second  gun. 

The  cheers  rise  higher,  sink  deeper.  He  is  coming, 
the  young  soldier  King,  the  master  of  Italy,  the  popular 
hero. 

See!  Hats  are  waving,  men  are  shouting, —  the  infec- 
tion of  enthusiasm  catches  and  runs  like  fire  along  the 


42  MARIA  JANE  FLETCHER 

line  of  eager,  expectant  faces.  Here  he  comes.  The 
roar  lifts,  swells,  grows  louder  and  louder;  the  military 
bands  on  either  side  of  the  piazza  break  with  one  accord 
into  the  triumphant  ringing  rhythm  of  the  royal  march. 
They  have  seen  the  troops  defile  before  them  with  scarcely 
a  sign  of  interest;  but  now  at  sight  of  that  little  isolated 
group  of  riders  with  the  plumed  and  glittering  helmets, 
there  comes  one  mad  instant  of  frantic  acclamation,  when 
every  man  in  that  crowd  feels  that  he,  too,  has  some  part 
and  possession  in  all  the  compelling,  alluring  splendor  and 
success  in  life. 

And  just  behind  the  royal  cavalier,  among  the  glitter- 
ing group  of  aides-de-camp,  rode  the  young  Marchese 
Balbi.  He  was  so  near  that  Dino  could  scarcely  believe 
their  eyes  did  not  actually  meet;  but  if  Gasparo  recog- 
nized him  he  gave  no  sign,  riding  on  with  a  smile  upon 
his  happy  face,  his  silver-mounted  accoutrements  shining 
bravely  in  the  sun. 

And  so  for  the  first  time,  the  doomed  King  passed  by. 


pLETCHER,  MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY,  an  English 
poet  and  moralist;  born  at  Measham,  Der- 
byshire, October  25,  1800;  died  at  Poonah,  In- 
dia, October  4,  1833.  She  was  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Thomas  Jewsbury  of  Manchester;  and  as  her  marriage 
occurred  only  fourteen  months  before  her  death,  she 
was  known  to  the  literary  world  as  Miss  Jewsbury,  and 
for  a  time  her  biographers  were  loath  to  speak  of  her 
as  Mrs.  Fletcher.  She  was  educated  at  a  school  at 
Shenstone  kept  by  a  Mrs.  Adams,  but  when  fourteen 
years  old  she  was  taken  away  on  account  of  her  deli- 
cate health.  About  1818  her  family  removed  to  Man- 
chester. Shortly  afterward  she  lost  her  mother,  where- 
upon the  charge  of  her  sister  Geraldine  and  her  three 


MARIA  JANE  FLETCHER  43 

brothers  fell  upon  her.  Her  first  published  poem  came 
out  in  Asian's  Manchester  Herald.  In  1824  she  was 
induced  by  Alaric  A.  Watts,  editor  of  the  Manchester 
Courier,,  to  adopt  literature  as  a  profession,  and 
through  his  introduction,  her  first  work,  Phantasma- 
goria, or  Sketches  of  Life  and  Character,  was  pub- 
ished  at  Leeds  (2  vols.,  8vo),  with  a  dedication  to 
Wordsworth.  About  this  time  she  had  a  long  and 
serious  illness,  in  the  course  of  which  she  wrote  her 
Letters  to  the  Young,  published  in  1828.  In  1829 
her  Lays  of  Leisure  Hours  were  issued  with  a  dedica- 
tion to  Mrs.  Hemans.  In  the  following  year  she 
brought  out  her  last  work,  The  Three  Histories:  The 
History  of  an  Enthusiast,  the  History  of  a  Nonchalant, 
the  History  of  a  Realist.  Much  of  her  best  writing  ap- 
peared from  1830  to  1832  in  the  Athen&um.  She  also 
wrote  in  one  or  more  of  the  annuals,  but  nothing  she 
ever  wrote,  clever  though  it  was,  gave  an  adequate 
idea  of  her  actual  talents. 

On  August  I,  1832,  she  married,  at  Penegroes, 
Montgomeryshire,  the  Rev.  William  Kew  Fletcher,  a 
chaplain  in  the  East  India  Company's  service,  with 
whom  she  sailed  for  Bombay.  She  died  a  victim  to 
cholera.  Some  extracts  from  the  journal  of  her  voy- 
age to,  and  residence  in,  India  are  given  in  Espinasse's 
Lancashire  Worthies. 

Her  vivacity  and  conversational  powers  rendered  her 
remarkably  fascinating  to  her  friends.  Wordsworth, 
who  addressed  his  poem  of  Liberty  to  her  in  1829,  said 
that  in  the  quickness  of  the  motions  of  her  mind  she 
had  no  equal  within  the  range  of  his  acquaintance. 
Miss  Landon  spoke  of  the  "  extreme  perfection  of  her 
language ;  it  was  like  reading  an  eloquent  book  full  of 
thought  and  poetry,"  Christopher  North,  in  Noctes 


44  MARIA  JANE  FLETCHER 

Ambrosiana,  March,  1829,  speaks  in  eulogistic  terms 
of  her  genius. 

BIRTH-DAY   BALLAD. 

Thou  art  plucking  spring  roses,  Genie, 

And  a  little  red  rose  art  thou ! 
Thou  hast  unfolded  to-day,  Genie, 

Another  bright  leaf,  I  trow: 
But  the  roses  will  live  and  die,  Genie, 

Many  and  many  a  time 
Ere  thou  hast  unfolded  quite,  Genie, 

Grown  into  maiden  prime. 

Thou  art  building  up  towers  of  pebbles,  Genie, 

But,  oh !  do  not  wish  their  wing ! 
That  would  only  tempt  the  fowler,  Genie: 

Stay  thou  on  earth  and  sing; 
Stay  in  the  nursing  nest,  Genie, 

Be  not  soon  thence  beguiled; 
Thou  wilt  ne'er  find  another,  Genie, 

Never  be  twice  a  child. 

Thou  art  building  up  towers  of  pebbles,  Genie, 

Pile  them  up  brave  and  high, 
And  leave  them  to  follow  a  bee,  Genie, 

As  he  wandereth  singing  by; 
But  if  thy  towers  fall  down,  Genie, 

And  if  the  brown  bee  is  lost, 
Never  weep,  for  thou  must  learn,  Genie, 

How  soon  life's  schemes  are  crossed. 

What  will  thy  future  fate  be,  Genie, 

Alas !   shall  I  live  to  see  ? 
For  thou  art  scarcely  a  sapling,  Genie, 

And  I  am  a  moss-grown  tree : 
I  am  shedding  life's  blossoms  fast,  Genie, 

Thou  art  in  blossom  sweet, 
But  think  of  the  grave  betimes,  Genie, 

Where  young  and  old  oft  meet. 


PHINEAS  FLETCHER  45 


pLETCHER,  PHINEAS,  an  English  clergyman 
and  poet;  brother  of  Giles  Fletcher;  born  at 
Cranbrook,  Kent,  in  April,  1582;  died  about 
1665.    He  was  educated  at  Eaton  and  Cambridge,  and 
became  chaplain  to  Sir  Henry  Willoughby,  by  whom 
he  was  presented  to  the  rectorate  of  Hilgay,  in  Nor- 
folkshire.     Shortly    after    obtaining    this    living    he 
married,  and  named  his  first  son  Edmund,  in  honor  of 
Edmund  Spenser,  of  whom  he  was  a  great  admirer. 
He  brought  out  several  works  in  verse  and  prose. 
Among  these  are  Sicelides,  a  pastoral  drama,  which 
was  acted  before  the  University  in  1614;  Locusta,  a 
furious  invective  against  the  Jesuits  (1627)  ;  Joy  in 
Tribulation,  a  theological  treatise   (1632);  Piscatory 
Eclogues,  etc.  (1633),  and  A  Father's  Testament  (pub- 
lished in  1670,  some  years  after  his  death) .    His  chief 
work  is  The  Purple  Island,  or  the  Isle  of  Man,  an  alle- 
gorical poem  in  twelve  cantos,  describing  the  physical 
and  mental  constitution  of  the  human  being :  the  bones 
spoken  of  as  mountains,  the  veins  as  rivers,  and  so  on. 
Five  cantos  are  occupied  with  the  phenomena  of  the 
body,  seven  with  those  of  the  mind.     In  this  poem,  the 
style  of  Spenser  is  imitated,  though  the  allegory  is 
tedious  and  prosaic  to  modern  readers.    Fletcher  was 
not  without  original  genius,  and  is  highly  praised  by 
contemporaneous  critics.    John  Milton  was  numbered 
among  his  admirers. 

THE  DECAY  OF  HUMAN  GREATNESS. 

Fond  man,  that  looks  on  earth  for  happiness, 
And  here  long  seeks  what  here  is  never  found! 

For  all  our  good  we  hold  from  Heaven  by  lease, 
With  many  forfeits  and  conditions  bound; 


<0  PHINEAS  FLETCHER 

Nor  can  we  pay  the  fine,  and  rentage  due: 
Though  now  but  writ,  and  sealed,  and  given  anew, 
Yet  daily  we  it  break,  then  daily  must  renew. 

Where  is  the  Assyrian  lion's  golden  hide, 

That  all  the  East  once  grasped  in  lordly  paw  ? 
Where  that  great  Persian  bear,  whose  swelling  pride 

The  lion's  self  tore  out  with  ravenous  jaw ! 
Or  he  which,  'twixt  a  lion  and  a  pard, 
Through  all  the  world  with  nimble  pinions  fared, 
And  to  his  greedy  whelps  his  conquered  kingdoms  shared. 

Hardly  the  place  of  such  antiquity, 

Or  note  of  these  great  monarchies  we  find: 
Only  a  fading  verbal  memory, 

And  empty  name  in  writ  is  left  behind: 
But  when  this  second  life  and  glory  fades, 
And  sinks  at  length  in  time's  obscurer  shades, 
A  second  fall  succeeds,  and  double  death  invades. 

That  monstrous  beast,  which,  nursed  in  Tiber's  fen, 
Did  all  the  world  with  hideous  shape  affray; 

That  filled  with  costly  spoil  his  gaping  den, 
And  trod  down  all  the  rest  to  dust  and  clay: 

His  battering  horns,  pulled  out  by  civil  hands 

And  iron  teeth,  lie  scattered  on  the  sands; 

Backed,  bridled  by  a  monk,  with  seven  heads  yoked  stands. 

And  that  black  vulture  which  with  deathful  wing 
O'ershadows  half  the  earth,  whose  dismal  sight 

Frightened  the  Muses  from  their  native  spring, 
Already  stoops,  and  flags  with  weary  flight: 

Who  then  shall  look  for  happiness  beneath? 

Where  each  new  day  proclaims  chance,  change,  and  death. 

And  life  itself  s  as  flit  as  is  the  air  we  breathe. 

—  The  Purple  Island. 


AUSTIN  FLINT  47 


pLINT,  AUSTIN,  an  American  physician  and 
physiologist;  born  at  Northampton,  Mass., 
March  28,  1836.  He  was  graduated  from  the 
Jefferson  Medical  College  in  1857,  and  removing  to 
New  York  in  1861,  became  Professor  of  Physiology 
in  Bellevue  Hospital  Medical  College.  In  1874  he 
became  surgeon-general.  He  has  published  Text- 
Book  of  Human  Physiology;  The  Physiology  of  Man; 
The  Source  of  Muscular  Power;  and  other  medical 
works* 

A  PHYSICAL  BASIS  FOR  SLEEP? 

The  desire  for  sleep  that  follows  the  ordinary  period  of 
wake  fulness  with  mental  and  physical  activity  is  due  to 
a  mysterious  agent,  produced  probably  in  the  brain  and 
circulating  in  the  blood,  although  it  may  possibly  have 
its  origin  in  other  parts,  as  the  muscles.  If  the  blood 
of  a  dog  fatigued  nearly  to  the  point  of  exhaustion  is 
injected  into  the  vessels  of  an  animal  that  has  been  at 
rest,  the  second  animal  immediately  gives  evidence  of 
fatigue!.  Physiologists,  however,  know  so  little  of  this 
substance  that  they  have  not  even  given  it  a  name. 

After  repose  the  brain-cells  have  a  certain  size,  con- 
figuration, and  structure  that  may  be  called  normal.  Fol- 
lowing severe  and  prolonged  exercise  or  repeated  stimula- 
tion of  nerves,  these  cells  are  shrunken,  and  their  borders 
become  irregular.  The  nuclei  especially  are  greatly  re- 
duced in  size,  sometimes  as  much  as  fifty  per  cent.  But 
after  a  number  of  hours  of  repose  the  cells  and  nuclei 
will  have  returned  to  their  original  condition.  In  ad- 
dition, fatigued  cells  show  cavities  emptied  of  nerve  sub- 
stance, that  do  not  exist  in  resting  cells. 

It  has  long  been  known  that  nerve-cells  are  peculiarly 
sensitive  to  varying  conditions  of  the  system,  especially 
blood  changes.  Within  a  few  years  it  has  been  found 
that  they  contain  little  angular  bodies  that  stain  deeply 


48  TIMOTHY  FLINT 

with  aniline  dyes,  particularly  methylene  blue.  On  ac- 
count of  this  property  these  have  been  called  chromophile 
granules,  or,  after  their  discoverer,  Nissl  bodies.  Al- 
though but  recently  described  for  the  first  time  (1902), 
the  literature  of  these  bodies  is  now  enormous,  and  vari- 
ous theories  have  been  advanced  to  account  for  the 
changes  to  which  they  are  subject.  One  theory,  which 
has  many  supporters,  is  that  the  Nissl  bodies  represent 
or  contain  stored-up  energy,  and  that  they  undergo  dis- 
integration as  the  result  of  cell-activity.  It  is  the  fact, 
indeed,  that,  following  massive  discharges  of  nerve-im- 
pulses, such  as  occur  in  the  violent  convulsions  of  epi- 
lepsy, these  bodies  break  down  into  exceedingly  fine 
granules,  but  are  restored  by  a  proper  period  of  rest. — 
The  New  York  Sun. 


7 LINT,  TIMOTHY,  an  American  clergyman  and 
novelist ;  born  at  North  Reading,  Mass ,  July 
n,  1780;  died  at  Salem,  Mass.,  August  16, 
1840.  He  was  graduated  from  Harvard  in  1800;  two 
years  afterward  he  entered  the  Congregational  minis- 
try, and  preached  at  several  places  in  New  England  un- 
til 1815,  when  he  went  to  the  West  as  a  missionary. 
Enfeebled  health  compelled  him  to  return  to  Massachu- 
setts in  1825.  In  1828  he  removed  to  Cincinnati, 
where  for  three  years  he  edited  the  Western  Review. 
He  then  went  to  New  York,  and  was  for  a  short  time 
editor  of  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  He  subse- 
quently made  his  residence  in  Alexandria,  Va.,  but 
usually  passed  the  summer  in  New  England.  His 
principal  works  are  Recollections  of  Ten  Years  Passed 
in  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi  and  Francis  Berrian,  a 
novel  (1826) ;  Geography  and  History  of  the  Western 


TIMOTHY  FLINT  49 

States  and  Arthur  Clendenning  (1828)  ;  George  Ma- 
son, or  the  Backwoodsman  (1830);  Indian  Wars  in 
the  West  (1833)  J  Memoirs  of  Daniel  Boone  (1834). 
In  1835  ne  contributed  to  the  London  Athen&um  a 
series  of  papers  on  American  Literature. 

THE   SHORES    OF  THE   OHIO    IN    1815. 

It  is  now  the  middle  of  November.  The  weather  up 
to  this  time  had  been,  with  the  exception  of  a  couple  of 
days  of  fog  and  rain,  delightful.  The  sky  has  a  milder 
and  lighter  azure  than  that  of  the  Northern  States.  The 
wide,  clean  sand-bars  stretching  for  miles  together,  and 
now  and  then  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  swans,  or  sand-hill 
cranes  and  pelicans,  stalking  along  on  them;  the  infinite 
varieties  of  form  of  the  towering  bluffs;  the  new  tribes 
of  shrubs  and  plants  of  the  shores;  the  exuberant  fertility 
of  the  soil,  evidencing  itself  in  the  natural  as  well  as 
cultivated  vegetation,  in  the  height  and  size  of  the  corn 
—  of  itself  alone  a  matter  of  astonishment  to  an  inhabit- 
ant of  the  Northern  States  —  in  the  thrifty  aspect  of  the 
young  orchards,  literally  bending  under  their  fruit;  the 
surprising  size  and  rankness  of  the  weeds,  and,  in  the  en- 
closures where  cultivation  had  been  for  a  time  suspended, 
the  matted  abundance  of  every  kind  of  vegetation  that 
ensued  —  all  these  circumstances  united  to  give  a  novelty 
and  freshness  to  the  scenery.  The  bottom-forests  every- 
where display  the  huge  sycamore  —  the  king  of  the  West- 
ern forest  —  in  all  places  an  interesting  tree,  but  par- 
ticularly so  here,  and  in  autumn,  when  you  see  its  white 
and  long  branches  among  its  red  and  yellow  fading  leaves. 

To  add  to  this  union  of  pleasant  circumstances,  there  is 
a  delightful  temperature  of  the  air,  more  easily  felt  than 
described.  In  New  England,  where  the  sky  was  partially 
covered  with  fleecy  clouds,  and  the  wind  blew  very  gently 
from  the  southwest,  I  have  sometimes  had  the  same  sensa- 
tions from  the  temperature  there.  A  slight  degree  of 
languor  ensues ;  and  the  irritability  that  is  caused  by  the 
rougher  and  more  bracing  air  of  the  North,  and  which 
is  more  favorable  to  physical  strength  and  activity  than 
VOL.  X.— 4 


50  JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  DE  FLORIAN 

enjoyment,  gives  place  to  a  tranquillity  highly  propitious 
to  meditation.  There  is  sometimes,  too,  in  the  gentle 
and  almost  imperceptible  motion,  as  you  sit  on  the  deck 
of  the  boat  and  see  the  trees  apparently  moving  by  you, 
and  new  groups  of  scenery  still  opening  upon  your  eyes, 
together  with  the  view  of  those  ancient  and  magnificent 
forests  which  the  axe  has  not  yet  despoiled,  the  broad 
and  beautiful  river,  the  earth  and  the  sky,  which  render 
such  a  trip  at  this  season  the  very  element  of  poetry. — 
Recollections  of  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi. 


y  LORI  AN,  JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  DE,  a  French 
poet,  novelist,  fabulist,  and  dramatist ;  born  at 
the  Chateau  de  Florian,  near  Anduze,  Card, 
March  6,  1755 ;  died  at  Sceaux,  near  Paris,  September 
I3^  I794-  His  mother,  a  Spanish  lady,  died  when  he 
was  a  child,  and  his  character  received  its  early  mould- 
ing by  his  grandfather,  an  old  noble  who  had  run 
through  his  estate.  His  uncle,  who  had  married  a 
niece  of  Voltaire,  introduced  him  to  the  aged  dictator 
of  French  literature,  and  the  boy  spent  many  pleasant 
days  at  Ferney.  On  entering  his  teens  Jean  became  a 
page  in  the  household  of  the  Duke  of  Penthievre,  at 
Anet,  and  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  that  powerful 
nobleman  throughout  his  lifetime.  When  he  became 
of  age  he  obtained  a  commission  in  a  company  of 
dragoons,  and  behaved  himself  in  a  boisterous,  brawl- 
ing manner,  totally  at  variance  with  his  demeanor  eith- 
er before  or  after  his  connection  with  the  army.  On 
leaving  his  regiment  he  became  a  gentleman  in  ordi- 
nary. When  the  French  Revolution  broke  out  he  re- 
tired to  Sceaux,  but  he  was  discovered  by  the  sans 


JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  DE  FLORIAN  51 

culottes  of  Paris  and  dragged  to  prison.  His  incarcer- 
ation was  of  short  duration,  but  it  undermined  his 
health,  and  he  survived  his  release  but  a  few  months. 
In  1782  and  1783  he  published  an  epistle  in  verse  en- 
titled Voltaire  et  le  Serf  du  Mont  Jura  and  a  pastoral 
poem  called  Ruth,  which  drew  attention  to  his  work. 
His  romance,  Galatea,  an  acknowledged  imitation  of 
the  Galatea  of  Cervantes,  was  very  popular,  and  was 
followed  by  Numa  Pompilius,  an  imitation  of  Fene- 
lon's  Telemaque,  which  became  almost  as  popular  as 
its  prototype.  In  1788  he  published  Estelle,  a  pas- 
toral similar  to  Galatea,  and  became  a  member  of  the 
Academy.  Gonzalve  de  Cordove  (1791)  is  a  romance, 
preceded  by  a  historical  account  of  the  Moors.  He 
issued  an  abridged  translation  of  Don  Quixote,  which, 
though  greatly  inferior  to  the  original,  was  well  re- 
ceived. In  1792  his  Fables  appeared.  During  his  im- 
prisonment at  Paris  he  occupied  his  time  writing  an 
original  version  of  the  story  of  William  Tell.  After 
his  death  this  was  published  in  unfinished  form. 

Florian  was  a  professed  imitator  of  Gessner,  and  his 
style  bears  all-  the  imperfections  of  his  model.  Among 
the  best  of  his  fables  are  The  Monkey  Showing  the 
Magic  Lantern;  The  Blind  Man  and  the  Paralytic; 
and  The  Monkeys  and  the  Leopard.  Les  Deux  Billets; 
Le  Bon  Ptre;  and  Le  Bon  Menage  are  the  best  known 
of  his  comedies.  Florian's  complete  works  were  pub- 
lished in  Paris  in  sixteen  volumes  in  1820. 

"  His  style,"  says  the  Quarterly  Review,  "  at  once 
elegant,  and  easy  of  construction,  has  universally 
recommended  him  to  the  teachers  of  the  language,  and 
Telemcuchus  is  commonly  succeeded  or  supplanted  by 
'Numa.  Gonzalve  de  Cordove;  Estelle,  and  Galathee 
are  stock-books  in  all  the  circulating  libraries,  and  the 


52  JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  -DE  FLORIAN 

Tales  of  Florian  are  almost  as  generally  read  as  those 
of  Voltaire  and  Marmontel.  He  possesses  indeed  very 
great  attractions  for  the  lovers  of  light  reading.  His 
narrative  is  spirited  and  interesting.  Love,  Friend- 
ship, and  Heroism  are  his  themes,  and  he  commonly 
descants  upon  them  with  that  genuine  warmth  which 
results  from  the  combination  of  sensibility  with  genius. 
"  The  writings  of  Florian  receive  an  additional 
charm  from  his  glowing  descriptions  of  the  beauties  of 
nature,  an  excellence  of  close  affinity  with  that  which 
has  already  been  noticed.  He  seems  tenaciously  to 
uphold  the  poetical  connection  between  rural  life  and 
moral  purity,  and  loves  to  annex  to  tales  of  love  and 
hardihood  their  appropriate  scenery  of  rivers,  woods, 
and  mountains.  These  propensities  naturally  led  him 
to  pastoral  and  romance,  and  his  most  celebrated  works 
are  accordingly  of  one  or  other  of  these  descriptions." 

DISCRETION'S  WHISPER. 

Warriors  brave,  and  lovers  dear, 
Discretion's  sober  whispers  hear: 
Oft  are  the  virtuous  and  bold 
By  arts  of  treacherous  villains  sold ; 
The  hero's  banners  mock  the  wind, 
But  silent  Treachery's  behind. 

Whilst,  beneath  these  hedges  green, 
The  songster  of  the  Spring  is  seen; 
Whilst  to  the  fluttering  Western  gale 
He  carols  forth  his  tender  tale, 
The  hawk,  swift  messenger  of  death, 
Stops  at  once  his  song  and  breath. 

The  forest's  lord  his  foe  espies, 
And  swift  the  trembling  hunter  flies; 
Cover'd  with  fraud,  a  pit  enthralls, 


JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  DE  FLORIAN  53 

And  down  the  noble  victim  falls. 
He  falls,  he  dies,  without  defence; 
His  foes  yet  trembling,  death  dispense. 
— From  Gonzalve  de  Cordova;  translated  in  1792, 

THE   KING  AND   THE  TWO   SHEPHERDS 

Fled  to  forest,  and  was  seen  no  more: 

He  left  his  lamb,  which  soon  a  bird  of  prey 

Seiz'd  with  his  rav'nous  gripe,  and  bore  away. 

The  wretched  shepherd  yielded  to  despair, 

He  beat  his  breast,  and  tore  his  streaming  hair; 

Then,  sitting  down  in  all  the  rage  of  grief, 

He  call'd  on  death,  his  last,  his  sole  relief: 

*'  How  well,"  exclaimed  the  prince,  "  is  here  exprest 

What  passes  now  within  my  wretched  breast! 

A  certain  king  one  day  deplored  the  fate 

Which  wayward  placed  him  in  his  lofty  state; 

"  I  wish,  heaven  knows,  I  wish  my  people  blest, 

And  yet  they  groan  by  heaviest  loads  opprest; 

Whilst  nought  to  me  so  fair,  so  dear  as  truth, 

By  lies  insidious  they  mislead  my  youth: 

Thus  made  my  subjects'  wretched  lot  to  see, 

Heaven  seems  to  spend  its  vengeance  all  on  me. 

Counsel  I  seek,  but  all  my  efforts  vain, 

Though  still  continued,  but  increase  my  pain." 

Just  at  this  hour,  beneath  a  mountain's  brow, 

The  prince  beheld  some  wandering  sheep  below: 

Meagre  they  were  to  see,  while  close-shorn  plains 

Small  produce  promis'd  to  the  owner's  pains. 

Here,  straggling  lambs  without  a  mother's  care; 

Yonder,  the  luckless  ewes  deserted  bare; 

All  were  dispers'd,  confus'd;  the  rams  forlorn, 

With  strength  impaired,  among  the  briers  were  torn. 

He  who  presided  o'er  the  rabble  rout, 

The  foolish  shepherd,  hurried  wild  about, 

Now  to  the  wood  a  wand'ring  ewe  to  find ; 

Now  for  a  lamb  he  stopp'd,  which  lagg*d  behind; 

Now  one,  a  favorite  beyond  the  rest, 

He  stooping  down  with  silly  fondness  prest. 

But  now  a  wolf  the  best  among  them  tore, 


54  JEAN  PIERRE  CLARIS  DE  FLORIAN 

Life,  I  behold,  to  untaught  shepherds  brings 
All  the  keen  anguish,  all  the  woes  of  kings; 
Why  then  should  I  unmanly  thus  repine  ? 
The  sight  of  others'  woes  might  lessen  mine." 
Raising  his  eyes,  the  prince  beheld  again 
A  numerous  flock  upon  a  smiling  plain; 
Well  fed,  well  fleec'd,  they  slowly  grazM  along; 
Rams,  proud  and  fierce,  in  order  led  the  throng; 
Lambs,  fair  and  vig'rous,  frisk'd  amidst  the  green, 
Where  the  fat  ewes  with  well-stor'd  dugs  were  seen. 
The  shepherd  careless  at  his  ease  was  laid, 
Now  carol'd  verses  to  some  fav'rite  maid, 
Now  made  his  flute  in  softer  notes  repeat 
Sounds  which  pleas'd  Echo  in  her  secret  seat. 
"  Ah !  "  said  the  king  amaz'd,  "  this  flock  so  fair 
Soon  shall  the  wolves  and  soon  the  vultures  tear; 
They,  as  in  search  of  prey  they  famish'd  rove, 
But  little  heed  the  swain  who  sings  of  love; 
He,  when  the  choicest  of  his  flock  they  gain, 
Shall  sing  and  play,  and  lift  his  flute  in  vain. 
How  should  I  laugh ! "  that  moment  as  he  spoke, 
Forth  from  the  wood  a  wolf  enormous  broke: 
As  soon  a  dog,  with  strong  and  vig'rous  bound, 
Flew  on  the  thief  and  fix'd  him  to  the  ground. 
Stunn'd  at  the  noise,  two  sheep  had  scamper'd  wide, 
A  dog  soon  brought  them  to  his  master's  side ; 
Thus  in  a  moment  order  was  restored, 
Whilst  undisturbed  remained  the  rustic  Lord: 
At  this  the  prince  in  haste  the  swain  address'd, 
Whilst  rage  and  wonder  filFd  his  anxious  breast: 
"How  canst  thou  thus  at  careless  ease  remain, 
Whilst  wolves  and  birds  of  prey  molest  the  plain." 
*'  Monarch ! "  the  swain  replied,  in  careless  mood, 
"  My  only  secret's  this  —  my  dogs  are  good." 
—  Translated  in  1797  -for  The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


ADOLF  LUDWIG  POLLEN  55 


pOLLEN,  ADOLF  LUDWIG,  a  German  poet;  born 
at  Giessen,  January  21,  1794;  died  at  Bern, 
Switzerland,  December  26,  1855.  He  was 
educated  at  Giessen,  and  subsequently  became  tutor  in 
a  noble  family.  In  1814  he  entered  the  army  as  a 
volunteer,  and  served  in  the  campaign  against  Napo- 
leon. He  then  became  editor  of  a  newspaper  at  Elber- 
feld.  In  1819  he  became  implicated  in  revolutionary 
movements,  and  was  imprisoned  at  Berlin  until  1821, 
when  he  was  liberated,  and  took  up  his  residence  in 
Switzerland.  He  made  excellent  translations  from 
Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian,  and  wrote  spirited  German 
songs.  A  collection  of  his  poems,  Free  Voices  of 
Fresh  Youth,  appeared  in  1819.  In  1827  he  published 
two  volumes  entitled  Bildersaal  Deutscher  Dichtung. 

Professor  Karl  Elze  says  of  Pollen  that  "his  lyric 
poetry  was  particularly  popular  with  students,  whilst 
his  translations  from  Homer,  Tasso,  and  the  Niebelun- 
gen  earned  the  praises  of  scholars." 

BLUCHER'S  BALL. 
[Battle  o£  the  Katzbach,  August,  1813.] 

By  the  Katzbach,  by  the  Katzbach,  ha!    there  was  a 

merry  dance, 
Wild  and  weird  and  whirling  waltzes  skipped  ye  through, 

ye  knaves  of  France! 
For  there  struck  the  bass-viol  an  old  German  master 

famed  — 
Marshal  Forward,  Prince  of  Wallstadt,  Gebhardt  Bliicher, 

named. 
Up!    the  Bliicher  hath  the  ball-room  lighted  with  the 

cannon's  glare ! 
Spread  yourselves,  ye  gay  green  carpets,  that  the  dancing 

moistens  there  I 


56  ADOLF  LUDWIG  POLLEN 

And  his  fiddle-bow  at  first  he  waxed  with  Goldberg  and 
with  Jauer; 

Whew !    he's  drawn  it  now  full  length,  his  play  a  stormy 
morning's  shower! 

Ha!    the  dance  went  briskly  onward;   tingling  madness 
seized  them  all, 

As  when  howling  mighty  tempests  on  the  arms  of  wind- 
mills fall. 

But  the  old  man  wants  it  cheery;  wants  a  pleasant  danc- 
ing chime; 

And  with  gun-stocks  clearly,  loudly,  beats  the  old  Teu- 
tonic time. 

Say,  who,  standing  by  the  old  man,  strikes  so  hard  the 
kettle-drum. 

And  with  crashing  strength  of  arm,  down  lets  the  thun- 
dering hammer  come? 

Gneisenau,    the    gallant    champion:    Allemania's    envious 
foes 

Smites  the  mighty  pair,  her  living  double-eagle,  shiver- 
ing blows. 

And    the    old    man    scrapes    the    "Sweepout;"    hapless 
Franks  and  hapless  trulls ! 

Now  what  dancers  leads  the  gray-beard  ?  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 
'tis  dead  men's  skulls  ! 

But  as  ye  too  much  were  heated  in  the  sultriness  of  hell, 

Till  ye  sweated  blood  and  brains,  he  made  the  Katzbach 
cool  ye  well. 

From  the   Katzbach,  while   ye   stiffen,  hear  the   ancient 
proverb  say, 

"  Wanton  varlets,  venal  blockheads,  must  with  clubs  be 
beat  away ! " 

—  Translation  of  C.  C.  FELTON. 


CHARLES  THEODORE  POLLEN  57 


pOLLEN,  CHARLES  THEODORE  CHRISTIAN, 
brother  of  Adolf  Follen,  a  German-American 
clergyman  and  educator;  born  at  Romrod, 
Hesse  Darmstadt,  September  4,  1795 ;  died  in  the  burn- 
ing of  the  steamer  Lexington  in  Long  Island  Sound, 
N.  Y.,  January  13,  1840,  while  on  his  way  to  attend 
the  dedication  of  a  Unitarian  church  at  East  Lexing- 
ton, Mass.,  to  which  he  had  been  called  as  pastor.  In 
1813  he  entered  the  University  of  Giessen,  where  with 
other  young  men  he  undertook  to  form  a  Burschen- 
schaft  which  should  embrace  all  students  irrespective 
of  the  particular  German  territory  whence  they  came. 
Soon  after  taking  his  degree,  in  1818,  as  Doctor  of 
Civil  Law,  his  liberal  sentiments  and  writings,  and  the 
part  he  took  in  the  defence  of  popular  rights,  made 
him  obnoxious  to  the  government  of  his  own  province, 
and  he  went  to  Jena,  where  he  became  a  lecturer  in  the 
University.  His  acquaintance  with  Sand,  the  assassin 
of  Kotzebue,  led  to  his  arrest.  He  was  taken  to  Wei- 
mar and  Mannheim,  examined,  and  acquitted ;  but  was 
forbidden  to  lecture  at  Jena,  and  was  at  length  forced 
to  take  refuge  in  Switzerland.  In  1821  he  became 
Professor  of  Law  at  Basel,  but  his  liberal  sentiments 
drew  upon  him  the  disfavor  of  the  Holy  Alliance.  An 
order  for  his  arrest  had  been  issued ;  but  he  saved  him- 
self by  flight  to  Paris,  and  thence  to  America.  He  first 
formed  a  class  in  Boston  in  civil  law.  In  1825  he  was 
appointed  Tutor  of  German  at  Harvard  University;  in 
1828  Teacher  of  Ecclesiastical  History  and  Ethics  in 
the  Cambridge  Divinity  School,  and  in  1830  Professor 
of  German  Literature  at  Harvard.  He  studied  divini- 
ty, and  in  1836  became  pastor  of  the  First  Unitarian 


58  CHARLES  THEODORE  POLLEN 

Church  in  New  York.  In  addition  to  his  pastoral 
work,  he  wrote  various  articles  for  the  Christian  Ex- 
aminer and  other  papers,  and  lectured  on  literature. 
He  was  the  author  of  several  celebrated  popular  songs 
written  in  the  interest  of  liberty,  the  best  of  which  is, 
perhaps,  the  Bundeslied,  beginning  "  Brause  du  Frei- 
heitssang."  It  is  one  of  the  liveliest  of  patriotic  Ger- 
man airs.  He  also  wrote  a  German  grammar  and 
reader.  His  works  include  Sermons;  Lectures  on 
Moral  Philosophy;  Schiller's  Life  and  Dramas;  and 
several  essays  on  Psychology;  The  State  of  Man,  and 
other  subjects. 

THE   PROVINCE   OF   THE   PSYCHOLOGIST. 

It  is  the  province  of  the  psychologist  to  notice  the 
manifold  impressions,  recollections,  and  forebodings;  the 
divers  perceptions,  reflections,  and  imaginings;  the  ever- 
varying  inclinations,  temptations,  and  struggles  of  the 
soul;  in  short,  all  that  is  stirring,  striving,  and  going  on 
within  us;  and  to  trace  all  to  its  elements,  its  original 
constitution,  and  intended  harmonious  progression.  It  is 
the  province  of  the  psychologist  to  show  how  impressions 
call  forth  thoughts,  and  excite  rival  desires;  and  how 
these  inward  struggles  end  in  the  enslavement  or  enfran- 
chisement of  the  soul.  It  is  the  high  calling  of  the  ob- 
server of  the  mind  to  watch  its  progress,  from  the  dawn 
of  intelligence,  the  unfolding  of  the  affections,  and  the 
first  experiments  of  the  will,  through  all  the  mistakes,  the 
selfish  desires,  and  occasional  deflections  from  duty,  on- 
ward to  the  lofty  discoveries,  the  generous  devotion,  and 
moral  conquests  of  the  soul.  Psychology  leads  us  to  the 
hidden  sources  of  every  action,  every  science  and  art,  by 
making  tjs  acquainted  with  the  motives  which  prompt, 
and  the  faculties  which  enable  human  beings  to  conceive 
of  and  carry  into  effect  any  practical  and  scientific  or 
literary  undertaking.  The  calculation  of  the  orbit  of  a 
comet  is  an  achievement  which  to  him  who  has  not  ad- 
vanced much  beyond  the  multiplication-table  would  ap- 


ELIZA  LEE  POLLEN  59 

pear  impossible  if  he  were  not  obliged  to  admit  it  as  a 
fact.  Yet  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  power  by  which 
the  orbits  of  the  celestial  bodies  is  revealed  to  man  would 
convince  him  that  the  same  capacity  which  enables  him 
to  cast  his  private  accounts  is  fitted  to  ascertain  the 
courses  of  the  stars.  A  poetic  composition  like  Hamlet 
or  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  is  something  so  wholly 
beyond  the  ordinary  attainments  of  men  that  the  author 
must  appear  more  than  human,  if  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  soul  did  not  convince  us  that  the  power 
which  enables  us  to  understand  and  enjoy  a  single  line 
of  those  compositions  is  the  same  that  formed  a  Shake- 
speare. And  thus  the  resolution  of  a  child  rather  to  ex- 
pose himself  to  punishment  than  to  tell  a  falsehood,  may 
be  shown,  by  a  strict  psychological  analysis,  to  be  essen- 
tially the  same  that  enables  the  martyr  to  endure  the 
cross  rather  than  deny  his  faith. —  Psychology. 


pOLLEN,  ELIZA  LEE  CABOT,  an  American  poet ; 
born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  August  15,  1787;  died 
at  Brookline,  Mass.,  January  26,  1860.  In 
1828  she  married  Charles  Pollen.  She  was  the  author 
of  The  Well-spent  Hour  and  Selections  from  Penelon 
(1828) ;  The  Skeptic  (1835) ;  Married  Life  and  Little 
Songs  aiid  Poems  (1839) ;  Twilight  Stories  and  a 
second  -series  of  Little  Songs  (1859);  The  Life  of 
Charles  Pollen,  and  several  other  works. 

EVENING. 

The  sun  is  set,  the  day  is  o'er, 
And  labor's  voice  is  heard  no  more; 
On  high  the  silver  moon  is  hung; 
The  birds  their  vesper  hymns  have  sung, 
Save  one,  who  oft  breaks  forth  anew, 


60  ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE 

To  chant  another  sweet  adieu 
To  all  the  glories  of  the  day, 
And  all  its  pleasures  passed  away. 

Her  twilight  robe  all  nature  wears, 
And  evening  sheds  her  fragrant  tears, 
Which  every  thirsty  plant  receives, 
While  silence  trembles  on  its  leaves; 
From  every  tree  and  every  bush 
There  seems  to  breathe  a  soothing  hush, 
While  every  transient  sound  but  shows 
How  deep  and  still  is  the  repose. 

Thus  calm  and  fair  may  all  things  be, 
When  life's  last  sun  has  set  with  me; 
And  may  the  lamp  of  memory  shine 
As  sweetly  o'er  my  day's  decline 
As  yon  pale  crescent,  pure  and  fair, 
That  hangs  so  safely  in  the  air, 
And  pours  her  mild,  reflected  light 
To  soothe  and  bless  the  weary  sight 

And  may  my  spirit  often  wake 

Like  thine,  sweet  bird,  and  singing,  take 

Another  farewell  of  the  sun  — 

Of  pleasures  past,  of  labors  done. 

See,  where  the  glorious  sun  has  set, 

A  line  of  light  is  hanging  yet; 

Oh,  thus  may  love  awhile   illume 

The  silent  darkness  of  my  tomb ! 


pONBLANQUE,  ALBANY  WILLIAM,  an  English 
journalist  and  publicist;  born  at  London  in 
1793 1  died  there,  October  13,  1872.  He  was 

the  son  of  an  eminent  lawyer,  and  studied  for  the  bar ; 

but  he  became  a  political  writer  upon  the  London 


ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE  61 

Morning  Chronicle.  In  1820  he  succeeded  Leigh 
Hunt  as  editor  of  the  Examiner,  which  he  conducted 
until  1846.  In  1852  he  was  made  Director  of  the  Sta- 
tistical Department  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  In  1837  he 
published,  under  the  title  England  Under  Seven  Ad- 
ministrations, a  collection,  in  three  volumes,  of  some 
of  his  papers  in  the  Examiner.  His  nephew,  E.  B. 
Fonblanque,  published  in  1874  the  Life  and  Labors  of 
his  uncle. 

In  1828  the  Duke  of  Wellington  became  Prime-Min- 
ister. The  English  newspapers  were  full  of  the  most 
minute  details  of  his  every-day  habits  and  occupations. 
To  ridicule  these  accounts,  and  incidentally  the  Duke 
himself,  Fonblanque  wrote  this  burlesque : 

DAILY    HABITS    OF    THE   DUKE    OF    WELLINGTON. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  generally  rises  at  about  eight. 
Before  he  gets  out  of  bed  he  commonly  pulls  off  his  night- 
cap, and  while  he  is  dressing  he  sometimes  whistles  a 
tune,  and  occasionally  damns  his  valet.  The  Duke  of 
Wellington  uses  warm  water  in  shaving,  and  lays  on  a 
greater  quantity  of  lather  than  ordinary  men.  While 
shaving  he  chiefly  breathes  through  his  nose,  with  a  view, 
as  is  conceived,  of  keeping  the  suds  out  of  his  mouth; 
and  sometimes  he  blows  out  one  cheek,  sometimes  the 
other,  to  present  a  better  surface  to  the  razor.  When 
he  is  dressed  he  goes  down  to  breakfast,  and  while  de- 
scending the  stairs  he  commonly  takes  occasion  to  blow 
his  nose,  which  he  does  rather  rapidly,  following  it  tip 
with  three  hasty  wipes  of  his  handkerchief,  which  he  in- 
stantly afterward  deposits  in  his  right-hand  coat  pocket 
The  Duke  of  Wellington's  pockets  are  in  the  skirts  of 
his  coats,  and  the  holes  perpendicular.  He  wears  false 
horizontal  flaps,  which  have  given  the  world  an  erroneous 
opinion  of  their  position. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  drinks  tea  for  breakfast,  which 
he  sweetens  with  white  sugar  and  corrects  with  cream. 


62  ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE 

He  commonly  stirs  the  fluid  two  or  three  times  with  a 
spoon  before  he  raises  it  to  his  lips.  The  Duke  of  Well- 
ington eats  toast  and  butter,  cold  ham,  tongue,  fowls, 
beef,  or  eggs;  and  sometimes  both  meat  and  eggs;  the 
eggs  are  generally  those  of  the  common  domestic  fowl. 
During  breakfast  the  Duke  of  Wellington  has  a  news- 
paper either  in  his  hand,  or  else  on  the  table,  or  in  his 
lap.  The  Duke  of  Wellington's  favorite  paper  is  the 
Examiner.  After  breakfast  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
stretches  himself  out  and  yawns.  He  then  pokes  the  fire 
and  whistles.  If  there  is  no  fire,  he  goes  to  the  window 
and  looks  out. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  the  general  post  letters  arrive. 
The  Duke  of  Wellington  seldom  or  never  inspects  the 
superscription,  but  at  once  breaks  the  seal,  and  applies 
himself  to  the  contents.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  ap- 
pears sometimes  displeased  with  his  correspondents,  and 
says  pshaw,  in  a  clear,  loud  voice.  About  this  time  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  retires  for  a  few  minutes,  during 
which  it  is  impossible  to  account  for  his  motions  with 
desirable  precision. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  the  Duke's 
horse  is  brought  to  the  door.  The  Duke's  horse  on  these 
occasions  is  always  saddled  and  bridled.  The  Duke's 
horse  is  ordinarily  the  same  white  horse  he  rode  at 
Waterloo,  and  which  was  eaten  by  the  hounds  at  Strath- 
fieldsaye.  His  hair  is  of  a  chestnut  color.  Before  the 
Duke  goes  out,  he  has  his  hat  and  gloves  brought  him  by 
a  servant.  The  Duke's  daily  manner  of  mounting  his 
horse  is  the  same  that  it  was  on  the  morning  of  the  glo- 
rious battle  of  Waterloo.  His  Grace  takes  the  rein  in 
his  left  hand,  which  he  lays  on  the  horse's  mane ;  he  then 
puts  his  left  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  with  a  spring  brings 
his  body  up,  and  his  right  leg  over  the  body  of  the  animal 
by  the  way  of  the  tail,  and  thus  places  himself  in  the 
saddle.  He  then  drops  his  right  foot  into  the  stirrup, 
puts  his  horse  to  a  walk,  and  seldom  falls  off,  being  an 
admirable  equestrian. 

When  acquaintances  and  friends  salute  the  Duke  in 
the  streets,  such  is  his  affability  that  he  either  bows, 
touches  his  hat,  or  recognizes  their  civility  in  some  way 


ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE  63 

or  other.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  very  commonly  says, 
"How  are  you?"  "It's  a  fine  day!"  "How  do  you 
do?"  and  makes  frequent  and  various  remarks  on  the 
weather,  and  the  dust  or  the  mud,  as  it  may  be. 

At  twelve  o'clock  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fri- 
days the  Duke's  Master  comes  to  teach  his  Political 
Economy.  The  Duke  makes  wonderful  progress  in  his 
studies,  and  his  instructor  is  used  pleasantly  to  observe 
that  et  The  Duke  gets  on  like  a  house  on  fire." 

At  the  Treasury  the  Duke  of  Wellington  does  nothing 
but  think.  He  sits  on  a  leather  library  chair,  with  his 
heels  and  a  good  part  of  his  legs  on  the  table.  When 
thus  in  profound  thought  he  very  frequently  closes  his 
eyes  for  hours  together,  and  makes  an  extraordinary  and 
rather  appalling  noise  through  his  nose.  Such  is  the 
Duke  of  Wellington's  devotion  to  business  that  he  eats 
no  luncheon. 

In  the  House  of  Lords  the  Duke's  manner  of  proceed- 
ing is  this:  He  walks  up  to  the  fireplace,  turns  his  back 
to  it,  separates  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  tossing  them  over 
the  dexter  and  sinister  arms,  thrusts  his  hands  in  his 
breeches  pockets,  and  so  stands  at  ease.  The  character- 
istic of  the  Duke's  oratory  is  a  brevity  the  next  thing  to 
silence.  As  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit,  it  may  confidently 
be  affirmed  that  in  this  quality  Lord  North  and  Sheridan 
were  fools  compared  with  him. —  Under  Seven  Adminis- 
trations. 

LEGAL  FICTIONS. 

The  forms  of  our  laws  are  of  so  happy  a  nature  that, 
when  they  are  employed  on  the  gravest  crimes,  they 
cause  a  feeling  of  the  ludicrous  to  spring  tip  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader.  The  daily  papers  have  given  an  abstract 
of  the  indictment  against  Corder,  the  murderer  of  Maria 
Marten,  which  abstract  occupies  about  three-fourths  of 
a  column  of  small  print;  and  we  ask  whether  any  mor- 
tal can  glance  his  eye  over  this  article  without  having 
his  sentiment  of  horror  at  the  crime  disturbed  by  a  sense 
of  the  ludicrous  absurdity  of  the  jargon  in  which  it  is 
set  forth: 


64  ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE 

"  First  Count. —  The  jurors  of  our  Lord  the  King,  upon 
their  oath,  present  that  William  Corder,  late  of  the  par- 
ish of  Polstead,  etc.,  Suffolk,  yeoman,  on  the  i8th  of  May, 
etc.,  with  force  and  arms,  etc.,  in  and  upon  one  Maria 
Marten,  in  the  fear  of  God,  etc.,  then  and  there  being, 
feloniously,  wilfully,  and  of  his  malice  aforethought,  did 
make  an  assault,  and  that  the  said  William  Corder,  a  cer- 
tain pistol  of  2-y.  value,  then  and  there  charged  with  gun- 
powder and  one  leaden  bullet  (which  pistol  he  the  said 
William  Corder,  in  his  right  hand,  then  and  there  had  and 
held)  then  and  there  feloniously,  wilfully,  and  of  his  mal- 
ice aforethought,  did  discharge  and  shoot  off,  at,  against, 
and  upon  the  said  Maria  Marten;  and  the  said  William 
Corder,  with  the  leaden  bullet  aforesaid,  out  of  the  pistol 
aforesaid,  by  the  said  William  Corder  discharged  and 
shot  off,  then  and  there  feloniously,  wilfully,  etc.,  did 
strike,  penetrate,  and  wound  the  said  Maria  Marten  in 
and  upon  the  left  side  of  the  face  of  her  the  said 
Maria  Marten,  etc.,  giving  her  the  said  Maria  Marten 
one  mortal  wound  of  the  depth  of  four  inches,  and  of 
the  breadth  of  half  an  inch,  of  which  said  mortal  wound 
she  the  said  Maria  Marten  then  and  there  instantly  died; 
and  so  the  jurors  aforesaid,  upon  their  oaths,  etc.,  do  say, 
that  the  said  William  Corder,  her  the  said  Maria  Marten, 
did  kill  and  murder/' 

As  it  would  be  impossible  to  proceed  in  the  investiga- 
tion of  truth  without  the  wholesome  aid  of  a  contradic- 
tory averment  or  a  palpable  lie,  in  the  next  count  it  is 
stated  that  William  Corder  killed  Maria  Marten  with 
a  sword  of  the  value  of  one  shilling.  It  may  be  asked 
of  what  importance  is  the  value  of  the  instrument  The 
answer  is,  that  it  serves  to  hang  a  falsehood  on — which 
seems  to  be  always  good  in  the  forms  of  the  law;  the 
instrument  being  valued  at  a  worth  obviously  stated  at 
random  and  false.  The  naked  state  of  the  accusation 
of  Corder  is  this:  — 

i.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  with  a  wound  from  a 
pistol  bullet  on  the  left  side  of  the  face.  Of  this  wound 
she  instantly  died. — 2.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten 
with  the  blow  of  a  one-shilling  sword  on  the  left  side  of 
the  body,  of  which  wound  she  instantly  died. —  3.  He 


ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE  65 

killed  one  Maria  Marten  with  the  blow  of  a  sword  on 
the  right  side  of  the  face. —  4.  He  killed  one  Maria 
Marten  by  a  blow  on  the  right  side  of  the  neck. —  5.  He 
killed  one  Maria  Marten  by  strangling  her  with  a  hand- 
kerchief.—  6.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  by  shooting 
her  with  a  charge  of  shot  from  a  gun. —  7.  He  killed 
one  Maria  Marten  by  throwing  her  into  a  hole  and  heap- 
ing upon  her  five  bushels  of  earth  of  no  value,  and  five 
bushels  of  clay  of  no  value,  and  five  bushels  of  gravel  of 
no  value,  of  all  which  load  of  fifteen  bushels  of  no  value 
she  instantly  died. —  8.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  by 
heaping  fifteen  bushels  of  clay,  gravel,  and  earth,  in  equal 
quantities  and  equal  worthlessness,  upon  her  in  a  hole  of 
a  particular  size. —  9.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  by 
stabbing  her  with  a  sharp  instrument,  and  also  strangling 
her. — 10.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  by  shooting  her 
with  a  pistol  loaded  with  shot,  by  stabbing  her  with  a 
sharp  instrument,  also  a  one-shilling  sword,  by  strangling 
her  with  a  handkerchief,  and  throwing  her  into  a  hole,  and 
heaping  earth,  gravel,  and  clay  on  her. 

Now  it  is  mathematically  certain,  that  if  Corder  killed 
only  one  Maria  Marten,  and  not  ten  different  Maria  Mar- 
tens, destroyed  by  different  means,  as  set  forth  in  the 
indictment,  nine  distinct  lies  have  been  averred  respecting 
the  circumstances.  And  it  follows  that  no  less  than  nine 
great  lies,  with  their  accompaniments,  are  absolutely  nec- 
essary to  the  discovery  of  one  truth,  and  the  ends  of 
justice. 

If  it  had  been  simply  set  forth  that  Corder  had  killed 
Maria  Marten,  the  minds  of  the  jury  would  surely  have 
been  utterly  at  fault,  and  unequal  to  discover  by  the  ex- 
amination of  the  evidence  whether  he  had  indeed  mur- 
dered the  deceased,  and  by  what  means.  How  admira- 
bly promotive  of  the  elucidation  of  the  truth,  and  the 
detection  of  guilt,  is  that  exact  averment  of  the  five 
bushels  of  clay,  the  five  bushels  of  earth,  and  the  five 
bushels  of  gravel !  And  what  curious  and  profound  ef- 
fect there  is  in  the  statement  that  the  earth,  gravel,  and 
clay  were  of  "  no  value !  "  How  directly  all  these  points 
bear  on  the  point  at  issue !  And  while  so  much  nicety 
is  observed,  how  much  latitude  is  allowed!  For  exam- 
VOL.  X.— 5 


66  ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE 

pie:  exact  in  statement  as  these  combined  fifteen  bushels 
sound,  the  clerk  of  the  indictment  might  have  made  Cor- 
der  either  destroy  Maria  Marten  in  Polstead  barn,  with 
as  much  soil  as  would  make  a  new  world;  or  he  might 
have  made  him  smother  her  by  flinging  on  her  half  a 
peck  of  mould. 

Provided  only  a  lie  be  told,  English  justice  is  satisfied. 
The  effect  of  the  lie  is  indifferent;  all  that  is  wanted  is 
the  customary  and  comforting  example  of  falsehood. 
Whether  you  use  a  mountain  or  a  molehill  in  an  indict- 
ment for  murder  is  indifferent,  provided  you  give  it  the 
necessary  character  of  a  lie.  For  example:  to  have  said 
that  Corder  killed  Maria  Marten  by  heaping  earth  upon 
her,  might  have  been  true;  but  the  exactness  of  stating 
that  he  killed  her  with  five  bushels  of  earth,  five  of  clay, 
and  five  of  gravel,  produces  the  desirable  certainty  of 
falsehood. 

If  falsehood  were  supposed  to  be  an  exhaustible  body, 
nothing  could  be  conceived  more  politic  than  the  system 
of  English  law,  which  would  in  this  case  expend  so  many 
lies  on  its  own  forms  and  proceedings,  as  to  leave  none 
for  the  use  of  rogues  in  evidence.  But  unfortunately 
such  is  not  the  moral  philosophy,  and  the  witness  who 
goes  into  one  of  our  courts,  the  vital  atmosphere  of  which 
is  charged  with  fiction,  is  too  likely  to  have  his  inward 
and  latent  mendacity  provoked  by  the  example.  He  sees 
in  the  reputed  sacred  forms  of  justice,  that  the  falsehood 
which  is  accounted  convenient  is  not  esteemed  shameful; 
and  why,  he  considers,  may  not  the  individual  man  have 
his  politic  fictions  as  well  as  that  abstraction  of  all  pos- 
sible human  excellence,  Justice.  The  end  sanctions  the 
means.  We  cannot  touch  pitch  without  defilement;  and 
it  is  impossible  that  a  people  can  be  familiarized  with 
falsehood,  and  reconciled  to  it  on  pretense  of  its  utility, 
without  detriment  to  their  morals. —  Under  Seven  Ad- 
ministrations. 

THE  IRISH  CHURCH:  1835. 

The  last  attention  to  a  feasted  Esquimau  who  can 
swallow  no  more,  is  to  lay  him  on  his  back,  and  to  coil 


ALBANY  WILLIAM  FONBLANQUE  fy 

a  long  strip  of  blubber  into  his  mouth  till  it  is  quite 
filled;  and  then  to  cut  off  the  superfluous  fat  close  to 
his  lips.  With  this  full  measure  the  Esquimau  is  con- 
tent; for  he  is  not  an  Ecclesiastical  Body,  and  his  friends 
do  not  cry  out  that  he  is  starved  because  the  surplus 
blubber  is  cut  off,  and  appropriated  to  some  empty  stom- 
ach. The  case  of  the  Esquimau  is  the  case  of  the  Irish 
Church.  It  lies  supine,  full  of  fat  things,  and  there  is  a 
superfluity  which  the  Ministry  is  for  cutting  off  smooth 
to  the  lips;  but  its  champions  raise  a  cry  of  spoliation 
and  famine. 

The  question  at  present  [1835]  in  debate  is  simply 
whether  Lazarus  shall  have  the  crumbs  which  fall  from 
the  table  of  established  Dives.  It  is  merely  a  question 
of  the  shaking  of  the  table-cloth.  No  one  proposes  to 
give  away  a  dish  or  a  seat,  but  only  just  to  allow  moral- 
ity the  benefit  of  the  broken  bread.  Dives  pronounces 
this  flat  robbery ;  says  that  he  has  a  man  for  every  morsel ; 
and  that  if  a  crumb  of  his  abundance  be  abridged,  he  shall 
be  brought  to  beggary.  And  here  we  may  observe, 
by-the-by,  that  future  etymologists,  noting  how  our  Dig- 
nitaries of  the  Church  cling  to  riches,  and  delight  in 
purple  and  fine  linen,  may  easily  fall  into  the  blunder  of 
supposing  that  Divines  derived  their  name  from  Dives, 
and  were  the  elect  representatives  of  the  pomps  and  vani- 
ties of  riches. 

The  sinecure  character  of  the  Irish  Establishment,  and 
its  gilding,  have  a  kind  of  consistency,  looking  upon  it  as 
a  sign — >a  sign  of  ascendency.  As  we  pass  along  t  the 
streets  we  see  signs  of  Golden  Boots  and  Golden  Canis- 
ters, and  such  like,  and  they  are  always  of  a  huge  size, 
and  serving  no  purpose  of  boot  or  canister,  or  whatever 
they  represent;  and  so  it  is  with  a  Golden  Priesthood. 
It  stands  out  as  a  sign,  but  fulfills  no  purpose  of  the  thing 
it  represents.  The  Irish,  who  only  see  in  it  the  sign  of 
their  yoke,  have  to  pay  extravagantly  for  the  gilding; 
and  this  is  the  hardship. 

What  is  proposed  for  the  abatement  of  this  huge  abuse? 
What  is  resisted  as  robbery,  sacrilege,  and  so  forth?  A 
measure  carrying  the  principle  of  justice  feather-weight, 
and  no  more.  The  Virginius  of  Sheridan  Knowles  hears 


68        BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE  FONTENELLE 

"  a  voice  so  fine,  that  nothing  lives  'twixt  it  and  silence." 
This  is  a  reform  so  fine,  that  nothing  lives  'twixt  it  and 
abuse.  Yet,  fine  as  it  is,  small  as  it  is,  it  is  consecrated 
by  the  spirit  of  justice,  and  is  as  acceptable  to  the  long- 
oppressed  people  of  Ireland  as  drops  of  water  are  to  the 
parched  wretch  in  the  desert.  The  fault  of  the  pending 
Bill  is  on  the  side  of  inefficiency ;  it  deals  too  tenderly  with 
the  abuse.  But  its  moderation  has  certainly  served  the 
more  strongly  to  expose  the  obstinate  injustice  of  its  op- 
ponents. It  has  been  made  manifest  that  men  who  oppose 
a  gentle  palliative  like  this  are  wilfully  resolved  to  resist 
any  measure  having  in  it  one  particle  of  the  substance  or 
spirit  of  Reform. —  Under  Seven  Administrations. 


pONTENELLE,  BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE,  a 
French  dramatist,  philosopher  and  poet ;  born 
at  Rouen,  February  II,  1657;  died  at  Paris, 
January  9,  1757.  His  father  was  an  advocate  of 
Rouen,  his  mother  a  sister  of  Pierre  and  Thomas  Cor- 
neille.  He  was  educated  at  the  College  of  the  Jesuits 
at  Rouen,  and  studied  law,  which  he  abandoned  on 
losing  his  first  case.  He  then  devoted  himself  to 
poetry.  His  tragedy,  Asper  (1680),  was  a  failure,  the 
more  mortifying  because  it  had  been  highly  praised  by 
Thomas  Corneille.  Of  his  other  dramatic  works  — 
Psyche;  Bellerophon;  Endymion;  Thetis  and  Pclcus; 
Lavinia;  Brutus;  Idalie  —  not  one  has  kept  the  stage. 
His  first  literary  success  was  the  Dialogues  des  Moris, 
published  in  1683.  The  Entretiens  sur  la  Plurality  -dcs 
Mondes  (1686),  written  for  the  purpose  of  setting 
forth  attractively  Descartes's  theory  of  vortices,  en- 
hanced his  reputation.  In  1687  Fontenelle  removed  to 
Paris,  and  published  L'Histoire  des  Oracles,  a  transla- 


BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE  FONTENELLE          69 

tion  and  abridgment  of  the  Latin  of  the  Hollander, 
Dale.  This  work,  which  takes  the  ground  that  oracles 
were  not  inspired  by  demons,  and  that  they  did  not 
cease  at  the  birth  of  Christ,  was  attacked  by  the  Jesuit 
Battus,  who  maintained  the  contrary.  Fontenelle  left 
his  critic  in  possession  of  the  field.  "  All  quarrels  dis- 
please me,"  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Leclerc.  "  I  would 
rather  the  devil  had  been  the  prophet,  since  the  Jesuit 
father  will  have  it  so,  and  since  he  thinks  that  more  or- 
thodox." The  controversy  in  regard  to  the  respective 
merits  of  ancient  and  modern  writers  was  then  raging, 
and  Fontenelle  took  the  modern  side  in  a  Digression 
sur  les  Anciens  et  les  Modernes  (1688).  In  the  same 
year  appeared  his  Poesies  Pastorales.,  and  shortly  after- 
ward his  Doutes  sur  le  Systlwie  Physique  des  Causes 
Occasionnelles,  in  opposition  to  Malebranche.  Racine 
and  Boileau,  who  had  always  disliked  Fontenelle,  had 
four  times  succeeded  in  securing  his  rejection  from  the 
French  Academy.  In  1691  he  was  admitted,  notwith- 
standing their  efforts  against  him.  He  afterward  be* 
came  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions  and 
the  Academy  of  Sciences.  In  1699  he  was  nominated 
Perpetual  Secretary  of  the  latter  body,  and  held  the 
office  for  forty-two  years.  His  Histoire  de  V  AcadS- 
mie  des  Sciences  (1696-99)  and  his  Eloges  des  Aca- 
demiciens  (1708-19)  are  distinguished  for  the  beauty 
of  their  style.  The  Eloges  contain  his  best  work.  He 
was  famous  for  the  charm  of  his  conversation  as  well 
as  of  his  writings.  He  'has  been  accused  of  heartless* 
ness.  It  is  said  that  he  neither  laughed  nor  wept. 
His  two  mottoes,  "Everything  is  possible,"  and 
"Everybody  is  right,"  may  at  once  account  for  his 
numerous  friends  and  for  the  lack  of  true  feeling  in 
his  poems.  His  last  words  when  dying  were,  "  I  do 


70         BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE  FONTENELLE 

not  suffer,  my  friends:  but  I  feel  a  sort  of  difficulty 
in  living." 

CONCERNING   THE   WORLD   IN   THE    MOON. 

The  Marchioness  was  so  intent  upon  her  notions  that 
she  would  fain  have  engaged  me  next  day  to  proceed 
where  I  left  off;  but  I  told  her,  since  the  moon  and  stars 
were  become  the  subject  of  our  discourse,  we  should 
trust  our  chimeras  with  nobody  else.  At  night,  there- 
fore, we  went  again  into  the  park,  which  was  now  wholly 
dedicated  to  our  learned  conversation. 

"  Well,  Madame,"  said  I,  "  I  have  great  news  for  you ; 
that  which  I  told  you  last  night,  of  the  moon  being  in- 
habited, may  be  otherwise  now;  there  is  a  new  fancy  got 
into  my  head,  which  puts  those  people  in  great  danger." 

"  I  cannot,"  said  her  ladyship,  "  suffer  such  whims  to 
take  place.  Yesterday  you  were  preparing  me  to  receive 
a  visit  from  the  Lunarians,  and  now  you  would  insinuate 
there  are  no  such  folks.  You  must  not  trifle  with  me 
thus:  once  you  would  have  me  believe  the  moon  was 
inhabited;  I  surmounted  that  difficulty,  and  do  now  be- 
lieve it." 

"You  are  a  little  too  nimble,"  replied  I;  "did  not  I 
advise  you  never  to  be  entirely  convinced  of  things  of 
this  nature,  but  to  reserve  half  of  your  understanding 
free  and  disengaged,  that  you  might  admit  of  a  contrary 
opinion,  if  there  should  be  occasion  ?  " 

"  I  care  not  for  your  suppositions,"  said  she,  "  let  us 
come  to  matters  of  fact.  Are  we  not  to  consider  the 
moon  as  St.  Denis  ?  " 

"No,"  said  I,  "the  moon  does  not  so  much  resemble 
the  earth  as  St.  Denis  does  Parjs:  the  sun  draws  vapors 
from  the  earth,  and  exhalations  from  the  water,  which, 
mounting  to  a  certain  height  in  the  air,  do  there  assemble 
and  form  the  clouds;  these  uncertain  clouds  are  driven 
irregularly  round  the  globe,  sometimes  shadowing  one 
country  and  sometimes  another ;  he,  then,  who  beholds  the 
earth  from  afar  off  will  see  frequent  alterations  upon  its 
surface,  because  a  great  country,  overcast  with  clouds, 
will  appear  dark  or  light,  as  the  clouds  stay,  or  pass  over 


BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE  FONTENELLE        71 

it;  he  will  see  the  spots  on  the  earth  often  change  their 
place,  and  appear  or  disappear  as  the  clouds  remove,  but 
we  see  none  of  these  changes  wrought  upon  the  moon, 
which  would  certainly  be  the  case  were  there  but  clouds 
about  her;  yet,  on  the  contrary,  all  her  spots  are  fixed 
and  certain,  and  her  light  parts  continue  where  they  were 
at  first,  which  indeed  is  a  great  misfortune;  for  by  this 
reason  the  sun  draws  no  exhalations  or  vapors  above  the 
moon;  so  that  it  appears  she  is  a  body  infinitely  more 
hard  and  solid  than  the  earth,  whose  subtle  parts  are  easily 
separated  from  the  rest,  and  mount  upward  as  soon  as 
heat  puts  them  in  motion;  but  it  must  be  a  heap  of  rock 
and  marble,  where  there  is  no  evaporation;  besides,  ex- 
halations are  so  natural  and  necessary  where  there  is 
water  that  there  can  be  no  water  at  all  where  there  is  no 
exhalation.  And  what  sort  of  inhabitants  must  those  be 
whose  country  affords  no  water,  is  all  rock,  and  produces 
nothing  ?  " 

"This  is  very  fine,"  said  the  Marchioness;  "you  have 
forgot  since  you  assured  me  we  might  from  hence  dis- 
tinguish seas  in  the  moon.  Pray,  what  is  become  of  your 
Caspian  Sea  and  your  Black  Lake  ?  " 

"  All  conjecture,  Madame,"  replied  I,  "  though  for  your 
ladyship's  sake,  I  am  very  sorry  for  it;  for  those  dark 
places  we  took  to  be  seas  may  perhaps  be  nothing  but 
large  cavities;  it  is  hard  to  guess  right  at  so  great  a 
distance." 

"  But  will  this  suffice,  then,"  said  she,  "  to  extirpate  the 
people  in  the  moon  ?  " 

"  Not  altogether,"  replied  I ;  "  we  will  neither  determine 
for  nor  against  them." 

"  I  must  own  my  weakness,  if  it  be  one,"  said  she.  "  I 
cannot  be  so  perfectly  undetermined  as  you  would  have 
me  to  be,  but  must  believe  one  way  or  another;  therefore, 
pray  fix  me  quickly  in  my  opinion  as  to  the  inhabitants 
of  the  moon:  preserve  or  annihilate  them,  as  you  please; 
and  yet  methinks  I  have  a  strange  inclination  for  them, 
and  would  not  have  them  destroyed,  if  it  were  possible  to 
save  them." 

"  You  know,"  said  I,  "  Madame,  I  can  deny  you  noth- 
ing; the  moon  shall  be  no  longer  a  desert;  to  do  you  a 


72         BERNARD  LE  BOVIER  DE  FONTENELLE 

service  we  will  repeople  her.  Since  to  all  appearance 
the  spots  on  the  moon  do  not  change,  I  cannot  conceive 
there  are  any  clouds  about  her  that  sometimes  obscure 
one  part,  and  sometimes  another;  yet  this  does  not  hinder 
but  that  the  moon  sends  forth  exhalations  and  vapors. 
It  may  so  happen  that  the  vapors  which  issue  from  the 
moon  may  not  assemble  round  her  in  clouds,  and  may 
'not  fall  back  again  in  rain,  but  only  in  dews.  It  is  suffi- 
cient for  this  that  the  air  with  which  the  moon  is  sur- 
rounded—  for  it  is  certain  she  is  so  as  well  as  the  earth 
—  should  somewhat  vary  from  our  air,  and  the  vapors  of 
the  moon  be  a  little  different  from  those  of  the  earth, 
which  is  very  probable.  Hereupon  the  matter  being  oth- 
erwise disposed  in  the  moon  than  on  the  earth,  the  effects 
must  be  different;  though  it  is  of  no  great  consequence 
whether  they  are  or  no;  for  from  the  moment  we  have 
found  an  inward  motion  in  the  parts  of  the  moon,  or  one 
produced  by  foreign  causes,  here  is  enough  for  the  new 
birth  of  its  inhabitants,  and  a  sufficient  and  necessary  fund 
for  their  subsistence.  This  will  furnish  us  with  corn, 
fruit,  water  and  what  else  we  please;  I  mean  according 
to  the  custom  or  manner  of  the  moon,  which  I  do  not 
pretend  to  know;  and  all  proportional  to  the  wants  and 
uses  of  the  inhabitants;  with  whom  I  own  I  am  as  little 
acquainted/' 

"That  is  to  say,"  replied  the  Marchioness,  "you  know 
all  is  very  well,  without  knowing  how  it  is  so;  which  is 
a  great  deal  of  ignorance,  founded  upon  a  very  little 
knowledge.  However,  I  comfort  myself  that  you  have 
restored  to  the  moon  her  inhabitants  again,  and  have  en- 
veloped her  in  an  air  of  her  own,  without  which  a  planet 
would  seem  to  be  very  naked." 

"It  is  these  two  different  airs,  Madame,  that  hinder 
the  communication  of  the  two  planets ;  if  it  was  only  fly- 
ing, as  I  told  you  yesterday,  who  knows  but  we  might 
improve  it  to  perfection,  though  I  confess  there  is  but 
little  hope  of  it ;  the  great  distance  between  the  moon  and 
the  earth  is  a  difficulty  not  easy  to  be  surmounted;  yet 
were  the  distance  but  inconsiderable,  and  the  two  planets 
almost  contiguous,  it  would  still  be  impossible  to  pass  from 
the  air  of  the  one  into  the  air  of  the  other.  The  water 


WILFRED  DE  FONVIELLE  73 

is  the  air  of  fishes.  They  never  pass  into  the  air  of  the 
birds,  nor  the  birds  into  the  air  of  the  fishes;  and  yet  it 
is  not  the  distance  that  hinders  them,  but  both  are  im- 
prisoned by  the  air  they  breathe  in.  We  find  our  air  con- 
sists of  thicker  and  grosser  vapors  than  the  air  of  the 
moon;  so  that  one  of  her  inhabitants  arriving  at  the  con- 
fines of  our  world,  as  soon  as  he  enters  our  air,  will  in- 
evitably drown  himself,  and  we  shall  see  him  fall  dead 
on  the  earth." 

"  I  should  rejoice,"  said  the  Marchioness,  "  to  see  the 
wreck  of  a  good  number  of  these  lunar  people;  how 
pleasant  would  it  be  to  behold  them  lie  scattered  on  the 
ground,  where  we  might  consider  at  our  ease  their  ex- 
traordinary and  curious  figures !  " 

"  But,"  replied  I,  "  suppose  they  could  swim  on  the  sur- 
face of  our  air,  and  be  as  curious  to  see  us,  as  you  are  to 
see  them;  should  they  angle  or  cast  a  net  for  us,  as  for 
so  many  fish,  would  that  please  you  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  she,  smiling;  "for  my  part,  I  would 
go  into  their  nets  of  my  own  accord  were  it  but  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  such  strange  fishermen." 

"  Consider,  Madame,  you  would  be  very  sick  when  you 
were  drawn  to  the  top  of  our  air,  for  there  is  no  respira- 
tion in  its  whole  extent,  as  may  be  seen  on  the  tops  of 
some  very  high  mountains.  Here,  then,  are  natural  bar- 
ricades, which  defend  the  passage  out  of  our  world,  as 
well  as  the  entry  into  that  of  the  moon;  so  that,  since 
we  can  only  guess  at  that  world,  let  us  fancy  all  we  can 
of  it." —  Conversations  on  the  Plurality  of  Worlds. 


pONVIELLE,  WILFRED  DE,  a  French  scientist 
and  journalist;  born  at  Paris  July  21,  1824. 
He  was  first  a  teacher  of  mathematics,  then  a 
journalist,  and  a  writer  on  scientific  subjects.  Among 
his  works  are  UHomme  Fossil  (1865) ;  Les  Merveilles 
du  Monde  Invisible  (1866) ;  Eclairs  et  Tonnerres, 


74  WILFRID  DE  FONVIELLE 

translated  into  English  under  the  title  of  Thunder  and 
Lightning  (1867);  L' Astronomic  Mvderne  (1868), 
and  Comment  se  font  des  Miracles  en  Dehors  I'Eglise, 
in  which  he  reviews,  from  the  common-sense  point 
of  view,  the  pretensions  of  the  spiritualistic  mediums 
(1879).  He  made  several  balloon  ascents,  and  when 
Paris  was  besieged  escaped  from  the  city  in  a  balloon 
and  went  to  London,  where  he  set  forth  the  benefits 
which  had  been  conferred  upon  the  government  by 
balloons.  An  account  of  his  ascents,  published  in 
1870,  has  been  translated  into  English  under  the  title 
of  Travels  in  the  Air.  His  more  recent  books  are  a  de- 
scription of  the  Greely  Expedition  of  1885,  a  history 
of  the  moon,  Le  Petrole  (1887),  a  study  of  modern 
fastingmen  (1887),  Le  P die N or d (1888),  and  Famous 
Vessels  (1890). 

TERRESTRIAL  WATERSPOUTS. 

When  a  cloud  is  thick  enough,  tenacious  enough,  and, 
perhaps,  when  the  air  is  sufficiently  charged  with  mois- 
ture, the  electric  matter  draws  it  toward  the  earth.  It 
is  no  longer  then  a  simple  fulminating  globe  which  pre- 
cipitates itself  with  impetuosity  toward  us;  it  is  a  threat- 
ening column  which  descends  from  the  skies.  Sometimes 
this  column  progresses  so1  slowly  that  a  man  can  follow  it 
on  foot.  But  one  must  possess,  it  will  be  readily  ad- 
mitted, almost  superhuman  courage  not  to  fly  at  once  in 
an  opposite  direction.  For  these  meteors  sometimes  break 
their  connection  with  the  earth,  and  the  most  frightful 
and  incredible  effects  are  the  result  For  instance,  M. 
de  Gasparin  tells  us  that  the  waterspout  of  Courtizou  over- 
turned one  of  the  walls  of  Orange*  The  extremity  of  this 
column  of  vapor  having  commenced  whirling  around  like 
a  sling  hanging  from  the  clouds,  caused  a  breach  in  the 
mass  of  masonry,  the  opening  of  which  was  thirty-nine 
feet  long,  sixteen  feet  high,  and  four  feet  wide.  This 


MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE  75 

species  of  bastard  lightning  tore  up  in  an  instant  a  mass 
of  matter  weighing  at  least  200  tons.  .  .  . 

It  appears  difficult  to  conceive  a  storm  more  favorable 
for  observing  the  formation  of  these  meteors  than  the 
frightful  waterspout  of  Malaunay.  Effectively,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  day,  two  storm-clouds  approached,  driven 
violently  one  toward  the  other  by  contrary  currents. 
These  two  masses  being  charged  with  the  same  kind  of 
electricity,  doubtless  positive  electricity,  could  not  amal- 
gamate into  one  cloud,  nor  could  they  discharge  each  other 
by  giving  birth  to  a  brilliant  flash  of  lightning.  The 
higher  storm-cloud,  which  appeared  the  stronger  of  the 
two,  managed,  though  not  without  difficulty,  to  push 
down  the  lower  cloud.  Who  knows  but  that  this  hap- 
pened by  the  intervention  of  the  earth  which,  being  pow- 
erfully electro-negative,  attracted  the  vapor  charged  with 
positive  electricity?  As  soon  as  the  horn,  pulled  from 
the  vanquished  cloud,  had  approached  to  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  earth,  its  fire  was  seen  to  flow  from  it  like 
a  stream  which  had  just  found  an  issue,  for  the  point  of 
the  horn  was  perfectly  incandescent. 

Sometimes  the  electric  tube  rises  from  the  earth;  in 
this  case  it  is  not  watery  vapor  which  forms  the  threat- 
ening horn,  but  whirlwinds  of  dust  which  rise  toward  the 
clouds  with  a  frightful  gyratory  motion. —  Thunder  and 
Lightning. 


pOOTE,  MARY  HALLOCK,  an  American  artist  and 
novelist;  born  at  Milton,  N.  Y.,  November 
19,  1847.  She  studied  art  at  the  School  of 
Design  for  Women  in  New  York,  and  became  an  illus- 
trator for  several  magazines.  She  soon  began  to  write 
short  stories,  illustrating  them  with  her  own  drawings. 
In  1876  she  married  Arthur  D.  Foote,  a  mining  engi- 
neer; then  went  West  and  resided  at  various  times 
in  California,  Colorado,  and  Idaho,  where  she  wrote 


76  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTS 

romances  depicting  life  and  scenes  on  the  American 
frontier.  Among-  them  are  Friend  Barton's  Concern 
and  A  Story  of  a  Dry  Season.  She  also  published 
The  Led-Horse  Claim  (1882)  ;  John  Bodewin's  Testi- 
mony (1886) ;  The  Last  Assembly  Ball  (1889) ;  The 
Chosen  Valley  (1892);  Coeur  d'Alene  (1894);  In 
Exile,  and  Other  Stones  (1894)  ;  The  Cup  of  Trem- 
bling (1895);  The  Little  Fig  Tree  Stories  (1900); 
and  The  Prodigal  (1901). 

Referring  more  especially  to  John  Bodewin's  Testi- 
mony, the  London  Academy  says  of  her  writings: 
"  There  is  less  of  directly  local  coloring  and  dialect 
than  is  usual  in  American  stories  dealing  with  the 
classes  here  represented ;  and  the  reader  is  to  expect  his 
satisfaction  to  arise  from  carefully  drawn  types  of 
character  and  dramatic  fitness  of  detail  —  in  which 
event  he  will  not  be  disappointed."  "  Picturesque  and 
graceful  description,"  says  the  Nation  in  its  review  of 
The  Led-Horse  Claim,  "is  likely  to  be  a  woman's 
forte;  but  the  fine  balance  which  keeps  Mrs.  Foote's 
eye  and  hand  true  is  a  rare  power." 

COMING  INTO   CAMP. 

Mr.  Newbold  and  his  daughter  rode  back  to  the  camp 
in  the  splendor  of  a  sunset  that  loomed  red  behind  the 
skeleton  pines.  Josephine  let  her  horse  take  his  own 
way  down  the  wagon-track,  while  she  watched  its  dying 
changes.  But  she  lost  the  last  tints  in  her  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  dust  and  the  strange  meetings  and  partings 
on  the  broad  and  level  road  by  which  they  approached 
the  town.  That  quickening  of  the  pulse  which  makes 
itself  felt  in  every  human  community  as  day  draws  to  a 
close  had  intensified  the  life  of  the  camp.  The  sound  of 
its  voices  and  footsteps,  the  smoke  of  its  fires,  rose  in  the 
still,  cool  air. 

Cradled  between  two  ranges  of  the  mother  mountains 


MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE  77 

of  the  continent,  the  little  colony  could  hardly  have  been 
more  inland  in  its  situation ;  it  had,  nevertheless,  in  many 
respects  the  characteristics  of  a  seaport  It  owed  its  ex- 
istence to  hazardous  ventures  from  a  distance.  Its  shops 
were  filled,  not  with  the  fruits  of  its  soil  or  the  labor  of 
its  hands,  but  with  cargoes  that  had  been  rocked  in  the 
four-wheeled  merchantmen  of  the  plains.  Bronzed-faced, 
hairy-throated  men  occupied  more  than  their  share  of 
its  sidewalks,  spending  carelessly  in  a  few  days  and  nights 
the  price  of  months  of  hardship  and  isolation.  Its  hopes 
and  its  capital  were  largely  bound  up  in  the  fate  of  ad- 
ventures into  that  unpeopled  land  which  has  no  history 
except  the  records  written  in  fire,  in  ice,  and  in  water, 
on  its  rocks  and  river-beds ;  the  voyage  across  that  inland 
sea  where  the  smoke  of  lonely  camp-fires  goes  up  from 
wagon-roads  that  were  once  hunter-trails,  and  trails  that 
were  once  the  tracks  of  buffalo.  There  were  men  seen  at 
intervals  of  many  months  in  its  streets,  whom  the  desert 
and  the  mountains  called,  as  the  sea  calls  the  men  of  the 
coast  towns.  It  was  a  port  of  the  wilderness. 

The  arrivals  due  that  Saturday  night  were  seeking 
their  dusty  moorings.  Heavily  loaded  freighters  were 
lurching  in,  every  mule  straining  in  his  collar,  every 
trace  taut  and  quivering.  Express  wagons  of  lighter 
tonnage  took  the  dust  of  the  freighters,  until  the  width 
of  the  road  gave  their  square-trotting  draught-horses  a 
chance  to  swing  out  and  pass.  In  and  out  among  the 
craft  of  heavier  burden,  shufHed  the  small,  tough  bronchos. 
Their  riders  were  for  the  most  part  light-built  like  their 
horses,  with  a  bearing  at  once  alert  and  impassive.  They 
were  young  men,  notwithstanding  the  prevailing  look  of 
care  and  stolid  endurance,  due  in  some  cases,  possibly,  to 
the  dust-laden  hollows  under  the  sun-wearied  eyes,  and 
to  that  haggardness  of  aspect  which  goes  with  a  beard 
of  a  week's  growth,  a  flannel  shirt  loosely  buttoned  about 
a  sunburned  throat,  and  a  temporary  estrangement  from 
soap  and  water.  These  were  the  doughty  privateersmen, 
returning  with  a  convoy  of  pack-animals  from  the  valley 
of  the  Gunnison  or  the  Clearwater,  or  the  tragic  hunting- 
grounds  of  the  Indian  Reservation.  Taking  the  footpath 
way  beside  his  loaded  donkey  trudged  the  humble  "  grub- 


78  SAMUEL  FOOTE 

stake,"  or  the  haggard-eyed  charcoal  burner  from  his 
smoking  camp  in  the  nearest  timber ;  while  far  up  on  the 
mountain,  distinct  in  the  reflected  glow  of  sunset,  a  puff 
of  white  dust  appeared  from  moment  to  moment,  follow- 
ing the  curves  of  the  road,  where  the  passenger-coach 
was  making  its  best  speed,  with  brakes  hard  down,  on 
the  home  grade  from  the  summit  of  the  pass. —  John 
Bodewin's  Testimony 


pOOTE,  SAMUEL,  an  English  actor  and  humor- 
ist; born  at  Truro,  January  27,  1720;  died  at 
Dover,  October  21,  1777.  He  studied  for  a 
while  at  Worcester  College,  Oxford,  but  was  obliged 
to  leave  at  the  age  of  twenty.  He  afterward  began 
the  study  of  law;  but  in  consequence  of  his  dissolute 
habits  soon  lost  two  fortunes,  one  of  which  he  in- 
herited from  his  uncle,  the  other  from  his  father.  In 
1744  he  betook  himself  to  the  stage,  attempting  both 
tragedy  and  comedy  with  slight  success.  But  his 
talent  for  imitation  came  to  his  aid.  In  1747  he 
opened  the  Haymarket  Theatre  with  a  piece  called 
The  Diversions  jof  the  Morning,  written  by  himself, 
and  in  which  he  was  the  principal  actor.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Foote  Taking  Tea  with  His  Friends, 
The  Auction  of  Pictures,  and  other  pieces,  all  of  which 
were  successful,  the  main  reason  for  their  success  be- 
ing Footers  exaggerated  mimicry  of  any  person  of 
note  whose  appearance  or  manner  was  capable  of  being 
caricatured.  For  ten  years  he  kept  the  theatre  open, 
eluding  all  attempts  of  the  dramatic  licensers  to  close 
it.  In  1767  a  fall  from  his  horse  rendered  necessary 
the  amputation  of  one  of  his  leg's.  The  Duke  of  York, 


SAMUEL  FOOTE  79 

who  witnessed  the  accident,  procured  for  him  a  regu- 
lar patent  to  open  a  theatre.  This  he  carried  on  for 
ten  years,  mainly  producing  his  own  pieces.  During 
this  period  he  made  another  fortune,  which  he  con- 
trived to  squander.  In  1777,  broken  in  health,  he  set ' 
out  upon  a  journey  to  France,  but  died  before  he  had 
left  the  shores  of  England.  Foote  produced  in  all 
some  twenty-five  dramatic  pieces,  and  several  others 
have  been  attributed  to  him.  The  best  of  these  are 
The  Minor,  satirizing  the  Methodists  (1760) ;  The 
Mayor  of  Garratt  (1763)  ;  The  Devil  upon  Two  Sticks 
(1768)  ;  The  Lame  Lover  (1770) ;  The  Nabob  (1772), 
and  The  Bankrupt  (1773).  A  selection  from  the 
plays  of  Foote,  with  an  entertaining  memoir,  by  Wil- 
liam Cooke,  in  three  volumes,  was  published  in  1805. 

CHARLOTTE,  SERJEANT  CIRCUIT,  AND  SIR  LUKE  LIMP. 

Char. —  Sir,  I  have  other  proofs  of  our  hero's  vanity 
not  inferior  to  that  I  have  mentioned. 

Serf.—  Cite  them. 

Char. —  The  paltry  ambition  of  levying  and  following 
titles. 

Serj. —  Titles !    I  don't  understand  you. 

Char. —  I  mean  the  poverty  of  fastening  in  public  upon 
men  of  distinction,  for  no  other  reason  but  because  of 
their  rank ;  adhering  to  Sir  John  till  the  baronet  is  super- 
seded by  my  lord;  quitting  the  puny  peer  for  an  earl; 
and  sacrificing  all  three  to  a  duke. 

Serj. —  Keeping  good  company! — a  laudable  ambi- 
tion ! 

Char. —  True,  sir,  if  the  virtues  that  procured  the 
father  a  peerage  could  with  that  be  entailed  on  the  son. 

Serj. —  Have  a  care,  hussy;  there  are  severe  laws 
against  speaking  evil  of  dignities. 

Char. —  Sir ! 

Serj.—  Scandalum  magnatum  is  a  statute  must  not  be 


8o  SAMUEL  FOOTE 

trifled  with;  why,  you  are  not  one  of  those  vulgar  sluts 
that  think  a  man  the  worse  for  being  a  lord? 

Char. —  No,  sir;  I  am  contented  with  only  not  thinking 
him  the  better. 

Serj.—  For  all  this,  I  believe,  hussy,  a  right  honorable 
proposal  would  soon  make  you  alter  your  mind. 

Char. —  Not  unless  the  proposer  had  other  qualities 
than  what  he  possesses  by  patent  Besides,  sir,  you  know 
Sir  Luke  is  a  devotee  to  the  bottle. 

Serj. —  Not  a  whit  the  less  honest  for  that. 

Char. — It  occasions  one  evil  at  least,  that  when  under 
its  influence  he  generally  reveals  all,  sometimes  more 
than  he  knows. 

Serj. — Proofs  of  an  open  temper,  you  baggage;  but 
come,  come,  all  these  are  but  trifling  objections. 

Char. —  You  mean,  sir,  they  prove  the  object  a  trifle. 

Serj. —  Why,  you  pert  jade,  do  you  play  on  my  words? 
I  say  Sir  Luke  is — 

Char. —  Nobody. 

Serj. —  Nobody!  how  the  deuce  do  you  make  that  out? 
He  is  neither  a  person  attainted  nor  outlawed,  may  in 
any  of  his  majesty's  courts  sue  or  be  sued,  appear  by  at- 
torney or  in  propria  persona  can  acquire,  buy,  procure, 
purchase,  possess,  and  inherit,  not  only  personalities,  such 
as  goods  and  chattels,  but  even  realties,  as  all  lands,  tene- 
ments, and  hereditaments,  whatsoever  and  wheresoever. 

Char. —  But  sir  — 

Serj.—  Nay,  further,  child,  he  may  sell,  give,  bestow, 
bequeath,  devise,  demise,  lease  or  to  farm,  let,  ditto  lands, 
or  to  any  person  whomsoever  —  and  — 

Char. —  Without  doubt,  sir ;  but  there  are,  notwithstand- 
ing, in  this  town  a  great  number  of  nobodies,  not  de- 
scribed by  Lord  Coke. 
[SiR  LUKE  LIMP  makes  his  appearance,  and  after  a  short 

dialogue,  enter  a  SERVANT,  who  delivers  a  card  to  SIB 

LUKE.] 

Sir  Luke. —  [Reads.]  "  Sir  Gregory  Goose  desires  the 
honor  of  Sir  Luke  Limp's  company  to  dine.  An  answer 
is  desired."  Gadso!  a  little  unlucky;  I  have  been  en- 
gaged for  these  three  weeks. 


SAMUEL  FOOTE  81 

Serf. —  What!  I  find  Sir  Gregory  is  returned  for  the 
corporation  of  Fleecem. 

Sir  Luke. —  Is  he  so?  Oh,  oh!  that  alters  the  case. 
George,  give  my  compliments  to  Sir  Gregory,  and  I'll 
certainly  come  and  dine  there.  Order  Joe  to  run  to  Al- 
derman Inkle's  in  Threadneedle  street;  sorry  can't  wait 
upon  him,  and  confined  to  my  bed  two  days  with  the  new 
influenza.  [Exit  Servant. 

Char. —  You  make  light,  Sir  Luke,  of  these  sort  of  en- 
gagements. 

Sir  Luke. —  What  can  a  man  do?  These  fellows  — 
when  one  has  the  misfortune  to  meet  them — take  scan- 
dalous advantage :  When  will  you  do  me  the  honor,  pray, 
Sir  Luke,  to  take  a  bit  of  mutton  with  me?  Do  yon 
name  the  day.  They  are  as  bad  as  a  beggar  who  attacks 
your  coach  at  the  mounting  of  a  hill;  there  is  no  getting 
rid  of  them  without  a  penny  to  one,  and  a  promise  to 
t'other. 

Serf. —  True;  and  then  for  such  a  time,  too  —  three 
weeks !  I  wonder  they  expect  folks  to  remember.  It  is 
like  a  retainer  in  Michaelmas  term  for  the  summer  as- 
sizes. 

Sir  Luke. —  Not  but  upon  these  occasions  no  man  in 
England  is  more  punctual  than  — 

[Enter  a  Servant  who  gives  SIR  LUKE  a  letter."] 
From  whom? 

Serv. —  Earl  of  Brentford.  The  servant  waits  for  an 
answer. 

Sir  Luke. —  Answer !  By  your  leave,  Mr.  Serjeant  and 
Charlotte.  [Reads.1]  "Taste  for  music  —  Mons.  Duport 
—  fail  —  dinner  on  table  at  five."  Gadso!  I  hope  Sir 
Gregory's  servant  ain't  gone. 

Serv. —  Immediately  upon  receiving  the  answer. 

Sir  Luke. —  Run  after  him  as  fast  as  you  can  —  tell  him 
quite  in  despair  —  recollect  an  engagement  that  can't  in 
nature  be  missed,  and  return  in  an  instant. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Char. —  You  see,  sir,  the  knight  must  give  way  for  my 
lord. 

Sir  Luke. —  No,  faith,  it  is  not  that,  my  dear  Charlotte : 
you  saw  that  was  quite  an  extempore  business.    No,  hang 
VOL.  X.— 6 


82  SAMUEL  FOOTE 

it,  no,  it  is  not  for  the  title:  but  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Brentford  has  more  wit  than  any  man  in  the  world ;  it  is 
that  makes  me  fond  of  his  house. 

Char. —  By  the  choice  of  his  company  he  gives  an  un- 
answerable instance  of  that. 

Sir  Luke. —  You  are  right,  my  dear  girl.  But  now  to 
give  you  a  proof  of  his  wit ;  you  know  Brentford's  finances 
are  a  little  out  of  repair,  which  procures  him  some  visits 
that  he  would  gladly  excuse. 

Serf. —  What  need  he  fear?  His  person  is  sacred;  for 
by  the  tenth  of  William  and  Mary  — 

Sir  Luke. —  He  knows  that  well  enough,  but  for  all 
that  — 

Serj. —  Indeed,  by  a  late  act  of  his  own  House  —  which 
does  them  infinite  honor  —  his  goods  or  chattels  may  be  — 

Sir  Luke. —  Seized  upon  when  they  can  find  them ;  but 
he  lives  in  ready  furnished  lodgings,  and  hires  his  coach 
by  the  month. 

Serj. —  Nay,  if  the  sheriff  return  "  non  inventus." 

Sir  Luke.—  K  plague  o7  your  law;  you  make  me  lose 
sight  of  my  story.  One  morning  a  Welsh  coachmaker 
came  with  his  bill  to  my  lord,  whose  name  was  unluckily 
Lloyd.  My  lord  had  the  man  up.  You  are  called,  I  think, 
Mr.  Lloyd?  At  your  lordship's  service,  my  lord.  What, 
Lloyd  with  an  Lf  It  was  with  an  L}  indeed,  my  lord. 
Because  in  your  part  of  the  world  I  have  heard  that  Lloyd 
and  Flloyd  were  synonymous,  the  very  same  names.  Very 
often,  indeed,  my  lord.  But  you  always  spell  yours  with 
an  Lf  Always.  That,  Mr.  Lloyd,  is  a  little  unlucky; 
for  you  must  know  I  am  now  paying  my  debts  alphabet- 
ically, and  in  four  or  five  years  you  might  have  come  in 
with  an  P;  but  I  am  afraid  I  can  give  you  no  hopes  for 
your  L.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

[Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv. —  There  was  no  overtaking  the  servant 

Sir  Luke.—  That  is  unlucky:  tell  my  lord  I'll  attend 
him.  I'll  call  on  Sir  Gregory  myself. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Serj. —  Why,  you  won't  leave  us,  Sir  Luke? 

Sir  Luke. —  Pardon,  dear  Serjeant  and  Charlotte;  I  have 
a  thousand  things  to  do  for  half  a  million  of  people,  post- 


SAMUEL  FOOTE  83 

tively;  promised  to  procure  a  husband  for  Lady  Cicely 
Sulky,  and  match  a  coach-horse  for  Brigadier  Whip ;  after 
that  must  run  into  the  city  to  borrow  a  thousand  for  young 
At-all  at  Almack's;  send  a  Cheshire  cheese  by  the  stage 
to  Sir  Timothy  Tankard  in  Suffolk;  and  get  at  the  Her- 
ald's office  a  coat-of-arms  to  clap  on  the  coach  of  Billy 
Bengal,  a  nabob  newly  arrived;  so  you  see  I  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose. 

Serj. —  True,  true. 

Sir  Luke. —  At  your  toilet  to-morrow  you  may  —  [Enter 
a  Servant  abruptly  and  runs  against  Sir  Luke."]  Can't 
you  see  where  you  are  running,  you  rascal? 

Serv. —  Sir,  his  Grace,  the  Duke  of  — 

Sir  Luke. —  Grace !  where  is  he  ?    Where  — 

Serv. —  In  his  coach  at  the'  door.  If  you  ain't  better 
engaged,  would  be  glad  of  your  company  to  go  into  the 
city,  and  take  a  dinner  at  Dolly's. 

Sir  Luke.—  In  his  own  coach,  did  you  say  ? 

Serv. —  Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Luke. —  With  the  coronets  —  or  — 

Serv. —  I  believe  so. 

Sir  Luke. —  There's  no  resisting  of  that.  Bid  Joe  rui? 
to  Sir  Gregory  Goose's. 

Serv. —  He  is  already  gone  to  Alderman  Inkle's. 

Sir  Luke. —  Then  do  you  step  into  the  knight  —  hey!  — 
no  —  you  must  go  into  my  lord's  —  hold,  hold,  no  —  I  have 
it  —  step  first  to  Sir  Greg's,  then  pop  in  at  Lord  Brent- 
ford's just  as  the  company  are  going  to  dinner. 

Serv. —  What  shall  I  say  to  Sir  Gregory? 

Sir  Luke. —  Anything  —  what  I  told  you  before. 

Serv. —  And  what  to  my  lord? 

Sir  Luke. —  What !  —  tell  him  that  my  uncle  from  Ep- 
som—  no  —  that  won't  do,  for  he  knows  I  don't  care  a 
farthing  for  him  —  hey?  Why,  tell  him  —  hold,  I  have 
it  Tell  him  that  as  I  was  going  into  my  chair  to  obey 
his  commands,  I  was  arrested  by  a  couple  of  bailiffs, 
forced  into  a  hackney-coach,  and  carried  into  the  Pied 
Bull  in  the  Borough ;  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for  mak- 
ing his  Grace  wait,  but  his  Grace  knows  my  misfor  — 

[Exeunt  Sir  Luke  and  Serv. 


84  ARCHIBALD  FORBES 

Char. —  Well,  sir,  what  d'ye  think  of  the  proofs?  I 
flatter  myself  I  have  pretty  well  established  my  case. 

Serf. —  Why,  hussy,  you  have  hit  upon  points ;  but  then 
they  are  but  trifling-  flaws;  they  don't  vitiate  the  title;  that 
stands  unimpeached. —  The  Lame  Lover. 


?ORBES,  ARCHIBALD,  a  British  journalist  and 
war-correspondent ;  born  in  Morayshire,  Scot- 
land, in  1838;  died  at  London,  March  30, 
1900.    He  studied  at  the   University  of  Aberdeen. 
After  several  years  of  service  in  the  Royal  Dragoons, 
which  gave  him  practical  knowledge  of  the  details  of 
military  life,  he  became,  in  1870,  special  correspondent 
for  the  London  Daily  News,  and  accompanied  the  Ger- 
man army  throughout  the  Franco-German  War.    In 
the  same  capacity  he  accompanied  the  Prince  of  Wales 
in  his  tour  through  India,  1875-76;  was  with  the  Rus- 
sian army  in  the  Russo-Turkisfa  campaign  of  1877, 
being  on  the  field  in  all  the  severest  engagements ;  ac- 
companied the  expedition  to  Afghanistan,  1878,  and 
the  British  invasion  of  Zululand  in  South  Africa,  rid- 
ing one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  through  a  trackless 
country  to  reach  a  telegraph-station  whence  he  sent 
the  earliest  tidings  of  the  victory  at  Ulundi  not  only 
to  the  Daily  News,  but  also  to  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley 
and  to  Sir  Bartle  Frere,  Governor  of  the  Cape.    His 
message,  transmitted  by  Sir  Bartle  to  the  government 
in  London,  was  read  in  Parliament  with  acclamations. 
His  health  began  to  be  seriously  affected  by  his  severe 
labors  and  he  turned  to  lecturing,  traveling  in  Great*< 
Britain,  America,  and  Australia,  recounting  his  ex- 


ARCHIBALD  FORBES. 


ARCHIBALD  FORBES  85 

periences  before  large  audiences.  Among  his  publi- 
cations are  My  Experiences  of  the  War  Between 
France  and  Germany  and  Glimpses  Through  the  Can- 
non  Smoke  (1880);  Soldiering  and  Scribbling  and  A 
Series  of  Sketches  (1882) ;  Life  of  Chinese  Gordon 
(1884);  Life  of  the  Emperor  William  of  Germany 
(1889);  Havelock  (1890);  Barracks,  Bivouacs,  and 
Battles  (1891);  The  Afghan  Wars  (1892);  Colin 
Campbell;  Lord  Clyde,  biography  (1895);  Memoirs 
and  Studies  of  War  and  Peace  (1895);  The  Black 
Watch  (1896)  ;  and  Life  of  Napoleon  III.  (1898). 

MONT  AVRON. 

I  am  bound  for  Le  Vert  Galant,  and  should  turn  away 
from  the  front  at  Livry;  but  let  me  go  a  little  farther 
southward,  through  the  col  of  Bondy,  to  see  what  that  old 
bete  noir  Mont  Avron  is  like  in  the  thickening  gloom. 
The  place  is  true  to  its  established  character.  From  the 
range  of  the  fringe  of  felled  forest  through  which  I  have 
penetrated,  I  can  only  faintly  trace  the  familiar  outlines, 
so  rapidly  has  the  darkness  fallen.  But — flash!  up  goes 
the  electric  light  from  Nogent  and  Rosny,  and  bang  comes 
the  first  shell  —  the  "top  of  the  evening"  from  Avron. 
What  a  humbug,  to  be  sure,  is  that  same  electric  light 
The  French  were  always  using  it.  You  saw  it  scintillating 
on  the  summit  of  Valerien  and  flashing  out  toward  Le 
Bourget  from  Montmartre.  To  the  defenders  of  Paris  all 
it  could  do  is  to  make  darkness  visible;  to  its  besiegers, 
if  they  had  only  been  in  the  mind,  it  would  have  been 
a  gratis  illumination  that  would  be  worth  any  money. 
In  the  foreground  of  the  electric  flashes  of  the  forts  be- 
fore me,  lies  Avron  as  clear  as  if  it  were  noonday.  But 
Chelles,  Montfermeil,  Noisy,  or  Villiers  might  have  been 
swallowed  up  in  an  earthquake,  so  utterly  invisible  are 
they.  Oh,  for  something  else  than  the  meagre  walruses 
by  the  windmill  and  on  the  vineberg  1  Half-a-dozen  hours' 
pelting  with  real  artillery  on  those  impudent  batteries  on 
the  verge  and  crest  of  die  plateau  so  brilliant  under  the 


86  EDWARD  FORBES 

rays  of  the  electric  light  —  then  in  the  small  hours  a 
storming  party  of  one  battalion  of  Saxons  and  another  of 
Guardsmen ;  a  bayonet  fight  on  the  summit  —  and  then  hur- 
rah for  the  black,  white  and  red  flag  to  flaunt  wherewithal 
the  gunners  of  Nogent  and  Rosny.  It  would  not  be  a 
light  cause  for  which  the  Saxons,  having  once  got  a 
grip  of  the  summit,  would  surrender  it  now.  Well,  let 
us  live  in  hope,  in  early  hope.  How  long?  How  long? 
I  get  angry  as  I  look  at  the  battery,  made  right  in  our 
faces,  but  the  other  day  comparatively  harmless,  and  at 
whose  door,  young  as  it  is,  lie  the  deaths  of  so  many 
stalwart  Saxons,  whose  corpses  will  fertilize  next  year's 
crops  in  the  fatal  horseshoe.  I  get  angry  and  impatient 
when  I  think  that  this  place,  which  our  ground  domi- 
nates so  that  not  a  gun  could  ever  have  been  mounted  but 
for  unaccountable  laisseg  faire,  should  test  the  elasticity 
of  our  forepost  line  in  a  direction  that  I  am  disgusted 
and  savage  to  have  the  knowledge  of.  The  laisseg  faire 
days  were  over;  but  there  seldom  comes  an  indulgence 
without  a  penalty,  and  on  many  graves  around  this  side 
of  Paris,  the  pioneers  might  have  substituted  for  the 
"Hier  ruhen  in  Gott"  the  words,  "Here  lie  the  conse- 
quences of  vacillation." — From  My  Experiences  of  the 
War  Between  France  and  Germany. 


pORBES,  EDWARD,  a  British  naturalist;  born  at 
Douglas,  Isle  of  Man,  February  12,  1815; 
died  near  Edinburgh,  November  18,  1854. 
He  studied  medicine  at  Edinburgh,  but  devoted  him- 
self mainly  to  scientific  pursuits  and  to  literature. 
He  was  among  the  earliest  to  collect  specimens  in 
natural  history  by  means  of  deep-sea  dredging.  In 
1842  he  became  Professor  of  Botany  in  King's  Col- 
lege, London,  and  shortly  afterward  was  appointed 
Curator  of  the  Museum  of  the  Geological  Society. 


EDWARD  FORBES  87 

His  scientific  publications  were  very  numerous. 
Among  his  more  important  works  was  the  preparation 
of  a  palaeontological  and  geographical  map  of  the 
British  Islands,  with  an  explanatory  dissertation  upon 
the  Distribution  of  Marine  Life.  In  1852  he  was 
chosen  President  of  the  Geological  Society,  and  in 
1853  was  made  Professor  of  Natural  History  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.  A  collection  of  his  purely 
literary  papers,  with  a  Memoir  by  Professor  Huxley, 
appeared  soon  after  his  death. 

"  Forbes  was  pre-eminently  a  naturalist,"  wrote 
Dr.  W.  A.  Browne.  "His  attention  had  never  been 
exclusively  directed  to  any  one  of  the  natural  sciences. 
He  was  equally  a  botanist,  a  zoologist,  and  a  geologist 
from  first  to  last.  With  a  remarkable  eye  and  tact  for 
the  discrimination  of  species  and  the  allocation  of 
natural  groups,  he  combined  the  utmost  delicacy  in  the 
perception  of  organic  and  cosmical  relations.  He  pos- 
sessed that  rare  quality  so  remarkable  in  the  great 
masters  of  natural  history,  Linnaeus  and  Cuvier  —  the 
power  of  availing  himself  of  the  labors  of  his  brethren, 
not,  as  is  too  often  the  case,  by  appropriating  their  ac- 
quisitions, but  by  associating  them  voluntarily  in  the 
common  labor.  Entirely  destitute  of  jealousy  in 
scientific  matters,  he  rather  erred  in  overrating  than 
in  underrating  the  services  of  his  friends.  He  was 
consequently  as  much  beloved  and  confided  in  by  his 
seniors  in  science  as  by  the  youngest  naturalists  of  his 
acquaintance," 

THE    CATERPILLAR    STATE    OF    MAN. 

What  is  the  peculiarity  of  bachelorhood?  It  is  the 
yearning"  after  love  returned,  the  craving  for  marriage, 
the  longing  for  woman's  companionship.  Surround  a 


88  EDWARD  FORBES 

bachelor  with  every  possible  comfort ;  give  him  the  room- 
iest of  bedchambers,  the  most  refreshing  of  couches,  the 
largest  of  sponging-baths ;  cover  his  breakfast  with  the 
whitest  of  tablecloths;  make  his  tea  with  hottest  of  boil- 
ing water,  envelop  his  body  with  the  most  comfortable 
of  dressing-gowns,  and  his  feet  in  the  easiest  of  slippers; 
feed  him  among  the  luxuries  and  comforts  of  the  snug- 
gest of  clubs ;  do  all  these  things  and  more  for  him,  and 
he  will  nevertheless  be  unhappy.  He  mopes  and  ponders 
and  dreams  about  love  and  marriage.  His  imagination 
calls  up  shadow- wives,  and  he  fancies  himself  a  Benedict. 
In  his  dream  he  sees  a  fond  and  charming  lady  beside  his 
solitary  hearth,  and  prattling  little  ones  climbing  up  his 
knees.  He  awakes  to  grow  disgusted  with  his  loneliness, 
and,  despairing,  vents  his  spleen  in  abuse  of  the  very 
condition  for  which,  waking  and  sleeping,  he  longs  and 
pines. —  From  Literary  Papers. 

THE  ECONOMIC  VALUE  OP  SCIENCE. 

On  Friday  night  I  lectured  at  the  Royal  Institution. 
The  subject  was  the  bearing  of  submarine  researches 
and  distribution.  I  pitched  into  Government  misman- 
agement pretty  strong,  and  made  a  fair  case  of  it.  It 
seems  to  me  that  at  a  time  when  the  country  is  starv- 
ing, we  are  utterly  neglecting,  or  grossly  mismanaging, 
great  sources  of  wealth  and  food.  I  have  lately  rum- 
maged through  every  document,  official  and  non-official, 
that  can  be  laid  hold  of  on  this  matter,  and  more  wonder- 
ful blindness  on  the  part  of  statesmen,  etc.,  could  not  have 
been  discovered.  It  happened  that  the  night  before  my 
lecture  the  question  rose  accidentally  in  the  House,  and 
ministers  and  members  displayed  as  much  ignorance  of 
the  case  as  ever.  Were  I  a  rich  man,  I  would  make  the 
subject  a  hobby,  for  the  good  of  the  country,  and  for  the 
better  proving  that  the  true  interests  of  government  are 
those  linked  with  and  inseparable  from  science. —  From 
Letter  to  Professor  Ramsay,  May  17, 1847. 


EDWARD  FORBES  89 


DREDGING  SONG. 

Hurrah  for  the  dredge,  with  its  iron  edge, 

And  its  mystical  triangle, 
And  its  hided  net  with  meshes  set 

Odd  fishes  to  entangle! 
The  ship  may  move  through  the  wave  above, 

Mid  scenes  exciting  wonder, 
But  braver  sights  the  dredge  delights 

As  it  roveth  the  waters  under. 
Then  a-dredging  we  will  go,  wise  boys ! 
Then  a-dredging  we  will  go. 

Down  in  the  deep,  where  the  mermen  sleep, 

Our  gallant  dredge  is  sinking; 
Each  finny  shape  in  a  precious  scrape 

Will  find  itself  in  a  twinkling ! 
They  may  twirl  and  twist,  and  writhe  as  they  wist, 

And  break  themselves  into  sections : 
But  up  they  all,  at  the  dredge's  call, 

Must  come  to  fill  collections. 
Then  a-dredging  we  will  go,  wise  boys! 
Then  a-dredging  we  will  go. 

The  creatures  strange  the  sea  that  range, 

Though  mighty  in  their  stations, 
To  the  dredge  must  yield  the  briny  field 

Of  their  loves  and  depredations. 
The  crab  so  bold,  like  a  knight  of  old, 

On  scaly  armor  plated, 
And  the  slimy  snail,  with  a  shell  on  his  tail, 

And  the  star-fish  —  radiated. 
Then  a-dredging  we  will  go,  wise  boys ! 
Then  a-dredging  we  will  go. 


JOHN  FORD 


?ORD,  JOHN,  an  English  dramatist;  born  at 
Islington,  Devonshire,  April  6,  1586;  died 
subsequent  to  1639.  He  was  of  good  family, 
his  grandfather  and  father  having  attained  legal  emi- 
nence. At  sixteen  he  was  entered  as  a  student  at  law 
at  the  Inner  Temple,  was  called  to  the  bar,  and  prac- 
tised until  past  fifty,  when  he  retired  to  his  estate, 
and  nothing  further  is  recorded  of  him.  He  appears 
to  have  gained  a  competent  fortune  in  his  profession, 
so  that  he  was  able  to  write  without  regard  to  any 
pecuniary  profit  which  he  might  gain  from  his  dramas, 
and  to  disregard  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  theatre- 
goers of  his  time.  Some  of  his  dramas  were  produced 
in  conjunction  with  others,  especially  with  Rowley, 
Dekker,  and  Webster,  and  it  is  impossible  to  fix  with 
certainty  the  respective  shares  of  each.  The  titles 
of  sixteen  plays,  wholly  or  in  part  by  Ford,  have  been 
preserved,  but  several  of  these  are  not  now  known  to 
be  extant;  some  of  them  do  not  appear  to  have  ever 
been  printed.  Lover's  Melancholy,  probably  the  earli- 
est of  Ford's  dramas,  was  first  acted  in  1678;  *Ti$ 
Pity  She's  a  Whore,  a  powerful  tragedy,  was  printed 
in  1633 ;  The  Broken  Heart,  upon  the  whole  the  best 
of  Ford's  dramas,  was  also  printed  in  1633,  but  both 
were  probably  produced  upon  the  stage  a  little  earlier ; 
The  Lady's  Trial  was  acted  in  1638,  and  printed  in 
the  following  year.  The  first  complete  edition  of 
Ford's  works,  edited  by  Weber,  was  published  in  1811 ; 
in  1827  appeared  an  edition  edited  by  Gifford;  and 
in  1847  an  expurgated  edition  was  issued  in  "  Mur- 
ray's Family  Library."  Gifford's  edition,  revised  by 
Dyce,  with  Notes  and  an  Introduction  (1869),  is  the 


JOHN  FORD  91 

best.  An  Essay  on  Ford,  by  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne, was  published  among  his  Notes  and  Essays  in 
1875. 

CALANTHA  AND  PENTHEA. 

Cal. —  Being  alone,  Penthea,  you  have  granted 
The  opportunity  you  sought,  and  might 
At  all  times  have  commanded. 

Pen. —  Tis  a  benefit 

Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodness  even  in  death  for. 
My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down ;  the  sands  are  spent : 
For,  by  an  inward  messenger,  I  feel 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain. 

Cal. —  You  feed  too  much  your  melancholy. 

Pen. —  Glories 

Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams, 
And  shadows  soon  decaying:  on  the  stage 
Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length ; 
By  varied  pleasures  sweetened  in  the  mixture, 
But  tragical  in  issue. 

Cal. —  Contemn  not  your  condition  for  the  proof 
Of  bare  opinion  only :  to  what  end 
Reach  all  these  moral  texts? 

Pen. —  To  place  before  you 

A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  life, 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery. 

Cal. —  Indeed, 

You  have  no  little  cause;  yet  none  so  great 
As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 

Pen. —  That  remedy 

Must  be  a  winding-sheet,  a  fold  of  lead, 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth. 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  princess, 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal. —  Speak,  and  enjoy  it. 

Pen. —  Vouchsafe,  then,  to  be  my  executrix;    . 
Heaven  will  reward  your  piety  and  thank  it, 


92  JOHN  FORD 

When  I  am  dead :  for  sure  I  must  not  live. 

CaL — Now  beshrew  thy  sadness; 
Thou  turn'st  me  too  much  woman. 

Pen. —  Her  fair  eyes 

Melt  into  passion:  then  I  have  assurance 
Encouraging  my  boldness.    In  this  paper 
My  will  was  charactered;  which  you,  with  pardon, 
Shall  now  know  from  mine  own  mouth. 

CaL —  Talk  on,  prithee ; 

It  is  a  pretty  earnest. 

Pen. —  I  have  left  me 

But  three  poor  jewels  to  bequeath.    The  first  is 
My  youth ;  for  though  I  am  much  old  in  griefs, 
In  years  I  am  a  child. 
CaL—  To  whom  that? 

Pen. —  To  virgin  wives;  such  as  abuse  not  wedlock 
By  freedom  of  desires,  but  covet  chiefly. 
The  pledges  of  chaste  beds,  for  ties  of  love 
Rather  than  ranging  of  their  blood ;  and  next 
To  married  maids ;  such  as  prefer  the  number 
Of  honorable  issue  in  their  virtues, 
Before  the  flattery  of  delights  by  marriage ; 
May  those  be  ever  young. 

CaL —  A  second  jewel 

You  mean  to  part? 

Pen. —  'Tis  my  fame;  I  trust 

By  scandal  yet  untouched ;  this  I  bequeath 
To  Memory  and  Time's  old  daughter,  Truth. 

CaL —  How  handsomely  thou  play'st  with  harmless  sport 
Of  mere  imagination !     Speak  the  last. 
I  strangely  like  thy  will. 

Pen. —  This  jewel,  madam, 

Is  dearly  precious  to  me;  you  must  use 
The  best  of  your  discretion,  to  employ 
This  gift  as  I  intend  it 

CaL —  Do  not  doubt  me. 

Pen. —  Tis  long  ago,  since  first  I  lost  my  heart; 
Long  I  have  lived  without  it :  but  instead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 
By  service  bound,  and  by  affection  vowed, 
I  do  bequeath  in  holiest  rites  of  love 


JOHN  FORD  93 

Mine  only  brother  Ithocles. 

Col.—  What  saidst  thou? 

Pen. —  Impute  not,  heaven-blest  lady,  to  ambition, 
A  faith  as  humbly  perfect  as  the  prayers 
Of  a  devoted  suppliant  can  endow  it: 
Look  on  him,  princess,  with  an  eye  of  pity; 
How  like  the  ghost  of  what  he  late  appeared 
He  moves  before  you ! 

Col.—  Shall  I  answer  here, 

Or  lend  my  ear  too  grossly? 

Pen. —  First  his  heart 

Shall  fall  in  cinders,  scorched  by  your  disdain, 
Ere  he  will  care,  poor  man,  to  ope  an  eye 
On  these  divine  looks,  but  with  low-bent  thoughts 
Accusing  such  presumption :  as  for  words, 
He  dares  not  utter  any  but  of  service; 
Yet  this  lost  creature  loves  you. 

Cal. —  What  new  change 

Appears  in  my  behavior  that  thou  darest 
Tempt  my  displeasure? 

Pen. —  I  must  leave  the  world, 

To  revel  in  Elysium;  and  'tis  just 
To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here. 
Yet  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithocles  is  ignorant 
Of  this  pursuit.    But  if  you  please  to  kill  him, 
Lend  him  one  angry  look,  or  one  harsh  word, 
And  you  shall  soon  conclude  how  strong  a  power 
Your  absolute  authority  holds  over 
His  life  and  end. 

Cal. —  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 

How  still  I  have  a  father. 

Pen. —  But  remember 

I  am  sister :  though  to  me  this  brother 
Hath  been,  you  know,  unkind,  O  most  unkind. 

Cal. —  Christalla,  Philema,  where  are  ye?  —  Lady, 
Your  check  lies  in  my  silence.       — The  Broken  Heart. 


94  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD 


pORD,  PAUL  LEICESTER,  an  American  novelist 
and  historian ;  born  at  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  March 
23>  1865;  died  at  New  York,  May  8,  1902. 
He  was  privately  educated,  and  in  youth  traveled  in 
South  America  and  in  Europe.  He  edited  The  Writ- 
ings of  Thomas  Jefferson  (10  vols.)  ;  The  Writings  of 
John  Dickinson  (3  vols.)  and  other  works  relating  to 
American  history  and  bibliography.  In  1894  he  pub- 
lished The  Honorable  Peter  Stirling,  a  novel  of  New 
York  political  life  which  became  very  popular.  His 
subsequent  works  included  The  True  George  Washing- 
ton (1896);  Bibliotheca  Hamiltonia  (1897);  Frank- 
lin Bibliography  (1897);  The  Story  of  an  Un- 
told Love  (1898);  Tattle  Tales  of  Cupid  (1899); 
Janice  Meredith  (1899) ;  The  Many-Sided  Frank- 
lin (1900);  Wanted  —  A  Match  Maker  (1901);  A 
Checkered  Love  Affair  (1902)  ;  and  a  posthumous 
work  Love  Finds  the  Way  (1904).  He  also  wrote 
The  Great  K.  &  A.  Tram  Robbery;  The  New  England 
Primer;  Wanted  —  A  Chaperon;  and  Journals  of  Hugh 
Gaine:  Printer. 

In  1898  Mr.  Ford  in  an  interview,  told  of  the  success 
of  Peter  Stirling.  He  said :  "  Peter  Stirling  was  pub- 
lished late  in  the  Fall  of  1894.  It  lay  on  the  shelves 
practically  unsold  for  four  months,  and  looked  like  a 
failure.  One  day  I  went  into  my  publisher's,  and, 
much  to  my  surprise,  he  said:  'We're  just  getting 
ready  to  print  a  new  edition  of  Peter  Stirling  and  shall 
make  a  new  set  of  plates/  '  I'm  very  glad  to  hear 
that,'  I  said.  He  went  on :  '  Look  over  these  proofs 
and  make  any  changes  you  want/  It  was  such  a  sur- 
prise to  me  that  the  next  time  I  saw  him  I  asked  him 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD  95 

how  it  had  happened  that  the  book  had  jumped  so 
suddenly  in  sales.  And  then  it  all  came  out.  San 
Francisco  was  the  place  where  Peter  Stirling  really 
started  to  sell.  Without  any  warning  an  order  came 
in  from  that  city  one  day  for  300  copies.  The  man 
that  ordered  them  was  A.  M.  Robertson,  a  bookseller 
of  San  Francisco,  and  they  thought  in  the  office  that 
he  must  be  crazy.  (I  remarked  to  my  publisher  when 
he  told  me  this  that  that  wasn't  a  high  compliment 
for  the  book.)  However,  Robertson  not  only  sold 
those  300  copies,  but  a  little  later  ordered  300  more. 
It  was  afterward  learned  that  he  had  happened  to 
read  the  book  and  was  so  f taken'  with  it  that  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  sell  those  300  copies  before  he 
did  anything  else  in  a  business  way.  Then  orders 
commenced  to  come  in  from  Michigan  and  Wiscon- 
sin. Why  from  those  States,  no  one  knows  to  this 
day,  but  these  are  the  facts.  Meanwhile  the  book 
was  not  selling  at  all  in  Chicago  or  in  New  York, 
The  demand  in  these  and  other  cities  did  not  start 
until  Peter  Stirling  had  pretty  widely  spread  through- 
out the  towns  of  the  Middle  West." 

TALKATIVE    MR.    PIERCE. 

Mr.  Pierce  was  preparing  to  talk.  Usually  Mr.  Pierce 
was  talking.  Mr.  Pierce  had  been  talking  already,  but  it 
had  been  to  single  listeners  only,  and  for  quite  a  time  in 
the  last  three  hours  Mr.  Pierce  had  been  compelled  to  be 
silent.  But  at  last  Mr.  Pierce  believed  his  moment  had 
come.  Mr.  Pierce  thought  he  had  an  audience,  and  a 
plastic  audience  at  that  And  these  three  circumstances 
in  combination  made  Mr.  Pierce  fairly  bubbling  with 
words.  No  longer  would  he  have  to  waste  his  precious 
wit  and  wisdom,  tete-&-tete,  or  on  himself. 

At  first  blush,  Mr.  Pierce  seemed  right  in  his  conjec- 
ture. Seated  —  in  truth,  collapsed,  on  chairs  and 


96  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD 

lounges,  in  a  disarranged  and  untidy-looking  drawing- 
room,  were  nearly  twenty  very  tired-looking  people. 
The  room  looked  as  if  there  had  just  been  a  free  fight 
there,  and  the  people  looked  as  if  they  had  been  the 
participants.  But  the  multitude  of  flowers  and  the  gay 
dresses  proved  beyond  question  that  something  else  had 
made  the  disorder  of  the  room  and  had  put  that'  ex- 
hausted look  upon  the  faces. 

Experienced  observers  would  have  understood  it  at  a 
glimpse.  From  the  work  and  fatigues  of  this  world,  peo- 
ple had  gathered  for  a  little  enjoyment  of  what  we  call 
society.  It  is  true  that  both  the  room  and  its  occupants 
did  not  indicate  that  there  had  been  much  recreation. 
But,  then,  one  can  lay  it  down  as  an  axiom  that  the  peo- 
ple who  work  for  pleasure  are  the  hardest-working  peo- 
ple in  the  world;  and,  as  it  is  that  for  which  society 
labors,  this  scene  is  but  another  proof  that  they  get  very 
much  fatigued  over  their  pursuit  of  happiness  and  en- 
joyment, considering  that  they  hunt  for  it  in  packs,  and 
entirely  exclude  the  most  delicious  intoxicant  known  — 
usually  called  oxygen  —  from  their  list  of  supplies  from 
the  caterer.  Certainly  this  particular  group  did  look  ex- 
hausted far  beyond  the  speech-making  point.  But  this, 
too,  was  a  deception.  These  limp-looking  individuals 
had  only  remained  in  this  drawing-room  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  "  talking  it  over,"  and  Mr.  Pierce  had  no  walk- 
over before  him. 

Mr.  Pierce  cleared  his  throat  and  remarked:  "The 
development  of  marriage  customs  and  ceremonies  from 
primeval  days  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and  — " 

"  What  a  lovely  wedding  it  has  been ! "  said  Dorothy, 
heaving  a  sigh  of  fatigue  and  pleasure  combined. 

"Wasn't  it!"  went  up  a  chorus  from  the  whole  party, 
except  Mr.  Pierce,  who  looked  eminently  disgusted. 

"As  I  was  remarking — "  began  Mr.  Pierce  again.— 
The  Honorable  Peter  Stirling  (Copyright,  1894,  by  HENRY 
HOLT  &  COMPANY.) 


RICHARD  FORD  97 


pORD,  RICHARD,  an  English  traveler  and  essay- 
ist; born  at  London  in  1796;  died  at  Heavi- 
tree,  near  Exeter,  September  I,  1858.  He 
was  educated  at  Winchester  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  studied  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  was 
called  to  the  bar,  but  never  entered  into  practice.  In 
1839  he  went  to  Spain,  where  he  resided  several  years. 
From  1836  to  1857  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to 
the  Quarterly  Review,  his  papers  relating  mainly  to 
the  life,  literature,  and  art  of  Spain.  He  prepared 
Murray's  Hand-Book  for  Spain  (1845;  rewritten  and 
enlarged  in  1855).  He  also  wrote  Gatherings  in 
Spain  (1848)  ;  and  Tauromachia,  the  Bull  Fights  of 
Spain  (1852).  His  descriptions  of  the  country,  peo- 
ple, and  customs  of  Spain  are  the  best  extant  works 
on  the  subject.  He  was  well  spoken  of  by  his  contem- 
poraries. 

SPAIN   AND  THE   SPANIARDS   IN    1840. 

Since  Spain  appears  on  the  map  to  be  a  square  and 
most  compact  kingdom,  politicians  and  geographers  have 
treated  it  and  its  inhabitants  as  one  and  the  same;  prac- 
tically, however,  this  is  almost  exclusively  a  geographical 
expression,  as  the  earth,  air,  and  morals  of  the  different 
portions  of  this  conventional  whole  are  altogether  hetero- 
geneous. Peninsular  man  has  followed  the  nature  by 
•which  he  is  surrounded ;  mountains  and  rivers  have  walled 
and  moated  the  dislocated  land;  mists  and  gleams  have 
diversified  the  heavens;  and  differing  like  soil  and  sky, 
the  people,  in  each  of  the  once  independent  provinces,  now 
bound  loosely  together  by  one  golden  hoop,  the  crown, 
has  its  own  particular  character.  To  hate  his  neighbor 
is  a  second  nature  to  the  Spaniard;  no  spick  and  span 
Constitution,  be  it  printed  on  parchment  or  calico,  can 
at  once  efface  traditions  and  antipathies  of  a  thousand 
VOL.  X.— 7 


98  RICHARD  FORD 

years;  the  accidents  of  localities  and  provincial  nation- 
alities, out  of  which  they  have  sprung,  remain  too  deeply 
dyed  to  be  forthwith  discharged  by  theorists. 

The  climate  and  productions  vary  no  less  than  do  lan- 
guage, costume,  and  manners ;  and  so  division  and  localism 
have,  from  time  immemorial,  formed  a  marked  national 
feature.  Spaniards  may  talk  and  boast  of  their  Patria, 
as  is  done  by  the  similarly  circumstanced  Italians,  but  like 
them  and  the  Germans,  they  have  the  fallacy,  but  no  real 
Fatherland;  it  is  an  aggregation  rather  than  an  amalga- 
mation—  every  single  individual  in  his  heart  really  only 
loving  his  native  province,  and  only  considering  as  his 
fellow-countryman,  su  paisano  —  a  most  binding  and  en- 
dearing word  —  one  born  in  the  same  locality  as  himself : 
hence  it  is  not  easy  to  predicate  much  in  regard  to  "  the 
Spains"  and  Spaniards  in  general  which  will  hold  quite 
good  as  to  each  particular  portion  ruled  by  the  sovereign 
of  Las  Espanas,  the  plural  title  given  to  the  chief  of  the 
federal  union  of  this  really  little  united  kingdom.  Es- 
panolismo  may,  however,  be  said  to  consist  in  a  love  for  a 
common  faith  and  king,  and  in  a  coincidence  of  resistance 
to  all  foreign  dictation.  The  deep  sentiments  of  religion, 
loyalty  and  independence,  noble  characteristics  indeed, 
have  been  sapped  in  our  times  by  the  influence  of  Trans- 
Pyrenean  revolutions.  Two  general  observations  may  be 
premised : 

First,  The  people  of  Spain,  the  so-called  lower  orders, 
are  superior  to  those  who  arrogate  to  themselves  the  title 
of  being  their  betters,  and  in  most  respects  are  more  inter- 
esting. The  masses,  the  least  spoilt  and  the  most  na- 
tional, stand  like  pillars  amid  ruins,  and  on  them  the  edi- 
fice of  Spain's  greatness  is,  if  ever,  to  be  reconstructed. 
This  may  have  arisen,  in  this  land  of  anomalies,  from  the 
peculiar  policy  of  government  in  church  and  state,  where 
the  possessors  of  religious  and  civil  monopolies,  who 
dreaded  knowledge  as  power,  pressed  heavily  on  the  noble 
and  rich,  dwarfing  down  their  bodies  by  intermarriages, 
and  all  but  extinguishing  their  minds  by  inquisitions; 
while  the  people,  overlooked  in  the  obscurity  of  poverty, 
were  allowed  to  grow  out  to  their  full  growth  like  wild 
weeds  of  a  rich  soil.  They,  in  fact,  have  long  enjoyed, 


JOHN  FORSTER  99 

under  despotisms  of  church  and  state,  a  practical  and  per- 
sonal independence,  the  good  results  of  which  are  evident 
in  their  stalwart  frames  and  manly  bearing. 

Secondly,  A  distinction  must  ever  be  made  between 
the  Spaniard  in  his  individual  and  collective  capacity,  and 
still  more  in  an  official  one.  Taken  by  himself,  he  is 
true  and  valiant;  the  nicety  of  his  Pundonor,  or  point 
of  personal  honor,  is  proverbial ;  to  him,  as  an  individual, 
you  may  safely  trust  your  life;  fair  fame,  and  purse.  Yet 
history,  treating  of  these  individuals  in  the  collective, 
juatados,  presents  the  foulest  examples  of  misbehavior 
in  the  field,  of  Punic  bad  faith  in  the  cabinet,  of  bank- 
ruptcy and  repudiation  on  the  exchange.  This  may  be 
also  much  ascribed  to  the  deteriorating  influence  of  bad 
government,  by  which  the  individual  Spaniard,  like  the 
monk  in  a  convent,  becomes  fused  into  the  corporate. 
The  atmosphere  is  too  infectious  to  avoid  some  corrup- 
tion, and  while  the  Spaniard  feels  that  his  character  is 
only  in  safe  keeping  when  in  his  own  hands,  and  no 
man  of  any  nation  knows  better  then  how  to  uphold  it, 
when  linked  with  others,  his  self-pride,  impatient  of  any 
superior,  lends  itself  readily  to  feelings  of  mistrust,  until 
self-interest  and  preservation  become  uppermost.  From 
suspecting  that  he  will  be  sold  and  sacrificed  by  others, 
he  ends  by  floating  down  the  turbid  stream  like  the  rest: 
yet  even  official  employment  does  not  quite  destroy  all 
private  good  qualities,  and  the  empleado  may  be  appealed 
to  as  an  individual. 


pORSTER,  JOHN,  an  English  biographer,  jour- 
nalist, and  historian ;  born  at  Newcastle,  April 
2,  1812;  died  at  London,  February  2,  1876. 
In  1828  he  went  to  London  and  attended  law  classes, 
but  devoted  himself  mainly  to  journalism  and  literary 
work,  although  he  was  formally  called  to  the  bar.  He 
was  successively  editor  of  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Re~ 


zoo  JOHN  FORSTER 

view,  of  the  Daily  News,  succeeding  Dickens,  and  of 
the  Examiner,   succeeding  Fonblanque,  holding  this 
last  position  from  1847  to  J856.    In  1861  he  was  ap- 
pointed a  Commissioner  in  Lunacy.    In  1855  he  mar- 
ried the  wealthy  widow  of  Henry  Colburn,  the  pub- 
lisher.   For  many  years  he  was  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  Edinburgh,  Quarterly,  and  Foreign  Quarterly 
Reviews.    His  biographical  and  historical  works  are 
numerous  and  valuable.    The  principal  are  The  States- 
men of  the  Commonwealth  of  England  (1840) ;  Life 
of  Goldsmith  (1848,  greatly  enlarged  in  1854)  ;  The 
Arrest  of  the  Five  Members  by  Charles  I.  and  Debates 
on  the  Great  Remonstrance  (1860)  ;  Sir  John  Eliot 
(1864) ;  Life  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  (1868)  ;  Life 
of  Charles  Dickens    (1871-74),   and  Early  Life   of 
Jonathan  Swift  (1875).    This  last  work  is  the  first 
volume  of  a  complete  biography  of  Swift,  upon  which 
he  had  been  engaged  for  several  years;  but  he  died, 
leaving  this  work  unfinished. 

SWIFT  AND   HIS  BIOGRAPHERS. 

Swift's  later  time,  when  he  was  governing  Ireland  as 
well  as  his  Deanery,  and  the  world  was  filled  with  the 
fame  of  Gulliver,  is  broadly  and  intelligibly  written.  But 
as  to  all  the  rest,  his  life  is  a  work  unfinished;  to  which 
no  one  has  brought  the  minute  examination  indispensably 
required,  where  the  whole  of  a  career  has  to  be  considered 
to  get  at  the  proper  comprehension  of  certain  parts  of  it 
The  writers  accepted  as  authorities  for  the  obscurer  por- 
tion of  it  are  found  to  be  practically  worthless,  and  the 
defect  is  not  supplied  by  the  later  and  greater  biog- 
raphers. Johnson  did  him  no  kind  of  justice,  because  of 
too  little  liking  for  him;  and  Scott,  with  much  hearty 
liking,  as  well  as  a  generous  admiration,  had  too  much 
other  work  to  do.  Thus,  notwithstanding  noble  passages 
in  both  memoirs,  and  Scott's  pervading  tone  of  healthy, 


JOHN  FORSTER  101 

manly  wisdom,  it  is  left  to  an  inferior  hand  to  attempt 
to  complete  the  tribute  begun  by  these  illustrious  men. — 
Preface  to  Life  of  Swift. 

THE   LITERARY    PROFESSION   AND   THE   LAW    OF   COPYRIGHT. 

"It  were  well,"  said  Goldsmith,  on  one  occasion,  with 
bitter  truth,  "  if  none  but  the  dunces  of  society  were 
combined  to  render  the  profession  of  an  author  ridicu- 
lous or  unhappy."  The  profession  themselves  have  yet 
to  learn  the  secret  of  co-operation;  they  have  to  put  away 
internal  jealousies;  they  have  to  claim  for  themselves, 
as  poor  Goldsmith,  after  his  fashion,  very  loudly  did,  that 
defined  position  from  which  'greater  respect,  and  more 
frequent  consideration  in  public  life,  could  not  long  be 
withheld ;  in  fine,  they  have  frankly  to  feel  that  their  voca- 
tion, properly  regarded,  ranks  with  the  worthiest,  and  that, 
on  all  occasions,  to  do  justice  to  it,  and  to  each  other,  is 
the  way  to  obtain  justice  from  the  world.  If  writers 
had  been  thus  true  to  themselves,  the  subject  of  copyright 
might  have  been  equitably  settled  when  attention  was  first 
drawn  to  it;  but  while  Defoe  was  urging  the  author's 
claim,  Swift  was  calling  Defoe  a  fellow  that  had  been 
pilloried,  and  we  have  still  to  discuss  as  in  forma  pauperis 
the  rights  of  the  English  author. 

Confiscation  is  a  hard  word,  but  after  the  decision  of 
the  highest  English  court,  it  is  the  word  which  alone 
describes  fairly  the  statute  of  Anne  for  encouragement 
of  literature.  That  is  now  superseded  by  another  stat- 
ute, having  the  same  gorgeous  name  and  the  same  in- 
glorious meaning;  for  even  this  last  enactment,  sorely 
resisted  as  it  was,  leaves  England  behind  any  other  coun- 
try in  the  world  in  the  amount  of  their  own  property 
secured  to  her  authors.  In  some,  to  this  day,  perpetual 
copyright  exists;  and  though  it  may  be  reasonable,  as 
Dr.  Johnson  argued,  that  it  was  to  surrender  a  part  for 
greater  efficiency  or  protection  to  the  rest,  yet  the  com- 
monest dictates  of  natural  justice  might  at  least  require 
that  an  author's  family  should  not  be  beggared  of  their 
inheritance  as  soon  as  his  own  capacity  to  .provide  for 
them  may  have  ceased.  In  every  Continental  country  this 


102  JOSEPH  FORSYTHE 

is  cared  for,  the  lowest  term  secured  by  the  most  nig- 
gardly arrangement  being  twenty-five  years;  whereas  in 
England  it  is  the  munificent  number  of  seven.  Yet  the 
most  laborious  works,  and  often  the  most  delightful,  are 
for  the  most  part  of  a  kind  which  the  hereafter  only  can 
repay.  The  poet,  the  historian,  the  scientific  investigator, 
do  indeed  find  readers  to-day;  but  if  they  have  labored 
with  success,  they  have  produced  books  whose  substantial 
reward  is  not  the  large  and  temporary,  but  the  limited 
and  constant  nature  of  their  sale.  No  consideration  of 
moral  right  exists,  no  principle  of  economical  science  can 
be  stated,  which  would  justify  the  seizure  of  such  books 
by  the  public  before  they  had  the  chance  of  remunerating 
the  genius  and  the  labor  of  their  producers. 

But  though  Parliament  can  easily  commit  this  wrong, 
it  is  not  in  such  case  the  quarter  to  look  to  for  redress. 
There  is  no  hope  of  a  better  state  of  things  till  the  author 
shall  enlist  upon  his  side  the  power  of  which  Parliament 
is  but  the  inferior  expression.  The  true  remedy  for  lit- 
erary wrongs  must  flow  from  a  higher  sense  than  has  at 
any  period  yet  prevailed  in  England  of  the  duties  and  re- 
sponsibilities assumed  by  the  public  writer,  and  of  the 
social  consideration  and  respect  that  their  effectual  dis- 
charge should  have  undisputed  right  to  claim. — Life  of 
Goldsmith. 


pORSYTH,  JOSEPH,  a  Scottish  traveler  and  es- 
sayist; born  at  Elgin  in  1763;  died  in  1815. 
He  conducted  for  many  years  a  classical  sem- 
inary near  London.  In  1802  he  set  out  upon  a  tour  in 
Italy;  in  the  next  year  he  was  arrested  at  Turin  in 
pursuance  of  an  order  issued  by  Napoleon  for  the  de- 
tention of  all  British  subjects  traveling  in  his  do- 
minions. He  was  not  set  at  liberty  until  the  down- 
fall of  Napoleon  in  1814.  In  the  meantime  he  wrote 


JOSEPH  FORSYTHB  103 

out  the  notes  which  he  had  prepared  of  his  visit  to 
Italy.  This  was  published  in  1812,  under  the  title, 
Remarks  on  Antiquities,  Arts,  and  Letters  during  an 
Excursion  in  Italy  in  the  years  1802  and  1803.  The 
immediate  object  of  the  publication  was  to  enlist  the 
sympathies  of  Napoleon  and  of  the  leading  members 
of  the  National  Institute  in  his  behalf.  The  effort  was 
unsuccessful,  and  the  author  regretted  that  it  had  been 
made.  The  work  has  been  several  times  reprinted; 
a  fourth  edition  was  issued  in  1835,  being  brought 
down  to  that  date  by  another  hand. 

THE  ITALIAN  VINTAGE. 

The  vintage  was  in  full  glow,  men,  women,  children, 
asses,  all  were  variously  engaged  m  the  work.  I  re- 
marked in  the  scene  a  prodigality  and  negligence  which 
I  never  saw  in  France.  The  grapes  dropped  unheeded 
from  the  panniers,  and  hundreds  were  left  undipped  on 
the  vines.  The  vintagers  poured  on  us  as  we  passed  the 
richest  ribaldry  of  the  Italian  language,  and  seemed  to 
claim  from  Homer's  old  vindewiator  a  prescriptive  right 
to  abuse  the  traveler. 

THE  COLOSSEUM   IN    1803. 

A  colossal  taste  gave  rise  to  the  Colosseum.  Here, 
indeed,  gigantic  dimensions  were  necessary;  for  though 
hundreds  could  enter  at  once  and  fifty  thousand  find 
seats,  the  space  was  still  insufficient  for  room,  and  the 
crowd  for  the  morning  games  began  at  midnight.  Ves- 
pasian and  Titus,  as  if  presaging  their  own  deaths,  hur- 
ried the  building,  and  left  several  marks  of  their  pre- 
cipitancy behind.  In  the  upper  walls  they  have  inserted 
stones  which  had  evidently  been  dressed  for  a  different 
purpose.  Some  of  the  arcades  are  grossly  unequal;  no 
moulding  preserves  the  same  level  and  form  round  the 
whole  ellipse,  and  every  order  is  full  of  license.  The 
Doric  has  no  triglyphs  and  metopes,  and  its  arch  is  too 


104  JOSEPH  FORSYTHE 

low  for  its  columns;  the  Ionic  repeats  the  entablature  of 
the  Doric;  the  third  order  is  but  a  rough  cast  of  the 
Corinthian,  and  its  foliage  the  thickest  water-plants;  the 
fourth  seems  a  mere  repetition  of  the  third  in  pilasters; 
and  the  whole  is  crowned  by  a  heavy  Attic.    Happily  for 
the  Colosseum,  the  shape  necessary  to  an  amphitheatre 
has  given  it  a  stability  of  construction  sufficient  to  resist 
fires,  and  earthquakes,  and  lightnings,  and  sieges.    Its 
elliptical  form  was  the  hoop  which  bound  and  held  it  en- 
tire till  barbarians  rent  that  consolidating  ring;   popes 
widened  the  breach;  and  time,  not  unassisted,  continues 
the  work  of  dilapidation.    At  this  moment  the  hermitage 
is  threatened  with  a  dreadful  crash,  and  a  generation  not 
very  remote  must  be  content,  I  apprehend,  with  the  pic- 
ture   of    this    stupendous    monument.     Of    the    interior 
elevation,  two  slopes,  by  some  called  meniana,,  are  already 
demolished ;  the  arena,  the  podium,  are  interred.    No  mem- 
ber runs  entire  round  the  whole  ellipse;  but  every  mem- 
ber made  such  a  circuit,  and  reappears  so  often  that  plans, 
sections,  and  elevations  of  the  original  work  are  drawn 
with  the  precision  of  a  modern  fabric.    When  the  whole 
amphitheatre  was  entire,  a  child  might  comprehend  its 
design  in  a  moment,  and  go  direct  to  his  place  without 
straying  in  the  porticos,  for  each  arcade  bears  its  num- 
ber engraved,  and  opposite  to  every  fourth  arcade  was 
a   staircase.     This   multiplicity   of   wide,    straight,    and 
separate  passages  proves  the  attention  which  the  ancients 
paid  to  the  safe  discharge  of  a  crowd ;  it  finely  illustrates 
the  precept  of  Vitruvius,  and  exposes  the  perplexity  of 
some  modern  theatres. 

Every  nation  has  undergone  its  revolution  of  vices; 
and  as  cruelty  is  not  the  present  vice  of  ours,,  we  can 
all  humanely  execrate  the  purpose  of  amphitheatres,  now 
that  "they  lie  in  ruins.  Moralists  may  tell  us  that  the 
truly  brave  are  never  cruel;  but  this  monument  says 
"No."  Here  sat  the  conquerors  of  the  world,  coolly  to 
enjoy  the  tortures  and  death  of  men  who  had  never  of- 
fended them.  Two  aqueducts  were  scarcely  sufficient  to 
wash  the  blood  which  a  few  hours'  sport  shed  in  the  im- 
perial shambles.  Twice  in  one  day  came  the  senators  and 
matrons  of  Rome  to  the  butchery;  a  virgin  always  gave 


ROBERT  FORTUNE  iog 

the  signal  for  slaughter;  and  when  glutted  with  blood- 
shed, these  ladies  sat  down  in  the  wet  and  steaming  aren& 
to  a  luxurious  supper  I  Such  reflections  check  our  regret 
for  its  ruin.  As  it  now  stands  the  Colosseum  is  a  strik- 
ing image  of  Rome  itself  —  decayed,  vacant,  serious,  yet 
grand  —  half-gray,  and  half-green  —  erect  on  one  side,  and 
falling  on  the  other;  with  consecrated  ground  in  its  bosom 
—  inhabited  by  a  beadsman;  visited  by  every  caste;  for 
moralists,  antiquaries,  painters,  architects,  devotees,  all 
meeting  here  to  meditate,  to  examine,  to  draw,  to  meas- 
ure, and  to  pray.  "  In  contemplating  antiquities,"  says 
Livy,  "  the  mind  itself  becomes  antique."  It  contracts 
from  such  objects  a  venerable  rust,  which  I  prefer  to  the 
polish  and  the  point  of  those  wits  who  have  lately  pro- 
faned this  august  ruin  with  ridicule. 


pORTUNE,  ROBERT,  an  English  naturalist  and 
traveler;  born  near  Berwick-on-Tweed,  Sep- 
tember 16,  1813;  died  in  Scotland,  April  16, 
1880.  He  was  trained  as  a  horticulturist;  was  em- 
ployed in  the  botanical  gardens  of  Edinburgh,  where 
he  attended  the  lectures  in  the  University.  He  was 
afterward  employed  in  the  botanical  gardens  at  Chis- 
wick,  near  London,  and  in  1843  was  appointed  by  the 
London  Horticultural  Society  to  collect  plants  in 
China,  the  ports  of  which  had  just  been  thrown  open 
to  Europeans.  Upon  his  return  he  published  Three 
Years'  Wanderings  in  the  Northern  Provinces  of 
China.  In  1848  he  was  sent  to  China  by  the  East 
India  Company  to  investigate  the  mode  of  cultivation 
of  the  tea  plant,  collect  seeds,  and  introduce  its  culture 
into  Northern  India.  Upon  his  return  to  Great 
Britain  he  published  Two  Visits  to  the  Tea  Countries 


io6  ROBERT  FORTUNE 

of  China  (1852).  Subsequently  he  made  a  third  visit 
to  China,  of  which  he  gave  an  account  in  his  Residence 
Among  the  Chinese,  Inland,  on  the  Coast,  and  at  Sea 
(1857).  In  l857  he  was  deputed  by  the  United 
States  Patent  Office  to  visit  China  to  collect  seeds  of 
the  tea-shrub  and  other  plants.  He  was  absent  two 
years,  and  collected  and  shipped  to  the  United  States 
the  seeds  of  a  large  number  of  plants.  In  1863  he 
published,  in  London,  Yeddo  and  Pekin. 

CHINESE  THIEVES. 

About  two  in  the  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  loud 
yell  from  one  of  my  servants,  and  I  suspected  at  once 
that  we  had  had  a  visit  from  thieves,  for  I  had  fre- 
quently heard  the  same  sound  before.  Like  the  cry  one 
hears  at  sea  when  a  man  has  fallen  overboard,  this 
alarm  can  never  be  mistaken  when  once  it  has  been 
heard.  Before  I  had  time  to  inquire  what  was  wrong, 
one  of  my  servants  and  two  of  the  boatmen  plunged 
into  the  canal  and  pursued  the  thieves.  Thinking  that 
we  had  only  lost  some  cooking  utensils,  or  things  of  lit- 
tle value  that  might  have  been  lying  outside  the  boat, 
I  gave  myself  no  uneasiness  about  the  matter,  and  felt 
much  inclined  to  go  to  sleep  again.  But  my  servant, 
who  returned  almost  immediately,  awoke  me  most  effec- 
tually. "  I  fear,"  said  he,  opening  my  door,  "  the  thieves 
have  been  inside  the  boat,  and  have  taken  away  some  of 
your  property."  "  Impossible,"  said  I ;  "  they  cannot  have 
been  here."  "But  look/'  he  replied;  "a  portion  of  the 
side  of  your  boat  under  the  window  has  been  lifted  out." 

Turning  to  the  place  indicated  by  my  servant  I  could 
see,  although  it  was  quite  dark,  that  there  was  a  large 
hole  in  the  side  of  the  boat  not  more  than  three  feet 
from  where  my  head  had  been  lying.  At  my  right  hand, 
and  just  under  the  window,  the  trunk  used  to  stand  in 
which  I  was  in  the  habit  of  keeping  my  papers,  money, 
and  other  valuables.  On  the  first  suspicion  that  I  was 
the  victim,  I  stretched  out  my  hand  in  the  dark  to  feel 


ROBERT  FORTUNE  107 

if  this  was  safe.  Instead  of  my  hand  resting  on  the  top 
of  the  trunk,  as  it  had  been  accustomed  to  do,  it  went 
down  to  the  floor  of  the  boat,  and  then  I  knew  for  the 
first  time  that  the  trunk  was  gone.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment, my  servant,  Tung-a,  came  in  with  a  candle,  and 
confirmed  what  I  had  just  made  out  in  the  dark.  The 
thieves  had  done  their  work  well  —  the  boat  was  empty. 
My  money,  amounting  to  more  than  one  hundred  Shanghae 
dollars,  my  accounts,  and  other  papers  —  all,  all  were 
gone.  The  rascals  had  not  even  left  me  the  clothes  I  had 
thrown  off  when  I  went  to  bed. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose;  and  in  order  to  make 
every  effort  to  catch  the  thieves,  or  at  least  get  back  a 
portion  of  my  property,  I  jumped  into  the  canal,  and 
made  for  the  bank.  The  tide  had  now  risen,  and  in- 
stead of  finding  only  about  two  feet  of  water  —  the  depth 
when  we  went  to  bed  —  I  now  sank  up  to  the  neck,  and 
found  the  stream  very  rapid.  A  few  strokes  with  my 
arms  soon  brought  me  into  shallow  water  and  to  the 
shore.  Here  I  found  the  boatmen  rushing  about  in  a 
frantic  manner,  examining  with  a  lantern  the  bushes  and 
indigo  vats  on  the  banks  of  the  canal,  t  but  all  they  had 
found  was  a  few  Manila  cheroots  which  the  thieves  had 
dropped,  apparently  in  their  hurry.  A  watchman  with 
his  lantern  and  two  or  three  stragglers,  hearing  the  noise 
we  made,  came  up  and  inquired  what  was  wrong;  but 
when  asked  whether  they  had  seen  anything  of  the  thieves, 
shook  their  heads,  and  professed  the  most  profound  ig- 
norance. I  returned  in  no  comfortable  frame  of  mind  to 
my  boat 

It  was  a  serious  business  for  me  to*  lose  so  much 
money,  but  that  part  of  the  matter  gave  me  the  least  un- 
easiness. The  loss  of  my  accounts,  journals,  drawings, 
and  numerous  memoranda  I  had  been  making  during  three 
years  of  travel,  which  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to 
replace,  was  of  far  greater  importance.  I  tried  to  reason 
philosophically  upon  the  matter;  to  persuade  myself  that 
as  the  thing  could  not  be  helped  now,  it  was  no  use  being 
vexed  with  it;  that  in  a  few  years  it  would  not  signify 
much  either  to  myself  or  any  one  else  whether  I  had  been 


io8  NICCOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO 

robbed  or  not;  but  all  this  fine  reasoning  would  not  do. — 
Residence  Among  the  Chinese. 


pOSCOLO,  NICCOLO  UGO,  an  Italian  poet;  born 
at  Zante,  January  26,  1778;  died  at  Turnham 
Green,  near  London,  October  10,  1827.  Upon 
the  death  of  his  father,  a  physician  at  Spoleto,  the 
family  removed  to  Venice.  Foscolo  went  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Padua,  where  he  made  himself  master  of 
ancient  Greek  —  modern  Greek  being  his  vernacular 
tongue.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  produced  his  trage- 
dy of  Tieste,  which  was  received  with  some  favor  at 
Venice.  He  had  already  begun  to  take  part  in  the 
stormy  political  disputes  growing  out  of  the  over- 
throw of  the  Venetian  State.  He  addressed  an  adula- 
tory Ode  to  Bonaparte,  from  whom  he  hoped  not  mere- 
ly the  overthrow  of  the  Venetian  oligarchy,  but  the 
establishment  of  a  free  Republic.  Notwithstanding 
that  in  the  autumn  of  1797  Venice  was  by  treaty  made 
over  to  Austria,  he  adhered  to  the  French  side,  and 
when  the  hostilities  again  broke  out  between  France 
and  Austria  he  joined  the  French  army,  and  was 
among  those  who  were  made  prisoners  at  the  taking 
of  Genoa  in  1800.  After  his  release  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  Milan,  where  in  1807  he  wrote  the  Car  me 
mi  Sepolcri,  the  best  of  his  poems,  which  reads  like 
an  effort  to  seek  refuge  in  the  past  from  the  misery  of 
the  present  and  the  darkness  of  the  future.  In  1809 
he  received  the  appointment  of  Professor  of  Italian 
Eloquence  at  the  University  of  Pavia;  but  this  pro- 
fessorship was  before  long  abolished  by  Napoleon. 


NICCOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO        109 

After  many  vicissitudes,  in  1816  he  went  to  England, 
which  was  thereafter  his  home.  He  entered  upon  a 
strictly  literary  life,  contributed  to  reviews  upon  Italian 
subjects,  and  in  1821  wrote  in  English  his  essays  upon 
Petrarch  and  Dante,  which  brought  him  fame  and 
money;  but  his  irregular  way  of  life  involved  him  in 
constant  pecuniary  straits.  In  1871,  forty-four  years 
after  his  death,  his  remains  were  removed  to  Florence, 
and  deposited  in  the  magnificent  church  of  Santa  Cro- 
ce,  Italy's  Westminster  Abbey.  Italians  place  the 
name  of  Foscolo  high  upon  the  list  of  their  great 
writers.  Next  to  Alfieri  he  has  perhaps  contributed 
more  than  any  other  Italian  writer  to  free  the  literature 
of  his  language  of  the  pedantries  and  affectations  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries. 

THE  SEPULCHRES. 

Beneath  the  cypress  shade,  or  sculptured  urn 
By  fond  tears  watered,  is  the  sleep  of  death 
Less  heavy  ?    When  for  me  the  sun  no  more 
Shall  shine  on  earth,  and  bless  with  genial  beams 
This  beauteous  race  of  beings  animate  — 
When  bright  with  flattering  hues,  the  future  hours 
No  longer  dance  before  me,  and  I  hear 
No  more  the  magic  of  thy  dulcet  verse, 
Nor  the  sad,  gentle  harmony  it  breathes  — 
When  mute  within  my  breast  the  inspiring  voice 
Of  youthful  Poesy  and  Love,  sole  light 
To  this  my  wandering  life  —  what  guerdon  then 
For  vanished  years  will  be  the  marble,  reared 
To  mark  my  dust  amid  the  countless  throng 
Wherewith  Death  widely  strews  the  land  and  sea? 
And  thus  it  is !    Hope,  the  last  friend  of  man, 
Flies  from  the  tomb,  and  dim  Forgetfulness 
Wraps  in  its  rayless  night  all  mortal  things. 
Change  after  change,  unfelt,  unheeded,  takes 
Its  tribute  —  and  o'er  man,  his  sepulchres, 


no  NICCOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO 

His  being's  lingering  traces,  and  the  relics 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  Time  in  mockery  treads. 
Yet  why  hath  man,  from  immemorial  years, 
Yearned  for  the  illusive  power  which  may  retain 
The  parted  spirit  on  life's  threshold  still? 
Doth  not  the  buried  live,  e'en  though  to  him 
The  day's  enchanted  melody  is  mute, 
If  yet  fond  thoughts  and  tender  memories 
He  wake  in  friendly  breasts?    O,  'tis  from  heaven, 
This  sweet  communion  of  abiding  love ! 
A  boon  celestial !     By  its  charm  we  hold 
Full  oft  a  solemn  converse  with  the  dead, 
If  yet  the  pious  earth,  which  nourished  once 
Their  ripening  youth,  in  her  maternal  breast 
Yielding  a  last  asylum,  shall  protect 
Their  sacred  relics  from  insulting  storms, 
Or  step  profane  —  if  some  secluded  stone 
Preserve  their  names,  and  flowery  verdure  wave 
Its  fragrant  shade  above  their  honored  dust. 
But  he  who  leaves  no  heritage  of  love 
Is  heedless  of  an  urn  —  and  if  he  look 
Beyond  the  grave,  his  spirit  wanders  lost 
Among  the  wailings  of  infernal  shores ; 
Or  hides  its  guilt  beneath  the  sheltering  wings 
Of  God's  forgiving  mercy;  while  his  bones 
Moulder  unrecked  of  on  the  desert  sand, 
Where  never  loving  woman  pours  her  prayer, 
Nor  solitary  pilgrim  hears  the  sigh 
Which  mourning  Nature  sends  us  from  the  tomb.    . 

From  the  days 

When  first  the  nuptial  feast  and  judgment-seat 
And  altar  softened  our  untutored  race, 
And  taught  to  man  his  own  and  others'  good, 
The  living  treasured  from  the  bleaching  storm 
And  savage  brute  those  sad  and  poor  remains, 
By  Nature  destined  for  a  lofty  fate. 
Then  tombs  became  the  witnesses  of  pride,, 
And  altars  for  the  young :  —  thence  gods  invoked 
Uttered  their  solemn  answers ;  and  the  oath 
Sworn  on  the  father's  dust  was  thrice  revered. 
Hence  the  devotion,  which,  with  various  rites, 


NICCOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO  in 

The  warmth  of  patriot  virtue,  kindred  love, 
Transmits  through  the  countless  lapse  of  years. 

Not  in  those  times  did  stones  sepulchred  pave 
The  temple  floors  —  nor  fumes  of  shrouded  corpses, 
Mixed  with  the  altar's  incense,  smite  with  fear 
The  suppliant  worshiper  —  nor  cities  frown, 
Ghastly  with  sculptured  skeletons  —  while  leaped 
Young  mothers  from  their  sleep  in  wild  affright, 
Shielding  their  helpless  babes  with  feeble  arm, 
And  listening  for  the  groans  of  wandering  ghosts, 
Imploring  vainly  from  their  impious  heirs 
Their  gold-bought  masses.     But  in  living  green, 
Cypress  and  stately  cedar  spread  their  shade 
O'er  unforgotten  graves,  scattering  in  air 
Their  grateful  odors;  —  vases  which  received 
The  mourners'  votive  tears.     Their  pious  friends 
Enticed  the  day's  pure  gleam  to  gild  the  gloom 
Of  monuments;  for  man  his  dying  eye 
Turns  ever  to  the  sun,  and  every  breast 
Heaves  its  last  sigh  towards  the  departing  light, 
There  fountains  flung  aloft  their  silver  spray, 
Watering  sweet  amaranths  and  violets 
Upon  the  funeral  sod ;  and  he  who  came 
To  commune  with  the  dead  breathed  fragrance  round 
Like  bland  airs  wafted  from  Elysian  fields.     .    .    . 

Happy,  my  friend,  who  in  thine  early  years 
Hast  crossed  the  wide  dominion  of  the  winds ! 
If  e'er  the  pilot  steered  thy  wandering  bark 
Beyond  the  -ZEgean  Isles,  thou  heardst  the  shores 
Of  Hellespont  resound  with  ancient  deeds; 
And  the  proud  surge  exult,  that  bore  of  old 
Achilles's  armor  to  Rhaeteum's  shore, 
Where  Ajax  sleeps.     To  souls  of  generous  mould 
Death  righteously  awards  the  meed  of  fame ; 
Not  subtle  wit,  nor  kingly  favor  gave 
The  perilous  spoils  to  Ithaca,  where  waves, 
Stirred  to  wild  fury  by  infernal  gods, 
Rescued  the  treasures  from  the  shipwrecked  bark. 

For  me,  whom  years  and  love  of  high  renown 
Impel  through  far  and  various  lands  to  roam, 
The  Muses,  greatly  waking  in  my  breast 


2  NICCOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO 

Sad  thoughts,  bid  me  invoke  the  heroic  dead. 
They  sit  and  guard  the  sepulchres ;  and  when 
Time  with  cold  wing  sweeps  tombs  and  fanes  to  ruin, 
The  gladdened  desert  echoes  with  their  song, 
And  its  loud  harmony  subdues  the  silence 
Of  noteless  ages. 

Yet  on  Ilium's  plain, 

Where  now  the  harvest  waves,  to  pilgrim  eyes 
Devout  gleams  star-like  an  eternal  shrine  — 
Eternal  for  the  Nymph  espoused  by  Jove, 
Who  gave  her  royal  lord  the  son  whence  sprung 
Troy's  ancient  city,  and  Assaracus, 
The  fifty  sons  of  Priam's  regal  line, 
And  the  wide  empire  of  the  Latin  race. 
She,  listening  to  the  Fates'  resistless  call, 
That  summoned  her  from  vital  airs  of  earth 
To  choirs  Elysian,  of  heaven's  sire  besought 
One  boon  in  dying :  —  "  O,  if  e'er  to  thee," 
She  cried,  "  this  fading  form,  these  locks  were  dear, 
And  the  soft  cares  of  Love  —  since  Destiny 
Denies  me  happier  lot,  guard  thou  at  least 
That  thine  Electra's  fame  in  death  survive !  " 

She  prayed,  and  died.    Theni  shook  the  Thunderer's 

throne, 

And,  bending  in  assent,  the  immortal  head 
Showered  down  ambrosia  from  celestial  locks, 
To  sanctify  her  tomb  —  Ericthon  there 
Reposes  —  there  the  dust  of  Ilus  lies. 
There  Trojan  matrons,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Sought  vainly  to  avert  impending  fate 
From  their  doomed  lords.    There,  too,  Cassandra  stood, 
Inspired  with  deity,  and  told  the  ruin 
That  hung  o'er  Troy  —  and  poured  her  wailing  song 
To  solemn  shades  —  and  led  the  children  forth, 
And  taught  to  youthful  lips  the  fond  lament ; 
Sighing,  she  said  — 

"  If  e'er  the  Gods  permit 

Your  safe  return  from  Greece,  where,  exiled  slaves, 
Your  hands  shall  feed  your  haughty  conqueror's  steeds, 
Your  country  ye  will  seek  in  vain !    Yon  walls, 
By  mighty  Phoebus  reared,  shall  cumber  earth, 


CHARLES  AUSTIN  FOSDICK  113 

In  smouldering"  ruins.    Yet  the  Gods  of  Troy 
Shall  hold  their  dwelling  in  these  tombs ;  — 

Heaven  grants 

One  proud,  last  gift  —  in  grief  a  deathless  name. 
Ye  cypresses  and  palms,  by  princely  hands 
Of  Priam's  daughters  planted!  ye  shall  grow, 
Watered,  alas !  by  widows*  tears.    Guard  ye 
My  slumbering  fathers !    He  who  shall  withhold 
The  impious  axe  from  your  devoted  trunks 
Shall  feel  less  bitterly  his  stroke  of  grief, 
And  touch  the  shrine  with  not  unworthy  hand. 
Guard  ye  my  fathers !     One  day  shall  ye  mark 
A  sightless  wanderer  'mid  your  ancient  shades : 
Groping  among  your  mounds,  he  shall  embrace 
The  hallowed  urns,  and  question  of  their  trust. 
Then  shall  the  deep  and  caverned  cells  reply 
In  hollow  murmur,  and  give  up  the  tale 
Of  Troy  twice  razed  to  earth  and  twice  rebuilt, 
Shining  in  grandeur  on  the  desert  plain, 
To  make  more  lofty  the  last  monument 
Raised  for  the  sons  of  Peleus.    There  the  bard, 
Soothing  their  restless  ghosts  with  magic  song, 
A  glorious  immortality  shall  give 
Those  Grecian  princes,  in  all  lands  renowned, 
Which  ancient  Ocean  wraps  in  his  embrace. 
And  thou,  too,  Hector,  shalt  the  meed  receive 
Of  pitying  tears,  where'er  the  patriot's  blood 
Is  prized  or  mourned,  so  long  as  yonder  sun 
Shall  roll  in  Heaven,  and  shine  on  human  woe." 

—Translation  in  American  'Quarterly  Review. 


)SDICK,   CHARLES   AUSTIN    ("HARRY   CAS- 
TLEMON"),  an  American  novelist  and  writer 
of  juvenile  books;  born  at  Randolph,  N.  Y., 
September  6,  1842.     From  1862  to  1865  he  served  in 
the  Federal  navy,  and  after  the  Civil  War  adopted 
VOL.  X.--8 


1 14  CHARLES  A  USTIN  FOSDICK 

literature  as  a  profession.  Besides  contributions  to 
periodicals  he  published  over  50  books  for  boys  In- 
cluding The  Gunboat  Series  (1864-8)  ;  Rocky  Moun- 
tain Series  (1868-71);  Rod  and  Gun  Series 
(1883-4);  The  Buried  Treasure;  The  Steel  Horse; 
Jack  the  Trader;  The  Houseboat  Boys;  Joe  Wayring 
at  Home;  The  Sportsman's  Club;  Afloat  and  Ashore; 
and  The  Roughing  It  Series. 

OLD  DURABILITY. 

I  am  called  "  Old  Durability " ;  but  for  fear  my  name 
may  prove  misleading,  and  cause  those  of  my  readers 
who  are  not  acquainted  with  me  to  fall  into  the  error 
of  supposing  that  I  am  a  very  aged  article,  I  desire  to 
say,  at  the  outset,  that  I  am  only  four  years  old,  and 
that  I  have  been  in  active  service  just  sixteen  months. 
During  that  time  I  have  seen  a  world  of  excitement  and 
adventure,  and  have  performed  some  exploits  of  which 
any  fly-rod  might  be  justly  proud.  I  have  hooked,  at 
one  cast,  and  successfully  landed,  two  black  bass,  weigh- 
ing together  eight  and  a  quarter  pounds;  I  have  so  often 
been  dumped  in  the  cold  waters  of  mountain  lakes  and 
streams  that  it  is  a  wonder  my  ferrules  were  not  rusted 
out  long  ago;  I  have  been  dragged  about  among  snags 
and  lily-pads,  by  enraged  trout,  pickerel  and  bass;  I  have 
been  stolen  from  my  lawful  owner,  been  kept  a  prisoner 
by  boys  and  tramps  who  either  could  not  or  would  not 
take  care  of  me,  and  one  of  my  joints  has  been  broken. 
Of  course,  I  was  skillfully  patched  up,  but,  like  the  man 
whose  arm  has  been  fractured,  I  am  not  quite  as  good  as 
I  used  to  be,  and  am  reluctant  to  exert  all  my  strength 
for  fear  that  I  shall  break  again  in  the  same  place.  I 
can't  throw  a  fly  as  far  as  I  could  when  I  took  my 
finest  string  of  trout  in  front  of  the  "  sportsmen's  home  " 
at  Indian  Lake,  and  when  I  am  called  upon  to  make  the 
attempt,  my  ferrules  groan  and  creak  as  if  they  were 
about  to  give  away  and  let  me  fall  to  pieces.  For  this 
my  master  laid  me  up  in  ordinary  (that  is  what  sailors 
say  of  a  war  vessel  when  she  goes  out  of  commission, 


CHARLES  AUSTIN  FOSDICK  115 

and  is  laid  up  in  port  to  remain  idle  there  until  her 
services  are  needed  again),  saying,  as  he  did  so,  that 
my  days  of  usefulness  were  over,  but  that  he  would  keep 
me  for  the  good  I  had  done. 

After  having  led  an  active  life  among  the  hills,  lakes 
and  forest  streams  almost  ever  since  I  could  remember, 
you  may  be  sure  that  I  did  not  relish  treatment  of  this 
sort.  After  doing  my  level  best  for  my  master,  and  land- 
ing more  than  one  fish  for  him  that  he  ought  to  have 
lost  because  he  handled  me  so  awkwardly  —  after  going 
with  him  through  some  of  the  most  exciting  scenes  of 
his  life,  and  submitting  to  treatment  that  would  have 
used  up  almost  any  other  rod,  must  I  be  laid  upon  the 
shelf  in  a  dark  closet  and  left  to  my  gloomy  reflections, 
while  a  new  favorite  accompanied  my  master  to  the 
woods,  caught  the  trout  for  his  dinner,  slept  under  his 
blanket,  and  listened  to  the  thrilling  and  amusing  stories 
that  were  told  around  the  camp-fire?  I  resolved  to  pre- 
vent it,  if  I  could;  so  when  my  master  took  me  out  of 
my  case  one  day  to  assist  him  in  catching  a  muskalonge 
he  had  seen  in  the  lake  back  of  his  father's  house,  I 
nerved  myself  to  do  valiant  battle,  hoping  to  show  him 
that  there  was  plenty  of  good  hard  work  left  in  me,  if  he 
only  knew  how  to  bring  it  out. 

The  muskalonge,  which  was  lurking  in  the  edge  of 
the  lily-pads  ready  to  pounce  upon  the  first  unwary  fish 
that  approached  his  lair,  took  the  frog  that  was  on  the 
hook  at  the  very  first  cast,  and  then  began  the  hardest 
struggle  of  my  life.  My  rheumatic  joints  complained 
loudly  as  the  heavy  fish  darted  up  and  down  the  lake,  and 
then  dove  to  the  bottom  in  his  mad  efforts  to  escape,  but 
I  held  on  the  best  I  knew  how  until  he  leaped  full 
length  out  of  the  water,  and  tried  to  shake  the  hook 
from  his  mouth;  then  I  was  ready  to  give  up  the  con- 
test. He  was  the  largest  fish  I  ever  saw. 

"Scotland's  a  burning!"  exclaimed  Joe.  "Isn't  he  a 
beauty?  If  this  old  rod  was  as  good  as  he  used  to  be, 
wouldn't  I  have  a  prize  in  a  few  minutes  from  now?" 

I  ought  to  have  told  you  before  that  my  master's 
name  is  Joe  Wayring;  and  a  right  good  boy  he  is,  too, 
as  you  will  find  before  my  story  is  ended.  Nearly  all 


i :6  CHARLES  A  USTIN  FOSDICK 

the  young  fellows  of  my  acquaintance,  and  I  know  some 
of  the  best  there  are  in  the  country,  have  some  favorite 
word  or  expression  which  always  rises  to  their  lips  when- 
ever they  are  surprised,  excited  or  angry,  and  the  words 
I  have  just  quoted  are  the  ones  Joe  always  used  under 
such  circumstances.  No  matter  how  exasperated  he  was 
you  never  could  get  anything  stronger  out  of  him. 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  particulars  of  that  fight 
(my  joints  ache  yet  whenever  I  think  of  it),  for  I  set 
out  to  talk  about  other  matters.  It  will  be  enough  to 
say  that  I  held  fast  to  the  fish  until  he  became  exhausted 
and  was  drawn  through  the  lily-pads  to  the  bank;  then 
the  gaff-hook  came  to  my  assistance,  and  he  was  safely 
landed.  He  was  a  monster.  I  afterward  learned  that 
he  weighed  a  trifle  over  nineteen  pounds.  Wasn't  that 
something  of  an  exploit  for  an  eight  ounce  rod  who  had 
been  threatened  with  the  retired  list  on  account  of  sup- 
posed disability?  I  was  so  nearly  doubled  up  by  the 
long-continued  strain  that  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon 
me,  that  when  my  master  threw  me  down  on  the  ground 
while  he  gave  his  prize  his  quietus  with  the  heavy  handle 
of  the  gaff-hook,  I  could  not  immediately  straighten  out 
again,  as  every  well-conditioned  rod  is  expected  to  do 
under  similar  circumstances. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  have  you  got  there  ?  "  cried 
Joe's  mother,  as  the  boy  entered  the  kitchen,  carrying 
me  in  one  hand  and  dragging  the  fish  after  him  with  the 
other.  She  seemed  to  be  a  little  afraid  of  the  young 
fisherman's  prize,  and  that  was  hardly  to  be  wondered 
at,  for  his  mouth  was  open,  and  it  was  full  of  long, 
sharp  teeth. 

"It's  the  biggest  muskalonge  that  was  ever  caught  in 
this  lake,"  replied  Joe,  as  he  laid  me  down  upon  a  chair 
and  took  both  hands  to  deposit  his  fish  upon  the  table. 
"Didn't  he  fight,  though?  I  say,  Uncle  Joe,"  he  added, 
addressing  himself  to  a  dignified  gentleman  in  spectacles, 
who  just  then  came  into  the  room  with  the  morning's 
paper  in  his  hand,  "I  shall  not  need  that  new  split 
bamboo  you  promised  me  for  my  birthday,  though  I 
thank  you  for  your  kind  offer,  all  the  same.  This  old 


SAMUEL  WALTER  FOSS  117 

rod  is  good  for  at  least  one  more  summer  on  Indian 
Lake.  There  is  plenty  of  back-bone  left  in  him  yet." 

Uncle  Joe  was  a  rich  old  bachelor  and  very  fond  of 
his  namesake,  Joe  Wayring,  on  whom  he  lavished  all 
the  affection  he  would  have  given  to  his  own  children, 
if  he  had  had  any.  He  was  an  enthusiastic  angler,  a 
skillful  and  untiring  bear  and  deer  hunter,  and  he  gen- 
erally timed  his  trips  to  the  woods  and  mountains  so 
that  Joe  and  some  of  his  particular  friends  could  go  with 
him. 

"He  is  the  most  durable  rod  I  ever  saw,"  added  my 
master. 

"Well,  then,  call  him  'Old  Durability/"  suggested 
Uncle  Joe. 

The  boy  said  he  thought  that  name  would  just  suit 
me,  and  from  that  day  to  this  I  have  been  known  by 
every  one  who  is  acquainted  with  me  as  "  Old  Dura- 
bility."—  Jo&  Wayring  at  Home. 


)SS,  SAMUEL  WALTER,  an  American  poet  and 
librarian;  born  at  Candia,  N.  H.,  June  19, 
1858.  He  was  graduated  from  Brown  Uni- 
versity in  1882,  and  for  some  years  engaged  in  jour- 
nalism. In  1898  he  was  appointed  librarian  of  the 
Public  Library  at  Somerville,  Mass.  His  published 
works  include:  Back  Country  Poems  (1894)  ;  Whiffs 
from  Wild  Meadows  (1895)  ;  Dreams  in  Homespun 
(1897)  ;  and  Songs  of  War  and  Peace  (1898).  He 
contributed  a  large  number  of  humorous  verses  to  the 
Yankee  Blade,  a  Boston  newspaper;  and  these  were 
widely  quoted  throughout  the  United  States.  He  soon 
became  known  as  one  of  the  most  popular  of  news- 
paper poets.  Mr.  Foss  died  at  Cambridge,  Mass., 
February  26,  1911. 


n8  SAMUEL  WALTER  FOSS 


THE  OX  TEAM. 

I  sit  upon  my  ox  team,  calm, 

Beneath  the  lazy  sky, 
And  crawl  contented  through  the  land 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 
The  thoughtful  ox  has  learned  to  wait 

And  nervous  impulse  smother 
And  ponder  long  before  he  puts 

One  foot  before  the  other. 

And  men  with  spanking  teams  pass  by 

And  dash  upon  their  way 
As  if  it  were  their  hope  to  find 

The  world's  end  in  a  day. 
And  men  dash  by  in  palace  cars; 

On  me  dark  frowns  they  cast 
As  the  lightning  driven  Present  frowns 

Upon  the  slow  old  Past. 

Why  do  they  chase,  these  men  of  steam, 

Their  smoke  flags  wide  unfurled, 
Pulled  by  the  roaring  fire  fiend 

That  shakes  the  reeling  world? 
What  do  ye  seek,  ye  men  of  steam, 

So  wild  and  mad  you  press? 
Is  this  —  is  this  the  railroad  line 

That  leads  to  happiness  ? 

And  when  you've  swept  across  the  day 

And  dashed  across  the  night 
Is  there  some  station  through  the  hills 

Where  men  can  find  delight  ? 
Ah,  toward  the  depot  of  Content, 

Where  no  red  signals  stream, 
I  go  by  ox  team  just  as  quick 

As  you  can  go  by  steam ! 


SAMUEL  WALTER  FOSS  119 


CANADA  AND  UNCLE  SAM. 

Fair  Canada,  a  maiden  sweet, 
As  those  with  roses  at  their  feet, 
Stands  half-reluctant  —  cold,  but  fair  — 
The  gleaming  snow-flakes  in  her  hair, 
Behind  her  stream  in  frosty  nights 
Her  ribbons  of  the  Northern  Lights, 
Her  cape  the  winds  flow  free  and  far 
Is  fastened  with  the  Polar  Star; 
The  Pleiades  are  diamonds  fair 
With  which  she  pins  her  streaming  hair, 
And  thus  with  frost-kissed  cheek  of  rose 
Stands  the  fair  Maiden  of  the  Snows. 

And  Uncle  Sam  has  turned  his  eyes 
Toward  those  blushing  northern  skies, 
And  the  coy,  shivering  beauty  there 
Seems  very  sweet  and  very  fair. 
But  he  is  patient  and  will  abide 
Until  she  comes  a  willing  bride. 
And  the  old  mother  o'er  the  sea 
Shall  give  her  daughter  willingly. 
She  need  not  through  the  coming  years 
Stand  sobbing,  weeping  frozen  tears, 
But  though  she  pouts  and  turns  away 
He'll  wait  for  her  to  name  the  day. 

—  Yankee  Blade. 

LIFE. 

And  all  lives  are  a  poem ;  some  wild  and  cyclonic, 

With  verses  of  cynical  bluster  Byronic; 

And  some  still  flow  on  in  perpetual  benison, 

As  perfect  and  smooth  as  a  stanza  of  Tennyson ; 

And  some  find  huge  bowlders  their  currents  to  hinder, 

And  are  broken  and  bent  like  the  poems  of  Pindar ; 

And  some  a  deep  base  of  proud  music  are  built  on, 

The  calm  ocean  swell  of  the  epic  of  Milton ; 

And  some  rollic  on  with  a  freedom  completer 


i2o  JOHN  FOSTER 

In  Whitman's  chaotic,  tumultuous  meter. 
But  most  lives  are  mixed,  like  Shakespearean  dramas, 
Where  the  king  speaks  heroics,  the  idiot  stammers, 
Where  the  old  man  gives  counsel,  the  young  man  loves 

hotly, 
Where  the  king  wears  his  crown  and  the  fool  wears  his 

motley, 
Where   the   lord   treads   his   hall   and   the   peasant   his 

heather  — 

And  in  the  fifth  act  they  all  exit  together  — 
And  the  drama  goes  out  with  its  pomp  and  its  thunder, 
And  we  weep,  and  we  laugh,  and  we  listen  and  wonder ! 


pOSTER,  JOHN,  an  English  essayist;  born  near 
Halifax,  Yorkshire,  September  17,  1770;  died 
at  Stapleton,  October  15,  1843.  I*1  earty  li*e 
he  was  a  weaver,  but,  having  united  with  the  Baptist 
Church  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  studied  for  the 
ministry  at  the  Baptist  college  at  Bristol,  and  com- 
menced his  labors  as  a  preacher  in  1797.  He  preached 
lastly  at  Frome,  where  he  went  in  1804.  Here  he 
wrote  his  four  notable  essays,  On  a  Man's  Writing 
Memoirs  of  Himself;  On  Decision  of  Character;  On 
the  Application  of  the  Epithet  Romantic;  and  On  Some 
of  the  Causes  by  Which  Evangelical  Religion  Has 
Been  Rendered  Less  Acceptable  to  Persons  of  Culti- 
vated Taste.  He  became  one  of  the  principal  contribu- 
tors to  the  Eclectic  Review,  for  which  he  wrote  nearly 
two  hundred  articles  during  the  ensuing  thirteen  years. 
In  1820  he  wrote  the  last  of  'his  great  essays,  On  the 
Evils  of  Popular  Ignorance.  For  the  last  twenty- 
three  years  of  his  life,  his  labor  was  mainly  that  of  pre- 
paring books  for  the  press.  Besides  the  writings  al- 


JOHN  FOSTER  121 

ready  mentioned,  Foster  put  forth  two  volumes  of  his 
Contributions  to  the  Eclectic  Review.  After  his  death 
appeared  two  series  of  Lectures  Delivered  at  Bristol 
(1844  and  1847),  and  an  Introductory  Essay  to  Dod- 
dridge's  Rise  cmd  Progress  (1847). 

CHANGES   IN   LIFE  AND   OPINIONS. 

Though  in  memoirs  intended  for  publication  a  large 
share  of  incident  and  action  would  generally  be  neces- 
sary, yet  there  are  some  men  whose  mental  history  alone 
might  be  very  interesting  to  reflective  readers;  as,  for 
instance,  that  of  a  thinjdng  man  remarkable  for  a  num- 
ber of  complete  changes  of  his  speculative  system.  From 
observing  the  usual  tenacity  of  views  once  deliberately 
adopted  in  mature  life,  we  regard  as  a  curious  phenom- 
enon the  man  whose  mind  has  been  a  kind  of  caravansary 
of  opinions,  entertained  a  while,  and  then  sent  on  pil- 
grimage; a  man  who  has  admired  and  then  dismissed 
systems  with  the  same  facility  with  which  John  Buncle 
found,  adored,  married,  and  interred  his  succession  of 
wives,  each  one  being,  for  the  time,  not  only  better  than 
all  that  went  before,  but  the  best  in  the  creation.  You 
admire  the  versatile  aptitude  of  a  mind  sliding  into  suc- 
cessive forms  of  belief  in  this  intellectual  metempsychosis, 
by  which  it  animates  so  many  new  bodies  of  doctrines  in 
their  turn.  And  as  none  of  those  dying  pangs  which  hurt 
you  in  a  tale  of  India  attend  the  desertion  of  each  of  these 
speculative  forms  which  the  soul  has  a  while  inhabited, 
you  are  extremely  amused  by  the  number  of  transitions, 
and  eagerly  ask  what  is  to  be  the  next,  for  you  never 
deem  the  present  state  of  such  a  man's  views  to  be  for 
permanence,  unless  perhaps  when  he  has  terminated  his 
course  of  believing  everything  in  ultimately  believing 
nothing."  Even  then  —  unless  he  is  very  old,  or  feels 
more  pride  in  being  a  skeptic,  the  conqueror  of  all  sys- 
tems, than  he  ever  felt  in  being  the  champion  of  one  — 
even  then  it  is  very  possible  he  may  spring  up  again, 
like  a  vapor  of  fire  from  a  bog,  and  glimmer  through 
new  mazes,  or  retrace  his  course  through  half  of  those 


122  JOHN  FOSTER 

which  he  trod  before.  You  will  observe  that  no  respect 
attaches  to  this  Proteus  of  opinion  after^  his  changes 
have  been  multiplied,  as  no  party  expect  him  to  remain 
with  them,  or  deem  him  much  of  an  acquisition  if  he 
should.  One,  or  perhaps  two,  considerable  changes  will 
be  regarded  as  signs  of  a  liberal  inquirer,  and  therefore 
the  party  to  which  his  first  or  second  intellectual  con- 
version may  assign  him  will  receive  him  gladly.  But  he 
will  be  deemed  to  have  abdicated  the  dignity  of  reason 
when  it  is  found  that  he  can  adopt  no  principles  but  to 
betray  them;  and  it  will  be  perhaps  justly  suspected 
that  there  is  something  extremely  infirm  in  the  structure 
of  that  mind,  whatever  vigor  may  mark  some  of  its 
operations,  to  which  a  series  of  very  different,  and  some- 
times contrasted  theories,  can  appear  in  succession  demon- 
stratively true  and  which  intimates  sincerely  the  perverse- 
ness  which  Petruchio  only  affected,  declaring  that  which 
was  yesterday  to  a  certainty  the  sun  to  be  to-day  as 
certainly  the  moon. 

It  would  be  curious  to  observe  in  a  man  who  should 
make  such  an  exhibition  of  the  course  of  his  mind  the 
sly  deceit  of  self-love.  While  he  despises  the  system 
which  he  has  rejected,  he  does  not  deem  it  to  imply  so 
great  a  want  of  sense  in  him  once  to  have  embraced  it 
as  in  the  rest  who  were  then  or  are  now  its  disciples  and 
advocates.  No;  in  him  it  was  no  debility  of  reason;  it 
was  at  the  utmost  but  a  merge  of  it;  and  probably  he  is 
prepared  to  explain  to  you  that  such  peculiar  circum- 
stances as  might  warp  even  a  very  strong  and  liberal 
mind  attended  his  consideration  of  the  subject,  and  mis- 
led him  to  admit  the  belief  of  what  others  prove  them- 
selves fools  by  believing. 

Another  thing  apparent  in  a  record  of  changed  opin- 
ions would  be,  what  I  have  noticed  before,  that  there  is 
scarcely  any  such  thing  in  the  world  as  simple  conviction. 
It  would  be  amusing  to  observe  how  reason  had,  in  one 
instance,  been  overruled  into  acquiescence  by  the  ad- 
miration of  a  celebrated  name,  or  in  another  into  oppo- 
sition by  the  envy  of  it;  how  most  opportunely  reason 
discovered  the  truth  just  at  the  time  that  interest'  could 
be  essentially  served  by  avowing  it;  how  easily  the  im- 


JOHN  FOSTER  123 

partial  examiner  could  be  induced  to  adopt  some  part 
of  another  man's  opinions  after  that  other  had  zealously 
approved  some  favorite,  especially  if  unpopular,  part  of 
his,  as  the  Pharisees  almost  became  partial  even  to  Christ 
at  the  moment  that  he  defended  one  of  their  doctrines 
against  the  Sadducees.  It  would  be  curious  to  see  how 
a  professed  respect  for  a  man's  character  and  talents, 
and  concern  for  his  interests,  might  be  changed,  in 
consequence  of  some  personal  inattention  experienced 
from  him,  into  illiberal  invective  against  him  or  his  in- 
tellectual performances;  and  yet  the  railer,  though  actu- 
ated solely  by  petty  revenge,  account  himself  the  model 
of  equity  and  candor  all  the  while.  It  might  be  seen 
how  the  patronage  of  power  could  elevate  miserable 
prejudices  into  revered  wisdom,  while  poor  old  Ex- 
perience was  mocked  with  thanks  for  her  instruction; 
and  how  the  vicinity  or  society  of  the  rich  and,  as  they 
are  termed,  great,  could  perhaps  melt  a  soul  that  seemed 
to  be  of  the  stern  consistence  of  early  Rome  into  the 
gentlest  wax  on  which  Corruption  could  wish  to  imprint 
the  venerable  creed  — "  The  right  divine  of  Kings  to 
govern  wrong,"  with  the  pious  inference  that  justice  was 
outraged  when  virtuous  Tarquin  was  expelled.  I  am 
supposing  the  observer  to  perceive  all  these  accommo- 
dating dexterities  of  reason;  for  it  were  probably  absurd 
to  expect  that  any  mind  should  in  itself  be  able  in  its 
review  to  detect  all  its  own  obliquities,  after  having  beei? 
so  long  beguiled,  like  the  mariners  in  a  story  which  I 
remember  to  have  read,  who  followed  the  direction  of 
their  compass,  infallibly  right  as  they  thought,  till  they 
arrived  at  an  enemy's  port,  where  they  were  seized  and 
doomed  to  slavery.  It  happened  that  the  wicked  captain, 
in  order  to  betray  the  ship,  had  concealed  a  large  load- 
stone at  a  little  distance  on  one  side  of  the  needle. 

On  the  notions  and  expectations  of  one  stage  of  life 
I  suppose  all  reflecting  men  look  back  with  a  kind  of 
contempt,  though  it  may  be  often  with  the  mingling  wish 
that  some  of  its  enthusiasm  of  feeling  could  be  recov- 
ered—  I  mean  the  period  between  proper  childhood 
and  maturity.  They  will  allow  that  their  reason  was 
then  feeble,  and  they  are-  prompted  to  exclaim :  "  What 


124  STEPHEN  COLLINS  FOSTER 

fools  we  have  been ! "  while  they  recollect  how  sincerely 
they  entertained  and  advanced  the  most  ridiculous  spec- 
ulations on  the  interests  of  life  and  the  questions  of 
truth;  how  regretfully  astonished  they  were  to  find  the 
mature  sense  of  some  of  those  around  them  so  com- 
pletely wrong;  yet  in  numerous  other  instances  what 
veneration  they  felt  for  authorities  for  which  they  have 
since  lost  all  their  respect;  what  a  fantastic  importance 
they  attached  to  some  most  trivial  things;  what  com- 
plaints against  their  fate  were  uttered  on  account  of 
disappointments  which  they  have  since  recollected  with 
gaiety  or  self-congratulation;  what  happiness  of  Elysium 
they  expected  from  sources  which  would  soon  have  failed 
to  impart  even  common  satisfaction;  and  how  certain 
they  were  that  the  feelings  and  opinions  then  predom- 
inant would  continue  through  life. 

If  a  reflective  aged  man  were  to  find  at  the  bottom  of 
an  old  chest  —  where  it  had  lain  forgotten  fifty  years  —  a 
record  which  he  had  written  of  himself  when  he  was 
young,  simply  and  vividly  describing  his  whole  heart 
and  pursuits,  and  reciting  verbatim  many  passages  of 
the  language  which  he  sincerely  uttered,  would  he  not 
read  it  with  more  wonder  than  almost  every  other  writ- 
ing could  at  his  age  inspire?  He  would  half  lose  the 
assurance  of  his  identity  under  the  impression  of  this 
immense  dissimilarity.  It  would  seem  as  if  it  must  be 
the  tale  of  the  juvenile  days  of  some  ancestor,  with  whom 
he  had  no  connection  but  that  of  name. —  On  a  Man's 
Writing  Memoirs  of  Himself. 


)STER,  STEPHEN  COLLINS,  an  American  com- 
poser and  song-writer;  born  at  Allegheny, 
Penn.,  July  4,  1826;  died  at  New  York,  Janu- 
ary 13,  1864.  His  father  was  a  merchant  and  served 
as  Mayor  of  Allegheny  City,  and  as  a  member  of  the 


STEPHEN  COLLINS  FOSTER  125 

Pennsylvania  State  Legislature.  His  mother  was  a 
relative  of  President  Buchanan.  He  received  a  fair 
education  and  at  seventeen  went  to  work  in  his  broth- 
er's business  house  at  Cincinnati.  At  thirteen  he  wrote 
Sadly  to  My  Heart  Appealing,  and  three  years  later, 
Open  Thy  Lattice,  Love,  which  were  much  admired 
at  the  time.  His  next  songs  were  Old  Uncle  Ned  and 
0  Susannah,  for  the  latter  of  which  he  received  $100. 
He  then  decided  to  adopt  song-writing  as  a  vocation, 
and  produced  a  large  number  of  simple  melodies,  the 
original  words  and  harmonious  music  of  which  form 
a  distinct  type  of  ballad;  and,  while  they  do  not  en- 
title their  author  to  high  literary  rank,  they  mark  an 
epoch  in  popular  music  of  a  class  that  certainly  pos- 
sesses beauty  and  wholesome  sentiment.  About  one- 
third  of  his  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  songs  are 
written  in  negro  dialect,  and  his  chief  successes  were 
songs  written  for  negro  minstrel  shows.  Foster's 
songs  had  a  wide  sale,  Old  Folks  at  Home  alone  bring- 
ing its  author  some  $15,000.  His  later  songs  were 
characterized  by  a  higher  order  of  musical  composition, 
and  after  his  mother's  death  were  tinged  with  melan- 
choly. His 'most  popular  pieces  were  entitled  My  Old 
Kentucky  Home;  Nellie  Was  a  Lady;  Old  Folks  at 
Home;  Massa's  in  the  Cold,  Cold  Ground;  Willie, 
We  Have  Missed  You;  Jennie  With  the  Light  Brown 
Hair;  Gentle  Annie;  Old  Dog  Tray;  Come  Where  My 
Love  Lies  Dreaming,  the  latter  one  of  the  most  pleas- 
ing quartets  ever  written. 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

'Way  down  upon  de  Swannee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away  — 
Bar's  whar  my  heart  is  turning  ebber  — 

Dar's  whar  de  old  folks  stay. 


I26  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL 

All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation, 

Sadly  I   roam; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered, 

When  I  was  young; 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brother, 

Happy  was  I; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder ! 

Dare  let  me  live  and  die! 

One  little  hut  among  the  bushes — , 

One  dat  I  love  — 
Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes,    - 

No   matter  where  I   rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming, 

All  round  de  comb? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home? 


)THERGILL,  JESSIE,  an  English  novelist; 
born  at  Manchester,  June  7,  1856;  died  at 
London,  July  30,  1891.  She  was  privately 
educated  and  began  writing  short  stories  in  her  six- 
teenth year.  In  1875  she  published  Healey;  a  ro- 
mance, which  was  followed  by  Aldyth  in  1876.  Her 
first  pronounced  success  in  the  field  of  fiction  was  The 
First  Violin  (1878)  ;  in  which  German  life  is  most 
faithfully  portrayed.  Her  later  novels  were:  Pro- 
bation (1879)  ;  Kith  and  Kin  (1881)  ;  Made  or  Mar- 
ried (1882);  Borderland  (1886);  One  of  Three 


JESSIE  POTHERGILL  127 

(1887);  The  Peril  (1887);  Lasses  of  Laverhouse 
(1888)  ;  A  March  in  the  Ranks  (1890)  ;  and  Oriole's 
Daughter  (1891). 

KAFFEEKLATSCH. 

" Phillis.    I  want  none  o'  thy  friendship! 
Lesbia.    Then  take  my  enmity !  " 

"  When  a  number  of  ladies  meet  together  to  discuss 
matters  of  importance,  we  call  it  '  Kaffeeklatsch/  "  Cour- 
voisier  had  said  to  me  on  that  never-forgotten  afternoon 
of  my  adventure  at  Koln. 

It  was  my  first  kaffeeklatsch  which,  in  a  measure,  de- 
cided my  destiny.  Hitherto,  that  is,  up  to  the  end  of 
June,  I  had  not  been  at  any  entertainment  of  this  kind. 
At  last  there  came  an  invitation  to  Frau  Steinmann  and 
to  Anna  Sartorius,  to  assist  at  a  "  coffee "  of  unusual 
magnitude,  and  Frau  Steinmann  suggested  that  I  should 
go  with  them  and  see  what  it  was  like.  Nothing  loath,  I 
consented. 

"  Bring  some  work,"  said  Anna  Sartorius  to  me,  "  or 
you  will  find  it  langweilig  —  slow,  I  mean." 

( '  Shall  we  not  have  some  music  ?  " 

"  Music,  yes,  the  sweetest  of  all  —  that  of  our  own 
tongues.  You  shall  hear  every  one's  candid  opinion  of 
every  one  else  —  present  company  always  excepted,  and 
you  will  see  what  the  state  of  Elberthal  society  really  is  — 
present  company  still  excepted.  By  a  very  strange  chance 
the  ladies  who  meet  at  a  klatsch  are  always  good,  pious, 
virtuous,  and,  above  all,  charitable.  It  is  wonderful  how 
well  we  manage  to  keep  the  black  sheep  out,  and  have 
nothing  but  lambs  immaculate." 

"Oh,  don't!" 

"  Oh,  bah !  I  know  the  Elberthal  Klatscherei.  It  has 
picked  me  to  pieces  many  a  time.  After  you  have  par- 
taken  to-day  of  its  coffee  and  its  cakes,  it  will  pick  you 
to  pieces." 

"  But,"  said  I,  arranging  the  rufHes  of  my  very  best 
frock,  which  I  had  been  told  it  was  de  rigueur  to  wear, 


128  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL 

"  I  thought  women  never  gossiped  so  much  among  men." 
Fraulein  Sartorius  laughed  loud  and  long. 
"  The  men !    Du  meine  Gute!    Men  at  a  kaffeeklatsch  ! 
Show  me  the  one  that  a  man  dare  even  look  into,  and 
I'll  crown  you  —  and  him  too  —  with  laurel,  and  bay,  and 
the  wild  parsley.    A  man  at  a  kaffee  —  mag  Gott  es  be- 
wahren ! " 

"  Oh !  "  said  I,  half  disappointed,  and  with  a  very  poor, 
mean  sense  of  dissatisfaction  at  having  put  on  my  pretty 
new  dress  for  the  first  time  only  for  the  edification  of  a 
number  of  virulent  gossips. 

"  Men !  "  she  reiterated  with  a  harsh  laugh  as  we  walked 
toward  the  Goldsternstrasse,  our  destination.  "  Men  — 
no.  We  despise  their  company,  you  see.  We  only  talk 
about  them  directly  or  indirectly  from  the  moment  of 
meeting  to  that  of  parting." 

"  I'm  sorry  there  are  no  gentlemen,"  said  I,  and  I  was. 
I  felt  I  looked  well. 

Arrived  at  the  scene  of  the  kaffee,  we  were  conducted 
to  a  bedroom  where  we  laid  aside  our  hats  and  mantles. 
I  was  standing  before  the  glass,  drawing  a  comb  through 
my  upturned  hair,  and  contemplating  with  irrepressible 
satisfaction  the  delicate  lavender  hue  of  my  dress,  when  I 
suddenly  saw  reflected  behind  me  the  dark,  harshly  cut 
face  of  Anna  Sartorius.  She  started  slightly;  then  said, 
with  a  laugh  which  had  in  it  something  a  little  forced : 

"  We  are  a  contrast,  aren't  we?  Beauty  and  the  Beast, 
one  might  almost  say.  Na!  's  schad't  nix'' 

I  turned  away  in  a  little  offended  pride.  Her  familiarity 
annoyed  me.  What  if  she  were  a  thousand  times  cleverer, 
wittier,  better  read  than  I  ?  I  did  not  like  her.  A  shade 
crossed  her  face. 

"  Is  it  that  you  are  thoroughly  unamiable  ?  "  said  she,  in 
a  voice  which  had  reproach  in  it,  "  or  are  all  English  girls 
so  touchy  that  they  receive  a  compliment  upon  their  good 
looks  as  if  it  were  an  offense?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  of  my  '  good  looks '  as  if  I 

were  a  dog  or  a  horse ! "  said  I,  angrily.    "  I  hate  to  be 

flattered.    I  am  no  beauty,  and  do  not  wish  to  be  treated 

as  if  I  were." 

"Do  you  always  hate  it?"  said  she  from  the  window, 


JESSIE  FOTHERGILL  129 

whither  she  had  turned.     "  Achl  there  goes  Herr  Cour- 
voisier ! " 

The  name  startled  me  like  a  sudden  report  I  made  an 
eager  step  forward  before  I  had  time  to  recollect  myself  — 
then  stopped. 

"  He  is  not  out  of  sight  yet,"  said  she,  with  a  curious 
look,  "  if  you  wish  to  see  him." 

I  sat  down  and  made  no  answer.  What  prompted  her 
to  talk  in  such  a  manner?  Was  it  a  mere  coincidence? 

"  He  is  a  handsome  fellow,  nicht  tuahr? "  she  said,  still 
watching  me,  while  I  thought  Frau  Steinmann  never 
would  manage  to  arrange  her  cap  in  the  style  that  pleased 
her.  "  But  a  Taugenichts  all  the  same/'  pursued  Anna  as 
I  did  not  speak.  "  Don't  you  think  so  ?  "  she  added. 

"  A  Taugenichts  —  I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"  What  you  call  a  good-for-nothing." 

"  Oh." 

"Nicht  wahr?"  she  persisted. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  do.    I  will  tell  you  all  about  him  some  time." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  about  him." 

"So!"  said  she,  with  a  laugh. 

Without  further  word  or  look  I  followed  Frau  Stein- 
mann down-stairs. 

The  lady  of  the  house  was  seated  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  concourse  of  old  and  young  ladies,  holding  her  own 
with  a  well-seasoned  hardihood  in  the  midst  of  the  awful 
Babel  of  tongues.  What  a  noise !  It  smote  upon  and 
stunned  my  confounded  ear.  Our  hostess  advanced  and 
led  me  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  into  the  center  of  the 
room,  when  she  introduced  me  to  about  a  dozen  ladies: 
and  every  one  in  the  room  stopped  talking  and  working, 
and  stared  at  me  intently  and  unwinkingly  until  my  name 
had  been  pronounced,  after  which  some  continued  still 
to  stare  at  me,  and  commenting  openly  upon  it.  Mean- 
while I  was  conducted  to  a  sofa  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
and  requested  in  a  set  phrase,  "  Bitte,  fraulein,  nehwien 
sie  platz  auf  dem  sofa"  with  which  long  custom  has  since 
made  me  familiar,  to  take  my  seat  upon  it.  I  humbly  tried 
to  decline  the  honor,  but  Anna  Sartorius,  behind  me, 
whispered : 

VOL.  X.— 9 


130  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL 

"  Sit  down,  directly,  unless  you  want  to  be  thought  an 
utter  barbarian.  The  place  has  been  kept  for  you/' 

Deeply  impressed,  and  very  uncomfortable,  I  sat  down. 
First  one  and  then  another  came  and  spoke  and  talked 
to  me.  Their  questions  and  remarks  were  much  in  this 
style : 

"  Do  you  like  Elberthal  ?  What  is  your  Christian  name  ? 
How  old  are  you  ?  Have  you  been  or  are  you  engaged  to 
be  married  ?  They  break  off  engagements  in  England  for 
a  mere  trifle,  don't1  they?  Schrecklich!  Did  you  get 
your  dress  in  Elberthal?  What  did  it  cost  the  ellef 
Young  English  ladies  wear  silk  much  more  than  young 
German  ladies.  You  never  go  to  the  theater  on  Sunday 
in  England  —  you  are  all  pietistisch.  How  beautifully 
you  speak  our  language !  Really  no  foreign  accent !  " 
(This  repeatedly  and  unblushingly,  in  spite  of  my  most 
flagrant  mistakes,  and  in  the  face  of  my  most  feeble, 
halting,  and  stammering  efforts  to  make  myself  under- 
stood.) "  Do  you  learn  music  ?  singing  ?  From  whom  ? 
Herr  von  Francius?  Ach,  so!"  (Pause,  while  they  all 
look  impressively  at  me.  The  very  name  of  Von  Fran- 
cius calls  up  emotion  of  no  common  order.)  "  I  believe 
I  have  seen  you  at  the  proben  to  the  '  Paradise  Lost.' 
Perhaps  you  are  the  lady  who  is  to  take  the  solos  ?  Yes ! 
Du  lieber  Himrnel!  What  do  you  think  of  Herr  von 
Francius  ?  Is  he  not  nice  ? "  (Nett,  though,  signifies 
something  feminine  and  finikin.)  "No?  How  odd! 
There  is  no  accounting  for  the  tastes  of  English  women. 
Do  you  know  many  people  in  Elberthal?  No?  Schade! 
No  officers  ?  not  Hauptmann  Sachse  ?  "  (with  voice  grow- 
ing gradually  shriller),  "nor  Lieutenant  Pieper?  Not 
know  Lieutenant  Pieper!  Um  Gotteswillen !  What  do 
you  mean?  He  is  so  handsome!  such  eyes!  such  a  mus- 
tache! Herrgott!  And  you  do  not  know  him?  I  will 
tell  you  something.  When  he  went  off  to  the  autumn 
maneuvers  at  Frankfort  (I  have  it  on  good  authority), 
twenty  young  ladies  went  to  see  him  off." 

"  Disgusting ! "  I  exclaimed,  unable  to  control  my  feel- 
ings any  longer.  I  saw  Anna  Sartorius  malignantly  smil- 
ing as  she  rocked  herself  in  an  American  rocking-chair. 

"Howl  disgusting?    You  are  joking.    He  had  dozens 


JESSIE  FOTHERGILL  131 

of  bouquets.  All  the  girls  are  in  love  with  him.  They 
compelled  the  photographer  to  sell  them  his  photograph, 
and  they  all  believe  he  is  in  love  with  them.  I  believe 
Luise  Breidenstein  will  die  if  he  doesn't  propose  to  her." 

"  They  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves." 

"  But  he  is  so  handsome,  so  delightful.  He  dances  di- 
vinely, and  knows  such  good  riddles,  and  acts  —  ach, 
himmlisch ! " 

"  But  how  absurd  to  make  such  a  fuss  of  him !  "  I  cried, 
hot  and  indignant.  "  The  idea  of  going  on  so  about  a 
man !  " 

A  chorus,  a  shriek,  a  Babel  of  expostulations. 

"  Listen,  Thekla !  Fraulein  Wedderburn  does  not  know 
Lieutenant  Pieper,  and  does  not  think  it  right  to  schwdrm 
for  him." 

"  The  darling !  No  one  can  help  it  who  knows  him !  " 
said  another. 

"  Let  her  wait  till  she  does  know  him,"  said  Thekla,  a 
sentimental  young  woman,  pretty  in  a  certain  sentimental 
way,  and  graceful  too  —  also  sentimentally  —  with  the 
sentiment  that  lingers  about  young  ladies'  albums  with 
leaves  of  smooth,  various-hued  note-paper,  and  about  the 
sonnets  which  nestle  within  the  same.  There  was  a  sud- 
den shriej<: 

"  There  he  goes  !  There  is  the  Herr  Lieutenant  riding 
by.  Just  come  here,  mein  fraulein!  See  him!  Judge 
for  yourself ! " 

A  strong  hand  dragged  me,  whether  I  would  or  not,  to 
the  window,  and  pointed  out  to  me  the  Herr  Lieutenant 
riding  by.  An  adorable  creature  in  a  Hussar  uniform; 
he  had  pink  cheeks  and  a  straight  nose,  and  the  loveliest 
little  model  of  a  mustache  ever  seen;  tightly  curling  black 
hair,  and  the  dearest  little  feet  and  hands  imaginable. 

"  Oh,  the  dear,  handsome,  delightful  fellow !  "  cried  one 
enthusiastic  young  creature,  who  had  scrambled  upon  a 
chair  in  the  background  and  was  gazing  after  him  while 
another,  behind  me,  murmured  in  tones  of  emotion: 

"Look  how  he  salutes  —  divine,  isn't  it?" 

I  turned  away,  smiling  an  irrepressible  smile.  My 
musician,  with  his  ample  traits  and  clear,  bold  eyes,  would 
have  looked  a  wild,  rough,  untamable  creature  by  the  side 


t32  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL 

of  that  wax-doll  beauty  — -  that  pretty  little  being  who  had 
just  ridden  by.  I  thought  I  saw  them  side  by  side  —  Herr 
Lieutenant  Pieper  and  Eugen  Courvoisier.  The  latter 
would  have  been  as  much  more  imposing  than  the  former 
as  an  oak  is  more  imposing  than  a  spruce  fir  —  as  Gliick 
than  Lortzing.  And  could  these  enthusiastic  young  ladies 
have  viewed  the  two  they  would  have  been  true  to  their 
lieutenant;  so  much  was  certain.  They  would  have  said 
that  the  other  was  a  wild  man,  who  did  not  cut  his  hair 
often  enough,  who  had  large  hands,  whose  collar  was  per- 
haps chosen  more  with  a  view  to  ease  and  the  free  move- 
ment of  the  throat  than  to  the  smallest  number  of  inches 
within  which  it  was  possible  to  confine  that  throat;  who 
did  not  wear  polished  kid  boots,  and  was  not  seen  off  from 
the  station  by  twenty  devoted  admirers  of  the  opposite 
sex,  was  not  deluged  with  bouquets.  With  a  feeling  as  of 
something  singing  at  my  heart  I  went  back  to  my  place, 
smiling  still. 

"  See !  she  is  quite  charmed  with  the  Herr  Lieutenant ! 
Is  he  not  delightful?" 

"  Oh,  very ;  so  is  a  Dresden  china  shepherd,  but  if  you 
let  him  fall  he  breaks." 

ef  Wie  komisch !  how  odd !  "  was  the  universal  comment 
upon  my  eccentricity.  The  conversation  had  wandered  off 
to  other  military  stars,  all  of  whom  were  reizend,  hubsch, 
or  nett.  So  it  went  on  until  I  got  heartily  tired  of  it,  and 
then  the  ladies  discussed  their  female  neighbors,  but  I 
leave  that  branch  of  the  subject  to  the  intelligent  reader. 
It  was  the  old  tune  with  the  old  variations,  which  were 
rattled  over  in  the  accustomed  manner.  I  listened,  half 
curious,  half  appalled,  and  thought  of  various  speeches 
made  by  Anna  Sartorius.  Whether  she  were  amiable  or 
not,  she  had  certainly  a  keen  insight  into  the  hearts  and 
motives  of  her  fellow-creatures.  Perhaps  the  gift  had 
soured  her. 

Anna  and  I  walked  home  alone.  Frau  Steinmann  was, 
with  other  elderly  ladies  of  the  company,  to  spend  the 
evening  there.  As  we  walked  down  the  Konigsallee  — 
how  well  to  this  day  do  I  remember  it!  the  chestnuts 
were  beginning  to  fade,  the  road  was  dusty,  the  sun  set- 
ting gloriously,  the  people  thronging  in  crowds  —  she 


JESSIE  POTHERGILL  133 

said  suddenly,  quietly,  and  in  a  tone  of  the  utmost  com- 
posure : 

"  So  you  don't  admire  Lieutenant  Pieper  so  much  as 
Herr  Courvoisier  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  cried,  astonished,  alarmed, 
and  wondering  what  unlucky  chance  led  her  to  talk  to  me 
of  Eugen. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say ;  and  for  my  part  I  agree  with  you 
—  partly.  Courvoisier,  bad  though  he  may  be,  is  a  man; 
the  other  a  mixture  of  doll  and  puppy/' 

She  spoke  in  a  friendly  tone;  discursive,  as  if  inviting 
confidence  and  comment  on  my  part.  I  was  not  inclined 
to  give  either.  I  shrunk  with  morbid  nervousness  from 
owning  to  any  knowledge  of  Eugen.  My  pride,  nay,  my 
very  self-esteem,  bled  whenever  I  thought  of  him  or  heard 
him  mentioned.  Above  all,  I  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  dis- 
cussing him,  or  anything  pertaining  to  him,  with  Anna 
Sartorious. 

"  It  will  be  time  for  you  to  agree  with  me  when  I  give 
you  anything  to  agree  about,"  said  I,  coldly.  "  I  know 
nothing  of  either  of  the  gentlemen,  and  wish  to  know 
nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  Looking  up,  I  found  Anna's  eyes 
fixed  upon  my  face,  amazed,  reproachful.  I  felt  myself 
blushing  fierily.  My  tongue  had  led  me  astray ;  I  had  led 
to  her:  I  knew  it. 

"  Do  not  say  you  know  nothing  of  either  of  the  gentle- 
men. Herr  Courvoisier  was  your  first  acquaintance  in 
Elberthal." 

"  What?  "  I  cried,  with  a  great  leap  of  the  heart,  for  I 
felt  as  if  a  veil  liad  suddenly  been  rent  away  from  before 
my  eyes  and  I  shown  a  precipice. 

"  I  saw  you  arrive  with  Herr  Courvoisier/'  said  Anna, 
calmly ;  "  at  least,  I  saw  you  come  from  the  platform  with 
him,  and  he  put  you  into  a  drosky.  And  I  saw  you  cut 
him  at  the  opera;  and  I  saw  you  go  into  his  house  after 
the  general  probe.  Will  you  tell  me  again  that  you  know 
nothing  of  him?  I. should  have  thought  you  too  proud 
to  tell  lies." 

"  I  wish  you  would  mind  your  own  business,"  said  I, 


134  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL 

heartily  wishing  that  Anna  Sartorius  were  at  the  antip- 
odes." 

"  Listen !  "  said  she,  very  earnestly,  and,  I  remember  it 
now,  though  I  did  not  heed  it  then,  with  wistful  kindness. 
"  I  do  not  bear  malice  —  you  are  so  young  and  inex- 
perienced. I  wish  you  were  more  friendly,  but  I  care  for 
you  too  much  to  be  rebuffed  by  a  trifle.  I  will  tell  you 
about  Courvoisier." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I,  hastily,  "  I  beg  you  will  do  no 
such  thing." 

"  I  know  his  story.  I  can  tell  you  the  truth  about 
him." 

"  I  decline  to  discuss  the  subject/  said  I,  thinking  of 
Eugen,  and  passionately  refusing  the  idea  of  discussing 
him,  gossiping  about  him,  with  any  one. 

Anna  looked  surprised ;  then  a  look  of  anger  crossed  her 
face. 

"  You  can  not  be  in  earnest/'  said  she. 

"  I  assure  you  I  am.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me 
alone,"  I  said,  exasperated  beyond  endurance. 

"  You  don't  wish  to  know  what  I  can  tell  you  about 
him?" 

"  No,  I  don't.  What  is  more,  if  you  begin  talking  to 
me  about  him,  I  will  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  and  leave 
you." 

"  Then  you  may  learn  it  for  yourself,"  said  she,  sud- 
denly, in  a  voice  little  more  than  a  whisper.  "  You  shall 
rue  your  treatment  of  me.  And  when  you  know  the  lesson 
by  heart,  then  you  will  be  sorry." 

"  You  are  officious  and  impertinent/'  said  I,  white  with 
ire.  "  I  don't  wish  for  your  society,  and  I  will  say  good- 
evening  to  you." —  The  First  Violin. 


FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL  FOUQU&        135 


)UQUE,  FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL,  BARON 
DE  LA  MOTTE,  a  German  novelist,  dramatist, 
and  poet ;  born  at  Brandenburg,  February  12, 
1777;  died  at  Berlin,  January  23,  1843.  Sprung  from 
a  noble  family,  he  served  in  the  wars  of  the  French 
Republic  and  against  Napoleon.  Having  been  dis- 
abled for  military  service,  he  left  the  army  in  1813, 
and  devoted  himself  to  literary  pursuits.  But  before 
this  he  had  been  a  voluminous  author,  writing  mainly 
under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Pellegrin."  Toward  the 
close  of  his  life  he  lectured  at  Halle  upon  poetry  and 
literature  in  general,  and  went  to  Berlin  for  the  pur- 
pose of  lecturing  there,  but  died  suddenly  before  com- 
mencing his  lectures.  His  works  in  prose  and  verse, 
and  dramas,  are  very  numerous,  the  earliest  appearing 
in  1804,  and  the  latest  being  published  in  1844  —  the 
year  after  his  death.  Two  years  before  his  death  he 
prepared  a  collection  of  his  Select  Works  in  twelve 
volumes.  Of  his  tales,  The  Magic  Ring;  Sintram; 
and  Aslauga's  Knight  have  been  translated  into  Eng- 
lish, the  last  by  Carlyle,  in  his  German  Romance.  The 
most  popular  of  Fouque's  works  is  Undine,  first  pub- 
lished in  1811,  of  which  upward  of  twenty-five  Ger- 
man editions  have  been  published;  and  it  has  been 
translated  into  nearly  every  European  language. 
Fouque  was  thrice  married. 

HOW   UNDINE  CAME  TO  THE  FISHERMAN. 

It  is  now  —  the  fisherman  said  —  about  fifteen  years 
ago  that  I  was  one  day  crossing  the  wild  forest  with  my 
goods,  on  my  way  to  the  city.  My  wife  had  stayed  at 
home,  as  her  wont  is ;  and  at  this  particular  time  for  a 
very  good  reason,  for  God  had  given  us  in  our  tolerably 


136       FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL  FOUQU& 

advanced  age  a  wonderfully  beautiful  child.  It  was  a 
little  girl;  and  a  question  always  arose  between  us 
whether  for  the  sake  of  the  new-comer  we  would  not 
leave  our  lovely  home  that  we  might  better  bring  up  this 
dear  gift  of  Heaven  in  some  more  habitable  place.  Well, 
the  matter  was  tolerably  clear  in  my  head  as  I  went 
along.  This  slip  of  land  was  so  dear  to  me,  and  I  shud- 
dered when  amid  the  noise  and  brawls  of  the  city  I 
thought  to  myself,  "In  such  scenes  as  these,  or  in  one 
not  much  more  quiet,  thou  wilt  soon  make  thy  abode !  " 
But  at  the  same  time  I  did  not  murmur  against  the  good 
God;  on  the  contrary,  I  thanked  Him  in  secret  for  the 
new-born  babe.  I  should  be  telling  a  lie,  too,  were  I  to 
say  that  on  my  journey  through  the  wood,  going  or  re- 
turning, anything  befell  me  out  of  the  common  way; 
and  at  that  time  I  had  never  seen  any  of  its  fearful  won- 
ders. The  Lord  was  ever  with  me  in  those  mysterious 
shades. 

On  this  side  of  the  forest,  alas  I  a  sorrow  awaited  me. 
My  wife  came  to  meet  me  with  tearful  eyes  and  clad  in 
mourning.  "  Oh !  good  God,"  I  groaned,  "  where  is  our 
dear  child?  Speak!"  "With  Him  on  Whom  you  have 
called,  dear  husband,"  she  replied;  and  we  entered  the 
cottage  together,  weeping  silently.  I  looked  around  for 
the  little  corpse,  and  it  was  then  only  that  I  learned  how 
it  had  all  happened. 

My  wife  had  been  sitting  with  the  child  on  the  edge 
of  the  lake,  and  she  was  playing  with  it,  free  of  all  fear 
and  full  of  happiness;  the  little  one  suddenly  bent  for- 
ward, as  if  attracted  by  something  very  beautiful  on  the 
water.  My  wife  saw  her  laugh,  dear  angel,  and  stretch 
out  her  little  hands;  but  in  a  moment  she  had  sprung 
out  of  her  mother's  arms  and  sunk  beneath  the  watery 
mirror.  I  sought  long  for  our  little  lost  one ;  but  it  was 
all  in  vain;  there  was  no  trace  of  her  to  be  found. 

The  same  evening  we,  childless  parents,  were  sitting 
silently  together  in  the  cottage;  neither  of  us  had  any 
desire  to  talk,  even  had  our  tears  allowed  us.  We  sat 
gazing  into  the  fire  on  the  hearth.  Presently  we  heard 
something  rustling  outside  the  door;  it  flew  open,  and 
a  beautiful  little  girl,  three  or  four  years  old,  richly 


FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL  FOUQU&       137 

dressed,  stood  on  the  threshold  smiling  at  us.  We  were 
quite  dumb  with  astonishment,  and  I  knew  not  at  first 
whether  it  were  a  vision  or  a  reality.  But  I  saw  the 
water  dripping  from  her  golden  hair  and  rich  garments, 
and  I  perceived  that  the  pretty  child  had  been  lying  in 
the  water,  and  needed  help.  "Wife,"  said  I,  "no  one 
has  been  able  to  save  our  dear  child;  yet  let  us  at  any 
rate  do  for  others  what  would  have  made  us  so  blessed." 
We  undressed  the  little  one,  put  her  to  bed,  and  gave  her 
something  warm.  At  all  this  she  spoke  not  a  word,  and 
only  fixed  her  eyes,  that  reflected  the  blue  of  the  lake 
and  of  the  sky,  smilingly  upon  us. 

Next  morning  we  quickly  perceived  that  she  had  taken 
no  harm  from  her  wetting,  and  I  now  inquired  about 
her  parents,  and  how  she  had  come  here.  But  she  gave 
a  confused  and  strange  account.  She  must  have  been 
born  far  from  here,  not  only  because  for  the  fifteen 
years  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  out  anything  of  her 
parentage,  but  because  she  then  spoke,  and  at  times  still 
speaks,  of  such  singular  things  that  such  as  we  are  cannot 
tell  but  that  she  may  have  dropped  upon  us  from  the 
moon.  She  talks  of  golden  castles,  of  crystal  domes,  and 
heaven  knows  what  besides.  The  story  that  she  told 
with  most  distinctness  was,  that  she  was  out  in  a  boat 
with  her  mother  on  the  great  lake,  and  fell  into  the  water ; 
and  that  she  only  recovered  her  senses  here  under  the 
trees,  where  she  felt  herself  quite  happy  on  the  merry 
shore. 

We  had  still  a  great  misgiving  and  perplexity  weigh- 
ing on  our  hearts.  We  had  indeed  soon  decided  to 
keep  the  child  we  had  found,  and  to  bring  her  up  in  the 
place  of  our  lost  darling;  but  who  could  tell  us  whether 
she  had  been  baptized  or  not?  She  herself  could  give 
us  no  information  on  the  matter.  She  generally  an- 
swered our  questions  by  saying  that  she  well  knew  she 
was  created  for  God's  praise  and  glory,  and  that  she 
was  ready  to  let  us  do  with  her  whatever  would  tend  to 
His  honor  and  glory. 

My  wife  and  I  thought  that  if  she  were  not  baptized 
there  was  no  time  for  delay,  and  that  if  she  were  a  good 
thing  could  not  be  repeated  too  often.  And  in  pursu- 


138       FRIEDRICH  H BIN  RICH  KARL  FOUQU& 

ance  of  this  idea  we  reflected  upon  a  good  name  for  the 
child,  for  we  were  often  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  call 
her.  We  agreed  at  last  that  "  Dorothea  "  would  be  the 
most  suitable  for  her,  for  I  had  once  heard  that  it 
meant  a  "  gift  of  God,"  and  she  had  been  sent  to  us  by 
God  as  a  gift  and  comfort  in  our  misery.  She,  on  the 
other  hand,  would  not  hear  of  this,  and  told  us  that  she 
thought  she  had  been  called  Undine  by  her  parents, 
and  that  Undine  she  wished  still  to  be  called.  Now  this 
appeared  to  me  a  heathenish  name,  not  to  be  found  in  any 
calendar,  and  I  took  counsel  therefore  of  a  priest  in  the 
city.  He  also  would  not  hear  of  the  name  Undine;  but 
at  my  earnest  request  he  came  with  me  through  the  mys- 
terious forest  in  order  t'o  perform  the  rite  of  baptism  here 
in  my  cottage.  The  little  one  stood  before  us  so  prettily 
arrayed,  and  looked  so  charming,  that  the  priest's  heart 
was  at  once  moved  within  him,  and  she  flattered  him  so 
prettily,  and  braved  him  so  merrily,  that  at  last  he  could 
no  longer  remember  the  objections  he  had  ready  against 
the  name  of  Undine.  She  was  therefore  baptized  "  Un- 
dine/' and  during  the  sacred  ceremony  she  behaved  with 
great  propriety  and  sweetness,  wild  and  restless  as  she  in- 
variably was  at  other  times,  for  my  wife  was  quite  right 
when  she  said  that  it  has  been  hard  to  put  up  with  her. 
—  Undine. 

The  Knight  Huldbrand,  to  whom  the  old  fisherman1 
told  this  story,  was  married  to  Undine,  the  Water- 
sprite.  After  a  while  he  becomes  wearied  with  the 
strange  ways  of  his  always  loving  wife;  and  is  be- 
trothed to  the  proud  and  selfish  Bertalda  —  who  turns 
out  to  be  the  long-lost  daughter  of  the  old  fisherman, 
having  been  saved  by  the  water-spirits,  and  adopted  by 
a  nobleman  and  his  wife.  Undine  mysteriously  dis- 
appears, only  to  reappear  at  the  close  of  the  story. 

THE    MARRIAGE   AND   DEATH   OF    HULDBRAND. 

If  I  were  to  tell  you  how  the  marriage-feast  passed 
at  the  castle,  it  would  seem  to  you  as  if  you  saw  a  heap 


FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  -KARL  FOUQV&        139 

of  bright  and  pleasant  things,  but  a  gloomy  veil  of  mourn- 
ing spread  over  them  all,  the  dark  hue  of  which  would 
make  the  splendor  of  the  whole  look  less  like  happiness 
than  a  mockery  of  the  emptiness  of  all  earthly  things. 
It  was  not  that  any  spectral  apparitions  disturbed  the 
festive  company;  for,  as  we  have  told,  the  castle  had 
been  secured  from  the  mischief  by  the  closing  up  by  Un- 
dine of  the  fountain  in  the  castle  courtyard.  But  the 
knight  and  the  fisherman  and  all  the  guests  felt  as  if  the 
chief  personage  were  still  lacking  at  the  feast;  and  that 
this  chief  personage  could  be  none  other  than  the  loved 
and  gentle  Undine.  Whenever  a  door  opened  the  eyes  of 
all  were  involuntarily  turned  in  that  direction,  and  if  it 
was  nothing  but  the  butler  with  new  dishes,  or  the  cup- 
bearer with  a  flask  of  still  richer  wine,  they  would  look 
down  again  sadly,  and  the  flashes  of  wit  and  merriment 
which  had  passed  to  and  fro  would  be  extinguished  by  sad 
remembrances.  The  bride  was  the  most  thoughtless  of 
all,  and  therefore  the  most  happy;  but  even  to  her  it 
sometimes  seemed  strange  that  she  should  be  sitting  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  wearing  a  green  wreath  and  gold- 
embroidered  attire,  while  Undine  was  lying  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Danube,  a  cold  and  stifl  corpse,  or  floating 
away  with  the  current  into  the  mighty  ocean.  For  ever 
since  her  father  had  spoken  of  something  of  the  sort, 
his  words  were  ever  ringing  in  her  ear;  and  this  day 
especially  they  were  not  inclined  to  give  place  to  other 
thoughts.  The  company  dispersed  early  in  the  evening, 
not  broken  up  by  the  bridegroom  himself,  but  sadly  and 
gloomily  by  the  joyless  mood  of  the  guests  and  their 
forebodings  of  evil.  Bertalda  retired  with  her  maidens, 
and  the  knight  with  his  attendants.  But  at  this  mourn- 
ful festival  there  was  no  laughing  train  of  attendants 
and  bridesmen. 

Bertalda  wished  to  arouse  more  cheerful  thoughts; 
she  ordered  a  splendid  ornament  of  jewels  which  Huld- 
brand  had  given  her,  together  with  rich  apparel  and 
veils,  to  be  spread  out  before  her,  that  from  these  latter 
she  might  select  the  brightest  and  the  best  for  her  morn- 
ing attire.  But  looking  in  the  glass  she  espied  some 
slight  freckles  on  her  neck,  and  remembering  that  the 


140       FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL  FOUQU& 

water  of  the  closed-up  fountain  had  rare  cosmetic  virtues, 
she  gave  orders  that  the  stone  with  which  Undine  had 
closed  it  should  be  removed,  and  watched  the  progress 
of  the  work  in  the  moon-lit  court  of  the  castle. 

The  men  raised  the  enormous  stone  with  an  effort; 
now  and  then,  indeed,  one  of  the  number  would  sigh  as 
he  remembered  that  they  were  destroying  the  work  of 
their  former  beloved  mistress.  But  the  labor  was  far 
lighter  than  they  had  imagined.  It  seemed  as  if  a  power 
•within  the  spring  itself  were  aiding  them  in  raising  the 
stone.  "It  is,"  said  the  workmen  to  each  other  in  as- 
tonishment, "just  as  if  the  water  within  had  become  a 
springing  fountain." 

And  the  stone  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  almost 
without  the  assistance  of  the  workmen  it  rolled  slowly 
down  upon  the  pavement  with  a  hollow  sound.  But  from 
the  opening  of  the  fountain  there  rose  solemnly  a  white 
column  of  water.  At  first  they  imagined  that  it  had 
really  become  a  springing  fountain,  till  they  perceived 
that  the  rising  form  was  a  pale  female  figure  veiled  in 
white.  She  was  weeping  bitterly,  raising  her  hands  wail- 
ingly  above  her  head,  and  wringing  them  as  she  walked 
with  a  slow  and  serious  step  to  the  castle  building.  The 
servants  fled  from  the  spring;  the  bride,  pale  and  stiff 
with  horror,  stood  at  the  window  with  her  attendants. 
When  the  figure  had  now  come  close  beneath  her  room 
it  looked  moaningly  up  to  her,  and  Bertalda  thought  she 
could  recognize  beneath  the  veil  the  pale  features  of 
Undine.  But  the  sorrowing  form  passed  on,  sad,  reluc- 
tant, and  faltering,  as  if  passing  to  execution. 

Bertalda  screamed  out  that  the  knight  was  to  be  called ; 
but  none  of  the  maids  ventured  from  the  spot,  and  even 
the  bride  herself  became  mute,  as  if  trembling  at  her 
own  voice.  While  they  were  still  standing  fearfully  at 
the  window,  motionless  as  statues,  the  strange  wanderer 
had  reached  the  castle,  had  passed  up  the  well-known 
stairs  and  through  the  well-known  halls,  ever  in  silent 
tears.  Alas !  how  differently  had  she  once  wandered 
through  them. 

The  knight,  partly  undressed,  had  already  dismissed 
his  attendants,  and  in  a  mood  of  deep  dejection  he  was 


FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  KARL  FOUQU£       141 

standing  before  a  large  mirror,  a  taper  was  burning  dimly 
beside  him.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  his  door.  Un- 
dine used  to  tap  thus  when  she  wanted  playfully  to  tease 
him.  "It  is  all  fancy,"  said  he  to  himself;  "I  must 
seek  my  nuptial  bed."  "So  you  must,  but  it  must  be 
a  cold  one,"  he  heard  a  tearful  voice  say  from  without; 
and  then  he  saw  in  the  mirror  his  door  opening  slowly 
—  slowly  —  and  the  white  figure  entered,  carefully  clos- 
ing it  behind  her.  "  They  have  opened  the  spring,"  said 
she  softly,  "  and  now  you  must  die." 

He  felt,  in  his  paralyzed  heart,  that  it  could  not  be 
otherwise;  but,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  he  said, 
"  Do  not  make  me  mad  with  terror  in  my  hour  of  death. 
If  you  wear  a  hideous  face  behind  that  veil,  do  not  raise 
it,  but  take  my  life,  and  let  me  see  you  not."  "  Alas !  " 
replied  the  figure,  "  will  you  not  look  upon  me  once 
more?  I  am  as  fair  as  when  you  wooed  me  on  the 
promontory."  "  Oh,  that  it  were  so  !  "  sighed  Huldbrand, 
*'  and  that  I  might  die  in  your  fond  embrace !  "  "  Most 
gladly,  my  loved  one,"  said  she;  and  throwing  her  veil 
back,  her  lovely  face  smiled  forth,  divinely  beautiful. 

Trembling  with  love  and  with  the  approach  of  death, 
she  kissed  him  with  a  holy  kiss !  but,  not  relaxing  her 
hold,  she  kissed  him  fervently  to  her,  and  wept  as  if 
she  would  weep  away  her  soul.  Tears  rushed  into  the 
knight's  eyes,  and  seemed  to  surge  through  his  heaving 
breast,  till  at  length  his  breathing  ceased,  and  he  fell 
softly  back  from  the  beautiful  arms  of  Undine,  upon  the 
pillows  of  his  couch  —  a  corpse.  "  I  have  wept  him  to 
death,"  said  she  to  some  servants  who  met  her  in  the 
antechamber;  and,  passing  through  the  affrighted  group, 
she  went  slowly  out  toward  the  fountain. —  Undine. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  HULDBRAND. 

The  knight  was  to  be  interred  in  a  village  church- 
yard which  was  filled  with  the  graves  of  his  ancestors; 
and  this  church  had  been  endowed  with  rich  privileges 
and  gifts  both  by  his  ancestors  and  himself.  His  shield 
and  helmet  lay  already  on  the  coffin  to  be  lowered  with 
it  into  the  grave;  for  Sir  Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten  had 


142        FRIEDRICH  H El N RICH  KARL  FOUQU& 

died  in  the  last  of  his  race.  The  mourners  began  their 
sorrowful  march,  singing  requiems  under  the  bright  calm 
canopy  of  heaven.  Father  Heilmann  walked  in  advance, 
bearing  a  high  crucifix,  and  the  inconsolable  Bertalda 
followed*  supported  by  her  aged  father. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  black-robed  attendants 
in  the  widow's  train,  a  snow-white  figure  was  seen,  closely 
veiled,  and  wringing  her  hands  with  fervent  sorrow. 
Those  near  whom  she  moved  felt  a  secret  dread,  and  re- 
treated either  backward  or  to  the  side,  increasing  by 
their  movements  the  alarm  of  the  others  near  to  whom 
the  white  stranger  was  now  advancing;  and  thus  a  con- 
fusion in  the  funeral  train  was  well-nigh  beginning. 
Some  of  the  military  escort  were  so  daring  as  to  address 
the  figure,  and  to  attempt  to  move  it  from  the  procession ; 
but  she  seemed  to  vanish  from  under  their  hands,  and  yet 
was  immediately  seen  advancing  with  slow  and  solemn 
step.  At  length,  in  consequence  of  the  continued  shrink- 
ing of  the  attendants  to  the  right  and  the  left,  she  came 
close  behind  Bertalda.  The  figure  now  moved  so'  slowly 
that  the  widow  did  not  perceive  it,  and  it  walked  meekly 
and  humbly  behind  her  undisturbed. 

This  lasted  until  they  came  to  the  church-yard,  where 
the  procession  formed  a  circle  around  the  open  grave. 
Then  Bertalda  saw  her  unbidden  companion,  and  start- 
ing up,  half  in  anger  and  half  in  terror,  she  commanded 
her  to  leave  the  knight's  last  resting-place.  The  veiled 
figure,  however,  gently  shook  her  head  in  refusal,  and 
raised  her  hands  as  if  in  humble  supplication  to  Ber- 
talda, deeply  agitating  her  by  the  action.  Father  Heil- 
mann motioned  with  his  hand,  and  commanded  silence, 
as  they  were  to  pray  in  mute  devotion  over  the  body 
which  they  were  now  covering  with  the  earth. 

Bertalda  knelt  silently  by,  and  all  knelt,  even  the  grave- 
diggers  among  the  rest.  But  when  they  arose  again, 
the  white  stranger  had  vanished.  On  the  spot  where 
she  had  knelt  there  gushed  out  of  the  turf  a  little  silver 
spring,  which  rippled  and  murmured  away  till  it  had 
almost  entirely  encircled  the  knight's  grave;  then  it  ran 
farther,  and  emptied  itself  into  a  lake  which  lay  by  the 
side  of  the,  burial-place.  Even  to  this  day  the  inhabit- 


FRAN  QO  IS  CHARLES  MARIE  FOURIER         143 

ants  of  the  village  show  the  spring,  and  cherish  the 
belief  that  it  is  the  poor  rejected  Undine,  who  in  this 
manner  still  embraces  her  husband  in  her  loving  arms. 
— Undine. 


COURIER,  FRANQOIS  CHARLES  MARIE,  a  French 
social  economist;  born  at  Besangon,  Franche 
Comte,  April  7,  1772;  died  at  Paris,  October 
10,  1837.  He  was  the  son  of  a  linen-draper,  was  edu- 
cated in  his  native  town,  and  when  eighteen  years  old 
became  a  clerk  in  a  mercantile  house  in  Lyons.  Later 
he  obtained  a  position  as  traveling  clerk  in  France, 
Germany,  and  Holland.  In  1793  he  commenced  busi- 
ness in  Lyons  with  the  capital  left  him  by  his  father ; 
but  when  Lyons  was  pillaged  by  the  army  of  the  Con- 
vention he  lost  his  property,  and  escaped  death  only 
by  enlisting  as  a  private  soldier.  At  the  end  of  two 
years  he  was  discharged  on  account  of  ill  health. 

He  had  always  disliked  mercantile  life,  but  there 
was  no  other  way  open  to  him,  and  he  again  became  a 
clerk  in  a  house,  which  employed  him  to  superintend 
the  destruction  of  a  large  quantity  of  rice  that  had  been 
spoiled  by  being  kept  too  long,  in  order  to  force  prices 
up  during  a  time  of  scarcity.  This  added  to  his  dis- 
gust with  commercial  methods,  and  led  him  to  devote 
himself  to  the  study'of  social,  commercial,  and  political 
questions,  with  a  view  to  the  prevention  of  abuses  and 
the  furtherance  of  human  organization  and  progress. 
In  1799,  believing  that  he  had  found  a  clew  in  "  the 
universal  laws  of  attraction/'  he  applied  himself  to 
construct  his  theory  of  Universal  Unity,  on  which  he 
based  his  plans  of  practical  association.  His  first 


144        FRANCOIS  CHARLES  MARIE  FOURIER 

work,  a  general  prospectus  of  his  theory,  was  pub- 
lished in  1808  under  the  title  of  Theorie  des  Quatre 
Mouvements  et  des  Destinees  Generates.     This  theory, 
known  as  Fourierism,  contemplates  the  organization  of 
society  into  phalanxes  or  co-operative  groups,  each 
large  enough  for  all  social  and  industrial  requirements, 
arranged  according  to  occupations,  capacities,  and  at- 
tractions,  and  living  in   common  dwellings.     It   at- 
tracted little  attention,  and  was  soon  withdrawn  by  its 
author  from  circulation.     In  1822  he  published  two 
volumes  of  his   work  on  Universal   Unity,   entitled 
L' Association  Domestique  Agricole,  which  appeared 
later  as  La  Theorie  de  I' Unite  Universelle.     Besides 
containing  a  variety  of  speculations  on  philosophical 
and  metaphysical  questions,  the  work  sets  forth  the 
author's  theory  and  plans  of  association,  involving 
many  topics.    The  remaining  seven  volumes  of  the 
work  were  not  then  published.     In  1829  Fourier  issued 
an  abridgment  in  one  volume,  entitled  Le  Nouveau 
Monde  Industrielle-et  Societaire,  which  attracted  at- 
tention, and  led  to  a  negotiation  with  Baron  Capel, 
Minister  of  Public  Works,  for  an  experiment  of  the 
plan  of  association.    The  revolution  of  1830  destroyed 
Fourier's  hopes  in  this  direction,  but  his  theories  had 
gained  numerous  converts,  and  in  1832  Le  Phalanstery 
ou  La  Re  forme  Industrielle,  a  weekly  journal,  was 
established  as  an  organ  of  the  socialistic  doctrines.     A 
joint-stock  company  was  formed,  and  an  estate  was 
purchased,  with  a  view  to  a  practical  experiment  of 
association.    The  community  that  had  begun  the  ex- 
periment was  soon  dispersed  for  lack  of  money  to 
carry  it  on.    In  1835  Fourier  published  the  first  vol- 
ume of  a  work  entitled  False  Industry,  Fragmentary, 
Repulsive,  and  Lying,  and  the  Antidote,  a  Natural, 


FRANCOIS  CHARLES  MARIE  FOURIER        145 

Combined,  Attractive,  and  Truthful  Industry,  giving 
Quadruple  Products.  A  second  volume  of  this  work 
was  in  press  at  the  time  of  his  death  in  1837. 


AFFINITIES   IN   FRIENDSHIP. 

Affinities  in  friendship  are  then,  it  appears,  of  two 
kinds;  there  is  affinity  of  character,  and  affinity  of  in- 
dustry or  action.  Let  us  choose  the  word  action,  which 
is  better  suited  to  our  prejudices,  because  our  readers 
cannot  conceive  what  is  meant  by  an  affinity  in  indus- 
try, nor  how  the  pleasure  of  making  clogs  can  give  birth 
amongst  a  collection  of  men  to  a  fiery  friendship  and  a 
devotion  without  bounds.  They  will  be  able  to  form  an 
idea  of  affinity  of  action,  if  we  apply  it  to  the  case  of 
a  meal;  this  action  makes  men  cheerful;  but  industrial 
action  is  much  more  jovial  in  harmony  than  a  cheerful 
meal  is  with  us.  Numerous  intrigues  prevail  in  the  most 
trifling  labor  of  the  harmonians;  hence  it  comes  that  the 
affinity  of  action  is  to  them  as  strong  a  friendly  tie  as 
the  affinity  of  character.  You  will  see  the  proof  of  this 
in  the  mechanism  of  the  passional  series,  and  you  must 
admit  provisionally  this  motive  of  the  affinity  of  action, 
since  we  perceive  even  in  the  present  day  accidental 
proofs  of  it  in  certain  kinds  of  work,  where  enthusiasm 
presides  without  any  interested  motive. 

It  seems,  then,  that  Friendship,  so  extolled  by  our 
philosophers,  is  a  passion  very  little  known  to  them. 
They  consider  in  Friendship  only  one  of  two  springs  — 
the  spiritual,  or  the  affinity  of  characters;  and  they  re- 
gard even  this  only  in  its  simple  working,  in  the  form  of 
identity  or  accord  of  tastes.  They  forget  that  affinity 
of  character  is  founded  just  as  much  upon  contrast  —  a 
tie  as  strong  as  that  of  identity.  An  individual  fre- 
quently delights  us  by  his  complete  contrast  to  our  own 
character.  If  he  is  dull  and  silent,  he  makes  a  diversion 
to  the  boisterous  pastimes  of  a  jovial  man;  if  he  is  gay 
and  witty,  he  derides  the  misanthrope.  Whence  it  fol- 
lows, that  Friendship,  even  if  we  only  consider  one  of 
its  springs,  is  still  of  compound  essence;  for  the  single 
VOL.  X.—io 


i46       FRANQOIS  CHARLES  MARIE  FOURIER 

spring  of  the  affinity  of  character  presents  two  diamet- 
rically opposite  ties,  which  are:  — 

Spiritual,  "by  identity. 


Affinity  J  sPmtual>  by  ^entity. 
\  Spiritual,  by  contrast. 


Characters  that  present  the  greatest  contrasts  become 
sympathetic  when  they  reach  a  certain  degree  of  oppo- 
sition. .  .  .  Contrast  is  as  different  from  antipathy 
as  diversity  is  from  discord.  Diversity  is  often  a  germ 
of  esteem  and  friendship  between  two  writers;  it  es- 
tablishes between  them  a  homogeneous  diversity  or  emu- 
lative competition,  which  is  in  fact  very  opposite  to  what 
is  called  discord,  quarreling,  antipathy,  heterogeneity. 
Two  barristers,  who  have  pleaded  cleverly  against  each 
other  in  a  striking  cause,  will  mutually  esteem  each  other 
after  the  struggle.  The  celebrated  friendship  of  Theseus 
and  Pirithous  arose  from  a  furious  combat,  in  which  they 
long  fought  together  and  appreciated  each  other's  bravery. 

The  existing  -friendship  has  not,  therefore,  philosoph- 
ical insipidities  as  its  only  source.  If  we  may  believe 
our  distillers  of  fine  sentiments,  it  appears  that  two  men 
cannot  be  friends  except  they  agree  in  sobbing  out  ten- 
derness for  the  good  of  trade  and  the  constitution.  We 
see,  on  the  contrary,  that  friendships  are  formed  be- 
tween the  most  contrasted  as  well  as  between  identical 
characters.  Let  us  remark  on  this  head  that  contrast  is 
not  contrariety,  just  as  diversity  is  not  discord.  Thus  in 
Love,  as  in  Friendship,  contrast  and  diversity  are  germs 
of  sympathy  to  us,  whereas  contrariety  and  discord  are 
germs  of  antipathy. 

The  affinity  of  characters  is,  then,  a  compound  and  not 
a  simple  spring  in  Friendship,  since  it  operates  through 
the  two  extremes,  through  contrast  or  counter-accord  as 
well  as  through  identity  or  accord.  This  spring  is  there- 
fore made  up  of  two  elements,  which  are  identity  and 
contrast. 

If  it  can  be  proved  (and  I  pledge  myself  to  do  it)  that 
the  other  spring  of  Friendship,  or  affinity  of  industrial 
tastes,  is  in  like  manner  composed  of  two  elements 
which  form  ties  through  contrast  and  identity,  it  will  re- 


FRANCOIS  CHARLES  MARIE  FOURIER        147 

suit  from  it  that  Friendship,  strictly  analyzed,  is  com- 
posed of  four  elements,  two  of  which  are  furnished  by 
the  spiritual  spring  in  identity  and  contrast,  and  two 
furnished  by  the  material  spring  in  identity  and  con- 
trast. Friendship  is  not,  therefore,  a  passion  of  a  com- 
pound essence,  but  of  an  essence  bi-compounded  of  four 
elements. — The  Passions  of  the  Human  Soul. 

THE  UNIVERSAL  SIDEREAL  LANGUAGE. 

This  is  the  place  to  usher  on  the  stage  the  muse  and 
the  poetical  invocations  to  the  learned  of  all  sizes.  Come 
forth  all  ye  cohorts,  with  all  your  -ologies  and  -isms  — 
theologists  of  all  degrees,  geologists,  archaeologists, 
chronologists,  psychologists  and  ideologists;  you  also 
natural  philosophers,  geometers,  doctors,  chemists,  and 
naturalist's;  you,  especially,  grammarians,  who  have  to 
lead  the  march  figure  in  the  advance  guard,  and  sustain 
the  first  fire ;  for  it  will  be  necessary  to  employ  exclusively 
your  ministry  during  one  year  at  least,  in  order  to  collect 
and  explain  the  signs,  the  rudiments,  and  the  syntax 
of  the  natural  language  that  will  be  transmitted  to  us 
by  the  stars.  Once  initiated  into  this  universal  language 
of  harmony,  the  human  mind  will  no  longer  know  any 
limits;  it  will  learn  more  in  one  year  of  sidereal  trans- 
missions than  it  would  have  learnt  in  ten  thousand  years 
of  incoherent  studies.  The  gouty,  the  rheumatic,  the 
hydrophobic,  will  come  to  the  telegraph  to  ask  for  the 
remedy  for  their  sufferings;  one  hour  later,  they  will 
know  it  by  transmission  from  those  stars,  at  present  the 
object  of  our  jokes,  and  which  will  become  shortly  the 
objects  of  our  idolatry.  Each  of  the  classes  of  savans 
will  come  in  turn  to  gain  the  explanation  of  the  mys- 
teries which  for  three  thousand  years  have  clogged  sci- 
ence, and  all  the  problems  will  be  solved  in  an  instant. 

The  geometer  who  cannot  pass  beyond  the  problems 
of  the  fourth  degree  will  learn  the  theory  that  gives  the 
solutions  of  the  twentieth  and  hundredth  degrees.  The 
astronomer  will  be  informed  of  all  that  is  going  on  in 
the  stars  of  the  vault,  and  of  the  milky  way,  and  in  the 
universes,  whereof  ours  is  only  an  individual.  A  hope- 


148       FRANCOIS  CHARLES  MARIE  FOURIER 

less  problem,  like  that  of  the  longitudes,  will  be  to  him 
but  the  object  of  one  hour's  telegraphic  communication; 
the  natural  philosopher  will  cause  to  be  explained  to  him 
in  a  few  moments  his  insoluble  problems,  such  as  the 
composition  of  light,  the  variations  of  the  compass,  etc. ; 
he  will  be  able  to  penetrate  suddenly  all  the  most  hid- 
den mysteries  in  organization  and  the  properties  of  be- 
ings. The  chemist,  emancipated  from  his  gropings,  will 
know  at  the  first  onset  all  the  sources  and  properties 
of  gases  and  acids ;  the  naturalist  will  learn  what  is  the 
true  system  of  nature,  the  unitary  classification  of  the 
kingdoms  in  hieroglyphical  relation  with  the  passions. 
The  geologist,  the  archaeologist,  will  know  the  mysteries 
of  the  formation  of  the  globe,  of  their  anatomy  and 
interior  structure,  of  their  origin  and  end.  The  gram- 
marians will  know  the  universal  language,  spoken  in  all 
the  harmonized  worlds,  as  well  of  the  sidereal  vault  as  of 
the  planetary  vortex  which  is  its  focus.  The  chronologist 
and  the  cosmogonist  will  know  to  a  minute  almost  at 
what  epoch  the  physical  modifications  took  place.  One 
morning  of  telegraphic  sitting  will  unravel  all  the  errors 
of  Scaliger,  of  Buffon,  and  the  rest.  The  poet,  the  ora- 
tor, will  have  communicated  to  them  the  masterpieces  that 
have  been  for  thousands  of  years  the  admiration  of  those 
worlds  refined  in  the  culture  of  letters  and  of  arts.  Every 
one  will  see  the  forms  and  will  learn  the  properties  of 
the  new  animals,  vegetables,  and  minerals  that  will  be 
yielded  to  us  in  the  course  of  the  fourth  and  the  follow- 
ing creations.  Finally,  the  torrents  of  light  will  be  so 
sudden,  so  immense,  that  the  savans  will  succumb  beneath 
the  weight,  as  the  blind  man  operated  on  for  cataract 
flies  for  some  days  the  rays  of  the  star  of  which  he  was 
so  long  deprived. —  Passions  of  thel  Human  Soul;  transla- 
tion of  MORELL. 


ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER  149 


BOWLER,  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT,  an  English 
novelist;  born  at  Woodthoriie,  Wolverhamp- 
ton,  in  1869.  She  is  a  daughter  of  Sir  Henry 
Hartley  Fowler,  formerly  Secretary  of  State  for  India. 
She  was  educated  in  private  schools,  and  began  her  lit- 
erary career  by  writing  poetry.  She  published  Verses 
Grave  and  Gay  in  1891,  and  Verses  Wise  and  Other- 
wise (1895).  She  then  wrote  her  first  novel,  Con- 
cerning Isabel  Carnaby  (1898),  which  met  with  imme- 
diate success.  Over  50,000  copies  of  this  book  were 
sold  in  the  United  States  within  six  months  of  its  ap- 
pearance. Her  subsequent  novels  were:  A  Double 
Thread  (1899);  The  Farringdons  (1900);  Love's 
Argument  (1900)  ;  Siriusf  and  Other  Stories  (1901)  ; 
Fuel  of  Fire  (1902)  ;  Peace  and  Power  (1903)  ;  and 
Kate  of  Kate  Hall  (1905).  Miss  Fowler's  work  is 
characterized  by  remarkable  constructive  skill  and 
clear  dramatic  dialogue.  She  dedicates  her  first  novel 
to  her  family  thus: 

To  Mine  own  People :  meaning  those  within 
The  magic  ring  of  home  —  my  kith  and  kin; 

And  those  with  whom  my  soul  delights  to  dwell  — 
Who  walk  with  me  as  friends,  and  wish  me  well; 

And  lastly  those  —  a  large,  unnumbered  band, 
Unknown  to  me  —  who  read  and  understand. 

Miss  Fowler's  very  successful  novel,  Concerning 
Isabel  Carnaby,  is  a  story  of  English  society. 

LORD  ROBERT'S  SHYNESS. 

"  You  have  no  constitutional  shyness  to  put  aside,  Lord 
Bobby/'  said  Lady  Farley ;  "  so  your  sacrifice  to  the  com- 
mon weal  is  not  so  stupendous  after  all." 


150  ELLEN  THORNEYCROPT  FOWLER 

"  How  you  misjudge  me !  "  sighed  Lord  Robert.  "  It  is 
ever  my  fate  to  be  misjudged  by  my  dearest  and  best! 
Shyness  is  my  bane,  my  besetment;  and  it  is  only  my 
exquisite  unselfishness  which  enables  me  to  overcome  it 
as  I  do,  in  order  to  make  other  people  happy  by  the  unin- 
terrupted flow  of  my  improving  conversation.  And  this 
is  all  the  thanks  I  get" 

"  I  suppose  everybody  feels  shy  sometimes/'  said  Miss 
Carnaby. 

"  Not  everybody,"  argued  Lord  Robert ;  "  take  my  word 
for  it,  you  never  do." 

"  Yes  I  do,  under  certain  circumstances." 

"  When  ?    Do  tell  us,"  besought  Violet  Esdaile. 

Isabel  thought  for  a  moment.  "  I  am  shy  of  people  who 
make  me  feel  things,"  she  replied,  slowly. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  feel  shy  of  a  man  if  you  think  he  is 
going  to  make  you  an  offer,  or  to  pull  one  of  your  teeth 
out?"  inquired  Lord  Robert,  with  friendly  interest 

"  Roughly  speaking,  yes." 

"That's  a  pity!  Because  in  either  case  it  is  sport  to 
them,  you  see;  so  it  is  unfortunate  if  it  is  death  to  you." 

Isabel  smiled.  "  My  dear  Lord  Bobby,  how  absurd  you 
are!  Now,  perhaps,  you  will  respond  to  my  confidence, 
and  tell  us  when  you  feel  shy." 

Bobby  thought  for.  a  moment.  "  When  my  boots  creak," 
he  answered. 

Everybody  laughed.  "It  is  no  laughing  matter,  I  can 
assure  you,"  he  continued.  "I've  got  a  pair  now  that 
make  me  feel  as  timid  as  an  unfledged  school-girl  every 
time  I  put  them  on.  I  wore  them  to  church  only  last 
Sunday,  and  they  sung  such  a  processional  hymn  to  them- 
selves all  the  way  up  the  aisle,  that  by  the  time  I  reached 
our  pew  I  was  half  dead  with  shame,  and  *  the  beauty  born 
of  murmuring  sound '  had  *  passed  into  my  face ; '  but  it 
wasn't  the  type  of  beauty  that  was  becoming  to  me  —  it 
was  too  anxious  and  careworn  for  my  retroussS  style." 

"Weren't  your  people  awfully  ashamed  of  you?  "  asked 
Isabel. 

"There  were  none  of  them  there  except  my  mother, 
and  she  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  pew,  and  tried  to  look 
as  if  I  were  only  a  collateral." 


ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER  151 

"  I  wonder  if  your  mother  ever  feels  shy  ? "  remarked 
Violet 

"  Dreadfully,  of  her  own  maid  She  has  had  her  for  a 
long  time,  and  I  believe  that  when  a  maid  has  had  a  right 
of  way  across  your  head  for  over  seven  years,  she  can  do 
your  hair  in  what  style  she  likes  and  you  may  not  inter- 
fere. That,  I  am  told,  is  the  law  with  regard  to  rights 
of  way." 

"Do  you  ever  feel  shy?"  inquired  Isabel  of  Mr.  Kes- 
terton, 

"  Only  when  Fm  introduced  to  babies,  and  their  mothers 
look  as  if  they  expected  me  to  kiss  them  —  to  kiss  the 
babies,  I  mean  —  not  the  mothers ;  that  would  not  make 
me  feel  nearly  so  shy.  I  am  always  being  godfather  to 
the  terrible  little  things,  and  giving  them  spoons:  but  I 
confine  myself  to  the"  silver  variety." 

"Are  you  many  godfathers?" 

"  That  is  what  I  am,  Miss  Carnaby.  I  am  one  husband, 
three  fathers,  nine  grandfathers,  and  seventeen  godfathers 
—  thirty  gentlemen  in  one,  so  ten  times  better  than  Cer- 
berus. And  what  it  costs  me  in  presents  is  something 
fabulous." 

Isabel  turned  to  Lord  Wrexham.  "When  are  ,you 
shy?" 

"Always.  I  invariably  feel  that  I  am  boring  people, 
and  this  makes  me  bore  them  all  the  more." 

"And  you,  Uncle  Benjamin?" 

"  When  I  go  out  shooting,  my  dear.  I  am  a  bad  shot 
at  best;  and,  knowing  this,  I  am  consequently  generally 
at  my  worst." 

"  My  governor  is  a  first-rate  shot,"  announced  Lord 
Robert,  proudly.  "  I  know  no  young  man  who  is  equal  to 
him;  but  I'm  a  poor  hand  at  the  job  myself.  Nowadays 
fathers  shoot  better  than  their  sons,  as  a  rule,  I  think  — 
a  proof  of  the  decadence  of  the  race.  (That's  a  good 
sentence !  I  shall  wait  till  you  have  all  forgotten  it,  and 
then  make  use  of  it  again.)— Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby. 


152  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER 


THE  APPEARANCE  OF  EVIL. 

Joanna  Seaton  had  an  admirable  sense  of  humor;  and 
therefore  always  encouraged  Martha  when  the  latter  was 
inclined,  like  the  moon,  to  take  up  her  wondrous  tale, 
and  relate  the  story  of  her  earlier  experiences. 

"  Your  sister  Eliza  Ann  must  have  been  a  woman  of 
strong  character,"  said  Joanna,  suggestively. 

"  Indeed  she  was,  my  dear,  and  no  mistake.  She  was 
such  a  leading  light  in  the  Grampton  circuit  that  it1  was 
considered  due  to  her  piety  to  ask  her  to  do  the  cutting- 
out  at  the  Dorcas  meeting.  But  piety  and  cutting-out 
don't  always  go  together,  more's  the  pity !  " 

"  I  suppose  they  don't." 

"  Far  from  it.  There  was  once  great  distress  in  Gramp- 
ton, owing  to  bad  trade  coupled  with  a  deep  snow,  and 
Brother  Phipson  gave  a  roll  of  cloth  to  make  clothes  for 
ragged  little  boys;  Brother  Phipson  being  a  cloth  mer- 
chant by  nature  and  a  circuit-steward  by  grace." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  him  to  give  garments  to  the  poor/' 
said  Joanna,  approvingly. 

"  He  was  but  an  unprofitable  servant,  like  the  rest  of 
us,"  sighed  Martha.  "  When  we  have  done  all  we  can,  our 
righteousness  is  but  filthy  rags  hanging  on  barren  fig- 
trees." 

"  Did  your  sister  cut  out  all  the  little  boys'  clothes?" 

"  Well,  it  was  in  this  way,  miss.  Eliza  Ann  was  such  a 
saint  that  it  would  not  have  been  seemly  for  any  other 
member  of  the  congregation  to  do  the  cutting-out  while 
she  was  present.  So  she  was  appointed  to  the  work.  But 
her  mind  was  so  full  of  the  last  Sunday  evening's  sermon, 
that  she  cut  out  all  the  trousers  for  the  same  leg." 

Joanna  laughed  outright.  "  I  suppose  she  was  in  a  great 
way  when  she  found  out  what  she  had  done." 

"  Not  she,  my  dear,"  replied  Martha,  somewhat  reprov- 
ingly ;  "  Eliza  Ann  was  far  too  religious  a  woman  to  own 
to  anybody  but  her  Mafrer  that  she  had  been  in  the 
wrong." 

"  then  what  did  she  do  ?" 

"  She  said  what  she  had  done  she  had  done  for  the  best; 


ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER  153 

but  it  was  always  her  fate  to  be  misunderstood,  so  she  sup- 
posed she  must  take  it  as  her  cross  and  not  complain. 
She  had  endeavored  not  to  let  her  left  hand  know  what 
her  right  hand  was  doing,  and  this  was  the  consequence. 
Oh !  she  was  terribly  hurt,  was  Eliza  Ann  —  and  no  won- 
der !  —  when  the  young  minister  told  her  that,  according 
to  his  ideas,  trousers  —  like  opinions  —  should  not  be  one- 
sided. It  was  so  painful,  she  said,  when  men  reviled  her 
and  condemned  her,  after  she  had  acted  as  she  thought 
for  the  best" 

"What  was  the  end  of  it  all?"  Joanna  asked. 

"  The  end  was,  miss,  that  Brother  Phipson  heard  what 
had  happened,  and  gave  another  roll  of  cloth  to  make  the 
other  legs;  so  that  all  things  worked  together  for  good, 
and  there  was  double  the  number  of  pairs  that  there  would 
have  been  if  the  cutting-out  had  not  been  done  by  Eliza 
Ann." 

"  She  really  must  have  been  a  gifted  person." 

"  Oh !  Eliza  Ann  was  a  godly  woman,  and  no  mistake," 
confessed  Martha,  with  pardonable  pride ;  "  and  still  is,  I 
doubt  not,  a  sea  voyage  having  no  power  to  change  the 
human  heart.  But  she  was  none  too  easy  to  get  on  with, 
when  things  were  going  smooth.  Though  I  say  it  as 
shouldn't  —  being  her  sister  —  there  were  times  when 
Eliza  Ann's  religion  was  trying  to  the  flesh  of  them  she 
had  to  do  with." 

"  Did  her  husband  think  it  so  ? "  queried  Joanna. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  question  to  ask !  As  if  it  mat- 
tered what  he  thought !  Eliza  Ann  was  far  too  sensible 
to  allow  him  to  give  his  opinion  about  anything.  '  If  you 
let  a  husband  begin  to  pass  remarks/  she  used  to  say,  *  it 
is  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge  which  in  time  will  turn  again 
and  rend  you/  So  Eliza  Ann  avoided  the  first  appearance 
of  evil." 

"  But  she  was  really  good,  you  say?  " 

"  Good,  my  dear?  Of  course  she  was  good!  Whoever 
thought  anything  different?  "  exclaimed  Martha,  who  had 
never  read  Milton's  line,  "  He  for  God  only ;  she  for  God 
in  him,"  and  would  have  called  it  "  rubbish  "  if  she  had. 
"I  assure  you,  miss,  Eliza  Ann  was  not  one  to  keep  the 
outside  of  the  cup  and  platter  clean  while  the  inside  was 


154  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX 

filled  with  ravening  wolves  and  dead  men's  bones. 
Though  she  might  be  aggravating,  as  it  were,  in  times  of 
prosperity,  in  the  day  of  adversity  she  never  failed  nor  fell 
short." — Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby. 


pOX,  CHARLES  JAMES,  an  English  statesman  and 
orator;  born  at  London,  January  24,  1749; 
died  at  Chiswick,  September  13,  1806.  He 
was  a  son  of  Henry  Fox,  the  first  Lord  Holland,  who 
amassed  a  large  fortune  as  Paymaster  of  the  Forces, 
and  showed  himself  the  most  indulgent  of  fathers. 
When  the  son  was  barely  fourteen,  his  father  took  him 
to  Bath,  and  was  in  the  'habit  of  giving  him  five 
guineas  every  night  to  play  with.  At  this  early  age 
Fox  contracted  the  habit  of  gambling,  at  which  he 
made  and  lost  several  fortunes.  After  studying  at 
Eton,,  he  went  to  Oxford,  but  left  College  without  tak- 
ing a  degree.  He  went  to  the  Continent,  in  1766. 
He  returned  to  England  in  1768,  having  been  returned 
to  Parliament  for  the  "pocket  borough  "  of  Midhurst, 
and  took  his  seat  before  he  had  attained  his  majority. 
Almost  from  the  outset  he  assumed  a  prominent  place 
in  political  affairs ;  and  soon  became  acknowledged  to 
be  the  most  effective  debater  in  Parliament,  of  which 
he  was  a  member  for  one  constituency  or  another  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  his  life.  To  write  the  life  of  Fox 
would  be  to  write  the  political  history  of  Great  Britain 
for  almost  forty  years.  We  touch  only  upon  some  of 
its  salient  points.  He  opposed  the  action  of  the  Gov- 
ernment toward  the  revolted  American  colonies;  he 
supported,  proposals  for  Parliamentary  reform;  he 


CHAS.  JAMES  FOX. 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX  155 

strove  against  the  misgovernment  of  India,  and  was 
prominently  associated  with  Burke  in  conducting  the 
impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings;  he  opposed  the 
hostile  attitude  of  Great  Britain  toward  the  French 
Revolution;  he  was  for  a  score  of  years  among  the 
most  earnest  and  persistent  advocates  of  the  abolition 
of  the  slave-trade. 

Fox's  fame  rests  mainly  upon  his  unrivalled  power 
as  a  Parliamentary  orator  and  debater.  A  collection  of 
his  speeches  in  the  House  of  Commons,  in  six  vol- 
umes, was  made  in  1815.  These,  however,  give  no 
idea  of  his  power  as  an  orator.  He  never  wrote  his 
speeches,  and  rarely,  if  ever,  even  revised  the  reports 
made  of  them.  The  speeches,  as  published,  are  the  ab- 
stracts made  by  the  Parliamentary  reporters  without 
the  aid  of  stenography.  A  great  part  of  them  pro- 
fess to  be  only  minutes  of  the  leading  points.  Some 
of  them  —  especially  the  later  ones  —  seem  to  be 
tolerably  full.  The  earliest  of  these  parliamentary 
speeches  was  delivered  January  9,  1770;  the  last  June 
10,  1806;  the  whole  number  is  not  less  than  five  hun- 
dred. The  last  of  these  speeches,  which  is  apparently 
reported  nearly  verbatim,  is  upon  the  Abolition  of  the 
Slave  trade,  which  concludes  thus : 

ABOLITION   OF  THE  SLAVE-TRADE. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  there  can  be  above  one,  or  per- 
haps two,  members  of  this  House  who  can  object  to  a 
condemnation  of  the  nature  of  the  trade;  and  shall  now 
proceed  to  recall  the  attention  of  the  House  to  what  has 
been  its  uniform,  consistent,  and  unchangeable  opinion 
for  the  last  eighteen  years,  during  which  we  should  blush 
to  have  it  stated  that  not  one  step  has  yet  been  taken  to- 
ward the  abolition  of  the  trade.  If,  then,  we  have  never 
ceased  to  express  our  reprobation,  surely  the  House  must 


156  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX 

think  itself  bound  by  its  character,  and  the  consistency  of 
its  proceedings,  to  condemn  it  now. 

The  first  time  this  measure  was  proposed  on  the  mo- 
tion of  my  honorable  friend  [Mr.  Wilberforce],  which  was 
in  the  year  1791,  it  was,  after  a  long  and  warm  discussion, 
rejected.    In  the  following  year,  1792,  after  the  question 
had  been  during  the  interval  better  considered,  there  ap- 
peared to  be  a  very  strong  disposition,  generally,  to  adopt 
it  to  the  full;  but  in  the  committee  the  question  for  its 
gradual  abolition  was  carried.    On  that  occasion,  when 
the  most  strenuous  efforts  were  made  to  specify  the  time 
when  the  total  abolition  should  take  place,  there  were 
several  divisions  in  the  House  about  the  number  of  years, 
and  Lord  Melville,  who  was  the  leader  and  proposer  of 
the  gradual  abolition,  could  not  venture  to  push  the  period 
longer  than  eight  years  —  or  the  year  1800  —  when  it  was 
to  be  totally  abolished.    Yet  we  are  now  in  the  year  1806, 
and,  while  surrounding  nations  are  reproaching  us  with 
neglect,  not  a  single  step  has  been  taken  toward  this  just, 
humane,  and  politic  measure.    When  the  question  for  a 
gradual  abolition  was  carried,  there  was  no  one  could  sup- 
pose that  the  trade  would  last  so  long;  and  in  the  mean- 
time we  have  suffered  other  nations  to  take  the  lead  of 
us.    Denmark,  much  to  its  honor,  has  abolished  the  trade ; 
or,  if  it  could  not  abolish  it  altogether,  has  at  least  done 
all  it  could,  for  it  has  prohibited  its  being  carried  on  in 
Danish  ships  or  by  Danish  sailors.    I  own  that  when  I  be- 
gan to  consider  the  subject,  early  in  the  present  session, 
my  opinion  was  that  the  total  abolition  might  be  carried 
this  year;  but  subsequent  business  intervened,  occasioned 
by  the  discussion  of  the  military  plan ;  besides  which  there 
was  an  abolition  going  forward  in  the  foreign  trade  from 
our  colonies,  and  it  was  thought  right  to  carry  that  meas- 
ure through  before  we  proceeded  to  the  other.    That  bill 
has  passed  into  a  law,  and  so  far  we  have  already  suc- 
ceeded ;  but  it  is  too  late  to  carry  the  abolition  through  the 
other  House.    In  this  House,  from  a  regard  to  the  con- 
sistency of  its  own  proceedings,  we  can  indeed  expect  no 
great  resistance;  but  the  impediments  that  may  be  op- 
ened in  another  would  not  leave  sufficient  time  to  accom- 
plish it. 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX  157 

No  alternative  is  therefore  now  left  but  to  let  it  pass 
over  for  the  present  session ;  and  it  is  to  afford  no  ground 
for  a  suspicion  that  we  have  abandoned  it  altogether  that 
we  have  recourse  to  the  measure  which  I  am  about  to  pro- 
pose. The  motion  will  not  mention  any  limitation,  either 
as  to  the  time  or  manner  of  abolishing  the  trade.  There 
have  been  some  hints,  indeed,  thrown  out  in  some  quarters 
that  it  would  be  a  better  measure  to  adopt  something  that 
must  inevitably  lead  to  an  abolition;  but  after  eighteen 
years  of  close  attention  which  I  have  paid  to  the  subject,  I 
cannot  think  anything  so  effectual  as  a  direct  law  for  that 
purpose.  The  next  point  is  as  to  the  time  when  the  aboli- 
tion shall  take  place;  for  the  same  reasons  or  objections 
which  led  to  the  gradual  measure  of  1792  may  occur  again. 
That  also  I  leave  open;  but  I  have  no  hesitation  to  state 
that  with  respect  to  that  my  opinion  is  the  same  as  it  is 
with  regard  to  the  manner,  and  that  I  think  it  ought  to  be 
abolished  immediately.  As  the  motion,  therefore,  which  I 
have  to  make  will  leave  to  the  House  the  time  and  manner 
of  abolition,  I  cannot  but  confidently  express  my  hope  and 
confident  expectation  that  it  will  be  unanimously  carried. 

Mr.  Fox,  at  the  close  of  his  speech,  presented  the 
following  resolution:  An  extended  debate  ensued. 
Among  those  who  spoke  in  favor  of  the  motion  were 
Sir  Samuel  Romilly,  Mr.  Wilberforce,  Mr.  Canning, 
and  Mr.  Windham.  Among  those  who  spoke  against 
it  were  Lord  Castlereagh,  Sir  William  Young,  and 
General  Tarleton.  The  motion  was  carried,  the  vote 
being  114  yeas  and  15  nays. 

MR.  FOX'S  MOTION  FOR  THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  SLAVE-TRADE. 

Resolved,  That  this  House,  conceiving  the  African 
slave-trade  to  be  contrary  to  the  laws  of  justice,  humanity, 
and  sound  policy,  will,  with  all  practicable  expedition,  pro- 
ceed to  take  effectual  measures  for  abolishing  the  said 
trade,  in  such  manner,  and  at  such  period,  as  may  be 
deemed  expedient. 


158  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX 

This  was  the  last  public  act  performed  by  Charles 
James  Fox.  Within  a  week  he  became  so  seriously 
ill  that  he  was  forced  to  discontinue  his  attendance  in 
Parliament. 

Perhaps  the  best  idea  of  Fox  as  an  orator  may  be 
gained  from  his  letter  to  the  electors  of  Westminster, 
which,  though  not  delivered  orally,  is  in  all  respects  a 
labored  speech,  prepared  under  circumstances  which 
must  have  called  forth  his  best  powers.  His  course  in 
1792  in  regard  to  the  relations  between  the  British 
Government  and  the  French  Republic  occasioned  bit- 
ter censures  from  almost  every  quarter.  To  explain 
his  course,  and  to  defend  it,  Fox  addressed  a  long  let- 
ter to  his  constituents,  the  electors  of  Westminster. 

LETTER   TO    THE    ELECTORS    OF    WESTMINSTER. 

To  vote  in  small  minorities  is  a  misfortune  to  which 
I  have  been  so  much  accustomed  that  I  cannot  be  ex- 
pected to  feel  it  very  acutely.  To  be  the  object  of  cal- 
umny and  misrepresentation  gives  me  uneasiness,  it  is 
true,  but  an  uneasiness  not  wholly  unmixed  with  pride 
and  satisfaction,  since  the  experience  of  all  ages  and 
countries  teaches  us  that  calumny  and  misrepresentation 
are  frequently  the  most  unequivocal  testimonies  of  the 
zeal,  and  possibly  the  effect,  with  which  he  against  whom 
they  are  directed  has  served  the  public.  But  I  am  in- 
formed that  I  now  labor  under  a  misfortune  of  a  far  dif- 
ferent nature  from  these,  and  which  can  excite  no  other 
sensations  than  those  of  concern  and  humiliation.  I  am 
told  that  you  in  general  disapprove  of  my  late  conduct; 
and  that,  even  among  those  whose  partiality  to  me  was 
most  conspicuous,  there  are  many  who,  when  I  am  at- 
tacked upon  the  present  occasion,  profess  themselves 
neither  able  nor  willing  to  defend  me. 

That  your  unfavorable  opinion  of  me  (if  in  fact  you 
entertain  such)  is  owing  to  misrepresentation,  I  can  have 
no  doubt  To  do  away  with  the  effects  of  this  misrep- 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX  159 

reservation  is  the  object  of  this  letter;  and  I  know  of 
no  mode  by  which  I  can  accomplish  this  object  at  once 
so  fairly,  and  (as  I  hope)  so  effectually,  as  by  stating  to 
you  the  different  motions  which  I  made  in  the  House 
of  Commons  in  the  first  days  of  this  session,  together  with 
the  motives  which  induced  me.  [Here  follow  the  state- 
ment and  the  justification.] 

I  have  now  stated  to  you  fully,  and  I  trust  fairly,  the 
arguments  which  persuaded  me  to  the  course  of  conduct 
which  I  have  pursued.  In  these  consists  my  defense,  upon 
which  you  are  to  pronounce;  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
thought  presumptous  when  I  say  that  I  expect  with  con- 
fidence a  favorable  verdict.  If  the  reasonings  which  I 
have  adduced  fail  of  convincing  you,  I  confess  that  I  shall 
be  disappointed,  because  to  my  understanding  they  appear 
to  have  more  of  irrefragable  demonstration  than  can  often 
be  hoped  for  in  political  discussions.  But  even  in  this 
case,  if  you  see  in  them  probability  strong  enough  to  be- 
lieve that,  though  not  strong  enough  to  convince  you,  they 
—  and  not  any  sinister  or  oblique  motives  —  did  in  fact 
actuate  me,  I  still  have  gained  my  cause;  for  in  this  sup- 
position, though  the  propriety  of  my  conduct  may  be 
doubted,  the  rectitude  of  my  intentions  must  be  admitted. 

Knowing  therefore  the  justice  and  candor  of  the  tribu- 
nal to  which  I  have  appealed,  I  await  your  decision  with- 
out fear.  Your  approbation  I  anxiously  desire,  but  your 
acquittal  I  confidently  expect  Pitied  for  my  supposed 
misconduct  by  some  of  my  friends,  openly  renounced  by 
others,  attacked  and  misrepresented  by  my  enemies,  to 
you  I  have  recourse  for  refuge  and  protection.  And 
conscious  that  if  I  had  shrunk  from  my  duty  I  should 
have  merited  your  censure,  I  feel  myself  equally  certain 
that  by  acting  in  conformity  to  the  motives  which  I  have 
explained  to  you,  I  can  in  no  degree  have  forfeited  the 
esteem  of  the  City  of  Westminster,  which  it  has  so  long 
been  the  first  pride  of  my  life  to  enjoy,  and  which  it 
shall  be  my  constant  endeavor  to  preserve. 

As  an  author,,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  Fox 
is  to  be  judged  solely  by  his  fragment  of  a  History  of 


160  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX 

James  II.  This  was  written  in  1797.  He  had  evi- 
dently purposed  to  write  a  history  of  the  entire  reign 
of  that  monarch ;  but  he  brought  it  only  through  the 
first  six  months  of  that  reign,  ending  with  the  execu- 
tion (July  15,  1685)  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  an 
illegitimate  son  of  Charles  II.,  and  nephew  of  James. 
This  fragment,  must  be  regarded  merely  as  an  evi- 
dence of  what  Fox  could  have  done  as  a  historian. 

EXECUTION  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  i$th  of  July,  1685,  Monmouth 
proceeded  in  a  carriage  of  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower 
to  Tower-Hill,  the  place  destined  for  his  execution.  The 
two  bishops  [Turner  and  Kenn]  were  in  the  carriage 
with  him,  and  one  of  them  took  the  opportunity  of  inform- 
ing him  that  their  controversial  altercations  were  not  at 
an  end;  and  that  upon  the  scaffold  he  would  again  be 
pressed  for  explicit  and  satisfactory  declarations  of  re- 
pentance. When  arrived  at  the  bar  which  had  been  put 
up  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  out  the  multitude  Mon- 
mouth descended  from  the  carriage,  and  mounted  the  scaf- 
fold with  a  firm  step,  attended  by  his  spiritual  assistants. 
The  sheriffs  and  executioners  were  already  there.  The 
concourse  of  spectators  was  innumerable;  and,  if  we  are 
to  credit  traditional  accounts,  never  was  the  general  com- 
passion more  affectingly  expressed.  The  fears,  sighs,  and 
groans  which  the  first  sight  of  this  heart-rending  spec- 
tacle produced  were  soon  succeeded  by  an  universal  and 
awful  silence ;  a  respectful  attention  and  affectionate  anx- 
iety to  hear  every  syllable  that  should  pass  the  lips  of  the 
sufferer. 

The  Duke  began  by  saying  he  should  speak  little;  he 
came  to  die,  and  he  should  die  a  Protestant  of  the  Church 
of  England.  Here  he  was.  interrupted  by  the  assistants, 
and  told  that  if  he  was  of  the  Church  of  England  he  must 
acknowledge  the  doctrine  of  non-resistance  to  be  true. 
In  vain  did  he  reply  that  if  he  acknowledged  the  doctrine 
of  the  Church  in  general,  it  included  alL  They  insisted 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX  161 

he  should  own  that  doctrine  particularly  with  respect  to 
his  case;  and  urged  much  more  concerning  their  favorite 
point,  upon  which,  however,  they  obtained  nothing  but  a 
repetition  in  substance  of  former  answers.  He  was  then 
proceeding  to  speak  of  Lady  Harriet  Wentworth — of  his 
high  esteem  for  her,  and  of  his  confirmed  opinion  that 
their  connection  was  innocent  in  the  sight  of  God 
—  when  Goslin,  the  sheriff,  asked  him,  with  all  the  un- 
feeling bluntness  of  a  vulgar  mind,  whether  he  was  ever 
married  to  her.  The  Duke  refusing  to  answer,  the  same 
magistrate,  in  the  like  strain,  though  changing  his  sub- 
ject, said  he  hoped  to  have  heard  of  his  repentance  for 
the  treason  and  bloodshed  which  had  been  committed; 
to  which  the  prisoner  replied,  with  great  mildness,  that 
he  died  very  penitent.  Here  the  churchmen  again  in- 
terposed, renewing  their  demand  of  particular  peni- 
tence and  public  acknowledgment  upon  public  affairs. 
Monmouth  referred  them  to  the  following  paper,  which 
he  signed  that  morning :  "  I  declare  that  the  title  of 
king  was  forced  upon  me,  and  that  it  was  very  much 
contrary  to  my  opinion  when  I  was  proclaimed.  For 
the  satisfaction  of  the  world,  I  do  declare  that  the  late 
King  told  me  he  was  never  married  t'o  my  mother.  Hav- 
ing declared  this,  I  hope  the  King  who  is  now  will  not  let 
my  children  suffer  on  this  account  And  to  this  I  put 
my  hand  this  fifteenth  day  of  July,  1685. —  Monmouth." 

There  was  nothing,  they  said,  in  that  paper  about  re- 
sistance; nor  —  though  Monmouth,  quite  worn  out  with 
their  importunities,  said  to  one  of  them,  in  the  most  af- 
fecting manner,  "  I  am  to  die,  pray,  my  Lord,  I  refer  to 
my  paper" — would  those  men  think  it  consistent  with 
their  duty  to  desist.  There  were  only  a  few  words  they 
desired  on  one  point.  The  substance  of  these  applica- 
tions on  one  hand,  and  answers  on  the  other,  was  re- 
peated over  and  over  again,  in  a  manner  that  could 
not  be  believed  if  the  facts  were  not  attested  by  the 
signatures  of  the  persons  princ/oally  concerned.  If  the 
Duke,  in  declaring  his  sorrow  for  what  had  passed, 
used  the  word  invasion,  "Give  it  the  true  name,"  said 
they,  "  and  call  it  rebellion"  "  What  name  you  please/' 
replied  the  mild-tempered  Monmouth.  He  was  sure  he 
VOL.  X.— ii 


162  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX 

was  going  to  everlasting  happiness,  and  considered  the 
serenity  of  his  mind  in  his  present  circumstances  as  a 
certain  earnest  of  the  favor  of  his  Creator.  His  re- 
pentance, he  said,  must  be  true,  for  he  had  no  fear  of 
dying;  he  should  die  like  a  lamb.  "Much  may  come 
from  natural  courage,"  was  the  unfeeling  and  brutal 
reply  of  one  of  the  assistant's.  Monmouth,  with  that 
modesty  inseparable  from  true  bravery,  denied  that  he 
was  in  general  less  fearful  than  other  men,  maintaining 
that  his  present  courage  was  owing  to  his  conscious- 
ness that  God  had  forgiven  him  his  past  transgressions, 
of  all  which  generally  he  repented  with  all  his  soul. 

At  last  the  reverend  assistants  consented  to  join  with 
him  in  prayer ;  but  no  sooner  were  they  risen  from  their 
kneeling  posture  than  they  returned  to  their  charge. 
Not  satisfied  with  what  had  passed,  they  exhorted  him 
to  a  true  and  thorough  repentance:  would  he  not  pray 
for  the  King?  and  send  a  dutiful  message  to  his  Majesty 
to  recommend  the  Duchess  and  his  children?  "As  you 
please,"  was  the  reply;  "I  pray  for  him  and  for  all  men." 
He  now  spoke  to  the  executioner,  desiring  that  he  might 
have  no  cap  over  his  eyes,  and  began  undressing.  One 
would  have  thought  that  in  this  last  sad  ceremony  the 
poor  prisoner  might  have  been  unmolested,  and  that  the 
divines  might  have  been  satisfied  that  prayer  was  the  only 
part  of  their  function  for  which  their  duty  now  called 
upon  them. 

They  judged  differently,  and  one  of  them  had  the 
fortitude  to  request  the  Duke,  even  in  this  stage  of  the 
business,  that  he  would  address  himself  to  the  soldiers 
then  present,  to  tell  them  he  stood  a  sad  example  of  re- 
bellion, and  entreat  the  people  to  be  loyal  and  obedi- 
ent to  the  King.  "  I  have  said  I  will  make  no  speeches/' 
repeated  Monmouth,  in  a  tone  more  peremptory  than  he 
had  before  been  provoked  to :  "  I  will  make  no  speeches  : 
I  come  to  die."  "  My  Lord,  ten  words  will  be  enough," 
said  the  persevering  divine;  to  which  the  Duke  made 
no  answer,  but  turning  to  the  executioner,  expressed  a 
hope  that  he  would  do  his  work  better  now  than  in  the 
case  of  Lord  Russell.  He  then  felt  the  axe,  which  he 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX  163 

apprehended  was  not  sharp  enough;  but  being  assured 
that  it  was  of  proper  sharpness  and  weight,  he  laid 
down  his  head.  In  the  meantime  many  fervent  ejacu- 
lations were  used  by  the  reverend  assistants,  who,  it 
must  be  observed,  even  in  these  moment's  of  horror, 
showed  themselves  not  unmindful  of  the  points  upon 
which  they  had  been  disputing  —  praying  God  to  accept 
his  imperfect  and  general  repentance. 

The  executioner  now  struck  the  blow,  but  so  feebly 
or  unskilfully,  that  Monmouth,  being  but  slightly  wounded, 
lifted  up  his  head  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  as*  if 
to  upbraid  him,  but  said  nothing.  The  two  following 
strokes  were  as  ineffectual  as  the  first,  and  the  headsman, 
in  a  fit  of  horror,  declared  that  he  could  not  finish  his 
work.  The  sheriffs  threatened  him;  he  was  forced  again 
to  make  a  further  trial,  and  in  two  more  strokes  separated 
the  head  from  the  body.  Thus  fell,  in  the  thirty-sixth 
year  of  his  age,  James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  a  man 
against  whom  all  that  has  been  said  by  the  most  inveterate 
enemies  both  to  him  and  his  party,  amounts  t'o  little 
more  than  this  —  that  he  had  not  a  mind  equal  to  the 
situation  in  which  his  ambition,  at  different  times,  engaged 
him  to  place  himself. —  History  of  James  the  Second. 

Besides  the  history  as  it  thus  concludes,  there  are  a 
few  short  paragraphs  evidently  intended  for  a  succeed- 
ing chapter.  Of  these  the  following  is  the  longest : 

PLANS   OF  JAMES   II. 

James  was  sufficiently  conscious  of  the  increased 
strength  of  his  situation,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  se- 
curity he  now  felt  in  his  power  inspired  him  with  the 
design  of  taking  more  decided  steps  in  favor  of  the 
Popish  religion  and  its  professors  than  his  connection 
with  the  Church  of  England  party  had  before  allowed 
him  to  entertain.  That  he  from  this  time  attached  less 
importance  to  the  support  and  affection  of  the  Tories 
is  evident  from  Lord  Rochester's  [Lawrence  Hyde]  ob- 
servations, communicated  afterwards  to  Burnet  This 


164  GEORGE  FOX 

nobleman's  abilities  and  experience  in  business,  his  hered- 
itary merit,  as  son  of  Lord  Chancellor  Clarendon,  and 
his  uniform  opposition  to  the  Exclusion  Bill,  had  raised, 
him  high  in  the  esteem  of  the  Church  party.  This  cir- 
cumstance, perhaps,  as  much  or  more  than  the  King's 
personal  kindness  to  a  brother-in-law,  had  contributed 
to  his  advancement  to  the  first  office  in  the  state.  As 
long,  therefore,  as  James  stood  in  need  of  the  support 
of  the  party,  as  long  as  he  meant  to  make  them  the  instru- 
ments of  his  power  and  the  channels  of  his  favor,  Roches- 
ter was  in  every  respect  the  fittest  person  in  whom  to 
confide;  and  accordingly,  as  that  nobleman  related  to 
Burnet,  His  Majesty  honored  him  with  daily  confidential 
communications  upon  all  his  most  secret  schemes  and 
projects.  But  upon  the  defeat  of  the  rebellion  an  im- 
mediate change  took  place,  and  from  the  day  of  Mon- 
mouth's  execution  the  King  confined  his  conversation  with 
the  Treasurer  to  the  mere  business  of  his  office. 

In  writing  the  History  of  James  IL,  Fox  laid  it 
down  as  a  principle  that  he  "would  admit  into  the 
work -no  word  for  which  he  had  not  the  authority  of 
Dryden."  Among  the  numerous  works  relating  to 
Fox,  the  most  notable  is  the  Memorials  and  Corres- 
pondence of  Charles  James  Fox,  edited  by  Lord  John 
Russell  (3  vols.,  1854). 


GEORGE,  the  founder  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  or  Quakers ;  born  at  Drayton-in-the- 
Clay,  Leicestershire,  England,  in  July,  1624; 
died  at  London,  January  13,  1691.  His  father  was  a 
pious  weaver,  but  too  poor  to  give  his  son  any  educa- 
tjpn  beyond  reading  ancl  Anting.  He  was  apprenticed 


GEORGE  FOX:  165 

to  a  shoemaker,  but  at  the  age  of  nineteen  he  aban- 
doned this  occupation,  and  for  some  years  led  a  soli- 
tary and  wandering  life,  preparing  himself  for  the 
mission  to  which  he  believed  himself  divinely  called. 
In  his  Journal  he  thus  describes  some  of  the  visions 
which  marked  his  spiritual  career : 

FOX'S  VISIONS. 

One  morning,  as  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  a  great 
cloud  came  over  me,  and  a  temptation  beset  me,  and 
I  sate  still.  And  it  was  said,  "  All  things  come  by  nat- 
ure ;  "  and  the  Elements  and  Stars  came  over  me,  so 
that  I  was  in  a  moment  quite  clouded  with  it;  but,  inas- 
much as  I  sat  still  and  said  nothing,  the  people  of  the; 
house  perceived  nothing.  And  as  I  sate  still  under  it 
and  let  it  alone,  a  living  hope  rose  in  me,  and  a  true 
voice  arose  in  me  which  cried:  "There  is  a  living  God 
who  made  all  things."  And  immediately  the  cloud  and 
temptation  vanished  away,  and  the  life  rose  over  it,  and 
all  my  heart  was  glad,  and  I  praised  the  living  God. 
.  .  .  Afterwards  the  Lord's  power  broke  forth,  and 
I  had  great  openings  and  prophecies,  and  spoke  unto 
the  people  of  the  things  of  God,  which  they  heard  with 
attention  and  silence,  and  went  away  and  spread  the  fame 
thereof. 

Fox  made  his  first  public  appearance  as  a  preacher 
at  Manchester  in  1648,  and  was  put  in  prison  as  a  dis- 
turber of  the  peace.  He  was  subsequently  for  nearly 
forty  years  beaten  and  imprisoned  times  almost  with- 
out number.  He  thus  describes  one  of  the  earliest  of 
these  experiences : 

MALTREATMENT    AT  ULVERSTOtfE. 

The  people  were  in  a  rage,  and  fell  upon  me  in  the 
steeple-house  before  his  [Justice  Sawrey's]  face,  knocked 
me  down,  kicked  me,  and  trampled  upon  me.  So  great 


i66  GEORGE  FOX 

was  the  uproar  that  some  tumbled  over  their  seats  for 
fear.    At  last  he  came  and  took  me  from  the  people, 
led  me  out  of  the  steeple-house,  and  put  me  into  the 
hands  of  the  constables  and  other  officers,  bidding  them 
whip  me,  and  put  me  out  of  the  town.    Many  friendly 
people  being  come  to  the  market,  and  some  to  the  steeple- 
house  to  hear  me,  divers  of  these  they  knocked  down 
also,  and  broke  their  heads,  so  that  the  blood  ran  down 
several;  and  Judge  Fell's  son  running  after  to  see  what 
they  would  do  with  me,  they  threw  him  into  a  ditch  of 
water,  some  of  them  crying :    "  Knock  the  teeth  out  of 
his  head."    When  they  had  hauled  me  to  the  common 
moss-side,  a  multitude  following,  the  constables  and  other 
officers  gave  me  some  blows  over  my  back  with  willow- 
rods,  and  thrust  me  among  the  rude  multitude,  who,  hav- 
ing furnished  themselves  with  staves,  hedge-stakes,  holm 
or  holly  bushes,  fell  upon  me,  and  beat  me  upon  the  head, 
arms,  and  shoulders,  till  they  had  deprived  me  of  sense; 
so  that  I  fell  down  upon  the  wet  common.    When  I  re- 
covered again,  and  saw  myself  lying  in  a  watery  common, 
and  the  people  standing  about  rue,  I  lay  still  a  little  while, 
and  the  power  of  the  Lord  sprang  through  me,  and  the 
eternal  refreshings  revived  me,  so  that  I  stood  up  again 
in  the   strengthening  power   of  the   eternal   God,   and, 
stretching  out  my  arms   amongst  them,  I  said  with   a 
loud  voice :  "  Strike  again !  here  are  my  arms,  my  head, 
and  cheeks ! "    Then  they  began  to  fall  out  among  them- 
selves.—  Journal. 

In  1655  Fox  was  sent  up  as  a  prisoner  to  London, 
where  he  had  an  interview  with  the  Lord  Protector, 
Oliver  Cromwell,  which  he  thus  describes : 

INTERVIEW  WITH   OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

After  Captain  Drury  had  lodged  me  at  the  Mermaid, 
over  against  the  Mews  at  Charing  Cross,  he  went  to 
give  the  Protector  an  account  of  me.  When  he  came 
to  me  again,  he  told  me  the  Protector  required  that  I 
should  promise  not  to  take  up  a  carnal  sword  or  weapon 


GEORGE  FOX  167 

against  him  or  the  government,  as  it  then  was;  and 
that  I  should  write  it  in  what  words  I  saw  good,  and 
set  my  hand  to  it  I  said  little  in  reply  to  Captain 
Drury,  but  the  next  morning  I  was  moved  of  the  Lord 
to  write  a  paper  to  the  Protector,  by  the  name  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  wherein  I  did,  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord 
God,  declare  that  I  did  deny  the  wearing  or  drawing  of 
a  "  carnal  sword,  or  any  other  outward  weapon,  against 
him  or  any  man;  and  that  I  was  sent  of  God  to  stand 
a  witness  against  all  violence,  and  against  the  works  of 
darkness,  and  to  turn  people  from  darkness  to  light;  to? 
bring  them  from  the  occasion  of  war  and  fighting  to 
the  peaceable  Gospel,  and  from  being  evil-doers,  which 
the  magistrates'  sword  should  be  a  terror  to."  When  I 
had  written  what  the  Lord  had  given  me  to  write,  I  set 
my  name  to  it,  and  gave  it  to  Captain  Drury  to  hand  to 
Oliver  Cromwell,  which  he  did. 

After  some  time,  Captain  Drury  brought  me  before 
the  Protector  himself  at  Whitehall  It  was  in  a  morn- 
ing, before  he  was  dressed;  and  one  Harvey,  who  had 
come  a  little  among  Friends,  but  was  disobedient,  waited 
upon  him.  When  I  came  in,  I  was  moved  to  say :  "  Peace 
be  in  this  house ; "  and  I  exhorted  him  to  keep  in  the 
fear  of  God,  that  he  might  receive  wisdom  from  Him; 
that  by  it  he  might  be  ordered,  and  with  it  might  order 
all  things  under  his  hand  unto  God's  glory.  I  spoke 
much  to  him  of  truth;  and  a  great  deal  of  discourse  I 
had  with  him  about  religion,  wherein  he  carried  himself 
very  moderately.  But  he  said  we  quarrelled  with  the 
priests,  whom  he  called  ministers.  I  told  him  "I  did 
not  quarrel  with  them,  they  quarrelled  with  me  and  my 
friends.  But,  said  I,  if  we  own  the  prophets,  Christ, 
and  the  Apostles,  we  cannot  hold  up  such  teachers, 
prophets,  and  shepherds  as  the  prophets,  Christ,  and 
the  Apostles  declared  against;  but  we  must  declare 
against  them  by  the  same  power  and  spirit"  Then  I 
showed  him  that  the  prophets,  Christ  and  the  Apostles 
declared  freely,  and  declared  against  them  that  did  not 
declare  freely;  such  as  preached  for  filthy  lucre,  divined 
for  money,  and  preached  for  hire,  and  were  covetous 


168  GEORGE  FOX 

and  greedy,  like  the  dumb  dogs  that  could  never  have 
enough;  and  that  they  who  have  the  same  spirit  that 
Christ,  and  the  prophets,  and  the  Apostles  had,  could 
not  but  declare  against  all  such  now,  as  they  did  then. 
As  I  spoke,  he  several  times  said  it  was  very  good,  and 
it  was  the  truth.  I  told  him:  "That  all  Christendom, 
so  called,  had  the  Scriptures,  but  they  wanted  the  power 
and  spirit  that  those  had  who  gave  forth  the  Scriptures, 
and  that  was  the  reason  they  were  not  in  fellowship 
with  the  Son,  nor  with  the  Father,  nor  with  the  Scriptures, 
nor  one  with  another." 

Many  more  words  I  had  with  him,  but  people  coming 
in,  I  drew  a  little  back.  As  I  was  turning,  he  catched 
me  by  the  hand,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  said :  "  Come 
again  to  my  house,  for  if  thou  and  I  were  but  an  hour  of 
a  day  together,  we  should  be  nearer  one  to  the  other; 
adding  that  he  wished  me  no  more  ill  than  he  did  to  his 
own  soul."  I  told  him,  if  he  did,  he  wronged  his  own 
soul,  and  admonished  him  to  hearken  to  God's  voice, 
that  he  might  stand  in  his  counsel,  and  obey  it;  and  if 
he  did  so,  that  would  keep  him  from  hardness  of  heart; 
but  if  he  did  not  hear  God's  voice,  his  heart  would  be 
hardened.  He  said  it  was  true. 

Then  I  went  out;  and  when  Captain  Drury  came  out 
after  me  he  told  me  the  Lord  Protector  said  I  was  at 
liberty,  and  might  go  whither  I  would.  Then  I  was 
brought  into  a  great1  hall,  where  the  Protector's  gentle- 
men were  to  dine.  I  asked  them  what  they  brought  me 
thither  for.  They  said  it  was  by  the  Protector's  order, 
that  I  might  dine  with  them.  I  bid  them  let  the  Pro- 
tector know  I  would  not  eat  of  his  bread,  nor  drink  of 
his  drink.  When  he  heard  this  he  said:  "Now  I  see 
there  is  a  people  risen  that  I  cannot  win,  either  with 
gifts,  honors,  offices,  or  places;  but  all  other  sects  and 
people  I  can."  It  was  told  him  again  "  That  we  had  for- 
sook our  own,  and  were  not  like  to  look  for  such  things 
from  him." — Journal. 


'GEORGE  FOX  169 

Three  years  later  Fox  had  one  more  brief  meeting 
with  Oliver,  not  many  days  before  his  death : 

A  WAFT   OF  DEATH. 

The  same  day,  taking  boat,  I  went  down  to  King- 
ston, and  from  thence  to  Hampton  Court,  to  speak  with 
the  Protector  about  the  sufferings  of  Friends.  I  met 
him  riding  into  Hampton  Court  Park;  and  before  I 
came  to  him,  as  he  rode  at  the  head  of  his  life-guard,  I 
saw  and  felt  a  waft  of  death  go  forth  against  him:  and 
when  I  came  to  him  he  looked  like  a  dead  man.  After 
I  had  laid  the  sufferings  of  Friends  before  him,  and  had 
warned  him  according  as  I  was  moved  to  speak  to  him, 
he  bade  me  come  to  his  house.  So  I  returned  to  King- 
ston, and  the  next  day  went  up  to  Hampton  Court  to 
speak  further  with  him.  But  when  I  came,  Harvey, 
who  was  one  that  waited  on  him,  told  me  the  doctors 
were  not  willing  that  I  should  speak  with  him.  So  I 
passed  away,  and  never  saw  him  more. —  Journal. 

After  the  restoration  of  Charles  II.,  Fox  was  sub- 
jected to  repeated  imprisonments.  In  1669  he  mar- 
ried Margaret  Fell,  the  widow  of  a  Welsh  judge,  who 
had  been  among  his  earliest  converts.  Soon  after- 
ward he  set  out  upon  a  missionary  tour  to  the  West 
Indies  and  North  America.  In  his  later  years  he 
seems  to  have  encountered  little  annoyance  from  the 
Government. 


170  JOHN  WILLIAM  FOX 


0OX,  JOHN  WILLIAM,  an  American  novelist; 
born  in  Bourbon  County,  Ky.,  in  1863.  He 
was  graduated  from  Harvard  in  1883.  His 
first  book  of  short  stories  Hell  for  Sartain,  and  other 
Stories,  appeared  in  1897.  This  was  followed  by  A 
Mountain  Europa  (1899)  ;  The  Kentuckians  ( 18987 ; 
Crittenden  ( 1900) ;  Blue  Grass  and  Rhododendron 
(1901);  The  Little  Shepherd  of  Kingdom  Come 
(1903);  Christmas  Eve  at  Lonesome  (1904);  and 
Following  the  Sun-Flag  (1905).  The  latter  volume 
is  the  result  of  Mr.  Fox's  experience  as  a  war  cor- 
respondent in  Japan.  In  the  book  he  tells  of  "  a  vain 
pursuit  through  Manchuria."  These  are  first-hand 
impressions  of  the  scenes  of  some  of  the  actions  of  the 
Russo-Japanese  war  in  the  Far  East.  The  author 
recounts  some  experiences  in  Tokio  while  waiting  for 
permission  to  go  to  the  front. 

The  fiction  written  by  Mr.  Fox  depicts  the  life  of 
the  Kentuckian  among  his  native  hills.  In  an  ex- 
tended review  of  The  Little  Shepherd  of  Kingdom 
Come,  a  writer  in  the  New  York  Times  says: 

KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINEERS. 

The  Little  Shepherd  of  Kingdom  Come  is  a  tale  throw- 
ing much  light  upon  the  traditions  and  characteristics  of 
those  unique  folk,  the  Kentucky  mountaineers.  It  is  an 
admirable  and  sympathetic  study  of  ambitious  boyhood. 
It  makes  one  realize  as  never  before  the  peculiarly  agoniz- 
ing effects  of  the  civil  war  in  a  border  State,  the  line  of 
cleavage  parting  parent  from  child,  brother  from  brother, 
friend  from  friend.  It  celebrates  the  dash  and  derring-do 
of  Morgan's  men,  and  it  tenderly  touches  not  only  the 
master  passion  but  many  other  emotions  of  the  human  — 
and  canine  —  heart.  For  a  boy  and  a  dog  take  hold  of  us 


JOHN  FOXE  171 

in  the  beginning,  and  do  not  let  us  go  until  the  last  page 
is  reached.  There  is  a  little  lapse  into  the  improbably 
romantic  in  the  satisfactory  clearing  up  of  mysteries  and 
leveling  of  obstacles  in  the  hero's  path,  but  we  are  too 
grateful  for  a  happy  ending,  albeit  with  a  shadow  upon 
it,  to  be  hypercritical.  The  story  is  told  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  highest  art  and  with  a  sincerity  that  carries 
the  reader  along  with  it  to  an  unusual  degree.  The 
"lift"  and  beauty  of  the  style  give  distinction  to  the 
book,  and  should  place  it  outside  the  category  of  ephe- 
meral novels.  Mr.  Fox  treats  of  the  civil  war  with  the 
large  comprehension  more  and  more  apparent  in  Southern 
writers,  hence  his  book  makes  for  that  sectional  harmony 
which  only  a  complete  understanding  of  each  other's  point 
of  view  can  achieve.  The  lover  of  romance  pure  and 
simple,  the  student  of  character,  the  searcher  for  historic 
truth,  all  will  find  much  to  delight  him  in  this  novel. 


pOXE,  JOHN,  an  English  martyrologist ;  born  at 
Boston,  Lincolnshire,  in  1516;  died  at  London 
April  1 8,  1587.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford, 
and  in  1543  was  elected  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen  College, 
but  having  embraced  the  principles  of  the  Reformation, 
he  was  two  years  afterward  deprived  of  his  Fellow- 
ship; his  stepfather  also  succeeded  in  depriving  him 
of  his  patrimony.  Subsequently  we  find  him  acting  as 
tutor  to  the  children  of  Sir  James  Lucy  (Shakespeare's 
"Justice  Shallow").  In  1550  he  was  ordained  as 
deacon  by  Bishop  Ridley,  and  settled  at  Reigate.  Af- 
ter the  accession  of  Queen  Mary  Tudor  he  was  obliged 
to  seek  refuge  on  the  Continent,  taking  up  his  resi- 
dence at  Basel,  Switzerland,  where  he  maintained  him- 
self as  a  corrector  of  the  press  for  the  printer  Oporinus, 


172  JOHN  FOXE 

At  the  suggestion  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  he  had  already 
begun  the  composition  of  his  Ada  et  Monumenta 
Ecclesia,  commonly  known  as  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs, 
in  which  he  received  considerable  assistance  from  Grin- 
dal,  afterward  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  from 
Aylmer,  afterward  Bishop  of  London,  who  became  one 
of  the  most  zealous  opponents  of  the  Puritans.  He 
returned  to  England  soon  after  the  accession  of  Eliza- 
beth, and  rose  into  favor  with  the  new  Government, 
to  which  he  had  rendered  notable  service  by  his  pen. 
Cecil,  Lord  Burleigh,  made  him  a  prebend  in  Salisbury 
Cathedral,  and  for  a  short  time  he  held  the  living  of 
Cripplegate,  London;  but,  true  to  his  Puritan  princi- 
ples, he  refused  to  subscribe  to  the  Articles,  and  de- 
clined to  accept  further  preferments. 

The  first  outline  of  the  Acta  appeared  at  Basel  in 
1554,  and  the  first  complete  edition  five  years  later. 
The  first  English  edition  was  printed  in  1563.  The 
book  became  highly  popular  with  a  people  who  had 
just  gone  through  the  horrors  of  the  Marian  persecu- 
tion; and  Government  directed  that  a  copy  should  be 
placed  in  every  parish  church.  The  title  of  the  work 
will  best  set  forth  its  scope  and  design. 

ORIGINAL  TITLE  OF  THE 

Acts  and  Monuments  of  these  latter  and  perilous 
Dayes,  touching  matters  of  the  Church,  wherem  are 
comprehended  and  described  the  great  Persecutions  and 
horrible  Troubles  that  have  been  wrought  and  practised 
by  the  Romishe  Prelates,  especiallye  in  this  Realme  of 
England  and  Scotland,  from  the  yeare  of  our  Lorde  a 
thousand  to  the  time  now  present  Gathered  and  col- 
lected according  to  the  true  Copies  and  Wrytinges  cer- 
tificatorie  as  well  of  the  Parties  themselves  that  Suffered, 


JOHN  FOXE  173 

as  also  out  of  the  Bishop's  Registers,  which  were  the 
doers  thereof,  by  John  Foxe. 

One  of  the  most  notable  of  the  martyrdoms  recorded 
by  Foxe  is  prefaced  by  the  following  heading:  "A 
Notable  History  of  William  Hunter,  a  Young  Man  of 
nineteen  years,  pursued  to  death  by  Justice  Brown, 
for  the  Gospel's  Sake,  Worthy  of  all  Young  Men  and 
Parents  to  be  read :  " 

THE  MARTYRDOM   OF  WILLIAM   HUNTER, 

In  the  meantime,  William's  father  ,and  mother  came  to 
him,  and  desired  heartily  of  God  that1  he  might  continue 
to  the  end  in  that  good  way  which  he  had  begun;  and 
his  mother  said  to  him  that  she  was  glad  that  ever  she 
was  so  happy  to  bear  such  a  child,  which  could  find  in 
his  heart  to  lose  his  life  for  Christ's  name  sake. 

Then  William  said  to  his  mother :  "  For  my  little  pain 
which  I  shall  suffer,  which  is  but  a  short  braid,  Christ 
hath  promised  me,  mother,"  said  he,  "a  crown  of  joy: 
may  you  not  be  glad  of  that,  mother  ?  "  With  that,  his 
mother  kneeled  down  on  her  knees,  saying:  "I  pray 
God  strengthen  thee,  my  son,  to  the  end:  yea,  I  think 
thee  as  well  bestowed  as  any  child  that  ever  I  bare." 

At  the  which  words,  Master  Higbed  took  her  in  his 
arms,  saying:  "I  rejoice"  (and  so  said  the  others)  "to 
see  you  in  this  mind,  and  you  have  a  good  cause  to  re- 
joice." And  his  father  and  mother  both  said  that  they 
were  never  of  other  mind,  but  prayed  for  him,  that  as  he 
had  begun  to  confess  Christ  before  men,  he  likewise  might 
so  continue  to  the  end.  William's  father  said:  "I  was 
afraid  of  nothing,  but  that  my  son  should  have  been 
killed  in  the  prison  for  hunger  and  cold,  the  bishop  was 
so  hard  to  him."  But  William  confessed  after  a  month 
that  his  father  was  charged  with  his  board,  that  he  lacked 
nothing,  but  had  meat  and  clothing  enough,  yea,  even 
out  of  the  court,-  both  money,  meat,  clothes,  wood,  and 
coals,  and  all  things  necessary. 


174  JOHN  FOXE 

Thus  they  continued  in  their  inn,  being  the  Swan  in 
Bruntwood,  in  a  parlour,  whither  resorted  many  people 
of  the  country,  to  see  those  good  men  which  were  there; 
and  many  of  William's  acquaintance  came  to  him,  and 
reasoned  with  him,  and  he  with  them,  exhorting  them  to 
come  away  from  the  abomination  of  popish  superstition 
and  idolatry. 

Thus  passing  away  Saturday,  Sunday,  and  Monday,  on 
Monday,  at  night,  it  happened  that  William  had  a  dream 
about  two  of  the  clock  in  the  morning,  which  was  this: 
how  that  he  was  at  the  place  where  the  stake  was  pight, 
where  he  should  be  burned,  which  (as  he  thought  in  his 
dream)  was  at  the  town's  end  where  the  butts  stood, 
which  was  so  indeed;  and  also  he  dreamed  that  he  met 
with  his  father,  as  he  went  to  the  stake,  and  also  that 
there  was  a  priest  at  the  stake,  which  went  about  to  have 
him  recant.  To  whom  he  said  (as  he  thought  in  his 
dream),  how  that  he  bade  him  away  —  false  prophet  — 
and  how  that  he  exhorted  the  people  to  beware  of  him 
and  such  as  he  was;  which  things  came  to  pass  indeed. 
It  happened  that  William  made  a  noise  to  himself  in  his 
dream,  which  caused  M.  Higbed  and  the  others  to  wake 
him  out  of  his  sleep,  to  know  what  he  lacked.  When 
he  awakened,  he  told  them  his  dream  in  order  as  is  said. 

Now,  when  it  was  day,  the  sheriff,  M.  Brocket,  called 
on  to  set  forward  to  the  burning  of  William  Hunter.  Then 
came  the  sheriff's  son  to  William  Hunter,  and  embraced 
him  in  his  right  arm,  saying:  "William,  be  not  afraid 
of  these  men,  which  are  here  present  with  bows,  bills, 
and  weapons  ready  prepared  to  bring  you  to  the  place 
where  you  shall  be  burned."  To  whom  William  an- 
swered :  "  I  thank  God  I  am  not  afraid ;  for  I  have 
cast  my  count  what  it  will  cost  me,  already."  Then  the 
sheriff's  son  could  speak  no  more  to  him  for  weeping. 

Then  William  Hunter  plucked  up  his  gown,  and  stepped 
over  the  parlor  grounsel,  and  went  forward  cheerfully, 
the  sheriff's  servant  taking  him  by  one  arm,  and  his 
brother  by  another;  and  thus  going  in  the  way,  he  met 
with  his  father,  according  to  his  dream,  and  he  spake  to 
his  son,  weeping,  and  saying:  "God  be  with  thee,  son 


JOHN  FOXE  175 

William;"  and  William  said:  "God  be  with  you,  good 
father,  and  be  of  good  comfort,  for  I  hope  we  shall  meet 
again,  when  we  shall  be  merry."  His  father  said:  "I 
hope  so,  William,"  and  so  departed.  So  William  went 
to  the  place  where  the  stake  stood,  even  according  to 
his  dream,  whereas  all  things  were  very  unready.  Then 
William  took  a  wet  broom  fagot,  and  kneeled  down 
thereon,  and  read  the  5ist  psalm  till  he  came  to  these 
words:  "The  sacrifice  of  God  is  a  contrite  spirit;  a 
contrite  and  a  broken  heart,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not 
despise." 

Then  said  Master  Tyrell  of  the  Bratches,  called  Wil- 
liam Tyrell:  "Thou  liest',"  said  he;  "thou  readest  false, 
for  the  words  are,  *  an  humble  spirit/ "  But  William 
said:  "The  translation  saith  'a  contrite  heart"  "Yes," 
quoth  Mr.  Tyrell,  "the  translation  is  false;  ye  trans- 
late books  as  ye  list  yourselves,  like  heretics."  "Well," 
quoth  William,  "there  is  no  great  difference  in  those 
words."  Then  said  the  sheriff:  "Here  is  a  letter  from 
the  queen;  if  thou  wilt  recant,  thou  shalt  live;  if  not, 
thou  shalt  be  burned."  "No,"  quoth  William,"  I  will 
not  recant,  God  willing."  Then  William  rose,  and  went 
to  the  stake,  and  stood  upright  to  it  Then  came  one 
Richard  Pond,  a  bailiff,  and  made  fast  the  chain  about 
William. 

Then  said  Master  Brown:  "Here  is  not  wood  enough 
to  burn  a  leg  of  him."  Then  said  William :  "  Good 
people,  pray  for  me;  and  make  speed,  and  despatch 
quickly;  and  pray  for  me  while  ye  see  me  alive,  good 
people,  and  I  will  pray  for  you  likewise."  "How!" 
quoth  Master  Brown,  "pray  for  thee?  I  will  pray  no 
more  for  thee  than  I  will  pray  for  a  dog."  To  whom 
William  answered:  "Master  Brown,  now  you  have  that 
which  you  sought  for,  and  I  pray  God  it  be  not  laid  to 
your  charge  in  the  last  day;  howbeit,  I  forgive  you." 
Then  said  Master  Brown:  "I  ask  no  forgiveness  of  thee." 
"  Well,"  said  William,  "  if  God  forgive  you  not,  I  shall 
require  my  blood  at  your  hands." 

Then  said  William :  "  Son  of  God,  shine  upon  me ! " 
and  immediately  the  sun  in  the  element  shone  out  of  a 


176  JOHN  FOXE 

dark  cloud  so  full  in  his  face  that  he  was  constrained  to 
look  another  way;  whereat  the  people  mused,  because 
it  was  so  dark  a  little  time  afore.  Then  William  took 
up  a  fagot  of  broom,  and  embraced  it  in  his  arms. 

Then  this  priest  which  William  dreamed  of  came  to 
his  brother  Robert  with  a  popish  book  to  carry  to  Wil- 
liam, that  he  might  recant;  which  book  his  brother  would 
not  meddle  withal.  Then  William,  seeing  the  priest,  and 
perceiving  how  he  would  have  shewed  him  the  book,  said : 
"  Away,  thou  false  prophet !  Beware  of  them,  good  peo- 
ple, and  come  away  from  their  abominations,  lest  that  you 
be  partakers  of  their  plagues."  Then  quoth  the  priest: 
"Look  how  thou  burnest  here;  so  shalt  thou  burn  in 
hell."  William  answered :  "  Thou  liest,  thou  false  prophet ! 
Away,  thou  false  prophet !  away !  " 

Then  there  was  a  gentleman  which  said :  "  I  pray  God 
have  mercy  upon  his  soul."  The  people  said:  "Amen, 
Amen." 

Immediately  fire  was  made.  Then  William  cast  his 
psalter  right  into  his  brother's  hand,  who  said :  "  Wil- 
liam, think  on  the  holy  passion  of  Christ,  and  be  not 
afraid  of  death."  And  William  answered :  "I  am  not 
afraid."  Then  lift  he  up  his  hands  to  Heaven,  and  said: 
"  Lord,  Lord,  Lord,  receive  my  spirit ! "  And  casting 
down  his  head  again  into  the  smothering  smoke,  he 
yielded  up  his  life  for  the  truth,  sealing  it  with  his  blood 
to  the  praise  of  God. —  Book  of  Martyrs. 

THE  BOOK   OF  ANNE  BOLEYN. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  that  godly  lady  and  queen. 
Godly  I  call  her,  for  sundry  respects,  whatever  the  cause 
was,  or  quarrel  objected  against  her.  First,  her  last 
words,  spoken  at  her  death,  declared  no  less  her  sincere 
faith  and  trust  in  Christ  than  did  her  quiet  modesty 
utter  forth  the  goodness  of  the  cause  and  matter,  what- 
soever it  was.  Besides  that,  to  such  as  can  wisely  judge 
upon  cases  occurrent,  this  also  may  seem  to  give  a  great 
clearing  unto  her,  that  the  king,  the  third  day  after,  was 
married  unto  another.  Certain  this  was  that  for  the  rare 


ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON  177 

and  singular  gifts  of  her  mind,  so  well  instructed,  and 
given  toward  God  with  such  a  fervent  desire  unto  the 
truth,  and  setting  forth  of  sincere  religion,  joined  with 
like  gentleness,  modesty  and  pity  toward  all  men,  there 
have  not  many  such  queens  before  her  borne  the  Crown 
of  England.  Principally  this  one  commendation  she  left 
behind  her,  that  during  her  life  the  religion  of  Christ 
most  happily  flourished,  and  had  a  right  prosperous  course. 
—  Book  of  Martyrs. 


pRANCILLON,  ROBERT  EDWARD,  an  English 
novelist;  born  at  Gloucester,  March  25,  1841. 
He  was  educated  at  Cheltenham  College  and 
at  Oxford,  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1864.  In  1867  he  edited  the  Law  Magazine.  The 
next  year  his  first  work  of  fiction,  Grace  Owen's  En- 
gagement, was  published  in  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
He  has  contributed  many  novelettes  and  short  stories 
and  articles  to  magazines;  written  songs  for  music, 
and  served  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Globe  newspa- 
per. Among  his  novels  are  EarFs  Dene  (1870) ; 
Pearl  and  Emerald  (1872)  ;  Zeldcfs  Fortune  (1873)  J 
Olympia  (1874) ;  A  Dog  and  His  Shadow  (1876)  ; 
Rare  Good  Luck  and  In  the  Dark  (1877)  ;  Strange 
Waters  and  Left-Handed  Elsa  (1879)  ;  Queen  Co- 
phetua;  Under  Slieve  Ban  (1881)  ;  Quits  at  Last;  By 
Day, and  Night  (1883)  ;  A  Real  Queen;  Jack  Doyle's 
Daughter  (1884) ;  Face  to  Face;  Ropes  of  Sand 
1885) ;  Golden  Bells;  Christmas  Rose;  King  or 
Knave  (1888)  ;  Romances  of  the  Law  (1892)  ;  and 
Gods  and  Heroes  (1895). 

VOL.  X.— 12 


i;8  ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON 


A  PERSISTENT  LOVER. 

Things  happened  slowly  at  Dunmoyle.  Even  the  har- 
vest was  later  there  than  elsewhere.  But  still  the  harvest 
did  come  —  sometimes;  and  things  did  happen  now  and 
then.  Everything  had  gone  wrong  since  Phil  Ryan  was 
drowned.  And  now  Kate's  grandmother,  who  had  been 
nothing  but  a  burden  to  all  who  knew  her  for  years,  fell 
ill,  and  became  what  most  people  would  have  called  a 
burden  upon  Kate  also.  But  as  for  Kate,  she  bore  it 
bravely;  and  not'  even  her  poet  lover  had  the  heart  to 
call  her  dull  any  more.  He  did  not  help  her  much,  but 
he  sat  a  great  deal  on  the  three-legged  stool,  and  dis- 
coursed to  the  old  woman  so  comfortably  and  philosoph- 
ically when  Kate  happened  to  be  absent,  that  the  familiar 
ecclesiastical  sound  of  his  profane  Latin  often  deceived 
her  into  crossing  herself  devoutly  at  the  names  of  Bac- 
chus and  Apollo.  Grotesque  enough  was  the  scene  at 
times  when,  in  the  smoky  twilight,  the  schoolmaster  sat 
and  spouted  heathen  poetry  to  the  bedridden  old  peasant 
woman,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  goblin  who  had 
been  sent  expressly  to  toremnt  the  deathbed  of  a  sinner. 
And  no  impression  could  have  been  more  untrue.  For  a 
too  intimate  knowledge  of  how  potheen  may  be  made  and 
sold  without  enriching  the  King  is  scarcely  a  sin,  and  had 
it  not  been  for  the  goblin,  Kate  would  never  have  been 
able  to  go  outside  the  door. 

Father  Kane,  too,  came  often,  and  discoursed  a  more 
orthodox  kind  of  learning.  But  Michael  Fay  came  nearly 
every  day;  and  whenever  he  and  Kate  were  in  the  room 
together,  the  goblin  would  creep  out  and  leave  them  by 
themselves.  Michael  was  indeed  of  unspeakable  help  to 
her  in  those  days.  The  shyness  that  Denis  Rooney  had 
planted  left  her,  and  she  was  not  afraid  to  tell  herself  that 
she  looked  up  to  Michael  as  to  a  brother  —  and  in  that  at 
least  there  was  no  treason  to  Phil.  But  at  last  all  was 
over,  and  Kate  was  alone  in  the  world  —  not  less  the  great 
world,  cold  and  wide,  though  it  was  only  Dunmoyle. 

"Kate/'  said  Michael,  at  the  end  of  about  a  week 
after  the  funeral.  It  is  not  much  of  a  speech  to  write, 


ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON  179 

but  her  name  was  always  a  great  thing  for  him  to  say. 
They  were  in  the  cabin  where  her  grandmother  had 
died,  and  it  had  become  a  more  desolate  place  than  ever. 
She  had  gone  back  to  her  spinning.  But  he  did  not  oc- 
cupy the  three-legged  stool  —  not,  by  any  means,  because 
he  was  afraid  of  losing  dignity,  but  simply  because  his 
weight  would  most  inevitably  have  changed  its  three  legs 
into  two. 

He  was  leaning  against  the  wall  behind  her,  so  that 
he  could  see  little  of  her  through  the  darkness  —  there 
was  no  smoke  to-day  because  there  was  no  fire  —  except 
her  cloaked  shoulders  and  coil  of  black  hair,  and  she 
saw  nothing  of  him  at  all.  She  did  not  hear,  even  in 
his  "Kate,"  more  than  a  simple  mention  of  her  name, 
"Kate"  certainly  did  not  seem  to  call  for  an  answer. 
But  it  was  some  time  before  he  said  anything  more.  To 
his  own  heart  he  had  already  said  a  great  deal. 

"  Kate,"  he  said  again  at  last,  "  there's  something  I've 
had  in  my  heart  to  tell  ye  for  a  long  while.  .  .  .  'Tis 
this,  ye  see.  .  .  .  Ye' re  all  alone  by  yourself  now,  and 
so  am  L  Not  one  of  us  has  got  a  living  soul  but  our 
own  to  care  for:  all  of  my  kin  are  dead  and  gone,  and 
there's  none  left  of  yours.  .  .  .  Why  wouldn't  we  — 
why  wouldn't  we  be  alone  together,  Kate,  instead  of  being 
alone  by  ourselves?  I  don't  ask  for  more  than  ye've  got 
to  give  me.  *Tis  giving,  I  want  to  be,  not  taking,  God 
knows.  Fve  always  loved  ye  —  from  the  days  when  ye 
weren't  higher  than  that  stool ;  and  I've  never  seen  a  face 
to  come  between  me  and  yours,  and  I  never  will.  But 
I've  never  loved  ye  like  now.  And  I  wouldn't  spake  while 
ye  weren't  alone;  but'  now  I  want  to  give  ye  my  hands 
and  my  soul  and  my  life,  to  keep  ye  from  all  harm.  It's 
not  for  your  love  I'm  askin' ;  it's  to  let  me  love  you!9 

The  passion  in  his  voice  had  deepened  and  quickened 
as  he  went  on.  But  he  did  not  move.  He  was  still  lean- 
ing against  the  wall,  when  she  turned  round  and  faced 
him  —  a  little  pale,  but  unconf used. 

"  And  are  ye  f orgettin'  ! "  she  said,  quietly  and  sadly, 
"that  I'm  the  widow  of  Phil  Ryan  thafs  drowned?  " 

"  And  if  —  if  ye  were  his  real  widow  —  if  ye  wore  his 


i8o  ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON 

ring —  would  ye  live  and  die  by  yourself,  and  break  the 
heart  of  a  livin'  man  for  the  sake  of  one  that's  gone?" 

"  Not  gone  to  me,"  said  she.  "  Oh,  Michael,  why  do 
ye  say  such  things?  Aren't  we  own  brother  and  sister, 
as  if  we'd  been  in  the  same  cradle,  and  had  both  lost  the 
same  kin?  "Would  ye  ask  me  to  be  false  to  the  boy  I 
swore  to  marry,  and  none  but  him?  Why  will  ye  say 
things  that'll  make  me  go  away  over  the  hills  and  never 
see  ye  again?" 

It  was  not  in  human  nature,  however  patient,  to  hear 
her  set  up  the  ghost  of  this  dead  sailor  lad,  drowned  years 
ago,  as  an  insuperable  barrier  between  her  and  her  living 
lover,  without  some  touch  of  jealous  anger.  Have  I  not, 
felt  Michael,  served  my  time  for  her,  and  won  her  well  ? 
Could  that  idle  vagabond  have  given  her  half  the  love  in 
all  her  life  that  I'm  asking  her  to  take  this  day?  But  he 
said  nothing  of  his  feeling.  He  thought;  and  he  could 
find  no  fault  with  what  was  loyal  true. 

"I'm  the  last  to  blame  ye  for  not  forgettin',  Kate," 
said  he.  "  It's  what  I  couldn't  do  myself.  But  I'm  not 
askin5  ye  to  forget — I'm  askin'  ye  to  help  a  livin'  man 
live,  and  that  doesn't  want  ye  to  give  him  your  life,  but 
only  to  give  you  his  own.  Ye  can  feel  to  me  like  a  sis- 
ter, Kate,  if  ye  plase,  till  the  time  comes  for  better  things, 
as  maybe  it  will,  and  as  it  will  if  I  can  bring  it  anyhow. 
If  ye  were  my  own  sister,  wouldn't  ye  come  to  me  ?  And 
why  wouldn't  ye  come  now,  when  ye  say  yo-ur  own  self 
ye're  just  the  same  as  if  ye  were?  It's  for  your  own 
sake  Fm  askin'  ye  —  but  it's  for  my  own,  too.  Live  with- 
out ye?  Indeed,  I  won't  know  how." 

His  last  words  were  to  the  purpose;  for  it  is  for  his 
own  sake  that  a  woman,  as  well  in  Dunmoyle  as  else- 
where, would  have  a  man  love  her,  and  not  for  hers. 
But  she  only  said,  as  she  bent  over  her  wheel: 

"  It  can't  be,  Michael.    Don't  ask  me  again." 

So  finely  and  yet  so  tenderly  she  said  it  that  he  felt 
as  if  he  had  no  more  to  say.  He  could  only  leave  her 
then ;  though  he  no  more  meant  to  give  up  Kate  than  he 
meant  to  give  up  Rathcool. —  Under  Slieve  Ban. 


SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  SALES  181 


?  RANGES  OF  SALES,  SAINT,  a  French  theolo- 
gian ;  born  at  Sales,  near  Annecy,  August  27, 
1567;  died  at  Lyons,  November  22,  1622.  He 
at  first  studied  law  in  Paris  under  Guy  Pancirola,  but 
in  1593  he  exercised  his  office  as  a  priest  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  when  he  tried  to  convert  the  patri- 
arch, Theodore  Beza,  of  Protestantism,  but  without 
success.  In  1602,  Francis  was  appointed  Bishop  of 
Geneva,  an  office,  however,  without  practical  control 
over  the  immediate  Genevese  district.  The  same  year, 
he  went  to  Paris  and  preached  acceptably  at  the  court 
of  Henry  IV.  At  Dijon,  two  years  later,  he  met 
Madame  de  Chantal,  with  whom  he  subsequently 
founded  the  Order  of  Visitation.  Henri  IV.  offered 
Francis  the  highest  dignities  to  remain  in  France,  but 
he  refused,  although  his  visits  to  Paris  were  renewed. 
In  1608,  his  Introduction  to  a  Holy  Life  appeared. 
This  book,  which  is  still  a  Roman  Catholic  manual  of 
devotion,  saw  several  editions.  His  Treatise  on  the 
Love  of  God  (1614)  was  still  more  popular.  "The 
contemporary  of  Montaigne,  Saint  Francis  has  been 
compared  to  that  great  writer  for  originality  of  style 
and  charm  of  diction,  although  from  his  mystical  ten- 
dencies and  evangelical  fervor  and  simplicity,  it  would 
be  more  correct  to  compare  him  to  Fenelon.  Selec- 
tions from  his  works  are  common,  and  no  doubt,  from 
the  beauty  of  his  character,  the  opulence  of  his  genius, 
his  insinuating  and  invincible  unction,  he  is  one  of  the 
men  of  whom  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  has  most 
reason  to  be  proud."  Even  in  childhood,  he  -would 
save  portions  of  his  food  for  the  poor,  and  enjoyed 
visits  of  charity  which  he  made  with  his  mother.  At 


i82  SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  SALES 

the  age  of  eleven,  after  having  finished  his  studies  at 
Rocheville  and  Annecy,  he  was  priested.  He  travelled 
later  in  Paris  with  his  tutor  and  studied  in  the  Jesuit 
schools.  His  teachers  in  divinity  were  Genebrard  and 
Maldonatus.  About  eighteen,  he  became  very  ill,  and 
on  his  recovery  visited  the  shrines  and  antiquities  of 
Italy,  Rome,  Ferrara,  Loretto,  and  Venice.  In  1591, 
he  established  at  Annecy,  a  confraternity  of  the  Holy 
Cross,  whose  object  was  the  aid  of  the  sick,  ignorant, 
and  prisoners.  Lawsuits  were  forbidden.  From  his 
pen  we  have  The  Invention  of  the  Cross;  Preparation 
for  Mass;  Instructions  for  Confessors;  Entertainments 
to  Nuns  of  the  Visitation.  His  corpse  was  embalmed 
and  buried  with  great  pomp  at  Annecy.  It  was  laid 
in  a  magnificent  tomb  near  the  high  altar  in  the  church 
of  the  first  monastery  of  the  Visitation.  After  his 
beatification  by  Alexander  VII.  in  1661,  it  was  placed 
upon  the  altar  in  a  rich  silver  shrine.  He  was  canon- 
ized in  1665  by  the  same  Pope,  and  his  feast  set  for 
January  29th,  on  which  day  he  was  conveyed  to  An- 
necy. His  heart  was  kept  in  a  leaden  case  in  the 
Church  of -the  Visitation  at  Lyons;  it  was  afterward 
exposed  in  a  silver  one,  and  lastly  in  one  of  gold,  the 
gift  of  Louis  XIII. 

MEEKNESS. 

Truth  must  be  always  charitable,  for  bitter  zeal  does 
harm  instead  of  good.  Reprehensions  are  a  food  of 
hard  digestion,  and  ought  to  be  dressed  on  a  fire  of 
burning  chanty  so  well,  that  all  harshness  be  taken  off; 
otherwise,  like  unripe  fruit,  they  will  only  produce  grip- 
ings.  Charity  seeks  not  itself  nor  its  own  interests,  but 
purely  the  honor  and  interest  of  God:  pride,  vanity,  and 
passion  cause  bitterness  and  harshness.  A  remedy  inju- 


SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI  183 

diciously  applied  may  be  a  poison.    A  judicious  silence 
is  always  better  than  a  truth  spoken  without  charity. 

The  most  powerful  remedy  against  sudden  starts  of 
impatience  is  a  sweet  and  amiable  silence;  however  lit- 
tle one  speaks,  self-love  will  have  a  share  in  it,  and 
some  word  will  escape  that  may  sour  the  heart,  and  dis- 
turb its  peace  for  a  considerable  time.  When  nothing 
is  said,  and  cheerfulness  preserved,  the  storm  subsides, 
anger  and  indiscretion  are  put  to  flight,  and  nothing  re- 
mains but  a  joy,  pure  and  lasting.  The  person  who  pos- 
sesses Christian  meekness,  is  affectionate  and  tender 
toward  everyone;  he  is  disposed  to  forgive  and  excuse 
the  frailties  of  others;  the  goodness  of  his  heart  ap- 
pears in  a  sweet  affability  that  influences  his  words  and 
actions,  and  presents  every  object  to  his  view  in  the 
most  charitable  and  pleasing  light;  he  never  admits  in 
his  discourse  any  harsh  expression,  much  less  any  term 
that  is  haughty  or  rude.  An  amiable  serenity  is  always 
painted  on  his  countenance,  which  remarkably  distin- 
guishes him  from  those  violent  characters  who,  with 
looks  full  of  fury,  know  only  how  to  refuse;  or  who, 
when  they  grant,  do  it  with  so  bad  a  grace,  that  they 
lose  all  the  merit  of  the  favor  they  bestow.  If  there 
was  anything  more  excellent  than  meekness,  God  would 
have  certainly  taught  it  us;  and  yet  there  is  nothing  to 
which  he  so  earnestly  exhorts  us  as  to  be  "meek  and 
humble  of  heart."  If  Saul  had  been  cast  off,  we  would 
never  have  had  a  St.  Paul. 


RANCIS  OF  ASSISI,  SAINT  (GIOVANNI 
FRANCESCO  BERNARDONE),  a  celebrated  Italian 
monk  and  ecclesiastic;  born  at  Assisi  in  1182; 
'died  there,  October  4,  1226.  He  was  the  founder  of 
the  Order  of  Franciscans  or  mendicant  friars.  His 
father  was  a  merchant,  who  bought  goods  in  the  south 


184  SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 

of  France  and  sold  them  in  Italy.  It  was  while  on  one 
of  his  journeys  that  the  son  was  born,  and  called  by 
his  father  Francesco  and  by  his  mother  Giovanni.  In 
boyhood  he  was  merry,  light-hearted,  and  careless,  with 
a  decided  fondness  for  amusements  and  fine  clothes, 
and  little  given  to  study.  When  about  twenty  years 
old  he  was  taken  with  a  severe  illness,  and  on  his  sick- 
bed indulged  in  deep  reflection.  When  he  recovered 
he  was  a  changed  man.  "  Thenceforward,"  says  one 
of  his  biographers,  "he  held  that  in  contempt  which 
he  had  hitherto  held  in  admiration  and  love."  He 
began  to  speak  of  poverty  as  his  bride,  and  the  poor, 
the  sick,  and  the  leprous  became  objects  of  his  especial 
attention.  He  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome  and  in  his 
zeal  for  the  Church  threw  all  his  worldly  goods  upon 
the  altar  of  St.  Peter's,  joined  a  troop  of  beggars,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  a  life  of  charity  and  alms-giving. 

Such  conduct  could  not  fail  to  meet  with  severe 
reproof  at  the  hands  of  his  industrious  father.  The 
rupture  between  them  is  usually  said  to  have  taken 
place  as  follows:  The  young  visionary  was  wont  to 
resort  to  the  ruined  church  of  St.  Damian,  near  Assisi, 
for  the  purpose  of  meditation  and  prayer.  One  day 
the  mysterious  voice  that  has  cried  out  to  so  many 
enthusiasts,  and  inflamed  the  zeal  of  so  many  devoted 
reformers,  spoke  from  the  crumbling  walls,  saying 
"  Francis,  seest  thou  not  that  my  house  is  in  ruins  ; 
go  and  restore  it  for  me."  To  hear  was  to  obey.  The 
young  man  went  home,  saddled  his  horse,  took  a  bale 
of  his  father's  goods  and  rode  to  Foligno,  sold  both 
horse  and  goods,  and  hastened  with  the  money  thus 
obtained  to  the  priest  of  St.  Damian,  and  offered  to 
repair  the  church.  For  this  conduct  the  indignant 
father  inflicted  blows  and  curses  and  the  young  man 


SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI  185 

was  imprisoned.  On  his  release  he  renounced  all  de- 
pendence on  his  father,  and  gave  himself  up  to  pover- 
ty and  a  life  of  devotion  to  his  Father  in  Heaven.  He 
organized  a  small  band  of  fanatics,  who  took  for  their 
incentive  to  wandering  about  living  on  charity  the 
literal  interpretation  of  the  words  of  Jesus :  "  Provide 
neither  gold  nor  silver  nor  brass  in  your  purses,  nor 
scrip  for  your  journey,  neither  two  coats,  neither  shoes 
nor  yet  staves,  for  the  workman  is  worthy  of  his  meat." 
The  band  grew  in  numbers  and  influence,  and  received 
the  sanction  of  Pope  Innocent  III.  about  1210.  They 
were  forbidden  to  own  property,  and  were  bound  to 
preach  and  labor  without  fixed  salaries,  living  only  on 
charity.  In  1223  Pope  Honorius  III.  published  a  bull 
confirming  the  verbal  sanction  of  Pope  Innocent. 
Francis  also  founded  an  order  of  poor  sisters,  known 
by  the  name  of  Poor  Claras  or  Clarisses.  Francis  was 
unceasing  in  his  labors.  He  made  long  journeys  to 
Spain,  Illyria,  and  even  to  the  East  to  preach  to  the 
Mahometans.  He  is  said  to  have  gained  access  to  the 
Sultan  and  endeavored  to  convert  him  to  the  doctrine 
of  poverty.  It  is  impossible  at  this  late  day  to  sepa- 
rate the  real  events  of  Francis's  life  from  the  legends 
and  stories  of  miracles  that  have  been  related  by  his 
followers.  He  was  a  troubadour  as  well  as  preacher 
—  a  sort  of  spiritual  minstrel.  Much  of  his  preaching 
was  -chanted  in  a  sort  of  rugged  rhyme,  which  could 
scarcely  be  called  poetry  from  a  technical  point  of 
view,  but  which  was  full  of  that  intense  fervor  of  the 
devotee,  and  the  tenderness  of  feeling  born  of  a  true 
love  for  every  living  thing.  The  birds,  the  beasts,  the 
flowers  and  trees,  were  alike  objects  of  his  gentle  com- 
passion. His  most  characteristic  song  has  been  trans- 
lated by  Mrs.  Olyphant  under  the  title  of  Song  of  the 


i86  SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 

Creation  (Cantico  delle  Creature).  Ozanam  says  in 
his  Les  Poetes  Franciscains:  "  In  him  the  trouba- 
dour inspiration,  dying  out  in  its  original  seat,  was 
transmuted  into  a  spiritual  minstrelsy,  hardly  poetry 
so  imperfect  is  its  form,  but  a  lyrical  cry,  the  first 
broken  utterance  of  a  new  voice  which  was  soon  to 
fill  the  world."  Francis  was  canonized  by  Gregory 
IX.  in  1228,  and  is  commemorated  October  4. 

HYMN  OF  THE  CREATION. 

Blessed  be  God,  the  father 

Of  everything  that  lives, 
Most  blessed  for  our  Lord  the  Sun 

Who  warmth  and  daylight  gives. 
The  sun  is  bright  and  radiant, 

He  sheds  his  beams  abroad, 
But  all  his  glory  witnesseth 

To  what  Thou  art,  my  God. 

Then,  for  our  sister  Moon,  0  Lord, 

Our  hearts  bless  Thee  again; 
And  for  the  brilliant,  beauteous  stars 

That  glitter  in  her  train. 
We  thank  Thee  also  for  the  Winds, 

Our  brothers,  too,  are  they; 
For  air,  and  clouds,  and  pleasant  days, 

When  all  the  earth  seems  gay. 

But  no  less  would  we  praise  Thy  name 

For  any  kind  of  weather, 
Knowing  that  rain,  and  frost,  and  snow 

All  work  for  good  together. 
Thanks  for  our  sister  Water,  too, 

Pure  Water,  cool  and  chaste, 
Precious  to  everything  that  lives, 

With  powers  of  cleansing  graced. 


SAINT  FRANCIS  OF  ASSIST  187 

And  for  Thine  other  mighty  gift, 

Our  brother  Fire,  whose  flame 
By  Thy  command  is  sent  to  light, 

With  beams  unquenchable  and  bright, 
The  solemn  darkness  of  the  night, 

We  bless  Thy  holy  name. 

And  lastly  for  our  Mother  Earth, 

That  goodness  we  adore, 
She  feeds  us ;  she  brings  precious  fruits 

Out  of  her  bounteous  store ; 
And  lovely  flowers  through  the  grass 

She  scatters  full  and  free. 
For  all  these  things  we  bless  Thee,  Lord, 

For  all  proceed  from  Thee. 

—  Translation  of  MRS.  E.  W.  LATIMER. 

TO  THE  ELEVEN  AT  RIVO  TORTO. 

Take  courage,  and  shelter  yourselves  in  God.  Be  not 
depressed  to  think  how  few  we  are.  Be  not  alarmed 
either  at  your  own  weakness,  or  at  mine.  God  has  re- 
vealed to  me  that  He  will  diffuse  through  the  earth  this 
our  little  family,  of  which  He  is  Himself  the  father.  I 
would  have  concealed  what  I  have  seen,  but  love  con- 
strains me  to  impart  it  to  you.  I  have  seen  a  great  mul- 
titude coming  to  us,  to  wear  our  dress,  to  live  as  we  do. 
I  have  seen  all  the  roads  crowded  with  men  traveling 
in  eager  haste  towards  us.  The  French  are  coming.  The 
Spaniards  are  hastening.  The  English  and  the  Germans 
are  running.  All  nations  are  mingling  together.  I  hear 
the  tread  o£  the  numbers  who  go  and  come  to  execute 
the  commands  of  holy  obedience.  We  seem  contemptible 
and  insane.  But  fear  not.  Believe  that  our  Saviour,  who 
has  overcome  the  world,  will  speak  effectually  to  us.  If 
gold  should  lie  in  our  way,  let  us  value  it  as  the  dust 
beneath  our  feet.  We  will  not,  however,  condemn  or 
despise  the  rich  who  live  softly,  and  are  arrayed  sump- 
tuously. God,  who  is  our  master,  is  theirs  also.  But  go 
and  preach  repentance  for  the  remission  of  sins.  Faith- 
ful men,  gentle,  and  full  of  charity,  will  receive  you  and 


i88  PHILIP  FRANCIS 

your  words  with  joy.  Proud  and  impious  men  will  con- 
demn and  oppose  you.  Settle  it  in  your  hearts  to  endure 
all  things  with  meekness  and  patience.  The  wise  and  the 
noble  will  soon  join  themselves  to  you,  and,  with  you, 
will  preach  to  kings,  to  princes,  and  to  nations.  Be  pa- 
tient in  tribulation,  fervent  in  prayer,  fearless  in  labor, 
and  the  kingdom  of  God,  which  endures  forever,  will  be 
your  reward. —  From  His  Life,  by  BONAVENTURA. 

TO  THE  BIRDS. 

My  little  brothers,  you  should  love  and  praise  the  Author 
of  your  being,  who  has  clothed  you  with  plumage,  and 
given  you  wings  with  which  to  fly  where  you  will.  You 
were  the  first  created  of  all  animals.  He  preserved  your 
race  in  the  ark.  He  has  given  the  pure  atmosphere  for 
your  dwelling-place.  You  sow  not,  neither  do  you  reap. 
Without  any  care  of  your  own,  He  gives  you  lofty  trees 
to  build  your  nests  in,  and  watches  over  your  young. 
Therefore  give  praise  to  your  bountiful  Creator. —  From. 
BONAVENTURA'S  Account. 


pRANCIS,  SIR  PHILIP,  a  British  statesman; 
born  at  Dublin,  October  22,  1740;  died  at 
London,  December  23,  1818.  He  was  a  son 
of  the  Rev.  Philip  Francis,  one  of  the  best  of  the  Eng- 
lish translators  of  Horace,  who  left  Ireland  for  Eng- 
land in  1750.  The  elder  Francis  was  a  protege  of 
Henry  Fox,  then  Secretary  of  State,  by  whom  the  son 
was  brought  into  office.  In  1773  ne  was  sent  to  India 
as  one  of  the  Council  of  State,  with  a  salary  of  £10,- 
ooo  a  year.  He  remained  in  India  six  years,  when  he 
became  involved  in  a  quarrel  with  Warren  Hastings, 
which  resulted  in  a  duel  in  which  Francis  was  severely 


PHILIP  FRANCIS  189 

wounded.  Returning  to  England  he  entered  into  poli- 
tics; became  a  member  of  Parliament,  but  gained  no 
commanding  position  in  public  life,  from  which  he  re- 
tired in  1807,  having  been  knighted  the  preceding  year. 
Francis  was  the  acknowledged  author  of  some  thirty 
political  pamphlets ;  but  his  only  claim  to  remembrance 
rests  upon  his  supposed  authorship  of  the  Letters  of 
Junius,  a  series  of  brilliant  newspaper  articles  which 
appeared  at  intervals  in  the  Public  Advertiser  between 
January,  1769,  and  January,  1772.  In  the  first  au- 
thorized collection  of  these  letters  there  were  forty- 
four  bearing  the  signature  of  "Junius,"  and  fifteen 
signed  "  Philo-Junius."  Besides  these  appeared  from 
time  to  time  more  than  one  hundred  others  under 
various  signatures,  which,  with  more  or  less  probabili- 
ty, were  attributed  to  "Junius."  These  letters  as- 
sailed the  Government  with  such  audacity  that  every 
effort  was  made  to  discover  who  was  the  writer.  But 
the  secret  was  never  certainly  discovered,  and  there  is 
no  probability  that  it  will  ever  be  divulged.  The  au- 
thorship has  been  claimed  by  or  for  not  less  than  forty 
persons,  among  whom  are  Edmund  Burke,  Lord 
Chatham,  Edward  Gibbon,  John  Home  Tooke,  and 
John  Wilkes.  Macaulay  was  clearly,  convinced  that 
Francis  was  the  author.  He  says :  "  The  case  against 
Francis  —  or,  if  you  please,  in  favor  of  Francis  — 
rests  on  coincidences  sufficient  to  convict  a  murderer." 
One  significant  fact  is  that  these  letters  ceased  not  long 
before  the  appointment  of  Francis  to  the  lucrative  po- 
sition in  India ;  and  it  has  been  imagined  that  this  ap- 
pointment was  the  price  paid  by  Government  for  the 
future  silence  of  the  author;  and  there  is  nothing  in 
the  character  of  Francis  to  render  it  improbable  that 
he  could  be  thus  bought  off.  If  this  were  the  case, 


ipo  PHILIP  FRANCIS 

he  would  never  directly  avow  the  authorship;  but  it 
is  certain  that  he  was  nowise  averse  to  having  it  whis- 
pered that  he  was  the  writer.  One  of  the  most  spirited 
and  audacious  of  these  letters  was  a  long  one  ad- 
dressed to  the  King,  George  III.,  December  19,  1769 : 

JUNIUS  TO  GEORGE  THE  THIRD. 

Sir  —  When  the  complaint's  of  a  brave  and  powerful 
people  are  observed  to  increase  in  proportion  to  the  wrongs 
they  have  suffered;  when,  instead  of  sinking  into  sub- 
mission, they  are  roused  to  resistance,  the  time  will  soon 
arrive  at  which  every  inferior  consideraton  must  yield 
to  the  security  of  the  sovereign  and  to  the  general  safety 
of  the  State.  There  is  a  moment  of  difficulty  and  danger 
at  which  flattery  and  falsehood  can  no  longer  deceive,  and 
simplicity  itself  can  no  longer  be  misled.  Let  us  sup- 
pose it  arrived.  Let  us  suppose  a  gracious,  well-inten- 
tioned prince  made  sensible  at  last  of  the  great  duty 
he  owes  to  his  people  and  of  his  own  disgraceful  situa- 
tion ;  that  he  looks  round  him  for  assistance,  and  asks  for 
no  advice  but  how  to  gratify  the  wishes  and  secure  the 
happiness  of  his  subjects.  In  these  circumstances,  it  may 
be  matter  of  curious  speculation  to  consider,  if  an  honest 
man  were  permitted  to  approach  a  king,  in  what  terms 
he  would  address  himself  to  his  sovereign.  Let  it  be 
imagined,  no  matter  how  improbable,  that  the  first  preju- 
dice against  his  character  is  removed;  that  the  cere- 
monious difficulties  of  an  audience  are  surmounted;  that 
he  feels  himself  animated  by  the  purest  and  most  hon- 
orable affection  to  his  king  and  country;  and  that  the 
great  person  whom  he  addresses  has  spirit  enough  to  bid 
him  speak  freely,  and  understanding  enough  to  listen  to 
him  with  attention.  Unacquainted  with  the  vain  imperti- 
nence of  forms,  he  would  deliver  his  sentiments  with 
dignity  and  firmness,  but  not  without  respect: 

Sir  —  It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life,  and  originally 
the  cause  of  every  reproach  and  distress  which  has  at- 
tended your  government,  that  you  should  never  have 
been  acquainted  with  the  language  of  truth  till  you  heard 


PHILIP  FRANCIS  191 

it  in  the  complaints  of  your  people.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, too  late  to  correct  the  error  of  your  education. 
We  are  still  inclined  to  make  an  indulgent  allowance  for 
the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in  your  yo.uth,  and 
to  form  the  most  sanguine  hopes  from  the  natural  benev- 
olence of  your  disposition.  We  are  far  from  thinking 
you  capable  of  a  direct,  deliberate  purpose  to  invade 
those  original  rights  of  your  subject's  on  which  all  their 
civil  and  political  liberties  depend.  Had  it  been  pos- 
sible for  us  to  entertain  a  suspicion  so  dishonorable  to 
your  character,  we  should  long  since  have  adopted  a 
style  of  remonstrance  very  distant  from  the  humility  of 
complaint.  The  doctrine  inculcated  by  our  laws,  "that 
the  king  can  do  no  wrong/'  is  admitted  without  reluc- 
tance. We  separate  the  amiable,  good-natured  prince 
from  the  folly  and  treachery  of  his  servants,  and  the 
private  virtues  of  the  man  from  the  vices  of  his  govern- 
ment. Were  it1  not  for  this  just  distinction,  I  know  not 
whether  your  majesty's  condition,  or  that  of  the  Eng- 
lish nation,  would  deserve  most  to  be  lamented.  I  would 
prepare  your  mind  for  a  favorable  reception  of  truth, 
by  removing  every  painful,  offensive  idea  of  personal  re- 
proach. Your  subjects,  sir,  wish  for  nothing  but  that, 
as  they  are  reasonable  and  affectionate  enough  to  sep- 
arate your  person  from  your  government,  so  you,  in 
your  turn,  would  distinguish  between  the  conduct  which 
becomes  the  permanent  dignity  of  a  king  and  that  which 
serves  only  to  promote  the  temporary  interest  and  mis- 
erable ambition  of  a  minister. 

You  ascended  the  throne  with  a  declared  —  and,  I  doubt 
not,  a  sincere  —  resolution  of  giving  universal  satisfac- 
tion to  your  subjects.  You  found  them  pleased  with 
the  novelty  of  a  young  prince,  whose  countenance  prom- 
ised even  more  than  his  words,  and  loyal  to  you  not 
only  from  principle  but  passion.  It  was  not  a  cold  pro- 
fession of  allegiance  to  the  first  magistrate,  but  a  par- 
tial, animated  attachment  to  a  favorite  prince,  the  native 
of  their  country.  They  did  not  wait  to  examine  your 
conduct,  nor  to  be  determined  by  experience,  but  gave 
you  a  generous  credit  for  the  future  blessings  of  your 


192  PHILIP  FRANCIS 

reign,  and  paid  you  in  advance  the  dearest  tribute  of 
their  affections.  Such,  sir,  was  once  the  disposition  of 
a  people  who  now  surround  your  throne  with  reproaches 
and  complaints.  Do  justice  to  yourself.  Banish  from 
your  mind  these  unworthy  opinions  with  which  some 
interested  persons  have  labored  to  possess  you.  Distrust 
the  men  who  tell  you  that  the  English  are  naturally 
light  and  inconsistent;  that  they  complain  without  a 
cause.  Withdraw  your  confidence  equally  from  all  par- 
ties ;  from  ministers,  favorites,  and  relations ;  and  let  there 
be  one  moment  in  your  life  in  which  you  have  consulted 
your  own  understanding.  .  .  . 

While  the  natives  of  Scotland  are  not  in  actual  rebel- 
lion, they  are  undoubtedly  entitled  to  protection;  nor 
do  I  mean  to  condemn  the  policy  of  giving  some  en- 
couragement to  the  novelty  of  their  affection  for  the 
house  of  Hanover.  I  am  ready  to  hope  for  everything 
from  their  new-born  zeal,  and  from,  the  future  steadi- 
ness of  their  allegiance.  But  hitherto  they  have  no  claim 
to  your  favor.  To  honor  them  with  a  determined  pre- 
dilection and  confidence,  in  exclusion  of  your  English 
subjects  —  who  placed  your  family,  and,  m  spite  of 
treachery  and  rebellion,  have  supported  it,  upon  the  throne 
—  is  a  mistake  to  gross  for  even  the  unsuspecting  gen- 
erosity of  youth.  In  this  error  we  see  a  capital  violation 
of  the  most  obvious  rules  of  policy  and  prudence.  We 
trace  it,  however,  to  an  original  bias  in  your  education, 
and  are  ready  to  allow  for  your  inexperience. 

To  the  same  early  influence  we  attribute  it  that  you 
have  descended  to  take  a  share,  not  only  in  the  narrow 
views  and  interests  of  particular  persons,  but  in  the  fatal 
malignity  of  their  passions.  At  your  accession  to  the 
throne  the  whole  system  of  government  was  altered;  not 
from  wisdom  or  deliberation,  but  because  it  had  been 
adopted  by  your  predecessor.  A  little  personal  motive 
of  pique  and  resentment  was  sufficient  to  remove  the 
ablest  servants  of  the  crown;  but  it  is  not  in  this  coun- 
try, sir,  that  such  men  can  be  dishonored  by  the  frowns 
of  a  king.  They  were  dismissed,  but  could  not  be  dis- 
graced. .  .  . 


PHILIP  FRANCIS  193 

Without  consulting  your  ministers,  call  together  your 
whole  council.  Let  it  appear  to  the  public  that  you  can 
determine  and  act  for  yourself.  Come  forward  to  your 
people;  lay  aside  the  wretched  formalities  of  a  king, 
and  speak  to  your  subjects  with  the  spirit  of  a  man,  and 
in  the  language  of  a  gentleman.  Tell  them  you  have 
been  fatally  deceived:  the  acknowledgment  will  be  no 
disgrace,  but  rather  an  honor,  to  your  understanding. 
Tell  them  you  are  determined  to  remove  every  cause  of 
complaint  against  your  government;  that  you  will  give 
your  confidence  to  no  man  that  does  not  possess  the 
confidence  of  your  subjects;  and  leave  it  to  themselves 
to  determine,  by  their  conduct  at  a  future  election, 
whether  or  not  it  be  in  reality  the  general  sense  of  the 
nation,  that  their  rights  have  been  arbitrarily  invaded 
by  the  present  House  of  Commons,  and  the  constitution 
betrayed.  They  will  then  do  justice  to  their  represent- 
atives and  to  themselves. 

These  sentiments,  sir,  and  the  style  they  are  conveyed 
in,  may  be  offensive,  perhaps,  because  they  are  new  to 
you.  Accustomed  to  the  language  of  courtiers,  you 
measure  their  affections  by  the  vehemence  of  their  ex- 
pressions: and  when  they  only  praise  you  indirectly,  you 
admire  their  sincerity.  But  this  is  not  a  time  to  trifle 
with  your  fortune.  They  deceive  you,  sir,  who  tell  you 
that  you  have  many  friends  whose  affections  are  founded 
upon  a  principle  of  personal  attachment.  The  first  foun- 
dation of  friendship  is  not  the  power  of  conferring  bene- 
fits, but  the  equality  with  which  they  are  received  and 
may  be  returned.  The  fortune  which  made  you  a  king 
forbade  you  to  have  a  friend ;  it  is  a  law  of  nature,  which 
cannot  be  violated  with  impunity.  The  mistaken  prince 
who  looks  for  friendship  will  find  a  favorite,  and  in  that 
favorite  the  ruin  of  his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the  House  of 
Hanover,  not  from  a  vain  preference  of  one  family  to 
another,  but  from  a  conviction  that  the  establishment 
of  that  family  was  necessary  to  the  support  of  their 
civil  and  religious  liberties.  This,  sir,  is  a  principle  of 
allegiance  equally  solid  and  rational;  fit  for  English- 


194  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

men  to  adopt,  and  well  worthy  of  your  majesty's  en- 
couragement We  cannot  long  be  deluded  by  nominal 
distinctions.  The  name  of  Stuart  of  itself  is  only  con- 
temptible :  armed  with  the  sovereign  authority,  their  prin- 
ciples are  formidable.  The  prince  who  imitates  their 
conduct  should  be  warned  by  their  example,  and,  while 
he  plumes  himself  upon  the  security  of  his  title  to  the 
crown,  should  remember  that,  as  it  was  acquired  by  one 
revolution,  it  mav  be  lost  by  another. 


pRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN,  an  American  states- 
man and  philosopher ;  born  at  Boston,  January 
17,  1706 ;  died  at  Philadelphia,  April  17,  1790. 
His  father  was  originally  a  dyer,  and  subsequently  a 
tallow-chandlen  At  the  age  of  twelve  the  son  was 
apprenticed  to  his  elder  brother,  a  printer  and  pub- 
lisher of  a  newspaper,  the  New  England  Courant,  for 
which  Benjamin  wrote  much.  In  consequence  of  a 
quarrel  between  the  brothers,  Benjamin  went,  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  obtained 
employment  at  his  trade.  The  Governor  of  the  Prov- 
ince discovered  his  abilities,  promised  to  set  him  up  in 
business,  and  induced  him  to  go  to  England  to  pur- 
chase the  necessary  printing  material.  The  Governor, 
however,  failed  to  supply  the  necessary  funds,  and 
Franklin  went  to  work  as  a  printer  in  London.  After 
eighteen  months  he  returned  to  Philadelphia.  Before 
long  he  established  himself  as  a  printer,  and  set  up 
a  newspaper,  called  the  Philadelphia  Gazette.  In 
1732,  under  the  assumed  name  of  "Richard  Saun- 
ders,"  he  commenced  the  issue  of  Poor  Richard's  Al- 
manac, which  he  continued  for  twenty-five  years. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  195 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  his  fortieth  year  he  had 
acquired  a  competence  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  with- 
draw from  active  business,  and  devote  himself  to 
philosophical  research,  for  which  he  had  already  mani- 
fested marked  capacity.  Just  before  this  several 
European  philosophers  had  noticed  some  points  of 
resemblance  between  electricity  and  lightning.  Frank- 
lin was  the  first  (about  1750)  to  demonstrate  the 
identity  of  the  two  phenomena,  and  to  propound  the 
idea  of  the  lightning-rod,  as  a  safeguard  from  light- 
ning. 

Of  the  public  career  of  Franklin  it  is  necessary  here 
to  give  merely  a  bare  outline.  He  was  elected  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Pennsylvania  Assembly  in  1750;  was  made 
Deputy  Postmaster-General  in  1753 ;  and  the  next  year, 
the  French  and  Indian  War  impending,  he  was  sent  as 
delegate  to  a  general  Congress  convened  at  Albany, 
where  he  drew  up  the  plan  of  a  union  between  the 
separate  colonies.  This  was  unanimously  adopted  by 
the  Congress,  but  was  rejected  by  the  Board  of  Trade 
in  England.  Disputes  having  arisen  in  1757  between 
the  Pennsylvania  "  Proprietors  "  and  the  inhabitants, 
Franklin  was  sent  to  England  as  agent  to  represent 
the  cause  of  file  people  of  the  colony  of  Pennsylvania ; 
the  people  of  Massachusetts,  Maryland,  and  Georgia 
also  constituted  him  their  agent  in  Great  Britain.  He 
returned  to  Pennsylvania  in  1762;  but  was  sent  back 
to  London  two  years  after  to  remonstrate  against  the 
proposed  measure  for  taxing  the  American  colonies. 
When  the  war  of  the  Revolution  was  on  the  point  of 
breaking  out,  Franklin  left  Great  Britain,  reaching  his 
home  sixteen  days  after  the  battle  of  Lexington.  As  a 
member  of  the  first  American  Congress  he  was  one  of 
the  committee  appointed  to  draft  the  Declaration  of 


196  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Independence.  Shortly  after  this  he  was  sent  to 
France  as  one  of  the  Commissioners  Plenipotentiary 
from  the  American  States.  In  1782  he  signed  the 
treaty  of  peace  between  the  United  States  and  Great 
Britain,  and  subsequently  concluded  treaties  with 
Sweden  and  Prussia.  He  returned  to  America  in 
1785,  after  more  than  fifty  years  spent  in  the  public 
service.  He  was  immediately  elected  President  of 
Pennsylvania,  his  adopted  State.  Three  years  after- 
ward, at  the  age  of  eighty-two,  he  was  appointed  a 
delegate  to  the  Convention  for  framing  the  Federal 
Constitution,  in  which  he  took  an  active  part  and  lived 
long  enough  to  see  it  adopted  by  the  several  States, 
and  so  become  the  supreme  law  of  the  land.  A  few 
months  before  his  death  he  wrote  to  Washington: 
"  For  my  personal  ease  I  should  have  died  two  years 
ago;  but  though  those  years  have  been  spent  in  ex- 
cruciating pain,  I  am  glad  to  have  lived  them,  since  I 
can  look  upon  our  present  situation." 

A  partial  collection  of  the  works  of  Franklin  was 
published  (1816-19)  by  his  grandson,  William  Temple 
Franklin.  A  tolerably  complete  edition,  in  ten  vol- 
umes, edited,  with  a  Memoir,  by  Jared  Sparks,  ap- 
peared in  1836-40.  In  1887  some  additional  writings 
were  discovered,  which  were  edited  by  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  under  the  title  Franklin  in  Paris. 
Franklin's  Autobiography,  bringing  his  life  down  to 
his  fifty-seventh  year,  ranks  among  the  foremost  works 
of  its  class.  The  history  of  the  book  is  curious.  It 
was  first  published  in  a  French  translation  in  1791 ; 
two  years  afterward  this  French  version  was  retrans- 
lated into  English,  and  in  1798  this  English  transla- 
tion was  rendered  back  into  French.  The  earliest  ap- 
pearance of  the  work  as  written  by  the  author  was  in 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  197 

1817  in  the  edition  prepared  by  his  son.  In  1868  John 
Bigelow,  lately  United  States  Minister  to  France,  came 
upon  an  original  autograph  of  the  Autobiography, 
which  he  published  with  notes.  The  Life  of  Franklin 
has  been  written  by  many  persons,  notably  by  James 
Parton  (2  vols.,  1864.) 

EARLY  PRACTICE  IN  COMPOSITION. 

About  this  time  [at  about  fifteen]  I  met  with  an  odd 
volume  of  The  Spectator.  I  had  never  before  seen  any 
of  them.  I  bought  it,  read  it  over  and  over,  and  was 
much  delighted  with  it.  I  thought  the  writing  excel- 
lent, and  wished  if  possible  to  imitate  it  With  that 
view  I  took  some  of  the  papers,  and  making  short  hints 
of  the  sentiments  in  each  sentence,  laid  them  by  for  a 
few  days,  and  then,  without'  looking  at  the  book,  tried 
to  complete  the  papers  again,  by  expressing  each  hinted 
sentiment  at  length,  and  as  fully  as  it  had  been  ex- 
pressed before,  in  any  suitable  words  that  should  occur 
to  me.  Then  I  compared  my  Spectator  with  the  orig- 
inal, discovered  some  of  my  fault's  and  corrected  them. 
.  .  .  Sometimes  I  had  the  pleasure  to  fancy  that  in 
certain  particulars  of  small  consequence  I  had  been  fortu- 
nate enough  to  improve  the  method  or  the  language; 
and  this  encouraged  me  to  think  that  I  might  in  time 
come  to  be  a  tolerable  English  writer,  of  which  I  was 
extremely  ambitious.  The  time  I  allotted  to  writing 
exercises  and  for  reading  was  at  night  or  before  work 
began  in  the  morning,  or  on  Sundays,  when  I  contrived 
to  be  in  the  printing-house,  avoiding  as  much  as  I  could 
the  constant  attendance  at  public  worship  which  my 
father  used  to  exact  of  me  when  I  was  under  his  care. 
—  Autobiography,  Chap.  1. 

FIRST  ENTRY  INTO  PHILADELPHIA. 

I  was  [then  aged  seventeen]  in  my  working  dress,  my 
best  clothes  coming  round  by  sea.  I  was  dirty  from  my 
being  so  long  in  the  boat.  My  pockets  were  stuffed  out 


ig8  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

with  shirts  and  stockings,  and  I  knew  no  one,  nor  where 
to  look  for  lodging.  I  was  very  hungry;  and  my  whole 
stock  of  cash  consisted  in  a  single  dollar,  and  about  a 
shilling  in  copper  coin  which  I  gave  to  the  boatmen  for 
my  passage.  At  .first  they  refused  it,  on  account  of 
my  having  rowed,  but  I  insisted  on  their  taking  it  I 
walked  toward  the  top  of  the  street,  gazing  about  till 
near  Market  Street,  where  I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I 
had  often  made  a  meal  of  dry  bread,  and,  inquiring  where 
he  had  bought  it,  I  went  immediately  to  the  baker  he 
directed  me  to.  I  asked  for  biscuits,  meaning  such  as 
we  had  at  Boston.  That  sort,  it  seems,  was  not  made 
in  Philadelphia.  I  then  asked  for  a  three-penny  loaf, 
and  was  told  they  had  none.  Not  knowing  the  differ- 
ent prices,  nor  the  names  of  the  different  sorts  of  bread, 
I  told  him  to  give  me  three-penny  worth  of  any  sort. 
He  gave  me  accordingly  three  great  puffy  rolls.  I  was 
surprised  at  the  quantity,  but  took  it,  and,  having  no 
room  in  my  pockets,  walked  off  with  a  roll  under  each 
arm,  and  eating  the  other. 

Thus  I  went  up  Market  Street  as  far  as  Fourth  Street, 
passing  by  the  door  of  Mr.  Read,  my  future  wife's  father ; 
when  she,  standing  at  the  door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I 
made  —  as  I  certainly  did  —  a  most  ridiculous  appear- 
ance. Then  J[  turned  and  went  down  Chestnut  Street 
and  part  of  Walnut  Street,  eating  my  roll  all  the  way, 
and,  coming  round,  found  myself  again  at  Market  Street 
wharf,  near  the  boat  I  came  in, -to  which  I  went  for  a 
draught  of  the  river  water;  and  being  filled  with  one  of 
my  rolls,  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her  child 
that  came  down  the  river  in  the  boat  with  us,  and  were 
waiting  to  go  farther. 

Thus  refreshed  I  walked  up  the  street,  which  by  this 
time  had  many  clean-dressed  people  in  it,  who  were  all 
walking  the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  thereby  was 
led  into  the  great  meeting-house  of  the  Quakers,  near  the 
market.  I  sat  down  among  them,  and,  after  looking 
round  awhile,  and  hearing  nothing  said,  and  being  very 
drowsy  through  labor  and  want  of  rest  the  preceding 
night,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  continued  so  till  the  meet- 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  199 

ing  broke  up,  when  some  one  was  kind  enough  to  rouse 
me.  This,  therefore,  was  the  first  house  I  was  in,  or 
slept  in,  in  Philadelphia. — Autobiography,  Chap.  IL 

TEETOTALISM  IN  LONDON. 

At  my  first  admission  [aged  nineteen]  into  the  print- 
ing-house I  took  to  working  at  press,  imagining  I  felt  a 
want  of  the  bodily  exercise  I  had  been  used  to  in  Amer- 
ica, where  press-work  is  mixed  with  the  composing.  I 
drank  only  water ;  the  other  workmen  —  near  fifty  in  num- 
ber— were  great  drinkers  of  beer.  On  one  occasion  I 
carried  up  and  down  stairs  a  large  form  of  type  in  each 
hand,  when  the  others  carried  only  one  in  both  hands. 
They  wondered  to  see,  from  this  and  several  instances, 
that  the  "Water  American/'  as  they  called  me,  was 
stronger  than  themselves,  who  drank  strong  beer.  We 
had  an  ale-house  boy  who  attended  always  in  the  house 
to  supply  the  workmen.  My  companion  at  the  press 
drank  every  day  a  pint  before  breakfast,  a  pint  at  break- 
fast with  his  bread  and  cheese,  a  pint  between  breakfast 
and  dinner,  a  pint  at  dinner,  a  pint  in  the  afternoon 
about  six  o'clock,  and  another  when  he  had  done  his 
day's  work.  I  thought  it  a  detestable  custom;  but  it 
was  necessary,  he  supposed,  to  drink  strong  beer  that  he 
might  be  strong  to  labor.  I  endeavored  to  convince  him 
that  the  bodily  strength  afforded  by  beer  could  be  only 
in  proportion  to  the  grain  or  flour  of  the  barley  dis- 
solved in  the  water  of  which  it  was  made;  that  there 
was  more  flour  in  a  pennyworth  of  bread;  and  there- 
fore if  he  could  eat  that  with  a  pint  of  water,  it  would 
give  him  more  strength  than  a  quart  of  beer.  He  drank 
on,  however,  and  had  four  or  five  shillings  to  pay  out  of 
his  wages  every  Saturday  night  for  that  vile  liquor;  an 
expense  I  was  free  from.  And-  thus  these  poor  devils 
keep  themselves  always  under.— Autobiograf hy}  Chap. 
III. 


200  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 


RELIGIOUS  VIEWS  AT  ONE-AND-TWENTY. 

My  parents  had  early  given  me  religious  impressions, 
and  brought  me  through  my  childhood  in  the  Dissenting 
way.  But  I  was  scarce  fifteen  when,  after  doubting  by 
turns  several  points,  as  I  found  them  disputed  in  the 
different  books  I  read,  I  began  to  doubt  of  the  Revela- 
tion itself.  Some  books  against  Deism  fell  into  my 
hands;  they  were  said  to  be  the  substance  of  the  ser- 
mons which  had  been  preached  at  Boyle's  Lectures.  It 
happened  that  they  wrought  an  effect  on  me  quite  con- 
trary to  what  was  intended  by  them.  For  the  arguments 
of  the  Deists,  which  were  quoted  to  be  refuted,  appeared 
to  me  much  stronger  than  theirs;  in  short,  I  soon  be- 
came a  thorough  Deist  My  arguments  perverted  some 
others,  particularly  Collins  and  Ralph;  but  each  of  these 
having  wronged  me  greatly  without  the  least  compunc- 
tion, and  recollecting  my  own  conduct,  which  at  times 
gave  me  great  trouble,  I  began  to  suspect  that  this  doc- 
trine, though  it  might  be  true,  was  not  very  useful. 
.  .  .  My  own  pamphlet  [printed  two  years  before],  in 
which  I  argued  from  the  attributes  of  God,  his  infinite 
wisdom,  goodness,  and  power,  that  nothing  could  possibly 
be  wrong  in  the  world  —  and  that  vice  and  virtue  were 
empty  distinctions  —  no  such  things  existing — appeared 
now  not  so  clever  a  performance  as  I  once  thought  it; 
and  I  doubted  whether  some  error  had  not  insinuated  itself 
unperceived  into  my  argument,  so  as  to  infect  all  that 
followed,  as  is  common  in  metaphysical  reasonings. 

I  became  convinced  that  truth,  sincerity,  and  integrity 
in  dealings  between  man  and  man  were  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  the  felicity  of  life;  and  I  formed  written 
resolutions  to  practise  them  ever  while  I  lived. 

Revelation  had  indeed  no  weight  with  me  as  such;  but 
I  entertained  an  opinion  that,  though  certain  actions 
might  not  be  bad  because  they  were  forbidden  by  it,  or 
good  "because  it  commanded  them;  yet  probably  those  ac- 
tions might  be  forbidden  because  they  were  bad  for  us, 
or  commanded  "because  they  were  beneficial  to  us,  in  their 
own  natures,  all  the  circumstances  of  things  considered. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  201 

And  this  persuasion  —  with  the  kind  hand  of  Providence, 
or  some  guardian  angel,  or  accidental  favorable  circum- 
stances and  situations,  or  all  together  —  preserved  me 
through  this  dangerous  time  of  youth,  and  the  hazardous 
situations  I  was  sometimes  in  among  strangers,  remote 
from  the  eye  and  advice  of  my  father,  free  from  any  wilful 
gross  immorality  or  injustice,  that  might  have  been  ex- 
pected from  my  want  of  religion.  I  say  wilful,  because 
the  instances  I  have  mentioned  had  something  of  ne- 
cessity in  them,  from  my  youth,  inexperience,  and  the 
knavery  of  others.  I  had  therefore  a  tolerable  character 
to  begin  the  world  with;  I  valued  it  properly,  and  de- 
termined to  preserve  it. —  Autobiography,  Chap.  IV. 

When  this  Autobiography  was  written  Franklin 
was  verging  upon  threescore  and  ten,  and  was  recall- 
ing his  young  days.  It  is  certain  that  the  feeling  of  an 
overruling  and  protecting  Deity  was  predominant  at 
least  during  his  mature  years.  At  the  Constitutional 
Convention  of  1787  he  moved  that  the  daily  proceed- 
ings should  be  opened  by  prayers. 

SPEECH   IN   FAVOR  OF  DAILY  PUBLIC  PRAYERS. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  contest  with  Britain,  when 
we  were  sensible  of  danger,  we  had  daily  prayers  in  this 
room  for  the  Divine  protection.  Our  prayers,  Sir,  were 
heard,  and  they  were  graciously  answered.  All  of  us  who 
were  engaged  in  the  struggle  must  have  observed  fre- 
quent instances  of  a  superintending  Providence  in  our 
favor.  To  that  kind  of  Providence  we  owe  this  happy  op- 
portunity of  consulting  in  peace  on  the  means  of  estab- 
lishing our  future  national  felicity.  And  have  we  now 
forgotten  this  powerful  friend?  or  do  we  imagine  we  no 
longer  need  His  assistance?  I  have  lived,  Sir/  a  long 
time  [eighty-one  years],  and  the  longer  I  live  the  more 
convincing  proofs  I  see  of  this  truth:  that  God  governs 
in  the  affairs  of  man.  And  if  a  sparrow  cannot  fall  to 
the  ground  without  His  notice,  is  it  probable  that  an 


202  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

empire  can  rise  without  His  aid?  We  have  been  as- 
sured, Sir,  in  the  Sacred  Writings  that  "  except  the  Lord 
build  the  house,  they  labor  in  vain  that  build  it."  I 
firmly  believe  this.  I  also  believe  that  without  His  con- 
curring aid  we  shall  succeed  in  this  political  building  no 
better  than  the  builders  of  Babel;  we  shall  be  divided 
by  our  little  partial,  local  interest's;  our  projects  will  be 
confounded;  and  we  ourselves  shall  become  a  reproach 
and  a  byword  down  to  future  ages.  And  what  is  worse, 
mankind  may  hereafter,  from  this  unfortunate  instance, 
despair  of  establishing  human  government  by  human 
wisdom,  and  leave  it  to  chance,  war,  or  conquest.  I 
therefore  beg  leave  to  move  that  henceforth  prayers, 
imploring  the  assistance  of  Heaven  and  its  blessing  on 
our  deliberations,  be  held  in  this  assembly  every  morn- 
ing before  we  proceed  to  business;  and  that  one  or  more 
of  the  clergy  of  this  city  be  requested  to  officiate  in  that 
service. 

Many  years  before  his  death  Franklin  wrote  the 
following  epitaph  for  his  own  tombstone: 

FRANKLIN'S  EPITAPH  FOR  HIMSELF. 

The  Body  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  Printer,  (like  the 
cover  of  an  old  book,  its  contents  torn  out,  and  stript 
of  its  lettering  and  gilding,)  lies  here  food  for  worms. 
Yet  the  Work  itself  shall  not  be  lost;  for  it  will  (as  he 
believed)  appear  once  more  in  a  new  and  more  beautiful 
Edition,  corrected  and  amended  by  the  Author. 

Franklin,  when  near  the  close  of  his  life,  wrote 
to  Thomas  Paine,  who  was  proposing  the  publication 
of  the  Age  of  Reason,  the  manuscript  of  which  appears 
to  have  been  submitted  to  his  perusal :  "  I  would  ad- 
vise you  not  to  attempt  unchaining  the  tiger,  but  to 
burn  this  piece  before  it  is  seen  by  any  other  person. 
If  men  are  so  wicked  with  religion,  what  would  they 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  203 

be  without  it  ?"    Six  weeks  before  his  death  he  wrote 
to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Stiles : 

HIS   DYING   OPINION   OF   CHRISTIANITY. 

As  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  my  opinion  of  whom  you 
particularly  desire,  I  think  the  system  of  morals,  and 
His  religion,  as  He  left  them  to  us,  the  best  the  world 
ever  saw,  or  is  likely  to  see;  but  I  apprehend  it  has  re- 
ceived various  corrupting  changes;  and  I  have,  with 
most  of  the  present  Dissenters  in  England,  some  doubts 
as  to  His  Divinity. 

Poor  Richard's  Almanac  in  its  day  was  a  power  in 
the  land.  Franklin  himself  thus  speaks  of  the  work: 

POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC. 

In  1732  [at  the  age  of  twenty-seven]  I  first  published 
my  Almanac,  under  the  name  of  "  Richard  Saunders." 
It  was  continued  by  me  about  twenty-five  years,  and 
commonly  called  Poor  Richard's  Almanac,  I  endeavored 
to  make  it  both  entertaining  and  useful;  and  it  accord- 
ingly came  to  be  in  such  demand  that  I  reaped  consid- 
erable profit  from  it,  vending  annually  near  ten  thousand. 
And  observing  that  it  was  generally  read  —  scarce  any 
neighborhood  in  the  Province  being  without  it  —  I  con- 
sidered it  a  proper  vehicle  for  conveying  instruction 
among  the  common  people,  who  bought  scarcely  any 
other  books.  I  therefore  filled  all  the  little  spaces  that 
occurred  between  the  remarkable  days  in  the  Calendar 
with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly  such  as  inculcated  in- 
dustry and  frugality  as  the  means  of  procuring  wealth, 
and  thereby  securing  virtue;  it  being  more  difficult  for 
a  man  in  want  to  act  always  honestly,  as,  to  use  here 
one  of  those  proverbs,  "  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to 
stand  upright." 

These  proverbs,  which  contained  the  wisdom  of  many 
ages  and  nations,  I  assembled  and  formed  into  a  con- 
nected discourse  prefixed  to  the  Almanac  of  1757,  as  the 


204  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

harangue  of  a  wise  old  man  to  the  people  attending  an 
auction.  The  bringing  of  all  these  scattered  counsels 
thus  into  a  focus  enabled  them  to  make  greater  impres- 
sion. The  piece  being  universally  approved  was  copied 
in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  American  continent,  re- 
printed in  Britain  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper  to  be  stuck 
up  in  houses.  Two  translations  were  made  of  it  in 
France;  and  great  numbers  of  it  were  bought  by  the 
clergy  and  gentry,  to  distribute  gratis  among  their  poor 
parishioners  and  tenants.  In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  dis- 
couraged useless  expense  in  foreign  superfluities,  some 
thought  it  had  its  share  of  influence  in  producing  that 
growing  plenty  of  money  which  was  observable  several 
years  after  its  publication. —  Autobiography,  Chap.  VII. 

This  Collection  of  Poor  Richard's  Sayings  was  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  The  Way  to  Wealth.  The 
brochure  thus  begins: 

THE  CHIEF  TAX-GATHERERS. 

I  stopped  my  horse  lately  where  a  great  number  of  peo- 
ple were  collected  at  an  auction  of  merchant's  goods.  The 
hour  of  sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on  the 
badness  of  the  times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called  to  a 
plain,  clean  old  man,  with  white  locks ;  "  Pray,  Father 
Abraham,  what  think  you  of  the  times?  Will  not  these 
heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country  ?  How  shall  we  ever  be 
able  to  pay  them?  What  would  you  advise  us  to  do?" 
Father  Abraham  stood  up  and  replied,  "If  you  would  have 
my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short;  for  A  word  to  the 
wise  is  enough,  as  Poor  Richard  says."  They  joined  in 
desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and,  gathering  round  him,, 
he  proceeded  as  follows : 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy, 
and  if  those  laid  on  by  the*  Government  were  the  only 
ones  we  had  to  pay,  we  might  more  easily  discharge  them ; 
but  we  have  many  others,  and  much  more  grievous  to  some 
of  us.  We  are  taxed  twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three 
times  as  much  by  our  pride,  and  four  times  as  much  by 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  205 

our  folly;  and  from  these  taxes  the  Commissioners  can- 
not ease  or  deliver  us  by  allowing  an  abatement.  How- 
ever, let  us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and  something  may  be 
done  for  us;  God  helps  them  that  help  themselves,  as 
Poor  Richard  says." — The  Way  to  Wealth. 

SLOTH  AND  INDUSTRY. 

"If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wasting  time 
must  be,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  the  greatest  prodigality; 
since,  as  he  elsewhere  tells  us,  Lost  time  is  never  found 
again;  and  what  we  call  time  enough  always  proves  little 
enough.  Let  us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the 
purpose;  so  by  diligence  shall  we  do  with  less  perplexity. 
Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  industry  all  easy,  and 
he  that  riseth  late  must  trot  all  day,  and  shall  scarce  over- 
take his  business  at  night;  while  Laziness  travels  so  slowly 
that  Poverty  soon  overtakes  him.  Drive  thy  business,  let 
not  that  drive  thee;  and  Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise 
makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise,  as  Poor  Richard 
says."— The  Way  to  Wealth. 

FRUGALITY. 

"  So  much  for  industry  and  attention  to  one's  business ; 
but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality,  if  we  would  make  our 
industry  more  certainly  successful.    A  man  may,  if  he 
knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all  his 
life  to  the  grindstone,  and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last. 
A  fat  kitchen  makes  a  lean  will;  and 
Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 
Since  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 
And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting. 
If  you  would  be  wealthy,  think  of  saving  as  well  as  of  get- 
ting. 

The  Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich,  because  her  outgoes 
are  greater  than  her  income.  Away  then  with  your  ex- 
pensive follies,  and  you  will  not  have  so  much  cause  to 
complain  of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and  chargeable  fami- 
lies; for 
Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 


206  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  want  great. 
And  further,  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring  up  two 
children.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a  little  tea  or  a 
little  punch  now  and  then,  diet  a  little  more  costly,  clothes 
a  little  finer,  and  a  little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can 
be  no  great  matter ;  but  remember,  M any  a  mickle  makes  a 
muckle.  Beware  of  little  expenses;  A  small  leak  will 
sink  a  great  ship,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  again,  Who 
dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove;  and  moreover,  Fools 
make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat  them." — The  Way  to 
Wealth. 

BUYING  SUPERFLUITIES. 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of  fineries 
and  knick-knacks.  You  call  them  '  goods  * ;  but  if  you  do 
not  take  care,  they  will  prove  'evils'  to  some  of  you. 
You  expect  they  will  be  sold  cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may 
for  less  than  they  cost;  but  if  you  have  no  occasion  for 
them  they  must  be  dear  to  you.  Remember  what  Poor 
Richard  says:  Buy  what  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere 
long  thou  shalt  sell  thy  necessaries.  And  again,  At  a  great 
pennyworth  pause  a  little.  He  means  that  perhaps  the 
cheapness  is  apparent  only,  and  not  real;  or,  the  bargain, 
by  straitening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm 
than  good.  For  in  another  place  he  says,  Many  have  been 
ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths.  Again,  it  is  foolish 
to  lay  out  money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance;  and  yet  this 
folly  is  practised  every  day  at  auctions  for  want  of  minding 
the  Almanac.  Many  a  one,  for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the 
back,  has  gone  with  a  hungry  belly,  and  half-starved  their 
families.  Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets,  put  out  the 
kitchen  fire,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  A  ploughman  on  his 
legs  is  higher  than  a  gentleman  on  his  knees,  as  Poor 
Richard  says.  Always  taking  out  of  the  meal-tub,  and 
never  putting  in,  soon  comes  to  the  bottom,  as  Poor 
Richard  says ;  and  then,  When  the  well  is  dry  they  know 
the  worth  of  water.  But  this  they  might  have  known 
before,  if  they  had  taken  his  advice.  And  again  Poor 
Dick  says,  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want,  and  a  great 
deal  more  saucy.  When  you  have  bought  one  fine  thing, 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  207 

you  must  buy  ten  more,  that  your  appearance  may  be  all 
of  a  piece;  but  Poor  Dick  says,  It  is  easier  to  suppress 
the  first  desire  than  to  satisfy  all  that  follow  it.  And  it 
is  as  truly  folly  for  the  poor  to  ape  the  rich  as  for  the 
frog  to  swell  in  order  to  equal  the  ox/' — The  Way  to 
Wealth. 

CHARACTER  OF  WHITEFIELD. 

He  had  a  loud  and  clear  voice,  and  articulated  his  words 
so  perfectly  that  he  might  be  heard  and  understood  at  a 
great  distance;  especially  as  his  auditors  observed  the 
most  perfect  silence.  .  .  .  [On  one  particular  occasion 
when  he  heard  Whitefield  preach  in  the  open  air]  I  com- 
puted that  he  might  well  be  heard  by  more  than  thirty 
thousand.  This  reconciled  me  to  the  newspaper  accounts 
of  his  having  preached  to  twenty-five  thousand.  By  hear- 
ing him  often,  I  came  to  distinguish  easily  between  ser- 
mons newly  composed  and  those  which  he  had  often 
preached  in  the  course  of  his  travels.  His  delivery  of 
the  latter  was  so  improved  by  frequent  repetition  that 
every  accent,  every  emphasis,  every  modulation  of  voice, 
was  so  perfectly  well  turned  and  well  placed  that,  without 
being  interested  in  the  subject,  one  could  not  help  being 
pleased  with  the  discourse. —  Autobiography,  Chap.  VIIL 

PAYING  TOO  DEAR  FOR  THE  WHISTLE. 

In  my  opinion,  we  might  all  draw  more  good  from  the 
world  than  we  do,  and  suffer  less  evil,  if  we  would  take 
care  not  to  give  too  much  for  whistles.  You  ask  what  I 
mean  ?  You  love  stories,  and  will  excuse  my  telling  one  of 
myself : 

When  I  was  a  child  of  seven  years  old,  my  friends  on 
a  holiday  filled  my  pocket  with  coppers.  I  went  directly 
to  a  shop  where  they  sold  toys  for  children;  and,  being 
charmed  with  the  sound  of  a  whistle  that  I  met  by 
the  way  in  the  hands  of  another  boy,  I  voluntarily  offered 
and  gave  all  my  money  for  one.  I  then  came  home,  and 
went  whistling  all  over  the  house,  much  pleased  with  my 
whistle,  but  disturbing  all  the  family.  My  brothers  and 


208  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

sisters  and  cousins,  understanding  the  bargain  I  had  made, 
told  me  I  had  given  four  times  as  much  for  it  as  it  was 
worth;  put  me  in  mind  what  good  things  I  might  have 
bought  with  the  rest  of  my  money ;  and  laughed  at  me  so 
much  for  my  folly,  that  I  cried  with  vexation;  and  the 
reflection  gave  me  more  chagrin  than  the  whistle  gave  me 
pleasure. 

This,  however,  was  afterwards  of  use  to  me,  the  im- 
pression continuing  on  my  mind;  so  that  often  when 
I  was  tempted  to  buy  some  unnecessary  thing,  I  said  to 
myself,  Don't  give  too  much  for  the  whistle;  and  I  saved 
my  money.  As  I  grew  up,  came  into  the  world,  and  ob- 
served the  actions  of  men,  I  thought  I  met  with  many,  very 
many,  who  gave  too  much  for  their  whistles: 

When  I  saw  one  too  ambitious  of  Court  favor,  sacrific- 
ing his  time  in  attendance  on  levees,  his  repose,  his  lib- 
erty, his  virtue,  and  perhaps  his  friends,  to  attain  it,  I  have 
said  to  myself,  This  man  gives  too  much  for  his  whistle. 

When  I  saw  another  fond  of  popularity,  constantly  em- 
ploying himself  in  political  bustles,  neglecting  his  own  af- 
fairs, and  ruining  them  by  that  neglect,  He  pays,  indeed, 
said  I,  too  much  for  his  whistle. 

If  I  knew  a  miser  who  gave  up  every  kind  of  com- 
fortable living,  all  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  to  others,  all 
the  esteem  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  the  joys  of  benevo- 
lent friendship,  for  the  sake  of  accumulating  wealth,  Poor 
man,  said  I,  you  pay  too  much  for  your  whistle. 

When  I  met  with  a  man  of  pleasure,  sacrificing  every 
laudable  improvement  of  the  mind,  or  his  fortune,  to  mere 
corporeal  sensations,  and  ruining  his  health  in  their  pur- 
suit, Mistaken  man3  said  I,  you  are  providing  much  pain 
for  yourself,  instead  of  pleasure;  you  give  too  much  for 
your  whistle. 

If  I  see  one  fond  of  appearance,  or  fine  clothes,  fine 
houses,  fine  furniture,  fine  equipages,  all  above  his  fort- 
une, for  which  he  contracts  debts,  and  ends  his  career  in 
a  prison,  Alas!  say  I,  he  has  paid  dear,  very  dear,  for  his 
whistle. 

When  I  see  a  beautiful,  sweet-tempered  girl  married  to 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  209 

an  ill-natured  brute  of  a  husband,  What  a  pity,  say  1,  that 
she  should  pay  so  much  for  a  whistle. 

In  short,  I  conceive  that  a  great  part  of  the  miseries  of 
mankind  are  brought  upon  them  by  the  false  estimates 
they  have  made  of  the  value  of  things,  and  by  their  giving 
too  much  for  their  whistles. —  Letter  to  Madame  Brillon, 
1779. 

PAPER:  A  POEM. 

[This  poem  is  attributed  to  Franklin;  but  it  is  not  alto- 
gether certain  that  it  was  written  by  him.  No  other 
authorship,  however,  has  been  assigned  to  it.] 

Some  wit  of  old  —  such  wits  of  old  there  were  — 
Whose  hints  showed  meaning,  whose  allusions  care, 
By  one  brave  stroke  to  mark  all  human  kind, 
Called  clear  blank  paper  every  infant  mind ; 
Where  still,  as  opening  sense  her  dictates  wrote, 
Fair  Virtue  put  a  seal,  or  Vice  a  blot. 
The  thought  was  happy,  pertinent,  and  true; 
Methinks  a  genius  might  the  plan  pursue. 
I,  (can  you  pardon  my  presumption?)  I  — 
No  wit,  no  genius  —  yet  for  once  will  try:  — 

Various  the  papers  various  wants  produce, 
The  wants  of  fashion,  elegance,  and  use. 
Men  are  as  various;  and  if  right  I  scan, 
Each  sort  of  Paper  represents  some  Man. 
Pray  note  the  Fop  —  half  powder  and  half  lace  — 
Nice  as  a  bandbox  were  his  dwelling-place. 
He's  the  Gilt  Paper,  which  apart  you  store, 
And  lock  from  vulgar  hands  in  the  'scrutoire. 

Mechanics,  Servants,  Farmers,  and  so  forth, 
Are  Copy-Paper  of  inferior  worth ; 
Less  prized,  more  useful,  for  your  desk  decreed, 
Free  to  all  pens,  and  prompt  at  every  need. 

The  wretch  whom  Avarice  bids  to  pinch  and  spare, 
Starve,  cheat,  and  pilfer,  to  enrich  an  heir, 
Is  coarse  Brown  Paper;  such  as  pedlers  choose 
To  wrap  up  wares  which  better  men  will  use. 

Take  next  the  miser's  contrast :  who  destroys 
Health,  fame,  and  fortune,  in  a  round  of  joys; 
VOL.  X.— 14 


210  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Will  any  Paper  match  him?    Yes,  throughout, 
He's  a  true  Sinking  Paper,  past  all  doubt. 

The  retail  Politician's  anxious  thought 
Deems  this  side  always  right,  and  that  stark  naught ; 
He  foams  with  censure;  with  applause  he  raves  — 
A  dupe  to  rumors,  and  a  tool  to  knaves: 
He'll  want  no  type  his  weakness  to  proclaim, 
While  such  a  thing  as  Foolscap  has  a  name. 

The  Hasty  Gentleman,  whose  blood  runs  high, 
Who  picks  a  quarrel,  if  you  step  awry, 
Who  can't  a  jest  or  hint  or  look  endure  — 
What's  he?    What?    Touch-Paper,  to  be  sure. 

What  are  our  Poets,  take  them  as  they  fall  — 
Good,  bad,  rich,  poor,  much  read,  not  read  at  all? 
Them  and  their  works  in  the  same  class  you'll  find  ; 
They  are  the  mere  Waste-Paper  of  mankind. 

Observe  the  Maiden,  innocently  sweet; 
She's  fair  White  Paper  —  an  unsullied  sheet, 
On  which  the  happy  man,  whom  fate  ordains, 
May  write  his  name,  and  take  her  for  his  pains. 

One  instance  more,  and  only  one,  I'll  bring: 
'Tis  the  Great  Man  who  scorns  a  little  thing, 
Whose  thoughts,  whose  deeds,  whose  maxims  are  his 

own  — 

Formed  on  the  feelings  of  his  heart  alone : 
True,  genuine  Royal  Pa.per  is  his  breast; 
Of  all  the  kinds  most  precious,  purest,  best 

Probably  the  last  thing  written  by  Franklin  was 
a  parody  on  a  speech  delivered  in  Congress  in  defence 
of  the  slave-trade.  It  purports  to  be  a  reproduction  of 
a  speech  made  by  Sidi  Mehemet  Ibrahim,  a  member 
of  the  Divan  of  Algiers,  in  opposition  to  granting  the 
petition  of  the  sect  called  Eriki,  who  asked  for  the  ab- 
olition of  Algerine  piracy.  This  paper  is  dated  March 
23,  1790,  twenty-four  days  before  the  death  of  Frank- 
lin. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  211 


SIDI  MEHEMET  ON  ALGERINE  PIRACY. 

Have  these  Erika  considered  the  consequences  of  grant' 
ing  their  petition?  If  we  cease  our  cruises  against  the 
Christians,  how  shall  we  be  furnished  with  the  commod- 
ities their  countries  produce,  and  which  are  so  necessary 
for  us?  If  we  forbear  to  make  slaves  of  their  people,  who 
in  this  hot  climate  are  to  cultivate  our  lands  ?  Who  are  to 
perform  the  common  labors  of  our  city  and  in  our  fam- 
ilies? We  have  now  above  fifty  thousand  slaves  in  and 
near  Algiers.  This  number,  if  not  kept  up  by  fresh  sup- 
plies, will  soon  diminish,  and  be  gradually  annihilated.  If 
we  then  cease  taking  and  plundering  the  infidel  ships,  and 
making  slaves  of  the  seamen  and  passengers,  our  lands  will 
become  of  no  value  for  want  of  cultivation;  the  rents  of 
houses  in  the  city  will  sink  one  half;  and  the  revenue  of 
government  arising  from  its  share  of  prizes  be  totally  de- 
stroyed !  And  for  what  ?  To  gratify  the  whims  of  a 
whimsical  sect  who  would  have  us  not  only  forbear  making 
more  slaves,  but  even  manumit  those  we  have. 

But  who  is  to  indemnify  their  masters  for  the  loss? 
Will  the  State  do  it?  Is  our  treasury  sufficient?  Will  the 
Erika  do  it?  Can  they  do  it?  And  if  we  set  our  slaves 
free,  what  is  to  be  done  with  them?  Few  of  them  will 
return  to  their  countries;  they  know  too  well  the  greater 
hardships  they  must  there  be  subject  to.  They  will  not 
embrace  our  holy  religion;  they  will  not  adopt  our  man- 
ners; our  people  will  not  pollute  themselves  by  intermar- 
rying with  them.  Must  we  maintain  them  as  beggars  in 
our  streets,  or  suffer  our  properties  to  be  the  prey  of  their 
pillage?  For  men  accustomed  to  slavery  will  not  work 
for  a  livelihood  when  not  compelled. 

And  what  is  there  so  pitiable  in  their  present  condition? 
Were  they  not  slaves  in  their  own  countries?  Are  not 
Spain,  Portugal,  France,  and  the  Italian  States  governed 
by  despots  who  hold  their  subjects  in  slavery  without  ex- 
ception? Even  England  treats  its  sailors  as  slaves;  for 
they  are,  whenever  the  government  pleases,  seized,  and 
confined  in  ships  of  war ;  condemned  not  only  to  work,  but 
to  fight,  for  small  wages  or  a  mere  subsistence,  not  better 


212  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

than  our  slaves  are  allowed  by  us.  Is  their  condition  then 
made  worse  by  falling  into  our  hands?  No;  they  have 
only  exchanged  one  slavery  for  another,  and,  I  may  say,  a 
better;  for  here  they  are  brought  into  a  land  where  the 
sun  of  Islamism  gives  forth  its  light,  and  shines  in  full 
splendor;  and  thus  have  an  opportunity  of  making  them- 
selves acquainted  with  the  true  doctrine,  and  thereby  sav- 
ing their  immortal  souls.  Sending  the  slaves  home,  then, 
would  be  sending  them  out  of  light  into  darkness. 

I  repeat  the  question,  what  is  to  be  done  with  them? 
I  have  heard  it  suggested  that  they  may  be  planted  in 
the  wilderness,  where  there  is  plenty  of  land  for  them 
to  subsist  on,  and  where  they  may  flourish  as  a  Free 
State.  But  they  are,  I  doubt,  too  little  disposed  to  labor 
without  compulsion,  as  well  as  too  ignorant  to  establish 
a  good  government ;  and  the  wild  Arabs  would  soon  molest 
and  destroy  or  again  enslave  them.  While  serving  us,  we 
take  care  to  provide  them  with  everything,  and  they  are 
treated  with  humanity.  The  laborers  in  their  own  country 
are,  as  I  am  well  informed,  worse  fed,  lodged,  and 
clothed.  The  condition  of  most  of  them  is  therefore  al- 
ready mended,  and  requires  no  further  improvement. 
Here  their  lives  are  in  safety.  They  are  not  liable  to  be 
impressed  for  soldiers,  and  forced  to  cut  one  another's 
Christian  throats,  as  in  the  wars  of  their  own  countries. 
If  some  of  the  religion-mad  bigots,  who  now  tease  us  with 
their  silly  petitions,  have  in  a  fit  of  blind  zeal  freed  their 
slaves,  it  was  not  generosity,  it  was  not  humanity,  that 
moved  them  to  the  action.  It  was  from  the  conscious  bur- 
then of  a  load  of  sins,  and  a  hope,  from  the  supposed  merits 
of  so  good  a  work,  to  be  excused  from  damnation. 

How  grossly  are  they  mistaken  to  suppose  slavery  to 
be  disallowed  by  the  Alcoran!  Are  not  the  two  precepts  — 
to  quote  no  more  — "  Masters,  treat  your  slaves  with  kind- 
ness ; "  "  Slaves,  serve  your  masters  with  cheerfulness  and 
fidelity/'  clear  proofs  to  the  contrary?  Nor  can  the 
plundering  of  Infidels  be  in  that  sacred  book  forbidden; 
since  it  is  well  known  from  it  that  God  has  given  the 
world,  and  all  that  it  contains,  to  his  faithful  Mussulmans, 
who  are  to  enjoy  it  of  right  as  fast  as  they  conquer  it  Let 


JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER  213 

us  then  hear  no  more  of  this  detestable  proposition  —  the 
manumission  of  Christian  slaves  —  the  adoption  of  which 
would,  by  depreciating  our  lands  and  houses,  and  thereby 
depriving  so  many  good  citizens  of  their  properties,  create 
universal  discontent,  and  provoke  insurrections,  to  the 
endangering  of  government,  and  producing  general  con- 
fusion. I  have,  therefore,  no  doubt  but  this  wise  Council 
will  prefer  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  a  whole  nation 
of  True  Believers  to  the  whim  of  a  few  Erika,  and  dis- 
miss their  petition. 


pRASER,  JAMES  BAILLIE,  a  Scottish  traveler 
and  novelist ;  born  at  Reelick,  Inverness-shire, 
June  II,  1783;  died  there  in  January,  1856. 
He  was  the  eldest  of  four  brothers,  all  of  whom  found 
their  way  to  the  Orient  and  earned  distinction  in  one 
way  or  another.  He  was  in  1836  sent  on  a  diplomatic 
mission  to  Persia,  making  a  remarkable  horseback 
journey  through  Asia  Minor  to  Teheran.  His  health 
having  been  impaired  by  his  exposures,  he  retired  to 
his  estate  in  Scotland,  where  the  remainder  of  his  life 
was  passed.  He  is  said  to  have  displayed  great  skill 
in  water-colors.  He  also  made  some  valuable  astro- 
nomical observations  during  his  jouraeyings  in  Asia. 
Among  his  numerous  books  of  travels  are  Journal  of  a 
Tour  Through  Part  of  the  Snowy  Range  of  the  Him- 
alaya Mountains  (1820)  ;  Narrative  of  a  Journey  Into 
Khorassan  (1825)  ;  A  Winter  Journey  from  Constan- 
tinople to  Teheran  (1838)  ;  Travels  in  Koordistan  and 
Mesopotamia  (1840).  He  also  wrote  for  "  The  Edin- 
burgh Cabinet  Library  "  The  History  of  Mesopotamia 
and  Assyria;  and  a  History  of  Persia  (1847. 


214  JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER 

The  London  Athen&um  says  his  account  of  a  winter 
journey  from  Constantinople  to  Teheran  "  can  hardly 
be  surpassed  in  lively  delineations  and  rapid  but 
graphic  sketches." 

A  PERSIAN  TOWN. 

Viewed  from  a  commanding  situation,  the  appearance  of 
a  Persian  town  is  most  uninteresting;  the  houses,  all  of 
mud,  differ  in  no  respect  from  the  earth  in  color,  and, 
from  the  irregularity  of  their  construction,  resemble  in- 
equalities on  its  surface  rather  than  human  dwellings. 
The  houses,  even  of  the  great,  seldom  exceed  one  story; 
and  the  lofty  walls  which  shroud  them  from  view,  without 
a  window  to  enliven  them,  have  a  most  monotonous  effect. 
There  are  few  domes  or  minarets,  and  still  fewer  of  those 
that  exist  are  either  splendid  or  elegant.  There  are  no 
public  buildings  but  the  mosques  and  medresses ;  and  these 
are  often  as  mean  as  the  rest,  or  perfectly  excluded  from 
view  by  ruins.  The  general  coup  d'ceil  presents  a  succes- 
sion of  flat  roofs  and  long  walls  of  mud,  thickly  inter- 
spersed with  ruins ;  and  the  only  relief  to  its  monotony  is 
found  in  the  gardens  adorned  with  chinar,  poplars,  and 
cypresses,  with  which  the  towns  and  villages  are  often  sur- 
rounded and  intermingled. 

Mr.  Fraser  wrote  The  Kuzzllbash,  a  Tale  of  Khoras- 
san  (1828).  The  word  Kuzzilbash  means  simply 
"  Red-head,"  and  is  used  to  designate  a  soldier ;  in 
1830  he  published  a  continuation  of  this  novel  under 
the  title  The  Persian  Adventurer. 

MEETING  OF  WARRIORS  IN  THE  DESERT. 

By  the  time  I  reached  the  banks  of  this  stream  the 
sun  had  set,  and  it  was  necessary  to  seek  some  retreat 
where  I  might  pass  the  night  and  refresh  myself  and  my 
horse  without  fear  of  discovery.  Ascending  the  river-bed, 
therefore,  with  this  intention,  I  soon  found  a  recess  where 


JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER  215 

I  could  repose  myself,  surrounded  by  green  pasture  in 
which  my  horse  might  feed.  Permitting  him  to  pasture 
at  will  until  dark,  after  a  moderate  meal,  I  commended 
myself  to  Allah  and  lay  down  to  rest. 

The  loud  neighing  of  my  horse  awoke  me  with  a  start, 
as  the  first  light  of  dawn  broke  in  the  east.  Quickly 
springing  on  my  feet,  and  grasping  my  spear  and  scimitar, 
which  lay  under  my  head,  I  looked  around  for  the  cause 
of  alarm.  Nor  did  it  long  remain  doubtful;  for  at  the 
distance  of  scarce  two  hundred  yards,  I  saw  a  single 
horseman  advancing.  Fitting  an  arrow  to  my  bow,  I 
placed  myself  upon  guard,  and  examined  him  narrowly  as 
he  approached.  He  was  a  man  of  goodly  stature  and  pow- 
erful frame;  his  countenance,  hard,  strongly  marked,  and 
furnished  with  a  thick,  black  beard,  bore  testimony  of  ex- 
posure to  many  a  blast,  but  it  still  preserved  a  prepossess- 
ing expression  of  good  humor  and  benevolence.  His  tur- 
ban, which  was  formed  of  a  cashmere  shawl,  sorely  gashed 
and  torn,  and  twisted  here  and  there  with  small  steel 
chains,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  was  wound 
round  a  red  cloth  cap  that  rose  in  four  peaks  high  above 
the  head.  His  oemah  or  riding  coat,  of  crimson  cloth, 
much  stained  and  faded,  opening  at  the  bosom  showed  the 
links  of  a  coat-of-mail  which  he  wore  below;  a  yellow 
shawl  formed  his  girdle;  his  huge  shulwars,  or  riding 
trousers,  of  thick  fawn-colored  Kerman  woolen  stuff,  fell 
in  folds  over  the  large,  red  leather  boots  in  which  his 
legs  were  cased ;  by  his  side  hung  a  crooked  scimitar  in  a 
black  leather  scabbard,  and  from  the  holsters  of  his  saddle 
peeped  out  the  butt-ends  of  a  pair  of  pistols  —  weapons  of 
which  I  then  knew  not  the  use,  any  more  than  the  match- 
lock which  was  slung  at  his  back.  He  was  mounted  on  a 
powerful  but  jaded  horse,  and  appeared  to  have  already 
traveled  far. 

When  the  striking  figure*  had  approached  within  thirty 
yards,  I  called  out  in  the  Turkish  language,  commonly 
used  in  the  country :  "  Whosoever  thou  art,  come  no  nearer 
on  thy  peril,  or  I  shall  salute  thee  with  this  arrow  from 
my  bow ! "  "  Why,  boy/'  returned  the  stranger  in  a  deep 
manly  voice,  and  speaking  in  the  same  tongue,  "  thou  art 


216  JAMES  BAILLIB  FRASER 

a  bold  lad,  truly !  but  set  thy  heart  at  rest,  I  mean  thee  no 
harm."  "  Nay,"  rejoined  I,  "  I  am  on  foot  and  alone.  I 
know  thee  not,  nor  thy  intentions.  Either  retire  at  once, 
or  show  thy  sincerity  by  setting  thyself  on  equal  terms 
with  me;  dismount  from  thy  steed,  and  then  I  fear  thee 
not,  whatever  be  thy  designs.  Beware ! "  And  so  say- 
ing I  drew  my  arrow  to  the  head,  and  pointed  it  towards 
him.  "  By  the  head  of  my  father !  "  cried  the  stranger, 
"  thou  art  an  absolute  youth  !  but  I  like  thee  well ;  thy  heart 
is  stout,  and  thy  demand  is  just;  the  sheep  trusts  not  the 
wolf  when  it  meets  him  in  the  plain,  nor  do  we  acknowl- 
edge every  stranger  in  the  desert  for  a  friend.  See,"  con- 
tinued .he,  dismounting  actively,  yet  with  a  weight  that 
made  the  turf  ring  again  — "  see,  I  yield  my  advantage ;  as 
for  thy  arrows,  boy,  I  fear  them  not." 

With  that  he  slung  a  small  shield,  which  he  bore  at 
his  back,  before  him,  as  if  to  cover  his  face,  in  case  of 
treachery  on  my  part,  and  leaving  his  horse  where  it 
stood,  he  advanced  to  me.  Taught  from  youth  to  sus- 
pect and  guard  against  treachery,  I  still  kept  a  wary  eye 
on  the  motions  of  the  stranger.  But  there  was  something 
in  his  open  though  rugged  countenance  and  manly  bearing 
that  claimed  and  won  my  confidence.  Slowly  I  lowered 
my  hand,  and  relaxed  the  still  drawn  string  of  my  bow, 
as  he  strode  up  to  me  with  a  firm,  composed  step. 

"Youth,"  said  he,  "had  my  intentions  been  hostile,  it 
is  not  thy  arrows  or  thy  bow,  no,  nor  thy  sword  and  spear, 
that  could  have  stood  thee  much  in  stead.  I  am  too  old 
a  soldier,  and  too  well  defended  against  such  weapons,  to 
fear  them  from  so  young  an  arm.  But  I  am  neither  ene- 
my nor  traitor  to  attack  thee  unawares.  I  have  traveled 
far  during  the  past  night,  and  mean  to  refresh  myself 
awhile  in  this  spot  before  I  proceed  on  my  journey;  thou 
meanest  not,"  added  he,  with  a  smile,  "to  deny  me  the 
boon  which  Allah  extends  to  all  his  creatures  ?  What,  still 
suspicious?  Come,  then,  I  will  increase  thy  advantage, 
and  try  to  win  thy  confidence."  With  that  he  unbuckled 
his  sword  and  threw  it,  with  his  matchlock,  upon  the  turf 
a  little  way  from  him.  "  See  me  now  unarmed ;  wilt  thou 
yet  trust  me?"  Who  could  have  doubted  longer?  I 


LOUIS  HONORS  FRECHETTE  217 

threw  down  my  bow  and  arrows :  "  Pardon,"  cried  I,  "  my 
tardy  confidence;  but  he  that  has  escaped  with  difficulty 
from  many  perils  fears  even  their  shadow." —  The  Kuzzil- 
bash. 


pR^CHETTE,  Louis  HONORE,  a  French-Ca- 
nadian poet,  journalist,  and  statesman;  born  at 
Point  Levis,  Quebec,  November  16,  1839. 
He  studied  at  Nicolet  and  at  Laval  University,  and 
was  called  to  the  bar  in  1864.  He  was  already  en- 
gaged in  literature,  having  edited  for  a  time  Le  Jour- 
nal de  Quebec,  and  having  published,  in  1862,  a  vol- 
ume of  poems  entitled  Mes  Loisirs.  In  1864  he 
founded,  in  his  native  town,  Le  Journal  de  Levis,  a 
partisan  paper  through  which  he  drew  upon  himself 
such  a  storm  of  persecution  that  in  1866  he  thought 
it  best  to  leave  the  country.  Issuing  a  severe  satire, 
entitled  La  Voix  d'un  Exile,  he  removed  to  Chicago, 
where  he  resided  until  1871,  being  engaged  as  foreign 
correspondent  in  the  land  department  of  the  Illinois 
Central  Railroad.  Here  he  founded  L'Observateur, 
and  in  1868  became  editor  of  UAmerique,  which 
quickly  acquired  a  great  influence  among  the  numer- 
ous Canadian-French  in  Illinois.  Returning  to  Cana- 
da, he  published,  in  1872,  a  satirical  novel  entitled  Les 
Lettres  a  Basile,  and  from  1874  to  1879  he  represented 
his  native  county  in  the  Dominion  Parliament.  He 
now  began  to  give  himself  more  exclusively  to  litera- 
ture ;  and  in  1877  he  issued  a  volume  of  poems  entitled 
Pile  Mile.  The  following  year  he  settled  at  Mont- 
real, and  within  two  years  had  given  to  the  public 


2i8  LOUIS  HONOR&  FR&CHETTE 

two  works  which  had  the  honor  of  being  crowned  suc- 
cessively by  the  French  Academy:  Les  Oiseaux  de 
Neige  (1879),  a  volume  of  sonnets;  and  Les  Fleurs 
Boreales  (1880).  He  edited  La  Patrie  for  a  time ;  but 
in  1885  he  left  Montreal  and  went  to  live  at  Nicolet, 
where  he  wrote  Poesies  Canadiennes:  la  Legende  d* 
un  Peuple  (1887).  The  last  three  of  these  books 
made  their  author  famous  among  the  French  of 
France,  and  he  received  the  Montyon  prize  not  only  in 
1880,  when  the  former  two  were  "  crowned/'  but  again 
in  1888,  upon  the  appearance  of  the  latter.  Other 
works,  besides  innumerable  periodical  contributions, 
are  Papineau,  a  drama  replete  with  patriotic  senti- 
ment ;  Felix  P outre,  a  historical  drama ;  The  Thunder- 
bolt; Un  Dimanche  Matin  a  I'  Hotel  du  Canada; 
Petite  Histoire  des  Rois  de  France;  a  poem  on  Jean 
Baptiste  de  la  Salle;  and  another  volume  of  poems 
entitled  Les  Feuilles  Volantes.  Among  his  transla- 
tions from  English  into  French  the  principal  are 
Howell's  Chance  Acquaintance  and  Cable's  Old  Creole 
Days.  The  degree  of  LL.D.  was  conferred  upon  him 
by  several  universities,  and  in  1890  he  was  made  clerk 
of  the  legislative  council  of  the  Province  of  Quebec. 
.  A  writer  in  the  Catholic  World  says :  "  The  Eng- 
lish-speaking world  has  lately  come  to  know  more 
about  Louis  Frechette  than  it  ever  knew  before,  al- 
though he  is  by  no  means  a  Marsyas,  young  and  in- 
experienced, in  the  art  of  poetry.  The  Forty  Im- 
mortals who  dwell  in  Paris,  and  who  occasionally 
permit  a  gleam  from  Olympus  to  fall  on  some  favored 
man  of  the  French  nation,  have  cast  their  eyes  to- 
ward New  France  and  have  made  a  new  departure. 
They  have  set  the  seal  of  their  approbation  on  the 
work  of  a  foreigner,  and,  in  spite  of  M.  Camilla 


LOUIS  HONORS  FRECHETTE  219 

Doucet's  apology  to  the  effect  that  Canada  had  been 
French  and  was  still  French  at  heart,  the  fact  is 
undeniable  that  the  Academy  has  crowned  the  work 
of  an  American  who  is  a  British  subject;  the  Acad- 
emy which,  in  spite  of  the  inroads  of  the  Roman- 
tic school  into  its  severe  and  chaste  halls,  seldom 
crowns  anything  that  is  not  what  Louis  Veuillot  calls 
in  derision  'cisele/  Frechette's  lyrics  and  short  po- 
ems are  'cisele'  after  the  best  French  models.  If 
anything,  he  is  too  dainty  in  his  treatment  of  themes. 
In  his  workmanship  he  is  more  like  Cellini  than 
Michelangelo,  though  he  has  been  compared  to  Hugo, 
more  probably  because  it  is  the  regular  thing  to  do 
than  because  there  is  any  resemblance. 

"The  prose  writings  of  Frechette  are  numerous. 
They  have  been  compared  to  the  letters  of  Junius  and 
to  the  writings  of  Louis  Veuillot.  They  are  generally 
fiery  arraignments  of  somebody  that  differs  from  him 
in  politics,  and  some  of  his  letters  are  vigorous  in 
style,  but  utterly  without  interest  to  the  reader  who 
does  not  care  to  follow  the  intricacies,  past,  present, 
and  future,  of  Canadian  politics.  The  world  at  large 
has  reason  to  be  most  interested  in  his  poetry;  and 
the  French  Academy  has  earned  the  gratitude  of  all 
lovers  of  poetry  by  bringing  to  light  a  poet  who  de- 
served recognition  from  that  catholic  family  long 
ago." 

"His  poems,"  says  Paul  Lafleur,  writing  for  the 
'Atlantic  Monthly,  "fall  naturally  into  two  classes: 
one  treating  of  national,  that  is  French  Canadian  sub- 
jects ;  and  the  other  consisting  of  verses  which  might 
have  been  written  in  any  country,  with  due  regard  to 
local  color.  The  former  are  found  most  entirely  in 
Legende  ff  un  People,  to  the  contents  of  which  must 


220  LOUIS  HONORS  FRECHETTE 

be  added  two  or  three  from  Les  Fleurs  Boreales. 
They  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of  the  nobler  days 
of  our  country,  when  patriotism  had  not  degenerated 
into  mere  provincial  sentiment  and  race  hatred,  when 
the  antagonism  between  English  and  French  was  as 
legitimate  a  feeling  in  Canada  as  on  the  battle-fields 
of  Blenheim  and  Ramillies." 

SURSUM   COKDA. 

Warm  was  the  sun,  and,  the  mild  breeze  caressing, 
Low  hung  the  branches  with  leaves  and  with  flowers ; 

Clear  sang  the  linnet  in  outburst  of  blessing, 
While  slept  her  wee  birds  in  their  soft,  mossy  bowers. 

To  care  then  we  never  will  open  our  doors; 

The  winter  soon  past,  then  the  May-time  we  greet; 
And  oft  with  illusions  from  memory's  shores, 

The  heart  builds  a  nest  for  itself  far  more  sweet. 

THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  EXILE. 

Adieu,  flowery  meadows,  and  dear,  shady  vale; 
Adieu,  purple  mountains,  and  great  prairies  pale 
O,  musical  stream ;  sky  where  sweetest  scents  dwell :  — 
In  cities  so  great,  in  the  woods,  on  the  strand, 
Thine  image  shall  with  me  e'en  float  in  dreamland, 
O,  my  Canada,  loved  so  well! 

In  forest's  deep  haunts  I  shall  linger  no  more, 
Nor  hear  the  waves  break  on  thy  green,  weedy  shore ; 
Thy  voices !  — my  heart  wildly  beats  at  their  name  1  — 
But,  afar,  I  shall  not  hear  the  mirth,  boisf  rous,  loud, 
As  up  village  streets  march  the  soldiers  so  proud, 
As  they  barter  away  our  fame. 

And  when  on  a  soil  far  from  home  I  shall  sleep, 
Alas!  I  know  well,  not  a  soul  will  e'er  keep 
Love's  vigil  by  dusk  or  kneel  o'er  me  in  prayer :  — 


HAROLD  FREDERIC  2 

But  I  shall  not  see,  to  make  greater  my  pain, 
A  false,  coward  race  snatch  all  innocent  gain, 
Leaving  ruined,  each  spot,  once  fair. 
—  Translation  of  DOROTHEA  SH EPPERSON. 


pREDERIC,  HAROLD,  an  American  novelist 
and  journalist;  born  at  Utica,  N.  Y.,  August 
19,  1856;  died  at  Kenley,  Surrey,  England, 
October  19,  1898.  He  began  his  literary  career  as  a 
contributor  to  the  Utica  Herald;  of  which  he  became, 
in  1881,  the  editor-in-chief.  He  was  afterward  editor 
of  the  Albany  Evening  Journal;  which  position  he 
resigned  to  become  the  London  correspondent  of  the 
New  York  Timts.  His  first  novel,  Seth's  Brother's 
Wife,  was  selected  out  of  many  as  the  serial  with 
which  Scribner's  Magazine  was  started  in  January, 
1887.  ?n  the  Valley,  a  story  of  Colonial  life  in  the 
Mohawk  country,  was  begun  in  the  same  monthly  in 
the  latter  part  of  1889.  Scribner  was  also  the  medium 
of  publication,  in  1893,  of  The  Copperhead.  Other 
popular  novels  include  The  Lawton  Girl;  The  Return 
of  the  O'Mahoney,  besides,  as  he  expresses  it,  "a 
batch  of  shorter  stories."  The  Damnation  of  Theron 
Ware  (1896)  was  republished  in  England  under  the 
title  Illuminations,  and  was  followed  in  the  same  year 
by  Mrs.  Albert  Grundy,  which  the  author  describes 
as  "observations  in  Philistia."  March  Hares,  which 
was  characterized  as  a  "sentimental  farce"  appeared 
in  1897.  This  was  followed  by  Gloria  Mundi  (1898)  ; 
which  was  the  last  story  Mr.  Frederic  published.  A 
few  days  before  his  last  illness  he  completed  the 


222  HAROLD  FREDERIC 

manuscript  for  his  latest  work,  In  the  Market  Place. 
"Perhaps  what  is  most  surprising  in  his  works," 
says  the  Nation,  "is  their  variety.  No  one  of  his 
books  in  the  least  resembles  another,  except  in  neat- 
ness of  execution  and  marked  absence  of  the  subjec- 
tive note."  The  Critic,  in  a  review  of  The  Damna- 
tion of  Theron  Ware,  calls  it  the  story  of  a  little 
earthenware  pot  that  goes  to  swim  gaily  among 
stronger  vessels,  and  is  broken  by  the  way.  The 
brave,  honest,  outspoken  woman  who  has  the  saving 
of  the  pieces,  puts  the  whole  story  and  the  forecast 
of  the  future  in  a  few  plain  words :  "  When  pressure 
was  put  upon  him,  it  found  out  his  weak  spot  like 
a  shot,  and  pushed  on  it,  and  —  well,  it  came  near 
smashing  him,  that's  all.  He  isn't  going  to  be  an 
angel  of  light,  or  a  saint,  or  anything  of  that  sort, 
and  it's  no  good  expecting  it.  But  he'll  be  just  an 
average  kind  of  man  —  a  little  sore  about  some  things, 
a  little  wiser  than  he  was  about  some  others."  Certain 
theological  features  of  this  work  have  led  to  much 
comment ;  and  several  reviewers  have  -thought  it  neces- 
sary to  explain  that  the  purpose  of  the  tale  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  a  comparison  of  the  Catholic  and  Pro- 
testant aspects  of  Christianity,  and  that  Theron  "  is 
not  converted  from  the  latter  to  the  former,  though 
for  a  few  chapters  that  may  seem  a  not  improbable 
outcome,  and  though  his  strict  Methodist  friends  might 
not  have  considered  damnation  too  strong  a  word  to 
apply  to  such  an  apostasy/' 

CELIA'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  YOUNG  PREACHER. 

You  impressed  us  as  an  innocent,  simple,  genuine 
young  character,  full  of  mother's  milk.  It  was  like  the 
smell  of  early  spring  in  the  country  to  come  in  contact 


HAROLD  FREDERIC  223 

with  you.  Your  honesty  of  nature,  your  sincerity  in 
that  absurd  religion  of  yours,  your  general  nawete  of 
mental  and  spiritual  get-up,  all  pleased  a  great  deal 
We  thought  you  were  going  to  be  a  real  acquisition. 
Instead,  we  find  you  inflating  yourself  with  all  sorts  of 
egotisms  and  vanities.  Your  whole  mind  became  an  un- 
pleasant thing  to  contemplate.  You  thought  it  would 
amuse  and  impress  us  to  hear  you  ridiculing  and  revil- 
ing the  people  of  your  church,  whose  money  supports  you, 
and  making  a  mock  of  the  things  they  believe  in,  and 
which  for  your  life  you  wouldn't  dare  let  them  know 
you  didn't  believe  in.  What  were  you  thinking  of  not 
to  comprehend  that  that  would  disgust  us?  You  showed 
me  once  —  do  you  remember?  —  a  life  of  George  Sand 
that  you  had  just  bought  —  bought  because  you  had  just 
discovered  that  she  had  an  unclean  side  to  her  life.  You 
churckled  as  you  spoke  to  me  about  it,  and  you  were 
for  all  the  world  like  a  little,  nasty  boy,  giggling  over 
something  dirty  that  older  people  had  learned  not  to 
notice.  What  you  took  to  be  improvement  was  degenera- 
tion. When  you  thought  that  you  were  impressing  us 
most  by  your  smart  sayings  and  doings,  you  were  remind- 
ing us  most  of  the  fable  about  the  donkey  trying  to  play 
lap-dog.  And  it  wasn't  even  an  honest,  straightforward 
donkey  at  that — The  Damnation  of  Theron  Ware. 

AT  THE  DEATH-BED. 

The  door  opened,  and  Theron  saw  the  priest  standing 
in  the  doorway  with  an  uplifted  hand.  He  wore  now  a 
surplice  with  a  purple  band  over  his  shoulders,  and  on 
his  pale  face  there  shone  a  tranquil  and  tender  light 
One  of  the  workmen  fetched  from  the  stove  a  brand, 
lighted  the  two  candles,  and  bore  the  table  with  its  con- 
tents into  the  bedroom.  The  young  woman  plucked 
Theron's  sleeve,  and  he  dumbly  followed  her  into  the 
chamber  of  death,  making  one  of  the  group  of  a  dozen, 
headed  by  Mrs.  MacEnvoy  and  her  children,  which  filled 
the  little  room,  and  overflowed  now  outward  to  the 
street-door.  He  found  himself  bowing  to  receive  the 
sprinkled  holy  water  from  the  priest's  white  fingers ;  kneel- 


224  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN 

ing  with  the  others  for  the  prayers ;  following  in  impressed 
silence  with  the  others  the  strange  ceremonial  by  which 
the  priest  traced  crosses  of  holy  oil  with  his  thumb  upon 
the  eyes,  ears,  nostrils,  lips,  hands,  and  feet  of  the  dying 
man,  wiping  off  the  oil  with  a  piece  of  cotton  batting 
each  time  after  he  had  repeated  the  invocation  to  for- 
giveness for  that  particular  sense.  But  most  of  all  he 
was  moved  by  the  rich,  novel  sound  of  the  Latin  as  the 
priest  rolled  it  forth  in  the  Asperges  me,  Domine,  and 
Misereatur  vestri  omnipotent  Deus,  with  its  soft  Conti- 
nental vowels  and  liquid  r's.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  never  really  heard  Latin  before.  Then  the  astonish- 
ing young  woman  with  the  red  hair  declaimed  the  Con- 
fiteor  vigorously,  and  with  a  resonant  distinctness  of  enun- 
ciation. It  was  a  different  Latin,  harsher  and  more 
sonorous,  and  while  it  still  dominated  the  murmured 
undertone  of  the  other's  prayers  the  last  moment  came. 

Theroa  had  stood  face  to  face  with  death  at  many  other 
bedsides;  no  other  final  scene  had  stirred  him  like  this; 
It  must  have  been  the  girl's  Latin  chant,  with  its  clang- 
ing reiteration  of  the  great  names,  beatum  Michatlem 
Archangelum,  beatum  Joannem  Baptistam,  sanctos  apos- 
tolos  Petrum  et  Paulum,  invoked  with  such  proud  confi- 
dence in  this  squalid  little  shanty,  which  so  strangely  af- 
fected him. —  The  Damnation  of  Theron  Ware. 


pREEMAN,  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS,  an  English 
historian ;  born  at  Harborne,  Staffordshire,  in 
1823 ;  died  at  Alicante,  Spain,  March  16,  1892. 
He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  of  which 
he  was  elected  Scholar  in  1841,  Fellow  in  1845,  and 
Honorary  Fellow  in  1880.  He  filled  the  office  of 
Examiner  in  the  School  of  Law  and  Modern  History 


E.  A.  FREEMAN 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN  225 

in  1857-58  and  in  1863-64,  and  in  the  School  of 
Modern  History  in  1873.  He  received  the  honorary 
degree  of  D.C.L.  from  the  University  of  Oxford  in 
1870,  and  that  of  LL.D.  from  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge in  1874,  was  an  honorary  member  of  numerous 
learned  societies  in  Europe  and  America,  and  received 
honorary  decorations  from  several  European  powers. 
His  writings,  mainly  upon  historical  and  architectural 
subjects,  are  very  numerous.  Among  them  are  His- 
tory of  Architecture  (1849);  Essays  on  Window 
Tracery  (1850);  The  History  and  Conquests  of  the 
Saracens  (1856)  ;  History  of  the  Federal  Government 
Vol.  I.,  1863)  ;  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest  (5 
vols.,  1867-76)  ;  Old  English  History  (1869)  ;  Growth 
of  the  English  Constitution  (1872)  ;  General  Sketch 
of  European  History  (1872);  Historical  Essays  (3 
vols.,  1872-79)  ;  Historical  and  Architectural  Sketches, 
chiefly  Italian  (1876)  ;  The  Ottoman  Power  in  Europe 
(1877)  ;  The  Historical  Geography  of  Europe  (1881)  ; 
The  Reign  of  William  Rufus  and  Henry  I.  (1882)  ; 
Introduction  to  American  Institutional  History  (1882)  ; 
Lectures  to  American  Audiences  (1882) ;  English 
Towns  and  Districts  and  Some  Impressions  of  the 
United  States  (1883)  ;  The  Methods  of  Historical 
Study  (1886)  ;  The  Chief  Periods  of  European  History, 
and,  in  the  series  of  Historic  Towns,  edited  by  himself, 
Exeter  (1887)  ;  Fifty  Years  of  European  History  and 
William  the  Conqueror,  in  the  English  Statesmen 
series  (1888),  and  the  third  volume  of  the  History 
of  Sicily  from  the  Earliest  Times  (1891).  He  also 
contributed  largely  to  periodicals  upon  kindred  sub- 
jects. 

His  work  is  characterized  by  a  strict  adherence  to 
truth  and  an  undisguised  contempt  for  those  of  his 
VOL.  X.— 15 


226  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN 

contemporaries  who  were  inclined  to  subordinate  cold 
facts  to  picturesque  expression.  He  exerted  a  strong 
Teutonic  influence  on  English  history. 

SIGNIFICANCE  OF  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST. 

The  Norman  Conquest  is  the  great  turning-point  in 
the  history  of  the  English  nation.  Since  the  first  set- 
tlement of  the  English  in  Britain,  the  introduction  of 
Christianity  is  the  only  event  which  can  compare  with 
it  in  importance.  And  there  is  this  wide  difference  be- 
tween the  two:  The  introduction  of  Christianity  was 
an  event  which  could  hardly  fail  to  happen  sooner  or 
later;  in  accepting  the  Gospel  the  English  only  followed 
the  same  law,  which,  sooner  or  later,  affected  all  the 
Teutonic  nations.  But  the  Norman  Conquest  is  some- 
thing which  stands  without  a  parallel  in  any  other  Teu- 
tonic land.  If  that  Conquest  be  looked  on  in  its  true 
light,  it  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  its  importance.  And 
there  is  no  event  whose  true  nature  has  been  more  com- 
monly and  more  utterly  misunderstood.  No  event  is 
less  fitted  to  be  taken,  as  it  so  often  has  been,  for  the 
beginning  of  the  national  history.  For  its  whole  im- 
portance is  not  the  importance  which  belongs  to  a  be- 
ginning, but  the  importance  which  belongs  to  a  turning- 
point  The  Norman  Conquest  brought  with  it  a  most 
extensive  foreign  infusion,  which  affected  our  blood, 
our  language,  our  laws,  our  arts;  still,  it  was  only  an 
infusion;  the  older  and  stronger  elements  still  survived, 
and  in  the  long  run  they  again  made  good  their  su- 
premacy. So  far  from  being  the  beginning  of  our  na- 
tional history,  the  Norman  Conquest  was  the  temporary 
overthrow  of  our  national  being.  But  it  was  only  a 
temporary  overthrow.  To  a  superficial  observer  the  Eng- 
lish people  might  seem  for  a  while  to  be  wiped  out 
of  the  roll-call  of  the  nations,  or  to  exist  only  as  the 
bondmen  of  foreign  rulers  in  their  own  land.  But  in  a 
few  generations  we  led  captive  our  conquerors;  Eng- 
land was  England  once  again,  and  the  descendants  of 
the  Norman  invaders  were  found  to  be  among  the  truest 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN  227 

of  Englishmen.  England  may  be  as  justly  proud  of 
rearing  such  step-children  as  Simon  of  Montfort  and 
Edward  the  First  as  of  being  the  natural  mother  of  Alfred 
and  of  Harold. 

In  no  part  of  history  can  any  event  be  truly  under- 
stood without  reference  to  the  events  which  went  be- 
fore it  and  which  prepared  the  way  for  it  But  in  no 
case  is  such  reference  more  needful  than  in  dealing  with 
an  event  like  that  with  which  we  are  now  concerned. 
The  whole  importance  of  the  Norman  Conquest  con- 
sists in  the  effect  which  it  had  on  an  existing  nation, 
humbled  indeed,  but  neither  wiped  out  nor  utterly  en- 
slaved; in  the  changes  which  it  wrought  in  an  existing 
constitution,  which  was  by  degrees  greatly  modified,  but 
which  was  never  either  wholly  abolished  or  wholly  tram- 
pled under  foot.  William,  King  of  the  English,  claimed 
to  reign  as  the  lawful  successor  of  the  kings  of  the 
English  who  had  reigned  before  him.  He  claimed  to 
inherit  their  rights,  and  he  professed  to  govern  accord- 
ing to  their  laws.  This  position,  therefore,  and  the 
whole  nature  of  the  great  revolution  which  he  wrought, 
are  utterly  unintelligible  without  a  full  understanding 
of  the  state  of  things  which  he  found  existing.  Even 
when  one  nation  actually  displaces  another,  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  condition  of  the  displaced  nation  is  neces- 
sary to  understand  the  position  of  the  displacing  nation. 
The  English  Conquest  of  Britain  cannot  be  thoroughly 
understood  without  some  knowledge  of  the  earlier  his- 
tory of  the  Celt  and  the  Roman.  But  when  there  is  no 
displacement  of  a  nation,  when  there  is  not  even  the 
utter  overthrow  of  a  constitution,  when  there  are  only 
changes,  however  many  and  important,  wrought  in  an 
existing  system,  a  knowledge  of  the  earlier  state  of  things 
is  an  absolutely  essential  part  of  any  knowledge  of  the 
latter.  The  Norman  Conquest  of  England  is  simply  an 
insoluble  puzzle  without  a  clear  notion  of  the  condition  of 
England  and  the  English  people  at  the  time  when  the 
Conqueror  and  his  followers  set  foot  on  our  shores. — 
The  Norman  Conquest,  Introduction. 


228  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN 


COMPARATIVE  MAGNITUDE  OF  THE  CONQUEST. 

The  Norman  Conquest,  again,  is  an  event  which  stands 
by  itself  in  the  history  of  Europe.  It  took  place  at  a 
transitional  period  in  the  world's  development.  Those 
elements,  Roman  and  Teutonic,  Imperial  and  Ecclesias- 
tical, which  stood,  as  it  were,  side  by  side  in  the  system 
of  the  early  middle  age,  were  then  being  fused  together 
into  the  later  system  of  fuedal,  Papal,  crusading  Europe. 
The  Conquest  was  one  of  the  most  important  steps  in 
the  change.  A  kingdom  which  had  hitherto  been  purely 
Teutonic  was  brought  within  the  sphere  of  the  laws,  the 
manners,  the  speech  of  the  Romanic  nations.  At  the 
very  moment  when  Pope  and  Csesar  held  each  other  in 
the  death-grasp,  a  Church  which  had  hitherto  main- 
tained a  sort  of  insular  and  barbaric  independence  was 
brought  into  a  far  more  intimate  connection  with  the 
Roman  See.  And  as  a  conquest,  compared  with  earlier 
and  with  later  conquests,  the  Norman  Conquest  of  Eng- 
land holds  a  middle  position  between  the  two  classes, 
and  shares  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  both.  It  was 
something  less  than  such  conquests  as  form  the  main 
subject  of  history  during  the  great  Wandering  of  the 
Nations.  It  was  something  more  than  those  political 
conquests  which  fill  up  too  large  a  space  in  the  history 
of  modern  times.  It  was  much  less  than  a  natural  mi- 
gration ;  it  was  much  more  than  a  mere  change  of  fron- 
tier or  dynasty.  It  was  not  such  a  change  as  when 
the  first  English  conquerors  slew,  expelled,  or  enslaved 
the  whole  nation  of  the  vanquished  Britons.  It  was  not 
even  such  a  change  as  when  the  Goths  or  Burgundians 
sat  down  as  a  ruling  people,  preserving  their  own  lan- 
guage and  their  own  law,  and  leaving  the  language  and 
law  of  Rome  to  the  vanquished  Romans.  But  it  was  a 
far  greater  change  than  commonly  follows  on  the  transfer 
of  a  province  from  one  sovereign  to  another,  or  even 
the  forcible  acquisition  of  a  crown  by  an  alien  dynasty. 

The  Conquest  of  England  by  William  wrought  less 
immediate  change  than  the  Conquest  of  Africa  by  Gen- 
seric;  it  wrought  a  greater  immediate  change  than  the 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN  229 

Conquest  of  Sicily  by  Charles  of  Aragon.  It  brought 
with  it  not  only  a  new  dynasty,  but  a  new  nobility;  it 
did  not  expel  or  transplant  the  English  nation,  or  any 
part  of  it,  but  it  gradually  deprived  the  leading  men  and 
families  of  England  of  their  lands  and  offices  and  thrust 
them  dawn  into  a  secondary  position  under  alien  in- 
truders. It  did  not  at  once  sweep  away  the  old  laws 
and  liberties  of  the  land;  but  it  at  once  changed  the 
manner  and  spirit  of  their  administration,  and  it  opened 
the  way  for  endless  later  changes  in  the  laws  themselves. 
It  did  not  abolish  the  English  language;  but  it  brought 
in  a  new  language  by  its  side,  which  for  a  while  sup- 
planted it  as  the  language  of  polite  intercourse,  and  which 
did  not  yield  to  the  surviving  elder  speech  till  it  had 
affected  it  by  the  largest  infusion  that  the  vocabulary  of 
one  European  tongue  ever  received  from  another.  The 
most  important  of  the  formal  changes  in  legislation,  in 
language,  in  the  system  of  government,  were  no  im- 
mediate consequences  of  the  Conquest,  no  mere  inno- 
vations of  the  reign  of  William.  They  were  the  gradual 
developments  of  later  times,  when  the  Norman  as  well  as 
the  Englishman  found  himself  under  the  yoke  of  a  foreign 
master.  But  the  reign  of  William  paved  the  way  for  all 
the  later  changes  which  were  to  come,  and  the  immediate 
changes  which  he  himself  wrought  were,  after  all,  great 
and  weighty.  They  were  none  the  less  great  and  weighty 
because  they  affected  the  practical  condition  of  the  peo- 
ple far  more  than  they  affected  its  written  laws  and  in- 
stitutions. When  a  nation  is  driven  to  receive  a  for- 
eigner as  its  King,  when  that  foreign  King  divides  the 
highest  offices  and  the  greatest  estates  of  the  land  among 
his  foreign  followers,  though  such  a  change  must  be  care- 
fully distinguished  from  changes  in  the  written  law,  still 
the  change  is,  for  the  time,  practically  the  greatest  which 
a  nation  and  its  leaders  can  undergo. —  The  Norman  Con- 
quest, Introduction. 

DEATH   OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR. 

The   death-bed  of  William  was    a  death-bed   of   all 
formal   devotion,  a   death-bed   of  penitence   which   we 


230  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN 

may  trust  was  more  than  formal.  The  English  Chroni- 
cler, William  of  Malmesbury,  after  weighing  the  good 
and  evil  in  him,  sends  him  out  of  the  world  with  a 
charitable  prayer  for  his  soul's  rest;  and  his  repentance, 
late  and  fearful  as  it  was,  at  once  marks  the  distinction 
between  the  Conqueror  on  his  bed  of  death  and  his  suc- 
cessor cut  off  without  a  thought  of  penitence  in  the 
midst  of  his  crimes.  He  made  his  will.  The  mammon 
of  unrighteousness  which  he  had  gathered  together  amid 
the  groans  and  tears  of  England  he  now  strove  so  to 
dispose  of  as  to  pave  his  way  to  an  everlasting  habita- 
tion. All  his  treasures  were  distributed  among  the  poor 
and  the  churches  of  his  dominions.  A  special  sum  was 
set  apart  for  the  rebuilding  of  the  churches  which  had 
been  burned  at  Mantes,  and  gifts  in  money  and  books 
and  ornaments  of  every  kind  were  to  be  distributed 
among  all  the  churches  of  England  according  to  their 
rank.  He  then  spoke  of  his  own  life  and  of  the  arrange- 
ments which  he  wished  to  make  for  his  dominions  after 
his  death.  The  Normans,  he  said,  were  a  brave  and  un- 
conquered  race;  but  they  needed  the  curb  of  a  strong 
and  a  righteous  master  to  keep  them  in  the  path  of 
order.  Yet  the  rule  over  them  must  by  all  law  pass 
to  Robert.  Robert  was  his  eldest  born;  he  had  prom- 
ised him  the  Norman  succession  before  he  won  the 
crown  of  England,  and  he  had  received  the  homage  of 
the  barons  of  the  Duchy.  Normandy'  and  Maine  must 
therefore  pass  to  Robert,  and  for  them  he  must  be  the 
man  of  the  French  king.  Yet  he  well  knew  how  sad 
would  be  the  fate  of  the  land  which  had  to  be  ruled  by 
one  so  proud  and  foolish,  and  for  whom  a  career  of 
shame  and  sorrow  was  surely  doomed. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  England?  Now  at  last 
the  heart  of  William  smote  him.  To  England  he  dared 
not  appoint  a  successor;  he  could  only  leave  the  dis- 
posal of  the  island  realm  to  the  Almighty  Ruler  of  the 
world.  The  evil  deeds  of  his  past  life  crowded  upon  his 
soul.  Now  at  last  his  heart  confessed  that  he  had  won 
England  by  no  right,  by  no  claim  of  birth;  that  he  had 
won  the  English  crown  by  wrong,  and  that  what  he  had 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN  231 

won  by  wrong  he  had  no  right  to  give  to  another.  He 
had  won  his  realm  by  warfare  and  bloodshed;  he  had 
treated  the  sons  of  the  English  soil  with  needless  harsh- 
ness; he  had  cruelly  wronged  nobles  and  commons;  he 
had  spoiled  many  men  wrongfully  of  their  inheritance; 
he  had  slain  countless  multitudes  by  hunger  or  by  the 
sword.  The  harrying  of  Northumberland  now  rose  up 
before  his  eyes  in  all  its  blackness.  The  dying  man  now 
told  how  cruelly  he  had  burned  and  plundered  the  land, 
what  thousands  of  every  age  and  sex  among  the  noble 
nation  which  he  had  conquered  had  been  done  to  death 
at  his  bidding.  The  sceptre  of  the  realm  which  he  had 
won  by  so  many  crimes  he  dared  not  hand  over  to  any 
but  to  God  alone.  Yet  he  would  not  hide  his  wish  that 
his  son  William,  who  had  ever  been  dutiful  to  him,  might 
reign  in  England  after  him.  He  would  send  him  beyond 
the  sea,  and  he  would  pray  Lanfranc  to  place  the  crown 
upon  his  head,  if  the  Primate  in  his  wisdom  deemed  that 
such  an  act  could  be  rightly  done. 

Of  the  two  sons  of  whom  he  spoke,  Robert  was  far 
away,  a  banished  rebel;  William  was  by  his  bedside. 
By  his  bedside  also  stood  his  youngest  son,  the  English 
JEtheling,  Henry  the  Clerk.  "And  what  dost  thou  give 
to  me,  my  father?"  said  the  youth.  "Five  thousand 
pounds  of  silver  from  my  hoard,"  was  the  Conqueror's 
answer.  "  But  of  what  use  is  a  hoard  to  me  if  I  have  no 
place  to  dwell  in?"  "Be  patient,  my  son,  and  trust  in 
the  Lord,  and  let  thine  elders  go  before  thee."  It  is 
perhaps  by  the  light  of  later  events  that  our  chronicler 
goes  on  to  make  William  tell  his  youngest  son  that  the 
day  would  come  when  he  would  succeed  both  his  brothers 
in  their  dominions,  and  would  be  richer  and  mightier  than 
either  of  them.  The  king  then  dictated  a  letter 
to  Lanfranc,  setting  forth  his  wishes  with  regard 
to  the  kingdom.  He  sealed  it  and  gave  it  to  his  son 
William,  and  bade  him,  with  his  last  blessing  and  his  last 
kiss,  to  cross  at  once  into  England  William  Rufus 
straightway  set  forth  for  Witsand,  and  there  heard  of 
his  father's  death.  Meanwhile  Henry,  too,  left  his  fath- 
er's bedside  to  take  for  himself  the  money  that  was 


232  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN 

left  to  him,  to  see  that  nothing  was  lacking  in  it's  weight^ 
to  call  together  his  comrades  on  whom  he  could  trust, 
and  to  take  measures  for  stowing  the  treasure  in  a  place 
of  safety.  And  now  those  who  stood  around  the  dying 
king  began  to  implore  his  mercy  for  the  captives  whom 
he  held  in  prison.  He  granted  the  prayer.  .  .  . 

The  last  earthly  acts  of  the  Conqueror  were  now 
done.  He  had  striven  to  make  his  peace  with  God  and 
man,  and  to  make  such  provision  as  he  could  for  the 
children  and  the  subjects  whom  he  had  left  behind  him. 
And  now  his  last  hour  was  come.  On  a  Thursday  morn- 
ing in  September,  when  the  sun  had  already  risen  upon 
the  earth,  the  sound  of  the  great  bell  of  the  metropolitan 
minster  struck  on  the  ears  of  the  dying  king.  He  asked 
why  it  sounded.  He  was  told  that  it  rang  for  prime  in 
the  Church  of  our  Lady.  William  lifted  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  he  stretched  forth  his  hands,  and  spake  his  last 
words:  "To  my  Lady  Mary,  the  Holy  Mother  of  God, 
I  commend  myself,  that,  by  her  holy  prayers,  she  may 
reconcile  me  to  her  dear  Son,  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 
He  prayed,  and  his  soul  passed  away.  William,  king  of 
the  English  and  duke  of  the  Normans,  the  man  whose 
fame  has  filled  the  world  in  his  own  and  in  every  follow- 
ing age,  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh.  No  kingdom  was 
left  him  now  but  his  seven  feet  of  ground,  and  even  to 
that  his  claim  was  not  to  be  undisputed. 

The  death  of  a  king  in  those  days  came  near  to  a 
break-up  of  all  civil  society.  Till  a  new  king  was  chosen 
and  crowned,  there  was  no  longer  a  power  in  the  land 
to  protect  or  to  chastise.  All  bonds  were  loosed:  all 
public  authority  was  in  abeyance;  each  man  had  to 
look  to  his  own  as  he  best  might.  No  sooner  was  the 
breath  out  of  William's  body  than  the  great  company 
which  had  patiently  watched  around  him  during  the  night 
was  scattered  hither  and  thither.  The  great  men  mounted 
their  horses  and  rode  with  all  speed  to  their  homes,  to 
guard  their  houses  and  goods  against  the  outburst  of 
lawlessness  which  was  sure  to  break  forth  now  that  the 
land  had  no  longer  a  ruler.  Their  servants  and  follow- 
ers, seeing  their  lords  gone,  and  deeming  that  there  was 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        233 

no  longer  any  fear  of  punishment,  began  to  make  spoil 
of  the  royal  chamber.  Weapons,  clothes,  vessels,  the 
royal  bed  and  its  furniture,  were  carried  off,  and  for  a 
whole  day  the  body  of  the  Conqueror  lay  well-nigh  bare 
on  the  floor  of  the  room  in  which  he  had  died. —  The 
Norman  Conquest. 

THE  STUDY  OF  GREEK  AND  LATIN. 

The  weak  side  of  the'  old  study  of  Greek  and  Latin 
lay  in  this,  that  they  were  studied  apart  from  other  lan- 
guages. They  were  supposed  to  have  some  mysterious 
character  about  them,  some  supreme  virtue  peculiar  to 
themselves,  which  made  it  needful  to  look  at  them  all 
by  themselves,  and  made  it  in  a  manner  disrespectful  to 
class  any  other  languages  with  them.  This  belief,  or 
rather  feeling,  grew  naturally  out  of  the  circumstances 
of  what  is  called  the  revival  of  learning  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  learning  then  revived  was 
an  exclusively  Greek  and  Latin  learning,  and  it  could 
hardly  have  been  otherwise.  And  besides  this,  the  error, 
like  other  errors,  contains  a  certain  measure  of  truth; 
it  is  a  half-truth  thrust  out  of  its  proper  place.  For 
purposes  purely  educational  the  Greek  and  Latin  tongues 
have  something  which  is  peculiar  to  themselves,  something 
which  does  set  them  apart  from  all  others.  That  is, 
they  are  better  suited  than  any  other  languages  to  be 
the  groundwork  of  study. —  Essay  on  Language  and  Lit- 
erature. 


pREEMAN,  MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS,  an  Amer- 
ican novelist;  born  at  Randolph,  Mass.,  in 
1862.  She  was  educated  at  Mount  Holyoke 
Seminary.  After  residing  some  years  at  Brattleboro, 
Vt,  she  returned  in  1883  to  Randolph,  which  re- 
mained her  home  until  her  marriaere  to  Charles  Free- 


234       MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

man  in  January,  1902,  when  she  removed  to  his  home 
at  Metuchen,  N.  J.  She  began  her  literary  career  by 
writing-  short  stories  for  the  magazines  in  1886,  her 
work  being  largely  the  delineation  of  New  England 
life  and  character.  Her  subsequent  novels  attracted 
much  attention  and  in  England  she  is  regarded  as 
the  foremost  woman  writer  in  America.  Her  published 
works  include  The  Adventures  of  Ann  (1886) ;  A 
Humble  Romance  and  Other  Stories  (1887) ;  A  New 
England  Nun  and  Other  Stories  ( 1888) ;  Young  Lucre- 
tia  (1891);  Giles  Corey,  Yeoman,  a  drama  (1893); 
Jane  Field,  a  novel  (1893) ;  Pembroke  (1894) ;  The 
Long  Arm  (1895);  Jerome;  A  Poor  Man  (1896); 
Silence  and  Other  Stories  (1897) ;  The  People  of  Our 
'Neighborhood  (1898) ;  Understudies  (1899)  ;Madelon 
'(1900) ;  The  Love  of  Parson  Lord  (1901) ;  The  Por- 
tion of  Labor  (1902) ;  Evelina's  Garden  (1902) ;  The 
Wind  in  the  Rose  Bush  (1903) ;  and  Six  Trees  (1904), 
Mrs.  Freeman's  stories  are  character  studies  of  un- 
usual power.  Her  groups  consist  of  few  persons,  her 
plots  are  simple,  and  her  action  slight,  but  the  whole 
scene  is  often  animated  by  passion  the  most  intense, 
emotion  the  most  subtle.  She  has  been  the  Jane  Austen 
of  the  lonely  households  and  sequestered  communities 
of  her  native  New  England ;  but  she  lacks  the  genial 
humanity  of  her  English  prototype.  There  is  more 
than  a  tinge  of  morbid  feeling  in  her  most  ambitious 
productions.  She  frequently  stirs  the  humorous  appre- 
ciation of  her  readers ;  she  seldom  or  never  gives  way 
to  her  own.  She  has  frequently  contributed  verse  to 
the  magazines.  One  of  her  best  known  poems  It  Was 
a  Lass  has  been  widely  quoted. 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        235 

IT  WAS  A  LASS. 

It  was  a  lass,  for  love  a-seeking, 
In  every  heavy  red  rose  peeking  — 

Ah,  well-a-day !  — 
To  see  if  there  he  might  be  hiding; 
And  all  the  while  herself  a-chiding 
For  shame,  that  she  desired  him  so, 
And  sought  him  if  she  would  or  no. 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 

And  when  by  chance  a  laddie  meeting, 

She'd  blush,  and  give  him  trembling  greeting  — 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 

And  shyly  in  his  eyes  be  peeping, 
To  see  if  Love  lay  in  them  sleeping; 
And  if  to  wake  he  Jgan  to  stir, 
And  dazzle  at  the  sight  of  her  — 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 

It  was  a  lass,  for  love  a-hunting, 
So  still,  for  fear  of  him  affronting— 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 

At  last,  one  eve,  with  tears  and  sighing, 
She  spied  him  in  her  own  heart  lying, 
And  nowhere  else,  fore'er  and  aye  — 
Ah,  well-a-day, 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 

THE  LITTLE  GREEN  DOOR. 

Letitia  lived  in  the  same  house  where  her  grandmother 
and  her  great  grandmother  had  lived  and  died.  Her  own 
parents  died  when  she  was  very  young.  And  she  had 
come  to  live  there  with  her  great-aunt  Peggy.  Great- 
aunt  Peggy  was  her  grandfather's  sister,  and  was  a  very 
old  woman.  However,  she  was  very  active  and  bright, 
and  good  company  for  Letitia.  That  was  fortunate,  be- 
cause there  were  no  little  girls  of  Letitia's  age  nearer 
than  a  mile.  The  one  maid-servant  whom  Aunt  Peggy 
kept  was  older  than  she,  and  had  chronic  rheumatism  in 


236        MARY  ELEANOR  WILK1NS  FREEMAN 

the  right  foot  and  the  left  shoulder-blade,  which  affected 
her  temper. 

Letitia's  Great-aunt  Peggy  used  to  play  grace  hoops 
with  her,  and  dominoes  and  checkers,  and  even  dolls. 
Sometimes  it  was  hard  for  Letitia  to  realize  that  she  was 
not  another  little  girl.  Her  Aunt  Peggy  was  very  kind 
to  her  and  fond  of  her,  and  took  care  of  her  as  well  as 
her  own  mother  could  have  done.  Letitia  had  all  the  care 
and  comforts  *and  pleasant  society  that  she  really  needed, 
but  she  was  not  a  very  contented  little  girl.  She  was 
naturally  rather  idle,  and  her  Aunt  Peggy,  who  was  a 
wise  old  woman  and  believed  thoroughly  in  the  proverb 
about  Satan  and  idle  hands,  would  keep  her  always  busy 
at  something. 

If  she  was  not  playing,  she  had  to  sew  or  study  or  dust, 
or  read  a  stent  in  a  story-book.  Letitia  had  very  nice 
story-books,  but  she  was  not  particularly  fond  of  reading. 
She  liked  best  of  anything  to  sit  quite  idle,  and  plan  what 
she  would  do  some  other  time,  and  think  what  she  would 
like  to  have  if  she  could  have  her  wish  —  and  that  her 
Aunt  Peggy  would  not  allow. 

Letitia  was  not  satisfied  with  her  dolls  and  little  treas- 
ures. She  wanted  new  ones.  She  wanted  fine  clothes 
like  one  little  girl,  and  plenty  of  candy  like  another. 
When  Letitia  went  to  school  in  pleasant  weather,  she 
always  came  home  more  dissatisfied.  She  wanted  her 
room  newly  furnished,  and  thought  the  furniture  in  the 
whole  house  very  shabby.  She  disliked  to  rise  so  early 
in  the  morning.  She  did  not  like  to  take  a  walk  every 
day,  and  besides  everything  else  to  make  her  discontented, 
there  was  the  little  green  door,  which  she  must  never 
open  and  pass  through. 

This  house  where  Letitia  lived  was,  of  course,  a  very 
old  one.  It  had  a  top  roof,  saggy  and  mossy,  gray  shin- 
gles in  the  walls,  lilac  bushes  half  hiding  the  great  win- 
dows, and  a  well-sweep  in  the  yard.  It  was  quite  a  large 
house,  and  there  were  sheds  and  a  great  barn  attached  to 
it,  but  they  were  all  on  the  south  side.  At  the  back  of 
&<  kotise  the  fields  stretched  away  for  acres,  and  there 
were  no  outbuildings.  The  little  green  door  was  at  the 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        237 

very  back  of  the  house,  toward  the  fields,  in  a  room  open- 
ing out  of  the  kitchen.  It  was  called  the  cheese-room, 
because  Letitia's  grandmother,  who  made  cheeses,  used 
to  keep  them  there.  She  fancied  she  could  smell  cheese, 
though  none  had  been  kept  there  for  years,  and  it  was 
used  now  only  for  a  lumber-room.  She  always  sniffed 
hard  for  cheese,  and  then  she  eyed  the  little  green  door 
with  wonder  and  longing.  It  was  a  small  green  door, 
scarcely  higher  than  her  head.  A  grown  person  could 
not  have  passed  through  without  stooping  almost  double. 
It  was  very  narrow,  too,  and  no  one  who  was  not  slender 
could  have  squeezed  through  it.  In  this  door  there  was  a 
little  black  keyhole,  with  no  key  in  it,  but  it  was  always 
locked.  Letitia  knew  that  her  Aunt  Peggy  kept  the  key 
in  some  very  safe  place,  but  she  would  never  show  it  to 
her,  nor  unlock  the  door. 

"  It  is  not  best  for  you,  my  dear,"  she  always  replied, 
when  Letitia  teased  her;  and  when  Letitia  begged  only  to 
know  why  she  could  not  go  out  of  the  door,  she  made  the 
same  reply :  "  It  is  not  best  for  you,  my  dear." 

Sometimes,  when  Aunt1  Peggy  was  not  by,  Letitia  would 
tease  the  old  maid-servant  about  the  little  green  door,  but 
she  always  seemed  both  cross  and  stupid,  and  gave  her 
no  satisfaction.  She  even  seemed  to  think  there  was  no 
little  green  door  there;  but  that  was  nonsense,  because 
Letitia  knew  there  was.  Her  curiosity  grew  greater  and 
greater;  she  took  every  chance  she  could  get  to  steal  into 
the  cheese-room  and  shake  the  door  softly,  but  it  was 
always  locked.  She  even  tried  to  look  through  the  key- 
hole, but  she  could  see  nothing.  One  thing  puzzled  her 
more  than  anything,  and  that  was  that  the  little  green 
door  was  on  the  inside  of  the  house  only,  and  not  on  the 
outside.  When  Letitia  went  out  in  the  field  behind  the 
house,  there  was  nothing  but  the  blank  wall  to  be  seen. 
There  was  no  sign  of  a  door  in  it.  But  the  cheese-room 
was  certainly  the  last  room  in  the  house,  and  the  little 
green  door  was  in  the  rear  wall.  It  was  very  strange. 
When  Letitia  asked  her  Great-aunt  Peggy  to  explain  that, 
she  only  got  that  same  answer: 

"  It  is  not  best  for  you  to  know,  my  dear." 

Letitia  studied  the  little  green  door  more  than  she 


238        MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

studied  her  lesson-books,  but  she  never  got  any  nearer 
the  solution  of  the  mystery,  until  one  Sunday  morning 
in  January.  It  was  a  very  cold  day,  and  she  had  begged 
hard  to  stay  home  from  church.  Her  Aunt  Peggy  and 
her  maid-servant,  old  as  they  were,  were  going,  but  Le- 
titia  shivered  and  coughed  a  little  and  pleaded,  and  finally 
had  her  own  way. 

"  But  you  must  sit  down  quietly,"  charged  Aunt  Peggy, 
"  and  you  must  learn  your  texts,  to  repeat  to  me  when  I 
get  home." 

After  Aunt  Peggy  and  the  old  servant,  in  their  great 
cloaks  and  bonnets  and  fur  tippets,  had  gone  out  of  the 
yard  and  down  the  road,  Letitia  sat  quiet  for  fifteen  min- 
utes or  so,  hunting  in  the  Bible  for  four  easy  texts ;  then 
suddenly  she  thought  of  the  little  green  door,  and  won- 
dered, as  she  had  done  so  many  times  before,  if  it  could 
possibly  be  opened.  She  laid  down  her  Bible  and  stole 
out  through  the  kitchen  to  the  cheese-room  and  tried  the 
door.  It  was  locked  just  as  usual.  "  Oh,  dear !  "  sighed 
Letitia,  and  was  ready  to  cry.  It  seemed  to  her  that  this 
little  green  door  was  the  very  worst  of  all  her  trials ;  that 
she  would  rather  open  that  and  see  what  was  beyond  than 
have  all  the  nice  things  she  wanted  and  had  to  do  with- 
out. 

Suddenly  she  thought  of  a  little  satin-wood  box  with  a 
picture  on  the  lid  which  Aunt  Peggy  kept  in  her  top 
bureau  drawer.  Letitia  had  often  seen  this  box,  but  had 
never  been  allowed  to  open  it. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  key  can  be  in  that  box  ?  "  said  she. 

She  did  not  wait  a  minute.  She  was  so  naughty  that 
she  dared  not  wait,  for  fear  she  should  remember  that  she 
ought  to  be  good.  She  ran  out  of  the  cheese-room, 
through  the  kitchen  and  the  sitting-room,  to  her  aunt's 
bedroom,  and  opened  the  bureau-drawer,  and  then  the 
satin-wood  box.  It  contained  some  bits  of  old  lace,  an 
old  brooch,  a  yellow  letter,  some  other  things  which  she 
did  not  examine,  and,  sure  enough,  a  little  black  key  on 
a  green  ribbon.  Letitia  had  not  a  doubt  that  it  was  the 
key  of  the  little  green  door.  She  trembled  all  over,  she 
panted  for  breath,  she  was  so  frightened,  but  she  did  not 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        239 

hesitate.  She  took  the  key  and  ran  back  to  the  cheese- 
room.  She  did  not  stop  to  shut  the  satin-wood  box  or 
the  bureau-drawer.  She  was  so  cold,  and  her  hands 
shook  so  that  she  had  some  difficulty  in  fitting  the  key 
into  the  lock  of  the  little  green  door ;  but  at  last  she  suc- 
ceeded, and  turned  it  quite  easily.  Then,  for  a  second, 
she  hesitated;  she  was  almost  afraid  to  open  the  door; 
she  put  her  hand  on  the  latch  and  drew  it  back.  It 
seemed  to  her,  too,  that  she  heard  strange,  alarming 
sounds  on  the  other  side.  Finally,  with  a  great  effort 
of  her  will,  she  unlatched  the  little  green  door,  and  flung 
it  open  and  ran  out. 

Then  she  gave  a  scream  of  surprise  and  terror,  and 
stood  still,  staring.  She  did  not  dare  stir  nor  breathe. 
She  was  not  in  the  open  fields  which  she  had  always 
seen  behind  the  house.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  a  gloomy 
forest  of  trees  so  tall  that  she  could  just  see  the  wintry 
sky  through  their  tops.  She  was  hemmed  in,  too,  by  a 
wide,  heaping  undergrowth  of  bushes  and  brambles,  all 
stiff  with  snow.  There  was  something  dreadful  and  ghast- 
ly about  this  forest,  which  had  the  breathless  odor  of  a 
cellar.  And  suddenly  Letitia  heard  again  those  strange 
sounds  she  had  heard  before  coming  out,  and  she  knew 
that  they  were  the  savage  whoops  of  Indians,  just  as  she 
had  read  about  them  in  her  history-book,  and  she  saw 
also  dark  forms  skulking  about  behind  the  trees,  as  she 
had  read. 

Then  Letitia,  wild  with  fright,  turned  to  run  back  into 
the  house  through  the  little  green  door,  but  there  was  no 
little  green  door,  and,  more  than  that,  there  was  no  house. 
Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  forest  and  a  bridle-path 
leading  through  it. 

Letitia  gasped.  She  could  not  believe  her  eyes.  She 
plunged  out  into  the  path  and  down  it  a  little  way,  but 
there  was  no  house.  The  dreadful  yells  sounded  nearer. 
She  looked  wildly  at  the  undergrowth  beside  the  path, 
wondering  if  she  could  hide  under  that,  when .  suddenly 
she  heard  a  gun-shot  and  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet. 
She  sprang  aside  just  as  a  great  horse,  with  a  woman 
and  two  little  girls  on  his  back,  came  plunging  down  the 


240        MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

bridle-path  and  passed  her.  Then  there  was  another 
gun-shot,  and  a  man,  with  a  wide  cape  flying  back  like 
black  wings,  came  rushing  down  the  path.  Letitia  gave 
a  little  cry,  and  he  heard  her. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  cried  breathlessly.  Then,  with- 
out waiting  for  an  answer,  he  caught  her  up  and  bore  her 
along  with  him.  "  Don't  speak !  "  he  panted  in  her  ear. 
"  The  Indians  are  upon  us,  but  we're  almost  home !  " 

Then  all  at  once  a  log-house  appeared  beside  the  path, 
and  some  one  was  holding  the  door  ajar,  and  a  white  face 
was  peering  out.  The  door  was  flung  open  wide  as  they 
came  up,  the  man  rushed  in,  set  Letitia  down,  shut  the 
door  with  a  crash,  and  shot  some  heavy  bolts  at  top  and 
bottom. 

Letitia  was  so  dazed  that  she  scarcely  knew  what  hap- 
pened for  the  next  few  minutes.  She  saw  there  was  a 
pale-faced  woman  and  three  girls,  one  about  her  own  age, 
two  a  little  younger.  She  saw,  to  her  great  amazement, 
the  horse  tied  in  the  corner.  She  saw  that  the  door  was 
of  a  mighty  thickness,  and,  moreover,  hasped  with  iron 
and  studded  with  great  iron  nails,  so  that  some  rattling 
blows  that  were  rained  upon  it  presently  had  no  effect 
She  saw  three  guns  set  in  loopholes  in  the  walls,  and 
the  man,  the  woman  and  the  girl  of  her  own  age  firing 
them,  with  great  reports  which  made  the  house  quake, 
while  the  younger  girls  raced  from  one  to  the  other  with 
powder  and  bullets.  Still,  she  was  not  sure  she  saw  right, 
it  was  all  so  strange.  She  stood  back  in  a  corner,  out  of 
the  way,  and  waited,  trembling,  and  at  last  the  fierce  yells 
outside  died  away,  and  the  firing  stopped. 


"They  have  fled,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  thankful 
sigh. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  "We  are  delivered  once  more 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  enemy." 

"We  must  not  unbar  the  door  or  the  shutters  yet/' 
said  the  woman  anxiously.  "  I  will  get  supper  by  candle- 
light" 


MARY  ELEANOR  W1LKINS  FREEMAN        241 

Then  Letitia  realized  what  she  had  not  done  before, 
that  all  the  daylight  was  shut  out  of  the  house;  that 
they  had  for  light  only  one  tallow  candle  and  a  low  hearth 
fire.  It  was  very  cold  then.  Letitia  began  to  shiver  with 
cold  as  well  as  fear. 

Suddenly  the  woman  turned  to  her  with  motherly  kind- 
ness and  curiosity: 

"  Who  is  this  little  damsel  whom  you  rescued,  hus- 
band ?  "  said  she. 

"  She  must  speak  for  herself,"  replied  her  husband, 
smiling. 

"  I  thought  at  first  she  was  neighbor  Adam's  Phebe, 
but  I  see  she  is  not." 

"  What  is  your  name,  child  ?  "  asked  the  woman,  while 
the  three  little  girls  looked  wonderingly  at  the  new- 
comer. 

"Letitia  Hopkins,"  replied  Letitia,  in  a  small,  scared 
voice. 

The  others  started. 

"  Letitia  Hopkins,  did  you  say  ?  "  said  the  woman,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

They  all  stared  at  her,  then  at  one  another. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  the  woman,  finally,  with  a 
puzzled,  half-alarmed  look.  "  Letitia  Hopkins  is  my 
name." 

"  And  it  is  mine,  too,"  said  the  eldest  girl. 

Letitia  gave  a  great  jump.  There  was  something  very 
strange  about  this.  Letitia  Hopkins  was  her  family  name. 
Her  grandmother,  her  father's  mother,  had  been  Letitia 
Hopkins,  and  she  had  always  heard  that  the  name  could  be 
traced  back  in  the  same  order  for  generations,  as  the  Hop- 
kinses  had  intermarried.  She  looked  up,  trembling,  at  the 
man  who  had  saved  her  from  the  Indians. 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  your  name,  sir  ?  "  she  said. 

"  John  Hopkins/'  replied  the  man,  smiling  kindly  at  her. 

"  Captain  John  Hopkins,"  corrected  his  wife. 

Letitia  gasped.  That  settled  it  Captain  John  Hop- 
kins was  her  great-great-great-grandfather.  Great-aunt 
Peggy  had  often  told  her  about  him.  He  had  been  a 
VOL.  X.— 16 


242       MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

notable  man  in  his  day,  among  the  first  settlers,  and  many 
a  story  concerning  him  had  come  down  to  his  descend- 
ants. A  queer  little  miniature  of  him,  in  a  little  gilt 
frame,  hung  in  the  best  parlor,  and  Letitia  had  often 
looked  at  it.  She  had  thought  from  the  first  that  there 
was  something  familiar  about  the  man's  face,  and  now 
she  recognized  the  likeness  to  the  miniature. 

It  seemed  awful,  and  impossible,  but  the  little  green 
door  had  led  into  the  past,  and  Letitia  Hopkins  was  visit- 
ing her  great-great-great-grandfather  and  grandmother, 
her  great-great-grandmother  and  her  two  great-great- 
aunts. 

Letitia  looked  up  in  the  faces,  all  staring  wonderingly 
at 'her,  and  all  of  them  had  that  familiar  look,  though 
she  had  no  miniatures  of  the  others.  Suddenly  she  knew 
that  it  was  a  likeness  to  her  own  face  which  she  recog- 
nized, and  it  was  as  if  she  saw  herself  in  a  fivefold  looking- 
glass.  She  felt  as  if  her  head  was  turning  round  and 
round,  and  presently  her  feet  began  to  follow  the  motion 
of  her  head,  then  strong  arms  caught  her,  or  she  would 
have  fallen. 

When  Letitia  came  to  herself  again,  she  was  in  a  great 
feather-bed,  in  the  unfinished  loft  of  the  log-house.  The 
wind  blew  in  her  face,  a  great  star  shone  in  her  eyes. 
She  thought  at  first  she  was  out  of  doors,  then  she  heard 
a  kind  but  commanding  voice  repeating:  "Open  your 
mouth,"  and  stared  up  wildly  into  her  great-great-great- 
grandmother's  face,  then  around  the  strange  little  garret, 
lighted  with  a  wisp  of  rag  in  a  pewter  dish  of  tallow, 
and  the  stars  shining  through  the  crack  in  the  logs.  Not 
a  bit  of  furniture  was  there  in  the  room,  besides  the  bed 
and  an  oak  chest  Some  queer-looking  garments  hung 
about  on  pegs  and  swung  in  the  draughts  of  the  wind. 
It  must  have  been  snowing  outside,  for  the  little  piles 
of  snow  were  scattered  here  and  there  about  the  room. 

"Where  — am  — I?"  Letitia  asked,  feebly,  but  no 
sooner  had  she  opened  her  mouth  than  her  great-great- 
great-grandmother,  Goodwife  Hopkins,  who  had  been 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN       243 

watching  her  chance,  popped  in  the  great  pewter  spoon 
full  of  some  horribly  black  and  bitter  medicine. 

Letitia  nearly  choked. 

"  Swallow  it,"  said  Goodwife  Hopkins.  "  You  swooned 
away,  and  it  is  good  physic.  It  will  soon  make  you 
well." 

Goodwife  Hopkins  had  a  kind  and  motherly  way,  but 
a  way  from  which  there  was  no  appeal. 

Letitia  swallowed  the  bitter  dose. 

"  Now,  go  to  sleep,"  ordered  Goodwife  Hopkins. 

Letitia  went  to  sleep.  There  might  have  been  some- 
thing quieting  to  the  nerves  in  the  good  physic. 

She  was  awakened  a  little  later  by  her  great-great- 
grandmother,  and  her  two  great-great-aunts  coming  to 
bed. 

They  were  to  sleep  with  her.  There  were  only  two  beds 
in  Captain  John  Hopkins's  house. 

Letitia  had  never  slept  four  in  a  bed  before.  There 
was  not  much  room.  She  had  to  turn  herself  about 
crosswise,  and  then  her  toes  stuck  out  into  the  icy  air, 
unless  she  kept  them  well  covered  up.  But  soon  she  fell 
asleep  again. 

About  midnight  she  was  awakened  by  wild  cries  in 
the  woods  outside,  and  lay  a  minute  numb  with  fright 
before  she  remembered  where  she  was.  Then  she  nudged 
her  great-great-grandmother  Letitia,  who  lay  next  her. 

"What's  that?"  she  whispered,  fearfully. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  but  a  catamount  Go  to  sleep 
again,"  said  her  great-great-grandmother,  sleepily.  Her 
great-great-aunt  Phyllis,  the  youngest  of  them  all,  laughed 
on  the  other  side. 

"  She's  afraid  of  a  catamount,"  said  she. 

Letitia  could  not  go  to  sleep  for  a  long  while,  for  the 
wild  cries  continued,  and  she  thought  several  times  that 
the  catamount  was  scratching  up  the  walls  of  the  house. 
When  she  did  fall  asleep  it  was  not  for  long,  for  the  fierce 
yells  she  had  heard  when  she  had  first  opened  the  green 
door  sounded  again  in  her  ears. 

This  time  she  did  not  need  to  wake  her  great-great- 


244        MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

grandmother,  who  sat  straight  in  the  bed  at  the  first 
sound. 

"What's  that?"  Letitia  whispered. 

"  Hush !  "  replied  the  other.    "  Injuns !  " 

Both  the  great-great-aunts  were  awake;  they  all 
listened,  scarcely  breathing.  The  yells  came  again,  but 
fainter;  then  again,  and  fainter  still.  Then  they  were 
heard  no  more.  Letitia's  great-great-grandmother  set- 
tled back  in  bed  again. 

"  Go  to  sleep  now,"  said  she,  "  they've  gone  away." 

But  Letitia  was  weeping  with  fright. 

"  I  can't  go  to  sleep,"  she  sobbed.  "  I'm  afraid  they'll 
come  again." 

"  Very  likely  they  will,"  replied  the  other  Letitia,  coolly. 
"  They  come  most  every  night" 

The  little  Great-great-aunt  Phyllis  again  laughed. 

"  She  can't  go  to  sleep  because  she  heard  Injuns/'  she 
tittered. 

"  Hush,"  said  her  older  sister ;  "  she'll  get  accustomed 
to  them  in  time." 

But  poor  Letitia  slept  no  more  till  four  o'clock.  Then 
she  had  just  fallen  into  a  sweet  doze  when  she  was  pulled 
out  of  bed. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  great-great-great-grandmother, 
Goodwife  Hopkins,  "  we  can  have  no  lazy  damsel's  here." 

Letitia  found  that  her  bedfellows  were  up  and  dressed 
and  downstairs.  She  heard  a  queer  buzzing  sound  from 
below,  as  she  stood  on  her  bare  feet  on  the  icy  floor  and 
gazed  about  her,  dizzy  with  sleep. 

"Hasten  and  dress  yourself,"  said  Goodwife  Hopkins; 
"  here  are  some  of  Letitia's  garments  I  have  laid  out  for 
you.  Those  which  you  wore  here  I  have  put  away  in 
the  chest.  They  are  too  gay,  and  do  not  befit  a  sober, 
God-fearing  damsel." 

With  that,  Goodwife  Hopkins  descended  to  the  room 
below,  and  Letitia  dressed  herself.  It  did  not  take  her 
long.  There  was  not  much  to  put  on  beside  a  coarse 
wool  petticoat  and  a  straight  little  wool  gown,  rough 
yarn  stockings,  and  such  shoes  as  she  had  never  seen. 
"I  couldn't  run  from  Injuns  in  these,"  thought  Letitia, 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        245 

miserably.  When  she  got  downstairs  she  discovered  what 
the  buzzing  noise  was.  Her  great-great-grandmother  was 
spinning.  Her  great-great-aunt  Candace  was  knitting, 
and  little  Phyllis  was  scouring  the  hearth.  Goodwife 
Hopkins  was  preparing  breakfast. 

"Go  to  the  other  wheel,"  said  she  to  Letitia,  "and 
spin  until  the  porridge  is  done.  We  can  have  no  idle 
hands  here." 

Letitia  looked  helplessly  at  a  spinning-wheel  in  the 
corner,  then  at  her  great-great-great-grandmother. 

"  I  don't  know  how !  "  she  faltered. 

Then  all  the  great-grandmothers  and  the  aunts  cried 
out  with  astonishment. 

"  She  doesn't  know  how  to  spin ! "  they  said  to  one 
another. 

Letitia  felt  dreadfully  ashamed. 

"  You  must  have  been  strangely  brought  up/'  said 
Goodwife  Hopkins.  "  Well,  take  this  stocking  and  mend 
the  toe.  There  will  be  just  about  time  enough  for  that 
before  breakfast." 

"  I  dont  know  how  to  knit,"  stammered  Letitia. 

Then  there  was  another  cry  of  astonishment.  Good- 
wife  Hopkins  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  another  task 
for  this  ignorant  guest. 

"  Explain  the  doctrine  of  predestination,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. 

Letitia  jumped  and  stared  at  her  with  scared  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  predestination  is  ?  "  demanded 
Goodwife  Hopkins. 

"  No,  ma'am !  "  half  sobbed  Letitia. 

Her  great-great-grandmother  and  her  great-great-aunts 
made  shocked  exclamations. 

And  her  great-great-great-grandmother  looked  at  her 
with  horror.  "  You  have  been  brought  up  as  one  of  the 
heathen,"  said  she.  Then  she  produced  a  small  book,  and 
Letitia  was  bidden  to  seat  herself  upon  a  stool  and  learn 
the  doctrine  of  predestination  before  breakfast. 

The  kitchen  was  lighted  only  by  one  tallow  candle  and 
the  firelight,  for  it  was  still  far  from  dawn.  Letitia 
drew  her  little  stool  close  to  the  hearth,  and  bent  anxiously 


246         MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

over  the  fire-lit  page.  She  committed  to  memory  easily, 
and  repeated  the  text  like  a  frightened  parrot  when  she 
was  called  upon. 

"  The  child  has  good  parts,  though  she  is  woefully  ig- 
norant," Goodwife  Hopkins  said  aside  to  her  husband. 
"  It  shall  be  my  care  to  instruct  her." 


Letitia,  having  completed  her  task,  was  given  her  break- 
fast. It  was  only  a  portion  of  corn-meal  porridge  in  a 
pewter  plate.  She  had  never  had  such  a  strange  break- 
fast in  her  life,  and  she  did  not  like  corn-meal.  She  sat 
with  it  untasted  before  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  ? "  asked  her  great-great-great- 
grandmother,  severely. 

"I  — don't  — like  — it,"  faltered  Letitia. 

If  possible,  they  were  all  more  shocked  by  that  than 
they  had  been  by  her  ignorance. 

"  She  doesn't  like  the  good  porridge,"  the  little  great- 
aunts  said  to  each  other. 

"  Eat  the  porridge,"  commanded  Captain  John  Hopkins, 
sternly,  when  he  had  gotten  over  his  surprise, 

Letitia  ate  the  porridge,  every  grain  of  it.  After 
breakfast  the  serious  work  of  the  day  began.  Letitia 
had  never  known  anything  like  it.  She  felt  like  a  baby 
who  had  just  come  into  a  new  world.  She  was  ignorant 
of  everything  that  these  strange  relatives  knew.  It  made 
no  difference  that  she  knew  some  things  which  they  did 
not,  some  advanced  things.  She  could,  for  instance, 
crochet,  if  she  could  not  knit.  She  could  repeat  the  mul- 
tiplication-table, if  she  did  not  know  the  doctrine  of  pre- 
destination; she  had  also  all  the  States  of  the  Union  by 
heart.  But  advanced  knowledge  is  of  no  more  value  in 
the  past  than  past  knowledge  in  the  future.  She  could 
not  crochet,  because  there  were  no  crochet  needles ;  there 
were  no  States  of  the  Union,  and  it  seemed  doubtful  if 
there  was  a  multiplication-table,  there  was  so  little  to 
multiply. 

So  Letitia  had  to  set  herself  to  acquiring  the  wisdom 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        247 

of  her  ancestors.  She  learned  to  card,  and  hatchel,  and 
spin  and  weave.  She  learned  to  dye  cloth,  and  make 
coarse  garments,  even  for  her  great-great-great-grand- 
father, Captain  John  Hopkins.  She  knitted  yarn  stock- 
ings, she  scoured  brass  and  pewter,  and,  more  than  all, 
she  learned  all  the  catechism.  Letitia  had  never  before 
known  what  work  was.  From  long  before  dawn  until 
long  after  dark,  she  toiled;  she  was  not  allowed  to  spend 
one  idle  moment.  She  had  no  chance  to  steal  out  and 
search  for  the  little  green  door,  even  had  she  not  been 
so  afraid  of  wild  beasts  and  Indians. 

She  never  went  out  of  the  house  except  on  the  Sab- 
bath day.  Then,  in  fair  or  foul  weather,  they  all  went 
to  meeting,  ten  miles  through  the  dense  forest.  Captain 
John  Hopkins  strode  ahead,  his  gun  over  his  shoulder. 
Goodwife  Hopkins  rode  the  gray  horse,  and  the  girls 
rode  by  turns,  two  at  a  time,  clinging  to  the  pillion  at  her 
back.  Letitia  was  never  allowed  to  wear  her  own  pretty 
plaid  dress,  with  the  velvet  collar,  even  to  meeting.  "  It 
would  create  a  scandal  in  the  sanctuary,"  said  Goodwife 
Hopkins.  So  Letitia  went  always  in  the  queer  little 
coarse  and  scanty  gown,  which  seemed  to  her  more  like 
a  bag  than  anything  else;  and  for  outside  wraps  she  had, 
of  all  things,  a  homespun  blanket  pinned  over  her  head. 
Her  great-great-grandmother  and  her  great-great-aunts 
were  all  fitted  out  in  similar  fashion.  Goodwife  Hopkins, 
however,  had  a  great  wadded  hood  and  a  fine  red  cloak. 

There  was  never  any  fire  in  the  meeting-house,  and 
the  services  lasted  all  day  —  with  a  short  recess  at  noon  — 
during  which  they  went  into  a  neighboring  house,  sat 
round  the  fire,  warmed  their  half-frozen  feet,  and  ate 
cold  corn-cakes  and  pan-cakes  for  luncheon.  There  were 
no  pews  in  the  meeting-house,  nothing  but  hard  benches 
without  backs.  If  Letitia  fidgeted,  or  fell  asleep,  the 
tithing-man  rapped  her. 

Letitia  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  stay  away 
from  meeting,  had  she  begged  to  do  so,  but  she  never  did. 
She  was  afraid  to  stay  alone  in  the  house  because  of 
Indians. 

Quite  often  there  was  a  rumor  of  hostile  Indians  in  the 


248        MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

neighborhood,  and  twice  there  were  attacks.  Letitia 
learned  to  load  the  guns  and  hand  the  powder  and  bul- 
lets. 

She  grew  more  and  more  homesick  as  the  days  went 
on.  They  were  all  kind  to  her,  and  she  became  fond  of 
them,  especially  of  the  great-great-grandmother  of  her 
own  age,  and  the  little  great-aunts,  but  they  had  seldom 
any  girlish  sports  together.  Goodwife  Hopkins  kept 
them  too  busy  at  work.  Once  in  a  while,  as  a  great 
treat,  they  were  allowed  to  play  bean  porridge  hot  for 
fifteen  minutes.  They  were  not  allowed  to  talk  after 
they  went  to  bed,  and  there  was  also  little  opportunity 
for  girlish  confidences. 

However,  there  came  a  day  at  last  when  Captain  Hop- 
kins and  his  wife  were  called  away  to  visit  a  sick  neigh- 
bor, some  twelve  miles  distant,  and  the  four  girls  were 
left  in  charge  of  the  house.  At  seven  o'clock  at  night 
the  two  youngest  went  to  bed,  and  Letitia  and  her  great- 
great-grandmother  remained  up  to  wait  for  the  return  of 
their  elders,  as  they  had  been  instructed.  Then  it  was 
that  the  little  great-great-grandmother  showed  Letitia  her 
treasure.  She  had  only  one,  and  was  not  often  allowed 
to  look  at  it,  lest  it  wean  her  heart  away  from  more 
serious  things.  It  was  kept  in  a  secret  drawer  of  the 
great  chest  for  safety,  and  was  nothing  but  a  little  silver 
snuff-box  with  a  picture  on  the  top.  It  contained  a  little 
flat  glass  bottle,  about  an  inch  and  a  half  long. 

"  The  box  belonged  to  my  grandfather,  and  the  bottle 
to  his  mother.  I  have  them  because  I  am  the  eldest,  but 
I  must  not  set  my  heart  on  them  unduly,"  said  Letitia's 
great-great-grandmother. 

Letitia  tried  to  count  how  many  greats  belonged  to  the 
ancestors  who  had  first  owned  these  treasures,  but  it 
made  her  dizzy.  She  had  never  told  the  story  of  the 
little  green  door  to  any  of  them.  She  had  been  afraid 
to,  knowing  how  shocked  they  would  be  at  her  disobedi- 
ence. Now,  however,  when  the  treasure  was  replaced, 
she  was  moved  to  confidence,  and  told  her  great-great- 
grandmother  the  story. 

"That  is  very  strange/'  said  her  great-great-grand- 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN        249 

mother,  when  she  had  finished.  "  We  have  a  little  green 
door,  too;  only  ours  is  on  the  outside  of  the  house,  in 
the  north  wall.  There's  a  spruce  tree  growing  close  up 
against  it  that  hides  it,  but  it  is  there.  Our  parents  have 
forbidden  us  to  open  it,  too,  but  we  have  never  dis- 
obeyed." 

She  said  the  last  with  something  of  an  air  of  superior 
virtue.  Letitia  felt  terribly  ashamed. 

"  Is  there  any  key  to  your  little  green  door  ? "  she 
asked,  meekly. 

For  answer,  her  great-great-grandmother  opened  the 
secret  drawer  of  the  chest  again,  and  pulled  out  a  key, 
with  a  green  ribbon  in  it,  the  very  counterpart  of  the  one 
in  the  satin-wood  box. 

Letitia  looked  at  it  wistfully. 

"I  should  never  think  of  disobeying  my  parents,  and 
open  the  little  green  door,"  remarked  her  great-great- 
grandmother,  as  she  put  back  the  key  in  the  drawer. 
"  I  should  think  something  dreadful  would  happen  to  me. 
I  have  heard  whispered  that  the  door  opened  into  the 
future.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  be  all  alone  in  the  future 
without  one's  kinsfolk." 

"  There  may  not  be  any  Indians  or  catamounts  there," 
ventured  Letitia. 

"There  might  be  something  a  great  deal  worse,"  re- 
turned her  great-great-grandmother,  severely. 

After  that  there  was  silence  between  the  two,  and 
possibly  also  a  little  coldness. 

Letitia  sat  gazing  forlornly  into  the  fire,  thinking  that 
it  would  be  much  more  comfortable  to  be  alive  in  the 
future  than  in  the  past,  and  her  great-great-grandmother 
sat  stiffly  on  her  opposite  stool,  knitting  with  virtuous  in- 
dustry, until  she  began  to  nod. 

Suddenly  Letitia  looked  up,  and  she  was  fast  asleep. 
Then,  in  a  flash,  she  thought  of  the  key  and  the  little 
green  door.  It  might  be  her  only  chance,  for  nobody 
knew  how  long.  She  pulled  off  her  shoes,  tiptoed  in  her 
thick  yarn  stocking-feet  up  to  the  loft,  got  her  own  clothes 
out  of  the  chest  and  put  them  on  instead  of  her  home- 
spun garb.  The  little  great-aunts  did  not  stir.  Then 


250        MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

she  tiptoed  down,  got  the  key  out  of  the  secret  drawer, 
gave  a  loving  farewell  look  at  her  great-great-grand- 
rnother,  and  was  out  of  the  house. 

It  was  broad  moonlight  outside.  She  ran  around  to 
the  north  wall  of  the  house,  pressed  in  under  the  low 
branches  of  the  spruce  tree,  and  there  was  the  little  green 
door.  Letitia  gave  a  sob  of  joy  and  thankfulness.  She 
fitted  the  key  in  the  lock,  turned  it,  opened  the  door,  and 
there  she  was,  back  in  the  cheese-room. 

She  shut  the  door  hard,  locked  it  and  carried  the  key 
back  to  its  place  in  the  satin-wood  box.  Then  she  looked 
out  of  the  window,  and  there  were  her  great-aunt  Peggy 
and  the  old  maid-servant  just  coming  home  from  church. 

Letitia  that  afternoon  confessed  what  she  had  done  to 
her  aunt,  who  listened  gravely. 

"You  were  disobedient,"  said  she,  when  she  had  fin- 
ished. "But  I  think  your  disobedience  brought  its  own 
punishment,  and  I  hope  now  you  will  be  more  contented." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Peggy,"  sobbed  Letitia,  "everything  I've 
got  is  so  beautiful,  and  I  love  to  study  and  crochet  and 
go  to  church." 

"Well,  it  was  a  hard  lesson  to  learn,  and  I  hoped  to 
spare  you  from  it,  but  perhaps  it  was  for  the  best,"  said 
her  great-aunt  Peggy. 

"  I  was  there  a  whole  winter,"  said  Letitia,  "  but  when 
I  got  back  you  were  just  coming  home  from  church/' 

"  It  doesn't  take  as  long  to  visit  the  past  as  it  did  to 
live  it,"  replied  her  aunt. 

Then  she  sent  Letitia  into  her  room  for  the  satin-wood 
box,  and,  when  she  brought  it,  took  out  of  it  a  little  par- 
cel, neatly  folded  in  white  paper,  tied  with  a  green  ribbon. 

"  Open  it,"  said  she. 

Letitia  untied  the  green  ribbon  and  unfolded  the  paper, 
and  there  was  the  little  silver  snuff-box  whrch  had  been 
the  treasure  of  her  great-great-grandmother,  Letitia  Hop- 
kins. She  raised  the  lid,  and  there  was  also  the  little 
glass  bottle.—  Copyright  1896,  by  BACHELLER,  JOHNSON 
AND  BACHELLER. 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  251 


pREILIGRATH,  FERDINAND,  a  German  poet; 
born  at  Detmold,  June  17,  1810;  died  at 
Cannstatt,  Wiirtemberg,  March  18,  1876.  At 
the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  grocer  at 
Soest,  and  was  subsequently  employed  in  mercantile 
clerkships  at  various  places.  While  serving  his  ap- 
prenticeship he  mastered  the  English,  French,  and 
Italian  languages,  and  began  to  write  verses  for  news- 
papers. His  first  book,  a  series  of  translations  from 
the  Odes  and  Songs  of  Victor  Hugo,  appeared  in 
1836.  This  was  followed  two  years  later  by  his  first 
original  volume  of  Gedichte.  In  1842  he  endeavored 
to  establish  a  periodical  to-  be  called  Britannica:  fur 
Englisches  Leben  und  Englische  Literatur,  and  re- 
ceived promises  of  contribution  from  Bulwer  and 
Dickens ;  and  in  that  year  he  received  a  pension  of  300 
thalers  from  King  William  IV.  of  Prussia.  Up  to 
this  time  he  had  taken  no  part  in  political  agitations; 
but  about  1844  he  threw  up  his  pension,  identified 
himself  with  the  Liberal  party  in  Germany,  published 
Mein  Glaubensb'ekentniss  (My  Creed),  and  on  ac- 
count of  the  sentiments  therein  expressed  was  forced 
to  leave  the  country.  In  1848  he  was  on  the  point  of 
emigrating  to  America.  The  amnesty  of  1849  Per~ 
mitted  him  to  return  to  Germany,  taking  up  his  resi- 
dence at  Diisseldorf ;  but  he  was  soon  after  prosecuted 
on  account  of  a  poem  entitled  Die  Todten  on  die 
Lebenden;  he  was  acquitted  by  the  jury;  but  new 
prosecutions  drove  him  to  London  in  1851,  where  he 
became  a  clerk  in  a  banking  establishment,  at  the  same 
time  making  admirable  translations  into  German  from 
British  poets.  A  volume  of  these  translations  ap- 


252  FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH 

peared  in  1854  under  the  title  of  The  Rose,  Thistle, 
and  Shamrock.  Among  his  numerous  translations 
from  the  English  into  German  are  Shakespeare's 
Cymbeline  and  The  Winters  Tale>  Longfellow's  Hia- 
watha, and  nearly  all  of  the  poems  of  Burns.  He 
resided  in  England  until  1868,  when  the  suspension 
of  the  banking  institution  by  which  he  was  employed 
threw  him  into  pecuniary  straits.  But  a  national  sub- 
scription, amounting  to  60,000  thalers,  was  raised  in 
Germany,  with  which  an  ample  annuity  was  pur- 
chased for  him.  A  general  amnesty  for  all  political 
offenders  was  proclaimed  in  Germany  in  1868,  and 
Freiligrath  returned  to  his  native  country,  settling  at 
Stuttgart,  and  in  1875  at  Cannstatt,  where  he  died 
the  next  year.  An  edition  of  his  collected  works  in 
six  volumes  appeared  in  New  York  in  1859.  After 
this,  during  the  Franco-German  War,  he  wrote  the 
popular  songs  Hurrah  Germania;  the  Trom-pete  von 
Gravelotte,  and  some  others.  The  year  after  his 
death  a  new  and  much  enlarged  edition  of  his  works 
appeared  in  Germany.  A  volume  of  selections  from 
his  Poems,  translated  into  English  by  his  daughter,  ap- 
peared in  1870,  in  Tauchnitz's  Collection  of  German 
Authors.  Freiligrath's  political  poems  are  perhaps 
more  highly  esteemed  in  Germany  than  his  earlier 
works.  He  is  there  styled  "the  poet-martyr,"  "the 
bard  of  freedom,"  and  "the  inspired  singer  of  the 
revolution."  But  for  readers  of  the  English  language 
translations  of  his  earlier  non-political  poems  will  give 
a  better  idea  of  his  peculiar  genius. 

MY  THEMES. 

"  Most  weary  man !  why  wreathest  thou 
Again  and  yet  again,"  methinks  I  hear  you  ask, 
"  The  turban  on  thy  sunburnt  brow  ? 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  253 

Wilt  never  vary 
Thy  tristful  task, 

But  sing,  still  sing,  of  sand  and  seas,  as  now 
Housed  in  thy  willow  zumbul  on  the  dromedary? 

"  Thy  tent  has  now  o'er  many  times 
Been  pitched  in  treeless  places  on  old  Amrnon's  plains  ; 
We  long  to  greet  in  blander  climes 
The  love  and  laughter 
Thy  soul  disdains. 

Why  wanderest  ever  thus,  in  prolix  rhymes, 
Through  snows  and  stony  wastes,  while  we  come  toil- 
ing after  ? 

"  Awake !  thou  art  as  one  who  dreams ! 
Thy  quiver  overflows  with  melancholy  sand! 
Thou  faintest  in  the  noontide  beams  I 
Thy  crystal  beaker 
Of  juice  is  banned ! 

Filled  with  juice  of  poppies  from  dull  streams 
In  sleepy  Indian  dells,  it  can  but  make  thee  weaker ! 

"  0  cast  away  the  deadly  draught, 
And  glance  around  thee,  then,  with  an  awakened  eye ! 
The  waters  healthier  bards  have  quaffed 
At  Europe's  fountains 
Still  bubble  by, 

Bright  now  as  when  the  Grecian  Summer  laughed 
And  Poesy's  first  flowers  bloomed  on  Apollo's  mountains ! 

"  So  many  a  voice  thine  era  hath, 
And  thou  art  deaf  to  all !    O,  study  mankind !  probe 
The  heart !  lay  bare  its  love  and  wrath, 
Its  joys   and  sorrows ! 
Not  round  the  globe, 

O'er  flood  and  field  and  dreary  desert-path, 
But,  into  thine  own  bosom  look,  and  thence  thy  marvels 
borrow  1 

**  Weep !    Let  us  hear  thy  tears  resound 
From  the  dark  iron  concave  of  life's  cup  of  woe ! 


254  FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH 

Weep  for  the  souls  of  mankind  bound 

In  chains  of  error  ! 

Our  tears  will  flow 

In  sympathy  with  thine  when  thou  hast  wound 
Our  feelings  up  to  the  proper  pitch  of  grief  or  terror. 

"  Unlock  the  life-gates  of  the  flood 
That  rushes  through  thy  veins!    Like  vultures  we  de- 

light 
To  glut  our  appetites  with  blood  ! 

Remorse,  Fear,  Torment, 
The  blackening  blight 

Love  smites  young  hearts  withal  —  these  be  the  food 
For  us!  without  such  stimulants  our  dull  souls  lie  dor- 
mant! 


no  long  voyages  —  0,  no  more 
Of  the  weary  East  or  South  —  no  more  of  the  Simoom 
No  apples  from  the  Dead  Sea  shore  — 
No  -fierce  volcanoes, 
All  fire  and  gloom  ! 

Or  else,  at  most,  sing  basso,  we  implore, 
Of  Orient  sands,  whilst  Europe's  flowers 
Monopolize  thy  sopranos!" 

Thanks,  friends,  for  this,  your  kind  advice  ! 
Would  I  could  follow  it  —  could  bide  in  balmier  land  ! 
But  thou  far  Arctic  tracts  of  ice, 
Those  wildernesses 
Of  wavy  sand, 

Are  the  only  home  I  have.    They  must  suffice 
For  one  whose  lonely  hearth  no  smiling  Peri  blesses. 

Yet  count  me  not  the  more  forlorn 
For  my  barbarian  tastes.    Pity  me  not.    O,  no  ! 
The  heart  laid  waste  by  grief  or  scorn, 
Which  only  knoweth 
Its  own  deep  woe, 

Is  the  only  desert.    There  no  spring  is  born 
Amid  the  sands  —  in  that  no  shady  palm-tree  groweth. 
—  Translation  in  Dublin  University  Magazine. 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  255 


SAND-SONGS. 


Sing  of  sand !  —  not  such  as  gloweth 
Hot  upon  the  path  of  the  tiger  and  the  snake: 
Rather  such  sand  as,  when  the  loud  winds  wake, 

Each  ocean  wave  knoweth. 

Like  a  Wraith  with  pinions  burning, 
Travels  the  red  sand  of  the  desert  abroad ; 
While  the  soft  sea-sand  glisteneth  smooth  and  untrod 

As  eve  is  returning. 

Here  no  caravan  or  camel; 
Here  the  weary  mariner  alone  finds  a  grave, 
Lightly  mourned  by  the  moon,  that  now  on  yon  grave 

Sheds  a  silver  enamel. 

u. 

Weapon  like,  this  ever-wounding  wind 
Striketh  sharp  upon  the  sandful  shore; 

So  fierce  Thought  assaults  a  troubled  mind, 
Ever,  ever,  evermore. 

Darkly  unto  past  and  coming  years, 
Man's  deep  heart  is  linked  by  mystic  bands; 

Marvel  not,  then,  if  his  dreams  and  fears 
Be  a  myriad  like  the  sands. 

in. 

'Twere  worth  much  love  to  understand 
Thy  nature  well,  thou  ghastly  sand, 
Who  wreckest  all  that  seek  the  sea, 
Yet  savest  them  that  cling  to  thee. 

The  wild-gull  banquets  on  thy  charms, 
The  fish  dies  in  thy  barren  arms ; 


256  FERDINAND  PREILIGRATH 

Bare,  yellow,  flowerless,  there  thou  art, 
With  vaults  of  treasure  in  thy  heart ! 

I  met  a  wanderer,  too,  this  morn, 
Who  eyed  thee  with  such  sullen  scorn: 
Yet  I,  when  with  thee,  feel  my  soul 
Flow  over,  like  a  too- full  bowl. 

IV. 

Gulls  are  flying,  one,  two,  three, 

Silently  and  heavily. 

Heavily  as  winged  lead, 

Through  the  sultry  air  over  my  languid  head. 

Whence  they  come,  or  whither  they  flee, 

They,  nor  I,  can  tell;  I  see 

On  the  bright  brown  sand  I  tread 

Only  the  black  shadows  of  their  wings  outspread. 

Ha!  a  feather  flutteringly 

Falls  down  at  my  feet  for  me! 

It  shall  serve  my  turn,  instead 

Of  an  eagle's  quill,  till  all  my  songs  be  read. 

—  Translation  in  Dublin  University  Magazine* 

THE  LION'S  RIDE. 

The  lion  is  the  desert's  king;  through  his  dominion  so 

wide 
Right  swiftly  and  right  royally  this  night  he  means  to 

ride. 
By  the  steady  brink,  where  the  wild  herds  drink,  close 

crouches  the  grim  chief: 
The  trembling  sycamore  above  whispers  with  every  leaf. 

At  evening  on  the  Table  Mount,  when  ye  can  see  no 

more 
The  changeful  play  of  signals  gay;  when  the  gloom  is 

speckled  o'er 
With  kraal-fires,  when  the  Kaffir  wends  home  through  the 

lone  karroo, 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  257 

When  the  boshbok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and  by  the  stream 
the  gnu. 

Then  bend  your  gaze  across  the  waste:  —  what  see  ye? 
The  giraffe 

Majestic  stalks  towards  the  lagoon,  the  turbid  lymph 
to  quaff; 

With  outstretched  neck  and  tongue  adust,  he  kneels  him 
down  to  cool 

His  hot  thirst  with  a  welcome  draught  from  the  foul  and 
brackish  pool. 

A  rustling  sound  —  a  roar  —  a  bound  —  the  lion  sits  as- 
tride 

Upon  his  giant  courser's  back.    Did  ever  king  so  ride  ? 

Had  ever  king  a  steed  so  rare,  caparisons  of  state, 

To  match  that  dappled  skin  whereon  that  rider  sits  elate? 

In  the  muscles  of  the  neck  his  teeth  are  plunged  with 

ravenous  greed; 
His   tawny  mane  is  tossing  round  the   withers   of  the 

steed. 

Upleaping  with  a  hollow  yell  of  anguish  and  surprise, 
Away,  away,  in  wild  dismay,  the  camelopard  flies. 

His  feet  have  wings ;  see  how  he  springs  across  the  moon- 
lit plain ! 

As  from  the  sockets  they  would  burst,  his  glaring  eye- 
balls strain; 

In  thick,  black  streams  of  purling  blood  full  fast  his 
life  is  fleeting, 

The  stillness  of  the  desert  hears  his  heart's  tumultuous 
beating. 

Like  the  cloud  that  through  the  wilderness  the  path  of 

Israel  traced  — 
Like  an  airy  phantom,   dull  and  wan,  a  spirit  of  the 

waste  — 
From  the  sandy  sea  uprising  as  the  water-spout  from 

ocean; 
A  whirling  cloud  of  dust  keeps  pace  with  the  courser's 

fiery  motion. 
VOL.  X.— 17 


2$B  FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH 

Croaking  companions  of  their  flight,  the  vulture  whir$ 
on  high. 

Below,  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the  panther  fierce  and  sly, 

And  the  hyenas,  foul,  round  graves  that  prowl,  join  in  the 
horrid  race; 

By  the  footprints  red  with  gore  and  sweat,  their  mon- 
arch's course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake  with  fear, 

the  while 
With   claws   of   steel   he   tears   piecemeal   his   cushion's 

painted  pile. 
On,  on !  no  pause  nor  rest,  giraffe,  while  life  and  strength 

remain ! 
The  steed  by  such  a  rider  backed  may  madly  plunge  in 

vain. 

Reeling  upon  the  desert's  verge,  he  falls  and  breathes  his 

last; 
The  courser,  stained  with  dust  and  foam,  is  the  rider's 

dread  repast. 

O'er  Madagascar,  eastward  far,  a  faint  flush  is  descried:  — 
Thus  nightly  o'er  his  broad  domain  the  king  of  beasts  doth 

ride. 

—  Translation  —  Anonymous. 

THE  SHEIK  OF  MOUNT  SINAI. 

[A  Narrative  of  r£jo.] 

"  How  sayest  thou  ?    Came  to-day  the  caravan 
From  Africa  ?    And  is  it  here  ?    Tis  well ; 
Bear  me  beyond  the  tent,  me  and  mine  ottoman; 
I  would  myself  behold  it      I  feel  eager 
To  learn  the  youngest  news.    As  the  gazelle 
Rushes  to  drink  will  I  to  hear,  and  gather  thence  fresh 
vigor." 

So  spake  the  Sheik.    They  bore  him  forth,  and  thus  be- 
gan the  Moor:  — 
"  Old  man !  upon  Algeria's  towers  the  tri-color  is  flying, 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  259 

Bright  silks  of  Lyons  rustle  at  each  balcony  and  door; 
In  the  streets  the  loud  reveil  resounds  at  break  of  day; 
Steeds  prance  to  the  Marseillaise  o'er  heaps  of  dead  and 

dying: 
The  Franks  came  from  Toulon,  men  say. 

"  Southward    their    legions    marched    through    burning 

lands ; 

The  Barbary  sun  flashed  on  their  arms ;  about 
Their  chargers'  manes  were  blown   clouds  of  Tunisian 

sands. 

Knowest  thou  where  the  giant  Atlas  rises  dim 
In  the  hot  sky?    Thither  in  disastrous  rout, 
The  wild  Kabyles  fled  with  their  herds  and  women. 

"  The  Franks  pursued.    Hu !    Allah !  —  each  defile 
Grew  a  very  hell-gulf  then,  with  smoke,  and  fire,  and 

bomb ! 

The  lion  left  the  deer's  half-crunched  remains  the  while; 
He  snuffed  upon  the  winds  a  daintier  prey ! 
Hark  the  shout,  'En  Avantl*    To  the  topmost  peak  up- 

clomb 
The  conquerors  in  that  bloody  fray ! 

"  Circles  of  glittering  bayonets  crowned  the  mountain's 

Height. 
The  hundred  cities  of  the  plain,  from  Atlas  to  the  sea 

afar, 

From  Tunis  forth  to  Fez  shone  in  the  noonday  light. 
The   spearmen   rested  by  their  steeds,   or   slaked  their 

thirst  at  rivulets ; 
And  round  them  through  dark  myrtles  burned,  each  like 

a  star, 
The  slender  golden  minarets. 

"  But  in  the  valley  blooms  the  odorous  almond-tree, 

And  the  aloe  blossoms  on  the  rock,  defying  storms  and 

suns. 
Here  was  their  conquest  sealed.    Look !  —  yonder  heaves 

the  sea, 


2<5o  FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH 

And  far  to  the  left  lies  Franquistan.    The  banners  flouted 

the  blue  skies ; 

The  artillery-men  came  up.    Mashallah !  how  the  guns 
Did  roar  to  sanctify  their  prize  !  " 

"  Tis  they,"  the  Sheik  exclaimed,  "  I  fought  among  them, 

I, 

At  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids !    Red,  all  along  the  day, 

ran  — 

Red  as  thy  turban  folds  —  the  Nile's  high  billows  by ! 
But  their  Sultan  ?    Speak !  —  he  was  once  my  guest. 

His  lineaments  —  gait  —  garb Sawest  thou  the  man?" 

The  Moor's  hand  slowly  felt  its  way  into  his  breast. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  he  bode  in  his  warm  palace  halls. 
A  Pasha  led  his  warriors  through  the  fire  of  hostile  ranks ; 
An  Aga  thundered  for  him  before  Atlas's  iron  walls. 
His   lineaments,   thou   sayest?    On   gold,   at  least,   they 

lack 

The  kingly  stamp.    See  here!    A  Spahi  of  the  Franks 
Gave  me  this  coin,  in  chaffering,  some  days  back." 

The  Kasheef  took  the  gold;  he  gazed  upon  the  head  and 

face. 
Was  this  the  great  Sultan  he  had  known  long  years 

ago? 

It  seemed  not;  for  he  sighed,  as  all  in  vain  to  trace 
The  still  remembered  features.    Ah,  no !  —  this/'  he  said, 

"is 
Not  his  broad  brow  and  piercing  eye.    Who  this  man  is 

I  do  not  know: 
How  very  like  a  pear  his  head  is." 

—  Translation  in  Dublin  University  Magazine. 

THE  EMIGRANTS. 

I  cannot  take  my  eyes  away 

From  you,  ye  busy  bustling  band! 
Your  little  all  to  see  you  lay, 

Each  in  the  waiting  seaman's  hand ! 


FERDINAND  FREIL1GRATH  261 

Ye  men,  who  from  your  necks  set  down 

The  heavy  basket  on  the  earth, 
Of  bread  from  German  corn,  baked  brown, 

By  German  wives,  on  German  hearth. 

And  you  with  braid  queues  so  neat, 
Black-Forest  maidens,  slim  and  brown, 

How  careful  on  the  sloop's  green  seat 
You  set  your  pails  and  pitchers  down ! 

Ah !  oft  have  home's  cool,  shady  tanks 
These  pails  and  pitchers  filled  for  you : 

On  far  Missouri's  silent  banks 

Shall  these  the  scenes  of  home  renew :  — 

The  stone-rimmed  fount  on  village  street, 
That,  as  ye  stopped,  betrayed  your  smiles, 

The  hearth,  and  its  familiar  seat; 
The  mantel  and  the  pictured  tiles. 

Soon,  in  the  far  and  wooded  West, 
Shall  log-house  walls  therewith  be  graced, 

Soon,  many  a  tired,  tawny  guest 
Shall  sweet  refreshment  from  them  taste* 

From  them  shall  drink  the  Cherokee, 

Faint  from  the  hot  and  dusty  chase; 
No  more  from  German  vintage  ye 

Shall  bear  them  home  in  leaf-crowned  grace. 

O,  say,  why  seek  ye  other  lands? 

The  Neckar's  vale  hath  wine  and  corn, 
Full  of  dark  firs  the  Schwarzwald  stands, 

In  Stressart  rings  the  Alp-herd's  horn. 

Ah !  in  strange  forests  how  ye'll  yearn 
For  the  green  mountains  of  your  home> 

To  Deutschland's  yellow  wheat-fields  turn, 
In  spirit  o'er  her  vine-hills  roam. 

The  boatman  calls !  go  hence  in  peace  1 
God  bless  ye,  man  and  wife  and  sire! 


262  JESSIE  BENTON  FREMONT 

Bless  all  your  fields  with  rich  increase, 
And  crown  each  true  heart's  pure  desire! 

Translation  of  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS. 


,  JESSIE  BENTON,  an  American  essay- 
ist; daughter  of  Thomas  H.  Benton;  born  in 
Virginia,  in  1824;  died  at  Los  Angeles,  Cal., 
in  January,  1903.  In  1841  she  married  John  C.  Fre- 
mont, whom  $he  aided  most  effectually  in  all  his 
labors.  She  published  The  Story  of  the  Gwvrd 
(1863) ;  A  Year  of  American  Travel  (1878) ;  Souve- 
nirs of  My  Time  (1887) ;  Far-West  Sketches  (1890), 
and  The  Will  and  The  Way  Stories  (1891).  To  her 
husband's  Memoirs  (1877)  she  prefixed  a  biographical 
sketch  of  her  father. 

"In  all  these  public  positions,"  says  Miss  Frances 
Willard,  in  speaking  of  General  Fremont's  career, 
"  Mrs.  Fremont  won  renown  in  her  own  right.  As  a 
writer,  she  is  brilliant,  concise,  and  at  all  times  inter- 
esting. Her  extensive  acquaintance  with  the  bright- 
est intellects  of  the  world  enabled  her  to  enter  the 
field  of  literature  fully  equipped." 

HOW  FR£MONT'S  SECOND  EXPEDITION  WAS  SAVED. 

Coming  home  from  school  in  an  Easter  holiday,  I 
found  Mr.  Fremont  part  of  my  father's  "  Oregon  work." 
It  was  the  Spring  of  1841;  in  October  we  were  mar- 
ried; and  in  1842  the  first  expedition  was  sent  out  under 
Mr.  Fremont  The  first  encouragement  to  the  emigration 
westward  fitted  into  so  large  a  need  that  it  met  instant 
favor,  and  a  second  was  ordered  to  connect  with  it  further 
survey  •  to  the  sea-coast  of  Oregon.  At  last  my  father 


JESSIE  BENTON  FREMONT  263 

could  feel  his  idea  "  moved."  Of  his  intense  interest  and 
pride  and  joy  in  these  expeditions  I  knew  best;  and  when  it 
came  in  my  way  to  be  of  use  to  them,  and  protect  his  life- 
work,  there  was  no  shadow  of  hesitation. 

In  May,  1843,  Mr.  Fremont  was  at  the  frontier  getting 
his  camp  into  complete  travelling  condition  for  his  second 
expedition,  when  there  came  an  order  recalling  him  to 
Washington,  where  he  was  to  explain  why  he  had  armed 
his  party  with  a  howitzer;  that  the  howitzer  had  been 
charged  to  him ;  that  it  was  a  scientific  and  not  a  military 
expedition,  and  should  not  have  been  so  armed;  and  that 
he  must  return  at  once  to  Washington  and  "explain." 
Fortunately  I  was  alone  in  St.  Louis,  my  father  being  out 
of  town.  It  was  before  telegraphs ;  and  nearly  a  week  was 
required  to  get  letters  either  to  the  frontier  or  to  Wash- 
ington. I  was  but  eighteen  —  an  age  at  which  conse- 
quences do  not  weigh  against  the  present.  The  important 
thing  was  to  save  the  expediton,  and  gain  time  for  a 
good  start  which  should  put  it  beyond  interference.  I 
hurried  off  a  messenger  to  Mr.  Fremont,  writing  that  he 
must  start  at  once,  and  never  mind  the  grass  and  animals ; 
they  could  rest  and  fatten  at  Bent's  Ford:  only  go,  and 
leave  the  rest  to  my  father;  that  he  could  not  have  the 
reason  for  haste  —  but  there  was  reason  enough. 

To  the  Colonel  of  the  Topographical  Bureau,  who  had 
given  the  order  of  recall,  I  answered  more  at  leisure. 
I  wrote  to  him  exactly  what  I  had  done,  and  to  him  I 
gave  the  reason;  that  I  had  not  sent  forward  the  order, 
nor  let  Mr.  Fremont  know  of  it,  because  it  was  given  on 
insufficient  knowledge,  and  to  obey  it  would  ruin  the 
expedition;  that  it  would  require  a  fortnight  to  settle  the 
party,  leave  it,  and  get  to  Washington,  and  indefinite  de- 
lay there;  another  fortnight  for  the  return  —  and  by  that 
time  the  early  grass  would  be  past  its  best,  and  the  under- 
fed animals  would  be  thrown  into  the  mountains  for  the 
winter ;  that  the  country  of  the  Blackfeet  and  other  fierce 
tribes  had  to  be  crossed,  and  they  knew  nothing  of  the 
rights  of  science. 

When  my  father  came,  he  approved  of  my  wrongdoing, 
and  wrote  to  Washington  that  he  would  be  responsible 


264  J  JESSIE  BBNTON  FR&MONT 

for  my  act ;  and  that  he  would  call  for  a  court-martial  on 
the  point  charged  against  Mr.  Fremont.  But  there  was 
never  further  question  of  the  wisdom  of  arming  his  party 
sufficently.  The  precious  time  had  been  secured,  and 
"  they'd  have  fleet  feet  who  follow,"  when  such  purpose 
leads  the  advance,  I  had  grown  up  to  and  into  my  fath- 
er's large  purpose;  and  now  that  my  husband  could  be 
of  such  aid  to  him  in  its  accomplishment,  I  had  no  hesita- 
tion in  risking  for  him  all  the  consequences.  We  three 
understood  each  other  and  acted  together  —  then  and  lat'ef 

—  without  question  or  delay. 

That  expedition  led  directly  to  our  acquiring  California, 
which  was  accomplished  during  the  third,  and  last,  of  the 
expeditions  made  under  the  Government  My  father  was 
a  man  grown  when  our  western  boundary  was  on  the 
Mississippi ;  in  1821  he  commenced  in  the  Senate  his  cham- 
pionship of  a  quarter  of  a  century  for  our  new  territory 
on  the  Pacific;  now,  with  California  added,  he  could  say 
in  the  Senate :  "  We  own  the  country  from  sea  to  sea  — 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  —  and  upon  a  breadth 
equal  to  the  length  of  the  Mississippi,  and  embracing  the 
whole  Temperate  Zone."  The  long  contest' — the  indif- 
ference, the  ignorance,  the  sneering  doubts  —  was  in  the 
past.  From  his  own  hearth  had  gone  forth  the  one  who 
had  carried  his  hopes  to  their  fullest  execution ;  and  who 
now,  after  many  perils  and  anxieties,  was  back  in  safety, 
even  to  a  seat  in  the  Senate  beside  him ;  who  had  enabled 
him  to  make  true  his  prophetic  words  carved  on  the  pedes- 
tal of  his  statute  in  St.  Louis,  whose  bronze  hand  points 
West:  "There  is  the  East;  there  is  the  road  to  India," 

—  Sketch  of  Benton. 

AN  INN  I3ST  THE  TYROL. 

We  stopped  over  night  at  such  an  inn  in  the  village 
of  Werfen;  just  a  street  of  detached,  low,  stone  houses, 
but  with  a  village  square  and  fountain  where  the  women 
gathered  before  sundown  with  their  pitchers  and  gos- 
siped. Costumes,  fountain,  gossips,  all  was  a  scene  from 
Faust.  High  mountains  shut  in  the  narrow  line  of  vil- 
lage. On  a  height  above  it  was  an  old  fortified  castle, 


JESSIE  BENTON  FR&MONT  265 

now  used  as  a  military  prison.  The  others  walked  tip 
there  —  a  ladder-like  climb  I  was  not  up  to.  So  I  looked 
out  at  the  Faust  scene  and  the  sunset  lights  on  the 
mountains,  and  the  landlady  and  myself  had  a  talk 
in  pantomime  all  to  ourselves.  Their  German  had  be- 
come a  dialect  here,  and  my  German  was  scant  any- 
way ;  but  when  two  women  want  to  talk  they  can  manage 
with  eyes  and  hands  and  Oh's  and  Ah's,  and  so  we  pro- 
gressed, I  assenting  to  all  she  proposed  for  dinner,  check- 
ing off  on  her  fingers  unknown  dishes,  to  which  I  nodded 
approval  until  she  cried  "enough."  Then  she  led  me  to 
the  oak  presses  which  were  in  my  room  and,  unlocking 
them  with  pride,  displayed  her  treasures  to  me.  She 
had  reason  for  housewifely  pride  in  them.  Piled  up  in 
quantity  was  fine  linen  for  bed  and  table.  Napkins 
tied  in  dozens  with  their  original  ribbons  —  her  marriage 
portion.  "  Meine  mutter "  had  given  her  this  and  that 
She  led  me  to  a  window  looking  down  upon  the  crowded 
gravestones  of  the  church  adjoining  her  inn  — "  Meine 
mutter"  was  there;  touching  her  black  head-dress  and 
woollen  mourning  gown;  her  husband,  too;  it  was  bright 
with  growing  flowers,  dahlias  chiefly  then,  and  wreaths 
on  the  crosses. 

But  she  smiled  again  when  she  displayed  her  many 
eider-down  puffy  quilts  of  bright-colored  silks  and  sat- 
ins, and  taking  her  favorite  she  spread  it  over  my  bed, 
first  smiling  and  putting  its  clear  blue  near  my  white 
hair  to  show  it  would  be  becoming.  Then,  inquiringly, 
Would  I  choose  for  the  others?  It  was  charming  to  feel 
the  friendly  one-ness  of  hospitality  which  was  quite  apart 
from  the  relation  of  traveller  and  hostess,  and  which  be-> 
longed  in  with  the  courtesy  of  the  people  everywhere  in 
Austria.  Her  best  silver,  each  spoon  and  fork  wrapped 
separately  in  silver  paper,  she  also  took  out  from  this 
range  of  oak  presses  which  made  one  wall  of  a  large  room. 

When  the  others  came  back,  they  found  the  wood- 
fire  bright  in  the  open  part  of  the  huge  white  porcelain 
stove,  the  tabel  with  wax  lights  in  twisted-branched 
silver  candlesticks,  flowers  (dahlias  from  the  graveyard, 
and  geraniums  —  I  saw  the  daughter  cutting  these  funeral- 


266  JOHN  CHARLES  FR&MONT 

grown  flowers  for  the  feast),  and  in  their  rooms  more 
silver  candlesticks  on  lace-trimmed  toilet  tables,  lighting 
up  the  pretty  satin  quilts. —  Souvenirs  of  My  Time. 


?R]iMONT,  JOHN  CHARLES,  an  American  sol- 
dier and  explorer,  the  "pathfinder"  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains;  born  at  Savannah,  Ga., 
January  21,  1813;  died  at  New  York,  July  13,  1890. 
At  fifteen  he  entered  the  junior  class  at  Charleston 
College;  but  remained  only  a  short  time,  after  which 
he  became  a  private  tutor.  In  1838  he  received  a 
commission  as  Second  Lieutenant  in  the  United  States 
Corps  of  Topographical  Engineers.  In  1841  he  was 
married  to  a  daughter  of  Thomas  H.  Benton,  United 
States  Senator  from  Missouri.  In  the  following  year 
he  projected  a  geographical  survey  of  the  entire  ter- 
ritory of  the  United  States  from  the  Missouri  River 
to  the  Pacific  Ocean;  and  was  instructed  to  explore 
the  Rocky  Mountain  region.  This  exploration  oc- 
cupied four  months.  He  then  planned  a  second  and 
more  extensive  expedition,  to  explore  the  then  un- 
known region  lying  between  the  Rocky  Mountains 
and  the  Pacific  Ocean.  The  expedition,  .consisting  of 
thirty-nine  men,  set  out  in  May,  1843,  an(*  earty  *n 
September  came  in  sight  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  of 
which  nothing  reliable  was  as  yet  known.  From  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  he  proceeded  to  the  upper  tributaries 
of  the  Columbia  River,  down  which  he  went  nearly 
to  the  Pacific ;  and  in  November  set  out  to  return  to 
the  States  by  a  different  route,  much  of  it  through  an 
almost  unknown  region  crossed  by  high  and  rugged 


J.  C.  FREMONT. 


JOHN  CHARLES  FR&MONT  267 

mountain  chains.  Early  in  March  he  reached  Sut- 
ter's  Fort  on  the  Sacramento  River,  in  California, 
having  suffered  severe  hardships,  and  lost  half  of  the 
horses  and  mules  with  which  he  had  set  out.  He 
finally  returned  to  the  States  in  July,  1844,  after  an 
absence  of  fourteen  months. 

In  the  spring  of  1845  Fremont,  who  had  been 
brevetted  as  captain,  set  out  upon  a  third  expedition 
to  explore  the  Great  Basin  and  the  maritime  region 
of  Oregon  and  California.  In  May,  1846,  when  mak- 
ing his  way  homeward,  he  received  despatches  from 
the  Government  directing  him  to  look  after  the  in- 
terests of  the  United  States  in  California,  there  being 
reason  to  apprehend  that  this  province  would  be  trans- 
ferred by  the  Mexicans  to  Great  Britain.  He  retraced 
his  steps  to  California.  Early  in  1847  he  concluded 
a  treaty  with  the  California  population  which  ter- 
minated the  war  in  California,  leaving  that  country 
in  the  possession  of  the  United  States.  In  the  mean- 
while a  question  had  arisen  between  Commodore 
Stockton  and  General  Kearny,  as  to  which  should  hold 
the  command  in  California.  The  outcome  was  that 
Kearny  preferred  charges  against  Fremont,  who  de- 
manded a  speedy  trial  by  court-martial.  The  court 
found  him  guilty  of  the  charges,  and  sentenced  him 
to  be  dismissed  from  the  service.  President  Polk  con- 
firmed a  part  of  the  verdict,  but  remitted  the  penalty. 
Fremont  at  once  resigned  his  commission  as  Lieuten- 
ant-colonel. 

In  October,  1848,  he  organized  a  fourth  expedition, 
at  his  own  expense,  the  object  being  to  find  a  practic- 
able route  to  California,  where  he  had  acquired  large 
landed  interests.  He  subsequently  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  California,  and  when  the  Territory  was 


268  JOHN  CHARLES  FR&MONT 

admitted  into  the  Union  as  a  State,  he  was  elected  one 
of  the  United  States  Senators.  In  drawing  lots  for 
the  long  or  short  term,  he  received  the  latter,  so  that 
his  senatorship  lasted  only  three  weeks.  In  1856  Fre- 
mont was  made  the  Presidential  candidate  of  the 
newly  formed  Republican  party.  He  received  the  114 
electoral  votes  of  eleven  States;  Mr.  Buchanan,  the 
Democratic  candidate,  having  the  174  electoral  votes 
of  nineteen  States.  Soon  after  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Civil  War  Fremont  was  made  a  Major-general 
of  Volunteers,  and  was  assigned  to  the  command  of 
the  Western  District.  From  1878  to  1881  he  was 
Governor  of  the  Territory  of  Arizona.  He  then  be- 
gan the  composition  of  his  autobiography,  the  first 
volume  of  which  appeared  in  1887,  the  title  being 
Memoirs  of  My  Life,  by  John  Charles  Fremont.  This 
volume  brings  the  narrative  down  to  the  close  of  his 
third  expedition,  1846.  He  thus  sets  forth  the  scope 
of  the  entire  work: 

SCOPE  OF  THE 

The  narrative  contained  in  these  volumes  is  personal. 
It  is  intended  to  draw  together  the  more  important  and 
interesting  parts  of  the  journals  of  various  expeditions 
made  by  me  in  the  course  of  Western  exploration,  and 
to  give  my  knowledge  of  political  and  military  events  in 
which  I  have  myself  had  part  The  principal  subjects 
of  which  the  book  will  consist,  and  which  with  me  make 
its  raison  d'etre,  are  three:  The  Geographical  Explora- 
ions  made  in  the  interest  of  Western  expansion;  the 
Presidential  Campaign  of  1856,  made  in  the  interest  of  an 
undivided  country;  and  the  Civil  War  made  in  the  same 
interest  Connecting  these,  and  naturally  growing  out 
of  them,  will  be  given  enough  of  the  threads  of  ordinary 
life  to  justify  the  claim  of  the  work  to  its  title  of  Memoirs: 
purporting  to  be  the  history  of  one  life,  but  being  in 


JOHN  CHARLES  FR&MONT  269 

reality  that  of  three,  because  in  substance  the  course  of 
my  own  life  was  chiefly  determined  by  it's  contact  with 
the  other  two  —  the  events  recorded  having  in  this  way 
been  created,  or  directly  inspired  and  influenced  by  three 
different  minds,  each  having  the  same  ojects  for  a  prin- 
cipal aim.  .  .  . 

Concerning  the  Presidential  Campaign  of  1856,  in  which 
I  was  engaged,  statements  have  been  made  which  I 
wish  to  correct;  and  in  that  of  1864  there  were  gov- 
erning facts  which  have  not  been  made  public.  These 
I  propose  to  set  out  Some  events  of  the  Civil  War  in 
which  I  was  directly  concerned  have  been  incorrectly 
stated,  and  I  am  not  willing  to  leave  the  resulting  errone- 
ous impressions  to  crystallize  and  harden  into  the  sem- 
blance of  facts. 

The  general  record  is  being  made  up.  This  being 
done  from  different  points  of  view,  and  as  this  view  is 
sometimes  distorted  by  imperfect  or  prejudiced  knowl- 
edge, I  naturally  wish  to  use  the  fitting  occasion  which 
offers  to  make  my  own  record.  It  is  not  the  written,  but 
the  published  fact,  that  stands;  and  it  stands  to  hold 
its  ground  as  fact  when  it  can  meet  every  challenge  by 
the  testimony  of  documentary  and  recorded  evidence. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  volume  Fremont  thus 
characterizes  three  of  his  comrades  who  figure  largely 
throughout  the  entire  narrative  of  his  explorations : 

CARSON,   OWEN,   AND  GODEY. 

From  Fort  Benton  I  sent  [August,  1845,]  an  express 
to  Carson  at  a  rancho,  or  stock-farm,  which  with  his 
friend  Richard  Owens  he  had  established  on  the  Cimar- 
ron,  a  tributary  to  the  Arkansas  River;  but  he  had  prom- 
ised that  in  the  event  I  should  need  him  he  would  join 
me,  and  I  knew  that  he  would  not  fail  to  come.  My 
messenger  found  him  busy  starting  the  congenial  work 
•of  making  up  a  stock-ranch.  There  was  no  time  to  be 
lost,  and  he  did  not  hesitate.  He  sold  everything  at  a 
sacrifice  —  farm  and  cattle  —  and  not  only  came  himself, 


270  JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT 

but  brought  his  friend  Owens  to  join  the  party.  This 
was  like  Carson  —  prompt,  self-sacrificing,  and  true.  That 
Owens  was  a  good  man,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  and 
Carson  were  friends.  Cool,  brave,  and  of  good  judg- 
ment; a  good  hunter  and  good  shot,  experienced  in 
mountain  life,  he  was  an  acquisition,  and  proved  valua- 
ble through  the  campaign. 

Godey  had  proved  himself  during  the  preceding  jour- 
ney, which  had  brought  out  his  distinguishing  qualities 
of  resolute  and  aggressive  courage.  Quick  in  deciding 
and  prompt  in  acting,  he  had  also  the  French  elan  and 
their  gayety  of  courage:  " Gai,  gai,  avangons  nous."  I 
mention  him  here  because  the  three  men  come  fitly  to- 
gether, and  because  of  the  peculiar  qualities  which  gave 
them  in  the  highest  degree  efficiency  for  the  service  in 
which  they  were  engaged.  The  three  under  Napoleon, 
might  have  become  Marshals  —  chosen  as  he  chose  men. 
Carson,  of  great  courage,  quick  and  complete  percep- 
tion, taking  in  at  a  glance  the  advantages,  as  well  as  the 
chances,  for  defeat  Godey,  insensible  to  danger,  of 
perfect  coolness  and  stubborn  resolution.  Owens,  equal 
in  courage  to  the  others,  and  in  coolness  equal  to  Godey, 
had  the  coup  d'&il  of  a  chess-player,  covering  with  a 
glance  that  sees  the  best  move.  His  dark  hazel  eye 
was  the  marked  feature  of  his  face  —  large  and  flat  and 
far-sighted. 

Godey  was  a  Creole  Frenchman  of  St.  Louis,  of  me- 
dium height,  with  black  eyes,  and  silky,  curling  black  hair. 
In  all  situations  he  had  that  care  of  his  person  which 
good  looks  encourage.  Once  when  we  were  in  Washing- 
ton, he  was  at  a  concert;  immediately  behind  him  sat 
the  wife  of  the  French  Minister,  Madame  Pageot,  who, 
with  the  lady  by  her,  was  admiring  his  hair;  which  was 
really  beautiful.  But,  she  said,  "  c'est  une  perruque!' 
They  were  speaking  unguardedly  in  French.  Godey  had 
no  idea  of  having  his.  hair  disparaged;  and  with  the 
prompt  coolness  with  which  he  would  have  repelled  any 
other  indignity,  turned  instantly  to  say,  "Pardon,  Ma- 
dame, c'est  bien,  a  moi"  The  ladies  were  silenced  as 
suddenly  as  the  touch  of  a  tree-trunk  silences  a  katydid. 
—Memoirs,  Chap.  XII. 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT  271 


FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  ROCKY   MOUNTAINS. 

On  the  morning  of  July  9  we  caught  the  first  faint 
glimpse  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  about  sixty  miles  dis- 
tant. Though  a  tolerably  bright  day,  there  was  a  slight 
mist,  and  we  were  just  able  to  discern  the  snowy  summit 
of  "  Long's  Peak  "  (Les  Deux  Oreilles  of  the  Canadians), 
showing  itself  like  a  cloud  near  the  horizon.  I  found  it 
easily  distinguishable,  there  being  a  perceptible  differ- 
ence in  its  appearance  from  the  white  clouds  that  were 
floating  about  the  sky.  I  was  pleased  to  find  that  among 
the  traders  the  name  of  "  Long's  Peak  "  had  been  adopted 
and  become  familiar  in  the  country. —  Memoirs,  Chap.  IV. 

ON  THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS. 

August  15. —  We  were  of  opinion  that  a  long  defile 
which  lay  to  the  left  of  yesterday's  route  would  lead  us 
to  the  foot  of  the  main  peak;  and  we  determined  to  ride 
up  the  defile  as  far  as  possible,  in  order  to  husband  our 
strength  for  the  main  ascent.  Though  this  was  a  fine 
passage,  still  it  was  a  defile  of  the  most  rugged  moun- 
tains known.  The  sun  rarely  shone  here ;  snow  lay  along 
the  border  of  the  main  stream  which  flowed  through 
it  and  occasional  icy  passages  made  the  footing  of  the 
mules  very  insecure,  and  thfe  rocks  and  ground  were 
moist  with  the  trickling  waters  in  this  spring  of  mighty 
rivers.  We  soon  had  the  satisfaction  to  find  ourselves 
riding  along  the  huge  wall  which  forms  the  central  sum- 
mits of  the  chain.  There  at  last  it  rose  by  our  side, 
a  nearly  perpendicular  mass  of  granite  terminating  2,000 
to  3,000  feet  above  our  heads  in  a  serrated  line  of  broken, 
jagged  cones.  We  rode  on  until  we  came  almost  im- 
mediately below  the  main  peak,  which  I  denominated 
the  Snow  Peak,  as  it  exhibited  more  snow  to  the  eye 
than  any  of  the  neighboring  summits.  Here  were  three 
small  lakes,  perhaps  of  1,000  feet  diameter. 

Having  divested  ourselves  of  every  unnecessary  en- 
cumbrance, we  commenced  the  ascent.  We  did  not  press 
ourselves,  but  climbed  leisurely,  sitting  down  so  soon 


272  JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT 

as  we  found  breath  beginning  to  fail.  At  intervals 
we  reached  places  where  a  number  of  springs  gushed 
from  the  rocks,  and  about  1,800  feet  above  the  lakes 
came  to  the  snow-line.  From  this  point  our  progress 
was  uninterrupted  climbing.  I  availed  myself  of  a  sort 
of  comb  of  the  mountains,  which  stood  against  the  wall 
like  a  buttress,  and  which  the  wind  and  the  solar  radia- 
tion, joined  to  the  steepness  of  the  smooth  rock,  had 
kept  almost  entirely  free  from  snow.  Up  this  I  made 
my  way  rapidly. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  reached  a  point  where  the  but- 
tress was  overhanging,  and  there  was  no  other  way  of 
surmounting  the  difficulty  than  by  passing  around  one 
side  of  it,  which  was  the  face  of  a  vertical  precipice  of 
several  hundred  feet.  Putting  hands  and  feet  in  the 
crevices  between  the  rocks,  I  succeeded  in  getting  over 
it;  and  when  I  reached  the  top,  found  my  companions 
in  a  small  valley  below.  Descending  to  them,  we  con- 
tinued climbing,  and  in  a  short  time  reached  the  crest. 
I  sprang  upon  the  summit,  and  another  step  would  have 
precipitated  me  into  an  immense  snow-field  five  hundred 
feet  below.  To  the  edge  of  this  field  was  a  sheer  icy 
precipice;  and  then,  with  a  gradual  fall,  the  field  sloped 
off  for  about  a  mile,  until  it  struck  the  foot  of  another 
lower  ridge.  I  stood  on  a  narrow  crest,  about  three  feet 
in  width,  with  an  inclination  of  about  20°  N.,  51°  E. 

As  soon  as  I  had  gratified  my  first  feelings  of  curiosity, 
I  descended,  and  each  man  ascended  in  his  turn;  for  I 
would  allow  only  one  at  a  time  to  mount  the  unstable  and 
precarious  slab,  which  it  seemed  a  breath  would  hurl  into 
the  abyss  below.  We  mounted  the  barometer  in  the 
snow  of  the  summit,  and  fixing  a  ramrod  in  a  crevice, 
unfurled  the  national  flag  to  wave  in  the  breeze  where 
never  flag  waved  before. 

During  our  morning's  ascent  we  had  met  no  sign  of 
animal  life  except  a  small,  sparrow-like  bird.  A  stillness 
the  most  profound,  and  a  terrible  solitude,  forced  them- 
selves constantly  on  the  mind  as 'the  great  features  of 
the  place.  Here  on  the  summit  where  the  silence  was 
absolute,  unbroken  by  any  sound,  and  solitude  complete, 


JOHN  CHARLES  FR&MONT  273 

we  thought  ourselves  beyond  the  region  of  animated 
life;  but  while  we  were  sitting  on  the  rock,  a  solitary 
bee  (Bromus,  "the  humble-bee  ")  came  winging  his  flight 
from  the  eastern  valley,  and  lit  on  the  knee  of  one  of 
the  men.  It  was  a  strange  place  —  the  icy  rock  and  the 
highest  peak  of  the  Rocky  Mountains — for  a  lover  of 
warm  sunshine  and  flowers;  and  we  pleased  ourselves 
with  the  idea  that  he  was  the  first  of  his  species  to  cross 
the  mountain  barrier  —  a  solitary  pioneer  to  foretell  the 
advance  of  civilization.  I  believed  that  a  moment's 
thought  would  have  made  us  let  him  continue  his  way 
unharmed.  But  we  carried  out  the  law  of  this  country, 
where  all  animated  nature  seems  at  war;  and  seizing 
him  immediately,  put  him  in  at  least  a  fit  place  —  in  the 
leaves  of  a  large  book,  among  the  flowers  we  had  col- 
lected on  our  way.  The  barometer  stood  at  18.293,  the 
attached  thermometer  at  44° ;  giving  for  the  elevation  of 
this  summit  13,570  feet  above  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  which 
may  be  called  the  highest  flight  of  the  bee.  It  is  cer- 
tainly the  highest  known  flight  of  that  insect. —  Memoirs, 
Chap.  V. 

The  foregoing  extracts  relate  to  Fremont's  first  ex- 
pedition, made  in  1842.  Those  which  ensue  belong  to 
the  second  expedition,  1843-44. 

THE   GREAT   SALT  LAKE  VALLEY  IN    1843. 

August  21. —  An  hour's  travel  this  morning  brought  us 
into  the  fertile  and  picturesque  valley  of  Bear  River,  the 
principal  tributary  to  the  Great  Salt  Lake.  The  stream 
is  here  two  hundred  feet  wide,  fringed  with  willows  and 
occasional  groups  of  hawthorn.  We  were  now  entering 
a  region  which  for  us  possessed  a  strange  and  extraor- 
dinary interest  We  were  upon  the  waters  of  the  famous 
lake  which  forms  a  salient  point  among  the  remarkable 
geographical  features  of  the  country,  and  around  which 
the  vague  and  superstitious  accounts  of  the  trappers  had 
thrown  a  delightful  obscurity  which  we  anticipated  pleas- 
ure in  dispelling;  but  which  in  the  mean  time  left  a 
VOL.  X.— 18 


274  JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT 

crowded  field  for  the  exercise  of  the  imagination.  In 
our  occasional  conversations  with  the  few  old  hunters 
who  had  visited  the  region,  it  had  been  a  subject  of  fre- 
quent speculation;  and  the  wonders  which  they  related 
were  not  the  less  agreeable  because  they  were  highly 
exaggerated  and  impossible. 

Hitherto  this  lake  had  been  seen  only  by  trappers  who 
were  wandering  through  the  country  in  search  of  new 
beaver-streams,  caring  very  little  for  geography.  Its 
islands  had  never  been  visited,  and  none  was  found  who 
had  entirely  made  the  circuit  of  its  shores;  and  no  in- 
strumental observations  or  geographical  survey  of  any 
description  had  ever  been  made  anywhere  in  the  neigh- 
oor*ng  region.  It  was  generally  supposed  that  it  had  no 
visible  outlet;  but  among  the  trappers  —  including  those 
in  my  own  camp  —  were  many  who  believed  that  some- 
where on  its  surface  was  a  terrible  whirlpool  through 
which  its  waters  found  their  way  to  the  ocean  by  some 
subterranean  communication.  All  these  things  had  made 
a  frequent  subject  of  discussion  in  our  desultory  con- 
versations around  the  fires  at  night;  and  my  own  mind 
had  become  tolerably  well  filled  with  their  indefinite  pic- 
tures, and  insensibly  colored  with  their  romantic  descrip- 
tions, which,  in  the  pleasure  of  excitement,  I  was  well 
disposed  to  believe,  and  half  expected  to  realize. 

Where  we  descended  into  this  beautiful  valley  it  is 
three  to  four  miles  in  breath,  perfectly  level,  and 
bounded  by  mountainous  ridges,  one  above  another,  ris- 
ing suddenly  from  the  plain.  We  continued  our  road 
down  the  river,  and  at  night  encamped  with  a  family  of 
emigrants  —  two  men,  women,  and  several  children,  who 
appeared  to  be  bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  great  caravan. 
It  was  strange  to  see  one  small  family  travelling  along 
through  such  a  country,  so  remote  from  civilization.  Some 
nine  years  since  such  a  security  might  have  been  a  fatal 
one;  but,  since  their  disastrous  defeats  in  the  country 
a  little  north,  the  Blackfeet  have  ceased  to  visit  these 
waters.  Indians,  however,  are  very  uncertain  in  their 
localities ;  and  the  friendly  feelings  also  of  those  now  in- 
habiting it  may  be  changed. 


JOHN  CtiARLES  FR&MONT  275 

According  to  barometrical  observation  at  noon,  the 
elevation  of  the  valley  was  6,400  feet  above  the  sea; 
and  our  encampment  at  night  in  latitude  42°  03'  47", 
and  longitude  111°  10'  53"  by  observatiaon.  This  en- 
campment was  therefore  within  the  territorial  limit  of 
the  United  States;  our  traveling  from  the  time  we  en- 
tered the  valley  of  the  Green  River  on  the  I5th  of 
August  having  been  south  of  42°  north  latitude,  and  con- 
sequently on  Mexican  territory;  and  this  is  the  route  all 
the  emigrants  now  travel  to  Oregon. 

The  next  morning,  in  about  three  miles  from  our  en- 
campment, we  reached  Smith's  Fork,  a  stream  of  clear 
water,  about  50  feet  in  breadth.  It  is  timbered  with 
cotton-wood,  willow,  and  aspen,  and  makes  a  beautiful 
debouchement  through  a  pass  about  600  yards  wide,  be- 
tween remarkable  mountain  hills,  rising  abruptly  on  either 
side,  and  forming  gigantic  columns  to  the  gate  by  which 
it  enters  Bear  River  Valley.  The  bottoms,  which  be- 
low Smith's  Fork  had  been,  two  miles  wide,  narrowed 
as  we  advanced  to  a  gap  500  yards  wide ;  and  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  we  had  a  winding  route;  the 
river  making  very  sharp  and  sudden  bends;  the  moun- 
tains steep  and  rocky;  and  the  valley  occasionally  so  nar- 
row as  only  to  leave  space  for  a  passage  through.  .  .  . 

Crossing,  in  the  afternoon,  the  point  of  a  natural  spur, 
we  descended  into  a  beautiful  bottom,  formed  by  a  lat- 
eral valley,  which  presented  a  picture  of  home  beauty 
that  went  directly  to  our  hearts.  The  edge  of  the  wood 
for  several  miles  along  the  river  was  dotted  with  the 
white  covers  of  the  emigrant-wagons,  collected  in  groups 
at  different  camps,  where  the  smoke  was  rising  lazily 
from  the  fires,  around  which  the  women  were  occupied 
preparing  the  evening  meal,  and  the  children  playing  in 
the  grass;  and  herds  of  cattle,  grazing  about  in  the 
bottom,  had  an  air  of  quiet  security  and  civilized  com- 
fort that  made  a  rare  sight  for  the  traveller  in  such  a 
remote  wilderness.  In  common  with  all  the  emigration 
they  had  been  reposing  for  several  days  in  this  delight- 
ful valley,  in  order  to  recruit  their  animals  on  its  lux- 
uriant pasturage  after  their  long  journey,  and  prepare 


276  JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT 

them  for  the  weary  journey  they  were  about  to  begin 
along  the  comparatively  sterile  banks  of  the  Upper  Col- 
umbia.—  Memoirs,  Chap.  VI. 

AN  EXPLOIT  OF  CARSON  AND  GODEY. 

In  the  afternoon  [of  April  27,  1844,]  a  war-whoop 
was  heard,  such  as  Indians  make  when  returning  from  a 
victorious  enterprise;  and  soon  Carson  and  Godey  ap- 
peared, driving  before  them  a  band  of  horses,  recognized 
by  Fuentes  to  be  part  of  those  he  had  lost.  Two  bloody 
scalps  dangling  from  the  end  of  Godey's  gun  announced 
that  they  had  overtaken  the  Indians  as  well  as  the  horses. 

They  informed  us  that  after  Fuentes  left  them,  from 
the  failure  of  his  horse,  they  continued  the  pursuit  alone, 
and  towards  nightfall  entered  the  mountains  into  which 
the  trail  led.  After  sunset  the  moon  gave  light,  and 
they  followed  the  trail  by  moonshine  until  late  in  the 
night,  when  it  entered  a  narrow  defile,  and  was  difficult 
to  follow.  Afraid  of  losing  it  in  the  darkness  of  the  de- 
file, they  tied  up  their  horses,  struck  no  fire,  and  lay 
down  to  sleep  in  silence  and  in  darkness.  Here  they 
lay  from  midnight  until  morning.  At  daylight  they  re- 
sumed the  pursuit,  and  about  sunrise  discovered  the 
horses;  and  immediately  dismounting  and  tying  up  their 
own,  they  crept  cautiously  to  a  rising  ground  which 
intervened,  from  the  crest  of  which  they  perceived  the 
encampment  of  four  lodges  close  by.  They  proceeded 
quietly,  and  had  got  within  thirty  or  forty  yards  of 
their  object,  when  a  movement  among  the  horses  dis- 
covered them  to  the  Indians.  Giving  the  war-shout, 
they  instantly  charged  into  the  camp,  regardless  of  the 
numbers  which  the  four  lodges  would  imply. 

The  Indians  received  them  with  a  flight  of  arrows 
shot  from  their  long  bows,  one  of  which  passed  through 
Godey's  shirt-collar,  barely  missing  the  neck.  Our  men 
fired  their  rifles  upon  a  steady  aim,  and  rushed  in.  Two 
Indians  were  stretched  upon  the  ground,  fatally  pierced 
with  bullets;  the  rest  fled,  except  a  little  lad  that  was 
captured.  The  scalps  of  the  fallen  were  instantly  strip- 
ped off;  but  in  the  process  one  of  them,  who  had  two 


JOHN  CHARLES  FR&MONT  277 

balls  through  his  body,  sprang  to  his  feet,  the  blood 
streaming  from  his  head,  and  uttering  a  hideous  howl. 
An  old  squaw,  possibly  his  mother,  stopped  and  looked 
back  from  the  mountain-side  she  was  climbing,  threaten- 
ing and  lamenting.  The  frightful  spectacle  appalled  the 
stout  hearts  of  our  men;  but  they  did  what  humanity 
required,  and  quickly  terminated  the  agonies  of  the  gory 
savage. 

They  were  now  masters  of  the  camp,  which  was  a 
pretty  little  recess  in  the  mountain,  with  a  fine  spring, 
and  apparently  safe  from  invasion.  Great  preparations 
had  been  made  to  feast  a  large  party,  for  it  was  a  very 
proper  place  to  rendezvous,  and  for  the  celebration  of 
such  orgies  as  robbers  of  the  desert  would  delight  in. 
Several  of  the  best  horses  had  been  killed,  skinned,  and 
cut  up;  for  the  Indians,  living  in  the  mountains,  and 
only  coming  into  the  plains  to  rob,  and  murder,  make 
no  other  uses  of  horses  than  to  eat  them.  Large  earthen 
vessels  were  on  the  fire,  boiling  and  stewing  the  horse 
beef;  and  several  baskets,  containing  fifty  or  sixty  pairs 
of  moccasins,  indicated  the  presence,  or  expectation,  of 
a  considerable  party.  They  released  the  boy,  who  had 
given  strong  evidence  of  the  stoicism,  or  something  else, 
of  the  savage  character,  in  commencing  his  breakfast 
upon  a  horse's  head,  'as  soon  as  he  found  that  he  was 
not  to  be  killed,  but  only  tied  as  a  prisoner.  Their  ob- 
ject accomplished,  our  men  gathered  up  all  the  surviv- 
ing horses,  fifteen  in  number,  returned  upon  their  trail, 
and  rejoined  -us  at  our  camp  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same 
day.  They  had  ridden  about  one  hundred  miles,  in  the 
pursuit  and  return,  and  all  in  thirty  hours. 

The  time,  place,  object,  and  numbers  considered,  this 
expedition  of  Carson  and  Godey  may  be  considered  among 
the  boldest  and  most  disinterested  which  the  annals  of 
Western  adventure,  so  full  of  daring  deeds,  can  pre- 
sent Two  men,  in  a  savage  desert,  pursue  day  and 
night  an  unknown  body  of  Indians  into  a  defile  of  an 
unknown  mountain;  attack  them  on  sight,  without  count- 
ing numbers,  and  defeat  them  in  an  instant — and  for 
what?  To  punish  the  robbers  of  the  desert,  and  to  avenge 


278  JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT 

the  wrongs  of  Mexicans  whom  they  did  not  know.  I 
repeat:  It  was  Carson  and  Godey  who  did  this:  the 
former  an  American,  born  in  Boonslick  County,  Missouri, 
the  latter  a  Frenchman,  born  in  St.  Louis,  and  both  trained 
to  Western  enterprise  from  early  life. —  Memoirs,  Chap. 
X. 

This  second  exploring  expedition  started  from 
"the  little  town  of  Kansas,  near  the  junction  of  the 
Kansas  River  with  the  Missouri/'  in  May,  1843.  In 
September,  1844,  Fremont  returned  to  Washington, 
and  set  himself  to  the  work  of  preparing  his  official 
Report  of  that  expedition,  most  of  which  is  embodied 
in  the  Memoirs. 

Mr.  Fremont  also  published  a  detailed  narrative  of 
his  third  expedition,  1845-46,  which  involved  more 
adventure  than  either  of  the  previous  ones,  and  re- 
sulted in  the  taking  possession  of  California  by  the 
United  States.  The  concluding  act  of  this  series  of 
transactions  is  thus  described: 

THE  TREATY  OF  COUENGA. 

We  entered  the  Pass  of  San  Bernardino  on  the  morning 
of  the  I2th  of  January,  1847,  expecting  to  find  the  enemy 
there  in  force;  but  the  Calif ornians  had  fallen  back  be- 
fore our  advance,  and  the  Pass  was  undisputed.  In  the 
afternoon  we  encamped  at  the  Mission  of  San  Fernando, 
the  residence  of  Don  Andres  Pico,  who  was  at  pres- 
ent in  chief  command  of  the  California  troops.  Their 
encampment  was  within  two  miles  of  the  Mission,  and 
in  the  evening  Don  Jesus  Pico,  a  cousin  of  Don  Andres, 
with  a  message  from  me,  made  a  visit  to  Don  Andres. 
The  next  morning,  accompanied  only  by  Don  Jesus,  I 
rode  over  to  the  camp  of  the  Californians ;  and,  in  a 
conference  with  Don  Andres,  the  important  features  of 
a  treaty  of  capitulation  were  agreed  upon.  A  trues  was 
ordered;  commissioners  on  each  side  appointed,  and  the 


ALICE  FRENCH  279 

same  day  a  capitulation  agreed  upon.  This  was  approved 
by  myself,  as  Military  Commandant  representing  the 
United  States,  and  Don  Andres  Pico,  Commander-in-Chief 
of  the  Californians.  With  this  treaty  of  Couenga  hos- 
tilities ended,  and  California  was  left  peaceably  in  our 
possession,  to  be  finally  secured  to  us  by  the  treaty  of 
Guadalupe  Hidalgo,  in  1848. —  Memoirs,  Chap.  XV. 


pRENCH,  ALICE  ("OCTAVE  THANET"),  an 
American  novelist;  born  at  Andover,  Mass., 
March  19,  1850.  Her  descent  goes  back  to 
Sir  William  French,  who  came  to  the  Massachusetts 
colonies  in  the  seventeenth  century;  and  on  her 
mother's  side  to  Nathaniel  Morton,  who  married  Gov- 
ernor Bradford's  sister.  She  has  spent  much  time  in 
the  South,  especially  in  Arkansas.  Economic  and 
social  topics  have  especially  interested  her  and 
prompted  the  writing  of  articles  in  the  magazines. 
Among  her  works  are  Knitters  in  the  Sun  (1887); 
Expiation  (1890)  ;  We  All,  and  Best  Letters  of  Lady 
Mary  Montague  (1891) ;  Stories  of  a  Western  Town 
(1893)  ;  A  Book  of  True  Lovers  (1893)  ;  The  Heart 
of  Toil  (1894)  ;  M(m  and  His  Neighbors  (1895)  ;  The 
Missionary  Sheriff  (1899)  ;  and  The  Man  of  the  Hour 

(1905). 

"  In  Octave  Thanet's  Knitters  in  the  Sun,"  says  the 
Critic,  "we  have  a  collection  of  fine  short  stories  — 
deep,  frequent,  and  beautiful.  We  have  read  and 
admired  them  already  in  the  magazines,  but  they  are 
worthy  of  a  permanent  place  in  any  library.  Perhaps 
the  best  of  them  is  The  Bishop's  Vagabond,  so  full  of 
exhilarating  humor  and  sympathetic  perception,  with 


280  ALICE  FRENCH 

a  touch  of  tenderness;  but  all  of  them  are  far  above 
the  average  short  story  in  originality,  wit,  and  insight 
into  human  nature." 

TWO   LOST  AND  FOUND. 

They  rode  along,  Ruffner  furtively  watching  Bud,  un- 
til finally  the  elder  man  spoke,  with  the  directness  of 
primitive  natures  and  strong  excitement: 

"  Whut's  come  ter  ye,  Bud  Quinn  ?  Ye  seem  all  broke 
up  'beout  this  yere  losin'  yo'  little  trick  [child] ;  yit  ye 
did'nt  useter  set  no  gre't  store  by  'er —  least,  looked 
like—" 

"I  knaw,"  answered  Bud,  lifting  his  heavy  eyes,  too 
numb  himself  with  weariness  and  misery  to  be  sur- 
prised, "  I  knaw ;  an'  3t  ar  curi's  ter  me  too.  I  didn't 
set  no  store  by  'er  w'en  I  had  'er.  I  taken  a  gredge 
agin  'er  kase  she  hadn't  no  good  sense,  an*  you  all 
throwed  it  up  to  me  fur  a  jedgment.  An*  knawin'  how 
I  hadn't  done  a  thing  to  hurt  Zed,  it  looked  cl'ar  agin 
right  an'  natur  fur  the  Lord  ter  pester  me  that  a~way; 
so  someways  I  taken  the  notion  'twar  the  devil,  and  that 
he  got  inter  Ma'  Bowlin',  an'  I  mos'  cudn't  b'ar  the 
sight  er  that  pore  little  critter.  But  the  day  she  got 
lost  kase  er  tryin'  ter  meet  up  with  me,  I  'lowed  mabbe  he 
tolled  'er  off,  an'  I  sorter  felt  bad  fur  'er;  an'  w'en 
I  seen  them  little  tracks  er  her'n,  some  ways  all  them 
mean  feelin's  I  got  they  jes  broked  off  short  insider  me 
like  a  string  mought  snap.  They  done  so.  An'  I  wanted 
thet  chile  bader'n  I  ever  wanted  anything." 

"  Law  me ! "  said  Ruffner,  quite  puzzled.  "  But  say, 
Bud,  ef  ye  want  'er  so  bad's  all  thet,  ye  warn't  wanter 
mad  the  Lord  by  lyin',  kase  He  are  yo'  on'y  show  now. 
Bud  Quinn,  did  ye  hurt  my  boy?"  He  had  pushed  his 
face  close  to  Bud's,  and  his  mild  eyes  were  glowing  like 
live  coals. 

"  Naw,  Mr.  Ruffner,"  answered  Bud,  quietly,  "  I  never 
tetched  a  ha'r  er  *is  head !  " 

Ruffner  kept  his  eager  and  almost  fierce  scrutiny  a 
moment;  then  he  drew  a  long,  gasping  sigh,  crying, 


ALICE  FRENCH  281 

"  Blame  my  skin  ef  I  don'  b'lieve  ye !  I've  'lowed,  fur 
a  right  smart,  we  all  used  ye  mighty  rough." 

"Tain't  no  differ,"  said  Bud,  -dully.  Nothing  mat- 
tered now,  the  poor  fellow  thought;  Ma'  Bowlin'  was 
dead,  and  Sukey  hated  him. 

Ruffner  whistled  slowly  and  dolehally;  that  was  his 
way  of  expressing  sympathy;  but  the  whistle  died  on 
his  lips,  for  Bud  smote  his  shoulder,  then  pointed  toward 
the  trees. 

"  Look  a-thar ! "  whispered  Bud,  with  a  ghastly  face 
and  dilating  eyeballs:  "Oh,  Lord  A'mighty!  thar's  her 
an'  him  I" 

Ruffner  saw  a  boat  leisurely  propelled  by  a  long  pole 
approaching  from  the  river-side;  a  black-haired  young 
man  in  the  bow  with  the  pole,  a  fair-haired  litle  girl  in 
the  stern.  The  little  girl  jumped  up,  and  at  the  same 
instant  a  shower  of  water  from  light,  flying  heels  blinded 
the  young  man. 

"Paw!  paw!"  screamed  the  little  girl;  "Maw  tole 
Ma'  Bowlin' — meet  up  —  paw!  " 

He  had  her  in  his  arms  now;  he  was  patting  her 
shoulder,  and  stroking  her  hair  with  a  trembling  hand. 
Her  face  looked  like  an  angel's  to  him  in  it's  cloud  of 
shining  hair;  her  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks  were  red, 
but  there  was  something  else  which  in  the  intense  emo- 
tion of  the  moment  Bud  dimly  perceived  —  the  familiar, 
dazed  look  was  gone.  How  the  blur  came  over  that 
innocent  soul,  why  it  went,  are  alike  mysteries.  The 
struggle  for  life  wherein,  amid  anguish  and  darkness, 
the  poor  baby  intellect  somehow  went  astray,  and  the 
struggle  for  life  wherein  it  groped  its  way  back  to  light, 
both  are  the  secrets  of  the  swamp,  their  witnesses;  but 
however  obscurely,  none  the  less  surely,  the  dormant 
soul  had  awakened  and  claimed  its  rights,  and  Ma*  Bow- 
lin' had  ceased  to  be  the  baby,  forever. 

Meanwhile,  if  possible,  the  other  actors  in  the  scene 
were  equally  agitated.  The  old  man  choked,  and  the 
young  man  exclaimed,  huskily,  "Paw!  ye  ain't  dead, 
then?" 

"Wall,  I  don't  guess  I  be/*  said  Ruffner,  struggling 


282  ALICE  FRENCH 

after  his  old  dry  tone,  though  his  voice  shook;  "did  ye 
'low  I  war?" 

"  I  read  it  in  a  Walnut  Ridge  paper  only  a  month 
ayfter  I  went;  'The  late  Mr.  William  Ruffner  er  Clover 
Bend* — an'  a  right  smart  abeout  ye — " 

"Thet  thar  war  yo  uncle  Raker,  boy.  He  war  on  a 
visit  like,  an'  died;  an'  that  ar'  blamed  galoot  in  Wal- 
nut Ridge  got  'im  sorter  mixed  up  with  me,  ye  un'erstan'; 
but  yo  maw,  she  are  gone,  boy,  shore,  died  up  an*  buried." 

"I  kin  b'ar  hit,"  said  Zed  Ruffner;  "but  I  was  right 
riled  up  'beout  you  paw.  'Lef  all  his  property  to  his 
widder,'  says  the  paper;  thet  ar  riled  me  too.  Says  I, 
ye  wun't  see  me  very  soon  to  Clover  Bend  —  I  was  allers 
sorter  ashy,  ye  know.  Fur  a  fact,  ye  wouldn't  *a  seen 
me  now  ef  't  hadn't  a-ben  fur  this  yere  little  trick.  I 
war  on  a  trade  boat  near  Newport,  an'  some  fellers  I 
know  taken  me  off  fur  a  night  ter  thar  camp.  They 
are  stavers.  Hit's  way  off  in  the  swamp,  twelve  miles 
frum  here;  an'  I  was  up  befo*  sun  up,  aimin'  ter  start 
back  fur  the  river,  w'en  I  heard  the  funniest  sound, 
suthin'  like  a  kid,  *  Maw !  maw ! '  Natchelly  I  listened, 
an'  byme-by  I  follered  ayfter  it,  an*  whut  shud  I  come 
on  but  a  gre't  big  log,  and  this  here  little  critter  sittin' 
on  't  hol'in'  on  by  her  two  hands  to  a  sorter  limb  grow- 
in'  on  the  log,  an'  shore's  ye  live,  with  her  gownd  slung 
reoun'  her  neck  in  a  bundle.  Lord  knows  how  fur  thet 
ar  log  had  come,  or  whut  travelin'  it  made,  but  thar 
warn't  a  spec  or  a  spot  on  thet  ar  gownd.  'S  all  I  cud 
do  ter  git  'er  ter  lemme  pack  it  up  in  a  bundle,  kase  she 
wudn't  put  't  on  nohow;  said  the  bateau  was  wet  So 
we  warmed  'er  an'  fed  'er,  and  I  taken  *er  'long  seekin' 
fur  her  kin ;  an' —  wa'al,  that's  w'y  I'm  yere !  "  .  .  . 

Just  as  the  big  clock  in  the  store  struck  the  last 
stroke  of  six,  Sukey  Quinn,  who  had  been  cowering  on 
the  platform  steps,  lifted  her  head  and  put  her  hand  to 
her  ear.  Then  everybody  heard  it,  the  long  peal  of  a 
horn.  It  had  been  arranged  that  whoever  found  the  lost 
child  should  give  the  signal  by  blowing  his  horn,  once 
if  the  searchers  came  too  late,  three  times  if  the  child 
should  be  alive.  Would  the  horn  blow  again? 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  283 

"It  are  Bud's  horn!"  sobbed  Sukey.  "He'd  never 
blow  fur  onst !  Hark !  Thar  't  goes  agin !  Three  times ! 
An'  me  wudn't  hev  no  truck  with  'im;  but  he  set  store 
by  Ma'  Bowlin'  all  the  time." 

Horn  after  horn  caught  up  the  signal  joyfully,  and 
in  an  incredibly  short  time  every  soul  within  hearing 
distance,  not  to  mention  a  herd  of  cattle  and  a  large 
number  of  swine,  had  run  to  the  store,  and  when  at  last 
two  horses'  heads  appeared  above  the  hill,  and  the 
crowd  could  see  a  little  pink  sun-bonnet  against  Bud 
Quinn's  brown  jean,  an  immense  clamor  rolled  out. — 
Ma'  Bowling  in  Knitters  in  the  Sun. 


pRENEAU,  PHILIP,  an  American  poet;  born  at 
New  York  January  2,  1752;  died  near  Free- 
hold, N.  J.,  December  18,  1832.  He  studied 
at  Princeton  College,  N.  J.,  where  James  Madison 
was  his  room-mate,  and  where  he  wrote  his  Poetical 
History  of  the  Prophet  Jonah.  During  the  war  of 
the  Revolution  he  wrote  numerous  burlesques  in  prose 
and  verse,  which  were  very  'popular  at  the  time. 
These  were  published  in  book-form  several  times  dur- 
ing the  author's  lifetime,  and  were  in  1865  brought  to- 
gether and  edited,  with  a  Memoir  and  Notes,  by  Evert 
A.  Duyckinck.  Freneau  had  intended  to  study  law, 
but  instead  of  this  he  "  followed  the  sea."  In  1780, 
while  on  a  voyage  to  the  West  Indies,  he  was  captured 
by  a  British  vessel,  and  confined  in  the  prison-ship 
at  New  York,  an  event  which  he  commemorated  in  his 
poem  The  British  Prison  Ship.  In  1789  Mr.  Jeffer- 
son became  Secretary  of  State,  and  to  Freneau  was 
given  the  place  of  French  translator  in  his  depart- 
ment, and  at  the  same  time  he  was  editor  of  the  No- 


284  PHILIP  FRENEAU 

tiondl  Gazette,  a  newspaper  hostile  to  the  administra- 
tion of  Washington.  This  journal  was  discontinued 
in  1793,  and  two  years  later  he  started  a  newspaper 
in  New  Jersey,  and  still  later  in  New  York,  The  Time 
Piece,  a  tri-weekly,  in  which  appeared  his  cleverest 
prose  essays.  His  newspaper  undertakings  were  un- 
successful, and  he  again  entered  upon  seafaring  occu- 
pations. During  the  second  war  with  Great  Britain 
he  wrote  several  spirited  poems,  glorifying  the  suc- 
cesses of  the  American  arms.  His  mercantile  under- 
takings were  not  prosperous,  and  he  at  length  retired 
to  a  little  farm  which  he  owned  in  New  Jersey.  At 
the  age  of  eighty  he  lost  his  way  at  night  in  a  violent 
snow-storm,  and  was  found  next  morning  dead  in  a 
swamp  near  his  residence. 

Freneau  may  fairly  be  styled  the  earliest  American 
poet;  and,  apart  from  this,  not  a  few  of  his  poems 
deserve  a  permanent  place  in  our  literature.  Some  of 
his  prose  essays  are  clever  and  witty. 

THE  EARLY  NEW  ENGLANDERS. 

These  exiles  were  formed  in  a  whimsical  mould, 

And  were  awed  by  their  priests,  like  the  Hebrews  of  old, 

Disclaimed  all  pretences  to  jesting  and  laughter, 

And  sighed  their  lives  through  to  be  happy  hereafter. 

On  a  crown  immaterial  their  hearts  were  intent, 

They  looked  toward  Zion,  wherever  they  went, 

Did  all  things  in  hopes  of  a  future  reward, 

And  worried  mankind  —  for  the  sake  of  the  Lord.    .    .    . 

A  stove  in  their  churches,  or  pews  lined  with  green, 

Were  horrid  to  think  of,  much  less  to  be  seen; 

Their  bodies  were  warmed  with  the  linings  of  love, 

And  the  fire  was  sufficient  that  flashed  from  above.     .     .    . 

On  Sundays  their  faces  were  dark  as  a  cloud; 

The  road  to  the  meeting  was  only  allowed; 

And  those  they  caught  rambling,  on  business  or  pleasure, 


PHILIP  FRENEAU  285 

Were  sent  to  the  stocks,  to  repent  at  their  leisure. 

This  day  was  the  mournfullest  day  of  the  week; 

Except  on  religion  none  ventured  to  speak; 

This  day  was  the  day  to  examine  their  lives, 

To    clear    off    old    scores,    and    to    preach    to    their 

wives.    .    .    o 

This  beautiful  system  of  Nature  below 
They  neither  considered,  nor  wanted  to  know, 
And  called  it  a  dog-house  wherein  they  were  pent; 
Unworthy  themselves,  and  their  mighty  descent. 
They  never  perceived  that  in  Nature's  wide  plan 
There  must  be  that  whimsical  creature  called  Man  — 
Far  short  of  the  rank  he  affects  to  attain, 
Yet  a  link,  in  its  place,  in  creation's  vast  chain.    .    .    . 
Thus  feuds  and  vexations  distracted  their  reign  — 
And  perhaps  a  few  vestiges  still  may  remain ;  — 
But  time  has  presented  an  offspring  as  bold, 
Less  free  to  believe,  and  more  wise  than  the  old.    .    .    « 
Proud,  rough,  independent,  undaunted  and  free, 
And  patient  of  hardships,  their  task  is  the  sea; 
Their  country  too  barren  their  wish  to  attain, 
They  make  up  the  loss  by  exploring  the  main. 
Wherever  bright  Phoebus  awakens  the  gales, 
I  see  the  bold  Yankees  expanding  their  sails, 
Throughout  the  wide  ocean  pursuing  their  schemes, 
And  chasing  the  whales  on  its  uttermost  streams. 
No  climate  for  them  is  too  cold  or  too  warm; 
They  reef  the  broad  canvas,  and  fight  with  the  storm, 
In  war  with  the  foremost  their  standards  display, 
Or  glut  the  loud  cannon  with  death,  for  the  fray. 
No  valor  in  fable  their  valor  exceeds ; 
Their  spirits  are  fitted  for  desperate  deeds; 
No  rivals  have  they  in  our  annals  of  fame, 
Or,  if  they  are  rivalled,  'tis  York  has  the  claim. 

THE  BATTLE   OF   STONINGTON,   CONN.,   AUGUST, 

Four  gallant  ships  from  England  came 
Freighted  deep  with  fire  and  flame, 
And  other  things  we  need  not  name, 
To  have  a  dash  at  Stonington. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 

Now  safely  moored,  their  work  begun; 
They  thought  to  make  the  Yankees  run, 
And  have  a  mighty  deal  of  fun 

In  stealing  sheep  at  Stonington. 

A  deacon  then  popped  up  his  head, 
And  Parson  Jones  his  sermon  read, 
In  which  the  reverend  Doctor  said 

That  they  must  fight  for  Stonington. 

A  townsman  bade  them,  next,  attend 

To  sundry  resolutions  penned, 

By  which  they  promised  to  defend 

With  sword  and  gun  old  Stonington.. 

The  ships  advancing  different  ways, 
The  Britons  soon  began  to  blaze, 
And  put  old  women  in  amaze, 

Who  feared  the  loss  of  Stonington. 

The  Yankees  to  their  fort  repaired, 
And  made  as  though  they  little  cared 
For  all  that  came  —  though  very  hard 

The  cannon  played  on  Stonington. 

The  "Ramillies"  began  the  attack, 
"  Despatch  "  came  forward,  bold  and  black, 
And  none  can  tell  what  kept  them  back 
From  setting  fire  to  Stonington. 

The  bombardiers,  with  bomb  and  ball, 
Soon  made  a  farmer's  barrack  fall, 
And  did  a  cow-house  sadly  maul, 

That  stood  a  mile  from  Stonington 

They  killed  a  goose,  they  killed  a  hen, 
Three  hogs  they  wounded  in  a  pen ; 
They  dashed  away,  and  pray  what  then  ?  — 
This  was  not  taking  Stoningt'on. 

The  shells  were  thrown,  the  rockets  flew, 
But  not  a  shell  of  all  they  threw  — 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRBRE  287 

Though  every  house  was  full  in  view  — 
Could  burn  a  house  at  Stonington. 

To  have  their  turn  they  thought  but  fair; 
The  Yankees  brought  two  guns  to  bear; 
And,  Sir,  it  would  have  made  you  stare 

This  smoke  of  smokes  at  Stonington. 

They  bored  the  "  Pactolus  "  through  and  through, 
And  killed  and  wounded  of  her  crew 
So  many,  that  she  bade  adieu 

To  the  gallant  boys  of  Stonington. 

The  brig  "  Despatch  "  was  hulled  and  torn  — 
So  crippled,  riddled,  so  forlorn, 
No  more  she  cast  an  eye  of  scorn 

On  the  little  fort  at  Stonington. 

The  "  Ramillies  "  gave  up  the  affray, 
And  with  her  comrades  sneaked  away: 
Such  was  the  valor,  on  that  day, 

Of  British  tars  near  Stonington. 

But  some  assert,  on  certain  grounds  — 
Besides  the  damage  and  the  wounds  — 
It  cost  the  king  ten  thousand  pounds 
To  have  a  dash  at  Stonington. 


,  JOHN  HOOKHAM,  an  English  diplomat, 
scholar,  and  poet;  born  at  London,  May  21, 
1769;  died  at  Malta,  January  7,  1846.  He 
was  educated  at  Eton  and  Cambridge.  At  Eton  he 
was  one  of  the  brilliant  lads  who  carried  on  that  clever 
journal  called  The  Microcosm,  and  afterward  he  was 
associated  with  Canning  and  others  in  the  conduct 


288  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

of  the  Anti-Jacobin.  Several  of  the  cleverest  pieces 
in  this  journal  were  the  joint  production  of  Frere  and 
Canning.  Frere  entered  public  service  in  the  Foreign 
Office  during  the  administration  of  Lord  Grenville, 
and  from  1796  to  1802  sat  in  Parliament  for  the 
"pocket  borough"  of  Love.  In  1799  he  succeeded 
Canning  as  Under  Secretary  of  State;  in  1800  he  was 
sent  as  Envoy  Extraordinary  to  Portugal,  and  in  1802 
he  was  transferred  to  Spain,  whither  he  was  again 
sent  in  1808.  But  he  incurred  no  little  censure  at 
home  on  account  of  his  having  urged  Sir  John  Moore 
to  undertake  his  disastrous  retreat  to  Corunna;  and 
he  was  in  1809  recalled,  being  succeeded  by  the 
Marquis  of  Wellesley.  With  this  recall  the  official 
career  of  Frere  came  to  an  early  close,  although  the 
embassy  to  Russia  was  proffered  to  him,  and  he  twice 
refused  the  office  of  a  peerage.  In  1820  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  Malta,  on  account  of  the  feeble  health  of 
his  wife;  and  that  island  was  thenceforth  his  home, 
although  he  made  several  extended  visits  to  London. 
During  his  abode  at  Malta  he  devoted  his  leisure  to 
literary  pursuits;  studied  some  of  his  Greek  authors, 
and  made  admirable  translations  of  several  of  the 
comedies  of  Aristophanes,  and  from  Theognis.  In 
1871  his  entire  works  were  edited  by  his  nephews,  W. 
E.  and  Sir  Battle  Frere,  with  a  Memoir  by  the  latter 
(born  in  1815),  who  has  also  done  good  service  as  a 
diplomatist. 

Among  the  minor  productions  of  Frere  is  a  trans- 
lation from  one  of  the  Spanish  Romances  of  the  Cid, 
which  was  greatly  admired  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 


AN   EXPLOIT  OF  THE   CID. 

The  gates  were  then  thrown  open,  and   forth  at  once 

they  rushed, 
The  outposts  of  the  Moorish  hosts  back  to  the  camp  were 

pushed ; 
The   camp   was    all   in  tumult,   and   there   was   such   a 

thunder 
Of  cymbals  and  of  drums,  as  if  the  earth  would  cleave 

in  sunder. 
There  you  might  see  the  Moors  arming  themselves  in 

haste, 

And  the  two  main  battles,  how  they  were  forming  fast; 
Horsemen  and  footmen  mixt,  a  countless  troop  and  vast. 
The  Moors  are  moving  forward,  the  battle  soon  must  join ! 
"  My  men,  stand  here  in  order,  ranged  upon  a  line ! 
Let  not  a  man  move  from  his  rank  before  I  give  the 

sign!" 

Pero  Bermuez  heard  the  word,  but  he  could  not  refrain ! 
He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand,  he  gave  the  horse  the 

rein; 
"You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there,  the  thickest  of 

the  foes; 

Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid,  for  there  your  banner  goes ! 
Let  him  that  serves  and  honors  it,  show  the  duty  that 

he  owes ! " 
Earnestly  the   Cid  called  out,   "For  Heaven's   sake,  he 

still!" 

Bermuez  cried,  "  I  cannot  hold  1  "  so  eager  was  his  will. 
He  spurred  his  horse,  and  drove  him  on  amid  the  Moor- 
ish rout; 
They   strove   to   win   the   banner,   and   compassed   him 

about. 
Had  not  his  armor  been  so  true,  he  had  lost  either  life 

or  limb  ; 
The  Cid  called  out  again,  "For  Heaven's  sake  succor 

him ! " 

Their  shields  before  their  breasts,  forth  at  once  they  go, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest,  levelled  fair  and  low, 
Their  banners  and  their  crests  waving  in  a  row, 

VOL.  X.— 19 


290  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

Their  heads  all  stooping  down  toward  the  saddle-bow 
The  Cid  was  in  the  midst,  his  shout  was  heard  afar : 
"  I  am  Rui  Diaz,  the  champion  of  Bivar ! 
Strike  among  them,  gentlemen,  for  sweet  mercy's  sake  I " 
There  where  Bermuez  fought  amidst  the  foe  they  brake; 
Three    hundred    bannered    knights  —  it    was    a    gallant 

show; 

Three  hundred  Moors  they  killed  —  a  man  at  every  blow ; 
When  they  wheeled  and  turned,  as  many  more  lay  slain; 
You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances,  and  level  them 

again, 
There  you  might  see  the  breastplates,  how  they  were 

cleft  in  twain, 

And  many  a  Moorish  shield  lie  scattered  on  the  plain, 
The  pennons  that  were  white  marked  with  a  crimson 

stain  ; 
The  horses  running  wild  whose  riders  had  been  slain. 

In  1817  appeared  anonymously  the  most  notable  of 
Frere's  original  poems.  It  was  a  small  volume  of 
mock-heroic  verse  entitled  "  Prospectus  and  Specimen, 
of  an  intended  National  Work  by  William  and  Robert 
Whistlecraft,  of  Stowmarket,  in  Suffolk,  Harness 
and  Collar  Makers,  intended  to  comprise  the  most 
interesting  particulars  relating-  to  King  Arthur  and 
his  Round  Table."  The  poem  is  in  four  Cantos,  with 
an  explanatory  Prologue: 

KING  ARTHUR  AND  HIS  ROUND  TABLE. 
I. 

I've  often  wished  that  I  could  write  a  book, 
Such  as  all  English  people  might  peruse; 

I  never  should  regret  the  pains  it  took, 
Thafs  just  the  sort  of  fame  that  I  should  choose. 

To  sail  about  the  world  like  Captain  Cook, 
I'd  sling  a  cot  up  for  my  favorite  Muse, 

And  we'd  take  verses  out  to  Demarara, 

To  New  South  Wales,  and  up  to  Niagara, 


JOHN  HO  OK  HAM  FRERE  291 

VII. 

I  think  that  Poets  (whether  Whig  or  Tory), 
(Whether  they  go  to  meeting  or  to  church), 

Should  study  to  promote  their  country's  glory 
With  patriotic,  diligent  research; 

That  children  yet  unborn  may  learn  the  story, 
With  grammars,  dictionaries,  canes,  and  birch: 

It  stands  to  reason. —  This  was  Homer's  plan, 

And  we  must  do  —  like  him  —  the  best  we  can. 

IX. 

King  Arthur,  and  the  Knights  of  his  Round  Table, 
Were  reckoned  the  best  King  and  bravest  Lords, 

Of  all  that  flourished  since  the  Tower  of  Babel, 
At  least  of  all  that  history  records; 

Therefore  I  shall  endeavor,  if  I'm  able, 

To  paint  their  famous  actions  by  my  words : 

Heroes  exert  themselves  in  hopes  of  Fame, 

And  having  such  a  strong  decisive  claim, 


It  grieves  me  much,  that  names  that  were  respected 
In  former  ages,  persons  of  such  mark, 

And  countrymen  of  ours,  should  be  neglected, 
Just  like  old  portraits  lumbering  in  the  dark. 

An  error  such  as  this  should  be  corrected, 
And  if  my  muse  can  strike  a  single  spark, 

Why  then  (as  poets  say)  I'll  string  my  lyre; 

And  then  I'll  light  a  great  poetic  fire. 

—  The  Prologue. 

KING  ARTHUR'S  FEAST  AT  CARLISLE, 


Beginning  (as*  my  Bookseller  desires) 

Like  an  old  minstrel  with  his  gown  and  beard, 

Fair  Ladies,  gallant  Knights,  and  gentle  Squires, 
Now  the  last  service  from  the  board  is  cleared, 


292  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

And  if  this  noble  Company  requires, 

And  if  amidst  your  mirth  I  may  be  heard, 
Of  sundry  strange  adventures  I  could  tell 
That  oft  were  told  before,  but  never  told  so  well. 


The  great  King  Arthur  made  a  sumptuous  Feast, 
And  held  his  Royal  Christmas  at  Carlisle, 

And  thither  came  the  vassals,  most  at  least, 
From  every  corner  of  the  British  Isle; 

And  all  were  entertained,  both  man  and  beast, 
According  to  their  rank,  in  proper  style; 

The  steeds  were  fed  and  littered  in  the  stable, 

The  ladies  and  the  knights  sat  down  to  table. 

in. 

The  bill  of  fare  (as  you  may  well  suppose) 
Was  suited  to  those  plentiful  old  times, 

Before  our  modern  luxuries  arose, 

With  truffles  and  ragouts,  and  various  crimes; 

And  therefore,  from  the  original  in  prose 
I  shall  arrange  the  catalogue  in  rhymes: 

They  served  up  salmon,  venison,  and  wild  boars, 

By  hundreds,  and  by  dozens,  and  by  scores. 

IV. 

Hogsheads  of  honey,  kilderkins  of  mustard, 
Muttons  and  fatted  beeves,  and  bacon  swines  ; 

Herons  and  bitterns,  peacock,  swan  and  bustard, 
Teal,  mallard,  pigeons,  widgeons,  and,  in  fine, 

Plum-puddings,  pancakes,  apple-pies  and  custard: 
And  therewithal  they  drank  good  Gascon  wine, 

With  mead,  and  ale,  and  cider  of  our  own, 

For  porter,  punch,  and  negus  were  not  known. 

VII. 

All  sorts  of  people  there  were  seen  together, 
All  sort5  of  characters,  all  sorts  of  dresses; 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE  293 

The  fool  with  fox's  tail  and  peacock's  feather, 
Pilgrims,  and  penitents,  and  grave  burgesses; 

The  country  people  with  their  coats  of  leather, 
Vintners  and  victuallers  with  cans  and  messes, 

Grooms,  Marchers,  varlets,  falconers,  and  yeomen, 

Damsels  and  waiting-maids,  and  waiting-women. 

x. 

And  certainly  they  say,  for  fine  behaving 

King  Arthur's  Court  has  never  had  its  match; 

True  point  of  honor,  without  pride  or  braving, 
Strict  etiquette  forever  on  the  watch: 

Their  manners  were  refined  and  perfect  —  saving 
Some  modern  graces  which  they  could  not  catch, 

As  spitting  through  the  teeth,  and  driving  stages,, 

Accomplishments  reserved  for  distant  ages* 

XII. 

The  ladies  looked  of  an  heroic  race  — 
At  first  a  general  likeness  struck  your  eye, 

Tall  figures,  open  features,  oval  face, 

Large  eyes,  with  ample  eyebrows  arched  and  high; 

Their  manners  had  an  odd,  peculiar  grace, 
Neither  repulsive,  affable  nor  shy, 

Majestical,  reserved  and  somewhat  sullen; 

Their  dresses  partly  silk,  and  partly  woollen. 

—  Canto  1. 

SIR  LAUNCELOT,   SIR  TRISTAM,  AND  SIR  GAWAIN. 
XIII. 

In  form  and  figure  far  above  the  rest, 
Sir  Launcelot  was  chief  of  all  the  train, 

In  Arthur's  Court  an  ever  welcome  guest; 
Britain  will  never  see  his  like  again. 

Of  all  the  Knights  she  ever  had  the  best, 

Except,  perhaps,  Lord  Wellington  in  Spain: 

I  never  saw  his  picture  nor  his  print, 

From  Morgan's  Chronicle  I  take  my  hint. 


294  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

xv. 

Yet  oftentimes  his  courteous  cheer  forsook 
His  countenance,  and  then  returned  again, 

As  if  some  secret  recollection  shook 

His  inward  heart  with  unacknowledged  pain; 

And  something  haggard  in  his  eyes  and  look 

(More  than  his  years  or  hardships  could  explain) 

Made  him  appear,  in  person  and  in  mind, 

Less  perfect  than  what  nature  had  designed. 

XVI. 

Of  noble  presence,  but  of  different  mien, 

Alert  and  lively,  voluble  and  gay, 
Sir  Tristram  at  Carlisle  was  rarely  seen, 

But  ever  was  regretted  while  away; 
With  easy  mirth,  an  enemy  to  spleen, 

His  ready  converse  qharmed  the  wintry  day; 
No  tales  he  told  of  sieges  or  of  fights, 
Of  foreign  marvels,  like  the  foolish  Knights. 

XVII. 

Songs,  music,  languages,  and  many  a  lay 
Asturian  or  Armoriac,  Irish,  Basque, 

His  ready  memory  seized  and  bore  away ; 
And  ever  when  the  ladies  chose  to  ask, 

Sir  Tristram  was  prepared  to  sing  and  play, 
Not  like  a  minstrel  earnest  at  his  task, 

But  with  a  sportive,  careless,  easy  style, 

As  if  he  seemed  to  mock  himself  the  while. 

XXIII. 

Sir  Gawain  may  be  painted  in  a  word  — 

He  was  a  perfect  loyal  Cavalier. 
His  courteous  manners  stand  upon  record, 

A  stranger  to  the  very  thought  of  fear. 
The  proverb  says,  "  As  brave  as  his  own  sword;** 

And  like  his  weapon  was  that  worthy  Peer, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE  295 

Of  admirable  temper,  clear  and  bright, 
Polished  yet  keen,  though  pliant  yet  upright. 

XXIV. 

On  every  point,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
His  judgment,  and  his  prudence,  and  his  wit, 

Were  deemed  the  very  touchstone  and  the  test 
Of  what  was  proper,  graceful,  just,  and  fit; 

A  word  from  him  set  everything  at  rest, 
His  short  decision  never  failed  to  hit; 

His  silence,  his  reserve,  his  inattention, 

Were  felt  as  the  severest  reprehension. 

XXVIII. 

In  battle  he  was  fearless  to  a  fault, 
The  foremost  in  the  thickest  of  the  field; 

His  eager  valor  knew  no  pause  nor  halt, 
And  the  red  rampant  Lion  in  his  shield 

Scaled  towns  and  towers,  the  foremost  in  assault, 
With  ready  succor  where  the  battle  reeled : 

At  random  like  a  thunderbolt  he  ran, 

And  bore  down  shields  and  pikes,  and  horse  and  man, 

—  Canto  I. 

THE  MARAUDING  GIANTS. 
IV. 

Before  the  Feast  was  ended,  a  report 
Filled  every  soul  with  horror  and  dismay; 

Some  Ladies  on  their  journey  to  the  Court, 
Had  been  surprised,  and  were  conveyed  away 

By  the  Aboriginal  Giants  to  their  fort  — 
An  unknown  fort  —  for  Government,  they  say, 

Had  ascertained  its  actual  existence, 

But  knew  not  its  direction  nor  its  distance. 


296  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

v. 

A  waiting-damsel,  crooked  and  mis-shaped, 

Herself  a  witness  of  a  woeful  scene, 
From  which,  by  miracle,  she  had  escaped, 

Appeared  before  the  Ladies  and  the  Queen 
Her  figure  was  funereal,  veiled  and  craped, 

Her  voice  convulsed  with  sobs  and  sighs  between 
That  with  the  sad  recital,  and  the  sight, 
Revenge  and  rage  inflamed  each  worthy  Knight. 

VI. 

Sir  Gawain  rose  without  delay  or  dallying; 

"Excuse  us,  Madame,  we've  no  time  to  waste:5* 
And  at  the  palace-gate  you  saw  him  sallying, 

With  other  Knights  equipped  and  armed  in  haste ; 
And  there  was  Tristram  making  jests,  and  rallying 

The  poor  mis-shapen  damsel,  whom  he  placed 
Behind  him  on  a  pillion,  pad,  or  pannel ; 
He  took,  besides,  his  falcon  and  his  spaniel. 

VII. 

But  what  with  horror,  and  fatigue  and  fright, 
Poor  soul,  she  could  not  recollect  the  way. 

They  reached  the  mountains  on  the  second  night, 
And  wandered  up  and  down  till  break  of  day, 

When  they  discovered  by  the  dawning  light, 
A  lonely  glen,  where  heaps  of  embers  lay. 

They  found  unleavened  fragments  scorched  and  toasted, 

And  the  remains  of  mules  and  horses  roasted. 

VIII. 

Sir  Tristram  understood  the  Giants*  courses; 

He  felt  the  embers  but  the  heat  was  out; 
He  stood  contemplating  the  roasted  horses ; 

And  all  at  once,  without  suspense  or  doubt, 
His  own  decided  judgment  thus  enforces : 

"The  Giants  must  be  somewhere  hereabout." 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE  297 

Demonstrating  the  carcasses,  he  shows 

That  they  remained  untouched  by  kites  or  crows. 


"You  see  no  traces  of  their  sleeping  here, 
No  heap  of  leaves  or  heath,  no  Giant's  nest; 

Their  usual  habitation  must  be  near: 
They  feed  at  sunset,  and  retire  to  rest; 

A  moment's  search  will  set  the  matter  clear."  — 
The  fact  turned  out  precisely  as  he  guessed  : 

And  shortly  after,  scrambling  through  a  gully, 

He  verified  his  own  conjecture  fully. 

x. 

He  found  a  valley,  closed  on  every  side, 
Resembling  that  which  Rasselas  describes; 

Six  miles  in  length,  and  half  as  many  wide, 
Where  the  descendants  of  the  Giant  tribes 

Lived  in  their  ancient  fortress  undescried. 
(Invaders  tread  upon  each  other's  kibes 

First  came  the  Briton,  afterward  the  Roman: 

Our  patrimonial  lands  belong  to  no  man* 

XII. 

Huge  mountains  of  immeasurable  height, 
Encompassed  all  the  level  valley  round, 

With  mighty  slabs  of  rock  that  sloped  upright, 
An  insurmountable,  enormous  mound; 

The  very  river  vanished  out  of  sight, 
Absorbed  in  secret  channels  underground. 

That  vale  was  so  sequestered  and  secluded, 

All  search  for  ages  past  it  had  eluded. 

XIII. 

High  overhead  was  many  a  cave  and  den, 
That,  with  its  strange  construction,  seemed  to  mock 

All  thought  of  how  they  were  contrived,  or  when 
Hewn  inward  in  the  huge  suspended  rock 


298  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

The  tombs  and  monuments  of  mighty  men: 

Such  were  the  patriarchs  of  this  ancient  stock. 
Alas !  what1  pity  that  the  present  race 
Should  be  so  barbarous,  and  depraved,  and  base. 

XIV. 

For  they  subsisted  (as  I  said)  by  pillage, 
And  the  wild  beasts  which  they  pursued  and  chased ; 

Nor  house,  nor  herdsman's  hut,  nor  farm,  nor  village, 
Within  the  lonely  valley  could  be  traced, 

Nor  roads,  nor  bounded  fields,  nor  rural  tillage; 
But  all  was  lonely,  desolate,  and  waste. 

The  Castle  which  commanded  the  domain 

Was  suited  to  so  rude  and  wild  a  reign. 

XVII. 

Sir  Gawain  tried  a  parley,  but  in  vain : 
A  true-born  Giant  never  trusts  a  Knight. — 

He  sent  a  herald,  who  returned  again 

All  torn  to  rags  and  perishing  with  fright. 

A  trumpeter  was  sent,  but  he  was  slain:  — 
To  trumpeters  they  bear  a  mortal  spite. 

When  all  conciliatory  measures  failed, 

The  castle  and  the  fortress  were  assailed. 

XVIII. 

But  when  the  Giants  saw  them  fairly  under, 
They  shovelled  down  a  cataract  of  stones, 

A  hideous  volley  like  a  peal  of  thunder, 

Bouncing  and  bounding  down  and  breaking  bones, 

Rending  the  earth,  and  riving  rocks  asunder. 
Sir  Gawain  inwardly  laments  and  groans, 

Retiring  last,  and  standing  most  exposed ;  — 

Success  seemed  hopeless,  and  the  combat  closed. 

XIX. 

A  council  then  was  called,  and  all  agreed 
To  call  in  succor  from  the  country  round; 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE  299 

By  regular  approaches  to  proceed, 
Intrenching,  fortifying,  breaking  ground. 

That  morning  Tristram  happened  to  secede: 
It  seems  his  falcon  was  not  to  be  found. 

He  went  in  search  of  her;  but  some  suspected 

He  went  lest  his  advice  should  be  neglected. 

xx. 

At  Gawaia's  summons  all  the  country  came; 

At  Gawain's  summons  all  the  people  aided; 
They  called  upon  each  other  in  his  name, 

And  bid  their  neighbors  work  as  hard  as  they  did, 
So  well  beloved  was  he,  for  very  shame 

They  dug,  they  delved,  they  palisaded, 
Till  all  the  fort  was  thoroughly  blockaded 
And  every  ford  where  Giants  might  have  waded. 

XXIV. 

Good  humor  was  Sir  Tristram's  leading  quality, 
And  in  the  present  case  he  proved  it  such; 

If  he  forbore,  it  was  that  in  reality 
His  conscience  smote  him  with  a  secret  touch, 

For  having  shocked  his  worthy  friend's  formality. 
He  though  Sir  Garwin  had  not  said  too  much ; 

He  walks  apart  with  him ;  and  he  discourses 

About  their  preparation  and  their  forces : 

xxv. 

Approving  everything  that  had  been  done;  — 
"  It  serves  to  put  the  Giants  off  their 'guard; 

Less  hazard  and  less  danger  will  be  run; 
I  doubt  not  we  shall  find  them  unprepared. 

The  castle  will  more  easily  be  won, 
And  many  valuable  lives  be  spared; 

The  Ladies  else,  while  we  blockade  and  threaten, 

Will  most  infallibly  be  killed  and  eaten." 


3<x?  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

XXVI. 

Sir  Tristram  talked  incomparably  well; 

His  reasons  were  irrefragably  strong. 
As  Tristram  spoke  Sir  Gawain's  spirits  fell, 

For  he  discovered  clearly  before  long 
(What  Tristram  never  would  presume  to  tell), 

That  his  whole  system  was  entirely  wrong, 
In  fact,  his  confidence  had  much  diminished 
Since  all  the  preparations  had  been  finished. 

XXVII. 

"Indeed,"  Sir  Tristram  said,  "for  aught  we  know  — 
For  aught  that  we  can  tell  —  this  very  night 

The  valley's  entrance  may  be  closed  with  snow, 
And  we  may  starve  and  perish  here  outright 

'Tis  better  risking  a  decisive  blow. — 
I  own  this  weather  puts  me  in  a  fright." 

In  fine,  this  tedious  conference  to  shorten, 

Sir  Gawain  trusted  to  Sir  Tristram's  fortune. 

XLIX. 

Behold  Sir  Gawain  with  his  valiant  band: 
He  enters  on  the  work  with  warmth  and  haste, 

And  slays  a  brace  of  Giants  out  of  hand, 

Sliced  downwards  from  the  shoulder  to  the  waist. 

But  our  ichnography  must  now  be  planned, 
The  Keep  or  Inner  Castle  must  be  traced. 

I  wish  myself  at  the  concluding  distich, 

Although  I  think  the  thing  characteristic. 


Facing  your  entrance,  just  three  yards  behind, 
There  was  a  mass  of  stone  of  moderate  height; 

It  stood  before  you  like  a  screen  or  blind; 
And  there  —  on  either  hand  to  left  and  right  — 

Were  sloping  parapets  or  planes  inclined, 
On  which  two  massy  stones  were  placed  upright, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE  301 

Secured  by  staples  and  by  leather  ropes 

Which  hindered  them  from  sliding  down  the  slopes. 

LI. 

"  Cousin,  these  dogs  have  some  device  or  gin ! 

I'll  run  the  gauntlet  and  I'll  stand  a  knock !  "— 
He  dashed  into  the  gate  through  thick  and  thin; 

He  hewed  away  the  bands  which  held  the  block; 
It  rushed  along  the  slope  with  rumbling  din, 

And  closed  the  entrance  with  a  thundering  shock. 
(Just  like  those  famous  old  Symplegades 
Discovered  by  the  classics  in  their  seas.) 

LIT. 

This  saw  Sir  Tristram :  As  you  may  suppose, 
He  found  some  Giants  wounded,  others  dead; 

He  shortly  equalizes  these  with  those 

But  one  poor  devil  there  was  sick  in  bed, 

In  whose  behalf  the  Ladies  interpose. 

Sir  Tristram  spared  his  life,  because  they  said 

That  he  was  more  humane,  and  mild,  and  clever, 

And  all  the  time  had  had  an  ague-fever. 

LIII, 

The  Ladies?  —  They  were  tolerably  well; 

At  least  as  well  as  could  have  been  expected. 
Many  details  I  must  forbear  to  tell; 

Their  toilet  had  been  very  much  neglected; 
But  by  supreme  good  luck  it  so  befell 

That  when  the  Castle's  capture  was  effected, 
When  those  vile  cannibals  were  overpowered, 
Only  two  fat  duennas  were  devoured. 

uv. 

Sir  Tristram  having  thus  secured  the  fort, 
And  seen  all  safe,  was  climbing  to  the  wall, 

(Meaning  to  leap  into  the  outer  court;) 
But  when  he  came,  he  saved  himself  the  fall 


302  JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE 

Sir  Gawain  had  been  spoiling  all  the  sport : 
The  Giants  were  demolished  one  and  all. 
He  pulled  them  up  the  wall.    They  climb  and  enter: 
Such  was  the  winding  up  of  this  adventure. 

—Canto  II. 


A  PAUSE   IN  THE  STORY 

And  now  the  thread  of  our  romance  unravels 
Presenting  new  performances  on  the  stage : 

A  Giant's  education  and  his  travels 
Will  occupy  the  next  succeeding  page. — 

But  I  begin  to  tremble  at  the  cavils 
Of  this  fastidious,  supercilious  age. 

Reviews  and  paragraphs  in  morning  papers ; 

The  prospect  of  them  gives  my  Muse  the  vapors. 

— Close  of  Canto  II. 

THE   MONKS  AND  THE  GIANTS. 
IV. 

Some  ten  miles  off,  an  ancient  abbey  stood, 
Amidst  the  mountains,  near  a  noble  stream; 

A  level  eminence,  enshrined  with  wood, 
Sloped  to  the  river's  bank  and  southern  beam ; 

Within  were  fifty  friars  fat  and  good, 
Of  goodly  presence  and  of  good  esteem, 

That  passed  an  easy,  exemplary  life, 

Remote  from  want  and  care,  and  worldly  strife. 

v. 

Between  the  Monks  and  Giants  there  subsisted, 
In  the  first  Abbot's  lifetime,  much  respect; 

The  Giants  let  them  settle  where  they  listed : 
The  Giants  were  a  tolerating  sect 

A  poor  lame  Giant  once  the  Monks  assisted, 
Old  and  abandoned,  dying  with  neglect; 

The  Prior  found  him,  cured  his  broken  bane, 

And  very  kindly  cut  him  for  the  stone, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE  303 

VI. 

This  seemed  a  glorious,  golden  opportunity 

To  civilize  the  whole  gigantic  race; 
To  draw  them  to  pay  tithes,  and  dwell  in  unity. 
'    The  Giants'  valley  was  a  fertile  place, 
And  might  have  much  enriched  the  whole  community, 

Had  the  old  Giant  lived  a  longer  space. 
But  he  relapsed,  and  though  all  means  were  tried. 
They  could  but  just  baptize  him  —  when  he  died. 

VIII. 

They  never  found  another  case  to  cure, 
But  their  demeanor  calm  and  reverential, 

Their  gesture  and  their  vesture  grave  and  pure, 
Their  conduct  sober,  cautious  and  prudential, 

Engaged  respect,  sufficient  to  secure 
Their  properties  and  interests  more  essential: 

They  kept  a  distant  courteous  intercourse, 

Salutes  and  gestures  were  their  sole  discourse. 

xv. 

In  castles  and  in  courts  Ambition  dwells, 

But  not  in  castles  or  in  courts  alone; 
She  breathes  a  wish  throughout  those  sacred  cells, 

For  bells  of  larger  size  and  louder  tone. 
Giants  abominate  the  sound  of  bells, 

And  soon  the  fierce  antipathy  was  shown, 
The  tinkling  and  the  jingling  and  the  clangor, 
Roused  their  irrational,  gigantic  anger. 

XVI. 

Unhappy  mortals !  ever  blind  to  fate ! 

Unhappy  Monks !   you  see  no  danger  nigh ; 
Exulting  in  their  sound  and  size  and  weight, 

From  morn  till  noon  the  merry  peal  you  ply; 
The  belfry  rocks,  your  bosoms  are  elate, 

Your  spirits  with  the  ropes  and  pulleys  fly; 


304  JOHN  HO  OK  HAM  FRERB 

Tired  but  transported,  panting,  pulling,  hauling, 
Ramping  and  stamping,  overjoyed  and  bawling. 

XVII. 

Meanwhile  the  solemn  mountains  that  surrounded 
The  silent  valley  where  the  convent  lay, 

With  tintinnabular  uproar  were  astounded, 
When  the  first  peal  broke  forth  at  break  of  day  : 

Feeling  their  granite  ears  severely  wounded, 
They  scarce  knew  what  to  think  or  what  to  say. 

And  (though  large  mountains  commonly  conceal 

Their  sentiments,  dissembling  what  they  feel). 

XIX. 

These  giant  mountains  inwardly  were  moved, 
But  never  made  an  outward  change  of  place. 

Not  so  the  Mountain-Giants  (as  behoved 
A  more  alert  and  locomotive  race), 

Hearing  a  clatter  which  they  disapproved 
They  ran  straightforward  to  besiege  the  place 

With  a  discordant,  universant  yell, 

Like  house-dogs  howling  at  a  dinner-bell. 

xx.       •» 

Historians  are  extremely  to  be  pitied, 
Obliged  to  persevere  in  the  narration 

Of  wrongs  and  horrid  outrages  committed, 
Oppression,  sacrilege,  assassination; 

The  following  scenes  I  wished  to  have  omitted, 
But  truth  is  an  imperious  obligation. 

So  "  my  heart  sickens  and  I  drop  my  pen," 

And  am  obliged  to  pick  it  up  again.  —  Canto  III. 

THE  CLOSE  OP  THE  WAR. 
XLVIII. 

.   The  Giant-troops  invariably  withdrew 

(Like  mobs  in  Naples,  Portugal,  and  Spain), 


GUSTAV  EREYTAG. 


GUSTAV  FREYTAG  305 

To  dine  at  twelve  o'clock  and  sleep  till  two, 
And  afterwards  (except  in  case  of  rain) 

Returned  to  clamor,  hoot,  and  pelt  anew. 
The  scene  was  every  day  the  same  again. 

Thus  the  blockade  grew  tedious.    I  intended 

A  week  ago,  myself  to  raise  and  end  it. 

LVI. 

Our  Giants'  memoirs  still  remain  on  hand, 
For  all  my  notions  being  genuine  gold, 

Beat  out  beneath  the  hammer  and  expand 
And  multiply  themselves  a  thousandfold 

Beyond  the  first  idea  that  I  planned. 
Besides  —  this  present  copy  must  be  sold ; 

Besides  —  I  promised  Murray  t'other  day, 

To  let  him  have  it  by  the  tenth  of  May. —  Canto  IV. 


pREYTAG,  GUSTAV,  a  German  novelist,  dram- 
atist, and  journalist;  born  at  Kreuzburg, 
Silesia,  July  13,  1816;  died  at  Wiesbaden, 
April  30,  1895.  He  was  educated  at  Oels,  Breslau, 
and  Berlin,  and  received  his  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Philosophy  in  1838.  In  1845  ^e  published  a  volume 
of  poems  entitled  In  Breslau,  and  an  historical 
comedy,  The  Espousal  of  Kunts  von  Rosen.  He  went 
in  1847  to  Leipsic  and,  in  conjunction  with  Julian 
Schmidt,  became  editor  of  Grenzboten  (  The  Messen- 
ger of  the  Frontier  ) .  In  this  and  the  following  year 
he  published  the  dramas  Valentine  and  Count  Walde- 
mar;  in  1854,  a  comedy,  Die  Journalisten,  and  in  1859 
a  classical  drama  Die  Fabier.  Others  of  his  dramatic 
works  are  Der  Gelehrte,  a  tragedy,  and  Eine  wrme 
Schneiderseele,  a  comedy.  His  novel,  Soil  und  Hob  en 

VOL.  X.— 20 


306  GUSTAV  FREYTAG 

(  1855  ),  at  once  gave  him  a  high  place  among  Ger- 
man writers  of  fiction.  It  was  translated  into  En- 
glish tinder  the  title  of  Debit  and  Credit.  Bilder 
aus  der  Deutfchen  Fergangenheit  was  followed  in 
1862  by  Neue  Bilder  aus  dem  Leben  des  Deutschen 
Folkes.  Another  novel,  Die  Verlorne  Handschrift, 
appeared  in  1864,  and  a  series  of  tales  collected  under 
the  title  of  Die  Ahnen  (Ancestors)  in  1876.  In  1870 
Freytag  resigned  from  the  Grenzboten,  and  took 
charge  of  Im  neuen  Reich,  a  weekly  journal  at  Leipsic. 
His  later  novels  were  Ancestors  (1893),  and  Charle- 
magne (  1894). 

THE  BURDEN  OF  A  CRIME. 

The  murderer  stood  for  a  few  moments  motionless  in 
the  darkness,  leaning  against  the  staircase  railings.  Then 
he  slowly  went  up  the  steps.  While  doing  so  he  felt  his 
trousers  to  see  how  high  they  were  wet.  He  thought  to 
himself  that  he  must  dry  them  at  the  stove  this  very 
night,  and  saw  in  fancy  the  fire  in  the  stove,  and  him- 
self sitting  before  it  in  his  dressing-gown,  as  he  was 
accustomed  to  do  when  thinking  over  his  business.  If  he 
had  ever  in  his  life  known  comfortable  repose,  it  had  been 
when,  weary  of  the  cares  of  the  day,  he  sat  before  his 
stove-fire  and  watched  it  till  his  heavy  eyelids  drooped. 
He  realized  how  tired  he  was  now,  and  what  good  it 
would  do  him  to  go  to  sleep  before  a  warm  fire.  Lost 
in  the  thought,  he  stood  for  a  moment  like  one  overcome 
with  drowsiness,  when  suddenly  he  felt  a  strange  pressure 
within  him  —  something  that  made  it  difficult  to  breathe, 
and  bound  his  breast  as  with  iron  bars.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  bundle  that  he  had  just  thrown  into  the  river;  he 
saw  it  cleave  the  flood :  he  heard  the  rush  of  water,  and 
remembered  that  the  hat  which  he  had  forced  over  the 
man's  face  had  been  'the  last  thing  visible  on  the  sur- 
face—a round,  strange-looking  thing.  He  saw  the  hat 
quite  plainly  before  him  —  battered,  the  rim  half  off,  and 


GUSTAV  FREYTAG  307 

two  grease  spots  on  the  crown.  It  had  been  a  very  shabby 
hat.  Thinking  of  it,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  could 
smile  now  if  he  chose.  But  he  did  not  smile. 

Meanwhile  he  had  got  up  the  steps.  As  he  opened  the 
staircase  door,  he  glanced  along  the  dark  gallery  through 
which  two  had  passed  a  few  minutes  before,  and  only  one 
returned.  He  looked  down  at  the  gray  surface  of  the 
stream,  and  again  he  was  sensible  of  that  singular  pres- 
sure. He  rapidly  crept  through  the  large  room  and  down 
the  steps,  and  on  the  ground  floor  ran  up  against  one  of 
the  lodgers  in  the  caravansary.  Both  hastened  away  in 
different  directions  without  exchanging  a  word. 

This  meeting  turned  his  thought's  in  another  direction. 
Was  he  safe?  The  fog  still  lay  thick  on  the  street.  No 
one  had  seen  him  go  in  with  Hippas,  no  one  had  recog- 
nized him  as  he  went  out.  The  investigation  would 
only  begin  when  they  found  the  old  man  in  the  river. 
Would  he  be  safe  then?  These  thoughts  passed  through 
the  murderer's  mind  as  calmly  as  though  he  was  read- 
ing them  in  a  book.  Mingled  with  them  came  doubts 
as  to  whether  he  had  his  cigar-case  with  him,  and  as  to 
why  he  did  not  smoke  a  cigar.  He  cogitated  long  about 
it,  and  at  length  found  himself  returned  to  his  dwelling. 
He  opened  the  door.  The  last  time  he  had  opened  the 
door  a  loud  noise  had  been  heard  in  the  inner  room;  he 
listened  for  it  now;  he  would  give  anything  to  hear  it 
A  few  minutes  ago  it  had  been  to  be  heard.  Oh,  if  those 
few  minutes  had  never  been!  Again  he  felt  that  hol- 
low pressure,  but  more  strongly,  even  more  strongly  than 
before. 

He  entered  the  room.  The  lamp  still  burned,  the  frag- 
ments of  the  rum-bottle  lay  about  the  sofa,  the  bits  of 
broken  mirror  shone  like  silver  dollars  on  the  floor.  Vei- 
tel  sat  down  exhausted.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  his 
mother  had  often  told  him  a  childish  story  in  which  silver 
dollars  fell  upon  a  poor  man's  floor.  He  could  see  the 
old  Jewess  sitting  at  the  hearth,  and  he,  a  small  boy, 
standing  near  her.  He  could  see  himself  looking  anx- 
iously down  on  the  dark  earthen  floor,  wondering  whether 
the  white  dollars  would  fall  down  for  him.  Now  he 


308  GUSTAV  FREYTAG 

knew —  his  room  looked  just  as  if  there  had  been  a  rain 
of  white  dollars.  He  felt  something  of  the  restless  de- 
light which  that  tale  of  his  mother  had  always  awaked, 
when  again  came  suddenly  that  same  hollow  pressure. 
Heavily  he  rose,  stooped,  and  collected  the  broken  glass. 
He  put  all  the  pieces  into  the  corner  of  the  cupboard,  de- 
tached the  frame  from  the  wall,  and  put  it  wrong-side-out 
in  a  corner.  Then  he  took  the  lamp,  and  the  glass  which 
he  used  to  fill  with  water  for  the  night ;  but  as  he  touched 
it  a  shudder  came  over  him,  and  he  put  it  down.  He  who 
was  no  more  had  drunk  out  of  that  glass.  He  took  the 
lamp  to  his  bedside,  and  undressed.  He  hid  his  trousers 
in  the  cupboard,  and  brought  out  another  pair,  which  he 
rubbed  against  his  boots  till  they  were  dirty  at  the  bot- 
tom. Then  he  put  out  the  lamp,  and  as  it  flickered  be- 
fore it  went  quite  out,  the  thought  struck  him  that  human 
life  and  a  flame  had  something  in  common.  He  had  ex- 
tinguished a  flame.  And  again  that  pain  in  the  breast, 
but  less  clearly  felt,  for  his  strength  was  exhausted,  his 
nervous  energy  spent  The  murderer  slept. 

But  when  he  wakes !  Then  the  cunning  will  be  over 
and  gone  with  which  his  distracted  mind  has  tried,  as  if 
in  delirium,  to  snatch  at  all  manner  of  trivial  things  and 
thoughts  in  order  to  avoid  the  one  feeling  whch  ever 
weighs  him  down.  When  he  wakes  1  Henceforth,  while 
still  half  asleep,  he  will  feel  the  gradual  entrance  of  ter- 
ror and  misery  into  his  soul.  Even  in  his  dreams  he 
will  have  a  sense  of  the  sweetness  of  unconsciousness  and 
the  horrors  of  thought,  and  will  strive  against  waking; 
while,  in  spite  of  his  strivings,  his  anguish  grows  stronger 
and  stronger,  till,  in  despair,  his  eyelids  start  open,  and 
he  gazes  into  the  hideous  present,  the  hideous  future. 

And  again  his  mind  will  seek  to  cover  over  the  fact 
with  a  web  of  sophistry;  he  will  reflect  how  old  the  dead 
man  was,  how  wicked,  how  wretched;  he  will  try  to 
convince  himself  that  it  was  only  an  accident  that  oc- 
casioned his  death  —  a  push  given  by  him  in  sudden  an- 
ger—  how  unlucky  that  the  old  man's  foot  should  have 
slipped  as  it  did !  Then  will  recur  the  doubt  as  to  his 
safety;  a  hot  flush  will  suffuse  his  pale  face,  the  step  of 


GUSTAV  FREYTAG  309 

his  servant  will  fill  him  with  dread,  the  sound  of  an  iron- 
shod  stick  on  the  pavement  will  be  taken  for  the  tramp 
of  the  armed  band  whom  justice  sends  to  apprehend  him. 
Again  he  will  retrace  every  step  taken  yesterday,  every 
gesture,  every  word,  and  will  seek  to  convince  himself 
that  discovery  is  impossible.  No  one  had  seen  him,  no 
one  had  heard;  the  wretched  old  man,  half  crazy  as  he 
was,  had  drawn  his  own  hat  over  his  eyes  and  drowned 
himself. 

And  yet,  through  all  this  -sophistry,  he  is  conscious  of 
that  fearful  weight,  till,  exhausted  by  the  inner  conflict, 
he  flies  from  his  house  to  his  business,  amid  the  crowd 
anxiously  desiring  to  find  something  that  shall  force  him 
to  forget.  If  any  one  on  the  street  looks  at  him,  he 
trembles;  if  he  meet  a  policeman,  he  must  rush  home  to 
hide  his  terror  from  those  discerning  eyes.  Wherever 
he  finds  familiar  faces,  he  will  press  into  the  thick  of  the 
assembly,  he  will  take  an  interest  in  anything,  will  laugh 
and  talk  more  than  heretofore;  but  his  eyes  will  roam 
recklessly  around,  and  he  will  be  in  constant  dread  of 
hearing  something  said  of  the  murdered  man,  something 
said  about  his  sudden  end.  .  .  . 

And  when,  late  of  an  evening,  he  at  length  returns 
home,  tired  to  death  and  worn  out  by  his  fearful  strug- 
gle, he  feels  lighter  hearted,  for  he  has  succeeeded  in  ob- 
scuring the  truth,  he  is  conscious  of  a  melancholy  pleas- 
use  in  his  weariness,  and  awaits  sleep  as  the  only  good 
thing  earth  has  still  to  offer  him.  And  again  he  will  fall 
asleep,  and  when  he  awakes  the  next  morning  he  will 
have  to  begin  his,  fearful  task  anew.  So  will  it  be  this 
day,  next  day,  always,  so  long  as  he  lives.  His  life  is 
no  longer  like  that  of  another  man;  his  life  is  henceforth 
a  horrible  battle  with  a  corpse,  a  battle  unseen  by  all, 
yet  constantly  going  on.  All  his  intercourse  with  liv* 
ing  men,  whether  in  business  or  in  society,  is  but  a 
mockery,  a  lie.  Whether  he  laughs  and  shakes  hands 
with  one,  or  lends  money  and  takes  fifty  per  cent,  from 
another,  it  is  all  mere  illusion  on  their  part  He  knows 
that  he  is  severed  from  human  companionship,  and  that 
all  he  does  is  but  empty  seeming;  there  is  only  one  who 


310     FRIEDRICH  WILHELM  AUGUST  FRdBEL 

occupies  him,  against  whom  he  ^  struggles,  because  of 
whom  he  drinks  and  talks,  and  mingles  with  the  crowd, 
and  that  one  is  the  corpse  of  the  old  man  in  the  water. — 
Debit  and  Credit. 


fROBEL,  FRIEDRICH  WILHELM  AUGUST,  a  Ger- 
man educational  reformer;  born  at  Ober- 
weissbach,  Thuringia,  April  21,  1782;  died  at 
Marienthal,  June  21,  1852.  He  was  a  son  of  the  vil- 
lage parson  of  his  native  town.  His  own  education 
was  very  imperfect,  though  in  1799  he  studied  for  a 
time  at  Jena,  and  in  later  years  (  1811,  1812)  he 
visited  the  universities  of  Berlin  and  Gottingen.  For 
some  years  he  devoted  himself  to  farming,  but  in  1805 
he  visited  Pestalozzi  at  Yverdun,  on  the  Lake  of 
Neuchatel,  and  under  his  encouragement  and  advice 
gave  up  the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  study  and  practice 
of  education,  excepting  only  a  short  period  during 
which  he  served  in  the  War  of  Independence,  Hav- 
ing acted  for  some  time  as  private  tutor,  and  spent 
another,  two  years  with  Pestalozzi,  he  endeavored  to 
carry  his  new  methods  into  practice  successively  at 
Griesheim  and  Keilhau,  where  he  published  his  work 
on  education  (1825),  and  at  Willisau,  till,  in  1837,  he 
settled  at  Blankenburg,  his  native  country.  Here  he 
established  his  children's  school,  conducted  on  princi- 
ples of  natural  development,  instructive  play,  and 
healthy  movement.  In  1840  he  gave  it  the  name 
of  "Kindergarten."  During  the  following  years  he 
undertook  several  journeys  to  the  principal  towns 
of  Germany,  in  order  to  extend  the  knowledge  of 


i^^^^^ff^^^7»9^^^^    \  T: 


FROBEL. 


FRIEDRICH  WILHELM  AUGUST  FRdBEL      311 

his  system;  for  the  most  part,  however,  he  was  met 
with  ridicule.  In  1849  he  removed  to  Marienthal, 
near  Liebenstein,  where  he  established  a  Kindergar- 
ten in  the  castle,  and  there  he  died.  Since  his  death, 
in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  the  Prussian  Government, 
which  objected  because  of  its  supposed  "  socialistic 
tendencies,"  the  Kindergarten  system  has  been  widely 
adopted  in  Germany,  and  even  more  in  America  and 
England,  which  have  the  advantage  of  energetic 
Frobel  societies,  or  Kindergarten  societies  to  direct 
the  movement. 

The  writings  of  Frobel  include  Menschenersie- 
hung,  his  first  work,  published  in  1825,  in  which  he 
gives  his  idea  of  the  process  of  development  of  the 
child-mind,  and  in  which  the  seeds  of  the  Kindergar- 
ten may  be  already  discerned;  Padagogik  des  Kin- 
dergartens; Kleinere  Schriften,  and  Mtitterlieder  und 
Koselieder.  From  1837  until  1840  he  published  also 
a  weekly  paper,  entitled  Sonntagsblatt,  in  which  he 
described  the  Kindergarten  system. 

STORIES  AND  LEGENDS,  FABLES  AND  FAIRY  TALES. 

The  highest  and  most  important  experiences  of  a  boy 
are  the  sensations  and  feelings  of  his  own  life  in  his  own 
breast,  his  own  thinking  and  willing,  though  they  mani- 
fest themselves  ever  so  vaguely  and  almost  as  a  mere 
instinct. 

But  knowledge  of  a  thing  can  never  be  attained  by 
comparing  it  with  itself.  Therefore,  too,  the  boy  cannot 
attain  any  knowledge  of  the  nature,  cause,  and  effect 
of  the  meaning  of  his  own  life,  by  comparing  his  own 
transient  individual  life  with  itself.  He  needs  for  clear- 
ness concerning  this,  comparison  with  something  else 
and  with  some  one  else;  and  surely  everybody  knows 
that  comparisons  with  somewhat  remote  objects  are 
more  effective  than  those  with  very  near  objects. 


312     FRIEDRICH  WILHELM  AUGUST  FR&BEL 

Only  the  study  of  the  life  of  others  can  furnish  such 
points  of  comparison  with  the  life  he  himself  has  ex- 
perienced. In  these  the  boy,  endowed  with  an  active 
life  of  his  own,  can  view  the  latter  as  in  a  mirror,  and 
learn  to  appreciate  its  value. 

It  is  the  innermost  desire  and  need  of  a  vigorous, 
genuine  boy  to  understand  his  own  life,  to  get  a  knowl- 
edge of  its  nature,  its  origin,  and  outcome.  If  he  fails 
in  this,  the  sensation  of  his  own  life  either  crushes  him 
or  carries  him  on  headlong  without  purpose  and  irre* 
sistibly. 

This  is  the  chief  reason  why  boys  are  so  fond  of  stories, 
legends,  and  tales;  the  more  so  when  these  are  told  as 
having  actually  occurred  at  some  time,  or  as  lying  within 
the  reach  of  probability  —  for  which,  however,  there  are 
scarcely  any  limits  for  a  boy. 

The  power  that  has  scarcely  germinated  in  the  boy's 
mind  is  seen  by  him  in  the  legend  or  tale,  a  perfect  plant 
filled  with  the  most  delicious  blossoms  and  fruits.  The 
very  remoteness  of  the  comparison  filled  with  his  own 
vague  hopes  expands  heart  and  soul,  strengthens  the 
mind,  unfolds  life  in  freedom  and  power. 

As  in  color,  it  is  not  variegated  hues  that  charm  the 
boy,  but  their  deeper,  invisible,  '  spiritual  meaning ;  so 
he  is  attracted  to  the  legend  and  fairy  tale,  not  by  the 
varied  and  gay  shapes  that  move  about  in  them,  but  by 
their  spiritual  life,  which  furnishes  him  with  a  measure 
for  his  own  life  and  spirit,  by  the  fact  that  they  furnish 
him  direct  intuitions  of  free  life,  of  a  force  spontane- 
ously active  in  accordance  with  its  own  law. 

The  story  concerns  other  men,  other  circumstances, 
other  times  and  places,  nay,  wholly  different  forms;  yet 
the  hearer  seeks  his  own  image,  he  beholds  it,  and  no 
one  knows  that  he  sees  it. 

Are  there  not  many  persons  who  have  seen  and  heard 
how  children  at  an  early  period  asked  their  mother 
again  and  again  to  tell  them  the  simplest  story,  which 
they  had  heard  half  a  dozen  times  —  e.  g.f  the  story  of  a 
singing  and  fluttering  bird,  building  its  nest  and  feeding 
its  young? 


FRIEDRICH  WILHELM  AUGUST  FR&BEL       313 

Even  boys  do  the  same.  "  Tell  us  a  story,"  is  the  re- 
quest of  a  crowd  of  eager  listeners  to  some  companion 
who  has  proved  his  art.  "I  do  not  know  any  more;  I 
have  told  you  all  I  know."  "Well,  then,  tell  us  this  or 
that  story."  "  I  have  told  it  two  or  three  times."  "  That 
makes  no  difference;  tell  it  again."  He  obeys:  see  how 
ekgerly  his  hearers  note  every  word,  as  if  they  had  never 
before  heard  it. 

It  is  not  the  desire  for  mental  indolence  that  leads 
the  vigorous  boy  to  the  telling  of  stories  and  makes  him 
a  placid  listener.  You  can  see  how  eager  he  is,  how  a 
genuine  story-teller  stirs  the  inner  life  of  his  hearer,  to 
try  its  strength,  as  it  were.  This  proves  that  a  higher 
spiritual  life  lies  in  the  story,  that  it  is  not  its  gay  and 
changing  shapes  that  attract  the  boy,  that  through  them 
mind  speaks  directly  to  mind. 

Therefore  ear  and  heart  open  to  the  genuine  story- 
teller, as  the  blossoms  open  to  the  sun  of  spring  and  to 
the  vernal  rain.  Mind  breathes  mind,  power  feels  power 
and  absorbs  it,  as  it  were.  The  telling  of  stories  re- 
freshes the  mind  as  a  bath  refreshes  the  body;  it  gives 
exercise  to  the  intellect  and  its  powers;  it  tests  the  judg- 
ment and  the  feelings. 

Hence,  too,  genuine  effective  story-telling  is  not  easy: 
for  the  story-teller  must  wholly  take  into  himself  the 
life  of  which  he  speaks,  must  let  it  live  and  operate  in 
himself  freely.  He  must  reproduce  it  whole  and  undi- 
minished,  and  yet  stand  superior  to  life  as  it  actually  is. 

It  is  this  that  makes  the  genuine  story-teller.  There- 
fore, only  early  youth  and  old  age  furnish  good  story- 
tellers. The  mother  knows  how  to  tell  stories  —  she 
who  lives  only  in  and  with  the  child,  and  has  no  care 
beyond  that  of  fostering  his  life. 

The  husband  and  father,  fettered  by  life,  compelled  to 
face  the  cares  and  wants  of  daily  life,  will  rarely  be  a 
good  story-teller,  pleasing  to  the  children,  influencing, 
strengthening,  and  lifting  their  lives. 

The  brother  or  sister,  the  grandfather,  with  his  wide 
experience,  or  the  old,  tried  servant,  whose  heart  is  full 
of  contentment  —  these  are  the  favorites  with  an  audi- 


314  JEAN  FR01SSART 

ence  of  boys. — Die  Menschenerisiehung;  translation  of 
W.  N.  HAILMANN. 


^ROISSART,  JEAN,  a  French  ecclesiastic  and 
chronicler;  born  at  Valenciennes  in  1337;  died 
at  Chimay  about  1410.    He  was  educated  for 
the  Church,  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  he  had  not 
only  mastered  the  usual  course  of   study  but  had 
gained  some  repute  as  a  versifier.    At  twenty,  upon 
the  request  of  Robert  of  Namur,  he  undertook  to 
compile  from  the  Chronicle  of  Jean  le  Bel  a  rhymed 
account  of  the  wars  of  his  time.    In  1360  he  went  to 
England,  provided  with  letters  of  recommendation 
from  his  uncle  to  Philippa  of  Hainault,  the  Queen  of 
Edward  IIL,  who  made  him  her  secretary  and  clerk 
of  her  chapel.    King  John  of  France,  who  had  been 
captured  at  the  battle  of  Poictiers,  was  now  a  prisoner 
in  England,  and  Froissart  became  one  of  his  house- 
hold.   By    this    twofold    connection    Froissart'  was 
brought  into  close  intercourse  with  many  men  who 
had  acted  an  important  part  on  both  sides  during  the 
war  between  the  English  and  the  French.    Queen 
Philippa  urged  him  to  continue  his  rhymed  chronicle ; 
and  to  gather  information  he  made  journeys   into 
Scotland  and  Wales.    Then  he  went  to  the  Continent, 
staying  for  a  while  at  the  English  Court  in  Bordeaux, 
and  was  there  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Richard 
(afterward  the  unfortunate  Richard  II.) ,  the  son  of 
the  English  "  Black  Prince."    In  1369  he  went  to  his 
native  district,  where  the  living  of  Lestines  was  con- 
ferred upon  him.    But  the  duties  of  his  clerical  office 


JEAN  FROISSART  315 

were  nowise  to  his  liking;  and  from  time  to  time  he 
attached  himself  to  the  Duke  of  Brabant,  the  Count 
of  Blois,  and  the  Count  of  Foix;  the  latter  of  whom 
made  him  Canon  and  Treasurer  of  the  church  at 
Chimay  and  urged  him  to  write  in  prose  a  continuous 
chronicle  of  the  events  of  his  own  time. 

Froissart,  now  nearly  forty,  fell  in  with  this  sug- 
gestion, and  traveled  far  and  wide  in  order  to  glean 
the  information  which  he  wanted.  The  Chronicles 
were  the  work  of  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
and  appeared  at  intervals  in  detached  portions,  as 
they  were  written.  They  begin  with  the  reign  of 
Edward  III.  of  England  (1327-77),  and  properly  end 
with  the  death  of  Richard  II.  (  1400  ),  but  there  are  a 
few  paragraphs  relating  to  events  which  took  place  as 
late  as  1404.  It  is  uncertain  how  long  Froissart  lived 
after  this,  but  it  is  probable  that  he  was  alive  in 
1410.  Some  accounts  say  that  he  died  in  great  pov- 
erty not  earlier  than  1420. 

The  Chronicles  of  Froissart,  which  were  widely  cir- 
culated in  manuscript,  were  first  printed  at  Paris  in 
1498,  in  four  folio  volumes,  under  the  title  Chroniques 
de  France,  d'Angleterre,  d'£co$se,  de  Bretagne,  de 
Gasconge,  Flanders  et  liewx  d'alentour.  They  were 
translated  into  English  during  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  by  Lord  Berners  ( q.v. ).  His  version  is 
spirited,  though  not  always  quite  accurate.  A  better 
translation,  upon  the  whole,  is  that  of  Thomas  Johnes 
(  12  vols.,  1805,  and  subsequently  reprinted  in  many 
forms  )'.  The  first  of  the  following  citations  is  from 
the  translation  of  Lord  Berners ;  the  original  spelling 
being  retained.  The  other  citations  are  from  the 
translation  of  Johnes. 


316  JEAN  PROISSART 


KING  EDWARD  III.  AND  THE  COUNTESS  OF  SALISBURY. 

As  sone  as  the  lady  knewe  of  the  Kynges  comyng, 
she  set  opyn  the  gates  and  came  out  so  richly  besene 
that  euery  man  marueyled  of  her  beauty,  and  coude  nat 
cease  to  regard  her  nobleness,  with  her  great  beauty, 
and  the  gracyous  wordes  and  countenaunce  that  she 
made.  When  she  came  to  the  Kyng  she  knelyd  downe 
to  the  yerth,  thanking  hym  of  his  sucours,  and  so  ledde 
hym  into  the  castell  to  make  hym  chere  and  honour  as 
she  that  coude  ryht  well  do  it.  Euery  man  regarded  her 
maruelusly;  the  Kynge  hymselfe  could  not  witholde  his 
regardyng  of  her,  for  he  thought  that  he  neuer  saw 
before  so  noble  nor  so  fayre  a  lady:  he  was  stryken 
'therwith  to  the  hert  with  a  spercle  of  fine  loue  that  en- 
dured long  after;  he  thought  no  lady  in  the  worlde  so 
worthy  to  be  beloued  as  she.  Thus  they  entered  into  the 
castell  hande  in  hande;  the  lady  ledde  hym  first  into  the 
hall,  and  after  into  the  chambre  nobly  apareUed,  The 
Kyng  regarded  so  the  lady  that  she  was  abasshed;  at 
last  he  went  to  a  wyndo  to  rest  hym,  and  so  fell  into  a 
great  study.  The  lady  went  about  to  make  chere  to  the 
lordes  and  knyghtes  that  were  ther,  and  comaunded  to 
dresse  the  hall  for  dyner.  When  she  had  al  deuysed  and 
comaunded  them  she  came  to  the  Kynge  with  a  mery  chere 
(who  was  in  a  great  study)  and  she  said, 

"Dere  sir,  why  do  you  study  so,  for  your  grace  nat 
dyspleased,  it  aparteyneth  nat  to  you  so  to  do:  rather 
ye  shulde  make  good  chere  and  be  joyfull  seying  ye  haue 
chased  away  your  enemies  who  durst  nat  abyde  you;  let 
other  men  study  for  the  remynant." 

Then  the  Kyng  sayd,  "  A,  dere  lady,  know  for  treuthe 
that  syth  I  entred  into  the  castell  ther  is  a  study  come 
to  my  mynde  so  that  I  can  nat  chuse  but  to  muse,  nor 
can  I  nat  tell  what  shall  fall  thereof;  put  if  out  of  my 
herte  I  can  nat." 

"A,  sir,"  quoth  the  lady,  "ye  ought  alwayes  to  make 
good  chere  to  comfort  therewith  your  peple.  God  hath 
ayded  you  so  in  your  besynes  and  hath  showne  you  so 
great  graces  that  ye  be  the  moste  douted  and  honoured 


JEAN  FROISSART  317 

prince  in  all  the  erthe,  and  if  the  Kynge  of  Scotts  haue 
done  you  any  despyte  or  damage  ye  may  well  amende  it 
whan  it  shall  please  you,  as  ye  haue  done  dyuers  tymes 
or  this.  Sir,  leaue  your  musing  and  come  into  the  hall 
if  it  please  you;  your  dyner  is  all  redy." 

"A,  fayre  lady,"  quoth  the  Kyng,  "other  thynges 
lyeth  at  my  hert  that  ye  know  not  of,  but  surely  your 
swete  behauyng,  the  perfect  wysedom,  the  good  grace, 
noblenes  and  excellent  beauty  that  I  see  in  you,  hath  so 
sore  surprised  my  hert  that  I  can  not  but  loue  you,  and 
without  your  loue  I  am  but  deed." 

Then  the  lady  sayde:  "A,  ryght  noble  prince  for 
Goddes  sake  mocke  nor  tempt  me  nat;  I  can  nat  beleue 
that  it  is  true  that  ye  say,  nor  that  so  noble  a  prince  as 
ye  wolde  thynke  to  dyshonour  me  and  my  lorde  my  hus- 
bande,  who  is  so  valyant  a  knyght  and  hath  done  your 
grace  so  gode  service  and  as  yet  lyeth  in  prison  for  your 
quarel.  Cert'ely  sir  ye  shulde  in  this  case  haue  but  a 
small  prayse  and  nothing  the  better  thereby.  I  had  neuer 
as  yet  such  a  thoght  in  my  hert,  nor  I  trust  in  God,  neuer 
shall  haue  for  no  man  lyueng:  if  I  had  any  such  inten- 
cyon  your  grace  ought  nat  all  onely  to  blame  me,  but  also 
to  punysshe  my  body,  ye  and  by  true  Justice  to  be  dis- 
membred." 

Therewith  the  lady  departed  fro  the  Kyng  and  went 
into  the  hall  to  hast  the  dyner;  then  she  returned  agayne 
and  broght  some  of  his  knyghtes  with  her,  and  sayd,. 
"  Sir,  yf  it  please  you  to  come  into  the  hall  your  knygtes 
abideth  for  you  to  wasshe ;  ye  have  ben  to  long  fastyng," 

Then  the  King  went  in  the  hall  and  wassht,  and  sat 
down  among  his  lordes  and  the  lady  also.  The  Xyng 
ate  but  lytell;  he  sat  styll  musing,  and  as  he  durst  he 
cast  his  eyen  upon  the  lady.  Of  his  sadness  his  knyghtea 
had  maruel,  for  he  was  not  accustomed  so  to  be;  some 
thought  it  was  because  the  Scotts  were  escaped  fro  hym, 
All  that  day  the  Kyng  taryd  ther  and  wyst  not  what  to 
do.  Sometime  he  ymagined  that  honour  and  trouth  de- 
fended hym  to  set  his  hert  in  such  a  case  to  dyshonour 
such  a  lady  and  so  true  a  knight  as  her  husband  was  who 
had  always  well  and  truly  serued  hym.  On  thother  part 


3i8  JEAN  FROISSART 

loue  so  constrayned  hym  that  the  power  thereof  sur- 
mounted honour  and  t'routh.  Thus  the  Kyng  debated  in 
himself  all  that  day  and  all  that  night.  In  the  mornyng 
he  arose  and  dyssloged  all  his  hoost  and  drewe  after  the 
Scottes  to  chase  them  out  of  his  realm.  Then  he  toke 
leaue  of  the  lady,  saying,  "  My  dere  lady  to  God  I  com- 
ende  you  tyll  I  returne  agayne,  requiryng  you  to  aduyse 
you  otherwyse  than  ye  haue  sayd  to  me." 

"  Noble  prince,"  quoth  the  lady,  "  God  the  father  glo- 
rious be  your  conduct,  and  put  you  out  of  all  vylayne 
thoughts.  Sir,  I  am  and  ever  shel  be  redy  to  do  your 
grace  servyce  to  your  honour  and  to  myne."  There- 
with the  Kyng  departed  all  abashe. —  Translation  of  LORD 
BERNERS. 

JOHN  OF  BLOIS  DELIVERED  FROM   HIS  LONG  IMPRISONMENT. 

In  such  a  grand  and  noble  history  as  this,  of  which  I 
Sir  John  Froissart,  and  the  author  and  continuator  until 
this  present  moment,  through  the  grace  of  God,  and 
that  perseverance  He  has  endowed  me  with,  as  well  as 
in  length  of  years,  which  have  enabled  me  to  witness 
abundance  of  the  things  that  have  passed,  it  is  not 
right  that  I  forget  anything.  During  the  war  of  Brit- 
tany, the  two  sons  of  the  Lord  Charles  de  Blois  (who, 
for  a  long  time,  styled  himself  Duke  of  Brittany,  in 
right  of  his  lady,  Jane  of  Brittany,  who  was  descended 
in  a  direct  line  from  the  dukes  of  Brittany,  as  has  been 
mentioned  in  this  history),  were  sent  to  England  as 
hostages  for  their  father,  where  they  still  remain  in 
prison;  for  I  have  not  as  yet  delivered  them  from  it, 
nor  from  the  power  of  the  King  of  England,  wherein 
the  Lord  Charles  had  put  them. 

You  have  before  seen  how  King  Edward  of  England, 
to  strengthen  himself  in  his  war  with  France,  had 
formed  an  alliance  with  the  Earl  of  Montfort,  whom 
he  had  assisted,  with  advice  and  forces,  to  the  utmost 
of  his  ability,  insomuch  that  the  Earl  had  succeeded  to 
his  wishes,  and  was  Duke  of  Brittany.  Had  he  not 
been  thus  supported,  the  Lord  Charles  de  Blois  would 
have  possessed  seven  parts  of  Brittany,  and  the  Earl 


JEAN  FROISSART  319 

only  five.  You  have  read  how,  in  the  year  1347,  there 
was  a  grand  battle  before  la  Roche-derrien,  between 
the  forces  of  the  Countess  of  Montfort,  and  of  Sir 
Thomas  Hartwell  and  the  Lord  Charles  de  Blois,  in 
which  the  Lord  Charles  was  defeated,  and  carried  pris- 
oner to  England.  He  was  handsomely  entertained  there; 
for  that  noble  Queen  of  England,  the  good  Philippa 
(who,  in  my  youth,  was  my  lady  and  mistress),  was, 
in  a  direct  line,  his  cousin-german.  She  did  everything 
in  her  power  to  obtain  his  freedom,  which  the  council 
were  not  willing  to  grant.  Duke  Henry,  of  Lancaster, 
and  the  other  barons  of  England,  declared  that  he  ought 
not  to  have  his  liberty;  for  he  had  too  mighty  con- 
nections, and  that  Philip,  who  called  himself  King  of 
France,  was  his  uncle:  that  as  long  as  they  detained 
him  prisoner,  their  war  in  Brittany  would  be  the  better 
for  it.  Notwithstanding  these  remonstrances,  King  Ed- 
ward, through  the  persuasion  of  that  noble  and  good 
lady,  his  Queen,  agreed  to  his  ransom  for  two  hundred 
thousand  nobles;  and  his  two  sons  were  to  be  given 
as  hostages  for  the  payment  of  this  sum,  which  was 
very  considerable  to  the  Lord  Charles,  but  would  not 
now  be  so  to  a  Duke  of  Brittany.  The  lords  of  those 
days  were  differently  situated  from  what  they  are  at 
present,  when  greater  resources  are  found,  and  they 
can  tax  their  people  at  their  pleasure.  It  was  not  so 
then,  for  they  were  forced  to  content  themselves  with 
the  amount  of  their  landed  estates;  but  now,  the  duchy 
of  Brittany  would  easily  pay  for  the  aid  of  its  lord  two 
hundred  thousand  nobles  within  the  year,  or  within  two 
years  at  the  farthest. 

Thus  were  the  two  young  sons  of  the  Lord  Charles  de 
Blois  given  up  as  hostages  for  the  payment  of  his  ran- 
som. He  had,  afterward,  in  the  prosecution  of  his  war 
in  Brittany,  so  much  to  pay  his  soldiers,  and  support  his 
rank  and  state,  that  he  could  never,  during  his  lifetime, 
redeem  them.  He  was  slain  in  battle  at  Auray,  defend- 
ing his  right,  by  the  English  allies  of  the  Earl  of  Mont- 
fort,  and  by  none  others.  His  death,  however,  did  not 
put  an  end  to  the  war ;  but  King  Charles  of  France,  ever 


320  JEAN  FR01SSART 

fearing  the  effects  of  chance,  when  he  saw  the  Earl  of 
Montfort  was  conquering  all  Brittany,  suspected,  should 
he  wholly  succeed,  that  he  would  hold  the  duchy  inde- 
pendent of  paying  him  homage  for  it;  for  he  had  al- 
ready held  it  from  the  King  of  England,  who  had  so 
strenuously  assisted  him  in  the  war.  He  therefore  ne- 
gotiated with  the  Earl,  which,  having  been  already  men- 
tioned, I  shall  pass  over  here;  but  the  Earl  remained 
Duke  of  Brittany,  on  condition  that  his  homage  should 
be  paid  to  his  own  right  lord,  the  King  of  France.  The 
Duke  was  also  bound,  by  the  articles  of  the  treaty,  to 
assist  in  the  deliverance  of  his  two  cousins,  sons  of  the 
Lord  Charles  de  Blois,  who  were  prisoners  to  the  King 
of  England.  In  this,  however,  he  never  stirred;  for  he 
doubted,  if  they  should  return,  whether  they  would  not 
give  him  some  trouble,  and  whether  Brittany,  which  was 
more  inclined  toward  them  than  to  him,  would  not  ac- 
knowledge them  as  its  lord. 

For  this  reason  he  neglected  them,  and  they  remained 
so  long  prisoners  in  England,  under  the  guard,  at  one 
time  of  Sir  Roger  Beauchamp,  a  gallant  and  valiant 
knight,  and  his  Lady  Sybilla;  at  another  under  Sir 
Thomas  d'Ambreticourt,  that  the  youngest  brother,  Guy 
of  Brittany,  died.  John  of  Brittany  was  now  alone  pris- 
oner, and  frequently  bewailed  his  situation  with  wonder; 
for  he  was  sprung  from  the  noblest  blood  in  the  world, 
the  advantages  of  which  he  had  been  long  deprived  of; 
for  he  had  been  thirty-five  years  in  the  power  of  his 
enemies,  and,  as  he  perceived  no  appearance  of  help 
coming  to  him  from  any  quarter,  he  would  rather  have 
died  than  thus  have  existed.  His  relations  and  friends 
kept  at  a  distance,  and  the  sum  he  was  pledged  for  was 
so  great  that  he  could  never  have  procured  it  without  a 
miracle,  for  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  in  all  his  prosperity, 
though  the  person  who  had  married  his  sister-german, 
by  whom  he  had  two  fine  sons,  Lewis  and  Charles,  never 
once  thought  of  him. 

I  will  now  relate  how  John  of  Brittany  obtained  his 
liberty.  You  have  before  read  of  the  Earl  of  Bucking- 
ham's expedition  through  France  to  Brittany,  whither 


JEAN  FROISSART  &i 

the  duke  had  sent  for  him,  because  the  country  would 
not  acknowledge  him  for  it's  lord.  The  Earl  and  his 
army  remained  the  ensuing  winter,  in  great  distress,  be- 
fore Nantes  and  Vannes,  until  the  month  of  May,  when 
he  returned  to  England.  During  the  time  the  Earl  of 
Buckingham  was  at  Vannes,  you  may  remember,  there 
were  some  tilts  between  knight's  and  squires  of  France 
and  those  of  England,  and  that  the  Constable  of  France 
was  present.  There  was  much  conversation  kept  up  by 
him  and  the  English  knights;  for  he  was  acquainted 
with  them  all  from  his  childhood,  having  been  educated 
in  England.  He  behaved  very  politely  to  many  of  them, 
as  men-at-arms  usually  do,  and  the  French  and  English 
in  particular,  to  each  other;  but,  at  this  moment,  he 
was  more  attentive  as  he  had  an  object  in  view  which 
occupied  all  his  thoughts,  and  which  he  had  only  dis- 
closed to  a  single  person,  who  was  squire  of  honor  in  his 
household  and  had  served  the  Lord  Charles  de  Blois  in 
the  same  capacity.  If  the  Constable  had  made  it  more 
public,  he  would  not  have  succeeded  as  he  did,  through 
the  mercy  of  God,  and  his  own  perseverance. 

The  Constable  and  Duke  of  Brittany  had  for  a  long 
time  hated  each  other,  whatever  outward  appearances 
they  .might  put  on.  The  Constable  was  much  hurt  at 
the  length  of  the  imprisonment  of  John  of  Brittany,  and 
at  a  time  when  he  was  on  rather  better  terms  with  the 
duke,  said  to  him,  "  My  lord,  why  do  not  you  exert  your- 
self to  deliver  your  cousin  from  his  imprisonment  in 
England?  You  are  bound  to  do  so  by  treaty;  for  when 
the  nobles  of  Brittany,  the  prelates,  and  the  principal 
towns,  with  the  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  Sir  John  de 
Craon,  and  Sir  Boucicaut,  at  that  time  Marshal  oi 
France,  negotiated  with  you  for  peace  before  Quimper 
Corentin,  you  swore  you  would  do  your  utmost  to  liber- 
ate your  cousins  John  and  Guy,  and  as  yet  you  have 
never  done  anything;  know,  therefore,  that  the  country 
does  not  love  you  the  more  for  it."  The  duke  dissem- 
bled, and  said:  "Hold  your  tongue,  Sir  Oliver:  where 
shall  I  find  the  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  francs 
which  are  demanded  for  their  liberty?"  "My  lord/' 
VOL.  X.— 21 


322  JEAN  FROISSART 

replied  the  Constable,  "  if  Brittany  saw  you  were  really 
in  earnest  to  procure  their  freedom,  they  would  not 
murmur  at  any  tax  or  hearth-money  that  should  be  raised 
to  deliver  these  prisoners,  who  will  die  in  prison  un- 
less God  assist  them."  "  Sir  Oliver,"  said  the  duke, 
"  my  country  of  Brittany  shall  never  be  oppressed  by 
such  taxes.  My  cousins  have  great  princes  for  their 
relations;  and  the  King  of  France  or  Duke  of  Anjou 
ought  to  aid  them,  for  they  have  always  supported  them 
against  me.  When  I  swore,  indeed,  to  aid  them  in  their 
deliverance,  it  was  always  my  intention  that  the  King 
of  France  and  their  other  relations  should  find  the  money, 
and  that  I  would  join  my  entreaties."  The  Constable 
could  never  obtain  more  from  the  Duke. 

The  Constable,  therefore,  when  at  these  tournaments 
at  Vannes,  saw  clearly  that  the  Earl  of  Buckingham  and 
the  English  barons  and  squires  were  greatly  dissatisfied 
with  the  Duke  of  Brittany  for  not  having  opened  his 
towns  to  them,  as  he  had  promised,  when  they  left  Eng- 
land. The  English  near  Hennebon  and  Vannes  were  in 
such  distress  that  they  frequently  had  not  wherewithal 
to  feed  themselves,  and  their  horses  were  dying  through 
famine:  they  were  forced  to  gather  thistles,  bruise  them 
in  a  mortar,  and  make  a  paste  which  they  cooked.  While 
they  were  thus  suffering,  they  said:  "This  Duke  of 
Brittany  does  not  acquit  himself  loyally  of  his  promises 
to  us,  who  have  put  him  in  possession  of  his  duchy; 
and,  if  we  may  be  believed,  we  can  as  easily  take  it 
from  him  as  we  have  given  it  to  him,  by  setting  at 
liberty  his  enemy,  John  of  Brittany,  whom  the  country 
love  in  preference.  We  cannot  any  way  revenge  our- 
selves better,  nor  sooner  make  him  lose  his  country." 
The  Constable  was  well  informed  of  all  these  murmurs 
and  discontents,  which  were  no  way  displeasing  to  him  ; 
on  the  contrary,  for  one  murmur  he  wished  there  had 
been  twelve;  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it,  and  only  spoke 
of  what  he  had  heard  to  his  squire,  whose  name,  I  think,, 
was  John  Rolland. 

It  happened  that  Sir  John  Charlton,  governor  of  Cher- 
bourg, came  to  Chateau  Josselin,  where  the  Constable 
resided,  who  entertained  him  and  his  company  most 


JEAN  FROISSART  323 

splendidly;   and  to   obtain  their   friendship,  out  of  his 
special  favor,  escorted  them  himself  until  they  were  in 
safety.    During  the  time  of  dinner,  the  before-mentioned 
squire  addressed  Sir  John  Charlton,  saying,  "  Sir  John, 
you  can,  if  you  please,  do  me  a  very  great  favor,  which 
will  cost  you  nothing."    "  From  friendship  to  the  Con- 
stable,"   replied    Sir    John,    "I    wish    it   may    cost    me 
something:  what  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?"    "  Sir,"  re- 
plied he,  "  that  I  may  have  your  passport  to  go  to  Eng- 
land, to  my  master,  John  of  Brittany,  whom  I  am  more 
anxious  to  see  than  anything  in  the  world."    "By  my 
faith,"  said  Sir  John,  "  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  you  do 
not.    On  my  return  to  Cherbourg,  I  shall  cross  over  to 
England:  come  with  me,  therefore,  and  you  shall  ac- 
company me,  and  I  will  have  you  conducted  to  him,  for 
your  request  cannot  be  refused."    "A  thousand  thanks; 
my  lord,  I  shall  ever  remember  your  goodness."    The 
squire  returned  with   Sir  John  Charlton  to  Cherbourg; 
when,   having   arranged   his   affairs,   he  embarked,   and 
made   straight  for  London,  attended  by  John  Rolland, 
whom  he  had  conducted  to  the  castle  where  John  of 
Brittany  was   confined.    John  of   Brittany  did   not,   at 
first,  recollect  him;  but  he  soon  made  himself  known, 
and  they  had  a  long  conversation,  in  which  he  told  him 
that  if  he  would  exert  himself  to  procure  his  freedom, 
the  Constable  would  make  the  greatest  efforts  to  second 
him.    John  of  Brittany,  desiring  nothing  more  eagerly, 
asked,  "  By  what  means ? "    "I  will  tell  you,  my  lord : 
the  Constable  has  a  handsome  daughter  whom  he  wishes 
to  marry,  and  if  you  will  promise  and  swear  that  on 
your  return  to  Brittany  you  will  marry  her,  he  will  ob- 
tain your  liberty,  as  he  has  discovered  the  means  of 
doing  it"    John  of  Brittany  replied,  "he  would  truly 
do  so;"  adding,   "when  you  return  to  the   Constable, 
assure  him  from  me  that  there  is  nothing  I  am  not  ready 
to  do  for  my  liberty,  and  that  I  accept  of  his  daughter 
and  will  cheerfully  marry  her."    They  had  several  other 
conversations  together  before  the  squire  left   England 
and  embarked   for   Brittany,   where  he   related  to   the 
Constable  all  that  had  passed. —  Froissarfs  Chronicles. 


324          OCTAVIUS  BROOKS  FROTHINGHAM 


pROTHINGHAM,  OCTAVIUS  BROOKS,  an 
American  clergyman,  son  of  N.  L.  Frothing- 
ham;  born  at  Boston,  November  26,  1822; 
died  there  November  27,  1895.  He  was  graduated 
from  Harvard  in  1843,  studied  at  the  Cambridge 
Divinity  School,  and  in  1847  became  pastor  of  the 
North  Church  (Unitarian),  Salem,  Mass.  In  1855 
he  removed  to  Jersey  City,  and  in  1860  became  min- 
ister of  a  newly  formed  society  in  New  York,  which 
took  the  name  of  the  "  Third  Unitarian  Congrega- 
tional Church."  He  retained  this  position  until  1879, 
when  the  society  was  dissolved,  and  Mr.  Frothingham 
spent  the  subsequent  two  years  in  Europe.  After  his 
return  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to  literary  work. 
Besides  numerous  published  sermons,  and  frequent 
contributions  to  periodicals,  he  published  The  Parables 
'(1864)  ;  Religion  of  Humanity  (1873)  >  Life  of  Theo- 
dore Parker  (1874)  ;  Transcendentalism  in  New  Eng- 
land (1876) ;  Spirit  of  the  New  Faith  (1877)  ;  Biog- 
raphy of  Gerrit  Smith  (1878); 'with  Felix  Adler, 
The  Radical  Pulpit  (1883)  ;  Memoir  of  William  Ellery 
Channing  (1887);  Boston  Unitarianism  (1890),  and 
Recollections  and  Impressions  (1891). 

THE  BELIEFS   OF   UNBELIEVERS. 

In  every  age  of  Christendom  there  have  been  men 
whom  the  Church  named  "  infidels/'  and  thrust  down 
into  the  abyss  of  moral  reprobation.  The  oldest  of  these 
are  forgotten  with  the  generations  that  gave  them  birth. 
The  only  ones  now  actively  anathematized  lived  within 
the  last  hundred  years,  and  owe  the  blackness  of  thezr 
reputation  to  the  assaults  they  made  on  superstitions 
that  are  still  powerful,  and  dogmas  that  are  still  su- 


0.  B.  FROTHIKGHAM. 


OCTAVIUS  BROOKS  FROTHINGHAM          325 

preme.  The  names  of  Chubb,  Toland,  and  Tindal,  of 
Herbert  of  Cherbury,  Shaftesbury,  and  Bolingbroke, 
though  seldom  spoken  now,  are  mentioned,  when  they 
are  mentioned,  with  bitterness.  The  names  of  Voltaire 
and  Rousseau  recall  at  once  venomous  verdicts  that  our 
own  ears  have  heard.  The  memory  of  Thomas  Paine 
is  still  a  stench  in  modern  nostrils,  though  he  has  been 
dead  sixty  years,  so  deep  a  damnation  has  been  fixed 
on  his  name.  .  .  . 

Sceptics  these  men  and  others  were:  I  claim  for  them 
that  honor.  It  is  their  title  to  immortality.  Doubt- 
less they  were,  in  many  things,  deniers — "infidels,"  if 
you  will.  They  made  short  work  of  creed  and  cate- 
chism, of  sacrament  and  priest,  of  tradition  and  formula. 
Miraculous  revelations,  inspired  Bibles,  authoritative 
dogmas,  dying  Gods,  and  atoning  Saviours,  infallible 
Apostles,  and  Churches  founded  by  the  Holy  Ghost,  ec- 
clesiastical heavens  and  hells,  with  other  fictions  of  the 
sort,  their  minds  could  not  harbor.  They  criticised  merci- 
lessly the  drama  of  the  Redemption,  and  spoke  more 
roughly  than  prudently  of  the  great  mysteries  of  the 
Godhead.  But,  after  their  fashion,  they  were  great  be- 
lievers. In  the  interest  of  faith  they  doubted;  in  the 
interest  of  faith  they  denied.  Their  "  Nay "  was  an  un- 
couth method  of  pronouncing  "Yea."  They  were  after 
the  truth,  and  supposed  themselves  to  be  removing  a 
rubbish  pile  to  reach  it  Toland,  whose  Christianity  Not 
Mysterious  was  presented  by  the  Grand  Jury  of  Dublin, 
and  condemned  to  the  flames  by  the  Irish  Parliament, 
while  the  author  fled  from  Government  prosecution  to 
England,  professed  himself  sincerely  attached  to  the 
pure  religion  of  Jesus,  and  anxious  to  exhibit  it  free 
from  the  corruption  of  after  times.  Thomas  Paine  wrote 
his  Age  of  Reason  as  a  check  to  the  progress  of  French 
atheism,  fearing  "lest  in  the  general  wreck  of  super- 
stition, of  false  systems  of  government,  and  false  the- 
ology, we  lose  sight  of  morality,  of  humanity,  and  of 
the  theology  that  is  true/'  *  .  . 

These  devout  unbeliefs  were  born  of  the  spirit  of  the 
age.  It  was  an  age  —  rather,  let  me  call  it  a  series  of 
ages  —  in  which  great  events  occurred-  There  had  been 


326         OCTAVIUS  BROOKS  FROTHINGHAM 

a  terrible  shaking  of  thrones  and  altars.  The  axe  had 
fallen  on  the  neck  of  a  king,  and  the  halberd  had  smit- 
ten the  image  of  many  saints.  Scarcely  an  authority 
stood  fast.  None  was  unchallenged.  The  brain  of  Ba- 
con had  discharged  its  force  into  the  intellectual  world. 
Newton's  torch  was  flinging  its  beams  to  the  confines 
of  creation.  The  national  genius  sparkled  in  constella- 
tions of  brilliant  men;  Continental  literature  was  pour- 
ing into  England  the  speculative  mind  of  Holland,  the 
dramatic  writing  and  criticism  of  France.  There  was 
new  thought  and  fresh  purpose;  a  determination  to 
know  and  do  something;  a  sense  of  intellectual  and 
moral  power,  that  portended  great  changes  in  Church 
and  State.  The  infidels  were  the  men  who  felt  this 
spirit  first.  They  were  its  children;  they  gave  it  voice; 
it  gave  them  strength.  They  trusted  in  it.  Fidelity  to 
its  call  was  their  faith.  They  believed  in  the  sovereignty 
of  Reason,  the  rights  of  the  individual  Conscience:  and 
they  cherished  a  generous  confidence  in  the  impulses 
of  an  emancipated  and  ennobled  humanity.  They  had 
that  faith  in  human  nature  which,  indeed,  is,  and  ever 
has  been  the  faith  of  faiths.  It  is  a  faith  hard  to  hold. 
These  infidels  must  have  found  it  so  in  their  times. 
When  shall  we  honor,  at  its  due,  the  heroism  of  Protest, 
the  valor  of  Disbelief?  When  shall  we  give  to  the  mar- 
tyrdom of  Denial  its  glorious  crown?  —  Belief  of  the 
Unbelievers. 

THEODORE  PARKER. 

With  him  the  religious  element  was  supreme.  It  had 
roots  in  his  being  wholly  distinct  from  its  mental  or 
sensible  forms  of  expression  —  completely  distinguished 
from  theology,  which  claimed  to  give  an  account  of  it  in 
words,  and  from  ceremonies,  which  claimed  to  embody 
it  in  rites  and  symbols.  Never  evaporating  in  mystical 
dreams,  nor  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  cunning  specula- 
tion, it  preserved  the  freshness  and  bloom  and  fragrance 
in  every  passage  of  his  life.  His  sense  of  divine  things 
was  as  strong  as  was  ever  felt  by  a  man  of  such  clear 
intelligence.  His  feeling  for  divine  things  never  lost  its 


OCTAVIUS  BROOKS  PROTHINGHAM          327 

glow;  never  was  damped  by  misgiving,  dimmed  by  doubt, 
or  clouded  by  sorrow.  The  intensity  of  his  faith  in 
Providence,  and  of  his  assurance  of  personal  immortal- 
ity, seems  almost  fanatical  to  modern  men  who  sympa- 
thize in  general  with  his  philosophy.  ...  All  the 
materialists  in  and  out  of  Christendom  had  no  power 
to  shake  his  ^conviction  of  the  infinite  God  and  the  im- 
mortal existence:  nor  would  have  had,  had  he  lived 
until  he  was  a  century  old;  for,  in  his  view  the  convic- 
tions were  planted  deep  in  human  nature,  and  were  de- 
manded by  the  exigencies  of  human  life.  The  services 
they  rendered  to  mankind  would  have  been  their  suffi- 
cient justification,  had  he  found  no  other;  and  in  this 
aspect  they  interested  him  chiefly.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  said  that  Parker  accomplished  nothing 
final  as  a  religious  reformer;  that  if  he  thought  of  him- 
self as  the  inaugurator  of  a  second  Reformation  —  a  ref- 
ormation of  Protestantism  —  the  leader  of  a  new  "  de- 
parture/' as  significant  and  momentous  as  that  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  he  deceived  himself.  Luther,  it  is 
said,  found  a  stopping-place,  a  terminus,  and  erected 
a  "station/'  where  nearly  half  of  Christendom  have 
been  content  to  stay  for  three  hundred  years,  and  will 
linger,  perhaps,  three  hundred  years  longer.  Parker 
stretched  a  tent  near  what  proved  to  be  a  "branch- 
road,"  where  a  considerable  number  of  travellers  will 
pause  on  their  journey,  and  refresh  themselves,  while 
waiting  for  the  "through-train."  That  Parker  thought 
otherwise,  that  he  believed  himself  sent  to  proclaim  and 
define  the  faith  of  the  next  thousand  years,  merely  gives 
another  illustration  of  the  delusions  to  which  even  great 
minds  are  subject.  Already  thought  has  swept  beyond 
him;  already  faith  has  struck  into  other  paths,  and 
taken  up  new  positions.  The  scientific  method  has  sup- 
plemented the  theological  and  the  sentimental,  and  has 
carried  many  over  to  the  new  regions  of  belief.  Parker 
is  a  great  name,,  was  a  great  power,  and  will  be  a  great 
memory;  but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  did  the  work  of  a  Vol- 
taire or  a  Rousseau;  that  he  did  not  do  the  work  of  a 
Luther  is  not  doubtful  at  all.  Certainly,  Parker  was 
not  a  discoverer.  He  originated  no  doctrine;  he  struck 


328         OCTAVIUS  BROOKS  FROTHINGHAM 

out  no  path.  His  religious  philosophy  existed  before 
his  day,  and  owed  to  him  no  fresh  development.  But 
he  was  the  first  great  popular  expounder  of  it;  the 
first  who  undertook  to  make  it  the  basis  of  a  faith  for 
the  common  people;  the  first  who  planted  it  as  the 
corner-stone  of  the  working-religion  of  mankind,  and 
published  it  as  the  ground  of  a  new  spiritual  structure, 
distinct  from  both  Romanism  and  Protestantism.  .  .  . 
The  ethics  of  Theodore  Parker  grew  from  the  same 
root  as  his  religion,  and  were  part  of  the  same  system. 
These,  too,  rested  on  the  spiritual  philosophy  —  the  phi- 
losophy of  intuition.  He  believed  that  to  the  human 
Conscience  was  made  direct  revelation  of  the  eternal 
law;  that  the  moral  nature  looked  righteousness  in  the 
face.  He  was  acquainted  with  the  objections  to  this 
doctrine.  The  opposite  philosophy  of  Utilitarianism  — 
whether  taught  by  Bentham  or  by  Mill  —  was  well  known 
to  him,  but  was  wholly  unsatisfactory.  Sensationalism 
in  morals  was  as  absurd,  in  his  judgment,  as  sensa- 
tionalism in  faith.  The  Quaker  doctrine  of  the  "inner 
light"  was  nearer  the  truth,  as  he  saw  it,  than  the 
"  experience  "  doctrine  of  Herbert  Spencer.  Experience 
might  assist  conscience,  but  create  it  never.  Conscience 
might  consult  even  expediency  for  its  methods;  but 
for  it's  parentage  it  must,  look  elsewhere.  Conscience, 
for  him,  was  the  authority,  divine,  .ultimate.  He  obeyed, 
even  if  it  commanded  the  cutting  off  of  the  right 
hand  or  the  plucking  out  of  the  right  eye.  He  would 
not  compromise  a  principle,  wrong  a  neighbor,  take 
what  was  not  fairly  his,  tell  a  falsehood,  betray  a  trust, 
break  a  pledge,  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  cry  of  human 
misery,  for  all  the  world  could  give  him.  At  the  heart 
of  every  matter  there  was  a  right  and  a  wrong,  both 
easily  discernible  by  the  simplest  mind.  The  right  was 
eternally  right;  the  wrong  was  eternally  wrong;  and 
eternal  consequences  were  involved  in  either.  Philoso- 
phers might  find  fault  with  his  psychology  —  they  did 
find  fault  with  it.  He  answered  them,  if  he  could ;  if  he 
could  not,  he  left  them  answerless:  but  for  himself,  he 
never  doubted,  but  leaned  against  his  pillar. —  Biography 
of  Theodore  Parker** 


JAMES   ANTHONY  FROUW5, 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDB  329 


IOUDE,  JAMES  ANTHONY,  an  English  histo- 
rian and  biographer;  born  at  Darlington, 
Devonshire,  April  23,  1818;  died  at  Salcornbe, 
October  20,  1894.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster 
School,  and  at  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  and  in  1842  be- 
came a  Fellow  of  Exeter  College.  In  1844  he  was 
ordained  a  deacon  in  the  Established  Church,  and  for 
some  time  was  reckoned  as  one  of  the  High  Church 
party  of  whom  J.  H.  Newman  was  a  leader.  At  this 
time  he  wrote  many  biographies  in  the  series  entitled 
Lives  of  the  English  Saints.  In  1847  he  published 
anonymously  a  volume  of  fiction  entitled  Shadows  of 
the  Clouds.  In  1848  appeared  his  Nemesis  of  Faith, 
which  evinced  that  he  had  come  to  differ  widely  from 
the  doctrines  of  the  Anglican  Church.  His  two  works 
were  severely  censured  by  the  authorities  of  the 
University.  He  then  resigned  his  Fellowship,  and 
was  obliged  to  give  up  an  appointment  which  he  had 
received  of  a  teachership  in  Tasmania.  After  this, 
for  some  years,  he  wrote  largely  for  the  Westminster 
Review  and  for  Fraser*s  Magazine,  becoming  ulti- 
mately for  a  short  time  the  editor  of  the  latter  peri- 
odical. He  had  in  the  meantime  begun  his  History 
of  England  from  the  Fall  of  Wohey  to  the  Defeat  of 
the  Spanish  Armada.  This  History  extends  to  twelve 
volumes,  of  which  the  first  two  appeared  in  1856,  and 
the  last  two  in  1870.  In  1867  he  put  forth  a  volume 
of  Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects,  consisting  of  Es- 
says which  had  already  been  printed  in  various  peri- 
odicals. In  1872  he  formally  laid  down  his  function 
of  deacon  in  the  Anglican  Church,  and  in  the  same 
year  made  a  tour  of  the  United  States,  where  he 


330  JAMES  ANTHONY  FRO  UDE 

delivered  a  series  of  lectures  on  the  relations  existing 
between  England  and  Ireland.  Near  the  close  of 
1874  Mr.  Froude  was  commissioned  by  the  Secretary 
of  State  for  the  Colonies  to  visit  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  in  order  to  investigate  the  causes  which  led  to 
-the  Kaffir  insurrection.  He  also  published  The  En- 
glish in  Ireland  in  the  Eighteenth  Century  (1871-74) ; 
Casar,  a  Sketch  (1879);  Biography  of  Thomas 
Carlyle  (1882-84),  and  Oceana,  an  account  of  a  tour 
through  the  British  Colonial  possessions  (1886).  Be- 
sides writing  the  "Biography  of  Carlyle/'  he  edited 
his  f<  Reminiscences/' 

His  last  works  include  The  English  in  the  West 
Indies  (1888);  Two  Chiefs  of  Duriboy,  an  Irish  ro- 
mance (1889);  Life  of  Lord  Beacons-field  (1890); 
The  Divorce  of  Catherine  of  Aragon  (1891) ;  Story 
of  the  Armada  (1892) ;  Life  and  Letters  of  Erasmus 
( 1894)'.  He  became  Regius  .Professor  of  History  in 
the  University  of  Oxford  in  1892. 

EXECUTION   OF  MARY,   QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

Briefly,  solemnly,  and  sternly,  the  Commissioners  de- 
livered their  awful  message.  They  informed  her  that 
they  had  received  a  commission  tinder  the  great  seal  to 
see  her  executed,  and  she  was  told  that  she  must  pre- 
pare to  suffer  on  the  following  morning.  She  was  dread- 
fully agitated.  For  a  moment  she  refused  to  believe 
them.  Then,  as  the  truth  forced  itself  upon  her,  tossing 
her  head  in  disdain,  and  struggling  to  control  herself, 
she  called  her  physician,  and  began  to  speak  to  him 
of  money  that  was  owed  to  her  in  France.  At  last  it 
seems  that  she  broke  down  altogether,  and  they  left  her 
with  a  fear  either  that  she  would  destroy  herself  in  the 
night,  or  that  she  would  refuse  to  come  to  the  scaffold, 
and  that  it  might  be  necessary  to  drag  her  there  by 
violence. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  331 

The  end  had  come.  She  had  long-  professed  to  expect 
it,  but  the  clearest  expectation  is  not  certainty.  The 
scene  for  which  she  had  affected  to  prepare  she  was  to 
encounter  in  its  dread  reality,  and  all  her  busy  schemes, 
her  dreams  of  vengeance,  her  visions  of  a  revolution, 
with  herself  ascending  out  of  the  convulsion  and  seating 
herself  on  her  rival's  throne  —  all  were  gone.  She  had 
played  deep,  and  the  dice  had  gone  against  her. 

Yet  in  death,  if  she  encountered  it  bravely,  victory 
was  still  possible.  Could  she  but  sustain  to  the  last  the 
character  of  a  calumniated  suppliant  accepting  heroically 
for  God's  sake  and  her  creed's  the  concluding  stroke 
of  a  long  series  of  wrongs,  she  might  stir  a  tempest  of 
indignation  which,  if  it  could  not  save  herself,  might  at 
least  overwhelm  her  enemy.  Persisting,  as  she  per- 
sisted to  the  last,  in  denying  all  knowledge  of  Babing- 
ton,  it  would  be  affectation  to  credit  her  with  a  genuine 
feeling  of  religion;  but  the  imperfection  of  her  motive 
exalts  the  greatness  of  her  fortitude.  To  an  impassioned 
believer  death  is  comparatively  easy.  .  .  . 

At  eight  in  the  morning  the  provost-marshal  knocked 
at  the  outer  door  which  communicated  with  her  suite  of 
apartments.  It  was  locked,  and  no  one  answered,  and 
he  went  back  in  some  trepidation  lest  the  fears  might 
prove  true  which  had  been  entertained  the  preceding 
evening.  On  his  return  with  the  sheriff,  however,  a  few 
minutes  later,  the  ( door  was  open,  and  they  were  con- 
fronted with  the  tall,  majestic  figure  of  Mary  Stuart 
standing  before  them  in  splendor.  The  plain  gray  dress 
had  been  exchanged  for  a  robe  of  black  satin;  her  jacket 
was  of  black  satin  also,  looped  and  slashed  and  trimmed 
with  velvet.  Her  false  hair  was  arranged  studiously 
with  a  coif,  and  over  her  head  and  falling  down  over 
her  back  was  a  white  veil  of  delicate  lawn.  A  crucifix 
of  gold  hung  from  her  neck.  In  her  hand  she  held 
a  crucifix  of  ivory,  and  a  number  of  jewelled  pater- 
nosters were  attached  to  her  girdle.  Led  by  two  of 
Paulet's  gentlemen,  the  sheriff  walking  before  her,  she 
passed  to  the  chamber  of  presence  in  which  she  had  been 
tried,  where  Shrewsbury,  Kent,  Paulet,  Drury,  and  others 
were  waiting  to  receive  her.  Andrew  Melville,  Sir  Rob- 


332  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

ert's  brother,  who  had  been  master  of  her  household, 
was  kneeling  in  tears.  "  Melville,"  she  said,  "  you  should 
rather  rejoice  than  weep  that  the  end  of  my  troubles 
is  come.  Tell  my  friends  I  die  a  true  Catholic.  Com- 
mend me  to  my  son.  Tell  him  I  have  done  nothing  to 
prejudice  his  kingdom  of  Scotland,  and  so,  good  Melville, 
farewell."  She  kissed  him,  and  turning,  asked  for  her 
chaplain  Du  Preau.  He  was  not  present.  There  had 
been  a  fear  of  some  religious  melodrama  which  it  was 
thought  well  to  avoid.  Her  ladies,  who  had  attempted 
to  follow  her,  had  been  kept  back  also.  She  could  not 
afford  to  leave  the  account  of  her  death  to  be  reported 
by  enemies  and  Puritans,  and  she  required  assistance 
for  the  scene  which  she  meditated.  Missing  them,  she 
asked  the  reason  of  their  absence,  and  said  she  wished 
them  to  see  her  die.  Kent  said  he  feared  they  might 
scream  or  faint,  or  attempt  perhaps  to  dip  their  hand- 
kerchiefs in  her  blood.  She  undertook  that  they  should 
be  quiet  and  obedient.  "  The  Queen/'  she  said,  "  would 
never  deny  her  so  slight  a  request ; "  and  when  Kent 
still  hesitated,  she  added,  with  tears,  "You  know  I  am 
cousin  to  your  Queen,  of  the  blood  of  Henry  the  Seventh, 
a  married  Queen  of  France,  and  anointed  Queen  of  Scot- 
land." 

It  was  impossible  to  refuse.  She  was  allowed  to 
take  six  of  her  own  people  with  her,  and  select  them 
herself.  She  chose  her  physician  Burgoyne,  Andrew 
Melville,  the  apothecary  Gorion,  and  her  surgeon,  with 
two  ladies,  Elizabeth  Kennedy  and  Curie's  young  wife 
Barbara  Mowbray,  whose  child  she  had  baptized.  "  Allans 
done"  she  then  said,  "let  us  go;"  and  passing  out 
attended  by  the  earls,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  an 
officer  of  the  guard,  she  descended  the  great  staircase  to 
the  hall.  The  news  had  spread  far  through  the  country. 
Thousands  of  people  were  collected  outside  the  walls. 
About  three  hundred  knights  and  gentlemen  of  the  coun- 
try had  been  admitted  to  witness  the  execution.  The 
tables  and  forms  had  been  removed,  and  a  great  wood 
fire  was  blazing  in  the  chimney.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  hall,  above  the  fireplace,  but  near  it,  stood  the 
scaffold,  twelve  feet  square,  and  two  feet  and  a  half 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  333 

high.  It  was  covered  with  black  cloth;  a  low  rail  ran 
round  it  covered  with  black  cloth  also,  and  the  sheriff's 
guard  of  halberdiers  were  ranged  on  the  floor  below  on 
the  four  sides,  to  keep  off  the  crowd.  On  the  scaffold 
was  the  block,  black  like  the  rest;  a  square  black  cushion 
was  placed  behind  it,  and  behind  the  cushion  a  black 
chair;  on  the  right  were  two  other  chairs  for  the  earls. 
The  axe  leant  against  the  rail,  and  two  masked  figures 
stood  like  mutes  on  either  side  at  the  back.  The  Queen 
of  Scots,  as  she  swept  in,  seemed  as  if  coming  to  take 
a  part  in  some  solemn  pageant.  Not  a  muscle  of  her 
face  could  be  seen  to  quiver;  she  ascended  the  scaffold 
•with  absolute  composure,  looked  round  her  smiling,  and 
sat  down.  Shrewsbury  and  Kent  followed,  and  took 
their  places,  the  sheriff  stood  at  her  left  hand,  and  Beale 
then  mounted  a  platform,  and  read  the  warrant  aloud. 

She  laid  her  crucifix  on  her  chair.  The  chief  execu- 
tioner took  it  as  a  perquisite,  but  was  ordered  instantly 
to  lay  it  down.  The  lawn  veil  was  lifted  carefully  off, 
not  to  disturb  the  hair,  and  was  hung  upon  the  rail. 
The  black  robe  was  next  removed.  Below  it  was  a  pet- 
ticoat of  crimson  velvet.  The  black  jacket  followed,  and 
under  the  jacket  was  a  body  of  crimson  satin.  One 
of  her  ladies  handed  her  a  pair  of  crimson  sleeves,  with 
which  she  hastily  covered  her  arms:  and  thus  she  stood 
on  the  black  scaffold  with  the  black  figures  all  around 
her,  blood-red  from  head  to  foot  Her  reasons  for  adopt- 
ing so  extraordinary  a  costume  must  be  left  to  conjecture. 
It  is  only  certain  that  it  must  have  been  carefully  studied, 
and  that  the  pictorial  effect  must  have  been  appalling. 

The  women,  whose  firmness  had  hitherto  borne  the 
trial,  began  now  to  give  way;  spasmodic  sobs  bursting 
from  them  which  they  could  not  check.  "Ne  criez  vous" 
she  said,  "  fai  promts  pour  vous."  Struggling  bravely, 
they  crossed  their  breasts  again  and  again,  she  crossing 
them  in  turn,  and  bidding  them  pray  for  her.  Then 
she  knelt  on  the  cushion.  Barbara  Mowbray  bound  her 
eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  "Adieu"  she  said,  smiling 
for  the  last  time,  and  waving  her  hand  to  them ;  "  adieu, 
au  revoir"  They  stepped  back  from  off  the  scaffold, 
and  left  her  alone.  On  her  knees  she  repeated  the  psalm, 


334  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

"In  tef  Domine,  confido,"  "In  thee,  O  Lord,  have  I  put 
my  trust."  Her  shoulders  being  exposed,  two  scars  be- 
came visible,  one  on  either  side,  and  the  earls  being 
now  a  little  behind  her,  Kent  pointed  to  them  with  his 
white  wand,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  his  companion. 
Shrewsbury  whispered  that  they  were  the  remains  of 
two  abscesses  from  which  she  had  suffered  while  living 
with  him  at  Sheffield. 

When  the  psalm  was  finished  she  felt  for  the  block, 
and,  laying  down  her  head,  muttered:  "In  manus, 
Domine,  tuas,  commendo  animam  me  am"  The  hard 
wood  seemed  to  hurt  her,  for  she  placed  her  hands  under 
her  neck.  The  executioners  gently  removed  them,  lest 
they  should  deaden  the  blow,  and  then  one  of  them 
holding  her  slightly,  the  other  raised  the  axe  and  struck. 
The  scene  had  been  too  trying  even  for  the  practised 
headsman  of  the  Tower.  The  blow  fell  on  the  knot  of 
the  handkerchief,  and  scarcely  broke  the  skin.  She 
neither  spoke  nor  moved.  He  struck  again,  this  time 
effectively.  The  head  hung  by  a  shred  of  skin  which  he 
divided  without  withdrawing  the  axe;  and  at  once  a 
metamorphosis  was  witnessed,  strange  as  was  ever 
wrought  by  wand  of  fabled  enchanter.  The  coif  fell  off 
and  the  false  plaits.  The  labored  illusion  vanished.  The 
lady  who  had  knelt  before  the  block  was  in  the  maturity 
of  grace  and  loveliness.  The  executioner,  when  he  raised 
the  head,  as  usual,  to  show  to  the  crowd,  exposed  the 
withered  features  of  a  grizzled,  wrinkled  old  woman. 

"  So  perish  all  enemies  of  the  Queen,"  said  the  Dean 
of  Peterborough.  A  loud  amen  rose  over  the  hall. 

"  Such  end,"  said  the  Earl  of  Kent,  rising  and  stand- 
ing over  the  body,  "to  the  Queen's  and  the  Gospel's 
enemies." — History  of  England. 

THE  WHITE  TERRACE,  LAKE  TARAWARA,  NEW  ZEALAND. 

In  the  morning  we  had  to  start  early,  for  we  had  a 
long  day's  work  cut  out  for  us.  We  were  on  foot  at 
seven.  The  weather  was  fine,  with  a  faint,  cool  breeze, 
a  few  clouds,  but  no  sign  of  rain.  Five  Maori  boatmen 
were  in  attendance  to  carry  coats  and  luncheon-basket. 


JAMES*  ANTHONY  FROUDE  335 

Kate*  presented  herself  with  a  subdued  demeanor,  as 
agreeable  as  it  was  unexpected.  She  looked  picturesque, 
with  a  grey,  tight-fitting  woollen  bodice,  a  scarlet  skirt, 
a  light  scarf  about  her  neck,  and  a  gray  billicock  hat 
with  a  pink  ribbon.  She  had  a  headache,  she  said,  but 
was  mild  and  gentile.  I  disbelieved  entirely  in  the  story 
of  the  eight  husbands. 

We  descended  to  the  lake  head.  The  boat  was  a  long, 
light  gig,  unfit  for  storms,  but  Lake  Tarawara  lay  un- 
ruffled in  the  sunshine,  tree  and  mountain  peacefully 
mirrored  on  the  surface.  The  color  was  again  green,  as 
of  a  shallow  sea.  Heavy  bushes  fringed  the  shore; 
high,  wooded  mountains  rose  on  all  sides  of  us,  as  we 
left  the  creek  and  came  out  upon  the  open  water.  The 
men  rowed  well,  laughing  and  talking  among  themselves, 
and  carried  us  in  a  little  more  than  an  hour  to  a  point 
eight  miles  distant.  We  were  now  in  an  arm  of  the  lake 
which  reached  three  miles  further.  At  the  head  of  this 
we  landed  by  the  mouth  of  a  small,  rapid  river,  and 
looked  about  us.  It  was  a  pretty  spot,  overhung  by  pre- 
cipitous cliffs,  with  ivy  fern  climbing  over  them.  A  hot- 
spring  was  bubbling  violently  through  a  hole  in  the  rock. 
The  ground  was  littered  with  the  shells  of  unnumbered 
crayfish  which  had  been  boiled  in  this  caldron  of  Nature's 
providing. 

Here  we  were  joined  by  a  native  girl,  Marileha  by 
name,  a  bright-looking  lass  of  eighteen,  with  merry  eyes, 
and  a  thick,  well-combed  mass  of  raven  hair  (shot  with 
orange  in  the  sunlight)  which  she  tossed  about  over  her 
shoulders.  On  her  back,  thrown  jauntily  on,  she  had  a 
shawl  of  feathers,  which  Elphinstone  wanted  to  buy,  but 

*Kate  had  already  been  described,  "a  big,  half-caste,  bony  woman 
of.  forty,  stone-deaf,  with  a  form  like  an  Amazon's,   features  like  a 


told  that  she  had  had  eight  husbands,  and  on  my  asking  what*  had  be- 
come of  them,  I  got  for  answer  that  they  had  died  away  somehow. 
Poor  Katel  I  don't  know  that  she  had  ever  had  so  much  as  one. 
There  were  lying  tongues  at  Wairoa  as  well  as  in  other  places.  She 
was  a  httle  elated,  I  believe,  when  we  first  saw  her;  but  was  quiet 
and  womanly  enough  next  day.  Her  strength  she  had  done  good  ser- 
vice with,  and  ^she  herself  was  probably  better,  and  not  worse,  than 
many  of  her  neighbors." 


336  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDB 

found  the  young  lady  coy.  She  was  a  friend  of  Kate's, 
it  appeared,  was  qualifying  for  a  guide,  and  was  to  be 
our  companion,  we  were  told,  through  the  day.  I  heard 
the  news  with  some  anxiety,  for  there  was  said  to  be  a 
delicious  basin  of  lukewarm  water  on  one  of  the  terraces, 
in  which  custom  required  us  to  bathe.  Our  two  lady- 
guides  would  provide  towels,  and  officiate,  in  fact,  as 
bathing-women.  The  fair  Polycasta  had  bathed  Tele- 
machus,  and  the  queenly  Helen  with  her  own  royal  hands 
had  bathed  Ulysses  when  he  came  disguised  to  Troy. 
So  Kate  was  to  bathe  us,  and  Miss  Marileha  was  to  as- 
sist in  the  process. 

We  took  off  our  boots  and  stockings,  and  put  on  can- 
vas shoes  which  a  wetting  would  not  spoil,  and  followed 
our  two  guides  through  the  bush,  waiting  for  what  fate 
had  in  store  for  us,  Miss  Mari  laughing,  shouting,  and 
singing,  to  amuse  Kate,  whose  head  still  ached.  After 
a  winding  walk  of  half  a  mile,  we  came  again  on  the 
river,  which  was  rushing  deep  and  swift  through  reeds 
and  ti-trees.  A  rickety  canoe  was  waiting  there,  in 
which  we  crossed,  climbed  up  a  bank,  and  stretched  be- 
fore us  we  saw  the  White  Terrace  in  all  its  strangeness ; 
a  crystal  staircase,  glittering  and  stainless  as  if  it  were 
ice,  spreading  out  like  an  open  fan  from  a  point  above 
us  on  the  hillside,  and  projecting  at  the  bottom  into  a 
lake,  where  it  was  perhaps  two  hundred  yards  wide. 
The  summit  was  concealed  behind  the  volumes  of  steam 
rising  out  of  the  boiling  fountain,  from  which  the  sili- 
cious  stream  proceeded.  The  stairs  were  twenty  in  num 
ber,  the  height  of  each  being  six  or  seven  feet.  The 
floors  dividing  them  were  horizontal,  as  if  laid  out  with 
a  spirit-level.  They  were  of  uneven  breadth;  twenty, 
thirty,  fifty  feet,  or  even  more;  each  step  down  being 
always  perpendicular,  and  all  forming  arcs  of  a  circle 
of  which  the  crater  was  the  centre.  On  reaching  the 
lake  the  silica  flowed  away  into  the  water,  where  it  lay 
in  a  sheet  half-submerged,  like  ice  at  the  beginning  of 
a  thaw.  There  is  nothing  in  the  fall  of  the  ground  to 
account  for  the  regularity  of  shape. 

A  crater  has  been  opened  through  the  rock  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet  above  the  lake.    The  water  which 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  337 

comes  up  boiling  from  below,  is  charged  as  heavily  as  it 
will  bear  with  silicic  acid.  The  silica  crystalizes  as  it 
is  exposed  to  the  air.  The  water  continues  to  flow  over 
the  hardened  surface,  continually  adding  a  fresh  coating 
to  the  deposits  already  laid  down;  and,  for  reasons 
which  men  of  science  can  no  doubt  supply,  the  crystals 
take  the  form  which  I  have  described.  The  process  is 
a  rapid  one.  A  piece  of  newspaper  left  behind  by  a  re- 
cent visitor  was  already  stiff  as  the  starched  collar  of  a 
shirt.  Tourists  ambitious  of  immortality  have  pencilled 
their  names  and  the  date  of  their  visit  on  the  white  sur- 
face over  which  the  stream  was  running.  Some  of  the 
inscriptions  were  six  and  seven  years  old,  yet  the  strokes 
were  as  fresh  as  on  the  day  they  were  made,  being  pro- 
tected by  the  film  of  glass  which  was  instantly  drawn 
over  them. 

The  thickness  of  the  crust  is,  I  believe,  unascertained, 
the  Maoris  objecting  to  scientific  examination  of  their 
treasure.  It  struck  me,  however,  that  this  singular  cas- 
cade must  have  been  of  recent  —  indeed  measurably  re- 
cent —  origin.  In  the  middle  of  the  terrace  were  the  re- 
mains of  a  ti-tree  bush,  which  was  standing  where  a 
small  patch  of  soil  was  still  uncovered.  Part  of  this, 
where  the  silica  had  not  reached  the  roots,  was  in  leaf 
and  alive.  The  rest  had  been  similarly  alive  within  a 
year  or  two,  for  it  had  not  yet  rotted,  but  had  died  as 
the  crust  rose  round  it.  It  appeared  to  me  that  this 
particular  staircase  was  not  perhaps  a  hundred  years 
old,  but  that  terraces  like  it  had  successively  been  formed 
all  along  the  hillside,  as  the  crater  opened  now  at  one 
spot,  and  now  at  another.  Wherever  the  rock  showed  else- 
where through  the  soil,  it  was  of  the  same  material  as  that 
which  I  saw  growing.  If  the  supply  of  silicic  acid  were 
stopped,  the  surface  would  dry  and  crack.  Ti-trees  would 
then  spring  up  over  it.  The  crystal  steps  would  crumble 
into  less  regular  outlines,  and  in  a  century  or  two  the 
fairy-like  wonder  which  we  were  gazing  at  would  be  in- 
distinguishable from  the  adjoining  slopes.  We  walked,  or 
rather  waded,  upward  to  the  boiling  pool.  It  was  not  in 
this  that  we  were  to  be  bathed.  It  was  about  sixty  feet 
across,  and  was  of  unknown  depth.  The  heat  was  too  in- 
VOL. 


338  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

tense  to  allow  us  to  approach  the  edge,  and  we  could  see 
little  from  the  dense  cloud  of  steam  which  lay  upon  it. 
We  were  more  fortunate  afterward  at  the  crater  of  the 
second  terrace.  The  crystallization  is  ice-like,  and  the 
phenomena,  except  for  the  alternate  horizontal  and  verti- 
cal arrangement  of  the  deposited  silica,  are  like  what 
would  be  seen  in  any  Northern  region  when  a  severe  frost 
suddenly  seizes  hold  of  a  waterfall  before  snow  has  fallen 
and  buried  it —  Oceana,  Chap.  XVI. 

THE  DEVIL'S  HOLE. 

A  fixed  number  of  minutes  is  allotted  for  each  of  the 
"  sights."  Kate  was  peremptory  with  Elphinstone  and 
myself.  Miss  Marieleha  had  charge  of  my  son.  "  Come 
along,  boy ! "  I  heard  her  say  to  him.  We  were  dragged 
off  the  White  Terrace  in  spite  of  ourselves,  but  soon  for- 
got it  in  the  many  and  various  wonders  which  were  wait- 
ing for  us.  Columns  of  steam  were  rising  all  round  us. 
We  had  already  heard,  near  at  hand,  a  noise  like  the 
blast-pipe  of  some  enormous  steam-engine.  Climbing 
up  a  rocky  path  through  the  bush,  we  came  on  a  black, 
gaping  chasm,  the  craggy  sides  of  which  we  could  just 
distinguish  through  the  vapor.  Water  was  boiling  furi- 
ously at  the  bottom,  and  it  was  as  if  a  legion  of  im- 
prisoned devils  were  warring  to  be  let  out.  "  Devil's 
Hole"  they  called  the  place,  and  the  name  suited  well 
with  it.  Behind  a  rock  a  few  yards  distant  we  found  a 
large,  open  pool,  boiling  also  so  violently  that  great  col- 
umns of  water  heaved  and  rolled  and  spouted  as  if  in  a 
gigantic  saucepan  standing  over  a  furnace.  It  was  full 
of  sulphur.  Heat,  noise,  and  smoke  were  alike  intoler- 
able. To  look  at  the  thing  and  then  escape  from  it,  was 
all  that  we  could  do;  and  we  were  glad  to  be  led  away 
out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

Again  a  climb,  and  we  were  on  an  open,  level  plateau, 
two  acres  or  so  in  extent,  smoking  rocks  all  round  it,  and 
scattered  over  its  surface  a  number  of  pale  brown  mud- 
hills,  exactly  like  African  ant-hills.  Each  of  these  was 
the  cone  of  some  sulphurous  Geyser.  Some  were  quiet, 
some  were  active.  Suspicious  bubbles  of  steam  spurted 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  339 

out  under  our  feet  as  we  trod,  and  we  were  warned  to  be 
careful  where  we  went.  Here  we  found  a  photographer, 
who  had  bought  permission  from  the  Maoris,  at  work 
with  his  instruments,  and  Marileha  was  made  to  stand  for 
her  likeness  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  mud-piles.  We  did 
not  envy  him  his  occupation,  for  the  whole  place  smelt 
of  brimstone  and  of  the  near  neighborhood  of  the  Nether 
Pit  Our  own  attention  was  directed  especially  to  a  hole 
filled  with  mud  of  a  peculiar  kind,  much  relished  by  the 
natives,  and  eaten  by  them  as  porridge.  To  us,  who  had 
been  curious  about  their  food,  this  dirty  mess  was  interest- 
ing. It  did  not,  however,  solve  the  problem.  Mud  could 
hardly  be  as  nutritious  as  they  professed  to  find  it,  though 
it  may  have  had  medicinal  virtues  to  assist  the  digestion  of 
the  craw-fish. —  Oceana*,  Chap.  XV L 

LUNCH-TIME. 

The  lake  into  which  the  Terrace  descended  lay  close  be- 
low us.  It  was  green  and  hot  (the  temperature  near 
100°),  patched  over  with  beds  of  rank  reed  and  rush, 
which  were  forced  into  unnatural  luxuriance.  After  leav- 
ing the  mud-heaps  we  went  down  to  the  water-side,  where 
we  found  our  luncheon  laid  out  in  an  open-air  saloon, 
with  a  smooth  floor  of  silica.  Steam-fountains  were  play- 
ing in  half-a-dozen  places.  The  floor  was  hot  —  a  mere 
skin  between  us  and  Cocytus,  The  slabs  were  hot  just  to 
the  point  of  being  agreeable  to  sit  upon.  This  spot  was  a 
favorite  winter  resort  of  the  Maoris  —  their  palavering 
hall,  where  they  had  their  Constitutional  Debates,  their 
store-room,  their  kitchen,  and  their  dining-room.  Here 
they  had  their  innocent  meals  on  dried  fish  and  fruit ;  here 
also  their  less  innocent,  on  dried  slices  of  their  enemies. 
At  present  it  seemed  to  be  made  over  to  visitors. —  Oceana, 
Chap.  XVI. 

THE  PINK  TERRACE,  LAKE  TARAWARA. 

We  were  now  to  be  ferried  across  the  lake.  The 
canoe  had  been  brought  up  —  a  scooped-out  tree-trunk 
as  long  as  a  racing  eight-oar,  and  about  as  narrow.  It 


340  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

was  leaky,  and  so  low  in  the  water  that  the  lightest 
ripple  washed  over  the  gunwale.  The  bottom,  however, 
was  littered  with  fresh-gathered  fern,  which  for  the  pres- 
ent was  dry,  and  we  were  directed  to  lie  down  upon  it. 
Marileha  stood  in  the  bow,  wielding  her  paddle,  with  her 
elf-locks  rolling  wildly  down  her  back.  The  hot  waves 
lapped  in,  and  splashed  us.  The  lake  was  weird  and 
evil  looking.  Here  Kate  had  earned  her  medal  from  the 
Humane  Society.  Some  gentleman,  unused  to  boats,  had 
lost  his  balance,  or  his  courage,  and  had  fallen  overboard. 
Kate  had  dived  after  him  as  he  sank,  and  fished  him  up 
again. 

The  Pink  Terrace,  the  object  of  our  voyage,  opened  out 
before  us  on  the  opposite  shore.  It  was  formed  on  the 
same  lines  as  the  other,  save  that  it  was  narrower,  and 
was  flushed  with  a  pale  rose-color.  Oxide  of  iron  is  said 
to  be  the  cause,  but  there  is  probably  something  besides. 
The  water  has  not,  I  believe,  been  completely  analyzed. 
Miss  Mari  used  her  paddle  like  a  mistress.  She  carried  us 
over  with  no  worse  misfortune  than  a  slight  splashing,  and 
landed  us  at  the  Terrace-foot.  It  was  here,  if  anywhere, 
that  ablutions  were  to  take  place.  To  my  great  relief  I 
found  that  a  native  youth  was  waiting  with  the  towels, 
and  that  we  were  to  be  spared  the  ladies'  assistance.  They 
—  Kate  and  Mari  —  withdrew  to  wallow,  rhinoceros-like, 
in  a  mud-pool  of  their  own. 

The  youth  took  charge  of  us,  and  led  us  up  the  shining 
stairs.  The  crystals  were  even  more  beautiful  than  those 
which  we  had  seen,  falling  like  clusters  of  rosy  icicles,  or 
hanging  in  festoons  like  creepers  trailing  from  a  rail.  At 
the  foot  of  each  cascade  the  wafer  lay  in  pools  of  ultra- 
marine, their  exquisite  color  being  due  in  part,  I  suppose, 
to  the  light  of  the  sky,  refracted  upward  from  the  bot- 
tom. In  the  deepest  of  these  we  were  to  bathe.  The 
temperature  was  94°  or  95°.  The  water  lay  inviting  in  its 
crystal  basin.  The  water  was  deep  enough  to  swim  in 
comfortably,  though  not  over  our  heads.  We  lay  on  our 
backs  and  floated  for  ten  minutes  in  exquisite  enjoyment, 
and  the  alkali  or  the  flint,  or  the  perfect  purity  of  the 
element,  seemed  to  saturate  our  systems.  I,  for  one,  when 
I  was  dressed  again,  could  have  fancied  myself  back  in 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  341 

the  old  days  when  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  a  body,  and 
could  run  up  hill  as  lightly  as  down. 

The  bath  over,  we  pursued  our  way.  The  marvel  of 
the  Terrace  was  still  before  us,  reserved  to  the  last,  like 
the  finish  in  a  pheasant  battue.  The  crater  at  the  White 
Terrace  had  been  boiling ;  the  steam  rushing  out  of  it  had 
filled  the  air  with  a  cloud;  and  the  scorching  heat  had 
kept  us  at  a  distance.  Here  the  temperature  was  twenty 
degrees  lower;  there  was  still  vapor  hovering  over  the 
surface,  but  it  was  lighter  and  more  transparent,  and  a 
soft  breeze  now  and  then  blew  it  completely  aside.  We 
could  stand  on  the  brim  and  gaze,  as  through  an  opening 
in  the  earth,  into  an  azure  infinity  beyond. 

Down  and  down,  and  fainter  and  softer  as  they  re- 
ceded, the  bright  white  crystals  projected  from  the  rocky 
walls  over  the  abyss,  till  they  seemed  to  dissolve,  not  into 
darkness  but  into  light.  The  hue  of  the  water  was  some- 
thing which  I  had  never  seen,  and  shall  never  again  see 
on  this  side  of  eternity.  Not  the  violet,  not  the  harebell, 
nearest  in  it's  tint  to  heaven  of  all  nature's  flowers ;  not 
turquoise,  not  sapphire,  not  the  unfathomable  aether  itself, 
could  convey  to  one  who  had  not  looked  on  it,  a  sense  of 
that  supernatural  loveliness.  The  only  color  I  ever  saw 
in  sky  or  on  earth  in  the  least  resembling  the  aspect  of 
this  extraordinary  pool  was  the  flame  of  burning  sulphur. 
Here  was  a  bath,  if  mortal  flesh  could  have  borne  to  dive 
into  it  I  Had  it  been  in  Norway,  we  should  have  seen 
far  down  the  floating  Lorelei  inviting  us  to  plunge,  and 
leave  life  and  all  belonging  to  it  for  such  a  home  and 
such  companionship.  It  was  a  bath  for  the  gods  and  not 
for  men.  Artemis  and  her  nymphs  should  have  been 
swimming  there,  and  we  Actseons  daring  our  fate  to  gaze 
on  them. —  Oceana,  Chap.  XVI 

The  visit  to  the  Pink  and  White  terraces  of  Lake 
Tarawara  took  place  in  March,  1885 — ^at  is,  in 
early  Autumn  in  the  Southern  Hemisphere.  A  year 
or  so  afterward  these  wonderful  Terraces  were  well- 
nigh  destroyed  by  the  great  cataclysm  of  1887. 


342  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 


ENGLAND  AND  HER  COLONIES. 

The  Colonists  are  a  part1  of  us.    They  have  as  little 
thought  of  leaving  us  as  an  affectionate  wife  thinks  of 
leaving  her  husband.    The  married  pair  may  have  their 
little  disagreements,  but  their  partnership  is  for  "  as  long 
as  they  both  shall  live."    Our  differences  with  the  Col- 
onists have  been  aggravated  by  the  class  of  persons  with 
whom  they  have  been  brought  officially  into  contact.    The 
administration  of  the  Colonial  Office  has  been  generally 
in  the  hands  of  men  of  rank,  or  of  men  who  aspire  to 
rank;  and  although  these  high  persons  are  fair  represen- 
tatives of  the  interests  which  they  have  been  educated  to 
understand,  they  are  not  the  fittest  to  conduct  our  relations 
with  communities  of  Englishmen  with  whom  they  have  im- 
perfect sympathy,  in  the  absence  of  a  well-informed  public 
opinion  to  guide  them.    The  Colonists  are  socially  their 
inferiors,  out  of  their  sphere,  and  without  personal  point 
of  contact.    Secretaries  of  State  lie  yet  under  the  shadow 
of  the  old  impression  that  Colonies  exist  only  for  the  ben- 
efit of  the  Mother  Country.    When  they  found  that  they 
could  no  longer  tax  the  Colonies,  or  lay  their  trade  under 
restraint,  for  England's  supposed  advantage,  they  utilized 
them  as  penal  stations.    They  distributed  the  Colonial  pat- 
ronage, the  lucrative  places  of  public  employment,  to  pro- 
vide for  friends  or  for  political  supporters.    When  this, 
too,  ceased  to  be  possible,  they  acquiesced  easily  in  the 
theory  that  the  Colonies  were  no  longer  of  any  use  to  us 
at  all.    The  alteration  of  the  suffrage  may  make  a  differ- 
ence in  the  personnel  of  our  Departments,  but  it  will  not 
probably  do  so  to  any  great  extent    A  seat  in  the  House 
of  Commons  is  an  expensive  privilege,  and  the  choice  is 
practically  limited.    Not  every  one,  however  public-spir- 
ited he  may  be,  can  afford  a  large  sum  for  the  mere  honor 
of  serving  his  country;  and  those  whose  fortune  and  sta- 
tion in  sociey  are  already  secured,  and  who  have  no  pri- 
vate interests  to  serve,  are,  on  the  whole,  the  most  to  be 
depended  upon.    But  the  People  are  now  sovereign,  and 
officials  of  all  ranks  will  obey  their  masters.    It  is  with  the 
People  that  the  Colonists  feel  a  real  relationship.    Let  the 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  343 

People  give  the  officials  to  understand  that  the  bond  which 
holds  the  Empire  together  is  not  to  be  weakened  any  more, 
but  is  to  be  maintained  and  strengthened,  and  they  will 
work  as  readily  for  purposes  of  union  as  they  worked  in 
the  other  direction,  when  "the  other  direction"  was  the 
prevailing  one.  .  .  . 

After  all  is  said,  it  is  on  ourselves  that  the  future  de- 
pends. We  are  passing  through  a  crisis  in  our  national 
existence,  and  the  wisest  cannot  say  what  lies  before 
us.  If  the  English  character  comes  out  of  the  trial  true 
to  its  old  traditions  —  bold  in  heart  and  clear  in  eye,  seek- 
ing nothing  which  is  not  its  own,  but  resolved  to  maintain 
its  own  with  its  hand  upon  its  sword  —  the  far-off  English 
dependencies  will  cling  to  their  old  home,  and  will  look  up 
to  her  and  be  still  proud  to  belong  to  her,  and  will  seek 
their  own  greatness  in  promoting  hers.  If,  on  the  con- 
trary (for  among  the  possibilities  there  is  a  contrary), 
the  erratic  policy  is  to  be  continued  which  for  the  last  few 
years  has  been  the  world's  wonder;  if  we  show  that  we 
have  no  longer  any  settled  principles  of  action,  that  we  let 
ourselves  drift  into  idle  wars  and  unprovoked  bloodshed; 
if  we  are  incapable  of  keeping  order  even  in  our  own  Ire- 
land, and  let  it  fall  away  from  us  or  sink  into  anarchy ;  if, 
in  short,  we  let  it  be  seen  that  we  have  changed  our  nature, 
and  are  not  the  same  men  with  those  who  once  made  our 
name  feared  and  honored,  then,  in  ceasing  to  deserve  re- 
spect, we  shall  cease  to  be  respected.  The  Colonies  will 
not  purposely  desert  us,  but  they  will  look  each  to  itself, 
knowing  that  from  us,  and  from  their  connection  with  us, 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  hoped  for.  The  cord  will  wear 
into  a  thread,  and  one  accident  will  break  it. —  Oceana, 
Chap.  XXI. 

ERASMUS  IN  ENGLAND. 

Erasmus  was  a  restless  creature,  and  did  not  like  to 
be  caged  or  tethered.  He  declined  the  offer  of  a  large 
pension  which  King  Henry  made  him  if  he  would  re- 
main in  England,  and  Mount  joy  settled  a  pension  on 
him  instead.  He  had  now  a  handsome  income,  and  he 
understood  the  art  of  enjoyng  it.  He  moved  about  as 


344  ANDREW  FULLER 

he  pleased  —  now  to  Cambridge,  now  to  Oxford,  and,  as 
the  humor  took  him,  back  again  to  Paris;  now  staying 
with  Sir  Thomas  More  at  Chelsea,  now  going  a  pilgrim- 
age with  Dean  Colet  to  a  Becket's  tomb  at  Canterbury  — 
but  always  studying,  always  gathering  knowledge,  and 
throwing  it  out  again,  steeped  in  his  own  mother-wit,  in 
shining  Essays  or  Dialogues  which  were  the  delight  and 
the  despair  of  his  contemporaries.  Everywhere,  in  his 
love  of  pleasure,  in  his  habits  of  thought,  in  his  sarcastic 
scepticism,  you  see  the  healthy,  clever,  well-disposed,  tol- 
erant, epicurean,  intellectual  man  of  the  world. —  Histor- 
ical Essays. 


DULLER,  ANDREW,  an  English  theologian ;  born 
at  Wicken,  Cambridgeshire,  February  6,  1754; 
died  at  Kettering,  May  7,  1815.  In  1775 
he  was  called  to  a  church  at  Soham,  and  in  1782  to 
one  at  Kettering,  in  Northamptonshire,  the  place  of 
his  residence  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  His 
first  published  work  was  a  treatise  entitled  The  Gospel 
Worthy  of  All  Acceptation  (1784).  In  1799-1806  he 
put  forth  a  series  of  Dialogues  and  Letters.  In  1794 
he  published  The  Calvinistic  and  Socinian  System 
'Compared.  To  this  Dr.  Toulmin  replied  in  a  work 
defending  the  Unitarian  doctrine,  and  Mr.  Fuller  re- 
joined in  a  treatise  entitled  Socinianism  Indefensible 
on  the  Ground  of  Its  Moral  Tendency.  He  published 
many  sermons  and  other  theological  treatises,  and 
took  an  active  part  in  the  establishment  and  manage- 
ment of  the  Baptist  Missionary  Society,  of  which  he 
was  the  first  secretary.  His  Complete  Works  were 
published  in  eight  octavo  volumes  in  1824;  and  in 
1852  in  one  large  volume,  with  a  memoir  by  his  son. 


ANDREW  FULLER  345 

This  memoir  embodies  much  autobiography,  some  of 
the  salient  points  of  which  are  here  presented : 

MR.  FULLER  AND  MR.  DIVER. 

The  summer  of  1769  was  a  time  of  great  religious 
pleasure.  I  loved  my  pastor,  and  all  my  brethren  in 
the  church;  and  they  expressed  great  affection  toward 
me  in  return.  I  esteemed  the  righteous  as  the  most 
excellent  of  the  earth,  in  whom  was  all  my  delight. 
Those  who  knew  not  Christ  seemed  to  me  almost  another 
species,  toward  whom  I  was  incapable  of  attachment. 
About  this  time  I  formed  an  intimacy  with  a  Mr.  Joseph 
Diver,  a  wise  and  good  man,  who  had  been  baptized  with 
me.  He  was  about  forty  years  of  age,  and  had  lived  many 
years  in  a  very  recluse  way,  giving  himself  much  to  read- 
ing and  reflection.  He  had  a  great  delight  in  searching 
after  truth,  which  rendered  his  conversation  peculiarly  in- 
teresting to  me ;  nor  was  he  less  devoted  to  universal  prac- 
tical godliness.  I  count  this  connection  one  of  the  great- 
est blessings  of  my  life.  Notwithstanding  the  disparity  as 
to  years,  we  loved  each  other  like  David  and  Jonathan. 

CALL  TO  THE  MINISTRY. 

In  November,  1771,  as  I  was  riding  out  on  business,  on 
a  Saturday  morning,  to  a  neighboring  village,  my  mind 
fell  into  a  train  of  interesting  and  affecting  thoughts,  from 
that  passage  of  Scripture,  "  Weeping  may  endure  for  a 
night;  but  joy  cometh  in  the  morning."  I  never  had  felt 
such  freedom  of  mind  in  thinking  upon  a  divine  subject 
before;  nor  do  I  recollect  ever  having  had  a  thought  of 
the  ministry;  but  I  then  felt  as  if  I  could  preach  from  it, 
and  indeed  I  did  preach,  in  a  manner,  as  I  rode  along.  I 
thought  no  more  of  it,  however,  but  returned  home,  when 
I  had  done  my  business.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  sec 
my  mother.  As  we  rode  a  few  miles  together,  she  told 
me  she  had  been  thinking  much  about  me,  while  in  town, 
and  added,  "  My  dear,  you  have  often  expressed  your  wish 
for  a  trade.  I  have  talked  with  your  uncle  at  Kensington, 
and  he  has  procured  a  good  place  for  you,  where,  instead 


346  ANDREW  FULLER 

of  paying  a  premium,  you  may,  if  you  give  satisfaction,  in 
a  little  time  receive  wages  and  learn  the  business."  .  .  . 
That  which  my  mother  suggested  was  very  true.  I  had 
always  been  inclined  to  trade;  but,  how  it  was  I  cannot 
tell,  my  heart  revolted  at  the  proposal  at  this  time.  It 
was  not  from  any  desire  or  thought  of  the  ministry,  nor 
anything  else  in  particular,  unless  it  were  a  feeling  toward 
the  little  scattered  Society  of  which  I  was  a  member.  I 
said  but  little  to  my  mother,  but  seemed  to  wish  for  time 
to  consider  it.  This  was  on  Saturday  evening. 

The  next  morning,  as  I  was  walking  by  myself  to  meet- 
ing, expecting  to  hear  the  brethren  pray,  and  my  friend 
Joseph  Diver  expound  the  Scriptures,  I  was  met  by  one 
of  the  members  whom  he  had  requested  me  to  see,  who 
said,  "  Brother  Diver  has  by  accident  sprained  his  ankle, 
and  cannot  be  at  meeting  to-day,  and  he  wishes  me  to  say 
to  you  that  he  hopes  the  Lord  will  be  with  you."  "  The 
Lord  be  with  me!"  thought  L  "What  does  Brother 
Diver  mean?  He  cannot  suppose  that  I  can  take  his 
place,  seeing  that  I  have  never  attempted  anything  of  the 
kind,  nor  been  asked  to  do  so."  It  then  occurred,  how- 
ever, that  I  had  had  an  interesting  train  of  thought  the 
day  before,  and  had  imagined  at  the  time  I  could  speak  it, 
if  I  were  called  to  do  it.  But  though  I  had  repeatedly  en- 
gaged in  prayer  publicly,  yet  I  had  never  been  requested 
to  attempt  anything  further,  and  therefore  I  thought  no 
more  of  it  .  .  , 

Early  in  1773,  Brother  Diver  was  absent  again  through 
an  affliction,  and  I  was  invited  once  more  to  take  his 
place.  Being  induced  to  renew  the  attempt,  I  spoke  from 
those  words  of  Our  Lord,  "  The  Son  of  Man  came  to  seek 
and  save  that  which  is  lost."  On  this  occasion  I  not  only 
felt  greater  freedom  than  I  had  ever  found  before,  but 
the  attention  of  the  people  was  fixed,  and  several  young 
persons  in  the  congregation  were  impressed  with  the  sub- 
ject, and  afterward  joined  the  church.  From  this  time 
the  brethren  seemed  to  entertain  the  idea  of  my  engaging 
in  the  ministry,  nor  was  I  without  serious  thoughts  of  it 
myself.  Sometimes  I  felt  a  desire  after  it;  at  other  times 
i  was  much  discouraged,  especially  through  a  conscious- 


ANDREW  FULLER  347 

ness  of  my  want  of  spirituality  of  mind,  which  I  considV 
ered  as  a  qualification  of  the  first  importance.    .    .    . 

DOCTRINAL  VIEWS. 

Being  now  devoted  to  the  ministry,  I  took  a  review  of 
the  doctrine  I  should  preach,  and  spent  pretty  much  of 
my  time  in  reading,  and  in  making  up  my  mind  as  to  vari- 
ous things  relative  to  the  Gospel.  .  .  .  With  respect 
to  the  system  of  doctrine  which  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
hear  from  my  youth,  it  was  in  the  high  Calvinistic  —  or 
rather  hyper-Calvinistic  strain  —  admitting  nothing  spir- 
itually good  to  be  the  duty  of  the  un-regenerated,  and 
nothing  to  be  addressed  to  them  in  a  way  of  exhortation, 
excepting  what  related  to  external  obedience.  Outward 
services  might  be  required;  such  as  attendance  on  the 
means  of  grace ;  and  abstinence  from  gross  evils  might  be 
enforced ;  but  nothng  was  said  to  them  from  the  pulpit,  in 
the  way  of  warning  them  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come, 
or  inviting  them  to  apply  to  Christ  for  salvation. 

Though  our  late  disputes  had  furnished  me  with  some 
few  principles  inconsistent  with  these  notions,  yet  I  did  not 
perceive  their  bearings  at  first;  and  durst  not  for  some 
years  address  an  invitation  to  the  unconverted  to  come  to 
Jesus.  I  began,  however,  to  doubt  whether  I  had  got  the 
truth  respecting  this  subject.  This  view  of  things  did 
not  seem  to  comport  with  the  idea  which  I  had  imbibed, 
concerning  the  power  of  man  to  do  the  will  of  God*  I 
perceived  that  the  will  of  God  was  not  confined  to  mere 
outward  actions ;  but  extended  to  the  inmost  thoughts  and 
intents  of  the  heart.  The  distinction  of  duties,  therefore, 
into  internal  and  external,  and  making  the  latter  only  con- 
cern the  unregenerate,  wore  a  suspicious  appearance.  But 
as  I  perceived  that  this  reasoning  would  affect  the  whole 
tenor  of  my  preaching,  I  moved  on  with  slow  and  trem- 
bling steps ;  and,  having  to  feel  my  way  out  of  a  labyrinth, 
it  was  a  long  tme  ere  I  felt  satisfied. 

Here  must  be  briefly  noted,  as  told  by  his  son,  some 
incidents  relating  to  the  early  years  of  the  ministry 


348  ANDREW  FULLER 

of  Andrew  Fuller.  "  His  whole  yearly  income  from 
the  people  never  exceeded  £13,  and  his  attempts  to 
derive  support,  first  from  a  small  shop  and  then  from 
a  school,  both  proved  unsuccessful;  so  that,  notwith- 
standing all  his  exertions,  he  could  not  prevent  an 
annual  inroad  upon  his  little  property,  most  distress- 
ing to  himself,  and  ruinous  to  the  prospects  of  a  ris- 
ing family.  Under  such  complicated  trials  his  health 
suffered  a  shock  from  which  he  with  difficulty  re- 
covered." Indeed,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  mighty 
amount  of  praying  and  psalm-singing,  and  all  that; 
but  somehow  the  brethren  at  Soham,  where  Andrew 
Fuller  began  his  ministry,  kept  a  close  grip  upon  their 
pocket-books;  as  witness  the  following  memorandum 
made  by  a  good  Deacon  Wallis,  who  was  empowered 
to  lay  certain  questions  in  controversy  before  a  Mr. 
Robinson,  of  Cambridge,  who  should  pronounce  judg- 
ment as  to  what  should  be  done.  Mr.  Robinson's 
decision  was,  "That  Mr.  Fuller  ought  to  continue 
pastor  of  the  said  church  for  one  whole  year,  from 
this  day,  and  after  that  time  if  it  should  appear  that 
he  can  live  on  his  income;  and  that  the  people  ought 
to  abide  by  their  proposal  to  raise  Mr.  Fuller's  in- 
come to  £25  a  year,  as  they  had  proposed,  clear  of  all 
deductions." 

As  a  preacher  Andrew  Fuller  never  ministered  ex- 
cept to  a  small  congregation  belonging  to  a  small  and, 
in  his  day  and  country,  a  thoroughly  despised  sect, 
Tn  fact,  a  century  ago,  it  would  have  been  thought 
less  contemptuous  to  call  a  man  an  *4  Infidel "  than  to 
call  him  a  "Baptist."  His  written  works  are  his  best 
monument.  The  tablet  placed  near  by  the  pulpit  at 
Kettering  bears  an  inscription  which  may  take  the 
place  of  any  extended  biography. 


HENRY  BLAKE  FULLER  349 


INSCRIPTION  UPON  ANDREW  FULLER  S  MONUMENT. 

In  memory  of  their  revered  Pastor,  the  Reverend  An- 
drew Fuller,  the  Church  aild  Congregation  have  erected 
this  Tablet. —  His  ardent  Piety,  the  strength  and  sound- 
ness of  his  Judgment,  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
Human  Heart,  and  his  profound  acquaintance  with  the 
Scriptures,  eminently  qualified  him  for  the  Ministerial 
Office,  which  he  sustained  amongst  them  thirty-two  years. 
The  force  and  originality  of  his  Genius,  aided  by  un- 
daunted Firmness,  raised  him  from  obscurity  to  high  dis- 
tinction in  the  Religious  World.  By  the  wisdom  of  his 
plans,  and  by  his  unwearied  diligence  in  execut'ng  them, 
he  rendered  the  most  important  services  to  the  Baptist 
Missionary  Society,  of  which  he  was  the  Secretary  from 
its  commencement,  and  to  the  prosperity  of  which  he  de- 
voted his  life.  In  addition  to  his  other  labors,  his  writ- 
ings are  numerous  and  celebrated. 


DULLER,  HENRY  BLAKE,  an  American  novel- 
ist; born  at  Chicago,  111.,  January  9,  1857. 
He  was  educated  at  the  public  schools  of  his 
native  city.  After  his  graduation  from  the  High 
School  he  entered  a  counting-house,  and  it  was  sup- 
posed that  he  would  pursue  the  calling  of  his  father 
and  grandfather,  who  were  merchants  of  high  stand- 
ing. After  a  trial  of  business  life,  however  —  in  which 
he  obtained  that  knowledge  of  local  business  methods 
which  is  shown  in  his  later  novels  —  he  went  abroad 
to  study  music.  He  became  an  accomplished  mu- 
sician; but  already  his  mind  was  upon  literature,  and 
he  gave  more  attention  to  the  writing  of  librettos  than 
to  composition.  His  first  novel,  The  Chevalier  of  Pen- 


350  HENRY  BLAKE  FULLER 

sieri-Vani  (1891),  was  brought  out  under  typographi- 
cal disadvantages  and  under  the  pen-name  of  "  Stanton 
Page ; "  and  the  book  and  its  author  were  practically 
unknown  until  James  Russell  Lowell,  having  received 
a  copy  as  a  Christmas  present  from  Professor  Norton, 
pronounced  it  "a  precious  book,"  and  it  was  repro- 
duced, revised  and  enlarged,  in  1892.    In  the  same 
year  appeared  The  Chatelaine  of  La  Trinite  as  a  serial 
in  the  Century  Magazine.     The  Cliff  Dwellers  was 
published  in  Harper's  Weekly  in  1893.    "  With  almost 
the  first  line,"  says  The  Bookman,  "  there  is  an  abrupt 
departure  from  the  author's  former  manner ;  a  change 
from  dreamy  idealism  to  vigilant  realism,  as  startling 
as  though  the  roll  of  alarm  drums  had  suddenly  suc- 
ceeded to  the  music  of  lutes."    This  was  followed  by 
With  the  Procession  (1895),  another  "  literary  tour  de 
force"  as  Edith  Brown  called  it  in  a  review  of  Fuller's 
writings.    The  Puppet  Booth,  a  collection  of  light  lit- 
tle plays,  which  appeared  in  1896,  was  not  taken  very 
seriously  by  the  literary  world.    "  Mr.  Fuller,"  said 
the  Critic,  "should  put  aside  his  puppets  and  other 
playthings.    He  has  shown  himself  more  than  a  maker 
of  ingenious  toys.    He  has  in  Chicago  and  the  West 
an  immense  field  before  him,  full  of  truly  heroic  ma- 
terial ;  and  we  believe  him  capable  of  entering  in  and 
working  a  large  section  of  it."    His  later  works  are 
From   the   Other  Side    (1898);    The  Last  Refuge 
(1900)';  Under  the  Skylight  (1901) 

CHICAGO. 

Does  it  seem  unreasonable  that  the  State  which  pro- 
duced the  two  greatest  figures  of  the  greatest  epoch  of 
our  history,  and  which  has  done  most  during  the  last 
ten  years  to  check  alien  excesses  in  American  ideas, 


HENRY  BLAKE  FULLER  351 

should  also  be  the  State  to  give  the  country  the  final 
blend  of  the  American  character  and  its  ultimate  metrop- 
olis? "And  you  personally  —  is  this  your  belief?" 

Fairchild  leaned  back  his  fine  old  head  on  the  padded 
top  of  his  chair  and  looked  at  his  questioner  with  the 
kind  of  pity  that  had  a  faint  tinge  of  weariness.  His 
wife  sat  beside  him  silent,  but  with  her  hand  on  his,  and 
when  he  answered  she  pressed  it  meaningly,  for  to  the 
Chicagoan  —  even  the  middle-aged  female  Chicagoan — 
the  name  of  the  town,  in  its  formal,  ceremonial  use,  has 
a  power  that  no  other  word  in  the  language  quite  pos- 
sesses. It  is  a  shibboleth  as  regards  pronunciation;  it 
is  a  trumpet-call  as  regards  its  effect.  It  has  all  the  elec- 
trifying and  unifying  power  of  a  college  yell 

"  Chicago  is  Chicago,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  belief  o-f 
us  all.  It  is  inevitable;  nothing  can  stop  us  now." — 
From  The  CM  Dwellers. 

A  GENUINE  MOZART. 

In  one  of  these  churches,  one  morning,  the  Governor 
having  inexplicably  vanished,  the  young  men  were  taking" 
advantage  of  so  appropriate  a  time  and  place  to  air 
their  theological  views.  Zeitgeist  had  already  upset  the 
sacred  chronology,  to  the  scandal  of  Aurelia  West,  and 
Fin-de-Siecle  was  engaged  in  cracking  a  series  of  orna- 
mental flourishes  against  the  supernatural  about  the  star- 
tled ears  of  the  Chatelaine,  when  the  Governor,  emerging 
from  nowhere  in  particular,  as  it  seemed,  carne  tripping 
toward  them,  to  the  great  relief  of  the  orthodox  sex,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  and  a  dusty  document  in  his  extended 
hand.  He  announced  with  great  glee  that  he  had  just  got 
hold  of  another  Mozart  manuscript,  and  he  justified  him- 
self before  the  reproachful  Chatelaine,  who  appeared  to 
be  suspecting  some  grave  impropriety,  or  worse,  by  a  state- 
ment of  facts.  He  had  burst  unexpectedly  at  once  into 
the  sacristy  into  a  rehearsal.  He  had  found  a  lank 
old  man  in  a  cassock  seated  before  a  music-rest  in  the 
midst  of  a  dozen  little  chaps  dressed  in  red  petticoats  and 
white  over-things,  and  every  one  of  those  blessed  choris- 
ters was  singing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  —  had  any  of  them 


352  THOMAS  FULLER 

heard  it?  —  his  own  proper  part  in  a  Mozart  mass  from  a 
real  Mozart  manuscript.  They  were  being  kept  to  the 
mark  by  a  pair  of  lay  brothers  who  played  —  incredible 
and  irreverent  combination !  —  a  tuba  and  a  bassoon ;  and 
the  master  had  quieted  his  obstreperous  aids,  and  had 
come  straight  to  him  in  the  most  civil  manner,  and  —  well, 
here  was  the  manuscript;  twenty  florins  well  spent.  It 
was  not  a  mass, —  oh,  dear,  no;  let  nobody  think  it, —  it 
was  a  little  trio  —  la-a-a-,  la  la  la,  la-a-a-,  that  was  the 
way  it  went.  These  parts  here  were  far  two  violins,  prob- 
ably, but  they  would  go  well  enough  on  the  flute  and  the 
upper  strings  of  the  'cello.  Really  it  was  not  so  difficult 
after  all,  this  finding  of  manuscripts,  and  he  felt  that  he 
could  soon  leave  Salzburg  quite  content. —  The  Chatelaine 
of  La  Trinite. 


DULLER,  THOMAS,  an  English  historian  and 
biographer;  born  at  Aldwinckle,  Northamp- 
tonshire, in  June,  1608;  died  at  London,  Au- 
gust 16,  1661.  He  was  educated  at  Queen's  College, 
Cambridge,  winning  the  highest  university  honors, 
and  was  presented  to  the  living  of  St.  Benoit's,  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  came  to  be  noted  as  an  eloquent 
preacher,  and  was  also  made  Prebendary  of  Salisbury, 
After  some  years  he  went  to  London,  where  he  re- 
ceived the  lectureship  of  the  Savoy.  Upon  the  out- 
break of  the  civil  war  between  the  Parliament  and 
Charles  I.  Fuller  warmly  espoused  the  royal  cause, 
became  a  chaplain  in  the  army,  and  suffered  some  in- 
conveniences during  the  Protectorate  of  Cromwell. 
After  the  restoration  of  Charles  II.  he  was  made  chap- 
lain-extraordinary to  the  King,  regained  his  preben- 
dary, of  which  he  had  been  deprived,  and  it  was  in 


THOMAS  FULLER  353 

contemplation  to  raise  him  to  a  bishopric ;  but  he  died 
before  this  intention  was  carried  out.  His  principal 
works  are  Historic  of  the  Holy  Warre  (1639) ;  Holy 
and  Profane  State,  proposing"  examples  for  imitation 
and  avoidance  (1642);  Church  History  of  Britain 
from  the  Birth  of  Jesus  Christ  until  the  Year 
MDCXLVIII  (1655),  and  History  of  the  Worthies 
of  England,  published  in  1662,  soon  after  his  death. 
This  last  work  is  the  one  by  which  Fuller  is  now  best 
known. 

THE  GOOD  SCHOOLMASTER. 

There  is  scarcely  any  profession  in  the  commonwealth 
more  necessary  which  is  so  slightly  performed.  The 
reasons  whereof  I  conceive  to  be  these:  First,  young 
scholars  make  this  calling  their  refuge;  yea,  perchance, 
before  they  have  taken  any  degree  in  the  university, 
commence  schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if  nothing 
else  were  required  to  set  up  this  •  prof ession  but  only  a 
rod  and  a  ferula.  Secondly,  others  who  are  able  use  it 
only  as  a  passage  to  better  preferment,  to  patch  the 
rents  in  their  present  fortune,  till  they  can  provide  a 
new  one,  and  betake  themselves  to  some  more  gainful 
calling.  Thirdly,  they  are  disheartened  from  doing 
their  best  with  the  miserable  reward  which  in  some  places 
they  receive,  being  masters  to  their  children  and  slaves 
to  their  parents.  Fourthly,  being  grown  rich,  they  grow 
negligent,  and  scorn  to  touch  the  school  but  by  the  proxy 
of  the  usher.  But  see  how  well  our  schoolmaster  be- 
haves himself. 

He  studieth  his  scholars'  natures  as  carefully  as  they 
their  books;  and  ranks  their  dispositions  into  several 
forms.  And  though  it  may  seem  difficult  for  him  in  a 
great  school  to  descend  to  all  particulars,  yet  experienced 
schoolmasters  may  quickly  make  a  grammar  of  boys'  na- 
tures, and  reduce  them  all  —  saving  some  few  exceptions 
—  to  these  general  rules: 

i.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  industrious.  The  con- 
VOL.  X.— 23 


354  THOMAS  FULLER 

junction  of  two  such  planets  in  a  youth  presage  much  good 
unto  him.  To  such  a  lad  a  frown  may  be  a  whipping, 
and  a  whipping  a  death;  yea,  where  their  master  whips 
them  once,  shame  whips  them  all  the  week  after.  Such 
natures  he  useth  with  all  gentleness. 

2.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  idle.    These  think,  with 
the  hare  in  the  fable,  that  running  with  snails  —  so  they 
count  the  rest  of  their  schoolfellows  —  they  shall  come 
soon  enough  to  the  post,  though  sleeping  a  good  while  be- 
fore their  starting.    O !  a  good  rod  would  finely  take  them 
napping ! 

3.  Those  that  are  dull  and  diligent.    Wines,  the  stronger 
they  be,  the  more  lees  they  have  when  they  are  new. 
Many  boys  are  muddy-headed  till  they  be  clarified  with 
age,  and  such  afterward  prove  the  best.    Bristol  diamonds 
are  both  bright,  and  squared,  and  pointed  by  nature,  and 
yet  are  soft  and  worthless;  whereas  orient  ones  in  India 
are   rough  and  rugged  naturally.    Hard,   rugged,   and 
dull  natures  of  youth  acquit  themselves  afterward  the 
jewels  of  the  country,  and  therefore  their  dulness  at  first 
is  to  be  borne  with,  if  they  be  diligent.    The  schoolmaster 
deserves  to  be  beaten  himself  who  beats  nature  in  a  boy 
for  a  fault.    And  I  question  whether  all  the  whipping  in 
the  world  can  make  their  parts  which  are  naturally  slug- 
glish  rise  one  minute  before  the  hour  nature  hath  ap- 
pointed. 

4.  Those  that  are  invincibly  dull,  and  negligent  also. 
Correction  may  reform  the  latter,  not  amend  the  former. 
All  the  whetting  in  the  world  can  never  set  a  razor's  edge 
on  that  which  hath  no  steel  in  it.    Such  boys  he  consign- 
eth  over  to  other  professions.    Shipwrights  and  boat-mak- 
ers will  choose  those  crooked  pieces  of  timber  which 
other  carpenters  refuse.    Those  may  make  excellent  mer- 
chants and  mechanics  who  will  not  serve  for  scholars. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodical  in  his  teaching; 
not  leading  them  rather  in  a  circle  than  forward.  He 
minces  his  precepts  for  children  to  swallow,  hanging  clogs 
on  the  nimbleness  of  his  own  soul,  that  his  scholars  may 
go  along  with  him. —  The  Holy  and  Profane  State. 


THOMAS  FULLER  355 


ON  BOOKS. 

It  is  a  vanity  to  persuade  the  world  one  hath  much 
learning  by  getting  a  great  library.  As  soon  shall  I  be- 
lieve every  one  is  valiant  that  hath  a  well-furnished  ar- 
mory. I  guess  good  housekeeping  by  the  smoking,  not 
the  number  of  the  tunnels,  as  knowing  that  many  of  them 
• — built  merely  for  uniformity  —  are  without  chimneys, 
and  more  without  fires. 

Some  books  are  only  cursorily  to  be  tasted  of:  namely, 
first,  voluminous  books,  the  task  of  a  man's  life  to  read 
them  over;  secondly,  auxiliary  books,  only  to  be  re- 
paired to  on  occasions;  thirdly,  such  as  are  mere  pieces 
of  formality,  so  that  if  you  look  on  them  you  look  through 
them,  and  he  that  peeps  through  the  casement  of  the  in- 
dex sees  as  much  as  if  he  were  in  the  house.  But  the  lazi- 
ness of  those  cannot  be  excused  who  perfunctorily  pass 
over  authors  of  consequence,  and  only  trade  in  their  ta- 
bles of  contents.  These,  like  city  cheaters,  having  gotten 
the  names  of  all  country  gentlemen,  make  silly  people  be- 
lieve they  have  long  lived  in  those  places  where  they  never 
were,  and  flourish  with  skill  in  those  authors  they  never 
seriously  studied. —  The  Holy  and  Profane  State. 

Fuller  is  especially  notable  for  the  quaint  and  pithy 
sayings  scattered  through  his  writings,  often  where 
one  would  least  expect  them.  Thus  he  says:  "The 
Pyramids,  themselves  doting  with  age,  have  forgotten 
the  names  of  their  founders."  Negroes  are  felici- 
tously characterized  as  "  God's  image  cut  in  ebony." 

.  .  .  "  As  smelling  a  turf  of  fresh  earth  is  whole- 
some for  the  body,  no  less  are  one's  thoughts  of  mortal- 
ity cordial  to  the  soul." 

MISCELLANEOUS  APHORISMS, 

It  is  dangerous  to  gather  flowers  that  grow  on  the 
banks  of  the  pit  of  hell,  for  fear  of  falling  in;  yea,  they 


356  THOMAS  FULLER 

which  play  with  the  devil's  rattles  will  be  brought  by 
degrees  to  wield  his  sword;  and  from  making  of  sport, 
they  come  to  doing  of  mischief. 

The  true  church  antiquary  doth  not  so  adore  the  an* 
cients  as  to  despise  the  moderns.  Grant  them  but  dwarfs, 
yet  stand  they  on  giants'  shoulders,  and  may  see  the 
farther. 

Light,  Heaven's  eldest  daughter,  is  a  principal  beauty  in 
a  building,  yet  it  shines  not  alike  from  all  parts  of  Heaven. 
An  east  window  welcomes  the  beams  of  the  sun  before 
they  are  of  a  strength  to  do  any  harm,  and  is  offensive  to 
none  but  a  sluggard.  In  a  west  window,  in  summer  time 
toward  night,  the  sun  grows  low  and  over-familiar,  with 
more  light  than  'delight. 

A  public  office  is  a  guest  which  receives  the  best  usage 
from  them  who  never  invited  it. 

Scoff  not  at  the  natural  defects  of  any,  which  are  not 
in  their  power  to  amend.  Oh !  'tis  cruelty  to  beat  a  crip- 
ple with  his  own  crutches. 

Generally,  nature  hangs  out  a  sign  of  simplicity  in  the 
face  of  a  fool,  and  there  is  enough  in  his  countenance  for 
a  hue  and  cry  to  take  him  on  suspicion;  or  else  it  is 
stamped  in  the  figure  of  his  body;  their  heads  sometimes 
so  little,  that  there  is  no  room  for  wit;  sometimes  so 
long,  that  there  is  no  wit  for  so  much  room. 

Learning  has  gained  most  by  those  books  by  which 
the  printers  have  lost 

Is  there  no  way  to  bring  home  a  wandering  sheep 
but  by  worrying  him  to  death? 

Moderation  is  the  silken  string  running  through  the 
pearl-chain  of  all  virtues. 

Tombs  are  the  clothes  of  the  dead.  A  grave  is  but 
a  plain  suit,  and  a  rich  monument  is  one  embroidered. 


GEORGIANA  CHARLOTTE  FULLERTON 


pULLERTON,  GEORGIANA  CHARLOTTE  LEVESON- 
GOWER,  LADY,  an  English  novelist;  born  in 
Staffordshire,  September  23,  1812;  died  at 
Bournemount,  January  19,  1885,  She  was  the  sec- 
ond daughter  of  the  first  Earl  of  Granville.  In  1883 
she  married  Captain  Fullerton,  and  removed  to  Ire- 
land. Her  first  novel,  Ellen  Middleton,  was  published 
in  1844.  She  subsequently  wrote  many  works, 
among  them  Grmtley  Manor  (1849);  Lady-Bird 
(1852) ;  The  Life  of  St.  Francis  of  Rome  (1855)  I  La 
Comtesse  de  Bonneval  and  Histoire  du  Temps  de 
Louis  XIV.  (1857)  ;  Rose  Leblanc  (1860) ;  Laurentia, 
a  Tale  of  Japm  (1861) ;  Too  Strcmge  Not  to  be  True 
(1864)  >  Constance  Sherwood  (1865)  ;  A  Stormy  Life 
(1867) ;  Mrs.  Gerald's  Niece  (1869)  ;  The  Gold-Dig- 
ger and  Other  Verses  (1872)  ;  Dramas  from  the  Lives 
of  the  Saints  (1872),  and  A  Will  and  a  Way  (1881). 
She  also  made  many  translations  from  the  French. 

A   CHILD  OF  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Maitre  Simon's  barge  was  lying  at  anchor  near  the 
village.  It  had  just  landed  a  party  of  emigrants  on 
their  way  back  from  the  Arkansas  to  New  Orleans. 
He  was  storing  it  with  provisions  for  the  rest  of  the 
voyage,  and  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  cases  and 
barrels,  busily  engaged  in  this  labor,  when  Colonel 
d'Auban  stepped  into  the  boat,  bade  him  good  morn- 
ing, and  inquired  after  his  daughter.  On  his  first  ar- 
rival in  America  he  had  made  the  voyage  up  the  Mis- 
sissippi in  one  of  Simon's  boats,  and  the  bargeman's 
little  girl,  then  a  child  of  twelve  years  of  age,  was  also  on 
board.  Simonett'e  inherited  from  her  mother,  an  Illinois 
Indian,  the  dark  complexion  and  peculiar-looking  eyes 
of  that  race;  otherwise  she  was  thoroughly  French,  and 


358       GEORGIANA  CHARLOTTE  FULLERTON 

like  her  father,  whose  native  land  was  Gascony.  From 
her  infancy  she  had  been  the  plaything  of  the  passengers 
on  his  boat,  and  they  were,  indeed,  greatly  in  need 
of  amusement  during  the  wearisome  weeks  when,  half 
imbedded  in  the  floating  vegetation  of  the  wide  river, 
they  slowly  made  their  way  against  its  mighty  current. 
As  she  advanced  in  years,  the  child  became  a  sort  of 
attendant  on  the  women  on  board,  and  rendered  them 
many  little  services. 

She  was  an  extraordinary  being.  Quicksilver  seemed 
to  run  in  her  veins.  She  never  remained  two  minutes 
together  in  the  same  spot  or  the  same  position.  She 
swam  like  a  fish,  and  ran  like  a  lapwing.  Her  favorite 
amusements  were  to  leap  in  and  out  of  the  boat,  to 
catch  hold  of  the  swinging  branches  of  the  wild  vine, 
and  run  up  the  trunks  of  trees  with  the  agility  of  a 
squirrel,  or  to  sit  laughing  with  her  playfellows,  the 
monkeys,  gathering  bunches  of  grapes  and  handfuls  of 
wild  cherries  for  the  passengers.  She  had  a  wonderful 
handiness,  and  a  peculiar  talent  for  contrivances.  There 
were  very  few  tilings  Simonette  could  not  do,  if  she 
once  set  about  them.  .  .  . 

Simonette  heard  Mass  on  Sunday,  and  said  short  prayers 
night  and  morning;  but  her  piety  was  of  the  active 
order.  She  studied  her  catechism  up  in  some  tree,  seated 
on  a  branch,  or  else  swinging  in  one  of  the  nets  in 
which  Indian  women  rock  their  children.  She  could 
hardly  sit  still  during  a  sermon,  and  from  sheer  rest- 
lessness envied  the  birds  as  they  flew  past  the  windows. 
But  if  Father  Maret  had  a  message  to  send  across  the 
prairie,  or  if  food  and  medicine  were  to  be  carried  to 
the  sick,  she  was  his  ready  messenger  —  his  "carrier 
pigeon,"  as  he  called  her.  Through  tangled  thickets 
and  marshy  lands  she  made  her  way,  fording  with  her 
naked  feet  the  tributary  streams  of  the  great  river,  or 
swimming  across  them  if  necessary;  jumping  over  fallen 
trunks,  and  singing  as  she  went,  the  bird-like  creature 
made  friends  and  played  with  every  animal  she  met, 
and  fed  on  berries  and  wild  honey. —  Too  Strange  Not 
to  be  True. 


HORACE  HOWARD  FURNESS  359 


pURNESS,  HORACE  HOWARD,  an  American 
Shakespearian  scholar  and  editor;  born  at 
Philadelphia,  Pa.,  November  2,  1833.  He  was 
graduated  from  Harvard  University,  studied  law,  and 
was  admitted  to  the  Philadelphia  bar  in  1859.  I*1 
1871  he  began  editing  a  variorum  edition  of  Shakes- 
peare, and  in  the  first  year  completed  Romeo  and  Juliet 
Subsequent  volumes  are  Macbeth  (1873);  Hamlet 
(1877);  King  Lear  (1880);  Othello  (1886);  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  (1888)  ;  As  You  Like  It  (1890) ; 
The  Temjest  (1893) ;  The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
(1895);  Winter's  Tale  (1898);  and  Twelfth  Night 
(1901).  These  works,  upon  which  the  author's  liter- 
ary reputation  rests,  are  the  most  valuable  contribu- 
tions to  Shakespeariana  of  recent  years.  In  1886  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania  appointed  a  commission, 
known  as  the  Seybert  Commission,  to  investigate  the 
claims  of  modern  spiritualists,  and  Dr.  Furness  was 
appointed  a  member,  and  he  made  some  valuable  con- 
tributions to  the  report.  He  has  also  written  on 
medical  subjects. 

Among  the  degrees  conferred  upon  him  for  his 
eminent  services  in  this  branch  of  literature,  is  that 
of  Ph.D.  by  the  University  of  Gottingen.  His  wife, 
formerly  Miss  Helen  Kate  Rogers,  also  published  a 
valuable  Concordance  to  Shakespeare's  Poems  (1873), 
and  prepared  an  index  for  Walker's  Text  of  Shakes- 
peare. She  died  in  1883. 

"  If  the  American  editor  maintains  throughout," 
said  the  London  Spectator,  "the  spirit  and  industry 
which  he  has  displayed  in  his  first  volume,  he  will 
furnish  a  new  reference  Shakespeare  that,  in  book- 


36o  HORACE  HOWARD  FURNESS 

sellers'  phrase,  no  library  should  be  without." 
"  From  a  variety  of  indications  we  are  satisfied,"  said 
the  Nation,  "  that  his  self-imposed  task  has  been  ex- 
ecuted with  conscientious  and  unwearied  fidelity." 

THE  "FIRST  FOLIO"  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

When  reading  Shakespeare,  we  resign  ourselves  to 
the  mighty  current,  and  let  it  bear  us  along  whitherso- 
ever it  will;  we  see  no  shoals,  heed  no  rocks,  need  no 
pilot.  Whether  spoken  from  rude  boards  or  printed  in 
homely  form,  the  words  are  Shakespeare's,  the  hour  is 
his,  and  a  thought  of  texts  is  an  impertinence.  But 
when  we  study  Shakespeare,  then  our  mood  changes;  no 
longer  are  we  "  sitting  at  a  play,"  the  passive  recipients 
of  impressions  through  the  eye  and  ear,  but  we  weigh 
every  word,  analyze  every  expression,  sift  every  phrase, 
that  no  grain  of  art  or  beauty  which  we  can  assimilate 
shall  escape.  To  do  this,  we  must  have  Shakespeare's 
own  words  before  us.  No  other  words  will  avail,  even 
though  they  be  those  of  the  wisest  and  most  inspired 
of  our  day  and  generation.  We  must  have  Shakespeare's 
own  text;  or,  failing  this,  the  nearest  possible  approach 
to  it  We  shall  be  duly  grateful  to  the  wise  and  learned, 
who,  where  phrases  are  obscure,  give  us  the  words  which 
we  believe  to  have  been  Shakespeare's;  but  as  students 
we  must  have  under  our  eyes  the  original  text,  which, 
however  stubborn  it  may  seem  at  times,  may  yet  open  its 
treasures  to  our  importunity,  and  reveal  charms  before 
undreamed  of. 

This  original  text  is  to  be  found  in  the  first  edition 
of  his  Works,  published  in  1623,  and  usually  known  as 
the  First  Folio,  which  was  presumably  printed  from 
the  words  written  by  Shakespeare's  own  hand  or  from 
stage  copies  adapted  from  his  manuscripts.  Be  it  that 
the  pages  of  this  First  Folio  are  little  better  than  proof- 
sheets,  lacking  supervision  of  the  author  or  of  any 
other,  yet  "  those  who  had  Shakespeare's  manuscript  be- 
fore them  were  more  likely  to  read  it  right  than  we 
who  read  it  only  in  imagination,"  as  Dr.  Johnson  said. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS  361 

Even  grant  that  the  First  Folio  is,  as  has  been  asserted, 
one  of  the  most  carelessly  printed  books  ever  issued  from 
the  press,  it  is,  nevertheless,  the  only  text  that  we 
have  for  at  least  sixteen  of  the  plays;  and  condemn  it 
as  we  may,  "  still  is  its  name  in  great  account,  it  hath 
power  to  charm"  for  all  of  them.  ...  If  mis- 
spellings occur  here  and  there,  surely  our  common- 
school  education  is  not  so  uncommon  that  we  cannot 
silently  correct  them.  If  the  punctuation  be  deficient, 
surely  it  can  be  supplied  without  an  exorbitant  demand 
upon  our  intelligence.  And  in  lines  incurably  maimed  by 
the  printers,  of  what  avail  is  the  voice  of  a  solitary  editor 
amid  the  Babel  that  vociferates  around,  each  voice  pro- 
claiming the  virtues  of  its  own  specific?  Who  am  I 
that  I  should  thrust  myself  in  between  the  student1  and 
the  text,  as  though  in  me  resided  the  power  to  restore 
Shakespeare's  own  words?  Even  if  a  remedy  be  pro- 
posed which  is  by  all  acknowledged  to  be  efficacious,  it 
is  not  enough  for  the  student  that  he  should  know  the 
remedy;  he  must  see  the  ailment.  Let  the  ailment, 
therefore,  appear  in  all  its  severity  in  the  text,  and 
let  the  remedies  be  exhibited  in  the  notes;  by  this  means 
we  may  make  a  text  for  ourselves,  and  thus  made,  it 
will  become  a  part  of  ourselves,  and  speak  to  us  with 
more  power  than  were  it  made  for  us  by  the  wisest 
editor  of  them  all. — Preface  to  The  Moor  of  Venice. 


pURNESS,  WILLIAM  HENRY,  an  American 
clergyman  and  translator;  born  at  Boston, 
Mass.,  April  20,  1802;  died  at  Philadelphia, 
January  30,  1896.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, studied  theology  at  Cambridge,  and  in  1825 
became  pastor  of  the  First  Congregational  (Unitarian) 
Church  in  Philadelphia.  Before  the  Civil  War  he 
became  distinguished  for  his  zealous  opposition  to 


302  WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS 

slavery.  He  -was  the  author  of  Remarks  on  the  Four 
Gospels  (1836)  ;  Jesus  and  His  Biographers  (1838)  ; 
A  History  of  Jesus  (1850) ;  Thoughts  on  the  Life  and 
Character  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  (1859) ;  The  Veil 
Partly  Lifted  and  Jesus  Becoming  Visible  (1864); 
Jesus  (1870) ;  The  Story  of  the  Resurrection  of  Christ 
Told  Once  More  (1885);  Pastoral  Offices  (1893). 
He  was  a  man  of  refined  taste  and  high  literary  culture. 
His  translations  from  the  German  have  received  high 
praise,  especially  that  of  Schiller's  Das  Lied  von  der 
Glocke,  which  is  said  to  be  the  best  English  version 
of  that  beautiful  poem.  He  has  also  published  Do- 
mestic Worship,  a  volume  of  prayers  (1850)  ;  a  vol- 
ume of  Discourses  (1855),  and  numerous  Poems, 
original,  or  translated  from  the  German. 

THE  PERSONAL  PRESENCE  OF  JESUS. 

The  greatest  act  may  be  spoiled  by  the  way  in  which 
it  is  done,  and  the  homeliest  office  of  kindness  may  be 
discharged  with  a  grace  that  shall  hint  of  Heaven.  It  is 
not  in  the  form  or  in  the  word,  but  in  the  spirit,  that  lies 
the  power.  And  the  great  personal  power  of  Jesus  can- 
not, I  conceive,  be  fully  accounted  for  without  bring- 
ing distinctly  into  view  what  it  seldom  occurs  to  us  to 
think  of,  as  it  is  scarcely  once  alluded  to  in  the  Gospels 
and  if  it  were  alluded  to,  was  not  a  thing  that  admitted 
of  being  readily  described:  His  personal  presence,  in 
a  word,  His  manner.  All  that  we  read  in  the  records  in 
regard  to  it  is  that  His  teaching  was  marked  by  a  sin- 
gular air  of  authority.  No,  this  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
described.  It  was  felt  too  deeply.  It  penetrated  to  that 
depth  in  the  hearts  of  men  whence  no  words  come, 
whither  no  words  reach.  It  was  the  strong  humanity 
expressed  in  the  whole  air  of  Him,  and  unobstructed  by 
any  thought  of  Himself,  that  drew  the  crowd  around 
Him,  or  at  least  fixed  them  in  the  attitude  of  breathless 
attention.  Many  a  heart,  I  doubt  not,  was  made  to  thrill 


WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS  363 

and  glow  by  the  intonations  of  His  voice  attuned  to  a 
Divine  sincerity,  or  by  the  passing-  expression  of  His 
countenance  beaming  with  the  truth,  which  is  the  pres- 
ence and  power  of  the  Highest.  In  fine,  it  was  His 
manner  that  rendered  perfect  the  expression  of  His  hu- 
manity, and  gave  men  assurance  of  His  thorough  sin- 
cerity. And  the  peculiar  charm  of  His  humanity  is, 
that  it  bloomed  out  in  this  fulness  of  beauty,  not  in  the 
sunlight  of  joy,  but  under  the  deep  gloom  of  an  early, 
lonely,  and  cruel  death,  ever  present  to  Him  as  the  one 
special  thing  which  He  was  bound  to  suffer. 

Although  He  had  renounced  every  private  concern, 
and  bound  himself  irrevocably  to  so  terrible  a  fate,  He 
nevertheless  retained  the  healthiest  and  most  cordial  in- 
terest in  men  and  things.  Life  lost'  not  one  jot  of 
value  in  His  eyes,  although  He  knew  that  He  had  no  lot 
in  it  but  to  die  in  torture,  forsaken  and  defamed.  On  the 
contrary,  who  ever,  within  so  brief  a  space  of  lime  —  or 
indeed  in  any  space  of  time,  though  extended  to  the  ut- 
most limit  of  this  mortal  existence  —  made  so  much  out 
of  it,  or  so  enhanced  its  value,  as  He?  With  what  light 
and  beauty  has  He  transfigured  this  life  of  ours!  The 
world  had  nothing  for  Him  but  the  hideous  Cross,  and 
yet  He  has  flooded  the  world  through  that  Cross  with 
imperishable  splendors,  unconquerable  Faith,  and  im- 
mortal Hope.  Notwithstanding  the  deadly  hatred  of 
men,  He  loved  them  with  a  love  stronger  than  death, 
and  put  faith  in  them  as  no  other  ever  has  done.  The 
outcast  He  treated  with  a  brother's  tenderness,  identify- 
ing Himself  with  the  meanest  of  His  fellow-men,  and  in 
the  most  emphatic  manner  teaching  that  sympathy  with- 
held from  the  least  is  dishonor  cast  upon  the  greatest 
—  The  Veil  Partly  Lifted. 


364  ARNOLDO  FUSINATO 


pUSINATO,  ARNOLDO,  an  Italian  poet;  born 
near  Vicenza  in  1817;  died  at  Rome  in  1894. 
He  was  educated  at  the  Seminary  of  Padua, 
studied  law,  and  received  his  degree,  but  gave  more 
attention  to  poetry  than  to  legal  practice.  In  1848  he 
married  the  Princess  Colonna,  and  after  her  death  he 
married  (in  1856)  the  poet  Erminia  Fua,  who, 
though  born  of  Jewish  parents,  professed  Christianity, 
and  took  a  keen  interest  in  matters  pertaining  to  female 
education. 

She  wrote  Versi  e  Fiori  (1851);  La  Famiglia 
(1876) ;  Scritti  Educativi  (1880).  In  1870  she  went 
to  Rome  and  founded  a  high  school  for  young  ladies. 
A  sumptuous  edition  of  Fusinato's  Poesies  was  pub- 
lished at  Venice  in  1853.  In  1870  he  went  to  Rome 
as  Chief  Reviser  of  the  Stenographic  Parliamentary 
Reports.  In  1871  appeared  at  Milan  a  volume  of  his 
Poesie  Patriottiche  Inedite,  which  contained,  among 
other  pieces,  the  popular  Students  of  Padua.  The 
poem  quoted  below  has  been  translated  into  nearly 
every  European  language.  In  1849  ^e  Austrians, 
who  had  some  months  before  been  driven  from  Venice, 
returned,  and  bombarded  the  city,  which  having  been 
reduced  to  famine,  and  the  cholera  prevailing,  sur- 
rendered, raising  the  white  flag  over  the  lagoon 
bridge  by  which  the  railway  traveller  enters  the  city. 
The  poet  imagines  himself  in  one  of  the  little  towns 
on  the  nearest  mainland. 

VENICE  IN  1849. 

The  twilight  is  deepening-,  still  is  the  wave; 
I  sit  by  the  window,  mute  as  by  a  grave; 


ARNOLDO  FUSINATO  365 

Silent,  companionless,  secret  I  pine; 

Through  tears  where  thou  liest  I  look,  Venice  mine. 

On  the  clouds  brokenly  strewn  through  the  west 
Lies  the  last  ray  of  the  sun  sunk  to  rest; 
And  a  sad  sibi lance  under  the  moon 
Sighs  from  the  broken  heart  of  the  lagoon. 

Out  of  the  city  a  boat  draweth  near: 
You  of  the  gondola !  tell  us  what  cheer ! " 
Bread  lacks,  the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows." 

No,  no,  nevermore  on  so  great  woe, 
Bright  sun  of  Italy,  nevermore  glow ! 
But  o'er  Venetian  hopes  shattered  so  soon, 
Moan  in  thy  sorrow  forever,  lagoon! 

Venice,  to  thee  comes  at  last  the  last  hour; 
Martyr  illustrious,  in  thy  foe's  power; 
Bread  lacks,  the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows. 

Not  all  the  battle-flames  over  thee  streaming; 
Not  all  the  numberless  bolts  o'er  thee  screaming; 
Not  for  these  terrors  thy  free  days  are  dead: 
'  Long  live  Venice !     She's  dying  for  bread ! 

On  thy  immortal  page  sculpture,  O  Story, 

Others*  iniquity,  Venice's  glory; 

And  three  times  infamous  ever  be  he 

Who  triumphed  by  famine,  O  Venice,  o'er  thee. 

Long  live  Venice !     Undaunted  she  fell ; 
Bravely  she  fought  for  her  banner  and  well ; 
But  bread  lacks;  the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows. 

And  now  be  shivered  upon  the  stone  here 
Till  thou  be  free  again,  O  lyre  I  bear. 
Unto  theee,  Venice,  shall  be  my  last  song, 
To  thee  the  last  kiss  and  the  last  tear  belong. 


366  ARNOLDO  FUSINATO 

Exiled  and  lonely,  from  hence  I  depart, 
But  Venice  forever  shall  live  in  my  heart ; 
In  my  heart's  sacred  place  Venice  shall  be 
As  is  the  face  of  my  first  love  to  me. 

But  the  wind  rises,  and  over  the  pale 
Face  of  its  waters  the  deep  sends  a  wail; 
Breaking,  the  chords  shriek,  and  the  voice  dies. 
On  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  flies. 

—  Translation  of  W.  D.  HOWELLS, 


G 


^ABORIAU,  SMILE,  a  French  novelist;  born  at 
Saujon,  Charente-Inferieure,  November  9, 
3^835 ;  died  at  Paris,  September  28,  1873.  He 
was  for  a  short  time  a  cavalryman,  after  which  he  was 
for  a  while  in  the  express  business ;  and  while  en- 
gaged in  these  occupations  he  began  to  gather  the 
store  of  incidents  which  helped  to  make  him  famous 
as  a  writer  of  detective  stories.  His  earlier  sketches 
appeared  in  the  lesser  Parisian  journals;  and  were 
afterward  brought  together  under  such  collective  titles 
as  Mariages  d  Aventure  ;  Ruses  d'Amour;  Les  Come- 
diennes  Adorees.  These  were  supposed  to  represent 
contemporary  life  among  military,  theatrical  and 
fashionable  people  generally.  They  were  followed  in 
1866  by  his  first  novel,  L' Affaire  Lerouge.  Next  ap- 
peared Le  Dossier  No.  Jjj  (1867)  *>  and  Le  Crime  d* 
Orcival  (1868),  elaborate  stories  of  gloomy  crime 
and  its  detection,  the  plots  of  which  —  often  compared 
by  critics  to  those  of  Collins  and  Poe  —  are  worked 
out  with  great  skill  and  dramatic  effect.  His  later 
publications  during  his  life  included  Monsieur  Lecocq 
(1869)  ;  Les  Esclaves  de  Paris  (1869)  ;  La  V<ie  Infer* 
nale  (1870)  ;  La  Clique  Doree  (1871)  ;  La  Corde  au 
Cou  (1873).  He  left  manuscripts  of  other  works, 

367 


368  &MILE  GABORIAU 

which  were  published  posthumously,  including  L' Ar- 
gent des  Autres  (1874)  and  La  Degringolade  (1876). 
"  Gaboriau's  novels,"  says  a  contemporaneous  writer, 
"  are  faithful  pictures  of  French  legal  procedure,  with 
its  mode,  so  contrary  to  ours,  of  administering  crim- 
inal law/' 

THE  VOLUNTARY  DETECTIVE. 

The  man  had  emptied  the  contents  of  his  basket  on 
to  the  table  —  a  large  lump  of  clay,  several  large  sheets 
of  paper,  and  three  or  four  little  pieces  of  still  wet 
plaster.  Standing  before  this  table,  he  looked  almost 
grotesque,  strikingly  resembling*  those  gentlemen  who, 
on  the  public  places,  perform  juggling  tricks  with  nut- 
megs and  the  pence  of  the  public.  His  dress  had  suf- 
fered considerably;  he  was  almost  covered  with  mud. 

"I  commence,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  almost  conceitedly 
modest  "The  theft  is  of  no  account  in  the  crime  that 
we  are  considering." 

"  No,  on  the  contrary,"  muttered  Gevrol. 

"I  will  prove  it,"  continued  Father  Tabaret,  "by  evi- 
dence. I  will  also  presently  give  my  humble  opinion  on 
the  manner  of  the  murder.  Well,  the  murderer  came 
here  before  half-past  nine  —  that  is  to  say,  before  the 
rain.  Like  M.  Gevrol,  I  also  found  no  muddy  foot- 
prints; but  under  the  table,  on  the  spot  where  the  mur- 
derer's foot  must  have  rested,  I  have  found  traces  of 
dust.  So  we  are  quite  certain  now  about  the  time.  The 
Widow  Lerouge  did  not  at  all  expect  the  comer.  She 
had  begun  to  undress,  and  was  just  winding  up  her 
cuckoo-clock,  when  this  person  knocked." 

"  What  minute  details !  "  cried  the  justice  of  the  peace. 

"They  are  easy  to  verify,"  replied  the  voluntary  de- 
tective, "Examine  this  clock  above  the  writing  table. 
It  is  one  of  those  that  go  for  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours, 
not  more,  as  I  have  ascertained.  Then  it  is  more  than 
probable  —  it  is  certain  —  that  the  widow  wound  it  up  in 
the  evening  before  going  to  bed.  How  is  it  that  the 
clock  stopped  at  five  o'clock?  Because  she  touched  it 


SMILE  GABORIAU  369 

She  must  have  begun  to  pull  the  chain  when  some  one 
knocked.  To  prove  what  I  have  stated,  I  show  you  this 
chair  below  the  clock,  and  on  the  stuff  of  the  chair  the 
very  plain  mark  of  a  foot.  Then  look  at  the  victim's 
costume.  She  had  taken  off  the  body  of  her  dress;  to 
open  the  door  more  quickly  she  did  not  put  it  on  again, 
but  hastily  threw  this  old  shawl  over  her  shoulders." 

"  Christi ! "  exclaimed  the  brigadier,  whom  this  had 
evidently  impressed.  "The  widow,"  continued  Tabaret, 
"knew  the  man  who  struck  her.  Her  haste  in  opening 
the  door  leads  us  to  suspect  it;  what  followed  proves  it. 
Thus  the  murderer  was  admitted  without  any  difficulty. 
He  is  a  young  man,  a  little  over  the  average  height, 
elegantly  dressed.  That  evening  he  wore  a  tall  hat;  he 
had  an  umbrella,  and  was  smoking  a  trabucos  with  a 
mouth-piece." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Gevrol;  "that  is  too  strong!" 

"  Too  strong,  perhaps,"  answered  Father  Tabaret ;  "  in 
any  case,  it  is  the  truth.  If  you  are  not  particular 
as  to  detail,  I  cannot  help  it;  but,  for  my  part,  I  am. 
I  seek,  and  I  find.  Ah,  it  is  too  strong,  you  say!  Well, 
condescend  to  cast  a  glance  at  these  lumps  of  wet  plaster. 
They  represent  the  heels  of  the  murderer's  boots,  of 
which  I  found  a  most  perfect  imprint  near  the  ditch  in 
which  the  key  was  found.  On  these  pieces  of  paper  I 
have  chalked  the  impression  of  the  whole  foot,  which  I 
could  not  carry  away,  as  it  is  on  sand.  Look;  the  heel 
is  high,  the  instep  well  marked,  the  sole  little  and  nar- 
row—  evidently  the  boot  of  a  fine  gentleman,  whose  foot 
is  well  cared  for.  Look  there,  all  along  the  road;  you 
will  see  it  twice  more.  Then  you  will  find  it  five  times 
in  the  garden,  into  which  no  one  has  penetrated,  and 
this  proves  also  that  the  murderer  knocked  not  at  the 
door,  but  at  the  shutter,  under  which  a  ray  of  light  was 
visible.  On  entering  the  garden,  my  man  jumped,  to 
avoid  a  garden-bed;  the  deeper  imprint  of  the  toe  proves 
that.  He  made  a  spring  of  almost  two  yards  with  ease; 
therefore  he  is  nimble  —  that  is  to  say,  young." 

Father  Tabaret  spoke  in   a  little,    clear,   penetrating 
voice.    His  eye  moved  from  one  to  another  of  nis  hearers, 
watching  their  impressions. 
VOL. 


370  EMILE  GABORIAU 

"Is  it  the  hat  that  surprises  you,  M.  Gevrol?"  con- 
tinued Father  Tabaret. — "Just  look  at  the  perfect  cir- 
cle traced  on  the  marble  of  this  writing-table,  which  was 
a  little  dusty.  Is  it  because  I  fixed  his  height  that  you 
are  surprised?  Be  so  good  as  to  examine  the  top  of 
this  cupboard,  and  you  will  see  that  the  murderer  has 
passed  his  hands  over  it.  Then  he  must  be  taller  than 
I  am.  And  do  not  say  that  he  climbed  on  a  chair;  for 
in  that  case  he  would  have  seen,  and  would  not  have 
been  obliged  to  feel.  Are  you  astonished  at  the  um- 
brella? This  lump  of  earth  retains  an  excellent  impres- 
sion, not  only  of  the  point,  but  also  of  the  round  of 
wood  which  hold  the  stuff.  Is  it  the  cigar  that  amazes 
you?  Here  is  the  end  o£  the  trabucos,  which  I  picked 
up  among  the  ashes.  Is  the  end  of  it  bitten?  Has  it 
been  moistened  by  saliva?  No.  Then  whoever  smoked 
it  made  use  of  a  mouth-piece." 

Lecoq  with  difficulty  restrained  his  'enthusiastic  ad- 
miration; noiselessly  he  struck  his  hands  together.  The 
justice  of  the  peace  was  amazed,  the  judge  seemed  de- 
lighted. As  a  contrast,  Gevrol's  ,face  became  noticeably 
longer.  As  for  the  brigadier,  he  was  petrified. 

"Now,"  continued  Tabaret,  "listen  attentively.  Here 
is  the  young  man  introduced.  How  he  explained  his 
presence  at  that  time  I  do  not  know.  What  is  certain 
is  that  he  told  the  Widow  Lerouge  he  had  not  dined. 
The  worthy  woman  was  delighted,  and  immediately  set 
about  preparing  a  meal.  This  meal  was  not  for  herself. 
In  the  cupboard  I  have  found  the  remains  of  her  din- 
ner; she  had  eaten  fish,  the  post-mortem  will  prove 
that.  Besides,  as  you  see,  there  is  only  one  glass  on  the 
table,  and  one  knife.  But  who  is  this  young  man?  Evi- 
dently the  widow  considered  him  very  much  above  hen 
In  the  cupboard  there  is  a  tablecloth  that  is  still  clean. 
Did  she  make  use  of  it?  No.  For  her  guest  she  got 
out  white  linen,  and  her  best  She  meant  this  beautiful 
goblet  for  him ;  it  was  a  present,  no  doubt.  And  finally, 
it  is  evident  that  she  did  not  commonly  make  use  of  this 
ivory-handled  knife." 

"All  that  is  exact,"  muttered  the  judge,  "very  exact" 

"The  young  man  is  seated,  then;  he  has  begun  by 


JAMES  GAIRDNER  371 

drinking  a  glass  of  wine,  while  the  widow  was  putting 
her  saucepan  on  the  fire.  Then  his  courage  began  to 
fail  him;  he  asked  for  brandy,  and  drank  about  five 
little  glasses  full.  After  an  inner  conflict  of  about  ten 
minutes  —  it  must  have  taken  this  time  to  cook  the  ham 
and  the  eggs  to  this  point  —  the  young  man  rose,  ap- 
proached the  widow,  who  was  then  bending  down  and 
leaning  forward,  and  gave  her  two  blows  on  the  back. 
She  did  not  die  instantly.  She  half  rose,  and  clutched 
the  murderer's  hands.  He  also  retreated,  lifted  her 
roughly,  and  threw  her  back  into  the  position  you  see 
her.  This  short  struggle  is  proved  by  the  attitude  of 
the  corpse.  Bent  down  and  struck  in  the  back,  she 
would  have  fallen  on  her  back.  The  murderer  made  use 
of  a  sharp  fine  weapon,  which,  if  I  am  not  much  mis- 
taken, was  the  sharpened  end  of  a  fencing-foil,  with 
the  button  removed.  Wiping  his  weapon  on  the  vic- 
tim's skirt,  he  has  left  us  this  clue.  The  victim  clutched 
his  hands  tightly;  but  as  he  had  not  taken  off  his  gray 
gloves—" 

"  Why,  that  is  a  regular  romance ! "  exclaimed  Gevrol. 

"Have  you  examined  the  Widow  Lerouge's  nails,  sir? 
No.  Well,  go  and  look  at  them;  you  will  tell  me  if  I 
am  mistaken." — From  L* Affaire  Lerouge. 


^AIRDNER,  JAMES,  a  British  historian ;  born  at 
Edinburgh,  March  22,  1828,  and  was  educated 
there.  He  edited  several  ancient  works,  the 
manuscripts  of  which  are  preserved  in  the  Record 
Office  and  elsewhere,  notable  among  which  is  a  very 
much  enlarged  edition  of  The  Fasten  Letters.  His 
principal  original  works  are  The  Houses  of  Lancaster 
and  York  (1874) ;  History  of  the  Life  and  Reign  of 
Richard  III.  (1878);  England  (1879);  Studies  in 
English  History,  consisting  of  essays  by  himself  and 


372  JAMES  GAIRDNER 

Henry  Spedding1,  republished  from  various  periodicals 
(1886)  ;  Henry  VII.  (1889). 

In  a  review  of  Gairdner's  Richard  the  Third;  the 
London  Saturday  Review  says  that,  although  the  au- 
thor declares  himself  "  'convinced  of  the  general  fideli- 
ty of  the  portrait  with  which  we  have  been  made 
familiar  by  Shakespeare  and  Sir  Thomas  More/  the 
research  of  the  modern  author  has  brought  out  many 
facts  unknown,  or  imperfectly  known  to  the  old  his- 
torians and  dramatists,  and  has  enabled  him  to  rectify 
their  statements  on  many  points  of  detail." 

THE  TRUE  CHARACTER  OF  RICHARD   III. 

It  is  a  good  quarter  of  a  century  since  I  first  read 
Walpole's  Historic  Doubts;  and  they  certainly  exercised 
upon  me,  in  a  very  strong  degree,  the  influence  which  I 
perceive  they  have  had  on  many  other  minds.  I  began 
to  doubt  whether  Richard  III.  was  really  a  tyrant  at  all. 
I  more  than  doubted  that  principal  crime  of  which  he  is 
so  generally  reputed  guilty;  and  as  for  everything  else 
laid  to  his  charge  it  was  easy  to  show  that  the  evidence 
was  still  more  unsatisfactory.  The  slenderness  and  in- 
sufficiency of  the  original  testimony  could  hardly  be  de- 
nied; and  if  it  were  only  admitted  that  the  prejudices 
of  Lancastrian  writers  might  have  perverted  facts  which 
the  policy  of  the  Tudors  would  not  have  allowed  other 
writers  to  state  fairly,  a  very  plausible  case  might  have 
been  established  for  a  more  favorable  rendering  of  Rich- 
ard's character. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  the  late  Mr.  Buckle  that  a  cer- 
tain sceptical  tendency  —  a  predisposition  to  doubt  all 
commonly  received  opinions  until  they  were  found  to 
stand  the  test  of  argument  —  was  the  first  essential  to  the 
discovery  of  new  truth.  I  must  confess  that  my  own 
experience  does  not  verify  this  remark;  and  whatever 
may  be  said  for  it  as  regards  science,  I  cannot  but  think 
the  sceptical  spirit  a  most  fatal  one  in  history.  It  is  an 
easy  thing  to  isolate  particular  facts  and  events,  cross- 


JAMES  GAIRDNER  373 

examine  to  our  own  satisfaction  the  silent  witnesses  or 
first  reporters  of  a  celebrated  crime,  and  appeal  to  the 
public  for  a  verdict  of  "  not  proven."  But,  after  all,  we 
have  only  raised  a  question;  we  have  not  advanced  one 
step  toward  its  solution.  We  have  succeeded  in  render- 
ing a  few  things  doubtful,  which  may  have  been  too 
hastily  assumed  before.  But  if  these  doubt's  are  to  be 
of  any  value  as  the  avenue  to  new  truths,  they  must 
lead  to  a  complete  reconsideration  of  very  many  things 
besides  the  few  dark  passages  at  first  isolated  for  in- 
vestigation. They  require,  in  the  first  place,  that  the 
history  of  one  particular  epoch  should  be  rewritten;  in 
the  second,  that  the  new  version  of  the  story  should  ex- 
hibit a  certain  moral  harmony  with  the  facts  both  of 
subsequent  times  and  of  the  times  preceding.  Until  these 
two  conditions  have  been  fulfilled,  no  attempt  to  set 
aside  traditional  views  of  history  can  ever  be  called  suc- 
cessful. 

The  old  traditional  view  of  Richard  III.  has  certainly 
not  yet  been  set  aside  in  a  manner  to  satisfy  the  world. 
Yet  there  has  been  no  lack  of  ingenuity  in  pleading  his 
cause,  or  of  research  in  the  pursuit  of  evidence.  Orig- 
inal authorities  have  been  carefully  scrutinized;  words 
have  been  exactly  weighed;  and  plausible  arguments 
have  been  used  to  show  that  for  all  that  is  said  of  him 
by  contemporary  writers  he  might  have  been  a  very  dif- 
ferent character  from  what  he  is  supposed  to  have  been. 
Only,  the  malign  tradition  itself  is  not  well  accounted 
for;  and  we  are  not  clearly  shown  that  the  story  of 
Richard's  life  is  more  intelligible  without  it  On  the 
contrary  I  must  record  my  impression  that  a  minute 
study  of  the  facts  of  Richard's  life  has  tended  more  and 
more  to  convince  me  of  the  general  fidelity  of  the  por- 
trait with  which  we  have  been  made  familiar  by  Shake- 
speare and  Sir  Thomas  More. 

I  feel  quite  ashamed,  at  this  day,  to  think  how  I  mused 
over  this  subject  long  ago,  wasting  a  great  deal  of  time, 
ink,  and  paper  in  fruitless  efforts  to  satisfy  even  my 
own  mind  that  traditional  black  was  real  historical  white, 
or  at  worst  a  kind  of  gray.  At  last  I  laid  aside  my  in- 
complete manuscript,  and  applied  myself  to  other  sub- 


374  'JAMES  GAIRDNER 

jects,  still  of  a  kindred  nature;  and  the  larger  study  of 
history  in  other  periods  convinced  me  that  my  method 
at  starting  had  been  altogether  wrong.  The  attempt  to 
discard  tradition  in  the  examination  of  original  sources 
of  history  is,  in  fact,  like  the  attempt  to  learn  an  un- 
unknown  language  without  a  teacher.  We  lose  the  benefit 
of  a  living  interpreter,  who  may,  indeed,  misapprehend 
to  some  extent  the  author  whom  we  wish  to  read;  but 
at  least  he  would  save  us  from  innumerable  mistakes  if 
we  had  followed  his  guidance  in  the  first  instance.  I 
have,  therefore,  in  working  out  this  subject  always  ad- 
hered to  the  plan  of  placing  my  chief  reliance  on  con- 
temporary information;  and,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  I 
have  neglected  nothing  important  that  is  either  directly 
stated  by  original  authorities  and  contemporary  records, 
or  that  can  be  reasonably  inferred  from  what  they  say. 
—  History  of  Richard  ///.,  Preface. 

PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  RICHARD  III. 

His  bodily  deformity,  though  perceptible,  was  prob- 
ably not  conspicuous.  It  is  not  alluded  to  by  any  strictly 
contemporary  writer  except  one.  Only  Rous,  the  War- 
wickshire hermit,  tells  us  that  his  shoulders  were  uneven ; 
while  the  indefatigable  Stowe,  who  was  born  forty  years 
after  Richard's  death,  declared  that  he  could  find  no 
evidence  of  the  deformity  commonly  imputed  to  him, 
and  that  he  had  talked  with  old  men  who  had  seen  and 
known  King  Richard,  who  said  that  "  he  was  of  bodily 
shape  comely  enough,  only  of  low  stature/'  .  „  . 

The  number  of  portraits  of  Richard  which  seem  to 
be  contemporary  is  greater  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected considering  the  remoteness  of  the  times  in  which 
he  lived,  and  the  early  stage  at  which  he  died*  .  .  . 
The  face  in  all  Hie  portraits  is  a  remarkable  one  —  full  of 
energy  and  decision,  yet  gentle  and  sad-looking;  sug- 
gesting the  idea  not  so  much  of  a  tyrant  as  a  man  ac- 
customed to  unpleasant  thoughts.  Nowhere  do  we  find 
depicted  the  warlike,  hard-favored  visage  attributed  to 
him  by  Sir  Thomas  More;  yet  there  is  a  look  of  reserve 
and  anxiety  which,  taken  in  connection  with  the  seem- 


BENITO  PEREZ  GALDOS  375 

ing  gentleness,  enables  us  somewhat  to  realize  the  criti- 
cism of  Polydore  Vergil  and  Hall,  that  his  aspect  carried 
an  unpleasant  impression  of  malice  and  deceit.  The 
face  is  long  and  thin,  the  lips  thin  also;  the  eyes 
are  gray,  the  features  smooth.  It  cannot  certainly  be 
called  quite  a  pleasing  countenance,  but  as  little  should 
we  suspect  in  it  the  man  he  actually  was.  The  features 
doubtless  were  susceptible  of  great  variety  of  expres- 
sion; but  we  require  the  aid  of  language  to  understand 
what  his  enemies  read  in  that  sinister  and  over-thought- 
ful countenance.  "  A  man  at  the  first  aspect,"  says  Hall, 
"  would  judge  it  to  savor  of  malice,  fraud,  and  de- 
ceit. When  he  stood  musing  he  would  bite  and  chew 
busily  his  nether  lip,  as  who  said  that  his  fierce  nature 
in  his  cruel  body  always  chafed,  stirred,  and  was  ever 
unquiet.  Beside  that  the  dagger  that  he  wore  he  would 
when  he  studied,  with  his  hand  pluck  up  and  down  in 
the  sheath  to  the  midst,  never  drawing  it  fully  out.  His 
wit  was  pregnant,  quick,  and  ready,  wily  to  feign  and 
apt  to  dissemble;  he  had  a  proud  and  arrogant  stom- 
ach, the  which  accompanied  him  to  his  death,  which  he, 
rather  desiring  to  suffer  by  sword  than,  being  forsaken 
and  destitute  of  his  untrue  companions,  would  by  coward 
flight  preserve  his  uncertain  life. — History  of  Richard 
IIL,  Chap.  VI. 


^ALD(5s,  BENITO  PEREZ,  a  Spanish  novelist  and 
journalist;  born  at  Las  Palmas,  in  the  island 
of  Grand  Canary,  in  1845.  He  early  devel- 
oped talent  both  as  an  artist  and  as  a  writer.  A 
picture  by  him  is  said  to  have  received  a  prize  at  an 
exhibition  at  Santa  Cruz  de  Tenerife  in  1862.  He  re- 
moved in  1863  to  Madrid,  where  he  became  succes- 
sively editor  of  El  Parlamtnto;  La  Nation;  El  De- 
bate, and  of  the  principal  Spanish  review,  Revista  de 


376  BENITO  PEREZ  GALD6S 

Espana.  He  was  liberal  deputy  to  the  Cortes  of 
Puerto  Rico  between  1886  and  1890.  As  a  writer  of 
fiction  he  first  distinguished  himself  by  the  publication 
of  two  historical  romances  relating  to  the  condition  of 
Spain  in  the  earlier  years  of  the  present  century,  en- 
titled La  Fontana  de  Oro  (1871)  and  El  Andaos. 
Next,  in  imitation  of  MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian,  he  pub- 
lished two  series  of  Episodios  Nacionales,  the  first  deal- 
ing with  subjects  taken  from  the  war  of  independence 
against  Napoleon,  and  the  second  describing  the 
struggle  of  Spanish  liberalism  against  the  tyranny  of 
Ferdinand  VII.  These  novels  achieved  a  great  suc- 
cess in  Spain,  and  were  also  widely  read  in  Spanish 
America.  Among  these  earlier  works  were  Baillien 
(1873);  Napoleon  en  Chamartin  (1874);  Cadiz 
(1874) ;  Juan  Martin  el  Empecinado  (1874) ;  La  5a- 
talla  de  los  Arapiles  (1875);  El  Terror  de  1824 
(1877).  Encouraged  by  the  continually  increasing 
success  of  these  productions,  he  composed  other 
romances;  Dona  Perfecta,  which  was  translated  into 
English  in  1880;  Gloria  translated  by  Nathan  Weth- 
erell  in  1879;  Marianela,  and  La  Familia  de  Leone 
Roch,  which  augmented  his  fame  and  brought  him 
into  the  foremost  rank  of  Spanish  novelists*  He 
composed  a  long  series  of  contemporary  romances, 
entitled  La  Desheredada  (1880);  El  Amiga  Mando 
(1881);  Tormento  (1883);  L°  Prohibido  (1884); 
Fortunatay  lacinta  (1886) ;  Mian  (1888) ;  La  Incog- 
nita (1890)  ;  Realidad  (1890)  ;  Angel  Guerra  (1891). 
Other  later  works  are  La  Loca  de  la  Casa;  San 
Quintin,  and  Los  Condenados.  He  was  admitted  as 
a  member  of  the  Spanish  Academy  February  7,  1897. 
"The  long  list  of  books,"  writes  Archer  Hunting- 
ton  in  The  Bookman,  "  by  which  he  has  appealed,  not 


BEN1TO  PEREZ  GALD6'S  377 

only  to  the  patriotic  sentiments  of  his  own  country, 
but  to  general  interest  in  the  world  outside,  were  writ- 
ten rapidly  —  some  of  them  taking  not  more  than  a 
few  weeks  —  and  occupy  a  place  in  Spanish  literature 
akin  to  that  of  Dumas  in  French,  although  he  has  been 
successively  compared  to  Erckmann-Chatrian,  Balzac, 
and  Zola." 

ORBAJOSA. 

After  another  half-hour's  ride  there  appeared  before 
their  eyes  a  crowded  and  time-worn  jumble  of  houses, 
above  which  rose  a  few  black  towers  and  the  ruined 
fabric  of  a  tumble-down  castle  on  a  height.  A  mass  ci 
shapeless  walls  formed  the  base,  with  some  fragments 
of  battlemented  bulwarks,  and  under  their  guard  a  thou- 
sand humble  huts  raising  their  wretched  fronts  of  mud 
like  the  bloodless  and  hunger-stricken  faces  of  beggars 
beseeching  the  passer-by  for  charity. 

A  very  poor  river  girdled  the  town  with,  as  it  were, 
a  strip  of  tin,  giving  life  as  it  passed  to  a  few  orchards, 
the  only  verdure  which  refreshed  the  eye.  People  were 
coming  in  and  out,  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  and  the 
movement  of  men,  small  as  it  was,  gave  a  certain  air  of 
life  to  that  tomb  which  from  the  look  of  its  buildings 
seemed  rather  the  abode  of  ruin  and  death  than  of 
progress  and  life.  The  innumerable  and  repulsive  beg- 
gars who  dragged  themselves  along  on  either  side  of 
the  road,  begging  a  trine  from  the  passer-by,  presented 
a  pitiful  spectacle.  No  form  of  life  could  have  harmon- 
ized better,  or  seemed  more  thoroughly  at  home  in  the 
crevice  of  that  sepulchre  where  a  city  lay  not  only  buried 
but  corrupted.  As  our  travelers  drew  near,  the  dis- 
cordant clanging  of  bells  showed  by  their  expressive 
sound  that  even  yet  the  soul  lingered  by  the  mummy.— 
From  Dona  Perfecta;  translation  of  DAVID  HANNAY. 

CABALLUCO. 

He  is  a  very  brave  man,  a  great  rider,  the  best  horse- 
man in  the  country  round.  In  Orbajosa  we  all  love 


378        BENITO  PEREZ  GALDdS 

him  much,  for  he  is  —  and  I  say  it  sincerely  —  as  good  as 
God's  blessing.  There  as  you  see  him,  he  is  a  dreaded 
cacique ',  and  the  governor  of  the  province  is  hat  in 
hand  to  him.  When  he  collected  the  gate-dues  there 
was  no  getting  over  him,  and  every  night  we  had  fight- 
ing at  our  gates.  He  has  a  following  worth  their  weight 
in  gold.  He  is  good  to  the  poor,  and  whoever  comes 
from  without,  and  dares  to  touch  a  hair  of  the  head  of 
any  son  of  Orbajosa,  may  reckon  with  him.  Now  it 
seems  he  has  fallen  into  poverty,  and  has  taken  to  carry- 
ing the  post  I  don't  know  how  it  is  you  never  heard 
his  name  in  Madrid,  for  he  is  son  of  a  famous  Caballuco 
who  was  in  arms  during  the  troubles,  and  that  Cabal- 
luco the  father  was  son  of  another  Caballuco  the  grand- 
father, who  was  out  in  the  troubles  before  that  again; 
and  now,  as  they  tell  us  we  are  going  to  have  troubles 
again,  for  everything  is  adrift  and  upside  down,  we  are 
afraid  Caballuco  will  be  off,  too,  thus  completing  the 
mighty  feats  of  his  father  and  grandfather,  who  for  our 
great  glory  were  born  .in  our  city. —  From  Dona  Perfects. 

PEPE'S  OPINION  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL  SERVICE. 

And  as  for  the  music,  you  may  imagine  how  much 
my  spirit  was  moved  to  devotion  on  the  occasion  of  my 
visit  to  the  Cathedral,  when  all  at  once,  and  at  the  mo- 
ment of  the  elevation,  the  organist  struck  up  a  passage 
from  La  Iraviata.  But  when  my  heart  did  indeed  sink 
was  when  I  saw  a  figure  of  the  Virgin,  which  ap- 
pears to  be  held  in  much  veneration,  to  judge  by  the 
number  of  people  in  front  of  it  and  the  multitude  of 
candles  burning  around  it.  They  had  dressed  it  up  in 
an  inflated  robe  of  velvet  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  of  a 
form  absurd  enough  to  surpass  the  most  extravagant 
fashions  of  to-day.  Her  face  disappears  under  a  thick 
foliage  formed  of  a  thousand  sorts  of  lace  crimped  with 
tongs,  and  the  crown,  half  a  yard  high,  surrounded  by 
golden  rays,  is  an  ill-shaped  catafalque  which  has  been 
rigged  on  her  head.  Of  the  same  stuff  and  same  trim- 
ming are  the  trousers  of  the  infant  Jesus. — From  Dona 
Perfects 


GALILEO'S  TOWER. 


GALILEO  GALILEI  379 


^ALILEI,  GALILEO,  an  Italian  astronomer;  born 
at  Pisa,  February  14,  1564;  died  at  Arcetri, 
June  9,  1642.  He  was  not  of  the  proletariat; 
he  was  the  son  of  a  Florentine  nobleman,  Vicenzo 
Galilei  and  Guilia,  daughter  of  the  ancient  family  of 
the  Ammanati  of  Pescia. 

Noble  though  his  family  was,  Galileo  was  born  into 
poor  circumstances,  and  it  was  planned  for  him  that, 
after  an  education  at  Pisa  as  befitted  his  rank,  he 
should  enter  the  honorable  business  of  a  cloth  mer- 
chant. Only  the  first  part  of  the  program  was 
carried  out,  and  fortunately  the  young  student  was 
handed  over  to  the  learned  monks  at  Vallambrosa, 
and  with  them  he  made  such  rapid  progress,  partic- 
ularly in  the  classics,  which  no  doubt  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  his  splendid  literary  style  of  later  years,  that 
the  father  began  to  see  that  he  had  a  universal  genius 
on  his  hands  and  not  an  embryo  man  of  trade.  A 
universal  genius  in  truth,  a  fine  musician,  an  artist  of 
more  than  common  power.  One  well  founded  in  the 
solid  branches  of  learning,  and  with  a  lively  interest 
in  belles-lettres  and  a  wonderful  talent  for  mechanics. 
It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  what  to  make  of  the 
boy,  but  what  not  to  make  of  him,  and  finally  medicine 
was  chosen  as  a  profession  which  such  all  round 
cleverness  might  fit. 

In  1581  he  became  a  student  at  the  University  of 
Pisa.  Here,  besides  his  study  of  medicine,  the  youth 
attended  a  course  of  the  peripatetic  philosophy  as  it 
was  there  taught,  and  he  quickly  obtained  the  nick- 
name of  "  The  Wrangler  "  because  his  mind  refused  to 
accept  the  oracular  dicta  of  Aristotle,  which  was  then 


38o  GALILEO  GALILEI 

implicitly  accepted  and  taught.  This  was  the  first 
straw  to  indicate  which  way  the  stress  of  his  life 
would  blow. 

Up  to  his  twentieth  year,  incredible  as  it  may  seem, 
Galileo  was  scarcely  acquainted  with  the  elements  of 
mathematics;  in  fact,  the  study  was  not  in  repute;  it 
was  a  despised  science,  and  Euclid  and  Archimedes 
were  as  sounding  brass  or  tinkling  cymbal  in  Pisa, 
Bologna  and  even  learned  Padua.  Hence,  Galileo's 
father,  having  chosen  a  profession  for  his  son,  com- 
batted  that  son's  notion  for  mathematical  study,  assur- 
ing him  that  there  would  be  time  enough  for  mathe- 
matics when  medical  studies  were  over  and  done  with. 
But  genius,  like  love,  o'ertops  the  walls  of  opposition, 
and  the  story  runs  of  Galileo's  standing,  Euclid  in 
hand,  behind  the  door  of  the  room  where  Ricci  tutored 
the  pages  of  the  grand  ducal  court,  drinking  in  fresh 
draughts  of  mathematical  knowledge  clandestinely 
and  unobserved. 

At  length  he  confessed  to  the  astonished  tutor,  who, 
pleased  at  this  unwonted  desire  to  learn,  undertook  to 
advise  Vincenzo  Galileo  not  to  thwart  the  boy's 
natural  bent.  Then  began  those  lectures  and  experi- 
ments that  have  given  Galileo  lasting  fame.  Before 
he  was  twenty-five  years  of  age  he  was  mathematical 
lecturer  in  the  University  of  Pisa.  At  twenty-seven 
he  became  professor  of  mathematics  at  Padua,  where 
his  class  at  Padua  outgrew  its  room  and  a  new  hall 
to  accommodate  two  thousand  hearers  had  to  be  pro- 
vided for  the  fiery  lectures  of  the  brilliant  young 
scientist. 

Eighteen  years  at  Padua  and  then  he  went  to  a 
professorship  in  Florence.  He  was  greatly  honored, 
the  friend  of  Cardinals  Dellarmino  and  Meffeo  Bar- 


GALILEO  GALILEI  381 

berini,  and  his  name  is  famous  throughout  Italy.  But 
of  enemies  he  had  no  stint.  Vehement,  bitingly  sar- 
castic, without  tact  or  ordinary  prudence,  Galileo 
sowed  the  wind  of  opposition  and  reaped  the  whirl- 
wind of  hatred.  He  possessed  in  an  ordinary  degree 
the  true  spirit  of  philosophical  inquiry,  the  love  of 
research,  but  he  also  had  a  wonderful  talent  for  ex- 
citing the  hatred  of  those  whose  scientific  opinions  he 
opposed.  During  his  three  years  at  Pisa  the  whole 
body  of  the  professors,  with  one  exception,  as  well  as 
the  heads  of  the  university,  were  staunch  Aristoteleans 
and  hostile  to  Galileo.  True,  this  man  had  discovered  a 
planet,  had  invented  a  spyglass  to  scan  the  firmament, 
but  he  had  trodden  in  the  path  of  unfrequented  nature, 
and  had  dared  to  question  the  inviolability  of  the 
heavens,  uninfluenced  by  dogmatism  or  petrified  pro- 
fessional wisdom.  The  pulpit  thundered.-  Scientists 
like  Coressio,  Balthaser  Capra,  Cremonia  and 
Lodorico  delle  Colombo,  who  had  grown  gray  in  the 
Aristotelean  doctrine,  seized  the  pretext,  a  systematic 
persecution  was  organized  and  the  inquisition  was  in- 
voked. 

Galileo's  removal  to  Florence  was  unfortunate.  In 
leaving  Padua  he  quitted  the  only  state  in  Italy  in 
which,  in  time,  he  might  have  come  to  defy  the 
machinations  of  the  Jesuits,  who,  from  beginning  to 
end,  were  responsible  for  the  persecution  of  the 
philosopher.  It  was  a  time  when,  in  Italy,  Rome 
ruled  in  all  matters,  and  there  could  be  nothing  out- 
side the  church,  because  everything  civil,  religious, 
social,  philosophical,  literary,  had  been  gathered  in- 
side. Unable  to  grapple  with  Galileo's  propositions 
in  their  purely  scientific  aspect,  the  Jesuits  and  anti- 


382  GALILEO  GALILEI 

Copernicans  turned  to  the  Scriptures  for  support,  and 
Scripture  in  its  most  rigid  and  literal  interpretation. 

In  the  comparatively  easy  position  of  first  mathe- 
matician to  the  grand  duke  of  Tuscany,  Galileo  hoped 
to  have  leisure  for  study  and  discovery.  But  he 
found  that  while  there  was  complete  freedom  of  teach- 
ing in  the  Venetian  republic,  this  was  only  nominally 
the  case  in  Tuscany.  He  was  summoned  to  Rome  by 
the  pope,  and  there  officially  admonished  not  to  teach, 
hold  or  defend  the  absurd  doctrine  that 'the  sun  was 
immovable,  while  the  earth  revolved  about  it.  The 
doctrine  of  Aristotle,  as  approved  by  the  church,  was 
precisely  opposite,  and  Aristotle  was  right. 

For  the  seven  years  following  the  edict  Galileo  led  a 
life  of  retired  study.  Everything  pointed  to  his  pros- 
perity, when  he  again  fell  into  trouble  through  the 
publication  of  a  book  wonderfully  alike  in  the  value  of 
its  matter  and  the  elegance  of  its  style.  It  was  in  the 
form  of  a  dialogue,  in  which  there  were  three  inter- 
locutors, a  teacher  of  the  new  astronomical  doctrines, 
an  intelligent  listener  and  a  stupid,  though  good- 
natured,  objector.  In  this  last  character  he  took  the 
opportunity  to  ridicule  his  peripatetic  opponents. 
This  was  too  much.  His  scientific  and  philosophic  op- 
ponents renewed  the  attack,  and  he  was  denounced  to, 
and  ultimately  tried  and  condemned  by,  the  supreme 
tribunal  of  the  inquisition.  The  essence  of  the  charge 
against  Galileo  was  that  after  having  been  formally 
prohibited  from  defending  the  Copernican  theory  he 
had,  in  his  dialogue  on  the  two  great  systems  of  the 
universe,  openly  contravened  this  order. 

It  was  a  serious  thing  to  be  called  before  the  in- 
quisition, and  Galileo  was  no  longer  a  young  man< 
neither  was  he  made  of  the  stuff  that  martyrs  are. 


GALILEO  GALILEI  383 

So  he  recanted.  He  denied  on  oath  that  he  entertained 
the  Copernician  doctrine,  and  offered  to  write  another 
dialogue  in  refutation  of  the  condemned  tenet  to  be 
found  in  his  former  work,  and  protested  his  belief  in 
the  old  Ptolomaic  hypothesis  as  "most  true  and  in- 
dubitable." 

After  only  four  days  in  prison  Galileo  was  permitted 
to  reside  with  his  friend,  Archbishop  Piccolomini, 
and  later  to  live  openly  near  Florence,  but  he  was 
always  a  person  "vehemently  suspected/*  and  under 
the  surveillance  of  the  inquisition.  He  continued  his 
scientific  labors  until  he  became  totally  blind. 

At  this  time  Milton,  then  a  man  about  thirty,  visited 
Galileo.  The  meeting  was  a  notable  one,  and  Milton 
wrote  of  it :  "  There  it  was  that  I  found  and  visited  the 
famous  Galileo,  grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the  inquisition 
for  thinking  in  astronomy  other  than  the  Franciscan 
and  Dominican  listeners  thought."  In  Paradise  Lost 
Galileo  is  several  times  alluded  to,  and  Rogers,  in  his 
Italy,  thus  speaks  of  Milton's  interview  with  the  blind 
astronomer : 

There  unseen, 

In  manly  beauty,  Milton  stood  before  him, 
Gazing  with  reverend  awe  —  Milton,  his  guest — 
Just  then  came  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise; 
He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity, 
Blind,  at  noonday  exploring  with  his  staff; 
His  eyes  upturned  as  to  the  golden  sun, 
His  eyeballs  idle  rolling.    Little  then 
Did  Galileo  think  whom  he  received; 
That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 
Who  could  requite  him  —  who  would  his  name  spread 
O'er  lands  and  seas  —  great  as  himself,  nay  greater. 
Milton  as  little,  that  in  him  he  saw, 
As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be* 


384  GALILEO  GALILEI 

Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 
And  evil  tongues  — so  soon,  alas,  to  live 
In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compassed  round 
And  solitude. 

In  1642,  at  the  age  of  seventy-eight,  Galileo  died, 
his  last  wish  being  that  he  should  rest  in  the  tomb  of 
his  ancestors  in  Santa  Croce  church,  at  Florence. 
But  this  the  pope  would  not  allow;  it  would  be  too 
much  of  an  honor  to  a  heretic,  and  so  his  mortal  re- 
mains were  laid  in  a  tomb  on  the  insignificant  side 
of  that  chapel— the  Capelle  del  Noviziato —  without 
funeral  oration  and  without  monument  or  inscription. 
But  the  immortal  name  could  not  thus  be  buried  with 
the  poor  dust.  Nearly  a  century  afterward,  in  1737, 
the  remains  were  removed  in  the  presence  of  all  the 
professors  of  Florence  and  most  of  the  learned  men 
of  Italy,  to  a  splendid  mausoleum  in  the  church  of 
Santa  Croce  itself,  the  pantheon  of  the  Florentine 
dead.  The  shrine  itself  is  magnificent  and  over- 
shadowed by  a  long  eulogy. 

The  glory  of  Galileo,  with  his  mighty  talent,  his 
weakness  and  his  strength,  has  outlived  that  of  popes 
and  cardinals  and  the  inquisition,  and  shines  a  fixed 
star  in  the  scientific  firmament.  That  he  was  a  suf- 
ferer, but  no  martyr,  is  conceded.  He  never  suffered 
torture  at  the  inquisition  beyond  torture  of  spirit,  nor 
was  the  treatment  of  the  church  more  hard  and  nar- 
row than  were  the  times  and  country  in  which  he 
lived.  His  collected  Works,  edited  by  Alberi,  were 
published  in  sixteen  volumes  in  1842. 


RICHARD  GALL  385 


,  RICHARD,  a  Scottish  poet;  born  at  Link- 
house,  near  Dunbar,  December,  1776;  died  at 
Edinburgh,  May  10,  1801.  He  attended  the 
parish  school  at  Haddington  for  a  short  time,  but  his 
father's  circumstances  were  too  limited  to  give  him  a 
good  education,  and  at  eleven  years  of  age  he  was 
apprenticed  to  his  maternal  uncle,  who  was  a  carpenter 
and  builder.  After  some  time  spent  in  this  appren- 
ticeship, which  was  very  distasteful  to  him,  he  ran 
away  and  went  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  obtained  em- 
ployment as  a  printer.  Here  he  spent  his  leisure  in 
study  and  writing. 

His  songs  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  Burns, 
Campbell,  and  Macneill,  and  he  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Burns  and  Campbell,  who  regarded  him  as  a  poet 
of  great  promise.  With  Burns  he  continued  a  cor- 
respondence while  he  lived.  His  Farewell  to  Ayr- 
shire and  one  other  of  his  poems  were  ascribed  to  that 
poet.  His  poem  Arthur's  Seat  was  very  popular  for  a 
long  time.  Though  his  songs  were  very  popular,  sev- 
eral of  them  having  been  set  to  music,  they  were  not 
published  in  a  collected  form  until  1819,  when  a  vol- 
ume was  issued  with  a  memoir  by  Alexander  Balfour. 

FAREWELL  TO  AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew; 
Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu ! 
Bonny  Boon,  sae  sweet  at  gloamin', 

Fare-thee-weel  before  I  gang — 
•Bonny  Doon,  where,  early  roamin', 

First  I  weaved  the  rustic  sangl 
VOL.  X.— 25 


386  RICHARD  GALL 

Bowers,  adieu !  where  love  decoying, 

First  enthralFd  this  heart  oj  mine; 
There  the  saftest  sweets  enjoying, 

Sweets  that  memory  ne'er  shall  tine ! 
Friends  sae  dear  my  bosom  ever, 

Ye  hae  rendered  moments  dear ; 
But,  alas !  when  forced  to  sever, 

Then  the  stroke,  oh,  how  severe! 

Friends,  that  parting  tear,  reserve  it, 

Though  'tis  doubly  dear  to  me; 
Could  I  think  I  did  deserve  it, 

How  much  happier  would  I  be! 
Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew; 
Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure ; 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu! 

THE  BRAES  0*  DRUMLEE. 

Ere  eild  wi'  his  blatters  had  warsled  me  down, 

Or  reft  me  o'  life's  youthfu*  bloom, 

How  aft  hae  I  gane,  wi'  a  heart  louping  light, 

To  the  knowes  yellow  toppit  wij  broom! 

How  oft  hae  I  sat  i'  the  bield  o'  the  knowe, 

While  the  laverock  mounted  sae  hie, 

An'  the  mavis  sang  sweet  in  the  plantings  around, 

On  the  bonnie  green  braes  o'  Drumlee. 

But,  ah !  while  we  daff  in  the  sunshine  o'  youth, 

We  see  na  the  blasts  that  destroy; 

We  count  na  upon  the  fell  waes  that  may  come, 

An'  eithly  o'er  cloud  a*  our  joy. 

I  saw  na  the  fause  face  that  fortune  can  wear, 

Till  forced  from  my  country  to  flee; 

Wi'  a  heart  like  to  burst,  while  I  sobbed  "  Farewell," 

To  the  bonnie  green  braes  o'  Drumlee ! 

Farewell,  ye  dear  haunts  o'  the  days  o'  my  youth, 
Ye  woods  and  ye  valleys  sae  fair; 
Ye'll  bloom  when  I  wander  abroad  like  a  ghaist, 
Sair  nidder'd  wi*  sorrow  an'  care. 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER  387 

Ye  woods  an'  ye  valleys,  I  part  wi'  a  sigh, 
While  the  flood  gushes  down  frae  my  e'e; 
For  never  again  shall  the  tear  weet  my  cheek 
On  the  bonnie  green  braes  o'  Drumlee. 

"  O  Time,  could  I  tether  your  hours  for  a  wee ! 
Na,  na,  for  they  flit  like  the  wind !  " 
Sae  I  took  my  departure,  an*  saunter'd  awa', 
Yet  aften  look'd  wistfu'  behind. 
Oh !  sair  is  the  heart  of  the  mither  to  twin 
Wi'  the  baby  that  sits  on  her  knee; 
But  sairer  the  pang  when  I  took  a  last  peep 
O'  the  bonnie  green  braes  o*  Drumlee. 

I  heftit  'mang  strangers  years  thretty  an*  twa, 

But  naething  could  banish  my  care; 

An'  aften  I  sigh'd  when  I  thought  on  the  past, 

Whaur  a'  was  sae  pleasant  an'  fair. 

But  now,  wae's  my  heart!  whan 

I'm  lyart  an'   auld, 

An'  fu'  lint-white  my  haffet  locks  flee, 

I'm  hamewards  return'd  wi'  a  remnant  o'  life 

To  the  bonnie  green  braes  o'  Drumlee. 

Poor  body !  bewilder'd,  I  scarcely  do  ken 

The  haunts  that  were  dear  once  to  me. 

I  yirded  a  plant  in  the  days  o'  my  youth, 

An'  the  mavis  now  sings  on  the  tree. 

But,  haith !  there's  nae  scenes  I  wad  niffer  wi'  thae ; 

For  it  fills  my  fond  heart  fu'  o'  glee, 

To  think  how  at  last  my  auld  bones  they  will  rest 

Near  the  bonnie  green  braes  o'  Drumlee. 


^ALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  DAVIS,  an  American 
journalist  and  poet ;  born  at  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
August  21,  1808;  died  there  June  27,  1894. 
His  father,  an  Irish  patriot,  died  soon  after  taking 


388  WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

refuge  in  the  United  States ;  and  he  removed  with  his 
mother  to  Cincinnati,  where  he  entered  a  printing- 
office  in  1821.  While  here  he  began  to  write  for  the 
press ;  and  in  1830  he  went  to  Xenia  as  editor  of  the 
Backwoodsman;  but  the  following  year  he  returned  to 
take  charge  of  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  for  which  he 
wrote  many  popular  poems  and  tales.  In  1836  he  be- 
came editor  of  the  Western  Literary  Journal  and 
Monthly  Review;  and  later  of  The  Hesperian,  both 
of  Cincinnati;  and  in  1838  he  divided  his  time  be- 
tween these  and  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  published  at 
Columbus.  The  following  year  he  became  associate 
editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  which  post  he  re- 
tained for  eleven  years.  From  1850  until  1853  he 
was  employed  as  a  confidential  clerk  at  Washington 
by  Thomas  Corwin,  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  He 
then  removed  to  Louisville,  Ky.,  where  after  a  few 
years'  connection  as  an  editor  with  the  Courier,  he 
settled  down  as  a  farmer  and  a  writer  on  agriculture. 
He  was  again  engaged  in  the  Treasury  department  of 
the  Government  during  the  war;  after  which  he  re- 
turned to  Louisville. 

His  Journey  Through  Kentucky  and  Mississippi 
(1828)  first  called  attention  to  him  as  a  writer;  and 
The  Wreck  of  the  Hornet  stamped  him  as  a  poet 
The  latter  was  reprinted  with  other  poems  under  the 
collected  title,  Errato,  in  three  volumes  in  1835. 
In  1841  he  issued  his  Selections  from  the  Poetical 
Literature  of  the  West;  and  five  years  later  he  pub- 
lished another  volume  of  original  Poems.  As  Presi- 
dent of  the  Ohio  Historical  Society  he  delivered  in 
1849  his  famous  address  on  The  Progress  and  Re- 
sources of  the  Northwest.  Fruit  Culture  in  the  Ohio 
Valley  is  another  of  his  valuable  essays  as  an  agricul- 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER  389 

turist.  Of  poetical  works,  his  later  collections  are 
Miami  Woods  (1879)  J  ^  Golden  Wedding  and  Other 
Poems  (1881). 

"The  poems  of  Mr.  Gallagher,"  said  Griswold  in  his 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,  "  are  numerous,  varied, 
and  of  unequal  merit.  Some  are  exquisitely  modu- 
lated, and  in  every  respect  finished  with  excellent 
judgment,  while  others  are  inharmonious,  inelegant, 
and  betray  unmistakable  signs  of  carelessness.  His 
most  unstudied  performances,  however,  are  apt  to  be 
forcible  and  picturesque,  fragrant  with  the  freshness 
of  Western  woods  and  fields,  and  instinct  with  the 
aspiring  determined  life  of  the  race  of  Western  men. 
The  poet  of  a  new  country  is  naturally  of  the  party 
of  progress ;  his  noblest  theme  is  man,  and  his  highest 
law,  liberty." 

TWO  YEARS. 

When  last  the  maple  bud  was  swelling, 

When  last  the  crocus  bloomed  below, 
Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  telling; 

Thy  soul  with  mine  kept  ebb  and  flow 
Again  the  maple  bud  was  swelling, 

Again  the  crocus  blooms  below :  — 
In  heaven  thy  heart  its  love  is  telling, 

But  still  our  souls  keep  ebb  and  flow. 
When  last  the  April  bloom  was  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
In  forest  aisles  thy  voice  was  ringing, 

Where  thou  didst  with  the  red-bird  sing, 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
But  now  in  Heaven  thy  voice  is  ringing 

Where  thou  dost  with  the  angels  sing. 


390  WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 


IMMORTAL  YOUTH. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  youth !  that  in  the  soul 
Liveth  forever,  where  sin  liveth  not  — 

How  fresh  Creation's  chart  doth  still  unroll 
Before  our  eyes,  although  the  little  spot 

That  knows  us  now  shall  know  us  soon  no  more 

Forever!  We  look  backward  and  before, 
And  inward,  and  we  feel  there  is  a  life 

Impelling  us,  that  need  not  with  this  frame 

Or  flesh  grow  feeble;  but  for  aye  the  same 
May  live  on,  e'en  amid  this  worldly  strife, 

Clothed  with  the  beauty  and  the  freshness  still 

It  brought  with  it  at  first;  and  that  it  will 
Glide  almost  imperceptibly  away, 
Taking  no  tint  of  this  dissolving  clay; 

And  joining  with  the  incorruptible 
And  spiritual  body  that  awaits 
Its  coming  at  the  starred  and  golden  gates 

Of  Heaven,  move  on  with  the  celestial  train 
Whose  shining  vestments,  as  along  they  stray 
Flash  with  the  splendors  of  eternal  day; 

And  mingle  with  its  primal  Source  again, 
Where  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  and  Love,  and  Truth, 
Swell  with  the  Godhead  in  immortal  youth. 

EARLY  AUTUMN   IN   THE  WEST. 

The  Autumn  time  is  with  us !    Its  approach 
Was  heralded,  not  many  days  ago, 
By  hazy  skies  that  veiled  the  brazen  sun, 
And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drowsily 
By  purpling  clusters  of  the  juicy  grape, 
Swinging  upon  the  vine. 

And  now  'tis  here! 

And  what  a  change  has  passed  upon  the  face 
Of  Nature ;  where  the  waving  forest  spreads, 
Then  robed  in  deepest  green !    All  through  the  night 
The  subtle  Frost  hath  plied  its  mystic  art; 
And  in  the  day  the  golden  sun  hath  wrought 


JOHN  GALT  391 

True  wonders;  and  the  winds  of  morn  and  even 
Have  touched  with  magic  breath  the  changing  leaves. 
And  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
Athwart  the  varied  landscape,  circling  far  — 
What  gorgeousness,  what  blazonry,  what  pomp 
Of  colors  bursts  upon  the  ravished  sight ! 
Here,  where  the  Maple  rears  its  yellow  crest, 
A  golden  glory;  yonder  where  the  Oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  Ash 
Is  girt  with  flame-like  parasite;  and  broad 
The  Dog-wood  spreads  beneath  a  rolling  field 
Of  deepest  crimson;  and  afar,  where  looms 
The  gnarled  Gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red ! 

Miami!  in  thy  venerable  shades 

My  limbs  recline.    Beneath  me,  silver-bright, 

Glide  the  clear  waters  with  a  plaintive  moan 

For  Summer's  parting  glories.    High  overhead, 

Sails  tireless  the  unerring  Water-fowl 

Screaming  among  the  cloud-racks.    Oft  from  where, 

Erect  on  mossy  trunk,  the  Partridge  stands, 

Bursts  suddenly  the  whistle  clear  and  loud. 

Deep  murmurs  from  the  trees,  bending  with  brown 

And  ripened  mast,  are  interrupted  now 

By  sounds  of  dropping  nuts ;  and  warily 

The  Turkey  from  the  thicket  comes,  and  swift 

As  flies  an  arrow,  darts  the  Pheasant  down, 

To  batten  on  the  Autumn;  and  the  air, 

At  times,  is  darkened  by  a  sudden  rush 

Of  myriad  wings  as  the  Wild  Pigeon  leads 

His  squadrons  to  the  banquet. 


,  JOHN,  a  Scottish  novelist ;  born  at  Irvine, 
Ayrshire,  May  2  1779;  died  at  Greenock, 
April  11,  1839.  He  was  the  son  of  the  cap- 
tain of  a  merchant-vessel  engaged  in  the  West  India 
trade.  He  early  showed  a  fondness  for  literature, 


392  JOHN  GALT 

and  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  went  to  London  in  order 
to  push  his  fortune  there.  He  entered  into  some  un- 
successful mercantile  enterprises,  after  which  he 
began  reading  for  the  bar.  His  health  failing,  he  set 
out  in  1809  upon  a  tour  in  the  Levant.  This  lasted 
three  years,  and  upon  his  return  to  England  he  pub- 
lished Letters  from  the  Levant  and  Voyages  and 
Travels.  He  married  a  daughter  of  the  proprietor  of 
the  Star  newspaper,  and  was  for  a  time  employed 
upon  that  journal.  For  some  years  he  tried  his  hand 
at  almost  every  species  of  literary  composition.  His 
first  successful  work  was  a  novel,  The  Ayrshire 
Legatees,  which  appeared  in  Blackwood's  Magazine 
in  1820-21.  This  was  followed  during  the  next 
three  years  by  several  other  tales,  among  which  are 
the  Annals  of  the  Parish  and  The  Provost,  which  are 
considered  the  best  of  his  works.  In  1826  he  went 
to  Canada  as  agent  of  a  Land  Company ;  but  a  dispute 
arising  between  him  and  the  company,  he  returned  to 
England  in  1829,  and  resumed  his  literary  life.  He 
wrote  a  Life  of  Byron,  an  Autobiography,  a  collection 
of  Miscellanies,  and  several  novels,  the  best  of  which 
is  Lawrie  Todd  (1830). 

INSTALLATION   OF  THE  REV.   MICAH  BALWHIDDER. 

It  was  a  great  affair;  for  I  was  put  in  by  the  patron, 
and  the  people  knew  nothing  whatsover  of  me,  and 
their  hearts  were  stirred  into  strife  on  the  occasion, 
and  they  did  all  that  lay  within  the  compass  of  their 
power  to  keep  me  out,  insomuch  that  there  was  obliged 
to  be  a  guard  of  soldiers  to  protect  the  presbytery;  and 
it  was  a  thing  that  made  my  heart  grieve  when  I  heard 
the  drum  beating  and  the  fife  playing  as  we  were  going 
to  the  kirk.  The  people  were  really  mad  and  vicious, 
and  flung  dirt  upon  us  as  we  passed,  and  reviled  us  all, 


JOHN  GALT  393 

and  held  out  the  finger  of  scorn  at  me;  but  I  endured 
it  with  a  resigned  spirit,  compassionating  their  wilful- 
ness  and  blindness.  Poor  old  Mr.  Kilfaddy  of  the  Brae- 
hill  got  such  a  clash  of  glaur  [mire]  on  the  side  of  his 
face  that  his  eye  was  almost  extinguished. 

When  we  got  to  the  kirk  door,  it  was  found  to  be  nailed 
up,  so  as  by  no  possibility  to  be  opened.  The  sergeant 
of  the  soldiers  wanted  to  break  it,  but  I  was  afraid  that 
the  heritors  would  grudge  and  complain  of  the  expense 
of  a  new  door,  and  I  supplicated  him  to  let  it  be  as  it 
was ;  we  were  therefore'  obligated  to  go  in  by  a  win- 
dow, and  the  crowd  followed  us  in  the  most  unreverent 
manner,  making  the  Lord's  house  like  an  inn  on  a  fair- 
day  with  their  grievous  yelly-hooing.  During  the  time 
of  the  psalm  and  the  sermon  they  behaved  themselves 
better,  but  when  the  .induction  came  on,  their  clamor 
was  dreadful;  and  Thomas  Thorl,  the  weaver,  a  pious 
zealot  in  that  time,  got  up  and  protested,  and  said: 
"  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you,  he  that  entereth  not  by 
the  door  into  the  sheepfold,  but  climbeth  up  some  other 
way,  the  same  is  a  thief  and  a  robber."  And  I  thought 
I  would  have  a  hard  and  sore  time  of  it  with  such  an 
outstrapolous  people.  Mr.  Given,  that  was  then  the 
minister  of  Lugton,  was  a  jocose  man,  and  would  have 
his  joke  even  at  a  solemnity.  When  the  laying  of  the 
hands  upon  me  was  adoing,  he  could  not  get  near  enough 
to  put  on  his,  but  he  stretched  out  his  staff  and  touched 
my  head,  and  said,  to  the  great  diversion  of  the  rest: 
"This  will  do  well  enough  —  timber  to  timber;"  but  it 
was  an  unfriendly  saying  of  Mr.  Given,  considering  the 
time  and  the  place,  and  the  temper  of  my  people. 

After  the  ceremony  we  then  got  out  at  the  window, 
and  it  was  a  heavy  day  to  me:  but  we  went  to  the 
manse,  and  there  we  had  an  excellent  dinner,  which 
Mrs.  Watts  of  the  new  inn  of  Irville  prepared  at  my  re- 
quest, and  sent  her  chaise  driver  to  serve,  for  he  was 
likewise  her  waiter,  she  having  then  but  one  chaise,  and 
that  not  often  called  for. 

But  although  my  people  received  me  in  this  unruly 
manner,  I  was  resolved  to  cultivate  civility  among  them; 
and  therefore  the  very  next  morning  I  began  a  round 


394  JOHN  GALT 

of  visitations;  but  oh!  it  was  a  steep  brae  that  I  had 
to  climb,  and  it  needed  a  stout  heart',  for  I  found  the 
doors  in  some  places  barred  against  me;  in  others,  the 
bairns,  when  they  saw  me  coming,  ran  crying  to  their 
mothers:  "Here's  the  feckless  Mess- John;"  and  then, 
when  I  went  in  into  the  houses,  their  parents  would  not 
ask  me  to  sit  down,  but  with  a  scornful  way  said : 
"Honest  man,  what's  your  pleasure  here?"  Neverthe- 
less, I  walked  about  from  door  to  door,  like  a  dejected 
beggar,  till  I  got  the  almous  deed  of  a  civil  reception, 
and  —  who  would  have  thought  it?  —  from  no  less  a  per- 
son than  the  same  Thomas  Thorl,  that  was  so  bitter 
against  me  in  the  kirk  on  the  foregoing  day. 

Thomas  was  standing  at  the  door  with  his  green  duffle 
apron  and  his  red  Kilmarnock  nightcap  —  I  mind  him  as 
well  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  —  and  he  had  seen  me 
going  from  house  to  house,  and  in  what  manner  I  was 
rejected,  and  his  bowels  were  moved,  and  he  said  to  me 
in  a  kind  manner:  "Come  in,  sir,  and  ease  yoursel'; 
this  will  never  do;  the  clergy  are  God's  corbies,  and  for 
their  Master's  sake  it  behooves  us  to  respect  them.  There 
was  no  ane  in  the  whole  parish  mair  against  you  than 
mysel',  but  this  early  visitation  is  a  symptom  of  grace 
that  I  couldna  have  expectit  from  a  bird  out  of  the 
nest  of  patronage."  I  thanked  Thomas,  and  went  in 
with  him,  and  we  had  some  solid  conversation  together, 
and  I  told  him  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  pastor's  duty 
to  feed  the  flock  as  to  herd  them  well;  and  that,  al- 
though there  might  be  some  abler  with  the  head  than 
me,  there  wasna  a  he  within  the  bounds  of  Scotland 
more  willing  to  watch  the  fold  by  night  and  by  day. 
And  Thomas  said  he  had  not  heard  a  mair  sound  ob- 
serve for  some  time,  and  that  if  I  held  to  that  doctrine  in 
the  poopit,  it  wouldna  be  lang  till  I  would  work  a  change. 
"  I  was  mindit,"  quoth  he,  "  never  to  set  my  foot  within 
the  kirk  door  while  you  were  there;  but  to  testify,  and 
no  to  condemn  without  a  trial,  Til  be  there  next  Lord's 
day,  and  egg  my  neighbors  to  do  likewise,  so  ye'll  no 
have  to  preach  just  to  the  bare  walls  and  the  laird's 
family/'—  The  Annals  of  the  Parish. 


JOHN  GALT  395 


LAWRIE  TODD'S   SECOND   MARRIAGE. 

My  young  wife  was  dead,  leaving  me  an  infant  son. 
If  a  man  marry  once  for  love,  he  is  a  fool  to  expect  he 
may  do  so  twice;  it  cannot  be.  Therefore,  I  say,  in  the 
choice  of  a  second  wife  one  scruple  of  prudence  is  worth 
a  pound  of  passion.  I  do  not  assert  that  he  should  have 
an  eye  to  a  dowry;  for  unless  it  is  a  great  sum,  such  as 
will  keep  all  the  family  in  gentility,  I  think  a  small  for- 
tune one  of  the  greatest  faults  a  woman  can  have;  not 
that  I  object  to  money  on  its  own  account,  but  only  to 
its  effect  in  the  airs  and  vanities  it  begets  in  the  silly 
maiden  —  especially  if  her  husband  profits  by  it. 

For  this  reason  I  did  not  choose  my  second  wife  from 
the  instincts  of  fondness,  nor  for  her  parentage,  nor  for 
her  fortune ;  neither  was  I  deluded  by  fair  looks.  I  had, 
as  I  have  said,  my  first-born  needing  tendance;  and  my 
means  were  small,  while  my  cares  were  great.  I  ac- 
cordingly looked  about  for  a  sagacious  woman  —  one 
that  not  only  knew  the  use  of  needles  and  shears,  but 
that  the  skirt  of  an  old  green  coat  might,  for  lack  of 
other  stuff,  be  a  clout  to  the  knees  of  blue  trousers. 
And  such  a  one  I  found  in  the  niece  of  my  friend  and 
neighbor,  Mr.  Zerobabel  L.  Hoskins,  a  most  respect- 
able farmer  from  Vermont,  who  had  come  to  New  York 
about  a  codfish  venture  that  he  had  sent  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  was  waiting  with  his  wife  and  niece  the 
returns  from  Sicily. 

This  old  Mr.  Hoskins  was,  in  his  way,  something  of 
a  Yankee  oddity.  He  was  tall,  thin,  and  of  an  anatomi- 
cal figure,  with  a  long  chin,  ears  like  trenchers,  lengthy 
jaws,  and  a  nose  like  a  schooners'  cut-water.  His  hair 
was  lank  and  oily;  the  tie  of  his  cravat  was  always  dis- 
located; and  he  wore  an  old  white  beaver  hat  turned  up 
behind.  His  long  bottle-green  surtout,  among  other  de- 
fects, lacked  a  button  on  the  left  promontory  of  his 
hinder  parts,  and  in  the  house  he  always  tramped  in 
slippers. 

Having  from  my  youth  upward  been  much  addicted 
to  the  society  of  remarkable  persons,  soon  after  the 


396  'JOHN  GALT 

translation  of  my  Rebecca,  I  happened  to  fall  in  with 
this  gentleman,  and,  without  thinking  of  any  serious 
purpose,  I  sometimes  of  a  Sabbath  evening,  called  at  the 
house  where  he  boarded  with  his  family;  and  there  I 
discovered  in  the  household  talents  of  Miss  Judith,  his 
niece,  just  the  sort  of  woman  that  was  wanted  to  heed 
to  the  bringing  up  of  my  little  boy.  This  discovery, 
however,  to  tell  the  truth  quietly,  was  first  made  by  her 
uncle. 

"  I  guess,  Squire  Lawrie,"  said  he  one  evening,  "  the 
Squire  has  considerable  muddy  time  on't1  since  his  old 
woman  went  to  pot." 

Ah,  Rebecca !  she  was  but  twenty-one. 

"Now,  Squire,  you  see,"  continuel  Mr.  Zerobabel  L. 
Hoskins,  "that  ere  being  the  circumstance,  you  should 
be  a-making  your  calculations  for  another  spec ; "  and 
he  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  and  trimming  it  on 
the  edge  of  the  snuffer-tray,  added,  "  Well,  if  it  so  be  as 
you're  agoing  to  do  so,  don't  you  go  to  stand  like  a 
pump,  with  your  arm  up,  as  if  you  would  give  the  sun  a 
black  eye;  but  do  it  right  away." 

I  told  him  it  was  a  thing  I  could  not  yet  think  of; 
that  my  wound  was  too  fresh,  my  loss  too  recent. 
_  "  If  that  bain't  particular,"  replied  he,  "  Squire  Law- 
rie, I'm  a  pumpkin,  and  the  pigs  may  do  their  damnedest 
with  me.  But  I  ain't  a  pumpkin;  the  Squire  he  knows 
that." 

I  assured  him,  without  very  deeply  dunkling  the  truth, 
that  I  had  met  with  few  men  in  America  who  better 
knew  how  many  blue  beans  it  takes  to  make  five. 

"I  reckon  Squire  Lawrie,"  said  he,  "is  a-parleyvoo; 
but  I  sells  no  wooden  nutmegs.  Now  look  ye  here,  Squire. 
There  be  you  spinning  your  thumbs  with  a  small  child 
that  ha'n't  got  no  mother;  so  I  calculate,  if  you  make 
Jerusalem  fine  nails,  I  guess  you  can't  a-hippen  such  a 
small  child  for  no  man's  money;  which  is  tarnation  bad" 
I  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  good  sense  of  his 
remark.  He  drew  his  chair  close  in  front  of  me;  and 
taking  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  and  beating  off  the 
ashes  on  his  left  thumb  nail,  replaced  it.  Having  then 
given  a  puff,  he  raised  his  right  hand  aloft,  and  laying 


JOHN  GALT  397 

it  emphatically  down  on  his  knee,  said  in  his  wonted 
slow  and  phlegmatic  tone: 

"  Well,  I  guess  that  'ere  young  woman,  my  niece,  she 
baint-five-and-twenty — she'll  make  a  heavenly  splice!  — 
I  have  known  that  'ere  young  woman  'live  the  milk  of 
our  thirteen  cows  afore  eight  a-mornin,  and  then  fetch 
Crumple  and  her  calf  from  the  bush  — dang  that  'ere 
Crumple!  we  never  had  no  such  heifer  afore;  she  and 
her  calf  cleared  out  every  night,  and  wouldn't  come  on 
no  account,  no  never,  till  Judy  fetched  her  right  away, 
when  done  milking  t'other  thirteen." 

"No  doubt,  Mr.  Hoskins/  said  I,  "Miss  Judith  will 
make  a  capital  farmer's  wife  in  the  country;  but  I  have 
no  cows  to  milk ;  all  my  live-stock  is  a  sucking  bairn." 

"  By  the  gods  of  Jacob's  father-in-law !  she's  just  the 
cut  for  that.  But  the  Squire  knows  I  aint  a-going  to 
trade  hen  If  she  suits  Squire  Lawrie  —  good,  says  I  — 
I  shan't  ask  no  nothing  for  her;  but  I  can  tell  the  Squire 
as  how  Benjamin  S.  Thuds  —  what  is  blacksmith  in  our 
village  —  offered  me  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  —  gos- 
pel by  the  living  jingo!  —  in  my  hand  right  away.  But 
you  see  as  how  he  was  an  almighty  boozer,  though  for 
blacksmithing  a  prime  hammer.  I  said,  No,  no;  and 
there  she  is  still  to  be  had;  and  I  reckon  Squire  Lawrie 
may  go  the  whole  hog  with  her,  and  make  a  good  opera- 
tion." 

Discovering  by  this  plain  speaking  how  the  cat  jumped 
—  to  use  one  of  his  own  terms — we  entered  more  into 
the  marrow  of  the  business,  till  it  came  to  pass  that  I 
made  a  proposal  to  Miss  Judith;  and  soon  after  a  pac- 
tion  was  settled  between  me  and  Ker,  that  when  the  Fair 
American  arrived  from  Palermo,  we  should  be  married; 
for  she  had  a  share  in  that  codfish  venture  by  that  bark, 
and  we  counted  that  the  profit  might  prove  a  nest-egg; 
and  it  did  so  to  the  blithesome  tune  of  four  hundred  and 
thirty-three  dollars,  which  the  old  gentleman  counted 
out  to  me  on  the  wedding-day. — Lawrie  Todd* 


398  FRANCIS  GALTON 


^ALTON,  FRANCIS,  an  English  scientist  and  ex- 
plorer; born  at  Dudderton,  near  Birmingham, 
in  1822.  He  studied  medicine  in  the  Birm- 
ingham, Hospital,  and  in  King's  College,  London,  and 
graduated  from  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1844. 
He  then  made  two  journeys  of  exploration,  one  in 
North  Africa  and  one  in  South  Africa.  He  is  best 
known  through  the  published  results  of  his  studies 
into  the  subject  of  hereditary  genius.  In  1853  he 
published  an  account  of  the  latter  journey  in  a  Nar- 
rative of  an  Explorer  in  Tropical  South  Africa. 
Among  his  other  works  are  The  Art  of  Travel,  or 
Shifts  and  Contrivances  in  Wild  Countries  (1855); 
Hereditary  Genius,  Its  Laws  and  Consequences 
(1869)  >  English  Men  of  Sciences ',  Their  Nature  and 
Nurture  (1874)  ;  Inquiries  Into  Human  Faculty  and 
Its  Development,  Record  of  Family  Faculties,  etc. 
(1883);  Natural  Inheritance  (1889);  Finger  Prints 
(1893),  anc*  Finger  Print -Directory  (1895). 

Professor  Brooks,  of  Johns  Hopkins  University,  in 
a  critical  article  on  the  writings  of  Galton,  published 
in  the  Popular  Science  Monthly,  says :  "  It  is  much 
more  easy  to  talk  about  inheritance  than  to  study  it. 
Of  the  books  and  essays  which  meet  us  at  every  turn, 
few  have  much  basis  in  research,  but  those  of  Francis 
Galton  are  among  the  most  notable  exceptions.  These 
books,  which  have  appeared  at  intervals  during  the 
last  twenty-five  years,  are  not  speculations,  but 
studies.  They  describe  long,  exhaustive  investiga- 
tions, carried  out  by  rigorous  methods,  along  lines  laid 
down  on  a  plan  which  has  been  matured  with  great 
care  and  forethought. 


FRANCIS  GALTON  399 

"  The  simplicity  of  their  language  is  as  notable  as 
their  subject.  Dealing  with  conceptions  which  are 
both  new  and  abstruse,  the  author  finds  our  mother 
tongue  rich  enough  for  his  purpose,  and,  while  the 
reason  often  taxes  all  our  powers,  there  is  never  any 
doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  words. 

"  When  in  rare  cases  a  technical  term  is  inevitable, 
some  familiar  word  is  chosen  with  so  much  aptness 
that  it  does  its  duty  and  presents  the  new  conception 
better  than  a  compound  from  two  or  three  dead 
languages/' 

THE  ESTABLISHMENT    OF   A  TYPE  BY  SELECTION. 

Suppose  that  we  are  considering  the  stature  of  some 
animal  that  is  liable  to  be  hunted  by  certain  beasts  of 
prey  in  a  particular  country.  So  far  as  he  is  big  of  his 
kind,  he  would  be  better  able  than  the  mediocres  to 
crush  through  the  thick  grass  and  foliage  whenever  he 
was  scampering  for  his  life,  to  jump  over  obstacles,  and 
possibly  to  run  somewhat  faster  than  they.  So  far  as 
he  is  small  of  his  kind,  he  would  be  better  able  to  run 
through  narrow  openings,  to  make  quick  turns  and  to 
hide  himself.  Under  the  general  circumstances  it  would 
be  found  that  animals  of  some  peculiar  stature  had  on 
the  whole  a  better  chance  of  escape  than  any  other;  and 
if  their  race  is  closely  adapted  to  these  circumstances  in 
respect  to  stature,  the  most  favored  stature  would  be 
identical  with  the  mean  of  the  race.  Though  the  im- 
pediments to  flight  are  less  unfavorable  to  this  (stature) 
than  to  any  other,  they  will  differ  in  different  experi- 
ences. The  course  of  an  animal  might  chance  to  pass 
through  denser  foliage  than  usual,  or  the  obstacles  in 
his  way  might  be  higher.  In  that  case  an  animal  whose 
stature  exceeded  the  mean  would  have  an  advantage 
over  mediocrities.  Conversely  the  circumstances  might 
be  more  favorable  to  a  small  animaL  Each  particular 
line  of  escape  might  be  most  favorable  to  some  particular 
stature,  and  whatever  this  might  be,  it  might  in  some 


400  FRANCIS  GALTON 

cases  be  more  favored  than  any  other.  But  the  acci- 
dents of  foliage  and  soil  in  a  country  are  characteristic 
and  persistent  Therefore  those  which  most  favor  the 
animals  of  the  mean  stature  will  be  more  frequently  met 
with  than  those  which  favor  any  other  stature,  and  the 
frequency  of  the  latter  occurrence  will  diminish  rapidly 
as  the  stature  departs  from  the  mean. 

It  might  well  be  that  natural  selection  would  favor 
the  indefinite  increase  of  numerous  separate  faculties  if 
their  improvement  could  be  effected  without  detriment 
to  the  rest:  then  mediocrity  in  that  faculty  would  not 
be  the  safest  condition.  Thus  an  increase  of  flectness 
would  be  a  clear  gain  to  an  animal  liable  to  be  hunted 
by  beasts  of  prey,  if  no  other  useful  faculty  was  thereby 
diminished. 

But  a  too  free  use  of  this  "  if  "  would  show  a  jaunty 
disregard  of  a  real  difficulty.  Organisms  are  so  knit 
together  that  change  in  one  direction  involves  change 
in  many  others;  these  may  not  attract  attention,  but 
they  are  none  the  less  existent  Organisms  are  like  ships 
of  war,  constructed  for  a  particular  purpose  in  warfare 
as  cruisers,  line-of-battle  ships,  etc.,  on  the  principle  of 
obtaining  the  utmost  efficiency  for  their  special  pur- 
pose. The  result  is  a  compromise  between  a  variety  of 
conflicting  desiderata,  such  as  cost  speed,  accommoda- 
tion, stability,  weight  of  guns,  thickness  of  armor,  quick 
steering  power,  and  so  on.  It  is  hardly  possible  in  a 
ship  of  any  established  type  to  make  an  improvement  in 
one  respect  without  a  sacrifice  in  other  directions. 

Evolution  may  produce  an  altogether  new  type  of 
vessel  that  shall  be  more  efficient  than  the  old  one,  but 
when  a  particular  type  has  become  adapted  to  its  func- 
tions, it  is  not  impossible  to  produce  a  mere  variety  of 
its  type  that  shall  have  increased  efficiency  in  some  one 
particular  without  detriment  to  the  rest  So  it  is  with 
animals,— From  Natural  Inheritance. 


JOHN  GAMBOLD  401 


^AMBOLD,  JOHN,  a  British  poet;  born  at 
Puncheston,  Pembrokeshire,  Wales,  April  10, 
1711;  died  at  Haverfordwest,  September  13, 
1771.  f  He  was  educated  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 
and  became  Vicar  of  Stanton,  Harcourt,  Oxfordshire, 
about  1739.  He  resigned  in  1742,  and  joined  the 
Moravians  or  Unitas  Fratrum;  by  whom  he  was 
chosen  one  of  their  bishops  in  1754.  He  was  for 
many  years  minister  of  the  congregation  of  Neville's 
Court  in  Fetter  Lane,  London.  In  1768,  his  health 
failing,  he  retired  to  Wales,  and  continued  to  exercise 
his  ministry  near  his  birthplace  Until  five  days  before 
his  death.  John  Wesley  says  he  was  one  of  the  most 
"  sensible  men  in  England."  His  writings  include  A 
Memoir  of  Count  Zinzendorf;  Doctrine  and  Discipline 
of  the  United  Brethren;  History  of  the  Greenland 
Mission;  Hymns  (1748);  Christian  Doctrine  (1767). 
His  Works  were  published  in  1822.  The  Moravian 
hymn-books  contain  about  twenty-five  translations  and 
eighteen  original  hymns  by  Gambold,  of  which  one  or 
two  were  published  by  the  Wesleys  and  have  by  some 
writers  been  claimed  for  them.  His  poetry  includes 
also  a  dramatic  piece  entitled  Ignatius.  . 

"  Gambold,"  says  the  Rev.  Alexander  Gordon, 
"  never  had  an  enemy,  but  he  made  few  friends.  The 
hesitations  of  his  career  are  in  part  to  be  explained 
by  the  underlying  scepticism  of  his  intellectual  tem- 
perament, from  which  he  found  refuge  in  an  anxious 
and  reclusive  piety." 

"  The  specimens  you  have  presented  of  his  writ- 
ings," said  Judge  Story  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  Brazer, 
"  give  me  a  high  opinion  of  his  genius,  and  there  are 
VOL.  X.— 26 


402  JOHN  GAMBOLD 

occasional  flashes  in  his  poetry  of  great  brilliancy  and 
power.  The  Mystery  of  Life  contains  some  exquisite 
touches,  and  cannot  but  recall  to  every  man  who  has 
indulged  in  musings  beyond  this  sublunary  scene  some 
of  those  thoughts  which  have  passed  before  him  in  an 
unearthly  form  as  he  has  communed  with  his  own 
soul." 

"  It  is  impossible/'  writes  Erskine,  of  Glasgow,  "  to 
read  Gambold's  works  without  being  convinced  that 
he  enjoyed  much  communion  with  God  and  was  much 
conversant  with  Heavenly  things,  and  that  hence  he 
had  imbibed  much  of  the  spirit,  and  caught  much  of 
the  tone,  of  the  glorified  church  above." 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE. 

So  many  years  I've   seen  the  sun, 
And  called  these  eyes  and  hands  my  own, 

A  thousand  little  acts  I've  done, 
And  childhood  have  and  manhood  known : 

Oh,  what  is  Life?  —  and  this  dull  round 

To  tread,  why  was  my  spirit  bound? 

So  many  airy  draughts  and  lines, 
And  warm  excursions  of  the  mind, 

Have  filled  my  soul  with  great  designs, 
While  practice  grovelled  far  behind: 

Oh,  what  is  ^nought  ?  —  and  where  withdrawn 

The  glories  which  my  fancy  saw? 

So  many  wondrous  gleams  of  light, 

And  gentle  ardors  from  above, 
Have  made  me  sit,  like  seraph  bright, 

Some  moments  on  a  throne  of  love: 
Oh,  what  is  Virtue?  —  why  had  I, 
Who  am  so  low,  a  taste  so  high? 

Ere  long*,  when  Sovereign  Wisdom  wills, 
My  soul  an  unknown  path  shall  tread, 


ARNE  GARBORG  403 

And  strangely  leave  —  who  strangely  fills 
This  frame  —  and  waft  me  to  the  dead! 
Oh,  what  is  Death? — 'tis  Life's  last  shore, 
Where  Vanities  are  vain  no  more; 
Where  all  pursuits  their  goal  obtain, 
And  Life  is  all  retouched  again; 
Wherein  their  bright  result  shall  rise 
Thoughts,  Virtues,  Friendships,  Griefs,  and  Joysl 


£ARBORG,  ARNE,  a  Norwegian  novelist;  born 
in  Western  Norway,  January  25,  1851.  His 
first  book,  A  Freethinker,  appeared  in  1881 
and  attracted  much  attention.  It  was  followed  in  1883 
by  Peasant  Students,  a  study  of  life  among  the  students 
at  Christiania  University.  Several  other  novels  have 
been  published,  a  complete  list  of  which  is  given  below. 
Among  these,  Men  Folks  (1886),  which  was  written 
as  a  defiance  to  the  authorities  to  suppress  his  as 
they  had  the  book  of  another  writer;  With  Mamma 
(1889),  which  was  awarded  a  prize  of  2,000  marks 
by  the  Berlin  Freie  Btihne;  Weary  Souls  (1891),  and 
Fred  (1893),  which  is  by  many  considered  his  best 
book,  deserve  mention.  He  has  also  written  a  romance 
in  verse  entitled  A  Fairy,  a  drama  entitled  Teacher, 
and  a  critical  study  of  the  contemporaneous  novelist, 
Jonas  Lie. 

Garborg  has  been  the  champion  of  a  distinctive 
Norwegian  language,  made  up  of  peasant  dialects. 
Many  of  his  books  have  been  written  in  this  language, 
and  his  success  has  aided  to  found  a  school  of  writers 
who  use  the  dialect  exclusively.  In  this,  as  in  much 
else,  he  has  been  at  variance  with  his  greatest  con- 


404  ARNE  GARBORG 

temporaries,  Bjornson,  Ibsen,  and  Kjelland.    In  ten- 
dency, Garborg  has  pretty  well  run  the  gamut  from 
radical  to  ultra-conservative  views,  always  with  the 
spirit  of  the  controversialist.    It  is,  however,  his  treat- 
ment that  gives  his  work  its  charm.    He  has  the  re- 
markable power  of  making  his  characters  think  aloud, 
so  that  you  follow  the  evolution  of  their  lives  closely. 
He  proceeds  really  on  the  theory  that  "  what  a  man 
thinketh,  that  he  is/'  and  that  one's  personality  is 
made  up  of  the  sum  of  his  thoughts.    Therefore,  he 
gives  only  enough  attention  to  the  environment,  in- 
cluding the  words  and  deeds  of  others,  to  show  the 
accommodation  of  the  person  to  the  environment ;  and 
it  is  a  pet  theory  of  his  that  the  problem  is  too  intri- 
cate for  anybody  to  foreknow  what  this  accommoda- 
tion will  be.    In  this  he  is  opposed  to  the  idea  of 
necessity  which  underlies  all  the  work  of  the  other 
Scandinavian  realists.    The  following  selections  from 
With  Momma  have  been  especially  selected  and  trans- 
lated by  Miles  Menander  Dawson.    Taken  together, 
they  constitute  an  excellent  illustration  of  Garborg's 
style  and  method.    Commenting  on  the  selections,  Mr. 
Dawson  says :  "  The  selections  which  I  have  made  are 
about  as  clean  as  any  could  be  and  retain  the  character- 
istics of  his  work.    One  can't  really  expect  much  of  an 
author  who  is  so  Zolaesque  that  he  actually  wrote  a 
book  in  order  to  get  it  suppressed.    Moreover,  a  faith- 
ful analysis  of  the  thoughts  in  any  story  of  intrigue  — 
which  Garborg's  stories  are  —  is  likely  to  be  of  a  ques- 
tionable moral  tendency." 

A  GLOOMY  ALTERNATIVE. 

Mrs.  Holmsen  knew  that  she  would  not  get  to  sleep 
anyhow,    Now  an<J  then  she  was  up  and  put  3,  stick  of 


ARNE  GARBORG  405 

wood  in  the  stove.  The  rest  of  the  time  she  lay  and 
shivered  and  thought  things  over.  She  was  settled  on 
one  thing:  that  nobody  ought  to  have  children  unless 
she  was  rich  —  nor  if  she  was  rich,  either.  What  good 
was  it  to  be  rich  ?  To-morrow  the  rich  man  might  be  a 
beggar.  And  now  there  were  her  children.  It  was  out 
of  the  question  for  any  person  in  the  world  to  see  chil- 
dren starving  and  have  no  food  for  them.  For  her  part 
she  felt  that  she  would  steal  food  for  them  if  it  came  to 
that;  anything,  anything  she  would  do,  she  was  sure  of 
that  —  anything  even  if  it  were  the  very  worst.  It  came 
over  her  that  nothing  could  be  a  sin  or  a  disgrace  that 
a  mother  did  to  get  food  for  her  children.  But  one 
must  put  her  trust  in  the  Lord.  When  it  comes  to  the 
worst,  He  will  give  aid.  .  .  .  Ugh,  that  disgusting 
beast,  club-footed  Michael  — "  Limpy  Michael " —  how 
he  had  stared  at  her  last  evening!  Yes,  the  Lord  will 
aid.  He  must  aid;  He  sees  that  here  there  is  need,  in- 
deed.— Hoo  Mama. 

A  PROSPECTIVE  HUSBAND. 

Beyond  all  else  Mrs.  Holmsen  had  her  debts,  too,  to 
think  of.  A  bit  here  and  a  bit  there,  they  amounted  to 
considerable.  This  disgusting  club-footed  Michael  she 
must  at  any  rate  contrive  to  get  free  from.  He  had  be- 
come so  loathsome  of  late  that  it  was  absolutely  unen- 
durable. Since  that  time  last  Christmas  when  she  was 
in  and  talked  so  nice  to  him  to  get  food  for  the  children, 
he  probably  thought  that  the  old  story  was  forgotten 
and  poverty  had  made  her  approachable  —  fie !  No,  she 
would  rather  take  the  children  and  jump  into  the  sea! 
Such  a  fright  as  he  —  lame  and  sick,  with  a  wife  and 
grown  children  —  one  could  never  listen  to  it! 

Heavens  —  if  one  but  had  a  neat,  smart  person  with 
means  and  a  heart  in  him  and  whom  one  could  get  to 
interest  himself  in  the  unfortunate  children!  She 
thought  of  all  her  acquaintances,  but  found  nobody  to 
turn  to.  She  could  ask  none  of  them  right  out  for  as- 
sistance; besides,  they  had  all  helped  her  somewhat  be- 
fore. The  man  she  had  met  this  evening,  Solum,  might 


4Q6  ARNE  GARBORG 

be  worth  considering;  he  was  rich  and  fond  of  children 
and  really  a  fine  man  in  every  respect;  but  what  was 
the  use  when  one  doesn't  know  him? 

All  at  once  it  occurred  to  her  that  one  must  be  able 
to  get  to  know  him.  Indeed,  he  had  spoken  of  making 
her  a  call;  in  any  event,  she  would  be  able  to  meet  him 
again.  Think,  if  one  could  win  him  over,  bring  about 
friendly  relations  — 

No  love-affair !  That  wasn't  necessary.  She  had  only 
to  be  a  little  gracious  toward  him;  have  her  affairs  in- 
terest him  a  little;  these  rich  men  are  not  so  very  free 
with  their  money.  Why  should  she  not  be  able  to  win 
him?  Him  like  others?  And  when  it  was  for  the 
children's  sake? 

He  understood  the  conditions  at  Miss  Auberg's.  He 
would  comprehend  that  it  must  be  hard  for  a  mother  to 
have  her  children  in  such  a  house;  then  he  might  have 
a  little  to  spare  for  the  mother.  What  would  a  few 
hundred-dollar  bills  be  to  a  timber-dealer  in  these  times? 

Think  —  perhaps  she  would  find  a  way  outl  There 
must  be  a  way  to  win  him.  She  was  not  too  old  yet; 
and  she  could  trim  herself  up  a  little  and  be  amiable. 
Beauty  she  had  always  had,  rather  too  much  than  too 
little;  and  if  she  was  a  little  older  and  staid,  he  was 
about  like  the  others.  Only  no  sort  of  flirtation;  —  love 
affairs  and  the  like  she  had  had  enough  of  in  her  time. 

Of  course  he  had  noticed  that  she  was  pretty.  And 
she  really  was  when  she  was  well.  Perhaps  she  had  al- 
ready made  something  of  an  impression  on  him.  This 
calling  to  "see  Fannie" — hem!  Who  knows?  Men 
were  seldom  so  delighted  with  children.  What  if  it 
should  be  herself  he  had  a  desire  to  see  again?  That 
would  answer  very  well  indeed. 

After  a  time  she  was  weary  of  planning  and  began  to 
pass  over  to  dreams. 

Heavens!  even  if  it  should  happen  that  he  was  smit- 
ten a  little—  He  was  indeed  in  the  position  of  a  man 
who  expects  to  be  free  to  marry.  And  why  —  why  — 
could  it  not  as  well  be  her  as  another? 

So  many  things  happened  in  this  world,  and  what  was 
more  unlikely  than  that?  Think,  if  he  became  in  love 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  CORREA  GARQAO          407 

and  if  some  fine  day  he  were  to  say  "  I  cannot  live  with- 
out you.  Will  you  be  mine  when  I  —  when  my  wife  de- 
parts this  world  ?  " —  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  such 
a  thing  has  happened!  More  than  one  widower  has 
become  engaged  in  that  way.  And  not  only  engaged, 
too  — 

People  did  not  take  such  things  so  seriously  as  one 
might  think.  Many  things  occur  that  are  worse  than 
that.  Not  to  speak  of  men  —  they  do  just  as  they  please ; 
but  ladies,  too  —  one  wouldn't  believe  how  many  nice 
women  went  slyly  about  —  it  is,  indeed,  not  all  gold  that 
glitters ! 

No  one  did  anything  about  it  either;  so  long  as  there 
was  not  too  much  scandal.  "  It  is  your  own  affair,"  as 
Pastor  Brandt  wrote. 

Ah,  fie !  Yes,  there  were  indeed  handsome  things  the 
Lord  is  often  compelled  to  behold!  God  grant,  such 
would  never  be  said  of  the  "  queen  of  Fredheim ! " 

Think,  if  there  should  be  a  means  of  rescue !  It  was 
too  good  to  believe!  Think,  if  she  could  once  get  so 
that  she  felt  safe !  Safe  for  the  children !  Safe  for  her- 
self! Free  from  this  endless  worry,  these  interminable 
anxieties!  Oh,  it  would  be  like  living  again,  like  com- 
ing out  of  prison,  like  rising  from  a  tomb !  But  of 
course  it  would  not  happen;  far  from  it  —  far  from  itl 
—  Hoo  Mama. 


or  GARCAM,  PEDRO  ANTONIO  COR- 
REA, a  Portuguese  poet ;  born  at  Lisbon,  April 
29,  1724;  died  there  November  10,  1772.  He 
appears  to  have  spent  a  large  portion  of  his  life  in  a 
villa  named  Fonte  Santa,  near  Lisbon,  in  obscurity  and 
sometimes  poverty,  and  to  have  had  a  numerous  family. 
In  1771  he  was  thrown  into  prison  by  the  minister 
Pombal;  and,  after  an  imgrisonment  of  a  year  and  a 


4o3          PEDRO  ANTONIO  CORREA  GARQAO 

half,  died  just  as  he  was  about  to  be  released.  The 
cause  of  his  imprisonment  has  been  variously  stated; 
the  Dictionnaire  Universel  du  XIXe  Stecle  says  that  it 
was  in  consequence  of  certain  satirical  articles  which 
he  published  as  editor  of  the  Lisbon  Gazette.  The 
same  authority  says  that  he  shares  with  Ferreira  the 
title  of  "  The  Horace  of  Portugal ; "  he  did  not,  how- 
ever, like  Ferreira,  imitate  merely  the  tone  and  spirit 
of  the  Roman  —  he  labored,  with  perhaps  as  much  suc- 
cess as  was  possible,  to  introduce  even  the  metres  of 
Horace  into  Portuguese  literature.  His  collected 
works,  published  at  Lisbon  in  1778,  contain  a  Pindaric 
Ode;  Epistles  and  Satires  partaking  of  the  true  Hora- 
tian  gayety ;  Theatro  Novo,  a  dramatic  poem  satirizing 
the  prevailing  taste;  a  comedy  entitled  Assembled  on 
Partida,  in  which  is  included  the  half-comic  Cantata  of 
Dido,  his  principal  work ;  and  his  discourses  before  the 
Academy  on  The  Revival  of  the  National  Theatre. 

"  All  the  writings  of  GarQao,"  says  Larousse,  "  are 
remarkable  for  correctness  and  elegance  of  style,  and 
for  good  taste/' 

DIDO:  A  CANTATA. 

Already  in  the  ruddy  east  shine  white 
The  pregnant  sails  that  speed  the  Trojan  fleet; 
Now  wafted  on  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
They  vanish  'midst  the  golden  sea's  blue  waves. 

The  miserable  Dido 

Wanders,  loud  shrieking,  through  her  regal  halls, 
With  dim  and  turbid  eyes  seeking  in  vain 

The  fugitive  JEneas. 

Only  deserted  streets  and  lonely  squares 
Her  new-built  Carthage  offers  to  her  gaze; 
And  frightfully  along  the  naked  shore 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  CORREA  GARQAO          409 

The  solitary  billows  roar  ij  th'  night, 

And  'midst  the  gilded  vanes 

Crowning  the  splendid  domes 
Nocturnal  birds  hoot  their  ill  auguries. 

Deliriously  she  raves; 

Pale  is  her  beauteous  face, 
Her  silken  tresses  all  dishevelled  stream 
And  with  uncertain  foot,  scarce  conscious,  she 

That  happy  chamber  seeks, 

Where  she  with  melting  heart 

Her  faithless  lover  heard 
Whisper  impassioned  sighs  and  soft  complaints. 

There  the  inhuman  Fates  before  her  sight, 

Hung  o'er  the  gilded  nuptial  couch  displayed 

The  Teucrian  mantles,  whose  loose  folds  disclosed 

The  'lustrious  shield  and  the  Dardanian  sword. 

She  started;  suddenly,  with  hand  convulsed, 

From  out  the  sheath  the  glittering  blade  she  snatched, 

And  on  the  tempered,  penetrating  steel 

Her  delicate,  transparent  bosom  cast; 

And  murmuring,  gushing,  foaming,  the  warm  blood 

Bursts  in  a  fearful  torrent  from  the  wound ; 

And,  from  the  encrimsoned  rushes,  spotted  red, 

Tremble  the  Doric  columns  of  the  hall. 

Thrice  she  essayed  to  rise; 
Thrice  fainting  on  the  bed  she  prostrate  fell, 
And,  writhing  as  she  lay,  to  Heaven  upraised 

Her  quenched  and  failing  eyes. 
Then  earnestly  upon  the  lustrous  sail 

Of  Ilium's  fugitive 

Fixing  her  look,  she  uttered  these  last  words; 
And  hovering  'midst  the  golden  vaulted  roofs, 
The  tones,  lugubrious  and  pitiful, 
In  after  days  were  often  heard  to  moan!  — 

"Ye  precious  memorials 
Dear  sources  of  delight, 
Enrapturing  my  sight, 


4io  SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER 

Whilst  relentless  Fate, 
Whilst  the  gods  above, 
Seemed  to  bless  my  love, 
Of  the  wretched  Dido 
The  spirit  receive! 
From  sorrows  whose  burden 
Her  strength  overpowers 
The  lost  one  relieve ! 
The  hapless  Dido 
Not  timelessly  dies; 
The  walls  of  her  Carthage, 
Loved  child  of  her  care, 
High,  towering  rise. 
Now,  a  spirit  bare, 
She  flies  the  sun's  beam; 
And  Phlegethon's  dark 
And  horrible  stream, 
In  Charon's  foul  bark, 
She  lonesomely  ploughs." 
—  Translation  in  Foreign  Quarterly  Review. 


j^ARDINER,  SAMUEL  RAWSON,  an  English  his- 
torian; born  at  Ropley,  Hants,  March  4, 
1829;  died  at  Sevenoaks,  Kent,  February  23, 
1902.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester  College  and 
at  Christchurch  College,  Oxford,  and  became  Profes- 
sor of  Modern  History  at  King's  College,  London.  In 
1882  a  Civil  List  pension  was  conferred  upon  him  "  in 
recognition  of  his  valuable  contributions  to  the  History 
of  England."  His  principal  historical  works  are  His- 
tory of  England  from  the  Accession  of  James  L  to  the 
Disgrace  of  Chief  Justice  Coke  (1863) ;  Prince  Charles 
and  the  Spanish  Marriage  (1869) ;  England  Under  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham  and  Charles  L  (1875)  J 


SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER  411 

tonal  Government  of  Charles  I.  (1877) ;  The  Fall  of 
the  Monarchy  of  Charles  I.  (1881) ;  The  History  of 
the  Great  Civil  War  (1886) ;  History  of  the  Common- 
wealth and  Protectorate  ( 1894)  ;  Cromwell's  Place  in 
History  (1897) ;  and  Oliver  Cromwell  (1899). 

"The  picturesque  style  of  writing,"  remarks  the 
Saturday  Review,  "  has  been  so  much  overdone  of  late 
that  it  is  'a  relief  to  get  back  to  someone  who  jogs  along 
quietly  and  leisurely,  as  people  did  in  the  last  century 
—  never  brilliant,  but  never  ridiculous  or  offensive. 
Mr.  Gardiner's  sedateness  is,  however/* — -  the  writer  is 
speaking  particularly  of  the  first  part  of  the  History  of 
England  — "  too  much  for  us.  He  might  surely  have 
made  more  of  an  age  which  saw  our  greatest  poet  and 
our  greatest  philosopher."  "  For  grasp  of  situation 
and  desire  to  set  everything  in  its  proper  light,"  said 
the  London  Spectator,  "  for  perception  of  motives  and 
the  wise  use  of  evidence,  for  accuracy,  honesty,  and 
exhaustive  treatment,  Mr.  Gardiner  stands  alone." 

THE  PROJECTED   ANGLO-SPANISH    ALLIANCE 

The  wooing  of  princes  is  not  in  itself  more  worthy  of 
a  place  in  history  than  the  wooing  of  ordinary  men; 
and  there  is  certainly  nothing  in  Charles's  character 
which  would  lead  us  to  make  any  exception  in  his  favor. 
But  the  Spanish  alliance,  of  which  the  hand  of  the  In- 
fanta was  to  have  been  the  symbol  and  the  pledge, 
was  a  great  event  in  our  history,  though  chiefly  on  ac- 
count of  the  consequences  which  resulted  from  it  in- 
directly. When  the  marriage  was  first  agitated,  the 
leading  minds  of  the  age  were  tending  in  a  direction 
adverse  to  Puritanism,  and  were  casting  about  in  search 
of  some  system  of  belief  which  should  soften  down  the 
asperities  which  were  the  sad  legacy  of  the  last  genera- 
tion. When  it  was  finally  broken  off,  the  leading  minds 
of  the  age  were  tending  in  precisely  the  opposite  direc- 


4i2  SAMUEL  RAW  SON  GARDINER 

tion;  and  that  period  of  our  history  commenced  which 
led  tip  to  the  anti-episcopalian  fervor  of  the  Long  Par- 
liament, to  the  Puritan  monarchy  of  Cromwell,  and  in 
general  to  the  re-invigoration  of  that  which  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Arnold  has  called  the  Hebrew  element  in  our 
civilization.  If,  therefore,  the  causes  of  moral  changes 
form  the  most  interesting  subject  of  historical  investiga- 
tion, the  events  of  these  seven  years  can  yield  in  interest 
to  but  few  periods  of  our  history.  In  the  miserable 
catalogue  of  errors  and  crimes,  it  is  easy  to  detect  the 
origin  of  that  repulsion  which  moulded  the  intellectual 
conceptions,  as  well  as  the  political  action,  of  the  rising 
generation.  Few  blunders  have  been  greater  than  that 
which  has  made  the  popular  knowledge  of  the  Stuart 
reign  commence  with  the  accession  of  Charles  L,  and 
which  would  lay  down  the  law  upon  the  actions  of  the 
King  whilst  knowing  nothing  of  the  Prince.  —  Prince 
Charles  and  the  Spanish  Marriage,  Preface. 

JAMES  I.  AND  THE  SPANISH  AMBASSADOR. 

A  few  days  after  the  dissolution  of  Parliament,  in 
June,  1614,  James  sent  for  Sarmiento,  and  poured  into 
his  willing  ear  his  complaints  of  the  insulting  behavior 
of  the  Commons.  "  I  hope,"  said  he,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished his  story,  "that  you  will  send  the  news  to  your 
master  as  you  hear  it  from  me,  and  not  as  it  is  told  by 
the  gossips  in  the  streets."  As  soon  as  the  ambassador 
had  assured  him  that  he  would  comply  with  his  wishes, 
James  went  on  with  his  catalogue  of  grievances.  "The 
King  of  Spain,"  he  said,  "  has  more  kingdoms  and  sub- 
jects than  I  have,  but  there  is  one  thing  in  which  I  sur- 
pass him.  He  has  not  so  large  a  Parliament  The 
Cortes  of  Castile  are  composed  of  little  more  than  thirty 
persons.  In  my  Parliament  are  nearly  five  hundred. 
The  House  of  Commons  is  a  body  without  a  head.  The 
members  give  their  opinions  in  a  disorderly  manner.  At 
their  meetings  nothing  is  heard  but  cries,  shouts,  and 
confusion.  I  am  surprised  that  my  ancestors  should 
ever  have  permitted  such  an  institution  to  conie  into 
existence,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  I  found  it  here  when  I 


SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER  413 

came,  so  that  I  am  obliged  to  put  up  with  what  I  cannot 
get  rid  of." 

Here  James  colored,  and  stopped  short.  He  had 
been  betrayed  into  an  admission  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  dominions  which  he  could  not  get  rid  of  if 
he  pleased.  Sarmiento,  with  ready  tact,  came  to  his  as- 
sistance, and  reminded  him  that  he  was  able  to  summon 
and  dismiss  this  formidable  body  at  his  pleasure.  "  That 
is  true,"  replied  James,  delighted  at  the  turn  which  the 
conversation  had  taken;  "and  what  is  more,  without 
my  assent  the  words  and  acts  of  Parliament  are  alto- 
gether worthless.'*  Having  thus  maintained  his  dignity, 
James  proceeded  to  assure  Sarmiento  that  he  would 
gladly  break  off  the  negotiations  with  France,  if  only  he 
could  be  sure  that  the  hand  of  the  Infanta  would  not  be 
accompanied  by  conditions  which  it  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  grant.  The  Spaniard  gave  him  every  en- 
couragement in  his  power,  and  promised  to  write  to 
Madrid  for  further  instructions.  —  Prince  Charles  and 
the  Spanish  Marriage,  Vol.  /.,  Chap.  I. 

NEGOTIATIONS    FOR    THE    MARRIAGE. 

The  cessation  of  the  war  with  Spain  had  led  to  a  re- 
action against  extreme  Puritanism,  now  no  longer 
strengthened  by  the  patriotic  feeling  that  whatever  was 
most  opposed  to  the  Church  of  Rome  was  most  op- 
posed to  the  enemies  of  England.  And  as  the  mass  of 
the  people  was  settling  down  into  content  with  the  rites 
and  with  the  teachings  of  the  English  Church,  there 
were  some  who  floated  still  further  with  the  returning 
tide,  and  who  were  beginning  to  cast  longing  looks 
toward  Rome.  From  time  to  time  the  priests  brought 
word  to  the  Spanish  ambassador  that  the  number  of 
their  converts  was  on  the  increase;  and  they  were  oc- 
casionally able  to  report  that  some  great  lord,  or  some 
member  of  the  Privy  Council,  was  added  to  the  list. 
Already,  he  believed,  a  quarter  of  the  population  were 
Catholics  at  heart,  and  another  quarter  —  being  without 
any  religion  at  all  —  would  be  ready  to  rally  to  their  side 
if  they  proved  to  be  the  strongest.  .  .  . 


414  SAMUEL  RAWS  ON  GARDINER 

Sarmient'o  knew  that  he  would  have  considerable  dif- 
ficulty in  gaining  his  scheme  of  marrying  Prince  Charles 
to  the  Infanta;  and  especially  in  persuading  his  master 
to  withdraw  his  demand  for  the  immediate  conversion 
of  the  Prince,  He,  therefore,  began  by  assuring  him 
that  it  would  be  altogether  useless  to  persist  in  asking 
for  a  concession  which  James  was  unable  to  make  with- 
out endangering  both  his  own  life  and  that  of  his  son. 
Even  to  grant  liberty  of  conscience,  by  repealing  the 
laws  against  the  Catholics,  was  beyond  the  power  of  the 
King  of  England,  unless  he  could  gain  the  consent  of 
his  Parliament.  All  that  he  could  do  would  be  to  con- 
nive at  the  breach  of  the  penal  laws  by  releasing  the 
priests  from  prison,  and  by  refusing  to  receive  the  fines 
of  the  laity.  James  was  willing  to  do  this;  and  if  this 
offer  was  accepted,  everything  else  would  follow  in 
course  of  time 

Philip  —  or  the  great  men  who  acted  in  his  name  —  de- 
termined upon  consulting  with  the  Pope.  The  reply  of 
Paul  V.  was  anything  but  favorable.  The  proposed 
union,  he  said,  would  not  only  imperil  the  faith  of  the 
Infanta,  and  the  faith  of  the  children  she  might  have, 
but  would  also  bring  about  increased  facilities  of  com- 
munication between  the  two  countries,  which  could  not 
but  be  detrimental  to  the  purity  of  religion  in  Spain. 
Besides  this,  it  was  well  known  that  it  was  a  maxim  in 
England  that  a  King  was  justified  in  divorcing  a  child- 
less wife.  On  these  grounds  he  was  unable  to  give  his 
approbation  to  the  marriage. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  Pope  marriage  was  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  even  when  the  political  advantages  to  be  gained 
by  it  assumed  the  form  of  the  propagation  of  religion. 
In  his  inmost  heart,  most  probably,  Philip  thought  the 
same.  But  Philip  was  seldom  accustomed  to  take  the 
initiative  in  matters  of  importance;  and,  upon  the  ad- 
vice of  the  Council  of  State,  he  laid  the  whole  question 
before  a  junta  of  theologians.  It  was  arranged  that 
the  theologians  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  Pope's 
reply,  in  order  that  they  might  not  be  biassed  by  it  in 
giving  their  opinion.  The  hopes  of  the  conversion  of 
England,  which  formed  so  brilliant  a  picture  in  Sar- 


SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER  415 

miento's  despatches,  overcame  any  scruples  which  they 
may  have  felt,  and  they  voted  in  favor  of  the  marriage 
on  condition  that  the  Pope's  consent  could  be  obtained. 
The  Council  adopted  their  advice,  and  ordered  that  the 
articles  should  be  prepared.  On  one  point  only  was 
there  much  discussion.  Statesmen  and  theologians  were 
agreed  that  it  was  unwise  to  ask  for  the  conversion  of 
the  Prince.  But  they  were  uncertain  whether  it  would 
be  safe  to  content  themselves  with  the  remission  of  the 
fines  by  the  mere  connivance  of  the  King.  At  last  one 
argument  turned  the  scale:  A  change  in  the  law  which 
would  grant  complete  religious  liberty  would  probably 
include  the  Puritans  and  the  other  Protestant  sects ;  the 
remission  of  penalties  by  the  royal  authority  would 
benefit  the  Catholics  alone. — Prince  Charles  and  the 
Spanish  Marriage,  Vol.  I.,  Chap.  I. 

CHARACTER  OF  PRINCE  CHARLES  OF  ENGLAND. 

Charles  had  now  [1622]  nearly  completed  his  twenty- 
second  year.  To  a  superficial  observer  he  was  every- 
thing that  a  young  prince  should  be.  His  bearing  —  un- 
like that  of  his  father — was  graceful  and  dignified.  His 
only  blemish  was  the  size  of  his  tongue,  which  was  too 
large  for  his  mouth,  and  which,  especially  when  he  was 
excited,  gave  him  a  difficulty  of  expression  almost 
amounting  to  a  stammer.  In  all  bodily  exercises  his 
supremacy  was  undoubted.  He  could  ride  better  than 
any  other  man  in  England.  His  fondness  for  hunting 
was  such  that  James  was  heard  to  exclaim  that  by  this 
he  recognized  him  as  his  true  and  worthy  son.  In  the 
tennis-court  and  in  the  tilting-yard  he  surpassed  all  com- 
petitors. No  one  had  so  exquisite  an  ear  for  music, 
could  look  at  a  fine  picture  with  greater  appreciation  of 
its  merits,  or  could  keep  time  more  exactly  when  called 
to  take  part  in  a  dance.  Yet  these,  and  such  as  these, 
were  the  smallest  of  his  merits.  Regular  in  his  habits, 
his  household  was  a  model  of  economy.  His  own  attire 
was  such  as  in  that  age  was  regarded  as  a  protest  against 
the  prevailing  extravagance.  His  moral  character  was 
irreproachable;  and  it  was  observed  that  he  blushed  like  a 


4i6  SAMUEL  RAW  SON  GARDINER 

girl  whenever  an  immodest  word  was  uttered  in  his 
presence.  Designing  women,  of  the  class  which  had 
preyed  upon  his  brother  Henry,  found  it  expedient  to 
pass  him  by,  and  laid  their  nets  for  more  susceptible 
hearts  than  his. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  excellences,  keen-sighted  ob- 
servers who  were  by  no  means  blind  to  his  merits,  were 
not  disposed  to  prophesy  good  of  his  future  reign.  In 
truth,  his  very  virtues  were  a  sign  of  weakness.  He  was 
born  to  be  the  idol  of  schoolmasters  and  the  stumbling- 
block  of  statesmen.  His  modesty  and  decorum  were 
the  result  of  sluggishness  rather  than  of  self-restraint. 
Uncertain  in  judgment,  and  hesitating  in  action,  he  clung 
fondly  to  the  small  proprieties  of  life,  and  to  the  narrow 
range  of  ideas  which  he  had  learned  to  hold  with  a  tena- 
cious grasp;  whilst  he  was  ever  prone,  like  his  unhappy 
brother-in-law,  the  Elector-Palatine,  to  seek  refuge  from 
the  uncertainties  of  the  present  by  a  sudden  plunge  into 
rash  and  ill-considered  action. 

With  such  a  character,  the  education  which  he  had 
received  had  been  the  worst  possible.  From  his  father 
he  had  never  had  a  chance  of  acquiring  a  single  lesson 
in  the  first  virtue  of  a  ruler  —  that  love  of  truth  which 
would  keep  his  ear  open  to  all  assertions  and  to  all  com- 
plaints, in  the  hope  of  detecting  something  which  it 
might  be  well  for  him  to  know.  Nor  was  the  injury 
which  his  mind  thus  received  merely  negative ;  for  James, 
vague  as  his  political  theories  were,  was  intolerant  of 
contradiction,  and  his  impatient  dogmatism  had  early 
taught  his  son  to  conceal  his  thoughts  in  sheer  diffidence 
of  his  own  powers.  To  hold  his  tongue  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, and  then  to  say  not  what  he  believed  to  be  true, 
but  what  was  likely  to  be  pleasing,  became  his  daily 
task  till  he  ceased  to  be  capable  of  looking  difficulties 
fully  in  the  face.  The  next  step  in  the  downward  path 
was  but  too  inviting.  As  each  question  rose  before  him 
for  solution,  his  first  thought  was  how  it  might  best  be 
evaded;  and  he  usually  took  refuge  either  in  a  studied 
silence,  or  in  some  of  those  varied  forms  of  equivocation 
which  are  usually  supposed  by  weak  minds  not  to  be 
equivalent  to  falsehood. 

Over  such  a  character  Buckingham  had  found  no  dif- 


SAMUEL  RAW  SON  GARDINER  417 

faculty  in  obtaining  a  thorough  mastery.  On  the  one 
condition  of  making  a  show  of  regarding  his  wishes  as 
all-important,  he  was  able  to  mould  those  wishes  almost 
as  he  pleas  xL  To  the  reticent  hesitating  youth  it  was 
a  relief  to  find  some  one  who  would  take  the  lead  in 
amusement  and  in  action;  who  could  make  up  his  mind 
for  him  in  a  moment  when  he  was  himself  plunged  in 
hopeless  uncertainty,  and  who  possessed  a  fund  of  gayety 
and  light-heartedness  which  was  never  at  fault  —  Prince 
Charles  and  the  Spanish  Marriage,  Vol.  II. f  Chap.  X. 

THE  INFANTA   MARIA  OF   SPAIN. 

The  Infanta  Maria  had  now  entered  upon  her  seven- 
teenth year.  Her  features  were  not  beautiful,  but  the 
sweetness  of  her  disposition  found  expression  in  her  face, 
and  her  fair  complexion  and  her  delicate  white  hands 
drew  forth  rapturous  admiration  from  the  contrast 
which  they  presented  to  the  olive  tints  of  the  ladies  by 
whom  she  was  surrounded.  The  mingled  dignity  and 
gentleness  of  her  bearing  made  her  an  especial  favorite 
with  her  brother,  the  King.  Her  life  was  moulded  after 
the  best  type  of  the  devotional  piety  of  her  Church.  Two 
hours  of  every  day  she  spent  in  prayer.  Twice  every 
week  she  confessed,  and  partook  of  the  Holy  Com- 
munion. Her  chief  delight  was  in  meditating  upon  the 
Immaculate  Conception  of  the  Virgin,  and  preparing  lint 
for  the  use  of  the  hospitals.  The  money  which  her 
brother  allowed  her  to  be  spent  at  play  she  carefully  set 
aside  for  the  use  of  the  poor. 

Her  character  was  as  remarkable  for  its  self-posses- 
sion as  for  its  gentleness.  Except  when  she  was  in 
private  amongst  her  ladies,  her  words  were  but  few; 
and  though  those  who  knew  her  well  were  aware  that 
she  felt  unkindness  deeply,  she  never  betrayed  her  emo- 
tions by  speaking  harshly  of  those  by  whom  she  had  been 
wronged.  When  she  had  once  made  up  her  mind  where 
the  path  of  duty  lay,  no  temptation  could  induce  her  to 
swerve  from  it  by  a  hair's  breadth.  Nor  was  her 
physical  courage  less  conspicuous  than  her  moral  firm- 
ness. At  a  Court  entertainment  given  at  Aranjuez  a  fire 
VOL.  X.— 37 


4i8  SAMUEL  RAW  SON  GARDINER 

broke  out  among  the  scaffolding  which  supported  the 
benches  upon  which  the  spectators  were  seated.  In  an 
instant  the  whole  place  was  in  confusion.  Among  the 
screaming  throng  the  Infanta  alone  retain*  d  her  pres- 
ence of  mind.  Calling  Olivares  to  her  help,  that  he 
might  keep  off  the  pressure  of  the  crowd,  she  made  her 
escape  without  quickening  her  usual  pace. 

There  were  many  positions  in  which  such  a  woman 
could  hardly  have  failed  to  pass  a  happy  and  a  useful 
life.  But  it  is  certain  that  no  one  could  be  less  fitted  to 
become  the  wife  of  a  Protestant  King,  and  the  Queen  of  a 
Protestant  nation.  On  the  throne  of  England  her  life 
would  be  one  of  continual  martyrdom*  Her  own  dislike 
of  the  marriage  was  undisguised,  and  her  instinctive 
aversion  was  confirmed  by  the  reiterated  warnings  of  her 
confessor.  A  heretic,  he  told  her,  was  worse  than  a 
devil.  "What  a  comfortable  bed-fellow  you  will  have/' 
he  said.  "  He  who  lies  by  your  side,  and  who  will  be  the 
father  of  your  children,  is  certain  to  go  to  hell.** 

It  was  only  lately,  however,  that  she  had  taken  any 
open  step  in  the  matter.  Till  recently,  indeed,  the  mar- 
riage had  hardly  been  regarded  at  Court  in  a  serious 
light.  But  the  case  was  now  altered.  A  junta  had  been 
appointed  to  settle  the  articles  of  marriage  with  the  Eng- 
lish Ambassador,  and,  although  the  Pope's  adverse 
opinion  had  been  given,  it  seemed  likely  that  the  junta, 
under  Gondomar's  influence,  would  urge  him  to  recon- 
sider his  determination.  Under  these  circumstances  the 
Infanta  proceeded  to  plead  her  own  cause  with  her 
brother. 

The  tears  of  the  sister  whom  he  was  loath  to  sacrifice 
were  of  great  weight  with  Philip  IV. ;  but  she  had  power- 
ful influences  to  contend  with*  Olivares,  upon  whose 
sanguine  mind  the  hope  of  converting  England  was  at 
this  time  exercising  all  its  glamor,  protested  against  the 
proposed  change  —  to  marry  the  Infanta  to  the  Em- 
peror's son,  the  Archduke  Ferdinand,  and  to  satisfy  the 
Prince  of  Wales  with  the  hand  of  an  archduchess;  and 
Philip,  under  the  eye  of  his  favorite,  made  every  effort 
to  shake  his  sister's  resolution.  The  confessor  was 
threatened  with  removal  from  his  post  if  he  did  not 


SAMUEL  RAWS  ON  GARDINER  419 

change  his  language;  and  divines  of  less  unbending 
severity  were  summoned  to  reason  with  the  Infanta,  and 
were  instigated  to  paint  in  glowing  colors  the  glorious 
and  holy  work  of  bringing  back  an  apostate  nation  to  the 
faith. 

For  a  moment  the  unhappy  girl  gave  way  before  the 
array  of  her  counsellors,  and  she  told  her  brother  that, 
in  order  to  serve  God  and  obey  the  King,  she  was  ready 
to  submit  to  anything.  In  a  few  days,  however,  this 
momentary  phase  of  feeling  had  passed  away.  Her 
woman's  instinct  told  her  that  she  had  been  in  the  right; 
and  that,  with  all  their  learning,  the  statesmen  and 
divines  had  been  in  the  wrong.  She  sent  to  Olivares  to 
tell  him  that  if  he  did  not  find  some  way  to  save  her  from 
the  bitterness  before  her,  she  would  cut  the  knot  herself 
by  taking  refuge  in  a  nunnery;  and  when  Philip  returned 
from  his  hunting  in  November  he  found  himself  besieged 
by  all  the  weapons  of  a  woman's  despair. 

Philip  was  not  proof  against  his  sister's  misery.  Upon 
the  political  effect  of  the  decision  which  he  now  took  he 
scarcely  bestowed  a  thought.  It  was  his  business  to  hunt 
boars  or  stags,  or  to  display  his  ability  in  the  tilt-yard;  it 
was  the  business  of  Olivares  and  the  Council  of  State  to 
look  after  politics.  The  letter  in  which  he  announced  his 
intention  to  Olivares  was  very  brief:  "My  father/'  he 
wrote,  "declared  his  mind  at  his  death-bed  concerning 
the  match  with  England,  which  was  never  to  make  it;  and 
your  uncle's  intention,  according  to  that,  was  ever  to  de- 
lay it ;  and  you  know  likewise  how  averse  my  sister  is  to 
it.  I  think  it  now  time  that  I  should  find  some  way  out 
of  it ;  wherefore  I  require  you  to  find  some  other  way  to 
content  the  King  of  England,  to  whom  I  think  myself 
much  bound  for  his  many  expressions  of  friendship." — 
Prince  Charles  and  the  Spanish  Marriage,  Vol.  IL, 
Chap.  X. 


420  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 


^ARFIELD,  JAMES  ABRAM,  an  American  states- 
man; twentieth  President  of  the  United 
States;  born  at  Orange,  Ohio,  November  19, 
1831 ;  died  at  Elberon,  N.  J.,  September  19,  1881.  He 
lived  as  a  child  in  a  log  cabin  in  the  Ohio  wilderness, 
attending  district  school  in  the  winter  months.  In 
1849  he  learned  the  trade  of  carpenter  while  attend- 
ing school  at  Chester,  Ohio,  and  in  1851  entered  Hiram 
College.  He  was  graduated  from  Williams  College 
in  1856,  and  in  the  following  year  became  president  of 
Hiram  College.  Here  he  earned  no  small  amount  of 
fame  as  an  educator.  In  1859  he  was  elected  to  the 
Ohio  State  Senate. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  he  was  commis- 
sioned Colonel  of  the  42d  Regiment  of  Ohio  Volun- 
teers, He  distinguished  himself  at  Shiloh,  Corinth 
and  Chickamauga.  In  1863  he  resigned  from  the 
arnjy,  having  been  elected  to  Congress  from  his  home 
district  in  Ohio.  In  1880  he  was  elected  United  States 
Senator,  and  in  the  same  year  was  elected  President  of 
the  United  States.  On  July  2,  1881,  he  was  shot  and 
mortally  wounded  by  Charles  J.  Guiteau,  but  lingered 
until  September  19.  His  funeral  was  a  state  affair, 
with  ceremonies  at  Washington  and  Cleveland,  In 
February,  1882,  James  G.  Elaine  delivered  a  notable 
eulogy  of  Garfield  before  Congress. 

General  Garfield  was  a  brilliant  orator  and  a  gifted 
writer.  *  The  best  example  of  his  effort  as  an  author  is 
an  address  on  College  Education  delivered  before  a 
literary  society  at  Hiram,  Ohio,  in  1867.  It  shows 
freshness,  clearness  and  vigor  of  thought. 


JAMES  A.  GAKFIEU). 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 


COLLEGE  EDUCATION. 

I  congratulate  you  on  the  significant  fact  that  the  ques- 
tions which  most  vitally  concern  your  personal  work  are, 
at  this  time,  rapidly  becoming,  indeed  have  already  be- 
come, questions  of  first  importance  to  the  whole  nation. 
In  ordinary  times,  we  could  scarcely  find  two  subject's 
wider  apart  than  the  meditations  of  a  school-boy,  when  he 
asks  what  he  shall  do  with  himself,  and  how  he  shall  do 
it,  and  the  forecastings  of  a  great  nation,  when  it  studies 
the  laws  of  its  own  life  and  endeavors  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem of  its  destiny.  But  now  there  is  more  than  a  resem- 
blance, between  the  nation's  work  and  yours.  If  the  two 
are  not  identical,  they  at  least  bear  the  relation  of  the 
whole  to  a  part. 

The  nation,  having  passed  through  the  childhood  of  its 
history,  and  being  about  to  enter  upon  a  new  life,  based  on 
a  fuller  recognition  of  the  rights  of  manhood,  has  dis- 
covered that  liberty  can  be  safe  only  when  the  suffrage 
is  illuminated  by  education.  It  is  now  perceived  that  the 
life  and  light  of  a  nation  are  inseparable.  Hence,  the 
Federal  Government  has  established  a  National  Depart- 
ment of  Education,  for  the  purpose  of  teaching  young 
men  and  women  how  to  be  good  citizens. 

You,  young  gentlemen,  having  passed  the  limits  of 
childhood,  and  being  about  to  enter  the  larger  world  of 
manhood,  with  its  manifold  struggles  and  aspirations,  are 
now  confronted  with  the  question,  "  What  must  I  do  to  fit 
myself  most  completely,  not  for  being  a  citizen  merely, 
but  for  being  *  all  that  doth  become  a  man/  living  in  the 
full  light  of  the  Christian  civilization  of  America?" 
Your  disenthralled  and  victorious  country  asks  you  to  be 
educated  for  her  sake,  and  the  noblest  aspirations  of  your 
being  still  more  imperatively  ask  it  for  your  own  sake. 

In  the  hope  that  I  may  aid  you  in  solving  some  of  these 
questions  —  I  have  chosen  for  my  theme  on  this  occasion : 
The  Course  of  Study  in  American  Colleges  —  and  Its 
Adaptation  to  the  Wants  of  Our  Time. 

Before  examining  any  course  of  study,  we  should  clearly 


422  JAMES  ABRAM  GARPIELD 

apprehend  the  objects  to  be  obtained  by  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. 

In  general,  it  may  be  said  that  the  purpose  of  all  study 
is  two-fold:  to  discipline  our  faculties,  and  to  acquire 
knowledge  for  the  duties  of  life.  It  is  happily  provided, 
in  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind,  that  the  labor  by 
which  knowledge  is  acquired  is  the  only  means  of  dis- 
ciplining the  powers.  It  may  be  stated,  as  a  general  rule, 
that  if  we  compel  ourselves  to  learn  what  we  ought  to 
know,  and  use  it  when  learned,  our  discipline  will  take 
care  of  itself. 

Let  us  then  inquire  what  kinds  of  knowledge  should  be 
the  objects  of  a* liberal  education?  Without  adopting  in 
full  the  classification  of  Herbert  Spencer,  it  will  be  suffi- 
ciently comprehensive,  for  my  present  purpose,  to  propose 
the  following  kinds  of  knowledge,  stated  in  the  order  of 
their  importance: 

First.  That  knowledge  which  is  necessary  for  the  full 
development  of  our  bodies  and  the  preservation  of  our 
health. 

Second.  The  knowledge  of  those  principles  by  which 
the  useful  arts  and  industries  are  carried  on  and  improved. 

Third.  That  knowledge  which  is  necessary  to  a  full 
comprehension  of  our  rights  and  duties  as  citizens. 

Fourth.  A  knowledge  of  the  intellectual,  r  >ral,  reli- 
gious, and  aesthetic  nature  of  man  —  and  his  rotations  to 
nature  and  civilization. 

Fifth.  That  special  and  thorough  knowledge  which  is 
requisite  for  the  particular  profession  or  pursuit  which  a 
man  may  choose  as  his  life  work,  after  he  has  completed 
his  college  studies. 

In  brief,  the  student  should  study  himself,  his  relations 
to  society,  to  nature,  and  to  art  — and  above  all,  in  all, 
and  through  all  these,  he  should  study  the  relations  of 
himself,  society,  nature  and  art,  to  God,  the  Author  of 
them  all.  Of  course,  it  is  not  possible,  nor  is  it  desira- 
ble to  confine  the  course  of  development  exclusively  to 
this  order  — for  truth  is  so  related  and  correlated,  that 
no  department  of  her  realm  is  wholly  isolated.  We  cannot 
learn  much  that  pertains  to  the  industry  of  society,  with- 
out learning  something  of  the  material  world,  and  the  laws 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  423 

which  govern  it.  We  cannot  study  nature  profoundly 
without  bringing  ourselves  into  communion  with  the  spirit 
of  art,  which  pervades  and  fills  the  universe.  But  what 
I  suggest  is,  that1  we  should  make  the  course  of  study 
conform  generally  to  the  order  here  indicated;  that  the 
student  shall  first  study  what  he  needs  most  to  know ;  that 
the  order  of  his  needs  shall  be  the  order  of  his  work. 
Now  it  will  not  be  denied  that  from  the  day  that  the  child's 
foot  first  presses  the  green  turf,  till  the  day  when,  an  old 
man,  he  is  ready  to  be  laid  under  it  there  is  not  an  hour 
in  which  he  does  not  need  to  know  a  thousand  things  in 
relation  to  his  body,  "what  he  shall  eat,  what  he  shall 
drink,  and  wherewithal  he  shall  be  clothed."  Unprovided 
with  that  instinct  which  enables  the  lower  animals  to  re- 
ject the  noxious  and  select  the  nutritive  man  must  learn 
even  the  most  primary  truth  that  ministers  to  his  self- 
preservation.  If  parents  were  themselves  sufficiently  edu- 
cated, most  of  this  knowledge  might  be  acquired  at  the 
mother's  knee,  but,  by  the  strangest  perversion  and  mis- 
direction of  the  educational  forces,  these  most  essential 
elements  of  knowledge  are  more  neglected  than  any  other. 
School  committees  would  summarily  dismiss  the  teacher 
who  should  have  the  good  sense  and  courage  to  spend 
three  days  of  each  week,  with  her  pupils,  in  the  fields  and 
woods,  teaching  them  the  names,  peculiarities,  and  uses 
of  rocks,  trees,  plants,  and  flowers,  and  the  beautiful  story 
of  the  animals,  birds,  and  insects,  which  fill  the  world 
with  life  and  beauty.  They  will  applaud  her  for  contin- 
uing to  perpetrate  that  undefended  and  indefensible  out- 
rage upon  the  laws  of  physical  and  intellectual  life,  which 
keeps  a  little  child  sitting  in  silence,  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  hold  his  mind  to  the  words  of  a  printed  page,  for  six 
hours  in  a  day.  Herod  was  merciful,  for  he  finished  his 
slaughter  of  the  innocents  in  a  day ;  but  this  practice  kills 
by  the  savagery  of  slow  torture. —  And  what  is  the  child 
directed  to  study?  Besides  the  mass  of  words  and  sen- 
tences which  he  is  compelled  to  memorize,  not  one  syllable 
of  which  he  understands,  at  eight  or  ten  years  of  age  he 
is  set  to  work  oti  English  Grammar  —  one  of  the  most 
complex,  intricate,  and  metaphysical  of  studies,  requiring 
a  mind  of  much  muscle  and  discipline  to  master  it  Thus 


424  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

are  squandered  —  nay,  far  worse  than  squandered  —  those 
thrice-precious  years,  when  the  child  is  all  ear  and  eye, 
when  its  eager  spirit,  with  insatiable  curiosity,  hungers 
and  thirsts  to  know  the  what  and  the  why  of  the  world 
and  its  wonderful  furniture.  We  silence  its  sweet  clamor, 
by  cramming  its  hungry  mind  with  words,  words  —  empty, 
meaningless  words.  It  asks  bread,  and  we  give  it  a  stone. 
It  is  to  me  a  perpetual  wonder  that  any  child's  love  of 
knowledge  survives  the  outrages  of  the  school-house.  It 
would  be  foreign  from  my  present  purpose,  to  consider 
farther  the  subject  of  primary  education  —  but  it  is  wor- 
thy your  profoundest  thought,  for  "  out  of  it  are  the  issues 
of  life."  That  man  will  be  a  benefactor  of  his  race,  who 
shall  teach  us  how  to  manage  rightly  the  first  years  of  a 
child's  education.  I,  for  one,  declare  that  no  child  of  mine 
shall  ever  be  compelled  to  study  one  hour,  or  to  learn  even 
the  English  alphabet,  before  he  has  deposited  under  his 
skin,  at  least,  seven  years  of  muscle  and  bone. 

What  are  our  seminaries  and  colleges  accomplishing  in 
the  way  of  teaching  the  laws  of  life  and  physical  well- 
being?  I  should  scarcely  wrong  them,  were  I  to  answer, 
nothing;  absolutely  nothing.  The  few  recitations  which 
some  of  the  colleges  require,  in  Anatomy  and  Physiology, 
unfold  but'  the  alphabet  of  those  subjects.  The  emphasis 
of  college  culture  does  not  fall  there.  The  graduate  has 
learned  the  Latin  of  the  old  maxim,  "  mens  sana  in  cor- 
pore  sano,"  but  how  to  strengthen  the  mind  by  the  preser- 
vation of  the  body,  he  has  never  learned.  He  can  read 
you,  in  Xenopohn's  best  Attic  Greek,  that  Apollo  flayed 
the  unhappy  Marsyas  and  hanged  up  his  skin  as  a  trophy, 
but  he  has  never  examined  the  wonderful  texture  of  his 
own  skin,  nor  the  laws  by  which  he  may  preserve  it.  He 
would  blush,  were  he  to  mistake  the  place  of  a  Greek  ac- 
cent, or  put  the  ictus  on  the  second  syllable  of  Eolus ;  but 
the  whole  circle  of  the  "  liberalium  artium,"  so  pompously 
referred  to  in  his  diploma  of  graduation,  may  not  have 
taught  him,  as  I  can  testify  in  an  instance  personally 
known  to  me,  whether  the  jejunum  is  a  bone  or  the  hu- 
merus  an  intestine.  Every  hour  of  study  consumes  a  por- 
tion of  his  muscular  and  vital  force.  Every  tissue  of  his 
body  requires  its  appropriate  nourishment,  the  elements 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  425 

of  which  are  found  in  abundance  in  the  various  products 
of  nature;  but  he  has  never  inquired  where  he  shall  find 
the  phosphates  and  carbonates  of  lime  for  his  bones,  albu- 
men and  fibrin  for  his  blood,  and  phosphorus  for  his  brain. 
His  Chemistry,  Mineralogy,  Botany,  Anatomy  and  Physi- 
ology, if  thoroughly  studied,  would  give  all  this  knowledge, 
but  he  has  been  intent  on  things  remote  and  foreign,  and 
has  given  but  little  heed  to  those  matters  which  so  nearly 
concern  the  chief  functions  of  life.  But  the  student  should 
not  be  blamed.  The  great  men  of  history  have  set  him 
the  example.  Copernicus  discovered  and  announced  the 
true  theory  of  the  solar  system,  a  hundred  years  before 
the  circulation  of  the  blood  was  known.  Though,  from 
the  heart  to  the  surface,  and  from  the  surface  back  to  the 
heart  of  every  man  oi  the  race,  some  twenty  pounds  of 
blood  had  made  the  circuit  once  every  three  minutes,  yet 
men  were  looking  so  steadily  away  from  themselves,  that 
they  did  not  observe  the  wonderful  fact  His  habit  of 
thought  has  developed  itself  in  all  the  courses  of  college 
study. 

In  the  next  place,  I  inquire,  what  kinds  of  knowledge 
are  necessary  for  carrying  on  and  improving  the  useful 
arts  and  industries  of  civilized  life?  I  am  well  aware  of 
the  current  notion,  that  these  muscular  arts  should  stay 
in  the  fields  and  shops,  and  not  invade  the  sanctuaries  of 
learning.  A  finished  education  is  supposed  to  consist 
mainly  of  literary  culture.  The  story  of  the  forges  of  the 
Cyclops,  where  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove  were  fashioned, 
is  supposed  to  adorn  elegant  scholarship  more  grace- 
fully than  those  sturdy  truths  which  are  preaching  to  this 
generation  in  the  wonders  of  the  mine,  in  the  fire  of  the 
furnace,  in  the  clang  of  the  iron  mills,  and  the  other  in- 
numerable industries  which,  more  than  all  other  human 
agencies,  have  made  our  civilization  what  it  is,  and  are 
destined  to  achieve  wonders  yet  undreamed  of.  This  gen- 
eration is  beginning  to  understand  that  education  should 
not  be  forever  divorced  from  industry;  that  the  highest 
results  can  be  reached  only  when  science  guides  the  hand 
of  labor.  With  what  eagerness  and  alacrity  is  industry 
seizing  every  truth  of  science  and  putting  it  in  harness ! 
A  few  years  ago,  Bessemer,  of  England,  studying  the 


426  TAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

nice  affinities  between  carbon  and  the  metals,  discovered 
that  a  slight  change  of  combination  would  produce  a  metal 
possessing  the  ductility  of  iron  and  the  compactness  of 
steel,  and  which  would  cost  but  little  more  than  common 
iron.  One  rail  of  this  metal  will  outlast  fifteen  of  the  iron 
rails  now  in  use.  Millions  of  capital  are  already  invested 
to  utilize  this  thought  of  Bessemer's,  which  must  soon 
revolutionize  the  iron  manufacture  of  the  world. 

Another  example :  The  late  war  raised  the  price  of  cot- 
ton, and  paper  made  of  cotton  rags.  It  was  found  that 
good  paper  could  be  manufactured  from  the  fiber  of  soft 
wood,  but  it  was  expensive  and  difficult  to  reduce  to  a 
pulp,  without  chopping  the  fiber  into  pieces.  A  Yankee 
mechanic,  who  had  learned  in  the  science  of  vegetable 
anatomy  that  a  billet  of  wood  was-  composed  of  millions 
of  hollow  cylinders,  many  of  them  so  small  that  only  the 
microscope  could  reveal  them,  and  having  learned  also  the 
penetrative  and  expansive  power  of  steam,  wedded  these 
two  truths,  in  an  experiment'  which,  if  exhibited  to  Socra- 
tes, would  have  been  declared  a  miracle  from  the  gods. 
The  experiment  was  very  simple.  Putting  his  block  of 
wood  in  a  strong  box,  he  forced  into  it  a  volume  of  super- 
heated steam,  which  made  its  way  into  the  minutest  pore 
and  cell  of  the  wood.  Then  through  a  trap-door  suddenly 
opened,  the  block  was  tossed  out.  The  outside  pressure 
being  removed,  the  expanding  steam  instantly  burst  every 
one  of  the  million  tubes;  every  vegetable  flue  collapsed, 
and  his  block  of  wood  lay  before  him  a  mass  of  fleecy  fiber, 
more  delicate  than  the  hand  of  man  could  make  it 

Machinery  is  the  chief  implement  with  which  civiliza- 
tion does  its  work;  but  the  science  of  mechanics  is  im- 
possible without  mathematics. 

But  for  her  mineral  resources,  England  would  be  only 
the  hunting  park  of  Europe,  and  it  is  believed  that  her  day 
of  greatness  will  terminate  when  her  coal  fields  are  ex- 
hausted. Our  mineral  wealth  is  a  thousand  times  greater 
than  hers,  and  yet  without  the  knowledge  of  Geology, 
Mineralogy,  Metallurgy,  and  Chemistry,  our  mines  could 
be  of  but  little  value.  Without  a  knowledge  of  Astron- 
omy, commerce  on  the  sea  is  impossible,  and  now,  at  last, 
it  is  being  discovered  that  the  greatest  of  all  our  indus- 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  427 

tries,  the  agricultural,  in  which  three-fourths  of  all  our 
population  are  engaged,  must  call  science  to  its  aid,  if  it 
would  keep  up  with  the  demands  of  civilization.  I  need 
not  enumerate  the  extent  and  variety  of  knowledge, 
scientific  and  practical,  which  a  farmer  needs  in  order  to 
reach  the  full  height  and  scope  of  his  noble  calling.  And 
what  has  our  American  system  of  education  done  for  this 
controlling  majority  of  the  people?  I  can  best  answer 
that  question  with  a  single  fact.  Notwithstanding  there 
are  in  the  United  States  120,000  common  schools,  and 
7,000  academies  and  seminaries ;  notwithstanding  there  are 
275  colleges  where  young  men  may  be  graduated  as 
Bachelors  and  Masters  of  the  liberal  arts,  yet  in  all  these, 
the  people  of  the  United  States  have  found  so  little  being 
done,  or  likely  to  be  done,  to  educate  men  for  the  work  of 
agriculture,  that'  they  have  demanded,  and  at  last  have 
secured  from  their  political  servants  in  Congress,  an  ap- 
propriation sufficient  to  build  and  maintain,  in  each  State 
of  the  Union,  a  college  for  the  education  of  farmers. 
This  great  outlay  would  have  been  totally  unnecessary,  but 
for  the  stupid  and  criminal  neglect'  of  college,  academic, 
and  common  school  boards  of  education  to  furnish  that 
which  the  wants  of  the  people  require.  The  scholar  and 
the  worker  must  join  hands,  if  both  would  be  successful. 
I  next  ask,  what  studies  are  necessary  to  teach  our 
young  men  and  women  the  history  and  spirit  of  our  gov- 
ernment, and  their  rights  and  duties  as  citizens?  There 
is  not  now,  and  there  never  was  on  this  earth  a  people  who 
have  had  so  many  and  weighty  reasons  for  loving  their 
country  and  thanking  God  for  the  blessings  of  civil  and  re- 
ligious liberty,  as  our  own.  And  yet,  seven  years  ago, 
there  was  probably  less  strong,  earnest,  open  love  of 
country  in  the  United  States  than  in  any  other  nation  of 
Christendom.  It  is  true,  that  the  gulf  of  anarchy  and  ruin 
into  which  treason  threatened  to  plunge  us,  startled  the 
nation  as  by  an  electric  shock,  and  galvanized  into  life  its 
dormant  and  dying  patriotism.  But  how  came  it  dormant 
and  dying?  I  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  one  of  the 
chief  causes  was  our  defective  system  of  education. 
Seven  years  ago  there  was  scarcely  an  American  college 
in  which  more  than  four  weeks  out  of  the  four  years' 


428  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

course  were  devoted  to  studying  the  government  and  his- 
tory of  the  United  States.  For  this  defect  of  our  educa- 
tional system  I  have  neither  respect  nor  toleration.  It  is 
far  inferior  to  that  of  Persia  three  thousand  years  ago. 
The  uncultivated  tribes  of  Greece,  Rome,  Lybia,  and 
Germany  surpassed  us  in  this  respect  Grecian  children 
were  taught  to  reverence  and  emulate  the  virtues  of  their 
ancestors.  Our  educational  forces  are  so  wielded  as  to 
teach  our  children  to  admire  most  that  which  is  foreign, 
and  fabulous,  and  dead.  I  have  recently  examined  the 
catalogue  of  a  leading  New  England  college,  in  which 
the  Geography  and  History  of  Greece  and  Rome  are  re- 
quired to  be  studied  five  terms;  but  neither  the  History 
nor  the  Geography  of  the  United  States  are  named  in  the 
college  course,  or  required  as  a  condition  of  admission. 
Our  American  children  must  know  all  the  classic  rivers, 
from  the  Scamander  to  the  Yellow  Tiber,  must  tell  you 
the  length  of  the  Appian  Way,  and  of  the  canal  over 
which  Horace  and  Virgil  sailed  on  their  journey  to  Brim- 
dusium,  but  he  may  be  crowned  with  Baccalaureate  hon- 
ors without  having  heard,  since  his  first  moment  of  Fresh- 
man life,  one  word  concerning  the  122,000  miles  of  coast 
and  river  navigation,  the  6,000  miles  of  canal,  and  the 
35,000  miles  of  railroad,  which  indicate  both  the  prosperity 
and  the  possibilities  of  his  own  country. 

It  is  well  to  know  the  history  of  those  magnificent  na- 
tions whose  origin  is  lost  in  fable,  and  whose  epitaphs 
were  written  a  thousand  years  ago;  but  if  we  cannot  know 
both,  it  is  far  better  to  study  the  history  of  our  own  na- 
tion, whose  origin  we  can  trace  to  the  freest  and  noblest 
aspirations  of  the  human  heart  —  a  nation  that  was  formed 
from  the  hardiest,  purest,  and  most  enduring  elements  of 
European  civilization  —  a  nation  that,  by  its  faith  and 
courage,  has  dared  and  accomplished  more  for  the  human 
race  in  a  single  century  than  Europe  accomplished  in  the 
first  thousand  years  of  the  Christian  era.  The  New 
England  township  was  the  type  after  which  our  Federal 
Government  was  modeled;  yet  it  would  be  rare  to  find  a 
college  student  who  can  make  a  comprehensive  and  in- 
telligent statement  of  the  municipal  organization  of  the 
township  in  which  he  was  born,  and  tell  you  by  what 


JAMBS  ABRAM  GARFIELD  423 

officers  its  legislative,  judicial  and  executive  functions  are 
administered.  One  half  of  the  time  which  is  now  almost 
wholly  wasted,  in  district  schools,  on  English  Grammar, 
attempted  at  too  early  an  age,  would  be  sufficient  to  teach 
our  children  to  love  the  Republic,  and  to  become  its  loyal 
and  life-long  supporters.  After  the  bloody  baptism  from 
which  the  nation  has  arisen  to  a  higher  and  nobler  life, 
if  this  shameful  defect  in  our  system  of  education  be  not 
speedily  remedied,  we  shall  deserve  the  infinite  contempt 
of  future  generations.  I  insist  that  it  should  be  made  an 
indispensable  condition  of  graduation  in  every  American 
college,  that  the  student  must  understand  the  history  of 
this  continent  since  its  discovery  by  Europeans,  the  origin 
and  history  of  the  United  States,  its  constitution  of  gov- 
ernment, the  struggles  through  which  it  has  passed,  and 
the  rights  and  duties  of  citizens  who  are  to  determine  its 
destiny  and  share  its  glory. 

Having  thus  gained  the  knowledge  which  is  necessary  to 
life,  health,  industry,  and  citizenship,  the  student  is  pre- 
pared to  enter  a  wider  and  grander  field  of  thought  If  he 
desires  that  large  and  liberal  culture  which  will  call  into 
activity  all  his  powers,  and  make  the  most  of  the  material 
God  has  given  him,  he  must  study  deeply  and  earnestly  the 
intellectual,  the  moral,  the  religious  and  the  aesthetic  na- 
ture of  man;  his  relations  to  nature,  to  civilization,  past 
and  present;  and  above  all,  his  relations  to  God.  These 
should  occupy  nearly,  if  not  fully,  half  the  time  of  his  col- 
lege course.  In  connection  with  the  philosophy  of  the 
mind,  he  should  study  logic,  the  pure  mathematics,  and 
the  general  laws  of  thought  In  connection  with  moral 
philosophy,  he  should  study  political  and  social  ethics,  a 
science  so  little  known  cither  in  colleges  or  Congresses. 
Prominent  among  all  the  rest  should  be  hts  study  of  the 
wonderful  history  of  the  human  race,  in  its  slow  and  toil- 
some march  across  the  centuries  —  now  buried  in  ignor- 
ance, superstition,  and  crime ;  now  rising  to  the  sublimity 
of  heroism,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  better  destiny; 
now  turning  remorselessly  away  from,  and  leaving  to  per- 
ish, empires  and  civilizations  in  which  it  had  invested  its 
faith,  and  courage,  and  boundless  energy  for  a  thousand 
years,  and  plunging  into  the  forests  of  Germany,  Gaul,  and 


430  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

Britain,  to  build  for  itself  new  empires  better  fitted  for 
its  new  aspirations ;  and,  at  last,  crossing  three  thousand 
miles  of  unknown  sea,  and  building  in  the  wilderness  of  a 
new  hemisphere  its  latest  and  proudest  monuments.  To 
know  this  as  it  ought  to  be  known,  requires  not  only  a 
knowledge  of  general  history,  but  a  thorough  understand- 
ing of  such  works  as  Guizot's  History  of  Civilization,  and 
Draper's  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe,  and  also  the 
rich  literature  of  ancient  and  modern  nations. 

Of  course  our  colleges  cannot  be  expected  to  lead  the 
student  through  all  the  paths  of  this  great  field  of  learn- 
ing, but  they  should  at  least  point  out  its  boundaries  and 
let  him  taste  a  few  clusters  from  its  richest  vines. 

Finally,  in  rounding  up  the  measure  of  this  work,  the 
student  should  crown  his  education  with  that  aesthetic 
culture  which  will  unfold  to  him  the  delights  of  nature  and 
art,  and  make  his  mind  and  heart  a  fit  temple  where  the 
immortal  spirit  of  Beauty  may  dwell  forever. 

While  acquiring  this  class  of  knowledge,  the  student  is 
on  a  perpetual  voyage  of  discovery  —  searching  what  he 
is  and  what  he  may  become  —  how  he  is  related  to  the 
universe,  and  how  the  harmonies  of  the  outer  world  re- 
spond to  the  voice  within  him.  It  is  in  this  range  of  study 
that  he  learns  most  fully  his  own  tastes  and  aptitudes,  and 
generally  determines  what  his  work  in  life  shall  be. 

The  last  item  in  the  classification  I  have  suggested  — 
that  special  knowledge  which  is  necessary  to  fit  a  man  for 
the  particular  profession  or  calling  he  may  adopt  —  I  can- 
not discuss  here,  as  it  lies  outside  the  field  of  general  edu- 
cation ;  but  I  will  make  one  suggestion  to  any  of  the  young 
gentlemen  before  me  who  may  intend  to  choose,  as  his 
life-work,  some  one  of  the  learned  professions.  You  will 
make  a  fatal  mistake  if  you  make  only  the  same  prepara- 
tions which  your  predecessors  made  fifty  or  even  ten  years 
ago.  Each  generation  must  have  a  higher  cultivation  than 
the  preceding  one,  in  order  to  be  equally  successful,  and 
each  must  be  educated  for  his  own  times.  If  you  become 
a  lawyer,  you  must  remember  that  the  science  of  law  is  not 
fixed  like  geometry,  but  is  a  growth  which  keeps  pace 
with  the  progress  of  society.  The  developments  of  the 
late  war  will  make  it  necessary  to  rewrite  many  of  the 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARF1ELD  431 

leading  chapters  of  international  and  maritime  law.  The 
destruction  of  slavery  and  the  enfranchisement  of 
4,000,000  of  colored  men  will  almost  revolutionize  Amer- 
ican jurisprudence.  If  Webster  were  now  at  the  bar,  in 
the  full  glory  of  his  strength,  he  would  be  compelled  to 
reconstruct  the  whole  fabric  of  his  legal  learning.  Sim- 
ilar changes  are  occurring  both  in  the  medical  and  mili- 
tary professions.  Ten  years  hence  the  young  surgeon 
will  hardly  venture  to  open  an  office  till  he  has  studied, 
thoroughly,  the  medical  and  surgical  history  of  the  late 
war.  Since  the  experience  at  Sumter  and  Wagner,  no 
nation  will  again  build  fortifications  of  costly  masonry,  for 
they  have  learned  that  earth-works  are  not  only  cheaper, 
but  a  better  defense  against  artillery.  The  text-books  on 
military  engineering  must  be  rewritten.  Our  Spencer 
rifle  and  the  Prussian  needle-gun  have  revolutionized  both 
the  manufacture  and  the  manual  of  arms  —  and  no  great 
battle  will  ever  again  be  fought  with  muzzle-loading 
muskets.  Napoleon  at  the  head  of  his  Old  Guard  could 
to-day  win  no  Austcrlitz,  till  he  had  read  the  military  his- 
tory of  the  last  six  years. 

It  may  perhaps  be  thought  that  the  suggestion  I  have 
made  concerning  the  professions  will  not  apply  to  the  work 
of  the  Christian  minister  whose  principal  text-book  is  a 
divine  and  perfect  revelation;  but  in  my  judgment,  the  re- 
mark applies  to  the  clerical  profession  with  even  more 
force  than  to  any  other.  There  is  no  department  of  his 
duties  in  which  he  docs  not  need  the  fullest  and  the  latest 
knowledge.  He  is  pledged  to  the  defense  of  revelation 
and  religion ;  but  it  will  not  avail  him  to  be  able  to  answer 
the  objections  of  Hume  and  Voltaire.  The  arguments  of 
Paley  were  not  written  to  answer  the  skepticisms  of  to- 
day. His  Natural  Theology  is  now  less  valuable  than 
Hugh  Miller's  Footprints  of  the  Creator,  or  Guyofs  lec- 
tures on  Earth  and  Man.  The  men  and  women  of 
to-day  know  but  little  and  care  less  about  the  thousand 
abstract  questions  of  polemic  theology  which  puzzled  the 
heads  and  wearied  the  hearts  of  our  Puritan  fathers  and 
mothers.  That  minister  will  make,  and  he  deserves  to 
make,  a  miserable  failure,  who  attempts  to  feed  hungry 
hearts  on  the  dead  dogmas  of  the  past.  More  than  that 


432  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

of  any  other  man  it  is  his  duty  to  march  abreast  with  the 
advanced  thinkers  of  his  time,  and  be  not  only  a  learner 
but  a  teacher  of  its  science,  its  literature,  and  its  criticism. 

But  I  return  to  the  main  question  before  me.  Having 
endeavored  to  state  what  kinds  of  knowledge  should  be  the 
objects  of  a  liberal  education,  I  shall  next  inquire  how 
well  the  course  of  study  in  American  colleges  is  adapted 
to  the  attainment  of  these  objects.  In  discussing  this 
question,  I  do  not  forget  that  he  is  deemed  a  rash  and 
imprudent  man  who  invades  with  suggestions  of  change 
these  venerable  sanctuaries  of  learning.  Let  him  venture 
to  suggest  that  much  of  the  wisdom  there  taught  is  fool- 
ishness, and  he  may  hear  from  the  college  chapels  of  the 
land,  in  good  Virgilian  hexameter,  the  warning  cry, 
"  Procul  O  !  procul  este  profani !  "  Happy  for  him  if  the 
whole  body  of  alumni  do  not  with  equal  pedantry  respond 
in  Horatian  verse,  "  Fenum  habet  in  cornu ;  longe  f uge." 
But  I  protest  that  a  friend  of  American  education  may 
suggest  changes  in  our  college  studies  without  committing 
profanation  or  carrying  hay  on  his  horns.  Our  colleges 
have  done,  and  are  doing  a  noble  work,  for  which  they 
deserve  the  thanks  of  the  nation,  but  he  is  not  their 
enemy  who  suggests  that  they  ought  to  do  much  better. 
As  an  alumnus  of  one  which  I  shall  always  reverence  — 
and  as  a  friend  of  all  —  I  will  venture  to  discuss  the  work 
they  are  doing.  I  have  examined  some  twenty  catalogues 
of  eastern,  western,  and  southern  colleges,  and  find  the 
subjects  taught,  and  the  relative  time  given  to  each,  alx>ut 
the  same  in  all.  The  chief  difference  is  in  the  quantity  of 
work  required.  I  will  take  Harvard  as  a  representative,  it 
being  the  oldest  of  our  colleges  —  and  certainly  requiring 
as  much  study  as  any  other.  Remembering  that  the  stand- 
ard by  which  we  measure  a  student's  work  for  one  day  is 
three  recitations  of  one  hour  each,  and  that  his  year 
usually  consist's  of  three  terms  of  thirteen  or  fourteen 
weeks  each,  for  convenience  sake  I  will  divide  the  work 
required  to  admit  him  to  college,  and  after  four  years  to 
graduate  him,  into  two  classes: 

ist.    That  which  belongs  to  the  study  of  Latin  and 
Greek;  and  2d,  that  which  does  not 

Now  from  the  annual  catalogue  of  Harvard  for  1866-67 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  433 

(page  26)  I  find  that  the  candidate  for  admission  to  the 
Freshman  class  must  be  examined  in  what  will  require  the 
study  of  eight  terms  in  Latin,  six  in  Greek,  one  in  Ancient 
Geography,  one  in  Grecian  History,  and  one  in  Roman 
History,  which  make  seventeen  terms  in  the  studies  of 
class  first.  Under  the  head  of  class  second,  the  candidate 
is  required  to  be  examined  in  Reading,  in  common  school 
Arithmetic  and  Geography,  in  one  term's  study  of  Algebra, 
and  one  term  of  Geometry.  English  Grammar  is  not 
mentioned. 

Thus  after  studying  the  elementary  branches  which  are 
taught  in  all  our  common  schools,  it  requires  about  two 
years  and  a  half  of  study  to  enter  a  college;  and  of  that 
seventeen  parts  are  devoted  to  the  Language,  History,  and 
Geography  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  two  parts  to  all  other 
subjects ! 

Reducing  the  Harvard  year  to  the  usual  division  of 
three  terms,  the  analysis  of  the  work  will  be  found  as 
follows :  not  less  than  nine  terms  of  Latin  —  there  may  be 
twelve  if  the  student  chooses  it ;  not  less  than  six  terms  of 
Greek  —  but  twelve  if  he  chooses  it;  and  he  may  elect,  in 
addition,  three  terms  in  Roman  History,  With  the  aver- 
age of  three  recitations  per  day,  and  three  terms  per  year, 
we  may  say  that  the  whole  work  of  College  study  con- 
sists of  thirty-six  parts.  Not  less  than  fifteen  of  these 
must  be  devoted  to  Latin  and  Greek,  and  not  more  than 
twenty-one  to  all  other  subjects.  If  the  student  chooses 
he  may  devote  twenty- four  parts  to  Latin  and  Greek,  and 
twelve  to  all  other  subjects.  Taking  the  whole  six  and  a 
half  years  of  preparatory  and  college  study  —  we  find  that 
to  earn  a  Bachelor's  diploma  at  Harvard,  a  young  man, 
after  leaving  the  district  school,  must  devote  four-sevenths 
of  all  his  labor  to  Greece  and  Rome, 

Now  what  do  we  find  in  our  second,  or  unclassicat  list? 
It  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  what  it  does  not  contain.  In 
the  whole  programme  of  study,  lectures  included,  no  men- 
tion whatever  is  made  of  Physical  Geography,  of  Anat- 
omy, Physiology,  or  the  general  History  of  the  United 
States.  A  few  weeks  of  Senior  year  given  to  Guizot  and 
the  History  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  a  Lecture  on 
General  History  once  a  week  during  half  that  year,  fur- 
VOL.  X.— aS 


434  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

nishes  all  that  the  graduate  of  Harvard  is  required  to 
know  of  his  own  country  and  the  living  nations  of  the 
earth. 

He  must  apply  years  of  arduous  labor  to  the  history, 
oratory,  and  poetry  of  Greece  and  Rome,  but  he  is  not 
required  to  cull  a  single  flower  from  the  rich  fields  of  our 
own  Literature.  English  Literature  is  not  named  in  the 
curriculum,  except  that  the  student  may,  if  he  chooses,  at- 
tend a  few  general  lectures  on  modern  literature. 

Such  are  some  of  the  fact's  in  reference  to  the  educa- 
tional work  of  our  most  venerable  college,  where  there  is 
probably  concentrated  more  general  and  special  culture 
than  at  any  other  in  America. 

I  think  it  probable  that  in  some  of  the  colleges  the  pro- 
portion of  Latin  and  Greek  to  other  studies  may  be  less, 
but  I  believe  that  in  none  of  them  the  preparatory  and 
college  work  devoted  to  these  two  languages  is  less  than 
half  of  all  the  work  required. 

Now  the  bare  statement  of  this  fact  should  challenge 
and  must  challenge  the  attention  of  every  thoughtful  man 
in  the  nation.  No  wonder  that  men  are  demanding,  with 
an  earnestness  that  will  not  be  repressed,  to  know  how 
it  happens,  and  why  it  happens,  that,  placing  in  one  end  of 
the  balance  all  the  mathematical  studies,  all  the  physical 
sciences,  in  their  recent  rapid  developments ;  all  the  study 
of  the  human  mind  and  the  laws  of  thought;  all  princi- 
ples of  political  economy  and  social  science,  which  un- 
derlie the  commerce  and  industry  and  shape  the  legislation 
of  nations;  the  history  of  our  own  nation  —  its  constitu- 
tion of  government  and  its  great  industrial  interests;  all 
the  literature  and  history  of  modern  civilization  —  placing 
all  this,  I  say,  in  one  end  of  the  balance,  they  kick  the 
beam  when  Greece  and  Rome  are  placed  in  the  other.  I 
hasten  to  say  that  I  make  no  attack  upon  the  study  of 
these  noble  languages  as  an  important  and  necessary  part 
of  a  liberal  education.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  that  sen- 
timent which  would  drive  them  from  academy  and  college 
as  a  part  of  the  dead  past  that  should  bury  its  dead.  It'is 
the  proportion  of  work  given  to  them  of  which  I  com- 
plain. 

These  studies  hold  their  relative  rank  in  obedience  to 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  43S 

the  tyranny  of  custom.  Each  new  college  is  modeled  after 
the  older  ones,  and  all  in  America  have  been  patterned  on 
an  humble  scale  after  the  universities  of  Europe.  The 
prominence  given  to  Latin  and  Greek  at  the  founding  of 
these  universities  was  a  matter  of  inexorable  necessity. 
The  continuance  of  the  same,  or  anywhere  near  the  same, 
relative  prominence  to-day,  is  both  unnecessary  and  inde- 
fensible. I  appeal  to  history  for  the  proof  of  these  as- 
sertions. 

Near  the  close  of  the  5th  century  we  date  the  be- 
ginning of  those  dark  ages  which  enveloped  the  whole 
world  for  a  thousand  years.  The  human  race  seemed 
stricken  with  intellectual  paralysis.  The  noble  language 
of  the  Qesars,  corrupted  by  a  hundred  barbarous  dialects, 
ceased  to  be  a  living  tongue  long  before  the  modern  lan- 
guages of  Europe  had  been  reduced  to  writing. 

In  Italy  the  Latin  died  in  the  loth  century,  but  the  old- 
est document  known  to  exist  in  Italian  was  not  written 
till  the  year  1200.  Italian  did  not  really  take  its  place  in 
the  family  of  written  languages  till  a  century  later,  when 
it  was  crystallized  into  form  and  made  immortal  by  the 
genius  of  Dante  and  Petrarch. 

The  Spanish  was  not  a  written  language  till  the  year 
1200,  and  was  scarcely  known  to  Europe  till  Cervantes 
convulsed  the  world  with  laughter  in  1605. 

The  Latin  ceased  to  be  spoken  by  the  people  of  France 
in  the  loth  century,  and  French  was  not  a  written  lan- 
guage till  the  beginning  of  the  I4th  century.  Pascal,  who 
died  in  1662,  is  called  the  father  of  modern  French  prose. 

The  German  as  a  literary  language  dates  from  Luther, 
who  died  in  1546*  Tt  was  one  of  his  mortal  sins  against 
Rome  that  he  translated  the  Bible  into  the  uncouth  and 
vulgar  tongue  of  Germany. 

Our  own  language  is  also  of  recent  origin.  Richard  I., 
of  England,  who  died  in  1199,  never  spoke  a  word  of 
English  in  his  life.  Our  mother  tongue  was  never  heard 
in  an  English  court  of  justice  till  1362,  The  statutes  of 
England  were  not  written  in  English  till  three  years  be- 
fore Columbus  landed  in  the  New  World,  No  philologist 
dates  modern  English  farther  back  than  1500.  Sir 


436  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

Thomas  More  (author  of  Utopia),  who  died  in  1535,  was 
the  father  of  English  prose. 

The  dark  ages  were  the  sleep  of  the  world,  while  the 
languages  of  the  modern  world  were  being  born  out  of 
chaos. 

The  first  glimmer  of  dawn  was  in  the  I2th  century, 
when  in  Paris,  Oxford,  and  other  parts  of  Europe,  univer- 
sities were  established.  The  I5th  century  was  spent  in 
saving  the  remnants  of  classic  learning  which  had  been 
locked  up  in  the  cells  of  monks;  the  Greek  at  Constan- 
tinople, and  the  Latin  in  the  cloisters  of  Western 
Europe. 

During  the  first  three  hundred  years  of  the  life  of  the 
older  universities  it  is  almost  literally  true  that  no  modern 
tongue  had  become  a  written  language.  The  learning  of 
Europe  was  in  Latin  and  Greek.  In  order  to  study  either 
science  or  literature  these  languages  must  be  first 
learned.  European  writers  continued  to  use  Latin  long 
after  the  modern  languages  were  fully  established.  Even 
Milton's  great  Defense  of  the  People  of  England  was 
written  in  Latin  —  as  were  also  the  Principia  and  other 
scientific  works  of  Newton,  who  died  in  1727. 

The  pride  of  learned  corporations,  the  spirit  of  exclu- 
siveness  among  learned  men,  and  their  want  of  sympathy 
with  the  mass  of  the  people,  united  to  maintain  Latin  as 
the  language  of  learning  long  after  its  use  was  defensible. 

Now  mark  the  contrast  between  the  objects  and  de- 
mands of  education  when  the  European  universities  were 
founded  —  or  even  when  Harvard  was  founded  —  and  its 
demands  at  the  present  time.  We  have  a  family  of 
modern  languages  almost  equal  in  force  and  perfection  to 
the  classic  tongues,  and  a  modern  literature,  which,  if  less 
perfect  in  aesthetic  form  than  the  ancient,  is  immeasurably 
richer  in  truth,  and  is  filled  with  the  noblest  and  bravest 
thoughts  of  the  world.  When  the  universities  were 
founded,  modern  science  was  not  born.  Scarcely  a  gen- 
eration has  passed  since  then  without  adding  some  new 
science  to  the  circle  of  knowledge.  As  late  as  1809  the 
Edinburg  Review  declared  that  "  lectures  upon  Political 
Economy  would  be  discouraged  in  Oxford,  probably  de- 
spised, probably  not  permitted."  At  a  much  later  date. 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  437 

there  was  no  text-book  in  the  United  States  on  that 
subject.  The  claims  of  Latin  and  Greek  to  the  chief  place 
in  the  curriculum,  have  been  gradually  growing  less,  and 
the  importance  of  other  knowledge  has  been  constantly- 
increasing;  but  the  colleges  have  generally  opposed  all 
innovations  and  still  cling  to  the  old  ways  with  stubborn 
conservatism.  Some  concessions,  however,  have  been 
made  to  the  necessities  of  the  times,  both  in  Europe  and 
America.  Harvard  would  hardly  venture  to  enforce  its 
law  (which  prevailed  long  after  Cotton  Mather's  day)  for- 
bidding its  students  to  speak  English  within  the  college 
limits,  under  any  pretext  whatever;  and  British  Cantabs 
have  had  their  task  of  composing  hexameters  in  bad  Latin 
reduced  by  a  few  thousand  verses  during  the  last  century. 

It  costs  me  a  struggle  to  say  anything  on  this  subject 
which  may  be  regarded  with  favor  by  those  who  would 
reject  the  classics  altogether,  for  I  have  read  them  and 
taught  them  with  a  pleasure  and  relish  which  few  other 
pursuits  have  ever  afforded  me.  But  I  am  persuaded  that 
their  supporters  must  soon  submit  to  a  readjustment  of 
their  relations  to  college  study »  or  they  may  be  driven 
from  the  course  altogether.  There  are  most  weighty 
reasons  why  Latin  and  Greek  should  be  retained  as  a  part 
of  a  liberal  education.  He  who  would  study  our  own 
language  profoundly  must  not  forget  that  nearly  thirty  per 
cent  of  its  words  are  of  Latin  origin  —  that  the  study  of 
Latin  is  the  study  of  Universal  Grammar,  and  renders  the 
acquisition  of  any  modern  language  an  easy  task,  and  is 
indispensible  to  the  teacher  of  language  and  literature, 
and  to  other  professional  men. 

Greek  is,  perhaps,  the  most  perfect  instrument  of 
thought  ever  invented  by  man,  and  its  literature  has  never 
been  equaled  in  purity  of  style  and  boldness  of  expression. 
As  a  means  of  intellectual  discipline  its  value  can  hardly 
be  overestimated.  To  take  a  long  and  complicated  sen- 
tence in  Greek  —  to  study  each  word  in  its  meanings,  in- 
flections and  relations,  and  to  build  up  in  the  mind,  out  of 
these  polished  materials,  a  sentence,  perfect  as  a  temple, 
and  filled  with  the  Greek  thought  which  has  dwelt  there 
two  thousand  years,  is  almost  an  act  of  creation ;  it  calls 
Into  activity  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind. 


438  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

That  the  Christian  oracles  have  come  down  to  us  in 
Greek,  will  make  Greek  scholars  forever  a  necessity. 

These  studies,  then,  should  not  be  neglected ;  they  should 
neither  devour  nor  be  devoured.  I  insist  they  can  be 
made  more  valuable  and  at  the  same  time  less  prominent 
than  they  now  are.  A  large  part  of  the  labor  now  be- 
stowed upon  them  is  devoted,  not  to  learning  the  genius 
and  spirit  of  the  language,  but  is  more  than  wasted  on 
pedantic  trifles.  More  than  half  a  century  ago,  in  his 
essay  entitled  "Too  much  Latin  and  Greek,"  Sydney 
Smith  lashed  this  trifling  as  it  deserves.  Speaking  of 
classical  Englishmen,  he  says :  "  Their  minds  have  become 
so  completely  possessed  by  exaggerated  notions  of  classical 
learning,  that  they  have  not  been  able,  in  the  great  school 
of  the  world,  to  form  any  other  notion  of  real  greatness. 
Attend,  too,  to  the  public  feelings  —  look  to  all  the  terms 
of  applause.  A  learned  man!  —  a  scholar!  —  a  man  of 
erudition.  Upon  whom  are  these  epitaphs  of  approbation 
bestowed?  Are  they  give  to  men  acquainted  with  the 
science  of  government?  thoroughly  masters  of  the  geo- 
graphical and  commercial  relations  of  Europe?  to  men 
who  know  the  properties  of  bodies  and  their  action  upon 
each  other?  No;  this  is  not  learning:  it  is  Chemistry,  or 
Political  Economy  —  not  learning.  The  distinguishing 
abstract  term,  the  epithet  of  Scholar,  is  reserved  for  him 
who  writes  on  the  J£olic  reduplication,  and  is  familiar 
with  the  Sylburgian  method  of  arranging  defectives  in 
<o  and  /mi.  .  .  .  The  object  of  the  young  Englishman  is 
not  to  reason,  to  imagine,  or  to  invent;  but  to  conjugate, 
decline,  and  derive.  The  situations  of  imaginary  glory 
which  he  draws  for  himself,  are  the  detection  of  an 
anapaest  in  the  wrong  place,  or  the  restoration  of  a  dative 
case  which  Cranzius  had  passed  over,  and  the  never-dying 
Ernesti  failed  to  observe.  If  a  young  classic  of  this  kind 
were  to  meet  the  greatest  chemist,  or  the  greatest  mechan- 
ician, or  the  most  profound  political  economist  of  his  time, 
in  company  with  the  greatest  Greek  scholar,  would  the 
slightest  comparison  between  them  ever  cross  his  mind? 
would  he  ever  dream  that  such  men  as  Adam  Smith  and 
Lavoisier  were  equal  in  dignity  of  understanding  to,  or  of 
the  same  utility  as,  Bentley  or  Heyne"?  We  are  inclined 


JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  439 

to  think  that  the  feeling  excited  would  be  a  good  deal  like 
that  which  was  expressed  by  Dr.  George  about  the  praises 
of  the  great  king  of  Prussia,  who  entertained  great  doubts 
whether  the  king,  with  all  his  victories,  knew  how  to  con- 
jugate a  Greek  verb  in  /u.w  He  concludes  another  essay 
written  in  1836  with  these  words :  "  If  there  is  anything 
which  fills  reflecting  men  with  melancholy  and  regret,  it 
is  the  waste  of  mortal  time,  parental  money,  and  puerile 
happiness,  in  the  present  method  of  pursuing  Latin  and 
Greek." 

To  write  verses  in  these  languages,  to  study  elaborate 
theories  of  the  Greek  accent,  and  the  ancient  pronuncia- 
tion of  both  Greek  and  Latin,  which  no  one  can  ever 
know  he  has  discovered,  and  which  would  be  utterly 
valueless  if  he  did  discover  it ;  to  toil  over  the  innumerable 
exceptions  to  the  arbitrary  rules  of  poetic  quantity  which 
few  succeed  in  learning  and  none  remember  —  these,  and 
a  thousand  other  similar  things  which  crowd  the  pages  of 
Zumpt  and  Ktihner,  no  more  constitute  a  knowledge  of  the 
spirit  and  genius  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages  than 
counting  the  number  of  threads  to  the  square  inch  in  a 
man's  coat  and  the  number  of  pegs  in  his  boots,  makes  us 
acquainted  with  his  moral  and  intellectual  character.  The 
greatest  literary  monuments  of  Greece  existed  hundreds 
of  years  before  the  science  of  Grammar  was  born.  Plato 
and  Thucydides  had  a  tolerable  acquaintance  with  the 
Greek  language,  but  Crosby  goes  far  beyond  their  depth. 

Our  colleges  should  require  a  student  to  understand 
thoroughly  the  structure,  idioms,  and  spirit  of  these  lan- 
guages, and  to  be  able  by  the  aid  of  a  lexicon  to  analyze 
and  translate  them  with  readiness  and  elegance.  They 
should  give  him  the  key  to  the  store-house  of  ancient  lit- 
erature, that  he  may  explore  its  treasures  for  himself  in 
after-life.  This  can  be  clone  in  two  years  less  than  the 
usual  time,  and  nearly  as  well  as  it  is  now  done. 

I  am  glad  to  inform  you,  young  gentlemen,  that  the 
Trustees  of  the  institution  in  this  place  have  this  day 
resolved  that  in  the  course  of  study  to  be  pursued  here, 
Latin  and  Greek  shall  not  be  required  after  the  Freshman 
year.  They  must  be  studied  the  usual  time  as  a  requisite 
to  admission,  and  they  mav  be  carried  further  than  Fresh- 


440  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

man  year  as  elective  studies;  but  In  the  regular  course 
their  places  will  be  supplied  by  some  of  the  studies  I  have 
already  mentioned.  Three  or  four  terms  in  general  litera- 
ture will  teach  you  that  the  republic  of  letters  is  larger 
than  Greece  or  Rome.  The  Board  of  Trustees  have  been 
strengthened  in  the  position  they  have  taken,  by  the  fact 
that  a  similar  course  for  the  future  has  recently  been  an- 
nounced by  the  authorities  of  Harvard  University. 
Within  the  last  six  days  I  have  received  a  circular  from 
the  Secretary  of  that  venerable  college,  which  announces 
that  two-thirds  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  are  hereafter  to  be 
stricken  from  the  list  of  required  studies  of  the  college 
course. 

I  rejoice  that  this  movement  has  begun.  Other  colleges 
must  follow  the  example,  and  the  day  will  not  be  far  dis- 
tant when  it  shall  be  the  pride  of  a  scholar  that  he  is  also 
a  worker,  and  when  the  worker  shall  not  refuse  to  become 
a  scholar  because  he  despises  a  trifler. 

I  congratulate  you  that  this  change  does  not  reduce  the 
amount  of  labor  required  of  you.  If  it  did  I  should  de- 
plore it.  I  beseech  you  to  remember  that  the  genius  of 
success  is  still  the  genius  of  labor.  If  hard  work  is  not 
another  name  for  talent,  it  is  the  best  passible  substitute 
for  it.  In  the  long  run,  the  chief  difference  in  men  will 
be  found  in  the  amount  of  work  they  do.  Do  not  trust  to 
what  lazy  men  call  the  spur  of  the  occasion.  If  you  wish 
to  wear  spurs  in  the  tournament  of  life,  you  must  buckle 
them  to  your  own  heels  before  you  ent'er  the  lists. 

Men  look  with  admiring  wonder  upon  a  great  intellect- 
ual effort;  like  Webster's  reply  to  Hayne,  and  seem  to 
think  that  it  leaped  into  life  by  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment  But  if,  by  some  intellectual  chemistry,  we  could 
resolve  that  masterly  speech  into  several  elements  of 
power,  and  trace  each  to  its  source,  we  should  find  that 
every  constituent  force  had  been  elaborated  twenty  years 
before,  it  may  be  in  some  hour  of  earnest  intellectual  labor, 
Occasion  may  be  the  bugle-call  that  summons  an  army  to 
battle,  but  the  blast  of  a  bugle  cannot  ever  make  soldiers 
or  win  victories. 

And  finally,  young  gentlemen,  learn  to  cultivate  a  wise 
self-reliance,  based  not  on  what  you  hope,  but  on  what 


HAMLIN  GABLAND. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  441 

you  perform.  It  has  long  been  the  habit  at  this  institu- 
tion, if  I  may  so  speak,  to  throw  young  men  overboard  and 
let  them  sink  or  swim.  None  have  yet  drowned  who  were 
worth  the  saving.  I  hope  the  practice  will  be  continued, 
and  that  you  will  rely  upon  outside  help  for  growth  or 
success.  Give  crutches  to  cripples,  but  go  you  forth  with 
brave,  true  hearts,  knowing  that  fortune  dwells  in  your 
brain  and  muscle,  and  labor  is  the  only  human  symbol 
of  Omnipotence. —  Address  at  Hiram,  Ohio,  186?. 


^ARLAND,  HAMLIN,  an  American  novelist; 
born  at  La  Crossc  Valley,  Wis.,  September 
16,  1860.  He  passed  the  earlier  years  of  his 
childhood  on  a  farm  in  one  of  those  deep,  dry  ravines 
known  as  coulees  or  "  coollies ; "  but  at  the  age  of 
seven  he  removed  with  his  parents  to  a  beautiful  tract 
of  wooded  land  just  across  the  Mississippi,  where  they 
remained  a  year,  and  then  settled  near  Osage,  la. 
Here  he  was  educated,  at  Cedar  Valley  Seminary,  by 
Dr.  Alva  Bush,,  a  prominent  Baptist  educator.  Gradu- 
ating at  twenty-one,  he  traveled  in  the  East  for  two 
years,  earning  his  living-  by  lecturing  and  teaching* 
His  father  had  gone  to  Dakota;  and  In  1883  *e  son 
followed.  In  1884  he  went  to  Boston  and  spent  much 
of  his  time  for  five  years  reading  books  in  the  Boston 
Public  Library,  teaching  private  classes  meanwhile  for 
a  living.  During  this  period  he  wrote  a  great  many 
lectures  on  American  literature;  sent  a  few  contribu- 
tions to  periodicals;  and  gave  considerable  time  and 
attention  to  the  advocacy  of  Henry  George's  economic 
doctrines.  In  1890  he  again  started  for  the  West,  and 
in  1891  he  published  his  Main-Traveled  Roads,  which 


442  HAMLIN  GARLAND 

was  quickly  followed  by  Jason  Edwards;  A  Little 
Norsk,  or  01'  Pap's  Flaxen,  and  A  Member  of  the 
Third  House.  As  he  became  known  and  the  demand 
for  his  books  increased,  the  stress  of  literary  work 
made  it  necessary  that  he  should  be  more  settled ;  he 
therefore  made  Chicago  his  winter  home,  and  West 
Salem,  to  which  his  parents  had  returned,  his  summer 
residence.  He  published  A  Spoil  of  Office  and  Prairie 
Folks  in  1892;  and  in  1893  he  appeared  before  the 
public  as  a  poet  in  a  dainty  volume  entitled  Prairie 
Songs.  In  the  preface  to  these  verses  he  says :  "  The 
prairies  are  gone.  I  held  one  of  the  ripping,  snarling, 
breaking  ploughs  that  rolled  the  hazel  bushes  and  the 
wild  sunflowers  under.  I  saw  the  wild  steers  come 
into  pasture  and  the  wild  colts  come  under  harness.  I 
saw  the  wild  fowl  scatter  and  turn  aside;  I  saw  the 
black  sod  burst  into  gold  and  lavender  harvests  of 
wheat  and  corn  —  and  so  there  comes  into  my  reminis- 
cences an  unmistakable  note  of  sadness." 

Crumbling  Idols,  a  collection  of  essays  on  art,  ap- 
peared in  1894.  His  novel  entitled  Rose  of  Dutchcr's 
Coolly  and  his  Early  Life  of  U,  S.  Grant  were  issued 
serially  in  McClure's  Magazine  In  1896  and  1897. 
His  later  works  include  Wayside  Courtships  ( 1897) ; 
The  Eagle's  Heart  (1901);  Her  Mountain  Lover 
(1903);  Hesper  (1904);  and  The  Tyranny  of  the 
Dark  (1905). 

"  A  great  deal  of  Mr.  Garland's  power/'  says  The 
Writer,  "lies  in  his  intense  earnestness.  There  Is  no 
uncertainty  about  his  creed,  whether  it  touches  reli- 
gion, politics,  art,  literature,  or  social  reform.  What 
he  believes  he  believes  all  through,  and  it  is  not  always 
what  other  people  believe." 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  443 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINES, 

Wailing,  wailing, 
O  ceaseless  wail  of  the  pines 

Sighing,  sighing, 
An  incommunicable  grief! 

No  matter  how  bright  the  summer  sky, 
No  matter  how  the  dandelions  star  the  sod, 
Nor  how  the  bees  buzz  in  the  cherry  blooms, 
Nor  how  the  rich  green  grass  is  thick  with  daisies, 
While  the  sun  moves  through  the  dazzling  sky, 
And  the  up-rolled  clouds  sail  slowly  on, 
The  nun-voiced  pines,  sombre  and  strong, 
Breathe  on  their  endless,  moaning  song. 

The  birds  do  not  dwell  there  or  sing  there ! 
They  fly  to  trees  with  fruit  and  shining  leaves, 
Where  twigs  swing  gayly  and  boughs  are  in  bloom. 
Among  these  glooms  they  would  surely  die, 
And  their  young  forget  to  swing  and  sway. 
The  wild  hawk  may  sit  here  and  scream ; 
The  gray-coated  owl  utter  his  hoarse  note ; 
And  the  dark  ravens  perch  and  peer 
But  the  robins,  the  orioles,  the  bright  singers 
Flee  these  sighing  pines. 

Sighing,  sighing! 
O  vast,  illimitable  voice! 
Like  the  moan  of  multitudes,,  the  chant  of  nuns, 
Thy  ceaseless  wail  and  cry  comes  on  me, 
And  when  the  autumn  sky  is  dull  and  wild, 
When  jagged  clouds  stream  swiftly  by, 
When  the  sleet  falls  in  slant  torrents, 
When  the  dripping  arms,  outspread,  are  drear 
And  harsh  with  cold  and  rain, 
Then  thy  voice,  0  pines,  is  stern  and  wild; 
Thy  sigh  becomes  a  vengeful  moan  and  snarl-— 
A  voice  of  stormy,  inexpressible  anguish 
Timed  to  the  sweep  of  thy  tossing  boughs, 
Keyed  to  the  desolate  gray  of  the  ragged  sky. 


444  HAMLIN  GARLAND 

Wailing,  wailing, 
O  vast,  illimitable  voice  ! 
The  chill  wash  of  swift  dark  streams, 
The  joyless  days,  the  lonely  nights, 
Hungry  noons,  funeral  trains,  with  trappings  of  sable,- 
The  burial  chants  with  clods  falling  in  the  grave  — 
AH  the  measureless  and  eternal  inheritance  of  grief, 
All  the  ineffable  woe  which  has  oppressed  my  race, 
All  the  tragedy  I  have  felt, 
Comes  back  to  me  here, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  thine  eternal  wail, 
Blent  in  the  flow 
Of  thine  incommunicable  sorrow. 

— Prairie  Songs. 

A  WINTER  BROOK. 

How  sweetly  you  sang  as  you  circled 

The  elm's  rugged  knees  in  the  sod, 
I  know !  for  deep  in  the  shade  of  your  willows, 

A  barefooted  boy,  with  a  rod, 
I  lay  in  the  drowsy  June  weather, 

And  sleepily  whistled  in  tune 
To  the  laughter  I  heard  in  your  shallows, 

Involved  in  the  music  of  June. 

— Prairie  Songs. 

AT  DUSK. 

Indolent  I  lie 
Beneath  the  sky 

Thick  sown  with  clouds  that  soar  and  float 
Like  stately  swans  upon  the  air, 
And  in  the  hush  of  dusk  I  hear 

The  ring-clove's  plaintive,  liquid  note 
Sound  faintly  as  a  prayer. 

Against  the  yellow  sky 
The  grazing  kinc  stalk  slowly  by; 
Like  wings  that  spread  and  float  and  flee 
The  clouds  are  drifting  over  me* 
The  couching  cattle  sigh, 


HAMLIN  GARLAND  445 

And  from  the  meadow  damp  and  dark 

I  hear  the  piping  of  the  lark; 

While  falling  night-hawks  scream  and  boom, 

Like  rockets  through  the  rising  gloom, 

And  katydids  with  pauseless  chime 

Bear  on  the  far  frog's  ringing  rhyme, 

— Prairie  Songs. 

HER  FIRST  SORROW. 

She  was  only  five  years  old  when  her  mother  suddenly 
withdrew  her  hands  from  pans  and  kettles,  gave  up  all 
thought  of  bread  and  butter  making,  and  took  rest  in 
death.  Only  a  few  hours  of  waiting  on  her  bed  near  the 
kitchen  fire  and  Ann  Dutcher  was  through  with  toil  and 
troubled  dreaming,  and  lay  in  the  dim  best  room,  taking 
no  account  of  anything  in  the  light  of  day. 

Rose  got  up  the  next  morning  after  her  mother's  last 
kiss  and  went  into  the  room  where  the  body  lay.  A 
gnomish  little  figure  the  child  was  for  at  that  time  her 
head  was  large  and  her  cropped  hair  bristled  till  she 
seemed  a  sort  of  brownie.  Also,  her  lonely  child-life  had 
given  her  quaint,  grave  ways. 

She  knew  her  mother  was  dead,  and  that  death  was  a 
kind  of  sleep  which  lasted  longer  than  common  sleep,  that 
was  all  the  difference,  so  she  went  in  and  stood  by  the 
bed  and  tried  to  see  her  mother's  face.  It  was  early 
in  the  morning,  and  the  curtains  being  drawn  it  was  dark 
in  the  room,  but  Rose  had  no  fear,  for  mother  was  there. 

She  talked  softly  to  herself  a  little  while,  then  went 
over  to  the  window  and  pulled  on  the  string  of  the  cur- 
tain till  it  rolled  up.  Then  she  went  back  and  looked  at 
her  mother.  She  grew  tired  of  waiting  at  last 

"Mamma,"  she  called,  "wake  up.  Can't  you  wake 
up,  mamma  ?  " 

She  patted  the  cold,  rigid  cheeks  with  her  rough,  brown 
little  palms.  Then  she  blew  in  the  dead  face  gravely. 
Then  she  thought  if  she  could  open  mamma's  eyes  she'd 
be  awake.  So  she  took  her  finger  and  thumb  and  tried 
to  lift  the  lashes,  and  when  she  did  she  was  frightened 
by  the  look  of  the  set,  faded  gray  eyes*  Then  the  terri- 


446  HAMLIN  GARLAND 

ble,  vague  shadow  of  the  Unknown  settled  upon  her, 
and  she  cried  convulsively :  "  Mamma !  mamma,  I  want 
you!"  Thus  she  met  death,  early  in  her  life.—  Rose  of 
Butcher's  Coolly. 

LOCAL    COLORING. 

To  most  eyes  the  sign-manual  of  the  impressionist  is 
the  blue  shadow.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  too  many 
impressionists  have  painted  as  if  the  blue  shadow  were 
the  only  distinguishing  sign  of  the  difference  between 
the  new  and  the  old.  The  gallery-trotter,  with  eyes  filled 
with  dead  and  buried  symbolisms  of  nature,  comes  upon 
Bunker's  meadows,  or  Binding's  mountain-tops,  or  Lar- 
son's sunsets,  and  exclaims,  "  Oh,  see  those  dreadful  pic- 
tures !  Where  did  they  get  such  colors  ?  " 

To  see  these  colors  is  a  development.  In  my  own 
case,  I  may  confess,  I  got  my  first  idea  of  colored  shad- 
ows from  reading  one  of  Herbert  Spencer's  essays  ton 
years  ago.  I  then  came  to  see  blue  and  grape-color  in 
the  shadows  on  the  snow.  By  turning  my  head  topside 
down,  I  came  to  see  that  shadows  falling  upon  yellow 
sand  were  violet,  and  the  shadows  of  vivid  sunlight  fall- 
ing on  the  white  of  a  macadamized  street  wore  blue,  like 
the  shadows  on  snow. 

Being  so  instructed,  I  came  to  catch  through  the  cor- 
ners of  my  eyes  sudden  glimpses  of  a  radiant  world 
which  vanished  as  magically  as  it  carne.  On  my  horse 
I  caught  glimpses  of  this  marvellous  land  of  color  as  I 
galloped  across  some  bridge.  In  this  world  stone  walls 
were  no  longer  cold  gray,  they  were  warm  purple,  deep- 
ening as  the  sun  westered.  And  so  the  landscape  grew 
radiant  year  by  year,  until  at  last  no  painter's  impression 
surpassed  my  world  in  beauty. 

As  I  write  this,  I  have  just  come  in  from  a  bee-hunt 
over  Wisconsin  hills,  amid  splendors  which  would  make 
Monet  seem  low-keyed.  Only  Enneking  and  some  few 
others  of  the  American  artists,  and  some  of  the  Norwe- 
gians, have  touched  the  degree  of  brilliancy  and  sparkle 
of  color  which  were  in  the  world  to-day.  Amid  bright 
orange  foliage,  the  trunks  of  beeches  glowed  with  steel- 


RICHARD  GARNETT  447 

blue  shadows  on  their  eastern  side.  Sumach  flamed 
with  marvellous  brilliancy  among  deep,  cool,  green 
grasses  and  low  plants  untouched  by  frost.  Everywhere 
amid  the  red  and  orange  and  crimson  were  lilac  and 
steel-blue  shadows,  giving  depth  and  vigor  and  buoyancy 
which  Corot  never  saw  (or  never  painted) — a  world 
which  Innes  does  not  represent.  Enneking  comes  nearer, 
but  even  he  tones  unconsciously  the  sparkle  of  these 
colors. 

Going  from  this  world  of  frank  color  to  the  timid 
apologies  and  harmonies  of  the  old-school  painters  is 
depressing.  Never  again  can  I  find  them  more  than 
mere  third-hand  removes  of  Nature.  The  Norwegians 
come  nearer  to  seeing  Nature  as  I  see  it  than  any  other 
nationality.  Their  climate  must  be  somewhat  similar  to 
that  In  which  my  life  has  been  spent,  but  they  evidently 
have  more  orange  in  their  sunlight 

The  point  to  be  made  here  is  this:  The  atmosphere 
and  coloring  of  Russia  is  not  the  atmosphere  of  Hol- 
land. The  atmosphere  of  Norway  is  much  clearer  and 
the  colors  are  more  vivid  than  in  England.  One  school 
therefore  cannot  copy  or  be  based  upon  the  other  with- 
out loss*  Each  painter  should  paint  his  own  surround- 
ings, with  Nature  for  his  teacher,  rather  than  some 
Dutch  master,  painting  the  never-ending  mists  and  rains 
of  the  sea-level. — Crumbling  Idols. 


ARNETT,  RICHARD,  an  English  poet  and  essay- 
ist ;  born  at  Lichfiekl,  Staffordshire,  February 
27,  1835.  *n  x^Sr  he  was  appointed  an  as- 
sistant in  the  British  Museum,  and  held  various  posi- 
tions there  until  1884  when  he  resigned  to  devote  him- 
self to  the  publication  of  the  Miistum  Catalogue.  He 
has  written  many  essays  for  the  magazines,  and  nu- 
merous articles  for  encyclopedias.  His  published 


448  RICHARD  GARXETT 

works  include:  Primula:  a  Book  of  Lyrics  (1858); 
Egypt  and  Other  Poems  (1859) ;  Poems  from-  the  Ger- 
man (1862);  Relics  of  Shelley  (1862);  Idylls  and 
Epigrams  (1869);  Selections  of  Shelley's  Poems 
(1880)  ;  Letters  (1882) ;  Life  of  Carlylc  (1887) ;  Life 
of  Emerson  (1887);  Twilight  of  the  Gods  (1888); 
Life  of  Milton  (1890)  ;  Ifhigcnia  in  Delphi  (1891)  ; 
Poems  (1893);  William  Blake:  Painter  and  Poet 
(1895);  The  Age  of  Dryden  (1895).  Sonnets  from 
Dante,  Petrarch  and  Camoens  (1896);  Richmond  on 
the  Thames  (1896)  ;  Life  of  Wakefield  (1898)  ;  His- 
tory of  Italian  Literature  (1898) ;  Essays  in  Bibliogra- 
phy (1899);  The  Queen  and  Other  Poems  (1901); 
and  Essays  of  an  Ex- Librarian  (1902).  lie  died  at 
London,  April  13,  1906. 

BREVITY. 

Windows  in  Heaven,  lakes  in  transparency; 

Eve's  waning  hour,  of  light  not  all  undrest; 

The  distant  rivers7  mimicry  of  rest; 
Gleams  for  a  moment  given  to  the  sea; 
The  passing  face  that1  snares  thee  innocently; 

Unbidden  tears;  proud  sob  with  pride  represt; 

Unlooked  for  look  of  Love;  these  bring  life  zest 
Savory  with  the  salt  of  brevity. 
Briefness  of  life  doth  life  to  Life  endear; 

One  mortal  heart  for  all  the  Gods  hath  room ; 

Restriction  molds  and  rolls  the  suns  aright; 
By  circumspection  of  compacted  sphere 

Welding  to  orbs  that  kindle  and  illume. 

The  beamless  dust  of  spaces  infinite. 

THE  INFLUENCE  OP  ENVIRONMENT  ON  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

"  Do  you  observe  any  traces  of  *  Faust/  "  asks  Shelley 
of  a  friend,  "  in  the  poem  I  send  you  ?  Poets  —  the  best 
of  them  —  are  a  very  chameleonic  race;  they  take  the 
color,  not  only  of  what  they  feed  on,  but  of  the  very  leaves 
tinder  which  they  pass." 


RICHARD  GARNETT  449 

Shelley  was  thinking  chiefly  of  the  influence  of  an 
author's  favorite  books  on  his  own  productions,  but  the 
remark  is  applicable  to  other  descriptions  of  leaves  than 
book  leaves,  to  any  kind  of  influence  with  which  the  poet, 
and  in  a  less  degree  the  prose-writer,  if  a  susceptible  per- 
son, is  habitually  in  contact.  From  this  point  of  view 
authors  may  be  divided  into  two  classes  —  to  both  of 
which  they  may  belong  at  different  periods  of  their  lives 
—  those  who  can  and  those  who  cannot  choose  their  envir- 
onment. When  we  can  be  sure  that  a  writer  be- 
longs to  the  former  class,  the  environment,  as  an 
index  to  his  inclinations,  in  its  turn  reflects  light 
upon  the  characteristics  of  his  own  mind,  while  some- 
times it  raises  a  problem.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  Louis 
Stevenson  should  have  preferred  to  live  in  the  South  Sea 
Islands,  and,  apart  from  the  qualities  of  the  books  com- 
posed there,  the  mere  fact  affords  an  insight  into  his  na- 
ture which  could  never  have  been  had  if  his  works  had 
been  produced  in  Scotland.  But  Stevenson  also  shows 
that  a  book  may  be  entirely  independent  of  environment, 
by  writing  his  last  and  perhaps  his  most  characteristically 
Scotch  fiction,  Weir  of  Hermiston,  among  the  cocoamit 
groves  of  Samoa.  This,  in  the  case  of  a  man  so  sensitive 
and  susceptible,  seems  to  demonstrate  that,  while  the  in- 
fluence of  environment  cannot  be  denied,  witness  such 
tales  as  The  Beach  of  Falcsa,  it  may  count  for  nothing 
in  presence  of  an  overmastering  impulse  from  another 
quarter.  Weir  of  Herniiston,  judging  from  his  corre- 
spondence, would  scam  to  be  of  all  his  books  the  one 
•which  had  taken  the  most  complete  possession  of  him, 
hence  its  superior  merit 

*'  And  his  own  mind  did  like  a  tempest  strong 

Come  to  him  thus,  and  drive  the  weary  wight  along." 

If  we  can  easily  follow  Stevenson  to  the  South  Seas, 
there  are  other  writers  able,  like  him,  to  choose  their  own 
environment  whose  motives  are  for  the  present  inscruta- 
ble, and  consequently  fail  to  afford  light  to  their  char- 
acters and  writings.  Why  should  Mr.  Henry  James,  the 
most  subtle  analyst  of  complicated  modern  society,  spend 
VOL.  X.~- 30 


450  RICHARD  GARNETT 

his  life  by  preference  in  a  little  Cinque  Port?  When  we 
know  what  secret  bond  attaches  Mr.  James  to  Rye,  \ve 
shall  know  more  of  him  than  we  do,  and  if  he  does  riot  tell 
us  himself,  it  will  be  a  matter  for  his  biographers  to  in- 
vestigate. 

One  of  the  strongest  witnesses  to  the  influence  of  envi- 
ronment is  Shakespeare,  when  he  deplores  the  evil  influ- 
ence of  the  profession  of  actor  upon  him,  and  complains 
that  his  nature  is 

"  Subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand/* 

("Observe  this  image,"  comments  Shelley,  "how  sim- 
ple it  is,  and  yet  how  animated  with  the  most  intense 
poetry  and  passion.")  There  is  great  reason  to  think 
that  Shakespeare  renounced  the  profession  of  acting  long 
before  he  ceased  writing  for  the  stage;  it  is  certain  that 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  he  acquired  property  at'  his  native 
place,  which  he  must  have  visited  as  frequently  as  his 
professional  engagements  would  allow.  It  is  interesting  to 
inquire  how  far  an  influence  from  this  change  is  per- 
ceptible in  his  writings,  and  it  may  be  traced  with  cer- 
tainty. The  precise  date  of  the  sonnet  quoted  above  is 
doubtful,  but  it  certainly  did  not  long  precede  his  acqui- 
sition of  property  at  Stratford.  Within  a  year  or  two 
of  this  event  we  find  him  producing  the  most  sylvan  of 
his  dramas,  As  You  Like  It,  more  thoroughly  pervaded 
with  the  spirit  of  country  life  than  anything  he  had  writ- 
ten before,  if  we  accept  the  description  of  the  horse  in 
Venus  and  Adonis,  beginning 

"  But  lo,  from  forth  a  copse  that  neighbors  by/* 
and  of  coursing  a  hare  in  the  same  poem,  beginning 
"  And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare/1 

The  latter,  especially,  is  a  marvel  of  accurate  descrip- 
tion, showing  that  Shakespeare  must  have  been  at  many 
a  coursing  match,  Venus  and  Adonis,  being  descrifmd 
by  him  as  "  the  first  heir  of  my  invention/'  was  probably 


RICHARD  GARNETT  451 

written  not  long  after  his  departure  from  Stratford,  when 
the  impression  of  country  life  would  be  strong  with  him. 
Revived  by  his  acquisition  of  a  house  there  and  his  occa- 
sional visits,  they  come  out  in  full  force  after  he  has  made 
it  his  principal  residence  there  in  his  latter  years,  cul- 
minating in  the  pastoral  scenes  in  A  Winters  Tale 
(1611),  where  villagers  and  village  pastimes  are  painted 
to  the  life.  Here  seems  a  clear  instance  of  the  effect  of 
environment.  It  is  an  interesting  question  whether  the 
total  neglect  of  the  country  by  the  artificial  poets  of  a  later 
day,  such  as  Dryden  and  Pope,  is  to  be  attributed  to  their 
nictropolitan  environment  or  to  the  pervading  atmosphere 
of  the  period.  Their  opportunities  for  contemplating  the 
face  of  Nature  were  indeed  few,  but  they  showed  no  dis- 
position to  profit  by  those  which  they  had.  How  different 
from  Keats  1  who  had  scarcely  been  beyond  Edmonton 
when  he  produced  his  first  poems,  which  nevertheless  con- 
tain couplets  so  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  the  country  as 
this : 

"  When  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid, 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade/' 

Scott  is  a  most  signal  instance  of  the  power  of  environ- 
ment It  would  hardly  be  fair  to  appeal  to  Byron  as  an- 
other, for  he  traveled  with  the  deliberate  intention  of 
making  poetical  capital  out  of  everything  that  came  in  his 
way.  Ele  nevertheless  forms  one  of  a  remarkable  group 
of  English  poets  who  have  been  deeply  influenced  by 
Italian  environment  The  list  includes  Lander,  Shelley, 
Keats,  and  both  the  Brownings.  Of  these  Robert  Brown- 
ing seems  the  most  deeply  influenced,  doubtless  because  as 
a  dramatist  lie  touched  Italian  life  at  more  points  than  the 
rest-  He  is  a  magnificent  instance  of  what  improvement 
can  be  effected  even  in  a  great  poet  by  transplantation, 
provided  that  the  process  is  not  continued  so  long  as  to 
pervert  the  original  bent  of  his  genius.  The  greatest  lit- 
erary gift,  however,  that  Italy  ever  made  to  England  was 
not  poetry,  hut  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Foil,  conceived  as, 
sitting  by  the  Coliseum  on  a  moonlight  night,  he  heard 
the  barefooted  friars  sing  vespers  in  the  Temple  of  Jupi* 


452  RICHARD  GARNETT 

ten  The  influence,  however,  though  permanent  in  its  ef- 
fects, was  too  transient  in  its  application  to  be  reckoned 
among  instances  of  environment;  but  Gibbon  has  told  us 
of  a  more  prosaic  inspiration  which  certainly  deserved  the 
name,  the  benefit  which  the  historian  who  was  to  write 
so  fully  on  military  matters  received  from  a  spell  of 
service  in  the  militia. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  a  great  writer  spends  a  long 
life  in  an  environment  devoid  of  striking  features*  and 
which  we  nevertheless  feel  to  have  been  the  best  he  could 
possibly  have  had.  Such  a  case  was  Goethe's:  he  could 
not  have  been  better  suited  than  at  Weimar,  and  yet 
Weimar  can  hardly  be  thought  to  have  supplied  much 
aliment  to  the  genius  of  which  he  had  given  ample  proofs 
before  coming  there.  Its  effect  was  to  provide  him  with 
the  quiet,  honorable,  stable  environment,  within  which  his 
calm,  polished  genius  could  work  freely  and  happily, 
"Without  haste  and  without  rest,"  as  he  said  himself. 
He  might  have  found  it  difficult  to  observe  this  com- 
mendable maxium  if  his  circumstances  had  been  less  easy, 
and  his  sphere  of  action  more  perturbed. 

On  the  whole  we  can  but  conclude  that  it  is  possible  to 
attribute  both  too  much  and  too  little  to  environment  that 
it  always  exerts  some  influence,  but  rarely  makes  the 
author  an  entirely  different  man  to  what  he  would  have 
been  under  other  circumstances,  and  that  this  influence 
usually  varies  in  proportion  to  the  susceptibility  of  his 
temperament.  Men  of  the  highest  genius  are  consequently 
in  one  point  of  view  the  most  liable  to  be  affected  by  it, 
but  from  another  the  least,  as  the  force  of  their  minds 
enables  them  to  triumph  over  circumstances  which  would 
crush  feebler  natures*  Milton  affords  a  memorable  in- 
stance, composing  his  immortal  poem  under  a  total  priva- 
tion of  sight,  and  under  the  most  adverse  personal  and 
domestic  circumstances.  Here  the  environment  was  abso- 
lutely hostile,  but  his  past  studies  and  his  present  medita- 
tions enabled  him  to  create  for  himself  another  far  differ- 
ent one,  within  which  his  life  was  in  reality  spent 
Paradise  Lost  could  not  have  been  greater  if  his  cir- 
cumstances had  been  of  the  happiest,  but  this  is  mainly 
owing  to  the  ideal  and  spiritual  character  of  the  poem* 


WILLIAM  LLOYD   GAKKISON* 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON  453 

The  vast  majority  of  writers  who  deal  with  more  sub- 
lunary matters  will  do  well  to  adapt,  as  far  as  may  be, 
their  environment  to  themselves;  and,  when  this  is  not 
practicable>  themselves  to  their  environment.  Too  much, 
however,  must  not  be  expected  from  even  the  most  favor- 
able external  situation;  if  a  man  cannot  do  something 
where  he  is,  he  is  not  likely  to  do  much  anywhere, — 
From  Essays. 


,  WILLIAM  LLOYD,  an  American  phi- 
lanthropist and  journalist;  born  at  Newbury- 
port, Mass.,  December  12,  1804;  died  at  New 
York,  May  24,  1879.  On  the  death  of  his  father,  he 
was  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker  in  Lynn,  but  afterward 
returned  to  Newburyport,  and  went  to  school,  partly 
supporting  himself  by  sawing  wood.  In  1818  he  was 
apprenticed  to  a  printer,  the  publisher  of  the  Newbury- 
port Herald,  to  which,  when  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  of  age,  he  lx*gan  to  contribute  articles  on  political 
and  other  subjects.  He  wrote  for  other  papers,  and  in 
1826  became  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Newburyport 
Free  Press,  which  was  unsuccessful.  The  next  year 
he  edited  the  National  Philanthropist,  a  paper  advo- 
cating total  abstinence,  and  In  1828  was  connected  with 
the  Journal  of  tint  Times,  published  at  Bennington, 
Vt.,  in  the  interests  of  peace,  temperance,  and  anti- 
slavery.  In  1829  he  joined  Benjamin  Lundy  in  pub- 
lishing "The  Genius  of  Universal  Emancipation  at 
Baltimore*  He  advocated  the  immediate  abolition  of 
slavery,  and  condemned  the  colonization  of  the  negroes 
in  Africa,  while  Lundy  favored  gradual  emancipation. 
In  1830  Garrison's  denunciation  of  the  taking  of  a 


454         *        WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 

cargo  of  slaves  from  Baltimore  to  New  Orleans  as 
"  domestic  piracy,"  led  to  his  indictment  for  libel.  He 
was  tried,  convicted,  and  fined;  and,  being  unable  to 
discharge  his  fine,  was  imprisoned,  until  the  generous 
act  of  a  New  York  merchant  released  him.  He  now 
began  a  course  of  anti-slavery  lectures  in  Boston,  New 
York,  and  other  cities,  hoping  to  obtain  the  means  of 
establishing  a  journal  in  support  of  his  convictions. 

On  January  i,  1831,  in  conjunction  with  Isaac 
Knapp,  he  issued  the  first  number  of  The  Liberator,  in 
which  he  spared  neither  man  nor  system  that  advo- 
cated, protected,  or  excused  slavery.  Immediate  eman- 
cipation, without  regard  to  consequences,  or  provision 
for  the  future,  was  his  demand.  The  greatest  excite- 
ment ensued.  Abolitionists  were  denounced  as  ene- 
mies of  the  Union,  their  meetings  were  broken  up,  they 
were  hunted  like  criminals,  and  those  who  attempted 
to  educate  the  negroes  were  prosecuted.  In  1832  Gar- 
rison went  to  England,  hoping  to  enlist  sympathy  for 
American  emancipation,  and  on  his  return  assisted  in 
organizing  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society  of 
Philadelphia,  and  prepared  their  Declaration  of  Senti- 
ments. In  1838  he  was  one  of  the  organizers  of  the 
New  England  Non-Resistance  Society.  In  1840  he 
was  one  of  the  delegates  to  tne  World's  Anti-Slavery 
Convention  in  England,  and  refused  to  take  his  seat 
because  the  female  delegates  were  excluded.  In  1843 
he  became  President  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society,  and 
held  that  office  until  1865.  He  issued  the  last  number 
of  The  Liberator  in  the  same  year.  Mr.  Garrison  was 
the  author  of  numerous  poems,  a  volume  of  which,  en- 
titled Sonnets  and  Other  Poems,  was  published  in  1843* 
In  1852  a  volume  of  Selections  from  his  writings  ap- 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON  455 

peared.    He  had  previously  published   Thoughts  on 
African  Colonization  (1832). 

THE    LESSONS    OF    INDEPENDENCE    DAY. 

I  present  myself  as  the  advocate  of  my  enslaved 
countrymen,  at  a  time  when  their  claims  cannot  be 
shuffled  out  of  sight,  and  on  an  occasion  which  entitles 
me  to  a  respectful  hearing  in  their  behalf.  If  I  am  asked 
to  prove  their  title  to  liberty,  my  answer  is  that  the  Fourth 
of  July  is  not  a  day  to  be  wasted  in  establishing  "  self- 
evident  truth."  In  the  name  of  God  who  has  made  us  of 
one  blood,  and  in  whose  image  we  are  created;  in  the 
name  of  the  Messiah,  who  came  to  bind  up  the  broken- 
hearted, to  proclaim  liberty  to  the  captives,  and  the 
opening  of  the  prison  to  them  that  are  bound;  I  demand 
the  immediate  emancipation  of  those  who  are  pining  in 
slavery  on  the  American  soil,  whether  they  are  fattening 
for  the  shambles  in  Maryland  and  Virginia,  or  are  wast- 
ing, as  with  a  pestilent  disease,  on  the  cotton  and  sugar 
plantations  of  Alabama  and  Louisiana;  whether  they  are 
male  or  female*  young  or  old,  vigorous  or  infirm.  I 
make  this  demand,  not  for  the  children  merely,  but  the 
parents  also;  not  for  one,  but  for  all;  not  with  restrictions 
and  limitations,  but  unconditionally.  I  assert  their  perfect 
equality  with  ourselves,  as  a  part  of  the  human  race,  and 
their  inalienable  right  to  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness. 

That  this  demand  Is  founded  in  justice,  and  is 
therefore  irresistible,  the  whole  nation  is  this  day 
acknowledging,  as  upon  oath  at  the  bar  of  the  world.  And 
not  until,  by  a  formal  vote,  the  people  repudiate  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  as  a  false  and  dangerous  in- 
strument, and  cease  to  keep  this  festival  in  honor  of  lib- 
erty, as  unworthy  of  note  and  remembrance;  not  until 
they  spike  every  cannon,  and  muffle  every  bell,  and  dis- 
band every  procession,  and  quench  every  bonfire,  and  gag 
every  orator;  not  until  they  brand  Washington  and 
Adams,  and  Jefferson  and  Hancock,  as  fanatics  and  mad- 
men; not  until  they  place  themselves  again  in  the 
condition  of  colonial  subserviency  to  Great  Britain,  or 


456  -     WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 

transform  this  republic  into  an  imperial  government;  not 
until  they  cease  pointing  exultingly  to  Bunker  Hill,  and 
the  plains  of  Concord  and  Lexington;  not,  in  fine,  until 
they  deny  the  authority  of  God,  and  proclaim  themselves 
to  be  destitute  of  principle  and  humanity,  will  I  argue  the 
question  as  one  of  v  doubtful  disputation,  on  an  occasion 
like  this,  whether  our  slaves  are  entitled  to  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  freemen.  That  question  is  settled  irre- 
vocably. 

There  is  no  man  to  be  found,  unless  he  has  a  brow  of 
brass  and  a  heart  of  stone,  who  will  dare  to  contest  it 
on  a  day  like  this.  A  state  of  vassalage  is  declared  by 
universal  acclamation  to  be  such  as  no  man,  or  body  of 
men,  ought  to  submit  to  for  one  moment  I  therefore 
tell  the  American  slaves  that  the  time  for  their  eman- 
cipation is  come;  that  —  their  own  taskmasters  being 
witnesses  —  they  are  created  equal  to  the  rest  of  mankind ; 
and  possess  an  inalienable  right  to  liberty;  and  that  no 
man  has  a  right  to  hold  them  in  bondage.  I  counsel  them 
not  to  fight  for  their  freedom,  both  on  account  of  the  hope- 
lessness of  the  effort,  and  because  it  is  rendering  evil  for 
evil ;  but  I  tell  them,  not  less  emphatically,  it  is  not  wrongr 
for  them  to  refuse  to  wear  the  yoke  of  slavery  any  longer* 
Let  them  shed  no  blood  —  enter  into  no  conspiracies  — 
raise  no  murderous  revolts;  but,  whenever  and  wherever 
they  can  break  their  fetters,  God  give  them  courage  to  do 
so!  And  should  they  attempt  to  elope  from  their  house  of 
bondage,  and  come  to  the  North,  may  each  of  them  find  a 
covert  from  the  search  of  the  spoiler,  and  an  invincible 
public  sentiment  to  shield  them  from  the  grasp  of  the 
kidnapper !  Success  attend  them  in  their  flight  to  Canada, 
to  touch  whose  monarchical  soil  insures  freedom  to  every 
republican  slave !  .  .  . 

The  object  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Association  is  not  to 
destroy  men's  lives  —  despots  though  they  be  —  but  to 
prevent  the  spilling  of  human  blood.  It  is  to  enlighten 
the  understanding,  arouse  the  conscience,  affect1  the  heart, 
We  rely  upon  moral  power  alone  for  success.  The  ground 
upon  which  we  stand  belongs  to  no  sect  or  party  —  it  is 
holy  ground.  Whatever  else  may  divide  us  in  opinion*  in 
this  one  thing  we  are  agreed  — that  slave-holding  is  a 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON  457 

crime  under  all  circumstances,  and  ought  to  be  imme- 
diately and  unconditionally  abandoned.  We  enforce  upon 
no  man  either  a  political  or  a  religious  test  as  a  condition 
of  membership;  but  at  the  same  time  we  expect  every 
abolitionist  to  carry  out  his  principles  consistently,  im- 
partially, faithfully,  in  whatever  station  he  may  be  called 
to  act,  or  wherever  conscience  may  lead  him  to 
go.  ... 

Genuine  abolitionism  is  not  a  hobby,  got  up  for  per- 
sonal or  associated  aggrandizement;  it  is  not  a  political 
ruse ;  it  is  not  a  spasm  of  sympathy,  which  lasts  but  for  a 
moment,  leaving  the  system  weak  and  worn;  it  is  not  a 
fever  of  enthusiasm ;  it  is  not  the  fruit  of  fanaticism ;  it  is 
not  a  spirit  of  faction.  It  is  of  Heaven,  not  of  men.  It 
lives  in  the  heart  as  a  vital  principle.  It  is  an  essential 
part  of  Christianity,  and  aside  from  it  there  can  be  no 
humanity.  Its  scope  is  not  confined  to  the  slave  popula- 
tion of  the  United  States,  but  embraces  mankind.  Oppo- 
sition cannot  weary  it,  force  cannot  put  it  down,  fire  can- 
not consume  it.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Jesus,  who  was  sent 
"  to  bind  up  the  broken-hearted,  to  proclaim  liberty  to  the 
captives,  and  the  opening  of  the  prison  to  them  that  are 
bound;  to  proclaim  the  acceptable  year  of  the  Lord,  and 
the  day  of  vengeance  of  our  God."  Its  principles  are 
self-evident,  its  measures  rational,  its  purposes  merciful 
and  just  It  cannot  be  diverted  from  the  path  of  duty, 
though  all  earth  and  hell  oppose ;  for  it  is  lifted  far  above 
all  earth-born  fear.  When  it  fairly  takes  possession  of  the 
soul,  you  may  trust  the  soul-carrier  anywhere,  that  he  will 
not  l>e  recreant  to  humanity*  In  short,  it  is  a  life,  not  an 
impulse  —  a  quenchless  flame  of  philanthropy,  not  a  tran- 
sient spark  of  sentimentalism.—-  Address,  July  4, 1842. 

FREEDOM  0*  THE  HIND. 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 

And  massive  holts  may  baffle  his  tlesigri 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways; 

Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control : 
No  chains  can  bind  Jt,  and  no  cell  enclose; 


458  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 

Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  Heaven  it  goes. 

It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale  to  vale 
It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers; 

It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  household  tale, 
Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours; 

Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 

And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 

THE  GUILTLESS   PRISONER. 

Prisoner !  within  these  gloomy  walls  close  pent, 

Guiltless  of  horrid  crime  or  venal  wrong  — 
Bear  nobly  up  against  tny  punishment, 

And  in  thy  innocence  be  great  and  strong! 
Perchance  thy  fault  was  to  love  all  mankind; 

Thou  didst  oppose  some  vile  oppressive  law, 
Or  strive  all  human  fetters  to  unbind; 
Or  would  not  bear  the  implements  of  war, 

What  then?    Dost  thou  so  soon  repent  the  deed? 
A  martyr's  crown  is  richer  than  a  king's ! 
Think  it  an  honor  with  thy  Lord  to  bleed, 

And  glory  'mid  intensest  sufferings ! 
Though  beat,  imprisoned,  put  to  open  shame, 
Time  shall  embalm  and  magnify  thy  name. 

TO  BENJAMIN  LUNDY. 

Self-taught,  unaided,  poor,  reviled,  contemned. 

Beset  with  enemies,  by  friends  betrayed ; 
As  madman  and  fanatic  oft  condemned. 

Yet  in  thy  noble  cause  still  undismayed; 
Leonidas  could  not  thy  courage  boast; 

Less  numerous  were  his  foes,  his  bam!  more  strong; 
Alone  unto  a  more  than  Persian  host, 

Thou  hast  undauntedly  given  battle  long. 
Nor  shalt  thou  singly  wage  the  unequal  strife; 

Unto  thy  aid,  with  spear  and  shield,  I  rush, 
And  freely  do  I  offer  up  my  life, 

And  bid  my  heart's  blood  find  a  wound  to  gush ! 
New  volunteers  are  trooping  to  the  field; 
To  die  we  are  prepared,  but  not  an  inch  to  yield* 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE  459 


,  GEORGE,  an  English  dramatist  and 

poet'  born  about  x^;  died  at  Stamford>  O(> 
tobcr  7,  1577.    He  studied  law  at  one  of  the 

Inns,  but,  being  disinherited  by  his  father,  he  enlisted 
in  the  Dutch  service,  and  served  against  the  Spaniards, 
but  was  taken  prisoner  and  detained  for  four  months. 
Returning  to  England,  he  collected  his  poems,  and 
rose  into  favor  with  Queen  Elizabeth  and  her  favorite, 
Lord  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  took  part 
in  the  famous  festival  at  Kenilworth.  Besides  pro- 
ducing dramatic  entertainments  he  wrote  The  Steele 
Glass,  a  satire  in  blank  verse ;  Certayne  Notes  of  In- 
struction in  English  Verse;  The  Complaint  of  Philo- 
mcnt\  and  a  number  of  minor  poems. 

Saintshury  says  in  his  History  of  Elizabethan  Lit- 
erature: "His  work  is  remarkable  for  the  number  of 
of  first  attempts  at  English  it  contains*  It  has  been 
claimed  for  him  (though  students  of  literary  history 
regard  such  claims  as  hazardous)  that  he  wrote  the 
first  English  prose  comedy,  the  first  regular  verse 
satire*  the  first  prose  tale,  the  first  translation  from 
Greek  tragedy,  and  the  first  critical  essay.  Though 
most  of  these  were  adaptations  from  foreign  originals, 
they  certainly  make  up  a  remarkable  budget  for  one 
matt.*1  Gascoignt*  was  twice  elected  to  Parliament. 

Gascoigne  was  much  praised  by  his  contemporaries ; 
among  them  Webbe  speaks  of  him  as  "  a  witty  gentle- 
man and  the  very  chief  of  our  late  rhymers ; "  Arthur 
Hall  praises  his  "pretic  pythie  conceits ; "  and  Harvey 
has  a  good  word  for  "  his  commendable  parts  of  con- 
ceit and  endeavour/'  though  he  bemoans  his  "  decayed 
and  blasted  estate/*  The  latter  writer  also  suggests 


460  GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

that,  with  Chaucer  and  Surrey,  Gascoigne  should  figure 
in  the  library  of  a  maid  of  honor. 

LADIES  OF  THE  COURT. 

Behold,  my  Lord,  what  monsters  muster  here 
With  angels'  face  and  harmful,  hellish  hearts, 
With  smiling  looks,  and  deep  deceitful  thoughts, 
With  tender  skins  and  stony,  cruel  minds, 
With  stealing  steps,  yet  forward  feet  to  fraud. 
The  younger  sort  come  piping  on  apace, 
In  whistles  made  of  fine  enticing  wood, 
Till  they  have  caught  the  birds  for  whom  they  birded. 
The  elder  sort  go  stately  stalking  on, 
And  on  their  backs  they  bear  both  land  and  fee, 
Castles  and  towers,  revenues  and  receipts, 
Lordships  and  manors,  fines ;  yea,  farms  and  all !  — 
What  should  these  be?    Speak  you  my  lovely  Lord. 
They  be  not  men,  for  why,  they  have  no  beards ; 
They  be  no  boys,  which  wear  such  sidelong  gowns ; 
They  be  no  gods,  for  all  their  gallant  gloss; 
They  be  no  devils,  I  trow,  that  seem  so  saintish ; 
What  be  they?    Women  masking  in  men's  weeds, 
With  Dutchkin  doublets,  and  with  gerkins  jagged, 
With  Spanish  spangs,  and  ruffles  fet  out  of  France, 
With  high-copt  hats,  and  feathers  flaunt-a-flaunt : 
They,  to  be  sure,  seem  even  Wo  to  Men  indeed ! ; 

— The  Steel* 

THE  LULLABIES. 

First,  lullaby  my  Youthful  Years : 

It  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed ; 
For  crooked  age  and  hoary  hairs 

Have  wore  the  haven  within  mine  head 
With  lullaby,  then,  Youth,  be  still, 
With  lullaby  content  thy  will; 
Since  Courage  quails  and  comes  behind, 
Go  sleep,  and  so  beguile  thy  mind. 

Next,  lullaby  my  gazing  Eyes, 
Which  wonted  were  to  glance  apace; 


ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL  461 

For  every  glass  may  now  suffice 

To  show  the  furrows  in  my  face. 
With  lullaby,  then,  wink  awhile; 
With  lullaby  your  looks  beguile ; 
Let  no  fair  face  or  beauty  bright 
Entice  you  eft  with  vain  delight. 

And  lullaby  my  wanton  Will: 

Let  Reason's  rule  now  rein  my  thought, 
Since,  all  too  late,  I  find  by  skill 

How  dear  I  have  thy  fancies  bought. 
With  lullaby  now  take  thine  ease, 
With  lullaby  thy  doubt  appease; 
For  trust  in  this  —  if  thou  be  still, 
My  body  shall  obey  thy  will. 

Thus  lullaby,  my  Youth,  mine  Eyes, 
My  Will,  my  Ware,  and  all  that  was: 

I  can  no  more  delays  devise, 
But  welcome  Pain,  let  Pleasure  pass. 

With  lullaby  now  take  your  leave; 

With  lullaby  your  dreams  deceive; 

And  when  you  rise  with  waking  eye, 

Remember  then  this  lullaby. 


^ASKELL,  ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  STEVENSON, 
an  English  novelist ;  born  at  Chelsea,  London, 
September  29,  1810;  died  at  Alton,  Hamp- 
shire, November  12,  1865.  Her  father,  William 
Stevenson,  a  tutor  and  preacher,  relinquished  preach- 
ing for  farming  because  he  thought  it  wrong  to  be 
a  "hired  teacher  of  religion/'  He  was  for  a  time 
editor  of  the  Scots  Magazine.  He  contributed  to 
the  Edinburgh  J?m*w  and  became  Keeper  of  the 
Records  of  the  Treasury.  Her  mother  died  in  giv- 


462  ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL 

ing  her  birth,  and  she  was  adopted  by  an  aunt.  She 
was  partly  educated  in  a  school  at  Stratford-on- 
Avon,  and  then  returned  to  her  father,  who  superin- 
tended her  studies.  She  married  William  Gaskell,  a 
clergyman  of  Manchester,  and  gave  all  her  leisure  to 
ministry  among  the  poor  of  that  city,  and  thus  became 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  lives  of  operatives  in 
the  factories.  Her  first  literary  work  was  a  paper  en- 
titled An  Account  of  Clopton  Hall,  written  for  Wil- 
liam Hewitt's  Visits  to  Remarkable  Places.  This  was 
followed  by  short  tales  contributed  to  the  People's  Jour- 
nal. Mary  Barton,  her  first  novel,  a  story  of  manu- 
facturing life,  was  published  in  1848.  Her  next  pub- 
lication was  The  Moorland  Cottage  (1850).  Ruth,  a 
novel,  and  Cranford,  a  series  of  sketches  of  life  in  a 
rural  town,  appeared  in  1853.  ^rs-  Gaskell's  other 
works  are  North  and  South  (1855)  ?  a  Life  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte  (1857)  ;  Round  the  Sofa  (1859) ;  Right 
at  Last  (1860)  ;  Sylvia's  Lovers  (1863) ;  Cousin  Phil- 
Us,  and  Wives  and  Daughters,  the  last  of  which  was 
not  quite  completed  at  the  time  of  her  death, 

GREEN    HEYS    FIELDS,    MANCHESTER. 

There  are  some  fields  near  Manchester,  well  known 
to  the  ^inhabitants  as  Green  Hoys  Fields,  through  which 
runs  a  public  footpath  to  a  little  village  about  two  miles 
distant  In  spite  of  these  fields  being  flat  and  low  —  na>% 
in  spite  of  the  want  of  wood  (the  great  and  usual  recom- 
mendation of  level  tracts  of  land),  there  is  a  charm  about 
them  which  strikes  even  the  inhabitant  of  a  mountainous 
district,  who  sees  and  feels  the  effect  of  contrast  in  these 
commonplace  but  thoroughly  rural  fields  with  the  busy, 
bustling  manufacturing  town  he  left  but  half  an  hour  ago. 
Here  and  there  an  old  black  and  white  farm-house,  with 
its  rambling  outbuildings,  speaks  of  other  times  and  other 
occupations  than  those  which  now  absorb  the  population 


ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL  463 

of  the  neighborhood.  Here  in  their  seasons  may  be  seen 
the  country  business  of  hay-making,  ploughing,  etc.,  which 
are  such  pleasant  mysteries  for  townspeople  to  watch ;  and 
here  the  artisan,  deafened  with  noise  of  tongues  and  en- 
gines, may  come  to  listen  a  while  to  the  delicious  sounds 
of  rural  life  —  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  milkmaid's  call, 
the  clatter  and  cackle  of  poultry  in  the  old  farm-yards. 
You  cannot  wonder,  then,  that  these  fields  are  popular 
places  of  resort  at  every  holiday-time;  and  you  would  not 
wonder,  if  you  could  see,  or  I  properly  describe,  the  charm 
of  one  particular  stile,  that  it  should  be,  on  such  occasions, 
a  crowded  halting-place.  Close  by  it  is  a  deep,  clear  pond, 
reflecting  in  its  dark-green  depths  the  shadowy  trees  that 
bend  over  it  to  exclude  the  sun.  The  only  place  where  its 
banks  are  shelving  is  on  the  side  next  to  a  rambling  farm- 
yard, belonging  to  one  of  those  old-world,  gabled,  black 
and  white  nouses  I  named  above,  overlooking  the  field 
through  which  the  public  footpath  leads.  The  porch  of 
this  farm-house  is  covered  by  a  rose-tree;  and  the  little 
garden  surrounding  it  is  crowded  with  a  medley  of  old- 
fashioned  herbs  and  flowers,  planted  long  ago  when  the 
garden  was  the  only  druggist's  shop  within  reach,  and  al- 
lowed to  grow  in  scrambling  and  wild  luxuriance  —  roses, 
lavender,  sage,  balm  (for  tea),  rosemary,  pinks  and  wall- 
flowers, onions  and  jessamine,  in  most  republican  and  in- 
discriminate order.  This  farm-house  and  garden  are 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  stile  of  which  I  spoke, 
leading  from  the  large  pasture-field  into  a  smaller  one, 
divided  by  a  hedge  of  hawthorn  and  blackthorn ;  and  near 
this  Ktilc,  on  the  further  side,  there  runs  a  tale  that  prim- 
roses may  often  be  found,  and  occasionally  the  blue  sweet 
violet  on  the  grassy  hedge-bank. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  on  a  holiday  granted 
by  the  masters,  or  a  holiday  seized  in  right  of  nature 
and  her  beautiful  spring-time  by  the  workmen;  but  one 
afternoon  —  now  ten  or  a  dozen  years  ago — these  fields 
were  much  thronged  It  was  an  early  May  evening — 
the  April  of  the  poetis;  for  heavy  showers  had  fallen  all 
the  morning,  and  the  round,  soft  white  clouds,  which 
were  blown  hy  a  west  wind  over  the  dark  blue  sky,  were 
sometimes  varied  by  one  blacker  and  more  threatening. 


464          ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL 

The  softness  of  the  day  tempted  forth  the  young  green 
leaves,  which  almost  visibly  fluttered  into  life;  and  the 
willows,  which  that  morning  had  had  only  a  brown  re- 
flection in  the  water  below,  were  now  of  that  tender 
gray-green  which  blends  so  delicately  with  the  spring 
harmony  of  colors. 

Groups  of  merry,  and  somewhat  loud-talking  girls, 
whose  ages  might  range  from  twelve  to  twenty,  came 
by  with  a  buoyant  step.  They  were  most  of  them  fac- 
tory-girls, and  wore  the  usual  out-of-doors  dress  of  that 
particular  class  of  maidens  —  namely,  a  shawl,  which 
at  mid-day,  or  in  fine  weather,  was  allowed  to  be  merely 
a  shawl,  but  toward  evening,  or  if  the  day  were  chilly, 
became  a  sort  of  Spanish  mantilla  or  Scotch  plaid,  and 
was  brought  over  the  head  and  hung  loosely  down,  or 
was  pinned  under  the  chin  in  no  unpicturesque  fashion. 
Their  faces  were  not  remarkable  for  beauty ;  indeed,  they 
were  below  the  average,  with  one  or  two  exceptions; 
they  had  dark  hair,  neatly  and  classically  arranged,  dark 
eyes,  but  sallow  complexions  and  irregular  features.  The 
only  thing  to  strike  a  passer-by  was  an  acuteness  and 
intelligence  of  countenance  which  has  often  been  noticed 
in  a  manufacturing  population. 

There  were  also  numbers  of  boys,  or  rather  young 
men,  rambling  among  these  fields,  ready  to  bandy  jokes 
with  any  one  and  particularly  ready  to  enter  into  con* 
versation  with  the  girls,  who,  however,  held  themselves 
aloof,  not  in  a  shy,  but  rather  in  an  independent  way, 
assuming  an  indifferent  manner  to  the  noisy  wit  or  ob- 
streperous compliments  of  the  lads.  Here  and  there 
came  a  sober,  quiet  couple,  either  whispering  lovors,  or 
husband  and  wife,  as  the  case  might  be;  and  if  the 
latter,  they  were  seldom  unencumbered  by  an  infant,  tar- 
ried for  the  most  part  by  the  father,  while  occasionally 
even  three  or  four  little  toddlers  have  been  carried  or 
dragged  thus  far,  in  order  that  the  whole  family  might 
enjoy  the  delicious  May  afternoon  together.—  Mary 
Barton, 


ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL  465 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION. 

When  the  trays  reappeared  with  biscuits  and  wine, 
punctually  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  there  was  conversation, 
comparing  of  cards,  and  talking  over  tricks;  but  by-and- 
by  Captain  Brown  sported  a  bit  of  literature.  "  Have 
you  scon  any  numbers  of  the  Pickwick  Papers?"  said 
he.  (They  were  then  publishing  in  parts.)  "  Capital 
thing !  " 

Now  Miss  Jenkyns  was  daughter  of  a  deceased  pastor 
of  Cranfonl;  and  on  the  strength  of  a  number  of  manu- 
script sermons,  and  a  pretty  good  library  of  divinity, 
considered  herself  literary,  and  looked  upon  any  con- 
versation about  books  as  a  challenge  to  her.  So  she 
answered  ami  said,  "Yes,  she  had  seen  them;  indeed, 
she  might  say  she  had  read  them," 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  them?"  exclaimed  Cap- 
tain Brown.  "Aren't  they  famously  good?" 

So  urged.  Miss  Jenkyns  could  not  but  speak,  "I 
must  say*  I  don't  think  they  are  by  any  means  equal  to 
Dr.  Johnson.  Still,  perhaps,  the  author  is  young.  Let 
him  perstivonN  and  who  knows  what  he  may  become  if 
he  will  take  the  great  Doctor  for  his  model." 

This  was  evidently  too  much  for  Captain  Brown  to 
take  placidly;  and  I  saw  the  words  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  before  Miss  Jenkyns  had  finished  her  sentence. 

"*  It  is  quite  a  different  sort  of  thing,  my  dear  madam," 
he  began. 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  that,"  returned  she,  "  and  I 
make  allowances,  Captain  Brown." 

"  Jtijtt  allow  me  to  read  you  a  scene  out  of  this  month's 
number/'  pleaded  he,  **  I  had  it  only  this  morning,  and 
I  don't  think  the  company  can  have  read  it  yet" 

*4  AR  you  please,**  said  she,  settling  herself  with  an  air 
of  resignation.  He  read  the  account  of  the  "swarry" 
which  Sam  Welter  gave  at  Bath.  Some  of  us  laughed 
heartily.  /  did  not  dare,  because  I  was  staying  in  the 
house.  Mist*  Jenkyns  sat  in  patient  gravity*  When  it 
was  ended,  she  turned  to  me  and  said,  with  mild  dig* 

VOL.  X.-30 


466  ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL 

nity,  "Fetch  me  Rassclas,  my  dear,  out  of  the  book- 
room." 

When  I  brought  it  to  her,  she  turned  to  Captain 
Brown.  "  Now  allow  me  to  read  you  a  scene,  and  then 
the  present  company  can  judge  between  your  favorite, 
Mr.  Boz,  and  Dr.  Johnson." 

She  read  one  of  the  conversations  between  Rasselas 
and  Imlac,  in  a  high-pitched,  majestic  voice;  and  when 
she  had  ended,  she  said,  "  I  imagine  I  am  now  justified 
in  my  preference  of  Dr.  Johnson  as  a  writer  of  fiction.'* 
The  captain  screwed  his  lips  up,  and  drummed  on  the 
table,  but  he  did  not  speak.  She  thought  she  would  give 
a  finishing  blow  or  two. 

"  I  consider  it  vulgar,  and  below  the  dignity  of  litera- 
ture, to  publish  in  numbers." 

"  How  was  the  Rambler  published,  ma'am  ? "  asked 
Captain  Brown,  in  a  low  voice,  which  I  think  Miss  Jen* 
kyns  could  not  have  heard. 

"  Dr.  Johnson's  style  is  a  model  for  young  beginners. 
My  father  recommended  it  to  me  when  I  began  to  write 
letters.  I  have  formed  my  own  style  upon  it;  I  recom- 
mend it  to  your  favorite." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  him  to  exchange  his  style 
for  any  such  pompous  writing/'  said  Captain  Brown. 

Miss  Jenkyns  felt  this  as  a  personal  affront,  in  a  way 
of  which  the  captain  had  not  dreamed.  Epistolary  writ- 
ings she  and  her  friends  considered  as  her  forte.  Many 
a  copy  of  many  a  letter  have  I  seen  written  and  corrected 
on  the  slate  before  she  "seized  the  half-hour  just  pre- 
vious to  post-time  to  assure*'  her  friends  of  this  or  of 
that;  and  Dr.  Johnson  was,  as  she  said,  her  model  in 
these  compositions.  She  drew  herself  up  with  dignity* 
and  only  replied  to  Captain  Brown's  last  remark  by  say- 
ing, with  marked  emphasis  on  every  syllable,  4<  I  prefer 
Dr.  Johnson  to  Mr.  Boz." —  Cranford. 

THE  MINISTER. 

"  There  is  Father ! "  she  exclaimed,  pointing  out  to 
me  a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  taller  by  the  head  than 
the  other  two  with  whom  he  was  working*  We  only 


ELIZABETH  CLEGHORN  GASKELL  46? 

saw  him  through  the  leaves  of  the  ash-trees  growing  in 
the  hedge,  and  I  thought  I  must  be  confusing  the  fig- 
ures, or  mistaken:  that  man  still  looked  like  a  very 
powerful  laborer,  and  had  none  of  the  precise  demure- 
ness  of  appearance  which  I  had  always  imagined  was 
the  characteristic  of  a  minister.  It  was  the  Reverend 
Kbcne2cr  Holman,  however.  He  gave  us  a  nod  as  we 
entered  the  stubble-field,  and  I  think  he  would  have 
come  to  meet  us  but  that  he  was  in  the  middle  of  giving 
directions  to  his  men.  I  could  see  that  Phillis  was 
built  more  after  his  type  than  her  mother's.  He,  like 
his  (laughter,  was  largely  made,  and  of  a  fair,  ruddy 
complexion,  whereas  hers  was  brilliant  and  delicate.  His 
hair  had  been  yellow  or  sandy,  but  now  was  grizzled. 
Yet  his  gray  hairs  betokened  no  failure  in  strength.  I 
never  saw  a  more  powerful  man  —  deep  chest,  lean 
flanks,  well-planted  head.  By  this  time  we  were  nearly 
up  to  him,  and  he  interrupted  himself  and  stepped  for- 
ward, holding  out  his  hand  to  me,  but  addressing  Phillis. 

"  Well,  my  lass,  this  is  Cousin  Manning,  I  suppose. 
Wait  a  minute,  young  man,  and  I'll  put  on  my  coat,  and 
give  you  a  decorous  and  formal  welcome.  But,  Ned 
HallT  there  ought  to  be  a  water-furrow  across  this  land; 
it's  a  nasty,  stiff,  clayey,  dauby  bit  of  ground,  and  thou 
and  I  must  fall  to,  come  next  Monday  —  I  beg  your  par- 
don, Cousin  Manning— -and  there's  old  Jem's  cottage 
wants  a  bit  of  thatch;  you  can  clo  that  job  to-morrow 
while  I  am  busy."  Then,  suddenly  changing  the  tone 
of  his  deep  bass  voice  to  an  old  suggestion  of  chapels 
and  preachers*  he  added,  "Now,  I  will  give  out  the 
psalm,  *  Come,  all  harmonious  tongues/  to  be  sung  to 
4  Mount  Ephraim  *  tune. 

He  lifted  his  spade  in  his  hand*  and  began  to  beat 
time  with  it;  the  two  laborers  seemed  to  know  both 
words  ami  music,  though  I  did  not;  and  so  did  Phillis: 
her  rich  voiee  followed  her  father's  as  he  set  the  tune, 
awl  the  men  came  in  with  more  uncertainty,  but  har- 
moniously. Phillis  looked  at  me  once  or  twice,  with  a 
little  surprise  at  my  silence;  but  I  did  not  know  the 
words.  There  we  five  stood,  bareheaded,  excepting 
Phillis,  m  the  tawny  stubble-field,  from  which  all  the 


468  AGENOR  DE  GASPARIN 

shocks  of  corn  had  not  yet  been  carried  —  a  dark  wood 
on  one  side,  where  the  wood-pigeons  were  cooing;  blue 
distance  seen  through  the  ash-trees  on  the  other.  Some- 
how, I  think  that  if  I  had  known  the  words,  and  could 
have  sung,  my  throat  would  have  been  choked  up  by  the 
feeling  of  the  unaccustomed  scene. 

The  hymn  was  ended,  and  the  men  had  drawn  off  be- 
fore I  could  stir.  I  saw  the  minister  beginning  to  put  on 
his  coat,  and  looking  at  me  with  friendly  inspection  in  his 
gaze  before  I  could  rouse  myself. 

"  I  dare  say  you  railway  gentlemen  don't  wind  up  the 
day  with  singing  a  psalm  together,"  said  he,  *k  but  it  is 
not  a  bad  practice  —  not  a  bad  practice.  We  have  had 
it  a  bit  earlier  to-day  for  hospitality's  sake  —  that's  all." 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  this,  though  I  was  thinking  a 
great  deal.  From  time  to  time  I  stole  a  look  at  my 
companion.  His  coat  was  black,  and  so  was  his  waist- 
coat; neckcloth  he  had  none,  his  strong,  full  throat 
being  bare  above  the  snow-white  shirt  He  wore  drab- 
colored  knee-breeches,  gray  worsted  stockings  (I  thought 
I  knew  the  maker),  and  strong-nailed  shoes.  He  carried 
his  hat  in  his  hand  as  if  he  liked  to  feel  the  coming 
breeze  lifting  his  hair.  After  a  while,  I  saw  that  the 
father  took  hold  of  the  daughter's  hand,  and  so  they, 
holding  each  other,  went  along  toward  home. —  Cousin 
Phillis. 


^ASPARIN,  AGENOR  ETIENNE  DE,  a  French 
publicist  and  social  economist;  born  at 
Orange,  July  10,  1810;  died  at  Geneva,  Switz- 
erland, May  4,  1871-  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  Count 
Adrien  Pierre  de  Gasparin.  He  was  employed  by 
Guizot  as  his  secretary  in  the  Department  of  Public 
Instruction,  and  when  his  father  became  Minister  of 
the  Interior  in  1836  served  also  as  secretary  in  that 


AGENQR  DE  GASPARIN  469 

department.  In  1842  he  was  elected  deputy  for  the 
arrondissement  of  Bastia,  in  Corsica.  A  zealous 
Protestant,  he  advocated  religious  liberty,  prison  re- 
form, emancipation  of  slaves,  and  social  purity.  He 
was  not  re-elected  in  1846.  Disapproving  of  the 
course  of  Louis  Napoleon,  he  left  France,  and  took 
up  his  residence  near  Geneva,  where  he  lectured  upon 
economy,  history,  and  religion.  He  wrote  numerous 
pamphlets  on  slavery  and  other  abuses,  and  contributed 
articles  to  the  Journal  dcs  Dcbats  and  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Alondes.  Two  remarkable  works  advocating 
the  Union  cause  were  written  by  him  during  the  re- 
bellion, and  were  translated  under  the  titles  of  The 
Uprising  of  a  Great:  People:  the  United  States  in  1861 
and  America  Before  Europe  (1862).  Among  his 
other  works  arc  Slawry  and  the  Slave  Trade  (1838) ; 
Christianity  and  Paganisin  (1830);  The  Schools  of 
Doubt  and  the  School  of  Faith  (1853);  Turning 
Tablc$>  the  Supernatural  in  General  and  Spirits 
(1854)  The  Question  of  Neufchatd  (1857);  The 
Family:  Its  Duties,  Soys,  and  Sorrows,  and  Moral 
Liberty  ( i8fi8) ;  a  Life  of  Innocent  ML,  and  The  Good 
Old  Times,  the  last  two  works  being-  published  after 
his  death,  which  was  hastened  by  his  cares  for  fugi- 
tive and  wounded  soldiers  in  1871. 

TRIED  AND  FIRM, 

It  might  have  been  said  formerly  that  the  United 
States  attb«5sted  only  through  their  privileged  position 
—  without  neighbors,  consequently  without  enemies. 
Exempt  from  the  efforts  exacted  by  war,  life  had  been 
easy  to  them;  their  vast  political  edifice  had  not  been 
tried,  for  it  had  struggled  against  no  tempest,  and  there 
was  a  right  to  suppose  that  the  first  torrent  which  beat 
against  the  wall  would  overthrow  or  shake  the  founda- 


470  VAL&RIE  DE  GASPARIN 

tions.  To-day  the  torrent  has  come,  and  the  foundation 
remains.  The  impotent  nationality  which  has  been  shown 
us  submerged  beneath  the  waves  of  immigration  has 
been  found  an  energetic  and  long-lived  nationality.  In 
the  face  of  the  rebellious  South,  as  in  the  face  of  the 
menacing  South,  there  is  found  an  American  nation.  It 
has  broken  forever  —  yes,  broken,  even  in  the  event  of 
the  effective  separation  of  a  portion  of  the  South  —  the 
perfidious  weapon  of  separation.  It  has  passed  through 
the  triple  ordeal  which  all  governments  must  endure  — 
the  ordeal  of  foundation,  of  independence,  of  revolution. 
It  has  affranchised  with  one  blow  its  present  ami  its 
future.  At  the  hour  of  disasters  it  has  displayed  the 
rarest  quality  of  all  —  patience  to  repair  the  evil.  .  .  . 
I  shall  not  waste  my  time  in  demonstrating  that  if  the 
Union  come  out  of  the  crisis  victorious,  it  will  come  out 
aggrandized.  The  uprising  of  a  great  people  will  then 
have  numerous  partisans,  and  my  paradox  will  become 
a  commonplace.  I  have  been  anxious  to  establish  an- 
other theory,  no  less  true,  but  less  popular  —  to-day, 
during  the  crisis,  in  the  midst  of  difficulties  and  perils, 
whatever  may  be  the  issue  of  the  struggle,  the  uprising 
is  already  accomplished.  Already  5t  has  accepted  heavy 
charges  which  will  leave  their  traces  on  the  American 
budget,  like  the  noble  scars  which  remain  stamped  on 
the  countenance  of  conquerors*  The  uprising  is  there- 
fore already  accomplished.  It  may  be  that  the  United 
States  will  still  combat  and  suffer,  but  their  cause  will 
not  perish,  and  their  cause  is  their  greatness. —  America 
Before  Europe. 


^ASPARIN,  VALERIE  BOZSSIER  DE,  a  French 
essayist;  born  at  Geneva,  Switzerland,  Sep- 
tember 13,  1813;  died  there,  June  29*  1894. 
She  was  the  wife  of  Agenor  E.  Gasparin,  She  was  a 
moralist  of  a  high  order.  Among  her  works  are 


VAL&RIE  DE  GASPARIN  471 

riage  from  the  Christian  Point  of  View  (1842),  which 
obtained  a  prize  at  the  French  Academy;  There  are 
Poor  in  Paris  and  Elsewhere  (1846) ;  Monastic  Cor- 
porations in  the  Heart  of  Protestantism  (1855) ;  Near 
Horizons;  Heavenly  Horizons;  Vespers,  and  Human 
Sadness. 

BEHIND  A  VEIL. 

Here  again  comes  the  stiffness  of  conventionality  to 
paralyze  a  character  all  made  up  of  light  and  motion. 
Spontaneous,  unpremeditated,  it  has  the  gayety  of  a 
child;  it  has  sadness  as  well,  sudden  bursts,  impulsesf 
enthusiasms,  all  of  which  I  grant  you  are  not  in  very 
perfect  proportion;  —  the  laughter  is  sometimes  a  little 
loud;  tears  come  like  those  thunder-showers  that  all  at 
once  drown  the  sun  out  of  sight;  but  such  as  it  is,  it  is 
natural  and  it  is  charming.  I  add  that  when  tempted 
it  is  excellent,  because  it  is  true.  Now  then  let  come 
traditions,  let  come  the  world  with  its  good  society 
amazement,  and  this  poor  soul  is  afraid  of  being  itself. 
Ere  long  it  grows  ashamed  of  it;  it  dares  no  longer 
laugh  or  weep;  it  takes  refuge  in  an  artificial  coldness. 
Here  and  there  some  eccentricity  —  one  of  those  shoots 
of  impetuous  vegetation  which  pierce  through  old  walls 
to  open  out  to  the  light  —  escapes  in  look  or  tone;  in- 
stantly there  is  a  hue  and  cry.  Quick,  down  with  the 
portcullis,  up  with  the  drawbridge!  There  where  a 
coppice  full  of  songs  grew  green,  a  gray  fortress  is  ris- 
ing now;  passers-by  measure  its  height;  they  feel  an 
icy  shadow  fall  athwart  them;  they  quicken  their  steps 
toward  the  flowery  field  beyond.  And  yet  a  heart  was 
beating  there;  a  genial  spirit  gave  out  fitful  rays;  there 
was  life  still,  there  might  have  been  happiness, 

If,  at  the  least,  the  mistake  once  committed  might 
become  at  length  a  kind  of  reality;  if  one  but  moved 
freely  beneath  the  borrowed  garment!  But  no!  it  was 
made  to  fit  *ome  one  else;  we  are  not  only  uncomfort- 
able in  It,  but  we  are  awkward  as  well  These  disguises 


472  JOHN  GAUDEN 

only  half  deceive;  they  suffice  to  embarrass;  not  to  give 
one  a  home-feeling  of  ease.    .    .    . 

Alas !  and  one  may  go  on  thus  to  the  very  end ! 
When  the  end  is  come,  the  indifferent  crowd  permits 
you  to  be  buried  without  your  disguise.  Sometimes  it 
happens  that  a  curious  on-looker  stops  and  contemplates 
you;  sometimes  at  the  supreme  parting  hour  a  fold  of 
the  veil  gets  disarranged,  and  then  your  true  visage  ap- 
pears. There  it  is  all  radiant  or  all  pale.  There  is 
the  sweet  smile;  when  just  about  to  be  for  ever  extin- 
guished, it  at  length  ventures  forth  upon  the  dying  lips; 
the  glance  is  fraught  with  emotion,  tears  warm  the 
marble  face!  That  then  was  the  real  man,  the  real 
woman !  What !  so  beautiful,  so  touching,  and  I  had 
never  found  it  out !  —  Human  Sadness. 

OCTOBER. 

On  one  of  those  October  days  which  rise  all  radiant 
after  they  hav.e  once  shaken  off  their  mantle  of  mist* 
let  us  take  our  way  into  lonely  places.  The  brambles 
are  reddening  on  the  mountains;  we  hear  the  lowing  of 
the  herds  shaking  their  bells  in  the  pastures.  Here 
and  there  some  fire  rolls  out  its  smoke;  insects  rise 
slowly  with  their  little  balloons  of  white  silk;  the  bushes, 
deceived  by  the  mildness  of  the  nights,  put  forth  fresh 
shoots;  the  great  daisies,  the  scarlet  pinks,  the  sage- 
plants  that  had  flowered  in  June,  open  out  a  few  bright 
petals  here  and  there.  This  will  not  last;  winter  is  coin- 
ing on.  What  of  that?  This  last  smile  tells  me  that 
God  loves  and  means  to  console  me. —  Human 


^AUDEN,  JOHN,  an  English  prelate;  bom  at 
Mayland,  Essex,  in  1605 ;  died  September  20, 
1662*    Having  preached  a  successful  sermon 
before  Parliament,  he  was  in  1640  rewarded  by  the 


JOHN  GAUDEN  473 

rich  deanery  of  Bocking,  and  other  preferments. 
After  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  war  he  submitted 
to  the  Presbyterian  order  of  Church  Government,  and 
thus  retained  his  preferments.  In  1649,  after  the  exe- 
cution of  Charles  L,  he  wrote  A  Just  Invective  against 
those  of  the  Army  and  their.  Abettors  zvho  murthered 
King  Charles  L  This,  however,  was  not  printed  until 
after  the  Restoration  of  Charles  II.  Immediately 
after  the  Restoration  Gauden  was  made  chaplain  to 
the  King,  then  Bishop  of  Exeter,  and  in  1662  Bishop 
of  Worcester.  Between  1653  and  1660  he  wrote  a 
number  of  treatises  in  vindication  of  the  Church  of 
England  and  its  clergy,  among  which  are  A  Petition- 
ary Remonstrance  to  Oliver  Cromwell  in  behalf  of  the 
Clergy  of  England,  and  The  Tears,  Sighs,  and  Com<- 
pUiints  of  the  Church  of  England  (1659),  Antisac- 
rilegns  (1660),  besides  several  published  Sermons. 

Gaucien's  chief  claim  to  a  place  in  the  history  of 
literature  rests  upon  his  connection  with  the  Bikon 
Xtasiliki't  or  the  Pourtraicturc  of  his  sacred  Majestic  in 
his  Solitudes  and  Sufferings.  This  work,  bearing  date 
of  1649,  was  published  soon  after  the  execution  of  the 
king,  by  whom  on  its  face  it  purports  to  have  been 
written.  The  work  was  received  by  the  Royalists  as 
the  composition  of  "the  Royal  Martyr;"  but  by  oth- 
ers the  authorship  was  attributed  to  Gauden*  Volume 
upon  volume  has  l>een  written  on  both  sides  of  this 
controversy,  winch,  perhaps,  will  never  be  definitely 
settled,  since  as  late  as  1829  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth 
published  an  elaJx>rate  argument  to  show  that  King 
Charles  was  actually  the  author,  while  Mackintosh, 
Todd,  and  IVfacaulay  hold  that  the  work  belongs  to 
Gauden*  But  the  consensus  of  critical  opinion  to-day 
is  that  Gauden  was  not  the  sole  author  of  that  famous 


474  JOHN  GAUDEN 

book,  and  probably  had  but  little  share  in  its  com- 
position. 

FROM    THE   "EIK5N    BASILIK&" 

The  various  successes  of  this  unhappy  war  have  at  least 
afforded  me  variety  of  good  meditations.  Sometimes 
God  was  pleased  to  try  me  with  victory,  by  worsting 
my  enemies,  that  I  might  know  how  with  moderation 
and  thanks  to  own  and  use  His  power,  who  is  only  the 
true  Lord  of  Hosts,  able,  when  He  pleases,  to  repress 
the  confidence  of  those  that  fought  against  me  with  so 
great  advantages  for  power  and  number.  From  small 
beginnings  on  my  part,  He  let  me  see  that  I  was  not 
wholly  forsaken  by  my  people's  love  or  His  protection. 
Other  times  God  was  pleased  to  exercise  my  patience, 
and  teach  me  not  to  trust  in  the  arm  of  flesh,  but  in  the 
living  God.  My  sins  sometimes  prevailed  against  the 
justice  of  my  cause ;  and  those  that  were  with  me  wanted 
not  matter  and  occasion  for  His  just  chastisement  both 
of  them  and  me.  Nor  were  my  enemies  less  punished 
by  that  prosperity,  which  hardened  them  to  continue  that 
injustice  by  open  hostility,  which  was  begun  by  most 
riotous  and  unparliamentary  tumults. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  personal  and  private  sins  may 
ofttimes  overbalance  the  justice  of  public  engagements; 
nor  doth  God  account  every  gallant  man,  in  the  world's 
esteem,  a  fit  instrument  to  assert  in  the  way  of  war  a 
righteous  cause.  The  more  men  are  prone  to  arrogate 
to  their  own  skill,  valor,  and  strength,  the  less  doth  (io<I 
ordinarily  work  by  them  for  His  own  glory.  I  am  sure 
the  event  of  success  can  never  state  the  justice  of  any 
cause,  nor  the  peace  of  men's  consciences,  nor  the  eternal 
fate  of  their  souls. 

Those  with  me  had,  I  think,  clearly  and  undoubtedly 
for  their  justification  the  Word  of  God  and  the  laws  of 
the  land,  together  with  their  own  oaths;  all  requiring 
obedience  to  my  just  commands ;  but  to  none  other  under 
heaven  without  me,  or  against  me,  in  the  point*  of  rais- 
ing arms.  Those  on  the  other  side  are  forced  to  fly  to 
the  shifts  of  some  pretended  fears,  and  wild  fundamentals 


JUDITH  GAUTIER  475 

of  state,  as  they  call  them,  which  actually  overthrow  the 
present  fabric  both  of  Church  and  State;  being  such 
imaginary  reasons  for  self-defense  as  are  most  imperti- 
nent for  those  men  to  allege,  who,  being  my  subjects, 
were  manifestly  the  first  assaulters  of  me  and  the  laws, 
first  by  suppressed  tumults,  after  by  listed  forces.  The 
same  allegations  they  use  will  fit  any  faction  that  hath 
but  power  and  confidence  enough  to  second  with  the 
sword  all  their  demands  against  the  present  laws  and 
governors,  which  can  never  be  such  as  some  side  or  other 
will  not  find  fault  with,  so  as  to  urge  what  they  call  a 
reformation  of  them  to  a  rebellion  against  them. 

The  eminent  Dr.  South  seems  to  have  had  no  doubt 
that  Charles  L  was  really  the  author  of  the  Eikdn 
Basilikc.  He  says:  "To  go  no  further  for  a  testi- 
mony, let  his  own  writings  witness,  which  speak  him 
no  less  an  author  than  a  monarch,  composed  with  such 
a  commanding  majestic  pathos  as  if  they  had  been  writ 
not  with  a  pen  but  a  sceptre ;  and  for  those  whose  viru- 
lent and  ridiculous  calumnies  ascribe  that  incomparable 
piece  to  others,  I  say  it  is  a  sufficient  argument  that 
those  did  not  write  It  because  they  could  not." 


^AUTIER,  JUDITH,  a  French  translator,  essayist 
and  novelist;  daughter  of  Theophile  Gautier, 
and  Carlotta  Grisi,  Italian  singer;  born  at 
Paris  in  1850.  In  1869  she  married  Catulle  Mendes, 
but  was  subsequently  divorced*  Her  first  work,  The 
Rook  of  Judc  (1867)  was  published  under  the  pseu- 
donym "JUDITH  WALTHER."  This  book  was  a  col- 
lection of  prose  and  verse  translated  from  the  Chinese* 
It  wan  fallowed  in  1869  by  The  Impend  Dragon,  a 


47<5  JUDITH  GAUTIER 

Chinese  romance.  Her  later  works  are  The  Usurper, 
a  Japanese  romance  crowned  by  the  French  Academy 
in  1875;  Lucienne  (1877);  The  Cruelties  of  Lore 
(1878);  Isoline  (1881);  Poems  of  the  Dragon  Fly 
(1884);  Potiphar's  Wife  (1884);  The  Merchant  of 
Smiles:  a  drama  adapted  from  the  Chinese  (1888); 
and  The  Marriage  of  Fingue;  a  lyric  poem  (1889). 
Since  1890  she  has  devoted  herself  largely  to  the 
drama,  and  many  of  her  plays  have  scored  most  flat- 
tering success  at  the  leading  Paris  theatres.  Her 
prose  translations  from  the  Chinese  lyric  poets,  have 
been  translated  into  Italian  verse  by  Massarani. 

A    CELEBRATED    POET   OF   CHINA. 

Among  the  Chinese  the  reputation  and  homage  of  poets 
do  not  fall  off,  as  is  the  case  among  other  peoples.  Fame 
with  them  is  slower  in  coming  —  more  discriminating, 
too  — and  immeasurably  more  enduring.  In  that  vast 
and  ancient  realm  it  has  never  happened,  save  perhaps 
within  recent  days  and  under  foreign  influence*  that  a 
poet  ventures  on  his  own  assurance  to  judge  his  verses 
worthy  of  publication  in  a  book,  and  there  are  neither 
serials  nor  reviews  through  which  to  make  them  known. 
But  at  the  gatherings  of  their  literati,  where  each  takes 
his  turn  at  improvising,  or  perhaps  at  reciting  a  poem, 
if  one  happens  to  produce  something  of  really  surpassing 
merit  he  is  met  with  requests  for  the  privilege  of  copying 
it.  Those  who  preserve  a  piece  thus  taken  down  repeat 
it  in  other  places,  permitting  others  to  copy  it  anew,  until 
little  by  little,  within  a  chosen  circle,  the  poet's  name  be- 
comes diffused  like  a  clinging  fragrance. 

Here  and  there  a  solitary  author  makes  his  address 
directly  to  the  people.  He  inscribes  hist  verse  upon  the 
wall  of  a  yamen  or  temple,  or  upon  the  upright  of  a  town 
gate  —  usually  without  adding  his  name.  Passera-by  stop 
before  the  writing;  those  who  understand  it  making  com- 
ments, discussing  its  merits  and  explaining*  it  to  the  ig- 
norant, who  gather  eagerly  about.  Ha  scholar  passes 


JUDITH  GAUTIER  477 

that  way  and  judges  the  piece  worth  the  trouble  he  makes 
a  copy  of  it,  which  he  carries  off  to  show  his  friends 
and  to  keep  cherishingly. 

Poetry  thus  preserved  passes  quickly  from  lip  to  lip, 
gaining  first  recognition  and  then  popularity.  But  the 
author  must  look  to  posterity  before  this  popular  suffrage 
ranges  him  among  the  elect,  for  often  a  century  or  more 
passes  before  an  imperial  commission  of  scholars  sorts 
out  and  collects  into  volumes  all  the  poems  of  his  period 
which  fame  has  enshrined.  A  book  thus  formed  is  like 
a  nosegay  of  rare  flowers;  in  it's  pages  brother-poets  en- 
hance and  set  off  one  another's  work  in  a  charming  diver- 
sity, but  the  individual  authors,  though  they  may  have 
presentiments  of  coming  celebrity,  are  never  certain  of 
it,  and  rarely  live  to  enjoy  it. 

At  times,  however,  the  poet  receives  from  his  contem- 
poraries marks  of  respect  almost  amounting  to  veneration, 
especially  when  the  recognition  of  an  emperor  has  raised 
him  to  high  office  and  surrounded  him  with  the  halo  of 
court  distinction.  Such  was  the  case  with  Li-Tai-Pe, 
wiih  Thou-Kou,  with  all  the  splendid  pleiad  of  master 
spirits  who  gave  luster  to  the  reign  of  Ming-Hoang 
(eighth  century  A.  I').,  and  are  to-day  the  models,  oracles 
and  almost  the  patrons  of  poetry.  Yet  the  works  even  of 
these  men  were  tint  published  in  their  lifetime,  though 
their  scattered  poems  were  preserved  —  on  sheets  of  fine 
paper  or  of  white  satin  delicately  ornamented  —  with 
such  respect  that  not  one  has  been  lost, 

In  the  cluster  of  immortal  names  which  posterity  has 
culled  from  successive  dynasties  the  names  of  women  are 
very  rare.  They  occurt  however,  in  all  the  rolls  of  fame 
—  among  sovereigns,  heroes,  warriors  and  poets.  Among 
the  last  the  name  of  the  poet  Ly-y-Tanc  holds  a  corn- 
mantling  place.  She  lived  in  the  Song  dynasty,  in  the 
twelfth  century  of  our  era.  Little  is  known  about  her 
with  certainty,  except  what  is  disclosed  in  her  poems, 
which  are  very  personal,  and  give,  as  it  were,  the  con- 
fession of  a  woman's  heart. 

The  Chinese  admire  Ly-y-Tanc,  not  merely  as  a  writer 
of  graceful  awl  clever  verse,  but  as  an  enlightened  spirit, 
a  veritable  master,  skilled  in  all  the  refinements  and  feats 


478  JUDITH  GAUTIER 

of  the  poetic  art.  She  even  plays,  at  times,  with  its  rules, 
sets  herself  whimsical  rhythms,  ventures  upon  odd  inno- 
vations, which  she  achieves  with  a  certainty  that  compels 
admiration  for  her  boldness. 

Ly-y-Tanc  has  thought  for  little  more  than  one  sub- 
ject: the  incurable  wound  in  her  heart,  which  bleeds  in 
solitude.  The  loneliness,  the  seclusion,  the  helplessness 
of  the  Chinese  woman  find  expression  in  verses  of  touch- 
ing suggestiveness,  yet  without  a  word  of  open  avowal. 
The  love  which  consumes  this  Chinese  Sappho  is,  it  ap- 
pears, unknown  to  him  who  occasions  it  Perhaps  he 
has  never  even  seen  her ;  certainly  she  makes  no  effort  to 
meet  or  attract  him.  Her  position  as  a  woman,  the  forms 
and  proprieties  which  hedge  her  in,  forbid  it.  She  is 
likened  to  a  flower  in  love  with  a  bird:  having  neither 
voice  nor  wings,  she  can  do  nothing  more  than  breathe 
out  her  fresh,  sweet  life  for  him. 

At  all  times,  in  her  poetry,  Ly-y-Tanc  pictures,  to- 
gether with  her  grief,  the  surroundings  of  her  life,  and 
the  aspects  of  nature  that  fall  within  view  from  her 
chamber  window.  The  changes  of  the  seasons  are  the 
sole  events,  as  the  ornaments  of  her  room  are  the  sole 
witnesses,  of  her  life,  and  both  are  woven  into  the  tex- 
ture of  her  thought.  Read,  for  example,  these  stanzas, 
which  she  entitles :  Forebodings  in  the  Sky, 

Take  note  how  the  plants  in  our  court  enclosure 

Are  suddenly  bowed  and  twisted  under  the  wind  that 
enfolds  them  in  driving  mist 

The  great  door  is  heavily  shut; 

But  the  graceful  willows  and  the  fragile  flowers  are 
seized  upon  by  the  cold. 

Nothing  shelters  them  from  the  angry  sky,  which  seems 
vexed  as  with  misgivings  at  having  broken  up  their  mu- 
tual and  perfect  poetry. 

What  now  shall  sustain  the  hapless  one  who,  rudely 
waked  from  his  soul's  delight. 

Is  torn  from  the  sweet  illusion  which  suffused  his 
senses  with  beauty? 

When  the  wild  geese  bear  summer  away  on  their  wings 


JUDITH  GAUTIER  479 

A  thousand  hearts  shall  sadden,  not  knowing  where  to 
seek  relief  for  their  heaviness. 


In  the  upper  chamber  of  the  house  I  stay  cowering 
behind  closed  doors, 

For  the  sunshine  of  spring  is  no  more,  but  in  its  place 
cold  and  the  hoar-frost. 

The  heavy  blind  shuts  out  the  window  from  my  eyes, 

And  through  the  long  hours  I  sit,  leaning  on  its  elbow- 
rest  of  jade, 

While  the  sharp  air  makes  the  incense  burn  fast  in  the 
censer. 

Again  I  fall  into  day-deams !    .    .    . 

Indeed,  it  is  a  fault  to  indulge  this  vain  grief  over 
hopes  which  never  come  true; 

Which,  like  the  dew  of  morning,  have  all  faded 
away.  .  .  , 

The  tree  again  will  turn  to  green.    ,    .    .    but  I? 

I  low  many  returns  of  spring  shall  I  see  again? 

How  often  again  shall  I  see  the  sun  rise  through  the 
mists  ? 

How  often  again  shall  I  look  out,  as  to-day,  to  see  if 
the  fair  skies  are  coming  again? 

Is  not  the  picture  here  traced  with  a  light  and  discrimi- 
nating touch?  From  the  quaint  elegance  of  its  setting 
docs  not  the  profile  of  the  young  woman  stand  out  in 
exquisite  relief?  One  sees  her,  languidly  reclining 
against  the  jade  elbow-rest;  watching  the  scented  smoke 
stream  ttp  from  the  incense-pan.  This  thin  vapor,  out 
of  which  she  seems  to  weave  her  reverie,  is  the  only 
living  thing  near  the  solitary  girl,  who  gives  herself  up 
to  a  mysterious  grief  of  which  she  speaks  half-hintingly, 
This  deepens,  and  her  words  become  somewhat  more  ex- 
plicit in  another  piece,  which  she  calls  My  Lingering 
Eyes,  and  which  is  one  of  the  mo$t  touchingly  sad  of 
ait  her  works; 


480  JUDITH  GAUTIER 

The  ashes  turn  cold  in  the  lion-shaped  censer. 

I  toss  with  fever  on  the  red  billows  of  my  coverlet, 
and  shortly  turn  from  it  to  rise; 

But  I  lack  heart  to  dress  my  hair;  the  comb  is  too 
heavy  for  my  dejection. 

I  suffer  the  dust  to  bedim  the  precious  trinkets  on  my 
dressing-table.  .  .  . 


The  creeping  sunbeam  has  already  risen  to  the  clasp 
which  gathers  back  the  curtain.  .  .  . 

O  the  heavy  thought,  hidden  from  all,  of  a  departure 
that  I  dread,  of  a  future  yet  more  bitter. 

What  thoughts  press  to  my  lips  for  utterance  that  I 
stifle  in  my  heart! 

How  new  and  strange  for  me  to  grow  wan  with 
thought ! 

This  is  not  the  languor  after  frenzy;  still  loss  the 
melancholy  at  the  passing  of  autumn. 

All  now  is  over !    All  is  done !    He  is  leaving  to-day ! 

A  thousand  times  might  I  now  sing;  Stay  on  near  me, 
but  he  would  not  stay. 

My  thoughts  pass  out  to  that  far  country  which  is  his ; 

But  the  mist  shuts  in  my  summer-house.  Before  my 
eyes  is  nothing  save  the  slow-moving  water.  Sole  wit- 
ness of  my  grief,  perhaps  it  wonders  at  thus  always  re- 
flecting the  dull  gaze  of  my  lingering  eyes. 

Ah !  more  heavily  yet  shall  my  gaze  weigh  upon  you, 
pale  mirror,  for  the  moment  now  passing  completes  the 
grief  that  shall  fill  henceforth  the  gaze  of  my  lingering 
eyes! 

We  can  rest  certain,  now,  that  her  sadness  springs 
from  a  passion  hidden  from  all  about  her,  doubtless  even 
from  him  who  inspires  it.  This  person,  whom  she  never 
names,  is  a  stranger  tn  her  country;  perhaps  she  has 
never  spoken  to  him,  and  has  seen  him  only  through  the 
lattice  of  her  window;  but  from  the  day  that  this  Jove 
began  in  her,  peace  has  gone  out  of  her  life.  Before 


JUDITH  GAUTIER  481 

that  it  seems  she  had  been  happy,  for  this  pining  is  new 
to  her,  and  she  believes  it  incurable. 

At  times  a  faint  echo  from  the  outer  world,  conveying 
some  inkling  of  a  society  about  her,  is  heard  in  the  songs 
of  this  recluse;  but  it  is  only  such  snatches  as  can  pene- 
trate to  her  window  "from  the  environs  of  her  retreat. 
Such  is  the  case  with  a  piece  entitled  The  Feast  of  the 
Poets,  a  festivity  which  is  observed  on  the  ninth  day  of 
the  ninth  month  —  that  is,  in  autumn: 

With  drifting  mist,  with  clouds  closing  in,  the  heavy 
grief  drags  through  the  long,  long  day.  .  .  . 

The  incense  which  no  one  renews  is  dying  out  in  the 
gilded  censer. 

Is  not  this  the  sweet  season  of  the  Feast  of  Poets  which 
returns  again? 

'Tis  so  without  doubt,  since  yesterday,  for  the  first  time, 
the  jade  elbow-rest  and  the  lattice  pendant  were  cold  to 
my  fingers. 

I  hear  the  merry  companions  who  withdrew  in  couples 
to  the  shelter  behind  the  eastern  hedge,  where  they  drink 
to  the  honor  of  poets,  in  the  splendor  of  sunset. 

A  delicate  scent  is  shaken  from  their  silken  sleeves  (as 
they  raise  their  cups),  .  .  . 

But  I,  who  sit  here  dispirited, —  the  lifted  lattice  leaves 
me  unsheltered  from  the  sharp  west  wind. 

I  see  it  blow  cold  on  the  marigolds,  and  wither  them, 
even  as  my  heart  is  withered. 

In  the  last  piece  which  I  translate  the  love-lorn  girl 
diverts  her  lassitude  by  one  of  those  trifling  acts  to  which 
the  despairing  often  attach  a  superstitious  interest 

A  flower  has  opened,  out  on  the  deep  water, —  on  the 
deep  water ! 

I  cast  my  thread  toward  its  deep-hidden  roots, —  its 
deep-hidden  roots.  .  .  * 

The  mystery  of  that  dark  depth  is  troubled ;  its  stillness 
is  shivered,  and  moves  trembling  to  afar,  ,  .  * 

I  try  with  my  thread  to  ensnare  the  lotus,  as  if  his  heart 
were  there ! 

Vot.  X.— M 


482  TH&OPHILE  GAUTIER 

The  sunlight  streams  to  the  far  west;  it  dissolves,  and 
ebbs, —  alas !  it  sinks  in  night  1  —  It  sinks  in  night ! 

I  return  to  the  upper  chamber,  and  stop  before  my 
mirror, —  O  the  wan  and  haggard  face! 

That  wan  and  haggard  face ! 

The  plants  will  renew  their  green,  and  put  forth  new 
shoots  ; 

But  how  have  I,  without  hope,  even  lived  to  this  day? 

On  reading  this  piece,  with  its  impressive  refrains,  will 
not  your  thought  recur,  as  mine  does,  to  certain  poems 
of  your  admirable  Edgar  A.  Poe? 

A  detailed  biography  would  hardly  tell  more  of  the 
actual  life  of  Ly-y-Tanc  than  these  lines,  in  which  sho 
reveals  at  the  same  time  her  great  talent  and  her  great 
affliction.  It  might  tell  us  whether  she  was  a  descendant 
of  Li-Tai-Pe  (her  surname,  Ly>  like  that  of  the  poet,  is 
made  by  the  character  meaning  "The  First**). 

For  my  part,  I  have  felt  a  half-tender  admiration  in 
deciphering  the  verses  of  this  noble  and  affecting  woman, 
and  I  am  happy  in  being  the  first,  as  I  believe,  to  make 
heard  outside  of  the  Chinese  Empire  the  soft-sounding 
name  of  Ly-y-Tanc. — From  The  Independent. 


^AUTIER,  TH&DPHILE,  a  French  poet,  novelist* 
and  critic;  born  at  Tarbes,  Gascony,  August 
31,  i8ir;  died  at  Neuilly,  October  22,  1872. 
He  was  educated  at  the  Lycee  Charlemagne,  Paris,  and 
on  completing  his  college  course  entered  the  studio  of 
Rioult,  intending  to  become  a  painter.  After  two 
years'  study  he  turned  from  art  to  literature,  and  joined 
in  the  revolt  against  the  formalism  of  the  French  classic 
school.  His  first  volume  of  Poisies  (1830)  was  fol- 
lowed in  1832  by  Albertus,  a  "  theological  legend/*  In 
1833  he  published  a  volume  of  tales,  Les  Jeu&e$- 


GAUTIKK. 


TH&OPHILE  GAUTIER  483 

and  in  1835  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,  a  novel  which 
was  pronounced,  even  in  France,  immoral.    To  this 
time  belongs  a  series  of  critical  papers  on  the  poets  of 
the  time  of  Louis  XIII.  which  were  afterward  pub- 
lished in   1843,  under  the  title  of  Les  Grotesques. 
These  were  written  for  La  France  Littcraire,  of  which 
Gautier  was  editor.    He  also  contributed  to  the  Revue 
de  Paris,  L' Artiste,  and  other  papers.    In  1836  he  be- 
came literary  and  dramatic  editor  of  La  Presse,  in  1854 
of  Le  Monitcitr  Universel,  and  in  1869  °f  Le  Journal 
OfRcicl.    His  journalistic  labors  alone  were  enormous. 
It  is  said  that  a  complete  collection  of  his  articles  would 
fill  three  hundred  volumes.    He  continued  to  write 
novels  and  poems.    La  Comfdic  de  la  Mortc  (1838), 
Poesies  (1840),  and  Einau*  et  Cawecs  (1852)  all  dis- 
play true  poetic  feeling  and  a  marvellous  command  of 
poetic  form.    Gautier  traveled  in  most  of  the  coun- 
tries of  Europe,  and  wrote  several  books  embodying 
his  observations;  among  them  Italia  (1853)  and  Con- 
stantinople (1854).    He  wrote  also  for  the  stage,  La 
Tricornc  Rnchantc  (1845)  tein£  perhaps  his  best  play. 
His  short  stories  stand  in  the  first  rank  of  this  class 
of  fiction*    The  best  of  his  novels  are  MUitona  (1847) »' 
J>  Roman  dc  la  Atomic  ( 1856) ;  Lt  Capitainc  Fracassc 
(1863),  ami  Spirttc  (1866)*    Besides  the  works  of 
travel  already  mentioned  are  Caprices  et  Zigzags;  Voy- 
age en  Russic,  and  Voyage  en  Espagne.    L'Histoire 
dt  VArt  Dramatiquc  en  Franc*  dcpuis  vingt-cinq  Ans 
contains  some  of  his  best  critical  papers.    His  last 
work,  Tableaux  du  Sttge,  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  Paris 
at  the  time  of  its  investment  by  the  German  troopSu 


484  TH&OPHILE  GAUTIER 


THE  ROYAL  SEPULCHRES  OF  THEBES. 

The  director  of  excavations  went  on  a  little  in  advatice 
of  the  nobleman  and  the  savant,  with  the  air  of  a  well- 
bred  person  who  knows  the  rules  of  etiquette,  and  his 
step  was  firm  and  brisk,  as  though  he  were  quite  confident 
of  success.  They  soon  reached  a  narrow  defile  leading 
into  the  valley  of  Biban-el-Molook.  It  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  cut  by  the  hand  of  man  through  the  thick  wall  of  the 
mountain  instead  of  being  a  natural  cleft,  as  if  the  spirit 
of  solitude  had  sought  to  render  inaccessible  this  kingdom 
of  the  dead.  On  the  perpendicular  walls  of  the  riven 
rock  the  eye  could  discern  imperfect  remains  of  sculp- 
tures, injured  by  the  ravages  of  time,  that  might  have 
been  taken  for  inequalities  of  the  stone,  aping  the 
crippled  personages  in  a  half-effaced  bas-relief.  Beyond 
the  gorge  the  valley  widened  a  little,  presenting  a  spec- 
tacle of  the  most  mournful  desolation.  On  either  side 
rose  in  steep  crags  enormous  masses  of  calcareous  rock, 
corrugated,  splintered,  crumbling,  exhausted,  and  drop- 
ping to  pieces  in  an  advanced  state  of  decomposition 
under  an  implacable  sun.  These  rocks  resembled  the 
bones  of  the  dead,  calcined  on  a  funeral  pyre,  and  an 
eternity  of  weariness  was  expressed  in  the  yawning 
mouths,  imploring  the  refreshing  drop  that  never  fell. 
Their  walls  rose  almost  in  a  vertical  line  to  a  great 
height,  marking  out  their  indented  tops  of  a  grayish 
white  against  a  sky  of  deepest  indigo,  like  the  turrets  of 
some  gigantic  ruined  fortress.  A  part  of  the  funeral 
valley  lay  at  a  white  heat  under  the  rays  of  the  sun;  the 
rest  was  bathed  in  that  crude  bluish  tint  of  torrid  lands 
which  seems  unreal  at  the  North  when  artists  reproduce 
it,  and  which  is  as  clearly  defined  as  the  shadows  on  an 
architectural  plan. 

The  valley  lengthened  out,  now  making  an  angle  in 
one  direction,  now  entangling  it>elf  in  a  gorge  in  another, 
as  the  spurs  and  projections  of  the  bifurcated  chain  ad- 
vanced or  receded.  According  to  a  peculiarity  of  cli- 
mates when  the  atmosphere,  entirely  free  from  moisture, 
possessed  a  perfect  transparence,  aerial  perspective  did 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  485 

not  exist  in  this  theatre  of  desolation;  every  little  detail 
was  sketched  in,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  with  a 
painful  accuracy,  and  their  distance  made  evident  only 
by  a  decrease  in  size,  as  if  a  cruel  Nature  did  not  care  to 
hide  any  of  the  poverty  or  misery  of  this  barren  spot, 
more  dead  itself  than  those  whom  it  covered. 

Over  the  wall,  on  the  sunny  side,  fell  a  fiery  stream 
of  blinding  light  such  as  emanates  from  metals  in  a  state 
of  fusion.  Every  rocky  surface,  transformed  into  a 
burning  mirror,  sent  it  glancing  back  with  even  greater 
intensity.  These  reacting  rays,  joined  to  the  scorching 
beams  that  fell  from  the  heavens,  and  were  reflected 
again  from  the  earth,  produced  a  heat  equal  to  that  of  a 
furnace,  and  the  poor  German  doctor  constantly  sponged 
his  face  with  his  blue-checked  handkerchief,  that  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  dipped  in  water.  You  could  not  have 
found  a  handful  of  soil  in  the  whole  valley,  so  there  was 
no  blade  of  grass,  no  bramble,  no  creeping  vine  of  any 
kind,  or  growth  of  lichen,  to  break  the  uniform  whiteness 
of  the  torrified  ground.  The  crevices  and  dents  in  the 
rocks  did  not  contain  enough  moisture  to  feed  even  the 
slender,  thread-like  roots  of  the  poorest  wall-plant.  It 
was  like  a  vast  bed  of  cinders  left  from  a  chain  of  moun- 
tains burnt  out  in  some  great  planetary  fire  in  the  day  of 
cosmic  catastrophes:  to  make  the  comparison  more  com- 
plete, long,  black  streaks,  like  scars  left  by  cauterizing, 
ran  down  the  chalky  sides  of  the  peaks.  Absolute  silence 
reigned  over  this  scene  of  devastation;  not  a  breath  of 
life  disturbed  it ;  there  was  no  flutter  of  wings,  no  hum  of 
insects,  no  rustling  of  Hoards  and  other  reptiles ;  even  the 
tiny  cymbal  of  the  grasshopper,  that  friend  of  arid 
wastes,  could  not  be  heard,  A  sparkling,  micaceous  dust, 
like  powdered  sandstone,  covered  the  ground,  and  here 
and  there  formed  mounds  over  the  stones  dug  from  the 
depths  of  the  chain  with  the  relentless  pickaxes  of  past 
generations  and  the  tools  of  troglodyte  workmen  prepar- 
ing under  ground  the  eternal  dwelling-places  of  the  dead. 
The  fragments  torn  from  the  interior  of  the  mountain  had 
made  other  hills  friable  heaps  of  stones,  that  might  have 
been  taken  for  a  natural  ridge.  In  the  sides  of  the  rock 
were  black  holes,  surrounded  by  scattered  blocks  of 


486  TH&OPHILE  GAUTIER 

stone  —  square  openings  flanked  by  pillars  covered  with 
hieroglyphics,  and  having  on  their  lintels  mysterious  car- 
touches that  contained  the  sacred  scaraboeus  in  a  great, 
yellow  disk  the  Sun  as  a  ram's  head,  and  the  goddesses 
Isis  and  Nephthys,  standing  or  kneeling.  These  were 
the  royal  sepulchres  of  Thebes. —  The  Romance  of  a 
Mummy;  translation  of  AUGUSTA  McC  WRIGHT. 

THE   CLOSE   OF   DAY. 

The  daylight  died;  a  filmy  cloud 

Left  lazily  the  zenith  height, 
In  the  calm  river  scarcely  stirred, 

To  bathe  its  flowing  garment  white. 

Night  came:  Night  saddened  but  serene, 
In  mourning    for   her   brother    Day; 

And  every  star  before  the  queen 
Bent,  robed  in  gold,  to  own  her  sway. 

The  turtle-dove's  soft  wail  was  heard, 
The  children  dreaming  in  their  sleep; 

The  air  seqmed  filled  with  rustling  wings 
Of  unseen  birds  in  downy  sweep. 

Heaven  spake  to  earth  in  murmurs  low, 
As  when  the  Hebrew  prophets  trod 

Her  hills  of  old;  one  word  I  know 
Of  that  mysterious  speech  —  'tis  God 

—  Translation  of  AMELIA  D.  ALDEN, 

THE  FIRST  SMILE  OF  SPRING. 

While  to  their  vexatious  toil,  breathless,  men  arc  hurry- 
ing, 

March,  who  laughs  despite  of  showers,  secretly  prepares 
the  Spring. 

For  the  Easter  daisies  small,  while  they  sleep,  the  cun- 
ning fellow 

Paints  anew  their  collarettes,  burnishes  their  buttons 
yellow; 


TH&OPHILE  GAUTIER  48? 

Goes,  the  sly  perruquier,  to  the  orchard,  to  the  vine, 
Powders  white  the  almond-tree  with  a  puff  of  swan's- 
down  fine. 

To  the  garden  bare  he  flies,  while  dame  Nature  still  re- 
poses ; 
In  their  vests  of  velvet  green,  laces  all  the  budding  roses ; 

Whistles  in  the  blackbird's  ear  new  roulades  for  him  to 

follow ; 
Sows  the  snow-drop  far  and  near,  and  the  violet  in  the 

hollow. 

On  the  margin  of  the  fountain,  where  the  stag  drinks, 

listening, 
From  his  hidden  hand  he  scatters  silvery  lily-buds  for 

Spring; 

Hides  the  crimson  strawberry  in  the  grass,  for  thee  to 

seek; 
Plaits  a  leafy  hat,  to  shade  from  the  glowing  sun  thy 

cheek. 

Then,  when  all  his  task  is  done,  past  his  reign,  away  he 

hies ; 
Turns  his  head  at  April's  threshold ;  —  *e  Springtime,  you 

may  come  I  "  he  cries* 

—  Translation  of  AMELIA  D,  ALDEN. 


DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOWS. 

The  rain-drops  plash,  and  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

On  spire  and  cornice  and  mould; 
The  swallows  gather,  and  twitter  and  call, 
"  We  must  follow  the  Summer,  come  one,  come  all, 

For  the  Winter  is  now  so  cold." 

Just  listen  awhile  to  the  wordy  war, 

As  to  whither  the  way  shall  tend, 
Says  one,  "I  know  the  skies  arc  fair 
And  myriad  insects  float  in  air 

Where  the  ruins  of  Athens  stand. 


488  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

"  And  every  year  when  the  brown  leaves  fall, 

In  a  niche  of  the  Parthenon 
I  build  my  nest  on  the  corniced  wall, 
In  the  trough  of  a  devastating  ball 

From  the  Turk's  besieging  gun/' 

Says  another,  "  My  cosey  home  I  fit 

On  a  Smyrna  grande  cafe 
Where  over  the  threshold  Hadjii  sit. 
And  smoke  their  pipes  and  their  coffee  sip, 

Dreaming  the  hours  away." 

Another  says,  "  I  prefer  the  nave 

Of  a  temple  in  Baalbec; 

There  my  little  ones  lie  when  the  palm-trees  wave, 
And,  perching  near  on  the  architrave, 

I  fill  each  open  beak." 

"  Ah !  "  says  the  last,  "  I  build  wy  nest 

Far  up  on  the  Nile's  green  shore. 
Where  Memnon  raises  his  stony  crest. 
And  turns  to  the  sun  as  he  leaves  his  rest, 

But  greets  him  with  song  no  more. 

"  In  his  ample  neck  is  a  niche  so  wide, 

And  withal  so  deep  and  free, 
A  thousand  swallows  their  nests  can  hide, 
And  a  thousand  little  ones  rear  beside  — 

Then  come  to  the  Nile  with  me.'1 

They  go,  they  go  to  the  river  and  plain, 

To  ruined  city  and  town, 
They  leave  me  alone  with  the  cold  again, 
Beside  the  tomb  where  my  joys  have  lain, 

With  hope  like  the  swallows  flown. 

—  Translation  of  H&mr  VAN 


JOHN  GAY 


b AY,  JOHN,  an  English  poet ;  born  at  Barnstable, 
September  I,  1685;  died  at  London,  Decem- 
ber 4,  1732.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  silk- 
mercer  in  London,  but  turned  his  attention  to  literary 
pursuits.  In  1711  he  published  Rural  Sports,  a  poem 
dedicated  to  Pope,  which  led  to  a  close  friendship  be- 
tween the  two  poets.  This  was  followed  by  The 
Shepherd's  Week,  a  kind  of  parody  on  the  Pastorals  of 
Ambrose  Philips.  He  subsequently  wrote  several 
comedies;  and  in  1727  brought  out  The  Beggars 
Opera,  which  produced  fame  and  money.  This  was 
followed  by  the  comic  opera  of  Polly,  the  representa- 
tion of  which  was  forbidden  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 
It  was  printed  by  subscription,  and  netted  some  £1,000 
or  £1,200  to  the  author.  Other  works  are  The  What 
D'ye  Call  It,  a  farce  (1715) ;  Poems,  including  Black- 
Eyed  Susan  and  The  Captives,  a  tragedy  (1724) ;  Ads 
and  Galatea  (1732).  Gay  lost  nearly  all  of  his  con- 
siderable property  in  the  "  South  Sea  Bubble,"  and 
during  the  later  years  of  his  life  he  was  an  inmate  of 
the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Queensberry.  Apart  from 
the  two  comic  operas,  Gay's  best  works  are  Trivia,  or 
the  Art  of  Walking  the  Streets  of  London,  and  the 
Fables,  of  which  a  very  good  edition  was  published 
in  1856. 

WALKING  THE  STREETS  OF  LONDON. 

Through  winter  streets  to  steer  your  course  aright, 
How  to  walk  clean  by  clay,  and  safe  by  night; 
How  jostling  crowds  with  prudence  to  decline. 
When  to  assert  the  wall,  and  when  resign, 
I  sing;  thou,  Triviat  goddess,  aid  my  song, 
Through  spacious  streets  conduct  thy  bard  along: 


490  JOHN  GAY 

By  thee  transported,  I  securely  stray 
Where  winding  alleys  lead  the  doubtful  way; 
The  silent  court  and  opening  square  explore, 
And  long  perplexing  lanes  untrod  before. 
To  pave  thy  realm,  and  smooth  the  broken  ways 
Earth  from  her  womb  a  flinty  tribute  pays : 
For  thee  the  sturdy  pavior  thumps  the  ground, 
Whilst'  every  stroke  his  laboring  lungs  resound ; 
For  thee  the  scavenger  bids  kennels  glide 
Within  their  bounds,  and  heaps  of  dirt  subside. 
My  youthful  bosom  burns  with  thirst  of  fame, 
From  the  great  theme  to  build  a  glorious  name; 
To  tread  in  paths  to  ancient  bards  unknown, 
And  bind  my  temples  with  a  civic  crown : 
But  more  my  country's  love  demands  my  lays; 
My  country's  be  the  profit,  mine  the  praise ! 

When  the  black  youth  at  chosen  stands  rejoice, 
And  "  Clean  your  shoes I  "  resounds  from  every  voice, 
When  late  their  miry  sides  stage-coaches  show, 
And  their  stiff  horses  through  the  town  move  slow; 
When  all  the  Mall  in  leafy  ruin  lies, 
And  damsels  first  renew  their  oyster-cries; 
Then  let  the  prudent  walker  shoes  provide, 
Not  of  the  Spanish  or  Morocco  hide; 
The  wooden  heel  may  raise  the  dancer's  bound, 
And  with  the  scalloped  top  his  step  be  crowned: 
Let  firm,  well-hammered  soles  protect  thy  feet 
Through  freezing  snows,  and  rains,  and  soaking  sleet 
Should  the  big  last  extend  the  shoe  too  wide* 
Each  stone  will  wrench  the  unwary  step  aside; 
The  sudden  turn  may  stretch  the  swelling  vein, 
Thy  cracking  joint  unhinge,  or  ankle  sprain ; 
And  when  too  short  the  modish  shoes  are  worn, 
You'll  judge  the  seasons  by  your  shooting  corn. 

Nor  should  it  prove  thy  less  important  care 
To  choose  a  proper  coat  for  winters  wear, 
Now  in  thy  trunk  thy  D'Oily  habit  fold, 
The  silken  drugget  ill  can  fence  the  cold; 
The  frieze's  spongy  nap  is  soaked  with  rain, 
And  showers  soon  drench  the  camblet's  cockled  grain; 
True  Witney  broadcloth,  with  its  shag  unshorn, 


JOHN  GAY  491 

Unpierced  is  in  the  lasting  tempest  worn: 
Be  this  the  horseman's  fence,  for  who  would  wear 
Amid  the  town  the  spoils  of  Russia's  bear? 
Within  the  roquelaure's  clasp  thy  hands  are  pent, 
Hands,  that,  stretched  forth,  invading  harms  prevent 
Let  the  looped  bavaroy  the  fop  embrace, 
Or  his  deep  cloak  bespattered  o'er  with  lace. 
That  garment  best  the  winter's  rage  defends, 
Whose  ample  form  without  one  plait  depends; 
By  various  names  in  various  counties  known, 
Yet  held  in  all  the  true  surtout  alone; 
Be  thine  of  kersey  firm,  though  small  the  cost, 
Then  brave  unwet  the  rain,  unchilled  the  frost. 
If  thy  strong  cane  support  thy  walking  hand, 
Chairmen  no  longer  shall  the  wall  command; 
Even  sturdy  carmen  shall  thy  nod  obey, 
And  rattling  coaches  stop  to  make  thee  way : 
This  shall  direct  thy  cautious  tread  aright, 
Though  not  one  glaring  lamp  enliven  night. 
Let  beaux  their  canes,  with  amber  tipt,  produce; 
Be  theirs  for  empty  show,  but  thine  for  use. 
In  gilded  chariots  while  they  loll  at  ease, 
And  lazily  insure  a  life's  disease; 
While  softer  chairs  the  tawdry  load  convey 
To  Court,  to  White's,  assemblies,  or  the  play; 
Rosy-complexionecl  Health  thy  steps  attends, 
And  exercise  thy  lasting  youth  defends. 

—  Trivia. 

THE  HARE  WITH  MANY  FRIENDS. 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name, 
Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care* 
'Tis  thus  in  friendship:  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 
A  Hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way, 
Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 
Who  haunt  the  wood  or  graze  the  plain: 


492  JOHN  GAY 

Her  care  was   never  to  offend, 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 
As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn, 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind   she  hears  the  hunter's  cries, 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And   measures    back   her    mazy    round; 
Till,   fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half-dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay ; 
What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  Horse  appeared  in  view ! 
"Let  me/'  says  she,  "your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight; 
To   friendship   every  burden's  light/' 

The  Horse  replied :  "  Poor  Honest  Puss 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  you  thus; 
Be  comforted;  relief  is  near, 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear." 

She  next  the  stately  Bull  implored, 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord: 
"  Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
Love  calls  me  hence;  a  favorite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley-mow; 
And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case, 
You  know,  all  other  things  give  place. 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind ; 
But  see,  the  Goat  is  just  behind/* 

The  Goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye; 
"  My  back,"  says  he,  "  may  do  you  harm ; 
The  Sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm/* 
The  Sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained: 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears, 


JOHN  GAY  493 

For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  well  as  hares. 
She  now  the  trotting  Calf  addressed, 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 
"  Shall  I,"  says  he,  "  of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage? 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by; 
How  strong  are  those,  how  weak  am  I ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then.    You  know  my  heart; 
But  dearest  friends,  alas !  must  part. 
How  shall  we  all  lament!   Adieu! 
For,  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view ! " 

—  The  Shepherd's  Week. 

BLACK-EYED   SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard: 

"  Oh  !  whore  shall  I  my  true  love  find  ? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew!" 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 

Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard, 

lie  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below: 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 
And,  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast, 
If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 

And  drops  at  onec  into  her  nest. 
The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Mighty  envy  William's  lips  those  kisses  sweet 

"O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

Nfy  vow«  shall  ever  true  remain; 
Tx^t  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 


494  MARIE  FRANCOI5E  SOPHIE  GAY 

Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds !  my  heart  shall  be, 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"  Believe   not  what  the   landsmen   say, 
Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind ; 

They'll  tell  thee,  sailors  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find. 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  thou  art  present  whereso-er  I  go. 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye/* 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosoms  spread; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard; 

They  kissed  —  she  sighed  —  he  hung  his  head, 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land, 
"Adieu!"  she  cries,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 


AY,  MARIE  FRANCHISE  SOPHIE  DE  LA  VALETTE, 
a  French  novelist;  born  at  Paris,  July  i,  1776; 
died  there  in  March,  1852.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  financier  to  "Monsieur,"  afterward 
Louis  XVIIL,  and  was  carefully  educated  by  her 


MARIE  FRANC  OISE  SOPHIE  GAY  495 

father.  When  seventeen  years  of  age  she  entered 
upon  an  unhappy  marriage,  but  obtained  a  divorce  in 
1799.  She  afterward  married  M.  Gay,  Receiver-Gen- 
eral in  the  department  of  Roer,  and  went  to  reside  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle.  Her  beauty,  wit,  and  amiability  at- 
tracted many,  and  her  husband's  position  widened  her 
circle  of  acquaintances.  She  was  a  fine  musician,  a 
performer  on  the  piano  and  harp,  and  composed  both 
words  and  music  of  several  romances.  Her  first  liter- 
ary work,  a  defence  of  Mme.  de  Stael's  Delphine,  was 
published  in  1802  in  the  Journal  de  Paris.  In  the  same 
year  she  published  anonymously  a  romance,  Laure 
d'Estcll.  Lconie  de  Montbrcusc  (1813)  was  her  next 
novel.  It  was  followed  in  1815  by  Anatole,  the  most 
popular  of  her  works.  She  contributed  to  La  Presse 
and  other  papers,  and  wrote  several  successful  dramas. 
Among  her  other  works  are  Theobald  (1828)  ;  Un 
Manage  sous  I*  Empire  (1832)  ;  Seines  du  Jeune  Age 
(1832)  ;  Souvenirs  d'ttnc  Vicille  Femmc  (1834)  ;  Les 
Salons  Cttebrcs  (1837);  Marie-Louise  df  Orleans 
(1842);  Lc  Faux  Frtre  and  Lc  Comte  de  Guiche 


NEW  YEAR'S  GIFTS  m 

The  reunions  begin;  already  some  persons  have  ap- 
pointed their  reception  evenings,  but  the  soir6es  are  not 
complete;  for  those  husbands  who  are  great  proprietors 
make  a  pretext  of  their  plantations  and  agricultural  cares, 
to  keep  their  young  wives,  as  long  as  possible,  far  from 
the  pleasures  the  city  offers  ;  not  reflecting  that  the  rich- 
est love  to  pass  over  the  season  for  gifts,  considering 
them  a  species  of  tax  imposed  upon  the  vanity  of  the 
avaricious,  as  well  as  that  of  the  lavish,  from  which  dis- 
tance and  solitude  can  alone  disfranchise. 

It  is  toward  the  20th  of  December  that  the  scourge 
begins  to  be  felt;  first,  a  general  agitation  is  perceived, 


496  MARIE  FRANQOISE  SOPHIE  GAY 

arising  from  perplexity  in  the  choice  of  objects  that  will 
gratify  the  recipients;  to  this  succeeds  despair  of  ever 
reconciling  the  gift  one  selects  with  the  price  she  can  or 
will  give.  Oh!  the  sleepless  nights  that  follow  days  of 
anxious  thought;  the  fear  lest  the  present  should  be  too 
useful,  and  hurt  the  pride  of  the  'friend,  or  too  fanciful, 
and  imply  that  she  is  capricious ;  but  it  is  less  dangerous 
to  consult  her  caprices  than  her  needs,  and  the  talent  of 
divining  the  one  or  the  other  is  seldom  attended  with 
success. 

Nothing  can  equal  the  tacit  ambition  of  the  receivers 
of  the  New  Year's  gifts.  Already  the  caresses  of  the 
children,  the  assiduity  of  the  servants,  is  in  ratio  to  the 
gifts  they  hope  to  receive  from  their  relations  or  mas- 
ters. Already  the  jewellers  polish  their  old  jewels,  that 
they  may  sell  them  as  new  to  strangers  and  provincials, 
who  would  be  ill  received  on  their  return  home,  if  not 
the  envoys  of  robes,  hats,  and  jewels,  esteemed  in  the 
mode.  The  gift  is  the  passport  to  a  welcome  from  their 
families.  .  .  . 

If  this  month  has  its  charges,  it  has  also  its  profits; 
the  service  in  every  house  is  performed  with  more  ex- 
actness; there  are  no  letters  lost,  no  journals  missing,  the 
visiting  cards  are  punctually  delivered  to  those  who  claim 
them,  the  lodger  no  longer  knocks  twenty  times  at  the 
carriage  entrance  before  the  gate  is  opened*  the  lx>x- 
keeper  does  not  keep  you  waiting  in  the  lobby  of  the 
theatre,  the  coachman  is  more  seldom  drunk,  the  cook 
leaves  in  repose  the  cover  of  the  basket,  the  chambermaid 
grumbles  no  longer,  the  children  do  not  cry  when  nothing 
is  the  matter,  the  governesses  intermit  their  beating*, 
everything  goes  on  more  easily,  each  one  d«e,<  his  duty, 
every  courtier  is  at  his  post  —  for  each  one  hope  a  to  have 
his  name  inscribed  on  the  list  for  favors;  the  salons  of 
the  ministers  are  filled,  government  meets  with  less  re- 
sistance, princes  with  fewer  assassins. 

But  how  many  deceptions,  jealousies  even  enmities, 
date  their  birth  from  this  deceitful  month!  What  con- 
strained visages,  what  contortions  and  grimace*  of  grati* 
tude,  without  counting  the  conjugal  kiss  I  We  will  favor 


MARIE  FRANCOISE  SOPHIE  GAY  407 

our  friends  with  titles  of  the  different  species  of  New 
Year's  gifts: 

First,  the  duty  gift,  given  and  received  as  the  payment 
of  a  bill  of  exchange;  that  is  to  say,  grudgingly  on  one 
side,  and  with  no  gratitude  on  the  other. 

Next,  the  impost  duty,  which  it  is  necessary  to  satisfy; 
under  penalty  of  being  served  the  last,  or  even  not  at  all, 
when  you  dine  with  your  friends. 

The  chance  gift,  which  simply  consists  in  giving  this 
year  to  the  new  friends  the  little  presents  that  were  re- 
ceived the  year  before  from  the  old  ones.  This  is  the 
ass's  bridge  of  the  vain  economists. 

The  fraudulent  gift,  which  is  particularly  flattering,  as 
it  purports  to  have  been  purchased  for  the  friend,  or  to 
have  been  sent  by  an  old  aunt,  whose  three  year's 
revenue  could  not  pay  for  this  lying  gift. 

The  waning  gift.  This  reveals  the  phases  and  revolu- 
tions foreseen  by  astronomers  of  the  heart,  where  love 
passes  to  friendship,  friendship  to  habit,  habit  to  indiffer- 
ence. This  species  of  gift  commences  ordinarily  with 
sonic  rich  talisman,  the  luxury  of  which,  above  all,  con- 
sists in  its  usclcssncss,  and  ends  with  a  bag  of  confec- 
tionery. 

We  have  also  the  politic  gift,  the  most  ingenious  of  all, 
invented  by  fortune-hunters,  solicitors,  and  artful  women. 

It  is  only  a  few  choice  spirits  who  have  the  finesse 
essential  to  success  in  this  last  present.  They  must  not 
only  give  but  little  to  obtain  much;  but  the  choice  of  the 
present,  and  the  means  of  making  it  available,  require 
shrewdness  and  address*  Wish  you  some  place  depend- 
ent upon  a  minister?  Gain  an  introduction  to  his  wife, 
or,  if  faithless  to  her,  to  the  concealed  object  of  his  pas- 
sion; study  her  caprice  that  he  has  forgotten  to  satisfy; 
s«»ml  your  offering  anonymously;  your  meaning  will  be 
<livitu*<l  by  her,  and  the  office  you  desire  be  obtained  from 
him.  Does  your  fate  depend  upon  a  brave  administrator 
who«*e  wife  is  faithful?  Fear  not  ruining  yourself  in 
baubles  for  the  children;  your  place  is  more  sure  than  the 
revenues  of  Spain. 

Do  ywi  wish  to  assure  yourself  of  an  inheritance  front 
$f  me  old  relation?  Observe  his  mania;  endeavor  to  dis- 

VtH*  X.~-,J2 


4Q8  SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY 

cover  what  is  the  piece  of  furniture,  the  book,  or  the  ex- 
quisite dish  that  his  avarice  refuses  him;  give  a  watch  to 
his  housekeeper's  little  son;  persuade  her  to  obtain  a  pen- 
sion from  the  old  man  for  the  child,  and  you  will  not 
miss  of  the  inheritance.  This  is  the  politic  gift  in  all  its 
diplomacy.  As  to  the  calculations  of  the  woman  who 
constrains  or  excites  the  generosity  of  her  friends  by  her 
rich  offerings,  this  is  to  be  classed  among  vulgar  specu- 
lations.—  Celebrated  Salons;  translation  of  J.  WILLARD. 


SYDNEY  HOWARD,  an  American  journalist 
and  historian ;  born  at  Hingham,  Mass.,  May 
22,  1814;  died  at  New  Brighton,  N*  Y.f  June 
25,  1888.  He  entered  Harvard  College  at  fifteen,  but 
left  without  graduating  on  account  of  ill  health.  Af- 
ter spending  some  years  in  a  counting-house  he  began 
the  study  of  law ;  this  he  abandoned  for  the  reason  tliat 
he  could  not  conscientiously  take  the  oath  to  maintain 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  which  required 
the  surrender  of  fugitive  slaves.  In  1842  he  became  an 
anti-slavery  lecturer ;  in  1844  editor  of  the  Anti-Slawry 
Standard,  retaining  that  position  until  1857,  when  he 
joined  the  editorial  staff  of  the  New  York  Tribune, 
of  which  he  was  managing  editor  from  1862  to  1866. 
From  1867  to  1871  he  was  managing  editor  of  the 
Chicago  Tribune.  In  1872  he  became  one  of  the  edi- 
tors of  the  New  York  Ewmng  Post.  Two  years  af- 
terward William  Cullen  Bryant  was  asked  by  a  pub* 
lishing  house  to  undertake  the  preparation  of  an  illus- 
trated History  of  the  United  States*  He  consented 
upon  condition  that  the  work  should  be  actually  exe- 
cuted by  Mr.  Gay,  his  own  advanced  age  rendering  it 


SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY  499 

impossible  that  he  should  undertake  a  labor  of  such 
magnitude.  This  History  of  the  United  States,  com- 
prising four  large  volumes  (1876-80),  was  really  writ- 
ten by  Mr.  Gay,  with  the  aid  in  the  latter  portion  of 
several  collaborators,  among  whom. were  Alfred  H. 
Guernsey,  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Henry  P.  Johnson, 
Rossiter  Johnson,  and  Horace  E.  Scudder.  Mr.  Gay 
also  wrote  a  Life  of  James  Madison  (1884),  and  was 
at  the  time  of  his  death  engaged  upon  a  Life  of  Ed- 
mund Quincy. 

THE    MOUND-BUILDERS    OF   AMERICA. 

The  dead  and  buried  culture  of  the  ancient  people  of 
North  America,  to  whose  memory  they  themselves 
erected  such  curious  monuments,  is  specially  noteworthy 
in  that  it  differs  from  all  other  extinct  civilizations. 
Allied,  on  the  one  hand,  to  the  rude  conditions  of  the 
Stone  Age,  in  which  the  understanding  of  man  does  not 
aim  at  much  beyond  some  appliance  that  shall  aid  his 
naked  hands  in  procuring  a  supply  of  daily  food,  it  is 
yet  far  in  advance  of  that  rough  childhood  of  the  race; 
and  while  it  touches  the  Age  of  Metal,  it  is  almost  as 
far  behind,  and  suggests  the  semi-civilization  of  other 
pre-historic  races  who  left  in  India,  in  Egypt,  and  the 
centre  of  the  Western  Continent,  magnificent  architect- 
ural ruins  and  relics  of  the  sculptor's  art,  which,  though 
barbaric,  were  nevertheless  full  of  power  peculiar  to 
those  parallel  regions  of  the  globe. 

It  is  hardly  conceivable  that  those  imposing  earth- 
works were  meant  for  mere  outdoor  occupation.  A  peo- 
ple capable  of  erecting  fortifications  which  could  not  be 
much  improved  upon  by  modern  military  science  as  to 
position,  and,  considering  the  material  used,  the  method 
of  construction;  and  who  could  combine  for  religious 
observances  enclosures  in  groups  of  elaborate  design, 
extending  for  more  than  twenty  miles,  would  probably 
crown  such  works  with  structures  in  harmony  with  their 
importance  and  the  skill  and  toil  bestowed  upon  their 


500  SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY 

erection.  Such  wooden  edifices  —  for  wood  they  must 
have  been  —  would  long  ago  have  crumbled  into  dust; 
but  it  is  not  a  fanciful  suggestion  that  probably  some- 
thing more  imposing  than  a  rude  hut  once  stood  upon 
tumuli  evidently  meant  for  occupation,  and  sometimes  ap- 
proaching the  Pyramids  of  Egypt  in  size  and  grandeur. 
These  circumvallations  of  mathematical  figures,  bearing 
to  each  other  certain  well-defined  relations,  and  made  — 
though  many  miles  apart  —  in  accordance  with  some  ex- 
act law  of  measurement,  no  doubt  surrounded  something 
better  than  an  Indian's  wigwam.  That  which  is  left  is 
the  assurance  of  that  which  has  perished ;  it  is  the  sacred 
and  broken  torso  bearing  witness  to  the  perfect  work  of 
art  as  it  came  from  the  hands  of  the  sculptor. 

Nor  is  this  the  only  conclusion  that  is  forced  upon  us. 
These  people  must  have  been  very  numerous,  as  other- 
wise they  could  not  have  done  what  we  see  they  did. 
They  were  an  industrious,  agricultural  people;  not  like 
the  sparsely  scattered  Indians,  nomadic  tribes  of  hunters; 
for  the  multitudes  employed  upon  the  vast  systems  of 
earth-works,  and  who  were  non-producers,  must  have 
been  supported  by  the  products  of  the  labor  of  another 
multitude  who  tilled  the  soil.  Their  moral  and  religious 
natures  were  so  far  developed  that  they  devoted  much 
time  and  thought  to  occupations  and  subjects  which 
could  have  nothing  to  do  with  their  material  welfare:  a 
mental  condition  far  in  advance  of  the  savage  state.  And 
the  degree  of  civilization  which  they  had  reached  — 
trifling  in  some  respects,  in  others  full  of  promise  —  was 
peculiarly  their  own,  cf  which  no  trace  can  be  discoverer! 
in  subsequent  times,  unless  it  be  among  other  and  later 
races  south  and  west  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Doing  and  being  so  much,  the  wonder  is  that  they 
should  not  have  attained  to  still  higher  things.  But  the 
wonder  ceases  if  we  look  for  the  farther  development 
of  their  civilization  in  Mexico  and  Central  America.  If 
they  did  not  die  out,  destroyed  by  pestilence  or  famine; 
if  they  were  not  exterminated  by  the  Indians,  hut  were 
at  last  driven  away  by  a  savage  foe  against  whose  furious 
onslaughts  they  could  contend  no  longer,  even  behind 
their  earthen  ramparts,  their  refuge  was  probably,  if  not 


SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY  501 

necessarily,  farther  south  or  southwest.  In  New  Mexico 
they  may  have  made  their  last  defence  in  the  massive 
stone  fortresses,  which  the  bitter  experience  of  the  past 
had  taught  them  to  substitute  for  the  earthworks  they 
had  been  compelled  to  abandon.  Thence  extending 
southward  they  may,  in  successive  periods,  have  found 
leisure,  in  the  perpetual  summer  of  the  tropics,  where 
nature  yielded  a  subsistence  almost  unsolicited  for  the 
creation  of  that  architecture  whose  ruins  are  as  remark- 
able as  those  of  any  of  the  pre-historic  races  of  other 
continents.  The  sculpture  in  the  stone  of  those  beautiful 
temples  may  be  only  the  outgrowth  of  that  germ  of  art 
shown  in  the  carvings  on  the  pipes  which  the  Mound- 
Builders  left  on  their  buried  altars.  In  these  pipes  a 
striking  fidelity  to  nature  is  shown  in  the  delineation  of 
animals.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  were 
equally  faithful  in  portraying  their  own  features  in 
their  representations  of  the  human  head  and  face;  and 
the  similarity  between  these  and  the  sculptures  upon 
the  ancient  temples  of  Central  America  and  Mexico  is 
seen  at  a  glance. 

Then  also  it  may  be  that  they  discovered  how  to  fuse 
and  combine  the  metals,  making  a  harder  and  a  better 
bronze  than  the  Europeans  had  ever  seen;  to  execute 
work  in  gold  and  silver  which  the  most  skilled  Europeans 
did  not  pretend  to  excel;  to  manufacture  woven  stuffs  of 
fine  texture,  the  beginnings  whereof  are  found  in  the 
fragments  of  coarse  cloth;  in  objects  of  use  and  orna- 
ment, wrought  in  metals,  left  among  the  other  relics  in 
the  earlier  northern  homes  of  their  race.  In  the  art  of 
the  southern  people  there  was  nothing  imitative;  the 
works  of  the  Mound-Builders  stand  as  distinctly  original 
and  independent  of  any  foreign  influence.  Any  similar- 
ity in  either  that  can  be  traced  to  anything  else  is  in  the 
apparent  growth  of  the  first  rude  culture  of  the  north- 
ern race  into  the  higher  civilization  of  that  of  the  south. 
It  certainly  is  not  a  violent  supposition  that  the  people 
who  disappeared  at  one  period  from  one  part  of  the  con- 
tinent, leaving  behind  them  certain  unmistakable  marks 
of  progress,  had  reappeared  at  another  time  in  another 
plac<%  where  the  same  marks  were  found  in  large  develop- 
nwnt—Hwtory  of  the  United  States,  Vol  L,  Chap.  IL