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SCRIBNERS

MAGAZINE

PUBLISHED nONTHLY

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME I JANUARY - JUNE

CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS NEW YORK
F.WARNEMC* LONDON

TROWS
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,

CONTENTS

SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE.

VOLUME I. JANUARY- JUNE, 1887.

PAGE

AUNT FOUNTAIN S PRISONER JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, . . 280

BABYLONIAN SEALS, THE, . . . . . . WILLIAM HAYES WARD, . . 80

With illustrations from seals in the author s collection, and
after De Clercq, Pinches, and others.

BAYEUX TAPESTRY, THE, EDWARD J. LOWELL, ... 333

With illustrations from photographs of the Tapestry.

CAESAR, THE LIKENESSES OF, JOHN C. ROPES, . . . .131

With a frontispiece, " Julius Caesar as Pontifex Maximus,"
engraved by W. B. Closson, and with illustrations from
the author s collection.

COAST FORTIFICATIONS. See Defenceless Coasts, Our.

COLLEGES. See English in Our Colleges.

COMMUNE OF PARIS. See Siege and Commune of Paris.

COQUELIN, M., BRANDER MATTHEWS, . . 244

"CORDON!" T. R. SULLIVAN, . . . .378

DEFENCELESS COASTS, OUR, P. V. GREENE, .... 51

With maps, sketches, and diagrams. Captain U. S. Engineers.

DEMOCRACY. See Ethics of Democracy.

DEVELOPMENT OF THE STEAMSHIP. See Steamship.

DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS. See Morris.

DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE, THE, . . DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, . . 236

EARTH, THE STABILITY OF THE, .... N. S. SEALER, . . . .259
With illustrations drawn by E. J. Meeker, J. Steeple Davis,
A. M. Turner, George Gibson, and C. E. Robinson, from
photographs and diagrams furnished by the author.

iv CONTENTS.

N PAGE

ELEPHANT MYTHS, AMERICAN, . . . W. B. SCOTT, .... 469
With illustrations.

ENGLISH IN OUR COLLEGES ADAMS SHERMAN HILL, . . 507

ETHICS OF DEMOCRACY, THE, F. J. STIMSON, . . . .661

FATHER ANDREI ; THE STORY OF A RUSSIAN PRIEST, . ROBERT GORDON BUTLER, . . 366

FOLK-LORE, MAGIC FLIGHT IN, .... H. E. WARNER, . . . .762

FORESTS OF NORTH AMERICA, .... N. S. SHALER, . . . .561

With illustrations drawn by J. F. Murphy, H. Bolton
Jones, E. J. Meeker, C. E. Robinson, Eldon Dean, and
J. D. Woodward, from photographs and drawings fur
nished by the author.

FRENCH EMPIRE, DOWNFALL OF. See Siege and Com
mune of Paris.

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR
MORRIS. See Morris.

GUATEMALA. See Uncommercial Republic.

HALF A CURSE, OCTAVE THANET, . . . .151

IN MEXICO, THOMAS A. JANVIER, ... 67

INSTINCT, WHAT IS AN ? WILLIAM JAMES, . . . .355

ISLANDER, AN, MARGARET CROSBY, . . .628

LIVERPOOL EXHIBITION. See Steamship.

MAGIC FLIGHT IN FOLK-LORE. See Folk-Lore.

MANSE, THE ; A FRAGMENT, . . . . * . . ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, . . 611

MARSE ARCHIE S FIGHT, . . . . * . . MARIA BLUNT, . . . .581

MISS PECK S PROMOTION, SARAH ORNE JEWETT, . . .717

MISS PRINGLE S NEIGHBORS, MRS. ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, 692

MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR, GLIMPSES AT THE DIA
RIES OF ; SOCIAL LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE PARIS
OF THE REVOLUTION Two Papers, .... ANNIE GARY MORRIS, . . 93, 199

With portrait engraved by G. Kruell, from the painting at
Old Morrisania.

NAPOLEON AND HIS TIMES, SOME ILLUSTRATIONS

OF, JOHN C. ROPES, .... 643

With illustrations from the author s collection.

NAVAL POLICY, OUR ; A LESSON FROM 1861, . . JAMES RUSSELL SOLEY, . . 223

U. S. Navy.

"NO HAID PAWN," THOMAS NELSON PAGE, . . 410

OCEAN GRAVEYARD, AN, J. MACDONALD OXLEY, . . 603

With illustrations by L. Fennings Taylor and M. J. Burns ;
and a chart of wrecks.

PARIS, SIEGE OF. Set Siege and Commune of Paris.

CONTENTS. v

PAGE

PARIS OF THE REVOLUTION. See Morris.

RESIDUARY LEGATEE, THE; OR, THE POSTHUMOUS

JEST OF THE LATE JOHN AUSTIN In Four Parts, . J. S. OF DALE, . 143, 348, 438, 544

REVOLUTION, FRENCH. See Morris.

RUSSIAN NOVELS, THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY, . . 252

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE, HAROLD FREDERIC, 22, 184, 308, 479.

SIEGE AND COMMUNE OF PARIS, REMINISCENCES &gt;15 3

OF, E. B. WASHBURNE,

With a frontispiece, " Gambetta Proclaiming the Republic Ex-Minister to France,

of France," drawn by Howard Pyle, engraved by Frank
French ; and with illustrations from portraits and docu
ments in Mr. Washburne s possession, and from drawings
by Pyle, Thulstrup, Meeker, J. S. Davis, Maynard, Tur
ner, and others.

First Paper THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE, 3

Second Paper THE SIEGE, 161

Third Paper THE COMMUNE, 289

Fourth Paper THE DOWNFALL OF THE COMMUNE, 447

SOCIALISM, .... FRANCIS A. WALKER, . . .107

STABILITY OF THE EARTH. See Earth.

STEAMSHIP, DEVELOPMENT OF, AND THE LIVERPOOL

EXHIBITION OF 1886, F. E. CHADWICK, . . .515

With illustrations from drawings, diagrams, and instan- Commander U. S. Navy,

taneous photographs furnished by the author.

STONE-CUTTER, THE, ELIZABETH AKERS, . . .767

STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE, THE,* . . H. C. BUNNER, 37, 211, 323, 418, 595

Illustrated by A. B. Frost, F. Hopkinson Smith, and G.
W. Edwards.

TAPESTRY. See Bayeux Tapestry.

TEDESCO S RUBINA, ........ F. D. MILLET 499

THACKERAY, UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF, 387, 551, 672

With an introduction by Jane Octavia Brookfield, a frontis
piece portrait engraved by Kruell, reproductions of draw
ings by Thackeray, and other illustrations.

TORPEDOES, MODERN AGGRESSIVE, ... W. S. HUGHES, . . . .427

Illustrated from photographs and drawings furnished by Lieutenant U. S. Navy,

the author.

TWO RUSSIANS, NORA PERRY, . . . .745

UNCOMMERCIAL REPUBLIC, AN, .... W. T. BRIGHAM, . . . .701
With illustrations from photographs by the author.

VIOLIN OBLIGATO, A, MARGARET CROSBY, . . .120

WASHBURNE, E. B. See Siege and Commune of Paris.

WORDS AND MUSIC, . ARLO BATES, .... 637

vi CONTENTS.

POETRY.

PAGE

AFTER DEATH, LOUISE CHANDLER MOCLTON, . 243

ART MASTER, AN, JOHN BOYLE O REILLY, . . 660

AT LAST, PHILIP BOURKE MAKSTON, . . 580

With a biographical note by Louise Chandler Moulton.

BALLADE OF THE PENITENTS, .... ANDREW LANG, . . . .354

FOR AN OLD POET, H. C. BUNNER, . . . .691

FORTUNE, ELYOT WELD, . . . .437

FULFILMENT, GRAHAM R. TOMSON, . . . 761

HERRICK, ROBERT, IN A COPY OF HIS LYRICAL

POEMS, AUSTIN DOBSON, .... 66

INTERLUDE, AN, R. ARMYTAGE, . . . .332

IRISH WILD-FLOWER, AN, SARAH M. B. PIATT, . . .593

IVORY AND GOLD, CHARLES HENRY LUDERS, . . 160

LAST FURROW, THE CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM, . 198

LOHENGRIN, SUSAN COOLIDGE, . . .614

NEW YEAR, THE, MAYBUKY FLEMING, . . .119

OLD EARTH, THE, CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM, . 478

PREPARATION, MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS, . . 744

QUIET PILGRIM, THE, EDITH M. THOMAS, . . .468

REMEMBRANCE, JuLIA C . R. DORR, . . .445

SEPARATION, ELLEN BURROUGHS, . . .730

SISTER ANNUNCIATA, HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT, 671

SONNETS IN SHADOW, ARLO BATES, .... 49

TIDE, THE, PERCIVAL LOWELL, . 543

GAMBETTA PROCLAIMING THE REPUBLIC OF FRANCE.

Public Library,

SCRiBNER s MAGAZINE.

VOL. I.

JANUARY, 1887.

No. 1.

REMINISCENCES OF

THE SIEGE AND COMMUNE OF PARIS.

By E. B. Washburne, Ex-Minister to France.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIEE.

I WAS on the point of leaving Paris for
a brief rest, when, toward the last of
June, 1870, there arose so suddenly what
was known as the " Hohenzollern inci
dent ;" which assumed so much impor
tance, as it led up to the Franco-German
war. In June, 1868, the Queen Isabella
had been chased from Spain and had
sought refuge in France. The Span
ish Cortes, maintaining the monarchi
cal form, offered the crown of Spain to
Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern, a rela
tion of the King of Prussia. The French
Minister at Madrid telegraphed that
Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern had
been nominated to the throne of Spain
and had accepted. This produced the
utmost excitement and indignation
among the French people. The Paris
press teemed with articles more or less
violent, calling on the government to
prevent this outrage, even at the cost of
Avar. The journals of all shades were
unanimous in the matter, contending
that it was an insult and peril to France,
and could not be tolerated. The oppo
sition in the Chamber made the inci
dent an occasion for attacking the gov
ernment, alleging that it was to its weak
and vacillating policy that she was in
debted for her fresh humiliation. The
government journals, however, laid the
whole blame upon the ambition of Count
Bismarck, who had become to them a
btte noir. He was accused of every

thing, and charged with doing every
thing for the grandeur of Prussia and
the unification of Germany ; all of which,
they alleged, was on account of his ha
tred for France. The Duke de Gra-
mont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, was
interpellated in the Chamber on the
subject, and, in reply, declared that
France would not permit any foreign
power to place one of its princes upon
the throne of Charles the Fifth, and dis
turb, to the detriment of France, the
present equilibrium of Europe. All par
ties in the Chamber received this decla
ration with the utmost enthusiasm. The
opposition members, who were largely
in the minority, made as much noise
as the government deputies. Much of
this was owing to the personal feeling
against Bismarck, and both parties vied
with each other in showing the extent
of their dislike to the great Prussian
Chancellor. Much pressure was soon
brought to bear in the proper quarters,
and the result of this was the withdraw
al of the Hohenzollern candidacy. Ex
planations were made, better counsels
seemed to prevail, and all immediate
trouble appeared averted.

It became quite certain that all dan
ger of a war between France and Ger
many was at an end; and, all being-
quiet on the banks of the Seine, on the
3d of July I left Paris in pursuit of
health and recreation at the healing

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

waters of Carlsbad in far-off Bohenaia.
I had hardly reached Carlsbad, when
scanty news was received of a somewhat

Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern.

threatening character. I could hardly
believe that anything very serious was
likely to result ; yet I was somewhat un
easy.

As I was going to drink the w r ater at
one of the health-giving springs, early
in the morning of the 15th of July, my
Alsatian valet brought me the startling
news that a private telegram, received
at midnight, gave the intelligence that
France had declared war against Ger
many. The news fell upon the thou
sands of visitors and the people of
Carlsbad like a clap of thunder in a
cloudless sky, and the most intense ex
citement prevailed. The nearest rail
road at that time was at Eger, thirty
miles distant. The visitors were then
all dependent upon the diligence, which
only left Carlsbad at night. I imme
diately determined to return to Paris,
as my post of duty. Hiring my seat
in the diligence, I rode all night from
Carlsbad to Eger. Taking the railroad
from Eger to Paris, and passing through
Bavaria, Baden, and the valley of the
Rhine, the excitement was something
prodigious, and recalled to me the days
at home of the firing upon Sumter in
1861. The troops were everywhere
rushing to the depots ; the trains were
all blocked, and confusion reigned su
preme. After great delays and much

discomfort, and a journey of fifty-two
hours, I reached Paris at ten o clock at
night, July 18th. The great masses of
people, naturally so excitable and tur
bulent, had been maddened by the
false news, so skilfully disseminated,
that King William, at Ems, had insulted
the French nation through its Ambas
sador. The streets, the boulevards, the
avenues, were filled with people in the
greatest state of enthusiasm and excita
tion. The Champs Elysees, with their
brilliant and flashing gas-lights and all
the cafes and open-air concert gardens,
were encumbered by an immense multi
tude who filled the air with cries of " A
Berlin en huit jours ! " and whose hearts
were set on fire by the refrain of the
Marseillaise, that hymn of free France :

" Allans enfants de la Patrie,
Lejour de gloire est arrive."

It soon turned out that all the reports
which had been spread over Paris, that
King William had insulted the French
Ambassador, were utterly false, and had
not the slightest foundation to rest
upon. The French Ambassador, M.
Benedetti, denied that he had received
the least indignity from the King. The
plain truth seemed to be that the French
Ambassador courteously approached the
King, while walking in the garden of
the Kursaal, and spoke to him in rela
tion to the pending difficulties then ex
isting between the two countries. The
good old King was kind and polite, as
he always is to everyone with whom he
comes in contact, and when M. Bene
detti began to speak in relation to mat
ters of such a grave character, he po
litely stated that he would have to talk
upon such questions with the German
Foreign Office. All that was very prop
er ; and nobody thought of it or sup
posed that there was any indignity, as
there was not the slightest intended.
The very spot where this meeting took
place is now marked by a tablet, bear
ing date of the day of the occurrence.

The exaggerations in Paris and France
of this simple incident surpassed all
bounds, and they were apparently made
to inflame the people still more. It
really appeared that the Emperor and
Government of France had determined

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

to have war with Germany, coute qui
coute. The alleged causes, growing out
of the talk that Germany was to put a
German prince on the throne of Spain,
were but a mere pretext. The Hohen-
zollern candidature had been withdrawn,
and there was no necessity or sense in any
further trouble. But the truth was that,
after eighteen years of peace, the court
iers and adventurers who surrounded

certain real reforms into his govern
ment.

The last dinner ever given at the Tuil-
eries was on Tuesday night, June 7,
1870. It was in honor of the United
States Minister and Mrs. Washburne.
It was a large dinner, and was served
in the usual elegant style of all the offi
cial dinners. The Emperor appeared
in good health and spirits ; but yet I

The German Embassy in the Rue de LilU

the Emperor seemed to think that it was
about time to have a war, to awaken the
martial spirit of the French people, to
plant the French eagles in triumph in
the capital of some foreign country, and,
as a consequence, to fix firmly on the
throne the son of Napoleon the Third,
and restore to the Imperial crown the
lustre it had lost. It seemed to be very
clear to my mind that if the Emperor
had been left to himself, war would have
been averted. I am quite sure that his
heart was never in the venture. He had
just entered upon his scheme of a par
liamentary government, and everything
promised a substantial success. I think
he was sincere in his wish to introduce

thought I saw a cloud of uneasiness over
his face. He made inquiries of me in
respect to the postal treaty, and, as was
always the case when I met him, inquired
very kindly for the President. He al
luded to the fact that he was going to
send Pruvost-Paradol as Minister to the
United States, and said that while M.
Paradol was a very " clever man/ he had
yet to learn diplomacy. I replied that
the relations of the two countries were
then so pleasant and cordial that he
would not require much skill in that line.
He answered that he believed and hoped
so. I speak of this occasion, as it was
the last time that I ever saw the Em
peror. Matters soon after began to drift

6 THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

toward war, and the state of affair^ required all his time and attention until
he finally left the gorgeous old palace of St. Cloud to take command of the
army, and never to return to France.

After the declaration of war, I found on my return to Paris that the German

Ambassador to France had applied to my sec
retary, then charge d affaires ad interim, to have
the United States Minister take charge of the
subjects of the North German Confederation
residing in France. The Government at Wash
ington was telegraphed to in relation to the
matter, and answered that its Minister would
be authorized to do so,
provided the French Gov
ernment would as-
The assent was
promptly
given by the

sent.

Duke de Gramont. Soon after, simi
lar requests came to me to take un
der my protection the Saxons, the
subjects of Hesse and Saxe-Coburg-
Gotha, together with the archives of
their legations. Count Solms, charge
d affaires of the North German Con
federation, who still remained in
Paris, sent to the United States le
gation the most valuable of their
archives, upon which I placed our
seal. I also took charge of the Ger
man Embassy in Paris, and placed
over it the American flag. The con-

The Bourse on August eth.

e of the embassy having been forced to leave, I placed it under the charge of
two young and trustworthy Americans who had been residents of my congressional
district in Illinois. These young men courageously occupied the embassy until

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

the close of the hostilities ; and, though
sometimes threats were made, there was
never any violence offered to the embassy
or its guardians. The day after my re
turn to Paris I took charge of my legation
and relieved the charge d affaires. From
this time I constantly recorded events
as they occurred ; and in writing my
reminiscences in this complete and con
nected form, I have not hesitated, while
weaving the whole into an unbroken
story, to avail myself of the substance
and in many portions the language of
my despatches and letters sent to the
Government at the time, and sometimes
printed in congressional documents ; as
I have greatly preferred to trust to the
vividness of the language which I then
used in describing events as they passed
before me, rather than to run any dan
ger of losing the force of those imme
diate impressions.

It was on the 28th of July, 1870, that the
Emperor left the palace of St. Cloud, to go
to take command of the army in person.
A gentleman belonging to the Court,
who was present at the moment of de
parture, recounted to me that the occa
sion was a most solemn one, and that
even then there was a prescience that
the Emperor was leaving France never
to return. By a decree, the Empress
was made Regent during the absence of
the Emperor. She remained at the pal
ace of St. Cloud. Before the Emperor
left for the army, he issued a bombastic
proclamation to the French people, the
first paragraph of which was as follows :

"Frenchmen There are in the lives
of peoples solemn moments, where na
tional honor, violently excited, imposes
itself as an irresistible force, dominates
all interests, and takes in hand the di
rection of the destinies of the country.
One of these decisive hours has just
sounded for France."

On the 2d of August, the Emperor hav
ing reached the French headquarters,
there was a skirmish at Saarbriicken, and
there was shed the first blood in the
stupendous contest that was to follow.
The Emperor and the Prince Imperial
were present at the engagement. Na
poleon magnified that little affair into
an episode, and sent an account back
to Paris which only excited ridicule ;

particularly that part of it in which
he stated that Louis had received " le
bapteme de feu" These proclamations
did not disturb the Germans, and they
soon put an end to those grotesque fan
faronades.

While these great events were in
progress, the two nations were in full
conflict, and blood was flowing like wa
ter on both sides, the people of Paris
could get no reliable information from
the seat of war. While in New York
and London the particulars of the bat
tle of Weissenbourg were published by
the papers the next day, the people of
Paris were kept in entire ignorance of
them. The feeling of suspense and the
excitement were something most pain
ful and extraordinary at this time, and
everybody was on the qui vive in search
of news.

On Thursday, the 4th of August, oc
curred the battle of Weissenbourg, on
the French frontier, which resulted in
a practical defeat of the French army.
There was no inkling in the Paris jour
nals of the next day that there had been
any fighting at all at Weissenbourg or
anywhere else ; and it was not until the
London Times of that morning arrived
that anybody in Paris had any particu
lars of the battle which had taken place.
They had been kept in utter ignorance
of it until twelve or one o clock that day,
when a very brief and unsatisfactory
notice of the affair was communicated
to the press by the French authorities.
The suppression of the intelligence for
so long a time excited a good deal of
indignation among the public, and the
Parisian newspapers were particularly
indignant that the London Times should
have published the news six or eight
hours before it was given out to them.
There was great uneasiness and discon
tent all over the city, and the people
were prepared for anything.

At about noon on Saturday one of
the most remarkable of those events
took place which show how easily large
masses of people may be imposed upon
and deceived. At twelve o clock there
was assembled, as usual at that hour, a
great crowd of people in front of the
Bourse. It was then that a man in the
uniform of a courier, or messenger, rode
up in front of the Bourse where the

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

Emile Ollivier.

crowd had assembled, and delivered^lnto Italiens, and the Rue de la Paix were
the hands of a person, who was evidently filled with people singing the Marseil
laise. Everybody declared that the news
was true ; the official report had been
seen and closely scanned, and there
could be no doubt of its correctness.
Madame Sass, a distinguished opera-
singer, was found in the street, and
the crowd insisted upon her singing
the Marseillaise from her carriage, which
she did three times amid transports
of enthusiasm. In another part of the
streets the multitude forced another dis
tinguished singer to mount to the top
of an omnibus, also to sing the Marseil
laise.

Soon the furor of the enthusiasm be
gan to abate ; and some persons were
wise enough to suggest that it would
be well to inquire more particularly into
the news, and to see whether or not it
should be confirmed. The result of the
inquiry was that it was a stupendous
hoax. The songs at once ceased, the
flags were taken in, and the victims of
the canard began to feel indignant. As
his confederate, what he pretended was the affair originated at the Bourse, the
an official despatch, which gave an ac- cry was raised in the crowd " d la
count of a great battle having been Bourse!" and away the people went,
fought in which the French were vie- breathing vengeance against the money-
torious, taking forty guns and twenty- changers and speculators, who, it was
five thousand prisoners, among whom alleged, had taken advantage of the
was included the Crown
Prince. A spark of fire
falling upon a magazine
could hardly have pro
duced a greater explo
sion. The assembled
multitude broke out
into the wildest shouts,
and the contents of the
despatch were repeated
from mouth to mouth,
and men ran in every
direction communicat
ing the joyful intelli
gence. The people
rushed into the streets ;
the tricolor was every
where displayed ; men
embraced and kissed
each other, shedding
tears of joy ; shouts,
vociferations, and oaths

filled the air, and such a delirium was false report to get the benefit of a
never before witnessed. Rue Richelieu, rise of about four per cent, in the
the Boulevards of Montmartre and the stocks. Never were money-changers

Fac-simile of a Note from M. Ollivier.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

more summarily driven out of their
temples. In a few moments all per
sons in the Bourse were expelled, some
of whom, it was said, were thrown head
and heels out of the windows and doors.

About half -past three o clock in the
afternoon the crowd, still greatly ex
asperated, started from the Bourse and
directed themselves toward the Place
Vendome, halting under the windows
of the Ministry of Justice. There they
shouted for Emile Ollivier, the Minister
of Justice, and demanded of him the
closing of the Bourse, from which the
false news had emanated. M. Ollivier
responded in a short and well-turned
speech, closing by asking them to dis
perse, which they did. But still there
was great excitement all over the city,
and there was intense indignation at be
ing so easily made the victims of a vile
canard.

At half-past five o clock in the after
noon of that day I rode down to the
Place Vendume, and found another crowd
of about three thousand persons gathered
in front of the Ministry of Justice, de
manding that M. Ollivier should show
himself and make another speech. As
he had already made one speech to the
crowd, he considered that quite enough
for one day and so he refused to appear.
At this refusal the vociferations were in
creased every instant and hostile cries
were raised against the minister by the
multitude, who demanded the author of
the false news and reclaimed the liberty
of the press, which, they insisted, had
been muzzled ; for if it had been free
to give information, no such event could
have happened. I saw this turbulent
crowd in front of the ministry, and
stopped to ascertain the cause of it.
Notwithstanding M. Ollivier had re
fused to make his appearance at the
window in the first place, the pressure
was so great that he finally was obliged
to yield. Such was the tumult and noise
that it was impossible for me, from where
I stood, to hear precisely what he said ;
but it was evidently not very satisfac
tory, for the people did not disperse
immediately, as he had requested, but
began shouting in favor of the liberty
of the press and raising hostile cries
against M. Ollivier. The public held
him responsible for the terrible sever

ity of the press-law which prevented
the journals from giving the news from
the arm}-. Everything was required to
come through official channels, and it
was given out at such times and in such
measure as might suit the purposes of
the government.

At ten o clock on Saturday evening a
gentleman connected with my legation,
going down-town, found the Place Ven
dume again literally crammed with both
men and women who were in the highest
state of excitement, singing a new song
called the "Press song," and raising
menacing cries against the Minister of
Justice. Afterward, large crowds of peo
ple collected in the Rue de la Paix, on
the boulevards, and in the Place de la
Madeleine, all singing and shouting,
and all in bad temper. But large bodies
of troops being in the immediate vicin
ity, no acts of violence were perpetrated.

The Official Journal of the next day
(Sunday) contained a despatch of two
lines, dated at Metz, at eleven o clock the
evening before (Saturday). Here is the
text of the despatch : " The corps of
General Frossard is in retreat. There
are no details." This and nothing more.
And it is not to be wondered at that such
a despatch inspired the greatest uneasi
ness and anxiety. It gave no indication
of where the battle was fought or what
was the extent of the losses ; and natu
rally the great Paris public was tormented
with fear and suspense. A proclamation
of the Empress and her ministry ap
peared at noon in the second edition of
the Official Journal. This proclamation
contained a bulletin from the Emperor,
dated at Metz, at half-past twelve o clock
on Sunday, announcing that Marshal
MacMahon had lost a battle and that
General Erossard had been obliged to
retreat. Another bulletin from the Em
peror, dated at Metz, three hours later,
announced that his communication with
Marshal MacMahon was interrupted, and
that he had had no news of him since
the day before ; and still another de
spatch, one hour later, from headquar
ters at Metz, both of which were also
contained in the proclamation of the
Minister of the Interior, gave a brief ac
count of the battles of MaeMahoii and
Frossard, but said that the details were
wanting. It further stated that the

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

troops were full of " elan" and that the
situation was not yet compromised ; but
that the enemy was on French terri
tory and a serious effort was necessary.
Thereupon the proclamation went on to
say that in the presence of the grave
news the duty was clear ; and that there
fore :

" The Chambers are convoked ; we
shall place Paris in a state of defence ;
to facilitate the execution of military
preparations, we declare it in a state of
siege."

A decree of the Empress-Regent con
voked the Senate and the Corps Legis-
latifloT Thursday, the llth of August.
Another decree placed the department
of the Seine in a state of siege. No per
son not in Paris at the time could have
any adequate idea of the state of feeling
which the extraordinary news from the
battle-field had created ; and now these
declarations were added to it. Never
had Paris seen such a day since the time
of the first revolution. The whole peo
ple appeared to be paralyzed by the ter
rible events which had burst upon them
in such rapid and fearful succession.
The rain had some influence in keeping
the people from the street ; but on going
down-town, on the afternoon of Sunday,
I found them collected in knots about
the Grand Hotel and on the boulevards,
reading the newspapers and discussing
the situation. Soon after, I saw large
crowds of people proceeding in the rain
toward the Ministry of Justice, in the
Place Vendc A &gt;me, which seemed to be the
objective point, owing to the hostility
which existed against mile Ollivier.
The rain, however, dampened the ardor
of the crowd and it soon dispersed.

After these exhibitions, which would
never have taken place had the people
been advised of the true state of things
in the field of military operations, the
French Government wisely concluded
that it was of no use to try any longer
to conceal the real state of facts. Then
they began to give out certain laconic
and ambiguous despatches, which still
increased the public anxiety. They all
summed up that the French arms had
been terribly beaten.

The full particulars of the fatal battles
had, by this time, reached the Empress

at the palace of St. Cloud. The last and
most fatal and disquieting news reached
her in the night of the 6th of August.
Overcome and almost distracted by the
terrible blow, she determined in the
night to go at once to Paris and take
up her residence at the Tuileries. Soon
after the Emperor left Paris I had re
ceived a communication from my Gov
ernment which, according to diplomatic
etiquette, had to be presented to the
Emperor in person. In his absence it
had to be presented to the Empress-
Regent. I had announced at the For
eign Office the mission with which I
was charged, and asked when I could be
received by the Empress-Regent. An
early day was designated, and at the
palace of St. Cloud. Early in the morn
ing of the day named I received a note
stating that I would be received at the
Tuileries at eleven o clock of that day,
instead of at St. Cloud. It was the
night before that the terrible news had
been received from the battle-field which
had brought the Empress back.

At the hour fixed I went to the pal
ace to perform my mission. Received
by the Master of Ceremonies, I was soon
ushered into the presence of the Em
press-Regent. After the ordinary salu
tation and the delivery of my message,
we entered into conversation in respect
to the news which had just been made
public over Paris. She had evidently
passed a sleepless and agitated night,
and was in great distress of mind. She
at once began to speak of the news
which she had received, and of the effect
it would have on the French people. I
suggested to her that it might not be
as bad as reported, and that the conse
quences, in the end, might be far bet
ter than the present circumstances indi
cated. I spoke to her about our first
battle of Bull Run and the defeat that
the "Union armies had received ; and
that such defeat had only stimulated
greater exertions, and had led to that
display of courage, heroism, and endur
ance which had, in the end, suppressed
the Rebellion. She replied: "I only
wish the French, in these respects, were
like you Americans ; but I am afraid
they would be too much discouraged
and give up too soon." On the same
day she issued a proclamation to the

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

French people, in which she frankly
avowed that the French arms had sub
mitted to a check, and implored the
people to be firm in their reverse and
hasten to repair it ; that there should be
among them only one party, that of
France ; and only one thought, and that
of the national arms. She closed by
adjuring all good citizens to maintain
order ; for to trouble it would be to
conspire with the enemy.

All Paris was now under the empire
of the most profound emotion. It was
in the evening that there was the great
est excitement ; the gatherings on the
boulevard were immense, and people
were singing, swearing, and yelling by
turns. On one evening when I was
down-town an immense procession had
been formed, and the people were
marching in twos on the Boulevards
Italiens and Madeleine ; they kept step
to the words issuing from every mouth,
" Vive chassepot, vive chassepot ! " At
the time of the declaration of war it was
estimated that there were thirty thou
sand Germans in Paris, and I was
charged with their protection in the
midst of these events. The news of
German triumphs seemed to have in
flamed the natural hatred of the Pari
sians toward the German population.
This caused the greatest anxiety and

was manifested in every possible way,
and the consequence was that there was

Jules Ferry.

uneasiness among that peaceable and
law-abiding population. The hostility

Jules Favre.

a general desire among the German pop
ulation to get out of Paris as soon as
possible ; but the French Government
soon decided that they would not give
passports to such Germans as owed mil
itary service to their government. This
gave me great embarrassment, for how
could I tell anything in respect to
those who owed military service and
those who did not ? I could give lais
sez-passers to women, children, and old
men ; but if I gave one to a German
who owed military service, he would
not be permitted to leave Paris and
France, and my laissez-passers might be
rejected. The consequence of this was
that in the first days the number of
passports I gave was comparatively
limited, although the number of Ger
mans at the legation was very great,
seeking such permission as would en
able them to get out of Paris.

The excitement seemed to increase
with every day and every hour. The
Corps Legislatif was the great point of
interest, as everyone looked to that
body for some action that might stem
the tide of disaster which was rolling
over Paris and France. Its meeting on
Tuesday, the 9th of August, presented
one of the most extraordinary specta
cles which had ever taken place in a
French legislative body, except in the

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

Jules Simon.

very heat of the revolution of 89. I
had seen much turbulence in our own
House of Representatives before the
War of the Rebellion. I had been
present when the Grow and Keitt fight
took place, at a night session, where
the members had a hand-to-hand scuffle
in the area in front of the Speaker s
chair " All of which I saw and a part
of which I was ; " but never had I seen
anything that would parallel the scene
which took place in the Corps Legislatif.
On the day for the opening of that
body, fully appreciating that the session
would be a remarkable one, I went early
to the Palais Bourbon in order to get a
good seat in the diplomatic tribune, so
that I could see and hear all that took
place. The President took his seat at
half -past one o clock P.M., and then the
members came rapidly into the hall.
The ministers took their places on the
ministerial benches, and all were present
except the Minister of War, who was in
the field. The Corps Legislatif at this
time might be said to be composed of
men of more than ordinary ability, and
many of them of much political experi
ence and somewhat distinguished in one
way or another. As a body, it was made
up of older men than the members of
our House of Representatives at Wash
ington, but the number of deputies was
about the same. The real ability, the
dash, the boldness, and the eloquence
appertained to the Left. Many of those
men had the qualities attributed to the

Girondists in the National Convention.
It was interesting to watch the deputies
coming into the hall ; the members of
the Right and Centre quietly took their
seats, but there was much agitation
among the members of the Left. In
fact, it was easy to see that there was
a storm brewing.

The President, having declared the ses
sion opened, had only read the formal
part of the proclamation, reciting, "By
the grace of God and the national will,
Emperor of the French, etc.," when many
members of the Left broke out in furi
ous exclamations, saying that they did
not want any more of that ; and it was
some time before the President could
finish reading the document. After he
had concluded he awarded the floor
to M. Ollivier, Minister of Justice, w r ho
mounted the tribune and commenced
developing the reasons why the Cham
ber was called together. He had only
said a few words when he was met with
the most boisterous and insulting inter
ruptions. A member of the Left having
cried out that the country had been com
promised, Jules Favre exclaimed, "Yes,
by the imbecility of its chief! Come
down from the tribune ! It is a shame ! "
Arago cried out that the public safety
required that the ministers should get
out of the way. Pelletan said, "You
have lost the country, but it will save
itself in spite of you ! " At length Ollivier
was able to complete his speech, which
he read from a written manuscript. The
floor was then given to General de Jean,
the Minister of War ad interim, who
proposed a law and stated the reason
therefor. Jules Favre then obtained the
floor, and proposed resolutions in rela
tion to the defence of the country, look
ing to the reorganization of the Nation
al Guard. He mounted the tribune to
speak to his resolutions. A tall, heavy
man, with rough, strong features, plainly
dressed, and with an immense head of
hair, he was a great orator ; and at this
time he rose to the highest pitch of elo
quence, and denounced in unmeasured
terms the weakness, mismanagement,
and folly of the ministers, and the
wretched manner in which the army
had been commanded. He said that it
was necessary that the Emperor should
abandon his headquarters and return to

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

Paris ; and that, in order to save the
country, the Chamber should take all
the powers into its own hands. He
then proposed a decree providing for
an Executive Committee of fifteen depu
ties, who should be invested with the
full power of government to repel for
eign invasion. This proposition was
received with yells of denunciation by
the Right, wiio denounced it as revolu
tionary and unconstitutional, and the
President so decided.

After M. Favre had concluded, Granier
de Cassagnac, a member of the Extreme
Right, rushed to the tribune, and his
first words were to denounce the propo
sition of Favre as the commencement of
revolution. He proceeded in a strain of
bitter denunciation, amid the shouts,
vociferations, and the gestures of almost
the entire Left. He accused them of
hiding behind their privileges to de
stroy the government of the Emperor,
who was in the face of the enemy. Here
there came interruptions, calls to order,
and threats. Thirty members of the
Left rose to their feet, yelling at Cas-

Gamier-Pages.

sagnac and shaking their fists toward
him, and he returned the compliment
by shaking his fist at them. All this
time the members of the Right were ap
plauding Cassagnac, who finally wound
up with the terrible threat that if he
were a minister he would send the mem
bers of the Left to a military tribunal
before night. This was followed by one

of the most terrific explosions ever wit
nessed in a legislative body. All the
deputies of the Left jumped to their
feet and raised their voices in most in
dignant protest. And then rose up the
deputies of the Right to drown the cries
of the Left with their own vociferations.
Jules Simon, who was then simply a
deputy from Paris, and who has since
occupied so many high positions in
France, rushed into the area in front
of the tribune, gesticulating with vehe
mence and saying that if they dared to
send them to a council of war they were
ready to go ; and if they wanted to shoot
them they would find them ready. That
added to the tumult. Nearly all the
members were on their feet. The voice
of Simon was heard above the din : "If
you want violence, you shall have it."
At that moment, Estancelin, under great
excitement, cried out, " The Minister of
Foreign Affairs laughs ! " And that ab
surd ejaculation caused many others to
laugh.

Jules Ferry, also a member of the
Corps Legislatif at that time, and since
Prime Minister under President Givvy,
was heard in the uproar to say that it
was not proper "for a minister who was
attempting to negotiate peace to
and here his voice was lost in the tu
mult. Nearly the entire Left then started
from their seats and rushed to the area
in front of the tribune and up to the
seat of the ministers ; Estancelin, Ferry,
and old Garnier-Pages in front. Es
tancelin and Ferry were young men and
advanced republicans. Garnier-Pagea
was an old-time republican, at that time
nearly seventy years of age, and had for
a long time been a prominent man in
France a republican always, but con
sidered somewhat conservative. He was
a member of the prbvisional government
of 1848, and was assigned to the Min
istry of Finance, but was not entirely
happy in his administration of it. At
this time he was a man of striking per
sonal appearance. Tall and slim, and
with long white hair, he could not other
wise than attract attention wherever he
went. As a speaker he was described
as having the "parole chaleureuse" and
such was his benevolent and exemplary
character that he enjoyed the esteem of
all men, even of his adversaries. After

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

the revolution of the 4th of September,
1870, being then a member of the Corps
Legislatif of Paris, he became a mem
ber of the government of the National
Defence ; and, on the 31st of October,
when the Hotel de Ville was invaded
and all the members of the government
made prisoners, M. Garnier-Pages was
very badly treated, and even beaten.
He was not elected to the National As
sembly on the 8th of February, 1871,
and from that time he was in private
life. He had a country place at Cannes,
where he lived the life of a retired
gentleman.

These members of the Left shook their
fists directly in the face of the Minister
of Foreign Affairs, the Duke de Gra-
mont, who sat fixed and without moving
a muscle. Here the tumult reached its
height. A hundred men were scream
ing at the top of their voices, and the
President rang his bell furiously, but all
to no effect. And then, as a signal that
he had lost all control of the assembly,
and as a flag of distress, he covered him
self by putting on his hat. The huissiers
then rushed in and separated the con
tending parties, and, some minutes after,
comparative quiet was restored. The
debate continued, and amid the great
est excitement. Finally, after a session
of two hours, when all sides seemed
wearied out by the contest, the Chamber
took a recess until five o clock. Its first
action, after it reassembled, was a prop
osition substantially expressing a want
of confidence in the ministry, and the
question was put and fully disposed of
in less time than it takes to write about
it, and almost in the " twinkling of an
eye" the ministers found themselves
practically out of office, not more than
a dozen members rising in their favor.
They asked leave to retire for consulta
tion, and in a few minutes brought in
their resignations, with a statement that
the Empress-Regent had directed the
Count Palikao to form a new ministry.
The Chamber then adjourned amid in
tense excitement. During all the ses
sion the Palais Bourbon, in which it
was held, was surrounded by troops of
the line to keep back the crowd that
had assembled on the Pont de la Con
corde, at the Place de la Concorde, and
along the quays. Leaving the Chamber,

I had occasion to go to the Foreign
Office. I found the gates there all
closed and a regiment of infantry quar
tered in the court.

It was evident, during the very first
days of September, that matters in Par
is were drifting to a crisis. It was a
strange and indefinable feeling that ex
isted among the population on Satur
day, September 3d. Everybody was
groping in the dark for news of mili
tary operations. The people, alarmed,
discouraged, maddened, at all the dis
asters which had fallen upon their arms,
were preparing for great events. I went
down to the Chamber of Deputies, at
the Palais Bourbon, at five o clock in the
afternoon. On leaving the Chamber a
diplomatic colleague whispered trem
bling in my ear that all was lost to the
French, that the whole army had been
captured at Sedan, and that the Em
peror had been taken prisoner. A ses
sion of the Chamber of Deputies was
called to meet at midnight.

The startling news had fallen like a
thunder-bolt over all Paris. The boule
vards were thronged by masses of ex
cited men filled with rage and indigna
tion. The police authorities strove in
vain to disperse them.

The Ministry had issued a proclama
tion which recognized the gravity of
the situation, which was brought by
my secretary to my residence at mid
night. I at once foresaw that stupen
dous events were on the verge of accom
plishment. The news of the full extent
of the catastrophe which befell the ar
my of MacMahon was not made pub
lic in Paris until about midnight on
Saturday, September 3, 1870, though
Palikao had, in the previous evening
session of the Chamber, given out
enough news to prepare the people for
almost anything.

That Saturday night session of the
Corps Legislatif was represented as
having been solemn and agitated. The
hour designated for its meeting was at
midnight, but the President did not
take his chair until one o clock on Sun
day morning. M. Schneider, the Presi
dent, came into the Chamber without
the beating of the drum which or
dinarily announced his entry. The
silence was death-like : but few of the

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

Leon Gambetta.

deputies of the Eight were in their
seats, though the members of the Left
were almost all present. M. Palikao,
the Minister of War, took the floor
and said that in the presence of the
serious news which had been received,
he deemed it better not to take any
action at that time, but to postpone
everything until twelve o clock of that
day it was then Sunday morning. Af
ter Palikao had made this suggestion,
M. Jules Favre arose and said that he
should not propose any serious oppo
sition to that motion, but he asked leave
to give notice of a proposition which he

had to submit, and which he would dis
cuss at the meeting at twelve o clock
(on Sunday). The proposition which
he read was as follows :

" 1. Louis Napoleon Bonaparte and
his dynasty are declared fallen from the
powers which the constitution has con
fided to them.

" 2. There shall be named by the leg
islative body a commission vested with

powers and composed of members,

and you will designate yourself the num
ber of members who shall compose this
commission, who will make it their first

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

duty to repel the invasion and drwe the there was not a single person in the hall

enemy from the territory. of the deputies, though the gaUeries were

"3. M. Trochu shah 1 be maintained in all well filled. Instead of the session

The Invasion of the Hall of Deputies.

his functions of governor-general of the
City of Paris."

There was no discussion whatever on
these propositions, and after a very brief
session of ten minutes the Chamber ad
journed.

It was easy to foresee that the sitting
of the Corps Legislatif on Sunday was
likely to become historic. I went ear
ly to the hall. When I arrived there I
found a few troops stationed in the
neighborhood, and there was not a large
number of people in the immediate vi
cinity. Indeed, I was quite surprised at
the tranquillity which seemed everywhere
to reign in the quarter of the Palais
Bourbon. Taking my seat in the diplo
matic tribune at a quarter before twelve,

opening at noon, it was precisely one
o clock when M. Schneider entered
and took the chair of the President.
The deputies then came rapidly into
the hall. Count Palikao was the first
of the ministers to come in, and he was
soon followed by the Prince de la Tour
d Auvergne, MM. Chevereau and Brame.
All the other ministers took their places
on the ministerial benches soon after.
The members of the Left came in al
most simultaneously, Gambetta hurrying
along among the first, haggard with ex
citement. The venerable Kaspail took his
seat, and Garnier-Pages hurried across
the area in front of the President s chair
in a state of intense agitation. Arago,
Simon, Ferry, Estancelin, Guyot-Mont-
payvon, entered and took their seats.
Thiers, the little, brisk and vigorous old
man, walked quietly to his place. The
President sat in his chair quietly, and
seemed in no hurry to call the Chamber
to order. The members became impa
tient and clamorous. There was loud talk
and violent gesticulation. At precisely
twenty minutes after one o clock M.
Schneider swung his bell, and the gruff
voice of the huissier was heard above the
din: " Silence, messieurs ! s il vous plait."

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

After some unimportant proceedings
the floor was assigned to M. Palikao, the
Minister of War, who, in behalf of the
Council of Ministers, submitted the fol
lowing :

"ART. 1. A council of Government
and of National Defence is instituted.
The council is composed of five members.
Each member of this council is named
by the absolute majority of the Corps
Legislatif.

"2. The ministers are named under
the countersign of the members of this
council.

"3. The General Count Palikao is
named lieutenant-general of this council.

" Done in a council of ministers the
4th of September, 1870.

"For the Emperor, and in virtue of
the powers wjiich he has confided to us.

" EUGENIE."

After that project had been read, M.
Thiers arose and submitted another prop
osition, which was as follows :

"Considering the circumstances, the
Chamber names a commission of Gov
ernment and National Defence. A Con
stituent Assembly will be convoked as
soon as the circumstances will allow."

The proposition of Favre being al
ready before the Chamber, " urgency "
was voted on these three propositions,
and they were sent to a committee for
examination, under the rules of the
Chamber. This voting of urgency, ac
cording to the rules of the Chamber,
brings the matter before it for immedi
ate consideration. At one o clock and
forty minutes in the afternoon the sit
ting was suspended, to await the report
of the committee to which these three
propositions had been submitted, and
then all the members left the hall, go
ing into a large lobby-room, called La
salle des pas perdus.

As it was supposed that the sitting
would not be resumed for an hour or
more, I left the diplomatic gallery and
descended into the court of the build
ing, facing upon the street which runs
parallel with the Seine. There I found
a great many people who had been ad
mitted by virtue of tickets. The street
in front of the building had been kept
quite clear by the military, though there
VOL. I. 2

was an enormous multitude of the Na
tional Guard and the people on the
Place de la Concorde, on the opposite
side of the river. The Pont de la Con
corde seemed to be sufficiently guarded
by the military to prevent their cross
ing over. All at once I saw quite a
number of people on the steps of the
Palais Bourbon, and soon they com
menced to raise loud cries of " Vive la
Eepublique ! " " Decheance I Vive la
France ! "

At this moment I was called away
by the messenger of the legation, who
brought me an urgent message from
Madame MacMahon, who wanted a safe-
conduct from me to enable her to pass
the Prussian lines to visit her wounded
husband at Sedan. I had asked my
friend, the Honorable George Eustis,
Jr., of Louisiana, who was a perfect
master of the French language, to ac
company me to the Corps Legislatif t
and he was with me at the time my
messenger came in to get this laissez-
passer for Madame MacMahon. Leav
ing the diplomatic tribune, we went in
to an antechamber, where I could find
writing materials, to prepare the docu
ment which was sought for. I had no
sooner sat myself down to the table
than the cry was raised that the people
had invaded the building. It seemed
but a moment before the flood was
rushing in, even into the antechamber
where Mr. Eustis and myself were. The
crowd and confusion were so great that
I found it impossible to prepare the
requisite paper, so we made our way in
to the court-yard.

There was presented a most extraor
dinary spectacle. A part of a regiment
of the line had been brought hurriedly
into the yard, and had formed across it
and were loading their muskets. Be
hind them, and in the street, and rush
ing through the gates and up the front
steps of the building, was a vast mass
of excited people and the National
Guard, who had fraternized the guard
having their muskets butt end upward
as a token of friendship. It was evi
dent that there had been collusion be
tween the people who were on the steps
of the Palais Bourbon and the people
and the National Guard in the Place de
la Concorde, on the other side of the

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

vd &lt;^

FAC-SIMTEiE OF THE ORIGINAL PROCLAMATION

Delivered to Mr. Washburne

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

HI 1*

,. &lt;* & x

OF THE DISASTER OF SEDAN.
at midnight, Sept. 3, 1870.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

river ; for it was upon the signal o^ the
people on the steps that the guard and
the people broke through the military
force that was holding the bridge. As
the crowd mounted the steps of the Pa
lais Bourbon it was received with ter
rific cheers, and with shouts of " Vive la
Republique ! " and " Decheance ! "

Making our way into the street, Mr.
Eustis and myself managed to pass
through the crowd and to reach the
building of the Agricultural Club, in the
immediate neighborhood, and from the
balcony of which we could see all that
was going on. And now the soldiers of
the guard, many of them with their hats
on the ends of their muskets, accom
panied by an indiscriminate mass of
men, women, and children, poured over
the Pont de la Concorde and filled the
entire space, all in one grand fraterniza
tion, singing the Marseillaise and shout
ing " Vive la Republique!" The Muni
cipal Guard, with its shining helmets
and brilliant uniform, was forced back,
inch by inch, before the people, until,
finally, all military authority became ut
terly powerless. During this time the
National Guard and the people had in
vaded the hall of the deputies, which
they found vacant. M. Schneider and
about a dozen of the members rushed
in. The President in vain made appeals
for order, and finally covered himself by
putting on his hat, according to the im-
memorable usage of the French assem
blies under such circumstances. Gam-
betta addressed a few energetic words
to the invaders, and, a little order being
restored, quite a number of deputies en
tered the hall. But at three o clock a
grand irruption into the Chamber took

TRANSLATION OF PROCLAMATION.

FRENCHMEN :

A great misfortune Ins just fallen upon our country.
After three days of heroic struggle kept up by the army
of Marshal MacMahon against three hundred thousand of
the enemy, forty thousand men have been made prisoners.

General Wimpffen, who had taken command of the army
in plaoe of Marshal MacMahon, severely wounded, has
signed a surrender.

This-cruel defeat does not shake our courage.

Paris is now in a state of defense.

The military forces of the country are organizing.

In a few days a new army will be under the walls of Paris,
and still another army is forming on the banks of the
Loire.

Your patriotism, your union, and your energy will save
France.

The Emperor was made prisoner in the melee.

The Government in accord with the public authorities
is taking every measure which befits the gravity of these
events.

[Signed by the Council of Ministers.]

place. M. Jules Favre then ascended
the tribune and was listened to for a
moment. " Let there be no scenes of
violence," he said; "let us reserve our
arms for the enemy, and fight it to the
last. At this moment union is neces
sary, and for that reason we do not
proclaim the republic." The President
then precipitately left his seat, and it
turned out that it was for the last time.
The irruption into the Chamber con
tinued.

The floor and the seats of the depu
ties, on which a few members of the
Left only remained, were filled with a
motley crowd in blouses and coarse
woollen shirts, or in the uniform of the
National Guard or the Guard Mobile.
They wore caps and kepis of all colors
and shapes, and carried muskets with
their muzzles ornamented with sprigs of
green leaves. The tumult became in
describable, and some of the invaders
seized on the pens and paper of the
deputies and commenced writing letters,
while different persons were going up
to the President s chair and ringing his
bell continually. The crowd in the hall
now demanded the "decheance" of the
Emperor, which was declared, and then
it was proposed to go to the Hotel de
ViUe and proclaim the republic. The
cry was therefore raised, " A I Hotel de
Ville ! " mingled with other cries, " Cher-
chez Rochefort!" etc., and then this vast
multitude commenced moving away
from the Palais Bourbon. The crowd
having soon sufficiently dispersed, we
were enabled to make our way back to
the Corps Legislatif and to enter the
diplomatic tribune.

The hall was filled with dust, and was
in the greatest possible confusion. A
rough-looking man was in the Presi
dent s chair, surrounded by a number
of men still more rough in appearance.
The soldiers and the people were occu
pying the seats of the deputies indis
criminately, writing letters, looking over
documents, and talking and laughing,
all in the best of humor. In the hafi,
at this time, I recognized Gamier-Pages,
Kaspail, and a few other members of the
Left. Leaving the Chamber, we went
at once to the Hotel de Ville. The num
ber of people assembled there was en
ormous, and we found the same frater-

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

nization existing between them and the
National Guard as elsewhere. The build
ing had been invaded by the people, and
all the windows fronting on the square
were filled with rough and dirty-looking
men and boys. Soon we heard a ter
rific shout go up. Rochefort was being
drawn in a cab by a multitude through
the crowd. He was ghastly pale ; he
stood up in the vehicle, covered with
sashes of red, white, and blue, waving
his hat in answer to the acclamations.
As he was slowly hauled through the
multitude to the main door of the Hotel
de Ville, the delirium seemed to have
reached its height, and it is impossi
ble to describe the frantic acclamations
which were heard.

At precisely four o clock and forty-
five minutes in the afternoon, as I
marked it by the great clock in the
tower of the Hotel de Ville, at one of
the windows appeared Gambetta ; a lit
tle behind him stood Jules Favre and
Emanuel Arago ; and then and there,
on that historic spot, I heard Gambetta
proclaim the republic of France. That
proclamation was received with every
possible demonstration of enthusiasm.
Lists were thrown out of the window,
containing the names of the members of
the provisional government. Ten min
utes afterward Raspail and Rochefort
appeared at another window and em
braced each other, while the crowd
loudly applauded them. During this
time the public were occupying the
Tuileries, from which the Empress had
just escaped. Sixty thousand human
beings had rolled toward the palace,
completely levelling all obstacles ; the
vestibule was invaded, and in the court
yard, on the other side of the Place du

Carrousel, were to be seen soldiers of
every arm, who, in the presence of the
people, removed the cartridges from
their grins, and who were greeted by
the cries, " Long live the nation ! "
" Down with the Bonapartes ! " "To
Berlin !" etc. During all this time there
was no pillage, no havoc, no destruction
of property, and the crowd soon retired,
leaving the palace under the protection
of the National Guard.

Some discussion had been raised at
the Hotel de Ville about changing the
flag, but Gambetta declared that the tri
color was the flag of 1792-93, and that
under it France had been, and yet
would be, led to victory. From the
Hotel de Ville Mr. Eustis and myself
went back to the Chamber of Deputies,
to find it still in the possession of the
people. From there I returned to my
legation, which I reached at half-past
six o clock in the evening. At eight
o clock I rode down to the Corps Legis-
latif to see what the situation was there,
but on my arrival I found everything
closed and the lights extinguished. The
doors leading to the hall of the deputies
had been shut and seals put upon them,
I then drove through some parts of the
city, and found everything remarkably
quiet. The day had been pleasant and
the night was beautiful beyond descrip
tion. Before returning to my lodgings
I called upon Lord Lyons, the British
Ambassador, to talk over the events of
the day which we had witnessed, and
which we were certain would become
one of the most memorable in the his
tory of France. In a few brief hours of
a Sabbath day I had seen a dynasty fall
and a republic proclaimed, and all with
out the shedding of one drop of blood.

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

By Harold Frederic.

CHAPTER I.

THE HIRED FOLK.

"Er ther ain t a flare-up in this
haouse fore long, I miss my guess," said
Alvira, as she kneaded the pie-crust, and
pulled it out between her floury fingers
to measure its consistency. " Ole Sa-
briny s got her back up this time to stay."

"Well, let em flare, says I. Taint
none o aour business, Alviry."

"I knaow, Milton; but still it seems
to me she might wait at least till th
corpse was aout o th 5 haouse."

"What s thet got to dew with it?"

The callousness of the question must
have grated upon the hired girl, for she
made no reply, and slapped the dough
over on the board with an impatient
gesture.

It was near the close of a fair day,
late in May, and the reddened sunlight
from the West would have helped to
glorify any human being less hopelessly
commonplace than Milton Squires as he
sat in its full radiance on the doorstep,
peeling and quartering apples over a
pan which he held between his knees.
This sunlight, to reach him, painted with
warm tints many objects near at hand
which it could not make picturesque.
The three great barns, standing in the
shadow to the south, were ricketty and
ancient without being comely, and the
glare only made their awkward outlines
and patched, paintless surfaces the mean
er.; the score of lean cows, standing idly
fetlock-deep in the black mire of the
barnyard, or nipping the scant tufts of
rank grass near the trough, seemed all
the dingier and scrawnier for the bril
liancy of the light which covered them ;
the broken gate, the bars eked out with
a hop-pole, the wheelbarrow turned
shiftlessly against a break in the wall,
the mildewed well-curb, with its anti
quated reach all seemed in this glow
of dying day to be conscious of exhibit
ing at its worst their squalid side. The
sunset could not well have illuminated,
during that hour at least, a less inspir

ing scene than this which Alvira, looking
out as she talked, or the hired man,
raising his head from over the apples,
could see from the kitchen door of
Lemuel Fairchild s farm-house. But
any student of his species would have
agreed that, in all the uninviting view,
Milton was the least attractive object.

As he rose to empty his pan within,
and start afresh, he could be seen more
fully. He was clumsily cased from neck
to ankle in brown overalls, threadbare,
discolored, patched, with mud about
the knees and ragged edges lower down.
He wore rubber boots, over the bulging
legs of which the trousers came reluct
antly, and the huge feet of these were
slit down the instep. His hat had been
soft and black once ; now it seemed
stiffened with dirt, to which the after
noon milking had lent a new contribu
tion of short reddish hair, and was
shapeless and colorless from age. His
back was narrow and bent, and his long
arms terminated in hands which it
seemed sinful to have touch anything
thereafter to be eaten. Viewed from
behind Milton appeared to be at least
fifty. But his face showed a somewhat
younger man, despite its sun-baked lines
and the frowzy beard which might be
either the yellow of unkempt youth or
the gray of untidy age. In reality he
was not yet thirty-six.

He slouched out now with a fresh lot
of apples, and, squatting on the door-
stone, resumed the conversation.

"I s pose, naow Sissly s gone, ther
won t be no livin under th same roof
with Sabriny fer any of us. Ther ain t
nobuddy lef fer her to rassle with cep
us. Ole Lemuel s so broken up, he won t
dare say his soul s his own ; n John
well, Lize Wilkins says she heerd him
say he did n t know s he d come to th
funerl t all, after th way him n Sa
briny hed it aout las time he was here."

" I was n t talkin o them ! " said Al
vira, slapping the flour from her hands
and beginning with the roller ; " it d
be nothin new, her tryin to boss them.

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

But she s got her dander up naow agin
somebuddy that beats them all holler.
They won t no Richardsons come puttin
on airs raoun here, an takin th parlor
bedroom thaout askin , not ef th 5 ole
lady knaows herself n I guess she
does,"

"What Richardsons ?" asked Milton.
" Thought Sissly was th last of em
thet they wa n t no more Kichardsons."

" Why, man alive, ain t Albert s wife
a Richardson, th daughter of Sissly s
cousin you remember, that pock-pitted
man who kep th fast hoss here one
summer. Of course she s a Richardson
full-blooded ! When she come up
from th train here this mornin , with
Albert, I see by th ole lady s eye t she
meant misch f. I didn t want to see no
raow, here with a corpse in th haouse,
n so I tried to smoothe matters over,
n kind o quiet Sabriny daown, tellin
her thet they had to come to th fu-
nerl, n they d go way soon s it was
through with, J n that Albert, bein the
oldest son, hed a right to th comp ny
bed-room."

" N what d she say?"

" She did n t say much, cep ; thet th
Richardsons hed never brung nothin
but bad luck to this haouse, n they
never would, nuther. N then she
flaounced upstairs to her room, jis s
she allus does when she s riled, n she
give Albert s wife sech a look, I said to
m self, Milady, I wouldn t be in your
shoes fer all yer fine fixin s. "

"Well, she s a dum likely lookin
woman, ef she is a Richardson," said
Milton, with something like enthusiasm.
" Wonder ef she wears one o them low-
necked gaowns when she s to hum, like
th picters in th Ledger. They say
they all dew, in New York."

" Haow sh d I knaow ! " Alvira sharply
responded. "I got enough things to
think of, thaout both rin my head abaout
city women s dresses. N you ought to
hev, tew. Ef you n Leander d pay more
heed to yer work, n dew yer chores up
ship-shape, n spen less time porin over
them good-fer-nothin story-papers, th
farm wouldn t look so run-daown n
slaouchy. Did yeh hear what Albert
said this mornin , when he looked
raoun ? I swan ! he said, I blieve
this is th seediest lookin place n all

Northern New York. Nice thing fer
him to hev to say, wa n t it ! "

"What d I keer what he says? He
ain t th boss here, by a jug-full ! "

" N more s th pity, tew. He d make
yeh toe th mark ! "

" Yes, n Sabriny d make it lively fer
his wife, tew. Th ole fight loaout th
Fairchileses n th Richardsons would n t
be a succumstance to thet. Sissly d
thank her stars thet she was dead n
buried aout o th way."

These two hired people, who discussed
their employer and his family with that
easy familiarity of Christian names to be
found only in Russia and rural America,
knew very well what portended to the
house when the Richardson subject came
up. Alvira Roberts had spent more than
twenty years of her life in the thick of
the gaseous strife between Fairchild and
Richardson. She was a mere slip of a
girl, barely thirteen, when she had first
hired out at the homestead, and now,
black-browed, sallow from much tea-
drinking, and with a sharp, deep wrinkle
vertically dividing her high forehead, she
looked every year of her thirty-five.
Compared with her, Milton Squires was
a new comer on the farm, but still there
were lean old cows over yonder in the
barnyard, lazily waiting for the night-
march to the pastures, that had been
ravenous calves in their gruel-bucket
stage when he came.

What these two did not know about
the Fairchild family was hardly worth
the knowing. Something of what they
knew the reader ought here to be told.

CHAPTER H.

THE STORY OF LEMUEL.

LEMUEL FAIRCHILD, the bowed, gray-
haired, lumpish man who at this time
sat in the main living room within, fee
bly rocking himself by the huge wood-
stove, and trying vaguely, as he had
been for thirty-six hours past, to realize
that his wife lay in her final sleep in the
adjoining chamber, had forty odd years
before been as likely a young farmer a
Dearborn County knew. He was fine-
looking and popular in those days, and
old Seth Fairchild, dying unexpectedly,
had left to this elder son his whole pos-

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

sessions six hundred acres of dairp and
hop land, free and clear, a residence
much above the average farm-house of
these parts, and a tidy sum of money
in the bank.

The contrast now was sweeping. The
Fairchild s house was still the largest
residential structure on the Burfield
road, which led from Thessaly across
the hills to remote and barbarous lati
tudes, but respect had long since ceased
to accrue to it upon the score of its size.
To the local eye it was the badge and
synonym of " rack and ruin ; " while
sometimes strangers of artistic tastes,
chancing to travel by this unfrequented
road, would voice regrets that such a

Erospect as opened to the vision just
ere, with the noble range of hills be
hind for the first time looming in their
true proportions, should be spoiled by
such a gaunt, unsightly edifice, with its
tumble-down surroundings, its staring
windows cheaply curtained with green
paper, and its cheerless, shabby color
that indescribable gray with which rain
and frost and Father Time supplant un-
renewed white. The garden, compris
ing a quarter-acre to the east of the
house, was a tangled confusion of flow
ers and weeds and berry-bushes run
wild, yet the effect somehow was mean
rather than picturesque. The very grass
in the yard to the west did not grow
healthfully, but revealed patches of sandy
barrenness, created by feet too indiffer
ent or unruly to keep the path to the
barns.

Yet the neighbors said, and Lemuel
had come himself to feel, that the blame
of this sad falling off was not fairly his.
There had been a fatal defect in the
legacy.

The one needful thing which the Hon.
Seth Fairchild did not leave his elder
son was the brains by means of which
he himself, in one way or another, had
gathered together a substantial compe
tency, won two elections to the State
Senate, and established and held for
himself the position of leading citizen
in his town that most valued and in
tangible of American local distinctions.
But while Lemuel s brown hair curled
so prettily, and his eyes shone with the
modest light of wealthy and well-be
haved youth, nobody missed the brains.

If there was any change in the manage
ment of the farm, it passed unnoticed,
for all attention was centred on the
great problem, interesting enough al
ways when means seeks a help-meet,
but indescribably absorbing in rural
communities, where everybody knows
everybody and casual gallants never
come for those luckless damsels neg
lected by native swains Whom will he
marry ?

It boots not now to recall the heart
burnings, the sad convictions that life
would henceforth be a blank, the angry
repinings at fate, which desolated the
village of Thessaly and vicinity when
Lemuel, returning from a mid-winter
visit to Albany, brought a bride in the
person of a bright-eyed, handsome, and
clever young lady who had been Miss
Cicely Richardson. He had known her,
so they learned, for some years not
only during his school-days at the acad
emy there, but later, in what was mys
teriously known at Thessaly as " society,"
in whose giddy mazes he had mingled
while on a visit to his legislative sire
at the Capital City. No, it is not worth
while to dwell upon the village hopes
rudely destroyed by this shock for
they are dim memories of the far, far
past.

But to one the blow was a disappoint
ment not to be forgotten, or to grow
dim in recollection. Miss Sabrina Fair-
child was two years younger than her
brother in age a score of years his
senior in firmness and will. She had
only a small jointure in her father s
estate, because she had great expecta
tions from an aunt in Ohio, in perpetual
memory of whose anticipated bounty
she bore her scriptural name, but she
was a charge on her brother in that she
was to have a home with him until she
chose to leave it for one of her own. I
doubt not that her sagacious father fore
saw, from his knowledge of his daughter,
the improbability that this second home
would ever be offered her.

Miss Sabrina, even at this tender age,
was clearly not of the marrying kind,
and she grew less so with great steadi
ness. She was at this early date, when
she was twenty-four, a woman of mark
edly strong character, of which perhaps
the most distinct trait was family pride.

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

There has been a considerable army
of State Senators since New York first
took on the honors of a Commonwealth,
and unto them a great troop of daugh
ters have been born, but surely no other
of all these girls ever exulted so fondly,
nay, fiercely, in the paternal dignity as
did Sabrina. She knew nothing of poli
tics, and little of the outside world ; her
conceptions of social possibilities were
of the most primitive sort ; one winter,
when she went to Albany with her father,
and was passed in a bewildered way
through sundry experiences said to be
of a highly fashionable nature, it had
been temporarily apparent to her own
consciousness that she was an awkward,
ignorant, red-armed country-girl but
this only for one wretched hour or so.
Every mile-post passed on her home
ward ride, as she looked through the
stage window, brought restored self-
confidence, and long before the tedious
journey ended she was more the Sena
tor s daughter than ever.

Through this very rebound from mor
tification she queened it over the sim
pler souls of the village with renewed
severity and pomp. The itinerant sing
ing-master who thought to get her for
the asking into his class in the school-
house, Wednesday evenings, was frozen
by the amazed disdain of her refusal.
When young Smith Thurber, the kiln-
keeper s son, in the flippant spirit of
fine buttons and a resplendent fob,
asked her to dance a measure with
him at the Wallaces party, the iciness
of her stare fairly took away his breath.

Something can be guessed of her
emotions when the brother brought
home his bride. With a half-coward
ly, half-kindly idea of postponing the
trouble certain to ensue, he had given
Sabrina no warning of his intention,
and, through the slow mails of that
date, only a day s advance notice of his
return with Mrs. Lemuel. The storm
did not burst at once. Indeed it may
be said never to have really burst. Sa
brina was not a bad woman, according
to her lights, and she did nothing con
sciously to make her sister-in-law un
happy. The young wife had a light
heart, a sensible mind, and the faculty
of being cheerful about many things
which might be expected to annoy.

But she had some pride, too, and
although at the outset it was the very
simple and praiseworthy pride of a well-
meaning individual, incessant vaunting
of the Fairchilds quite naturally gave a
family twist to it, and she soon was able
to resent slights in the name of all the
Bichardsons.

After all, was she not in the right?
for while the grass was scarcely green
on the grave of the first Fairchild who
had amounted to anything, there were
six generations of Eichardsons in Al
bany chronicles alone who had married
into the best Dutch families of that an
cient, aristocratic town, to say nothing
of the New England record antedating
that period. Thus the case appeared to
her, and came gradually to have more
prominence in her mind than, in her
maiden days, she could have thought
possible.

So this great Forty Tears War be
gan, in which there was to be no single,
grand, decisive engagement, but a thou
sand petty skirmishes and little raids,
infinitely more vexatious and exhaust
ing, and was waged until the weaker of
the combatants, literally worn out in
the fray, had laid down her arms and
her life together, and was at peace at
last, under the sheet in the darkened
parlor.

The other veteran party to the feud,
her thin, iron-gray hair half concealed
under a black knit cap, her bold, sharp
face red as with stains of tears, sat at
the window of her own upper room,
reading her Bible. If Milton and Al-
vira had known that she was reading in
Judges, they might have been even
more confident of a coming " flare-up."

CHAPTER m.

AUNT SABRINA.

NEIGHBORING philosophers who cared,
from curiosity or a loftier motive, to
study the Fairchild domestic problem,
in all its social and historic ramifica
tions, generally emerged from the in
quiry with some personal bias against
Miss Sabrina, tempered by the conclu
sion that, after all, there was a good
deal to be said on the old lady s side.

Certainly, as the grim old maid in the

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

rusty bombazine gown and cap,
gave a funereal air even to the red plaid
shawl over her shoulders, sat at her up
per window, and tried through a pained
and resentful chaos of secular thoughts
to follow the Scriptural lines, there was
an extremely vivid conviction uppermost
in her mind that justice had been meted
out neither to her nor to the Fairchilds.
She would have repelled indignantly,
and honestly enough too, the charge
that there was any bitterness in her heart
toward the sister-in-law whose burial
was appointed for the morrow. She
had liked poor Cicely, in her iron-clad
way, and had wept genuine tears more
than once since her death. Indeed, her
thoughts and they were persistent, self-
asserting thoughts, which not even her
favorite recital of Gideon s sanguinary
triumph could keep back ran more
upon the living than upon the dead.

And what gloomy, melancholy
thoughts they were ! They swept over
two score of years, the whole gamut of
emotion, from the pride and hope of
youth to the anguish of disappointed,
wrathful, hopeless old age, as her hand
might cover all there was of sound in
music by a run down her mother s ancient
spinet which stood, mute and forgotten,
in the corner of the room. Her brother,
this brother whom satirical fate had made
a Lemuel instead of a Lucy or a Lucretia,
a man instead of a woman as befitted
his weakness of mind and spirit had
be^un life with a noble heritage. Where
was it now ? He had been the heir to
a leading position among the men of his
county. What was he now ? The Fair
childs had been as rich, as respected,
as influential as any Dearborn family.
Who did them honor now ?

The mental answers to these questions
blurred Miss Sabrina s spectacles with
tears, and Gideon s performance with
the lamps seemed a tiresome thing. She
laid the Book aside, and went softly
down stairs to her brother, who sat, still
rocking in his late wife s high, cushioned
arm-chair, disconsolate by the stove.

There were also in the room his oldest
son and this son s wife, sitting dumbly,
each at a window, making a seemly pre
tence of not being bored by the meagre
prospect without. They looked at their
aunt in that far-off impassive manner

with which participants in a high pageant
or solemn observance always regard one
another. There was no call for a greet
ing, since they had already exchanged
whispered salutations, earlier in the day.
Miss Sabrina glanced at the young wife
for an instant it was not a kindly
glance. Then her eyes turned to the
husband, and while surveying him seem
ed suddenly to light up with some new
thought. She almost smiled, and her
tight pressed lips parted. Had they fol
lowed the prompting of the brain and
spoken, the words would have been :
"Thank God, there is still Albert!"
Albert Fairchild would have been
known in any company, and in any guise,
I think, for a lawyer. The profession had
its badge in every line and aspect of his
face, in every movement of his head,
and, so it seemed, in the way he held
his hands, in the very tone of his voice.
His face was round, and would have
been pleasant, so far as conformation
and expression went, had it not been for
the eyes, which were unsympathetic
almost cold. Often the rest of his coun
tenance was wreathed in amiable smiles ;
but the eyes smiled never. He had
looked a middle-aged man for a decade
back, and casual acquaintances who met
him from year to year complimented
him on not growing old, because they
saw no change. In fact he had been
old from the beginning, and even now
looked more than his age, which lacked
some few months of forty. He was
growing bald above the temples, and,
like all the Fairchilds, was taking on
flesh with increasing years.

Nothing could have better shown the
extremity of poor Sabrina s woe than
this clutching at the relief afforded by
the sight of Albert, for she was not on
good terms with him. Albert had been
born and reared through boyhood at a
time when the farm was still prosperous
and money plenty. He had been edu
cated far beyond the traditions of his
sires, and was the first University man
of his family, so far as was known. He
had been given his own bent in all
things, before he settled down to a
choice of profession, and then, at con
siderable expense, had been secured a
place with one of the greatest legal firms
in New York City. For years the first

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

fruits of the soil, the cream off all the
milk so the Aunt s mingled scriptural
and dairy metaphors ran had been his.
And what return had they had for it?
He had become a sound, successful law
yer, with a handsome income, and he
had married wealth as well. Yet year
after year, as the fortunes of the Fair-
child homestead declined, he had never
interfered to prevent the fresh mort
gage being placed nay, had more than
once explicitly declined to help save it.

"Agriculture is out of date in this
State," she had heard him say once, with
her own ears, "Better let the old people
live on their capital, as they go along.
It s no use throwing good money after
bad. Farm land here in the East is
bound to decrease in value, steadily."

This about the homestead about the
cradle of his ancestors ! Poor old lady,
had the Fairchilds been sending baro
nial roots down through all this soil for a
thousand years, she couldn t have been
more pained or mortified over Albert s
callous view of the farm which her
grandfather, a revolted cobbler from
Rhode Island, had cleared and paid for
at ten cents an acre.

Then there was his marriage, too.
In all the years of armed neutrality or
tacit warfare which she and Cicely had
passed together under one roof, they
had never before or since come so near
an open and palpable rupture as they
did over a city-bred cousin of Cicely s
a forward, impertinent, ill-behaved
girl from New York, who had come
to the farm on a visit some ten years
before, and whose father was summoned
at last to take her away because other
wise she, Sabrina, threatened to herself
leave the house. There had been a des
perate scene before this conclusion was
reached. Sabrina had stormed and
threatened to shake the dust of the
homestead from off her outraged san
dals. Cicely for the once had stood her
ground, and said she fancied even worse
things than that might happen without
producing a universal cataclysm. Lem
uel had almost wept with despair over
the tumult. The two older boys, par
ticularly John, had not concealed their
exuberant hope that their maiden Aunt
might be taken at her word, and allowed
to leave. And the girl herself, this im

pudent huzzy of a Richardson, actually
put her spoke in too, and said things
about old cats and false teeth, which
it made Sabrina s blood still boil to re
call.

And it was this girl, of all others in
the world, whom Albert must go and
marry!

Yet Sabrina, in her present despon
dent mood, felt herself able to rise above
mere personal piques and dislikes, if
there really was a hope for the family s
revival. She was not very sanguine
about even Albert, but beyond him
there was no chance at all.

John, the second brother, had talent
enough, she supposed. People said he
was smart, and he must be, else he could
scarcely have come in his twenty-eighth
year to be owner and editor of the
Thessaly Banner of Liberty, and put in
all those political pieces, written in the
first person plural, as if he had the
power of attorney for all Dearborn
County. But then he was mortally
shiftless about money matters, and
they did say that since his wife s death
a mere school-teacher she had been
he had become quite dissipated and
played billiards. Besides she was at
open feud with him, and never, never
would speak to him again, the longest
day he lived ! So that settled John.

As for Seth, the youngest of the
brothers, it is to be doubted if she
would have thought of him at all, had
he not come in at the moment. He
had been down to the village to get
some black clothes which the tailor had
constructed on short notice for him, and
he, too, passed through the sitting-room
to the stairs with the serious look and
the dead silence which the awful pres
ence imposes.

Then she did think of him for a mo
ment, as she stood warming her fingers
over the bald, flat top of the stove for
though bright and warm enough out
side, the air was still chilly in these
great barns of rooms.

Seth was indisputably the handsomest
of all the Fairchilds, even handsomer
than she remembered his father to have
been a tall, straight, broad-shouldered
youth, who held his head well up and
looked everybody in the face with honest
hazel eyes. "He had the Richardson com-

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

plexion, a dusky tint gained doubtless
from all those Dutch intermarriages of
which poor Cicely used to make so
much, but his brown hair curled much
as Lemuel s used to curl, only not so
effeminately, and his temper was as
even as his father s had been, though
not so submissive or weak. His hands
were rough and coarse from the farm
work, and his walk showed familiarity
with ploughed ground, but still he had,
in his way, a more distinguished air
than either Albert or John had ever
had.

Looking him over, a stranger would
have been surprised that his aunt should
have left him out of her thoughts of the
family s future or that, once pausing to
consider him, she should have dropped
the idea so swiftly. But so it was. Miss
Sabrina felt cold and aggrieved toward
Albert, and she came as near hating
John as a deeply devout woman safely
could. She simply took no account of
Seth at all, as she would have expressed
it. To her he was a quiet, harmless
sort of youngster, who worked pretty
steadily on the farm, and got on civilly
with people. She understood that he
was very fond of reading, but that made
no special impression on her. If she
had been asked, she would undoubtedly
have said that Seth was her favorite
nephew but she had never dreamed of
regarding him as a possible restorer of
the family glories.

" Is yer oven hot enough ? " she asked
Alvira in the kitchen, a minute later.
" If they s anything I dew hate, it s a
soggy undercrust."

" I guess I kin manage a batch o pies
by this time," returned the hired girl
with a sniff. Through some unex
plained process of reasoning, Alvira was
with the Fairchilds as against the Kich-
ardsons, but she was first of all for her
self, against the whole human race.

" Milton gone aout with the caows ? "
asked the old lady, ignoring for once
the domestic s challenge. " When he
comes back, he n Leander better go
over to Wilkinses, and get what chairs
they kin spare. I s pose there ll be a
big craowd, ef only to git in and see if
there s any holes in our body-Brussels
yit, n haow that sofy-backed set in the
parlor s holdin out. Poor Cicely I I

think they better bring over the chairs
to-night, after dusk. What people don t
see they can t talk abaout."

"Heard Milton say he was goin to
borrer some over at Warren s," remarked
Alvira, in a casual way, but looking
around to see how the idea affected
Miss Sabrina.

" Well he jis won t ! " came the
answer, very promptly and spiritedly.
"If every mortal soul of em hes to
stan up, he won t ! I guess Lemuel
Fairchild s wife can be buried thaout
asking any help from Matildy Warren.
I wouldn t ask her if t was th las thing
I ever did."

" But Annie sent word she was corn-
in over fus thing in th mornin , so s to
help clear up th breakfast things. If
she s good enough fer that, I don t see
why you need be afeered o borryin her
chairs."

" They ain t her chairs, and you
knaow it, Alviry. I ain t got a word
to say agin Annie Fairchild, but when
it comes to her gran mother, I kin ride
a high horse as well s she kin. After
all the trouble she made my family, the
sight of a single stick of her furnitur
here d be enough to bring the rafters
of this haouse daown over my head, I
do believe ! "

" Well, of course, taint none o my
business, but seems to me there 11 be
a plaguey slim fun VI when your turn
comes if you re goin to keep up all
these old-woman s fights with every
body raound abaout."

" Naow Alviry ! " began Miss Sabrina,
in her shrillest and angriest tone ; then
with a visible effort, as if remembering
something, she paused and then went
on in a subdued, almost submissive
voice, "You knaow jis haow Matildy
Warren s used us. From the very day
my poor brother William ran off with
her Jenny and goodness knaows what
ever possessed him to dew it thet old
woman s never missed a chance to run
us all daown ez ef she oughtn t to
been praoud o th day a Fairchild took
up with a Warren."

" Guess you ain t had none the wu st
of it," put in Alvira, with sarcasm.
" Guess your tongue s Hbaout as sharp
as her n ever was. B sides she s bed
ridden naow, n everybody thought

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

she wouldn t get threw th spring. N
ef Seth s goin to make up to Annie,
you ought to begin to smooth things
over fore she dies. There s no telhn
but what she mightn t leave the farm
away f m th girl at th last minute, jis
to spite you."

" Yeh needn t talk as if / wanted her
pesky farm !

"Oh, well now, you knaow what I
mean s well s I dew. What s th use
o harpin on what yer brother William
did, or what ole Matildy said, fore I
was born, when you knaow th tew
farms jine, and yer heart s sot on hav-
in em in one. Yes, fore I was born,"
repeated the domestic, as if pleased
with the imph cation of juvenility.

Miss Sabrina hesitated, and looked
at Alvira meditatively through her
spectacles, in momentary doubt about
the propriety of saying a sharp thing
under all the circumstances ; but the
temptation was not to be resisted.
" N you ain t percisely a chicken
yourself, Alviry," she said and left the
kitchen.

Later, when Milton had returned
from the pasture, and hung about the
kitchen, mending the harness that went
with the democrat-wagon while waiting
for Leander to return from the cheese
factory, Alvira remarked :

" Seems if Sabriny d lost all her
sper t this last day or tew. Never see
sech a change. She don t answer up
wuth a cent. I shouldn t be s prised if
she didn t tackle Albert s wife after all.
Oh yes, n you ain t to go to Warren s
for them chairs. Sabriny s dead-set
agin that."

"What s up?" asked Milton. "Hez
Seth broke off with Annie ? "

" Don t knaow s they ever was any
thing particular to break off. No, t
aint that ; it s the same raow tween the
two ole women. Goodness knaows, I m
sick n tired of hearin baout it."

" No, but ain t Seth n Annie fixed it
up?" persisted Milton. "Daown t th
corners they say it s all settled." Then
he mutteringly added, as he slouched
out to meet Leander, who drove up
now with a great rattle of empty milk-
cans, " I wish t / was in Seth s shoes."

" Oh, you dew, dew yeh ! " said Alvira,
thus left to herself.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO YOUNG WOMEN.

THE young girl whose future had been
settled down at the corners, came along
the road next morning toward the Fair-
child house, all unconscious of her des
tiny. She lived in a small, old-fashioned
farm-dwelling back in the fields, alone
with her grandmother, and although
there was a bitter feud between the
heads of the two houses, it had not
stopped her from being a familiar and
helpful figure in her uncle s homestead.

Annie Fairchild was a country girl in
some senses of the term, cairn-faced,
clear-eyed, self -reh ant among her Mends,
but with a curious disposition toward
timidity in the presence of strangers.
She was held to be too serious and
" school-ma am-ish " for pleasant com
pany by most rural maidens of her ac
quaintance, and the few attempts of
young farmers of the country-side to
establish friendly relations with her had
not been crowned with conspicuous suc
cess. It could scarcely be said that she
was haughty or cold ; no one could de
monstrate in detail that her term of
schooling in a far-off citified seminary
had made her proud or uncivil ; but
still she had no intimates. This was the
more marked from the fact that she was
a pretty girl or if not precisely pretty,
very attractive and winning in face. No
other girl of the neighborhood had so
fine and regular a profile, or such expres
sive, dark eyes, or so serenely intelligent
an expression. It had been whispered at
one time that Keuben Tracy, the school
master, was likely to make a match of it
with her, but this had faded away again
as a rootless rumor ; by this time every
body on the Burfield road tacitly under
stood that eventually she was to be the
wife of her cousin Seth, when it " came
time for the two farms to join." And
she had grown accustomed long since to
the furtive, half-awed, half-covetous look
which men cast upon her, without sus
pecting the spirit of reluctant renuncia
tion underlying it.

She met Milton Squires on the road,
close in front of the Fairchild s house,
this morning, and, nodding to him,
passed on. She did not particularly
note the gaze he bent upon her as she

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

went by, and which followed hes after
ward, almost to the Fairchild gate. If
she had done so, and could have read all
its meaning, she would not have gone
on with so unruffled a face, for it was a
look to frighten an honest young woman
an intent, hungry, almost wolfish look,
unrelieved by so much as a glimmer of
the light of manliness. But she was alike
unconscious of his thoughts and of the
gossip he had heard at the corners. Cer
tainly no listener who followed her to the
gate, where she encountered Seth at work
screwing on a new hinge, would have
gathered from the tone or words of the
greeting on either side any testimony to
confirm the common supposition that
they were destined for each other.

" Good morning, Seth," she said, halt
ing while he dragged the great gate open
for her, " you re all through breakfast,
I suppose ? "

" No, I think Albert and his wife are
at the table still. We didn t call them
when the rest got up, you know. They re
not used to country ways."

" Anybody else here ? "

" No, except John."

" Oh, I m so glad he came. That Lize
Wilkins has been telh ng everybody he
would n t come on Sabrina s account.
And it would have looked so bad."

"Yes, Lize Wilkins talks too much.
All John ever said was that he would n t
stay here in the house any more than he
could help. It s too bad he can t get
along better with Aunt ; it would make
things so much pleasanter."

How s your father, Seth ? He seemed
at first to take it pretty hard."

" He appeared a little brighter yester
day, after Albert came, but he s very
poorly this morning. Poor old man, it
makes a sad difference with him more
I suppose than with us boys, even with
me, who never have been away from her
hardly for a day."

" Yes, Seth, a boy outgrows his moth
er, I suppose, but for an old couple who
have lived together forty years a separa
tion like this must be awful. I shall go
up to the house now."

Seth followed her with his eyes as she
walked up the road, past the old-fash
ioned latticed front door with its heavy
fold of crape hanging on the knocker,
and turned from sight at the corner of

the house ; and the look in his face was
soft and admiring, even if it was hardly
loverlike. In his trouble and he felt
the bereavement most keenly it seemed
restful and good to have such a girl as
Annie about. Indeed, a vague thought
that she never before seemed so sweet
and likeable came to him, as he turned
again to the hinge, and lightened his
heart perceptibly, for almost the last
words his mother had spoken to him
had been of his future with Annie as
his wife.

" You will have the farm before long,
Seth," she said, smiling faintly as he
stroked her pale hair somehow to the
last it never grew gray and looked at
her through boyish tears, "and Annie
will bring you the Warren farm. Her
grandmother and I have talked it over
many a time. Annie s a good girl,
there s no better, and she ll make my
boy a good, true, wife."

For a year or two back Seth had
understood in a nebulous way that his
parents had an idea of his eventually
marrying Annie, but his mother s words
still came to him in the form of a sur
prise. First, it had been far from his
thoughts that old Mrs. Warren, Annie s
invalid grandmother, would listen to
such a thing, much less plan it. There
was a bitterness of long standing be
tween the two families, he knew. His
father s younger brother a half-brother
named William Fairchild, had married
Mrs. Warren s only daughter under cir
cumstances which he had never heard
detailed, but which at least had enraged
the mother. Both William and his wife
had died, out West he believed, years
and years ago, leaving only this girl,
Annie Fairchild, who came an orphan to
the grandmother she had never seen be
fore, and was reared by her. In this
Mrs. Warren and his aunt Sabrina had
found sufficient occasion for a quarrel,
lasting ever since he could remember,
and as he had always understood from
his aunt that her battle was in defence
of the whole family, he had taken it for
granted that he not less than the other
Fairchilds was included in Mrs. Warren s
disfavor. He recalled, now, indeed,
having heard Annie say once or twice
that her grandmother liked him ; but
this he had taken in a negative way, as

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

if the grandmother of the Capulets had
remarked that of all the loathed Monta
gus perhaps young Borneo was person
ally the least offensive to her sight.

And second, he was far from being in
a Borneo s condition of heart and mind.
He was not in love with Annie for her
self much less for the Warren farm.
To state plainly what Seth had not yet
mustered courage to say in entire frank
ness even to himself, he hated farming,
and rebelled against the idea of follow
ing in his father s footsteps. And the
dreams of a career elsewhere which oc
cupied the mutinous thoughts Seth con
cealed under so passive an exterior had
carried him far away from the plan of
an alliance with the nice sort of country
cousin who would eventually own the
adjoining farm. So in this sense, too,
his mother s dying words were a sur
prise converting into a definite and
almost sacred desire what he had sup
posed to be merely a shapeless fancy.

Not all this crossed his mind, as he
watched Annie till she disappeared, and
then turned back to his work. But the
sight of her had been pleasant to him,
and her voice had sounded very gentle
and yet full of the substance of woman
liness and perhaps his poor, dear moth
er s plan for him, after all, was the best.

The gate swinging properly at last,
there was an end to Seth s out-door
tasks, and he started toward the house.
The thought that he would see Annie
within was distinct enough in his mind,
almost, to constitute a motive for his
going. At the very door he encoun
tered his brother Albert s wife, coming
out, and stopped.

Isabel Fairchild was far from deserv
ing, at least as a woman, the epithets
with which Aunt Sabrina mentally
coupled her girlhood. There was noth
ing impertinent or ill-behaved about
her appearance, certainly, as she stood
before Seth, and with a faint smile bade
him good-morning. She was above the
medium height, as woman s stature goes,
and almost plump ; her hair, much of
which was shown in front by the pretty
Parisian form of straw hat she wore, was
very light in color ; her eyes were blue,
a light, noticeable blue. She wore some
loose kind of black and gray morning
dress, with an extra fold falling in grace

ful lines from her shoulders to her train,
like a toga, and she carried a dainty
parasol, also of black and gray, like the
ribbons on her dark hat. To Seth s eyes
she had seemed yesterday, when he saw
her for the first time, a very embodi
ment of the luxury, beauty, refinement
of city life and how much more so
now, when her dingy travelling raiment
had given place to this most engaging
garb, so subdued, yet so lovely. It
seemed to him that his sister-in-law
was quite the most attractive woman
he had ever seen.

"I thought of going for a little stroll,"
she said, again with the faint half-smile.
" It is so charming outside, and so blue
and depressing in the house. Can I
walk along there through the orchard
now ? I used to when I was here as a
girl, I know and won t you come with
me? I ve scarcely had a chance for a
word with you since we came."

The invitation was pleasant enough
to Seth, but he looked deprecatingly at
his rough chore clothes, and wondered
whether he ought to accept it or not.

" Why, Seth, the idea of standing on
ceremony with me! As if we had n t
played together here as children to
say nothing of my being your sister
now ! "

They had started now toward the
orchard, and she continued :

" Do you know, it seems as if I did n t
know anybody here but you and even
you almost make a stranger out of me.
Poor Uncle Lemuel, he is so broken-
down that he scarcely remembers me,
and of course your Aunt and I couldn t
be expected to get very intimate you
remember our dispute? Then John,
he s very pleasant, and all that, but he
isn t at all like the John I used to look
up to so, the summer I was here. But
you you have hardly changed a bit.
Of course," she made haste to add, for
Seth s face did not reflect unalloyed
gratification at this, "you have grown
manly and big, and all that, but you
haven t changed in your expression or
manner. It s almost ten years and I
should have known you anywhere. But
John has changed he s more like a city
man, or rather a villager, a compromise
between city and country."

" Yes, I m a countryman through and

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

through, I suppose," said Seth^ with
something very like a sigh.

" John has seen a good deal of the
world they tell me, and been on papers
in large cities. I wonder how he can
content himself with that little weekly
in Thessaly after that."

"I don t think John has much am
bition," answered Seth, meditatively.
"He doesn t seem to care much how
things go, if he only has the chance to
say what he wants to say in print. It
doesn t make any difference to him, ap
parently, whether all New York State
reads what he writes, or only thirty or
forty fellows in Dearborn County he s
just as well satisfied. And yet he s a
very bright man, too. He might have
gone to the Assembly last fall, if he could
have bid against Elhanan Pratt. He will
go some time, probably."

"Why, do you have an auction here
for the Assembly ? "

" Oh, no, but the man who s willing to
pay a big assessment into the campaign
fund can generally shut a poor candi
date out. John did n t seem to mind
much about being frozen out though
not half so much as I did, for him.
Everybody in Thessaly knows him and
likes him and calls him John/ and that
seems to be the height of his ambition.
I can t imagine a man of his abilities be
ing satisfied with so limited a horizon."

"And, you, Seth, what is your horizon
like?" asked Isabel.

They had entered the orchard, now,
and the apple blossoms close above them
filled the May morning air with that
sweet spring perfume which seems to teU
of growth, harvest, the fruition of hope.

" Oh, I m picked out to be a country
man all the days of my life I suppose."
There was the sigh again, and a tinge of
bitterness in his tone, as well.

" Oh, I hope not that is, if you don t
want to be. Oh, it must be such a
dreary life ! The very thought of it sets
my teeth on edge. The dreadful peo
ple you have to know ; men without an
idea beyond crops and calves and the
cheese-factory; women slaving their
lives out doing bad cooking, mending
for a household of men, devoting their
scarce opportunities for intercourse
with other women to the weakest and
most wretched gossip ; coarse servants

who eat at the table with their employ
ers and call them by their Christian
names; boys whose only theory about
education is thrashing the school teach
er, if it is a man, or breaking her heart
by their mean insolence if it is a woman ;
and girls brought up to be awkward
gawks, without a chance in life, since
the brighter and nicer they are the more
they will suffer from marriage with men
mentally beneath them that is, if they
don t become sour old maids. I don t
wonder you hate it all, Seth."

"You talk like a book," said Seth, in
tones of unmistakable admiration. "I
didn t suppose any woman could talk
like that."

" I talk as I feel always, when I come
into contact with country life, and I get
angry with people who maunder about
its romantic and picturesque side.
Where is it, I should like to know ? "

" Oh, it isn t all so bad as you paint
it, perhaps, Isabel. Of course
here he hesitated a little "you don t
quite see it at its best here, you know.
Father hasn t been a first-rate manager,
and things have kind o run down."

"No, Seth, it isn t that; the trail of
the serpent is over it all rich and poor,
big and little. The nineteenth century
is a century of cities ; they have given
their own twist to the progress of the
age and the farmer is almost as far out
of it as if he lived in Alaska. Perhaps
there may have been a time when a man
could live in what the poet calls daily
communion with Nature, and not starve
his mind and dwarf his soul, but this
isn t the century."

" But Webster was a farm boy, and so
was Lincoln and Garfield and Jackson ;
almost all our great men. Hardly any of
them are born in cities, you will find."

" Oh, the country is just splendid to
be born in, no doubt of that ; but after
you are born, get out of it as soon as
you can."

"I don t know as I can leave Father
very well," said Seth, slowly, and as if
in deep thought.

They walked to the end of the pasture
beyond the orchard, to within view of
the spot where all the Fairchilds for
three generations had been laid, and
where, among the clustering sweet-briars
and wild strawberry vines Milton had

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

only yesterday dug a new grave. The
sight recalled to both another subject,
and no more was said of country life as
they returned to the house. Indeed,
little was said of any sort, for Seth had
a thinking mood on. Nothing was very
clear in his mind perhaps, but more dis
tinctly than anything else he felt that
existence on the farm had all at once be
come intolerable.

CHAPTEK V.

TEE FUNEKAL.

THE American farm-house funeral is
surely, of all the observances with which
civilized man marks the ending of this
earthly pilgrimage, the most pathetic.
The rural life itself is a sad and sterile
enough thing, with its unrelieved physi
cal strain, its enervating and destructive
diet, its mental barrenness, its sternly
narrowed groove of toil and thought and
companionship but death on the farm
brings a desolating gloom, a cruel sense
of the hopelessness of existence, which
one realizes nowhere else. The grim,
fatalist habit of seizing upon the gro
tesque side, which a century of farm life
has crystallized into what the world
knows as American humor, is not want
ing even in this hour ; and the comfort
ing conviction of immortality, of the
shining reward to follow travail and
sorrow, is nowhere more firmly insisted
upon than among our country people.
But the bleak environment of the closed
life, the absence of real fellowship among
the living, the melancholy isolation and
vanity of it all, oppress the soul here
with an intolerable weight which neither
fund of sardonic spirits nor honest faith
can lighten.

Something of this Isabel felt, as the
mid-day meal was hurried through, on
Alvira s sharp intimation that the room
couldn t be cleared any too soon, for
the crowd would begin coming now,
right along. There were three strangers
at the table though they seemed to be
scarcely more strangers than the mem
bers of her husband s family of whom
two were clergymen.

One of these, who sat next to her, was
the Episcopalian minister at Thessaly,
a middle-aged, soft sort of man, with
VOL. I. 3

short hair so smooth and furry that she
was conscious of an impulse to stroke it
like a seal-skin, and little side-whiskers
which reminded her of a baby brush.
He impressed her as a stupid man, but
in that she was mistaken. He was ner
vous and ill at ease, first because he
could not successfully or gracefully use
the narrow three-tined steel fork with a
bone handle that had been given him,
and second, because he did not under
stand the presence of the Rev. Stephen
Bunce, who sat opposite him, offensively
smacking his lips, and devoting to loud
discourse periods which it seemed might
better have been employed in mastica
tion.

If quiet Mr. Turner w T as ill at ease,
the Rev. Stephen was certainly not. He
bestrode the situation like a modern
Colossus. The shape of his fork did not
worry him, since he used it only as a
humble and lowly adjunct to his knife.
The presence of Mr. Turner too, neither
puzzled nor pained him. In fact, he was
rather pleased than otherwise to have
him there, where he could talk to him
before sympathetic witnesses, and make
him realize how the man of the people
who had a genuine call towered innately
superior to mere beneficed gentility.
"Beneficed gentility" that was a good
phrase, and he made a mental note of it
for future use; then the temptation
was too strong he bundled it neck and
crop into the florid sentence with which
he was addressing Albert and looked
at the Episcopalian to watch its effect.

Mr. Turner was occupied with his
javelin-shaped fork, and did not seem
to hear it.

Mr. Bunce suspected artifice in this,
and watched the rector s meek face for a
sign of secret confusion. After a moment
he said, with his full, pompous voice at
its loudest and most artificial pitch :

"Ah, Mr. Turner, this is a sad occa
sion ! "

The rector glanced up with some sur
prise, for he had not expected this over
ture, and answered : " Yes, truly it is ;
extremely sad."

" Yet it is consoling to feel that even
so sad an occasion can be converted into
a means of grace, a season of spiritual
solace as it were."

Mr. Turner only nodded assent to

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

this ; he felt that the whole company
around the table, hired people and all,
were eagerly watching him and the burly,
bold-faced preacher opposite, as if they
were about to engage in gladiatorial
combat.

But Mr. Bunce would not permit the
challenge to be declined. He stroked
his ochre-hued chin-whisker, looked com
placently around the board, and asked :

" I s pose you ve brought your white
and black riggin s along, eh ? Or don t
you wear em except in church ? "

There was a pained looked in Mr.
Turner s face ; he made a little gesture
toward the folding-doors leading to the
parlor, beyond which lay the dead, and
murmured :

" It will be better, will it not, to speak
of these matters together, after dinner ? "

Again the Rev. Stephen glanced around
the table, looking especially toward Miss
Sabrina for approval, and remarked
loftily :

" There is no need of concealment here,
sir. It is all in the family here. We
all know that the Mother in Israel who
has departed was formerly of your com
munion, and if she wanted to have you
here, sir, at her funeral, why well and
good. But the rest of this sorrowin
family, sir, this stricken household, air
Baptists

" I declare ! there s the Burrells drivin
into the yard, a ready ! " said Alvira, ris
ing from her chair abruptly. " If you re
threw we better hustle these things aout,
naow ; you women won t more n have
time to dress fore they ll all be here."

The interruption seemed a welcome
one to everybody, for there was a gen
eral movement on both sides of Mr.
Bunce, which he, with his sentence un
finished, was constrained to join.

The third stranger, a small, elderly
man with a mobile countenance and rusty
black clothes, drew himself up, put on a
modifiedly doleful expression, and, speak
ing for the first time, assumed control
of everything :

"Naow, Milton, you n Leander git
the table aout, n bring in all the extry
chairs, n set em raound in rows.
Squeeze em pooty well together in
back, but the front ones kind o spread
aout. You, Miss Sabriny, n the lady "
indicating Isabel with his thumb

" n Annie d better go upstairs n git
yer bonnets on, n things, n go n set
in the room at the head o the stairs.
You men, tew, git your gloves on, n
naow be sure n have your hankch fs in
some pocket where you can git at em
with your gloves on n have your hats
in your hands, n then go n set with
the ladies. Miss Sabriny, you ll come
daown arm-in-arm with yer brother,
when I call, n then Albert n his wife,
n John with Annie, n Seth with
pshaw, there s odd numbers. Well,
Seth can come alone. And dew keep
step comin daown stairs !

" N naow, gents," turning to the
Rev. Mr. Turner, " your gaown s in the
fust room to the right on the landin ,
and if you " addressing Mr. Bunce
" will go up with him, and arrange
baout the services, so s to come daown
together it 11 look pootier than to
straggle in by yourselves *N* you, Mil
ton, ain t you got somethin besides
overalls to put on ? "

Thus the autocrat cleared the living-
room. Then, going around through the
front hall, he entered the parlor to re
ceive, with solemn dignity and a fine
eye to their relative social merit, the
first comers.

These were almost exclusively women,
dressed in Sunday garb. As each buggy
or democrat wagon drove up inside the
gate, and discharged its burden, the
men would lead the horses further on,
to be hitched under or near the shed,
and then saunter around to the kitchen
side of the house, where cider was on
tap, and other men were standing in
the sunshine, chewing tobacco and con
versing in low tones, while the women
from each conveyance went straight to
the front door, and got seats in the
parlor as close to the coffin as possible.
The separation of the sexes could hardly
have been more rigorous in a synagogue.
There were, indeed, two or three meek,
well-brushed men among the women,
sitting, uncomfortable but resigned, in
the geranium-scented gloom of the cur
tained parlor, but, as the more virile
brethren outside would have said, they
were men who didn t count.

The task of the undertaker was neither
light nor altogether smooth. There were
some dozen chairs reserved, nearest the

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

pall, for the mourners, the clergymen,
and the mixed quartette expected from
Thessaly. Every woman on entering
made for these chairs, and the more
unimportant and " low-down " she was
in the rural scale of social values, the
more confidently she essayed to get one
of them. With all of these more or less
argument was necessary conducted in
a buzzing whisper from which some
squeak or guttural exclamation would
now and again emerge. With some, the
undertaker was compelled to be quite
peremptory ; while one woman Susan
Jane Squires, a slatternly, weak-eyed
creature w r ho presumed upon her po
sition as sister-in-law of Milton, the
hired man had actually to be pushed
away by sheer force.

Then there was the further labor of
inducing all these disappointed ones to
take the seats furthest back, so that late
comers might not have to push by and
over them, but efforts in this direction
were only fitful at the best, and soon
were practically abandoned.

" Fust come, fust sarved ! " said old
Mrs. Wimple. "I m jes ez good ez
them that 11 come bimeby, n ef I don
mind their climbin over me, yo u need
n t ! " and against this the undertaker
could urge nothing satisfactory.

In the intervals of that functionary s
activity, conversation was quite general,
carried on in whispers which, in the ag
gregate, sounded like the rustle of a
smart breeze through the dry leaves of
a beech-tree. Many women were there
who had never been in the house before
could indeed, have had no other
chance of getting in. These had some
fleeting interest in the funeral appoint
ments, and the expense incident there
to, but their chief concern was the fur
nishing of the house. They furtively
scraped the carpet with their feet to
test its quality, they felt of the furniture
to see if it had been re-varnished, they
estimated the value of the curtains,
speculated on the cost of the melodeon
and its age, wondered when the ceiling-
had last been whitewashed. Some, who
knew the family better, discussed the
lamentable decline of the Fairchilds in
substance and standing within their
recollection, and exchanged hints about
the endemic mortgage stretching its

sinister hand even to the very chairs
they were sitting on. Others, still
more intimate, rehearsed the details of
the last and fatal illness, commented on
the character of individuals in the fam
ily, and guessed how long old Lemuel
would last, now that Cicely was gone.

In the centre of these circling waves
of gossip lay the embodiment of the
eternal silence. Listening, one might
fain envy such an end to that living
death of mental starvation which was
the lot of all there, and which forced
them, out of their womanhood, to chat
ter in the presence of death.

The singers came. They were from
the village, belonging to the Congrega
tional Church there, and it was under
stood that they came out of liking for
John Fairchild. None of the gathering-
knew them personally, but it was said
that the contralto the woman with the
bird on her bonnet, who took her seat
at the melodeon had had trouble with
her husband. A fresh buzz of whisper
ing ran round. Some stray word must
have reached the contralto, for she col
ored and pretended to study the music
before her intently, and, later, when
" Pleyel s Hymn " was being sung, she
played so nervously that there was an
utter collapse in the sharps and flats of
the third line, which nearly threw the
singers out.

The undertaker now stalked in, and
stood 011 tip-toe to see if the back
room was also filled. He had been out
with the men at the kitchen-door, fixing
crape on the arms of six of the best-
dressed and most respectable-looking
farmers in an almost jocular mood, and
drilling them affably in their duties ;
drinking cider, exchanging gossip with
one or two acquaintances, and conduct
ing himself generally like an ordinary
mortal. He had now resumed his dic
tatorship.

Most of the men had followed him
around to the front of the house, and
clustered now in the hall, or in a group
about the outer door, holding their hats
on a level with their shoulders.

A rustle on the stairs told that the
mourners were descending. Then came
the strains of the melodeon, and the
singing, very low, solemn and sweet.

A little pause, and the full voice of

SETH S BROTHER S WIFE.

the Baptist preacher was heard in pray
er then in some eulogistic remarks.
What he said was largely nonsense,
from any point of view, but the voice
was that of the born exhorter, deep,
clear-toned, melodious ; there seemed
to be a stop in it, as in an organ, which
at pathetic parts gave forth a tremulous,
weeping sound, and when this came,
not a dry eye could be found. He was
over-fond of using this effect, as are
most men possessing the trick, but no
one noticed it, not even Isabel, who
from sitting sternly intolerant of the
whispering women around her, and
indignant at Mr. Bunce for his dinner
performance, found herself sobbing with
all the rest when the tremulo stop was
touched.

There was more singing, this time
fine, simple old "St. Denis," and then
the bearers were summoned in.

The men asked one another in mur
murs outside if the Episcopal clargy-
man was to take no part in the services.
Within, Mrs. Wimple went straighter
to the point. She plucked him by the
sleeve of his robe and leaning over with
some difficulty, for she was a corpulent
body, whispered to the hearing of a
score of her neighbors :

"What air you here fer, mister, if
you ain t goin to say nor dew no thin ?"

" I officiate at the grave," he had said,
and then regretted all the remainder
of the day having answered her at all.

On the return of the procession from
the little knoll where the slate and mar
ble tomb-stones of long dead Fairchilds
bent over the new brown mound, Annie
and Seth walked together. There was
silence between them for a time, which
he broke suddenly.

"It s all very hard, Annie, for you
know how much mother and I loved
each other. But, truly, the hardest
thing of all is to think of staying here
among these narrow dolts. While she
was here I could stand it. But I can t
any more."

Annie said nothing. She felt his arm
trembling against hers, and his voice
was strained and excited. What could
she say?

" They re not like me," he went on ;
" I have nothing in common with them.

I hate the sight of the whole of them. I
never realized till to-day how big a gulf
there was between them and me. Did n t
you see it what a mean, narrow-con
tracted lot they all were ? "

"Who do you mean, Seth?"

"Why all of them. The Burrells, the
Wimples, old Elhanan Pratt, old Lyman
Tenney, that fellow Bunce the whole
lot of them. And the women too! Did
you watch them or, what s worse, did
you hear them ? I wonder you can bear
them yourself, Annie, any more than I
can."

"Sometimes it is hard, Seth, I admit ;
when I first came back to grandma from
school it was awfully hard. But then
I ve got to live here, and reconcile my
self to what the place offers and, after
all, Seth, they are well-meaning people,
and some of them are smart, too, in
their way."

"Oh, well-meaning in their way
yes! But I haven t got to live here,
Annie, and I haven t got to reconcile
myself, and I won t ! That s the long
and short of it. I can make my living
elsewhere perhaps more than my liv
ing and be among people who don t
make me angry every time I set eyes on
them. And I can find friends, too, who
feel as I do, and look at things as I do,
instead of these country louts who only
know abominable stories, and these fool
ish girls who who "

" Nobody can blame you to-day, Seth,
for feeling blue and sore, but you ought
not to talk so, even now. They re not
all like what you say. Reuben Tracy,
now, he s been a good friend and a use
ful friend to you."

" Yes, Rube s a grand, good fellow, of
course. I know all that. But then just
take his case. He s a poor schoolmaster
now, just as he was five years ago, and
will be twenty years from now. What
kind of a life is that for a man ? "

" And maybe the girls are foolish, as
you started to say, but

"Now, Annie, don t think I meant
anything by that, please ! I know you re
the dearest girl and the best friend in
the world. Truly, now, you won t think
I meant anything, will you ? "

"No, Seth, I won t," said Annie softly.
It was her arm that trembled now.

(To be continued. )

" I HEAR," said Mrs. Ab-
ram Van Biper, seated
at her breakfast-table, and
watching the morning sunlight
dance on the front of the great Burrell
house on the opposite side of Pine Street,
"that the Dolphs are going to build a
prodigious fine house out of town
somewhere up near the Bynders s place."

"And I hear," said Abram Van Riper,
laying down last night s Evening Post,
" that Jacob Dolph is going to give up
business. And if he does, it s a dis
grace to the town."

It was in the summer of 1807, and
Abram Van Kiper was getting well over
what he considered the meridian line of
sixty years. He was hale and hearty ;
his business was nourishing ; his boy
was turning out all that should have
been expected of one of the Van Biper
stock ; the refracted sunlight from the
walls of the stately house occupied by
the Cashier of the Bank of the United
States lit with a subdued secondary
glimmer the Van Biper silver on the
breakfast-table the squat tea-pot and
slop-bowl, the milk-pitcher that held a
quart, and the apostle-spoon in the
broken loaf-sugar on the Delft plate.
Abram Van Biper was decorously happy,
as a New York merchant should be. In
all other respects, he was pleased to
think, he was what a New York mer
chant should be, and the word of the
law and the prophets was fulfilled with
him and in his house.

"I m sure," Mrs. Van Biper began
again, somewhat querulously, "I can t
see why Jacob Dolph shouldn t give up
business, if he s so minded. He s a
monstrous fortune, from all I hear a
good hundred thousand dollars."

" A hundred thousand dollars ! " re
peated her husband, scornfully. "Ay,
and twice twenty thousand pounds on
the top of that. He s done well, has
Dolph. All the more reason he should
stick to his trade ; and not go to lolling
in the sun, like a runner at the Custom
House door. He s not within ten years
of me, and here he must build his coun
try house, and set up for the fine gentle
man. Jacob Dolph ! Did I go on his
note, when he came back from France,
brave as my master, in 94, or did I not ?
And where ud he have raised twenty
thousand in this town, if I hadn t?
What s got into folks now-a-days?
Damn me if I can see ! "

His wife protested, in wifely fashion.
"I m sure, Van Biper," she began,
" you ve no need to fiy in such a huff
if I so much as speak of folks who have
some conceit of being genteel. It s only
proper pride of Mr. Dolph to have a
country house, and " (her voice fal
tering a little, timorously) " ride in and
and out "

" Eide ! " snorted Mr. Van Biper. "In
a carriage, maybe ? "

" In a carriage, Van Biper. You may
think to ride in a carriage is like being
the Pope of Borne ; but there s some
that knows better. And if you d set up
your carriage," went on the undaunted
Mrs. Van Biper, "and gone over to
Greenwich Street two years ago, as I d
have had you, and made yourself friend
ly with those people there, I d have been
011 the Orphan Asylum Board at this very
minute ; and you would "

Mr. Van Biper knew all that speech
by heart, in all its variations. He knew
perfectly well what it would end in, this
time, although he was not a man of

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

quick perception: "He would % have
been a member of the new Historical
Society."

"Yes," he thought to himself, as he
found his hat and shuffled out into Pine
Street ; " and John Pintard would have
had my good check in his pocket for his
tuppenny society. Pine Street is fine
enough for me."

Mr. Van Riper had more cause for his
petulancy than he would have acknowl
edged, even to himself. He was a man

Systems and Avenues ! said he. That was
all the doing of those cursed Frenchmen.
He knew how it would be when they
brought their plaguy frigate here in the
first fever year 93 and the fools
marched up from Peck s Slip after a red
nightcap, and howled their cut-throat
song all night long.

It began to hum itself in his head as
he walked toward Water Street fa ira y
fa ira les aristocrats d la lanteme. A
whiff of the wind that blew through

who had kept his shop open all through
Clinton s occupancy, and who had had
no trouble with the British. And when
they were gone he had had to do enough
to clear his skirts of any smirch of Tory
ism, and to implant in his own breast a
settled feeling of militant Americanism.
He did not like it that the order of things
should change, and the order of things
was changing. The town was growing-
out of all knowledge of itself. Here they
had their Orphan Asylum, and their Bo
tanical Garden, and their Historical So
ciety ; and the Jews were having it all
their own way ; and now people were
talking of free schools, and of laying out
a map for the upper end of the town to
grow on, in the " system " of straight
streets and avenues. To the devil with

Paris streets in the terrible times had
come across the Atlantic and tickled his
dull old Dutch nostrils.

But something worse than this vexed
the conservative spirit of Abram Van
Eiper. He could forgive John Pintard
whose inspiration, I think, foreran the
twentieth century his fancy for Free
Schools and Historical Societies, as he
had forgiven him his sidewalk-building
fifteen years before ; he could proudly
overlook the fact that the women were
busying themselves with ah 1 manner of
wild charities ; he could be contented
though he knew that the HebreAv Hart
was President of that merchants club at
Baker s, of which he himself would fain
have been a member. But there was
something in the air that he could neither

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

forgive nor overlook, nor be contented
with.

There was a change corning over the
town a change which he could not
clearly define, even in his own mind.
There was a great keeping of carriages,
he knew. A dozen men had bought
carriages, or were likely to buy them at
any time. The women were forming
societies for the improvement of this
and that. And he, who had moved up
town from Dock Street, was now in an
old-fashioned quarter. All this he knew,
but the something which made him un
easy was more subtle.

"Within the last few years he had ob
served an introduction of certain strange
distinctions in the social code of the
town. It had been vaguely intimated to
him perhaps by his wife, he could not
remember that there was a difference
between his trade and Jacob Dolph s
trade. He was a ship-chandler. Jacob
Dolph sold timber. Their shops were
side by side. Jacob Dolph s rafts lay in
the river in front of Abram Van Riper s
shop. And Abram Van Riper had gone
on Jacob Dolph s note, only a few years
ago. Yet, it seemed that it was genteel
of Jacob Dolph to sell timber, and it
was not genteel of Abram Van Riper to
be a ship-chandler. There was, then, a
difference between Jacob Dolph and
Abram Van Riper a difference which,
in forty years, Abram Van Riper had
never conceived of. There were folks
who held thus. For himself, he did not
understand it. What difference there
was between selling the wood to make a
ship and selling the stores to go inside
of her he could not understand.

The town was changing for the worse ;
he saw that. He did not wish God for
bid ! that his son John should go run
ning about to Pleasure Gardens. But
it would be no more than neighborly if
these young bucks who went out every
night should ask him to go with them.
Were William Irving s boys and Harry
Brevoort and those young Kembles too
fine to be friends with his boy? Not
that he d go with them a-rollicking
no, not that but twould be neigh
borly. It was all wrong, he thought ;
they were going whither they knew not,
and wherefore they knew not ; and with
that he cursed their airs and their graces,

and pounded down to the Tontine, to
put his name at the head of the list of
those who subscribed for a testimonial
service of plate, to be presented to Our
Esteemed Fellow-Citizen and Valued
Associate, Jacob Dolph, on his Retire
ment from Active Business.

Jacob Dolph at this moment was set
ting forth from his house in State Street,
whose pillared balcony, rising from the
second floor to the roof, caught a side
glance of the morning sun that loved
the Battery far better than Pine Street.
He had his little boy by the hand young
Jacob, his miniature, his heir, and the
last and only living one of his eight
children. Mr. Dolph walked with his
stock thrust out and the lower end of
his waistcoat drawn in he was Colonel
Dolph, if he had cared to keep the title ;
and had come back from Monmouth
with a hole in his hip that gave him a bit
of a limp, even now in eighteen-hundred-
and-seven. He and the boy marched
forth, like an army with a small but en
thusiastic left wing, into the poplar-
studded Battery. The wind blew fresh
off the Bay ; the waves beat up against
the sea-wall, and swirled with a chuckle
under Castle Garden Bridge. A large
brig was coming up before the wind,
all her sails set, as though she were
afraid and she was of British frigates
outside the Hook. Two or three fat
little boats, cat-rigged, after the good
old New York fashion, were beating
down toward Staaten Island, to hunt
for the earliest blue-fish.

The two Dolphs crossed the Battery,
where the elder bowed to his friends
among the merchants who lounged
about the city s pleasure-ground, lazi
ly chatting over their business affairs.
Then they turned up past Bowling
Green into Broadway, where Mr. Dolph
kept on bowing, for half the town was
out, taking the fresh morning for mar
keting and all manner of shopping.
Everybody knew Jacob Dolph afar off
by his blue coat with the silver buttons,
his nankeen waistcoat, and his red-
checked Indian silk neck-cloth. He
made it a sort of uniform. Captain
Beare had brought him a bolt of nan
keen and a silk kerchief every year since
1793, when Mr. Dolph gave him credit

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

for the timber of which the Ursa Minor
was built. \

And everybody seemed willing to
make acquaintance with young Jacob s
London-made kerseymere breeches, of
a bright canary-color, and with his lav-

nearly as much notice on Broadway in
1807 as it might to-day. But it was re
ceived with far more reverence, for it
was a court coach, and it belonged to
the Des Anges family, the rich Hugue
nots of New Kochelle. It had been

ender silk coat, and with his little chap-
eau de Paris. Indeed, young Jacob
was quite the most prominent moving
spectacle on Broadway, until they came
to John Street, and saw something
rolling down the street that quite cut
the yellow kerseymeres out of all popu
lar attention.

This was a carriage, the body of
which was shaped like a huge section
of a cheese, set up on its small end
upon broad swinging straps between
two pairs of wheels. It was not unlike
a piece of cheese in color, for it was of
a dull and faded grayish green, like
mould, relieved by pale-yellow panels
and gilt ornaments. It was truly an
interesting structure, and it attracted

built in France, thirty years before, and
had been sent over as a present to his
brother from the Count des Anges, who
had himself neglected to make use of
his opportunities to embrace the Prot
estant religion.

When the white-haired old lady who
sat in this coach, with a very little girl
by her side, saw Mr. Dolph and his son,
she leaned out of the window and sig
nalled to the old periwigged driver to
stop, and he drew up close to the side
walk. And then Mr. Dolph and his son
came up to the window and took off
their hats, and made a great low bow
and a small low bow to the old lady and
the little girl.

" Madam Des Anges," said Mr.

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

Dolph, with an idiom which he had
learned when he was presented at the
court of Louis the Sixteenth, " has
surely not driven down from New Ro-
chelle this morning? That would tax
even her powers."

Madam Des Anges did not smile
she had no taste for smiling but she
bridled amiably.

"No, Mr. Dolph," she replied; "I
have been staying with my daughter-in-
law, at her house at King s Bridge, and
I have come to town to put my little
granddaughter to school. She is to
have the privilege of being a pupil of
Mme. Dumesnil."

Madam Des Anges indicated the little
girl with a slight movement, as though
she did not wish to allow the child more
consideration than a child deserved.
The little girl turned a great pair of
awed eyes, first on her grandmother,
and then on the gentlemen, and spoke
no word. Young Jacob
Dolph stared hard at
her, and then contem
plated his kerseymeres
with lazy satisfaction.
He had no time for
girls. And a boy who
had his breeches made
in London was a boy of
consequence, and need
not concern himself
about everyone he saw.

" And this is your
son, I make no doubt,"
went on Madam Des
Anges ; "you must
bring him to see us at
King s Bridge, while we
are so near you. These
young people should
know each other."

Mr. Dolph said he
would, and showed
a becoming sense of
the honor of the in-
vitation ; and he
made young Jacob
say a little speech of thanks, which he
did with a doubtful grace, and then Mr.
Dolph sent his compliments to Madam
Des Anges s daughter-in-law, and Msid-
am Des Anges sent her compliments to
Mrs. Dolph, and there was more stately
bowing, and the carriage lumbered on,

with the little girl looking timorously
out of the window, her great eyes fixed
on the yellow kerseymeres, as they
twinkled up the street.

"Papa," said young Jacob, as they
turned the corner of Ann Street, " when
may I go to a boys school ? I m mon
strous big to be at Mrs. Kilmaster s.
And I don t like to be a girl-boy."

"Are you a girl-boy?" inquired his
father, smiling.

"Aleck Cameron called me one yes
terday. He said I was a girl-boy be
cause I went to dame-school. He called
me Missy, too ! " the boy went on, with
his breast swelling.

"We ll see about it," said Mr. Dolph,
smiling again ; and they walked on in
silence to Mrs. Kilmaster s door, where
he struck the knocker, and a neat
mulatto girl opened the narrow door.
Then he patted his boy on the head and
bade him good-by for the morning, and

told him to be a good boy at school. He
took a step or two and looked back.
Young Jacob lingered on the step, as if
he had a further communication to make.
He paused.

" I thumped him," said young Jacob,
and the narrow door swallowed him up.

THE STORY OF A NFW YORK HOUSE.

Mr. Dolph continued on his walk up
Broadway. As he passed the upper* end
of the Common he looked with interest
at the piles of red sandstone among the
piles of white marble, where they were
building the new City Hall. The Coun
cil had ordered that the rear or north
ward end of the edifice should be con
structed of red stone ; because red stone
was cheap, and none but a few suburbans
would ever look down on it from above
Chambers Street. Mr. Dolph shook his
head. He thought he knew better. He
had watched the growth of trade ; he
knew the room for further growth ; he
had noticed the long converging lines of
river-front, with their unbounded accom
modation for wharves and slips. He be
lieved that the day would come and his
own boy might see it when the busi
ness of the city would crowd the dwell
ing-houses from the riverside, east and
west, as far, maybe, as Chambers Street.
He had no doubt that the boy might
find himself, forty years from then, in a
populous and genteel neighborhood.
Perhaps he foresaw too much ; but he
had a jealous yearning for a house that
should be a home for him, and for his
child, and for his grandchildren. He
wanted a place where his wife might
have a garden ; a place which the boy
would grow up to love and cherish,
whore the boy might bring a wife some
day. And even if it were a little out of
town why, his wife did not want a rout
every night ; and it was likely his old
friends would come out and see him once
in a while, and smoke a pipe in his gar
den and eat a dish of strawberries, per
haps.

As he thought it all over for the hun
dredth time, weighing for and against
in his gentle and deliberative mind, he
strolled far out of town. There was a
house here and there on the road, a house
with a trim, stiff little garden, full of
pink and white and blue flowers in or
derly clam-shell-bordered beds. But it
was certainly, he had to admit, as he
looked about him, very countrified in
deed. It seemed that the city must lose
itself if it wandered up here among these
rolling meadows and wooded hills. Yet
even up here, half way to Greenwich Vil
lage, there were little outposts of the
town clumps of neighboring houses,

mostly of the poorer class, huddling to
gether to form small nuclei for sporadic
growth. There was one on his right,
near the head of Collect Street. Perhaps
that quizzical little old German was right,
who had told him that King s Bridge
property was a rational investment.

He went across the hill where Grand
Street crosses Broadway, and up past
what was then North and is to-day
Houston Street, and then turned down
a straggling road that ran east and west.
He walked toward the Hudson, and
passed a farmhouse or two, and came to
a bare place where there were no trees,
and only a few tangled bushes and
ground-vines.

Here a man was sitting on a stone,
awaiting him. As he came near, the
man arose.

"Ah, it s you, Weeks? And have you
the plan ? "

" Yes, Colonel Mr. Dolph. I ve put
the window where you want it that is,
my brother Levi did though I don t
see as you re going to have much trouble
in looking over anything that s likely to
come between you and the river."

Mr. Dolph took the crisp roll of parch
ment and studied it with loving interest.
It had gone back to Ezra Weeks, the
builder, and his brother Levi, the archi
tect, for the twentieth time, perhaps.
Was there ever an architect s plan put
in the hands of a happy nest-builder
where the windows did not go up and
down from day to day, and the doors
did not crawl all around the house, and
the verandah did not contract and ex
pand like a sensitive plant ; or where
the rooms and closets and corridors did
not march backward and forward and in
and out at the bidding of every fond,
untutored whim ?

" It s a monstrous great big place for
a country-house, Mr. Dolph," said Ezra
Weeks, as he looked over Jacob Dolph s
shoulder at the drawings of the house,
and shook his head with a sort of pity
ing admiration for the projector s au
dacity.

They talked for a while, and looked
at the site as if they might see more in
it than they saw yesterday, and then
Weeks set off for the city, pledged to
hire laborers and to begin the work on
the morrow.

THE STORY OF A NEV YORK HOUSE. 43

" I think I can get you some of that the fire flickering on the new hearth,

stone that s going into the back of the Then he looked over toward the Hudson,

City Hall, if you say so, Mr. Dolph. and saw the green woods on Union Hill

That stone was bought cheap, you know and the top of a white sail over the hi^h

bought for the city." river-bank. He hoped that no one would

" See what you can do, Weeks," said
Mr. Dolph ; and Mr. Weeks went whist
ling down the road.

Jacob Dolph walked around his pro
spective domain. He kicked a wild black
berry bush aside to look at the head of
a stake, and tried to realize that that
would be the corner of his house. He
went to where the parlor fireplace would
be, and stared at the grass and stones,
wondering what it would be like to watch

build a large house between him and the
river.

He lingered so long that the smoke of
midday dinners was arising from Green
wich Village when he turned back to
ward town. When he reached the Com
mons on his homeward way he came
across a knot of idlers who were wast
ing the hour of the noontide meal in
gaping at the unfinished municipal build
ing.

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

They were admiringly critica^ One
man was vociferously enthusiastic.

" It s a marvellous fine building say
I, sir ! Worthy of the classic shades of
antiquity. If Europe can show a finer
than that will be when she s done, then,
in my opinion, sir, Europe is doing
well."

"You admire the architecture, Mr.
Huggins ? " asked Mr. Dolph, coming up
behind him. Mr. Huggins turned around
slightly disconcerted, and assumed an
amiability of manner such as can only be
a professional acquirement among us
poor creatures of human nature.

"Ah, Mr. Dolph Colonel, I should
say ! I have pur
posed to do myself
the honor of present
ing myself at your
house this afternoon,
Colonel Dolph, to in
quire if you did not
desire to have your
peruke frisee. For I
had taken the liberty
of observing you in
conversation with
Madam Des Anges
this morning, in her
equipage, and it had
occurred to me that
possibly the madam
might be a-staying
with you."

"Madam Des An
ges does not honor
my house this time,
Huggins," returned Mr. Dolph, with an
indulgent little laugh ; " and my poor
old peruke will do very well for to-day."

There was a perceptible diminution in
Mr. Huggins s ardor ; but he was still
suave.

" I hope the madam is in good health,"
he remarked.

" She is, I believe," said Mr. Dolph.

"And your good lady, sir? I have
not had the pleasure of treating Mrs.
Dolph professionally for some time, sir.
I "

Mr. Dolph was weary. " I don t think
Mrs. Dolph is fond of the latest modes,
Huggins. But here comes Mr. Van Ri-
per. Perhaps he will have his peruke
frisee."

Mr. Huggins got out of a dancing-mas

ter s pose with intelligent alacrity, bade
Mr. Dolph a hasty " Good afternoon ! "
and hurried off toward his shop, one
door above Wall Street. Mr. Van Riper
did not like " John Richard Desbrosses
Huggins, Knight of the Comb."

There was something else that Mr.
Van Riper did not like.

"Hullo, Dolph ! " he hailed his friend.
"What s this I heard about you build
ing a preposterous torn-fool of a town
house out by Greenwich? Why don t
you hire that house that Burr had, up
near Lispenard s cow-pasture, and be
done with it?"

Mr. Dolph seized his chance.

"It s not so pre
posterous as all that.
By the way, talking
of Burr, I hear from
Richmond that he ll
positively be tried
next week. Did you
know that young Ir
ving William s son,
the youngest, the lad
that writes squibs
has gone to Rich
mond for the de
fence?"

"William Irving s
son might be in bet
ter business," grain t-
aed Mr. Van Riper,
for a moment divert
ed. "If we d got at
that devil when he
murdered poor Ham
ilton fore gad, we ;l have saved the
trouble of trying him. Do you remem
ber when we was for going to Philadel
phia after him, and there the sly scamp
was at home all the time, up in his fine
house, a-sitting in a tub of water, reading
French stuff as cool as a cowcumber, with
the whole town hunting for him ? " Then
he came back. But that house of yours.
You haven t got this crazy notion that
New York s going to turn into London
while you smoke your pipe, have you?
You re keeping some of your seven busi
ness senses, ain t you ? "

"I don t know," Mr. Dolph mildly de
fended his hobby ; " there is a great po
tentiality of growth in this city. Here s
an estimate that John Pintard made the
other day "

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

" John Pintard ! He s another like
you ! " said Mr. Van Eiper.

"Well, look at it for yourself," plead
ed the believer in New York s future.

Mr. Van Riper took the neatly written
paper, and simply snorted and gasped
as he read this :

Statistical.

By the numeration of the inhabitants of this
city recently published the progress of popula
tion for the last 5 years appears to be at the
rate of 25 per cent. Should our city continue
to increase in the same proportion during the
present century, the aggregate number at its
close will far exceed that of any other city in
the Old World, Pekin not excepted, as will ap
pear from the following table. Progress of
population in the city of Xew York, computed
at the rate of 25 per cent, every 5 years :

1805 75,770

1810 95,715

1815 110,390

1820 147,987

1825 184,923

1830 231,228

1835 289,035

1840 361,293

1845 451,616

1850 564,520

1855 705,650

1860 882,062

1865 1,102,577

1870 1,378,221

1875 1,722,776

1880 2,153,470

1885 2,691,837

1890 3,364,796

1895 4,205,995

1900 5,257,493

When he had read it through he was
a-quivering, crimson with that rage of

rupts if this lunacy goes on. And
there s seventy-five thousand maggots
in your brain, and seventy-five thousand
in John Pintard s ; and if you two li ve
to see nineteen hundred, you 11 have
twice five million two hundred and fifty-
seven thousand four hundred and ninety-
three whatever that may be ! " And he
thrust the paper back at Jacob Dolph,
and made for the Tontine and the so
ciety of sensible men.

The house was built, in spite of
Abram Van Biper s remonstrance. It
had a stone front, almost flush with the
road, and brick gable ends, in each one
of which, high up near the roof, stood
an arched window, to lift an eyebrow to
the sun, morning and evening. But it
was only a country-house, after all ; and
the Dolphs set up their carriage and
drove out and in, from June to Sep
tember.

There was a garden at the side, where
Mrs. Dolph could have the flowers her
heart had yearned after, ever since Jacob
Dolph brought her from her home at
Rondout, when she was seventeen.

Strengthened by the country air so

conservative indignation which is even
more fervent than the flames of radical
enthusiasm.

"Yes," he said ; "there s seventy-five
thousand people in this town, and
there 11 be seventv-five thousand bank-

they said young Jacob grew clean out
of his dame-school days and into and
out of Columbia College, and was sent
abroad, a sturdy youth, to have a year s
holiday. It was to the new house that
he came back the next summer, with a

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

wonderful stock of fine clothes and of
liner manners, and with a pair o^ mous-
tachios that scandalized everybody but
Madam Des Anges, who had seen the
like in France when she visited her
brother. And a very fine young buck
was young Jacob, altogether, with his
knowledge of French and his ignorance
of Dutch, and a way he had with the
women, and another way he had with
the men, and his heirship to old Jacob
Dolph s money and his two houses.

For they stayed in the old house until
1822.

It was a close, hot night in the early
summer ; there was a thick, warm mist
that turned now and then into a soft
rain ; yet every window in the Dolphs s
house in State Street was closed.

It had been a hideous day for New
York. From early morning until long
after dark had set in, the streets had
been filled with frightened, disordered
crowds. The city was again stricken
with the old, inevitable, ever-recurring
scourge of yellow fever, and the people
had lost their heads. In every house,
in every office and shop, there was hasty
packing, mad confusion, and wild flight.
It was only a question of getting out of
town as best one might. Wagons and
carts creaked and rumbled and rattled
through every street, piled high with
household chattels, upheaped in blind
haste. Women rode on the swaying
loads, or walked beside with the smaller
children in their arms. Men bore heavy
burdens, and children helped according
to their strength. There was only one
idea, and that was flight from a pesti
lence whose coming might have been
prevented, and whose course could have
been stayed. To most of these poor
creatures the only haven seemed to be
Greenwich Village ; but some sought
the scattered settlements above ; some
crossed to Hoboken ; some to Bushwick ;
while others made a long journey to
Staaten Island, across the bay. And when
they reached their goals, it was to beg
or buy lodgings anywhere and anyhow ;
to sleep in cellars and garrets, in barns
and stables.

The panic was not only among the
poor and ignorant. Merchants were
moving their offices, and even the Post

Office and the Custom House were to be
transferred to Greenwich. There were
some who remained faithful throughout
all, and who labored for the stricken,
and whose names are not even written
in the memory of their fellow-men. But
the city had been so often ravaged be
fore, that at the first there was one mere
animal impulse of flight that seized upon
all alike.

At one o clock, when some of the bet
ter streets had once more taken on their
natural quiet, an ox-cart stood before the
door of the Dolphs s old house. A little
behind it stood the family carriage, its
lamps unlit. The horses stirred uneasily ;
but the oxen waited in dull, indifferent
patience. Presently the door opened,
and two men came out and awkwardly
bore a plain coffin to the cart. Then
they mounted to the front of the cart,
hiding between them a muffled lantern.
They wore cloths over the lower part of
their faces, and felt hats drawn low over
their eyes. Something in their gait
showed them to be seafaring men, or
the like.

Then out of the open door came Ja
cob Dolph, moving with a feeble shuffle
between his son and his old negro coach
man this man and his wife the only
faithful of all the servants. The young
man put his father in the carriage, and
the negro went back and locked the
doors and brought the keys to his young
master. He mounted to the box, and
through the darkness could be seen a
white towel tied around his arm the
old badge of servitude s mourning.

The oxen were started up, and the two
vehicles moved up into Broadway. They
travelled with painful slowness ; the
horses had to be held in to keep them
behind the cart, for the oxen could be
guided only with the whip, and not by
word of mouth. The old man moaned
a little at the pace, and quivered when
he heard the distant sound of ham
mers.

" What is it ? " he asked, nervously.

" They are boarding up some of the
streets," said his son ; "do not fear,
father. Everything is prepared ; and if
we make no noise, we shall not be
troubled."

"If we can only keep her out of the
Potter s Field the Potter s Field!"

THE STORY OF A "NEW YORK HOUSE,

Then out of the open door came Jacob Dolph."

THE STORY OF A NElf YORK HOUSE.

cried the father; "I ll thank Go&lt;\ I ll
ask no more 1^1 ask no more ! "

And then he broke down and cried
a little, feebly, and got his son s hand
in the darkness and put on his own
shoulder.

It was nearly two when they came to
St. Paul s and turned the corner to the
gate. It was dark below, but some fren
zied fools were burning tar-barrels far
down Ann Street, and the light nickered
on the top of the church spire. They
crossed the church-yard to where a shal
low grave had been dug, half way down
the hill. The men lowered the body
into it ; the old negro gave them a little

rouleau of coin, and they went hurriedly
away into the night.

The clergyman came out by and by,
with the sexton behind him. He stood
high up above the grave, and drew his
long cloak about him, and lifted an old

pomander-box to his face. He was not
more foolish than his fellows ; in that
evil hour men took to charms and to sav
ing of spells. Below the grave and apart,
for the curse rested upon them, too,
stood Jacob Dolph and his son, the old
man leaning on the arm of the younger.
Then the clergyman began to read the
service for the burial of the dead, over
the departed sister and wife and moth
er. He spoke low ; but his voice seemed
to echo in the stillness. He came for
ward with a certain shrinking, and cast
the handful of dust and ashes into the
grave. When it was done, the sexton
stepped forward and rapidly threw in the
earth until he had filled the
little hollow even with the
ground. Then, with fearful
precaution, he laid down the
carefully cut sods, and
smoothed them until there
was no sign of what had
been done. The clergyman
turned to the two mourners,
without moving nearer to
them, and lifted up his hands.
The old man tried to kneel ;
but his son held him up, for
he was too feeble, and they
bent their heads for a mo
ment of silence. The clergy
man went away as he had
come ; and Jacob Dolph and
his son went back to the car
riage. When his father was
seated, young Jacob Dolph
said to the coachman : " To
the new house."

The heavy coach swung*
into Broadway, and climbed
up the hill out into the open
country. There were lights
still burning in the farm
houses, bright gleams to east
and west, but the silence of
the damp summer night
hung over the sparse sub
urbs, and the darkness
seemed to grow more intense
as they drove away from the
city. The trees by the road-side were
almost black in the gray mist ; the raw,
moist smell of the night, the damp air,
chilly upon the high land, came in
through the carriage windows. Young
Jacob looked out and noted their prog-

SONNETS IN SHADOW.

ress by familiar landmarks on the road ;
but the old man sat with his head bent
on his new black stock.

It was almost three, and the east was
beginning to look dark, as though a
storm were settling there in the gray-
ness, when they turned down the strag
gling street and drew up before the great
dark mass that was the new house. The
carriage-wheels gritted against the loose
stones at the edge of the road-way, and
the great door of the house swung open.
The light of one wavering candle-flame,
held high above her head, fell on the

black face of old Chloe, the coachman s
wife. There were no candles burning
on the high-pitched stairway ; all was
dark behind her in the empty house.

Young Jacob Dolph helped his father
to the ground, and between the young
man and the negro old Jacob Dolph
wearily climbed the steps. Chloe lifted
her apron to her face, and turned to
lead them up the stair. Her husband
went out to his horses, shutting the
door softly after him, between Jacob
Dolph s old life and the new life that
was to begin in the new house.

SONNETS IN SHADOW.
By Arlo Bates.

IF it should be we are watched unaware

By those who have gone from us ; if our sighs
Ring in their ears ; if tears that scald our eyes

They see and long to stanch ; if our despair

Fills them with anguish ; we must learn to bear

In strength of silence. Though doubt still denies,
It cannot give assurance which defies

All peradventure ; and, if anywhere

Our loved grieve with our grieving, cruel we

To cherish selfishness of woe. The chance
Should keep us steadfast. Tortured utterly,

This hope alone in all the world s expanse

We hold forlornly ; how deep love can be,
Grief s silence proving more than utterance.
VOL. I. 4

50 SONNETS IN SHADOW.

When two souls have been truly blent in one,

It could not chance that one should cease to be
And one remain alive. Twere falsity

To all that has been to count union done

Because death blinds the sight. Such threads are spun
By dear communion, even the dread Three
Cannot or cut or disentangle. Sea

From shore the moon may draw ; but two drops run

Together what can separate ? What thought

Touched but one brain ? What pulse-beat, faint or high,
Did not both hearts share duly ? There is naught

In all we do or dream, from lightest sigh

To weightiest deed, by which we are not taught
We live together or together die.

We must be nobler for our dead, be sure,

Than for the quick. We might their living eyes
Deceive with gloss of seeming, but all lies

Were vain to cheat a prescience spirit pure.

Our soul s true worth and aim, however poor,

They see who watch us from some deathless skies
With glance death-quickened. That no sad surprise

Sting them in seeing, be ours to secure.

Living, our loved ones make us what they dream ;

Dead, if they see, they know us as we are.
Henceforward we must be, not merely seem.

Bitterer woe than death it were by far

To fail their hopes who love us to redeem.
Loss were thrice loss which thus their faith could mar !

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

By F. V. Greene, Captain U. S. Engineers.

To the great majority of the American
people the experience of Europe is of
no value as a guide. It is nothing to
us that other nations find it necessary
or advisable to pursue certain policies.
We believe that we are placed in excep
tional circumstances ; and we decide
and act upon our own judgment of the
matter in hand, regardless of the way in
which other nations have acted upon a
similar matter. Nor can it be denied
that there is much to justify this self-
confidence. Our political system was
devised and adopted, not only without
the aid of foreign experience, but in di
rect opposition and defiance of that ex
perience. Yet it has been successful
beyond the wildest dreams of its de
signers ; it might fairly be called the
most successful system of modern
times, and no surer proof of this
could be adduced than the fact that
a large number of British statesmen
believe that the only remedy for Irish
misgovernment lies in grafting some of
its most important features upon the
venerable constitution of England.

As in politics, so in war. We have
thrown aside all the traditions of Eu
ropean governments as to the necessity
of maintaining a large army for pur
poses of defence ; we maintain only the
merest nucleus of a military organiza
tion a force which, in proportion to the
population, is now and always has been
utterly insignificant. Yet we have nev
er been beaten in war. In less than
one century we prosecuted, with signal
success, four wars, one of them being
the mightiest conflict the most far-
reaching in its consequences to the hu
man race of which there is authentic
record.

In nothing does this independence of
thought, this disregard of precedents
and foreign experience, this determina
tion to decide our own questions on our
own judgment, show itself more clearly
than in the question of the necessity of
properly defending our coasts. And we
have now to consider whether, in decid

ing to do absolutely nothing as we
have done in the last ten years, while
other nations are spending millions
we maintain a sturdy independence of
thought, or whether we display an ig
norant arrogance which, like pride, goes
before a fall.

The question is not a new one. It
was vigorously debated after the War of
1812 ; and in 1816 a competent board of
engineers was appointed, who laid down
the fundamental principles on which a
system of coast defences suited to our
needs should be constructed, and their
plans were approved by the President
and by Congress. The leading spirit of
this board was Captain (afterward Gen
eral) Joseph G. Totten, of the Corps of
Engineers. This eminent officer, whose
active service extended over a period of
fifty-nine years, not only devised the
entire system of defences for the Atlan
tic coast and subsequently for the Pa
cific and the northern frontier but lived
to complete it, nearly thirty years ago,
substantially as it is to-day. He served
in his youth in the War of 1812, was in
his prime the chief engineer of the
army in Mexico, and in his old age he
approved the plans for the defences of
Washington at the outbreak of the great
rebellion. He was also the first to make
use of iron in fortifications ; and his gran
ite forts, with iron shutters for the gun
embrasures, built between 1850 and 1860,
were the finest models of military engi
neering of their day.

The question of the necessity of sea-
coast defences, or granted the neces
sity the principles on which they should
be constructed, was periodically revived
in Congress during the fifty years pre
ceding the civil war, and at each period
there were corresponding boards of en
gineers to make their reports to Con
gress. These were the boards of 1816,
1826, 1836, 1840, 1851, and 1861. The ex
haustive reports of these various boards
were all written by General Totten, and
during his lifetime he spoke with the
voice of authority and almost without a

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

rival. His views and arguments carried
conviction both with the executive and
legislative branches of the Government.
Only twice were they seriously called in
question once, in 1836, by Mr. Poinsett,
the Secretary of War, who contended
that the enormous size of Fort Monroe,
at Hampton Roads, and Fort Adams, at
Newport, with a view to their defence
against a land siege, was unnecessary,
as no nation would have the hardihood
to venture to land an army on our coasts
large enough to carry on a siege ; and
once by General Gaines, in 1840, who
advocated the abandonment of forts and
the substitution of a system of floating
batteries combined with seven great lines
of railroads, radiating from the " central
States of Kentucky and Tennessee " to
various points on the sea-board, by which
troops could be concentrated at any point
which might be threatened. General
Gaines was a gallant officer of the War
of 1812, but he was regarded as eccen
tric and visionary in the slang of to
day, somewhat of a "crank." The Sec
retary of War curtly dismissed his proj
ect, by reporting to Congress that, "with
every respect for the experience of the
gallant author, he was constrained to
differ from him ; " the engineers report
ed that the proposed railways would cost
$126,000,000, and no further attention
was given to the scheme.

In General Totten s earlier reports
he addressed himself not only to the
question of location of works, their size,
armament, and cost, but also to the
broader question of the necessity of coast
defences as a matter of public policy.
His remarks on this subject are as ap
posite to-day as when they were written,
two generations ago, being eternal prin
ciples as unanswerable as the laws of
mechanics. Some of them will well
bear quoting.

"The United States, separated from
the rest of the w r orld by an ocean on
one hand, and a vast wilderness on the
other, pursuing toward all nations a
policy strikingly characterized by its pa
cific tendency, its impartiality, and jus
tice ; contracting no political alliances ;
confining her intercourse with the rest
of the world rigidly to the letter of
such temporary arrangements as are
dictated by reciprocal commercial inter

ests might at first view be regarded as
too remote physically, and as politically
too insulated, to be endangered by the
convulsions which, from time to time,
disturb the nations of the earth."

Yet

"Neither our geographical position,
nor our forbearance, nor the equity of
our policy, can always avail under the
relation in which it is our destiny to
stand to the rest of the world. . .
We are admonished by history to bear
in mind that war cannot at all times be
avoided, however pacific and forbearing
our policy ; and that nothing will con
duce more to an uninterrupted peace than
that state of preparation which exposes
no weak point to the hostility, and offers
no gratification to the cupidity, of the
other nations of the earth."

While these abstract principles are
perfectly true and applicable to-day, yet
the concrete problem of national de
fence is a thousand-fold simpler now
than it was in the earlier days of our
national life. The wants of commerce
and private enterprise have developed
a system of railroads twenty times more
extensive than that projected by Gen
eral Gaines, the cost of which prevented
his project from having any considera
tion. No nation which has a great army
has the mercantile marine for transport
ing it across the osean. Before England
could raise an army of respectable size,
or before any of the continental powers
could buy or build the ships to trans
port their armies, we could raise a force
of our own amply sufficient to repel the
invaders, and by means of our railroads
we could concentrate it at any point on
the coast, while the foreign army was
being landed. In proof of this we
have only to remember that in the
Crimean War the maritime resources
of England were taxed to the utmost
in order to maintain an army abroad
which never had an effective strength
of 50,000 men ; and in 1879, when Eng
land prepared to make war on Kussia,
it required four months to get 60,000
men ready for embarkation, and an ad
ditional force of 30,000 men, which
were promised in two months more,
exhausted her entire strength available
for foreign service.

All idea, therefore, of any nation at-

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

tempting the conquest of this country
may be rejected as purely chimerical.
To attack us with 100,000 men would
be but child s play, and to attempt to
carry on a war across three thousand
miles of ocean, with a nation which has
maintained over one million of men un
der arms, would be the act of a madman.
But the very elements of wealth and
population which have made an inva
sion impossible have brought an increase
of danger in another direction. They
have built up on the shores of the At
lantic and Pacific Oceans and the north
ern lakes a series of great cities, con
taining an aggregate population of more
than five million souls, and destructible
property which is carried on the asses
sors books with a valuation of 4,000,-
000,000 (and has probably an actual
value of nearly twice as much), yield
ing annually a product in manufactured
goods alone valued at over one thou
sand million dollars.*

Every man, woman, and child in this
great population, every dollar in this
vast aggregation of wealth, is to-day in
danger of destruction by a hostile fleet ;
for it is certainly a fact that the shells
of an enemy s vessels could, in a few
weeks, or even days, after declaration of
war, reach every portion of it so utter
ly defenceless are our harbors against
the ships and guns which have been de
veloped in the last twenty years, during
which we have done nothing. So that
while the idea of invasion and conquest

* The principal cities on the sea and lake coasts, with
their population, valuation, and manufactured products,
are as follows, the figures being taken from the Compen
dium to the Tenth Census, 18SU :

Popula
tion.

Assessed valu
ation of prop
erty.

Annual value
of manufact
ured products.

Baltimore

332.818

2-14.044,181

78,417,304

Boston
Brooklyn
Buffalo

36-2. W9
566.663
155 134

658.2-20,621
244.556. 977
118 454 6-21

130,531.993
177,2-23.14-2
42 937,701

Chicago
Cleveland
Detroit

503,185
160.146

116340

148,98-2.393
88,353.139
100 206 905

249,022.948
48,604.050
30 181 416

Jersey City... .
Milwaukee
Now Orleans.. .
New York . . .
Philadelphia.. .
Providence
San Francisco .
Washington... .

120, 722
115,587
216.090
l, 2U6,-299
847,170
104.857
233.95?)
159,871

90.371.969
5 !,774,035
91,794,350
1.094,069,335

581,729,759
178,448,469
244,626,7(50
99,401,787

60,473.91 5
43,473,812
Iis.s03.696
472, 9-26. -137
324,34-2. 9."5
42,597,512
77, 8-24. -299
11,882,316

Total

5,201 175

4,037,034,281

1,109,243,466

may now be dismissed as visionary, the
problem of national defence has simpli
fied itself to merely protecting life and
property against a possible enemy in
our sea-board and lake-board cities. It
is, in brief, a problem of national insur
ance on life and property, to provide
for just those cases of danger which are
specially excepted from all ordinary
policies cases which lie beyond the
grasp of private enterprise, and not only
fall within the legitimate province of
general government, but are expressly
provided for in the Constitution, which
gives power to Congress to provide for
the common defence. The usual annual
premium on policies of insurance on life
or property, with good risks, is from one
to one and a half per cent. One per
cent, on the $4,000,000,000 of destruc
tible property within reach of hostile
shells is $40,000,000. Less than half
that amount, viz., $20,000,000, expend
ed annually for six years, would give us
a complete system of insurance i.e., it
would give us harbor defences stronger
than any ships which could be brought
against them. It is probable that so
large a sum could not be judiciously ex
pended in one year, and the expendi
ture would be less, and the number of
years greater ; but with 10,000,000 a
year for six years, fully three-fourths of
the lives and property on our coasts
could be placed out of danger. This
amount is about three per cent, of our
annual appropriations for the support
of the Government and its obligations.
During the ten years from 1826 to 1836,
with an average total expenditure of
17,000,000 per annum, the yearly ex
pense for fortifications was about sev
en hundred and fifty thousand dollars,
or four and a half per cent., so that
it would be within precedent to spend
three per cent, of our revenue for the
same purpose now. And while the exist
ence of an overflowing treasury affords
no good grounds for lavish and unneces
sary expenditure, with its attendant ex
travagance and demoralization, yet such
a condition removes the only possible
objection to proper expenditures for
worthy objects. We have the ready
cash to invest in insurance ; and if we
fail to make the investment, we incur
a risk which no prudent man would

OUR. DEFENCELESS COASTS.

for a moment permit in his private Busi
ness.

It is now necessary to examine the
causes which have brought about the
present state of affairs, and see how it is
that our coasts have come to be in a de
fenceless condition, what is necessary to
put them in a state of defence, and what
other nations have been doing while we
have been idle.

when the war broke out. The actual
expenditures for fortifications, arsenals,
and armories have been, in round num
bers, as follows :

1794-1812 $3,650,000

1813-1860 39,400,000

1861-1875 39,550,000

1876-1886 4,500,000

$87,100,000

Fort Wadsworth, West Side of the Narrows, New York Harbor.

The earlier reports of General Totten,
those of 1816 and 1826, contained a com
plete project for the defence of the At
lantic coast. His later reports contained
the plans for the Pacific coast and the
lake ports. His first estimates, for the
Atlantic coast only, were for $16,500,-
000, a sum which, gauged by the annual
expenditures then and now, is equivalent
to over three hundred million dollars to
day. The amount was large, but the ex
perience of the War of 1812 was fresh in
people s minds, and Congress met the
case by appropriating a little more than
one million dollars (about seven per cent,
of the total revenue) for 1816, and about
six hundred thousand dollars per annum
for several years afterward. From 1794
to 1820 all appropriations for fortifica
tions were in a lump sum, to be expended
at such points as the President might
select, but after 1820 specific appropria
tions were made for each work. In his
subsequent reports General Totten s es
timates were increased, both on account
of enlargement of the projected works,
and of new localities to be fortified ; but
in his report of 1840 he states the aggre
gate cost of works, completed and pro
jected, to be about thirty-three million
dollars, and this estimate was substan
tially correct, the works having been
nearly completed for about that sum

of which about sixteen million dollars
have been expended for arsenals and
armories, one-half of it at the great in
land arsenal at Rock Island, 111- The
outbreak of the civil war caused a large
increase of expenditure, not only for the
fortifications of principal cities on the
sea-coast, but also of Washington, and
this expenditure was kept up after the
war until the first Democratic Congress
convened, in 1875. Then the money for
building forts was stopped entirely, and
during the last ten years the appropria
tions have been limited to from one hun
dred thousand to two hundred thousand
dollars annually for the care of fortifica
tions, and certain sums for the purchase
of torpedo materials and experiments
with large guns. At the last session of
Congress the House proposed a bill of
this character, which the Senate amended
by carrying the amount to over six mill
ion dollars, and between the two no bill
of any kind was passed ; so that the fort-
keepers and watchmen have at last had
to be discharged.

As an illustration of the history of
our fortifications, it will be well to take
the case of New York, and trace the de
velopment of its defensive works. Each
of the entrances to New York Harbor
contains a point which a moment s glance
at the map shows to be specially suited

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

for fortifications. In the ocean entrance
it is the Narrows, and in the sound
entrance it is at Throgg s Neck, which
might well be called the Eastern Nar
rows. There are no other points in com
ing from the sound which are specially
adapted for defence ; but in the lower
bay the main channel runs very close to
Sandy Hook, giving an outer line of de
fence at that point, and there are islands
and shoals near the junction of the Hud
son and East Rivers, which, before the
days of long-range guns, were thought
to afford good points for an inner line
of defence.

The first permanent work to be erect
ed in New York Harbor was on this in
ner line of defence. This was Castle
Williams, the reddish stone tower on
Governor s Island, just opposite the
Battery, which is a familiar object to
everyone who has been on the bay. It
was built in 1807-10. In 1812 a some
what similar structure Fort Lafayette
was erected on a shoal near the east
ern shore of the Narrows. In 1824 the
land was purchased on the adjacent
shore of Long Island, at New Utrecht
Point, and the construction of Fort
Hamilton was commenced and rapidly
pushed to completion. In 1826 the land
was acquired at Throgg s Neck for Fort
Schuyler. General Totten had urgently
insisted in his earliest reports upon the
necessity of fortifying this point, but his
views were opposed on the grounds that
it was too far distant from the city, and
that the difficult navigation of Hell Gate
was in itself a sufficient defence on the
side of the sound. His views finally
prevailed, however, and in 1833 the con
struction was commenced in earnest.
Between 1831 and 1834 Fort Columbus
was built to the south of Castle Will
iams, on Governor s Island.

In 1841 the old work on Bedlow s Isl
and, on the inner line of defence, was
removed, and the existing fort with
in which the Liberty Statue has just
been erected was built in the next few
years. At the same time a small work
was built on Ellis Island, between Bed-
low s Island and the New Jersey shore.
In 1846 the fine masonry work at the
water s edge on the west side of the Nar
rows Fort Wadsworth was com
menced ; and in 1850 Battery Hudson,

on the hills behind it. In 1857 steps
were taken to build three large and ex
pensive works, to cost between one mill
ion and two million dollars each. One
of them was on the sound entrance, at
Willet s Point, opposite Fort Schuyler ;
another was at Sandy Hook ; and the
third was the rebuilding on a larger scale
of Fort Tompkins, on the Staten Island
hills at the Narrows. But little progress
was made on these three works until
the outbreak of the civil war, when they
were vigorously prosecuted, although the
works at Willet s Point and Sandy Hook
have never been fully completed. In the
early reports of the Board of Engineers
there was a project for building works
on the Middle Ground and East Bank,
between Sandy Hook and Coney Island,
but owing to doubts as to the stability
of these shoals the project has never
been carried out. Aiter the civil war

Sketch Map of New York Harbor.

A, New York. I. Ft. Tomkins and Batt y Hudson.

B, Brooklyn. K, Ft. Lafayette.

C, Jersey City. L. Ft. Hamilton.

D Newark. M, Castle Williams and Ft. Columbus

B, Staten leland. N, Ft. on Bedlow s Island.

F Coney Island. O, Ft. on Ellis Island.

G, Sandy Hook (Ft.). P, Ft. Schuyler.

H, Ft. Wadsworth. Q, Ft., Willet s Point.

[The circles are drawn with radii of seven and fourteen
miles respectively, and centres at City Hall.]

a lar^e amount of work was done in
building several lines of earthem batter
ies on both sides of the Narrows and at

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

Willet s Point. All work on fortifica
tions, as previously stated, stopped in
1875. The total cost of the works
hitherto constructed for the defence of
New York is about nine million dollars.
The fortifications of New York illus
trate very clearly the progressive changes
in the system of defence. The problem
has always been to place more, or larg
er, guns ashore than can be brought
against them afloat, and to put them be
hind walls stronger than the sides of a
ship. Prior to 1860 the forts answered
these conditions fully. In 1812 na
vies were composed of wooden sailing-
vessels, and the largest of them carried
seventy-four small guns. Castle Williams
and Fort Lafayette mounted seventy-
eight guns each, of a much heavier cali
bre than those of the ships, and their
walls were incomparably superior in
strength to the sides of the wooden
frigates. With the rapid development,
between 1840 and 1860, of steam ships
of war, propelled by screws, and carry
ing guns as large as 9-inch and 11-
inch, it was evident that a correspond
ing increase must be made in the

bore) arranged in several tiers. Fort
Wadsworth and the fort near the wa
ter at Willet s Point are types of the
latter class, and the batteries near
Fort Hamilton of the former.

The advent of the civil war brought
into practical application two new prin
ciples. First, the application of iron
armor to vessels, and, second, the use
of torpedoes, or submarine explosive
mines. Simultaneously with these came
a great development in the size and
power of guns. The germs of all the
modern ideas of guns, armored ships,
and torpedoes were found in the war
of 1861-65. In guns we produced
the 300-pounder rifled Parrotts, and
the 15-inch (450-pounder) smooth-bore
Rodman. In ships we had the tur-
retted monitors and the broadside ar
mored "New Ironsides." In torpedoes
we had the spar torpedo from an open
boat, with which Gushing blew up the
Albemarle, and the iron powder-kegs,
exploded by contact with electricity,
with which the Confederates destroyed
the monitor Tecumseh and other ves
sels. But at the close of the war our

Krupp s 40 Centimetre (15% Inch) Rifle, Mounted on Sea Coast Carriage.

strength of fortifications. This was ef
fected, in part, by earthen batteries, ex
terior to the fort, where the ground
permitted their construction, and in
part (where the site was restricted in
size) by strong castellated structures of
the best granite masonry, with walls
eight feet thick, the embrasures (or gun-
ports) protected by iron shutters, and
the guns (10- and 12-inch smooth-

development (except in torpedoes)
ceased, while the development of
other nations went on with rapid
strides. Every year new vessels were
constructed with ever-increasing thick
ness of armor, and every year still
larger guns were produced. In this
costly series of experiments between
guns, on the one hand, and armor, on
the other, the United States took no

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

part. We calmly looked on, waiting for
the time when it should be demon
strated whether the attacking or re
sisting forces should prove superior.
The struggle virtually culminated, a few
years ago, in the 100-ton guns of Krupp
and Armstrong. These are colossal
steel machines, worked entirely by hy
draulic engines, 40 feet long, 6 feet in
diameter at the base, carrying a projec
tile 4 feet long and 17 inches in diame
ter, weighing 2,200 pounds, and pro
pelled by the explosion of over eight
hundred pounds of powder. Its veloc
ity is a mile in three seconds, and its
range more than nine miles. At a
distance of over half a mile it can pen
etrate thirty
inches of iron,
twenty-four

A.-The 42 -pounder of 1812. fee * f C n -

Length, 10 feet ; weight, 4 tons ; Crete maSOn-

charge, 10 pounds; projectile, 42 w nv&lt;5PVPntv

pounds; muzzle energy, 800 foot V UI =&gt;vent\-

five feet of

B. The 15-inch Rodman of 1862. Length, 16 feet;
weight, 20 tons ; charge, 1.30 pounds ; projectile, 450
pounds ; muzzle energy, 9,000 foot tons.

The engineers, therefore, confined their
attention to the development of a tor
pedo system, and pending the solution
of the gun-and-armor problem they
built, as a temporary expedient, earth
en batteries, and enlarged the ramparts
of some of the existing forts, intending
to arm them with 12-inch rifled guns
and large mortars. The guns, however,
were not built, and in 1875 the whole
work stopped. Our present stock of
heavy ordnance consists of 1518 smooth
bore Rodmans, of various sizes, mostly
10-inch and 15-inch, and 210 8-inch
rifles, converted from 10-inch smooth
bores by inserting a steel lining. None
of these can properly be called heavy
guns, as compared with the modern sea-
coast guns of Europe.

Thus we are to-day, in the matter of
coast defence, just where we were dur
ing the civil war ; we are a whole gen
eration behind the other nations of the
world, and a generation, too, in which
more advance has been made in meth
ods of coast attack than in the whole
previous period of the world s history.
And this in spite of the fact that we alone
of all the nations of the world have a
series of great cities on our ocean

C. The 16-inch Rifle of 1886. Length, 45 feet 6 inches; weight, 115 tons; charge, 800 pounds; projectile, 2,300
pounds ; muzzle energy, 55,000 foot tons.

The Great Guns of Different Periods of the Nineteenth Century.

earth. The only form of defence which
has successfully resisted it is the Gruson
cast-iron dome.

At the beginning of this development
of modern great guns, just after the
close of the war, our engineers made
some experiments with heavy iron
shields placed in and around the em
brasures of our granite forts, with a
view of seeing whether this adaptation
would not serve to continue the use
fulness of our masonry works. But
while the iron shields resisted fairly
well the guns of that period, the ma
sonry adjacent to them was soon de
molished, and it was evident that our
masonry forts were already obsolete.

coasts. It is doubtful if all the na
tions of Europe combined have as many
lives and as much property within
reach of hostile ironclads as we have,
since all their chief cities are inland.
Yet we have absolutely no means of de
fence. There has been no such specta
cle in the previous history of the world,
as this of a rich and pre-eminently pow
erful people inviting attack upon life and
property or the payment of enormous
ransoms as the price of their safety by
leaving its coasts wholly undefended
against the implements of war of the
period. Nor can any valid reason be
given why we alone of all the world should
expect immunity from such attacks.

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

For nearly an entire generation-^-ever
since 1859 the progress of fortification
in Europe has been in the direction of

ferent localities in some places there
were circular forts, composed wholly of
iron ; in others the iron was in the form

Gruson Cupola (Cast Iron), Forming Part of the Defences of Antwerp, Belgium.

the use of some form of iron armor. In
this the United States has taken no part.
Our forts were among the foremost dur
ing the masonry age and the earthen
age, but during the iron age we have
as yet done nothing. In England the
necessity for using iron in fortifications
was apparent just as soon as this ma-

of a shield in front of the gun only, the
spaces between guns being filled with
masonry and earth. The iron was also
used differently sometimes in a single
plate of great thickness, and at others
in a series of thinner plates separated
by layers of concrete ; occasionally the
iron formed an exterior facing to ma-

SCALE

Wrought Iron Turret, Containing Two 80-ton Guns, Forming Part of the Defences of Dover, England.

terial began to be used in ships, and in
1861 England entered upon the work of
rebuilding her forts with iron. It was
substantially completed in 1878, at a
cost of $37,000,000, expended on nine
harbors, the total population and prop
erty within reach of which is far less
than at New York alone. The manner
in which the iron was used varied at dif-

sonry. Finally, within the last few
years have come the solid iron turrets,
of enormous thickness, carrying two
80-ton guns each, which form part of
the defences of Dover. While many
of these forts, which were built while
the contest between guns and armor
was still in progress, can be pierced by
the more recent guns, yet the number

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

of large guns which they mount is far
superior to the number that could be
brought against them afloat, and in con
nection with torpedoes and iron-clad
ships they afford a secure defence.

On the Continent the problem was
not taken up until guns had reached a
greater development, and then it was
solved generally in the direction of
using iron alone, in the form of tur
rets or domes. Some of these were of
wrought-iron, some of steel, and some
of cast-iron. The latter were the Gru-
son cupolas, of which 28 have been
constructed in various harbors of Ger
many, Austria, Belgium, and Holland.
Recently the Italian Government gave
an order for two of these cupolas, to
mount two 120-ton Krupp guns each,
for the defence of their naval station at
Spezzia. The order was conditioned on
a test shield, or segment of the cupola,
resisting three shots of the Armstrong
100-ton gun a test which it success
fully withstood, although the same gun
has pierced every other form of con
struction yet devised.

It is generally conceded that a com
plete system of defence must consist of
three distinct elements land forts, tor
pedoes, and ships or floating batteries.
If an undoubted superiority in naval
force can be maintained at every port
against anything that can be brought
against it, the forts and torpedoes could
be dispensed with. But this is manifest
ly impossible. The small extent of coast
line in the British Islands, and the
proximity of her harbors to each other,
enable England to rely much more on
her naval force than other nations ; but
for us, with 3,000 miles of coast on the
Atlantic, 1,200 miles on the Pacific, and
2,200 miles on the lakes, the idea of
having a great squadron at every port
is out of the question. Our main reli
ance must be on forts and torpedoes.
Forts, torpedoes, ships, and guns are
thus the four great branches of defen
sive science, each of them involving a
distinct branch of manufacturing indus
try, and each of them (except torpe
does) requiring large capital and pay
ments for manufactured product com
mensurate with the miUions of property
which they are intended to defend. As
before stated, since the war we have

contented ourselves with watching other
nations, and have done nothing our
selves except accumulate a certain

SIDE ARMOR

TURRET ARMO&

SCALfi OF FEET.

The Development of Armor from 1860 to 1880.

amount of torpedo material. In forts,
we built some earthworks from 1866 to
1875, when the money was withheld
and all work stopped. In guns, we
converted a few smooth-bores into small
rifles of doubtful efficiency. In ships,
we patched up or rebuilt, under the

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

name of repairs, the wooden vessels of
the ante-bellum period.

With the incoming of Garfield s ad
ministration, in 1881, however, the first
signs of change began to be apparent,
and since then, though the output as
yet is small, we have been incessantly
investigating the subject, until we are
now possessed of the most complete in
formation, in convenient printed form,
concerning guns, armor, ships, and
everything relating to the subject of
coast defence, and it only remains to
act on this information. It will be well
to follow these steps in order, so that
we may see what progress has been
made in study, and what we may hope
for in results.

The first subject taken up was ships.
In the summer of 1881 a naval advisory
board was appointed to state the re
quirements of a new navy. They re
ported to the Secretary of the Navy that
we needed, for the " present exigencies
of the navy," 38 unarmored cruisers,
estimated to cost $26,000,000, and 5
rams and 25 torpedo-boats, estimated
to cost $4,000,000. They stated that
heavy iron-clads were needed ; but they
gave no estimate in regard to them, as
that subject was not included within
their instructions. At its next session
Congress authorized the construction of
two cruisers ; but no contracts had been
made for them when, in the spring of
1883, it authorized the construction of
four vessels, three of them to be steel
cruisers two of 3,000 tons and one of
4,500 tons and one of them a despatch-
boat. The armament Was to be from
eight to twelve rifle-guns for each ship,
of calibre from six inches to eight inches.
The contracts were signed in July,
1883, and the new navy was begun
with the launching of the Dolphin.
This vessel was completed in the sum
mer of 1885. The Atlanta, one of the
cruisers, was put in commission in the
summer of 1886, and the other two are
not yet finished, nearly three years af
ter the passage of the act authorizing
their construction. No appropriation
for ships was made during the session
of 1884, but during the sessions of 1885
and of 1886 authority was given for
three more cruisers, two gun-boats, two
large armored iron-clads, one torpedo-

boat, and one pneumatic dynamite-gun
ship, and for the completion of five
large double-turretted monitors, whose
construction was commenced, under the
name of repairs, during Grant s admin
istration. These 14 ships, added to
the 4 authorized in 1883, make a total
of 18 modern vessels for which author
ity has been granted. This is the out
come of more than five years considera
tion of the subject, and the practical re
sult to date is 2 ships in commission, 7
(including the 5 monitors) launched,
but not finished ; 5 designed, but not
contracted for ; and 4 not yet designed.
The length of time thus consumed
shows how large and complicated is
the problem, and how many years must
elapse between granting authority for
ships and seeing them in commission.*
As to the value of the ships thus far ac
quired, the only serious criticism made
upon them is in regard to their speed.
A cruiser which makes fifteen knots an
hour, when the fast passenger steamers,
that would be pressed into service in
war, make eighteen to nineteen knots
on every voyage, is of somewhat doubt
ful utility. The cruisers recently de
signed, however, are intended to have
a speed of eighteen and nineteen knots.
But, except in the matter of speed, all
are agreed that the new vessels are well
designed and well built, and that they
make an excellent beginning for a na
val force suited to the requirements of
modern times.

In guns the progress has been of a
somewhat similar character. In March,
1881, Congress ordered a board of en
gineer, ordnance, and artillery officers,
to examine into the whole question of
guns and projectiles. This was com
monly known as the Getty Board, from
the name of its senior officer. They ex
amined several hundred designs, out of
which they selected a small number as
worthy of trial. They also made a
thorough examination of the merits of
cast-iron, wrought-iron, and steel, as
material for guns, and decided in favor
of steel an opinion which is in accord
with that of the majority of gun-builders

* The Collingwood, one of the most recent English iron
clads, was laid down in 1880, launched in 1882, and went
into commission in 188(5, six years after her construction
wax begun. She cost about three million five hundred thou
sand dollars.

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

throughout the world, although this
opinion is by no means unanimous. No
immediate action was taken on this re
port ; but at the next session of Congress
a select committee was appointed by the
Senate, of which Senator Logan was
chairman, to examine into the subject of
heavy ordnance and projectiles. This
committee reported in the winter of
1883, and its report was embodied in
legislation which appropriated $400,000
for heavy guns, and a beginning was
thus made with modern ordnance. Un
der this appropriation contracts were

on our own resources for material of this
character was so vital that at the same
session of Congress, in 1883, an act had
been passed providing for another board,
known as the Gun Foundry Board, to
report whether we had any arsenals or
navy-yards suitable for a gun foundry,
or what other method, if any, should be
adopted for the manufacture of heavy
ordnance. This board met in the sprin g
of 1883, visited all the principal steel
factories of the United States and Europe,
and made two exhaustive reports in 1884.
Their conclusions were that the Govern-

p^PJ^^p^^^S^^ffS^^^ 1 " "
SECTION

Fort Horse-Sand Forming Part of the Defences of Portsmouth, England.

made for the conversion of fifty 10-inch
smooth-bores into 8-inch rifles, and for
seven experimental rifled guns of cali
bres from eight to twelve inches. One of
these was wholly of cast-iron, one of cast-
iron with a steel tube, one of cast-iron
wrapped with steel wire, two of cast-iron
banded with steel hoops, and two entirely
of steel. Nearly all of them required
gun-steel in suitable masses and of the
requisite quality, and the question at
once arose whether this material could
be obtained in this country. Inquiries
addressed to the principal steel manu
facturers developed the fact that they
had not the requisite plant for making
such metal, and could not afford to in
vest in it for such small orders as Con
gress had then authorized.

The steel had therefore to be im
ported. But the importance of relying

ment should establish on its own terri
tory a plant for the fabrication of can
non, and should contract with private
parties for the delivery of the forged
and tempered material, the contracts
being of sufficient magnitude to justify
the investment of capital in the necessary
plant ; in other words, that the Govern
ment should not establish a gun f oundry,
but a gun factory, where it would fabri
cate its own guns, while buying the ma
terial from manufacturers. As sites for
gun factories they recommended the
Washington Navy Yard for the Navy,
and the Watervliet Arsenal, at Troy, for
the Army, and stated that $1,000,000
would be required to fit up each of them,
and that $15,000,000 should be appro
priated for the purchase of steel for
guns. These recommendations, how
ever, were not acted upon at once, and

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

another select committee of the Senate,
with Senator Hawley as chairman, known
as the Committee on Ordnance and War
Ships, was appointed in the summer of
1884, for the purpose of examining the
same subject. They made their report
in the winter of 1886 ; it contained a
large amount of information, and con
firmed the views and conclusions of the
Gun Foundry Board, but made no spe
cific recommendations. Meantime, still
another congressional committee had
been appointed, composed of members
of both Houses, with Mr. Randall as
chairman, to investigate the same sub
ject. This also submitted, in the spring
of 1886, a report containing considera
ble information, but no positive plan of
action.

While these committees were studying
the problem the new cruisers were build
ing, and it was necessary to provide
guns for them. The necessary money
had been appropriated in 1883, and the
size of the guns was fixed at 6-inch and
8-inch rifles. The Navy Department be
gan the construction of thirty of these
guns, contracting for a small portion of
their steel with the Midvale Steel Works,
of Philadelphia, and for the bulk of it
with Whitworth, of England. The fin
ishing of the guns was to be done at
the Washington Navy Yard. A faw of
these guns have been finished, and have
proved in the highest degree satisfac
tory at the Annapolis proving-grounds,
but none of them are yet on board of
ships. It is expected to have the At
lanta s armament of two 8-inch and six
6-inch guns ready during the present
winter.

A certain amount of progress had
thus been made on the policy outlined
by the Gun Foundry Board viz., to
buy steel forgings of private manufact
urers, and to build the guns at Govern
ment shops when the bill authorizing
the additional cruisers and iron-clads
was passed, last July. That bill appro
priated $1,000,000 toward the armament
of these vessels, and distinctly author
ized the Secretary of the Navy to ex
pend as much of this as he deemed
necessary in fitting up one of the navy-
yards as a gun factory, provided the
gun-steel was purchased from private
factories. Under this law the Washing

ton Navy Yard is now being transformed
into a gun shop exclusively, and adver
tisements have been issued calling on
steel manufacturers to submit proposals
for furnishing about thirteen hundred
tons of gun-steel, in masses from three
to twelve tons, suitable for making mod
ern rifled guns from six to twelve inches
in calibre and from five to thirty-five
tons in weight.

We are thus fairly started, after nearly
five years of investigation and discussion,
in the business of building modern guns
for the Navy. For the Army little has
yet been done. The 8-inch and 10-inch
steel guns authorized in 1883 are not
yet finished, and the experimental guns
ordered at the same time are still in the
experimental stage, with results not al
together satisfactory. When the forti
fication bill, appropriating a few hun
dred thousand dollars for the care of
forts and further experiments with guns,
reached the Senate, last summer, Senator
Hawley offered an amendment appropri
ating $6,000,000 for the purchasing of
10,000 tons of gun-steel of domestic
manufacture. The Senate adopted this,
but the House refused to accept it, and
the bill failed altogether with the un
derstanding that a new conference should
be held, after the elections, in the first
ten days of this winter s session. It re
mains to be seen whether the manufact
urers will be willing to bid on the com
paratively small amount of 1,300 tons
authorized for the Navy. Even should
they decline it is almost certain that a
larger amount will be authorized at the
present session, and then the work will
begin. It will probably be four years,
however, before we can have any guns
as large as 10-inch and 12-inch. The
bids for the Navy give the manufact
urers two years and a half in which to
deliver their forgings, and after that
the guns are yet to be fabricated.

In the matter of forts, the Engineer
Department has, year by year, repre
sented in its annual reports, in the
strongest possible language, that our
forts are antiquated and our harbors
at the mercy of an enemy s fleet. It
has tried to dispel the popular fallacy
that we can rely on torpedoes alone, by
showing that forts and torpedoes are
mutually dependent. With forts alone

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

an armored fleet can run by them, and
with torpedoes alone a fleet can pick
them up or explode them harmlessly.
For the immediate protection of tor
pedo lines from derangement some of
our present small guns and masonry
forts or earthworks would still be very
useful, provided there are forts and
great guns that can keep the hostile
iron-clads at a distance. But in our
present condition the armored ships,
with their 12-inch and 16-inch rifles,
can demolish our forts completely, and
then take up the torpedoes at their lei
sure. The lesson of the bombardment
of Alexandria the only instance of the
attack of forts by ships since the devel
opment of the present types of iron
clads and guns should not be lost
upon us. These fortifications were
somewhat inferior in construction, but
in their general design and character
they were quite similar to ours, and
their armament was more powerful
than any that we have. The English
brought eight iron-clads against them,
and in one day s bombardment ren
dered them useless and caused their
evacuation. If our relations with Eng
land should become strained on account
of the fisheries, the interoceanic canal,
or any other question, the same, or a
stronger, fleet would naturally rendez
vous at Halifax or Bermuda, just as a
similar fleet went to Constantinople in
1879, and to Alexandria in 1882. Forty-
eight hours would suffice to bring them
to New York, where a few days at the
most would be necessary to destroy our
existing fortifications, a few more to re
move the torpedoes that we might mean
while have placed, and then the city of
New York would be at its mercy. Its
destruction, or a ransom running into
the hundreds of millions, would be the
inevitable result, unless we yielded our
diplomatic claims which would not be
probable.

All these risks have been set forth
year by year in annual reports and mes
sages, and in countless other publica
tions, until the tale has become thread
bare ; yet, up to this time, the only result
has been the well-worn expedient of an
other board of officers to consider and
report. This board was authorized by
the act approved March 3, 1885. The

Secretary of War was its chairman, and
its members comprised four officers of

C&J

v&gt; JAMAICA

Sketch Showing the Cities on the Atlantic Coast and the
Proximity of Foreign Naval Stations.

the Army and two of the Navy, who were
well known as eminent authorities on
this subject, and two civilians, equally
well known as metal manufacturers,

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

Their report was submitted, with r^mark-
able promptness, in January, 1886. It
is probably the most exhaustive treatise
on coast defence ever made. It not only
gives a complete project for the defence
of our ports, with estimates of coast,
but in the various subreports attached
to it are found elaborate descriptions
and drawings of modern guns, gun-car
riages, ships, torpedoes, and armor all
forming a complete resume of the entire
subject at the date of January, 1886
This information could not have been
collated in so short a time but for the
assistance of the Office of Naval Intelli
gence in the Navy Department. This
office was established a few years ago,
for the purpose of collecting, classifying,
and indexing information of every kind
relating to naval and military affairs.
It fulfils the functions of the corre
sponding bureau in the General Staff
Office, in Berlin, whose researches had
so marked an influence on the war of
1870. The Washington office is in no
way inferior to the one in Berlin, and if
we have no guns, or forts, or armored
ships, we at least know, in the minutest
detail, just what every other nation has,
and what can be brought against us.

The fortification board makes its es
timate for 27 different ports, of which
11 are considered urgent. For these
11 the total of expense, $102,970,450,
is itemized as follows :

For forts $44,444,000

For guns and carriages. 30,360,800

For floating batteries 18,875,000

For torpedoes (submarine mines). . 2,450,650

For torpedo-boats 6,840,000

It repeats the recommendation of the
Gun Foundry Board, that the Govern
ment buy its steel from private manu
facturers and provide its own gun factory.
It urges that $8,000,000 be appropriated
for gun-metal, so as to induce the neces
sary investment of capital for its manu
facture ; that $1,000,000 be voted for
the gun factory, and $12,500,000 for the
beginning of forts, guns, carriages, float
ing batteries, torpedoes, and torpedo-
boats. Starting thus with an appropria
tion for the first year of $21,500,000,
it recommends future appropriations of
about nine million dollars annually until
the work is completed. This is cer

tainly a comprehensive scheme, involv
ing a large expenditure ; but it is much
more within our present means than
was the scheme presented by General
Totten in 1826, and adopted by Con
gress and carried out during the suc
ceeding thirty years.

The plan of fortifications proposed by
this board consists of forts of three
kinds, viz., armored turrets, armored
casemates, and barbette batteries of
earth and concrete. These forts will
carry guns of size proportionate to the
importance of the harbor they defend.
They range in size from 16-inch (115
tons) to 8-inch (13 tons), and the total
number is 581. In addition to these
are 724 mortars of 12-inch and 10-inch.
Both guns and mortars are to be rifled,
and the board emphatically recommends
that they be built of steel. In addition
to the forts the board recommends
auxiliary defences in the shape of sub
marine mines, torpedo-boats, and float
ing batteries, according to the necessities
of each particular harbor.

To illustrate their plan of defence, it
is well to again take the case of New
York Harbor. Of ships that can cross
the bar at New York, and that carry
guns capable of piercing more than 12
inches of armor, England has 74, carry
ing 352 guns ; France 35, with 100 guns ;
Italy 9, with 28 guns ; Russia 24, with
56 guns ; and Germany 22, with 65 guns ;
yet of all these there are but 9 vessels,
with 22 guns, that can pierce more than
20 inches of armor. To protect the har
bor it is proposed to fortify three lines
of defence two for the southern en
trance (one being from Sandy Hook to
Coney Island, and the other at the Nar
rows), and one for the eastern entrance
(from Throgg s Neck to WiUet s Point).
Each line would be protected by several
groups of torpedoes, and by a fleet of 6
torpedo-boats. At the Narrows, Fort
Lafayette would be demolished to give
place for two turrets, with walls of steel
three feet thick; opposite them, near
Fort Wadsworth, would be two similar
turrets, and two more at Sandy Hook.
Each of these turrets would carry two
115-ton (16-inch) guns. In or near
Fort Hamilton, on one side, and Fort
Tompkins, on the other, would be built
10 armored casemates, each holding a

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

single gun, and 10 earth-and-concrete
batteries, also each for a single gun,
mounted on a carriage to lower or dis
appear behind the parapet after each
shot. At Sandy Hook would be 17
similar casemates and batteries. These
guns would be 12-inch (50 tons) and 10-
inch (27 tons). On Coney Island and
thence back along the shore to Tort

heavy guns will carry nine or ten miles,
it is proposed to have armored floating
batteries, carrying the largest guns, to
aid in the defence.

This report, containing, as has been
said, a complete plan of defence for all
our harbors, was presented to Congress
in January, 1886. No action was taken
upon it. We have now exhausted our

Fort Lafayette, East Side of the Narrows, New York Harbor.

Hamilton, and on the Staten Island
side on the hills above Fort Wadsworth,
would be a series of 12-inch rifled mor
tars, 96 in all. For the eastern entrance
the same plan of torpedoes and torpedo-
boats, steel turrets, armored casemates
and barbette batteries, and mortars
would be followed. For the entire de
fence there are 9 turrets, with 18 guns

ingenuity in forming boards to collect
information and report. Our informa
tion is complete, and it can be kept up
to date from month to month by the
Office of Naval Intelligence. We have
obtained the best attainable expert ad
vice and opinion, and we have a com-
pleto plan of defence, based on modern
requirements, with full estimates of

Proposed Arrangement of Turrets on the Site of Fort Lafayette, New York Harbor.

of 115 tons, casemates and batteries for
77 slightly smaller guns, 144 mortars,
18 torpedo-boats, and 690 torpedoes.
The total cost is estimated at $8,000,000.
(The total value of property protected is
nearly two billion dollars, and the cost
of protection less than half of one per
cent.) In addition to these defences, as
there is anchorage- and cruising-ground
off Coney Island, which is but seven miles
from a portion of Brooklyn, though the
VOL. L 5

cost. The question now is, Shall forts
be built ? And the answer to that de
pends on two factors one of which is
public opinion, and the other is the
necessities of partisan politics as inter
preted by the leaders in Congress. Mr.
Tilden wrote, last June, that he knew
that public opinion was overwhelmingly
in favor of fortifications, and he based
his judgment on the views of over sev
en hundred newspapers. On the other

66 IN A COPY OF THE LYRICAL POEMS OF ROBERT HERRICK.

hand, Mr. Eandall thinks it not good
politics for his party to spend large
sums on forts and he is a very shrewd
judge of popular opinion.

As for the public at large, it is doubt
ful if it is as yet actively in favor of
forts. The citizens of St. Louis, Cin
cinnati, and Louisville know very well
that no foreign force can directly injure
them, and they hardly realize the in
direct injury which would result to their
trade from a loss of property in New
York or other seaports. The vast pop
ulation of the interior States is much
more anxious to see the public money
spent for improving their rivers, from
which, in spite of the abuses of the river
and harbor bills, they see an immediate
advantage, than to have it invested in
insurance for sea-coast cities. Even on
the lakes people do not realize their
danger. They have seen comparatively
small expenditures in making lake har
bors and ports result in building up a
commerce which rivals that of the en
tire sea-coast. They do not realize that
while under existing treaties neither
England nor the United States can main
tain any naval force on the lakes, yet on
the outbreak of war England can send
through the Welland Canal 111 vessels,
with over four hundred guns, while we
are absolutely powerless. The Welland
Canal can carry vessels of 13 feet draft,
the Erie only 7 feet. So long as we

leave the Erie Canal in its present con
dition we leave it in England s power,
on the outbreak of war, to destroy Buf
falo, Cleveland, Toledo, Detroit, and a
number of smaller cities ; and, unless the
English vessels could be stopped by tor
pedoes in the Detroit Kiver, Chicago,
and Milwaukee as well. The State of
New York spent its money freely to
build this canal, and thereby gain the
commercial supremacy of the Western
Continent. It remains for the General
Government to enlarge the work, for
the protection of the great States from
whose lake-shores the commerce an
nually passes through it. But it is one
thing to spend money for a purpose
which yields a quick commercial return ;
it is another and far harder thing to sink
money in insurance which yields no visible
return, and against a contingency which
millions of people insist on considering
too remote to take cognizance of.

The question finally resolves itself to
this : Our harbors on the ocean- and
lake-shores are defenceless against ex
isting navies. Is it wise to leave them
so when we have the means to protect
them ? It never has been so considered
until within the last few years. Who
can name any reasons why such a risk
is more justifiable now than it has been
in the past ? Does not the enormous in
crease in property values render the risk
greater now than it ever has been before ?

IN A COPY OF THE LYRICAL POEMS OF ROBERT

HERRICK.

By Austin Dobson.

MANY suns have set and shone,
Many springs have come and gone,
Herrick, since thou sang st of Wake,
Morris-dance, and Barley-break ;
Many men have ceased from care,
Many maidens have been fair,
Since thou sang st of Julia s eyes,
Julia s lawns and tiffanies ;
Many things are past but thou,
Golden-Mouth, art singing now,
Singing clearly as of old,
And thy numbers are of gold.

IN MEXICO.

By Thomas A. Janvier.

GEOKGE RAND, of tough New England
stock, was as brisk and as capable an
engineer as ever held a transit. But
with his cool, practical Yankee blood
ran another strain. His grandfather,
more fortunate than most young Ameri
cans of his day, had been sent over seas
to make the grand tour, and had vexed
sorely the Puritan prejudices of his fam
ily by bringing home a Papist wife. The
land of her birth never was clearly known
in the family, for the respectable New
England folk to whom, thus unwarrant
ably, she had become akin, simply and
decidedly refused to have anything to
do with her. Therefore, she lived with
her husband apart from the world, bore
him a child or two, and then, possibly
not unwillingly, yielded up the ghost.
Her portrait, hanging in the Band draw
ing-room in the old-fashioned house up
at the State House end of the Common,
in a private way ceremoniously chained
off once a year to the end that its priv
acy might be kept inviolate- was proof
enough that she came from a southern
land : a gentle, gracious face of clear
olive brown ; dark eyes, all fire and ten
derness ; lips soft and full, on which warm
kisses seemed to wait.

As a little boy, Rand fell into the odd
habit of worshipping this portrait : not
metaphorically but literally. In the
doubtful light of dying day, in the
warm darksomeness of summer after
noons when close-bowed shutters barred
the sunlight s entrance, he would steal
softly into the room and kneel before
the picture and make to it strange
prayers of his own devising until one
day he was fairly caught in the midst
of this irregular, not to say unholy,
adoration by his mother. Mrs. Band
was a severely common-sensible young
woman, born in Newtonville, who, being
fair herself, and holding to sound Con
gregational doctrine, hated black-haired
Papistical women as she hated the per
sonal devil who was an important part
of her rigid creed. Therefore, finding
her offspring thus engaged, she was not

a little horror-stricken : which feeling
found characteristic expression upon
the person of the offender in a sound
spanking. Possibly this form of correc
tion was not precisely suited to the of
fence that it corrected. But it seemed
to have the desired effect. So far as
outward and visible worship went,
George Band worshipped his grand
mother s portrait no more.

With the years that followed at school
and college in the keen New England
atmosphere, with yet more years of
sternly practical life passed in build
ing railroads in the energetic West,
whatever had been moody and whimsi
cal in the boy disappeared. When he
was seven- or eight-and-twenty, being
then back in New England at work on
a road that gave him, before it was fin
ished, a couple of years of life in the
East, he married : as genuine a love-
match, he believed, as ever was made
by man. Mrs. Band the elder was well
pleased with this marriage, for her
daughter-in-law was a woman after her
own heart : of good Salem stock, clever,
wholesome, and, withal, fair to look up
on, and having a loving heart. That
her lovingness for her husband was
deep and genuine there could not be
a doubt, and very tender was her hus
band s love for her and these loves
were yet stronger and yet richer after
the boy was born. The marriage was
one of those ideal marriages in which
respect and trustfulness and feeling of
good comradeship unite to make an
earnest, lasting love.

Before the baby was a year old, Band
went down to Mexico. It was tough
work for him to go, but his going
scarcely was a matter of choice. Such
a chance as was offered to him was not
likely to come twice in a lifetime not
often in an engineer s lifetime did such
a chance come once. The tide was turn
ing, and he could not afford to miss so
fair an opportunity to take it at the
turn. Like the brave woman that she
was, his wife gave him brave words of

IN MEXICO.

cheer and comforting ; bearing* her
share, and more than her share, of the
bitter trial of parting, that his share
might be less. So, with great love for
her, and cherishing in his heart the lov
ing God-speed with which she had sent
him forth, he journeyed downward into
the South.

LATE DAY is a very perfect time in
Mexico. As the sun sinks behind the
mountains, and the glare and heat go
after it, cool shadows come forth mod
estly from where they have been in hiding
all day long ; and a cool, delicious breeze
sweeps down from the mountains com
fortingly ; and after the weariness of
long hours of scorching sunlight there
is coolness, and duskiness, and rest.

Then do the house-doors open slowly,
one by one, and those who have sought
shelter from the heat within their thick,
clay walls, arouse themselves from sleep
and come forth drowsily. Little groups
form here and there before the open
doors and talk about nothing with the
ease that only a life-long habit of talking
about nothing can give. Women pass
and repass to and from the spring, or
the acequia, if the town is not lucky
enough to own a spring bearing upon
one shoulder, gracefully, great water-
jars ; " oyas," as they call them in the
softened Spanish, that is not of Spain.
Thin lines of smoke curl upward from
many little fires, and a smell of many
tortillas cooking comes most cheeringly
to the nostrils of a hungry man.

George Band, standing in front of an
adobe house, waiting for his supper to
be got ready, dwelt upon this slow-going
activity and found therein great solace
for his soul. It was not new to him
now. In one little town or another,
where his headquarters for the time had
been, he had known it and greatly rel
ished it each night for the past half
year. But custom could not stale for
him the charm of this easy-going lan
guorous life ; that yet had underlying it
lava seas of passionate energy whence,
at any moment, might burst forth
storms of raging hatred, or not less
raging storms of love.

In some strange way that he could
feel, but could not understand, Rand s
whole heart went out to these people,

whose life and customs and modes of
thought, though so unlike those of the
people from among whom he came, in
very truth seemed those to which he
had been born. It was an absurd fancy,
of course, but from the first day that
he was in Mexico he had felt not like
a stranger, but like one who, having
been for long years in foreign lands, at
last gladly and thankfully comes home.
Each day this f eeling had grown stronger,
until now it well-nigh wholly possessed
his being frightening him when, as
would happen now and then, he real
ized how utterly he was becoming es
tranged from his own land. At first
he had given play to this queer fancy,
taking a humorous pleasure in strength
ening it by throwing himself as com
pletely as possible into the life that sur
rounded him ; by seeking to adopt not
merely Mexican customs of living but
Mexican views of life and modes of
thought. And now, when he was begin
ning to realize how completely his whim,
as he had regarded it, had become him
self, the way backward was beset with
difficulties hard to pass. Moreover, he
knew that he was losing his old-time
fighting power ; that his moral strength
was slipping away from him ; that he
was dropping each day more and more
into the very Mexican habit of drifting
with the stream.

The only strong ties which bound
him to the sterner, higher civilization
of which he had been a part, were his
wife and child. These still were real
ities to him ; but even these were be
ginning to grow unreal. Each week
came loving letters from his wife, fresh
breezes which, for a little space, cleared
the warm, enervating atmosphere in
which he lived. While the freshness
lasted his answers were written. He
found that if he suffered more than
a day to pass after the letter came,
the effort of writing was so great
that he had not strength to overcome
it. He believed that his love for his
wife still was strong and true yet
would he be startled now and then
when he found himself fancying what
his life would have been had he not
married this fair Saxon woman, but
one of these Mexican women whom he
now saw around him : whose dark

IN MEXICO.

beauty entreated him, and whose Latin-
Indian blood was flame. These were
not safe thoughts, still less safe were
they when from generalities they de
scended to particulars ; when he came
to think how his life might have been
shaped had he been born not in Massa
chusetts but in Chihuahua, had he won
not the prettiest girl in Salem but the
most beautiful woman in Santa Maria
de la Canada for his wife. Now the
most beautiful woman in Santa Maria
was Josefa, daughter of the old Mexican
in whose house he lived.

Possibly, then, Band s enjoyment of
the awakening life in the village that
evening was less wholesome than keen.
It was keen, most certainly. Santa
Maria was a mere mite of a village, but
it was perfect as a type. Low adobe
houses straggled around three sides of
the treeless plaza ; on the fourth side
was the church. Back of the houses lay
corrals and gardens, and back of these
again the cultivated fields, crossed and
recrossed by acequias, through which the
water came that made fruitful the land.
And back of all, towering up grandly, in
blue-black masses against the evening
sky, the mountains. Band had seen
fifty villages like this since he came into
Mexico ; he had seen this very village
under precisely these conditions more
than fifty times for he had been quar
tered there near two months but his
enjoyment of it all was as fresh and full
as though that night it all were new to
him. But with his enjoyment of it was
blended now a deeper feeling than that
which in the beginning he had known.
When he came to it at first, he had loved
this simple placid life with slumberous
surroundings purely for itself, for its
beauty, for its restfulness ; and these,
truly, were cause enough for love. But
now, half consciously, half unconscious
ly, his love was less for the life at large
than for the single figure that had come
to be to him its centre and its type.
Standing there before the doorway, in
the waning light of day, it was of her,
rather than of the village and the vil
lagers before him, that he thought.

As he stood thus, dreamily, Josefa
came out from the house and stood be
side him for a moment, while she told
him that his supper was ready. He

started as he heard her voice, and as he
turned to enter their eyes met full ; in
his there was a look of longing, of sad
ness, of doubt ; in hers there was a dan
gerous light, half of defiance, half of
strong love confessed. He paused by
the doorway that she might pass in be
fore him. As she passed, the palm of
her warm hand brushed lightly against
his.

THAT HAND should take up his quarters
in a Mexican house, instead of in camp,
was the outcome of his whim for identi
fying himself with the Mexican people ;
with the further and more practical rea
son that it gave him opportunities for
studying Spanish, which could be had in
no other way. He had imagined that
his desire in this direction would be
easily gratified, but as he tried to gratify
it in one village after another, as his
w r ork advanced and his camp moved for
ward, and failed always, his views con
cerning household life in Mexico under
went some modifications. Here was a
people, he found, that would not sell the
right of entrance into its homes. So he
had pretty much abandoned his purpose
when, coming to Santa Maria, he fell in
with old Pepe, Josefa s father.

Pepe, it must be confessed, was a sad
old scamp. At all times a very percept
ible odor of mescal hung about him,
and frequently the effects of this potent
liquor were visible in the tangled con
dition of his legs ; though it is a notable
fact that, save that it finally put him
very sound asleep, mescal had no effect
whatever upon his rascally old brain.
Between his love of drunkenness and
his love of gambling Pepe had a hard
time of it, for the demands of these
passions for ready money were so con
stant and so imperative that little was
left on which himself and his daughter
could live. Things had been somewhat
better while Josefa s mother was alive ;
but she had been dead for a half dozen
years now, and in this time Pepe had
been driving as rapidly as anybody can
do anything in Mexico to the dogs. He
had sold his cattle one by one, he had
sold some of his ground and mortgaged
the rest and he had sold himself. It
was this last sale that struck bitterness
into Pepe s soul. The sale had not been

IN MEXICO.

accomplished at a single stroke. It had
come about little by little, ten dollars
worth of him going at one time, five
dollars worth at another as gambling
necessities, or the need for preparation
for some especially grand fiesta required
until now he found himself bonded for
near two hundred dollars ; and he knew
perfectly well that without the blessed
saints worked a miracle in his behalf he
would be a bondsman for all the rest of
his days. He also knew, in a general
sort of way, that he was not precisely
one of those shining examples of virtue
such as the blessed saints are in the
habit of selecting to work miracles upon.
Therefore his case seemed to be about
hopeless.

When this respectable Mexican heard
of Band s quest, he thought with much
satisfaction that the saints really were
lending him a helping hand ; for the fact
that all Americanos possess inconceiv
ably great wealth was well known to
him, and he saw clearly an opportunity
for making money to an extent that
quite took his breath away. He could
not, of course, hope to pay off his bond
and be a free man again ; but he cer
tainly could get his hand on an amount
of hard cash that would assure to him a
grand time during the festival of the
Corpus Christi, now only a month away.
He might even glorious thought ! go
down to the great city of Chihuahua
and lie drunk there for a whole week !

Therefore Pepe s heart was as lead
within him when Hand, by no means
prepossessed by his appearance and ad
dress, firmly declined his offer of the
freedom of his home. But Rand at last
yielded so far as to consent to see the
house and seeing that it was far more
habitable than he had been led to sup
pose by the appearance of its proprietor,
and moreover seeing Josefa, he filled
Pepe s heart with joy again by accept
ing his offer at once. Pepe, who was a
shrewd old scoundrel, saw the involun
tary look of admiration that Band cast
upon Josefa, and in his mind he began
to evolve a plan. Perhaps he might be
a free man again, after all !

Josefa had no knowledge of this plan,
but had she been made acquainted
with it, she could not have played more
directly into her father s hands. For

there was for her a rare attraction in
this Americano, who was so unlike the
men of her own race ; in whom, her in
stinct told her, was a power for pas
sionate love that equalled, if, indeed, it
did not exceed, her own. But as time
passed on, and the love that she knew
knew better than Band himself existed,
was not declared, her pride was piqued,
and her curiosity was aroused. What
manner of man was this, she thought,
who, with no lack of opportunity, failed
to make plain the feeling that was stir
ring in his heart? Under the sun of
Mexico never had such man been before.
Therefore was she perplexed, and her
own heart was troubled, and the more
went out to him. And the whole
strength of her being was bent upon
gaining a return for her love.

Band was not so dull, but that he
saw all this ; and because he saw it, and
because he knew how weak he had be
come, he forced himself to fight against
it and to be strong. He called to his
aid the steadfast honesty and love of
honor for honor s sake that belonged to
him by right of his Saxon blood, and
with these he fought the weakness that
his Latin blood had brought him. But
his weakness had many strong allies.
The strangeness of his life, that was all
the stranger because it seemed so
familiar to him ; the absence of the
bracing moral atmosphere, out of which
even in the roughest of his frontier
life in the States he had never lived ;
a climate that filled him with a fuller,
richer, sense of life than he had ever
known ; all these forces were allies to
his weakness ; all were united to arouse
that portion of his nature which had
slumbered ever since he was a boy.

And more than all else, Josefa wrought
upon him strangely and potently. Her
dark eyes, alight with fire and tender
ness ; her clear, olive-brown skin, tinged
ruddily with her Southern blood ; her
tall, supple, rounded form wherein were
grace and strength, and a vigorous vital
ity these characteristics made up a
type that was new to him, yet that he
felt to be as old as his own being, and
a very part of himself. Half uncon
sciously, he would watch her come and
go about the house ; and misty memo
ries would rise up in his mind, as though

IN MEXICO.

all that he now saw and felt he had seen
and felt in some other existence in a
time long past. It was like living out
a dream, or dreaming vividly of that
which he had lived.

For a man constituted as he was, a
curious mixture of adverse elements, a
dual being in whom were united, not
combined, the instincts of two civiliza
tions, which must remain irreconcilable
to the end of time, the issue of such a
conflict as had arisen within his breast
was, to a great extent, a matter beyond
his own control. His will power, played
upon by antagonistic forces, which
counterbalanced and neutralized each
other, was reduced wellnigh to a nega
tive quantity. A turn of chance would
decide the result.

AND the turn of chance came that
night in Santa Maria with the touch of
Josefa s hand. Her touch thrilled him.
A flush came upon his face. There was
a ringing in his ears. There seemed to
come a fever into his brain.

She turned as she passed him, and
again their eyes met. From his, in the
moment, the look of sadness, of doubt,
had vanished ; but the look of longing,
grown passionate, remained. In hers
there was a look of triumph in which
also was fear and a great tenderness :
for she knew that she had conquered at
last.

Possibly Pepe had seen this encoun
ter he had keen eyes, this old villain.
Presently he rolled a cigarito deftly,
lighted it, and went forth upon the
plaza, closing the door behind him as he
passed. Night had fallen, and Josefa
had lighted the kerosene lamp. Band
leaned back in his seat, and slowly filled
his pipe and began to smoke. The puffs
came fast at first, then slowly and ir
regularly, then not at all. He was
watching Josefa as she moved about the
room, with free, graceful steps, placing
the house in order for the night. She
did not look at him, for she knew that
his eyes were fastened upon her. She
grew a little pale, and her breath came
quickly.

He looked at her thus for a long while.
He could not think coherently. His
mind was in such strange confusion that
continuity of thought was impossible.

His only clear perceptions were of Jose-
fa s presence and of his consciousness
that with the touch of her hand she had
confessed her love for him, and that his
eyes had told her as plainly as in words,
that her love was returned. He sat in a
sort of trance, motionless, save that his
eyes moved as they followed her about
the room. There was a fascination up
on him that his will, had he exerted it,
was powerless to break. But he did not
in the least degree exert his will : he was
dully conscious of the desire to sit thus
silently looking at her always in a
vague way he felt that ages before he
had gazed at her thus ; that he was liv
ing over again a life that was buried in
the depths of the past.

Josefa drew nearer to him, making a
feint of placing straight a picture of the
Madonna hanging against the wall, and
paused by his side. He saw that she
trembled. She did not look at him.

"The Senor is very sad and silent to
night," she said. Her voice was broken.
The sound dispelled the charm that held
him still. Their eyes met. In a mo
ment he had clasped her in his arms.

" I love you, Josefa ! "

For answer she gave him her lips.

Then the door opened suddenly, and
Pepe entered. Band thrust Josefa from
him and quicker than thought covered
Pepe with his revolver.

"Do not shoot, Senor," said Pepe,
calmly. " Come out with me ; I have
some words to speak."

Still holding his revolver ready for
prompt service, Band followed Pepe out
into the night.

" Put away your pistol, Senor. It is
my right, but I shall not kill you. You
are safe." Then for a little time Pepe
was silent. In the dim starlight Band
regarded him doubtingly, wonderingly.

" I am a poor man," he went on, slow
ly. " I have lost all that I possessed.
Worse yet, I am a bond-servant until
the money that I owe be paid. Will
you pay that money for me, Sefior ? I
beg of you, I pray you to pay it. And
I offer you a rich return. Pay it, and
Josefa shall be yours."

Band shuddered. He felt as men
feel who are bargaining with the devil
for their own souls. For a time he was
silent. When at last he spoke, it was

IN MEXICO.

as men speak who have come close
enough to the devil to make bargaining
possible.

" Yes, I will pay the debt," he said.

POVERTY is common enough, but squa
lor is rare in Mexico. Cleanliness and
neatness are two strong Mexican vir
tues that, finding practical expression,
make the meanest jacals pleasant to look
upon. This rule is the more sharply
emphasized by the fact that here and
there through the land are found not
merely single houses, but whole villages
where utter squalor reigns ; little com
munities which in some unaccountable
way have lost every vestige of decent
self-respect. Los Muertos so called
because there had been a bloody mas
sacre there by Indians in the long-past
time was one of the exceptions ; and
so wretched, so forlorn was it, that no
great stretch of the imagination was
required to believe that it was hope
lessly under the spell of its evil name.

Yet the site of the village was very
beautiful. Here four canons met and,
merging, made a delectable little cup-like
valley dotted here and there with low,
rocky hills, between which grew great
cottonwoods and pecans, and having
broad sweeps of gently undulating land,
yellow with fields of barley that rippled
in the wind. Along the edges of the
dry water-course tapped at a higher
level to supply the acequias which
brought water to the fields of grain
were matted masses of cactus in
rich red and yellow bloom, and wide
coverts made up of little shrubs and
tangles of mesquite ; and standing sen
tinel above these lowly things were
many palms. Rising solemnly around
and over all were the grand moun
tains, grave and worshipful. And in
the fall of day the sun through the
canon leading westward sent long
glinting rays of golden light across
the golden beauty of the barley-fields
and into and under the waving branches
of the trees. There are many places
beautiful as this in the fair Mexican
land.

Los Muertos was no more than a
hamlet ; a dozen little adobe houses
clustered irregularly about an open
space that was less a plaza than a bit of

waste land where foraging pigs and
dogs maintained an armed neutrality,
and where sad-hearted burros strayed.
Standing a little apart was a ruinous
chapel, wherein a priest held service at
long intervals yet often enough to sat
isfy the community s not excessive spir
itual needs. Ordinarily, feast days and
Sundays were celebrated in gambling
and drinking booths, set up expressly
for the observance of these rites, and by
evening there usually was a fight or
two, and now and then a man was
killed. Not much excitement attended
these incidental murders. In some odd
corner a hole was dug for the dead
man s burial, and then things went on
as before. There were few men in Los
Muertos whose death could be anything
but a benefit to the survivors.

A dozen rods or so away from the
village, on a bluff above the river-bed,
stood what was left of the great house
of which the smaller houses once had
been the dependencies for Los Muer
tos, in its better days, had been a thriv
ing hacienda, and the village had been
inhabited by the work-people of the es
tate. Now the land was cut up into
small holdings, and the owner of the
great house if it had an owner had
suffered it to fall into decay. Only a
room or two of all the building re
mained measurably weather-proof. Else
where the roof had fallen in, and over
the fragments of the fallen roof the un
protected walls were crumbling down.
The walls of the corral had fallen, also,
in places, and in the gaps had been
heaped piles of mesquite-brush and cac
tus. In some of the deserted, roofless
rooms, and over the broken walls, cac
tus plants were growing rankly, their
vigorous life marking, with greater em
phasis, the wreck and desolation in the
midst of which they grew.

Across the valley, from the canon on
the north toward the canon on the
south, curving around the bases of the
little hills, ran the course of the railway ;
marked by the line of cuts and fills that
every day was a little farther advanced.
Upon the mountain side, that the rare
luxury of a spring of sweet water might
be to the full enjoyed, were the white
tents of the contractor and engineers;
and clustered around these the queer

IN MEXICO.

abodes wicker huts and shelters of palm
thatch and sleeping-places under trees
of the Mexican workers on the grade.
In the Mexican part of the camp bits
of bright-colored clothing hung around
the bushy shelters, women stood beside
little fires cooking not unsavory messes
in little earthen pots, or boiling clothes
in old powder-cans ; half-naked children
ranged about in amicable companion
ship, with pigs and dogs, and hobbled
burros went sadly and solemnly from
place to place, with a motion fit to be
likened only to that of automatic kan
garoos and the whole made a picture
very good for eyes appreciative of the
picturesque to dwell upon.

But Band, who was in charge of the
work, did not live in the camp. He had
taken up his quarters in the ruinous
hacienda : and with him was Josefa.
Those who had known him only before
he came into Mexico, would not have
known him now. In the year that had
passed the whole expression and tone
and manner of the man had changed.
His briskness and erectness were gone,
and in their stead he had acquired a
slouching slowness. Grim taciturnity
had taken the place of his habit of frank,
cheery speech. His eyes, which had
been wont to look straight into other
men s eyes, were cast downward, or
raised only in quick, furtive glances.
And in his eyes, and over all his face and
form, there was an unlifting weight of
melancholy. Jim Post, axeman, ex
pressed the sense of the corps in the
premises tersely, and with precision :
" Looks as if he felt hisself atween hell
and high water all the time ! "

And, in truth, the life that Rand had
led in the half year since he had struck
the bargain with Pepe in Santa Maria,
had been the life that Jim Post s rough
thrust of speech described. The very
act of going over the precipice had
aroused him when it was too late to
a partial realization of what he had done ;
and as time passed on, the deadening of
his soul that he had hoped for did not
come. His two natures remained in
open war, and the more that he sought
to crush the one with the other the more
steadily the fight went on. His wife s
letters, loving, tender, came down to
him and were thorns in his flesh giving

him keenest agony. She knew, she could
not fail to know, that a change of some
sort had come over him ; but no suspic
ion of what the change really was could
for a moment enter her faithful heart.
She feared that his life was too severe,
his labor too hard for him, and she
begged him to cancel his engagement
and come home. She told him of the joy
it would be to her to have him with her
once again ; she told him of her quiet
home life ; she told him of their boy
and all this gentle lovingness and trust
fulness brought infinite bitterness to his
soul. Sometimes for days after her let
ters came he would suffer them to re
main unopened, dreading the pain that
reading them would give ; sometimes he
would open them the moment that they
arrived, so that the pain might sooner
come and go. His answering letters
filled her with a strange dread and grief.
At times he would write only a few cold
words, telling dryly of his work ; and
then again he would write with despair
ing tenderness, as a condemned criminal
might write on the eve of his execution ;
and yet again he would write, darkly,
mysteriously, in bitter self-reproach of
his own unworthiness of her pure love.
The strangeness of his moods struck into
her warm, true heart a deadly chill.

Josefa s instinct told her that these
letters which came to Rand were in
sharp opposition to her love for him.
Little by little, questioning him shrewd
ly, she learned the truth and hated
with a fierce intensity of jealous hate
this " Mary " (for she caught the name
and held it rankling in her heart) who
stood between her and the fulness of
love that should be hers. And when,
after a fresh letter had come, he turned
from her coldly, her jealous hate in
cluded him also. More than once she
had stood over him as he slept with
knife in hand and arm upraised to strike
and had not struck because before the
knife could fall the hate in her heart had
changed to love again. For, after all,
she thought, the other woman might
claim him, but she, Josefa, possessed
him : if this possession should be threat
ened, then, indeed, the time would come
to act ; even at her own cost !

Rand did not know that he was living
almost in the shadow of death ; but had

IN MEXICO.

he known it, his desire would have been
only that death might come quickly.
For he knew despairingly that he had
made his venture, and that he had lost.
The ease of life that he had hoped for
when he broke out from the civilization
that he was born to, and entered the
civilization upon which he had a claim
by hereditary right, had not come. It
had seemed so easy to him, back there
in Santa Maria, to throw off the few
remaining bonds that held him to the
North and become of the South utterly ;
so easy that he half thought the bonds
had fallen away of themselves, and would
not need to be broken at all. But his
attempt to break them had shown him
how vain the effort was. What he
thought was a snapping irrevocable had
been but yielding, as a bow yields ; and
ever since, by a constant strain, as a
bent bow draws against the string, he
had been drawn backward toward the
life that he had thought forever to leave
behind. His very weakness held him
from yielding to this strain. He longed
to return, but lacked strength to break
the bonds that he had bound himself
with. Yet he knew that no great access
of energy was needed to enable him to
be free ; and he hoped, as weak men are
wont to hope, for the action of some
force from without that would arouse
him thoroughly, give him full command
of his moral strength, and so help him
to break away.

The shock that he hoped for, in his
weakness, came. It was a telegram
three days old, for the end of the wire
still was fifty miles away to the north
telling him that his boy was dead, and
his wife so ill that he must come to
her at once if he would see her again
alive.

" I must leave you, Josefa. I go from
here into the North, to my home."

She looked at him tremblingly, doubt-
ingly.

" You have loved me greatly, Josefa,
far more than I have deserved ; now love
me yet more by forgetting that you ever
have loved me at all. You will go back
to your father, in Santa Maria, and you
will be the better because I am gone."

She did not seem to hear him. Her
great black eyes opened wide. Presently
a blaze of hate shot into them.

" You are going to to that woman ? "
she demanded.

" I am going to my wife. She is dy
ing God help me ! she may now be
dead."

u Then I declare that you shall not go !
You are mine, mine, I say. She shall
not have you. I would sooner that you
should die." And then breaking sud
denly from hate to tenderness, she flung
herself upon him and went on, while her
whole body quivered with her sobbing.
" For you are my heart, my life ; you
are everything to me ; you are all that I
have in all the world to love." Then,
flinging from him, and glaring at him
with rageful eyes : "I hate her, and I
hate you for loving her. Dare to go a
step toward her ! Dare to leave me !
and I will kill you as I would a dog !
She has no right to you now. You have
come to me and you are mine. You
cannot leave me. You shall not leave
me. You shall die first ah ! my heart,
tell me that you will not go away. Tell
me again that you love me. Give me
one little kiss. For I am all yours, and
you are all to me."

Hand paled and trembled. The mag
nificent splendor of her beauty over
whelmed him as her noble figure towered
exalted by her hate, or drooped with an
entreating graciousness in her bound
less love. That he did not yield to her
should be accounted unto him a victory
that went far toward atoning for the sin
of his first defeat.

Slowly he turned away from her ;
slowly passed through the doorway to
where his horse stood tethered ; slowly
mounted then, beating his horse s
flanks with his great spurs, dashed at
a tremendous gallop across the valley
toward the camp of the engineers.

Josefa knew that his determination
was fixed ; that he had gone to make
hasty preparations for his journey ; that
he would leave her never to return.
For this her heart cast all love out of
it, and was filled with a bitter, jealous
hate. She sat down quietly that she
might make her plans for killing him.
Yet the more that her mind dwelt upon
what had passed and what yet was to
come, the more did she feel that mere
killing would not satisfy her. Because
of her hate of the woman who was tak-

IN MEXICO.

ing him from her she required a more
exquisite, a more complete revenge.
That Band s wife had any rights in
the premises never once occurred to
Josefa, any more than did the thought
that she had done this wife a grievous
wrong. For a Mexican woman of Jo
sefa s class thoroughly believes that
great love is a broad and ample justifi
cation of all that it may cause. There
fore she hoped for, and presently saw
her way clear to, a revenge that would
strike both her lover and this other
woman who had stolen from her his
love.

FROM before the time of the Spanish
conquest there has grown in Mexico a
plant that in the ancient tongue was
called tlapatl in the south, toloatzin in
the north names which the softening
influence of the mellow Spanish speech
has rounded into toloache. Through
all these ages, even until this present
day, this plant has been used by Mexi
can women, when faithlessness in love
has bred jealousy, and jealousy, in turn,
has bred a longing for revenge. From
its flowers and leaves they make a de
coction a little bitter, yet not so bitter
but that coffee will disguise it and who
drinks of this decoction surely goes
mad. A terrible madness, beginning
with failing sight and dizziness ; with
throbbing pains through all the brain ;
going on with delirium and strange
perversions of sight ; with visions
which would be laughable but for the
dread horror of their cause ; with shoot
ing, burning pains in throat and heart ;
with partial loss of power to breathe,
and crushing sense of suffocation. And
if the dose is so well gauged that death
does not ensue, the pains at last pass
away and the end is a violent, or
a melancholy madness that lasts for
months, for years, or through all the
remainder of the victim s life. Well
have the Spaniards named this hideous
plant la flor de muerto the Flower of
Death.

It was the thought of toloache that
the devil put into Josefa s mind. She
could not but shudder as the thought
came to her. She remembered old
Pedro, in Santa Maria, who wandered
about the village more like a wild beast

than a man. That her lover, this beau
tiful Americano, should become like that
horrified her.

No, she mused, she could not do it.
Better that she should die herself. But
if she did die ? Would it not be what
he wanted? Would it not be what that
other woman wanted? For her death
would but smoothe the way for his re
turn to her. With this thought jealous
rage came into Josefa s heart again. Ah !
it would be a fine thing for this wife of
his to long and long for him, and when
at last he came if ever he found his
way to her to have a madman in her
arms ! And he need not have been so
cruel ; surely he might have consented
to stay in Mexico. That other woman
could not possibly love him as she loved
him. No one could love him as she
loved him and Josefa rocked herself
backward and forward as she sat upon
the clay floor, and her body shook with
the mighty beating of her heart.

" Since he will go, since she will have
him, let them take what must come ! "
she said at last between her teeth. Then
she rose from the floor, threw her shawl
over her head, and passed out. With
long, swinging steps, easy, graceful, the
perfect motion of a perfect form, she
walked past the village, and on toward
the mountains beyond. Bain was be
ginning to fall, but Josefa did not heed
the rain. Presently she had entered
the southern canon.

This southern cafion was so narrow,
and so high were the mountain walls
which made its sides, that there was
dusk in its depths save at the very peak
of noon. A mile from its mouth it
widened a little. Here, from the flanks
of the Sierra, at right angles, came out a
bastion of rock, its jagged crest dimly
outlined through the rain against the
gray sky. This rocky wall far overhung
its base, and so was made a deep, dark
nook into which the sunlight never
came. No spring of running water
showed itself, but the rock was damp,
and so also was the earth at its base.
A thick tangle of running vines spread
over the wet earth and hung upon the
rock above. In the darkest depth of
this gloomy place was a great mass of
coarse green growth a repulsive, evil
plant that sent forth a faint, offensive

IN MEXICO.

odor, and that, as shown by its luxu
riant growth, had concentrated in it a
vast amount of vigorous loathsome life.
From among its thick leaves sprang
long trumpet-shaped flowers, pale-white
and nearly beautiful, yet with their
beauty wholly marred by their coarse
strength and odor and sliminess of
look. This was the toloache of which
Josefa had come in quest.

For a moment she paused, pressing
her hand upon her heart ; then, firmly,
she pushed hsr way through the thicket
of vines and gathered sufficient for her
needs of leaves and flowers into a cor
ner of her shawl. With her load well
hidden, she walked rapidly through the
gloom of the cafion gloomier now, for
with the gray shadows of the rain were
joined the darker shadows of falling day
and so across the open fields and
through the village to the old house.

As she entered the door, she noticed
that the rain had opened in the ruinous
walls yet another crack, into which had
begun to settle one of the heavy rafters
that upheld the thick clay roof. At any
other time this sign, most ominous in
an adobe house, would have alarmed her
greatly. There is nothing that a Mex
ican dreads more than the fall of his
roof. And with reason, for if death
does not come at once, mercifully, from
the crushing weight of the huge rafters,
it comes more slowly and more terribly
by burial alive beneath the mass of clay.
But Josefa, in her present mood, cared
little whether the roof remained or fell.
She lighted a fire under a shed in the
corral and began the making of the
coffee. Beside the coffee, in a like
earthen vessel, was a more deadly
drink. She was very quiet over it all :
for she was resolved that when her re
venge was worked, when no good could
come to her rival from her death, she
would die. This resolution comforted
her. She felt that if she were willing
to pay her life for what she did she had
a right to do it. Yet in her inmost soul
she knew that this was not true reason
ing, since her life would have no more
value to her when her love was gone.

After awhile she heard the clatter of a
horse s hoofs coming up the stony road
along the bluff, and then Band brought
his horse into the corraL He had left

her, meaning not to come back again,
but the need for putting his work in
shape to be handled by his subordinate
had forced his return. For a moment
Josefa looked up at him questioningly,
as the hope leaped into her heart that
he had come back to her in very truth.
But his sad, cold, answering look show
ed her that her hope was vain. So she
went on quietly with her preparations,
while he lighted a lamp inside the house
and settled himself at his work.

Already the decisive step that he had
taken had told upon his moral tone.
He was beginning to be a man again ;
and a feeling not only of horror, but of
disgust was coming over him as he be
gan to realize what his life for the past
six months had been. This feeling was
intensified as he looked about him at
the dwelling in which, for a good part
of the time, he had been content to live.
It was a hole not fit, even, to be the
abiding place of brutes. The room had
been one of the storerooms of the old
hacienda, and was windowless. The
floor was sunk a couple of feet below the
level of the ground outside, and once
three steps of clay had led up to the
doorway, but these steps now were worn
to a broken slope. Shoved into a corner
was a pile of refuse, the long-past sweep
ings of the clay floor ; not recent sweep
ings, for the floor was foul beyond all
words. Over everything the dirty cots
and bedding, the draggled table strewn
with unwashed dishes, among which lay
a musty brush and comb, the mildewed,
greasy, camp-stools, the rusty Sibley
stove was an air of squalid foulness in
comparably repulsive. In one corner
lay a jumble of malodorous saddles and
saddle-cloths, from amidst which, as
Band looked at them, a rat frisked out.
One open doorway, doorless, led into an
adjoining room, the roof of which already
had fallen in, and lay a rubbish heap upon
the floor. Another doorway, at the rear,
led directly into the corral so that
chickens and pigs came in freely and
brought yet more uncleanness. Of a
truth, Band thought, as his eyes were
opened and he perceived the loathsome
ness of his surroundings, he had indeed
come to feed upon husks and live among
swine.

While he sat writing, Josefa brought

IN MEXICO.

him food, and with it coffee. There was
a strange look in her eyes that puzzled
him ; even as he had been puzzled by
her silence since his return. Placing
the coffee upon the table, but not within
reach of his hand, she looked down upon
him curiously. In her eyes shone a
deep, glowing light, yet over them a
shadow seemed to rest and veil their
meaning. Slowly she asked :

" Then all is ready, and you go ? And
when ? "

"Now, to-night."

" And you leave me for ever ? "

"My poor Josefa, yes."

" Ah, well, it is a long journey that you
go upon. You need refreshment. Drink,"
and she placed the coffee by his side.

Her tone and manner amazed him.
As he raised the cup he turned and
looked at her.

" Drink," she said, again ; while a
faint smile hovered on her full, red lips ;
while a deeper shadow gathered in the
strange duskiness of her eyes.

She stood before him in the glory of
her perfect womanhood. There was a
royal splendor in her form and pose.
Her beauty was overpowering. For a
moment he could not resist the feeling
of intense admiration that swept into his
heart. Involuntarily some sign of this
feeling shone in his eyes. She saw it in an
instant, and the shadow passed from her
eyes and left them bright with the radi
ance of love. She struck the cup from
his hand and fell upon her knees beside
him, clasping him close in her soft,
strong arms.

"It is all a lie. You will not go.
You do love me. Ah, why have you
been so cruel?" and with these quick
sentences came a flow of the sweet love-
names, in which Spanish is so rich and
English is so poor.

Band gently unclasped her arms.
"No, it is not a lie, my poor little
one," he said. "I must go. This is
the very truth. Better for you, better
for me, it would have been had I never
come. But now is the end." There
was a grave firmness in his tone that
struck dead all hope.

" Yes, now is the end ! " echoed Jose-
fa, slowly. " See," she added, " I give
you another cup of coffee. Drink it
and then go."

Josefa s voice had not a tremor in it
as she spoke, nor did her hand tremble
as she gave him the cup. She stood
rigid as a figure carved from stone un
til he had drained the last drop. Out
side the rain was falling as it falls only
among the mountains of Mexico. From
the southern caiion came the sound of
the roaring of a mighty wind.

" Yes," Josefa repeated, " now is the
end ! "

She seated herself, as Mexican women
are wont to sit, in a huddled bunch
upon the floor, her back against the
wall. She regarded Rand fixedly, with
glittering eyes, while he went on with
his writing. There was no sound save
the rushing of the rain and the wind s
moaning.

At the end of an hour Rand paused
in his work, and pressed his hand upon
his forehead. Josefa leaned forward
eagerly. He continued his writing, but
uneasily passing his hand across his
eyes, resting his head upon his hand,
pressing his hand upon his heart, stop
ping now and then to hold his body
erect while he drew in a deep breath.
He turned at last and said: "I thirst,
Josefa ; give me water."

"I fear that I am falling into a fever,"
he said, as he gave her back the earthen
cup empty. "I have a dizzy feeling in
my head, and my hands are hot and dry,
and there is pain about my heart."

Josefa nodded. "I also have a pain
about my heart," she said but more to
herself than to him.

He tried to write again, but presently
pushed away the paper from before him.
He rose from the table, staggered and
nearly fell ; then steadied himself by an
arm outstretched against the wall.

" How oddly things dance about ! It
is very strange!" he murmured. He
breathed deeply and laboriously. A
spasm of pain distorted his face, and he
pressed his hand upon his heart and
then upon his throat, "Give me more
water, my throat is burning," he said
but he spoke in English and Josefa did
not move. She was sitting erect, watch
ing him her muscles tense, her hands
clenched, her teeth set fast, her eyes
ablaze with a fierce light. Her revenge
had come, and it had brought her a sav
age joy.

IN MEXICO.

He staggered to the corner \&gt;f the
room where the olla rested in its forked
stick, and drank a long draught of the
cool water. " Ah ! it hurts me so to swal
low," he said piteously, but still in Eng
lish, so that on Josef a the pitifulness of
his words was lost.

After drinking he stood, with the cup
in his hand, leaning against the wall.
In a few moments he began to move the
cup slowly, and then more rapidly, from
side to side, a vacant look upon his face.
Presently this gave way to an expres
sion of interest.

"It is like a juggler s trick. All six
of the cups are in the air at once. See
how cleverly I catch them ! And now
here are the rats come to look at the
performance. But you must sit quite
still, rats ; and the short rats must have
the front seats. It would be very un
fair to give the long rats front seats
when they can see perfectly well over
the short rats shoulders. No! I will
not hold the rod steady. If you can t
get a sight when the rod is moving
then you are not fit to run a level.
Anyhow, I am not the rod-man, I am
the engineer in charge of this corps ;
and if I choose to wiggle the rod I have
a right to do it. Why, you stupid Mex
ican, I am pumping. Of course you
don t know what pumping is, for you
haven t a pump in your whole country.
But this is the way it s done, you see.
And oh ! how fresh and sweet the water
is ! Give me more of it, more, there is
fire in my throat and oh ! the pain !
the pain ! " and he broke into a moan.

Of all this Josefa did not understand
a word. But Hand s tone and gestures
made clear to her how surely the tolo-
ache was doing its work and horror
was beginning to possess her as she
saw what she had done : for the very
hate that was in her was love in its
most powerful form. This man was
everything in the world to her and
she had brought upon him what was
worse than death. And the pain that
he suffered : she had not counted upon
that. His moaning, drawn from him
by his agony, was like a knife in her
heart. When the spasm had passed he
spoke again, but now in Spanish :

" Josefa, my little one, where art
thou?" Josefa s heart bounded, and

she sprang to her feet and moved to
ward him and stopped, chilled and
w T oe-struck, as she saw him moving his
hands as one searching in the dark ;
saw that his eyes, in which the love-light
that she knew so well had come again,
were turned on empty space.

" Come to me, my Pepita," he went
on. "Come to me, my little heart.
Yes, thou art very beautiful and thy
beauty is that of which I have dreamed
all my life long. Let me kiss thee on
thy eyelids, so. Dost thou know, Pepa,
that the moment I saw thee that day
when thy father led me to his house
thy eyes seemed to look down into and
stir the depths of my heart ? I think that
it was because of thy eyes that I came
to love thee so deeply. For I do love
thee ; love thee as I never thought that
I could love. Give me a kiss, my Pepa,
my Chepita, a little kiss, and say that
thou also hast love for me. Ah ! nestle
close to me in my arms, and give thy
love for mine. For I love thee help !
help ! Josefa ! I am in torture ; my
heart is wrenching me to pieces ; my
throat is on fire ; I cannot breathe.
Help me. I am dying." And so ex
quisite was the pain that Band s whole
body writhed convulsively, and foam
gathered upon his lips.

With a cry of anguish not less keen
than his, Josefa caught him in her arms.
Had she possessed ten thousand lives
she would have given them all then that
her devil s work might have been un
done. But nothing could undo that
work now.

As the pain ebbed again a great
weakness came upon him. But for her
supporting arms he would have fallen.
Half leading him, half carrying him, she
placed him upon one of the cots, and
knelt upon the floor by his side.

The wind moaned hollowly, and the
rain fell upon the clay roof with a muf
fled, thunderous sound ; but Josefa
heard only Hand s wearily drawn breath
and sobs, and the wild beating of her
own heart.

Kesting upon the cot in some meas
ure eased his pain. For a long while
he spoke no more. From time to time
his legs and arms twitched spasmodi
cally, and his body trembled with the
irregular throbbing of his heart. The

IN MEXICO.

pupils of his eyes were horribly dilated.
There was a convulsive motion of the
muscles of his throat.

Josefa had ceased to think. A numb
ness had fallen upon her mind that
mercifully shut out thought. For more
than an hour she remained thus, bend
ing over him, in a sort of stupor. She
was aroused by a pattering upon the
floor, and, turning, saw a tiny stream
of water trickling down from the roof.
Her eyes followed along the beam by
the side of which the water fell. It was
the same beam that she had noticed
that evening as she entered the house.
In the interval the crack in the wall had
Avidened, and the beam had settled yet
more deeply. As she looked she saw
the water visibly eating away the clay ;
she fancied that she could see the beam
slowly sinking, and she knew that she
was in the awful presence of death.

But death had nothing in it of fear
for Josefa now ; and the torturing sor
row that had entered her heart had
driven out her longing for revenge.
Her scheme, begot of jealous hate, for
sending her lover back to his wife a mad
man, had lost its charm for her as she
had seen the racking pain that its exe
cution had brought upon his dear body
his body, that had been her life, her
god. Bather than that he should live on
now, though his sharp pain should pass
away, better death and she thought of
old Pedro at Santa Maria, and shud
dered. For herself, death could not
come too soon.

"Mary, I have come at last; come
back to you and the boy."

Josefa started at the sound of Hand s
voice, still more at the sound of this

hated name. She knew that even in his
madness his love no longer was hers.
She looked at the beam. The water was
melting away the clay beneath it still
more rapidly. This time it was not
fancy that made her believe that she saw
it move. Yet she gazed at it, as it slow
ly sank beneath the crushing weight of
the clay above, calmly, sternly. For
her there was no more of hope, of sweet
ness, in life; only in death could she
have rest. Death already had laid his
hand upon her heart.

"Will you forgive me, Mary? God
knows, I do not deserve your forgive
ness nor your love. But yet be merci
ful and take me to your heart again."

A gush of water burst in, and the
crack in the wall became a wide gap in
to which the beam dropped. The wall
tottered. There was a sound of grind
ing, rending wood, as the light canes
above the rafters, on which the clay
rested, were wrenched and broken.
Masses of clay fell upon the floor. Jose-
fa s body remained motionless, rigid ;
her eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the
wreck, and in them was a look of lonely
longing, of harsh despair. Half uncon
sciously, in her bitter searching for
some faint sign of sympathy in her
desolate strait, she clasped Rand s hand
in hers. As he felt the touch his face
brightened.

"Ah! you do forgive me, Mary! I
swear to you that for the sin which I
have wrought against you, and before
God, the atonement shall go on through
all the coming years. In all my life to
come, only for you "

With a dull thud the wall fell outward.
With a crash the roof came down.

By William Hayes Ward.

THE earliest printing-press was a seal,
and the cylinder-seal may be said to
have been an archaic rotary press. Al
though the rolling seal is much less
simple than the flat seal, it appears to
have been quite as antique, and to have
had even more currency. The cylinder-
seal had its origin in Babylonia, where,
so far as we can learn, the arts of civili
zation had an independent origin at as
early a period as in Egypt. The physi
cal conditions of Egypt and Babylonia
are the same a sedimentary soil of
exhaustless fertility, deposited from a
mighty river, on whose waters, in the
absence of rain, the cultivator must de
pend for his crop. Such conditions fa
vor a dense and permanent population,
with all the varied arts which they must
produce.

In the opening civilization of such a
country it would become necessary to
indicate the ownership of property or
the authenticity of a document by a
seal. For that purpose nothing would
be simpler, in a land where there was no
stone, and where the one abundant ma
terial used for building purposes, and
for nearly everything else, was the reed,
than to take a short section of a reed
and cut on it one s own private mark.
This reed probably gave shape and de
sign to the permanent stone cylinder-
seal, pierced, like the reed, through its
axis of length.

If papyrus was ever used as a writ
ing material in Babylonia but the slight
est traces of evidence exist to prove it.
The indigenous writing material of the
Babylonians was their clay, and admira
bly adapted it was for the purpose.
Kneaded and shaped into little cakes of

the size and form employed for toilet
soap (the Arabs who dig for them call
them pillows), it was adhesive enough
not to crumble, unbaked as well as
baked, and hundreds of both sorts, cov
ered over with writing, have been ex
humed. At the present day every vis
itor to the shrine of Ali at Kerbela car
ries home with him, as a memento, an
octagonal or semicircular cake of this
clay, shaped as sharply, and impressed
as delicately with Persian traceries and
writing, as if it were wrought on the
finest stone with a graver s tool ; and
seemingly about as permanent as stone
itself. On such clay the old Babylo
nian scribes wrote, not with a pointed
stylus of metal or ivory, but with a
wooden stick, cut square at one end,
and at the other flattened, to use as an
eraser. The solid angle of the square
end made the wedge-shaped charac
ters ; and after the writing was finished,
the seal, if it were a document requir
ing it, was rolled over on the edge of
the tablet, so as to impress a portion of
its device, especially the name if the
seal bore a name (Fig. 1). Beautiful
specimens of these tablets are in the
British Museum, containing records of
sales of land, wills, and other legal doc
uments, and authenticated with the seal
of the official scribe who drew them up.
If we can trust the date given by Na-
bonidus, on a fine, barrel-shaped record
of his, lately found at Abu-habba, King
Sargon first reigned in Agade, on the
Euphrates Eiver, thirty-eight hundred
years before Christ. That date is gen
erally accepted, and is not unreasona
ble, although it may be some centuries
too early. The cylinder-seal was in use

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

before his time, for a magnificent one eighty-four cylinders (besides its cone-
has been found bearing his name (Fig. seals), was followed by a volume of text
2). Such seals continued in use, though of absolutely no value. De Clercq s even
their use had probably become chiefly finer folio volume of photo-lithographs
magical, nearly or quite to the date of of over four hundred seals in his own
our own era ; at least some are found private collection is not yet completed.

Fig. 1. Edge of Clay Tablet with Seal Impressions.

with Sassanian legends, although the
inscription may be later than the seal.

While all Assyriolo gists have paid
more or less attention to these cylin
ders, and especially Lenormant in his
"Fragments de Berose," and George
Smith in his "Chaldean Genesis," the
only one who has published any full
study of them is Menant. His " Re-
cherches sur la Glyptique Orientale "
is an important work, in two octavo vol
umes, on the cylinders of Chaldea, As
syria, and the adjacent countries. Soldi
and Pinches have written valuable

As De Clercq s collection is the best in
existence, except that in the British Mu
seum, it is a great boon to students to
have it published. Many of the best
cylinders in the British Museum, and in
the Louvre and the Bibliotheque Natio-
nale have been published in the volumes
of Cullimore and Lajard, but it is much
to be desired that they might be edited
as is that of De Clercq. Next after the
collections of the British Museum and
of M. De Clercq comes that of the Metro
politan Collection, augmented as it has
lately been by my own of two hundred

Fig. 2. Seal of Sargon I. 3800 B.C. After De Clercq.

short papers. For the study of these
seals it is essential to be able to consult
the engravings published, especially in
the three collections of Cullimore, La
jard, and De Clercq. Cullimore accompa
nied the one hundred and seventy-four
cylinders figured in his volume with no
text whatever. Lajard s magnificent fo
lio volume, with its two hundred and
VOL. I. 6

and sixty-five specimens, so that it now
numbers over four hundred. The col
lections of the Louvre and of the Biblio
theque Nationale have each over two
hundred, while those of a number of
other museums and of private gentle
men have from fifty to a hundred each.
The shape and general appearance of
these cylinders can be seen in the en-

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

graved headpiece to this article. N They
vary in size from an inch and a half long
by an inch and a quarter in diameter
down to half an inch long by a quarter
of an inch through. The oldest ones
were often cut so as to be reduced in
the middle, as in one of those in the
headpiece, and the very late ones may be
somewhat barrel-shaped, but the vast ma
jority are plain cylinders. Out of the
four hundred cylinders in the Metro
politan Museum, only about a dozen are
concave along the line of their length
(generally important ones), while but
two (of little interest) are convex.

The material varies from the choicest
and hardest stones that could be found
to the abundant and soft marble, serpen
tine, and alabaster. The brilliant color of
lapis lazuli made it a favorite material
almost from the earliest times. It is
quite hard and cuts admirably, except
for the specks of iron pyrites which
often occur in it. A number of royal
cylinders are in lapis lazuli. A bright-
green though impure jasper is another
very favorite stone of the earliest fash
ion. The various forms of quartz are
frequent. The most common is a chal
cedony with a milky or yellowish tint,
used for very rude Babylonian and very
fine Assyrian work. Sapphirine is an ex
quisite chalcedony of a clear but light-
blue color. It is only used, so far as I
know, in very late seals ; perhaps not
going back of the time of the Persian
occupation of Babylon. Quartz-crystal
and amethyst are occasionally found in
these seals, although the grain of crys
talline quartz does not lend itself to en
graving like the chalcedonic varieties.
Fine specimens of carnelian are more
common in the Assyrian or Persian
work, while the banded agates and jas
pers, as also sienitic stones speckled
with quartz and hornblende, are occa
sionally seen. The older Babylonians,
and also the older Assyrians, affected
much a hard variety of serpentine, nearly
black, and the black dolerite is very com
mon in old and large seals from Baby
lonia. But the commonest of all ma
terials, not in Assyria, but in Babylonia
to the south, and in Syria, and in the
region occupied by the Hittites to the
west, was hematite. The common small
Babylonian seal was of hematite. The

grain is excellent for sharp, deep cut
ting, and the hardness is considerable,
the color good, and the engraving shows
better against the polished surface than
on almost any other material. The very
oldest seals are not in this material, but
hematite seals are often of the highest
mythological value and admirably cut.
This material made, however, the seals
of the common people, and not of the
kings.

Both Soldi and Pinches, two of the
authorities who have most carefully con
sidered the subject, agree that the en
gravers of these cylinders must have
used the diamond for the very earliest
work, supposed to date three or four
thousand years before Christ. But this
implies that there was then commerce
with India, something very difficult to
believe, especially when in the time of
Theophrastus the diamond was not yet
known to the Greeks. It is the admira
ble free-hand engraving of the earliest
cylinders that suggests the use of the
diamond ; but there is no reason why
chalcedonies and quartz-crystal (and
these are the hardest materials used)
could not be cut with flakes of emery
or corundum. Emery was abundantly
found in Ethiopia, and, according to Sir
G. Wilkinson, was the medium used for
cutting and polishing the gigantic works
in granite made in Egypt. A corundum
of the first quality came from Armenia,
and was preferred by the Greeks to that
of Naxos, which gave the name of nax-
ium to emery.

The earliest specimens of Chaldean
art that have come down to us are marked
by a rudeness and yet a freedom and un-
conventionality of type which was soon
lost. Specimens are to be seen in M.
de Sarzec s fine volume of plates illus
trating his explorations in Tello. Be
longing to this primitive period is the
brown-jasper cylinder (Fig. 2) belonging
to the collection of M. De Sarzec, of
Paris, which I do not hesitate to call the
finest as it is one of the very oldest
cylinders yet discovered. The lower
register is occupied by waving lines,
which represent a river or the sea.
Beside or above the water are the two
symmetrical groups Gisdubar, on one
knee, holding a vase, out of which water
flows as from a fountain, while in front

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

of the hero stands a bull-buffalo, with his whom lived before the Flood. This was

head lifted and drinking from the stream, a thousand years before Hammurabi the

This animal is not of our domestic breed first Chaldean king set his throne in

of cattle, but is an admirable drawing of Babylon and united all the minor kin^-

&lt;i-"U. ^ 1^1 ^ ^1-^ rt 1*- , . .-4- "Lv ~ -!,.! ~~ 1 -3(?_ "l__*1~|-| l nj-i O

the black, almost hairless buffalo, wild
in those days in the swamps and jungles
of Southern Chaldea, and which is re
markable for its great size and its huge

doms of the lower Euphrates under his
sway. Sargon s date, as I have said,
on the authority of King Nabonidus,
the father of Belshazzar, was about 3800
B.C. His capital, Agade, or
the Sippara of Anunit, was,
perhaps, the first city of im
portance, after Babylon, in all
Southern Mesopotamia, and
the discovery of its site on
the ruins now called Tel An-
bar, on the Euphrates is one
of the important fruits of the
American Wolfe Expedition.

This cylinder of Sargon
and Menant s doubt as to its
ascription to him would only

corrugated horns resting back on the make it still older is of first class im-
head. Gisdubar is the ancient hero of portance in a great many ways. It gives
Chaldea, whose epic in twelve books was us a type of art, and a type of inscription

Fig. 3. Gisdubar Coi

- _

About 3800 B.C. After Pinches.

discovered by George Smith, and who
was identified by him with the biblical
Nimrod. The space between the horns,
and over the backs of the two buffa
loes is occupied by an inscription in
eight lines of very archaic characters,

from which we can settle the period, if
not the local school, of a considerable
number of other cylinders. The charac
ters in the inscriptions are not yet wedge-
shaped, but are in plain lines, only one
remove from the original hieroglyphics.

which is translated by Mr. Pinches, of The drawing of the design shows original
the British Museum, " Sargon, the artistic feeling not yet subdued by con-
King ; King of
Agade. fbni-
sar r u, the
scribe, his ser
vant." From
this we learn
that this seal
was carried by
the scribe of
Sargon L, King
of Agade, and it
was, doubtless,
with this seal
that the royal

documents were authenticated. Sargon
of Agade is a name well known. The
ancient astronomical and magical and
grammatical literature of Assyria and

Babylonia is referred back by the old times.

Fig. 4. Gisdubar and the Lion. About 3500 B.C. After De Clercq.

ventionalism. The cutting is all done
with the corundum point the drill not
yet being invented and in a free and
masterly manner never equalled in later

scribes to the time of Sargon. His birth
and life were invested with mysteri
ous incidents, and he lived at the time
when the mythological period passes
into the historical. He was one of the

A favorite subject is some one of the
exploits of Gisdubar. A very fine red-
and-white banded jasper cylinder in the
British Museum (Fig. 3) illustrates anoth
er variety of this type. Here Gisdubar

last kings of Agade, or Sippara, five of again appears in duplicate represent; 1 -

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

tion, lifting a lion upon his shoulder.
Both the hero and the lion are engraved

Fig. 5. Gisdubar Killing the Bull of Ann. About 3000 B.C. After De Clercq.

with great energy and artistic power.
A more common type is that in Fig. 4,
where Gisdubar, in his most character
istic style, clad, as in Figs. 4 and 5,
only with a girdle, fights a standing lion.
The repetition of the figure is very coni

form one of the most dramatic portions
of this epic the most ancient epic by a

thousand years, at

least, that exists.
The glorious vic
tory of Gisdubar
over this mon
strous bull, and
his mutilation of
its mighty carcass
are probably com
memorated not in
this poem alone
and in the seals
which picture the
contest, but in the constellation Taurus,
which has a Babylonian origin.

At the right of Gisdubar, in Fig. 6, we
have the representation of his friend
Heabani fighting a lion. With great
difficulty, the epic tells us, and only after

mon on the seals, and seems to indicate he was persuaded by two fair damsels,

a certain poverty of invention. In the
later seals Gisdubar, in accordance with
that modesty which w r as characteristic of
the Babylonians as well as of the Per
sians, becomes decently clothed ; and
colossal statues of him, of the time of
the last Sargon king of Assyria, repre
sent him as dressed and curled in the
finest style of a Ninevite dandy, with a
lion comfortably tucked under one arm,
and a snake held by the neck in the
other hand.

Another frequently recurring scene in
the story of Gisdubar is that which rep
resents him in contest with the human-
headed bull (Fig. 5). It is very prob-

Heabani was persuaded by Gisdubar
to leave his home in the rocks of the
desert, and join him in his victories.
Heabani was a superior figure to the
Greek satyr, having the body of a bull
but the head and arms of a man, and
nothing of the satyr s vicious and unsa
vory character. He was a worthy friend
of the great hero, and was deeply lament
ed when accidentally killed. The dirge
over his death is, with the possible ex
ception of the account of the descent of
Ishtar into Hades, the finest passage in
the old Babylonian poetry. The two
friends often appear together on the older
cylinders, those from 2000 to 3800 B.C.,

able that the explanation of this scene is fighting generally one a lion and the
found in the Gisdubar epic,
according to which the god
dess Ishtar became a suitor
for the love of the hero, and
was rejected by him. In re
venge for the slight she ap
pealed to her father Anu to
punish him. Anu created an
immense bull, but Gisdubar
overcame and slew the mon-

ster. The story of the court
ship of Ishtar, her promises to Gisdubar
of wealth, and servants, and pleasure, his
scornful rejection of her offer, telling her
how her lovers had perished, and her an
gry complaint and appeal to her father
against the man who had despised the
beauty and the love of the goddess,

Fig. 6. Gisdubar and Heabani. About 3500 B.C. After De Clercq.

other a bull. A good specimen is in
Fig. 6, from a cylinder in the collection
of M. de Clercq.

Probably belonging to a period of
very nearly the same antiquity, if we
may judge from the character of the en
graving and the stones used as material,

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

as well as from the known date of some
which bear the inscription of a King
of Ur of the Chaldees, are those which
carry a procession of people advancing
to a seated divinity. An extraordinarily
good specimen is found in Fig. 7, al
though the engraving from which the fig
ures are copied gives an unwarranted
Greek look to the faces. The seated
deity is on the right, and in front of him

seated figure is, of course, the chief char
acter. The others are showing him all
possible honor. Is he a god or a man ?
Lajard, who first studied these represen
tations, was sure this represented a scene
in the initiation into some Oriental mys
teries. The seated figure was the initiat
ing priest, and the figure led in repre
sented the candidate for initiation. Me-
nant s explanation is substantially the

^v&gt;

TTT

Fig. 7. Seal of Lik-bagas, King of Ur. About 2600 B.C.

is the crescent, which would seem to in
dicate that this is the Moon god, whose
name was Sin. He is bearded, and fully
clothed in a long tunic of cloth. The fact
of clothing would seem to indicate a
somewhat later date than that of the finer
Gisdubar cylinders. There advances to

Fig. 8. Private Seal. About 2000 B.C. After De Clercq

meet the god a figure with one hand
raised in an attitude of respect, while
with his right hand he leads a second
figure. Behind the two is a third figure.
The unoccupied hands of all the three
figures are raised as if in worship.

What does this group represent ? It
is perhaps the most abundant type found,
and has some definite meaning. The

same, as he calls it simply a religious cer
emony. As I have indicated, I think it
much more likely that the seated figure
is a god, perhaps the god Sin, or possibly
Hea. It is to be noticed that the figure
led in is bare-headed, not having the
high tiara, and in dress as well as in at
titude is inferior to the figures
between whom he stands. Very
often, on small seals, Fig. 8, the
third figure is omitted, but al
ways the led figure is without
the honorable head-dress of his
conductor. Before settling what
this scene represents we must
observe that the led figure is
sometimes and in the older
seals not wholly human, but
has, with the head, shoulders, ami arms
of a man, the body, tail, and legs of a
bird, perhaps a cock. A cylinder in my
collection, Fig. 9, of green jasper ami
with the concave face of the older period,
represents this figure half-man and half-
bird being led to the god by the figure in
front of him, and pushed in by the figure
behind. The rear, and fourth s ton dim:

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

figure, instead of lifting his empty arms,
carries a victim for sacrifice. The god is
distinguished by streams flowing from
his abdomen, while near them are several
fishes to indicate that it is water which
is delineated. The god would seem to
be Hea, deity of the waters of the lower
world. There is no crescent to indicate
the Moon-god. The reader will imagine
the seated god repeated at left of figure.

In the case of these cylinders in which
the led figure is half-bird, it cannot be
a scene in an initiation into religious
mysteries. The figure is being brought
in unwillingly by two attendants or ap
paritors, as if for judgment and punish
ment. It would seem as if for some of
fence the culprit was being changed to a
bird ; and this suggests what is the prob
able character of the more common scene.
The god is on the
throne of judgment.
The soul of the dead
is brought before him
for decision. It is a
scene in some such a
cycle of mythological
thought as is familiar
in the "Egyptian
Book of the Dead."
The leading figure
performs the duty of
a Mercury or psycho-
pomp, in presenting
the dead before the tribunal in Hades ;
and being himself a minor deity, he very
properly wears on many seals the same
kind of tiara as does the superior god,
or ties his hair in the same kind of a
queue. This long queue, by the way,
sometimes tied up and sometimes hang
ing down, is one of the remarkable indi
cations, some of them in the forms of the
writing, which seem to connect the early
Accadian or Sumerian population of
Chaldea with the Chinese, as has been
plausibly argued by M. Delacouperie.

The chief evidence looking to the
conclusion of Menant and others, that
these three figures approaching the seat
ed god, one leading the second, and
the third generally in flounced goat-skin
dress and with uplifted hands, repre
sent a religious ceremony of men wor
shipping before an image of the god, is
to be found in the remarkable tablet of
the Sun-god found by Mr. Kassam in

Abu-habba. The discovery of that
tablet will long be reported to travellers
as a memorable event. Word was sent
to Mr. Rassam that the workmen had
found a picture of Noah with his three
sons. Mr. Kassam came and saw it,
and gave the workmen a holiday,
and an ox for their feast. The Sun-
god sits on his throne, within a
shrine. Near his head are the emblems
of the Moon, Sun, and Venus, or, to des
ignate them mythologically, Sin, Sha-
mash, and Ishtar. In front of the shrine
is a table, or altar, on which stand
what looks like the capital of an Ionic
column ; and on its volutes an immense
disk, figured to represent the Sun, and
held upright by cords let down from
above and held by two divine beings.
In front of the altar, as if approaching

About 2000 B.C.

it, is our familiar group of three person
ages, one leading the second, and the
third with hands lifted. These, being
represented as much smaller than the
seated figure, were taken by the Arabs
for Shem, Ham, and Japheth. This tab
let was made by King Nabubaladan,
perhaps 1200 B.C., and belongs to a pe
riod when this design had been in use
for at least a thousand years.

This representation of the seated god
for god it must be, and not a priest
before whom came these two figures,
whom we may call the psychopomp and
the deceased soul, or, if we follow the
French scholars, the initiator, or mysta-
gogue, and the initiant with, in the bet
ter examples, a third or even a fourth
additional figure, in worship, or carrying
a victim is the most common in the
whole cycle of mythological figures on
seals, and was in use from the time of
Lik-bagas, 2500 B.C., or earlier, perhaps,

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

down to the rise of the Assyrian Em
pire ; or it may be even clown to Nebu
chadnezzar s time, 625 B.C. In the old
cylinders it appears on seals of the
harder stones, as lapis lazuli, and in
the later ones, on smaller seals of hema
tite, such as belonged to the poorer
classes. The date of these numerous

the Euphrates. While the mythological
fragments recovered from the^ tablets are
yet very incomplete, we have obtained
so much from them, in the story of
the creation and the flood, which" tal
lies with the biblical story, that we can
almost certainly conclude that the paral
lelism was general. There have several

hematite cylinders it is not easy to
guess. The style of art and of the
writing, however, agrees very exactly
with those of seals in the finer materials
which bear the names of Kings Lik-bagas
and Dungi, who reigned as early as
2500 B.C.

None of the groups on the cylinders
are more interesting than those which

About 2500 B.C. After Pinches.

cylinders been found which represent,
apparently, a man and a woman in a
boat, and which it is very easy to believe
may be meant for the Chaldean Noah
and his wife (Fig. 11). The indications,
however, are by no means very clear.
One figure is generally rowing, and we
cannot help raising the question whether
it be not here the soul of the dead which

Fig. 11. After De Clercq. About 2000 B.C.

seem to represent scenes familiar to us
in the Bible. There is no sufficient
reason for believing that the Book of
Genesis was written by Moses. While
the latter portion of it shows an intimate
acquaintance with Egypt, the earlier
chapters have their relation almost en
tirely to Babylonia. The Genesis stories
of the creation, of the fall of man, and
of the flood, have their counterpart,
not in the traditions of the Nile, but of

Fig. 12. The Temptation. About 2000 B.C.

ii being carried on its journey from
earth to the after-world.

Much more interesting is a cylinder
which has been the object of much dis
cussion, having been generally supposed
to represent the temptation of Adam and
Eve (Fig. 12). The two stand before a tree,
whose fruit they are plucking, while be
hind the woman, or rather between the
backs of the two, and with its head turned
toward the woman, is an upright serpent

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

George Smith entertained no doubt that
this represents the scene of the tempta
tion, and Friedrich Delitzsch, in his broth
er s translation of Smith s "Chaldsean
Genesis," accepted the same explanation.
But Menant, in several publications, has
brought forward serious arguments to
show that there is here no reference to
the fall. He supposes the figures to be
both of men, and he adduces the well-
known fact that there are a number of
other cylinders known in which two
figures are plucking fruit, and in which
the two appear to bo of the same sex,
and in which there is no serpent. But
just these points of difference with the
cylinder in question point to their rep
resenting different scenes from this.

succession of nature and life ; for it is
probable that Genesis knows as little
of creation out of nothing as does
the Babylonian cosmogonic story. Bel
Merodach, the creative demiurge, was
brought into conflict with the dragon
Tiamat, or Tihamtu (Hebrew Tehom,
the chaotic abyss), and slew her. She is
generally represented as a scaly monster,
with four legs, a lion s head, and an ea
gle s claws. In the cylinders and other
pictorial art of Babylonia she appears
comparatively seldom ; but in the later
Assyrian art the conflict between her
and Bel is the most frequent of all rep
resentations. But on two Babylonian
cylinders Tiamat appears under the
form, not of a dragon, but of a serpent,

Fig. 13. After De Clercq. About 2000 B.C.

We think that there can be little doubt
that in the cylinder under consideration
one of the figures is meant for a man
and the other for a woman. It is true
that the serpent occurs on other seals,
occupying a role not easy to understand ;
but here a very reasonable explanation
is easy of his presence and of the whole
composition, on the basis of a legend
which it is extremely probable was fa
miliar to the early Chaldeans. It is no
religious prejudice which makes us still
regard the reference of this cylinder to
Adam and Eve as most probable.

Connected with this same cycle of
legends must be that which represents
the conflict between Bel and the dragon.
Bel takes the place of the creative force
of Genesis, that force which out of an
original chaos produces the order of

precisely as in Genesis, and is fleeing
away, pursued by the god, who is, per
haps, avenging her successful temptation
of man. It is impossible that this pun
ishment of the serpent by the deity
should not connect itself with the bibli
cal attribution to the serpent of baleful
influence, and this increases the likeli
hood that the serpent in Fig. 12 is really
meant to represent the tempter of our
first parents.

George Smith s notion that some of
these cylinders give a scene from the
building of the Tower of Babel is cer
tainly erroneous. What he regarded
as a tower is nothing more than a gate.
On some seals the projecting ends of
the beam which rest in the sockets
above and below are distinctly drawn.
The ancient door did not swing on

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

hinges, as can be seen from the stone
doors of Palmyra. Like the great
doors of courts now in the same region,
they swung on a heavy pivot in a deep
socket of stone at the bottom, and
might be held at the top in the same
way. Many of these stone sockets are
still to be found in the ruins of the old
cities, where the wooden gates have per
ished, leaving only, as in the magnificent
gates of Shalmaneser, the remains of

Fig. 14. Collection of W. H. Ward.

which were found at Balawat, the richly
engraved bronze plates with which they
were ornamented. On the cylinders of
which we speak a god is represented as
opening such a door. It is premature
to decide certainly what this scene rep
resents, but one of these cylinders gives
us an indication (Fig. 13). A superior be
ing holds a gate open. Through it seem
to have passed two figures. One of them,
whom we have called the psychopomp,
leads a figure humbly
dressed, which we again caU
the soul of the dead, into the
presence of the deity who al
ways appears in connection
with this gate. He is sur
rounded with rays which rise
from his shoulders, and he
sometimes stands between
two prominences, or appears
to be mounting a high hill.
I can hardly fail to see in
this group another scene in the passage
of the dead to his final rest. The poem
of the descent of Ishtar into Hades tells
us nearly all we know of the Babylonian
idea of the under world, and there we
are told that the goddess had to pass
through seven gates, at each of which
she was compelled by the porter to re
move one of her garments or ornaments,
until at last she came naked into the
presence of the implacable deity who
rules the world of the dead.

It is an error to imagine that we must
find a meaning for every event that is

pictured in these Babylonian cylinders.
On not a few the only art to be discov
ered is that which is exhausted in filling
the space with the familiar types of
deities and emblems, without much pains
to select them. When the inscription
on a cylinder tells us that the owner is
a worshipper of the Sun-god or Moon-
god, we might expect to find a picture
of the god worshipped on the cylinder.
But this is by no means the real fact.
The inscription bears very little relation
to the figures. Each deity has its per
sistent type, and very likely several of
them are crowded together without
order on the seal, which was an amulet
as well as seal, as if its owner wanted all
the protection which all the gods figured
could give him. Every vacant space is
often filled with smaller emblems, the
crescent of Sin, the solar disk of Sha-
mash, the star of Ishtar, the seven points,
which probably represent the seven
stars of the Pleiades, the rod with a cir
cle at the middle, which may be the em
blem of justice, the crab, the serpent, the
monkey, and various others difficult to
make out (Fig. 14). Here is a field for
very promising study, giving us a better
insight into the mythology of Chaldea.
At present there are only a very few of

Fig. 15. God of A

H. Ward. At

the figured gods whose identity is be
yond question.

It would be more tedious than inter
esting to attempt to follow Menant in
his classification of these Babylonian
cylinders by their " schools," as those
of Agade, of Ur, and of Erech. All wo
know is that one dated at Agade repre
sents the conflict of Gisdubar and the
lion ; two at Erech have quite different
styles of figures ; and half a dozen, whose
inscriptions show that they belonged to
scribes of Ur, at a date more ancient than
that of Abraham, are of one general

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

styie^ofart, though they^ represent sev- which along open garment reaches to

the feet. There are two favorite repre
sentations. One is that of the conflict of
Bel and the Dragon (Fig. 17), of which I
have before spoken, and which has its pe
culiar variations. The curved weapon
carried by the god has become a veri
table round sickle, instead of being but
slightly curved, as in all the old figures,
or it is replaced by a bow ; and the
two combatants are much more minute
ly figured, and their wings, dress, and
accessories are more defined. Perhaps
the seals on which the winged god
is represented as fighting an animal,
or holding two animals, may belong to
the same general thought.

The other verv

eral different scenes, with a preference
to that which
gives us the
seated god
perhaps Sin,
perhaps Hea,
before whom
a superior be
ing leads a hu
man figure by

the hand That Fig. 1 6. Collection of W. H.Ward.
we have here a

veritable school of Ur seems hardly to
be doubted.

Little space can be taken to describe
the styles of cylinders, which grew out
of those of Baby
lonia. First came
those of the north- \
ern empire of As- j
syria, whose period i
intervenes be- i
tween those of the jj|jj
first and second
Babylonian em- j
pires. The mate
rial of these seals

is very frequently
serpentine, al
though the finer
ones are of a milky (not often brown or
yellow) chalcedony, or of carnelian. The
green jasper or feldspar, the sienites,
the shell and ivory, the lapis lazuli,
and the rock crystal, which were f re

frequent type, and
one which is espe
cially found in the
fine and large chal
cedony seals, rep
resents the sacred
tree, with winged
figures in worship,
standing one on
each side, the two
figures being in
troduced for sym
metry (Fig. 19.).
Above the tree is generally to be seen
the winged disk, emblem of the supreme
deity Assur. Occasionally the figure
on either side of the sacred tree is not

flection of W. H.

Fig. 17. Bel Merodach Fighting the Dragon. About 700
B.C. Collection of W. H. Ward

quent among early Babylonian seals,
are very rare or are not found at all.
None of them are reduced in size in
the middle, and they are generally a
little longer for their width. There is
no difficulty in distinguishing them, as
the dress of the figures is quite differ
ent, and consists of a short shirt over

Fig 19. Assyrian Seal. After Pinches. About 700 B.C.

winged, and may be even kneeling ; and,
when it thus represents a man, what
seems to be a stream, or cord, typifying
divine influence or protection in answer
to prayer, comes down from the deity
and is grasped by the hand of the wor-

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

are many very

shipper. Generally, however, the winged in which two figures are seen pluckino-
figure holds in one hand a "cone," as it fruit from a low palm-tree, as in that
is called, and in the other a basket or pail, supposed to represent Adam and Eve.

Equally the winged disk, so common in
Egypt, is Assyrian and not Babylonian.
After the Assyrian Empire fell Baby
lon rose to a higher power than ever be
fore, and an entirely new t^^pe of cylin
ders came into use, in shape patterned
after the Assyrian, which continued well
down into the period of the Persian
domination. The materials have some
what changed. There
rude chalcedo
nies, and the finer
ones are of lapis
lazuli or of the
exquisitely beau
tiful pearl-blue
chalcedony called
sapphirine. So
characteristic is
this sapphirine

of this period that I am inclined to at
tribute an error to Menant, who makes
one of the very ancient cylinders from
Ur to be in this material. I see, how
ever, that De Clercq says it is in white
agate. The more common representa
tion in these cylinders, which seldom
show any great sense of art, is of a priest
before one or two low square altars, on
which are emblematic figures, such as a
dog, a composite animal with the head
of a goat and the body of a fish, and a

Fig. 20. Babylonian Seal. About 500 B.C. Collection of
W. H. Ward.

The origin of the myth of the sacred
tree is very obscure. It is probably con
nected with the tree of life of Genesis.

Fig. 22. Persian Seal with Phe-
nician Inscription.

Fig. 21. Seal of Darius. After Pinches.

It is not unlikely that this sacred tree of
life has relations with the production of
early intoxicating liquors used to pro
duce an inspired prophetic
state. Sometimes this sacred I
tree, which is generally most !
conventionally represented,
appears to resemble a palm,
or, in a few cases so Lenor- i
mant thinks an asclepias.
The palm was in constant use
for obtaining a fermented liq
uor. But the sacred drink of
the Hindu Vedas, the soma,
came from an asclepias whose
juice was expressed. It is
possible that the object held
in the hand is not a cone, but
the similarly imbricated seed-
vessel (with the outside skin removed) of
an asclepias. This sacred tree is hardly
found on the earlier Babylonian seals,
unless it be on such cylinders as that

crescent or a star surmounting an ir
regularly oval object not easy to identify

Fig. 23. Armenian Seal. About 700 B.C. After Menant.

(Fig. 20). These emblematic figures are
such as are generally found on what are
called "boundary stones," and which
seem to be meant to designate various

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

forms of protecting and avenging pow

ers.

Contemporary with the later of these
Babylonian seals are the Persian. They
are easily distinguishable by their agree
ment with the figures of the times of the
Achsemenian kings Darius and Xerxes,
found on the monuments of Persepolis
and other ancient Persian cities. By
far the most common representation is
that of the deity killing a lion or other
animal, with a short sword, or with a
bow. The hero now appears in the tur-
reted square cap of Persia, and with the
tunic plaited down in front so as to give
the appearance of loose trousers. These
two signs, or either of them alone, will
generally distinguish Persian work. A
fine seal, Fig. 21, represents the king hunt
ing a lion under the protection of the su
preme god, and the inscription says : " I
am Darius the great king." Fig. 22 is a
beautiful carnelian cylinder, from my col
lection, marked as Persian by the trousers
worn by two of the men, and remarka-

Fig. 24. Hittite Seal. Collection of W. H. Ward.

ble for the head-dresses of the soldiers,
which look something like Greek hel
mets. The inscription, however, is
Phenician.

From the region between the Upper Eu
phrates and Phenicia there comes a ser
ies of cylinders of a peculiar character,
and which may represent a number of
various nations. A fine one, Fig. 23, we
know to be Armenian, because it bears, in
the old cuneiform character, an inscrip
tion which declares that it belonged to
an Armenian king who was contempo
rary with the Assyrian Empire. It rep
resents a hero holding an ostrich by the
neck with each hand. There seems to
be good reason to believe that many of
these cylinders were made by that an
cient and long forgotten people, the Hit-
tites, who fought both Egypt and As

syria on equal terms, until crushed be
tween the two. Their seals are generally
small and rudely cut with the drill, and
not with the corundum point (Fig. 24).
Animals heads, as that of the goat, are
often found on them, as in the Hittite
writing which has lately been discovered.

Fig. 25. Phenician Seal. Collection of W. H. Ward.

Fishes, stars, crabs, dogs, the seven dots,
a hand, and men with round hats are
frequent designs.

More interesting, and among the most
exquisitely engraved of all the seals, are
the Phenician, though they never show
the artistic strength of the earliest Chal
dean. With these are connected those
from Cyprus, of which the Metropoli
tan Museum has a good collection. The
Phenician cylinders are often very much
crowded with design, as if it were an
object to fill up every available space.
It is well known that the Phenician art
was a composite of the Egyptian and
Assyrian. Of these seals some are filled
with animal-headed figures, taken from
Egypt, while others seem to be chiefly
of Assyrian style, as in Fig. 25, although
the vulture is of Egyptian origin.

In the time of the Assyrian Empire
another, and much more convenient,
form of seal began to come into use,
known as the cone. It was of chalce
dony or carnelian, and was pierced near
the top for the string, or wire, while
the base generally carried the figure of
a worshipper before two or three col
umns, known as asheras. In the time
of the Sassanian dynasty these, in turn,
gave way to another form, much like a
heavy ring, and the old cylinder seal
ceased to be used. It took four thou
sand years for reform to overcome the
persistent conservatism which clung to
the shape of the clumsy bit of reed
with which men first emerging into
civilization marked their belongings on
a pat of clay.

... a

The Louvre in 1789. From an Old Print.

GLIMPSES AT
THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

SOCIAL LIFE AND CHAKACTEK IN THE PAEIS OF THE EEVOLUTION.

By Annie Gary Morris.

FIRST PAPER.

THAT Gouverneur Morris, the Minister
of the United States to France during
the French Be^olution, was one of the
most voluminous and entertaining cor
respondents of his time has long been
known to students of the lives of our
early statesmen.

To those of his descendants whose
pleasure it has been to read the careful
notes he kept of his own remarkable
experience, it has seemed that some day
his countrymen should share the privi
lege, and see through his eyes the old
world of which he wrote so apprecia
tively and with so much of personal in
terest.

Some fifty years ago Mr. Jared Sparks
had possession of some of these papers,
and while he undoubtedly extracted from
them much that was important on politi
cal matters, especially connected with
the American correspondence which he
incorporated into a "Life " made on the
model of his other biographies of the fa
thers of the Bepublic, and now chiefly

relegated to the top shelves of libraries
yet he managed, with masterly ingenuity,
so to leave out the human element in
what he used, and saw so short a dis
tance into the great collection, that he
gave hardly a glimpse of what it really is.

What has already been published of
this interesting material has often in
duced those who have mentioned Mr.
Morris to express the wish that a full
er knowledge of it might be accorded.
And although many applications have
been made to allow its examination,
nothing has ever appeared to give a
true idea of its nature.

Who would think, from the few quo
tations Mr. Sparks made from a diary,
that there is a great journal extending
over years of the most eventful period
in history, recording events in which
Mr. Morris personally acted ; minutely
putting before us the daily life of men
and women whom he knew, and whose
actions and thoughts he has vividly
pictured, making them so wonderfully

ENGRAVED UY G. KRUELL FROM THE PAINTING AT OLD MOKBISANIA.

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUl/ERNEUR MORRIS. 95

alive that, to those who have read it, it
makes the men and women of those
years real, eager participants in what
all other reading had left merely in a
far-off historical world? The present
paper can give little more than glimpses
of this narrative ; but a fuller account
of it and its unpublished portions has
been for some time in preparation.

Mr. Morris had nearly reached middle
life before his journey to Europe was
made ; and felt and said that he was
" weary with public work." He had in
deed accomplished a full life s task dur
ing the Revolutionary struggle, when he
was forced into the front rank among
men of twice his years taking part in
the most stirring events, and winning
honors for himself at the earliest pos
sible age.

He speaks of having "led the most
laborious life which can be imagined"
while a member of Congress and chair
man of the standing committees, at
the same time being obliged occasionaUy
to labor in the law his profession to
augment an insufficient salary ; and al
though not in active military life, he
shared Washington s privations at Val
ley Forge, during a bitter cold winter,
when, in co-operation with him, he was
intrusted with the responsible task of
feeding and clothing the army, then in
need of almost every comfort.

His labors with the makers of the
Constitution, and in the many responsi
ble positions in which he was placed,
are matters of history. They were but
poorly rewarded by attacks, untrue, but
none the less cruel ; statements that he
was aiding the enemy through letters to
his mother, then inside the British lines.
As a matter of fact, for seven years he
never saw his mother or his home, and
during that time held little communica
tion with her.

When quite a boy he had ardently
desired to go to Europe " To rub off,"
as he said, " in the gay circles of foreign
life, a few of those many barbarisms
which characterize a provincial educa
tion." But becoming deeply absorbed
in affairs of so much importance at
home, the wish was dismissed for the
present, and the plan indefinitely post
poned.

The circumstances which finally

brought it about, were in the begin
ning purely personal. Complications
arose, toward the end of 1788, in the
commercial schemes of his friend Rob
ert Morris, which made it necessary
for him to go to France ; and, accord
ingly, in the ship Henrietta he made
a stormy crossing of the Atlantic, and
reached Paris in February, " at the mo
ment," he writes to a friend, " when the
most important scene acted for many
years on the European theatre was about
to be displayed."

" Horace tells us," he says, in a letter
to De Moustier, French Ambassador at
New York, " that in crossing the seas
we change our climate, not our souls.
But I can say what he could not, that
I find on this side of the Atlantic a
strong resemblance to what I left on the
other a nation which exists in hopes,
prospects, and expectations."

At once deeply interested in the
struggle commencing in France, and
seeing with a peculiarly clear sight the
dangers into which the nation was drift
ing, he soon became rather an oracle in
the society in which he moved. " Vous
dites toujours les choses extraordinaires,
qui se realisent," said the Marquis de la
Luzerne to him, with a slight tone of ex
asperation in his voice, restive under the
many prophecies Morris had made which
had been realized.

It was the strangest possible employ
ment Mr. Morris found, as it were, al
ready arranged for him, a republican, as
he says, "but just emerged from that
assembly which had formed one of the
most republican of all republican con
stitutions, to preach incessantly respect
for the prince, attention to the rights of
the nobles, and, above all, moderation."

Writing to a friend of this, he says :
"You will say this is none of my business ;
but I consider France the natural ally of
my country, and I love her, and believe
the king to be an honest and a good
man, and that he earnestly desires the
felicity of his people."

He was considered too much of an
aristocrat in the republican salon of
Madame la Corntesse de Tesse, " where
republicans of the first feather met "
and aired their extreme ideas ; and it
amused him to learn that his \iews were
too moderate for that company, and that

96 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUl/ERNEUR MORRIS.

Madame de Lafayette openly expressed
her disapproval of his sentiments. Com
menting on the beliefs of the comtesse,
he says : " She is a very sensible woman,
but has formed her ideas of government
in a manner not suited, I think, either
to the situation, the circumstances, or
the disposition of France."

Though not at all agreeing with Ma
dame de Tesse, he was very much her
friend, and could not but sympathize
with the vivid, absorbing interest she
took in the trials of her country. With
a feeble strength and weak nerves to
struggle against, but with a soul illu
minated by hope, she worked, on dit,
for twenty years over a constitution for
France, and would willingly have given
the last drop of her blood could she
have seen it successful. Full of hope
that all would be well when the repre
sentatives should meet, she opened her
doors to the members of the Assemblee
Nationale and made many compliments
to BaiUy.

After the convulsions of July, and the
mad doings of August, it is almost pa
thetic to find her forced to moderate
her views, to lose faith in her cause.
"I find Madame de Tesse is become a
convert to my principles. We have a
gay conversation of some minutes on
their affairs, in which I mingle sound
maxims of government with that piquant
legerete which this nation delights in.
She insists that I dine with her at Ver
sailles the next time I am there. We
are vastly gracious, and all at once, in a
serious tone, Mais attendez, madame,
est-ce que je suis trop aristocrat ? To
which she answers, with a smile of gentle
humility, Oh ! mon dieu, non !

It was not long after his arrival in
Paris before invitations for dinners, sup
pers, breakfasts, and drives flowed in
upon Mr. Morris, and he became a wel
come guest in many salons. Nor were
these seductive court ladies slow to
flatter, and initiate him into the mysteries
of the coquetry they so well knew how
to practise.

" Madame de Segur tells me," he says,
" that she was afraid I might not arrive
before she left the room following her
words with the look, manner, and tone
of voice perfectly in unison with the
sentiment." While admitting " that a

pleasing error might not be preferable
to a disagreeable truth," he was a little
wary of their blandishments, though
thoroughly enjoying their esprit.

The first decided chill he experienced
was upon his introduction into ministe
rial circles at Versailles ; and an inter
view with the Count de Caluzem, " who
receives me," he says, " with a degree of
hauteur I never before experienced,"
led him to say that he felt convinced he
was " not formed to succeed at court."
The count, however, finding that he
brought letters from his brother, the
marquis, " softened his features and
manner into affability," and Mr. Morris
kindly attributed " to the gout in one
foot the blame of the precedent looks."

Mindful of the frigidity of the minis
terial atmosphere, and uncertain of the
reception he might receive from royalty,
he was on his guard when, in Madame
de Chastellux s salon, he met the Duch
ess of Orleans, and being presented to
her, was informed by his hostess " that
her royal highness had the goodness to
permit of my reception." Somewhat in
clined to be satirical, he adds, " in the
course of the visit her royal highness has
the condescension to speak to one who
is only a human being."

After he learned to know the duchess
well, he found how truly kind she was ;
and no one of his many friends in Paris
was more sincere than she proved her
self to be. Perhaps, not unnaturally,
he was uncertain at first how to under
stand her overtures, and exceedingly
skeptical as to what she might mean
by the repeated messages, gracious and
kind, which she constantly left for him
with Madame de Chastellux, her friend
and lady in waiting. It must rather
have astonished him to be told that
" the duchess had observed, on not see
ing me in Madame de Chastellux s draw
ing-room for some time, that she should
visit me chez madame la marquise this
evening." And not knowing to what to
attribute this graciousness, he "put it
all down to a badinage which I begin
to comprehend and there is nothing in
it to flatter my vanity. Tant mieux."
He assured the marchioness of his ven
eration for her royal highness "In
which," he tells her, "there is much
more of sincerity than a person of her

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUfERNEUR MORRIS. 97

rank has a right to expect ; " but wished
to know what would be a proper conduct
should he meet her highness anywhere
else.

"My present opinion is," he says,
" that it would be proper not to know
her. That although in my interior I
have a great indifference for the advan
tages of birth, and only respect in her
royal highness the virtues she possesses,
yet I find myself bound to comply exteri
orly with the feelings and prejudices of
those among whom I find myself."

"Madame de Chastellux assures me,"
he says, " that the princess would recog
nize me anywhere that I met her."

Meeting her constantly, he soon learned
to trust her and sympathize with her
in her trials with the duke ; and dis
covered that she was weary at heart and
not happy that she had the "besoin
d etre aimee." He says of her : " She
is handsome and charming enough to
punish the duke for his irregularities,
and it is very hard that a heart so
good should be doomed to suffer so
much."

Her affection for the duke seemed
still to be alive ; for when he was sent
on a mission to England more par
ticularly for the purpose of freeing the
country of his revolutionary presence
Mr. Morris, going to make tea for her
royal highness, an occupation he very
frequently indulged in, found her much
affected by the news that her husband
had been stopped at Boulogne. "She is
so very solicitous," he says, " to know the
truth, that I go to Monsieur de Lafayette
to inquire it. Returning to tell her the
news, the poor duchess was penetrated
with gratitude for this slight attempt
to serve her, and when I take my leave
she follows me out to express again her
thankfulness poor lady ! "

The Duchess was particularly anxious
that Mr. Morris should be interested
in her son, Monsieur de Beaujolais, and
brought him to Madame de Chastellux,
"on purpose to see me," he says. "I
find him an interesting boy enjoue et
empresse. I kiss him several times,
which he returns with eagerness. He
will make a pleasant fellow, some ten or
twelve years hence, for the petites mai-
tresses of that day." Making an apology
for the duke, he begged the duchess to
VOL. I. 7

" breed Monsieur de Beaujolais to busi
ness ; because that later, having enjoyed
all which rank and fortune can give him,
he will be unhappy from not knowing
what to do with himself."

Monsieur de Beaujolais, as the Che
valier d Orleans, exiled, alone in Amer
ica, forced to support himself by
teaching, may have wished that his
mother had followed this advice. Af
ter the days of the terror, Mr. Morris
was able very substantially to help the
duchess and her son, who was destined
to become Louis Philippe, the Citizen
King of France. And that this inti
macy, formed rather reluctantly, lasted
through many vicissitudes, until the in
evitable severer of all friendships came
to each and all, is proved, most grate
fully to Mr. Morris s descendants who
are interested in the recognition of his
kind deeds to the unfortunate exiles of
the French Eevolution, by a letter writ
ten to him by the Chevalier d Orleans on
his return to France after his weary ex
ile in this country. " I have," he writes,
" very grateful remembrances of your
kindnesses to me ; they will live always
in my heart, notwithstanding the dis
tance between us and the likelihood that
we shall never see one another again.
Mademoiselle de Pineux and Madame
de Foucault are staying with Monsieur
Le Kay, at Chaumont. We derive in
speaking of you a pleasure only dimin
ished by the thought of this absolute
separation. Monsieur Le Ray dispenses
the hospitalities of his chateau with the
same grace that you display in dispen
sing yours at Morrisania, and that is to
say in a manner that leaves nothing to
be desired. I shall feel always, my dear
friend, very great satisfaction at hearing
news from you, and to know that you
are happy and contented. You can,
with health, wait with patience your
end. As for me, I know no end to my
attachment for you. D Orleans."

It would be difficult to get a better
glimpse into the daily life of those grandes
dames and gentlemen of the court of
Louis XVI. than from a description Mr.
Morris gives of a day spent at Raincy
with the Duchess of Orleans and her
friends. After the dejeuner a la four-
chette had been disposed of, the guests
adjourned to mass in the chapel in no

98 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUI/ERNEUR MORRIS.

very fitting spirit for their devotions, it
may be remarked. Possibly it was not
their intention to say their prayers, for
they took their position in the tribune,
and from there watched the devotions of
villagers and domestics on their knees
below. This devotion by proxy failing in
attraction, these grand folk, Mr. Morris
says, began "amusing themselves by a
number of little tricks played off by
Monsieur de Segur and Monsieur de
Cubieres, with a candle, which is put
into the pockets of different gentlemen
the bishop, who is here, among the rest
and while the others are engaged, to
the great amusement of the spectators.
Immoderate laughter is the consequence.
The duchess preserves as much gravity
as she can, but how extremely edifying
for Madame de Chastellux, saying her
prayers below, and what an example for
the villagers and domestics ! A long
walk followed these religious exercises,
and then we get into a bateau, and the
gentlemen row the ladies, and the heat
being great, this is by no means a cool
operation." " I am inflamed," says Mr.
Morris, "even to fever heat, by the
walk and exercise."

At dinner, which was served at five
o clock, the conversation was frivolous,
if nothing worse. " Madame de St. Si
mon is the subject of an epitaph by the
"Vicomte de Segur," the purport of which
is very much against her character.
"This is tr&s fortement prononce, she de
fends herself, and attacks him on the
folly of his pursuits. While we are din
ing a number of persons surround the
windows ; doubtless from a high idea of
the company, to whom they are obliged
to look up at an awful distance. O,
did they but know how trivial the con
versation, how very trivial the characters,
their respect would soon be changed to
an emotion extremely different ! "

The vicomte s epitaph is not recorded,
being " not too delicate ;" but Mr. Morris
jots down his, on the vicomte, and apolo
gizes for it as " wretched doggerel, hav
ing the single merit of having been
written in the moment, as a petit ven
geance for Madame de St. Simon."

" Here lies a merry, wicked wight,
Who spent in mischief all his life ;
And lest the world should do him right,
Determined not to take a wife."

Great applause greeted the lines all
the company rejoicing that this tyrant,
this " Lovelace " of his day, was " galled."
Madame de Warsi, " who," he says, " is a
very beautiful and accomplished wom
an," entreats to be allowed to see the
verse, "because she understands Eng
lish only by the eye, having learned to
read, not speak it. I am assailed in
Madame d Espanchalle s salon, at Paris,
for the copy of the lines, and solicited
by Madame de Boursac to repeat
them." Madame de Warsi, who is of
the party, tells him that she remembers
them, and, " to convince me, sets about
writing them from memory, and con
vinces both herself and me that she can
not. I take the pencil, and, by way of
putting an end to the clamor for the
wretched lines, I write for her."

" To one like you, divinely fair,
Of nothing but yourself I ll write,
Nor will I own another care,
Than what may give to you delight ;
If that delight I might convey,
At every gentle, kind caress,
I d own the force of beauty s sway,
And you, what blessing tis to bless."

It was not long before Mr. Morris
entered fully into the spirit of and
thoroughly enjoyed his intercourse with
this gay, unceremonious society. What
a really true hospitality there was when
friends suggested themselves as guests
at dinner, or dropping in by chance al
ways found a chair ready at the ample
table, or sometimes even brought an
addition to the dinner from the nearest
restaurant !

Particularly agreeable must have been
the quaint fashion among the ladies of
receiving their friends into the privacy
of boudoir and bedroom, no matter what
might be their occupation at the mo
ment. Often the question, "Monsieur
Morris, me permettra de faire ma toil
ette ? " was asked, in the gentlest tones,
and with all the easy grace of manner
alone belonging to a Frenchwoman.
And the different processes of this im
portant work, Mr. Morris says, " were
carried on with an entire and astonish
ing regard to modesty."

The charm of this easy society in Paris
he brought strongly into contrast when
he found himself on one of his journeys
to England in a London drawing-room,

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUl/ERNEUR MORRIS. 99

" where," lie says, c; the arrangement
of the company is stiff and formal
the ladies all ranged in battalia on one
side of the room." And he moralizes
over the difficulty, at the first aspect at
least, there appeared to be in ever bring
ing people together. " Though, I sup
pose," he says, " there must be a way in
this as in other countries ; " and he ob
served to the Honorable Mrs. Darner,
" the statuary," apropos of this want of
ease in the English society, " that the
French, having no liberty in their gov
ernment, have compensated to them
selves that misfortune by bestowing a
great deal upon society. But that I
fear in England it is all confined to the
House of Commons."

Through his many projects, financial
and otherwise, Mr. Morris was brought
into contact with the heads of some of
the oldest banking-houses in France,
and through them he got an insight
into different ranks of society. With
the Messieurs Lecouteulx he had many
dealings. Theirs was an exceedingly
old and respectable firm ; and their an
cestors, with a certain pride in the name
and fortune they had made for them
selves, refused a title from Louis XIV.,
preferring the honor of their position,
as it was, to that of possessing a recent
patent of nobility.

Bather a different picture from that
of the doings of the great world at
Rainey does Mr. Morris give of a visit
to the home of Monsieur Lecouteulx at
Leuinnes.

"The house, a fine old chdteau" he
says, " had formerly belonged to a
prince of Conti ; " was " built in the old
style, but tolerably convenient," and
"the situation delicious." "We drive
to the aqueduct of Marly and ascend to
the top. The view is exquisite the
Seine winding along through a valley
highly cultivated ; innumerable villages.
At a distance, the domes of Paris on one
side ; the Palace of St. Germain, very
near, on the other. A vast forest behind,
and the Palace of Marly in the front of
it, embowered in a deep shade. The
bells from a .thousand steeples, at differ
ent distances, murmuring through the
trees. How delicious ! I stand this mo
ment on a vast monument of human
pride, and behold every gradation, from

wretchedness to magnificence, in the scale
of human existence." Breakfast was
served between ten and eleven, and then
came a drive to the chateau of Marly.
"The garden is truly royal," he says,
" and yet pleasing ; the house toler
able ; the furniture indifferent. We are
told by the Swiss that they are prepar
ing for his majesty s reception."

It seems to bring the times of Louis
Quinze, with the dissolute surroundings
of his court, strangely near, to be con
fronted by "the Du Barry" "long
passed the day of beauty," to be sure,
but there in the flesh. "Returning
from the pavilion of Madame du Barry,
an exquisite temple, consecrated to the
immortality of Louis XV., we see her,"
Mr. Morris says, "accompanied by an
old coxcomb, the prevot des Marchands.
They bend their course toward the pa
vilion, perhaps to worship on those al
tars which the monarch raised."

What scenes the mention of this
woman s name suggests : of the miser
able old king led by the low creature,
perched on the arm of his chair at a
council of state, playing monkey tricks,
or making him chase her around the table
after a packet of sealed letters, and then
at last leaving the poor plague-stricken
king to his fate !

The dinner-table talk was not as spicy
as that at Rainey, " politics forming the
principal topic." Mr. Morris says he had
a long talk with the representatives of
Normandy their ideas and his coincid
ing, " we finally agree in our opinions."

The constant discussion of politics,
now become the chief drawing-room
topic, was excessively wearisome at
times, and produced, he says, " dissen-
tions in private circles." " Republicanism
is absolutely a moral influenza, from
which neither titles, places, nor even
the diadem can guard the possessor."
He often speaks of being bored with
the subject. " Tedious arguments made
dull evenings," he says, and " vexed the
ladies, because often the orators were so
vehement that their gentle voices could
not be heard." " They will have more of
this," he prophesies, " if the states gen
eral should really fix a constitution. Such
an event would be particularly distress
ing to the women of this country, for
they would be thereby deprived of their

100 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

share in the government ; and hitfrerto
they have exercised an authority almost
unlimited, with no small pleasure to
themselves, though not perhaps with
the greatest advantage to the commu
nity."

When all eyes and hopes turned to
ward Versailles, on the day when the
great procession of the tiers etat was to
take place, at six in the morning Mr.
Morris joined the multitude hurrying
there to take part in the ceremonial of
that gala day. From the balcony of
Madame de Flahaut s house he saw the
procession, which, he says, " is very mag
nificent, through a double row of tapes
try, though neither the king nor queen
appear too well pleased."

" Seeing only the woman in her maj
esty," it seemed to him "unmanly to
treat a woman with unkindness," and he
keenly felt for the queen in her morti
fication at the silent reception she met
with, and in the repeated applause that
greeted the Duke and Duchess of Or
leans. "How cruelly hurt she was is
shown," Mr. Morris says, " in a lively
conversation with the Duchess of Or
leans, her lady in waiting, and a friend
to whom she was sincerely attached."
Poor queen ! her wound was deep and
her temper not a little ruined, when she
could speak so sharply to the gentle
duchess : " Madame, il y a une demi-
heure que je vous attends chez moi."

"Madame, en vous attendant ici (at
the church of Notre Dame) j ai obei a
1 ordre qu on m a envoye de la part du
Koi."

" Eh bien, madame, je n ai point de
place pour vous, comme vous n etes
pas venue."

"C est juste, madame, aussi j ai des
voitures a moi qui m attendent."

From his " cramped situation in the
hall," where the king met and welcomed
the states general with all pomp and
splendor, Mr. Morris heard the king read
his speech "with all the fieri e which can
be expected from the blood of the Bour
bons. Tears start to my eyes in spite
of myself at the acclamations so warm,
and of such lively affection." He saw
Marie Antoinette weep, unrecognized
by the crowd, and "no voice raised
to wish her well. I would certainly
raise mine if I were a Frenchman," he

says, all the chivalry of his nature
aroused by the sight of her distress, and
the prolonged, ominous silence. "But
I have no right to express a sentiment,
and in vain solicit those who are near
me to do it." It was with a feeling of
heartfelt satisfaction that he heard the
first shout of " Vive la Keine ! " which,
once begun, was three times repeated,
growing louder as a lower courtesy in
creased the excitement.

One of the pleasantest salons of
which Mr. Morris became an habitue was
that of Madame de Flahaut, the friend
of the Bishop of Autun, better known
as Talleyrand, and of Montesquieu a
writer of romances, a very clever woman,
" who," he says, " shows a precision and
justness of thought very uncommon in
either sex." That she spoke English
may have been one of the first attrac
tions.

" She is a pleasing woman ; and if I
might judge from appearances, not a
sworn enemy to intrigue," was his com
ment, when he first met her at Versailles.
And he was not mistaken ; her talent
for intrigue made her an exceedingly
interesting woman to watch. Very liee
with the court and government through
her friend, the Bishop of Autun, and
her brother-in-law, D Angiviliers, direc
tor-general of the navy, she was kept
informed of all the doings at Versailles.
Mr. Morris found in her an apprecia
tive, willing listener, and a ready helper
in his schemes, which he generally sub
mitted to her judgment. In return she
let him into many state secrets, so that
he was posted in what was going on in
government circles before the public
knew their intentions.

"Through Madame de Flahaut came
a request," he says, "that I should go to
Versailles and consult with the commit
tee who are to report on a constitution ;
she is charged by one of them to ask
the favor." So madame and he set about
" making a translation of some thoughts
respecting a constitution for this coun
try which I threw together yesterday."
"Madame has been intrusted with a
secret," he says, later, "which will
give great consolation to the king, and
may make him easy, as it is of the last
importance to France. I am commis
sioned by her to see Lafayette, and beg

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOU^ERNEUR MORRIS. 101

Mm to take measures to set the king at
ease on the strength of this secret."

He found madame at her toilette one
morning, with her dentist in attendance,
and submitted to her a project respect
ing the debt. She, in return, confided
to him the Bishop of Autun s plan on
the same subject, and expressed the
wish that he and the bishop should
have an interview with Montesquieu,
who she had reason to " think would
be made minister of the marine."
This interview she will " endeavor to
arrange." "Continuing on that," Mr.
Morris says, "we arrange a ministry, and
dispose of several persons Mirabeau to
go to Constantinople, Biron to London.
I tell her that this last is wrong, as he
does not possess the needful talents ;
but she says he must be sent away, be
cause without talents he can influence,
in some degree, the proposed chief, and
a good secretary will supply the want
in London." "After discussing many
points, Enfin, she says, monami, vous
et moi nous gouvernerons la France.
It is an odd combination, but the king
dom is actually in much worse hands.
She tells me," he continues, "that she
has conveyed to Montesquieu an ex
pression of mine, which, by the manner
of relating, is turned into an elegant
compliment ; and if he is brought into
the ministry, she says I may boldly visit
him, with the certainty of a good re
ception. That he may do valuable busi
ness, in which, as in other objects where
she maybe useful, she is to participate."

Monsieur de Flahaut having gone to
Spain, madame found much consolation
in giving " excellent dinners, where the
conversation was always extremely gay."
Numerous were the schemes started and
discussed over this well-appointed table
and in her salon. Often it was a partie
carree, consisting of Talleyrand, Montes
quieu, Morris, and the fair hostess, per
haps the most infatuated schemer of
them all, bent on getting her friends
into the ministry, and on increasing
her income by their help. "Madame
tells the bishop and me," Mr. Morris
says, "that if he is made minister we
must make a million for her."

Long evenings were absorbed in dis
cussing with Talleyrand the important
question of the finances. " I find," says

Morris, " that he has many just ideas on
the subject, but I tell him that he must
get men about him who understand and
love work. He appreciates the fact that
there are very few of the kind of men
needed, but is not willing to acknowl
edge that he does not love work him
self."

The bishop, having prepared his
speech on the finances, arranged to
meet Mr. Morris at Madame de Fla-
haut s, " to consider the discourse, and
he asks my advice as to whether he had
better speak at all." " I advise him,"
Mr. Morris says, "to speak. Urge him
to treat the caisse d escompte with great
tenderness. To blame the administra
tors, as such, for their imprudence in
lending the government more than their
capital ; but excuse them, at the same
time, as citizens, for their patriotism. I
beg him to criticise Monsieur Neckers
plan very lightly, if it is likely to fall, but
if he thinks it will be adopted, very se
verely ; and to deal much in predictions
as to the fatal effects of paper money,
the stock-jobbing which must ensue,
and the prostration of morals arising
from that cause."

All this sound advice was wasted.
When it was too late, the bishop
told Mr. Morris that he saw the mis
take he had made in not following his
advice. " For he is blamed," says Mor
ris, " particularly for those things which
I had advised him to alter." " The bish
op has something of the orator about
him," Mr. Morris goes on to say, " but
the attachment to our literary produc
tions is by no means suitable to a minis
ter to sacrifice great objects for the
sake of small ones is an inverse ratio of
moral proportion."

The constant appeal to his opinion
and desire for his advice, in most im
portant affairs, shows with what confi
dence he had inspired these men, striv
ing, as they were, for some way out of
their difficulties. His advice and assist
ance were always freely and helpfully
given, and his time was very much occu
pied with public affairs. As matters grew
worse in Paris, no one of the lookers-on
took a more living interest and from
a sincere love for France, which he often
expressed. Willing to work for her, he
labored over estimates for Necker and

102 GLIMPSES OF THE DIARIES OF GOUI/ERNEUR MORRIS.

Lafayette for the purchase of food, when
provisioning the army, and indeed Paris
itself, became a problem. He realized
so strongly "that the evils they were
suffering arose from their own folly,"
and that a strong hand was needed to
help them out of their troubles, that he
said to Clermont-Tonnerre, meeting him
one day in Madame de Stael s salon, "Al
though I have abandoned public life, I
hope forever, if anything could prompt
a wish for a return, it would be the
pleasure of restoring order to this coun-
try."

His interest was well known among
his friends, and his clear common-sense
view of affairs gave them a certain cour
age ; and often, he says, he was able to
"animate their conversation with a gay-
ety they sadly needed." It was less in
jest than earnest that Madame de Chas-
tellux told him that she would make her
don patriotique, by "presenting me to
the king for one of his ministers. I
laugh at the jest, and the more so as it
accords with an observation made by
Cantellux to the same effect, which I
considered as bordering on persiflage
at least, and answered accordingly."

He gave free scope to his ideas, on
occasions when he hoped they might be
of use, and spared no pains, even at the
risk of losing his friendship, to put
plainly before Lafayette the dangers
into which he and his army were drift
ing the one from the "besoin de
briller," the other from want of disci
pline. He urged upon him the neces
sity to "immediately discipline his troops
and make himself obeyed. This nation
is used to be governed, and must be
governed ; and I tell him that if he ex
pects to lead them by their affections,
he will be the dupe."

Estimating Lafayette, however, at his
true worth, he expected little from him.
"I have known my friend Lafayette,"
he says, " now for many years, and can
estimate at the just value both his
words and actions. He means ill to no
one, but he is very much below the busi
ness he has undertaken ; and if the sea
runs high, he will be unable to hold the
helm."

All the latest news from Versailles,
the last bit of town or court gossip,
quickly found its way to Madame de

Flahaut s boudoir, or bedroom, where
were generally one or more of her
intimes, ready for any excitement an
agreeable scandal, news of a disastrous
riot in the Faubourg St. Antoine, or
the latest rumor as to who the next set
of ministers might be.

It was here that Mr. Morris heard the
latest particulars of the terrible October
night, when royalty, as by a miracle,
escaped, with just life enough to be
brought to Paris in procession, sad and
almost desperate, to be put into the des
olate chambers of the Tuileries ; heard
that the queen, seeing into the future,
"had said that she would never leave
Paris " " a sad presage," he says, " of
what is too likely."

It seems quite possible, even at this
distance of time, to feel the intense ex
citement of the moment, as one realizes
that Mr. Morris saw the heads of the
gardes du corps brought into Paris, and
learned from persons who had been at
Versailles during that miserable night
of how the " queen was obliged to fly
from her bed in her shift and petticoat,
with her stockings in her hand, to the
king s chamber for protection, being pur
sued by the Poissardes." So vivid is his
description of the " tumult " and excite
ment, that it is not difficult to share his
feelings of fatigue and disgust of such
atrocities. " Being heartily tired of my
self," he says, " and of everything about
me, I go home with one consolation, that
being very sleepy, I shall in that oblivion
lose a thousand disagreeable thoughts."
His short entry of the condition of the
weather, "which," he says, "has been all
day raining, and I believe (at sea) a
high gale, if not a storm," makes the
picture all the more vivid ; and he fin
ishes with the comparison, that man
turbulent, like the elements, disorders
the moral world, but it is action which
supports life.

It is shocking enough to read what
history tells of the tragedy of October
5th. What must it have been to have
lived so near to it ? to have seen Lafay
ette weak when he should have been
strong " marched," Mr. Morris says,
"by compulsion, guarded by his own
troops ? Dreadful situation obliged
to do what he abhors, or suffer an
ignominious death, with the certainty

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUl^ERNEUR MORRIS. 103

that the sacrifice of his life will not
prevent the mischief." "And what an
unfortunate prince ! the victim of his
own weakness, and in the hands of those
who are not to be relied on even for
pity. What a dreadful lesson it is for
man that an absolute prince cannot with
safety be indulgent ! The troubles of
this country are begun, but as to the
end it is not easy to foresee it."

Movement was everywhere ; hundreds
in terrible alarm, fleeing for their lives ;
homes broken up, family ties severed ;
no one safe ; disorder in every place.
No wonder Mr. Morris expressed him
self as "weary and disgusted with
everything in France."

Madame de Flahaut and the inhabi
tants of the Louvre were in great dis
tress. "The national assembly is to
come to Paris," she tells Mr. Morris,
" and it is supposed the families in the
Louvre will be denichees." Madame, in
fear and confusion, declares she will go
off on Monday. " At supper this night,"
he says, "the company is reduced al
most to a ttte-a-ttte ; the guests all de
cline from the public confusion." Mr.
Morris was horrified to learn that in the
district of St. Koch the despatches to the
ministers were opened, and read to the
blackguards, to see if they contained
anything against the nation.

His feeling of " being heartily out of
humor with everything in France " was
not lessened by finding Lafayette at
this crisis in conference with Clermont-
Tonnerre, whom he knew to be a " man
of moderate abilities," and a "man of
duplicity besides," and Madame de La
fayette with Monsieur de Stael and Mon
sieur de Simiane, his friend, in commit
tee in the salon. " This is all petit" is
his comment. With a very good knowl
edge of the men of affairs at this impor
tant moment, he might have been of
much service to Lafayette in the ar
rangement of a new ministry, which, he
told him, should be " composed of men
of talent and firmness. And for the
rest it is no matter," had not the ambi
tion to be in all places at once so strong
ly possessed Lafayette. "I tell him
plainly," Mr. Morris says, "that he can
not act both as minister and soldier ;
still less as minister of every depart
ment."

Having some confidence in Talley
rand s knowledge of finance, Mr. Morris
proposed him to Lafayette for that posi
tion, and controverted his objections
to him as a " bad man, and false." " I
assure him," he says, "that in taking the
bishop [Talleyrand] he gets Mirabeau,
and as my information is the best, he is
thrown into the style of a man greatly
deceived. I tell him further the idea of
the bishop s, that the king should im
mediately have given him a blue ribbon."

Knowing so well how to touch Lafay
ette s vanity, he must have enjoyed see
ing this suggestion work. The effect
was what he expected it to be, for he
says : " This goes farther toward con
vincing him that he is an honest man
than many good actions. I tell him
that the coalition I propose will drive
Necker away by the very populace which
now support him ; Necker is already
frightened, and sick of the business he is
engaged in."

Mr. Morris strongly opposed Lafay
ette s wish to bring Mirabeau into the
ministry, on the ground that " a man so
profligate would disgrace any adminis
tration, and that one who has so little
principle ought not to be trusted." He
warned Lafayette against Mirabeau, and
considered that he had made a great
blunder when he opened his plans to
him, for he says : " If he employs him it
will be disgraceful, and if he neglects
him it will be dangerous." Mirabeau s
strength, Mr. Morris said, lay in " oppo
sition, where he would always be power
ful," he thought; "but that he would
never be great in administration."

Commenting on Mirabeau s motion on
finance, he says : " Mirabeau shows very
truly, in his motion, the dreadful situa
tion of credit in this country ; but he is
not so successful in applying a remedy
as in disclosing the disease." He al
ways expressed the belief that Mira
beau s " understanding was impaired by
the perversion of his heart, and that
a sound mind cannot exist where the
morals are unsound." Reviewing Mira
beau s character, after his death, Mr.
Morris says : " Vices, both degrading
and detestable, marked this extraordi
nary being. I have seen this man, in
the short space of two years, hissed,
honored, hated, and mourned. Enthu-

104 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUI/ERNEUR MORRIS.

siasm lias just now presented hjm gi
gantic ;. time and reflection will shrink
that stature." Mr. Morris was restive
under Lafayette s conceit and the gen
eral smalliiess of his motives. "I am
vexed," he says, " to find that by little
ness the little are to be placed where
greatness alone can fill the seat. La
fayette keeps Necker, whose talents he
despises, because Necker is honest and
he can trust him ; as if it were possible
to trust a timid man in arduous circum
stances."

As a pleasant offset to mornings of la
bor among innumerable projects of his
own, and many calls on time, patience,
and brain from people wanting aid in all
kinds of schemes, there was generally
an agreeable afternoon and evening to
look forward to perhaps at the Louvre,
where Madame de Flahaut might enter
tain him with the last bit of town gossip,
or, being in a less cheerful mood, would
tell him of how " the king s dentist fell
dead at his feet this morning, the poor
king exclaiming that he was devoted to
experience every kind of misfortune ; "
of his thought for the queen, sending
her physician, Vicq-d azir, to break the
news to her, lest she, being ill, might
suffer from the shock ; or, perhaps, he
was to make tea for the charming
duchess, or to dine with her, and have
" a pleasant, light conversation with her
royal highness, and discuss the merits
of her picture, just painted for the
Salon."

Always ready with a pretty speech,
" I tell her royal highness," he says, " Ma
dame, ce portrait-la n a qu un defaut a
nies yeux." "Et quel est done ce
defaut?" "C est qu il ne m appartient
pas, madame."

What a boon the light-heartedness
they were born with must have been
to these people, living in the midst of
moral earthquakes and terrible explo
sions ! They were frivolous ; very much
occupied falling in love with each other s
wives and husbands, but who does not
admire their courage ?

Strangely inconsistent they were, but
no one of the many women of this so
ciety seems more strikingly so than
Madame de Stael capable of the great
est things, she stooped to the smallest.

Taken by the Marechal de Castries to

dine with the Neckers, soon after his ar
rival at Paris, Mr. Morris saw Madame
de Stael for the first time, in her father s
salon ; but he only mentions her as be
ing there, and " that she seems to be a
woman of sense, and somewhat mas
culine in her character, but has very
much the appearance of a chamber
maid."

His first conversation with her was
after the great question of the condition
of the finances had been discussed in
the assembly, when Necker brought to
their view the dreadful condition of af
fairs, and made his proposition to raise
a second loan an exciting seance, of
which Mr. Morris gives a full account.
" Mirabeau rose to speak," he says,
" and in a tone of fine irony objected
to the assembly considering the project ;
urged them to adopt it at once, and
without examination, on the ground of
the blind confidence which the assem
bly have in Necker, and from that un
bounded popularity which he enjoys."

"If he succeeds, "continued Mirabeau,
" let him, as he ought, enjoy the glory of
it ; if he fails, which heaven forefend,
we will then exercise our talents in try
ing to discover if yet there remains any
means to save our country."

" To my great surprise," Mr. Morris
says, " the representatives of this nation,
who pride themselves on being the
great Athenians, are ready to swallow
this proclamation by acclaim."

He left the seance much fatigued and
not a little disgusted, but still cherish
ing the " belief that Mirabeau s motion
cannot possibly be adopted," and went
to Madame de Tesse s to dinner, where,
presently after, came Madame de Stael,
full of excitement, from the assembly.
" I had nearly told her," he says, "before
I recognized her, my opinion of her fa
ther s plan, which I consider wretched."
She brought the latest news : " The as
sembly are voting. Mirabeau has urged,
they say, a decision, with the eloquence
of Demosthenes."

While they were dining, the Count
de Tesse and some members arrived.
"They bring news," Mr. Morris says,
" that the adoption is carried hollow, at
which Necker s friends are delighted and
Madame de Stael is in raptures. She is
pleased with the conduct of Mirabeau,

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUl^ERNEUR MORRIS. 105

which, she says, was perhaps the only
way of bringing such a wrong-headed
body to act rightly ; that the only thing
they could do was to comply with her
father s wish, and that there can be no
doubt of the success of her father s
plans. Bravo ! "

" I think that in my life I never saw
such exuberant vanity as that of Ma
dame de Stael upon the subject of her
father." Everyone s plans had to bear
comparison with her father s work ; and
unless the resemblance was striking,
the work was condemned by madame.
The conversation at dinner turned on
the opinion of the Bishop of Autun
on the subject of the church property.
" She pronounced the paper admirable,
excellent in short," she says, "there
are two pages in it which are worthy of
her father." "Wisdom," she says, "is
a very rare quality. She knows of no
one who possesses it in a superlative
degree except her father."

The dinner must have been of a most
spicy nature. Madame de Stael and
her hostess " earnestly discussed," Mr.
Morris says, " the approbation the am
bassadress gave to Mirabeau, which Ma
dame cle Tessa condemned in a conver
sation which becomes animated to the
utmost bounds of politeness."

" Presented to Madame de Stael as
un homme d esprit, " Mr. Morris says,
" she singles me out and makes a talk."
" She was pleased to be most compli
mentary, and asks me how I lost my leg."
"Monsieur," she continued, "vous avez
1 air tres imposant." " She tells me that
she believes I have written a book on the
American Constitution. That Monsieur
de Chastellux had often spoken of me
to her."

"Non, madame, j ai fait mon devoir
en assistant a la formation de cette con
stitution."

" Mais, monsieur, votre conversation
doit etre tres interessante, car je vous
entends cite de toute part."

" Oh, madame, je ne suis pas digne
de cet eloge."

This extremely gracious talk, " sud
denly interrupted by the arrival of letters
from her lover, De Narbonne, brings
her," continues Mr. Morris, " to a little
recollection, which a little time will, I
think, again banish, and a few interviews

would stimulate her to try the experi
ment of her fascinations on the native
of a new world, who has left one of his
legs behind him."

Very solicitous about the provision
ing of Paris, and making plans to bring
wheat and flour into France ; which could
be sold at a low rate, and at the same
time endeavoring to arrange with Necker
for the payment of the debt of the United
States to France, hoping that in some
way he could aid both countries, he saw
a good deal of the life of the Neckers
and De Staels. Monsieur Necker he
often found " sombre and triste," over
whelmed with care and anxiety, too much
engrossed with pressing affairs to talk.
He was never very easy to work with,
and " not too delicate," Mr. Morris says,
in his accusations.

Discussing, one evening, in his salon,
the affairs of the debt, Necker grew
vexed with Morris for hesitating to ask
security for a bargain not made, and de
clared " he could not listen to proposi
tions that gave him no solid security,"
adding, " that if I once get his prom
ise I shall make use of it to negotiate
upon," and will go about knocking at
the " doors of different people." "I re
ply," Mr. Morris says, with not a little
pride, " that I shall knock at no doors
but such as are already open to me.
Our conversation is loud ; he makes it
so purposely ; and at this point Madame
de Stael, with the good-natured inten
tion of avoiding ill-humor, desires me
to send her father to sit next to her."

" I tell her, smilingly, that it is a dan
gerous task to send away Monsieur
Necker, and those who tried it once
had sufficient cause to repent it. This
little observation brings back good-hu
mor, and he seems inclined to talk fur
ther with me ; but I take no further no
tice of him, and, after chatting a little
with different people, I take my leave."

Madame de Stael was equally com
plaisant in her invitations to Mr. Mor
ris to come to her on Tuesday evenings,
when she gathered her familiar friends
round her, and, throwing off all ceremo
ny, admitted them in morning toilette ;
and in offering him every opportunity
for a flirtation, informed him, he says,
"with a refreshing naivete, calculated
to demolish all ceremonious barriers,

106 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOU1/ERNEUR MORRIS.

that she rather invites than repels
those who incline to be attentive."
Giving this remark time to take effect,
she followed it with the suggestion,
" that perhaps I may become an admir
er." " I tell her that it is not impossible ;
but as a previous condition, she must
agree not to repel me, which she prom
ises."

What an ideal feast a dinner party
must have been, where the opportunity
to choose a companion was accorded
to a guest ! A dinner of herbs would
be attractive under such circumstances,
with the contentment that must come
from the easy interchange of sentiments
with a kindred spirit selected to suit the
mood of the moment. A dinner com
panion of a rare kind must Madame de
Stael have been ; and taking advantage
of his privilege, Mr. Morris put him
self beside her at dinner, with the cer
tainty of being thoroughly entertained.

" We become engaged in an animated
conversation at table," he says, " and she
desires me to speak English, which her

husband does not understand. In look
ing round the room I observe in him
very much emotion, and I tell her that he
loves her distractedly, which she says she
knows, and that it renders her miser
able." " I condole with her a little on
her widowhood, the Chevalier de Nar-
bonne being absent in Franche Comte."

" She asks me if I continue to think
she has a preference for Monsieur de
Tonnerre. I reply only by observing
that they have each of them wit enough
for one couple, and therefore I think
they had better separate and take each a
partner who is un pen bete."

" After dinner I seek a conversation
with the husband, which relieves him.
He inveighs bitterly against the man
ners of the country, and the cruelty of
alienating a wife s affection. I regret
with him, on general grounds, that pros
titution of morals which unfits them
for good government, and convince him,
I think, I shall not contribute toward
making him any more uncomfortable
than he already is."

The Gardens of Marli, 1789. From an Old Print.

SOCIALISM.

By Francis A. Walker.

THREE words have, of recent years,
become very familiar, and yet not of
less and less, but of more and more,
formidable sound to the good and quiet
citizens of America and of Western Eu
rope.

These words are : Nihilism, Commu
nism, Socialism.

Nihilism, so far as one can find out,
expresses rather a method, or a means,
than an end. It is difficult to say just what
Nihilism does imply. So much appears
reasonably certain that the primary ob
ject of the Nihilists is destruction ; that
the abolition of the existing order, not
the construction of a new order, is in
their view ; that, whatever their ulterior
designs, or whether or no they have any
ultimate purpose in which they are all or
generally agreed, the one object which
now draws and holds them together, in
spite of all the terrors of arbitrary power,
is the abolition, not only of all existing
governments, but of all political estates,
all institutions, all privileges, all forms
of authority ; and that to this is post
poned whatever plans, purposes, or
wishes the confederation, or its mem
bers individually, may cherish concern
ing the reorganization of society.*

Confining ourselves, then, to the con
templation of Socialism and Commu
nism, let us inquire what are the distinc
tive features of each.

Were one disposed to be hypercritical
and harsh in dealing with the efforts of
well-meaning men to express views and
feelings which, in their nature, must be
very vague, he might make this chapter
as brief as that famous chapter devoted
to the snakes of Ireland " There are no
snakes in Ireland." So one might, with
no more of unfairness than often enters
into political, sociological, or economic
controversy, say that there are no feat
ures proper to Communism as sought
to be distinguished from Socialism ; no

* M. Anatole Leroy-Bcanlien, in an essay on Nihilism
says: "Under its standard we find revolutionists of all
kinds authoritarians, federalists, mutualists. and com
munists who agree only in postponing till, after their
triumph shall be secured all discussion of a future organ
ization of the world/

features proper to Socialism as sought
to be distinguished from Communism.

If, however, one will examine the liter
ature of the subject, not for the purpose
of obtaining an advantage in controversy,
or of finding phrases with which malice
or contempt may point its weapons, but
in the interest of truth, and with the
spirit of candor, he will not fail to ap
prehend that Communism and Social
ism are different things, although at
points one overlays the other in such
a way as to introduce more or less of
confusion into any statement regarding
either.

May we not say ?

1st. That Communism confines itself
mainly, if not exclusively, to the one sub
ject matter wealth. On the other hand,
Socialism, conspicuously, in all its mani
festations, in all lands where it has ap
peared, asserts its claim to control every
interest of human society, to enlist for
its purposes every form of energy.

2d. That so far as wealth becomes the
subject matter of both Communism, on
the one hand, and of Socialism, on the
other, we note a difference of treatment.
Communism, in general, regards wealth
as produced, and confines itself to effect
ing an equal, or what it esteems an
equitable, distribution.

Socialism, on the other hand, gives its
first and chief attention to the produc
tion of wealth ; and, passing lightly over
the question of distribution, with or
without assent to the doctrine of an equal
distribution among producers, it asserts
the right to inquire into and control the
consumption of wealth for the general
good, whether through sumptuary laws
and regulations or through taxation for
public expenditures.

3d. That Communism is essentially
negative, confined to the prohibition
that one shall not have more than an
other. Socialism is positive and aggres
sive, declaring that each man shall have
enough.

It purposes to introduce new forces
into society and industry ; to put a stop

108

SOCIALISM.

to the idleness, the waste of resources,
the misdirection of force, inseparable, in
some large proportion of instances, from
individual initiative ; and to drive the
whole mass forward in the direction de
termined by the intelligence of its better
half.

4th. While Communism might con
ceivably be established upon the largest
scale, and has, in a hundred experi
ments, been upon a small scale estab
lished, by voluntary consent, Socialism
begins with the use of the powers of the
State, and proceeds and operates through
them alone. It is by the force of law
that the Socialist purposes to whip up
the laggards and the delinquents in the
social and industrial order. It is by the
public treasurer, armed with powers of
assessment and sale, that he plans to
gather the means for carrying on enter
prises to which individual resources
would be inadequate. It is through
penalties that he would check wasteful
or mischievous expenditures.

If what has been said above would be
found true were one studying Commun
ism and Socialism as a philosophical
critic, much more important will be the
distinction between them to the eye of
the politician or the statesman. Com
munism is, if not moribund, at the best
everywhere at a standstill, generally on
the wane ; nor does it show any sign of
returning vitality. On the other hand,
Socialism was never more full of lusty
vigor, more rich in the promise of things
to come, than now.

Let us, then, confine ourselves to So
cialism as our theme, the purpose being
not so much to discuss as to define, char
acterize, and illustrate it.

A definition of Socialism presents pe
culiar difficulties.* The question, So
cialism or non-Socialism ? regarding any
measure ; Socialist or non-Socialist? re
garding any man, is a question of degree
rather than of kind. Let us, then, un
dertake to distinguish that quality which,
when found above a certain degree, justi
fies and requires the application of these
epithets Socialism and Socialist.

I should apply the term socialistic to
all efforts, under popular impulse, to en-

* " I have never met with a clear definition, or even a pre
cise description, of the term." The Socialism of our Day,
Emile de Laveleye.

large the functions of government, to
the diminution of individual initiative
and enterprise, for a supposed public
good. It will be observed that by this
definition it is made of the essence of
socialistic efforts that they should arise
from popular impulse, and should seek
a public good. This, it will be seen,
makes the motive and the objective
alike part of the character of the act
say a legislative measure equally with
the positive provisions thereof.

" To enlarge the functions of govern
ment." It may be asked, to enlarge
them beyond what starting-point or
line ? in excess of what initial dimen
sions ? Herein lies the main difficulty
of the subject ; hence arises the chief
danger of misunderstanding between
the writer and his reader ; and it is
probably to the lack of a standard meas
ure adopted for the purpose of this dis
cussion that we are to attribute, more
than to any other cause, the vague and
unsatisfactory character of the critical
literature of Socialism. As you change
your starting-point in this matter of the
nature and extent of government func
tion, the same act may, in turn, come to
appear socialistic, conservative, or reac
tionary.

A person considering the direction
and force of socialistic tendencies may
take, to start from, any one of an indefi
nite number of successive lines ; of which,
however, the three following are alone
worth indicating :

1st. He may take a certain maximum
of government functions, to be fixed by
the general consent of fairly conservative,
not reactionary, publicists and states
men, adopting, perhaps, the largest quan
tum which any two or three writers, re
puted sound, would agree to concede
as consistent with wholesome administra
tion, with the full play and due encourage
ment of individual enterprise and self-
reliance, and with the reasonable exercise
of personal choices as to modes of life
and modes of labor ; and may identify
any act or measure, proposed or accom
plished, as socialistic if, under popular
impulse, for a supposed public good, it
transcends that line.

2d. He may take a certain minimum
of government functions, which we may
call the police powers.

SOCIALISM.

109

3d. He may draw his pen along the
boundary of the powers of government
as now existing and exercised, perhaps
in his own country, perhaps in that
foreign country which he regards as the
proper subject of admiration and imita
tion in the respect under consideration.

There is a certain advantage, as some
people would esteem it, in adopting the
first or the third method of determining
the initial line for the purposes of such
a discussion. That advantage is found
in the fact that the conservative writer,
placing himself on the actual or on the
theoretical maximum of government
functions, can treat as a public enemy
every person who proposes that this
line shall be overpassed ; and can employ
the term socialistic, as one of rebuke,
reproach, or contempt, according to his
own temper. The line thus taken be
comes the dividing line between ortho
doxy and heterodoxy, making it easy to
mark and to punish the slightest devi
ation.

On the other hand, he who takes as
his initial line the minimum of govern
ment functions, which may, in severe
strictness, be called the police powers,
and regards all acts and measures enlarg
ing the functions of government beyond
this line as more or less socialistic, ac
cording as they transcend it by a longer
or a shorter distance, under a stronger
or a weaker impulse, cannot use that
term as one of contumely or contempt,
inasmuch as in every civilized country
the functions of government have been
pushed beyond the mere police powers.

For one, I prefer to take the line of
the strict police powers of government
as that from which to measure the force
and direction of the socialistic move
ment, even if it is thereby rendered
necessary to forego the great controver
sial advantage and the keen personal
pleasure of hurling the word Socialist,
in an opprobrious sense, at the head of
anyone who would go farther in the
extension of government functions than
my own judgment would approve ; nay,
even if I shall thereby be put to the
trouble of examining any proposed act
or measure on the ground of its own
merits, in view of the reasons adduced
in its favor, and under the light of ex
perience.

In this sense the advocacy of a social
istic act or measure will not necessarily
characterize a Socialist. Socialism will
mean, not one, but many things social
istic. Thus, for example, protection is
socialistic. Yet the protectionist is not,
as such, a Socialist. Most protection
ists are not Socialists. Many protection
ists are, in their general views, as anti-
socialistic as men can well be.

The Socialist, under this definition,
would be the man who, in general, dis
trusts the effects of individual initiative
and individual enterprise ; who is easily
convinced of the utility of an assumption,
by the State, of functions which have
hitherto been left to personal choices
and personal aims ; and who, in fact,
supports and advocates many and large
schemes of this character.

A man of whom all this could be said
might, in strict justice, be termed a
Socialist. The extreme Socialist is he
who would make the State all in all, in
dividual initiative and enterprise disap
pearing in that engrossing democracy of
labor to which he aspires. In his view,
the powers and rights of the State rep
resent the sum of all the powers and all
the rights of the individuals who com
pose it ; and government becomes the
organ of society in respect to all its in
terests and all its acts. So much for the
Socialist.

Socialism, under our definition, would
be a term properly to be applied (1) to
the aggregate of many and large schemes
of this nature, actually urged for pres
ent or early adoption ; or (2) to a pro
gramme contemplated, at whatever dis
tance, for the gradual replacement of
private by public activity ; or (3) to an
observed movement or tendency, of a
highly marked character, in the direction
indicated.

Such would be the significance prop
erly to be attributed to the terms Social
ist and Socialism, consistently with the
definition proposed to be given to the
word socialistic viz., that which causes
goverment functions to transcend the
line of the strictly police powers.

Even this line is not to be drawn with
exactitude and assurance, though it is
much more plain to view than either
of the other two lines which, we said,
might be taken for the purposes of the

110

SOCIALISM.

present discussion. The police powers
embrace, of course, all that is necessary
to keep people from picking each other s
pockets and cutting each other s throats,
including, alike, punitive and preventive
measures. They embrace, also, the ad
judication and collection of debts, inas
much as, otherwise, men must be suf
fered to claim and seize their own,
which would lead to incessant breaches
of the peace. They embrace, also, the
punishment of slander and libel, since,
otherwise, individuals must be left to
vindicate themselves by assault or homi
cide. Whether we wiU or no, we must
also admit the war power among those
necessarily inherent in government.

Is this all which is included in the
police powers ? There are several other
functions, for the assumption of which
by the State the preservation of life and
liberty, the protection of property, and
the prevention of crime are either cause
or excuse.

Foremost among these is the care and
maintenance of religious worship. It
is not meant that, in all or most coun
tries, the justification for the exercise
of ghostly functions by the State is
found in the utility of religious observ
ances and services in repressing violence
and crime. But in the countries farthest
advanced politically, the notion that the
ruler has any divine commission to direct
or sustain religious services and observ
ances is practically obsolete ; and, so far
as this function is still performed, it is
covered by the plea which has been ex
pressed. Eminently is this true of France,
England, and the United States. Few
publicists, in these countries, would pre
sume to defend the foundation of a State
religion, de novo, as in the interest of re
ligion itself. So far as the maintenance
of existing establishments is defended, it
is upon the ground that violence, disor
der, and crime are thereby diminished.

Take the United States, for instance,
where the only survival of a State re
ligion is found in the exemption of eccle
siastical property from taxation, equiv
alent to a subsidy of many millions
annually. Here we find this policy de
fended on the ground that this consti
tutes one of the most effective means at
the command of the State as conservator
of the peace. It is claimed that the ser

vices of this agent are worth to govern
ment more than the taxes which the
treasury might otherwise collect from
the smaller number of churches and
missions which would survive the assess
ment of the ordinary taxes ; and that the
remaining taxpayers really pay less, by
reason of the reduction in violence and
crime hereby effected.

Now, in so far as this plea is a genu
ine one, it removes the exemption of
Church property from the class of social
istic measures. The prevention of vio
lence and crime is the proper function
of the State, according to the lowest view
that can be taken of it ; and if a certain
amount of encouragement and assist
ance is extended to religious bodies and
establishments, genuinely in this inter
est, no invasion of individual initiative
and enterprise can properly be com
plained of.

Another and apparently a closely re
lated instance of the extension of State
functions is found in the promotion of
popular education, either through the
requirement of the attendance of pupils,
or through provisions for the public
support of schools, or through both
these means.

Now, here we reach an instance of an
impulse almost purely socialistic for the
. enlargement of the functions of the State.
It is true that the plea of a service to gov
ernment in the way of reducing violence
and crime through the influence of the
public schools, is often urged on this be
half ; but I, for one, do not believe that
this was the real consideration and mo
tive which, in any instance, ever actually
led to the establishment of the system of
instruction under public authority, or
which, in any land, supports public in
struction now. Indeed, the immediate
effects of popular instruction in reducing
crime are even in dispute.

In all its stages this movement has been
purely socialistic in character, springing
out of a conviction that the State would
be stronger, and the individual members
of the State would be richer and happier
and better, if power and discretion in
this matter of the education of children
were taken away from the family and
lodged with the government.

Of course, it needs not to be said that
this is a socialistic movement which de-

SOCIALISM.

Ill

serves the heartiest approval. Not the
less is it essentially of that nature, dif
fering from a hundred other proposed
acts and measures, which we should all
reject with more or less of fear or hor
ror, solely by reason of its individual
merits as a scheme for accomplishing
good, through State action, in a field
properly pertaining to individual initia
tive and enterprise.

There is another important extension
of State functions, very marked in re
cent times, for which a non-socialistic
excuse might be trumped up, but for
which the real reason was purely and
simply socialistic. This is the con
struction and maintenance of bridges
and roads at the public expense for
public uses. One might, if disposed to
argue uncandidly, adduce the military
services rendered by the great Roman
roads ; and, thereupon, might pretend
to believe that a corresponding motive
has led to the assumption of this func
tion by the State in modern times. The
fact is, that until within seventy, fifty,
or thirty years the bridges and roads
of England and America remained, to
an enormous extent, within the domain
of individual initiative and enterprise.
Even when the State assumed the respon
sibility, it was a recognized principle
that the cost of construction and repair
should be repaid by the members of the
community in the proportions in which
they severally took advantage of this pro
vision. The man who travelled much,
paid much ; the man who travelled little,
paid little ; the man who stayed at home,
paid nothing.

The movement, beginning about sev
enty years ago, which has resulted in
making free nearly all roads and bridges
in the most progressive countries, was
purely socialistic. It did not even seek
to cover itself by claims that it would
serve the police powers of the State. It
was boldly and frankly admitted that the
change from private to public manage
ment and maintenance was to be at the
general expense for the general good.

Is there any other function arrogated
by the State which may be claimed to
be covered by the strict police powers ?
I think that the repression of obtru
sive immorality that is, immorality of
a gross nature which obtrudes itself up

on the unwilling may reasonably be
classed as coming within the minimum
of government function. Sights and
sounds may constitute an assault as
well as blows ; and it falls fairly within
the right and duty of the State to pro
tect the citizens from offences of this
nature.

Have we now exhausted the catalogue
of things which maybe claimed to be cov
ered by the police powers of the State ?
I answer, No. One of the most impor
tant remains; yet one of the last indeed,
the very latest to be recognized as pos
sibly belonging to the State under any
theory of government. I refer to what
is embraced under the term sanitary
inspection and regulation.

That it was not earlier recognized as
the duty of the State to protect the
common air and the common water
from pollution and poisoning was due,
not to any logical difficulty or to any
troublesome theory regarding govern
mental action, but solely to the fact that
the chemistry of common life and the
causation of zymotic diseases were of
such late discovery. We now know
that there is a far heavier assault than
can be made with a bludgeon ; and
that men may, in the broad daylight,
deal each other typhus, diphtheria, or
small-pox more murderously than ever
a bravo dealt blows with a dagger un
der cover of darkness. Yet, so much
more are men moved by tradition than
by reason that we find intelligent citi
zens who have swallowed the exemption
of five hundred millions of Church prop
erty from taxation, on the ground that
a certain quantum of preaching will
prevent a certain quantum of crime,
have very serious doubts about the pro
priety of inspecting premises which can
be smelled for half a mile, and whence
death may be flowing four ways, as
Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates
parted from Eden and " became into
four heads."

I do not mean to say that I should
hesitate to approve of sanitary inspec
tion and regulation, carried to their
extremes, if they were as socialistic
as anything ever dreamed of by Marx
or Lasalle. For such good as I see
coming from this source, in the re
duction of vicious instincts and appe-

112

SOCIALISM.

tites, in the purification of the bjpod of
the race, in the elimination of disease,
I would, were it needful, join one of
Fourier s " phalanxes," go to the barri
cades with Louis Blanc, or be sworn
into a nihilistic circle. But in cor
rect theory it is not necessary for the
strictest adherent of the doctrine of
limited powers to desert his principles
in this matter. The protection of the
common air and the common water
comes within the police powers of the
States by no forced construction, by no
doubtful analogy.

Is there any important function re
maining which may properly be classed
among the purely police powers? I
think not. Does someone say, You
have not mentioned the care and sup
port of the helpless poor ? The expe
rience of the Romans, and even the con
dition of the law of almost all coun
tries of Europe in modern times, proves
that this is not one of the necessary func
tions of a well-ordered State.

Is it said that Christian morality will
not permit that the helpless poor shall
suffer or, perhaps, starve? Whenever
the State shall undertake to do all or
any very considerable part of what
Christian morality requires, it will be
come very socialistic indeed.

Having now beaten the bounds of the
police powers, and having decided that
all extension of government activity
beyond those bounds is to be held and
deemed socialistic, it is proposed to of
fer certain distinctions which appear
important.

And, first, a measure is not necessari
ly of a strong socialistic savor merely
because it implies a large, perhaps a
vast, extension of the actual work of
the State. Take, for example, the Eng
lish Government s acquisition of the tel
egraph lines, and its performance of the
work connected therewith. This was
not done under a socialistic impulse.
Tn England the telegraph service has al
ways been closely affiliated in the public
mind with the postal service ; and, con
sequently, when the former had come to
be of sufficiently wide and general use to
make it worth while for the State to as
sume the charge, it was done in the most
matter-of-fact way. It was no more so
cialistic than the addition of a few thou

sands of new post-offices to the existing
number would have been.

On the other hand, the assumption of
a new service by the State is not re
lieved from the charge of being social
istic, even grossly socialistic, by the fact
that such a service is closely analogous
to some other which all citizens have
long agreed to place in the hands of
government. Take, for example, the
matter of " free ferries," which has been
mooted in Boston and in New York, and
doubtless elsewhere. This proposition
has always been greeted by conservative
men of all parties as highly and danger
ously socialistic ; and yet the analogy
between free ferries and bridges free
from toll is very strong. A ferry-boat
is little other than a section of a bridge,
cut away from moorings, and propelled
backward and forward by steam ; and it
may conceivably cost less and create less
disturbance to navigation to use the
latter than the former means. For in
stance, it might cost two millions of dol
lars to throw an adequate bridge from
Boston to East Boston, for the transit
of passengers and freight. But suppose
the point is raised that the bridge will
interfere continually with the use of the
harbor, to an extent involving immense
losses to trade, and that the amount
proposed to be expended upon the bridge
would pay for the construction and
operation of a line of ferry-boats. Is not
the analogy close ? And yet I agree with
the objectors in this case, that the estab
lishment of free ferries would be a long
and dangerous step toward Socialism.

Even where the new function appears
to be only the logical carrying out and
legitimate consequence of another func
tion well approved, there may be a step
toward Socialism involved in such an ex
tension of the State s activity and respon
sibility.

In illustration, I might mention the
matter of free text-books in our public
schools. Public provision for gratuitous
elementary education, although mani
festly socialistic within our meaning of
that term, has come to be fully accepted
by nearly all citizens as right and de
sirable. In discharging this duty, the
State, at immense expense, builds and
furnishes school-houses, employs teach
ers and superintendents, buys supplies,

SOCIALISM.

113

and gives each boy or girl the use of a
desk. Yet the proposition to make the
use of text-books free, has met with vi
olent opposition ; has been defeated at
many points ; and wherever it has been
carried, is still regarded by many judi
cious persons as a very dangerous inno
vation. Yet, as has been shown, this
measure seems to be but the logical car
rying out and legitimate consequence of
a function already assumed by practically
unanimous consent.

Still another distinction has become
necessary of recent years, and that is
between the assumption by the State
of functions which would otherwise be
performed wholly or mainly by indi
viduals and those which would other
wise be performed wholly or mainly by
corporations. We shall have occasion
hereafter to speak of the relation of the
State to the corporation.

One further distinction it may be
well to suggest viz., that the vast im
portance, even the absolutely vital neces
sity, of a service, whether to the com
munity at large or to the subsisting
form of government, does not, by itself,
constitute a reason for the performance
of that function by the State. Let me
illustrate. In his address, as President
of the Association for the Advancement
of Science, at Aberdeen, in 1859, Prince
Albert said : " The State should recog
nize in science one of the elements of
its strength and prosperity, to foster
which the clearest dictates of self-inter
est demand." Last year, Sir Lyon Play-
fair, in his address as President of the
Association, quotes these words, and
enforces the same thought. Yet it does
not follow from the importance of sci
ence to the State, that science should be
directly fostered or supported by gov
ernment. It might conceivably be that
science would do its work for the State
better if the State itself did nothing for
science, just as many persons who hold
that religion is essential not only to the
peace and happiness of communities
but even to the existence of well-ordered
governments, yet hold that the State
can do nothing so beneficial to religion
as to let it completely and severely
alone.

Still another class of considerations
must be borne in mind in measuring
VOL. 18

the extent of the socialistic advance in
volved in any given extension of the
functions of government. These are
considerations which arise out of the
peculiar genius of a people, politically,
socially, industrially. A certain act, or
measure, which would be a monstrous
invasion of personal liberty and individ
ual activity in one country, would be
the merest matter of course in another.
The natural aptitudes, the prevailing
sentiments, the institutions, great and
small, the political and economic history
of a nation, have all to be taken into ac
count in deciding how far an extension
of the powers of government in a given
direction indicates socialistic progress.

Yet, while this is true, there will be
observed some very strange contradic
tions in the adoption, in certain coun
tries, of principles of legislation and
administration which cross, in an unac
countable way, the general spirit of
their people.

Thus England, whose population is
decidedly the most strongly anti-social
istic in the world, was for hundreds of
years the only country in Europe in
which was formally acknowledged the
right, the complete legal right, of any
and every man to be supported by the
State, if he could not, or did not, find
the means of his own subsistence.

From the foregoing definition and
distinctions let us proceed briefly to
characterize certain measures of a so
cialistic nature proposed or advocated
by men who are not Socialists ; who
neither avow nor would admit them
selves to be such ; who, accepting, on
the whole, the sufficiency of individual
initiative and enterprise to achieve the
good of society, have yet their scheme,
or budget of schemes, for the general
welfare, which would operate by re
stricting personal liberty and by sub
stituting public for private activity.
Time would not serve to canvass the
merits or defects of these schemes as
measures for accomplishing certain spe
cific social objects. We can only dwell
upon each, in turn, long enough to in
dicate its individual character as more
or less socialistic.

1st. The most familiar of schemes for
promoting the general welfare, by di
minishing the scope of individual initia-

114

SOCIALISM.

tive and enterprise, is that known by
the name of Protection to local or, as it
is in any locality called, native industry.

Protectionism is nothing if not social
istic. It proposes, in the public interest,
to modify the natural course of trade
and production, and to do this by de
priving the citizen of his privilege of
buying in the cheapest market. Yet the
protectionist is not, therefore, to be
called a Socialist, since the Socialist
would not only have the State deter
mine what shall be produced, but he
would have the State itself undertake the
work of production. It is not my pur
pose to discuss protection as a scheme
for accomplishing its professed object.
Indeed, I should have had occasion to
bestow upon it but a single word, merely
to characterize it as a socialistic measure,
were it not for the conviction that the
forces of the age are tending strongly
in this direction. In my judgment we
are on the eve of a great protectionist
agitation.

And the demand for the so-called pro
tection of native industry is to be a pop
ular one in a degree never before known.
In England the restrictive system of the
earlier period had been imposed by priv
ileged classes, and was broken down by
a truly popular uprising. In the United
States the history of the restrictive sys
tem has been different. My esteemed
friend, Professor Sumner, took the plat
form, three years ago, with the avowed
purpose of attacking protectionism, no
longer as inexpedient, but as immoral ;
and he proceeded, with a vigor which
no other writer or speaker on applied
economics in this country has at com
mand, to stigmatize the forces which
have initiated and directed our tariff
legislation as all selfish and false and
bad. Now, I can t go with Professor
Sumner in this. Fully recognizing that
our successive tariffs have largely been
shaped by class or sectional interests,
with, at times, an obtrusion of mean
motives which were simply disgusting,
as in 1828, I am yet constrained to be
lieve that the main force which has im
pelled Congress to tariff legislation has
been a sincere, if mistaken, conviction
that the general good would thereby be
promoted. Yet, after all, it has been
the employing, not the laboring, class

which has conducted the legislation,
maintained the correspondence, set up
the newspapers, paid the lobby, in the
tariff contests of the past.

The peculiarity of the new movement
is that it is to owe its initiative and its
main impulse to the laboring class.

What strikes me as most important,
with regard to the future, is the consid
eration that, while protectionism is to
become a dogma and a fighting demand
of the out-and-out Socialists everywhere,
it would be in a consummated system
of protection that the rampant, aggres
sive, and destructive Socialism, which is
such an object of terror to many minds,
would find an insurmountable barrier.
Socialism can never be all we dread un
less it become international ; but the
consummation of protectionism is the
destruction of internationalism.

2d. Another threatened invasion of the
field of industrial initiative and enter
prise is through laws affecting labor,
additional to the body of factory legis
lation now generally accepted.

There is not a feature in the existing
body of factory legislation in England
which owes its introduction to political
forces set in motion by mill and factory
operatives. Even in the United States,
except solely in the instance of that
piece of wretched demagogism known
as the Eight Hour Law, passed by Con
gress without any intention that it
should be enforced, our labor legislation
has not, in general, been due to the ef
forts of the operative classes as such,
but to the general conviction of the pub
lic mind that so much, at least, was fair
and just and wise. The labor legislation
now impending is not intended to abide
the decision of an impartial jury. It is
asserted, by those who claim especially
to represent the interests of labor, that
their class are about to undertake to
carry, by sheer weight of numbers, meas
ures to few of which could they hope to
obtain the assent of the disinterested
portion of the community.

Surely we have here a very grave
situation. It may be that the power, of
wealth and trained intellect, superior
dialectical ability, the force of political
and parliamentary tactics, with the con
servative influence of the agricultural
interest, would, in any case, defeat leg-

SOCIALISM.

115

islation hostile to the so-called interests
of capital. Doubtless, too, we of the
class who are disposed to maintain the
status underrate the moderation, self-
control, and fairness likely to be exer
cised by the body of laborers. Yet it is
not easy to rid one s self of the apprehen
sion that this new species of socialistic
legislation will be carried so far, at least
under the first enthusiasm of newly ac
quired power, as seriously to cripple the
industrial system. He must be a con
firmed pessimist who doubts that, sooner
or later, after however much of misad
venture and disaster, a modus Vivendi
will be established, which will allow the
employing class to reassume and reas
sert something like their pristine author
ity over production unless, indeed, this
harassment of the employer is to be
used as a means of bringing in the
regime of co-operation, so ardently de
sired by many economists and philan
thropists as the ideal industrial system.

If this is to be so, there will not be
lacking a flavor of poetic justice, so far
as the American manufacturer is con
cerned.

The advocate of co-operation, appeal
ing to the admittedly vast advantages
which would attend the successful estab
lishment of the scheme of industrial
partnership, might say that thus far co
operative enterprises have not succeeded
because, with small means, they have had
their experiments to make ; their men
to test and to train ; their system to cre
ate. Let us, he would continue, handi
cap the long-established, highly organ
ized, well-officered, rich, and powerful
entrepreneur system, so that vast bod
ies of goods, made with the highest
advantages from wealth, capital, and
organization, may not be poured out
upon the market in floods, to sweep
away the feeble structures of newly un
dertaken co-operative enterprises. Let
the community consent, for the general
good, to pay a somewhat higher price,
as the consideration for the establish
ment of a system which will, in the re
sult, not only secure a larger creation of
wealth, but will settle the questions of
distribution, promote good citizenship,
and forever banish the spectre of Social
ism from the world !

3d. Other measures of a socialistic

nature, strongly urged at the present
time, have in view the control by govern
ment of the ways and agencies of trans
portation and communication. All over
Europe the telegraph service has been
assumed by the State ; and, to a large
extent, the railroads also have come un
der government ownership or manage
ment. In some degree this has been
due to the suggestions and promptings
of military ambition, but in a larger de
gree, probably, it expresses the convic
tion that all railroad service " tends to
monopoly ; " and that, therefore, alike
fiscal and military reasons and the gen
eral interest unite in dictating that the
monopolist shall be the State.

On the continent of Europe the
State s acquisition of these agencies of
transport, so far as it has gone, has not
been due to popular impulse ; the man
agement of the roads so acquired has
suited well the bureaucratic form of gov
ernment, while the thoroughness and
efficiency of the civil service has, in the
main, secured good administration.

Here or in England, on the other
hand, such an extension of the powers
of the State would have a very different
significance, a significance most porten
tous and threatening ; while even the
regulation of railroad management, ex
cept through the establishment of effec
tive and summary tribunals for the
correction of manifest and almost un-
contested abuses, would, according to
my individual judgment, be highly prej
udicial, and even pernicious, upon any
thing resembling our present political
system.

4th. Still another suggested enlarge
ment of public activity is in the direc
tion of exercising an especial oversight
and control over Industrial Corporations,
as such.

The economic character of the in
dustrial corporation very much needs
analysis and elucidation. A work on
this subject is a desideratum in political
economy. So little has the economic
character of this agent been dwelt upon,
that we find reviews and journals of
pretension, and professional economists
in college chairs, speaking of legislation
in regulation of such bodies as in viola
tion of the principle of Laissez Faire.
But the very institution of the industrial

116

SOCIALISM.

corporation is for the purpose of avoid
ing that primary condition upon which,
alone, true and effective competition can
exist.

Perfect competition, in the sense of
the economist, assumes that every per
son, in his place in the industrial order,
acts by himself, for himself, alone ; that
whatever he does is done on his own in
stance, for his own interest. Combina
tion, concert, cohesion, act directly in
contravention of competition.

Now, combination will enter, more or
less, to affect the actions of men in re
spect to wealth. But such combinations
are always subject to dissolution, by rea
son of antagonisms developed, suspicions
aroused, separate interests appearing ;
and the expectation of such dissolution
attaches to them from their formation.
The cohesion excited, as between the
particles of the economic mass which
the theory of competition assumes to be
absolutely free from affiliations and at
tractions, is certain to be shifting and
transitory. The corporation, on the
other hand, implies the imposition of a
common rule upon a mass of capital
which would otherwise be in many hands,
subject to the impulses of individual
owners. But it is because the hand into
which these masses of capital are gath
ered is a dead hand that the deepest in
jury is wrought to competition.

The greatest fact in regard to human
effort and enterprise is the constant
imminence of disability and death. So
great is the importance of this condition,
that it goes far to bring all men to a
level in their actions as industrial agents.
The man of immense wealth has no such
superiority over the man of moderate
fortune as would be indicated by the
proportion of their respective posses
sions. To these unequals is to be add
ed one vast common sum, which might
ily reduces the ratio of that inequality.
The railroad magnate, master of a hun
dred millions, leaning forward in his
eagerness to complete some new com
bination, falls without a sign, without
a groan ; his work forever incomplete ;
his schemes rudely broken ; and at
once the fountain of his great fortune
parts into many heads, and his gathered
wealth flows away in numerous streams.
No man can buy with money, or obtain

for love, the assurance of one hour s
persistence in his chosen work, in his
dearest purpose. Here enters the State
and creates an artificial person, whose
powers do not decay with years ; whose
hand never shakes with palsy, never
grows senseless and still in death ; whose
estate is never to be distributed ; whose
plans can be pursued through succes
sive generations of mortal men.

I do not say that the services which
corporations render do not afford an
ample justification for this invasion of
the field of private activity. I am far
from saying that, whatever injuries one
might be disposed to attribute to the
unequal competition between natural
and artificial persons, thus engendered,
the evil would be cured by State regu
lation and control. Government will
never accomplish more than a part of
the good it intends ; and it will always,
by its intervention, do a mischief which
it does not intend. My sole object is
to point out how deeply the industrial
corporation violates the principle of com
petition, and how absurd it is to claim
for it the protection of Laissez Faire !

5th. Another direction in which prog
ress toward Socialism has been made,
of late years, is in respect to the hous
ing of the poor. In the first instance,
and this was but a few years ago, the
measures proposed to this end were
covered by a plea which veiled its so
cialistic character. Here, it was said, is
a railway entering a city. By authority
of law it blazes its way over the ruins
of hundreds or thousands of working-
men s houses. At least let the govern
ment repair the wrong it has done !
Let it put the working-men where they
were before this exertion of authority.
In like manner parks are created for the
public good, narrow streets are widened
into magnificent boulevards, always
through the destruction of hundreds
of humble homes. In like manner,
again, the State, in a proper care for
the life or health of its citizens, con
demns certain dwellings as unsanitary,
and orders them torn down. But what
of the men, the women, and the chil
dren, who, with their scanty furniture
and ragged bundles, crouch homeless
on the sidewalk as the officers of the
law do their work ?

SOCIALISM.

117

But the demand for the exertion of
the powers and resources of the State
in the housing of the poor, has not
stopped upon this initial line. The
views of many persons of high intelli
gence, in no way Socialists, have ad
vanced, during a few years of discus
sion, to the conviction that the State
has a large and positive part to perform
in respect to the habitation of its citi
zens. It is not in contemplation that
the State shall build all the houses in
the land ; nor, on the other hand, is pro
vision for the pauper class at all in view.
"What is intended is that the State shall
set the standard for the minimum of
house accommodation which is consist
ent with health and decency; building
houses enough to provide, in the sim
plest and cheapest manner, for all who
cannot do better for themselves else
where ; and thereafter to wage relentless
war on all "shanties," "rookeries," and
"beehives" used for human habitation;
to pull down all that stand, and to pre
vent the erection of any resembling
them in the future.

Of course, the virtue of this scheme,
from the point of view of anyone, how
ever favorably disposed, who is not a
professed Socialist, would depend on the
simplicity and sincerity with which the
principle of the minimum of accommoda
tion was adhered to. The moment the
State began building houses for anyone
above the poorest of self-supporting
workmen, it would not only double and
quadruple the certain cost and the lia
bility to evil consequences, but it would
be taking a monstrous step toward So
cialism. In undertaking such a scheme
a State would, in effect, say, there is a
class of our citizens who are just on the
verge of self-support. The members of
this class are, in the matter of house
accommodation, almost absolutely help
less ; they must take what they can find ;
they cannot build their own houses ;
they cannot go out in the country to
make their home that is reserved for
the fortunate of their class ; they cannot
protest effectually against foul and dan
gerous conditions. Nay, the miserable
liability is, that they should, after be
ing crowded down into the mire of life,
become indifferent to such conditions
themselves, ready, perhaps, to join the

mob that pelts the health officer on his
rounds.

In regard to this class the State may
proceed to say that neither Christian
charity nor the public interest will tol
erate the continuance of the utterly hid
eous and loathsome condition of things
which disfigures the face of civilization.
The rookeries shall be pulled down,
the slums shall be cleaned out, once and
forever. For the pauper there shall be
a cot in the wards of the workhouse,
with confinement for all, separation of
sexes, and compulsory labor for the
able-bodied. For every man who is
trying to earn his living there shall be
an apartment at a very low rent, graded
to correspond with the lowest of pri
vate rents, in buildings owned by the
State, or built and used under State
inspection and control. Lower than
this the man shall not go, until he
passes into the wards of the workhouse.
He may do what he pleases in respect
to his clothes, his food, his drink ; but
in this matter of habitation he shall
live up to the standard set by the State.
He shall not make the home of his
family a hot-bed for scarlet fever and
diphtheria ; he shall not, even if he likes
it, live in quarters where cleanliness and
decency would be impossible.

Regarding this scheme I have only to
say, that if we are not disposed to look
favorably on a proposition that the
State should undertake an enterprise
so new and large and foreign to our
political habits (and I sincerely trust no
American would be disposed to favor it),
let us not shelter ourselves behind the
miserable mockery of the Economic Har
monies, as applied to the very poor of
our large cities. To assert a communi
ty of interest between the proprietor of
a rookery, reeking with every species of
foulness, and the hundreds of wretched
human animals, who curl themselves up
to sleep in its dark corners, amid its
foul odors, is to utter a falsehood so
ghastly, at once, and so grotesque, as to
demand both indignation and ridicule.

6th. The last of the socialistic meas
ures to which I shall advert is the pro
posal for the Nationalization of the Land.

Now, I think I hear one-half my read
ers exclaim, "The nationalization of the
land ! Surely, that is Communism, and

118

SOCIALISM.

Communism of the rankest sort, and not
Socialism at all ! " while the other half
say, " Socialistic indeed ! Well, if the
man who advocates the nationalization of
the land is not to be called a Socialist out
and out, whom shall we call Socialists ? "
To these imagined expressions of dissent
I reply, that the project for the national
ization of the land, as explained by John
Stuart Mill, for example, has not the
faintest trace of a communistic savor;
and secondly, while it is highly social
istic, the man who advocates it is not for
that reason alone to be classed as a So
cialist, since he may be one who, in all
other respects, holds fully and strongly
to individual initiative enterprise in in
dustry. He might, conceivably, be so
strenuous an advocate of Laissez Faire *
as to oppose factory acts, public educa
tion, special immunities and privileges
to savings banks, or even free roads and
bridges, as too socialistic for his taste.

There is a substantially unanimous
consent among all publicists,! that
property in land stands upon a very
different basis from property in the
products of labor.

Nothing has ever been adduced to
break the force of Mr. Mill s demonstra
tion that a continually increasing value,
in any progressive State, is given to the
land through the exertions and sacri
fices of the community as a whole.

If private property in land has been
created and has been freed from the ob
ligation to contribute that unearned in
crement to the treasury, this has been
done solely as a matter of political and
economic expediency. The man who
proposes that, with due compensation
for existing rights, all future enhance
ment of the value of land, not due to
distinct applications of labor and capital
in its improvement, shall go to the State,
by such fiscal means as may be deemed
most advantageous to all concerned, is

* The name of Mr. Henry George appears on the lists of
the New York Free Trade Club.

t " Sustained by some of the greatest names I may say,
by every name of the first rank in political economy, from
Turgot and Adam Smith to Mill I hold that the land of a
country presents conditions which separate it economically
from the great mass of the other objects of wealth condi
tions which, if they do not absolutely, and under all cir
cumstances, impose upon the State the obligation of con
trolling private enterprise in dealing with land, at least
explain why this control i, in certain stages of social
progress, indispensable, and why, in fact, it has been con
stantly put in force whenever public opinion or custom has
not been strong enough to do without it." Professor John
E. Cairnes.

not to be called a Communist. He only
claims that the community as a whole
shall possess and enjoy that which the
community as a whole has undeniably
created. The Communist is a man who
claims that the community shall possess
and enjoy that which individuals have
created.

So far as England and the United
States are concerned, the project for the
nationalization of the land, notwith
standing the tremendous uproar it has
created, especially in the former country,
does not appear to me in any high degree
formidable. Doubtless in England,
where an aristocratic holding of the land
prevails, this agitation will induce seri
ous efforts to create a peasant proprie
torship. It is, also, not improbable that
the discussion regarding the tenure of
the soil will lead to additional burdens
being imposed upon real-estate. Yet
the advantages attending private owner
ship, notwithstanding the admitted fact
that the system sacrifices, in its very be
ginning, the equities of the subject mat
ter, are so manifest, so conspicuous, so
vast, that there seems little danger that
the schemes of Messrs. Mill, Wallace,
and George will ever come to prevail
over the plain, frank, blunt common-
sense of the English race.

The important question remains, In
what spirit shall we receive and consider
propositions for the further extension
of the State s activity ?

Shall we antagonize them from the
start, as a matter of course, using the
term socialistic freely as an objurgatory
epithet, and refusing to entertain con
sideration of the special reasons of any
case?

When we consider what immense ad
vantages have, in some cases, resulted
from measures purely socialistic, are we
altogether prepared to take a position
of irreconcilable and undistinguishing
hostility to every future extension of
the State s activity? May we not be
lieve that there is a leadership, by the
State, in certain activities, which does
not paralyze private effort ; which does
not tend to go from less to more ; but
which, in the large, the long, result, stim
ulates individual action, brings out en
ergies which would otherwise remain
dormant, sets a higher standard of per-

THE NEW YEAR.

119

formance, and introduces new and
stronger motives to social and industrial
progress ?

For myself, I will only say, in general,
that while I repudiate the assumption
of the Economic Harmonies which un
derlies the doctrine of Laissez Faire, and
while I look with confidence to the State
to perform certain important functions
in economics, I believe that every prop
osition for enlarging the powers and in
creasing the duties of the State should
be long and closely scrutinized ; that a
heavy burden of proof should be thrown
upon the advocates of every such scheme;
and that for no slight, or transient, or
doubtful object should the field of indus
trial activity be trenched upon in its re
motest corner. There is something in the
very name of liberty to which the heart
of man responds ; freedom itself thus
becomes, in a certain sense, a force, and
those who thoroughly believe in indi
vidual initiative and enterprise are the
best and safest judges of the degree to
which restraint may, on account of the
imperfections of human society and the
hardness of men s hearts, require, in any
given time and place, to be imposed
upon the choices and actions of citizens.

That enlarging the powers of govern
ment at any point where, after due de

liberation, it abundantly appears that,
ill spite of the reasonable preference for
preserving individual activity, a large
practical gain to the order of society
and the happiness of its constituent
members will, in the long result, accrue
from the interposition of the State ; that
dealing thus with projects of social and
economic reform will, as so many seem
to fear, only arouse in the mass of the
people a passion for further and further
encroachments, and push society more
and more rapidly on toward an all-en
grossing Socialism I do not believe. It
is the plea of despots that they cannot
remit impositions, redress wrongs, or
promote reforms, without awakening
dangerous aspirations in their subjects
and provoking them to ever-increasing
demands.

To no such slavish dread of doing
right are free nations subjected. It is
the glorious privilege of governments
of the people, by the people, for the
people, that they derive only strength
and added stability from every act hon
estly and prudently conceived to pro
mote the public welfare. In such a State
every real and serious cause of com
plaint which is removed becomes a fresh
occasion for loyalty, gratitude, and de
votion.

THE NEW YEAR.

By Maybury Fleming.

ASHES of oak Are there no more trees ?

What if the Yule-log whiten and

die
Blaze and redden and die what then ?

Are there no more trees ?

No trees left ? Let the old year go,
And the old years go, with their bloom
and blight ;

Sated with joy and drunk with pain,
Let the old year go.

Fallen from pride and gray with fire,
Slain by it, never to glow again

But life is more than ashes and night ;
In it lies new fire.

Ended at last and to come, more trees,
Leaf and pleasure and ay, and grief.

Over dead ashes light new fire
Are there no more trees ?

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

By Margaret Crosby.

Go down some spring afternoon to
Washington Square. Sit on one of the
benches, and after a half-hour, if you
have not known it long ago, you will be
convinced that you are in the only dig
nified spot in New York the only place
that seems to have the sanctity of age,
the stateliness of permanency. The
ample, red-brick houses, with their white
doors, are ranged on the north side ; at
the east is the cool grayness of the Uni
versity Building. In spite of its mod
ern date, it looks mellow and weather-
stained ; at the spring season of which
I speak an atmosphere of youthful
green and freshness permeates the whole
square, and seems by contrast to point
its air of picturesque age.

The neighborhood below the square
keeps the last-mentioned charm, but
effectually loses all claim to freshness
and dignity. A jumble of nationalities
infest the shabby old houses that have
known, unlike their occupants, better
days. From the window of a room that
I occupied at a period which I may
term my decadence I had a full view of
a row of these desecrated buildings.
Bed brick, three stories high, sometimes
with the addition of a slanting roof and
dormer windows ; the upper windows
with battered shutters, and dirty scraps
of curtain fluttering disconsolately when
a whiff of spring breeze loitered down
the street. Usually a squalid man or
woman lounged in these windows, in an
immemorial attitude an elbow on the
sill, and the chin resting in the palm of
one hand, looking out with careless sto
lidity. The lower floors were usually
turned into third-rate restaurants or
saloons, with brilliant signs above the
windows in various languages. Oppo
site my lodgings was a little eating-house
whose legend, emblazoned above the
door, captivated my fancy "Ladies and
Gents Chop Palace."

The host of the Chop Palace was one
Pierre Lepont, a stout Frenchman, who
had inherited his restaurant and its sign
from an American predecessor. He was

the ideal of a bon bourgeois. I never
looked at his broad, sallow face, radiat
ing good humor, his well-balanced head,
the curving, material sweetness of his
lips, that I did not instantly become
reconciled to life under its existing con
ditions. The impossible ceased to tan
talize me ; and the actual, no longer in
tolerable from its limitations, lay around
me full of good, if I would but stretch
out my hand and grasp it.

Next to this row of houses was an
alley, whose dirt and poverty was to that
of the street as a thousand is to one.
By leaning out of my window I could
catch a glimpse of the square calmly
beautiful and well ordered ; sometimes
irritating me by its contrast to my sur
roundings ; sometimes consoling me
with the thought that, at a moment s
notice, I could escape to it. My lodging-
house only boasted two stories ; my land
lady, a widow named Ellis, kept a flour
ishing bakery on the first floor, and lived
in two rooms behind her shop. I occu
pied the front room up-stairs, and Pin-
sing, an old violinist, the back room.
Pinsing was between fifty and sixty, tall,
thin, and gray-haired, with a visionary,
childlike look in his eyes. Sitting in
my room, at my easel, I experienced a
confusion of sensations. There arose
from below whiffs of baking pastry and
cake, and occasionally my landlady passed
my door. I traced a vague analogy be
tween her glossy brown hair and pink
cheeks and the chocolate and strawberry
iced cakes which graced her shop-win
dow. All this suggested a sort of Mo
hammedan s paradise of houris and deli
cious eatables. From the ad j oining room
came the sound of Pinsing s violin, al
loying the paradise with a musical In
ferno. Between these two influences I
found it hard to preserve an artistic
equilibrium.

I dignify Pinsing with the name of
violinist, but the fact that he possessed
a violin and continually played upon it
was his only claim to this title. I found
that he was first violin in a small orches-

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

121

tra of dubious quality. He practised all
day, and disappeared in the evening.
The scene of his labors was an obscure
Bowery theatre. Each night he crept
off on his pilgrimage, carrying his violin,
which was tenderly shrouded in green
baize and coffined in a little black casket.
It was curious to me that such an amount
of ardent labor should not produce a
more harmonious result. His playing
had all the most trying qualities of the
violin when badly played. His tone was
piercing and scraping, and at the same
time tremulously weak. He used to

Eractise the most intricate exercises for
ours, and then apparently regale him
self with some lofty composition. There
was a Beethoven concerto that he labor
ed through with futile incapacity. Still,
the mere sound of those notes in such
a place, and in such surroundings, drew
me to him with passionate sympathy.

" Who aims a star
Shoots higher far than he that aims a tree."

His efforts were like my own in try
ing to make my little flower of art
bloom in that harsh, unfruitful soil.

From motives of economy and con
venience I took my meals at "Pierre s,"
by which familiar term the Chop Pal
ace was usually indicated. My intima
cy with Pinsing, begun by civil greet
ings in the passage between our rooms,
was cemented at the restaurant. He
also dined there, and we fell into the
habit of sitting at the same table ;
across the somewhat dusky square of
table-cloth that divided us we ex
changed confidences. It is not neces
sary to specify mine. His had all the
tragi-comedy of mistaken effort. Music
in itself music and its world, where
only its priests serve at its high altar
was the mirage that had led him on.
As a boy in a New England village, he
fed his passion on such poor food as it
could find some stray books of sa
cred music, the family melodeon, and a
broken fiddle. A few years later, when
he had pushed his way to Boston, and
worked in a warehouse on one of the
wharves, the longing for a musical ed
ucation consumed him. His position
was a kind of slavery. He had chanced
upon a battered copy of Consuelo ; the

title-page was torn off, and in the most
thrilling passages whole pages were
gone.^ In his ignorance it read to him
like inspired history. The story of
Haydn seemed a divine message. Like
him, he would go to Italy, and seek a
Porpora, and brush his boots and mend
his clothes for the privilege of sitting at
his feet and learning of him. In a fit of
desperation he made his way, as a stow
away on an outgoing steamer, through
unheard-of miseries, as far as England ;
but he never reached the promised land.
One bright spot shone in the dark pict
ure of his struggle for life in England.
He found, at length, not a Porpora,
but the kindly organist of a church in
Liverpool. From him he gained what
knowledge of music he possessed. When
the organist left his post in Liverpool
for another city, he gave Pinsing two
things which fixed his destiny with a
fatal certainty his violin and an origi
nal autograph of Beethoven. The first
reigned in his heart his goddess, his
love ; the second was the embodiment of
his deity. He looked at it, and ap
proached it, with awe.

After our acquaintance had pro
gressed for some time, he invited me
to his dingy room, and showed me his
treasure. He had bought a good pho
tograph of Beethoven, and pasted be
neath it the precious autograph. The
whole was framed carefully, and covered
with glass. He dilated with an almost
crazy enthusiasm when he spoke of the
autograph.

" The first time I touched that writ
ing with my hand," he said, " I felt
as though the master s hand clasped
mine. I felt then as though I could in
terpret him rightly. I live for this to
stand between him and the world, that
it may know him through me."

His hope and enthusiasm were so un
dying that he did not realize that life
had slipped noiselessly by and found
him, nearing sixty, no nearer the fulfil
ment of his hopes than he had been as
a boy.

Below these heights on which he
dreamed he played an unconscious part
in a little comedy, which went on as if for
my benefit. Mrs. Ellis, our landlady, was
a simple soul without coquetry, despite
her good looks and widowhood of five

122

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

years standing. Between her and Pierre
of the Palace existed a friendlj 1 inter
course, the tokens of which I used to
watch from my window. Pierre supplied
her with hot chops and beefsteak, and
found it equally convenient when he
was short of pastry to run over to the
bakery, where Mrs. Ellis smilingly fur
nished him with all that he needed.
Pierre s attitude toward her was one of
evident courtship, which she received
with what was either unconsciousness
or indifference. My sense of the fitness
of things made me feel that they should
be united. As I sat in my room paint
ing, I used to hear their conversation
across the counter. Pierre, in his white
apron, would cross the street, and his
sonorous, even tones and Mrs. Ellis s
hearty laugh floated up to me. With
Pierre she was at ease, but Pinsing im
pressed her profoundly. She regarded
his spare form, his iron-gray hair, and
air of abstraction with evident admira
tion. Even what Pierre spoke of pity
ingly as his " thread-naked coat " failed
to detract from the respect she paid
him. She sometimes appeared in the
hall when he was playing, and leaned
against the open door of his room one
plump hand resting on her hip, her
handsome head bent forward in genuine
attention. When he perceived her, Pin-
sing would rise and offer her a chair with
punctilious civility, and then go on play
ing, forgetting her presence in five
minutes.

When we repaired to the restaurant,
Pierre showed his jealousy at this pref
erence in an openly childlike manner.
When Pinsing gave an order he affected
not to hear, if it were repeated, he
moved away with an absurd flounce and
pout, and called to his colleague, an oily,
active little Frenchman :

" Jules, servez monsieur ! "

The scornful emphasis on these words
contained all the contempt which he felt.
Sometimes the climax was capped by the
gratuitous appearance of Mrs. Ellis s
handmaid, a white, dejected little girl
of twelve, with what she called a " grape-
jell patty" for Mr. Pinsing s dessert.
On such occasions Pierre usually doffed
his apron and left the restaurant, not to
return until our short meal was over.
All this went on under Pinsing s feet, as

it were ; his head was in the clouds,
and he took no cognizance of what hap
pened upon earth. On mild afternoons
we went to the square, and sitting there,
talked idly beneath the light shadows of
the early foliage. It was on such occa
sions that Pinsing became eloquent.

"I am a fatalist," he used to say;
"my life has proved to me that all is
decided by fate. It was my fate to be
a musician; everything was against it.
By myself I could and can do nothing.
Again and again my destiny has been
decided without nay volition. When I
was despairing in Liverpool, there came
a musician who helped me in a way be
yond all that I had dreamed. When he
left me he gave me my violin and my
sacred relic. Then, when I most needed
it the spirit of the master musician filled
me. I have lived for music. For that
I have given up everything the love
of woman, the love of home. When
my musical destiny is accomplished, as
I feel it will be soon, all that will come.
In time it will come."

I looked at his haggard face and gray
hair. "In time!" I thought. "Make
haste, Pinsing ! "

He heartily despised the flimsy
waltzes and comic songs that he was
obliged to play every evening, and con
fessed that he became so weary of them
as to fall asleep in his chair in the or
chestra. One evening I went with him
to the theatre where he was employed.
It was a shabby place, and I stood in
the dusky flies and watched the prepa
rations for the performance.

Before Pinsing took his place in the
orchestra the manager spoke to him
sharply: "Look here now, Pinsing!" he
said. "Don t let your wits go wool
gathering, as they did last night, or
you ll go out of this double-quick."

The awkward eagerness with which
Pinsing promised attention had some
thing pathetic in it.

When the play began, at Pinsing s
suggestion, I took a seat in the gallery
and watched the performance of a roar
ing farce.

Between the acts I watched Pinsing.
He sat in the orchestra with an abstract
ed expression, playing mechanically.
During the last act, what with heat and
the noisy dulness of the farce I lost my

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

123

interest in it and fell into a reverie. I
was only aroused by a tap on my shoul
der. I turned and saw Pinsing standing
beside me ; his face was flushed with
excitement. The people about me were
leaving their seats, and I realized that
the play was over.

"What is it?" Tasked.

"Come with me," he answered. He
hurried me out of the building, and told
me in a few words that he had been dis
missed, owing to lack of interest and
inattention to his duties. The manager
had decided to fill his place with some
one else. He seemed rather elated than
otherwise at the loss of his position, and
talked of his freedom and the leisure
which he could now devote to his art.
After this he played furiously, not only
all day, but in the evening also. About
this time he gave up dining at the Pal
ace. When I asked him the reason, he
answered evasively that he had found a
place where the cooking suited him bet
ter. I noticed that his gait became
more feeble and his form more bent,
and I began to have a painful suspicion
that as his purse became lower he
starved in proportion. I followed him
one day as he shuffled off to his dinner,
and came up to him after a few blocks,
where he stood before a cake-stand eat
ing a sandwich. He started when he
saw me and tried to hide it behind his
back, pretending to examine a glaring
handbill on a wall near by. I humored
the poor fellow s ruse.

"Why, Pinsing," I said, "I have been
looking for you. Come and dine with
me. I haven t half the appetite I had
when you sat opposite to me."

He accepted half unwillingly, but I
could not persuade him to come again.

Mrs. Ellis looked at me so earnestly
one day, as I passed through the shop
on my way out, that I stopped and asked
her if she had spoken.

She blushed slightly. " Oh, no sir ! "
she said. Then she added, "Mr. Pin-
sing " she paused.

" Yes," I said, encouragingly.

"He looks sick."

"Yes, he does, Mrs. Ellis."

" Can t / do anything ? " She laid the
slightest emphasis on the pronoun.

" Try," I suggested, still more encour
agingly.

I do not know what her efforts were,
but they were not successful in improv
ing our friend s appearance. He became
perceptibly more haggard. Once, when
I attempted to hint gently that it would
be well for him to find some employ
ment, he waved me aside grandly, say
ing : " Do not distress yourself. I have
some views for the future that preclude
the necessity for any such arrangement."
All this time he looked curiously happv.
His devotion to his violin was intensi
fied ; I caught glimpses of his rapt face
as I passed his room when he was play
ing, and envied him his Fool s Paradise.
One evening, about seven o clock, I was
startled by his appearance at my door
in a dress-suit of extraordinary shabbi-
ness and age. He had his violin-case
under his arm, and was trembling with
excitement.

"I can tell you at last," he said. "I
have wished to tell you before, but I
waited until it was decided. The mo
ment of my life has come."

He gave me a crumpled programme,
printed on coarse white paper.

At the top was printed :

ORPHEUS HALL,

EIGHTH STREET AND THIRD AVENUE,
Thursday Evening, May 12, 188-,

AT 8 O CLOCK.
GRAND CONCERT.

Then followed the programme. After
a performance by the orchestra, a so
prano solo, and a solo on the guitar,
came the announcement that a violin
obligato would be performed by Mr.
Albert Pinsing.

Pinsing s solemn exultation was a
great deal too deep for words. In an
swer to my questions, I learned that if
he made a good impression he was to
be engaged to play at a series of con
certs to be given at the hall during the
summer. He gave me a ticket and left,
hardly waiting for my congratulations.
Before I went out I tried to find Mrs.
Ellis, to tell her of Pinsing s success, but
she was not to be found. My seat in
the concert-hall was not far from the
front ; and almost the first people I no
ticed were the missing widow and Pierre,
seated beside each other in their finest
attire. Mrs. Ellis s face was full of ex-

124

A YIOLIN OBLIGATO.

cited interest. Pierre was evidently too
happy to be witli her, on any terms, for
any other feeling but pleasure.

I glanced at the programme, and saw
that beneath Pin sing s name were the
words : " His first appearance" This
announcement struck me as being sin
gularly inappropriate, and even satirical.
The hall was gorgeously frescoed and
brilliantly lighted. The audience was
what might have been expected small
tradespeople, and a mixture of a rougher
element. A flashily dressed youth who
sat near to me remarked audibly to a
friend, " All our set are here to-night."

"Our set" was in an appreciative
mood, and received each performance
with much good-humored applause. Af
ter the orchestra had played a stirring
march, and a pretty young girl had sung
a popular ballad, a snub-nosed little man
made his appearance, carrying a guitar
and a chair. His face looked as if it
had been modelled by a child in put
ty, and then flattened against a wall.
There was a deep, knowing twinkle
in his eyes. He seated himself on a
chair and made a feint of playing on
his guitar, giving the while a rambling,
comic speech, full of local hits and
broad humor. Every sally was received
with more uncontrollable laughter, and
when he picked up his chair and left
the stage he was recalled with energetic
applause. He came back with an oblig
ing smile and seated himself again.
Then, as if he had forgotten something,
he rose hastily.

" Just excuse me for a moment, will
you ? " he said, colloquially. He left the
stage, and the audience waited breath
lessly for several minutes. Then, as he
did not return, the joke dawned on
them with a crushing completeness. It
was in the midst of the peals of laughter
that followed this stroke of comedy that
Pinsing made his appearance.

His shabby, antiquated figure and
wistful, moon-struck eyes were strange
ly out of keeping with the tone of the
place and the mood of the audience.
The laughter gradually died away, now
and then bursting forth in little jets of
remembered amusement. As he began
to play they eyed him with unrepressed
disapproval. I thought that I had re
alized the thinness and poverty of his

*, but it never struck me as keen
ly as in that large, echoing space. By a
fatal predilection he had selected the
Beethoven concerto. At its best ren
dering it would have been far above the
heads of his listeners. As he played it,
it lost almost all of its own beauty. He
was wretchedly accompanied by a small
orchestra, and the length of the piece
seemed interminable. The audience be
came restless, but Pinsing was uncon
scious of everything but his music. He
was filled with the dignity and beauty
of the music itself. It was plain that
the possibility that his listeners were
not in sympathy with him had not en
tered his consciousness.

At length he came to the end, and
stood motionless in a sort of dream. I
began to applaud ; but I was the only
person who did so, and several loud
hisses warned me to be silent. A mem
ber of the orchestra, in passing him,
touched him on the shoulder to remind
him that it was time to go. He started,
and after a puzzled stare bowed and
hurried off the stage. It is a slight
thing to say that he bowed, but a diffi
cult thing to describe. He held his vio
lin and bow above his head as far as
he could reach and bent almost double,
with an extraordinary scrape of his foot.
The audience was ready either to hiss or
to laugh, and his bow turned the scale.
They laughed and applauded vocifer
ously, finally stamping on the floor in
a kind of rhythm. Pinsing reappeared
with a glowing, transfigured face. The
applause, of which he missed the ridi
cule, intoxicated him like fine wine.
Beneath his excitement I saw that he
was unnerved by the strain of his emo
tion. He raised his violin and began
to play. Instantly a chorus of shouts
and hisses arose.

"Don t give us any more of that
scraping ! "

" Put up your fiddle ! Let s have that
bow again ! "

The rough element in the audience,
roused by the comic speech before Pin-
sing s performance, now broke forth.
Pinsing stopped playing and stood in
dazed bewilderment. The shouts were
redoubled, and as their full meaning
broke on him, he lingered a moment in
a sorrow-stricken stupor. Then, turn-

A l/IOLIN OBLIGATO.

125

ing suddenly, he left the stage with a
stumbling, wavering step. At the thresh
old of the stage-door he fell, dropping
his violin. Someone within helped him
to his feet and picked up the violin, and
the door was shut.

I left my seat, and, in spite of the prot
estations of one of the ushers, made my
way through one of the side passages to
the green-room. Quick as I was, some
one else had been quicker. Pinsing sat
in a chair, his gray head dropped in his
hands, a picture of broken, helpless
misery. Mrs. Ellis stood by him, her
hand on his shoulder, and tears of the
tenderest sympathy in her eyes. Pierre
was in the doorway, in his face a mixt
ure of jealousy and pity. Pinsing raised
his head and spoke convulsively, as if in
answer to Mrs. Ellis.

" Go home ! " he exclaimed. " I can t.
I haven t any home ! I have owed you
for my lodging for months. I haven t
a cent in the world. I thought I could
pay you after this ; but do you think
they would take me here now ? "

He stopped, and sank back in his
former despairing attitude.

"You re welcome to a place in my
house as long as you want to stay," said
Mrs. Ellis.

Her deep blush and the tremor in her
voice made her meaning, however un
conscious, unmistakable. Here was hap
piness prosaic, it is true, but none the
less actual knocking at Pinsing s door.
I think a glimmer of it dawned on him.
He staggered to his feet.

"You are a good, kind woman," he
said, brokenly, " but how can I accept
so much from you ? "

"All in time," I broke in, with a sud
den inspiration. " Mrs. Ellis is right ;
you ought to go home now."

His violin lay on the floor beside him.
I handed it to him, and as he took it I
saw that the violence of his fall had
broken both the strings and the sound
ing-board. He examined it in silence.

"It s too bad it s broke," murmured
Mrs. Ellis.

" It makes no difference," he answered,
with dead quietness. " I shall never play
again."

The manager came up with some
grudging apologies for the disturbance
in the house ; said he guessed such high

art wasn t exactly in their line. " About
that engagement," he added, in an un
dertone to Pinsing. " To tell the truth,
your style of playing don t exactly suit
here. We won t do anything more about
the matter now."

Our way home led through Washing
ton Square, and although I had helped
Pinsing, his weakness began to seem
alarming. He made no answer to my
remarks, but seemed to be lost in a pro
found reverie. We left the street and
came into the strange, shadowy region
of the square, where the electric lights
and the moonlight blended in a white,
unearthly radiance and cast exquisite
traceries of leaf and branch on the pave
ment. Pinsing suddenly swerved aside,
and sank on one of the benches.

"Let me rest here for a moment," he
said, tremulously. " I can t go any far
ther now."

I could not persuade him to go on ;
Mrs. Ellis and Pierre were walking slow
ly before us, but as we stopped they
turned back.

" Come home soon, Mr. Pinsing," said
Mrs. Ellis, " and well have some supper
together."

The moonlight gave her blooming
beauty a certain grace and refinement.
Pinsing thanked her with something of
his old manner ; after they left us he
was silent again, and this silence became
so oppressive that I broke it in self-de
fence.

" Come, Pinsing," I ventured to say,
" don t make it worse than it is. You
began in the wrong place. The best
musicians have had poor receptions.
Wagner s operas were hissed off the stage
in Paris."

He looked at me for a moment in si
lence. It seemed to me that the un
worldly, visionary enthusiasm of his ex
pression was gone, and that a hard,
desperate common-sense had taken its
place.

"Don t try and blind me any more,"
he said, coldly. " My eyes are open. It
is not long since I left that place, but I
have thought I have thought. I see my
self as lam." He emphasized these words
in a way that made me uncomfortable.
" I am a fool, and an old one, too. I have
no life to live over again. I have had
my lif e, and wasted it. I have dreamed,

126

A Y10LIN OBLIGATO.

but now I am awake awake awake"
He spoke with fierce energy.

The wind stirred the branches of the
trees, and the tracery on the silver
flooring at our feet wavered and dis
solved and formed silently into a million
new shapes. There was all of the mys
tery of ideal beauty in it, and the bitter
realism of his words had a sad inconse
quence.

" You have worked too long and too
patiently not to have some reward," I
cried, with a futile desire to console
him. " In time "

Pinsing interrupted me quickly. "In
time ! It is too late. I am not a mu
sician. I shall never be. I might have
been a good cobbler. My cursed vani
ty had led me all my life, but it is dead
now. It will never cheat me again."
He rose with nervous energy. " Come,
we are wasting words. The thing is
over."

He walked briskly for a couple of
blocks, but when we reached our door
his strength gave out suddenly.

"Come in," I urged. "Rest, and eat
something, and you will feel like a dif
ferent man."

"Eat!" he repeated, bitterly. "I
have starved for a month ; why should
I begin to eat now ? I can t pay for it."

" It isn t a question of paying," I
said. " It s a question of pleasing your
friends."

Mrs. Ellis met us in the door, her
face full of sound womanly tenderness.
She announced that supper would be
ready in a few minutes, and that Mr.
Lepont had gone over for a bottle of
wine. Pinsing said that he would leave
his violin in his room and come down
in a few minutes. I watched him go
feebly up the stairs, and heard the door
of his room shut. Mrs. Ellis invited
me into her little parlor behind the
shop, and I watched her as she set the
table for our supper. She was certain
ly kind and pretty. Why was not Pin
sing a lucky fellow ? Why should not
he be happy with her ? She had no ed
ucation, and he had ; but that was not
an obstacle to their happiness. When
supper was ready, and Pierre had re
turned with the wine, I went up-stairs,
at Mrs. Ellis s request, to call Pinsing.
I knocked at his door, but he did not

answer. I felt alarmed, and reproached
myself that I had not gone up with him.
I knocked again, and then, as there was
no reply, I opened the door and went in.

A faint smell of burning varnish
greeted me. A hot fire burned in the
little grate. Pinsing stood before it.
I looked involuntarily into the flames.
There I saw burning his violin and the
picture and autograph of Beethoven.
He had imbued me with his fantastic
awe of these relics.

" What are you doing, Pinsing ? " I
cried. " You will regret this."

He turned to me with a ghastly face.

"Let them alone ! " he said. " They
have cheated me long enough."

I stood by him while the fire burned
hotter. I felt as though I were attend
ing a veritable auto da fe, as the violin
and picture blazed up and smouldered
into red ashes.

Our landlady s voice rang up the
stairs.

" Come down to supper, gentlemen ! "

Pinsing straightened like a soldier.

" Come," he said to me, " I am old ;
but if I am worth anything, I can take
my chance for a new life."

I remember that he drank a great
deal of Pierre s wine that night, and as
he grew excited he seemed merry. For
the first time he seemed conscious of
the widow s devotion, and I consoled
myself, when the recollection of his dis
appointment returned, that he had,
doubtless, a comfortable future before
him.

At the end of three or four days my
surmise became a fact, and Pinsing in
formed me that he was to be married
in a week to Mrs. Ellis, at the nearest
Protestant chapel. During the inter
vening time Mrs. Ellis was filled with
proud happiness ; Pinsing treated her
with subdued gratitude, and helped her
in the shop, as salesman, with a fidelity
that was almost ludicrous. But if his
former failure had been lamentable, his
present success was pitiable. In the af
ternoon, when his duties were over, he
used to go up and sit in his room, with
his feet on the hearth, gazing blankly
into the fire-place, where his treasures
had disappeared. He took no interest
in the ordinary events of life, and si
lenced the widow s inquiries about his

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

127

violin by saying that he no longer pos
sessed it. His health failed rapidly,
and by the time the day for his mar
riage arrived he was ill in bed.

It was not strange that the mental
and physical strain he had borne for so
long a time should have its inevitable
result. Between Mrs. Ellis and myself
he was faithfully cared for, but he grew
rapidly worse. It w r as more a failure of
his powers than an illness, although
there were organic troubles that made
his rallying uncertain. Toward the
middle of each day he was dressed, and
would sit in a chair near the window
by the hour. The presence of a beautiful
young woman wonderfully freshened the
atmosphere of his musty room, but he
did not seem to notice the change. He
accepted the widow s devotion with gen
tle gratitude, but his depression was not
lightened. Once, as he sat in his usual
place by the window, I spoke to him of
her. She had just left the room, after
silently placing a little vase of flowers
beside him on the window-sill.

"She is very kind to you, Pinsing,"
I said.

He was moving the fingers of his left
hand rapidly, as though he were once
more playing on his beloved violin. He
gave me an absent, dubious look.

" Yes," he said, " very kind ; " he hesi
tated for a moment. "I think she likes
me," he added, deprecatingly.

"Certainly," I said, laughing.

" Even loves me perhaps ? " he went
on, looking at me with humble ques
tioning.

" Undoubtedly," I answered. A faint
satisfaction appeared in his face ; he
lifted the little vase of flowers and drew
a long breath of their sweetness.

" It s very strange," he murmured. " I
don t understand it ; I don t deserve it."

Then his look of absent misery re
turned, and he fell to poring over the
pages of a sheet of music that lay on
his knees.

One day, Pierre, who had been in
eclipse since the announcement of the
widow s approaching marriage, made his
appearance in Pinsing s room. He had
brought a little red wine for Monsieur
Pinsing. He presented it with large,
easy grace. His broad, handsome face
beamed with generous cordiality. Pin-

sing seemed quite overwhelmed with a
sense of his kindness. After the short
visit was over, he sat thinking pro
foundly for a moment. Then he spoke
with an acuteness that I had never seen
in him, except upon the evening of his
performance at the concert :

"Pierre would like to marry Mrs.
Ellis."

I tried to contradict him, but he si
lenced me.

"He is a good man. She could be
very happy with him."

This idea seemed to give him a curi
ous satisfaction.

" Not as happy as with you," I said.

" That is not true," he answered,
sharply. "I am an old and broken-
down man ; he is far younger than I,
and a strong, honest fellow."

Apparently he brooded over this idea,
for several times during the next few
days he referred to it. After this he
became weaker and more silent than
ever. One day, when I came in, after
having been out for two or three hours,
Mrs. Ellis asked me to go and sit with
him ; she said that she had some work
to do, and that he had already been
alone half an hour. I ran up-stairs ;
the door of his room stood open. The
summer heat was upon us at last, and the
room was flooded with the burning sun
shine. In its rays the faded red-ingrain
carpet and the shabby hair-cloth furni
ture showed with a certain obtrusiveness.
The bit of faded chintz that served as a
window-curtain flapped with a dull re
port against the sash, as little puffs of
hot wind blew in at the window. I saw
Pinsing lying on the floor near the fire
place. I thought he had fainted ; but
when I leaned over him, and looked at
his wasted face, I saw, with a shock that
was not all surprise, that he was dead.
One hand was flung out toward the
grate, where his treasures had been de
stroyed, as though in death he sought
to renew the allegiance he had tried so
hard to break.

Not long after Pinsing s death, as I
was coming down-stairs from my room,
I heard Pierre s voice in the shop. He
was speaking in a tone of urgent en
treaty, although I could not hear his
words.

128

A VIOLIN OBLIGE TO.

"Yes, Mr. Lepont," I hea^d Mrs.
Ellis say. " But poor Pinsing "

"Ah ! c est vrai," said Pierre. "Poor
Pinsing ! But enfin, madame, he is dead,
dead, and I am alive."

He spoke not cynically, but with
hearty practicality. Mrs. Ellis made no
reply, and I passed through the shop,
leaving her standing meditatively in the
doorway.

Not long after this the wheel of fort
une turned again, and took me away
from the region where Pinsing had lived
and died. I was not sorry to leave be
fore the consummation of Pierre s ardent
courtship, which was continued in spite
of the widow s unwillingness.

Before I went away Pierre told me.

with a beaming face, that he was to
marry Mrs. Ellis. I congratulated him,
and then, almost mechanically, echoed
the words I had heard the widow speak :
" Poor Pinsing ! "

" Yes ; but he had his chances," said
Pierre.

" How hard he worked, poor fellow ! "
I continued.

" He could not play," replied Pierre.
"He should have found it out, and
worked at something he could do. When
I was young I wished to be a great actor ;
but, my faith ! I soon found I could not
act, and so I kept a restaurant. At
present," he ended, complacently, "I
have enough. In this world it is a mis
take to be too ideal ! "

ENGRAVED BY W. 13. CLOSSON AFTKK A PHOTOGKAtH FUOM THE ORIGINAL.

JULIUS C/ESAR AS PONTIFEX MAXIMUS, FROM THE BUST IN THE MUSEO CHIARAMONTI, IN THE

VATICAN.

SCRiBNER s MAGAZINE.

VOL. I.

FEBRUARY, 1887.

Xo. 2.

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

By Jolm C. Ropes.

YEAKS ago, as
I well recollect,
my attention
was forcibly ar
rested by the
larger of the two
plaster casts of
Julius Csesar in
the series of the
Twelve Csesars
in the Boston
A t h e n e u m ,
which the late
Dr. Jacob Bige-
low so thought
fully presented
to that institu
tion. The small
er cast I did not
admire, but the

larger one seemed to me to be unmis
takably the head of a great man. The
extraordinary vigor, alertness, energy,
and determination shown upon the
rugged features of a man long past his
bodily prime never failed to make me
pause and admire. I could find out
nothing about either of the casts ;
whether anyone at the Athenaeum knew
where the originals of them w r ere to be
found, I know not ; it is, of course, very
possible ; but I certainly never came in
contact with any such person. And I
made up my mind that if ever chance
put it within my power, I would find
the original of that wonderful cast.
It so happened that in time my desire

From Mr. John Edward Lee s
" Roman Imperial Profiles En
larged from Coins."

was gratified. Circumstances led me to
spend nearly two years in Europe from
1873 to 1875. My winters were passed
in the south of France and in Italy. At
Florence I found the original of the
larger Athenaeum cast. I admired the
head in marble more, even, than I had
supposed I should do. I had it photo
graphed almost of the size of the bust it
self. Then it was, I think, that the idea
of making a collection of the authentic
likenesses of Julius Caesar first occurred
to me. It struck me that such a collec
tion would not only be unique, but that
it would be of great historical value, as
well as most interesting ; and I made it.
Whenever I saw a reasonably good like
ness of Cscsar I had it photographed,
where it was possible to do so. I
found that with a little money and pa
tience the obstacles in the way of obtain
ing photographs of these busts could,
in nearly all cases, be overcome. For
almost a dozen years this collection has
been in my library. I have added to it
from time to time, and now I am very
glad of this opportunity of showing
these pictures to the public, and of tell
ing their story as well as I can. Let me,
however, premise that I make no preten
sions to scholarship, and that there can
not be the smallest doubt that a really
good classical scholar, whose knowledge
of the modern languages would give him
access to the treasures contained in
the Italian and German libraries, could
find far more information about these

132

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

busts than I have been able to^ obtain, head is well covered with hair, and the
I hope, indeed, someone will take the whole appearance is that of a man not
subject up seriously, and pursue it thor- over thirty-five years of age.
oughly and systematically. Such a work Perhaps the next likeness in order of

time is the bust numbered
107 in the Museo Chiara-
monti, in the Vatican Mu
seum, at Rome * (Plate HI.).
This is well worth a careful
examination the features
are perfect ; the workman
ship excellent ; the expres
sion, so calm, penetrating,
serious, and determined,
is characteristic of all the
best likenesses of Caesar.
This bust is also note
worthy for showing very
clearly a mark by which one
can generally recognize the
authentic busts of Caesar,
namely, a scar, or furrow,
on the left side of the face,
caused, perhaps, by some
wound, or by some fistula
which had healed, or by the
removal of one or more
teeth. In this bust this pe
culiar feature is given with
great exactness. In some
busts it is passed over very
lightly ; but it is, I think,
always indicated. In the
toga statue of Berlin, which
we first mentioned, it is
clearly shown.

If I am right in my con-
might well be done at the expense of jectures, Caesar s face now filled out some
one or more of our great art galleries what, and our next pictures (Plates IV.

Plate I, The "Toga Statue" in the Museum of Berlin."

the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, or
the Metropolitan Museum in New York,
for instance and Harvard and Yale

and V.) are of a man in the neighbor
hood of forty. These are from the fa
mous Farnesiano bust in the Museum

might, with great propriety and advan- at Naples (No. 162), a colossal marble

tage, lend their assistance to the search.
We may, I think, consider the toga
statue* of Caesar in the Museum at
Berlin (No. 295, Roman Room) as the
earliest of all his likenesses. It is a
beautiful statue, and has always been
much admired (Plate I.). The head en
larged is also given in Plate n. Caesar

bust, absolutely perfect, of the gran
deur of which no picture can give one
any idea. I take this to be Caesar be
fore he went to Gaul, before he was sub
jected to the wearing fatigues and ex
posures of those active campaigns in
which the Swiss, the German, and the
Gaul went down before his untiring

is represented in the attitude of an ora- audacity and energy ; when he was still
tor, with the right arm extended. The a man of society, of pleasure, of politi-

* It is said by Liibke, Geschichte der Plastik, p. 272, that
the head does not belong to the body. In one of the de
scriptions of the antique statues in the Berlin Museum it is
said that the body was found, in 1824. near Rome, and that

cal affairs, and a civilian. The likeness
I should say, somewhat nattered ;

the head is from the Polignac Collection. Burckhardt,
Cicerone, p. 520, speaks highly of the head.

* A copy of this may be seen in the Palazzo Borghese,.
Settima Stanza.

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

133

Plate II. Head from the "Toga Statue."

and it is to be remarked that the furrow
on the left cheek, though indicated, is
smoothed away a good deal. Visconti,
in his description of the Museo Pio
Clemen tino (Rome, 1792,
vol. vi., p. 54), speaks of this
and of the statue in the
Capitol as the " two remark
able and not doubtful por
traits of Julius Csesar."

In the Hall of the Palace
of the Conservators, in the
Capitol, at Rome, is the
statue * referred to by Vis
conti, and there is certainly
a strong resemblance be
tween the head of this
statue and the Farnesiano
bust. But the statue is not
placed in a position favor
able for a close examination
of the features. Ampere
(L Histoire Romaine a
Rome, vol. iv., p. 469) con
siders this as the best statue
of Csesar extant, and perhaps
it is ; but it is not equal in
point of interest, in my judg
ment, to several of the busts.

Our next bust is of Csesar
the soldier. At the age of
forty-three he was given the

* Mr. Shakspere Wood, in his Cata
logue of the Capitol Museum, p. 137, says
that this statue was originally in the pos
session of Ruffini, Bishop of Melft. Burck-
hardt, in his Cicerone, p. 520, calls this
an inferior work of art.

command in Gaul, and he then com
menced that series of masterly cam
paigns which, described with admirable
clearness and point by himself, have
excited the admiration of all students
of the military art. No one can see
this portrait (Plate VI.), taken from the
bust in the Campo Santo in Pisa, and
fail to recognize in the alert, eager,
spirited countenance the face of a man
who has entered upon a new epoch in
his life ; has taken upon himself new
responsibilities ; has before his mind s
eye the exploits, the dangers, the suc
cesses of a war in which he was to com
mand the army. We might almost
write under it : " That day he overcame
the Nervii." Ampere (vol. iv., p. 468,
note) calls this "le portrait le plus car-
act er is e."

It will be observed that the scar or
furrow on the left cheek is well defined
in this bust.

To this period also belongs, in my

Plate III. Bust Numbered 107 in the Vatican Museum, Rome.

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

135

opinion, the admirable bust in the British
Museum (Plate YH.). A profile of this is
prefixed to Mr. Froude s brilliant sketch
of Caesar. The furrow on the left cheek
is to be seen in this bust, though not so
well marked as in the preceding one. In
this head we see the effect of several years
of hard campaigning upon Caesar s feat
ures. The severe lines of the mouth, the
sternness of the expression, show the in
domitable resolution of the conqueror of
Gaul. We can imagine this man at
Alesia.

Caesar seems to have aged rapidly at
this time of his life. The celebrated bust
in the Museum at Berlin
(No. 291, Eoman Boom), of
which we give two views
(Plates VUL and IX.), shows
him a decidedly older-look
ing man than when we last
saw him. His hair is thin
ner, the skin is drawn tightly
over his cheek-bones, and
there is a somewhat quieter,
less active look about him.
Yet there is the same intent,
watchful, penetrating eye,
and the same well-set mouth.
Plate VIH. shows distinctly
the scar on the left cheek,
and of the same shape and
character as in Plate UX

This bust is of green ba
salt, of beautiful workman
ship, and life-size or there
abouts. It is said that
Frederic the Great used to
have it on his study-table.
Burckhardt (Cicerone, p.
520, Basel, 1855) rates this
and the toga statue above
all the portraits in Rome
and Naples. Ampere refers
to it with approval (vol. iv.,
p. 468, note).

The marble bust in Flor
ence, in the Uffizi Gallery,
of the Athenaeum cast of
which I have spoken above,
comes, in my judgment, next in order of
time. Of this I am able to give three
views (Plates X., XI., and XII.). Of
these the first two photographs were
made by my order in 1874. The third,
which was sent me by a friend some
years later, I was very glad to get for

the following reason. Notwithstanding
the characteristic vigor and animation
of the countenance, the whole bearing of
which was so much like that of Julius
Caesar, there was in these photographs
which I had procured no very striking
similarity, as I was obliged to confess,
to any of the other likenesses. At the
time of which I am now speaking, also,
I did not have the profile photograph
of the Berlin bust, which I ordered made
when in Berlin in 1882, which resem
bles somewhat the profile of the Flor
entine bust. It is true that I saw that
this latter had been much injured and

Plate VI, Bust in the Campo Santo at P;sa.

was very much "restored," that the nose
was entirely new, and the lips so much
chipped away as greatly to injure their
expression, so that I could charge a part
of the unlikeness to this account. But
when I received the third photograph
of the Florentine bust (Plate XH.) my

136

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

Plate VII. Bust in the British Museum.

doubts vanished. For I then saw that it
was the same man, without possibility of
doubt, that is represented in the bust of
Caesar as Pontifex Maximus, of which I
shall next speak, and of which we have
a full-page illustration.

Before leaving the consideration of this
Florentine bust, I will say that I place it
among the very latest that were taken of
Caesar. Gibbon, who saw it in Florence
in 1764, calls it "remarkable." He goes
on to say : " All his features are con
tracted, and the air of the countenance
bears the most striking character of old
age and decay ; we can scarcely compre
hend that it is the bust of a man who
died in his fifty-sixth year." * But while
it is true that it is the head of an old
man, nowhere do we find the wonderful
vigor, alertness, coolness, and determina
tion of Caesar more clearly portrayed.
It is a great pity that this fine bust should
not have come down to us uninjured.

There is in the Palazzo Corsini, at

* Mommsen maintains that he was in his fifty-eighth
year when he was assassinated.

Rome, in the Second Koom,
a bust of Caesar much resem
bling this Florentine bust.

The most striking of all the
portraits of Julius Caesar is,
however, the bust in the Mu-
seo Chiaramonti, in the Vati
can (No. 135), representing
him as Pontifex Maximus, to
which we have alluded above.
An engraving of it forms the
frontispiece to this article.
Burckhardt (Cicerone, ubi su
pra), who speaks of its imper
fect execution, says it never
theless always attracted him,
with its earnest, suffering ex
pression of Caesar s counten
ance in his last years. Ampere
(Histoire, etc., p. 469) says of
it : " n existe au Vatican un
buste de Cesar, selon moi,
tresremarquable. Cesar est en
grand pretre, son manteau sur
la tete ; il semble plus vieux
qu il n etait au moment de sa
mort, ce qui s explique par les
desordres et 1 activite de sa
vie. La bouche exprime 1 en-
ergie et le dedain, le regard
est triste ; c est Cesar qui, ar
rive a, tout, las de tout, juge tout." " I
was much interested," writes Macaulay,
in 1838, " by the bust of Julius with the
head veiled. It is a most striking coun
tenance indeed. He looks like a man
meant to be master of the world " (Life
and Letters, vol. ii., p. 32).

Compare, now, with this portrait-head,
the copy given in Plate XH. of the Flor
entine bust. It is evident that the two
pictures represent the same man, only
that the head is turned in different direc
tions in the two busts. Hence my satis
faction when I saw by this comparison
the proof that the Florentine bust was
undoubtedly one of Julius Caesar.

If now we place by the side of the
veiled head the picture given in Plate
HI., of Caesar when comparatively a
young man, or at least a man in early
middle life, we shall see that we have in
this old man s head the same identical
traits which we saw in the beginning of
our search. There is the same clear,
calm, penetrating eye, the same well-
defined expression of the lips, the same

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

137

scar or furrow on the left cheek every
thing is the same, save as the features
are naturally affected by the stress
and toil and responsibilities and natu
ral infirmities of twenty or twenty-five
years.

We have now seen, in their turn,
nearly all the authentic likenesses of
Julius Caesar, and we can, I think, trace
the resemblances in each to the others
from the first to the last. I have not a
particle of doubt that all these are por
traits of Caesar made in his lifetime ;
they all have the same char
acteristics, and in no one of
them, save the colossal bust at
Naples, is there any attempt
at flattery. We can, therefore,
as it seems to me, get a very
correct idea of Caesar s ap
pearance.

There are other likenesses of
Caesar, however, which claim
our attention. The first among
these is the bronze bust in
the Villa Ludovisi (No. 27), at
Rome, of which we give a pict
ure here (Plate XIEL). Many
rank this as among the best
(so Murray s Guide-Book, p.
343 ; Braun, Ruins and Monu
ments of Rome, p. 355). Am
pere, however (Histoire, etc.,
p. 469), makes this, to my
thinking, more pertinent crit
icism : " Le buste de la Villa
Ludovisi passe pour le plus
ressemblant ; il a un carac-
tere tres-individuel, mais qui
manque entierement de gran
deur, et 1 air assez piteux et
grognon. n est impossible
que Cesar ait eu cet air-la."
This bust differs so much from
the others, it lacks so utterly
the alert, energetic, vigorous
attitude and expression that are so plain
on each and all of them, that I cannot
but regard it as the work of some artist
who never saw Caesar at all, but who
depicted him as he imagined he must
have looked when carrying the respon
sibilities of the w r orld 011 his shoulders.
It resembles in this respect Paul Dela-
roche s famous picture of Napoleon at
Fontainebleau, now in the Metropolitan
Museum in the Central Park in New

York a striking picture, but a much-
idealized portrait.

To the same category belongs the
bronze bust in the Uflfrzi Gallery, at Flor
ence, which resembles greatly the Ludo
visi bust. Burckhardt actually doubts
its genuineness ; but it is certainly very
like the Ludovisi bust, and there can be
little doubt that it was intended as a por
trait of Caesar. As a likeness it is prob
ably without value.

There is also a draped marble bust in
the Palazzo Casale, at Rome, much resem-

Plate VIII. The Green Bas

Museum at Berlin.

bling this. Shakspere Wood, in his
Catalogue of the Capitol Museum (p. 96),
speaks of this.

I have mentioned the smaller of the
two casts in the Boston Athenaeum. The
original of this is the marble bust of
Caesar in the Hall of the Emperors in the
Capitol Museum, at Rome (Plate XIV.).
It is certainly not much like the portraits
we have been looking at. Its genuine
ness is denied by Ampere, and, I think,

138

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

also by Shakspere Wood. However, it
was the bust selected by the Italian Gov
ernment to be copied for the series of
busts of the great men of Italy, arranged
in chronological order on the Pincian
Hill. But I confess I never was im
pressed by it.

Our next picture (Plate XV.) is of the
only bust of Csesar in this country. It
is the property of General Henry L. Ab
bot, of the Corps of Engineers, United
States Army, and it was given to his
grandfather, in 1812, by a gentleman of

Plate IX. Profi-le of the Green Basalt Bust.

Naples named Radich, who had himself
taken it from the excavations at Hercu-
laneum. The bust is, unhappily, much
injured the nose is gone, and the upper
lip much defaced ; nevertheless it strong
ly resembles the Pontif ex Maximus bust.
It is small in fact, not larger than our
picture of excellent marble, and is beau
tifully executed. The attitude and pose
of the head are fine, and full of spirit.

There are three busts in the Louvre
that are said to be portraits of Julius
Caesar, but I can observe no resemblance
to his countenance as I find it elsewhere
expressed save in one of them. This,
of which a representation is here given
(Plate XVI.), is certainly a very remark

able and interesting head, not, perhaps,
bearing a well-defined likeness to the
others which we have seen, yet suffi
ciently characteristic for us to be able to
feel satisfied that it is a portrait of Csesar.
Much of the difference between this bust
and the others may be attributed, I am
inclined to think, to the fact that in this
one Csesar seems to be represented in
the attitude of a man engaged in con
versation, or at least in the attitude of a
listener. It is evidently from this origi
nal that Gerome got his idea of Csesar
in his well-known picture of " Cleopatra
before Caesar."

There is a very poor bust in the Hall
of the Busts (No. 272) in the Vatican
Museum, at Home, which is said to be
Csesar.

Ampere (Histoire, etc., p. 468, note)
speaks of the Csesar of the Villa Albani,
at Rome, but I never could find any bust
or statue of him there, nor is any men
tioned in the official catalogue. There
is, however, a profile of a head (No. 901),
life-size, on the grand staircase, which
does bear some resemblance to Csesar.

Somewhere in Venice, but exactly
where I do not now remember, is a mar
ble bust said to be of Csesar. But it
bears no likeness whatever to his other
portraits, and was clearly not intended
for him.

There is also another marble bust said
to be of Csesar in the Boman Room in
the Berlin Museum, No. 380. This I
never have seen, nor did I know of its ex
istence when I was last in Berlin.

In Mr. John Edward Lee s Roman
Imperial Profiles Enlarged from Coins
(London, Longmans, 1874) there is a
good profile of Julius Csesar.

It may, perhaps, now be interesting to
cite the descriptions of Csesar s appear
ance by the principal historians of his
time. They all, of course, draw largely
from Suetonius (Julius, cap. xlv.), and
somewhat, also, from Plutarch.

Froude (pp. 482, 483) says : "In per
son Csesar was tall and slight. His feat
ures were more refined than was usual
in Roman faces ; the forehead was wide *
and high, his nose large and thin, the
lips full, the eyes dark gray like an

* I think this somewhat doubtful (see Plates VI. and
VII.). The truth is, I think, that Caesar s forehead was
rather narrow, and that his head widened out behind it, so
that at or above the ears it was a remarkably broad head.

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS CAESAR.

139

eagle s, the neck extremely thick and
sinewy. His complexion was pale. His
beard and mustache were kept care
fully shaved. His hair was short and
naturally scanty, falling off toward the
end of his life and leaving him perfectly
bald."

Napoleon HI. writes : " His tall stat
ure, his rounded and well-proportioned
limbs, stamped his person with a grace
that distinguished him from all others.
He had black eyes, a piercing look, a
pale complexion, a straight and high
nose. His mouth, small and regular,
but with rather thick lips, gave a kindly
expression to the lower part of his face,
whilst his breadth of brow betokened
the development of the intellectual facul
ties. His face was full, at least in his
youth ; for in his busts, doubtless made
toward the end of his life, his features
are thin and bear traces of fatigue."
(History of Julius Csesar, p. 288, New
York, 1865.)

"The accounts we have received of
Caesar s person," says Merivale (History
of the Romans under the Empire, vol.
iii., pp. 4, 5), " describe him as pale in
complexion, of a tall and spare figure,
with dark piercing eyes and an aquiline

Plate X. The Marble Bust at Florence.

Plate XI. The Marble Bust at Florence.

nose, with scanty hair and without a
beard. His baldness, which he strove
to conceal by combing his locks over
the crown of his head, was regarded by
the ancients as & deformity, and a slight
puffing of the under lip, which may be
traced in some of his best busts,* must
undoubtedly have detracted from the
admirable contour of his countenance.
\Ve can only infer indistinctly his ap
pearance in early life from the busts and
medals which remain of him ; for all of
these belong to the period of his great
ness and more advanced age. In the
traits which these monuments have pre
served to us there is also great diver
sity. Indeed, it may be said that there
is a marked discrepancy between the
expression of the busts and that of the
medals. The former, which are assured
ly the most life-like of the two, represent
a long, thin face, with a forehead rather
high than capacious, furrowed with
strong lines, giving to it an expression
of patient endurance and even suffer
ing, such as might be expected from
frequent f illness, and from a life of toil
not unmingled with dissipation."

* Dr. Merivale must refer here, I think, to the bnm/.e
bust in the Ufflzi Gallery, iu Florence, and to the Ludoviti
bust in Rome. None of the others show any indication of
the peculiarity he mentions. In most of them the lips
close firmly, and, in fact, beautifully.

t According to Suetonius, Csww en joyed excellent health,
except toward the close of his life. Fronde (p. 489) says :
" His health was uniformly strong until his last year.

140

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS CAESAR.

Plate XII. The Marble Bust at Florence.

There is, however, nothing in Csesar s
features that suggests a dissipated man.
There is not a trace of sensuality in his
countenance. On the contrary, not only
is the expression markedly intellectual,
but there is a calm and genuine
seriousness characterizing these
portraits from first to last. This
is, perhaps, particularly to be seen
in Plates HI., IV., and IX., and in
the full-page illustration, but the
other likenesses are by no means
out of keeping. They, or some of
them, bring out into prominence
the more masculine and resolute
side of his nature ; but there is no
need to say that courage and de
termination are not inconsistent
with a serious and earnest habit
of mind. In fact, I know of no
likenesses of the great men of an
tiquity, if we except M. Aurelius,
that compare with these of Julius
Csesar in the indications of what
we call "character." We can, I
think, see this character maturing
and strengthening from his early
manhood to his last years. The earnest
and thoughtful face depicted in Plate
HI. undergoes the inevitable changes
brought about by responsibilities and
anxieties in a life so full of activity as

was Csesar s ; in the busts at Pisa, Lon
don, Berlin, and Florence, we see the
unmistakable marks of a stormy career.
The Pontifex Maximus bust of the Vati
can, however, shows us a man old and
worn, yet still retaining the calm and
serious expression wilich we saw at the
first. An air of serenity pervades the
features. The face has that look of ex
perience, of matured wisdom, of kindly
and considerate judgment, which it is
always so good to see in a man who has
taken an active part in the great strug
gles of his generation.

The portrait of Caesar by Professor
Mommsen may be aptly cited in this
connection, although it is by no means
chiefly confined to his physical traits :
"The new monarch of Home, the first
ruler of the whole domain of Romano-
Hellenic civilization, Gaius Julius Cse-
sar, was in his fifty-sixth year (born
July 12, 652?) when the battle of
Thapsus, the last link in a long chain of
momentous victories, placed the deci
sion of the future of the world in his
hands. Few men have had their elas
ticity so thoroughly put to the proof as
Csesar the sole creative genius pro
duced by Borne, and the last produced

Plate XIII. The Bronze Bust in the Villa Ludovisi.

by the ancient world, which accordingly
moved on in the track that he marked
out for it until its sun had set. Sprung
from one of the oldest noble families of
Latium, which traced back its lineage

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAR.

141

to the heroes of the Iliad and the kings
of Rome, and in fact to the Venus-Aph
rodite common to
spent the years of

early manhood as the genteel youth of
that epoch were wont to spend them.
He had tasted the sweetness as well as
the bitterness of the cup of fashionable
life, had recited and declaimed, had
practised literature and made verses in
his idle hours, had prosecuted love-in
trigues of every sort, and got himself
initiated into all the mysteries of shav
ing, curls, and ruffles pertaining to the
toilette-wisdom of the day, as well as
into the far more mysterious art
of always borrowing and never
paying. But the flexible steel of
that nature was proof against
even these dissipated and flighty
courses ; Caesar retained both his
bodily vigor and his elasticity of
mind and heart unimpaired. In
fencing and in riding he was a
match for any of his soldiers,
and at Alexandria his swimming
saved his life. The incredible
rapidity of his journeys, which
usually, for the sake of gaining
time, were performed by night
a thorough contrast to the pro
cession-like slowness with which
Pompeius moved from one place
to another was the astonish
ment of his contemporaries, and
not the least among the causes
of his success. The mind was
like the body. His remarkable
power of intuition revealed itself
in the precision and practicabil
ity of all his arrangements, even
where he gave orders without
having seen with his own eyes.

rank, he maintained noble relations of
mutual fidelity with each after his kind,
both nations he As he himself never abandoned any of
his boyhood and his partisans after the pusillanimous
and unfeeling manner of Pompeius, but
adhered to his friends and that not
merely from calculation through good
and bad times without wavering, several
of these, such as Aulus Hirtius and
Gaius Matius, gave, even after his death,
noble testimonies of their attachment to
him.

" If in a nature so harmoniously organ
ized there is any one trait to be singled
out as characteristic, it is this that he

Plate XIV. Bust

His

rors, Capitol Museum at

memory was matchless, and it was easy
for him to carry on several occupa-

stood aloof from all ideology and every
thing fanciful. As a matter of course,
Caesar was a man of passion, for with-

tions simultaneously with equal self- out passion there is no genius ; but his
possession. Although a gentleman, a passion was never stronger than he could
man of genius, and a monarch, he had
still a heart. So long as he lived he
cherished the purest veneration for his
worthy mother, Aurelia (his father hav
ing died early) ; to his wives, and above
all to his daughter Julia, he devoted an
honorable affection which was not with

out reflex influence even on political
affairs. With the ablest and most excel
lent men of his time, of high and humble

control. He had had his season of
youth; and song, love, and wine had
taken joyous possession of his mind,
but with him they did not penetrate to
the inmost core of his nature. Litera
ture occupied him long and earnestly ;
but while Alexander could not sleep
for thinking of the Homeric Achilles,
Caesar in his sleepless hours mused on
the inflections of the Latin nouns and

142

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C/ESAK.

Plate XV. Bust, Actual Size, owned by General Henry L.

Abbot.

verbs. He made verses, as everybody
then did, but they were weak ; on the
other hand, he was interested in sub
jects of astronomy and natural science.
While wine was, and continued to be.
with Alexander the destroyer of care,
the temperate Roman, after the revels
of his youth were over, avoided it en
tirely. Around him, as around all those
whom the fuU lustre of woman s love
has dazzled in youth, fainter gleams of
it continued imperishably to linger ;
even in later years he had his love-ad
ventures and successes with women, and
he retained a certain foppishness in his
outward appearance, or, to speak more
correctly, a pleasing consciousness of
his own manly beauty. He carefully
covered the baldness which he keenly
felt with the laurel chaplet that he wore
in public in his later years, and he would
doubtless have surrendered some of
his victories if he could thereby have
brought back his youthful locks. But
however much, even when monarch, he
enjoyed the society of women, he only
amused himself with them, and allowed
them no manner of influence over him ;
even his much-censured relation to
Queen Cleopatra was only contrived
to mark a weak point in his politi
cal position." (Mommsen s " History of
Rome," vol. iv., chap, xi.)

It does not fall within the scope of
this article to attempt even a sketch of
Caesar s life and work. But if these por
traits have interested any of my readers
sufficiently to induce them to search the
authorities, I commend them to Froude s
most interesting and valuable biography
written with sincere admiration for
Csesar s character, and with a deep
sense of the value of what he achieved.
Mommsen, too, from whose brilliant
portrait of Csesar I have quoted a few
paragraphs, takes the highest and most
comprehensive view of Csesar s aims and
plans, and he describes them with a tem
pered enthusiasm which is delightful. On
the other hand, Professor Seeley, in his
"Essays on Roman Imperialism," ranges
himself on the other side. He contends
that many of the benefits which resulted
to the Roman world from the success of
Csesar were not contemplated by him,
and he warns us against an overestimate
of the loftiness of his aims and the com
prehensiveness of his plans. On this,
as on most subjects, opinions differ ;
but, at any rate, the field has been pretty
thoroughly explored. Nothing can be
more modern, so to speak, than the
times of Julius Csesar, as we see them
under the guidance of these historians.
And I think I may venture to hope that
the collection of portraits which we have

Plate XVI. One of the Three Busts in the Louvre.

just been examining will add something
of personal interest to our study of this
most interesting period.

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE;

OR, THE POSTHUMOUS JEST OF THE LATE JOHN AUSTIN.

By J. S. of Dale.
PAET FIEST: THE WILL.

I. ULYSSES AND PENELOPE.

ON the morning of August 14th, in
this last summer, Mr. Austin May
alighted at the little Cypress Street sta
tion of the Boston & Albany Railroad,
and, accompanied only by a swarthy and
adroit valet, and a very handsome St.
Bernard dog, got into the somewhat anti
quated family " carryall " which awaited
him, and drove away. May was a stranger
to the man in charge of the station, as
well as to the wide-awake trio of boys
who made it a sort of club, their ex
change of gossip, and pleasure resort ;
and thus his arrival was unnoticed and
unrecorded, though his last absence had
extended over a period of several years.
It was a most oppressive day ; and what
few human beings were dressed and
stirring made haste to get beneath the
dense foliage, or plunge into the nu
merous private-paths and short-cuts
with which the suburb of Brookline is
provided ; leaving the roads and their
dust undisturbed, except by the sedate
progress of the old carryall, which left
behind it, suspended in the air, an
amazing quantity of the same, consider
ing its speed, and quite obscured the
morning sun with its golden cloud.
Austin May might have been an enter
ing circus procession, and no one would
have found it out. Even the boys at
the station were sluggish, and indis
posed to " catch on " behind every train,
much less to give their particular atten
tion to one undistinguished stranger,
with or without a dog.

May lit a cigar, and the carryall and
its occupants lumbered along unheeded.
The road was walled in and roofed over
by a dense canopy of foliage, borne by
arching American elms ; and through
its green waUs, dense as a lane in Jersey,
only momentary glimpses were to be
had of shaven lawns and quiet country-

houses. When they came to a gate,
with high stone posts, topped by an
ancient pair of cannon-balls, the carry
all turned slowly in. A moment
after they had passed the screen of
border foliage May found himself in
the midst of a wide lawn and gar
den, open to the sunlight, but rimmed
upon all points of the compass by a
distant hedge of trees, so that no
roads, houses, thoroughfares, or other
fields, were visible. In the centre of
this stood, with much dignity, an
elderly brick house, its southern wall
quite green with ivy. In front of it was
a large pavilion, some hundred yards
removed, low and stone-built, rising
without apparent purpose from the side
of an artificial pool of water, rimmed
with rich bands of lilies.

The carryall stopped before a broad,
white marble step at the front door ;
and the Charon of the conveyance,
known locally as " the depot-man," hav
ing dumped the one leather trunk upon
the step, stood looking at the stranger
contemplatively, as if his own duties in
this world were all fulfilled.

" How much ? " said May.

"Twenty-five cents," said the depot-
man.

May pulled out a half-dollar. "No
matter about the change," he added, as
the depot-man hitched up his vest, pre
paratory to fishing in his cavernous
trousers for the requisite quarter.

The depot-man changed his quid of
tobacco, and drove oft* without a word,
the downward lines from the corners of
his mouth a shade deeper, as if he
profited unwillingly by such unneces
sary prodigality, which aroused rather
contempt than gratitude. May waited
until the carryall had quite disappeared
in the elm-trees, and then rang the bell.
Apparently, he expected no prompt an
swer ; for he sat down upon one of the

144

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

old china garden-seats, which flanked
the door, and rolled and lit a cigarette.
After a few minutes he rang again,
louder ; the unwonted tinkle reverber
ated through the closed house, and an
imaginative man, putting his ear to the
key-hole, might have heard the scuffle
of the family ghosts as they scurried
back to their hiding-places. At last an
uncertain step was heard in the hall,
and after much turning of keys and
rattling of chains, the door was slowly
opened by an old woman, who blinked
at the flood of sudden light which
poured in, rebounded, eddied, and at
last filled each corner of the fine old
hall.

" Mrs. Eastman, I suppose ? "

" That s my name," said the woman,
in a strong down-east accent.

"I am Mr. May," said he.

The woman glared at him as before,
and did not compromise her dignity by
a courtesy. "Mr. Eastman got your
letter," said she, " and I have got your
room ready. Will you go there now?
I don t know who s to carry up your
trunk."

May s valet solved that difficulty by
shouldering the leather receptacle and
carrying it up himself. The room was
large, airy, and neatly kept. A straw
matting was on the floor, covered here
and there with well-worn rugs ; and
from about the windows came a twitter
ing of birds. All in it indicated, not a
new and modern house, but the well-
worn nest of a family that had been
born, cried, laughed, played, made love,
and died, in every room. Yet there was
no evidence of recent occupation ; the
room was innocent of those last touches
which are the pride of the feminine
housekeeper ; curtains, splashers, anti
macassars, were few ; and no twilled,
frilled, or pleated things infested the
windows, and impeded the entry of the
outer air. May opened the door of a
large closet ; it was empty, save for a
broad, white, chip hat of prehistoric fash
ion, and ribbons of faded rose-color ;
but, if it had belonged to a daughter of
the house, it was evident that its owner
was either dead or married, and her
womanly activity was exercised in other
locuses and focuses. No other mani
festation of what Goethe impatiently

calls the " eternal woman " was present ;
and May s expression almost approached
to a smile as he opened the door of the
spacious bath-room, and noted the naked
mantels and marble slabs, unencumbered
by china dogs, translated vases, and
other traps for the unwary. On the
shelf was a noble pile of rough and man
ly towels, and as he turned the faucet,
he found that the water was copious and
cold. From all this you may infer that
Mr. Austin May was a bachelor. I have
committed myself to no such statement
as yet, and May himself would have been
the first to term your curiosity at the
present stage of your acquaintance with
him an impertinence. As he turned
away from the bathroom the smile of
satisfaction died away upon his lips.
Mrs. Eastman was still standing at the
door, the incarnation of the custodian,
in iron-gray rigidity of dress, and equi
lateral triangularity of white fichu.

"Everything seems to be all right,
Mrs. Eastman," said he, graciously.
(Behold how simple are the needs of
men give them but fresh water, space,
and peace, and their desires are filled ;
while womankind are otherwise.)

"Everything is all right," broke in
Mrs. Eastman, like the offended Vestal
deity, at a statement implying contrary
possibilities. Then again she congealed.

May looked at her more closely, with
a slight shade of annoyance. How was
he to get rid of this woman ?

"You must have had a sadly lonely
life here, Mrs. Eastman," said he, by way
of placation. And lo ! the flood-gates
were loosened and the tide poured forth.
Who ever could have suspected Mrs.
Eastman of gregarious instinct? As
well have fancied her loquacious. As
Moses s wand upon the rock of Horeb, so
an adroit phrase addressed to woman
kind.

"I have not complained, Mr. May;
and nobody can say that I have n t done
by you as if it were my own house that
I was living in, and the water-back out
of order all the time, and the pipes
freezing all the winter ; and Mr. East
man, says he, we must have a furnace
fire and I say no, it ain t of enough ac
count for us two old people, and so we
sit by the kitchen stove, and my sister,
Mrs. Tarbox, with her four children and

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

145

the scarlet fever, over at Roxbury, and
nobody to provide for em, for John
Tarbox says I to Cynthia when he
come up to Augusta from the Provinces
(I come from Augusta, Maine, Mr. May),
he ain t but a shiftless fellow, you mark
my words, says I ; and says she, you let
me alone, Miranda, and I ll do as much
by you, s she ; an so it turned out,
an many s the time I ve said to Mr.
Eastman, Mr. Eastman, I must go an
see Cynthia s s I, for there she is on
her back, with her hands full of chil
dren, an no one to do for em but just
John Tarbox ; an s s he, Miranda, it
would be tempting Providence for you
to go with your rheumatism, an s s I,
I can t help that, Mr. Eastman (he s a
member o the church, Mr. Eastman),
I guess Providence ain t got no more to
say about it than my horse-chestnuts in
my dress pocket, an I always wear
flannel next my skin ; an s s I, I d go,
come what may, but for Mr. May s sil
ver, s s I (I keep it under my bed, Mr.
May, and have slept upon it every mor
tal night since I took this house), an I
know I saw a moth in the best parlor
last week, an the furniture not beaten
since April ; an so six weeks gone since
I saw my sister ; an since there s a
foreigner in the kitchen, s I to Mr.
Eastman, Mr. Eastman "

" My dear Mrs. Eastman," interposed
May, gently, "I had no idea you thought
it necessary to stick so close to the
house. Now I beg that you will go at
once. My servant will get all I want
for dinner. You and Mr. Eastman
must both go, and don t think of com
ing back before to-morrow haven t you
any other visits to pay ? "

Mrs. Eastman, who had started at the
" my dear Mrs. Eastman " as if May had
offered to kiss her, admitted, ungra
ciously, that her husband s sister lived
in Jamaica Plain. But the foreign
valet was, evidently, still in her mind ;
and, after sundry prognostications
as to the domestic evils to result from
" that man s " presence in the kitchen,
she finally removed herself, with some
precipitation, only when May began to
take off his coat. Left to himself, May
resumed his coat, drew a chair to the
window, sighed, and lit a cigarette.
Mrs. Eastman s disappearance was fol-
VOL. I. 10

lowed by a distant shriek ; and shortly
afterward there was a slight scratching
at the door. May opened it, and the
St. Bernard dog walked gravely in and
stretched himself by the chair ; a cer
tain humorous expression about his
square jowl indicating that he had
been the cause of the shriek in ques
tion. It was a bad quarter of an hour
for Mrs. Eastman s nerves. Fides was
the dog s name, and his master patted
his head approvingly.

May sat clown again, and his eye roamed
over the stretch of green turf, a view
broken above by the huge arms of but-
tonwood, and canopies of English elm.
Shortly afterward he saw the valet
emerge from a side entrance, and step
hastily across the lawn into the shade of
a great hemlock, where he stood, ges
ticulating wildly. A minute or two
later Mrs. Eastman, in an India shawl
and purple bonnet, appeared in prog
ress down the carriage-road, limply ac
companied by her lord and master.
When she disappeared, with her hus
band and a red and roomy carpet-bag,
behind the avenue of elms, the sinuous
oriental emerged from the hemlock, and
shook his fist. May lit a large cigar,
the valet returned to the house, and no
sound was audible but the chirping of
the birds, the rustle of leaves, and the
dignified and heavy breathing of the
hound of St. Bernard.

n. THE PAVILION BY THE LILIES.

As MAY was knocking off the last
white ash from his cabana, his servant
knocked softly, entered and bowed.
Eising, May, followed by the St. Ber
nard, descended and entered the din
ing-room. Upon the walls were six
pictures, four of which were portraits
of persons, and two of indigestible
fruit. The portraits were all Copleys
and comprised, first, a gentleman in a
red coat and a bag-wig ; second, a young
lady with a sallow complexion and a
lilac satin dress cut so low that only
a profusion of lace concealed her de
ficiencies of figure ; third, an elderly
scholar with long transparent fingers
and sinister expression ; fourth, a nice
old lady with a benignant grin. Upon

146

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

the table was a snowy cloth and a glori
ous breakfast, consisting of a ftsh, a
bird, a peach, and a pint of claret. The
genius who had wrought this miracle
disappeared, and May was left undis
turbed.

The fish had gone the way of all flesh,
and the bird had gone the way of the
fish, and the last glass of Leoville was
awaiting translation, when there was a
sound of carriage - wheels upon the
gravel. May started. The glass of
claret crashed untasted to the floor,
and its owner sprang upon his feet
and fled precipitately. Just as the
door-bell rang, he escaped from the
garden door of the hall and plunged
into a maze of shrubbery ; with a hur
ried sign to the silent servant as he
passed. Rapidly and circuitously he
circled back behind the hedges until
a successful flank movement brought
him to the main driveway at the point
where he remembered Mrs. Eastman
had disappeared; here by a bold dash
he secured the front lawn ; and a few
cautious steps brought him to the side-
door of the large low stone pavilion
aforementioned. Drawing a brass key
from his pocket, he managed to turn a
grating lock and entered. The door
closed behind him and was carefully
bolted on the inside. The interior was
quite dark ; but May cautiously felt his
way to one of the front windows, and
opening the sash, turned the slats of
the blind to a horizontal position.
Through this he peered, breathless
with his run. At the front door of the
house was the same carryall that had
brought him from the station ; but its
occupants were not visible. May saw
the St. Bernard dog silently threading
his way through the bushes, his nose
upon the trail ; a minute later, and he
scratched upon the door of the pavilion.

" Hush," hissed May angrily.

The dog scratched, softly. With an
impatient imprecation, May opened it ;
the dog had a bit of paper in his mouth.
May snatched it eagerly.

" Madame d Arrebocques " was written
upon it, in the hand of Schmidt, his
valet. " Elle doit attendre."

Madame d Arrebocques? May knew
no such person. Madame d Arrebocques ?
Why should she write? Why had she

not sent her card ? Had Schmidt spelled
the name right? Ah! at last he had
it, thanks to Mrs. Eastman s garrulity.
This could be no other than Cynthia
Tarbox, the ill-married sister of Miranda
his chatelaine. And ill-mannered for
tune ! they had missed each other on
the way. Mrs. Eastman might return
at any moment. As he pondered, the
carryall moved slowly off; but as it
passed the window, he noted that it
contained no other figure than the sta
tion-master. The woman, then, was
left behind.

May tore out a card and wrote upon
it, in German, Sie muss fort / and handed
it to Fides, the dog, who trotted silently
off. What means Schmidt used, May
never knew ; but some ten minutes later,
four children came screaming down the
avenue, running and gasping for breath,
followed by a thin and wiry woman, robed
in a flapping whitey-brown duster, whose
haste and streaming bonnet-ribbons bore
every evidence of extreme mental per
turbation.

Shortly afterward Schmidt himself
appeared, in his hands an empty glass
and another bottle of the same claret.
By a refinement of delicacy, but just
one glass of wine was left in the bottle.
"Monsieur n a pas fini son dejeuner"
said he ; and May took the glass with
trembling fingers, and finished it at
a draught.

"Schmidt," said he, in French, "it is
nearly midday. You must bring every
thing here. I dare not go back to the
house."

The valet evinced no surprise, but
nodded and disappeared. Left to him
self, May opened the shutters of several
of the windows and looked out. The
side of the pavilion that was farthest
from the house rose directly out of the
broad pond or ornamental lake already
referred to. This was to the west ; the
northern was screened by a dense growth
of pines, the southern contained the en
trance-door before mentioned, and the
eastern fa9ade commanded the house,
which was some two hundred yards dis
tant across the avenue. May looked out
across the water, which was an ornamen
tal piece fringed with reeds and water-
flowers. In the centre of the little lake
rose a low round island; which had a

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE.

147

comfortable rustic seat and a soft and
grassy surface. May pressed a small
knob in the wall near the window, and
coming back from it, took a heavy book
from one of the dwarf bookcases that
lined the large room. The book was a
quarto edition of Burton s "Anatomy of
Melancholy ; " and immediately after
ward the adjoining section of bookcase
swung slowly forward from the wall,
revealing a descending passage-way.
Through this May disappeared, and the
bookcase swung itself back into place.

Some minutes later, Schmidt entered,
after several knocks, with a large ja
panned tray. Upon this tray was a
small paper of bromide of potassium,
two boxes of cigars, strong and mild, a
carafe of cognac, seltzer, a large opera-
glass, a powerful dark lantern, and a
six-barrelled silver-mounted revolver.
Fides lay on a mat on the floor ; but his
master was nowhere visible in the room.
Schmidt set the tray upon the table and
looked about him. Being alone, it must
be confessed that his cosmopolitan face
showed traces of surprise.

The whole interior of the pavilion ob
viously contained but one room ; and in
that room Austin May was nowhere to
be seen. In the centre was a huge lo