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& 


?  CENTU  RY 


ILLUSTRATED  nONTHLY 


MAGAZINE. 


November  188$  to  April 1884 


T??  CENTURY  C9  ,    NEW-YORK. 

F.WARNE  aC9,  LONDON. 

New  Series  VolV. 


Copyright,  1884,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co. 


PRESS  OF  THEO.  L.  DE  VINNE  &  Co. 
NEW-YORK. 


INDEX 


TO 


THE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE. 

VOL.    XXVII.  NEW   SERIES:   VOL.  V. 


PAGE. 

ANGELS,  ECHOES  IN  THE  CITY  OF  THE H.  H. 194 

Illustrations  by  Henry  Sandham  :  The  Founders  of  Los  Angeles  —  An  Indian  Stirrup  —  The  Burial  of  a  Founder  — 
The  Old  Mexican  Woman  —  Crowning  the  Favorite  —  A  Street  in  Los  Angeles  —  A  Page  from  a  Register  of  Branded 
Cattle  —  Swivel  Gun  —  Tracing  from  a  Mission  Cash  Book  —  A  Veranda  in  Los  Angeles. 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW,  ON  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE John  Burroughs 192 

ARTIST,  AN  AMERICAN,  IN  ENGLAND Mrs.  Schuyler  van  Rensselaer.     13 

Illustrations  by  Winslow  Homer:  A  Charcoal  Sketch  —  Looking  over  the  Cliff—  The  Voice  from  the  Cliffs  — 
Inside  the  Bar  —  Outline  of  " Inside  the  Bar."  K, 

ATHENE.     See  "  Parthenon,  The  Frieze  of  the  " 

AVERAGE  MAN,  AN Robert  Grant 289 

375,  606,  706,  850 

BOOTH,  WILKES,  How  HE  CROSSED  THE  POTOMAC George  Alfred  Townsend. 822 

BREAD-WINNERS,  THE.    (Conclusion) 87,  276,  341 

(See  also  "Open  Letters.") 
BULL-FIGHT,  THE *.V.  .*. . . . .  J . \ Charles  Dudley  Warner 3 

Illustrations  by  Robert  Blum:  Entrance  of  the  Bull  — The  Attack  — The  Banderillero's  Challenge  — An  Act  of 
Audacity  —  Taking  out  the  Victim. 

CABLE'S  ROMANCES,  THE  SCENES  OF Lafcadio  Hearn 4° 

Illustrations  engraved  from  etchings  by  Joseph  Pennell :  Madame  John's  Legacy— 'Sieur  George's  —  Madame 
Delphine's  House  — Cafe  des  Exiles  — A  Creole  Cottage  of  the  Colonial  Time. 

CARLYLE.     See  "  Arnold  on  Emerson  and  Carlyle." 

COLONY  TIMES,  HUSBANDRY  IN Edward  Eggleston 

Illustrations:    Seal-  Silk-winding  -Jared  Eliot -Primitive  Mode  of  Grinding  Corn  -  A  Conestoga  Wagon-A 
Plantation  Gate-way  -  Home  of  John  Bartram  -  Cattle  Ear-mark  -  Ancient  Horseshoes  -  Colomal  Plow- 
Hand-made  Spade  — Alexander  Spotswood  —  Medal  Awarded  to  Rev.  Jared  Eliot. 

CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES,  THE George  W.  Cable  . 

COOPER,  PETER,  RECOLLECTIONS  OF Susan  N.  Carter. . . 

Illustration  :     Frontispiece  Portrait  engraved  by  T.  Johnson  after  a  photograph  from  life  by  G.  C.  Cox   (facing 
page  163). 
COURBET,    GUSTAVE,    ARTIST   AND    COMMUNIST ™US  Mumon  Coan.  .  .  . 

Illustrations  from  paintings  by  Courbet,  a  drawing  by  F.  C.  Tones,  and  a  Photography  The  tchwoman-. 

Burial  Scene  at  Ornans  — The  Musician  —  Gustave  Courbet  — The  Quarry  — Pulling  down  t 


iv  INDEX. 

PAGE. 
CRUISE  OF  THE  ALICE  MAY,  THE S.G.W.  Benjamin.  .545,  719,  887 

Illustrations  by  M.  J.  Burns:  Head-piece — Off  Paspebiac — Beach  at  Tracadie  — The  Mail-boat — Midship  Frame 
of  the  Northern  Light — The  Steamer  Northern  Light  crossing  from  the  Mainland  to  the  Island  —  A  Fish-boy  —  Our 
Cook  — On  Deck  — Amateur  Cooking— Burning  Refuse  from  the  Lumber  Mills  — Map  of  the  Cruise  of  the  Alice  May 

—  Millstone  Quarries  — Our  First  Fish— The  Crew  at  Supper— Map  of  the  Trip  from  Charlottetown  to  Paspebiac  — 
Fisherman  at  Paspebiac  —  The  Beach  at  Paspebiac  — A  View  of  the  Bay  —  A  Fish  Establishment  at  Paspebiac  —  Cape 
Gaspe— Fishing  Houses  at  Cape  Gaspe  —  Head  of  an  Old  Pilot— Up  Gaspe  Bay  — Perce  Rock  — An  Old  Oven  — 
Crossing  the  Ferry  at  Gasp6 —  Curing  Fish  at  Perc6  —  Returning  from  Church —  Perce  Rock  —  Map  of  the  Cruise  from 
Paspebiac  to  the  Magdalen  Islands  — Map  of  the  Cruise  from  the  Magdalen  Islands  to  Cape  St.  George  —  The  Dash  to 
Amherst  — The  Old  Skipper— Etang  du  Nord  — The  Fiddler— Crossing  the  Ford  to  Amherst  — A  Few  of  the  Natives 

—  Old  Fire-place  at  Entry  Island  — The  Gate  at  Entry  Island  —  Off  Deadman  Island. 

DANTE,  NOTES  ON  THE  EXILE  OF Sarah  Freeman  Clarke. . .  734,  833 

Illustrations  by  Harry  Fenn  after  sketches  by  the  author :  Church  of  St.  John  Lateran  —  The  Pine  Cone  of  the 
Vatican  — Tower  Chamber  at  Gargonza  — San  Gemignano— Monte  Reggione — Court  of  Poppi  Castle  —  Fonte 
Branda — Augusta  Gate — Castle  of  Rpmena  —  Torre  di  Garisenda — Land-slide  at  Roveredo  —  Stair- way  at  Verona  — 
In  Urbino  —  Malatesta  Fortress  —  Cloister  Wall,  Convent  of  St.  Croce  di  Corvo  — On  the  Cornice  Road— :  Rue  du 
Fouarre,  Paris  —  Capraia  and  Gorgona — The  Ramparts  of  Lucca — Talamone —  The  Town  Hall  of  Gubbio  —  The 
Castle  of  Colmollaro  — Convent  of  Avellana— Window  of  the  Cell  Occupied  by  Dante— Double  Cave  at  Tolmino  — 
Dante's  Tomb  at  Ravenna — Pines  of  Ravenna. 

(See  also  "  Topics  of  the  Time." 

DANTE.     THE  POET  ILLUSTRATED  OUT  OF  THE  POEM Christina  G.  Rossetti 566 

DANTE,  THE  PORTRAITS  OF Sarah  Freeman  Clarke 574 

Illustrations  :  The  Death  Mask  of  Dante— Bronze  Bust  of  Dante  in  the  Museum  of  Naples  — Head  of  Dante,  from 
the  "Disputa"  of  Raphael  —  Giotto's  Portrait  of  Dante  —  Profile  of  Dante,  in  the  Mausoleum  at  Ravenna. 

(See  also  "  Open  Letters." 

DAVIS,  JEFFERSON,  THE  CAPTURE  OF Burton  N.  Harrison 130 

(See  also  "  Open  Letters.") 

DROOD,  EDWIN.     How  IT  WAS  ILLUSTRATED Alice  Meynell 522 

Illustrations  by  S.  Luke  Fildes  and  Francis  Lathrop  :  An  Opium  Den  —  Studies  for  Jasper's  Head  —  Jasper's  Swoon 

—  Durdles  —  In  Rochester  Cathedral  —  The  Nuns'  House  —  A  Street  in  Rochester — Dickens's  Chair. 

(See  also  "Open  Letters.") 

DR.  SEVIER George  W.  Cable 54 

237,  422,  529,  753,  873 

DUTT,   TORU 372 

Illustration  :  Portrait  of  Toru  Dutt. 

EDINBORO  OLD  TOWN Andrew  Lang 323 

Illustrations  by  Joseph  Pennell:  Head-piece— A  Rainy  Night  —  Candle-maker's  Row  —  Door- way — Lady  Stairs 
Close— A  Memory  of  High  Street  — John  Knox's  House  — House  of  Boswell  and  Hume  — The  Tolbooth  —  Allen 
Ramsay's  Shop  —  Impressions  of  Grass  Market  —  The  Cowgate  —  A  Wynd  —  The  Canongate  —  Old  Houses  in  Canon- 
gate—Smollett's  House  — Queen  Mary's  Bath  — The  Playhouse  Close  — White  Horse  Inn. 

EMERSON.     See  "  Arnold  on  Emerson  and  Carlyle." 

ENGLAND,  NATURE  IN John  Burroughs 101 

Illustrations  by  Alfred  Parsons:  Initial— Some  Meadow  Flowers — Grassy  Mountains  —  Old  Elder-trees  —  Canter- 
bury from  Harbledown  — Red  and  White  Clover— In  Kent:  Near  Gravesend  —  Cottages  in  Shottery — Meadow  by 
Avon  — Some  Hedge- row  Flowers  — Old  Bridge  on  Avon  —  Stratford :  From  Bardon  Hill. 

ENGLAND,  THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF Francis  George  Heath 163 

Illustrations  by  Harry  Fenn  :  A  Devonshire  Village — View  near  Farmington  —  In  a  Devonshire  Lane — On  the  Dart 
at  Dittisham  —  Berry  Pomeroy— A  Bit  on  Dartmoor— Mouth  of  the  Dart  — Anstey's  Cove — Clovelly. 

FISH-CULTURE,  PROGRESS  IN Fred.  Mather 900 

Illustrations:  Atkins's  Method  of  Penning  Salmon  —  Green's  Shad-box— Tagging  Salmon  —  Coste's  Trays  for 
Grilles— Ferguson  s  Hatching-jars— Bell  and  Mather  Shad-hatching  Cone  —  McDonald  Jars  —  Holton's  Box  —  Bird's- 
eye  View  of  Carp-ponds  at  Washington  —  Egg  Transportation  Crate  — The  McDonald  Fish-way  at  Rappahannock, 
Va.  — Hatching  Room  at  Cold  Spring  Harbor  —  McDonald  Jars  on  the  Lookout—  Section  of  Fish  Hawk—  Part  of 
the  Interior  of  the  Fish  Hawk  —  Steamer  Fish  Ha-wk— Central  Station  Hatcheries  and  Rearing  Ponds  at  Cold  Spring 
Harbor—  N.  Y.  State  Hatcheries  at  Caledonia  —  Shad-hatching  Station  at  Havre  de  Grace — Stripping  Shad  — First 
Prize  at  Berlin  awarded  to  Professor  Spencer  F.  Baird  —  Carp-pond  at  Washington. 

"  FORTY  IMMORTALS,  THE  "... y.  D 388 

Illustrations:  Palais  Mazarin  —  Alexandre  Dumas  Fils  — Ernest  Renan  — John  Lemoinne  —  Henri  Martin  — Due 
DAumale  — Due  deBroglie  — Jules  Simon  —  Emile  Angler  —  Octave  Feuillet— Eugene  Labiche  —  Victorien  Sardou 

—  Louis  Pasteur  — Victor  Cherbuliez. 

FRANCE,  THE  PRETENDERS  TO  THE  THRONE  OF Anna  Bicknett 251 

Illustrations  :  Comte  de  Chambord  —  Comte  de  Paris  — Prince  Napoleon  and  his  Sons. 
(See  also  "  Orleans,  The  Princes  of  the  House  of.") 

FRENCH  ACADEMY,     See  "Forty  Immortals,  The." 

FULLER,  GEORGE Mrs^  SchuylervanRensselaer.  226 

Illustrations  from  paintings  by  George  Fuller :  Turkey  Pasture  in  Kentucky  —  Psyche  —  The  Romany  Girl. 


INDEX.  v 

PACK. 
GARFIELD  IN  LONDON,  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  TRIP  TO 

EUROPE  IN  1867,  BY  THE  LATE James  A.  Garfield 407 

HERMITAGE,  THE Richard  Whiteing 559 

Illustration  :    Frontispiece,  Head  of  a  Man  by  Rembrandt.     Engraved  by  T.  Johnson. 

"  His  WIFE'S  DECEASED  SISTER  " Frank  R.  Stockton  .  462 

HOMER,  WINSLOW.     See  "  Artist,  An  American,  in  England." 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  COUSIN,  THE Henry  James 116,  257 

IRVING,  HENRY J.  Ranken  Towse 660 

Illustration  :   Henry  Irving  as  Hamlet, 

KEATS.     (With  Editorial  Note  on  the  Illustrations) Edmund  C.  Stedman 599 

Illustrations  :  The  Life  Mask  of  John  Keats  —  The  Graves  of  Keats  and  Severn. 

LANIER,  SIDNEY,  POET William  Hayes  Ward 816 

Illustrations  :  Frontispiece  Portrait,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  engraved  by  T.  Johnson  from  a  daguerreotype  (facing  page 
803).  Portrait  as  a  man,  engraved  by  H.  Velten  from  a  photograph. 

(See  also  "Open  Letters.") 

LEAR.     See  "  Shakspere's  'Lear,'  Impressions  of." 

LOG  OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO.     See  "Ocean  Studio,  Log  of  an." 

Los  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA.     See  "Angels,  Echoes  in  the  City  of  the." 

LOVE-LETTER,  A  FIRST  J.  S.,  of  Dale 542 

MAGDALEN  ISLANDS.     See  "Cruise  of  the  Alice  May,  The." 

MARSE  CHAN Thomas  Nelson  Page 932 

MERINOS  IN  AMERICA Rowland  E.  Robinson  513 

Illustrations  by  J.  A.  S.  Monks :  Head-piece  —  In  an  Old  Pasture  —  A  Drove  of  Rams —  Passing  Flocks  on  a  Dusty 
Road  —  Merino  Lambs  —  Head  of  Merino  Ram — Sheep-shearing — Showing  Rams — Frightened  Sheep — Implements. 

MODJESKA,  MADAME J.  Ranken  Towse 22 

Illustration  :  Portrait  of  Madame  Modjeska,  drawn  by  Wyatt  Eaton  and  engraved  by  T.  Cole. 

MOLTKE,  VON,  COUNT Helen  Zimmern 689 

Illustration:  Frontispiece  Portrait  engraved  by  T.  Johnson  from  a  photograph  by  F.  C.  Schaarwachter  (facing 
page  643). 

MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR Octave  Thanet 765 

MRS.  KNOLLYS J-  S.,  of  Dale 146 

NEWFOUNDLAND.     See  "  Cruise  of  the  Alice  May,  The." 

NEW  TESTAMENT,  ORIGINAL  DOCUMENTS  OF  THE J.  Rendel  Harris 305 

Illustrations  :  St.  John  as  a  Scribe  — St.  Mark  as  a  Scribe  —  Probable  form  of  Autograph  of  Second  Epistle  of  John. 

NEW  YORK  CITY  HALL,  THE Edward  S.  Wilde 865 

Illustrations:  General  View  of  the  New  York  City  Hall  — The  New  York  City  Hall,  from  an  old  drawing  —  Bit  of 
Detail  of  the  Main  Stair-way  —  The  Cupola  prior  to  1830— Statue  from  Architect's  Design  — John  McComb  — View  of 
Portico  — Proposed  Foil  to  the  Base  of  the  Cupola  — Ionic  Order— Plan  of  Principal  Floor— Corinthian  Order- 
Window  Head. 

(See  also  "Public  Buildings,  Old,  in  America." 

NEW  ZEALAND  IN  BLOOMING  DECEMBER Constance  F.  Gordon-Gumming  919 

NIGHTINGALE,  A  HUNT  FOR  THE John  Burroughs 774 

CCEAN  STUDIO,  LOG  OF  AN Clarence  Clough  Buel 356 

Illustrations:  Initial  —  Farewell  to  Sandy  Hook  — Cover  of  the  Menu  — Under  a  French  Sky  — At  Work  in  the  Cap- 
tain's Cabin -"Captain  "-The  Comet -In  the  Furnace-hold  -  Moonlight  -  The  Goose  Pasture -A  Mediterranean 
Memory  —  Flying  the  Great  Kite  —  The  Emigrant  Model  —  In  the  Forest  of  "  Chic  "—  Petrels  —  In  Honor  of 

ONE  CHAPTER.  .  Grace  Denio  Litchfield 210 

ORLEANS,  THE  PRINCES  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF George  B.  McClellan 014 

PARIS,  GLIMPSES  OF J-  &•  Osbo™e 74 

Illustrations  by  E.  R.  Butler:  A  Fountain  in  the  Luxembourg— Horse-dealers  —  St  Antoine  Beggars  — In  the 
Street- A  Type -The  "Fairy"  of  the  Tuileries  Garden  -  Street  in  Old  Pans -Public  Benches  -  Anglers  -  Le 
Concierge. 


vi  INDEX. 

PAGE. 
PARTHENON,  THE  FRIEZE  OF  THE Charles  Waldstein 1 74 

A  Discovery  in  connection  with  the  Athene. 
Illustrations:   Plaque  in  the  Louvre  —  Athene  (Original  Condition) — Athene  (Restored). 

PAUPERISM,  THE  SUPPRESSION  OF D.  McG.  Means 700 

PRESIDENCY,  THE  NEXT Wayne  Mac  Veagh 670 

PRINCE  EDWARD  ISLAND.     See  "  Cruise  of  the  Alice  May,  The." 

PRISON  REFORM.     See  "  Convict  Lease  System  in  the  Southern  States,  The." 

PUBLIC  BUILDINGS,  OLD,  IN  AMERICA Richard  Grant  White 677 

Illustrations  by  Harry  Fen n  and  Robe/t  Blum:  St.  Paul's  Church  — St.  John's  — Old  State  House  — The  Boston 
State  House  —  Church  at  Wilmington  —  Eglise  de  Notre  Dame  de  Bonsecours  —  Old  South  Church  —  Christ  Church  — 
King's  Chapel. 

(See  also  "New  York  City  Hall.") 

REMBRANDT.     See  "  Hermitage,  The. "  • 

SHAKSPERE'S  "  LEAR,"  IMPRESSIONS  OF Tontmaso  Salvim 563 

SHEEP-RAISING.     See  "  Merinos  in  America." 

SHERIDAN,  LIEUT. -GENERAL Adam  Badcau 496 

Illustration  :  Portrait  engraved  by  T.  Johnson  from  the  photograph  from  life  by  C.  D.  Mosher. 

SHERMAN,  GENERAL E.  V.  Smalley 450 

Illustration  :   Frontispiece  Portrait  engraved  by  T.  Johnson  after  a  photograph  by  George  M    Bell  (facing  page  323). 

SILVERADO  SQUATTERS,  THE.     Sketches  from  a  Californian  Mountain  .  .  .Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  .  .   27,  182 

ST.  LAWRENCE,  GULF  OF.     See  "Cruise  of  the  Alice  May,  The." 

TOURGUENEFF  IN  PARIS Alphonse  Daudet 48 

Illustration :  Portrait  of  Ivan  Tourgueneff  engraved  by  T.  Cole  from  a  painting  by  E.  R.  Butler. 

UNCLE  TOM  WITHOUT  A  CABIN Walter  B.  Hill 859 

UNIVERSE,  THE  DESTINY  OF  THE Samuel  Willard 914 

VICTORIA,  QUEEN M.  O.  W.  Oliphant 68 

Illustrations  :  Frontispiece  (facing  page  3)  and  full-page  Portraits  engraved  by  T.  Johnson,  and  autograph. 

WASHINGTON,  THE  NEW 64-3 

Illustrations  by  Joseph  Pennell,  J.  H.  Cocks,  and  F.  C.  Jones :  The  State,  War,  and  Navy  Departments—  Statue 
of  General  George  H.  Thomas  — The  Treasury  Department  —  The  U.  S.  Post  Office  Department— The  Old  Carroll 
Mansion  —  Plan  of  the  City — "Above  the  Grade"—  Massachusetts  Avenue  —  Thomas  Circle — Pennsylvania  Avenue 
—  Long  Bridge  —  Outside  the  Market—  Entrance  to  Navy  Yard  — Street  Scene  — St.  John's  Church  —  The  Treasury 
Department  —  General  Lee's  House — Soldiers'  Graves,  Arlington. 

WHITE  HOUSE,  THE '. E.V.  Smalley 803 

Illustrations  by  Joseph  Pennell,  J.  H.  Cocks,  and  A.  C.  Redwood  :  Rear  View  of  the  White  House  —  The  White  House 
from  the  Front—Ground  Plan  — The  Waiting  Room  — The  White  House  by  Night— In  the  Red  Room  — A  Corner 
of  the  State  Dining-room— In  the  Conservatory  —  The  Library  — The  White  House  from  near  the  Treasury  — The 
Portico  — West  Window  —  Corner  of  the  East  Room  —  The  Cabinet  Room. 

WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY,  IN john  Burroughs. .  .  418 


POETRY. 

AGE  AND  DEATH  .......................................  .  .Emma  Lazarus.  .  . 

AURORA  ............................................................  Henry  Tyrrell  .  7 

BUTCHERS'  Row  THE  .............................................  Edmund  W.  Gosse.  .'.  S 

BYRON  AT  THE  CELL  OF  TASSO  .....................................  Mary  Stacy  WitJnngton  .  .  70, 

CELESTIAL  PASSION,  THE  .........................................  .  .Richard  Watson  Gilder  .....       26 

DAWN    ..........................................................  A.W.W....  275 

DUM  VIVIMUS,  VIVAMUS  ............................................  E.D.R.  Bianciardi.  .  .  418 

EARLY  MORN  .......................................................  Caroline  May  ......  371 

£DEN  '  '  '  ;  '  T,  ......  ;  ................................................  John  Vance  Cheney..  605 

' 


T,  .. 

EMERSON'S  POEMS,  WRITTEN  IN.     (For  a  Child)  .....................  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


462 

HOW  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELI, ;;;;;:;;; ;;; ;; ;; ;; ;;; ;;; ;;; :^-^. ::  .  & 

DEAL,    I  HE Constantino,  E.  Brooks 669 

.  .  .John  Vance  Cheney 732 

V  •  •  •  •  ,•  •    ...  Sidney  Lanier.  .  .  ceo 

LOVE'S  SIDE John  Vance  Cheney.  \\.\\\\  605 


INDEX. 


vn 


MASTER,  THE.     An  Imitation William  Preston  Johnston 


.  Andreiv  B.  Saxton 

.Henry  Gillman 

.  George  Parsons  Lathrop  . . 

.Juliet  C.  Marsh 

.Richard  Watson  Gilder.  .  . 


MISER,  THE 

MORE  LIFE 

PHCEBE-BIRD,  THE 

PINES'  THOUGHT,  THE 

ROME,  IN 

SEMITONES H.  H. 

SHADOW,  A Frances  Hodgson  Burnett.  . 

SNOW-BORN Henry  R.  Howland 

Illustration  :   Original  Engraving  by  Elbridge  Kingsley. 

SOME  OLD  CONSIDERATIONS James  Herbert  Morse 

SONG Mary  L.  Ritter 

SOUL'S  REFLECTION,  THE R.  T.  W.  Duke,  Jr. 

SUMMER  HOURS Helen  Gray  Cone 

TEN  YEARS Andrew  B.  Saxton 

TERRA  INCOGNITA George  A.  Hibbard 

THOUGHT-FALL John  Vance  Cheney 

THY  KINGDOM  COME  " Alfred  B.  Street 

Two   DARKS,  THE Robert  Underwood  Johnson . 

VISIONS James  Herbert  Morse 

VOYAGER,  THE L.  Frank  Tooker 

WOLFE,  CHARLES,  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF .S.  M.  B.  Piatt 

YOUTH  AND  DEATH Emma  Lazarus 


PAGE. 

'•  387 
.  562 
.  100 

.  26 

•  "5 


449 
688 
918 
621 


152 

752 
699 

3°4 
53 


DEPARTMENTS. 


TOPICS   OF   THE   TIME. 


ART,  AMERICAN,  A  CHINESE  WALL  FOR.  . 

CATHOLICISM,  MODERN 

CENTRAL  PARK  IN  DANGER 


PAGE. 
.  .  784 
--  625 
..  311 


(See  also  "  Open  Letters.") 


CHRISTIAN  LEAGUE  OF  CONNECTICUT,  THE".  784 

(See  also  "Practical  Suggestion,  A,"  under  "Open  Letters.") 

"  COPYRIGHT  LEAGUE,  THE  AMERICAN  " 787 

DANTE,  ON  THE  READING  OF 629 

DRUNKENNESS,  THE  SPIRITUAL  EFFECTS  OF 311. 

FAITH,  Is  THE  OLD,  DYING  ? 154 

INDEPENDENT  VOTER,  THE,  IN  THE  NEXT  CAM- 
PAIGN    786 


PAGE. 

LIBRARY  BUILDING,  THE  PROPOSED,  IN  WASH- 
INGTON    627 

(See  also  "Open  Letters.") 

METROPOLITAN  MUSEUM, THE,  THE  FUTURE  OF.  942 

"MINISTER   AND  CITIZEN  " 469 

MOB  OR  MAGISTRATE 944 

OPEN  CONSTITUENCIES 153 

POLITICAL  REFORM,  THE  DIFFICULTY  OF 467 

POTTER,  HENRY  C.  (ASSISTANT    BISHOP) 

(See  "  Minister  and  Citizen.") 

RELIGIOUS  SNOBBERY 469 

TRADES  UNIONS,  THE  USES  AND  ABUSES  OF —  624 

(See  also  "  Open  Letters.") 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


ARNOLD,  MATTHEW,  IN  AMERICA  (Henry  A.  Beers)  155 
BARRETT,  LAWRENCE,  AND  HIS  PLAYS  (George 

Edgar  Montgomery ) 954 

"BREAD-WINNERS,  THE"  (Edward  J.  Shriver  157 

and  the  Author  of  ''The  Bread-  Winners  ")...  158,  794 
CENTRAL  PARK  AS  A  BOTANICAL  GARDEN  (N.  L. 

Britton  and  Samuel  Parsons,  Jr.) 958 

(See  also  "  Topics  of  the  Time.") 

CHRISTMAS,  A  WORD  ABOUT  (Susan  Anna  Brown)  319 
CHRIST,  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  (George  P.  Fisher). .  478 
CHURCH,  ORGANS  AND  ORCHESTRAS  IN  (Charles 

S.  Robinson) 7%7 

DANTE'S  PORTRAIT  IN  THE  BARGELLO  (C.  E. 

Norton) 9S6 

DAVIS,  JEFFERSON,  AND  GENERAL  HOLT  (Loyalist)  477 
DIVINE  SERVICE,  ARTISTIC  HELP  IN  (Charles  S. 

Robinson) 632 

EDUCATION,  NATIONAL  AID  TO  (J.  B.  Peterson). .  790 


FIELDING,  HENRY  (T.  R.  Lounsbury) 634 

FREE  TRADE  WITH  CANADA  (J.  Fred.  Harley). . .  474 

INVENTIONS,  SOME  NEW  (Charles  Barnard) 473 

JEFFERSON,  JOSEPH,  AS  "  CALEB  PLUMMER  "  (J. 

Ranken  Towse) 476 

JURY  SYSTEM,  OUR  (Eugene  Lewis) . .  •  471 

LANIER,  SIDNEY,  ON  THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL  (Ar- 
thur Penn)  •• •/••••  957 

LAW-AND-ORDER  LEAGUES,  MORE  ABOUT  (J.  C. 

Shaffer) 318 

(See  also  "  Temperance  Question.") 

LIBRARY,  THE  PROPOSED  CONGRESSIONAL.— A 

REPLY  (J.  L.  Smithmayer  and  Paul  J.  Peizi 95° 

(See  also  "  Topics  of  the  Time." 

LORILLARD-CHARNAY  COLLECTION  OF  CENTRAL 
AMERICAN    ANTIQUITIES,  THE    (Fredenck   1 
True) 79& 


vm 


INDEX. 


PAGE.  PAGE. 

Music  IN  AMERICA  "  (Richard  Grant  White).. . .  948     REFORM,  HURRICANE  ( Washington  Gladden) 316 

NEW  YORK  AS  A  FIELD  FOR  FICTION  "  (Com-  SILVER  DOLLAR,  THE  (John  A.  Grier;  Comment 

ment  by  William  Henry  Bishop;  Reply  by  H.  C.  by  Horace    White) 630,  631 

Bunner) 470,  471  "  TEMPERANCE   OUTLOOK,   THE  "   ( Walter  Far- 

(See  also  "  Topics  of  the  Time. ")  TEMPERANCE  QUE STION  "(J.  C. '  ' Shaffer;  "Mary  "B.  3 

Willard;  S.  K.  Strother) 792,  793,  959 


NOVELS,  RECENT  AMERICAN  (Alfred Arden) 313 

PETROGRAPHY    AND    THE    MICROSCOPE    (Wm. 


OPERA  IN  NEW  YORK  (G.  Federlein) 


(See  also  "  Law-and-Order  Leagues  "  and  "  Reform,  Hurricane.") 

636 


Sloane  Kennedy) 636     TRADES  UNIONS  (J.  H.  Loomis) 

PRACTICAL  SUGGESTION,  A  (M.  P.  Ayers) 958 

(See  also  "  Topics  of  the  Time." 
(See  also   "  Christian    League    of   Connecticut,    The,  "  under 

"  Topics  of  the  Time."  WORSHIPING  BY  PROXY  (Charles  S.  Robinson)  ....  946 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


APHORISMS  FROM  THE  QUARTERS 

(J.  A.  Macon) 480,  639,  798,  959 

BALLADE  OF  A  SWELL  (Frank  Dempster  Sherman).  960 

BROWNING,  A  SONNET  BY  (Robert  Browning) 640 

BURNS,  AN  EVENING  WITH  (Agnes  Maule  Machar)  479 

CARLYLE,  MRS.,  To  (Bessie  Chandler) 160 

CHEERFUL  SPIRIT,  A  (Stanley  Wood) 960 

COUPLET,  THE  (Charlotte  Fiske  Bates) 960 

DAT  FRETFUL  TILDA  STRONG  (Rev.  Plato  Johnson)  639 

DUMB  BEAUTY,  A  (Charlotte  Fiske  Bates) 960 

EHEU  !  FuGACES  (  Walter  Learned) 960 

ENGAGED  (Frank  Dempster  Sherman) 160 

EPIGRAM  ON  AN  EPIGRAM  (Ben.  Wood  Davis) 959 

EXTRA  (S.  Conant  Foster) 160 

FAULT-DEMON,  THE  (Rose  Hawthorne  Lathr op)...  798 

GOOD-BYE  (Grace  Denio  Litchjield) 480 

INDICATOR    OF  THE    GOLD  AND  STOCK  TELE- 
GRAPH COMPANY,  THE  (David  L.  Proudfit) 638 

IT  WAS  A  LASS  (Mary  E.  Wilkins) 959 

I  WONDER  WHAT  MAUD  WILL  SAY  !  (  Samuel  Min- 

tum  Peck) 480 

LEISURE  LINES  (Austin  Dobson) 640 

LION'S  GOVERNMENT,  THE  (JoelBenton) 900 

LOVE'S  CHASE  (  W.  H.) 320 

LOVE'S  HERITAGE  (William  M.  Briggs) 959 

NANCY  (John  A.  Fraser,  Jr.) 320 

(See  also  "Sequel,  The.") 


NOCTURNE  (Clarence  Clough  Buel) 798 

OLD  MRS.  GRIMES  (A.  T.) 159 

QUATRAIN,  THE  (Charlotte  Fiske  Bates) 960 

RHYME   OF  THE  HERCULES  CLUB,  THE  (Helen 

Gray  Cone) 800 

ROSA  NO  MAR  !  (Herbert  H.  Smith) 799 

SEVILLE  LOVE  SONG,  A  (Hamilton  Aide) 797 

SEQUEL,  THE  (Margaret  Vandegrift) 639 

(See  also  "  Nancy." 

"SOMETHING     HUMOROUS"     (Margaret     Vande- 
grift)    799 

SONG  OF  THE  "  NEW  GROUNDS  "  (J.  A.  Macon). .  320 
STREPHON  AND  SARDON  (Richard  Watson  Gilder).  480 

SUMMER  GIRL,  THE  (  W.  H.  A.) 479 

To  MY  LOVE  (Frank  Dempster  Sherman) 800 

TOURGUENEFF'S      POEMS     IN     PROSE     (Borys     F. 

Gorow) 319 

UNCLE  ESEK'S  WISDOM  (New  Series) 798 

VALENTINE  TO  AN  ANONYMOUS  Miss  (Frank 

Dempster  Sherman) 638 

VALENTINE  TO  A  MAN  OF  WORTH  (Edward  A. 

Church) 638 

WAY  OF  IT,  THE  (John  Vance  Cheney) 480 

WEDDING  ON  THE  CREEK,  THE  (J.  A.  Macon).. .  159 
WOOING  O'T,  THE  (William  Howard  Carpenter). .  640 


HE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE 


'VOL.  XXVII. 


NOVEMBER,  1883. 


No.  i. 


THE    BULL-FIGHT. 


LET  us  begin  tranquilly.    We  are  going  to 
all  a  good  many  old  horses,  whose  four  feet 
rere  in  the   grave   before  they  entered  the 
ing,  and  we  are  going  to  torture  them  in 
their  last  hours  on  the  way  to  the  bone-yard ; 
:  are  going  to  bait,  and  worry,  and  weaken 
>y  loss  of  blood,  and  finally  slaughter  a  num- 
>er  of  noble  bulls ;  perhaps  we  shall  break 
>me  picador  ribs ;  we  are  about  to  enter  the 
region  of  chivalry,  and  engage  in  the  pastime 
lost  characteristic  of  and  most  esteemed  by 
the  Spanish  people;    we  promise  gore  and 
image  enough  farther  on,  and  we  may  be 
irdoned  for  a  gentle  and   gentleman-and- 
lady-like  introduction  to  the  noble  sport. 

One  afternoon,  in  Seville,  we  learned  that 
there  was  to  be  a  funcion  at  the  Bull  Ring, 
[given  by  amateurs,  by  a  society  of  gentlemen 
Caballeros,  whose  object  is  the  cultivation  of 
[horsemanship  and  the  manly,  national  pastime. 
It  was  an  entertainment  given  by  the  gentle- 
men of  Seville  to  their  lady  friends,  offering 
at  the  shrine  of  beauty  the  best  fruit  of  a 
gallant  civilization,  and  probably  that  which 
is  most  acceptable,  just  as  the  amateur  Men- 
delssohn Society  of  New  York  gives  its  winter 
concerts  to  a  refined  and  fashionable  circle 
of  friends.  As  admission  was  to  be  had  only 
on  special  invitation  of  the  members  of  the 
club,  we  had  no  expectation  of  participating, 
but  we  drove  down  to  the  amphitheater  with  a 
'praiseworthy  curiosity  to  see  the  beauty  of  Se- 
I  ville,  in  holiday  attire,  flock  in  to  the  spectacle. 
The  Bull  Ring,  which  stands  on  the  flat — 
tall  Seville  is  flat,  and  subject  more  or  less  to 
the  overflow  of  the  river — near  the  Gua4al- 
quivir,  is  an  ample  one,  with  a  seating  capac- 
ity of  eleven  thousand  persons.  It  is  built  of 
I  stone,  with  wide  interior  corridors  and  entrance 
galleries  to  the  different  stories  and  private 
boxes,  like  the  ancient  Colosseum.  Begun  over 


a  century  ago,  it  is  still  rough  and  unfinished, 
but  it  answers  all  the  substantial  purposes  of 
its  erection.  The  upper  galleries  and  rows  of 
benches  on  the  shady  side  are  set  apart  for 
the  gentry ;  while  the  tiers  near  the  ring  and 
all  the  sunny  side  are  given  up  to  the  lower 
orders  and  the  rabble,  the  seats  being  much 
less  in  price  than  the  others. 

Carriages  blocked  the  space  in  front  of  the 
entrance, — the  most  aristocratic  of  which 
were  a  sort  of  private  and  not  much  glorified 
omnibus,  drawn  by  a  team  of  gayly  capari- 
soned mules, —  and  into  the  gates  poured  a 
stream,  principally  of  ladies  in  full  toilet.  It 
was  evidently  an  occasion  of  the  highest 
fashion,  and  one  that  exhausted  and  put 
on  view  the  entire  beauty  and  gentility  of 
Seville.  The  regular  bull-fights  of  late  years 
appear  to  have  lost  caste  somewhat  with 
the  more  refined  circles  of  society,  and  the 
stranger  might  attend  a  dozen  and  not  see  a 
tithe  of  the  dress  and  display,  or  women  of 
the  upper  rank,  that  were  forthcoming  at  this 
amateur  performance.  This  rare  opportunity 
to  admire  the  beauty  of  Spain,  which  is  be- 
coming, so  far  as  national  peculiarities  are 
concerned,  somewhat  traditional,  made  us 
anxious  to  be  admitted. 

At  length  I  plucked  up  courage  and  asked 
one  of  the  gentlemen  keeping  the  gate  and 
taking  tickets  if  there  was  any  proper  way  by 
which  a  stranger  could  gain  admittance.  He 
replied,  with  great  courtesy,  that  the  only 
entrance  would  be  by  a  member's  ticket,  but 
that,  if  I  would  wait  -a  little  till  the  rush  was 
over,  he  would  see  what  could  be  done.  We 
amused  ourselves  with  watching  the  gay 
throng  trip  past,  in  all  the  excitement  of 
anticipation  of  the  choice  entertainment.  At 
length  the  person  upon  whom  my  hopes  de- 
pended beckoned  to  me,  and  said  that  he  had 


[Copyright,  1883,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved.] 


THE  BULZ-FIGHT. 


been  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  member's 
ticket,  which  was  quite  at  my  service,  and  he 
was  evidently  very  glad  to  be  able  to  oblige 
a  stranger.  The  ticket  bore  the  name  of  Don 
somebody,  with  a  long  title,  and  was  evidently 
a  piece  of  paper  to  be  respected.  I  was  re- 
quired to  write  my  name  on  it  as  his  guest. 
When  I  read  the  document,  I  found  that  it 
virtually  entitled  me  to  all  the  privileges  of 
'the  club  for  fourteen  days.  I  had  heard  so 
much  of  Spanish  courtesy  and  generosity,  and 
unfortunately  seen  so  little  of  it  in  streets  and 
highways  of  travel,  that  I  was  glad  to  have 
my  faith  restored  by  this  act  of  hospitality. 
Thanking  my  temporary  friend  as  profusely 
as  I  was  able,  I  was  about  to  pass  into  the 
arena,  when  an  expression  on  his  face  arrested 
my  attention,  and  a  good  providence  led  me 
to  ask,  "  How  much  may  I  give  you  for  this 
ticket  ?  "  "  Four  dollars,"  was  the  prompt 
reply.  I  said  I  thought  that  was  very  little 
for  a  piece  of  paper  conveying  such  privileges, 
paid  the  vulgar  silver,  thanked  him  anew  for 
his  favor;  to  which  he  replied,  in  effect,  that 
I  needn't  mention  it,  with  a  gracious  air  of 
presenting  me  with  the  entire  Bull  Ring,  and 
I  passed  in  among  the  select  elect. 

The  ring  had  been  contracted  for  action  to 
about  two-thirds  of  its  usual  size,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  seats,  including  all  on  the 
sunny  side,  were  vacant.  But  the  audience 
was,  nevertheless,  large,  all  the  balconies  and 
boxes,  and  most  of  the  benches  on  the  gentry 
side,  being  full,  and  the  spectacle  was  exceed- 
ingly brilliant.  How  could  it  be  otherwise, 
with  three  thousand  ladies  in  full  drawing- 
room  toilet  ?  The  ladies  of  Spain,  except  in 


some  remote  towns  in  the  mountain  regions, 
have  laid  aside  the  national  costume,  and 
dress  according  to  the  dictates  of  Paris,  pre- 
ferring even  the  French  fans  to  their  own 
decorated  with  the  incidents  of  the  bull-fight 
and  the  serenade.  In  Seville,  the  black  lace 
mantilla  is  still  worn  at  church,  and  to  some 
extent  on  the  street ;  but  the  hat  is  the  cover 
of  the  new  fashion,  more's  the  pity,  and  the 
high  combs  have  gone  altogether.  I  do  not 
know  why  a  woman,  even  a  plain  woman, 
should  be  so  utterly  fascinating  in  a  mantilla, 
thrown  over  a  high  comb  and  falling  grace- 
fully over  the  shoulders,  stepping  daintily  in 
high-heeled  shoes  with  pointed  toes,  and  mov- 
ing her  large  fan  with  just  that  nonchalant  air 
so  accurately  calculated  to  wound  but  not  to 
kill.  In  the  whole  assembly  I  saw  only  one  or 
two  national  costumes :  the  mantilla  and  the 
high  comb,  with  the  short  petticoat,  brilliant 
in  color.  Nothing  could  be  more  becoming, 
and  it  makes  one  doubt  whether  woman's 
strongest  desire  is  to  please,  and  whether  it  is 
not  rather  to  follow  the  fashion,  when  we  see  a 
whole  nation  abandon  such  a  charming  attire. 
But  the  white  mantilla  is  de  rigueur  for  a  bull- 
fight, and  every  lady  wore  one.  It  was  a  little 
odd  to  see  ladies  in  the  open  light  of  a  brill- 
iant, cloudless  day,  and  in  the  gaze  of  the 
public,  in  full  (as  it  is  called)  costume  of  the 
ball-room;  but  the  creamy- white  mantillas 
softened  somewhat  the  too  brilliant  display, 
and  threw  over  the  whole  the  harmony  of 
subdued  splendor.  What  superb  Spanish  lace, 
blonde,  soft,  with  a  silken  luster,  falling  in  lovely 
folds  that  show  its  generous  and  exquisitely 
wrought  figures,  each  leaf  and  stem  and  flower 


ENTRANCE    OF    THE     BULL. 


THE   BULL-FIGHT. 


THE     ATTACK. 


the  creation  of  dainty  fingers!  Such  work 
as  this,  of  such  a  tone  and  fineness,  in  such 
.arge  mantillas,  sweeping  from  the  head  to 
the  train,  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  the  shops 
nowadays.  These  were  heir-looms, —  great- 
great-grandmother's  lace,  long  yellowing,  and 
growing  rich  in  locked  chests,  worn  only  on 
state  occasions,  and  now  brought  forth  to 
make  a  bull's  holiday. 

We  spent  a  good  deal  of  the  waiting  time 
in  scrutinizing  the  packed  seats  for  beautiful 
women,  and.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  with  hardly 
a  reward  adequate  to  our  anxiety.  I  am  not 
sure  how  much  the  beauty  of  the  women  of 
Seville  is  traditional.  They  have  good  points. 
Graceful  figures  are  not  uncommon,  and  fine 
teeth ;  and  dark,  liquid,  large  eyes,  which  they 
use  perpetually  in  ceillades  destructive  to  peace 
and  security.  And  the  fan,  the  most  deadly 
weapon  of  coquetry,  gives  the  coup  de  grace 
to  those  whom  the  eyes  have  wounded.  But 
the  Seville  women  have  usually  sallow,  pasty, 
dead  complexions.  Perhaps  the  beauty  of  the 
skin  is  destroyed  by  cosmetics,  for  there  was 
not  a  lady  at  the  bull-fight  who  was  not 


highly  rouged  and  powdered.  This  gave  an 
artificiality  to  their  appearance  en  masse. 
Beauty  of  feature  was  very  rare,  and  still 
rarer  was  that  animation,  that  stamp  of  in- 
dividual character,  loveliness  in  the  play  of 
expression,  and  sprightliness,  that  charm  in 
any  assembly  of  American  women.  No,  the 
handsome  women  in  the  ring  were  not  nu- 
merous enough  to  make  any  impression  on 
the  general  mass,  and  yet  the  total  effect,  with 
the  blonde  lace,  the  artificial  color,  the  rich 
toilet,  and  the  agitation  of  fans,  was  charm- 
ing. The  fan  is  the  feature  of  Spanish  life. 
It  is,  I  believe,  a  well-known  physiological 
fact  that  every  Spanish  girl  is  born  with  a 
fan  in  her  hand.  She  learns  to  use  it  with 
effect  before  she  can  say  "  mamma."  By  the 
time  she  receives  her  first  communion,  it  has 
become  a  fatal  weapon  in  her  hands,  capable 
of  expressing  every  shade  of  feeling,  hope, 
tantalization.  But  ordinarily  its  use  is  exces- 
sively monotonous.  It  has,  in  fact,  only  three 
motions.  It  is  opened  with  a  languid  back- 
ward flirt,  it  is  moved  twice  gently  to  stir  the 
air,  it  is  closed  with  a  slow,  forward  action, 


6 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 


and  then  the  same  process  is  exactly  repeated, 
—  open,  two  movements  of  fanning,  shut;  open, 
fan,  shut, — hour  after  hour,  until  the  behold- 
er is  driven  half  wild  by  the  monotony  of  the 
performance.  It  is  such  a  relief  when  there 
are  three  fanning  movements  between  the  open- 
ing and  the  shutting.  In  a  public  drawing- 
room,  in  the  cars,  in  the  street,  in  the  bull-ring, 
this  is  the  everlasting  iteration  of  the  fan.  The 
effect  produced  when  three  thousand  women 
are  executing  the  monotonous  maneuver  is 
exasperating.  This  mechanical  motion  pro- 
ceeds, of  course,  when  the  lady  is  in  an  at- 
titude of  mental  and  physical  repose.  When 
she  is  in  conversation,  and  has  an  object,  the 
fan  has  a  hundred  movements  and  varieties 
of  expression,  as  the  victim  learns  to  his  cost. 

But  let  us  not  forget  that  this  is  a  bull -fight, 
and  the  bull  is  probably  waiting.  The  atten- 
tion of  the  rustling,  chattering,  fanning  au- 
dience is  suddenly  fixed  upon  the  arena  gate, 
which  at  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  swings  open 
to  admit  the  procession  of  performers, —  the 
picadores  on  horseback,  the  chulos  or  banderi- 
lleros,  and  matador  on  foot,  and  a  gayly 
caparisoned  team  of  mules  with  a  drag  of 
chains  for  removing  the  dead  animals.  We 
need  not  detain  ourselves  here  with  the  de- 
tails which  will  be  necessary  when  we  come 
to  engage  in  a  serious  affair.  The  performers 
are  all  gentlemen,  clad  in  the  fantastic  dress 
of  the  professionals.  The  procession  makes 
the  round  of  the  arena  under  a  shower  of 
hand-clapping,  salutes  the  president  and  the 
bevy  of  ladies  in  the  central  balcony,  and 
withdraws,  leaving  only  the  picadores,  or 
spearmen,  and  attendants  in  possession  of  the 
field  of  honor. 

The  trumpet  sounds  a  second  time,  and 
the  door  of  the  toril,  the  dark  cage  on  wheels 
in  which  the  bull  is  confined,  is  opened,  and 
the  bull  rushes  out.  He  is  also  an  amateur,  a 
two-year-old,  of  good  lineage  like  his  tormen- 
tors, but  of  imperfect  development.  He  has 
been  exasperated  by  confinement  in  a  dark 
box,  and  pricked  into  a  rage  by  an  ornamented 
rosette  of  ribbons,  which  is  fastened  between 
his  shoulders  by  spikes  that  have  drawn  blood. 
Astonished  at  first  by  the  glare  of  light  and 
the  noisy  welcome  of  the  assembly,  he  stands 
a  moment  confused,  and  then  runs  about  the 
arena  looking  for  some  place  of  escape.  He 
is  a  compact,  clean-built,  intrepid  little  fellow, 
and  probably  does  not  at  first  comprehend 
that  this  is  a  duel  for  life,  without  a  single 
chance  for  himself.  He  does  not  yet  know 
that  he  is  to  be  stabbed  and  pricked  and 
baited  for  an  hour  foi  the  amusement  of  these 
gracious,  applauding  ladies,  and  then  butch- 
ered, to  give  them  a  holiday  sensation.  He 
does  not  know  how  unequal  the  fight  is  to  be, 


until  he  learns  by  experience  that  he  is  de-  ft 
prived  of  his  natural  weapon  of  attack.    But  : 
we  feel  a  pity  for  him   in   advance,  as  we  I 
notice  that  the  points  of  his  horns  have  been  -\ 
sawn  off,  so  that  their  thrusts  will  be  harmless.  •? 
After  a  circuit  or  two,  he  becomes  aware  that 
he  is  among  enemies,  and  seeing  the  picadores  '•• 
advancing   and    menacing    him   with    their  : 
spears,  he  makes  a  rush  at  one  of  them.    The 
clumsy  rider  attempts  a  spear-thrust,  but  the  2 
bull  disregards  that  and  gets  in  under  the 
flank  of  the  horse  and  attempts  to  gore  him.  Ij 
Alas,   the   blunt    horns   will    not   gore;    the  i 
blinded  beast  is  lifted  a  little  off  his  hind  legs  - 
by  sheer  force  of  the  plucky  little  fighter,  and  '•• 
then  the  bull  turns  away  in  disgust,  pursued 
by  the  courageous  picadores.    Again  and  again 
he  is  nagged  and  pricked  into  a  charge,  but  al-  i 
ways  with  the  same  result.    This  sort  of  thing 
goes  on  till  both  the  bull  and  the  spectators  are 
weary  of  it,  and  then  the  trumpet  sounds  and 
the  merry  chulos  enter  to  assist  the  picadores 
in  further  worrying  the  bull.    These  light-clad 
skirmishers  bear  darts  and  long  red  cloaks.  \ 
They  surround  the  puzzled  bull  and  torment 
him,   shake  their  aggravating  red  cloaks  in    ' 
his  face,  and  when  he  rushes  at  one  of  them, 
the  athlete  springs  lightly  aside  and  lets  him   ! 
toss  the  garment ;  or,  if  he  pursues  too  closely, 
the    man  runs    to    the   barrier   and   escapes 
through  one  of  the  many  narrow  openings. 
When  this  sport  has  continued  some  time, 
the    banderilleros   come   into  play.    One   of 
them  advances  with  a  long  barbed  arrow  in 
each  hand,  holding  it  by  the  feathered  end 
of  the  shaft.    The  little   bull  looks  at  him, 
standing  still  and  wondering  what  new  sort 
of  enemy  this  is.  The  man,  with  watchful  eye, 
comes  nearer,  in  fact,  close  to  him ;  the  bull 
lowers  his  head  and  concludes  to  try  a  charge, 
but  he  has  scarcely  taken  two  steps  when  the 
banderillero  plants  the  two  cruel  arrows  on 
the  top  of  his  shoulders  and  springs  lightly 
aside.-    The   bull   passes   with    the   weapons 
sticking  into  his  flesh,  loosely  swaying,  and 
irritating  him,  and  the  blood  flows  down  his 
shoulders.    The  crowd   applaud   the   gallant 
young  gentleman.   This  operation  is  repeated 
by  a  second  banderillero,  and  when  this  sort 
of  baiting  ceases  to  be  any  longer  amusing, 
the  trumpet  sounds  again. 

This  is  for  the  last  act  in  this  noble  drama. 
The  picadores  withdraw,  the  arena  is  occu- 
pied by  the  skirmishing  chulos.  At  a  blast  of 
the  trumpet  the  matador  enters,  advances 
to  the  central  balcony,  makes  an  address, 
receives  permission  to  dispatch  the  little 
beast,  throws  his  cap  over  the  barrier,  and 
advances  to  his  work.  He  carries  in  the 
left  hand  a  small  scarlet  flag,  and  in  the  other, 
a  long,  slender  Toledo  blade.  He  must  kill 


THE   BULL-FIGHT. 


the  bull,  but  in  only  one  way.  The  sword 
must  enter  in  the  back  part  of  the  neck  just 
Detween  the  shoulder-blades,  so  as  to  pierce 
the  heart.  The  blow  must  consequently  be 
delivered  when  the  bull  is  charging,  head 
down.  It  requires  a  quick  eye,  a  steady  hand, 
and  unshaken  nerves  to  plant  the  sword 
exactly  in  this  spot.  The  matador  advances 
warily  to  play  with  the  bull  and  study  his 
nature ;  his  assistants  group  themselves  about 
at  his  command,  to  goad  the  bull  into  action 
by  shaking  their  cloaks,  or  to  protect  the  mata- 
dor if  the  latter  is  hard  pressed.  The  little 
Dull  is  tired  and  bloody  and  hot,  and  has 
lad  enough  of  it.  But  the  matador  is  tanta- 
izing,  the  scarlet  banner  is  irritating,  the  chu- 
los  are  exasperating.  After  much  irresolution, 
and  turning  his  eyes  to  one  tormentor  and 
another,  he  decides  to  pay  his  attention  to 
the  man  with  the  sword.  He  makes  a  rush 
at  the  red  banner ;  it  flirts  in  his  face  :  the  ma- 
tador steps  aside,  and  as  he  does  so  makes  a 
thrust.  The  sword  enters  the  beast  only  an 
inch  or  two,  and  in  the  wrong  place.  The 
bull  canters  away  to  the  other  side  of  the 
arena  to  get  rid  of  his  tormentors.  They 
follow  him  and  bait  him.  He  turns  again 
upon  his  cool  pursuer.  This  time  the  sword 
is  thrust  into  his  neck  and  sticks  there,  while 
the  bull  runs  and  bellows  at  the  hurt  until 
he  shakes  out  the  weapon.  The  matador  re- 
covers it,  and  the  sport  continues.  There  is 
nothing  very  exciting  about  it,  but  the  crowd 
apparently  enjoy  the  torture  of  the  animal. 
The  matador  is  cool ;  he  is  practicing  a  noble 
art.  After  long  maneuvering  and  feinting 
and  false  thrusting,  he  plants  his  sword  in 
the  fatal  spot.  The  bull  stops  in  his  career, 
astonished.  An  attendant  runs  up  and  drives 
the  sword  in  by  a  blow  on  the  hilt ;  the  bull 
falls  on  his  knees,  and  "  the  arena  swims 
around  him."  He  tumbles  over;  the  mule 
team  gallops  in  and  drags  away  his  carcass ; 
the  hero  advances  to  the  central  balcony  and 
receives  a  tempest  of  applause  and  a  shower 
of  bouquets.  He  has  done  what  man  can  do 
in  this  land  of  romance  to  commend  himself 
to  the  favors  of  the  gentler  sex.  Two  other 
bulls  are  slain  with  exactly  the  same  pro- 
longed and  ceremonious  torture,  and  then  the 
arena  is  cleared  for  another  sort  of  performance. 

Meantime,  the  fans  flutter  with  a  new 
meaning,  the  chatter  is  continuous,  the  brilliant 
behavior  of  the  performers  is  discussed  with 
earnestness,  and  boys  make  their  way  up  and 
along  the  tiers  of  seats  with  great  trays  of 
costly  and  toothsome  candies  and  sweetmeats, 
which  are  gratuitously  distributed  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  club. 

The  next  performance  is  by  the  gentlemen 
riders.  Sixteen  of  them,  superbly  mounted, 


in  morning  costume,  with  tall  hats,  enter  the 
ring  and  begin  a  series  of  pleasing  evolutions. 
The  performance  has  not  the  dash  and  danger 
of  an  Axabjerced  nor  the  break-neck  pace  and 
skill  of  some  of  our  Western  and  Indian  horse- 
men, but  it  is  better  than  most  of  the  riding 
in  our  best  circuses  with  trained  horses,  and 
is  altogether  a  pleasing  sight.  The  riders  sit 
and  manage  their  spirited  horses  perfectly,  and 
their  complicated  evolutions,  like  the  mazes 
of  a  dance,  in  time  to  the  music  of  the  band, 
are  a  charming  exhibition  of  grace  and  skill. 

This  was  followed  by  riding  at  the  scarf. 
On  a  projecting  arm  in  front  of  the  president's 
stand  were  rolls  of  colored  scarfs,  the  end  of 
each  roll  hanging  down  with  its  fringe  about 
six  inches.  The  scarfs  of  blue,  red,  white, 
yellow,  and  green  had  been  embroidered  by 
the  fair  hands  that  were  applauding  the  horse- 
men, and  the  capture  of  these  was  the  prize 
of  the  riders.  Each  horseman  carried  a  long 
wooden  lance  with  a  sharp  point.  They  were 
drawn  up  in  line  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
arena.  At  a  signal  one  advanced,  and  put  his 
horse  into  a  gallop  around  the  circle ;  as  he 
neared  the  balcony,  the  pace  increased  to  a 
dead  run.  Just  before  the  rider  passed  under 
the  roll  of  scarfs,  he  raised  his  lance  and 
thrust  it  at  the  six  inches  square  of  hanging 
silk.  He  had  to  estimate  the  height,  to  cal- 
culate exactly  the  distance  from  the  balcony, 
and  to  hit  this  small  object  exactly  while 
guiding  his  fiery  horse  at  a  prodigious  pace. 
If  the  point  of  the  lance  caught  the  silk,  the 
scarf  unrolled  and  fluttered  down,  and  another 
one  was  ready  for  the  next  trial.  Opposite 
the  balcony,  by  the  side  of  the  track,  on  a 
stand  about  eighteen  inches  high,  lay  a  bou- 
quet. When  the  rider  had  essayed  at  the  scarf, 
he  threw  down  his  lance  and,  with  the  horse 
still  at  full  speed,  leaned  from  his  saddle  and 
attempted  to  snatch  the  bouquet.  I  could 
see  how  the  riders  could  very  well  spear  the 
silk  and  catch  the  flowers;  but  how,  in  all 
this  excitement,  with  a  plunging  horse,  they 
could  keep  on  their  tall  hats,  was  a  mystery 
to  me.  There  were  many  rounds  made  with- 
out capturing  a  scarf.  Whenever  one  was 
caught  down,  a  footman  picked  it  up  and 
carried  it  to  the  winner,  who  decorated  him- 
self with  it  by  passing  it  over  his  right  shoul- 
der and  knotting  it  6n  his  left  hip.  In  time, 
the  successful  competitors  presented  a  gay 
appearance,  with  scarfs  of  many  colors.  The 
game  went  on  for  nearly  two  hours,  and  ; 
most  at  the  last  there  were  some  unfortunate 
riders  who  had  no  scarf,  while  others  were 
ornamented  with  a  dozen  of  these  tokens  < 
affection.  I  fancied  there  were  some  heart- 
aches in  the  galleries  on  seeing  so  many  o 
the  embroidered  decorations  go  to  the  wrong 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 


men.  But  the  supply  held  out,  and  when  the 
trial  was  over  every  gallant  had  at  least  one. 
No  doubt  it  was  a  happy  night  for  the  heroes 
who  wore  a  dozen.  But  what  their  social  rank 
would  be,  in  comparison  with  the  swordsman 
who  killed  the  amateur  bull,  I  cannot  say. 

The  high  and  almost  sacred  rank  the  bull- 
fight holds  in  Spain  may  be  inferred  from  the 
fact  that  all  the  important  spectacles  are  on 
Sunday.  As  the  great  funciones  had  already 


There  are  very  few  who  attain  great  emi-i 
nence  in  their  profession,  never  more  thai« 
three  or  four  at  a  time  in  the  whole  kingdom  \ 
but  for  them  there  is  profit  as  well  as  honorj 
These  great  men  are  the  autocrats  of  the  rinJ 
when  they  enter  it.  Each  one  has  his  owri 
train  of  followers,  chulos  and  banderilleros,  whol 
accompany  him  in  his  circuit  of  engagements,! 
and  who  are  paid  as  he  dictates.  A  great! 
favorite  receives  a  thousand  dollars  for  ai 


THE  BANDERILLEKO'S  CHALLENGE. 


taken  place  during  the  Easter  holidays  in 
Seville,  we  were  obliged  to  go  to  Jerez  on  the 
thirtieth  of  April  in  order  to  witness  a  real 
engagement.  Every  town  in  Spain  of  any 
size  has  a  large  bull-ring,  whatever  other 
public  buildings  it  may  lack ;  and  the  erection 
of  new  ones  recently  proves  that  the  sport  has 
not  declined  in  popular  estimation,  although 
a  few  fastidious  persons  are  beginning  to  re- 
gard it  as  a  barbarous  and  unseemly  usage. 
And  during  some  portion  of  the  year,  usually 
during  the  local  fair,  or  on  some  }\\g\\fete  of 
the  Church,  there  is  in  every  bull-ring  in  the 
kingdom  a  great  funcion.  There  are  a  few 
bull-fighters  who  have  a  national  reputation, 
whose  services  are  always  in  demand,  and  the 
local  fights  have  to  be  postponed  till  one  or 
more  of  them  can  be  secured.  Although  it  is 
said  that  the  professional  bull-fighter  is  very 
low  caste  in  Spain,  I  tliink  no  one,  not  even 
the  military  hero,  enjoys  so  much  considera- 
tion with  the  masses  as  the  successful  and 
skillful  matador  of  the  ring.  They  are  fol- 
lowed by  the  boys,  they  are  the  admiration 
of  the  rabble,  they  are  smiled  on  by  the  gen- 
tle ladies  in  the  boxes,  they  are  dined  by  the 
local  governors,  and  they  move  about  in  their 
own  social  circles  with  the  port  of  conquerors 
who  subdue  hearts  as  easily  as  they  slay  bulls. 


fight,  and  as  he  is  crowded  with  engagements  * 
during  the  whole  spring,  summer,  and  autumn, 
he  reaps  a  good  harvest.  Two  fighters  whom: 
I  saw,  one  of  Seville  and  one  of  Granada,, 
had  accumulated  large  fortunes,  owned  many 
houses,  and  lived  in  considerable,  showy 
ostentation.  Bull-fights  are  very  expensive 
entertainments,  costing  usually  two  thousand! 
dollars  and  more,  and  the  prices  of  admission  \ 
are  high  compared  with  the  wages  paid  ini 
Spain ;  the  artists  must  be  well  paid,  and  thei 
animals  cost  much  to  breed.  But  there  is  no  i 
difficulty  in  filling  a  ring  anywhere,  for  the) 
fight  is  a  passion  with  the  people ;  children ; 
are  taken  early  to  the  arena,  and  bred  to  love 
it — their  common  game  is  a  "bull-fight";; 
and  all  Spaniards  love  to  see  a  bull  slain,  for! 
they  seem  to  have  an  unconquerable  hatred 
of  the  animal,  and  never  see  one  in  the  field 
without  attempting  to  irritate  and  insult  him. 
Of  the  bulls  that  are  bred  for  this  pastime, 
only  the  noblest  and  .fiercest  are  fit  for  thei 
arena,  and  the  breeders  have  methods  of 
testing  their  courage  and  mettle.  The  lovers 
of  the  sport  always  post  themselves  as  to  the1 
character  of  the  bulls  who  are  to  perform,  and 
the  reputation  of  the  fighting  quality  of  the 
forthcoming  bulls  is  an  attraction  only  second 
to  that  of  the  famous  artists  who  are  to  mee: 


THE    BULL-FIGHT. 


AN    ACT    OF    AUDACITY. 


them  in   the  arena;   and  the   latter  are  es- 
teemed as  great  actors  are  with  us. 

It  was  fair  and  horse-race  week  at  Jerez, 
and  the  little  "  sherry  "  city  was  crowded  with 
visitors.  The  culminating  interest  was  in  the 
bull-baiting  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  when 
we  found  our  way  to  our  seats  in  the  vast 
edifice,  at  half-past  three,  it  was  already 
packed  from  the  barrier-ring  to  the  top  of  the 
walls.  And  such  an  assembly  !  I  doubt  if  a 
Roman  circus  could  ever  have  shown  a  more 
brutal  one.  Very  few  women  were  present, 
though  there  were  many  children ;  and  there 
was  a  sprinkling  of  ladies  in  white  mantillas 
in  the  grand  balcony,  where  the  town  officials 
were  seated.  These  functionaries  had  the  air 
of  the  judges  and  important  personages  on 
-he  stand  at  an  American  horse-trot  fimcion. 
The  occasion  had  been  anticipated  with  great 
eagerness,  because  the  bulls  were  from  a 
famous  Andalusian  herd,  and  two  fighters  with 
a  national  reputation  were  to  officiate :  Anto- 
nio Carmona,  called  "  El  Gordito,"  of  Seville, 
and  Salvador  Sanchez,  called  "  Frascuelo,"  of 
rranada.  These  men  are  both  in  the  first  class 
VOL.  XXVII.— 2. 


of  the  brotherhood,  although  two  of  the  Madrid 
fighters  are  their  acknowledged  superiors. 

I  had  imagined  that  a  bull-fight,  with  all 
its  cruelty  and  much  to  disgust,  must  be  an 
exciting  and  gallant  spectacle.  I  saw,  in  my 
mind,  the  trained  spearmen  on  horseback 
dashing  in  full  gallop  at  the  bull,  dexterously 
evading  his  enraged  rush,  and  flying  and 
charging  about  the  arena,  alternately  pursuing 
and  pursued.  I  saw  the  bull,  always  alert  and 
bellicose,  charging  the  footmen,  who  pricked 
and  baited  and  enraged  him  with  their  scarlet 
mantles,  who  put  their  lives  against  his  in  a 
closed  arena,  and  only  saved  themselves  by 
the  utmost  address  and  skill.  I  had  imagined, 
in  short,  a  chivalrous  performance. 

We  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  gate  swung 
open,  and  the  bull-fighting  company  entered 
in  what  was  meant  for  a  gorgeous  procession. 
It  had  the  cheap  elements  of  a  spectacular 
effect  in  a  sawdust  arena.  The  costumes,  at 
least,  were  showy  in  spangles  and  in  divers 
colors,  as  in  the  "  grande  entree  "  of  a  circus, 
and  some  of  them  were  rich;  and  scarlet 
cloaks  and  swords  and  plumes  and  the  courtly, 


10 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 


high-stepping  march  of  the  fighters  imitated, 
I  supposed,  the  opening  of  a  mediaeval  tourna- 
ment. First  came  four  picadores.  These  men 
wore  broad-brimmed  Thessalian  hats  and 
carried  long  spears ;  their  bodies  were  thickly 
padded,  their  legs  incased  in  iron  and 
leather,  the  right  one  being  most  protected; 
they  were  rusty  in  appearance,  and  so  encum- 
bered were  they  with  armor  and  wadding 
that  they  sat  their  horses  insecurely.  The 
poor  beasts  they  rode  were  worthy  of  the  occa- 
sion, thin  Rosin  antes,  old,  knock-kneed,  stiff- 
legged,  who  stumbled  along  and  with  difficulty 
could  be  urged  out  of  a  walk.  They  were 
blindfolded.  They  would  be  dear  purchases 
at  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  head.  When  you 
speak  to  a  Spaniard  of  the  cruelty  of  torturing 
such  poor  beasts,  he  says,  "  Why,  they  are 
worth  nothing  !  "  These  were  followed  by  a 
band  of  foot-fighters,  comely  fellows  in  span- 
gled jackets,  plumed  caps,  waist  sashes,  short 
breeches,  and  stockings,  bearing  on  the  left 
arm  red  mantles.  After  them  walked  the  two 
matadores  en  grande  tenue,  with  conscious 
pride,  and  the  procession  closed  with  a  team 
of  six  gaudily  caparisoned  mules.  The  pro- 
cession marched  up  to  the  judges'  stand  and 
saluted ;  the  president  threw  down  the  key  of 
the  toril,  or  bull-cell,  to  an  attendant  police- 
man, the  round  of  the  arena  was  made  amid 
the  roar  of  nine  thousand  spectators,  and  all 
passed  out  except  the  picadores  and  half  a 
dozen  of  the  footmen. 

And  now  came  the  first  moment  of  intense 
anxiety,  the  awaiting  of  the  appearance  of 
the  bull.  Would-  he  be  game  or  indifferent  ? 
would  he  be  boldly  savage  or  slyly  murder- 
ous, a  dangerous  customer  or  a  coward  ? 
Pending  this  issue,  however,  I  was  aware  of 
a  rising  tumult  on  the  opposite  benches,  an 
angry  sort  of  roar  and  grumble  that  spread 
speedily  over  the  whole  house  except  in  our 
immediate  vicinity  near  the  grand  balcony ; 
men  rose  gesticulating  and  sputtering  wildly, 
and  pointing  in  our  direction,  until  nearly 
everybody  was  standing  on  the  benches,  half 
of  them  not  comprehending  what  the  matter 
was,  and  eager  to  see,  but  all  roaring  in  tones 
that  had  no  good  nature  in  them.  "  They  are 
all  looking  at  you,"  said  my  companion;  "I 
think  it  must  be  your  hat."  I  was  wearing, 
for  protection  against  the  sun,  an  India  pith 
helmet,  common  enough  all  along  the  Medi- 
terranean, but  for  some  reason  apparently 
offensive  to  these  courteous  provincials.  The 
whole  arena  rose  at  me.  It  was  some  seconds 
before  I  could  comprehend  that  I  was  the 
center  of  such  polite  attention.  The  hubbub 
increased ;  men  shook  their  fists  and  howled, 
and  began  to  move  as  if  they  would  climb 
up  to  our  tier.  They  demanded  something 


most  vehemently,  but  whether  it  was  my  head 
or  my  hat  I  could  not  tell.  I  did  not,  how- 
ever, rise  to  acknowledge  the  honor,  but  sat 
smiling,  much  as  I  suppose  the  matador  smiles 
when  the  bull  is  about  to  charge  him;  and 
when  the  tumult  was  at  its  height  there  was 
a  cry,  "El  toro  !  El  toro  /  "  and  the  crowd 
turned  to  a  greater  attraction. 

The  bull  was  in  the  ring.  He  was  a  noble 
animal,  dun  in  color,  handsomely  marked, 
thin  flanks,  powerful  shoulders,  high-bred 
head  with  dilating  nostrils,  large,  glaring 
eyes,  and  symmetrical  polished  horns.  Af- 
fixed to  the  back  of  his  neck  was  the  varie- 
gated rosette,  and  blood  trickled  down  his 
shoulders.  He  stood  for  a  moment  facing 
the  nine  thousand  enemies  who  roared  at 
him,  and  then  dashed  around  the  ring,  head 
erect  and  lashing  his  tail,  with  blood  and 
defiance  in  his  eye.  The  chulos  sought  cover, 
and  the  picadores  stood  still,  awaiting  his 
attention.  After  his  first  course,  the  bull 
stood  for  a  moment  pawing  the  ground  and 
bellowing,  and  then,  catching  sight  of  one 
of  the  weak,  blindfolded  horses,  whose  rider 
was  urging  him  forward,  he  advanced  to  the 
attack,  though  not  with  any  rush.  As  he 
came  near,  the  picador,  who  was  swaying 
clumsily  on  his  horse,  made  a  thrust  at  the 
bull  with  his  spear  and  slightly  turned  his  ( 
horse's  head  to  the  left.  The  horse  stood 
still,  and  the  bull  inserted  his  horns  under 
the  animal's  flank,  slightly  raising  him  from 
the  ground.  The  footmen  ran  to  the  rescue 
with  their  distracting  mantles,  and  the  bull 
turned  in  pursuit  of  them.  They  nimbly- 
skipped  behind  the  shelters  that  are  erected 
every  few  paces  in  the  barrier,  and  the  horse 
got  away  with  his  entrails  trailing  on  the 
ground,  his  rider  trying  to  spur  him  into  a 
gallop.  The  crowd  roared  in  great  delight. 
The  horse  was  good  for  sport  as  long  as  he 
could  stand.  (When  the  horse  is  not  too 
weak  to  keep  his  feet,  the  wound  is  sewed 
up,  that  he  may  be  gored  again ;  for  seeing 
the  horses  tortured  is  one  of  the  chief  de- 
lights of  the  ring.)  After  a  brief  interval,  the 
bull  was  excited  to  attack  another  horse. 
This  time  the  horse  was  lifted  from  the 
ground  and  thrown  on  his  side,  the  man 
under  him,  and  the  bull  drew  back  to  give 
him  a  finishing  stroke.  The  attendants  again 
rushed  in,  distracted  the  attention  of  the 
bull,  pulled  the  man  from  under  the  horse, 
got  the  horse  up,  lifted  the  picador  to  his 
feet  (for  encumbered  as  he  was  with  armor 
and  wadding  he  could  not  rise),  and  put  hhr 
on  the  horse  again.  The  bull,  still  full  of 
fight,  wheeled  about  in  a  rage  at  losing  his 
assailants,  who  had  quickly  stepped  behinc 
their  shelter,  and  advanced  threateningl} 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 


1 1 


toward  another  horse.  The  picador  walked 
his  horse  to  meet  him.  The  same  clumsy 
maneuvers  occurred  as  before.  But  this  time 
the  bull  not  only  overthrew  the  horse,  but 
gored  him  severely,  and  then  attacked  the 
prostrate  rider.  The  footmen  rushed  in  just 
in  time  to  save  the  man  from  being  tossed. 
The  horse  lay  dead,  and  the  man  was  carried 
out  of  the  ring.  It  was  considered  by  this 
time  a  lively  fight,  and  the  picadores  were 
reenforced  by  two  more  horsemen.  The  next 
horse  assailed  was  gored  so  badly  that, 
although  he  escaped,  he  was  in  a  shocking 
condition;  and  after  his  cruel  rider  had 
spurred  him  a  couple  of  times  around  the 
ring,  he  collapsed.  The  bull  continued  raging 
about,  stopping  occasionally  to  gore  and  toss 
the  dead  horses  or  chase  the  aggravating  chu- 
los  to  cover,  and  then  sullenly  advancing  and 
ripping  open  another  of  the  blindfolded  steeds. 
When  the  trumpet  sounded,  he  had  virtually 
cleared  the  ring,  and  roamed  around,  its  master. 
Six  horses  lay  dead  or  dying  in  the  sand. 

In  the  second  act  the  chulos  and  banderi- 
lleros  had  the  field,  to  torture  and  bait  the 
noble  fighter,  who  was  getting  a  little  weak- 
ened by  his  extraordinary  efforts,  but  still 
seemed  to  think  he  had  a  chance  for  his  life. 
These  fellows  are  light  and  nimble,  costumed 
exactly  like  Figaro,  in  the  "  Barber's  "  opera, 
and  skip  about  the  arena  with  considerable 
agility.  Their  office  is  to  tease  the  bull,  to 
un  toward  him  and  irritate  him  by  shaking 
heir  colored  mantles  in  his  face,  to  distract 
lim  to  pursue  first  one  and  then  another,  and 
:o  elude  him,  when  they  are  hard  pressed, 
)y  dodging  behind  the  shelters.  The  only 
danger  they  run  is  in  slipping  on  the  sod 
when  the  bull  is  in  pursuit.  After  this  game 
lad  gone  on  for  some  time,  a  banderillero 
tepped  forward  with  a  barbed  arrow  in  each 
hand  and  faced  the  bull.  His  object  was  to 
>lant  an  arrow  in  each  shoulder.  The  two 
ooked  at  each  other  warily.  The  bull  was 
tudying  how  he  could  kill  the  man.  He  pawed 
he  ground,  he  lowered  his  head,  and  made 

dash;  the  banderillero  planted  the  arrows 
xactly  in  the  shoulders,  and  skipped  aside, 
ust  avoiding  the  points  of  the  sharp  horns, 
t  was  very  neatly  done ;  and  the  bull  went 
oaring  around  the  arena,  bleeding  and  trying 
o  shake  himself  free  from  the  stinging  barbs, 
his  operation,  after  two  or  three  failures, 
as  repeated  by  another  banderillero,  and 
he  bull  was  further  dispirited  by  nagging 
intil  it  was  deemed  time  to  kill  him.  The 
rumpet  sounded  for  the  third  and  last  act. 

Frascuelo  entered.  He  was  not  by  any 
means  a  bad-looking  fellow,  and,  physically, 
he  deserved  a  good  deal  of  credit.  He  ad- 
vanced straight  across  the  arena  with  the 


lordly  strut  of  a  great  man,  conscious  of  his 
merit  and  of  deserving  the  thunderous  ap- 
plause that  greeted  him,  to  the  president's 
box.  There  he  made  a  grandiloquent  speech 
signifying  his  willingness  to  rid  the  earth  of 
that  pestilent  bull.  Permission  was  graciously 
accorded  :  we  are  nothing  here  if  not  courtly 
Frascuelo  pledged  himself  to  do  his  duty, 
tossed  his  plumed  hat  over  the  barrier,  and 
turned  and  addressed  himself  to  the  work. 
The  bull  had  been  meantime  patiently  wait- 
ing for  the  oratorical  part  of  the  performance 
to  finish,  and  evidently  not  caring  particu- 
larly for  any  more  fighting  that  day. 

Frascuelo  carried  in  his  right  hand  a  long 
Toledo  blade ;  in  his  left,  a  scarlet  mantle  a 
yard  square.  He  wore  a  small  wig  of  black 
hair,  with  a  sort  of  chignon  on  the  back 
of  the  head,  and  a  short  cue.  His  jacket 
and  breeches  were  of  light  olive-green  velvet. 
The  open  jacket  and  the  front  of  his  thighs 
were  thickly  crusted  with  silver  spangles.  His 
waist  was  girt  with  a  red  sash ;  his  long  stock- 
ings were  pink,  and  his  shoes  were  black.  He 
was  a  cool-eyed,  steady-nerved,  well-made  fel- 
low, and  he  presented  a  pretty  appearance  as 
he  advanced  to  his  duel  with  the  bull.  His 
attendants,  with  the  mantles,  were  disposed 
near  at  hand  and  under  his  orders,  to  excite 
the  bull  to  the  combat  and  to  rescue  the 
matador  in  case  of  extreme  peril. 

The  two  stood  face  to  face;  the  man  fresh 
and  cool,  the  bull  enraged,  but  weakened  by 
the  running  and  the  nagging  and  loss  of 
blood.  The  only  stroke  the  matador  is  allowed 
to  deliver  is  between  the  shoulders ;  in  order 
to  kill,  he  must  pass  the  sword  down  close  to 
the  shoulder-blade  into  the  heart.  In  order 
to  reach  this  spot,  the  bull  must  have  his  head 
down,  and  consequently  be  charging.  The 
combatants  eye  each  other.  Frascuelo  shakes 
the  scarlet  before  the  bull's  eyes.  The  bull 
paws  'the  ground  and  looks  wicked,  but  dis- 
trustful of  the  blade.  Frascuelo  comes  nearer, 
never  for  a  second  losing  the  bull's  eye.  He 
insults  him  with  the  scarlet.  The  bull  dashes 
at  it.  Frascuelo  delivers  a  stroke  as  the  bull 
comes  on,  flirts  the  banner  in  his  eyes,  and 
steps  aside.  The  bull  is  wounded,  but  not  in 
the  vital  spot,  and  speedily  turns  and  faces 
his  foe.  Frascuelo  coolly  wipes  the  blade  on 
the  silk  in  his  hand,  and  is  ready  for  another 
turn.  The  same  wary  maneuvers  follow,  with 
the  same  result.  Then  a  longer  period  of 
skirmishing  follows,  in  which  the  attendants 
again  nag  and  torment  the  now  distracted 
and  reluctant  animal.  In  the  third  round, 
Frascuelo  plants  his  sword  in  the  right  spot, 
half  way  to  the  hilt.  The  crowd  rise  and  roar 
with  delight.  The  bull  goes  bellowing  around 
the  arena  in  pain,  blood  running  from  his 


12 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 


TAKING    OUT     THE     VICTIM. 


mouth.  As  he  passes  near  the  barrier,  the 
spectators  lean  over  and,  with  one  blow  after 
another,  thrust  the  sword  in  to  the  hilt.  The 
bull  falls  on  his  knees  and  is  done  for.  Fras- 
cuelo,  still  cool,  gracious,  dignified,  advances 
to  the  grand  balcony.  He  is  greeted  with  a 
hurricane  of  hurrahs,  and  a  shower  of  hats  is 
thrown  at  him  from  the  benches.  These  hats 
are  not,  however,  gifts.  Frascuelo  goes  around 
and  picks  each  one  up  and  restores  it  to  its 
owner.  Then  the  trumpet  sounds,  the  mule 
team  gallops  in  and  drags  away  the  bull  and 
the  carcasses  of  the  horses,  and  the  arena  is 
ready  for  another  fight. 

The  second  fight  was  essentially  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  first,  only  this  bull  was  sullen  and 
less  enterprising  than  the  first  one,  though 
equally  strong  and  dangerous.  In  the  second 
act,  an  incident  occurred  that  sent  a  delight- 
ful thrill  of  horror  through  the  spectators  for 
a  moment.  One  of  the  chulos,  pursued  by  the 
bull,  fell,  and  the  brute's  horns  were  just  about 
entering  his  body  when  Frascuelo,  who  was  in 
the  arena,  rushed  forward  with  incredible  swift- 
ness and  address  and,  blinding  the  bull  with  his 
cloak,  diverted  his  attention  and  save'd  the 
man's  life.  It  was  the  cleverest  feat  of  the  day. 

The  matador  in  this  fight  was  El  Gordito, 
a  man  of  fame,  but  older  than  Frascuelo,  and 
on  this  occasion  he  appeared  to  be  a  very 
clumsy  swordsman.  Although  the  bull  was 
much  fatigued  when  he  took  him,  the  fight 
was  intolerably  long.  El  Gordito  made  pass 
after  pass,  wounding  the  bull  repeatedly,  but 
never  in  the  right  spot.  Twice  he  lost  his  sword, 
the  bull  carrying  it  away  in  his  neck,  and  it 
was  recovered  and  brought  to  the  matador 
by  his  attendants.  Once  he  thrust  it  so  deeply 
into  the  shoulder  that  it  was  a  long  time 
before  it  was  pulled  out,  and  then  by  one  of 
the  spectators  leaning  over  the  barrier  when 
the  bull  was  sulking,  and  El  Gordito  had 
to  be  furnished  with  another  sword.  After 
twenty  minutes  of  this  clumsy  work,  the 


crowd  got  very  impatient,  and  did  what  is 
very  seldom  done  in  a  bull-ring  —  they  de- 
manded the  life  of  the  bull.  The  signal  of 
this  act  of  mercy  is  the  waving  of  a  white 
handkerchief.  Soon  the  whole  arena  was  flut- 
tering with  these  flags  of  truce.  But  the  presi- 
dent would  not  heed<  them.  He  probably 
hesitated  to  disgrace  so  notorious  a  fighter. 
The  farce  went  on.  Again  and  again  the 
crowd  rose,  waving  handkerchiefs  and  de- 
manding that  the  bull  should  be  let  go.  But 
the  president  was  inexorable.  The  fight  went 
on,  intolerably  weary  and  monotonous.  At 
the  end  of  nearly  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
El  Gordito  succeeded  in  planting  his  weapon 
in  the  right  spot,  though  not  delivering  an 
immediate  death-blow;  but  the  bull,  after 
some  hesitation,  sank  on  his  knees,  and  an 
attendant  crept  up  to  his  side  and  dis- 
patched him  with  a  butcher-knife. 

We  assisted  at  the  killing  of  one  bull  more. 
It  was  always  the  same  thing.  Six  bulls  were 
slaughtered  that  day,  but  three  were  quite 
enough  for  us.  I  do  not  know  how  many 
horses  bit  the  dust,  but  a  good  many,  —  I 
should  think  twenty-five  dollars'  worth,  in  all. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  got  used  to  the  cruelty, 
the  disgusting  sight  of  the  gored  horses,  and 
the  cheap  barbarity,  if  I  had  staid  through  the 
entire  performance;  but  I  could  not  longer 
endure  the  weariness  and  monotony  of  the 
show,  the  tedious  skirmishing  between  bulls 
that  had  to  be  all  the  time  irritated  up  to 
the  fighting  point,  and  decrepit,  blindfolded 
horses  that  could  not  see  their  danger,  and 
nimble  athletes  that  could  easily  skip  to  a 
place  of  safety.  It  would  have  been  some- 
thing like  fair  if  the  barriers  had  been 
closed  and  the  fighters  had  owed  their  es- 
cape to  speed  and  address.  One's  sympathy 
went  always  with  the  tormented  bull,  whose 
very  bravery  and  courage  insured  his  death, 
for  there  was  no  chance  for  him  from  th 
first  moment.  There  were  times  when 


i 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


»3 


rould  have  been  a  relief  to  see  him  dispatch 
ne  of.  his  tormentors. 

The  profoundest  impressions  left  with  one 
ere  of  the  weary  monotony  of  the  show, 
nd  the  utter  tameness  and  cheapness  of 
aost  of  it,  and  the  character  of  the  specta- 
)rs.  There  were  a  good  many  children  in 
he  crowd,  having  their  worst  passions  culti- 
ated  by  the  brutal  exhibition.  It  is  an  im- 
ortant  part  of  the  national  education,  and 
he  fruits  of  it  are  plain  to  be  seen.  I 
m  glad  to  record  that  a  little  girl,  seated 
ear  us,  who  had  enjoyed  the  grand  entry 
nd  the  excitement  of  the  scene,  was  quite 
roken  up  by  the  disgusting  details,  and  fre- 
uently  hid  her  face  on  her  father's  shoulder, 
rying  nervously  at  the  distress  of  the  poor 
orses.  But  the  great,  roaring  crowd  heartily 
loated  over  all  that  was  most  revolting. 


Long  after  we  left  the  arena,  there  was  ring- 
ing in  my  ears  their  barbaric  clamor. 

We  went  out  from  the  blazing  light  and 
tumult  of  the  ring,  glad  to  escape  from  the 
demoniac  performance,  and  sought  refuge  in 
an  old  church  near  by,  to  bathe  our  tired 
eyes  and  bruised  nerves  in  its  coolness  and 
serenity.  Here,  at  least,  was  some  visible  evi- 
dence that  the  Christian  religion  has  still  a 
foothold  in  Spain. 

We  tried  to  console  ourselves  for  the  part 
we  had  taken  in  the  day's  sport,  by  the 
thought  that  we  had  once  for  all  discharged 
the  traveler's  duty  in  a  study  of  the  great 
national  pastime — the  pastime  that  royalty 
encourages  by  its  presence,  the  pastime  that 
reveals  and  molds  the  character  of  a  once 
powerful  people. 

Charles  Dudley  Warnet. 


AN    AMERICAN    ARTIST    IN    ENGLAND. 


MR.  WINSLOW  HOMER  holds,  as  to  time, 
n  intermediate  place  between  our  elder 
nd  our  younger  painters.  He  cannot  be 
lassed  with  those  who  won  their  position  and 
ained  their  chief  honors  before  the  War  of 
le  Rebellion;  nor  is  he  identified  with  the 
iter  generation  which  has  so  rapidly  grown 
i  numbers  and  in  influence  since  the  appear- 


ance of  a  few  clever  Munich  and  Paris  stu- 
dents on  the  Academy  walls  in  1877.  And 
not  only  in  time,  but  in  the  character  of  his 
work,  he  stands  apart  from  both  these  well- 
known  groups. 

Mr.  Homer  was  born  in  Boston  in  1836. 
At  the  age  of  six  his  family  removed 
to  Cambridge,  where  country  life  fostered 


_ 


COAL    SKETCH.       BY    WINSLOW     HOMER. 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


the  tastes  and  feelings  he  reveals  so  clearly 
in  his  art.  Never  was  any  painter  more  ru- 
rally minded.  Never  did  any  dweller  in  cities 
more  completely  ignore  on  canvas  not  their 
existence  only,  but  also  the  existence  of  the 
human  types  they  foster.  This  would  not,  of 
course,  be  remarkable  if  he  were  simply  a 
landscape  painter;  but  while  landscape  ele- 
ments are  very  prominent  in  his  work,  human- 
ity is  rarely  absent,  and  is  usually  his  chief 
concern.  But  it  is  rustic  humanity  always. 
The  rural  American  of  his  earlier  pictures  is 
shown  with  a  persistence,  a  sympathy,  and 
an  artistic  clearness  and  directness  of  speech 
quite  unequaled  in  our  art.  We  get  the  very 
essence  of  New  England  forms  and  faces  and 
gestures,  and  of  New  England  fields  and  hill- 
sides, in  this  early  work,  and  just  as  truly  the 
very  essence  of  negro  life  and  its  surround- 
ings. No  man  could  mistake  the  home  and 
people  of  this  artist.  No  man  could  doubt  his 
being  an  American  by  birth  and  nature.  This 
national  quality  it  was — always  a  precious 
thing,  but  never  so  valuable  as  now  when 
art  has  grown  so  eclectic  and  cosmopolitan  — 
that  caused  his  pictures  to  be  so  much  noticed 
at  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1878,  so  much 
praised  by  critics  who  saw  their  technical 
peculiarities  quite  clearly,  but  forgave  them, 
prized  them,  indeed,  for  the  breath  of  gen- 
uine transatlantic  sentiment  they  preserved. 

Mr.  Homer's  taste  for  art  seems  to  have 
developed  very  early,  for  we  are  told  that  by 
the  time  he  was  twelve  years  old  he  had 
already  accumulated  a  large  stock  of  crayon 
drawings.  He  was  encouraged  in  his  efforts  and 
ambitions  by  his  father, —  a  fact  in  refreshing 
contrast  to  the  usual  course  of  artistic  true 
love, — and  at  the  age  of  nineteen  was  ap- 
prenticed to  Bufford,  the  Boston  lithographer. 
The  first  work  of  his  apprenticeship  was  in 
the  shape  of  title-pages  for  sheet  music.  The 
most  important,  perhaps,  was  a  series  of  por- 
traits of  all  the  members  of  the  Massachu- 
setts Senate.  When  he  was  of  age,  Mr.  Homer 
abandoned  the  lithographer's  Waft,  the  me- 
chanical and  business  requirements  of  which 
he  had  found  alike  galling,  and  set  up  a  stu- 
dio in  Boston.  He  designed  much  for  the 
Harpers'  wood-engravers,  and  the  firm  soon 
offered  him  a  permanent  engagement.  But 
he  refused  to  bind  himself  in  any  way 
again,  and  worked  on  quite  independently, 
studying  diligently  all  the  time.  In  1859 
he  removed  to  New  York  and  attended  the 
night  schools  of  the  Academy.  In  1861  he 
began  to  use  color  for  the  first  time,  going 
directly  to  nature  for  his  models  and  to  his 
own  instincts  for  his  methods.  With  the  out- 
break of  the  war,  he  went  to  Washington,  and 
thrice  accompanied  the  army  of  the  Potomac 


in  its  campaigns,  the  first  time  as  artist  COM 
respondent  of  the  Harpers,  and  later  for  hi 
own  private  purposes.  His  first  oil  painting] 
were  war  scenes, — among  them  the  famed 
"  Prisoners  from  the  Front,"  than  whici 
no  American  picture  is  more  familiar  to  hi 
countrymen. 

In  later  years  Mr.  Homer  has,  I  believe 
lived  chiefly  in  New  York,  though  makin/ 
trips  to  various  places  at  home  and  acroa 
the  water.  He  has  been  extremely  prolifi 
in  oils,  in  water-colors,  and  in  black-and 
white.  Most  of  his  work  has  been,  as  !| 
have  said,  in  the  line  of  outdoor  %enre. 
though  he  sometimes  gives  us  landscape 
by  itself,  sometimes  interiors,  and  occasion^ 
ally  figures  without  surroundings  of  impor 
tance.  We  all  know  the  little  water-color 
he  sent  by  the  dozen  for  many  years  t^ 
our  annual  exhibitions, —  the  bare-footed 
sun-bonneted  little  girls ;  the  flocks  of  ragge< 
sheep  ;  the  Yankee  boys  playing  by  the  garni? 
little  school-house  or  under  twisted  apples 
boughs  through  which  the  sun  was  sifting 
the  negro  urchins  eating  water-melons;  thj 
tanned  hay-makers  in  their  shirt-sleeves  an^ 
their  coarse  hide  boots ;  the  thousand  and  ond 
rustic  scenes — pictorial  scenes  merely,  withous 
incident  or  story — that  were  recorded  with  s« 
much  freshness  and  so  much  truth  and  strength! 
if  often  with  so  little  beauty.  Among  his  oi 
paintings  we  find,  as  is  but  natural,  many  sub! 
jects  of  more  ambitious  sorts,  though  almos' 
always  conceived  from  a  pictorial  and  not  i 
literary  point  of  view.  Just  as  well  as  tul 
know  his  little  water-color  sketches,  we  knov' 
his  thoroughly  studied  interiors  of  negro  hut" 
or  New  England  rural  homes,  with  the  char: 
acteristic  human  types  they  shelter,  and  the 
groups  of  blue-coats  that  were  prominent  ili 
war  days.  Even  here,  it  is  interesting  to  note 
Mr.  Homer  is  still  the  painter  of  character  oj 
simple  incident,  never  of  "  story  "  or  dramatic 
effect.  His  soldier-boys  are  shown  in  theii, 
more  peaceful  moods,  there  being,  so  far  as  j 
remember,  no  battle  scenes  among  his  mili- 
tary paintings. 

With  all  these  things  every  visitor  to  oui 
galleries  had  been  long  familiar  —  every  visit-t 
or,  though  of  the  most  careless  and  unobservjj 
ing  sort.  For  a  noteworthy  point  about  Mn 
Homer's  work,  one  that  proves  its  inherenl 
originality  of  mood  and  strength  of  utterance! 
is  that  it  always  makes  itself  felt,  no  matt* 
amid  what  surroundings.  Every  passer-bjjj 
marks  it  at  once,  and  is  apt  to  give  it  an  unl 
usually  decided  verdict  in  his  mind,  whethJ 
of  approval  or  dispraise.  No  one  can  td 
blind  to  it  in  the  first  place  or  indifferent  irfl 
the  second,  as  one  may  be  to  the  things  byl 
which  it  is  encompassed  on  the  average  ex-] 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


libition  wall, —  things  probably  more  "  pretty" 
)r  more  "  charming,"  possibly  more  polished, 
Dut  in  almost  every  case  much  weaker,  more 
conventional,  less  original,  and  at  the  same 
ime  much  less  truthful.  As  an  instance  in  point, 
L  may  refer  to  the  way  in  which  it  affected 
ny  own  childish  eyes,  in  days  when  I  dared 
o  hold  very  few  positive  opinions  in  such 
(matters.  As  a  youthful  visitor  to  our  exhibi- 
tions and  student  of  our  illustrated  papers, 
1  remember  to  have  hated  Mr.  Homer  in 
nuite  vehement  and  peculiar  fashion,  ac- 
knowledging thereby  his  individuality  and  his 
force,  and  also  his  freedom  from  the  neat  little 
ivaxy  prettinesses  of  idea  and  expression 
Lvhich  are  so  alien  to  true  art,  but  always  so 
delightful  to  childish  minds,  whether  in  bodies 
bhildish  or  adult. 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  Mr.  Homer  must 
have  astonished,  I  think,  many  who,  knowing 
lis  work  so  well,  thought  they  had  gauged 
iris  power  and  understood  its  preferences  and 
ts  range;  for  he  then  exhibited  a  series  of 
water-colors  conceived  in  an  entirely  novel 
vein.  No  one  could  have  guessed  he  might 
attempt  such  things.  Yet  the  moment  they 
were  seen  no  one  could  doubt  whose  hand 
pad  been  at  work, — so  strong  were  they,  so 
entirely  fresh  and  free  and  native.  They  were 
marine  studies  of  no  considerable  size,  done 
it  Gloucester,  Massachusetts.  Never  be- 
fore had  Mr.  Homer  made  color  his  chief 
aim  or  his  chief  means  of  expression.  In  his 
paintings  his  scheme  had  usually  been  cold, 
neutral,  unattractive.  In  his  aquarelles  he  had 
often  used  very  vivid  color,  but  rather,  appar- 
ently, for  the  purpose  of  meeting  that  most  dif- 
ficult of  problems,  the  effect  of  full  sunlight 
put-of-doors,  than  with  an  eye  to  the  color  in 
ind  for  itself.  And  the  result  had  usually  been 
itrength  not  unmixed  with  crudeness.  But  in  - 
hese  marine  sketches  color  had  been  his 
:hief  concern,  and  there  was  much  less  of 
;rudeness  and  more  of  beauty  in  the  result. 
They  were  chiefly  stormy  sunset  views  — 
plowing,  broadly  indicated,  strongly  marked 
nemoranda,  done  with  deep  reds  and  blacks, 
sweep  of  red-barred  black  water,  a  stretch 
black-barred  red  sky,  and  the  great  black 
>ail  of  a  fishing-boat  set  against  them,  with 
10  detail  and  the  fewest  of  rough  brush 
trokes,  gave  us  not  only  the  intensified  color- 
;cheme  of  nature  but  nature's  movement,  too, 
—  the  slow  rise  and  fall  of  the  billows,  the 
notion  of  the  boat,  the  heavy  pulsation  of 
he  air.  The  hues  were  a  palpable  exaggeration 
3f  the  hues  of  nature;  but  then  all  color  that 
s  homogeneous  and  good  on  canvas  is  and 
mist  be  an  exaggeration,  either  in  the  way 
)f  greater  strength  or  of  greater  weakness. 
"~  >  one  can  paint  nature  just  as  she  appears ; 


and  if  one  could,  the  result  would  not  be  clear 
and  expressive  art.  As  a  Frenchman  has 
well  said,  "  Art  is  a  state  of  compromises,  of 
sacrifices,"— much  omitted  or  altered  for  the 
sake  of  the  clear  showing  and  the  emphasizing 
of  a  little.  Most  artists  accomplish  this  end, 

as  we  know,  by  the  weakening  process by 

taking,  to  start  with,  a  lower,  duller,  less  posi- 
tive key  than  nature's,  and  by  then  still  fur- 
ther modifying  minor  things  in  order  that  the 
chief  may  appear  strong  enough  by  contrast. 
To  use  the  familiar  phrase,  they  tone  things 
down.  But  Mr.  Homer  had  gone  the  other 
way  to  work  in  these  little  marines,  and  had 
toned  things  up.  He  had  boldly  omitted  every- 
thing that  could  not  serve  his  purpose, — 
which  was  to  show  the  demoniac  splendor  of 
stormy  sunset  skies  and  waters, —  and  then, 
unsatisfied  by  the  brilliant  hues  of  nature,  had 
keyed  them  to  deeper  force,  made  them 
doubly  powerful,  the  reds  stronger  and  the 
blacks  blacker, — insisting  upon  and  emphasiz- 
ing a  theme  which  another  artist  would  have 
thought  already  too  pronounced  and  too  em- 
phatic for  artistic  use.  That  he  could  do  this 
and  keep  the  balance  of  his  work  is  a  patent 
proof  of  his  artistic  power.  For  though  over- 
statement is  not  more  non-natural  or  less  al- 
lowable in  art  than  under- statement,  yet  under- 
statement is,  of  course,  the  easier,  safer  kind 
of  adaptation.  If  this  is  unsuccessful,  the  re- 
sult is  simply  weak ;  but  if  over-statement  is 
unsuccessful,  the  result  is  an  atrocity.  Mr. 
Homer,  however,  was  so  artistic,  so  clear,  so 
well  poised  in  his  exaggerations,  that  he  did 
more  than  satisfy  the  eye.  He  opened  it  to 
the  full  force  and  beauty  of  certain  natural 
effects,  and  filled  for  us  the  sky  of  every  future 
stormy  sunset  with  memories  of  how  his  brush 
had  interpreted  its  characteristic  beauty. 

I  would  not  be  understood  to  mean,  nev- 
ertheless, that  even  in  these  pictures  Mr. 
Homer  won  himself  a  title  to  the  name  of 
colorist  in  its  highest  sense.  His  color  was 
good  in  its  way,  and  most  impressive.  But 
the  finest  color  must  always,  no  matter  how 
great  its  strength,  preserve  an  element  of 
suavity ;  and  suavity,  sensuous  charm  of  any 
kind,  Mr.  Homer's  brush  is  quite  without. 
Its  notes  may  be  grand  and  powerful  upon 
occasion,  but,  in  color  at  least,  are  always  a 
little  rude  and  violent.  Those  who  remem- 
ber these  pictures  will  remember  also,  I  think, 
how  they  divided  the  honors  of  the  exhibition 
with  Mr.  Currier's,  his  also  be'ing  color-stud- 
ies of  stormy  sunset  skies,  though  over  moor- 
land instead  of  water.  In  comparing  them, 
we  saw  the  difference  between  the  temper- 
ament of  a  true  colorist  like  Mr.  Currier  and 
a  vigorous  artistic  temperament  like  Mr. 
Homer's,  making  itself  felt  through  color 


"LOOKING  OVER  THE   CLIFF.' 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


which  still  was  not  its  native  element.  Mr. 
Currier's  drawings,  in  spite  of  their  hurrying 
dash  of  method,  were  far  more  suave  in  tone, 
more  subtle  in  suggestion,  more  harmonious, 
more  beautiful.  They  were  also  more  refined 
and  skillful  in  handling.  But  they  were  no 
more  artistic  in  conception  than  Mr.  Homer's, 
no  stronger,  no  more  valuable  as  fresh  in- 
dividual records  of  personal  sensations  in  the 
face,  of  nature.  And  they  lacked,  of  course, 

I  the  native  American  accent  which  Mr.  Homer 
had  put  even  into  his  waves  and  boats. 

At  the  water-color  exhibition  of  1883,  Mr. 
Homer  again  surprised  us  with  drawings  of 
a  new  kind  and  possessing  novel  claims  to 
praise.  They  were  pictures  of  English  fisher- 
women,  set,  as  usual  with  him,  in  landscape 
surroundings  of  much  importance,  and  were, 
I  think,  by  far  the  finest  works  he  had  yet 
shown  in  any  medium.  They  were  lacking 
in  but  one  quality  we  had  prized  in  his  ear- 
lier work — in  the  distinctively  American  ac- 
csnt  hitherto  so  prominent.  But  we  could 
not  resent  this  fact,  since,  if  an  artist  chooses 
a  foreign  theme,  he  must,  of  course,  see  it  in 
its  own  light  or  do  uncharacteristic  and  savor- 
less work.  To  paint  English  girls  as  though 

I  they  were  Americans  would  have  been  as 
great  an  artistic  sin  as  is  the  more  common 
crime  of  painting  Yankees  to  look  like  Bre- 
tons or  Bavarians.  It  is  a  proof  of  his  true 
artistic  instinct  and  insight,  and  his  freedom 
from  conventionality  of  thought  or  method, 
that  Mr.  Homer,  who  had  so  clearly  under- 
stood and  expressed  the  American  type  dur- 

I  ing  so  many  years  of  working,  could  now  free 
himself  so  entirely  from  its  memory  as  to 
make  these  English  girls  as  distinctly,  as 

|  typically  English  as  any  which  have  ever 
come  from  a  British  hand. 

It  is  this  most  recent  phase  of  Mr.  Homer's 
work  which  is  illustrated  here, — both  from  his 
exhibited  pictures  and  from  the  contents  of 
his  portfolio.  "The  Voice  from  the  Cliffs  "  and 
the  "  Inside  the  Bar  "  were  among  the  former, 
and  seem  to  me  not  only,  as  I  have  said,  the 
most  complete  and  beautiful  things  he  has  yet 
produced,  but  among  the  most  interesting 
American  art  has  yet  created.  They  are,  to  be- 
gin, with,  pictures  in  the  truest  sense,  and  not 
mere  studies  or  sketches,  like  most  of  his  earlier 
aquarelles.  Then  they  are  finer  in  color  than 
anything  except  the  sunset  sketches  just  de- 
scribed, and  finer  than  these  in  one  way  —  as 
being  more  explicit  and  comprehensive  in  their 
scheme.  Another  exhibited  picture,  a  harbor 
view  called  "  Tynemouth,"  seen  close  at  hand, 
with  its  pale  sunset  pinks  and  yellows,  seemed 
a  little  crude  as  well  as  odd;  but  from  the 
proper  distance  it  was  not  only  subtly  truth- 
ful, but  fine  in  harmony.  The  dark  gray  tone 
VOL.  XXVII.— 3. 


of  "  Inside  the  Bar  "  was  admirably  kept  and 
modulated  through  the  entire  landscape,  giv- 
ing us  as  marvelous  a  sky  as  I  remember  to 
have  seen  in  water-color  work  from  any  hand. 
And  though  the  flesh-tones  were,  as  so  often 
with  the  artist,  too  purplish  for  either  truth 
or  beauty,  yet  they  worked  in  well  with  the 
general  scheme.  In  "The  Voice  from  the 
Cliffs,"  the  same  fault  in  the  flesh-tones  was 
noticeable.  Yet  I  cannot  say  the  picture  was 
disagreeable  in  color.  It  was  pitched  in  a 
peculiar  and  rather  crude  key,  but  held  well 
together  within  that  key,  and  this  is  always  the 
first  thing  that  must  be  secured  to  make  color 
good,  if  not  beautiful.  And  in  handling,  these 
works  were,  I  think,  a  great  improvement  on 
all  that  had  gone  before — more  skillful,  more 
refined,  more  delicate,  while  not  less  strong 
and  individual.  But  the  most  interesting  and 
valuable  thing  about  them  was  their  beauty  of 
line.  Linear  beauty  is  a  rare  thing  in  modern 
art,  scarcely  ever  aimed  at  even  by  a  modern 
artist  without  a  lapse  into  conventionality  or 
would-be-classic  lifelessness.  And  it  is  a  qual- 
ity which  we  might  have  thought  the  very 
last  to  which  Mr.  Homer  could  attain.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  never  seemed  even  to  think  of 
it  before.  In  his  paintings  the  composition  had 
been  sufficiently  good,  but  not  marked  in  any 
way,  and  in  his  water-colors  it  had  usually 
been  neglected  altogether.  Never 'had  he 
shown,  so  far  as  I  know  his  work,  a  care 
for  really  artistic,  well-balanced  composition, 
still  less  a  trace  of  feeling  for  the  charm  and 
value  of  pure  linear  beauty.  Compare  the 
carelessly  chosen  attitudes,  the  angular  out- 
lines, the  awkwardly  truthful  gestures  of  his 
New  England  figures,  with  the  sculptural 
grace  of  these  fisher-girls,  and  no  contrast 
could  be  greater.  The  novel  choice  of  ma- 
terial does  not  explain  the  matter.  Had  Mr. 
Homer  seen  with  the  same  eyes  as. hereto- 
fore and  worked  with  the  same  ends  in  view, 
he  would  not  have  marked  and  emphasized 
the  splendid  linear  possibilities  of  his  new 
models,  more  suggestive  though  they  doubt- 
less were  than  those  of  his  native  land.  For 
they  had  been  possibilities  only,  to  be  discov- 
ered and  utilized  by  artistic  selection,  and 
not  persistent,  evident,  and  unmistakable 
characteristics  inherent  in  every  figure  and 
every  attitude  he  might  see.  The  pose  of  the 
woman  in  "  Inside  the  Bar  "  is  fine  in  its  ren- 
dering of  strength,  of  motion,  of  rugged  vital- 
ity. But  it  is  very  beautiful  as  well,  even  in 
the  almost  over-bold  line  of  the  apron  twisted 
by  the  wind,  which  gives  it  accent,  and 
greatly  aids  the  impression  of  movement  in 
air  and  figure.  The  grouping  of  "  The  Voice 
from  the  Cliffs"  is  still  more  remarkable. 
These  outlines  might  almost  be  transferred 


i8 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


LISTENING    TO    THE    VOICE     FROM     THE     CLIFFS. 


to  a  relief  in  marble ;  and  yet  there  is  none 
of  the  stiffness,  the  immobility,  with  which 
plastically  symmetrical  effects  are  usually  at- 
tended in  painted  work.  They  are  statuesque 
figures,  but  they  are  living,  moving,  breathing 
beings,  and  not  statues ;  and  they  are  as  char- 
acteristic, as  simply  natural  and  unconven- 
tional, as  are  the  most  awkward  of  Mr. 
Homer's  Yankee  children.  It  is  interesting 
to  note  how  this  fine  symmetry  has  been 
secured — as  it  is  often  secured  in  art  of  very 
different  kinds,  though  more  frequently  in 
marble  than  in  paint.  The  method  is  one 
that  needs  a  master  hand  to  manage  it  aright. 
It  works  first,  of  course,  by  making  the  lines 
fine  in  themselves,  and  then  by  making  the 
lines  of  one  figure  reproduce  to  a  great  de- 
gree .the  lines  of  its  fellows — not  nearly 
enough  to  produce  monotony  and  stiffness, 
but  nearly  enough  to  secure  repose,  harmony, 
and  a  sort  of  rhythmical  unity  not  to  be  ob- 
tained in  other  ways.  This  device — the  word 
is  correct,  for  what  looks  to  us  like  artistic 
instinct  is  always,  of  course,  artistic  reasoning, 
conscious  or  unconscious  —  is  used  through- 
out these  English  pictures  and  studies  of  Mr. 
Homer's,  and  often  with  the  most  exquisite 
result.  In  a  water-color  not  yet  exhibited, — 
which  is  a  most  remarkable  rendering  of 
figures  seen  through  a  thick  fog, —  there  is  in 
particular  a  group  of  two  girls  with  their  arms 


linked  together,  which  as  a  bit  of  linear  com- 
position could  hardly  be  surpassed  by  any 
pencil, — so  statuesque  is  it,  so  superbly  grace-  i 
fill,  yet  so  simple,  so  natural,  so  apparently 
unstudied.  In  "  The  Voice  from  the  Cliffs," 
moreover,  we  may  note  the  working  of  the 
same  principle  of  delicately  varied  unity  in  the 
faces  themselves.  Instead  of  the  strongly  con- 
trasted types  which  most  artists  would  have 
chosen,  we  have  but  a  single  type,  though 
distinctly  individualized  in  every  case.  As 
with  the  outlines  of  the  figures,  so  here,  also, 
there  is  no  monotony,  no  repetition.  But 
variety  has  been  secured  in  such  subtle, 
reposeful  ways  that  a  wonderful  harmony  and 
artistic  force  are  the  result. 

Nor  is  the  linear  beauty  of  these  pictures 
confined  to  the  figures  only.  The  composition 
of  the  "  Tynemouth  " — with  its  waves  and  its 
drifting  smoke-wreaths  and  the  groups  of  fig- 
ures in  the  foreground  boat — is  fine  in  every 
way ;  and  in  the  "  Inside  the  Bar,"  and  other 
similar  works,  the  lines  of  cloud  and  shore  are 
arranged  with  consummate  skill,  framing,  as  it 
were,  the  figure,  giving  it  additional  impor- 
tance, and  bringing  it  into  close  artistic  rela- 
tion with  the  landscape.* 

*  In  the  accompanying  sketch,  which  shews  the  whole 
scheme  of  "  Inside  the  Bar,"  the  boats,  owing  to  the  ab- 
sence of  chiaroscuro,  seem  much  too  prominent.  They 
are  well  in  the  background,  and  the  figure  dominates 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


In  oils,  too,  Mr.  Homer  has  shown  one 
work  which  belongs  to  the  same  series.  This 
is  "  The  Coming  of  the  Gale,"  exhibited 
with  the  last  Academy  collection.  A  wide, 
wind-tormented  sweep  of  gray,  foamy  sea 
stretches  away  to  a  gray  and  cloudy  sky.  In 
the  middle  distance  is  a  group  of  fishermen 
beaching  their  boat,  and  on  the  pier  in  the 
foreground  a  sturdy  young  woman,  with  her 
baby  strapped  to  her  back  by  a  shawl,  strid- 
ing vigorously  against  the  gale.  Sea  and  sky 
are  finely  painted,  full  of  color,  atmosphere, 
and  motion ;  and  there  is  the  same  sort  of 
sturdy  beauty  in  the  principal  figure,  though 
the  attitude  is  less  well  chosen  than  in  the 
water-colors  just  described,  since  with  as  much 
of  power  it  has  less  of  naturalness  and  ease. 

But  no  analysis  of  these  pictures,  no  point- 
ing out  of  the  elements  upon  which  their 
power  depends,  can  convey  the  impression 
that  they  make, — the  way  in  which  all  ele- 
ments work  together  to  produce  an  effect 
of  artistic  strength,  of  artistic  dignity  and 
beauty,  that  fall  nothing  short  of  grandeur. 
They  are  serious  works  of  "  high  art,"  in 
spite  of  their  peasant  subjects  and  their  water- 
color  medium.  That  is  to  say,  they  have  an 
ideal  tinge  which  lifts  them  above  the  clev- 
erest transcripts  of  mere  prosaic  fact.  And 
this  idealism,  this  high  artistic  sentiment  on 
the  part  of  the  artist,  is  of  so  strong,  so 
fresh,  so  vital,  so  original  a  sort,  that  his 
pictures  took  the  life  and  vigor  out  of  almost 
everything  else  upon  the  wall.  Many  other 
|  things  were  as  well  done,  some  were  better 
done  as  concerned  their  technique  only; 
but  not  one  seemed  quite  so  well  worth 
the  doing.  Mr.  Homer  does  indeed,  in  these 
pictures,  show  something  quite  different  from 
the  fresh  and  individual  but  crude  and  un- 
poetic  suggestiveness  of  his  earlier  aquarelles, 
something  different  from  the  prosaic  realism 
of  his  war  paintings  and  his  negro  interiors, 
something  different  also  from  the  fervid,  half 
infernal  poetry  of  the  Gloucester  studies.  The 
dignity  of  these  landscapes  and  the  statu- 
esque impressiveness  and  sturdy  vigor  of  these 
figures,  translated  by  the  strong  sincerity  of 
his  brush,  prove  an  originality  of  mood,  a 
vigor  of  conception,  and  a  sort  of  stern  poetry 
of  feeling  to  which  he  had  never  reached  before. 
I  began  my  chapter  by  saying  that  Mr. 
Homer  holds  a  place  in  our.  art  apart  both 
from  our  elder  and  from  our  younger  schools; 
and  this  not  only  by  reason  of  the  time  when 
he  gained  his  first  fame,  but  by  the  nature  of 
his  work.  He  began  to  practice  his  art  at  a 

the  entire  picture.  In  the  original  drawing  of  "  Look- 
ing Over  the  Cliff,"  a  wall  of  chalky  rock  is  seen  below 
the  figures.  It  was  necessary  to  omit  it  in  the  engrav- 
ing, in  order  that  these  last  might  be  of  satisfactory  size. 


distance  from  the  schools  and  the  popular 
artists  of  the  day,  and  so  it  was  not  molded 
into  conformity  with  the  dry,  detailed,  con- 
scientious, but  unindividual  and  inartistic 
methods  then  in  vogue.  And  he  was  born 
too  soon  to  be  drawn  into  the  current  which 
some  fifteen  years  ago  set  so  strongly  toward 
the  ateliers  of  Europe.  He  has  worked  out 
his  technical  manners  for  himself.  The  re- 
sults show  something  of  crudeness,  of  rugged 
angularity, — are  unscholarly,  perhaps,  but  ex- 
tremely original,  and  also  forcible  and  clearly 
expressive  of  what  he  has  to  say.  He  has  in- 
vented in  some  sort  a  language  of  his  own.  It 
is  not  polished,  not  deft  and  rapid  and  graceful. 
We  could  never  care  for  it  in  itself  and  apart 
from  the  message  it  delivers,  as  we  so  often  care 
for  really  beautiful  artistic  workmanship.  But 
it  is  not  hesitating,  confused,  inadequate.  It 
is  always  sure  of  itself,  and  always  reaches 
its  end,  as  ignorant  or  immature  work  does 
not,  though  it  may  reach  that  end  in  a 
rather  blunt  and  uncompromising  fashion. 
In  a  word,  it  is  not  childish,  uncertain 
technique;  but  it  is,  I  think,  a  little  primi- 
tive, a  little  rustic.  It  is  the  strong,  charac- 
teristic, personal,  though  unpolished,  diction 
of  a  provincial  poet.  We  do  not  resent  the 
fact;  we  are  tempted  to  feel,  indeed,  that 
upon  this  unconventional,  unacademic  ac- 
cent of  his  brush  depends  something  of  the 
interest  if  not  the  value  of  his  work.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  of  his  naivete,  his  occasional 
gaucheries,  his  sturdy  if  angular  independence, 
and  not  in  spite  of  these  things,  that  his  hand- 
ling seems  so  fresh,  so  unaffected,  so  pecul- 
iarly his  own,  so  well  adapted  to  the  nature 
of  the  feeling  it  reveals.  I  think  it  is  an  open 
question  whether,  had  Mr.  Homer  been  born 
a  few  years  later  and  taken  an  early  flight  to 
Paris  or  to  Munich  with  our  younger  brood 
of  callow  painters,  his  art  would  have  gained 
or  lost  in  value.  It  might  have  grown  mere 
scholarly,  more  gracious,  more  beautiful,  more 
delightful  to  the  eye  and  to  that  second  sight 
which  rejoices  in  work  well  done  simply  be- 
cause it  is  well  done.  But  with  its  polish 
might  have  come  some  loss  of  its  freshness, 
of  its  genuine,  spontaneous  rendering  of  genu- 
ine, untutored  feeling.  No  artist  has  a  more 
personal  message  to  deliver  than  Mr.  Homer, 
and  none  tells  it  more  distinctly  or  in  a  more 
native  way.  And  we  can  well  afford  to  lose 
a  little  possible  technical  brilliancy  or  charm 
in  the  gain  we  register  hereby.  No  man  is 
less  self-conscious,  works  less  as  though  cen- 
turies of  great  painters  were  watching  him 
from  the  pyramid  of  fine  accomplishment. 
And  his  strong  freshness  of  mood  and  manner 
is  peculiarly  precious  in  these  days  when 
most  men  are  self-conscious,— these  days  of 


"INSIDE  THE  BAR.' 


osmopolitan  experience  and  hackneyed  prac-  technique    will   not    make   up    for    conven- 

lCe.    Talents  so  produced  and  so  self-nurtured  tionality  of   feeling,    for   lack   of    sentiment 

re   apt,  perhaps,   to   fall  into  hard,   unpro-  and  personality  on  the  artist's  part.    The  way 

ressive  mannerisms   of  conception  and   of  he  feels  and  the  way  he  speaks— these  are 

reatment.    But  we  have  seen  that  Mr.  Homer  the   two  parallel  things  which  must  always 


AN  AMERICAN  ARTIST  IN  ENGLAND. 


21 


OUTLINE     OF     "  INSIDE     THE     BAR." 


ias  been  too  true  an  artist  to  lose  himself 
i  such  a  way.  I  have  already  noted  the 
ariety  of  his  work,  its  constant  gain  in  poetic 
entiment,  in  dignity  and  beauty  of  concep- 
ion,  and  its  constant  growth  in  technical 
xcellence  as  well.  These  last  pictures  are 
ery  different  in  treatment  from  those  by 
rhich  he  has  so  long  been  known.  A  few 
ears  ago  he  could  surely  not  have  painted 
tie  fine  and  subtle  sky  in  "The  Coming 
Storm "  or  "  Inside  the  Bar,"  or  the  deli- 
.ate  harmony  of  tones  in  "  The  Foggy  Day." 
\.  few  years  ago  his  brush  was  stiffer,  his 
ones  were  cruder,  than  they  are  to-day ;  his 
Lrt  altogether  was  harsher  and  more  angular. 

iat  he  will  give  us  many  different  kinds  of 

ork  in  the  years  to  come,  no  one  who  has 

Dllowed  his  course  thus  far  can  greatly  doubt. 

ud  I  am  equally  sure  it  will  be  work  that, 

hile  keeping  all  his  early  independence  of 

iood    and    freshness    of   vision,  will   show 

n  ever-growing  feeling  for  beauty,  and   an 

ver-growing  power  to  put  it  beautifully  on 

anvas. 

It  may  seem  ungracious  to  have  pointed 
ut  the  flaws  in  art  so  good  as  this  — so  much 
etter  in  many  ways  than  much  of  the  cur- 
ent  work  which  is  technically  more  lovely, 
kit  I  have  acknowledged  them  chiefly  to 
et  a  chance  of  showing — no  unnecessary 
reachment  in  these  days  of  devotion  to  tech- 
ique  for  itself  alone — that  there  is  some- 
ling  more  in  art  than  technical  grace  and 
harm.  Of  course,  no  art  can  be  perfect,  can 
e  really  great,  which  is  not  perfect  and  great 
i  technical  ways  as  well  as  in  conception 
nd  in  feeling.  But  even  the  most  marvelous 


be  considered  in  judging  of  a  painter.  And 
when  a  man  feels  so  strongly,  so  freshly, 
sometimes  so  grandly  and  poetically,  as  Mr. 
Homer,  and  when  he  expresses  himself  so 
clearly,  so  distinctly,  so  impressively,  we  are 
foolish  indeed  if  we  resent  the  fact  that  he 
does  not  speak  as  smoothly,  as  beautifully,  as 
gracefully  as  he  might.  Beauty — sensuous 
charm  of  motive  and  of  treatment — is  a 
factor  in  art,  and  a  factor  of  much  value ;  but  it 
is  not  all  of  art.  There  is  no  denying  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Homer's  work  has  sometimes  been 
positively  ugly.  Even  the  beauty  of  his  later 
efforts  is  beauty  of  form,  of  idea,  of  feeling,  and 
of  strong  expression  only — very  rarely  beauty 
of  color,  and  never,  whether  in  color,  in  form, 
in  handling,  or  in  sentiment,  beauty  of  the 
suave  and  sensuous  sort ;  and,  needless  to  say, 
of  so-called  "  decorative  "  beauty  we  find  not 
the  slightest  trace.  But  always,  whether  it  be 
austerely  beautiful  or  frankly  ugly,  his  work  is 
vital  art — not  mere  painting,  not  the  record  of 
mere  artistic  seeing,  but  the  record  of  strong 
artistic  feeling  expressed  in  strong,  frank,  and 
decided  ways.  It  is  always  artistic  in  sentiment 
if  not  artistically  gracious  in  speech,  always 
clear,  always  self-reliant,  always  genuine,  and 
—  to  use  again  the  word  which  comes  inevita- 
bly to  my  pen  —  alwa.ysstr0/ig  to  a  remarkable 
degree.  For  the  sake  of  these  qualities— so 
important  and  to-day  so  very  rare  — we  may 
a  thousand  times  excuse  all  technical  defi- 
ciencies we  find ;  and  the  more  gladly  since, 
as  I  have  said,  they  are  gradually  disappear- 
ing, year  by  year. 

M.  G.  Van  Rensselaer. 


MADAME    MODJESKA. 


OF  the  many  foreign  actors  who  have 
played  during  the  last  ten  years  in  New  York, 
not  more  than  four,  Salvini,  Ristori,  Bern- 
hardt,  and  Modjeska,  have  acquired  a  perma- 
nent reputation.  The  great  German  artists 
who  have  visited  us  from  time  to  time  have 
acted  in  their  own  tongue  and,  chiefly,  before 
their  own  countrymen,  and  cannot  justly  be 
said  to  have  appeared  before  the  American 
public  at  all.  Charles  '  Fechter — French, 
English,  and  German  in  one — was  a  cosmo- 
politan, and  can  scarcely  be  included  in  the 
category  of  foreigners.  There  are  no  names 
but  these  whose  memory  is  likely  to  outlive 
the  present  generation  or  the  fame  of  many 
English-speaking  actors.  The  triumphs  of 
Ristori  already  belong  to  the  past;  and  it 
is  uncommonly  doubtful  whether  Bernhardt, 
great  artist  as  she  is,  could  repeat  the  suc- 
cesses achieved  by  her  during  her  first 
engagement  here.  The  public  excitement 
attending  her  performances  then  was  very 
largely  due  to  the  notoriety  insured  by  skill- 
ful management;  and  her  audiences  grew 
steadily  smaller,  both  in  numbers  and  enthu- 
siasm, when  the  curiosity  concerning  the  per- 
sonal appearance  of  so  reckless  and  eccentric 
a  woman  had  been  satisfied.  That  she  is  a 
consummate  mistress  of  her  art  cannot  be 
questioned ;  but  her  claim  to  the  possession  of 
positive  genius  rests  upon  a  very  shadowy 
foundation,  while  the  fact  remains  that,  al- 
though she  spoke  a  language  and  acted  in 
plays  perfectly  familiar  to  a  large  proportion 
of  her  hearers,  she  rarely  reached  the  height 
of  absolute  illusion,  or  wrought  the  spell  by 
which  the  inspired  player  overwhelms  the  in- 
tellect with  the  emotions.  She  has  not,  in  other 
words,  displayed  that  magnetic  quality  essen- 
tial to  true  genius,  but  existing  sometimes  apart 
from  it,  by  which  public  admiration  and  affec- 
tion are  aroused  in  spite  of  the  obstacles  op- 
posed by  foreign  speech  or  any  other  difficulty 
whatever. 

Salvini  and  Modjeska  have  both  stood  the 
test  of  public  trial.  Both  of  them  won  the  most 
cordial  critical  appreciation  on  the  occasion 
of  their  first  appearance  in  this  country,  and 
both  have  grown  constantly  in  popular  favor. 
This,  of  course,  is  stated  as  a  fact,  not  with 
any  idea  of  instituting  a  comparison  between 
the  two.  Salvini,  in  whom  towering  dramatic 
genius  is  strengthened  and  elevated  by  all  the 
resources  of  the  most  exquisite  art,  stands  by 
himself  alone;  but  Modjeska,  nevertheless, 


possesses,  in  a  modified  degree,  some  of  thl 
qualities  common  to  the  great  Italian 
all  actors  of  eminence,  and  it  is  the  objed 
of  this  brief  sketch  to  consider  what  thesj 
qualities  are. 

It  would  be  unnecessary,  even  if  space  pail 
mitted,  to  enter  upon  a  minute  history  of  thl 
life  of  Madame  Modjeskaj  or  a  recital  of  hd| 
personal  characteristics.  These  have  bed 
treated  at  length  in  a  former  number  oi 
THE  CENTURY.*  All  that  is  needful  now  is  t* 
refer  to  her  work  during  her  latest  engagemen 
in  New  York,  and  more  especially  to  thos-| 
characters  in  which  she  appeared  then  for  th« 
first  time.  These  were  Rosalind,  Viola,  and 
Odette,  three  parts  which  show  with  sufficient 
clearness  the  sum  of  her  artistic  attainment 
and  the  limitations  of  her  dramatic  powei 
Her  brilliant  success  in  the  first  and  her  com 
parative  failure  in  the  last  of  these  character- 
once  more  prove  that  her  greatest  strength 
lies  in  the  direction  of  pure  comedy,  and  tha 
she  imposes  too  great  a  strain  upon  ha 
physical  strength  and  exceeds  the  limits  of  he:> 
inspiration  in  simulating  the  stormy  passion? 
of  tragedy  or  even  the  emotional  throes  oi 
the  modern  lachrymose  drama.  She  can  por 
tray  hauteur,  anger,  or  scorn,  but  not  the 
frenzy  of  either  rage  or  despair ;  she  can  rJ 
infinitely  tender  and  exquisitely  pathetic,  bui 
the  agony  of  a  great  nature  is  beyond  hei 
grasp.  She  can  indicate  the  pangs  of  sup- 
pressed  sorrow  with  admirable  and  touching 
truthfulness,  but  the  full  expression  of  tragic 
grief  or  horror  is  not  within  her  range.  The 
woes  of  Camille  never  found  a  more  graceful 
or  more  pathetic  interpreter;  but  the  awful 
imaginings  of  the  despairing  Juliet  at  the  one 
supreme  moment  in  the  potion  scene,  demand 
'powers  of  a  different  and  higher  order  than 
any  which  she  possesses,  although  the  imper- 
sonation, as  a  whole,  is  most  poetic  in  ideal 
and  brilliant  and  fascinating  in  execution, 
glowing,  as  it  does,  with  the  true  southerl 
ardor,  and  employing  all  the  witchery  of  that 
personal  charm  which  is  the  marked  charaJ 
teristic  of  this  actress.  Again,  in  Odette,  a  vill 
play  upon  which  it  is  sheer  waste  to  expenJ 
any  intellectual  effort,  Madame  Modjeskl 

*  See  this  magazine  for  March,  1879  ;  also  see  notJ 
in  the  May  number,  1879,  by  her  husband,  C.  Bozenti 
Chlapowski,  who,  it  is  interesting  to  know,  recentl/1 
became  an  American  citizen,  in  California,  the  State  ti 
which  Madame  Modjeska's  art  first  received  recogni- 
tion in  America. — ED. 


MADAME  MODJESKA. 


died  at  the  critical  point  in  the  first  act,  where 
othing  but  a  whirlwind  of  blind  passion  can 
ive  even  the  semblance  of  decency  to  the 
osition  assumed  by  the  erring  heroine,  or  fur- 
ish  the  slightest  excuse  for  sympathy  with 
er  in  her  later  sufferings.  In  this  scene,  both 
efore  and  after  her  discovery  of  the  removal 
f  her  child,  the  actress  failed  to  maintain  the 
[usion,  because  her  assumed  passion  was 
iainly  artificial;  whereas  in  the  final  act, 
here  the  anguish  of  a  breaking  heart  is  sug- 
ested  rather  than  expressed,  her  acting  was 

entirely  natural  and  affecting  as  to  move 
iany  persons  in  the  audience  to  tears.  There 
re,  perhaps,  two  or  three  actresses  upon  the 
Lmerican  stage  who  could  use  this  opportu- 
ity  with  similar  effect,  that  is,  so  far  as  the 
,>ars  are  concerned,  but  there  is  not  one  of 
lem  capable  of  creating  the  effect  by  means 
f  the  few  and  simple  devices  employed  by 
lodjeska.  It  is  only  the  accomplished  artist 
[ho  can  draw  a  perfect  picture  in  a  few  strokes. 
It  was  by  her  Rosalind  that  Madame  Mod- 
eska  chiefly  added  to  her  reputation  last 
pson.  This  was  an  impersonation  full  of 
harm,  lovely  to  the  eye,  and  satisfying  to  the 
ense,  giving  life  to  a  poetic  ideal,  and  pre- 
piting  many  of  the  rarest  beauties  of  pro- 
aic  flesh  and  blood,  without  resolving  a  fan- 
Lful  creation  into  a  being  essentially  earthy, 
[here  was  a  sustained  elevation  in  the  per- 
>rmance  which  was  delightful ;  a  refinement 
hich  was  not  affectation,  a  delicacy  which 
as  not  finical.  It  differed  widely  from  the 
'osalind  prescribed  by  the  traditions  of  the 
nglish  stage ;  but  no  less  an  authority  than 
alvini  has  ventured  to  denounce  traditions 
;  cankerous,  and  they  most  certainly  should 
Dt  be  allowed  to  trammel  genius.  The  typ- 
al  English  Rosalind  is  perhaps  a  little  more 
•bust,  a  little  less  mercurial,  as  if  infected  by 
ic  heavy  insular  air,  a  little  less  prodigal  of 
ssture,  slower  of  speech,  and  more  restrained 

manner.  But  it  is  surely  hypercriticism  to 
bject  to  Modjeska's  brilliant  audacity,  in 
hich  there  is  no  trace  of  immodesty,  or  to 
e  elaboration  of  her  by-play,  which  is  inva- 
ably  apt  and  graceful.  Restlessness  upon  the 
age  is  a  vice,  but  the  constant  gesture  of 
[odjeska  is  always  guided  by  intelligent  pur- 
DSC,  and  is  illustrative  both  of  the  text  and  of 
sr  conception.  A  remarkable  instance  of  her 

l  in  this  respect  is  seen  in  her  treatment 

the  love  scenes  with  Orlando,  in  which, 
y  an  infinite  variety  of  subtle  touches,  she 
iggests  to  the  audience  the  archness  and 
Dquetry  of  a  woman,  while  to  her  lover  she 
nothing  but  a  wayward  and  fanciful  boy. 
his  same  assumption  of  a  double  identity 
as  maintained  with  brilliant  effect  in  the 
:ene  with  the  bloody  handkerchief,  where, 

VOL.  XXVI I.— 4. 


amid  all  her  extreme  solicitude  concerning 
the  safety  of  her  lover,  she  betrayed  a  semi- 
humorous  perception  of  the  incongruity  be- 
tween her  masculine  attire  and  her  sinking 
heart.  All  this  is  comedy  of  the  finest  kind, 
and  the  remembrance  of  it  will  be  treasured 
among  some  of  the  choicest  memories  of  the 
contemporary  stage. 

Her  Viola,  a  part  to  which  she  is  yet 
new,  promises  to  become  a  fit  companion 
picture  to  her  Rosalind.  The  distinction  be- 
tween the  two  characters  is  cleverly  marked, 
and  will,  of  course,  grow  more  clear  with 
future  study  and  rehearsal.  The  senti- 
mental side  of  Viola  is  projected  into  strong 
relief,  and  is  treated  with  exquisite  tender- 
ness and  grace.  The  key-note  of  the  im- 
personation is  given  at  the  first  entrance 
from  the  boat.  At  Booth's  Theater,  this  coast 
scene  was  a  marvel  of  shabbiness  and  gro- 
tesque unfitness ;  yet  the  actress,  by  her  power 
of  pantomime,  created  a  vivid  impression  of 
cold  and  storm,  of  suffering,  fatigue,  and  fear. 
The  natural  timidity  of  woman  was  substi- 
tuted for  the  high  courage  of  Rosalind, 
and  this  phase  of  the  character  was  empha- 
sized throughout  the  play,  and  was  made 
manifest  even  in  the  love  scenes  with  Olivia, 
which  were  treated  most  picturesquely,  in 
varying  moods  of  bewilderment,  incredulity, 
and  raillery,  but  with  a  constant  suggestion  of 
the  pain  inflicted  for  love's  sake  by  a  loving 
heart  upon  itself.  The  performance,  as  has 
been  intimated,  is  not  yet  a  finished  work. 
There  are  rough  spots  in  it  here  and  there, 
and  there  are  traces  of  labor  and  uncertainty 
which  only  time  will  remove.  But  these  flaws 
are  only  discernible  at  intervals,  and  never  at 
important  crises.  •  The  versatility  of  the  ac- 
tress is  displayed  in  the  contrast  between  the 
delicate  pathos  and  unsurpassable  grace  of 
the  famous  scene  between  Viola  and  Or- 
sino  and  the  admirable  humor  of  the  duel 
scene  with  Sir  Andrew,  which  excites  the 
heartiest  merriment  without  recourse  to  any 
methods  except  those  which  belong  legiti- 
mately to  comedy.  These  scenes  contain  the 
promise  of  the  completed  work. 

Madame  Modjeska  is  undoubtedly  advanc- 
ing in  artistic  growth.  She  is  and  long  has 
been  entitled  to  a  place  in  the  first  rank  of 
living  players,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  determine 
her  exact  position.  She  has  challenged  com- 
parison with  Bernhardt,  her  chief  female  rival, 
and  in  comedy  is  at  least  the  equal  of  the  fa- 
mous Frenchwoman;  but  the  latter  has  a  wider 
range  of  character  in  tragedy.  In  respect  of 
artistic  accomplishment,  the  mere  mastery 
of  stage  device,  there  is  little  to  choose  be- 
tween them ;  but  Modjeska,  when  at  her  best, 
is  far  nearer  to  nature  than  Bernhardt  ever  is, 


, 


26  THE   CELESTIAL  PASSION. 

even  if  she  sometimes  fails  to  make  so  brill-  Bernhardt  or  Modjeska;  but  as  an  artist 

iant  a  theatrical  effect.    If  Bernhardt  has  the  cannot  be  named  in   the  same  breath   wit 

brilliancy,  she  has  also  the  coldness  and  hard-  either  of  them.    She  has  genius,  or  somethin 

ness  of  the  diamond;  whereas  Modjeska,  in  very  nearly  akin  to  it,  and  no  training.    Ben 

addition  to  the  resources  of  her  skill,  possesses  hardt   has   perfect    training,  but    no    geniu 

the  sympathetic  power  which  stirs  the  heart.  Whether  Modjeska  has  genius  or  not  is  a  que 

It  has  been  the  fashion  to  name  Bernhardt  as  tion  which  the  reader  may  decide  in  his  ow 

the  first  of  living  actresses,  chiefly  because  way,  according  to  his  own    definition  of  th{ 

she  has  played  so  many  parts;  but  in  acting  it  much  abused  term.    She  has,  at  least,  the  powt 

is  necessary  to  look  for  something  more  than  of  infusing  life  into  her  creations,  and  of  exci 

the  perfection  of  mechanism.    This  can  be  ac-  ing  sympathy  in  their  behalf,  which  is  to  creat 

quired  by  intellectual  effort,  and  is  no  indica-  an  illusion  and  to  fulfill  the  principal  aim  c 

tion  of  genius  or  inspiration.    It  raises,  indeed,  the  actor.    In  this  respect,  if  in  no  other,  sh 

something  like  a  presumption  in  the  opposite  is  the  superior  of  Bernhardt,  and  the  public 

direction,  for  genius  is  impatient  of  restraint,  which  knows  more  about  nature  than  art,  wi; 

Clara  Morris  has  greater  moments  than  either  probably  give  the  final  verdict  in  her  favor.  jj 

J.  Ranken   Towse. 


IN  ROME. 

SOMETHING  there  is  in  Death  not  all  unkind, 

He  hath  a  gentler  aspect,  looking  back; 

For  flowers  may  grow  in  the  dread  thunder's  track, 
And  even  the  cloud  that  struck,  with  light  was  lined : 
Thus,  when  the  heart  is  silent,  speaks  the  mind; 

But  there  are  moments  when  comes  rushing,  black 

And  fierce  upon  us,  the  old,  awful  lack, 
And  Death  once  more  is  cruel,  senseless,  blind. 

So,  when  I  saw  beside  a  Roman  portal 

"  In  this  house  died  John  Keats  " — for  tears  that  sprung, 
I  could  no  further  read.     O  bard  immortal! 

Not  for  thy  fame's  sake, —  but  so  young,  so  young ! 
Such  beauty  vanished,  spilled  such  priceless  wine, 
And  quenched  such  power  of  deathless  song  divine ! 


THE   CELESTIAL   PASSION. 

O  WHITE  and  midnight  skies!     O  starry  bath! 

Wash  me  in  thy  pure,  heavenly,  crystal  flood; 
Cleanse  me,  ye  stars !  from  earthly  soil  and  scath, 

Let  not  one  taint  remain  in  spirit  or  blood! 
Receive  my  soul,  ye  burning,  awful  deeps ! 

Touch  and  baptize  me  with  the  mighty  power 
That  in  ye  thrills,  while  the  dark  planet  sleeps, — 

Make  me  all  yours  for  one  blest,  secret  hour. 
O  glittering  host!  O  high  celestial  choir! 

Silence  each  tone  that  with  thy  music  jars  — 
Fill  me,  even  as  an  urn,  with  thy  white  fire, 

Till  all  I  am  is  kindred  to  the  stars. 
Make  me  thy  child,  thou  infinite,  holy  night! 
So  shall  my  days  be  full  of  heavenly  light. 

R.  W.  Gild 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 

SKETCHES     FROM     A     CALIFORNIAN     MOUNTAIN. 

BY    ROBERT     LOUIS     STEVENSON, 
Author  of  "New  Arabian  Nights,"  <4  Travels  with  a  Donkey  in  the  Cevennes,"  "An  Inland  Voyage,"  etc. 


THE  scene  of  these  chapters  is  on  a  high 
mountain.  There  are,  indeed,  many  higher; 
here  are  many  of  a  nobler  outline.  It  is  no 
place  of  pilgrimage  for  the  summary  globe- 
xotter.  But  to  one  who  lives  upon  its  sides, 
Mount  Saint  Helena  soon  becomes  a  center 
f  interest.  It  is  the  Mont  Blanc  of  one  sec- 
ion  of  the  Californian  Coast  Range,  none  of 
ts  near  neighbors  rising  to  one-half  its  alti- 
;ude.  It  looks  down  on  much  green,  intricate 
country.  It  feeds  in  the  spring-time  many 
splashing  brooks.  From  its  summit  you  must 
iave  an  excellent  lesson  of  geography :  seeing 
o  the  south  San  Francisco  Bay,  with  Tamal- 
3ais  on  the  one  hand  and  Monte  Diablo  on 
[he  other ;  to  the  west  and  thirty  miles  away, 
[he  open  ocean ;  eastward,  across  the  corn 
lands  and  thick  tule  swamps  of  Sacramento 
Galley,  to  where  the  Central  Pacific  Railroad 
begins  to  climb  the  sides  of  the  Sierra ;  and 
lorthward,  for  what  I  know,  the  white  head 
bf  Shasta  looking  down  on  Oregon.  Three 
bounties,  Napa  County,  Lake  County,  and 
Sonoma  County,  march  across  its  cliffy  shoul- 
ders. Its  naked  peak  stands  nearly  four  thou- 
Jand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea.  Its 
ides  are  fringed  with  forest,  and  the  soil, 
vhere  it  is  bare,  glows  warm  with  cin- 
aabar.  Life  in  its  shadow  goes  rustically 
prward.  Bucks,  and  bears,  and  rattlesnakes, 
pd  former  mining  operations  are  the  staple 
)f  men's  talk.  Agriculture  has  only  begun 
b  mount  above  the  valley;  and  though, 
n  a  few  years  from  now,  the  whole  district 
pay  be  smiling  with  farms,  passing  trains 
;haking  the  mountain  to  the  heart,  many-win- 
lowed  hotels  lighting  up  the  night  like  fac- 
bries,  and  a  prosperous  city  occupying  the 
ite  of  sleepy  Calistoga ;  yet  in  the  meantime, 
[round  the  feet  of  that  mountain,  the  silence 
If  nature  reigns  in  great  measure  unbroken, 
Ind  the  people  of  hill  and  valley  go  saunter- 
Ipgly  about  their  business  as  in  the  days  be- 
|;3re  the  Flood. 

|  To  reach  Mount  Saint  Helena  from  San 

fcrrancisco,  the  traveler  has  twice  to  cross  the 

[ay,  once  by  the  busy  Oakland  Ferry,  and 

Igain,  after  an  hour  or  so  of  the  railway,  from 

/Tallejo  Junction  to  Vallejo.   Thence  he  takes 

I  ail  once  more  to  mount  the  long  green  strath 

If  Napa  Valley. 


Early  the  next  morning  we  mounted  the 
hill  along  a  wooden  footway,  bridging  one 
marish  spot  after  another.  Here  and  there, 
as  we  ascended,  we  passed  a  house  embow- 
ered in  white  roses.  More  of  the  bay  became 
apparent,  and  soon  the  blue  peak  of  Tamal- 
pais  arose  above  the  green  level  of  the  island 
opposite.  It  told  us  we  were  still  but  a  little 
way  from  the  city  of  the  Golden  Gates,  al- 
ready, at  that  hour,  beginning  to  awake  among 
the  sand  hills.  It  called  to  us  over  the  waters 
as  with  the  voice  of  a  bird.  Its  stately  head, 
blue  as  a  sapphire  on  the  paler  azure  of  the 
sky,  spoke  to  us  of  wider  outlooks  and  the 
bright  Pacific.  Far  Tamalpais  stands  sentry, 
like  a  light-house,  over  the  Golden  Gates, 
between  the  bay  and  the  open  ocean,  and 
looks  down  indifferently  on  both.  Even  as  we 
saw  and  hailed  it  from  Vallejo,  seamen  far  out 
at  sea  were  scanning  it  with  shaded  eyes ;  and 
as  if  to  answer  to  the  thought,  one  of  the  great 
ships  below  began  silently  to  clothe  herself 
with  white  sails,  homeward  bound  for  England. 

For  some  way  beyond  Vallejo  the  railway 
led  us  through  bald  green  pastures.  On  the 
west,  the  rough  highlands  of  Marin  shut  off 
the  ocean ;  in  the  midst,  in  long,  straggling, 
gleaming  arms,  the  bay  died  out  among  the 
grass ;  there  were  few  trees  and  few  inclos- 
ures ;  the  sun  shone  wide  over  open  uplands, 
the  displumed  hills  stood  clear  against  the 
sky.  But  by  and  by  these  hills  began  to  draw 
nearer  on  either  hand,  and  first  thicket  and 
then  wood  began  to  clothe  their  sides,  and 
soon  we  were  away  from  all  signs  of  the  sea's 
neighborhood,  mounting  an  inland,  irrigated 
valley.  A  great  variety  of  oaks  stood,  now 
severally,  now  in  a  becoming  grove,  among 
the  fields  and  vineyards.  The  towns  were 
compact,  in  about  equal  proportions,  of  bright 
new  wooden  houses,  and  great  and  growing 
forest  trees ;  and  the  chapel  bell  on  the  engine 
sounded  most  festally  that  sunny  Sunday  as 
we  drew  up  at  one  green  town  after  another, 
with  the  towns-folk  trooping  in  their  Sunday's 
best  to  see  the  strangers,  with  the  sun  spark- 
ling on  the  clean  houses  and  great  domes  of 
foliage  humming  overhead  in  the  breeze. 

This  pleasant  Napa  Valley  is,  at  its  north 
end,  blockaded  by  our  mountain.   There,  a 
Calistoga,  the  railroad  ceases ;  and  the  trav- 


28 


THE  SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


eler  who  intends  faring  further,  to  the  geysers 
or  to  the  springs  in  Lake  County,  must  cross 
the  spurs  of  the  mountain  by  stage.  Thus, 
Mount  Saint  Helena  is  not  only  a  summit,  but 
a  frontier ;  and,  up  to  the  time  of  writing,  it 
has  stayed  the  progress  of  the  iron  horse. 


CALISTOGA. 

IT  is  difficult  for  a  European  to  imagine 
Calistoga ;  the  whole  place  is  so  new  and  of 
such  an  occidental  pattern :  the  very  name,  I 
hear,  was  invented  at  a  supper  party  by  the 
man  who  found  the  springs. 

The  railroad  and  the  highway  come  up  the 
valley  about  parallel  to  one  another.  The 
street  of  Calistoga  joins  them,  perpendicular  to 
both,  —  a  wide  street  with  bright,  clean,  low 
houses;  here  and  there  a  veranda  over  the 
sidewalk,  here  and  there  a  horse-post,  here 
and  there  lounging  towns-folk.  Other  streets 
are  marked  out,  and  most  likely  named ;  for 
these  towns  in  the  New  World  begin  with  a 
firm  resolve  to  grow  larger,  Washington  and 
Broadway,  and  then  First  and  Second,  and 
so  forth,  being  boldly  plotted  out  as  soon  as 
the  community  indulges  in  a  plan.  But  in  the 
meanwhile  all  the  life  and  most  of  the  houses 
of  Calistoga  are  concentrated  upon  that  street 
between  the  railway  station  and  the  road.  I 
never  heard  it  called  by  any  name,  but  I  will 
hazard  a  guess  that  it  is  either  Washington 
or  Broadway.  Here  are  the  blacksmith's, 
the  chemist's,  the  general  merchant's,  and 
Kong  Sam  Kee,  the  Chinese  laundryman's ; 
here,  probably,  is  the  office  of  the  local  paper 
(for  the  place  has  a  paper,  they  all  have  papers) ; 
and  here,  certainly,  is  one  of  the  hotels,  Cheese- 
borough's,  whence  the  daring  Foss,  a  man  dear 
to  legend,  starts  his  horses  for  the  geysers. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  we  are  here 
in  a  land  of  stage-drivers  and  highwaymen  : 
a  land,  in  that  sense,  like  England  a  hundred 
years  ago.  The  highway  robber — road-agent 
he  is  quaintly  called — is  still  busy  in  these 
parts.  The  fame  of  Vasquez  is  still  young. 
Only  a  few  years  ago,  the  Lakeport  stage 
was  robbed  a  mile  or  two  from  Calistoga.  In 
1879,  the  dentist  of  Mendocino  City,  fifty 
miles  away  upon  the  coast,  suddenly  threw  off 
the  garments  of  his  trade,  like  Grindoff  in 
"  The  Miller  and  his  Men,"  and  flamed  forth 
in  his  second  dress  as  a  captain  of  banditti.  A 
great  robbery  was  followed  by  a  long  chase,  a 
chase  of  days  if  not  of  weeks,  among  the  intri- 
cate hill  country ;  and  the  chase  was  followed 
by  much  desultory  fighting,  in  which  several 
— and  the  dentist,  I  believe,  amongst  the 
number — bit  the  dust.  The  grass  was  spring- 
ing, for  the  first  time,  nourished  upon  their 


blood,  when  I  arrived  in  Calistoga.  I  am  re- 
minded of  another  highwayman  of  that  same 
year.  "  He  had  been  unwell,"  so  ran  his  hu- 
morous defense,  "  and  the  doctor  told  him  to 
take  something;  so  he  took  the  express  box." 

The  cultus  of  the  stage-coachman  always 
flourishes  highest  where  there  are  thieves  on 
the  road  and  where  the  guard  travels  armed, 
and  the  stage  is  not  only  a  link  between 
country  and  city  and  the  vehicle  of  news,  but 
has  a  faint  wayfaring  aroma,  like  a  man  who 
should  be  brother  to  a  soldier.  California 
boasts  her  famous  stage-drivers  ;  and  among 
the  famous,  Foss  is  not  forgotten.  Along  the 
unfenced,  abominable  mountain  roads,  he 
launches  his  team  with  small  regard  to  human 
life  or  the  doctrine  of  probabilities.  Flinching 
travelers,  who  behold  themselves  coasting 
eternity  at  every  corner,  look  with  natural 
admiration  at  their  driver's  huge,  impassive, 
fleshy  countenance.  He  has  the  very  face  for 
the  driver  in  Sam  Weller's  anecdote,  who  up- 
set the  election  party  at  the  required  point. 
Wonderful  tales  are  current  of  his  readiness 
and  skill.  One,  in  particular,  of  how  one  of 
his  horses  fell  at  a  ticklish  passage  of  the 
road,  and  how  Foss  let  slip  the  reins,  and,,' 
driving  over  the  fallen  animal,  arrived  at  the^ 
next  stage  with  only  three.  This  I  relate  a£ 
I  heard  it,  without  guarantee. 

I  only  saw  Foss  once,  though,  strange  as  i| 
may  sound,  I  have  twice  talked  with  him. 
He  lives  out  of  Calistoga  at  a  ranch  called 
Fossville.    One  evening,  after  he  was  long 
gone  home,  I  dropped  into  Cheeseborough 
and  was  asked  if  I  should  like  to  speak  with 
Mr.  Foss.    Supposing  that  the  interview  was* 
impossible,  and   that    I    was   merely  callec 
upon  to  subscribe  the  general  sentiment, 
boldly  answered  yes.     Next  moment,  I  hao 
one   instrument   at   my  ear,  another  at   m 
mouth,  and  found  myself,  with  nothing  in  t 
world  to  say,  conversing  with  a  man  severa 
miles  off  among  desolate  hills.    Foss  rapic 
and  somewhat  plaintively  brought  the  com 
versation  to  an  end ;  and  he  returned  to 
night's  grog  at  Fossville,  while  I  strolled  fort 
again  on  Calistoga  high  street.    But  it  was 
odd  thing  that  here,  on  what  we  are  accuse 
tomed  to  consider  the  very  skirts  of  civiliza 
tion,  I  should  have  used  the  telephone  for  thl 
first  time  in  my  civilized  career.    So  it  goes 
these  young  countries :  telephones  and  tek 
graphs,  and  newspapers  and  advertisemen 
running  far  ahead  among  the  Indians  and  tb 
grizzly  bears. 


THE   PETRIFIED    FOREST. 

WE   drove   off   from   the    Springs    H 
about    three    in    the    afternoon.     The 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


29 


warmed  me  to  the  heart.  A  broad,  cool  wind  how  many  years  ago,  all  alone,  bent  double 

streamed  pauselessly  down  the  valley,  laden  with  sciatica,  and  with  six  bits  in  his  pocket 

with  perfume.    Up  at  the  top  stood  Mount  and  an  axe  upon  his  shoulder.    Long,  useless 

Saint  Helena,  a  great  bulk  of  mountain,  bare  years  of  sea-faring  had  thus  discharged  him 

atop,  with  tree-fringed  spurs,  and  radiating  at  the  end,  penniless  and  sick.  Without  doubt, 

iwarmth.    Once,  we  saw  it  framed  in  a  grove  he  had  tried  his  luck  at  the  diggings,  and  got 

of  tall  and  exquisitely  graceful  white-oaks ;  in  no  good  from  that ;  without  doubt,  he  had 

line  and  color  a  finished  composition.   We  loved  the  bottle,  and  lived  the  life'  of  Jack 

(passed  a  cow  stretched  by  the  road-side,  her  ashore.    But  at  the  end  of  these  adventures, 

bell  slowly  beating  time  to  the  movement  of  here  he  came ;  and  the  place  hitting  his  fancy' 

her  ruminating  jaws,  her  big,  red  face  crawled  down  he  sat  to  make  a  new  life  of  it,  far  from 


lover  by  half  a  dozen  flies,  a  monument  of    crimps  and  the  salt  sea.    And  the  very  sight 
jcontent.  -r  ^       -  -1     '     J    ' 

A  little  further,  and  we  struck  to  the  left 
up  a  mountain  road,  and  for  two  hours 
threaded  one  valley  after  another,  green, 
tangled,  full  of  noble  timber,  giving  us  every 
|now  and  again  a  sight  of  Mount  Saint  Helena 


of  his  ranch  had  done  him  good.  It  was 
"  the  handsomest  spot  in  the  Californy  mount- 
ains,"— "Isn't  it  handsome,  now?" — he 
said.  Every  penny  he  makes  goes  into  that 
ranch  to  make  it  handsomer.  Then  the  cli- 
mate, with  the  sea  breeze  every  afternoon  in 


land  the  blue,  hilly  distance,  and  crossed  by    the  hottest  summer  weather,  had  gradually 
many  streams,  through  which  we  splashed  to    cured  the  sciatica ;  and  his  sister  and  a  niece 

were  now  domesticated  with  him  for  com- 
pany ;  or  rather  the  niece  came  only  once  in 
the  two  days,  teaching  music  meanwhile  in 
the  valley.  And  then,  for  a  last  piece  of  luck, 


the  carriage  step.  To  the  right  or  the  left, 
(there  was  scarce  any  trace  of  man  but  the 
road  we  followed ;  I  think  we  passed  but  one 
(ranch  in  the  whole  distance,  and  that  was 


tlosed  and  smokeless.   But  we  had  the  society    the  handsomest  spot  in  the  "  Californy  "  mount- 


bf  these  bright  streams,  dazzlingly  clear,  as  is 
their  wont,  splashing  from  the  wheels  in  dia- 
|monds,  and  striking  a  lively  coolness  through 
Ithe  sunshine.  And  what,  with  the  innumerable 
Variety  of  greens,  the  masses  of  foliage  tossing 
&n  the  breeze,  the  glimpses  of  distance,  the 
descents  into  seemingly  impenetrable  thickets, 
the  continual  dodging  of  the  road,  which 
made  haste  to  plunge  again  into  the  covert, 
kye  had  a  fine  sense  of  woods,  and  spring- 
time, and  the  open  air. 

Our  driver  gave  me  a  lecture  by  the  way 
pn  Californian  trees :  a  thing  I  was  much  in 
peed  of,  having  fallen  among  painters  who 
knew  the  name  of  nothing,  and  Mexicans 
who  knew  the  name  of  nothing  in  English. 
He  taught  me  the  madrona,  the  manzanita, 
the  buckeye,  the  maple;  he  showed  me  the 


ains  had  produced  a  petrified  forest,  which 
Mr.  Ev'ans  now  shows  at  the  modest  figure 
of  half  a  dollar  a  head,  or  two-thirds  of  his 
capital  when  he  first  came  there  with  an  axe 
and  a  sciatica. 

This  tardy  favorite  of  fortune,  hobbling  a 
little,  I  think,  as  if  in  memory  of  the  sciatica, 
but  with  not  a  trace  that  I  can  remember  of 
the  sea,  thoroughly  ruralized  from  head  to 
foot,  proceeded  to  escort  us  up  the  hill  be- 
hind his  house. 

"  Who  first  found  the  forest  ?  "  asked  my 
wife. 

"  The  first  ?  I  was  that  man,"  said  he.  "  I 
was  cleaning  up  the  pasture  for  my  beasts, 
when  I  found  this" — kicking  a  great  red- 
wood, seven  feet  in  diameter,  that  lay  there 
on  its  side,  hollow  heart,  clinging  lumps  of 


crested  mountain  quail ;  he  showed  me  where    bark,  all  changed  into  gray  stone  with  veins 
some  young  redwoods  were   already  spiring    of  quartz  between  what  had  been  the  layers 

of  the  wood. 

"  Were  you  surprised  ?  " 
"Surprised?  No!  What  would  I  be  sur- 
prised about  ?  What  did  I  know  about  petri- 
factions—following the  sea?  Petrifaction! 
There  was  no  such  word  in  my  language. 
I  thought  it  was  a  stone ;  so  would  you,  if 
you  was  cleaning  up  pasture." 

And  now  he  had  a  theory  of  his  own,  which 
I   did  not  quite  grasp,  except  that  the  trees 
had  not  "  grewed  "  there.   But  he  mentioned, 
of   with  evident  pride,  that  he  differed  from  all 
the  scientific  people  who  had  visited  the  spot; 


heavenward  from  the  ruins  of  the  old ;  for  in 
this  district  all  had  already  perished — red- 
woods and  redskins, — the  two  noblest  indig- 
enous living  things  alike  condemned. 

At  length,  in  a  lonely  dell,  we  came  on  a 
huge  wooden  gate,  with  a  sign  upon  it  like  an 
inn.  "The  Petrified  Forest;  proprietor,  C. 
jEvans,"  ran  the  legend.  Within,  on  a  knoll  of 
i  jsward,  was  the  house  of  the  proprietor,  and 
janother  smaller  house  hard  by  to  serve  as  a 
Imuseum,  where  photographs  and  petrifactions 
[were  retailed.  It  was  a  pure  little  isle 
touristry  among  these  solitary  hills. 


The  proprietor  was  a  brave,  old,  white-faced    and  he  flung  about  such  words  as  tufa  and 
wede.    He  had  wandered  this  way,  Heaven    silica  with  irreverent  freedom. 

When 


:nows 


how,  and  taken  up  his  acres,  I  forget 


I  mentioned  I  was  from  Scotland, 


3° 


THE  SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


—  "  My  old  country,"  he  said;  "my  old  coun- 
try," with  a  smiling  look  and  a  tone  of  real 
affection  in  his  voice.  I  was  mightily  sur- 
prised, for  he  was  obviously  Scandinavian, 
and  begged  him  to  explain.  It  seemed  he 
had  learned  his  English  and  done  nearly  all 
his  sailing  in  Scotch  ships  "  out  of  Glasgow," 
said  he,  or  Greenock,  but  that's  all  the  same ; 
they  all  hail  from  Glasgow ;  and  he  was  so 
pleased  with  me  for  being  a  Scotchman  and 
his  adopted  compatriot  that  he  made  me  a 
present  of  a  very  beautiful  piece  of  petrifac- 
tion, I  believe  the  most  beautiful  and  porta- 
ble he  had. 

Here  was  a  man  at  least,  who  was  a  Swede, 
a  Scot,  and  an  American,  acknowledging  some 
kind  of  allegiance  to  three  lands.  Mr.  Wal- 
lace's Scoto-Circassian  will  not  fail  to  come 
before  the  reader.  I  have,  myself,  met  and 
spoken  with  a  Fifeshire  German,  whose  com- 
bination of  abominable  accents  struck  me 
dumb.  But,  indeed,  I  think  we  all  belong  to 
many  countries.  And  perhaps  this  habit  of 
much  travel,  and  the  engendering  of  scattered 
friendships,  may  prepare  the  euthanasia  of 
ancient  nations.  And  the  forest  itself?  Well, 
on  a  tangled,  briery  hill-side  (for  the  pasture 
would  bear  a  little  farther  cleaning  up,  to 
my  eyes)  there  lie  scattered  thickly  various 
lengths  of  petrified  trunk  such  as  the  one 
already  mentioned.  It  is  very  curious,  of 
course,  and  ancient  enough  if  that  were  all. 
Doubtless,  the  heart  of  the  geologist  beats 
quicker  at  the  sight ;  but  for  my  part,  I  was 
mightily  unmoved.  Sight-seeing  is  the  art 
of  disappointment. 

"There's  nothing  under  heaven  so  blue 
That's  fairly  worth  the  traveling  to." 

But,  fortunately,  Heaven  rewards  us  with  many 
agreeable  prospects  and  adventures  by  the 
way,  and  sometimes,  when  we  go  out  to  see 
a  petrified  forest,  prepares  a  far  more  delight- 
ful curiosity  in  the  form  of  Mr.  Evans ;  whom 
may  all  prosperity  attend  throughout  a  long 
and  green  old  age. 

THE    SCOT   ABROAD. 

I  WROTE  that  a  man  belonged,  in  these 
days,  to  a  variety  of  countries ;  but  the  old 
land  is  still  the  true  love,  the  others  are  but 
pleasant  infidelities.  I  task  myself  in  vain  to 
think  what  it  is  that  makes  up  Scotland.  In- 
surmountable differences  of  race  divide  us. 
Two  languages,  many  dialects,  many  religions, 
many  local  patriotisms  and  prejudices  split 
us  among  ourselves  more  widely  than  the 
extreme  East  and  West  of  that  great  conti- 
nent of  America.  When  I  am  at  home,  I 


feel  a  man  from  Glasgow  to  be  something 
like  a  rival,  a  man  from  Barra  to  be  more 
than  half  a  foreigner.  Yet  let  us  meet  in 
some  far  country,  and  whether  we  hail 
from  the  braes  of  Manar  or  the  braes  of 
Mar,  some  ready-made  affection  joins  us 
on  the  instant.  It  is  not  race.  Look  at  us. 
One  is  Norse,  one  Celtic,  and  another  Saxon. 
It  is  not  community  of  tongue.  We  have  it 
not  among  ourselves ;  and  we  have  it,  almost 
to  perfection,  with  English  or  Irish  or  Amer- 
ican. It  is  no  tie  of  faith,  for  we  hate  each 
other's  errors.  And  yet  somewhere,  deep 
down  in  the  heart  of  each  one  of  us,  some- 
thing yearns  for  the  old  land  and  the  old, 
kindly  people. 

Of  all  mysteries  of  the  human  heart,  I  think 
this  bears  the  bell.  There  is  no  special  love-| 
liness  in  that  grim,  gray  land,  with  its  rainy, 
sea-beat  archipelago ;  its  fields  of  dark  mount- 
ains ;  its  unsightly  places  black  with  coal ;  its 
treeless,  sour,  unfriendly-looking  corn  lands ; 
its  quaint,  gray,  castled  city,  where  the  bells 
clash  of  a  Sunday,  and  the  wind  squalls  and 
the  salt  showers  fly  and  beat.  I  do  not  even 
know  if  I  desire  to  live  there ;  but  let  me  hear, 
in  some  far  land,  a  kindred  voice  sing  out : 
"  Oh,  why  left  I  my  hame  ?  "  and  it  seems  at 
once  as  if  no  beauty  under  the  kind  heavens, 
and  no  society  of  the  wise  and  good,  can 
repay  me  for  my  absence  from  my  country. 
And  though,  I  think,  I  would  rather  die  else- 
where, yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  long  to 
be  buried  among  good  Scots  clods.  I  will 
say  it  fairly, — it  grows  on  me  with  every  year, 
— there  are  no  stars  so  lovely  as  Edinburgh 
street  lamps.  When  I  forget  thee,  auld 
Reekie,  may  my  right  hand  forget  its  cun-i 
ning! 

The  happiest  lot  on  earth  is  to  be  born  a; 
Scotchman.  You  must  pay  for  it  in  many 
ways,  as  for  all  other  advantages  on  earth ; 
you  have  to  learn  the  paraphrases  and  the 
shorter  catechism;  you  generally  take  to 
drink ;  your  youth,  as  far  as  I  can  find  out, 
is  a  time  of  louder  war  against  society,  of 
more  outcry  and  tears  and  turmoil,  than  if 
you  had  been  born,  for  instance,  in  England. 
But  somehow,  life  is  warmer  and  closer;  the 
hearth  burns  more  redly ;  the  lights  of  home 
shine  softer  on  the  rainy  street.  The  very 
names,  endeared  in  verse  and  music,  cling 
nearer  around  our  hearts.  An  Englishman 
may  meet  an  Englishman  to-morrow  upon 
Chimborazo,  and  neither  of  them  care;  bu 
when  McEckron,  the  Scotch  wine-grower,  tol< 
me  of  Mons  Meg,  it  was  like  magic. 


"  From  the  dim  shieling  on  the  misty  island, 
Mountains  divide  us,  and  a  world  of  seas ; 

Yet  still  our  hearts  are  true,  our  hearts  are  Highland 
And  we,  in  dreams,  behold  the  Hebrides." 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS.  3I 

\nd  Highland  and  Lowland,  all  our  hearts    was  any  one  more  Scotch  in  this  wide  world 
b-e  Scotch.  He  could  sing  and  dance  and  drink,  I  pre- 

Only  a  few  days  after  I  had  seen  McEck-    sume,  and  he  played  the  pipes  with  vigor  and 
•on,  a  message  reached  me  in  my  cottage,    success.    All   the   Scotch  in  Sacramento  be- 
was  a  Scotchman  who  had  come  down  a    came   infatuated  with  him,  and   spent  their 

u-  ^~ '    spare  time  and  money  driving  him  about  in 
an  open  cab,  between  drinks,  while  he  blew 
himself  scarlet  at  the  pipes.   This  is  a  very 
sad  story.    The  piper  must  have  been  a  rela- 
jnuch  to  say — should  never  have  seen  each    tion  of  my  friend  with  the  tape;  or  else  the 
ther  had  we  staid  at  home,  separated  alike    devil  in  person ;   for  after  he  had  borrowed 


png  way  from  the  hills  to  market.  He  had 
keard  there  was  a  countryman  in  Calistoga, 
and  came  round  to  the  hotel  to  see  him.  We 
laid  a  few  words  to  each  other ;  we  had  not 


n  space  and  in  society ;  and  then  we  shook    money  from  everybody  all  round,  he  and  his 

pipes  suddenly  disappeared  from  Sacramento, 
and,  when  I  last  heard,  the  police  were  look- 
ing for  him. 

I   cannot  say  how  this  story  amused  me, 


bands,  and  he  went   his  way  again  to  his 
ranch  among  the  hills.    That  was  all. 

Another  Scotchman  there  was,  a  resident, 
who  for  the  mere  love  of  the  common  coun- 


try,—  douce,  serious,  religious  man, — drove    when  I  felt  myself  so  thoroughly  ripe  on  both 
me  all  about  the  valley  and  took  as  much  inter-    sides  to  be  duped  in  the  same  way. 

,       •  */*    T     1  J     1  1     *  T  ,       •  ,        T  . 


t  in  me  as  if  I  had  been  his  son :  more,  per- 
il-laps ;  for  the  son  has  faults  too  keenly  felt, 
while  the  abstract  countryman  is  perfect — 
like  a  whiff  of  peats. 

And  there  was  yet  another.  Upon  him  I 
came  suddenly  as  he  was  calmly  entering 
toy  cottage,  his  mind  quite  evidently  bent  on 
plunder :  a  man  of  about  fifty,  filthy,  ragged, 
roguish,  with  a  chimney-pot  hat  and  a  tail  coat, 
tmd  a  pursing  of  his  mouth  that  might  have 
been  envied  by  an  elder  of  the  kirk.  He  had 
just  such  a  face  as  I  have  seen  a  dozen  times 
behind  the  plate. 

"  Hullo,  sir !  "  I  cried.  "  Where  are  you 
ping  ?  " 

He  turned  round  without  a  quiver. 

"  You're  a  Scotchman,  sir  ? "  he  said, 
gravely.  "  So  am  I.  I  come  from  Aberdeen. 


It  is  at  least  a  curious  thing,  to  conclude, 
that  the  races  which  wander  widest,  Jews 
and  Scotch,  should  be  the  most  clannish  in 
the  world.  But  perhaps  these  two  are  cause 
and  effect.  "  For  ye  were  strangers  in  the 
land  of  Egypt." 

MR.    KELMAR. 

ONE  thing  in  this  new  country  very  par- 
ticularly strikes  a  stranger,  and  that  is  the 
number  of  antiquities.  Already  there  have 
been  many  cycles  of  population  succeeding 
each  other  and  passing  away  and  leaving  be- 
hind them  relics.  These,  standing  on  into 
changed  times,  strike  the  imagination  as 
forcibly  as  any  pyramid  or  feudal  tower.  The 
towns,  like  the  vineyards,  are  experimentally 


[This  is  my  card,"  presenting  me  with  a  piece    founded ;   they  grow  great  and  prosper  by 

passing  occasions ;  and  when  the  lode  comes 
to  an  end,  and  the  miners  move  elsewhere, 
the  town  remains  behind  them,  like  Palmyra 
in  the  desert.  I  suppose  there  are  in  no 
country  in  the  world  so  many  deserted  towns 
as  here  in  California. 

The  whole  neighborhood  of  Mount  Saint 
Helena,  now  so  quiet  and  rural,  was  once 
alive  with  mining  camps  and  villages :  here 
there  would  be  two  thousand  souls  under  can- 
vas, there  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  en- 


of  pasteboard  which  he  had  raked  out  of 
some  gutter  in  the  period  of  the  rains.  "  I  was 
just  examining  this  palm,"  he  continued,  in- 
dicating the  misbegotten  plant  before  our 
door,  "  which  is  the  largest  spacimen  I  have 
yet  observed  in  California." 

There  were  four  or  five  larger  within  sight, 
}ut  where  was  the  use  of  argument  ?  He 
produced  a  tape-line,  made  me  help  him  to 
measure  the  tree  at  the  level  of  the  ground, 
and  entered  the  figures  in  a  large  and  filthy 


(pocket-book  :  all  with  the  gravity  of  Solomon,  sconced,  as  if  forever,  in  a  town  of  comfortable 

| He  then  thanked  me   profusely,  remarking  houses;  but  the  luck  had  failed,  the  mines 

that  such  little   services  were  due  between  petered  out,  the  army  of  miners  had  departed, 

countrymen,  shook  hands  with  me  "  for  auld  and  left  this  quarter  of  the  world  to  the  rattle- 


jlang  syne,"  as  he  said,  and  took  himself  sol- 
jemnly  away,  radiating  dirt  and  humbug  as 
ihe  went. 


snakes   and   deer   and   grizzlies   and  to   the 
slower  but  steadier  advance  of  husbandry. 
It  was  with  an  eye  on  one  of  these  deserted 


A  more  impudent  rascal  I  have  never  seen;    places,  Pine  Flat,  on  the  geysers  road,  that 


land,  had  he  been  American,  I  should  have    we  had   come 


first   to    Calistoga.    There   is 


'raged.  But  then  —  he  came  from  Aberdeen.  something  singularly  enticing  in  the  idea  of 

A  month  or  two  after  this  encounter  of  going,   rent-free,  into   a   ready-made  nous 

mine  there  came  a  Scot  to  Sacramento  —  per-  and  to  the  British  merchant,  sitting  at 

haps  from  Aberdeen.    Anyway,  there  never  at  ease,  it  may  appear  that,  with  such  a  roc 


THE  SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


over  your  head  and  a  spring  of  clear  water 
hard  by,  the  whole  problem  of  the  squatter's 
existence  would  be  settled.  Food,  however, 
has  yet  to  be  considered.  I  will  go  as  far  as 
most  people  on  tinned  meats ;  and  some  of 
the  brightest  moments  of  my  life  were  passed 
over  tinned  mullagatawny  in  the  cabin  of  a 
sixteen-ton  schooner,  storm-staid  in  Port- 
ree  Bay;  but  after  suitable  experiments,  I 
pronounce  authoritatively  that  man  cannot 
live  by  tins  alone.  Fresh  meat  must  be  had 
on  an  occasion.  It  is  true  that  the  great 
Foss,  driving  by  along  the  geysers  road, 
wooden-faced,  but  glorified  with  legend, 
might  have  been  induced  to  bring  us  meat ; 
but  the  great  Foss  could  hardly  bring  us 
milk.  To  take  a  cow  would  have  involved 
taking  a  field  of  grass  and  a  milkmaid.  After 
which  it  would  have  been  hardly  worth  while 
to  pause,  and  we  might  have  added  to  our 
colony  a  flock  of  sheep  and  an  experienced 
butcher. 

Now  my  principal  adviser  in  this  matter 
was  one  whom  I  will  call  Kelmar.  That  was 
not  what  he  called  himself;  but  as  soon  as  I 
set  eyes  on  him,  I  knew  it  was  or  ought  to 
be  his  name.  Kelmar  was  the  store-keeper,  a 
Russian  Jew,  good-natured,  in  a  very  thriving 
way  of  business,  and  on  equal  terms  one  of 
the  most  serviceable  of  men.  He  also  had 
something  of  the  expression  of  a  Scotch 
country  elder  who,  by  some  peculiarity, 
should  chance  to  be  a  Hebrew.  He  had  a 
projecting  under-lip,  with  which  he  continu- 
ally smiled,  or  rather  smirked.  Mrs.  Kelmar 
was  a  singularly  kind  woman ;  and  the  oldest 
son  had  quite  a  dark  and  romantic  bearing, 
and  might  be  heard  on  summer  evenings 
playing  sentimental  airs  on  the  violin. 

I  had  no  idea,  at  the  time  I  made  his  ac- 
quaintance, what  an  important  person  Kel- 
mar was.  I  believe,  even  from  the  little  I  saw, 
that  Kelmar,  if  he  chose  to  put  on  the  screw, 
could  send  half  the  farmers  packing  in  a  ra- 
dius of  seven  or  eight  miles  round  Calistoga. 
These  are  continually  paying  him,  but  are 
never  suffered  to  get  out  of  debt ;  he  palms 
dull  goods  upon  them,  for  they  dare  not  re- 
fuse to  buy ;  he  goes  and  dines  with  them 
when  he  is  on  an  outing,  and  no  man  is  loud- 
lier  welcomed ;  he  is  their  family  friend,  the 
director  of  their  business,  and,  to  a  degree  else- 
where unknown  in  modern  days,  their  king. 

For  some  reason  Kelmar  always  shook  his 
head  at  the  mention  of  Pine  Flat;  and  for  some 
days  I  thought  he  disapproved  of  the  whole 
scheme,  and  was  proportionately  angry.  One 
fine  morning,  however,  he  met  me,  wreathed 
in  smiles.  He  had  found  the  very  place  for 
me:  Silverado,  another  old  mining  town,  right 
up  the  mountain;  Rufe  Hanson,  the  hunter, 


could  take  care  of  us — fine  people  the  Han- 
sons ;  we  should  be  close  to  the  Toll  House, 
where  the  Lakeport  stage  called  daily ;  it  was 
the  best  place  for  my  health  besides — Rufe 
had  been  consumptive,  and  was  now  quite  a 
strong  man — aint  it  ?  In  short,  the  place  and 
all  its  accompaniments  seemed  made  for  us 
on  purpose. 

He  took  me  to  his  backdoor,  whence,  as 
from  every  point  of  Calistoga,  Mount  Saint 
Helena  could  be  seen  towering  in  the  air. 
There,  in  the  nick,  just  where  the  eastern 
foot-hills  joined  the  mountain,  and  she  her- 
self began  to  rise  above  the  zone  of  forest  J 
there  was  Silverado.  The  name  had  already 
pleased  me ;  the  high  station  pleased  me  still 
more.  I  began  to  inquire  with  some  eager- 
ness. It  was  but  a  little  while  ago  that  Silver- 
ado was  a  great  place;  the  mine,  a  silver 
mine,  of  course,  had  promised  great  things; 
there  was  quite  a  lively  population,  with  sev- 
eral hotels  and  boarding-houses ;  and  Kelmar 
himself  had  opened  a  branch  store,  and  done 
extremely  well.  "  Aint  it  ?  "  he  said,  appealing 
to  his  wife.  And  she  said  "  Yes,  extremely 
well."  Now  there  was  no  one  living  in  the 
town  but  Rufe,  the  hunter;  and  once  more 
I  heard  Rufe's  praises  by  the  yard,  and  this  j 
time  sung  in  chorus. 

I  could  not  help  perceiving  at  the  time  that 
there  was  something  underneath,  and  that  itj 
was  not  an  unmixed  desire  to  have  us  com* 
fortably  settled  which  inspired   the    Kelmar 
family   with   this  unusual  eloquence.    But  If 
was  impatient  to  be  gone,  to  be  about  my  • 
kingly  project ;  and  when  the  Kelmars  offered 
my  wife  and  me  a  seat  in  their  conveyance,  I ; 
accepted  on  the  spot.   The  plan  of  their  next . 
Sunday's  outing  took  them,  by  good  fortune, 
over  the  border    into    Lake  County.    They 
would  carry  us  so  far,  drop  us  at  the  Toll 
House,  present  us  to  the  Hansons,  and  call 
for  us  again  on  Monday  morning  early. 


FIRST   IMPRESSIONS    OF    SILVERADO. 


WE  were  to  leave  by  six  precisely.  That 
was  solemnly  pledged  on  both  sides,  and  a 
messenger  came  to  us  the  last  thing  at  night, 
to  remind  us  of  the  hour.  But  it  was  eight 
before  we  got  clear  of  Calistoga:  Kelmar, 
Mrs.  Kelmar,  a  friend  of  theirs,  whom  we 
named  Abramina,  her  little  daughter,  my 
wife,  myself,  and,  stowed  away  behind  us,  a 
cluster  of  ship's  coffee-kettles.  These  last 
were  highly  ornamental  in  the  sheen  of  their 
bright  tin,  but  I  could  invent  no  reason  for 
their  presence.  Our  carriageful  reckoned  up, 
as  near  as  we  could  get  it,  some  three  hun- 
dred years  to  the  six  of  us.  Four  of  the 


* 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


besides,  were  Hebrews.  But  I  never,  in  all 
my  life,  was  conscious  of  so  strong  an  atmos- 
phere of  holiday.  No  word  was  spoken  but 
of  pleasure;  and  even  when  we  drove  in 
I  silence,  nods  and  smiles  went  round  the  party 
like  refreshments. 

The  sun  shone  out  of  a  cloudless  sky.  Close 
at  the  zenith  rode  the  belated  moon,  still 
clearly  visible  and,  along  one  margin,  even 
I  bright.  The  wind  blew  a  gale  from  the  north; 
i  the  trees  roared,  the  corn  and  the  deep  grass  in 
the  valley  fled  in  whitening  surges ;  the  dust 
towered  into  the  air  along  the  road  and  dis- 
Ipersed  like  the  smoke  of  battle.  It  was  clear 
in  our  teeth  from  the  first,  and,  for  all  the 
'windings  of  the  road,  it  managed  to  keep 
!  clear  in  our  teeth  until  the  end. 

For  some  two  miles  we  rattled  through  the 
(valley,  skirting  the  eastern  foot-hills;  then  we 
I  struck  off  to  the  right,  through  bough-land ; 
and  presently,  crossing  a  dry  water-course, 
!  entered  the  Toll  road,  or,  to  be  more  local, 
ientered  on  "  the  grade."  The  road  mounts 
Ithe  near  shoulder  of  Mount  Saint  Helena, 
i  bound  northward  into  Lake  County.  It  is 
a  private  speculation,  and  must  have  cost 
a  pretty  penny  to  make,  nor  has  it  yet  done 
(costing.  In  one  place,  it  skirts  along  the 
edge  of  a  narrow  and  deep  canon  filled 
with  trees ;  and  I  was  glad,  indeed,  not  to  be 
driven  at  this  point  by  the  dashing  Foss.  Kel- 
mar,  with  his  unvarying  smile,  jogging  to  the 
motion  of  the  trap,  drove  for  all  the  world 
like  a  good,  plain  country  clergyman  at  home; 
and  I  thought  that  style  the  most  suitable  for 
(the  occasion. 

Vineyards  and  deep  meadows,  islanded  and 
framed  with  thicket,  gave  place  more  and 
Imore,  as  we  ascended,  to  woods  of  oak  and 
madrona,  dotted  with  enormous  pines.  It 
was  these  pines,  as  they  shot  above  the  lower 
|wood,  that  produced  that  penciling  of  single 
trees  I  had  so  often  remarked  from  the  valley. 
The  oak  is  no  baby ;  even  the  madrona,  upon 
Ithese  spurs  of  Mount  Saint  Helena,  comes  to 


33 

ence  behind  us  in  the  valley.  I  to  the  hills 
will  lift  mine  eyes !  There  are  days  in  a  life 
when  thus  to  climb  out  of  the  lowlands  seems 
like  scaling  heaven. 

Some  way  beyond  the  canon,  there  stands 
a  white  house,  with  Saloon  painted  on  it,  and 
a  horse-trough  with  a  spray  of  diamond  water. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  road,  we  could  see 
a  few  brown  houses  dotted  in  the  bottom  of 
the  dell,  and  a  great  brown  mill  big  as  a 
factory,  two  stories  high,  and  with  tanks  and 
ladders  along  the  roof.  This  was  Silverado 
mill  and  mill  town :  Lower  Silverado,  if  you 
like;  now  long  deserted  and  yielded  up  to 
squatters.  Even  the  saloon  was  a  saloon  no 
longer;  only  its  tenant,  old  Wash,  kept  up 
the  character  of  the  place  by  the  amount  and 
strength  of  his  potations. 

As  we  continued  to  ascend,  the  wind  fell 
upon  us  with  increasing  strength.  It  was  a 
wonder  how  the  two  stout  horses  managed  to 
pull  us  up  that  steep  incline  and  still  face  the 
athletic  opposition  of  the  wind,  or  how  their 
great  eyes  were  able  to  endure  the  dust.  Ten 
minutes  after  we  went  by,  a  tree  fell,  blocking 
the  road;  and  even  before  us,  leaves  were 
thickly  strewn,  and  boughs  had  fallen,  large 
enough  to  make  the  passage  difficult.  But 
now  we  were  hard  by  the  summit.  The  road 
crosses  the  ridge,  just  in  the  nick  that  Kelmar 
showed  me  from  below,  and  then,  without 
pause,  plunges  down  a  deep,  thickly  wooded 
glen  on  the  farther  side.  At  the  highest  point, 
a  trail  strikes  up  the  main  hill  to  the  leftward ; 
and  that  leads  to  Silverado.  A  hundred  yards 
beyond,  and  in  a  kind  of  elbow  of  the  glen, 
stands  the  Toll  House  Hotel.  We  came  up 
the  one  side,  were  caught  upon  the  summit 
by  the  whole  weight  of  the  wind  as  it  poured 
over  into  Napa  Valley,  and  a  minute  after 
had  drawn  up  in  shelter,  but  all  buffeted  and 
breathless,  at  the  Toll  House  door. 

A  water-tank,  and  stables,  and  a  gray 
house  of  two  stories,  with  gable  ends  and  a 
veranda,  are  jammed  hard  against  the  hill-side, 


the  pines  look  down  upon  the  rest  for  under- 
wood. As  Mount  Saint  Helena  among  her 
foot-hills,  so  these  dark  giants  outtop  their 
|  fellow  vegetables.  Alas,  if  they  had  left  the 
redwoods,  the  pines,  in  turn,  would  have  been 
dwarfed.  But  the  redwoods,  fallen  from  their 
high  estate,  are  serving  as  family  bedsteads, 
or  yet  more  humbly  as  field-fences  along  all 
|  Napa  Valley. 

A  rough  smack  of  resin  was  in  the  air,  and 
a  crystal  mountain  purity.  It  came  pouring 
lover  these  green  slopes  by  the  oceanful.  The 
:  woods  sang  aloud,  and  gave  largely  of  their 
i  healthful  breath.  Gladness  seemed  to  inhabit 
these  upper  zones,  and  we  had  left  indiffer- 


fine  bulk  and  ranks  among  forest  trees ;  but   just  where  a  stream  has  cut  for  itself  a  narrow 

canon,  filled  with  pines.  The  pines  go  right 
up  overhead;  a  little  more,  and  the  stream 
might  have  played,  like  a  fire-hose,  on  the 
Toll  House  roof.  In  front,  the  ground  drops 
as  sharply  as  it  rises  behind.  There  is  just 
room  for  the  road  and  a  sort  of  promontory 
of  croquet-ground,  and  then  you  can  lean 
over  the  edge  and  look  deep  below  you 
through  the  wood.  I  said  croquet-#raw«</,  not 
green;  for  the  surface  was  of  brown,  beaten 
earth.  The  toll-bar  itself  was  the  only  other 
note  of  originality :  a  long  beam,  turning  on 
a  post,  and  kept  slightly  horizontal  by  a 
counter-weight  of  stones.  Regularly  about 
sundown  this  rude  barrier  was  swung,  like  a 


34 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


derrick,  across  the  road  and  made  fast,  I  think, 
to  a  tree  on  the  other  side. 

On  our  arrival,  there  followed  a  gay  scene 
in  the  bar.  I  was  presented  to  Mr.  Corwin, 
the  landlord;  to  Mr.  Jennings,  the  engineer, 
who  lives  there  for  his  health ;  to  Mr.  Hoddy, 
a  most  pleasant  little  gentleman,  once  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Ohio  Legislature,  again  the  editor 
of  a  local  paper,  and  now,  with  undiminished 
dignity,  keeping  the  Toll  House  bar.  I  had 
a  number  of  drinks  and  cigars  bestowed  on 
me,  and  enjoyed  a  famous  opportunity  of 
seeing  Kelmar  in  his  glory,  friendly,  radiant, 
smiling,  steadily  edging  one  of  the  ship's 
kettles  on  the  reluctant  Mr.  Corwin.  Corwin, 
plainly  aghast,  resisted  gallantly,  and  for  that 
bout  victory  crowned  his  arms. 

At  last  we  set  forth  for  Silverado  on  foot. 
Kelmar  and  his  jolly  Jew  girls  were  full  of 
the  sentiment  of  Sunday  outings,  and  breathed 
geniality  and  vagueness.  Kelmar  suffered  a 
little  vile  boy  from  the  hotel  to  lead  him  here 
and  there  about  the  woods,  without  even  ex- 
plaining where  he  wished  to  go.  So  long  as 
he  might  now  and  then  draw  up  and  descant 
upon  the  scenery,  to  get  his  wind  again,  it 
was  identically  the  same  to  that  Ebrew  Jew 
whether  we  ever  arrived  anywhere  or  not. 

For  three  people,  all  so  old,  so  bulky  in  body, 
and  belonging  to  a  race  so  venerable,  they 
could  not  but  surprise  us  by  their  extreme 
and  almost  imbecile  youthfulness  of  spirit. 
They  were  only  going  to  stay  ten  minutes  at 
the  Toll  House ;  had  they  not  twenty  long 
miles  of  road  before  them  on  the  other  side  ? 
Stay  to  dinner?  Not  they!  Put  up  the  horses? 
Never ;  let  us  attach  them  to  the  veranda  by 
a  wisp  of  straw  rope,  such  as  would  not  have 
held  a  person's  hat  that  blustering  day.  And 
with  all  these  protestations  of  hurry,  they 
proved  irresponsible,  like  children.  Kelmar 
himself,  shrewd  old  Russian  Jew,  with  a 
smirk  that  seemed  just  to  have  concluded  a 
bargain  to  its  satisfaction,  intrusted  himself 
and  us  devoutly  to  that  boy.  Yet  the  boy 
was  patently  fallacious ;  and  for  that  matter, 
a  most  unsympathetic  urchin,  raised  appar- 
ently on  gingerbread.  He  was  bent  on  his 
own  pleasure,  nothing  else,  and  Kelmar  fol- 
lowed him  to  his  ruin,  with  the  same  shrewd 
smirk.  If  the  boy  said  there  was  "  a  hole 
there  in  the  hill," — a  hole,  pure  and  simple, 
neither  more  nor  less, —  Kelmar  and  his  Jew 
girls  would  follow  him  a  hundred  yards  to  look 
complacently  down  that  hole.  For  two  hours 
we  looked  for  houses,  and  for  two  hours  they 
followed  us,  smelling  trees,  picking  flowers, 
foisting  false  botany  on  the  unwary ;  had  we 
taken  five,  with  that  vile  lad  to  lead  them  off 
on  meaningless  divagations,  for  five  they  would 
have  smiled  and  stumbled  through  the  woods. 


However,  we  came  forth  at  length  upon  a 
lawn,  sparse-planted,  like  an  orchard,  but 
with  forest  instead  of  fruit  trees.  And  that 
was  the  site  of  Silverado  mining  town.  There 
was  a  piece  of  ground  leveled  up  where  Kel- 
mar's  store  had  been;  and  there  was  Rufe 
Hanson's  house,  still  bearing  on  its  front  the 
legend,  "Silverado  Hotel."  Not  another 
sign  of  habitation.  Silverado  town  had  all 
been  carted  from  the  scene ;  one  of  the  houses 
was  now  the  school-house  far  down  the  road; 
one  was  gone  here,  one  there,  but  all  were 
gone  away.  It  was  now  a  sylvan  solitude, 
and  the  silence  was  unbroken  but  by  the 
great,  vague  voice  of  the  wind.  Some  days 
before  our  visit,  a  cinnamon  bear  had  been 
sporting  around  the  Hanson's  chicken-house. 

Mrs.  Hanson  was  at  home  alone,  we  found. 
Rufe  had  been  out  late  after  a  "bar,"  had 
ris^n  late,  and  was  now  gone,  it  did  not  clearly 
appear  whither.  Perhaps  he  had  had  wind 
of  Kelmar's  coming,  and  was  now  ensconced 
among  the  underwood,  or  watching  us  from 
the  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  We,  hearing 
there  were  no  houses  to  be  had,  were  for  im- 
mediately giving  up  all  hopes  of  Silverado. 
But  this,  somehow,  was  not  to  Kelmar's  fancy. 
He  first  proposed  that  we  should  "  camp 
someveres  around,  aint  it  ?  "  waving  his  hand 
cheerily  as  though  to  weave  a  spell;  and 
when  that  was  firmly  rejected,  he  decided 
that  we  must  take  up  house  with  the  Han- 
sons. Mrs.  Hanson  had  been,  from  the  first, 
flustered,  subdued,  and  a  little  pale ;  but  from 
this  proposition  she  recoiled  with  haggard 
indignation.  So  did  we,  who  would  have  pre- 
ferred, in  a  manner  of  speaking,  death.  But 
Kelmar  was  not  to  be  put  by.  He  edged 
Mrs.  Hanson  into  a  corner,  where  for  a  long 
time  he  threatened  her  with  his  forefinger, 
like  a  character  in  Dickens;  and  the  poor 
woman,  driven  to  her  entrenchments,  at  last 
remembered  with  a  shriek  that  there  were 
still  some  houses  at  the  tunnel. 

Thither  we  went;  the  Jews,  who  should, 
already  have  been  miles  into  Lake  County, 
still  cheerily  accompanying  us.  For  about  a 
furlong  we  followed  a  good  road  along  the 
hill-side  through  the  forest,  until  suddenly  that 
road  widened  out  and  came  abruptly  to  an 
end.  A  canon,  woody  below,  red,  rocky,  and 
naked  overhead,  was  here  walled  across  by  a 
dump  of  rolling  stones,  dangerously  steep,  and 
from  twenty  to  thirty  feet  in  height.  A  rusty 
iron  chute,  on  wooden  legs,  came  flying,  like  a 
monstrous  gargoyle,  across  the  parapet.  It  was 
down  this  that  they  poured  the  precious  ore; 
and  below  here,  the  carts  stood  to  wait  their  lad- 
ing, and  carry  it  millward  down  the  mountain. 

The  whole  canon  was  so  entirely  blocked, 
as  if  by  some  rude  guerrilla  fortification,  th 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


35 


ve  could  only  mount  by  lengths  of  wooden 
adder,  fixed  in  the  hill-side.  These  led  us 
•ound  the  further  corner  of  the  clump ;  and 
vhen  they  were  at  an  end,  we  still  persevered, 
)ver  loose  rubble  and  wading  deep  in  poison 

ak,  till  we  struck  a  triangular  platform,  filling 
ip  the  whole  glen,  and  shut  in,  on  either 
hand,  by  bold  projections  of  the  mountain, 
unly  in  front  the  place  was  open  like  the 
broscenium  of  a  theater,  and  we  looked  forth 
nto  a  great  realm  of  air,  and  down  upon  tree- 
tops  and  hill-tops,  and  far  and  near  on  wild 
and  varied  country.  The  place  still  stood  as 
pn  the  day  it  was  deserted ;  a  line  of  iron  rails 
Lvith  a  bifurcation,  a  truck  in  working  order, 
p.  world  of  lumber,  old  wood,  old  iron;  a 
blacksmith's  forge  on  one  side,  half  buried  in 
[he  leaves  of  dwarf  madronas;  and  on  the 
bther,  an  old  brown  wooden  house. 

Fanny  and  I  dashed  at  the  house.  It  con- 
tisted  of  three  rooms,  and  was  so  plastered 
|igainst  the  hill,  that  one  room  was  right  atop 
P  another,  that  the  upper  floor  was  more 
han  twice  as  large  as  the  lower,  and  that 
ill  three  apartments  must  be  entered  from  a 
lifferent  side  and  level.  Not  a  window-sash 
emained.  The  door  of  the  lower  room  was 
mashed,  and  one  panel  hung  in  splinters. 
Ve  entered  it,  and  found  a  fair  amount  of 
umber ;  sand  and  gravel  that  had  been  sifted 
n  there  by  the  mountain  winds ;  straw,  sticks 
ind  stones  ;  a  table,  a  barrel,  a  plate-rack  on 
he  wall ;  two  home-made  boot-jacks  —  signs  of 
niners  and  their  boots ;  and  a  pair  of  papers 
)inned  on  the  boarding,  headed  respectively 

Funnel  No.  i"  and  "Funnel  No.  2,"  but 
nth  the  tails  torn  away.  The  window,  sash- 
ess,  of  course,  was  choked  with  the  green  and 
weetly  smelling  foliage  of  a  bay;  and  through 
,  chink  in  the  floor,  a  spray  of  poison-oak 
lad  shot  up,  and  was  handsomely  prospering 
n  the  interior.  It  was  my  first  care  to  cut 

way  that  poison-oak,  Fanny  standing  by  at 
L  respectful  distance.  That  was  our  first  im- 
irovement  by  which  we  took  possession. 

The  room  immediately  above  could  only 
>e  entered  by  a  plank  propped  against  the 
hreshold,  along  which  the  intruder  must  foot 
t  gingerly,  clutching  for  support  to  sprays 
if  poison-oak,  the  proper  product  of  the 
ountry.  Herein  was,  on  either  hand,  a  triple 
ier  of  beds,  where  miners  had  once  lain ;  and 
he  other  gable  was  pierced  by  a  sashless 
vindow  and  a  doorless  door-way  opening  on 
he  air  of  heaven,  five  feet  above  the  ground. 
Vs  for  the  third  room,  which  entered  squarely 
rom  the  ground-level,  only  higher  up  the  hill 
jind  further  up  the  canon,  it  contained  only 
rubbish  and  the  uprights  for  another  triple 
ier  of  beds. 
The  whole  building  was  overhung  by  a  bold, 


lion-like,  red  rock.  Poison-oak,  sweet  bay-trees, 
calcanthus,  brush  and  chaparral  grew  freely 
but  sparsely  all  about  it.  In  front,  in  the  strong 
sunshine,  the  platform'  lay  overstrewn  with 
busy  litter,  as  though  the  labors  of  the  mine 
might  begin  again  to-morrow  in  the  morning. 

Following  back  into  the  canon,  among 
the  mass  of  rotting  plant  and  through 
the  flowering  bushes,  we  came  to  a  great 
crazy  staging,  with  a  windlass  on  the  top; 
and  clambering  up,  we  could  look  into 
an  open  shaft,  leading  edgeways  down  into 
the  bowels  of  the  mountain,  trickling  with 
water,  and  lit  by  some  stray  sun-gleams, 
whence  I  know  not.  In  that  quiet  place,  the 
still,  far-away  tinkle  of  the  water  drops  was 
loudly  audible.  Close  by,  another  shaft  led 
edgeways  up  into  the  superincumbent  shoulder 
of  the  hill.  It  lay  partly  open,  and,  sixty  or  a 
hundred  feet  above  our  head,  we  could  see  the 
strata  propped  apart  by  solid  wooden  wedges, 
and  a  pine,  half  undermined,  precariously  nod- 
ding on  the  verge.  Here  also  a  rugged  hori- 
zontal tunnel  ran  to  I  know  not  what  depth. 
This  secure  angle  in  the  mountain's  flank  was, 
even  on  this  wild  day,  as  still  as  my  lady's  cham- 
ber. But  in  the  tunnel  a-  cold,  wet  draught 
tempestuously  blew.  Nor  have  I  ever  known 
that  place  otherwise  than  cold  and  windy. 

A  little  way  back  from  there,  some  clear 
cold  water  lay  in  a  pool  at  the  foot  of  a 
choked  trough ;  and  forty  or  fifty  feet  higher 
up,  through  a  thick  jungle  and  hard  by  an- 
other house  where  Chinamen  had  slept  in  the 
days  of  the  prosperity  of  Silverado,  we  were 
shown  the  intake  of  the  pipe  and  the  same 
bright  water  welling  from  its  spring. 

Such  was  our  first  prospect  of  Juan  Silver- 
ado. I  own  I  had  looked  for  something  dif- 
ferent— a  clique  of  neighborly  houses  on  a 
village  green,  we  shall  say,  all  empty  to  be 
sure,  but  swept  and  varnished ;  a  trout-stream 
brawling  by ;  great  elms  or  chestnuts,  hum- 
ming with  bees  and  nested  in  by  song-birds ; 
and  the  mountains  standing  round  about,  as 
at  Jerusalem.  Here,  mountain  and  house 
and  the  old  tools  of  industry  were  all  alike 
rusty  and  downfalling.  The  hill  was  here 
wedged  up,  and  there  poured  forth  its  bowels 
in  a  spout  of  broken  mineral ;  man,  with  his 
picks  and  powder,  and  nature,  with  her  own 
great  blasting  tools  of  sun  and  rain,  laboring 
together  at  the  ruin  of  that  proud  mountain. 
The  view  of  the  canon  was  a  glimpse  of 
devastation ;  dry  red  minerals  sliding  together, 
here  and  there  a  crag,  here  and  there  dwarf 
thicket  clinging  in  the  general  glissade,  and 
over  all  a  broken  outline  trenching  on  the  blue 
of  heaven.  Downward,  indeed,  from  our  rock 
eyrie  we  beheld  the  greener  side  of  nature ;  and 
the  bearing  of  the  pines  and  the  sweet  smell 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


of  bays  and  nutmegs  commended  themselves 
gratefully  to  our  senses.  One  way  and  another, 
now  the  die  was  cast.  Silverado  be  it ! 

After  we  had  got  back  to  the  Toll  House 
the  Jews  were  not  long  of  striking  forward. 
But  I  observed  that  one  of  the  Hanson  lads 
came  down  before  their  departure  and  re- 
turned with  a  ship's  kettle.  Happy  Hansons! 
Nor  was  it  until  after  Kelmar  was  gone,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  that  Rufe  put  in  an  appear- 
ance to  arrange  the  details  of  our  installation. 

The  latter  part  of  the  day  Fanny  and  I 
sat  in  the  veranda  of  the  Toll  House,  utterly 
stunned  by  the  uproar  of  the  wind  among  the 
trees  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley.  Sometimes, 
we  would  have  it,  it  was  like  a  sea ;  but  it  was 
not  various  enough  for  that.  And,  again,  we 
thought  it  like  the  roar  of  a  cataract,  but  it  was 
too  changeful  for  the  cataract ;  and  then  we 
would  decide,  speaking  in  sleepy  voices,  that 
it  could  be  compared  with  nothing  but  itself. 
My  mind  was  entirely  preoccupied  by  the 
noise.  I  hearkened  to  it  by  the  hour,  gap- 
ingly  hearkened,  and  let  my  cigarette  go  out. 
Sometimes  the  wind  would  make  a  sally 
nearer  hand,  and  send  a  shrill,  whistling 
crash  among  the  foliage  on  our  side  of  the 
glen;  and  sometimes  a  back-draught  would 
strike  into  the  elbow  where  we  sat  and  cast 
the  gravel  and  torn  leaves  into  our  faces. 
But,  for  the  most  part,  this  great,  streaming 
gale  passed  unweariedly  by  us  into  Napa  Val- 
ley, not  two  hundred  yards  away,  visible  by 
the  tossing  boughs,  stunningly  audible,  and 
yet  not  moving  a  hair  upon  our  heads.  So  it 
blew  all  night  long  while  I  was  writing  up 
my  journal  and  after  we  were  in  bed,  under  a 
cloudless,  star-set  heaven ;  and  so  it  was  blow- 
ing still  next  morning  when  we  rose. 

It  was  a  laughable  thought  to  us  what  had 
become  of  our  cheerful,  wandering  Hebrews. 
We  could  not  suppose  they  had  reached  a 
destination.  The  meanest  boy  could  lead 
them  miles  out  of  their  way  to  see  a  gopher- 
hole.  Boys,  we  felt  to  be  their  special  danger. 
None  others  were  of  that  exact  pitch  of  cheer- 
ful irrelevancy  to  exercise  a  kindred  sway 
upon  their  minds ;  but  before  the  attractions 
of  a  boy,  their  most  settled  resolutions  would 
be  as  wax.  We  thought  we  could  follow  in 
fancy  these  three  aged  Hebrew  truants,  wan- 
dering in  and  out  on  hill-top  and  in  thicket,  a 
demon  boy  trotting  far  ahead,  their  will-o'-the- 
wisp  conductor ;  and  at  last,  about  midnight, 
the  wind  still  roaring  in  the  darkness,  we  had 
a  vision  of  all  three  on  their  knees  upon  a 
mountain-top  around  a  glow-worm. 

Next  morning  we  were  up  by  half-past  five, 
according  to  agreement ;  and  it  was  ten  by 
the  clock  before  our  Jew  boys  returned  to 
pick  us  up :  Kelmar,  Mrs.  Kelmar,  and  Abra- 


mina,  all  smiling  from  ear  to  ear,  and  full  of 
tales  of  the  hospitality  they  had  found  on  the 
other  side.  It  had  not  gone  unrewarded ;  for< 
I  observed  with  interest  that  the  ship's  kettles,! 
all  but  one,  had  been  "placed."  Three  Lake 
County  families,  at  least,  endowed  for  life 
with  a  ship's  kettle :  come,  this  was  no  mis-- 
spent Sunday.  The  absence  of  the  kettles  told 
its  own  story. 

Take  them  for  all  in  all,  few  people  havs 
done  my  heart  more  good.  They  seemed  so 
thoroughly  entitled  to  happiness,  and  to  em 
joy  it  in  so  large  a  measure  and  so  free  from 
after-thought.  Almost  they  persuaded  me  to- 
be  a  Jew.  There  was,  indeed,  a  chink  of 
money  in  their  talk.  They  particularly  com- 
mended people  who  were  well  to  do.  "He 
don't  care,  aint  it  ?  "  was  their  highest  word 
of  commendation  to  an  individual  fate;  and 
here  I  seem  to  grasp  the  root  of  their  philos- 
ophy. It  was  to  be  free  from  care,  to  be  free 
to  make  these  Sunday  wanderings,  that  they 
so  eagerly  pursued  after  wealth  ;  and  all  their 
carefulness  was  to  be  careless.  The  fine  good 
humor  of  all  three  seemed  to  declare  they  had 
attained  their  end. 

So  ended  our  excursion  with  the  village! 
usurers;  and  now  that  it  was  done,  we  had, 
no  more  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  business, 
nor  of  the  part  we  had  been  playing  in  ity 
than  the  child  unborn.  That  all  the  people- 
we  had  met  were  the  slaves  of  Kelmar, 
though  in  various  degrees  of  servitude ;  that 
we  ourselves  had  been  sent  up  the  mountain- 
in  the  interests  of  none  but  Kelmar ;  that  the^ 
money  we  laid  out,  dollar  by  dollar,  cent 
by  cent,  and  through  the  hands  of  various  inf 
termediaries,  should  all  hop  ultimately  into 
Kelmar's  till  —  these  were  facts  that  we  only 
grew  to  recognize  in  the  course  of  time  and 
by  the  accumulation  of  evidence. 

THE   ACT   OF   SQUATTING. 

THERE  were  four  of  us  squatters,  myself! 
and  my  wife,  the  King  and  Queen  of  Silver- 
ado ;  Sam,  the  Crown  Prince ;  and  Chuchu,i 
the  Grand  Duke.  Chuchu,  a  setter  crossed 
with  spaniel,  was  the  most  unsuited  for  ai 
rough  life.  He  had  been  nurtured  tenderly  in; 
the  society  of  ladies.  His  heart  was  large  and 
soft.  He  regarded  the  sofa- cushion  as  a  bed- 
rock necessary  of  existence.  Though  about 
the  size  of  a  sheep,  he  loved  to  sit  in  ladies' 
laps.  He  never  said  a  bad  word  in  all  his 
blameless  days ;  and  if  he  had  seen  a  flute,  Ij 
am  sure  he  could  have  played  upon  it  byt 
nature.  It  may  seem  hard  to  say  it  of 
but  Chuchu  was  a  tame  cat. 

The  King  and  Queen,  the  Grand  Di 
and  a  basket  of  cold  provender  for  imm< 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS.  37 

[se,  set  forth  from  Calistoga  in  a  double  platform,  it  would  never  rest  until  it  hopped 
fuggy ;  the  Crown  Prince,  on  horseback,  led  upon  the  Toll  House  shingles.  The  whole 
he  way  like  an  outrider.  Bags  and  boxes  ravine  is  choked  with  madrona  and  low 
nd  a  second-hand  stove  were  to  follow  close  brush ;  thence  spring  great  old  pines,  and 
[pon  our  heels  by  Hanson's  team.  It  was  a  high  as  are  the  banks,  plant  their  black 'spires 
feautiful  still  day.  The  sky  was  one  field  of  against  the  sky.  Signs  were  not  wanting  of 

the  ancient  greatness  of  Silverado.   The  foot- 
path was  well   marked,  and   had  been  well 


Lzure.    Not  a  leaf  moved,  not  a  speck  ap- 

;>eared  in  heaven.    Only  from  the  summit  of 

[he  mountain  one  little  snowy  wisp  of  cloud    trodden  in  the  old  days  by  thirsty  miners! 

I  fter  another  kept  detaching  itself,  like  smoke    And  far  down,  buried  in  foliage,  deep  out  of 


irom 


a  volcano,  and  blowing  southward  in    sight  of  Silverado,  I  came  on  a  last  outpost 
)me  high  stream  of  air,  Mount  Saint  Helena    of  the  mine,  a  mound  of  gravel,  some  wreck 

of  a  wooden  aqueduct,  and  the  mouth  of  a  tun- 
nel, like  a  treasure  grotto  in  a  fairy  story.   A 

By  noon  we  had  come  in  sight  of  the  mill,    stream  of  water,  fed  by  the  invisible  leakage 
hich,  as  'a  pendicle  of  Silverado  mine,  we    from  our  shaft,  and  dyed  red  with  cinnabar 


1   at   her  interminable   task,   making   the 
ather,  like  a  Lapland  witch. 


held  to  be  an  outlying  province  of  our  own. 
|Fhither,  then,  we  went,  crossing  the  valley  by 
l  grassy  trail,  and  there  lunched  out  of  the 
basket,  sitting  in  a  kind  of  portico  and  won- 
lering,  while  we  ate,  at  this  great  bulk  of  use- 
ess  building.  Through  a  chink  we  could  look 
kr  down  into  the  interior  and  see  sunbeams 
ioating  in  the  dust  and  striking  on  tier  after 
ier  of  silent,  rusty  machinery.  It  cost  six 
thousand  dollars,  twelve  hundred  English 


or  iron,  ran  trippingly  forth  out  of  the  bow- 
els of  the  cave  ;  and,  looking  far  under  the 
arch,  I  could  see  something  like  an  iron  lan- 
tern fastened  on  the  rocky  wall.  It  was  a 
promising  spot  for  the  imagination.  No  boy 
could  have  left  it  unexplored. 

The  stream  thenceforward  stole  along  the 
bottom  of  the  dingle,  and  made,  for  that  dry 
land,  a  pleasant  warbling  in  the  leaves.  Once, 
I  suppose,  it  ran  splashing  down  the  whole 


lovereigns  ;  and  now  here  it  stands,  deserted,    length  of  the  canon ;  but  now  its  head-waters 


Eke  the  temple  of  a  forgotten  religion,  the 
busy  millers  toiling  somewhere  else.  All  the 
ime  we  were  there,  mill  and  mill  town  showed 
10  sign  of  life.  That  part  of  the  mountain- 
ide,  which  is  very  open  and  green,  was  ten- 
mted  by  no  living  creature  but  ourselves  and 
he  insects ;  and  nothing  stirred  but  the  cloud 
nanufactory  upon  the  mountain  summit.  It 
vas  odd  to  compare  this  with  the  former  days, 
yhen  the  engine  was  in  full  blast,  the  mill 
palpitating  to  its  strokes,  and  the  carts  came  chanted.  My  mission  was  after  hay  for  bed- 


had  been  tapped  by  the  shaft  at  Silverado, 
and  for  a  great  part  of  its  course  it  wandered 
sunless  among  the  joints  of  the  mountain. 
No  wonder  that  it  should  better  its  pace  when 
it  sees,  far  before  it,  daylight  whitening  in  the 
arch  ;  or  that  it  should  come  trotting  forth 
into  the  sunlight  with  a  song. 

The  two  stages  had  gone  by  when  I  got 
down  ;  and  the  Toll  House  stood  dozing  in 
sun  and  dust  and  silence,  like  a  place  en- 


attling  down  from  Silverado  charged  with  ore. 
By  two  we  had  been  landed  at  the  mine, 
he  buggy  was  gone  again,  and  we  were  left 
o  our  own  reflections  and  the  basket  of  cold 
rovender  until  Hanson  should  arrive.  Hot 
s  it  was  by  the  sun,  there  was  something 


ding;  and  that  I  was  readily  promised.  But 
when  I  mentioned  that  we  were  waiting  for 
Rufe,  the  people  shook  their  heads.  Rufe 
was  not  a  regular  man,  anyway,  it  seemed ; 
and  if  he  got  playing  poker — well,  poker  was 
too  many  for  Rufe.  I  had  not  yet  heard  them 


:hill  in  such  a  home-coming,  in  that  world  of  bracketed  together ;  but  it  seemed  a  natural 

vreck  and   rust,  splinter  and  rolling  gravel,  conjunction,  and  commended  itself  swiftly  to 

Inhere,  for  so  many  years,  no  fire  had  smoked,  my  fears ;  and  as  soon  as  I  returned  to  Silver- 

i    Silverado  platform  filled  the  whole  width  ado,  and  had  told  my  story,  we  practically  gave 

pf  a    canon.    Above,  as    I    have    said,    this  Hanson  up,  and  set  ourselves  to  do  what  we 

tvas  a  wild,  red,  stony  gully  in  the  mountains,  could  find  do-able  in  our  desert  island  state.^ 
But  below,  it  was  a  woody  dingle,  and  through        The  lower  room  had   been  the  assayer's 

pis  I  was  told  there  had  gone  a  path  between  office.    The  floor  was  thick  with  debris :  part 

the  mine   and   the  Toll  House,  our  natural  human,  from  the  former  occupants ;  part  nat- 

horth-west    passage  to  civilization.    I   found  ural,  sifted  in  by  mountain  winds.    In  a  sea 

ind  followed  it,  clearing  my  way  as  I  went  of  red   dust,  there  swam  or  floated   sticks, 


boards,  hay,  straw,  stones,  and  paper;  ancieni 
newspapers,   above   all,   for  the   newspaper, 


an- 


hrough  fallen  branches  and  dead  trees.    It 

went   straight  down  that  steep  canon  till  it  v   A 

arought  you  out  abruptly  over  the  roofs  of  the  especially  when  torn,  soon  becomes  an 

wtel.   There  was  nowhere  any  break  in  the  tiquity;  and  bills  of  the  Silverado  boarc 

descent.    It  almost  seemed  as  if,  were  you  to  house,  some  dated  Silverado,  some  C 

rop  a  stone  down  the  old  iron  chute  at  our  mine.    Here  is  one  verbatim ;  and  it  any  c 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 

calculate  the  scale  of  charges,  they  have  proved  to  contain  oil  with  the  trifling  addition 

of  nitro-glycerine ;  but  no  research  disclosed 
a  trace  of  either  man  or  lantern. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  after  this  anecdote,  to 
see  us  sweeping  out  the  giant  powder.  It  seerm 
ed  never  to  be  far  enough  away.  And,  aftei 
all,  it  was  only  some  rock  pounded  for  assay; 

So  much  for  the  lower  room.  We  scraped 
some  of  the  rougher  dirt  off  the  floor,  and 
left  it.  That  was  our  sitting-room  and  kitchen] 
though  there  was  nothing  to  sit  upon  but  the 
table,  and  no  provision  for  a  fire  except 


38 

can 

my  envious  admiration : 

"  CALISTOGA  MINE,  May  3d,  1875. 
"JOHN  STANLEY. 

"  To  S.  CHAPMAN,  DR. 
"  To  board  from  April  1st  to  April  3Oth $25.75 


May  ist  to  3rd 2.00 

$27-75 

Where  is  John  Stanley  mining  now? 
Where  is  S.  Chapman,  within  whose  hospit- 
able walls  we  were  to  lodge  ?  The  date  was 


but  five  years  old ;  but  in  that  time  the  world  hole  in  the  roof  of  the  room  above,  which 

had  changed  for  Silverado  ;  like  Palmyra  in  had  once  contained  the  pipe  of  a  stove, 

the  desert,  it  had   outlived   its   people   and  To  that  upper  room  we  now  proceeded 

its  purpose ;  we  camped,  like  Layard,  amid  There  were  the  eighteen  bunks  in  a  doubld 


ruins ;  and  these  names  spoke  to  us  of  pre- 
historic time.    A  boot-jack,  a  pair  of  boots,  a 


tier,  nine  on  either  hand,  where  from  eighteen 
to  thirty-six  miners  had  once  snored  togetha 


dog-hutch,  and  these  bills  of  Mr.  Chapman's    all  night  long,  John  Stanley  perhaps  snoring 

loudest.  There  was  the  roof,  with  a  hole  in 
it,  through  which  the  sun  now  shot  an  arroJ 
There  was  the  floor  in  much  the  same  state 
as  the  one  below,  though  perhaps  there  wa& 
more  hay,  and  certainly  there  was  the  addec 


were  the  only  speaking  relics  that  we  disinter- 
red from  all  that  vast  Silverado  rubbish-heap  ; 
but  what  would  I  not  have  given  to  unearth 
a  letter,  a  pocket-book,  a  diary,  only  a  ledger, 
or  a  roll  of  names,  to  take  me  back,  in  a 


more  personal  manner,  to  the  past  ?  It  ingredient  of  broken  glass,  the  man  who  stol 
pleases  me,  besides,  to  fancy  that  Stanley  or  the  window-panes  having  apparently  made  a 
Chapman  or  one  of  their  companions  may  miscarriage  with  this  one.  Without  a  broom, 
light  upon  this  chronicle,  and  be  struck  by  the  without  hay  or  bedding,  we  could  but  lookj 
name,  and  read  some  news  of  their  anterior  about  us  with  a  beginning  of  despair.  The 
home,  coming,  as  it  were,  out  of  a  subsequent  one  bright  arrow  of  day,  in  that  gaunt  and 

shattered  barrack,  made  the  rest  look  dirtietf 
and  darker ;  and  the  sight  drove  us  at  last 
into  the  open. 

Here,  also,  the  handiwork  of  man  lay 
ruined;  but  the  plants  were  all  alive  ani 
thriving.  The  view  below  was  fresh  with  th« 
colors  of  nature,  and  we  had  exchanged  a 


epoch  of  history  in  that  quarter  of  the  world. 
As  we  were  tumbling  the  mingled  rubbish 
on  the  floor,  kicking  it  with  our  feet,  and 
groping  for  these  written  evidences  of  the 
past,  Sam,  with  a  somewhat  whitened  face, 
produced  a  paper  bag.  "  What's  this  ?  "  said 
he.  It  contained  a  granulated  powder,  some- 


thing the  color   of   Gregory's   mixture,   but    dim  human  garret  for  a  corner,  even  although 


rosier ;  and  as  there  were  several  of  the  bags, 
and  each  more  or  less  broken,  the  powder 
was  spread  widely  on  the  floor.  Had  any  of 
us  ever  seen  giant  powder  ?  No,  nobody  had ; 
and  instantly  there  grew  up  in  my  mind  a  shad- 
owy belief,  verging  with  every  moment  nearer 
to  certitude,  that  I  had  somewhere  heard  some- 
body describe  it  as  just  such  a  powder  as  the 
one  around  us.  I  have  learnt  since  that  it  is  a 
substance  not  unlike  tallow,  and  is  made  up  in 
rolls  for  all  the  World  like  tallow  candles. 

Fanny,  to  add  to  our  happiness,  told  us  a 
story  of  a  gentleman  who  had  camped  one 
night,  like  ourselves,  by  a  deserted  mine. 


it  were  untidy,  of  the  blue  hall  of  heavenj 
Not  a  bird,  not  a  beast,  not  a  reptile.  Therj 
was  no  noise  in  that  part  of  the  world,  savij 
when  we  passed  beside  the  staging  and  hear! 
the  water  musically  falling  in  the  shaft. 

We  wandered  to  and  fro.  We  searched 
among  that  drift  of  lumber-wood  and  iron! 
nails  and  rails,  and  sleepers,  and  the  wheels  ol 
trucks.  We  gazed  up  the  cleft  into  the  bosotnj 
of  the  mountain.  We  sat  by  the  margin  of  th<j 
dump  and  saw,  far  below  us,  the  green  tree-* 
tops  standing  still  in  the  clear  air.  Beautiful 
perfumes,  breaths  of  bay,  resin,  and  nutmeg, 
came  to  us  more  often  and  grew  sweeter  and 

But  still 


He 

was  a  handy,  thrifty  fellow,  and  looked  right    sharper  as  the  afternoon  declined. 

and  left  for  plunder;  but  all  he  could  lay  his    there  was  no  word  of  Hanson. 

hands  on  was  a  can  of  oil.  After  dark  he  had 

to  see  to  the  horses  with  a  lantern ;  and  not  to 

miss  an  opportunity,  filled  up  his  lamp  from 

the  oil-can.    Thus  equipped,  he  set  forth  into 

the  forest.   A  little  after,  his  friends  heard  a 

loud  explosion;  the  mountain  echoes  bellowed, 

and  then  all  was  still.  On  examination,  the  can 


I  set  to  with  pick  and  shovel  and  deep- 
ened the  pool  behind  the  shaft  till  we  were 
sure  of  sufficient  water  for  the  morning ;  ancj 
by  the  time  I  had  finished,  the  sun  had  begun 
to  go  down  behind  the  mountain  shoulder,  tha 
platform  was  plunged  in  quiet  shadow,  and  .1 
chill  descended  from  the  sky.  Night  bej 


- 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


early  in  our  cleft.  Before  us,  over  the  margin 
of  the  dump,  we  could  see  the  sun  still  strik- 
ing slant  into  the  wooded  nick  below  and  on 
the  battlemented,  pine-bescattered  ridges  on 
the  further  side. 

There  was  no  stove,  of  courseA  and  no 
hearth,  in  our  lodging;  so  we  betook  our- 
selves to  the  blacksmith's  forge  across  the 
platform.  If  the  platform  be  taken  as  a  stage, 
and  the  out-curving  margin  of  the  dump  to 
represent  the  line  of  the  foot-lights,  then  our 
house  would  be  the  first  wing  on  the  actor's 
left,  and  this  blacksmith's  forge,  although  no 
match  for  it  in  size,  the  foremost  on  the  right. 
It  was  a  low,  brown  cottage,  planted  close 
against  the  hill  and  overhung  by  the  foliage 
and  peeling  boughs  of  a  madrona  thicket. 
Within,  it  was  full  of  dead  leaves  and  mount- 
ain dust  and  rubbish  from  the  mine.  But  we 
soon  had  a  good  fire  brightly  blazing,  and  sat 
close  about  it  on  impromptu  seats.  Chuchu, 
the  slave  of  sofa-cushions,  whimpered  for  a 
softer  bed ;  but  the  rest  of  us  were  greatly 
revived  and  comforted  by  that  good  creature, 
fire,  which  gives  us  warmth  and  light  and 
[companionable  sounds,  and  colors  up  the 
emptiest  building  with  better  than  frescoes. 
For  awhile  it  was  even  pleasant  in  the  forge, 
[with  a  blaze  in  the  midst,  and  a  look  over  our 
(shoulders  on  the  woods  and  mountains  where 
pie  day  was  dying  like  a  dolphin. 

It  was  between  seven  and  eight  before 
[Hanson  arrived,  with  a  wagonful  of  our  ef- 
fects and  two  of  his  wife's  relatives  to  lend 
pirn  a  hand.  The  elder  showed  surprising 
jstrength.  "He  would  pick  up  a  large  packing- 
case,  full  of  books,  of  all  things,  swing  it  on 
his  shoulder,  and  away  up  the  two  crazy  lad- 
jders  and  the  break-neck  spout  of  rolling  min- 
eral, familiarly  termed  a  path,  that  led  from 
the  cart-track  to  our  house.  Even  for  a  man 
unburdened,  the  ascent  was  toilsome  and 
precarious ;  but  Irvine  scaled  it  with  a  light 
foot,  carrying  box  after  box,  as  the  hero 
whisks  the  stage  child  up  the  practicable  foot- 
way beside  the  water-fall  of  the  fifth  act.  With 
o  strong  a  helper,  the  business  was  speedily 
transacted.  Soon  the  assayer's  office  was 
thronged  with  our  belongings,  piled  higgledy- 
piggledy  and  upside  down  about  the  floor. 
[There  were  our  boxes,  indeed,  but  my  wife  had 
left  her  keys  in  Calistoga.  There  was  the  stove ; 
put  alas  !  our  carriers  had  forgotten  the  stove- 
pipe, and  lost  one  of  the  plates  along  the  road 
The  Silverado  problem  was  scarce  solved. 

Rufe  himself  was  grave  and  good-natured 
over  his  share  of  blame  ;  he  even,  if  I  remem- 
3er  right,  expressed  regret.  But  his  crew,  to 
tny  astonishment  and  anger,  grinned  from  ear 


to  ear  and  laughed  aloud  at  our  distress 
They  thought  it  "real  funny"  about  the 
stove-pipe  they  had  forgotten,  "  real  funny  " 
that  they  should  have  lost  a  plate.  As  for 
hay,  the  whole  party  refused  to  bring  us  any 
till  they  should  have  supped.  See  how  late 
they  were !  Never  had  there  been  such  a  job 
as  coming  up  that  grade — nor  often,  I  sus- 
pect, such  a  game  of  poker  as  that  before  they 
started.  But  about  nine,  as  a  particular  favor, 
we  should  have  some  hay. 

So  they  took  their  departure,  leaving  me 
still  staring;  and  we  resigned  ourselves  to 
wait  for  their  return.  The  fire  in  the  forge 
had  been  suffered  to  go  out,  and  we  were  one 
and  all  too  weary  to  kindle  another.  We 
dined,  or  —  not  to  take  that  word  in  vain  — 
we  ate  after  a  fashion,  in  the  nightmare  dis- 
order of  the  assayer's  office,  perched  among 
boxes.  A  single  candle  lighted  us.  It  could 
scarce  be  called  a  house-warming,  for  there 
was,  of  course,  no  fire ;  and  with  the  two  open 
doors  and  the  open  window  gaping  on  the 
night  like  breaches  in  a  fortress,  it  began  to 
grow  rapidly  chill.  Talk  ceased;  nobody 
moved  but  the  unhappy  Chnchu,  still  in 
quest  of  sofa-cushions,  who  tumbled  complain- 
ingly  among  the  trunks.  It  required  a  certain 
happiness  of  disposition  to  look  forward  hope- 
fully from  so  dismal  a  beginning,  across  the 
brief  hours  of  night,  to  the  warm  shining  of 
to-morrow's  sun. 

But  the  hay  arrived  at  last ;  and  we  turned, 
with  our  last  spark  of  courage,  to  the  bed- 
room. We  had  improved  the  entrance ;  but  it 
was  still  a  kind  of  rope-walking,  and  it  would 
have  been  droll  to  see  us  mounting,  one  after 
another,  by  candle-light,  under  the  open  stars. 

The  western  door,  that  which  looked  up 
the  canon,  and  through  which  we  entered 
by  our  bridge  of  flying  plank,  was  still  entire, 
a  handsome,  paneled  door,  the  most  finished 
piece  of  carpentry  in  Silverado.  And  the 
two  lowest  bunks  next  to  this  we  roughly 
filled  with  hay  for  that  night's  use.  Through 
the  opposite  or  eastern-looking  gable,  with 
its  open  door  and  window,  a  faint,  diffused 
starshine  came  into  the  room  like  mist ;  and 
when  we  were  once  in  bed,  we  lay,  awaiting 
sleep,  in  a  haunted,  incomplete  obscurity.  At 
first  the  silence  of  the  night  was  utter.  Then 
a  high  wind  began  in  the  distance  among  the 
tree-tops,  and,  for  hours,  continued  to  grow 
higher ;  it  seemed  to  me  much  such  a  wind 
as  we  had  found  on  our  visit.  Yet  here  in 
our  open  chamber  we  were  fanned  only  by 
gentle  and  refreshing  draughts,  so  deep  was 
the  canon,  so  close  our  house  was  planted 
under  the  overhanging  rock. 


(To  be  continued.) 


.     THE   SCENES   OF   CABLE'S   ROMANCES. 


WHEN  I  first  viewed  New  Orleans  from  the 
deck  of  the  great  steam-boat  that  had  carried 
me  from  gray  north-western  mists  into  the 
tepid  and  orange-scented  air  of  the  South, 
my  impressions  of  the  city,  drowsing  under 
the  violet  and  gold  of  a  November  morning, 
were  oddly  connected  with  memories  of 
"  Jean-ah  Poquelin."  That  strange  little  tale 
had  appeared  in  this  magazine  a  few  months 
previously;  and  its  exotic  picturesqueness  had 
considerably  influenced  my  anticipations  of 
the  Southern  metropolis,  and  prepared  me  to 
idealize  everything  peculiar  and  semi-trop- 
ical that  I  might  see.  Even  before  I  had  left 
the  steam-boat  my  imagination  had  already 
flown  beyond  the  wilderness  of  cotton-bales, 
the  sierra-shaped  roofs  of  the  sugar-sheds, 
the  massive  fronts  of  refineries  and  store- 
houses, to  wander  in  search  of  the  old  slave- 
trader's  mansion,  or  at  least  of  something 
resembling  it — "built  of  heavy  cypress,  lifted 
up  on  pillars,  grim,  solid,  and  spiritless."  I 
did  not  even  abandon  my  search  for  the  house 
after  I  had  learned  that  Tchoupitoulas 
"  Road "  was  now  a  great  business  street, 
fringed  not  by  villas  but  by  warehouses ;  that 
the  river  had  receded  from  it  considerably 
since  the  period  of  the  story;  and  that  where 
marsh  lands  used  to  swelter  under  the  sun, 
pavements  of  block  stone  had  been  laid,  en- 
during as  Roman  causeways,  though  they  will 
tremble  a  little  under  the  passing  of  cotton- 
floats.  At  one  time,  I  tried  to  connect  the  nar- 
rative with  a  peculiar  residence  near  the  Bayou 
Road  —  a  silent  wooden  mansion  with  vast 
verandas,  surrounded  by  shrubbery  which 
had  become  fantastic  by  long  neglect.  Indeed, 
there  are  several  old  houses  in  the  more  an- 
cient quarters  of  the  city  which  might  have 
served  as  models  for  the  description  of  Jean- 
ah  Poquelin's  dwelling,  but  none  of  them  is 
situated  in  his  original  neighborhood, — old 
plantation  homes  whose  broad  lands  have 
long  since  been  cut  up  and  devoured  by  the 
growing  streets.  In  reconstructing  the  New 
Orleans  of  .1810,  Mr.  Cable  might  have  se- 
lected any  one  of  these  to  draw  from,  and  I 
may  have  found  his  model  without  knowing 
it.  Not,  however,  until  the  last  June  CENTURY 
appeared,  with  its  curious  article  upon  the 
"  Great  South  Gate,"  did  I  learn  that  in  the 
early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  such  a 
house  existed  precisely  in  the  location  de- 
scribed by  Mr.  Cable.  Readers  of  "The 
Great  South  Gate"  must  have  been  impressed 


by  the  description  therein  given  of  "  Doctor 
Gravier's  home,  upon  the  bank  of  the  long 
vanished  Poydras  Canal, — a  picture  of  deso- 
lation more  than  justified  by  the  testimony 
of  early  municipal  chronicles;  and  the  true 
history  of  that  eccentric  "  Doctor"  Gravier 
no  doubt  inspired  the  creator  of  "  Jean-ah 
Poquelin."   An  ancient  city  map  informs  us 
that   the   deserted  .indigo  fields,   with   their' 
wriggling   amphibious   population,  extended 
a  few  blocks  north  of  the  present  Charity 
Hospital ;  and  that  the  plantation-house  itself 
must  have  stood  near  the  juncture  of  Poydras 
and  Freret  streets, — a  region  now  very  closely 
built  and  very  thickly  peopled. 

The  sharp  originality  of  Mr.  Cable's  de-j 
scription  should  have  convinced  the  readers 
of  "  Old  Creole  Days  "  that  the  scenes  of  his 
stories  are  in  no  sense  fanciful;  and  the  strict 
perfection  of  his  Creole  architecture  is  readily 
recognized  by  all  who  have  resided  in  New 
Orleans.  Each  one  of  those  charming  pict- 
ures of  places  — veritable  pastels — was  painted 
after  some  carefully  selected  model  of  French 
or  Franco-Spanish  origin,— typifying  fashions 
of  building  which  prevailed  in  colonial  days. 
Greatly  as  the  city  has  changed  since  the 
eras  in  which  Mr.  Cable's  stories  are  laid,  the 
old  Creole  quarter  still  contains  antiquities 
enough  to  enable  the  artist  to  restore  almost 
all  that  has  vanished.  Through  those  narrow, 
multicolored,  and  dilapidated  streets,  one  may 
still  wander  at  random  with  the  certainty  of 
encountering  eccentric  fagades  and  suggestive 
Latin  appellations  at  every  turn;  and  thffl 
author  of  "  Madame  Delphine  "  must  have 
made  many  a  pilgrimage  into  the  quaint  dis-.< 
trict,  to  study  the  wrinkled  faces  of  the  houses, 
or  perhaps  to  read  the  queer  names  upon  the 
signs, — as  Balzac  loved  to  do  in  old-fashioned 
Paris.  Exceptionally  rich  in  curiosities  is  the 
Rue  Royale,  and  it  best  represents,  no  doubt, 
the  general  physiognomy  of  the  colonial  city. 
It  appears  to  be  Mr.  Cable's  favorite  street, 
as  there  are  few  of  his  stories  which  do 
not  contain  references  to  it ;  even  the  scenery 
of  incidents  laid  elsewhere  has  occasionally 
been  borrowed  from  that  "  region  of  archi- 
tectural decrepitude,"  which  is  yet  peopled 
by  an  "  ancient  and  foreign-seeming  domestic 
life."  For  Louisiana  dreamers,  Mr.  Cable  ha 
peopled  it  also  with  many  delightful  phan 
toms ;  and  the  ghosts  of  Madame  Delicieuse 
of  Delphine  Carraze,  of  'Sieur  George,  wil 
surely  continue  to  haunt  it  until  of  all  the  d( 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 

Id  buildings  there  shall  not  be  left  a  stone  arabesque  work  in   wrought  iron,— graceful 

pon  a  stone.  tendrils  and  curling  * 

From  the  corner  of  Canal  street  at  Royal,  some    monogram  of 

—ever  perfumed  by  the  baskets  of  the  flower-  forgotten.     Much 

ellers, —  to  the  junction  of  Royal  with  Bien-  observed  about  verandas,  or  veiling  the  ends 

ille,    one   observes   with    regret    numerous  of  galleries,    or  suspended  like  green  cage- 

vidences  of  modernization.    American  life  is  work  at  the  angle  formed  by  a  window-bal- 

ivading  the  thoroughfare, —  uprearing  con-  cony   with  some  lofty  court- wall.    And  far 

ert-halls,  with  insufferably  pompous  names,  down  the  street,  the  erratic  superimposition 

lultiplying  flashy  saloons  and  cheap  restau-  of  wire-hung  signs,  advertising  the  presence 


tendrils  and  curling  leaves  of  metal,  framing 
if  which  the  meaning  is 
lattice-work  also  will  be 


MADAME    JOHN  S     LEGACY. 


ants,  .cigar  stores  and  oyster-rooms.  Gam- 
ling  indeed  survives,  but  only  through 
petamorphosis  ;  —  it  is  certainly  not  of  that 
ristocratic  kind  wherein  Colonel  De  Char- 
bu,  owner  of  •"  Belles  Demoiselles  Planta- 
jon,"  could  have  been  wont  to  indulge.  Al- 
pady  a  line  of  electric  lights  mocks  the  rusty 
uperannuation  of  those  long-disused  wrought- 
[on  lamp  frames  set  into  the  walls  of  various 
pole  buildings.  But  from  the  corner  of  Conti 
fcreet,  —  where  Jules  St.  Ange  idled  one  sum- 
tier  morning  "some  seventy  years  ago," 
-Rue  Roy  ale  begins  to  display  a  picturesque- 
ss  almost  unadulterated  by  "innovation,  and 

ns  a  perspective  of  roof  lines  astonish- 
gly  irregular,  that  jag:and  cut  into  the  blue 
[rip  of  intervening  sky  at:  every  conceivable 
igle,  with  gables,  eaves,  dormers,  triangular 
saks  of  slate,  projecting  corners  of  balco- 
es  or  verandas,  —  overtopping  or  jutting 
it  from  houses  of  every  'imaginable  tint  : 
inary,  chocolate,  slate-blue,  speckled  gray, 
^tramarine,  cinnamon  red,  and  even  pale  rose. 
have  sap-green  batten  shutters;  most 
pssess  balconies  balustraded  with  elegant 

VOL.  XXVII.—  5. 


- 

jes 
pe 
Igl 


of    many   quiet,    shadowy   little   shops   that 
hide  their  faces  from  the  sun  behind  slanting 
canvas  awnings,  makes  a  spidery  confusion  of 
lines  and  angles  in  the  very  center  of  the  vista. 
I  think  that  only  by  a  series  of  instantane- 
ous photographs,  tinted  after  the  manner  of 
-  Goupil,  could  the  physiognomy  of  the  street 
.be  accurately  reproduced, — •  such  is  the  con- 
fusion of  projecting  show-windows,  the   ka- 
leidoscopic medley  of  color,  the  jumble  of 
infinitesimal   stores.     The  characteristics   of 
.almost  any  American  street  may  usually  be 
taken  in  at  one  glance;  but  you  might  traverse 
this  creole  thoroughfare  a  hundred  times  with- 
.  out  being  able  toordinate  the  puzzling  details 
.of  its  perspective.      .  . 

:  But  when  ;the  curious  pilgrim  reaches  the 
corner  of  Royal  and  St.  Peter  streets  (Rue 
Saint  Pierre),  he  finds  himself  confronted  by 
an  edifice  whose  oddity  and  massiveness  com- 
pel special  examination,— a  four-story  brick 
tenament  house  with  walls  deep  as  those  of 
a  mediaeval  abbey,  and  with  large  square  win- 
dows having  singular  balconies,  the  iron-work 
of  which  is  wrought  into  scrolls  and  initials. 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 


SIEUR    GEORGE  S. 


Unlike  any  other  building  in  the  quarter,  its 
form  is  that  of  an  irregular  pentagon,  the 
smallest  side  of  which  looks  down  Royal  and 
up  St.  Peter  street  at  once  and  commands, 
through  its  windows,  in  a  single  view,  three 
street  angles.  This  is  the  house  where  'Sieur 
George  so  long  dwelt.  It  is  said  to  have 
been  the  first  four-story  building  erected  in 
New  Orleans ;  and  it  certainly  affords  a  sin- 
gular example  of  the  fact  that  some  very 
old  buildings  obstinately  rebel  against  inno- 
vations of  fashion,  just  as  many  old  men  do. 
Despite  a  desperate  effort  recently  made  to 
compel  its  acceptance  of  a  new  suit  of  paint 
and  whitewash,  the  venerable  structure  per- 
sists in  remaining  almost  precisely  as  Mr. 
Cable  first  described  it.  The  cornices  are 
still  dropping  plaster;  the  stucco  has  not 
ceased  to  peel  off;  the  rotten  staircases, 
"  hugging  the  sides  of  the  court,"  still  seem 
"trying  to  climb  up  out  of  the  rubbish"; 
the  court  itself  is  always  "  hung  with  many 
lines  of  wet  clothes " ;  and  the  rooms  are 
now,  as  ever,  occupied  by  folk  "  who  dwell 
there  simply  for  lack  of  activity  to  find  better 
and  cheaper  quarters  elsewhere."  Cheaper  it 
would  surely  be  easy  to  find,  inasmuch  as 
'Sieur  George's  single-windowed  room  rents 
unfurnished  at  ten  dollars  per  month.  There 


is  something  unique  in  the  spectacle  of  A 
ponderous,  dilapidated  edifice,  with  its  hfi 
of  petty  shops  on  the  rez-de-chaussee, —  son* 
thing  which  recalls  an  engraving  I  once  s4 
in  some  archaeological  folio,  picturing  a,  swaj 
of  Italian  fruit-booths  seeking  shelter  unq 
the  crumbling  arches  of  a  Roman  theater.  ( 
Upon  the  east  side  of  Rue  Royalc,  half- 
square  farther  up,  the  eye  is  refreshed  bj 
delicious  burst  of  bright  green — a  gardi 
inclosed  on  three  sides  by  spiked  railing 
above  which  bananas  fling  out  the  watere 
satin  of  their  splendid  leaves,  and  bounded  > 
its  eastern  extremity  by  the  broad,  blanche 
sloping-shouldered  silhouette  of  the  cathedrt 
Here  linger  memories  of  Padre  Antonio  •: 
Sedella  (Pere  Antoine),  first  sent  to  Louij 
ana  as  a  commissary  of  the  Holy  Inquisitio 
immediately  shipped  home  again  by  sensit 
Governor  Miro.  But  Padre  Antonio  return* 
to  Louisiana,  not  as  an  inquisitor,  but  as 
secular  priest,  to  win  the  affection  of  ti 
whole  Creole  population,  by  whom  he  ^ 
venerated  as  a  saint  even  before  his  deafl 
Somewhere  near  this  little  garden,  the  pad 
used  to  live  in  a  curious  wooden  hut ;  and  tS 
narrow,  flagged  alley  on  the  southern  sidf 
the  cathedral  and  its  garden  still  bears  tl 
appellation,  Passage  Saint  Antoine,  in  ho  a 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 


43 


>f  the  old  priest's  patron.    The  name  is  legibly 
ascribed  above  the  show-windows  of  the  Ro- 
nan  Catholic  shop  on  the  corner,  where  por- 
celain angels  appear  to  be  perpetually  ascend- 
[ig  and  descending  a  Jacob's-ladder  formed 
f  long  communion  candles.    The  "  Peres  Je- 
mes  "  of  our  own  day  reside  in  the  dismal 
rick  houses  bordering  the  alley  farther  toward 
hartres   street, — buildings  which  protrude, 
)ove  the  heads  of  passers-by,  a  line  of  jeal- 
us-looking  balconies,  screened  with  lattice- 
ork,  in  which   wicket  lookouts  have  been 
ntrived.    On  the  northern  side  of  garden 
nd   cathedral   runs    another   flagged   alley, 
hich  affects  to  be  a  continuation  of  Orleans 
reet.    Like  its  companion  passage,  it  opens 
to  Chartres  street ;  but  on  the  way  it  forks 
to  a  grotesque  fissure  in  the  St.  Peter  street 
ock — into  a  marvelous  mediaeval-looking  by- 
ay,  craggy  with  balconies  and  peaked  with 
Drmers.    As  this  picturesque  opening  is  still 
lied  Exchange  alley,  we  must  suppose  it  to 
ive  once  formed  part  of  the  much  more 
miliar  passage  of  that  name,  though  now 
idely  separated  therefrom  by  architectural 
forms  effected  in  Rue  Saint  Louis  and  other 
reets    intervening.    The   northern    side-en- 
ance  of  the  cathedral  commands  it, —  a  tall, 
irk,  ecclesiastically  severe  archway,  in  whose 
ladowed   recess    Madame    Delphine   might 
:  fely  have  intrusted  her  anxieties  to  "  God's 
ira  banker  ";  and  Catholic  quadroon  women 
<t  their  daily  morning  way  to  market  habitu- 
j  y  enter  it  with  their  baskets,  to  murmur  a 
jayer  in  patois  before  the  shrine  of  Notre 
jame  de  Lourdes.    Jackson  square,  with  its 
icoco   flower-beds   and   clipped   shrubbery, 
i|ght  be  reached  in  a  moment  by  either  of 
t|e  flagged    alleys   above  described;  but  it 
rains  none  of  its  colonial  features,  and  has 
i;htly  been  deprived  of  the  military  titles  it 
( ce  bore :  Place  d'Armes,  or  Plaza  de  Armas. 
There  stands,  at  the  corner  of  St.  Anne  and 
ihyal  streets,  a  one-story  structure  with  Span- 
ttt  tile  roof,  a  building  that  has  become  abso- 
l|ely  shapeless  with  age,  and  may  be  torn 
aay  at  any  moment.  It  is  now  a  mere  hollow 
jo-cass — a  shattered  brick  skeleton  to  which 
lister  and  laths  cling  in  patches  only,  like 
Drunken  hide  upon  the  bones  of  some  creat- 
•t  left  to  die   and  to   mummify  under  the 
sji.    An  obsolete  directory,  printed  in  1845, 
ajures  us  that  the  construction  was  considered 
ii|oiemorially  old  even  then;  but  a  remark- 
&ie  engraving  of  it,  which  accompanies  the 
jibve  remark,  shows  it  to  have  at  that  time 
pressed  distinct  Spanish  features  and  two 
fckt  entrances  with  semicircular  stone  steps.  In 
|B5  it  was  the  CafedesRefugies, frequented  by 
(ijitives  from  the  Antilles,  West  Indian  stran- 
fcls,  filibusters,  revolutionnaires, —  all  that  sin- 


gular  class   of  Latin-Americans  so  strongly 
portrayed  in  Mr.  Cable's  «  Cafe  des  Exiles." 

At  the  next  block,  if  you  turn  down  Du- 
maine  street  from  Royal,  you  will  notice,  about 
half-way  toward  Chartres  a  very  peculiar 
house,  half  brick,  half  timber.  It  creates  the 
impression  that  its  builder  commenced  it  with 
the  intention  of  erecting  a  three-story  brick, 
but  changed  his  mind  before  the  first  story 
had  been  completed,  and  finished  the  edifice 
with  second-hand  lumber,  —  supporting  the 
gallery  with  wooden  posts  that  resemble 
monstrous  balusters.  This  is  the  house  be- 
queathed by  "  Mr.  John,"  of  the  Good  Chil- 
dren's Social  Club,  to  the  beautiful  quadroon 
£alli  and  her  more  beautiful  reputed  daugh- 
ter, Tite  Poulette.  As  Mr.  Cable  tells  us, 
and  as  one  glance  can  verify,  it  has  now  be- 
come "  a  den  of  Italians,  who  sell  fuel  by 
day,  and  by  night  are  up  to  no  telling  what 
extent  of  deviltry."  On  the  same  side  of  Du- 
maine,  but  on  the  western  side  of  Royal  street, 
is  another  remarkable  building,  more  impos- 
ing, larger, —  "whose  big,  round-arched  win- 
dows in  the  second  story  were  walled  up,  to 
have  smaller  windows  let  into  them  again 
with  odd  little  latticed  peep-holes  in  their 
batten  shutters."  It  was  to  this  house  that 
Zalli  and  'Tite  Poulette  removed  their  worldly 
goods,  after  the  failure  of  the  bfink ;  and  it 
was  from  the  most  westerly  of  those  curious 
windows  in  the  second  story  that  Kristian 
Koppig  saw  the  row  of  cigar-boxes  empty 
their  load  of  earth  and  flowers  upon  the  head 
of  the  manager  of  the  Salle  Conde.  Right 
opposite  you  may  see  the  good  Dutchman's 
one-story  Creole  cottage.  The  resemblance 
of  'Tite  Poulette's  second  dwelling-place  to 
the  old  Spanish  barracks  in  architectural  pe- 
culiarity has  been  prettily  commented  upon 
by  Mr.  Cable ;  and,  in  fact,  those  barracks, 
which  could  shelter  six  thousand  troops  in 
O'Reilly's  time,  and  must,  therefore,  have 
covered  a  considerable  area,  were  situated 
not  very  far  from  this  spot.  But  the  only 
fragments  of  the  barrack  buildings  that  are 
still  positively  recognizable  are  the  arched 
structures  at  Nos.  270  and  272  Royal  street, 
occupied  now,  alas  !  by  a  prosaic  seltzer  fac- 
tory. The  spacious  cavalry  stables  now  shelter 
vulgar  mules,  and  factory  wagons  protrude 
their  shafts  from  the  mouths  of  low,  broad 
archways  under  which  once  glimmered  the 
brazen  artillery  of  the  King  of  Spain. 

A  square  west  of  Royal,  at  the  corner  of 
Bourbon  and  St.  Philip  streets,  formerly  stood 
the  famed  smithy  of  the  Brothers  Lafitte ; 
but  it  were  now  useless  to  seek  for  a  vestige 
of  that  workshop,  whose  chimes  of  iron  were 
rung  by  African  muscle.  Passing  St.  Philip 
street,  therefore,  the  visitor  who  follows  the 


44 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 


MADAME    DELPHINE  S     HOUSE. 


east  side  of  Royal  might  notice  upon  the 
opposite  side  an  elegant  and  lofty  red-brick 
mansion,  with  a  deep  archway  piercing  its 
rez-de-chaussee  to  the  court-yard,  which  offers 
a  glimpse  of  rich  foliage  whenever  the  porte 
cochere  is  left  ajar.  This  is  No.  253  Royal 
street,  the  residence  of"  Madame  Delicieuse  "; 
and  worthy  of  that  honor,  it  seems,  with  its 
superb  tiara  of  green  verandas.  A  minute 
two-story  cottage  squats  down  beside  it  —  a 
miniature  shop  having  tiny  show-windows 
that  project  like  eyes.  The  cottage  is  a  mod- 
ern affair ;  but  it  covers  the  site  of  Dr.  Mossy's 
office,  which,  you  know,  was  a  lemon-yellow 
Creole  construction,  roofed  with  red  tiles. 
What  used  to  be  "  the  Cafe  de  Poesie  on  the 
corner  "  is  now  a  hat  store.  Further  on,  at 
the  intersection  of  Royal  and  Hospital  streets 
(Rue  d'Hopital,  famous  in  Creole  ballads), 
one  cannot  fail  to  admire  a  dwelling  solid 
and  elegant  as  a  Venetian  palazzo.  It  has 
already  been  celebrated  in  one  foreign  novel; 
and  did  I  not  feel  confident  that  Mr.  Cable 
will  tell  us  all  about  it  one  of  these  days,  I 
should  be  tempted  to  delay  the  reader  on  this 
corner,  although  Madame  Delphine's  resi- 
dence is  already  within  sight. 

No  one  can  readily  forget  Mr.  Cable's  de- 
scription of  "  the  small,  low,  brick  house  of  a 
story  and  a  half,  set  out  upon  the  sidewalk, 
as  weather-beaten  and  mute  as  an  aged  beggar 
fallen  asleep."  It  stands  near  Barracks  street, 
on  Royal ;  the  number,  I  think,  is  294. 
Still  are  its  solid  wooden  shutters  "  shut  with 
a  grip  that  makes  one's  nails  and  knuckles 
feel  lacerated";  and  its  coat  of  decaying 
plaster,  patched  with  all  varieties  of  neutral 


tints,  still  suggests  the  raggedness  of  menc 
cancy.  Even  the  condition  of  the  garden  gat 
through  which  Monsieur  Vignevielle  fill 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Olive's  maiden  beautj 
might  be  perceived  to-day  as  readily  as  evj 
by  "an  eye  that  had  been  in  the  blacksmitj 
ing  business."  But  since  the  accompanyia 
sketch  was  drawn,  the  picturesqueness  of  tl 
upper  part  of  the  cottage  has  been  great 
diminished  by  architectural  additions  maa 
with  a  view  to  render  the  building  habitable 
Over  the  way  may  still  be  seen  that  once  pa 
tentious  three-story  residence  "  from  whod 
front  door  hard  times  have  removed  all  ve 
tiges  of  paint,"  a  door  shaped  like  old  Europesj 
hall  doors,  and  furnished  with  an  iron  knockd 
It  has  not  been  repainted  since  Mr.  Cam 
wrote  his  story,  nor  does  it  seem  likely  to  bj 

Only  a  few  paces  farther  on  yawns  tW 
dreamy  magnificence  of  aristocratic  Espll 
nade  street,  with  its  broad,  central  band  <j 
grass  all  shadow-flecked  by  double  lines  «j 
trees.  There  Royal  street  terminates,  Espil 
nade  forming  the  southern  boundary  line  «j 
the  old  French  quarter. 

If  the  reader  could  now  follow  me  wed 
wardly  along  one  of  the  narrow  ways  leadii 
to  the  great  Rue  des  Remparts,  he  wouj 
soon  find  himself  in  that  quadroon  quartej 
whose  denizens  still  "  drag  their  chairs  doDil 
to  the  narrow  gate- ways  of  their  closj 
fenced1  gardens,  and  stare  shnnkingly  at  yd 
as  you  pass,  like  a  nest  of  yellow  kittens, 
He  would  be  at  once  charmed  and  astonislujj 
by  the  irregularity  of  the  perspective  and  tl| 
eccentricity  of  the  houses:  houses 
foreheads  are  fantastically  encircled 


wooden   parapets,  striped   like    the  foulards  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  will  bring  you  to  Congo 

of  the   negresses;   houses    yellow-faced   and  square,  the  last  green  remnant  of  those  famous 

sphinx-featured,  like  certain  mulatto  women ;  Congo  plains,  where  the  negro  slaves  once 

houses  which   present   their   profiles   to   the  held   their   bamboulas.    Until  within   a   few 

fence,  so  that  as  you  approach  they  seem  to  years  ago,  the  strange  African  dances  were 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 


45 


CAFE    DES    EXILES. 


;urn  away  their  faces  with  studied  prudery, 
ike  young  Creole  girls;  houses  that  appear 
^elinely  watchful,  in  spite  of  closed  windows 
md  doors,  gazing  sleepily  at  the  passer-by 
|:hrough  the  chinks  of  their  green  shutters, 
P.S  through  vertical  pupils.  Five  minutes' 
.valk  over  banquettes  of  disjointed  brick-work, 
hrough  which  knots  of  tough  grass  are  fight- 
ng  their  upward  way,  brings  one  to  Rampart 
treet,  where  Mr.  Cable  found  the  model  for 
lis  "  Cafe  des  Exiles."  It  was  situated  on  the 
vest  side,  No.  219,  and  THE  CENTURY'S  artist 
ketched  it  under  a  summer  glow  that  brought 
>ut  every  odd  detail  in  strong  relief.  But  here- 
ifter,  alas  !  the  visitor  to  New  Orleans  must 
rainly  look  for  the  window  of  Pauline,  "well 
ip  in  the  angle  of  the  broad  side-gable,  shaded 
y  its  rude  awning  of  clapboards,  as  the  eyes 
f  an  old  dame  are  shaded  by  her  wrinkled 
.and."  Scarcely  a  week  ago,  from  the  time  at 
fvhich  I  write,  the  antiquated  cottage  that 
jised  to  "  squat  right  down  upon  the  sidewalk, 
ks  do  those  Choctaw  squaws  who  sell  bay  and 
assafras  and  life-everlasting,"  was  ruthlessly 
prn  away,  together  with  its  oleanders,  and  pal- 
(nettoes,  and  pomegranates,  to  make  room,  no 
jloubt,  for  some  modern  architectural  platitude. 
A  minute's  walk  from  the  vacant  site  of 


still  danced  and  the  African  songs  still  sung 
by  negroes  and  negresses  who  had  been 
slaves.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  the  bamboula 
dancers  were  summoned  to  a  wood-yard  on 
Dumaine  street  by  a  sort  of  drum-roll,  made 
by  rattling  the  ends  of  two  great  bones  upon 
the  head  of  an  empty  cask ;  and  I  remember 
that  the  male  dancers  fastened  bits  of  tinkling 
metal  or  tin  rattles'  about  their  ankles,  like 
those  strings  of  copper  gris-gris  worn  by  the 
negroes  of  the  Soudan.  Those  whom  I  saw 
taking  part  in  those  curious  and  convulsive 
performances — subsequently  suppressed  by 
the  police — were  either  old  or  beyond  middle 
age.  The  veritable  Congo  dance,  with  its  ex- 
traordinary rhythmic  chant,  will  soon  have  be- 
come as  completely  forgotten  in  Louisiana  as 
the  signification  of  those  African  words  which 
formed  the  hieratic  vocabulary  of  the  Voudoos. 
It  was  where  Congo  square  now  extends 
that  Bras- Coupe  was  lassoed  while  taking 
part  in  such  a  dance;  it  was  in  the  same 
neighborhood  that  Captain  Jean  Grandissime 
of  the  Attakapas  lay  hiding — secure  in  his 
white  man's  skin  "  as  if  cased  in  steel  "•  -  o 
foil  the  witchcraft  of  Clemence;  and  it  was 
there  also  that  a  crowd  of  rowdy  American 
flat-boatmen,  headed  by  "  Posson  Jone',"  of 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 


Bethesdy  Church,  stormed  the  circus  and 
slew  the  tiger  and  the  buffalo.  Now,  "  Caye- 
tano's  circus  "  was  not  a  fiction  of  Mr.  Cable's 
imagining :  such  a  show  actually  visited  New 
Orleans  in  1816  or  thereabouts,  and  remained 
a  popular  "  fixture  "  for  several  seasons.  The 
creole-speaking  negroes  of  that  day  celebrated 
its  arrival  in  one  of  their  singular  ditties.* 

And  whosoever  cares  to  consult  certain 
musty  newspaper  files  which  are  treasured 
up  among  the  city  archives  may  find  therein 


railings  and  gate-ways  have  been  removed ; 
the  weeds  that  used  to  climb  over  the  mold-; 
ering  benches  have  been  plucked  up ;  new,1 
graveled  walks  have  been  made  ;  the  grass,' 
mown  smooth,  is  now  refreshing  to  look  at;' 
the  trunks  of  the  shade-trees  are  freshly  white- 
washed; and,  before  long,  a  great  fountain1 
will  murmur  in  the  midst.  Two  blocks  west-fl 
ward,  the  somber,  sinister,  Spanish  facade  oft 
the  Parish  Prison  towers  above  a  huddling 
flock  of  dingy  frame  dwellings,  and  exhales 


A  CREOLE  COTTAGE  OF  THE  COLONIAI 


the  quaint  advertisements  of  Senor  Gaetano's  far  around  it  the  heavy,  sickly,  musky  scent: 

circus  and  the  story  of  its  violent  disruption.  that  betrays  the  presence  of  innumerable  bat 

But  Congo  square  has  been  wholly  trans-  At  sundown,  they  circle  in  immense  flocks 

formed    within    a   twelvemonth.     The    high  above  it,  and  squeak  like  ghosts   about  itsi 

*  Some  years  ago,  when  I  was  endeavoring  to  make 
a  collection,  of  patois  songs  and  other  curiosities  of 
the  oral  literature  of  the  Louisiana  colored  folk,  Mr. 
Cable  kindly  lent  me  his  own  collection,  with  permis- 
sion to  make  selections  for  my  private  use,  and  I 
copied  therefrom  this  chanson  creole  : 


C'est  Michie  Cayetane 

Qui  sorti  la  Havane 

Avec  so  chouals  et  so  macacs  ! 
Li  gagnin  ein  homme  qui  danse  dans  sac; 
Li  gagnin  qui  danse"  si  ye  la  main; 
Li  gagnin  zaut'  a  choual  qui  boi'  di  vin ; 
Li  gagnin  oussi  ein  zeine  zolie  mamzelle 
Qui  monte  choual  sans  bride  et  sans  selle ;  — 
Pou  di  tou'  9a  mo  pas  capabe, — 
Mais  mo  souvien  ein  qui  vale  sab'. 
Ye  n'en  oussi  tout  sort  b£tail : 
Ye  pas  montre  pou'  la  negrail 
Qui  ya  pou'  dochans, —  dos-brules 
Qui  fe  tapaze, —  et  pou'  birle 
Ces  gros  mesdames  et  gros  michies 
Qui  menein  la  tous  p'tis  ye" 

'Oir  Michie"  Cayetane 


Qui  vive  la  Havane 

Avec  so  chouals  et  so  macacs. T 

t  "  'Tis  Monsieur  Gaetano 

Who  comes  out  from  Havana 

With  his  horses  and  his  monkeys  ! 
He  has  a  man  who  dances  in  a  sack ; 
He  has  one  who  dances  on  his  hands ; 
He  has  another  who  drinks  wine  on  horseback ; 
He  has  also  a  young  pretty  lady 
Who  rides  a  horse  without  bridle  or  saddle  : 
To  tell  you  all  about  it  I  am  not  able, — 
But  I  remember  one  who  swallowed  a  sword. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  animals,  too;  — 
They  did  not  show  to  nigger-folk 
What  they  showed    to   the    trash, —  the   burnt-backs 

\_poor  whiles~\ 
Who  make  so  much   noise, —  nor  what   they  had 

amuse 

All  those  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
Who  take  all  their  little  children  along  with  the 

To  see  Monsieur  Gaetano 

Who  lives  in  Havana 

With  his  horses  and  his  monkeys  !  " 


THE   SCENES   OF  CABLE'S  ROMANCES. 


47 


naked  sentry  towers.  I  have  been  told  that 
this  grim  building  will  soon  be  numbered 
among  those  antiquities  of  New  Orleans  form- 
ing the  scenery  of  Mr.  Cable's  romances. 

The  scene  of  perhaps  the  most  singular  tale 
in  "Old  Creole  Days" — "Belles  Demoiselles 
Plantation" — remains  to  be  visited ;  but  if  the 
reader  recollects  the  observation  made  in  the 
very  first  paragraph  of  the  story,  that  "the  old 
Creoles  never  forgive  a  public  mention,"  he  will 
doubtless  pardon  me  for  leaving  the  precise 
location  of  "Belles  Demoiselles"  a  mystery, 
authentic  though  it  is,  and  for  keeping  secret 
its  real  and  ancient  name.  I  can  only  tell  him 
that  to  reach  it,  he  must  journey  far  from  the 
Creole  faubourg  and  beyond  the  limits  of  New 
Orleans  to  a  certain  unfamiliar  point  on  the 
river's  bank,  whence  a  ferryman,  swarthy  and 
silent  as  Charon,  will  row  him  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  Mississippi,  and  aid  him  to  land 
upon  a  crumbling  levee  erected  to  prevent 
the  very  catastrophe  anticipated  in  Mr.  Cable's 
tale.  Parallel  with  this  levee  curves  a  wagon- 
road  whose  farther  side  is  bounded  by  a  nar- 
row and  weed-masked  ditch,  where  all  kinds 
of  marvelous  wild  things  are  growing,  and 
where  one  may  feel  assured  that  serpents  hide. 
Beyond  this  little  ditch  is  a  wooden  fence, 
now  overgrown  and  rendered  superfluous  by 
a  grand  natural  barrier  of  trees  and  shrubs, 
all  chained  together  by  interlacements  of 
wild  vines  and  thorny  creepers.  This  forms 
the  boundary  of  the  private  grounds  sur- 
rounding the  "  Belles  Demoiselles  "  residence; 
and  the  breeze  comes  to  you  heavily-sweet 
with  blossom-scents,  and  shrill  with  vibrant 
music  of  cicadas  and  of  birds. 

Fancy  the  wreck  of  a  vast  garden  created 
by  princely  expenditure, — a  garden  once  filled 
with  all  varieties  of  exotic  trees,  with  all  spe- 
cies of  fantastic  shrubs,  with  the  rarest  floral 
products  of  both  hemispheres,  but  left  utterly 
juncared  for  during  a  generation,  so  that  the 
groves  have  been  made  weird  with  hang- 
ing moss,  and  the  costly  vines  have  degen- 
jerated  into  parasites,  and  richly  cultured 
[plants  returned  to  their  primitive  wild  forms. 
The  alley-walks  are  soft  and  sable  with  dead 
leaves ;  and  all  is  so  profoundly  beshadowed 
by  huge  trees  that  a  strange  twilight  prevails 
mere  even  under  a  noonday  sun.  The  lofty 
icdge  is  becrimsoned  with  savage  roses,  in 
A  hose  degenerate  petals  still  linger  traces  of 
former  high  cultivation.  By  a  little  gate  set 
nto  that  hedge,  you  can  enter  the  opulent 
kvilderness  within,  and  pursue  a  winding  path 
between  mighty  trunks  that  lean  at  a  multi- 
tude of  angles,  like  columns  of  a  decaying 
:athedral  about  to  fall.  Crackling  of  twigs 
imder  foot,  leaf  whispers,  calls  of  birds  and 


cries  of  tree-frogs  are  the  only  sounds;  the 
soft  gloom  deepens  as  you  advance  under 
the  swaying  moss  and  snaky  festoons  of 
creepers  :  there  is  a  dimness  and  calm,  as 
of  a  place  consecrated  to  prayer.  But  for 
their  tropical  and  elfish  drapery,  one  might 
dream  those  oaks  were  of  Dodona.  And 
even  with  the  passing  of  the  fancy,  lo !  at  a 
sudden  turn  of  the  narrow  way,  in  a  grand 
glow  of  light,  even  the  Temple  appears,  with 
splendid  peripteral  of  fluted  columns  rising 
boldly  from  the  soil.  Four  pillared  fa9ades, — 
east,  west,  north,  and  south, — four  superb 
porches,  with  tiers  of  galleries  suspended  in 
their  recesses ;  and  two  sides  of  the  antique 
vision  ivory-tinted  by  the  sun.  Impossible 
to  verbally  describe  the  effect  of  this  match- 
less relic  of  Louisiana's  feudal  splendors,  that 
seems  trying  to  hide  itself  from  the  new  era 
amid  its  neglected  gardens  and  groves.  It 
creates  such  astonishment  as  some  learned 
traveler  might  feel,  were  he  suddenly  to  come 
upon  the  unknown  ruins  of  a  Greek  temple 
in  the  very  heart  of  an  equatorial  forest ;  it 
is  so  grand,  so  strangely  at  variance  with  its 
surroundings !  True,  the  four  ranks  of  columns 
are  not  of  chiseled  marble, '  and  the  stucco 
has  broken  away  from  them  in  places,  and 
the  severe  laws  of  architecture  have  not  been 
strictly  obeyed ;  but  these  things  are  forgotten 
in  admiration  of  the  building's  majesty.  I 
suspect  it  to  be  the  noblest  old  plantation- 
house  in  Louisiana ;  I  am  sure  there  is  none 
more  quaintly  beautiful.  When  I  last  beheld 
the  grand  old  mansion,  the  evening  sun  was 
resting  upon  it  in  a  Turneresque  column  of 
yellow  glory,  and  the  oaks  reaching  out  to 
it  their  vast  arms  through  ragged  sleeves 
of  moss,  and  beyond,  upon  either  side,  the 
crepuscular  dimness  of  the  woods,  with  rare 
golden  luminosities  spattering  down  through 
the  serpent  knot- work  of  lianas,  and  the 
heavy  mourning  of  mosses,  and  the  great 
drooping  and  clinging  of  multitudinous  dis- 
heveled things.  And  all  this  subsists  only 
because  the  old  Creole  estate  has  never 
changed  hands,  because  no  speculating  utili- 
tarian could  buy  up  the  plantation  to  remove 
or  remodel  its  proud  homestead  and  con- 
demn its  odorous  groves  to  the  saw-mill.  The 
river  is  the  sole  enemy  to  be  dreaded,  but  a  ter- 
rible one :  it  is  ever  gnawing  the  levee  to  get  at 
the  fat  cane-fields ;  it  is  devouring  the  road- 
way ;  it  is  burrowing  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  groves  and  the  gardens ;  and  while  gazing 
at  its  ravages,  I  could  not  encourage  myself 
to  doubt  that,  although  his  romantic  antici- 
pation may  not  be  realized  for  years  to  come, 
Mr.  Cable  has  rightly  predicted  the  ghastly 
destiny  of  "  Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation." 

Lafcadio  Hearn. 


TOURGU£NEFF  IN  PARIS.* 


REMINISCENCES    BY    DAUDET. 


IT  was  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  at  Gustave 
Flaubert's,  in  the  Rue  Murillo, — an  apart- 
ment of  small  dainty  rooms  with  Algerian 
upholstery,  opening  on  the  Pare  Monceaux, 
the  resort  of  good  breeding  and  propriety, 
whose  masses  of  verdure  stretched  across  the 
windows,  with  the  effect  of  green  blinds. 

We  used  to  meet  there  every  Sunday, 
always  the  same,  and  with  something  exqui- 
site in  our  intimacy, —  the  doors  being  closed 
to  supernumeraries  and  bores. 

One  Sunday,  as  I  came  back  as  usual  to 
the  old  master  and  the  rest  of  us,  Flaubert 
took  possession  of  me  on  the  threshold. 

"You.  don't  know  Tourgueneff  ?  "  And 
without  waiting  for  my  answer,  he  pushed 
ne  into  the  little  drawing-room. 

There,  on  a  divan,  was  stretched  a  great 
Slavic  figure  with  a  white  beard,  who  rose  to 
lis  height  as  he  saw  me  come  in,  unfolding 
3n  the  pile  of  cushions  a  kind  of  serpentine 
prolongation,  and  raising  a  pair  of  surprised, 
enormous  eyes. 

We  Frenchmen  live  in  extraordinary  igno- 
•ance  of  everything  in  the  way  of  foreign 
iterature.  With  us,  the  national  mind  stays 
it  home  as  much  as  the  body,  and,  with  our 
iversion  to  traveling,  we  read  beyond  our  bor- 
lers  as  little  as  we  colonize. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  I  knew, 
jind  knew  well,  what  Tourgueneff  had  done. 

had  read  with  deep  emotion  the  "  Memoirs 
pf  a  Russian  Squire  " ;  and  this  book  of  the 
jjreat  novelist,  on  which  I  had  lighted  by 
hance,  led  me  to  an  intimate  acquaintance 
vith  the  others.  We  were  united  before  we 
net  by  our  love  of  nature  in  its  grander 
ispects,  and  the  fact  that  we  felt  it  in  the 
jame  way. 

In  general,  the  descriptive  genius  has  only 
ts  eyes,  and  contents  itself  with  a  picture, 
"ourgueneff  has  his  olfactories  and  his  ears. 
Ul  his  senses  have  doors  that  swing  open 
|.nd  place  each  in  communication  with  the 
'•thers.  He  is  full  of  the  odors  of  the  coun- 
ry,  of  the  sounds  of  water,  of  the  transpar- 


encies of  the  sky,  and  gives  himself  up,  with- 
out calculation  of  effect,  to  this  music-making 
of  his  sensations. 

It  is  a  music  that  doesn't  reach  every  ear. 
The  cockney  organization,  deafened  from 
childhood  by  the  uproar  of  great  cities,  never 
perceives  it,  and  never  will ;  never  hears  the 
voices  that  speak  in  that  false  silence  of  the 
woods,  when  Nature  believes  that  she  is 
alone,  and  man,  holding  his  peace,  is  forgot- 
ten for  awhile.  These  delicate  perceptions  of 
sound  are  a  part  of  the  training  of  primeval 
woods  or  of  the  desert  places  of  nature. 
In  some  novel  of  Fenimore  Cooper,  which  I 
have  forgotten,  we  hear  at  a  distance  a  pair 
of  paddles  dipped  from  a  boat,  amid  the  still- 
ness of  a  great  lake.  The  boat  is  three  miles 
off,  and  of  course  out  of  sight ;  but  the  sleep- 
ing plain  of  water,  and  the  woods  on  its 
shores,  are  made  larger  by  this  far-away 
sound  of  oars,  and  we  feel  something  of  the 
shudder  of  solitude.  For  myself,  who  have 
worked  so  much  in  the  forest  of  Senart,  I 
shall  never  forget  the  canter  of  the  rabbits 
over  the  foot-path  that  led  to  the  pools,  and 
the  visit  of  the  squirrels,  whom  a  gesture 
would  send  off,  and  whom  I  used  to  hear  for 
hours  passing  from  one  tree-top  to  another. 

It  is  the  Russian  steppe  that  has  given 
its  expansion  to  the  senses  and  the  heart  of 
Tourgueneff.  People  grow  better  for  listening 
to  Nature,  and  those  who  love  her  do  not 
lose  their  interest  in  men.  From  such  a 
source  as  this  springs  that  pitying  sweetness, 
as  sad  as  the  song  of  a  moujik,  which  sobs  in 
the  depths  of  the  Slavic  novelist's  work.  It 
is  the  human  sigh  of  which  the  Creole  song 
speaks,  the  open  valve  that  prevents  the 
world  from  suffocating.  "Si pas  te  gagne  soupi 
n'en  moune,  moune t'a  touffe"\  And  this  sigh, 
repeated  again  and  again,  in  the  long  story 
and  the  short  tale,  arrived  at  last  at  imperial 
ears.  The  late  Czar  said  of  Tourgueneff's 
novels,  "They  are  my  own  books";  and  the 
"  Memoirs  of  a  Russian  Squire "  helped  on 
largely  the  cause  of  the  poor  serfs.  It  is 


*The  following  reminiscences  were  received  from  M.  Daudet  during  the  past  summer.  Tourgueneff's 
jeath  took  place  September  3,  1883.  The  engraving  here  given  is  from  a  monochrome  oil  study  from  life, 
,y  the  young  American  artist,  Mr.  E.  R.  Butler.  It  represents  the  author  as  he  appeared  in  his  last  years, 
fith  broken  health;  an  earlier  portrait,  from  a  photograph,  will  be  found  on  page  200  of  Vol.  XIV.,  m 
bnnection  with  an  article  on  his  life  and  works  by  Professor  Boyesen.  Translations  of  Tourgueneft  s 
Living  Mummy  "  and  "Nobleman  of  the  Steppe  "  appeared  in  our  Vol.  XII.,  page  563,  and  Vol.  XIV., 
iage  3T3-  See  also  Vol.  XIV.,  page  257.— Ed. 

"If  the  world  couldn't  sigh,  the  world  would  suffocate." 
VOL.  XXVII.— 6. 


5° 


TOURGUENEFF  IN  PARIS. 


another  "Uncle  Tom,"  with  a  less  overt 
attempt  to  point  a  moral. 

I  knew  all  this.  Tourgueneff  had  a  throne 
in  my  Olympus, — a  chair  of  ivory  among  my 
gods.  But  far  from  suspecting  that  he  was  in 
Paris,  I  had  not  even  asked  myself  whether 
he  were  living  or  dead.  My  astonishment 
may  therefore  be  guessed  when  I  found  my- 
self in  presence  of  this  strange  personage,  in 
a  Parisian  drawing-room,  on  a  third  floor  look- 
.ing  into  the  Pare  Monceaux. 

I  told  him  gayly  how  the  matter  stood, 
and  expressed  my  admiration  with  the  exu- 
berance of  my  enthusiasm  and  of  the  South 
that  is  in  me.  I  told  him  that  I  had  read 
him  in  those  woods  of  mine.  There  I  had 
found  out  the  soul  that  was  in  him ;  and  the 
double  remembrance  of  the  scenery  and  the 
story  was  so  effectually  interfused  that  a  cer- 
tain tale  of  his  had  remained  in  my  mind 
under  the  color  of  a  small  field  of  pink 
heather,  a  little  withered  by  autumn. 

Tourgueneff  could  not  get  over  this. 

"  Really,  now,  you  have  read  me  ?  " 

And  he  gave  me  various  details  on  the 
small  sale  of  his  books  in  Paris,  the  obscurity 
of  his  name  in  France.  The  publisher  Hetzel 
brought  him  out  for  charity.  His  popularity 
had  not  passed  his  own  borders.  He  suffered, 
from  remaining  unknown  in  a  country  that 
was  dear  to  him.  He  confessed  his  disap- 
pointments rather  sadly,  but  without  rancor; 
on  the  contrary,  our  disasters  in  1870  had 
attached  him  more  strongly  to  France.  He 
was  unwilling  for  the  future  to  leave  it. 
Before  the  war,  he  used  to  pass  his  summers 
cheerfully  at  Baden-Baden ;  but  now  he  would 
not  return  there ;  he  would  content  himself 
with  Bougival  and  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 

It  happened  on  that  Sunday  that  Flaubert 
had  no  other  guests,  and  our  mutual  talk 
grew  long.  I  questioned  Tourgueneff  on  his 
manner  of  work,  and  expressed  my  surprise 
that  he  should  not  himself  be  his  translator; 
for  he  spoke  French  with  great  purity,  with 
a  trace  of  slowness  caused  by  the  subtlety 
of  his  mind.  He  admitted  to  me  that  the 
Academy  and  its  dictionary  simply  froze  him. 
He  turned  over  this  terrible  dictionary  with 
a  tremor,  as  if  it  had  been  a  code  declaring 
the  law  of  words  and  the  punishment  of  him 
who  should  dare.  He  emerged  from  these 
researches  with  his  conscience  rankling  with 
literary  scruples  which  were  fatal  to  his  spon- 
taneity. I  remember  that,  in  a  tale  that  he 
wrote  at  this  time,  he  had  not  thought  it  well 
to  risk  "  her  pale  eyes  "  ["  ses  yenx  pales  "], 
for  fear  of  the  Academic  forty  and  their  defi- 
nition of  the  epithet. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  I  had  en- 
countered these  alarms;  I  had  already  found 


them  in  the  Provengal  Mistral,  who  had  also 
suffered  the  blighting  fascination  of  the  cupola  \ 
of  the  Institute,  that  macaronic  monument  \ 
which,  in  a  circular  medallion,  ornaments  the  j 
covers  of  the  editions  of  the  house  of  Didot.  I 
On  this  matter  I  said  to  Tourgueneff  what  I 
had  upon  my  heart:  that  the  French  language  i 
is  not  a  dead  language,  to  be  written  with  a  \ 
dictionary  of  settled  expressions,  classed  in  1 
order,  as  in  a  gradus.    For  myself,  I  feel  it  to  be 
all  quivering  with  life,  all  swelling  and  surg-  \ 
ing.    It  is  a  great  river  which  rolls  full  to  the  > 
brink ;   it  picks  up  refuse  on  the  way,  and 
everything  is  thrown  into  it.    But  let  it  run ; 
it  will  filter  its  waters  itself. 

Hereupon,  as  the  day  was  waning,  Tourgue- 
neff said  he  was  to  go  and  fetch  "the  ladies" 
from  the  Pasdeloup  concert,  and  I  went  down 
with  him.  On  our  way  we  talked  of  music ; 
I  was  delighted  to  find  that  he  was  fond  of  it. 
In  France,  it  is  the  fashion  among  men  of 
letters  to  detest  music ;  painting  has  invaded 
everything.  Theophile  Gautier,  Paul  de  Saint- 
Victor,  Victor  Hugo,  Edmond  de  Goncourt, 
Zola,  Leconte  de  Lisle  are  so  many  music- 
phobists.  To  my  knowledge,  I  am  the  first  who 
has  confessed  aloud  his  ignorance  of  colors 
and  his  passion  for  notes.  That  belongs  doubt- 
less to  my  southern  temperament  and  my  near- 
sightedness;  one  sense  has  developed  itself 
to  the  detriment  of  another.  With  Tourgueneff 
the  musical  sense  had  been  educated  in  Paris; 
he  had  acquired  it  in  the  circle  in  which  he 
lived.  This  circle  had  been  formed  by  an 
intimacy  of  thirty  years  with  Madame  Viardot, 
the  great  singer,  sister  of  the  Malibran.  Inde- 
pendent and  a  bachelor,  Tourgueneff  occupied 
an  apartment  in  the  detached  house,  50  Rue 
de  Douai,  of  which  this  lady  and  her  family 
inhabited  the  remainder.  "  The  ladies,"  of 
whom  he  had  spoken .  to  me  at  Flaubert's, 
were  Madame  Viardot  and  her  daughters, 
whom  Tourgueneff  loved  as  his  own  children. 
It  was  in  this  hospitable  dwelling  that  I  pres- 
ently called  on  him. 

The  mansion  was  furnished  with  a  refine- 
ment of  luxury;  it  denoted  a  care  for  art 
and  a  love  of  comfort.  As  I  passed  across 
the  entrance  floor,  I  perceived  through  an 
open  door  a  bright  gallery  of  pictures.  Fresh 
voices,  of  young  girls,  pierced  through  the 
hangings.  They  alternated  with  the  passion- 
ate contralto  of  Orpheus,  which  filled  the 
stair-case  and  ascended  with  me. 

Above,  on  the  third  floor,  was  a  little  cur- 
tained and  cushioned  apartment  as  encum- 
bered with  furniture  as  a  boudoir.  Tourgu(|| 
neff  had  borrowed  from  his  friends  the" 
tastes  in  art — music  from  the  wife  and  pail 
ing  from  the  husband. 

He  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  according  to 


TOURGUENEFF  IN  PARIS. 


habit.  I  seated  myself  near  him,  and  we  im- 
mediately took  up  our  conversation  where  we 
had  left  it.  He  had  been  struck  with  my 
observations,  and  promised  to  bring,  the  next 
Sunday  we  should  be  at  Flaubert's,  a  tale 
which  we  should  all  translate  together,  under 
his  eyes.  Then  he  spoke  to  me  of  a  book 
that  he  wished  to  write  —  "Virgin  Soil,"  a 
dark  picture  of  the  new  social  strata  that 
grumble  together  in  the  depths  of  Russian 
life  and  are  rising  to  the  light ;  the  history  of 
those  poor  votaries  of  "simplification"  which 
a  dreadful  mistake  drives  into  the  arms  of  the 
people.  The  people  has  no  understanding 
of  them,  and  mocks  and  repudiates  them. 
And  while  he  talked,  I  reflected  that  Russia 
is  indeed  a  virgin  soil, — a  soil  still  soft,  where 
the  least  step  leaves  its  trace, —  a  soil  where  all 
is  new,  is  yet  to  be  done  and  to  be  discovered. 
Whereas,  with  us,  there  is  now  not  an  alley 
untrodden,  not  a  path  on  which  the  crowd 
has  not  trampled.  To  speak  only  of  the 
novel,  the  shade  of  Balzac  is  at  the  end  of 
every  avenue. 

Dating  from  this  interview,  our  relations 
became  more  frequent.  Among  all  the  mo- 
ments we  passed  together,  I  remember  but 
an  afternoon  in  spring,  a  Sunday  in  the  Rue 
Murillo,  which  has  remained  in  my  mind  as 
luminous  and  rare. 

We  had  spoken  of  Goethe  at  one  of  our 
dinners,  and  Tourgueneff  had  said :  "  My 
friends,  you  don't  know  him." 

The  next  Sunday  he  brought  the  "  Prome- 
theus "  and  the  "  Satyr,"  which,  with  its  tone 
of  revolt  and  impiety,  might  have  been  a  tale 
of  Voltaire  enlarged  to  a  poem  by  a  mind 
inspired. 

The  Pare  Monceaux  sent  us  up  the  cries 
of  its  children,  its  clear  sunshine,  the  fresh- 
ness of  its  watered  greenery;  and  we  four, 
shaken  by  this  rich  improvisation,  listened 
to  genius  translated  by  genius.  In  a  tremor, 
while  he  held  the  pen,  TourguenerT  had,  as  he 
stood  there,  all  the  daring  of  the  poet ;  and  it 
was  not  the  usual  mendacity  of  a  translation 
that  stiffens  and  petrifies,  it  was  the  soul  of 
Goethe  waked  and  speaking  to  us. 

Often,  too,  TourguenerT  used  to  come  and 
find  me  in  the  depths  of  the  Marais,  in  the 
old  mansion  of  the  time  of  Henry  II.,  which 
I  occupied  at  that  time.  He  was  amused  by 
the  strange  exhibition  of  that  stately  court, 
a  royal,  gabled  habitation,  littered  with  the 
petty  industries  of  Parisian  commerce :  a 
manufacture  of  spinning-tops,  of  Seltzer  water, 
of  sugared  almonds. 

One  day,  as  he  came  into  my  apartment 
on  Flaubert's  arm,  my  little  boy,  much 
daunted,  cried  out : 

"  Why,  papa,  they  are  giants !  " 


Yes,  indeed,  giants;  good  giants:  large 
brains,  great  hearts,  in  proportion  to  chest 
and  shoulders.  There  was  a  bond,  an  affinity 
of  unconscious  goodness  in  these  two  genial 
natures.  It  was  George  Sand  who  had  mar- 
ried them.  Flaubert,  a  talker  and  a  free- 
lance,—  Don  Quixote  with  the  voice  of  a 
trumpeter  of  the  guards,  with  the  powerful 
irony  of  his  observation,  the  semblance  of 
a  Norman  (as  he  was)  of  the  Conquest, — was 
certainly  the  virile  half  in  this  spiritual  matri- 
mony. Yet  who,  in  that  other  Colossus,  with 
his  white  beard  and  his  fleecy  eyebrows, 
would  have  suspected  the  feminine  nature, 
the  nature  of  that  woman  of  acute  sensibili- 
ties whom  TourguenerT  has  painted  in  his 
books, — that  nervous,  languorous,  passionate 
Russian,  slumbering  like  an  Oriental,  and 
tragic  like  a  loosened  force?  So  true  it  is 
that  souls  sometimes  take  up  the  wrong 
envelope — souls  of  men  embodied  in  slender 
women,  souls  of  women  incarnate  in  Cyclo- 
pean form.  One  might  think  that,  in  the 
great  human  workshop,  an  ironical  "  hand  " 
had  taken  pleasure  in  misleading  our  judg- 
ment by  the  falsity  of  the  label. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  we  conceived  the 
idea  of  a  monthly  gathering  at  which  we 
friends  should  meet :  it  was  to  be  called  "  the 
Flaubert  dinner,"  or  "the  dinner  of  hissed 
authors."  Flaubert  belonged  to  it  by  right  of 
his  "Candidat,"  I  by  that  of  my  "Arl6- 
sienne,"  Zola  with  "  Bouton  de  Rose,"  De  Gon- 
court  with  "  Henriette  Marechal."  Emile  de 
Girardin  wished  to  slip  into  our  group ;  but 
though  he  had  been  heartily  hissed  at  the 
theater,  he  was  not  a  writer  in  our  sense  of 
the  word,  and  we  excluded  him.  As  for  Tour- 
guenerT, he  gave  us  his  word  that  he  had  been 
hissed  in  Russia ;  and  as  it  was  very  far  off, 
none  of  us  went  to  see. 

Nothing  can  be  more  delightful  than  these 
friendly  feasts,  where  you  talk  in  perfect  free- 
dom, with  your  wits  all  present  and  your  el- 
bows on  the  cloth.  Like  men  of  experience,  we 
were  all  enlightened  diners.  Naturally,  there 
were  as  many  forms  of  this  enlightenment 
as  there  were  different  temperaments,  and  as 
many  receipts  for  dishes  as  different  provinces. 
Flaubert  had  to  have  his  Norman  butter-pats, 
and  his  ducks  from  Rouen  a  retouffade.  De 
Goncourt  pushed  refinement  and  criticism  to 
the  point  of  demanding  preserved  ginger! 
I  did  honor  to  my  bouillabaisse,  as  well  as 
to  sea-urchins  and  shell-fish ;  and  TourguenerT 
kept  on  tasting  his  caviare. 

Ah,  we  were  not  easy  to  feed,  and  the 
restaurants  of  Paris  must  remember  us  well ! 
We  tried  a  great  many.  At  one  time  we  were 
with  Adolphe  &  Pele,  behind  the  Opera; 
then  in  the  Place  de  1'Opera  Comique;  then 


52 


TOURGUENEFF  IN  PARIS. 


with  Voisin,  whose  cellar  pacified  all  our 
exactions  and  reconciled  all  our  appetites. 

We  sat  down  at  seven  o'clock,  and  at  two 
in  the  morning  we  were  still  at  table.  Flau- 
bert and  Zola  dined  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
Tourgueneff  stretched  himself  on  the  divan ; 
we  turned  the  waiters  out  of  the  room, —  a 
needless  precaution,  as  the  mighty  "  jaw  "  of 
Flaubert  was  heard  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 
of  the  house, — and  then  we  talked  of  litera- 
ture. Some  one  of  us  always  had  a  book  just 
out;  it  was  the  "Tentation  de  Saint-  Antoine  " 
and  the  "  Trois  Contes"  of  Flaubert,  the  "  Fille 
Elisa  "  of  De  Goncourt,  the  "  Abbe  Mou- 
ret"  and  the  "Assommoir"  of  Zola.  Tourgue- 
neff brought  the  " Living  Relics" and  "Virgin 
Soil";  I,  "Fremont  Jeune,"  "Jack,"  "The 
Nabab."  We  talked  to  each  other  op'en- 
heartedly,  without  flattery,  without  the  com- 
plicity of  mutual  admiration. 

I  have  here,  before  my  eyes,  a  letter  of 
Tourgueneff,  in  a  large  foreign  hand,  the  hand 
of  an  old  manuscript,  and  I  transcribe  it  com- 
pletely, as  it  gives  the  tone  of  our  relations  : 

"Monday,  24th  May,  '77. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  If  I  haven't  spoken  to  you 
yet  of  your  book,  it  is  because  I  wished  to  do  it  at 
length,  and  not  content  myself  with  a  few  matter-of- 
course  phrases.  I  will  put  all  that  off  to  our  interview, 
which  will  soon  take  place,  I  hope ;  for  Flaubert  will 
be  coming  back  one  of  these  days,  and  our  dinners 
will  begin  again. 

"  I  will  confine  myself  to  saying  one  thing.  '  Le 
Nabab '  is  the  most  remarkable  and  the  most  un- 
equal book  you  have  written.  If '  Fremont  et  Risler  ' 

is  represented  by  a  straight  line, ,  *  Le  Na 

bab  '  ought  to  be  figured  thus,  NAAAAAA  >  and 
the  summits  of  the  zigzags  can  be  attained  only  by 
a  talent  of  the  first  order. 

"  I  have  had  a  very  long  and  very  violent  attack  of 
gout.  I  went  out  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  and  I 
have  the  legs  and  the  knees  of  a  man  of  ninety.  I  am 
very  much  afraid  I  have  become  what  the  English 
call  a  '  confirmed  invalid.' 

"A  thousand  remembrances  to  Madame  Daudet; 
I  give  you  a  cordial  hand-shake.  Yours, 

"I VAN  TOURGUENEFF." 

When  we  had  finished  with  the  books  and 
the  preoccupations  of  the  day,  our  talk  took  a 
wider  scope  :  we  came  back  to  those  themes, 
those  ideas  which  are  always  with  us;  we 
spoke  of  love,  of  death,  particularly  of  death. 

Every  one  said  his  word.  The  Russian,  on 
his  divan,  was  silent. 

"  And  you,  Tourgueneff?  " 

"  Oh,  me  ?  I  don't  think  of  death.  In  my 
country,  no  one  has  it  as  an  image  in  his 
mind;  it  remains  distant,  covered — the  Slavic 
mist." 

That  word  spoke  volumes  on  the  nature 
of  his  race  and  of  his  own  genius.  The  Slavic 
mist  floats  over  all  his  work,  blurs  its  edges, 
makes  it  waver ;  and  his  conversation  as  well 
was  suffused  with  it.  What  he  said  always 


began  with  difficulty,  with  uncertainty ;  then,  < 
suddenly,  the  cloud  was  dissipated,   pierced 
by  a  shaft  of  light,  by  a  decisive  word.    He 
talked  to  us  of  Russia — not  of  the  Russia  of'; 
Napoleon's  winter,  icy,  historic,  and  conven-  j 
tional,  but  of  a  Russia  of  summer-time,  and 
of  wheat  and  flowers  that  have  nestled  out  \ 
of  the  snow-flurries — Little  Russia,  a  land  of  >. 
bursting  herbage  and  of  the  hum  of  bees.  I 
Accordingly,  as  we  must  always  locate  some-  'i 
where  the  stories  that  are  told  us,  Russian  » 
life  has  appeared  to  me  through  Tourgueneff  : 
as  a  manorial  existence  on  an  Algerian  estate  - 
surrounded  with  huts. 

Tourgueneff  lifted  the  veil  which  covered  ! 
this  queer,  quaint,  stupefied  people.  He  spoke  'i 
to  us  of  its  deep  alcoholism,  of  its  benumbed,  'i 
inactive  conscience,  of  its  ignorance  of  lib-  9 
erty !    Or  else,  he  opened  some  fresher  page  \ 
— a  glimpse  of  an  idyl,  the  recollection  of  a  j 
little  mill-servant  whom  he  met  once  on  his  : 
hunting-ground  and  fell  in  love  with  for  three 
days.    He  had  asked  her  what   she   would 
like  to  have,  and  the  fair  maid  had  answered :  \ 
"  You  must  bring  me  a  piece  of  soap  from 
town,  so  that  1   may  make  my  hands  smell . 
sweet  and  you  may  kiss  them,  as  you  do  to  I 
ladies ! " 

After  love  and  death,  we  talked  about  j 
forms  of  illness,  about  one's  slavery  to  the  1 
body,  that  is  dragged  after  us  like  a  chained  : 
bull.  Sad  avowals  of  men  who  have  entered  : 
their  forties !  For  me,  who  had  not  yet  begun  <; 
to  be  gnawed  with  rheumatism,  I  rather ; 
chaffed  my  friends  and  made  merry  at  the  ex-  j 
pense  of  poor  Tourgueneff,  who  was  tortured 
by  gout  and  used  to  hobble  to  our  dinners,  j 
Since  then  I  have  lowered  my  pitch ! 

Death,  alas,  of  which  we  used  to  talk,  came 
to  us.    It  took  Flaubert,  who  was  the  soul, 
the  link.    With  his  departure,  life  changed  for  j 
us,  and  we  met  only  at  longish  intervals;  for  j 
none  of  us  had  the  courage  to  take  up  our  i  j 
little  parties  again,  after  the  break  made  by  j 
our  mourning. 

Months  afterward  Tourgueneff  tried  to  bring  . 
us  together.  Flaubert's  place  was  to  remain 
marked  at  our  table.  But  his  big  voice  and  i 
his  large  laugh  were  too  deeply  missed  ;  they  ; 
were  no  longer  the  dinners  of  the  old  time,  jj 
and  we  gave  them  up. 

Since  then  I  have  met  Tourgueneff  at  a 
party  at  the  house  of  Madame  Adam.    He  I 
had  brought  the   Grand- Duke   Constantine, 
who,  passing  through  Paris,  wished  to  see  some  j 
of  the  celebrities    of  the   day — a  Tussaud-  |j 
museum  of  living  and  supping  figures.  I  haste 
to  say  that  he  saw  nothing  but  attitudes- 
attitudes  of  people  who  pretended  to  ti 
their  back  and  of  others  who  presented  th( 
selves  as  fully  as  possible.    Alexandre  Dui 


AGE  AND  DEATH. 


53 


irious  at  being  taken  for  a  curious  animal, 
ifused  to  say  good  things.  Carolus  Duran, 
ie  painter,  sang ;  Munkacsy  whistled;  M.  de 
eust  played  a  pretty  valse,  which  was  rather 
>ng. 

Tourgueneff  and  I  talked  together  in  a  cor- 
sr.  He  was  sad  and  ill.  Always  his  gout !  It 
id  him  flat  on  his  back  for  weeks  together, 
id  he  asked  his  friends  to  come  and  see  him. 

Two  months  ago  was  the  last  time  I  have 
en  him.  The  house  was  still  full  of  flowers ; 

e  sound  of  singing  was  still  in  the  hall ;  my 
.end  was  still  upstairs,  on  his  divan,  but 
uch  weakened  and  changed. 

He  was  suffering  from  an  angina  pectoris, 
id,  in  addition,  from  a  horrible  wound  in  the 
}domen,  the  result  of  the  extraction  of  a 
rst.  Not  having  taken  chloroform,  he  de- 
ribed  to  me  the  operation  with  a  perfect 
cidity  of  memory.  First,  there  had  been  the 
tarp  pain  of  the  blade  in  the  flesh;  then  a 
rcular  sensation,  as  of  a  fruit  being  peeled, 
jnd  he  added: 

*  I  analyzed  my  suffering  so  as  to  be  able 

relate  it  to  you,  thinking  it  would  interest 
DIL" 


As  he  was  still  able  to  walk  a  little,  he 
came  down  the  staircase  to  accompany  me 
to  the  door. 

At  the  bottom,  he  took  me  into  the  gallery 
of  pictures  and  showed  me  the  works  of  his 
national  painters, —  a  halt  of  Cossacks,  a  corn- 
field swept  by  a  gust,  landscapes  from  that 
warm  Russia  which  he  has  described. 

Old  Viardot  was  there,  rather  out  of  health ; 
Garcia  was  singing  in  the  neighboring  room ; 
and  Tourgueneff,  surrounded  by  the  arts  that 
he  loved,  smiled  as  he  bade  me  farewell. 

A  month  later,  I  learned  that  Viardot  was 
dead  and  that  Tourgueneff  had  been  taken 
to  the  country,  very  ill. 

I  cannot  believe  in  the  fatal  issue  of  this 
malady.  There  must  be,  for  beautiful  and 
sovereign  minds,  so  long  as  they  have  not 
said  all  that  they  have  to  say,  a  respite — a 
commutation.  Time  and  the  mildness  of  Bou- 
gival  will  give  Tourgueneff  back  to  us;  but 
he  will  know  no  more  of  those  friendly  meet- 
ings to  which  he  was  so  happy  to  come. 

Ah,  the  Flaubert  dinner !  We  tried  it  again 
the  other  day :  there  were  only  three  of  us 
leftl 

Alphonse  Daudet. 


YOUTH   AND    DEATH. 

WHAT  hast  thou  done  to  this  dear  friend  of  mine, 
Thou  cold,  white,  silent  Stranger?     From  my  hand 
Her  clasped  hand  slips  to  meet  the  grasp  of  thine; 
Her  eyes  that  flamed  with  love,  at  thy  command 
Stare  stone-blank  on  blank  air;  her  frozen  heart 
Forgets  my  presence.     Teach  me  who  thou  art, 
Vague  shadow  sliding  'twixt  my  friend  and  me. 

I  never  saw  thee  till  this  sudden  hour. 
What  secret  door  gave  entrance  unto  thee  ? 

What  power  is  thine,  o'ermastering  Love's  own  power? 


AGE   AND    DEATH. 

COME  closer,  kind,  white,  long-familiar  friend, 

Embrace  me,  fold  me  to  thy  broad,  soft  breast. 
Life  has  grown  strange  and  cold,  but  thou  dost  bend 

Mild  eyes  of  blessing  wooing  to  my  rest. 
So  often  hast  thou  come,  and  from  my  side 
So  many  hast  thou  lured,  I  only  bide 
Thy  beck,   to  follow  glad  thy  steps  divine. 

Thy  world  is  peopled  for  me;  this  world's  bare. 

Through  all  these  years  my  couch  thou  didst  prepare. 
Thou  art  supreme  Love — kiss  me — I  am  thine! 


Emma  Lazarus. 


DR.   SEVIER.* 


BY    GEORGE    W.    CABLE, 
Author  of  "  Old  Creole  Days,"  "  The  Grandissimes,"  "  Madame  Delphine,"  etc. 

L  with  their  fair-handed  wives  in  seasons  ofM 

'culiar  anticipation,  when  it  is  well  to  be  nel 
the  highest  medical  skill.  In  the  opposi! 
direction,  a  three  minutes'  quick  drive  arouil 
the  upper  corner  and  down  Common  stref| 
carried  the  Doctor  to  his  ward  in  the  gre  I 
Charity  Hospital,  and  to  the  school  of  meJ 
icine  where  he  filled  the  chair  set  apart  to  til 
holy  ailments  of  maternity.  Thus,  as  it  werl 
he  laid  his  left  hand  on  the  rich  and  his  rigll 
on  the  poor ;  and  he  was  not  left-handed. 

Not  that  his  usual  attitude  was  one  of  bo] 
ediction.  He  stood  straight  up  in  his  austal 
pure-mindedness,  tall,  slender,  pale,  sharp  cl 
voice,  keen  of  glance,  stern  in  judgment,  aj| 
gressive  in  debate,  and  fixedly  untender  ever.j 
where,  except  —  but  always  except  —  in  tfl 
sick  chamber.  His  inner  heart  was  all  of  flest] 
but  his  demands  for  the  rectitude  of  mankirJ 
pointed  out  like  the  muzzles  of  cannon  througj 
the  embrasures  of  his  virtues.  To  demolisj 
evil !  That  seemed  the  finest  of  aims ;  and  eve] 
as  a  physician,  that  was,  most  likely,  his  motrvl 
until  later  years  and  a  better  self-knowledn 
had  taught  him  that  to  do  good  was  still  finJ 
and  better.  He  waged  war  —  against  maladi] 
To  fight ;  to  stifle ;  to  cut  down ;  to  uproot] 
to  overwhelm ;  these  were  his  springs  of  a« ' 
tion.  That  their  results  were  good  prove] 
that  his  sentiment  of  benevolence  was  strom 
and  high ;  but  it  was  well-nigh  shut  out  ( ' 
sight  by  that  impatience  of  evil  which  is  vein 
fine  and  knightly  in  youngest  manhood,  bil 
which  we  like  to  see  give  way  to  kindlier  moocj 
as  the  earlier  heat  of  the  blood  begins  to  pasi 

He  changed  in  later  years;  this  was  i] 
1856.  To  "resist  not  evil"  seemed  to  h» 
then  only  a  rather  feeble  sort  of  knavery.  Tl 
face  it  in  its  nakedness  and  to  inveigh  again 
it  in  high  places  and  low,  seemed  the  consun 
mation  of  all  manliness;  and  manliness  wl] 
the  key-note  of  his  creed.  There  was  no  oth< 
necessity  in  this  life. 

"  But  a  man  must  live,"  said  one  of  his  kit 
dred,  to  whom,  truth  to  tell,  he  had  refuse 
assistance. 

"  No,  sir ;  that  is  just  what  he  can't  do.  . 
man  must  die !  So,  while  he  lives,  let  him  t 
a  man !  " 

How  inharmonious  a  setting,  then,  for 
Sevier,  was  3^  Carondelet  street.  As 
drove,  each  morning,  down  to  that 


THE    DOCTOR. 

THE  main  road  to  wealth  in  New  Orleans 
has  long  been  Carondelet  street.  There  you 
see  the  most  alert  faces;  noses — it  seems  to 
one — with  more  and  sharper  edge,  and  eyes 
smaller  and  brighter  and  with  less  distance  be- 
tween them  than  one  notices  in  other  streets. 
It  is  there  that  the  stock  and  bond  brokers 
hurry  to  and  fro  and  run  together  promiscu- 
ously—  the  cunning  and  the  simple,  the  head- 
long and  the  wary — at  the  four  clanging  strokes 
of  the  Stock  Exchange  gong.  There  rises  the 
tall  fagade  of  the  Cotton  Exchange.  Looking 
in  from  the  sidewalk  as  you  pass,  you  see  its 
main  hall,  thronged  but  decorous,  the  quiet 
engine-room  of  the  surrounding  city's  most 
far-reaching  occupation,  and  at  the  hall's 
farther  end  you  descry  the  "  Future  Room," 
and  hear  the  unearthly  ramping  and  bellowing 
of  the  bulls  and  bears.  Up  and  down  the 
street,  on  either  hand,  are  the  ship-brokers  and 
insurers,  and  in  the  upper  stories  foreign  con- 
suls among  a  multitude  of  lawyers  and  notaries. 

In  1856  this  street  was  just  assuming  its 
present  character.  The  cotton  merchants  were 
making  it  their  favorite  place  of  commercial 
domicile.  The  open  thoroughfare  served  in 
lieu  of  the  present  exchanges ;  men  made  fort- 
unes standing  on  the  curb-stone,  and  during 
bank  hours  the  sidewalks  were  perpetually 
crowded  with  cotton  factors,  buyers,  brokers, 
weighers,  reweighers,  classers,  pickers,  press- 
ers,  and  samplers,  and  the  air  was  laden  with 
cotton  quotations  and  prognostications. 

Number  3^,  second  floor,  front,  was  the 
office  of  Dr.  Sevier.  This  office  was  con- 
venient to  everything.  Immediately  under 
its  windows  lay  the  sidewalks  where  con- 
gregated the  men  who,  of  all  in  New  Or- 
leans, could  best  afford  to  pay  for  being  sick, 
and  least  desired  to  die.  Canal  street,  the 
city's  leading  artery,  was  just  below  at  the 
near  left-hand  corner.  Beyond  it  lay  the  older 
town,  not  yet  impoverished  in  those  days, — 
the  French  quarter.  A  single  square  and  a 
half  off  at  the  right,  and  in  plain  view  from 
the  front  windows,  shone  the  dazzling  white 
walls  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  where  the  na- 
bobs of  the  river  plantations  came  and  dwelt 


Copyright,  1883,  by  George  W.  Cable.    All  rights  reserved. 


As  h 

" 


DR.  SEVIER. 


55 


had  to  pass  through  long,  irregular  files 

<|  fellow-beings  thronging  either  sidewalk, 
sadly  unchivalric  grouping  of  men  whose 

(lily  and  yearly  life  was  subordinated  only 
"  entirely  to  the  getting  of  wealth,  and 
lose  every  eager  motion  was  a  repetition  of 

tjs  sinister  old  maxim  that  "  Time  is  money." 
It's  a  great  deal  more,  sir ;  it's  life !  "  the 

always  retorted. 
Among  these  groups,  moreover,  were  many 
10  were  all  too  well  famed  for  illegitimate 

ijrtune.  Many  occupations  connected  with  the 
ndling  of  cotton  yielded  big  harvests  in  per- 

(isites.  At  every  jog  of  the  Doctor's  horse,  men 

Jme  to  view  whose  riches  were  the  outcome 

semi-respectable  larceny.    It  was  a  day  of 

ckless  operation ;  much   of  the  commerce 

iat  came  to  New  Orleans  was  simply,  as  one 
ght  say,  beached  in  Carondelet  street.  The 
jht  used  to  keep  the  long,  thin,  keen-eyed 

<|>ctor  in  perpetual  indignation. 
"  Look  at  the  wreckers,"  he  would  say. 

lit  was  breakfast  at  eight,  indignation  at 

le,  dyspepsia  at  ten. 

So  his  setting  was  not  merely  inharmoni- 

<]  s ;  it  was  damaging.    He  grew  sore  on  the 
icle  matter  of  money-getting. 
'  Yes,  I  have  money.    But  I  don't  go  after 
It  comes  to  me  because  I  seek  and  ren- 

<|T  service   for   the   service's   sake.    It   will 
me  to  anybody  else  the  same  way;  and 
ly  should  it  come  any  other  way  ?  " 
He  not  only  had  a  low  regard  for  the  mo- 
•es  of  most  seekers  of  wealth ;  he  went  fur- 

ler  and  fell  into  much  disbelief  of  poor  men's 

]:eds.  For  instance,  he  looked  upon  a  man's 

lability  to  find  employment,  or  upon  a  poor 

How's  run  of  bad  luck,  as  upon  the  placarded 
DCS  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  beggar. 
"  If  he  wants  work,  he  will  find  it.    As  for 

Igging,  it  ought  to  be  easier  for  any  true 

to  starve  than  to  beg." 
The  sentiment  was  ungentle,  but  it  came 
m  the  bottom  of  his  belief  concerning  him- 
f,  and  a  longing  for  moral  greatness  in  all 

"  However,"  he  would  add,  thrusting  his 

nd  into  his  pocket  and  bringing  out  his 

rse,  "  I'll  help  any  man  to  make  himself 

eful.    And  the  sick  —  well,  the  sick,  as  a 

jitter  of  course.    Only  I  must  know  what 

4n  doing." 

[Have  some  of  us  known  Want  ?  To  have 
town  her — though  to  love  her  was  impossi- 
fe — is  "a  liberal  education."  The  Doctor 
y.s  learned,  but  this  acquaintanceship,  this 
tucation,  he  had  never  got.  Hence  his  un- 
mderness.  Shall  we  condemn  the  fault? 
jis.  And  the  man  ?  We  have  not  the  face. 
1)  be  just,  which  he  never  knowingly  failed  to 
i),  and  at  the  same  time  to  feel  tenderly  for 


the  unworthy,  to  deal  kindly  with  the  erring, 
— it  is  a  double  grace  that  hangs  not  always 
in  easy  reach  even  of  the  tallest.  The  Doctor 
attained  to  it — but  in  later  years;  meantime, 
this  story — which,  I  believe,  had  he  ever 
been  poor  would  never  have  been  written. 

ii. 

A   YOUNG    STRANGER. 

IN  1856,  New  Orleans  was  in  the  midst 
of  the  darkest  ten  years  of  her  history.  Yet 
she  was  full  of  new-comers  from  all  parts  of 
the  commercial  world,  —  strangers  seeking 
livelihood.  The  ravages  of  cholera  and  yel- 
low fever,  far  from  keeping  them  away,  seemed 
actually  to  draw  them.  In  the  three  years 
1853,  '54,  and  '55,  the  cemeteries  had  received 
over  thirty-five  thousand  dead;  yet  here  in 
1856,  besides  shiploads  of  European  immi- 
grants, came  hundreds  of  unacclimated  youths* 
from  all  parts  of  the  United  States,  to  fill  the 
wide  gaps  which  they  imagined  had  been 
made  in  the  ranks  of  the  great  exporting 
city's  clerking  force. 

Upon  these  pilgrims  Dr.  Sevier  cast  an  eye 
full  of  interest  and  often  of  compassion  hidden 
under  outward  impatience.  "  Who  wants  to 
see,"  he  would  demand,  "men — and  women  — 
increasing  the  risks  of  this  uncertain  life  ?  " 
But  he  was  also  full  of  respect  for  them. 
There  was  a  certain  nobility  rightly  attribu- 
table to  emigration  itself  in  the  abstract.  It 
was  the  cutting  loose  from  friends  and  aid, 
—  those  sweet-named  temptations,  —  and  the 
going  forth  into  self-appointed  exile  and  into 
dangers  known  and  unknown,  trusting  to  the 
help  of  one's  own  right  hand  to  exchange 
honest  toil  for  honest  bread  and  raiment. 
His  eyes  kindled  to  see  the  goodly,  broad, 
red-cheeked  fellows.  Sometimes,  though,  he 
saw  women,  and  sometimes  tender  women, 
by  their  side,  and  that  sight  touched  the 
pathetic  chord  of  his  heart  with  a  rude  t  wangle 
that  vexed  him. 

It  was  on  a  certain  bright,  cool  morning 
early  in  October  that,  as  he  drove  down  Caron- 
delet street  toward  his  office,  and  one  of  those 
little  white  omnibuses  of  the  old  Apollo  street 
line,  crowding  in  before  his  carriage,  had  com- 
pelled his  driver  to  draw  close  in  by  the  curb- 
stone and  slacken  speed  to  a  walk,  his 
attention  chanced  to  fall  upon  a  young  man 
of  attractive  appearance,  glancing  stranger- 
wise  and  eagerly  at  signs  and  entrances  while 
he  moved  down  the  street.  Twice,  in  the 
moment  of  the  Doctor's  enforced  delay,  he 
noticed  the  young  stranger  make  inquiry  of  the 
street's  more  accustomed  frequenters,  and  that 
in  each  case  he  was  directed  farther  on.  But 
the  way  opened,  the  Doctor's  horse  switched 


DR.  SEVIER. 


his  tail  and  was  off,  the  stranger  was  left 
behind,  and  the  next  moment  the  Doctor 
stepped  across  the  sidewalk  and  went  up  the 
stairs  of  Number  3^  to  his  office.  Some- 
thing told  him  —  we  are  apt  to  fall  into  thought 
on  a  stair- way — that  the  stranger  was  looking 
for  a  physician. 

He  had  barely  disposed  of  the  three  or 
four  waiting  messengers  that  arose  from  their 
chairs  against  the  corridor  wall,  and  was  still 
reading  the  anxious  lines  left  in  various  hand- 
writings on  his  slate,  when  the  young  man 
entered.  He  was  of  fair  height,  slenderly  built, 
with  soft  auburn  hair  a  little  untrimmed,  neat 
dress,  and  a  diffident  yet  expectant  and  coura- 
geous face. 

"  Dr.  Sevier  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Doctor,  my  wife  is  very  ill.  Can  I  get 
you  to  come  at  once  and  see  her  ?  " 

"  Who  is  her  physician?  " 

"  I  have  not  called  any ;  but  we  must  have 
one  now." 

"  I  don't  know  about  going  at  once.  This 
is  my  hour  for  being  in  the  office.  How. far 
is  it,  and  what's  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  We  are  only  three  squares  away,  just  here 
in  Custom-house  street."  The  speaker  began 
to  add  a  faltering  enumeration  of  some  very 
grave  symptoms.  The  Doctor  noticed  that 
he  was  slightly  deaf;  he  uttered  his  words  as 
though  he  did  not  hear  them. 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Dr.  Sevier,  speaking  half 
to  himself  as  he  turned  around  to  a  standing 
case  of  cruel-looking  silver-plated  things  on 
shelves,  "  that's  a  small  part  of  the  penalty 
women  pay  for  the  doubtful  honor  of  being 
our  mothers.  I'll  go.  WThat  is  your  number  ? 
But  you  had  better  drive  back  with  me  if  you 
can."  He  drew  back  from  the  glass  case, 
shut  the  door,  and  took  his  hat. 

"  Narcisse." 

On  the  side  of  the  office  nearest  the  corri- 
dor a  door  let  into  a  hall-room  that  afforded 
merely  good  space  for  the  furniture  needed  by 
a  single  accountant.  The  Doctor  had  other 
interests  besides  those  of  his  profession,  and, 
taking  them  all  together,  found  it  necessary, 
or  at  least  convenient,  to  employ  continuously 
the  services  of  a  person  to  keep  his  accounts 
and  collect  his  bills.  Through  the  open  door 
the  book-keeper  could  be  seen  sitting  on 
a  high  stool  at  a  still  higher  desk  —  a  young 
man  of  handsome  profile  and  well-knit  form. 
At  the  call  of  his  name,  he  unwound  his  legs 
from  the  rounds  of  the  stool  and  leaped  into 
the  Doctor's  presence  with  a  superlatively 
high-bred  bow. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  fifteen  minutes,"  said 

the  Doctor.  "  Come,  Mr. ,"  and  went  out 

with  the  stranger. 


Narcisse  had  intended  to  speak.  He  stood 
moment,  then  lifted  the  last  half  inch  of  a  cigai 
ette  to  his  lips,  took  a  long,  meditative  inhala 
tion,  turned  half  round  on  his  heel,  dashe-' 
the  remnant  with  fierce  emphasis  into  a  spit'' 
toon,  ejected  two  long  streams  of  smoke  fror 
his  nostrils,  and,  extending  his  fist  toward  th  •! 
door  by  which  the  Doctor  had  gone  out,  said 

"All  right,  ole  hoss !"    No,  not  that  way 
It  is  hard  to  give  his  pronunciation  by  letter.  I 
the  word  "  right  "  he  substituted  an  a  for  the  i 
sounding  it  almost  in  the  same  instant  with  th 
i,  yet  distinct  from  it :  "  All  a-ight,  ole  hoss!  -\ 

Then  he  walked  slowly  back  to  his  deshi 
with  that  feeling  of  relief  which  some  me:; 
find  in  the  renewal   of  a   promissory  note 
twined  his  legs  again  among  those  of  the  stoo 
and,  adding  not  a  word,  resumed  his  pen. 

The  Doctor's  carriage  was  hurrying  acrosj 
Canal  street. 

"  Dr.  Sevier,"  said  the  physician's  com 
panion,  "  I  don't  know  what  your  charged 
are " 

"The    highest,"   said  the   Doctor,    whos 
dyspepsia  was  gnawing  him  just  then  witil 
fine  energy.    The  curt  reply  struck  fire  upon 
the  young  man. 

"  I  don't  propose  to  drive  a  bargain,  DM 
Sevier !  "  He  flushed  angrily  after  he  hal 
spoken,  breathed  with  compressed  lips,  an* 
winked  savagely,  with  the  sort  of  indignation 
that  school-boys  show  to  a  harsh  master. 

The  physician  answered  with  better  seln 
control. 

"  What  do  you  propose  ?  " 

"  I  was  going  to  propose — being  a  strange] 
to  you,  sir  —  to  pay  in  advance."  The  an 
nouncement  was  made  with  a  tremulous  buri 
triumphant  hauteur,  as  though  it  must  cove 
the  physician  with  mortification.  The  speake! 
stretched  out  a  rather  long  leg  and,  drawing 
a  pocket-book,  produced  a  twenty-dollar  piece 

The  Doctor  looked  full  in  his  face  wit) 
impatient  surprise,  then  turned  his  eyes  awafl 
again  as  if  he  restrained  himself,  and  said,  ill 
a  subdued  tone : 

"  I  would  rather  you  had  haggled  abouij 
the  price." 

"  I  don't  hear — "  said  the  other,  turning 
his  ear.  The  Doctor  waved  his  hand  : 

"  Put  that  up  if  you  please." 

The  young  stranger  was  disconcerted.  Hi\ 
remained  silent  for  a  moment,  wearing  a  lool: 
of  impatient  embarrassment.  He  still  extendeci 
the  piece,  turning  it  over  and  over  with  hi*! 
thumb-nail  as  it  lay  on  his  fingers. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  Doctor,"  he  saidij 
He  got  another  cruel  answer  : 

"We're    getting   acquainted,"  replied 
physician. 

The  victim  of  the  sarcasm  bit  his  lip, 


DR.  SEVIER. 


57 


3rotested,  by  an  unconscious,  sidewise  jerk 
f  the  chin : 

"I   wish  you'd "and   he    turned   the 

:oin  again. 

The  physician  dropped  an  eagle's  stare  on 
he  gold. 

"I  don't  practice  medicine  on  those  prin- 
:iples." 

"  But,  Doctor,"  insisted  the  other,  appeas- 
ngly,  "you  can  make  an  exception  if  you 
Udll.  Reasons  are  better  than  rules,  my  old 
rofessor  used  to  say.  I  am  here  without 
riends,  or  .letters,  or  credentials  of  any  sort; 
his  is  the  only  recommendation  I  can  offer." 

"  Don't  recommend  you  at  all ;  anybody 
an  do  that." 

The  stranger  breathed  a  sigh  of  overtasked 
>atience,  smiled  with  a  baffled  air,  seemed 
nee  or  twice  about  to  speak  but  doubtful 
vhat  to  say,  and  let  his.  hand  sink. 

Well,  Doctor," — he  rested  his  elbow  on 
lis  knee,  gave  the  piece  one  more  turn  over, 
nd  tried  to  draw  the  physician's  eye  by  a 
ook  of  boyish  pleasantness, — "  I'll  not  ask 
ou  to  take  pay  in  advance,  but  I  will  ask 
ou  to  take  care  of  this  money  for  me.  Sup- 
>ose  I  should  lose  it,  or  have  it  stolen  from 
ne,  or — Doctor,  it  would  be  a  real  comfort 

0  me  if  you  would." 

"  I  can't  help  that.  I  shall  treat  your  wife 
nd  then  send  in  my  bill."  The  Doctor  folded 
rms  and  appeared  to  give  attention  to  his 
iriver.  But  at  the  same  time  he  asked : 

"  Not  subject  to  epilepsy,  eh  ?  " 

1  "  No,  sir !  "   The  indignant  shortness  of  the 
etort  drew  no  sign  of  attention  from  the  Doc- 
pr ;  he  was  silently  asking  himself  what  this 
lonsense  meant.    Was  it  drink,  or  gambling, 
JT  a  confidence  game  ?  Or  was  it  only  vanity, 
|r  a  mistake  of  inexperience?    He  turned  his 
|.ead  unexpectedly  and  gave  the  stranger's  facial 
jnes  a  quick,  thorough  examination.  It  startled 
liem  from  a  look  of  troubled  meditation.  The 
ihysician  as  quickly  turned  away  again. 

"  Doctor,"  began  the  other,  but  added  no 
!iore. 

The  physician  was  silent.  He  turned  the 
latter  over  once  more  in  his  mind.  The  pro- 
osal  was  absurdly  unbusinesslike.  That  his 
art  in  it  might  look  ungenerous  was  nothing ; 
D  his  actions  were  right,  he  rather  liked  them 
3  bear  a  hideous  aspect ;  that  was  his  war- 
aint.  There  was  that  in  the  stranger's  atti- 
|ide  that  agreed  fairly  with  his  own  theories 
living.  A  fear  of  debt,  for  instance;  if 
lat  was  genuine  it  was  good.  And  beyond 
nd  better  than  that,  a  fear  of  money.  He 
egan  to  be  more  favorably  impressed. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said,  frowning;  "mark 
jou,  this  is  your  way," — he  dropped  the  gold 
jito  his  vest  pocket, — "it  isn't  mine." 
VOL.  XXVII.— 7. 


The  young  man  laughed  with  visible  relief, 
and  rubbed  his  knee  with  his  somewhat  too 
delicate  hand.  The  doctor  examined  him 
again  with  a  milder  glance. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you've  got  the  prin- 
ciples of  life  all  right,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  the  other,  taking  his 
turn  at  folding  arms. 

"  H-m-m,  I  dare  say  you  do.  What  you  lack 
is  the  practice."  The  Doctor  sealed  his  utter- 
ance with  a  nod. 

The  young  man  showed  amusement;  more, 
it  may  be,  than  he  felt,  and  presently  pointed 
out  his  lodging  place. 

"  Here,  on  this  side;  Number  40,"  and 
they  alighted. 

in. 

HIS  WIFE. 

IN  former  times,  the  presence  in  New  Or- 
leans, during  the  cooler  half  of  the  year,  of 
large  numbers  of  mercantile  men  from  all 
parts  of  the  world,  who  did  not  accept  the 
fever-plagued  city  as  their  permanent  resi- 
dence, made  much  business  for  the  renters  of 
furnished  apartments.  At  the  same  time,  there 
was  a  class  of  persons  whose  residence  was 
permanent,  and  to  whom  this  letting  of  rooms 
fell  by  an  easy  and  natural  gravitation;  and 
the  most  respectable  and  comfortable  rented 
rooms  of  which  the  city  could  boast  were 
those  chambres  garnies  in  Custom-house  and 
Bienville  streets,  kept  by  worthy  free  or  freed 
mulatto  or  quadroon  women. 

In  1856,  the  gala  days  of  this  half-caste  peo- 
pie  were  quite  over.  Difference  was  made  be- 
tween virtue  and  vice,  and  the  famous  quad- 
roon balls  were  shunned  by  those  who  aspired 
to  respectability,  whether  their  whiteness  was 
nature  or  only  toilet  powder.  Generations  of 
domestic  service  under  ladies  of  Gallic  blood 
had  brought  many  of  them  to  a  supreme 
pitch  of  excellence  as  housekeepers.  In 
many  cases,  money  had  been  inherited;  in 
other  cases,  it  had  been  saved  up.  That 
Latin  feminine  ability  to  hold  an  awkward 
position  with  impregnable  serenity,  and  like 
the  yellow  Mississippi  to  give  back  no  reflec- 
tion from  the  overhanging  sky,  emphasized 
this  superior  fitness.  That  bright,  womanly 
business  ability  that  comes  of  the  same  blood 
added  again  to  their  excellence.  Not  to  be 
home  itself,  nothing  could  be  more  like  it 
than  were  the  apartments  let  by  Madame 
Cecile,  or  Madame  Sophie,  or  Madame  Atha- 
lie,  or  Madame  Polyxene,  or  whatever  the 
name  might  be. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  houses,  that  pre- 
sented its  dull  brick  front  directly  upon  the 
sidewalk  of  Custom-house  street,  with  the 
unfailing  little  square  sign  of  Chambres  a 


DR.  SEVIER. 


louer  (Rooms  to  let),  dangling  by  a  string 
from  the  overhanging  balcony  and  twirling  in 
the  breeze,  that  the  sick  wife  lay.  A  waiting 
slave- girl  opened  the  door  as  the  two  men 
approached  it,  and  both  of  them  went  direct- 
ly upstairs  and  into  a  large,  airy  room.  On  a 
high,  finely  carved,  and  heavily  hung  mahog- 
any bed,  to  which  the  remaining  furniture 
corresponded  in  ancient  style  and  massive- 
ness,  was  stretched  the  form  of  a  pale,  sweet- 
faced  little  woman. 

The  proprietress  of  the  house  was  sitting 
beside  the  bed,  a  quadroon  of  good,  kind 
face,  forty-five  years  old  or  so,  tall  and  broad. 
She  rose  and  responded  to  the  Doctor's  silent 
bow  with  that  pretty  dignity  of  greeting 
which  goes  with  all  French  blood,  and  re- 
mained standing.  The  invalid  stirred. 

The  physician  came  forward  to  the  bed- 
side. The  patient  could  not  have  been  much 
over  nineteen  years  of  age.  Her  face  was 
very  pleasing ;  a  trifle  slender  in  outline ;  the 
brows  somewhat  square,  not  wide;  the  mouth 
small.  But  it  is  needless  to  be  minute;  she 
would  not  have  been  called  beautiful,  even  in 
health,  by  those  who  lay  stress  on  correctness 
of  outlines.  Yet  she  had  one  thing  that  to 
some  is  better.  Whether  it  was  in  the  dark 
blue  eyes  that  were  lifted  to  the  Doctor's  with 
a  look  which  changed  rapidly  from  inquiry  to 
confidence,  or  in  the  fine,  scarcely  perceptible 
strands  of  pale-brown  hair  that  played  about 
her  temples,  he  did  not  make  out ;  but  for 
one  cause  or  another  her  face  was  of  that 
kind  which  almost  any  one  has  seen  once  or 
twice,  and  no  one  has  seen  often, — that  seems 
to  give  out  a  soft  but  veritable  light. 

She  was  very  weak.  Her  eyes  quickly 
dropped  away  from  his  and  turned  wearily 
but  peacefully  to  those  of  her  husband. 

The  Doctor  spoke  to  her.  His  greeting 
and  gentle  inquiry  were  full  of  a  soothing 
quality  that  was  new  to  the  young  man.  His 
long  fingers  moved  twice  or  thrice  softly 
across  her  brow,  pushing  back  the  thin,  wav- 
ing strands,  and  then  he  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
continuing  his  kind,  direct  questions.  The 
answers  were  all  bad. 

He  turned  his  glance  to  the  quadroon ;  she 
understood  it ;  the  patient  was  seriously  ill. 
The  nurse  responded  with  a  quiet  look  of  com- 
prehension. At  the  same  time,  the  Doctor 
disguised  from  the  young  strangers  this  inter- 
change of  meanings  by  an  audible  question 
to  the  quadroon. 

" Have  I  ever  met  you  before?  " 

"  No,  seh." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Zenobie." 

"Madame  Zenobia,"  softly  whispered  the 
invalid,  turning  her  eyes,  with  a  glimmer  of 


feeble  pleasantry,  first  to  the  quadroon  and 
then  to  her  husband. 

The  physician  smiled  at  her  an  instant, 
and  then  gave  a  few  concise  directions  to 
the  quadroon.  "Get  me" — thus  and  so. 

The  woman  went  and  came.  She  was  a 
superior  nurse,  like  so  many  of  her  race.  So 
obvious,  indeed,  was  this,  that  when  she  gen- 
tly pressed  the  young  husband  an  inch  or 
two  aside  and  murmured  that  "  de  doctah" 
wanted  him  to  "  go  h-out,"  he  left  the  room, 
although  he  knew  the  physician  had  not  so 
indicated. 

By  and  by  he  returned,  but  only  at  her 
beckon,  and  remained  at  the  bedside  while 
Madame  Zenobie  led  the  Doctor  into  another 
room  to  write  his  prescription. 

"  Who  are  these  people  ?  "  asked  the  phy-  \ 
sician,  in  an  undertone,  looking  up  at  the 
quadroon  and  pausing  with  the  prescription 
half  torn  off. 

She  shrugged  her  large  shoulders  and. 
smiled  perplexedly. 

"  Mizzez Reechin  ?  "  The  tone  was  one 

of  query  rather  than  assertion.    "  Dey  ses  so," 
she  added. 

She  might  nurse  the  lady  like  a  mother,  bill 
she  was  not  going  to  be  responsible  for  the  j 
genuineness  of  a  stranger's  name. 

"  Where  are  they  from  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  ? Some  pless  ? 1  nevva 

yeh  dat  nem  biffo  ?  " 

She  made  a  timid  attempt  at  some  word  < 
ending  in  "  walk,"  and  smiled,  ready  to  ac- 
cept possible  ridicule. 

"  Milwaukee  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

She  lifted  her  palm,  smiled  brightly,  pushed 
him  gently  with  the  tip  of  one  finger,  and 
nodded.  He  had  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 

"  What  business  is  he  in  ?  " 

The  questioner  rose. 

She  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  him  with  a 
slight  enlargement  of  her  eyes,  and  compress- 
ing her  lips  gave  her  head  a  little  decided 
shake.  The  young  man  was  not  employed. 

"And  has  no  money  either,  I  suppose," \\ 
said  the  physician  as  they  started  again  toward' 
the  sick-room. 

She  shrugged  again  and  smiled ;  but  it  came 
to  her  mind  that  the  Doctor  might  be  consid- 
ering his  own  interests,  and  she  added  in|| 
whisper : 

"  Dey  pay  me." 

She  changed  places  with  the  husband, 
the  physician  and  he  passed  down  the  stairfi] 
together  in  silence. 

"  Well,  Doctor  ?  "  said  the  young  man 
he  stood,  prescription   in  hand,    before 
carriage- door. 

"Well,"    responded   the   physician,   " 
should  have  called  me  sooner." 


and 


DR.  SEVIER. 


59 


The  look  of  agony  that  came  into  the 
stranger's  face  caused  the  Doctor  instantly  to 
repent  his  hard  speech. 

"You  don't  mean "  exclaimed  the 

tiusband. 

"  No,  no;  I  don't  think  it's  too  late.  Get 
hat  prescription  filled  and  give  it  to  Mrs. 

"  Richling,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Let  her  have  perfect  quiet,"  continued 
he  Doctor.  "  I  shall  be  back  this  evening." 

And  when  he  returned  she  had  improved. 

She  was  better  again  the  next  day,  and 
;he  next;  but  on  the  fourth  she  was  in  a 
rery  critical  state.  She  lay  quite  silent  during 
he  Doctor's  visit,  until  he,  thinking  he  read 
n  her  eyes  a  wish  to  say  something  to  him 
done,  sent  her  husband  and  the  quadroon  out 
)f  the  room  on  separate  errands  at  the  same 
noment.  And  immediately  she  exclaimed  : 

Doctor,  save  my  life!  You  mustn't  let 
ne  die !  Save  me  for  my  husband's  sake ! 
To  lose  all  he's  lost  for  me,  and  then  to  lose 
ne  too, — save  me,  Doctor,  save  me!  " 

<  I'm  going  to  do  it !  "  said  he.  "  You  shall 
:et  well ! " 

And  what  with  his  skill  and  her  endurance, 
I  turned  out  so. 

IV. 

CONVALESCENCE    AND    ACQUAINTANCE. 

A  MAN'S  clothing  is  his  defense ;  but  with 
woman  all  dress  is  adornment.  Nature  de- 
rees  it;  adornment  is  her  instinctive  de- 
ght.  And  above  all  the  adorning  of  a  bride; 
:  brings  out  so  charmingly  the  meaning  of 
he  thing.  Therein  centers  the  gay  consent 
f  all  mankind  and  womankind  to  an  inno- 
jent,  sweet  apostasy  from  the  ranks  of  both, 
phe  value  of  living  —  which  is  loving ;  the 
|acredest  wonders  of  life;  all  that  is  fairest 
|.nd  of  best  delight  in  thought,  in  feeling,  yea, 
ji  substance, —  all  are  apprehended  under  the 
(.oral  crown  and  hymeneal  veil.  So,  when  at 
pngth  one  day  Mrs.  Richling  said,  "  Madame 
te"nobie,  don't  you  think  I  might  sit  up  ?  "  it 
j^ould  have  been  absurd  to  doubt  the  quad- 
pon's  willingness  to  assist  her  in  dressing. 
TUC,  here  was  neither  wreath  nor  veil,  but 
[ere  was  very  young  wifehood,  and  its  re-at- 
iiring  would  be  like  a  proclamation  of  victory 
jver  the  malady  that  had  striven  to  put  two 
[earts  asunder.  Her  willingness  could  hardly 
[e  doubted, — though  she  smiled  irresponsibly 
ind  said : 

"  If  you  thing ?  "   She  spread  her  eyes 

d  elbows  suddenly  in  the  manner  of  a  crab, 
vith  palms  turned  upward  and  thumbs  out- 
tretched — "Well  ?  " — and  so  dropped  them. 
iYou  don't  want  wait  till  de  doctah  comin'?  " 
he  asked. 


"  I  don't  think  he's  coming;  it's  after  his 
time." 

"  Yass  ?  " 

The  woman  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then 
threw  up  one  hand  again  with  the  forefinger 
lifted  alertly  forward. 

"  I  make  a  lill  fi'  biffo." 

She  made  a  fire.  Then  she  helped  the  con- 
valescent to  put  on  a  few  loose  drapings.  She 
made  no  concealment  of  the  enjoyment  it 
gave  her,  though  her  words  were  few  and  gen- 
erally were  answers  to  questions ;  and  when  at 
length  she  brought  from  the  wardrobe,  pre- 
tending not  to  notice  her  mistake,  a  loose  and 
much  too  ample  robe  of  woolen  and  silken 
stuffs  to  go  over  all,  she  moved  as  though  she 
trod  on  holy  ground,  and  distinctly  felt,  her- 
self, the  thrill  with  which  the  convalescent, 
her  young  eyes  beaming  their  assent,  let  her 
arms  into  the  big  sleeves,  and  drew  about  her 
small  form  the  soft  folds  of  her  husband's 
morning-gown. 

"  He  goin'  to  fine  that  droll,"  said  the 
quadroon. 

The  wife's  face  confessed  her  pleasure. 

"  It's  as  much  mine  as  his,"  she  said. 

"  Is  you  mek  dat  ?  "  asked  the  nurse  as 
she  drew  its  silken  cord  about  the  convales- 
cent's waist. 

"Yes.  Don't  draw  it  tight ;  leave  it  loose ; 
so ;  but  you  can  tie  the  knot  tight.  That  will 
do ;  there."  She  smiled  broadly.  "  Don't  tie 
me  in  as  if  you  were  tying  me  in  forever." 

Madame  Zenobie  understood  perfectly  and, 
smiling  in  response,  did  tie  it  as  if  she  were 
tying  her  in  forever. 

Half  an  hour  or  so  later  the  quadroon,  be- 
ing—  it  may  have  been  by  chance — at  the 
street  door,  ushered  in  a  person  who  simply 
bowed  in  silence. 

But  as  he  put  one  foot  on  the  stair  he 
paused  and,  bending  a  severe  gaze  upon  her, 
asked : 

"  Why  do  you  smile  ?  " 

She  folded  her  hands  limply  on  her  bosom, 
and  drawing  a  cheek  and  shoulder  toward 
each  other,  replied : 

«  Nuttin'  —  ?  " 

The  questioner's  severity  darkened. 

"  Why  do  you  smile  at  nothing  ?  " 

She  laid  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  her 
lips  to  compose  them. 

"  You  din  come  in  you1  carridge.  She 
goin'  to  thing  'tis  Miche  Reechin."  The  smile 
forced  its  way  through  her  fingers.  The 
visitor  turned  in  quiet  disdain  and  went 
upstairs,  she  following. 

At  the  top  he  let  her  pass.  She  led  the 
way  and,  softly  pushing  open  the  chamber 
door,  entered  noiselessly,  turned  and,  as  the 
other  stepped  across  the  threshold,  nestled 


6o 


DR.  SEVIER. 


her  hands  one  on  the  other  at  her  waist, 
shrank  inward  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  waved 
one  palm  toward  the  huge,  blue-hung  mahog- 
any four-poster,  —  empty. 

The  visitor  gave  a  slight  double  nod  and 
moved  on  across  the  carpet.  Before  a  small 
coal  fire,  in  a  grate  too  wide  for  it,  stood  a 
broad,  cushioned  rocking-chair  with  the  corner 
of  a  pillow  showing  over  its  top.  The  visitor 
went  on  around  it.  The  girlish  form  lay  in  it, 
with  eyes  closed,  very  still;  but  his  profes- 
sional glance  quickly  detected  the  false  pre- 
tense of  slumber.  A  slippered  foot  was  still 
slightly  reached  out  beyond  the  bright  colors 
of  the  long  gown,  and  toward  the  brazen 
edge  of  the  hearth-pan,  as  though  the  owner 
had  been  touching  her  tiptoe  against  it 
to  keep  the  chair  in  gentle  motion.  One 
cheek  was  on  the  pillow;  down  the  other 
curled  a  few  light  strands  of  hair  that  had 
escaped  from  her  brow. 

Thus  for  an  instant.  Then  a  smile  began 
to  wreath  about  the  corner  of  her  lips,  she 
faintly  stirred,  opened  her  eyes — and  lo! 
Dr.  Sevier,  motionless,  tranquil,  and  grave. 

"  Oh,  Doctor !  "  The  blood  surged  into 
her  face  and  down  upon  her  neck.  She  put 
her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  her  face  into  the 
pillow.  "Oh,  Doctor!" — rising  to  a  sitting 
posture — "I  thought,  of  course,  it  was  my 
husband.7' 

The  Doctor  replied  while  she  was  speaking : 

"  My  carriage  broke  down."  He  drew  a 
chair  toward  the  fire-place  and  asked,  with 
his  face  toward  the  dying  fire  : 

"  How  are  you  feeling  to-day,  madam, — 
stronger  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can  almost  say  I'm  well."  The 
blush  was  still  on  her  face  as  he  turned  to 
receive  her  answer,  but  she  smiled  with  a 
bright  courageousness  that  secretly  amused 
and  pleased  him.  "  I  thank  you,  Doctor,  for 
my  recovery ;  I  certainly  should  thank  you." 
Her  face  lighted  up  with  that  soft  radiance 
which  was  its  best  quality,  and  her  smile  be- 
came half  introspective  as  her  eyes  dropped 
from  his  and  followed  her  outstretched  hand 
as  it  re-arranged  the  farther  edges  of  the 
dressing-gown  one  upon  another. 

"  If  you  will  take  better  care  of  yourself 
hereafter,  madam,"  responded  the  Doctor, 
thumping  and  brushing  from  his  knee  some 
specks  of  mud  that  he  may  have  got  when 
his  carriage  broke,  "I  will  thank  you.  But" 
— brush — brush — "  I  —  doubt  it." 

"  Do  you  think  you  should  ?  "  she  asked, 
leaning  forward  from  the  back  of  the  great 
chair  and  letting  her  wrists  drop  over  the 
front  of  its  broad  arms. 

"  I  do,"  said  the  Doctor,  kindly.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  ?  This  present  attack  was  by  your 


own  fault."  While  he  spoke,  he  was  looking 
into  her  eyes,  contracted  at  their  corners  by 
her  slight  smile.  The  face  was  one  of  those 
that  show  not  merely  that  the  world  is  all  un- 
known to  them,  but  that  it  always  will  be  so. 
It  beamed  with  inquisitive  intelligence,  and 
yet  had  the  innocence  almost  of  infancy.  The 
doctor  made  a  discovery;  it  was  this  that  made 
her  beautiful.  "  She  //  beautiful,"  he  insisted 
to  himself  when  his  critical  faculty  dissented. 

"  You  needn't  doubt  me,  Doctor.  I'll  try 
my  best  to  take  care.  Why  of  course  I  will, 
— for  John's  sake."  She  looked  up  into  his 
face  from  the  tassel  she  was  twisting  around 
her  finger,  touching  the  floor  with  her  slippers' 
toe  and  faintly  rocking. 

"  Yes,  there's  a  chance  there,"  replied  the 
grave  man,  seemingly  not  overmuch  pleased; 
"  I  dare  say  everything  you  do  or  leave  un- 
done is  for  his  sake." 

The  little  wife  betrayed  for  a  moment  a 
pained  perplexity,  and  then  exclaimed, — 

"  Well,  of  course  !  "  and  waited  his  answer 
with  bright  eyes. 

"  I  have  known  women  to  think  of  their 
own  sakes,"  was  the  response. 

She  laughed,  and  with  unprecedented  sparkle! 
replied, — 

"  Why, — whatever's  his  sake  is  my  sake.! 
I  don't  see  the  difference.  Yes,  I  see,  of 
course,  how  there  might  be  a  difference ;  butt 


I  don't  see  how  a  woman 


She  ceased,! 


still  smiling,  and,  dropping  her  eyes  to  her 
hands,  slowly  stroked  one  wrist  and  palm  with 
the  tassel  of  her  husband's  robe. 

The   Doctor  rose,  turned  his  back  to  thei 
mantelpiece,    and   looked   down    upon   her. 
He  thought   of  the   great,  wide  world :    its 
thorny  ways,  its  deserts,  its  bitter  waters,  its: 
unrighteousness,-  its   self-seeking   greeds,   its 
weaknesses,  its  under  and  over  reaching,  itsi: 
unfaithfulness;    and   then    again   of    this-i 
child,   thrust    all  at  once   a   thousand  miles 
into    it,    with    never  —  so   far    as    he    could 
see — an  implement,  'a  weapon,  a   sense  of; 
danger,  or  a  refuge;  well  pleased  with  herself 
as  it  seemed,  lifted  up  into  the  bliss  of  self-f 
obliterating  wifehood,  and  resting  in  her  hus- 
band with  such  an  assurance  of  safety  and 
happiness  as  a  saint  might  pray  for  grace  to  j< 
show  to  Heaven  'itself.    He  stood  silent,  feel-  - 
ing  too    grim  to  speak,   and  presently  Mrs.!] 
Richling  looked  up  with  a  sudden  livelinea 
of  eye  and  a  smile  that  was  half  apology  an( 
half  persistence. 

"  Yes,  Doctor,  I'm  going  to  take  care 
myself." 

"  Mrs.  Richling,  is  your  father  a  mai 
fortune  ?  " 

"  My  father  is  not  living,"  said  she,  grave 
"  He  died  two  years  ago.  He  was  the  paste 


DR.  SEVIER. 


61 


a  small  church.  No,  sir;  he  had  nothing  but 
iis  small  salary — except  that  for  a  few  years 
ie  taught  a  few  scholars.  He  taught  me." 
She  brightened  up  again.  "  I  never  had  any 
other  teacher." 

The  Doctor  folded  his  hands  behind  him 
and  gazed  abstractedly  through  the  upper 
sash  of  the  large  French  windows.  The  street 
door  was  heard  to  open. 

;' There's  John,"  said  the  convalescent 
quickly,  and  the  next  moment  her  husband 
entered.  A  tired  look  vanished  from  his  face 
as  he  saw  the  doctor.  He  hurried  to  grasp 
iis  hand,  then  turned  and  kissed  his  wife. 
The  physician  took  up  his  hat. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  wife,  holding  the  hand 
he  gave  her,  and  looking  up  playfully,  with  her 
:heek  against  the  chair-back,"  you  surely  didn't 
uspect  me  of  being  a  rich  girl,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  madam."  His  emphasis  was 
o  pronounced  that  the  husband  laughed. 

"  There's  one  comfort  in  the  opposite  con- 
dition, Doctor,"  said  the  young  man. 

«  Yes  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  you  see,  it  requires  no  explana- 
lon." 

"  Yes,  it  does,"  said  the  physician ;  "  it  is 
ust  as  binding  on  people  to  show  good  cause 
vhy  they  are  poor  as  it  is  to  show  good  cause 
vhy  they're  rich.  Good-day,  madam."  The 
wo  men  went  out  together.  His  word  would 
lave  been  good-bye,  but  for  the  fear  of  fresh 
icknowledgments. 


v. 


„      HARD    QUESTIONS. 

DR.  SEVIER  had  a  simple  abhorrence  of 
Ihe  expression  of  personal  sentiment  in  words. 
Nothing  else  seemed  to  him  so  utterly  hol- 
pw  as  the  attempt  to  indicate  by  speech  a 
[egard  or  affection  which  was  not  already 
Demonstrated  in  behavior.  So  far  did  he 
jeep  himself  aloof  from  insincerity  that  he 
|iad  barely  room  enough  left  to  be  candid. 
|  "  I  need  not  see  your  wife  any  more,"  he 
&id,  as  he  went  down  the  stairs  with  the 
[oung  husband  at  his  elbow ;  and  the  young 
jian  had  learned  him  well  enough  not  to  op- 
press him  with  formal  thanks,  whatever  might 
'ave  been  said  or  omitted  upstairs. 
|  Madame  Zenobie  contrived  to  be  near 
[nough,  as  they  reached  the  lower  floor,  to 
jome  in  for  a  share  of  the  meager  adieu.  She 
lave  her  hand  with  a  dainty  grace  and  a  bow 
pat  might  have  been  imported  from  Paris. 

Dr.  Sevier  paused  on  the  front  step,  half 
arned  toward  the  open  door  where  the  hus- 
jand  still  tarried.  That  was  not  speech;  it 
|ras  scarcely  action;  but  the  young  man  under- 
r.ood  it  and  was  silent.  In  truth,  the  Doctor 


himself  felt  a  pang  in  this  sort  of  farewell.  A 
physician's  way  through  the  world  is  paved, 
I  have  heard  one  say,  with  these  broken  bits 
of  others'  lives,  of  all  colors  and  all  degrees 
of  beauty.  In  his  reminiscences,  when  he  can 
do  no  better,  he  gathers  them  up,  and  turn- 
ing them  over  and  over  in  the  darkened 
chamber  of  his  retrospection,  sees  patterns  of 
delight  lit  up  by  the  softened  rays  of  by-gone 
time.  But  even  this  renews  the  pain  of  sepa- 
ration, and  Dr.  Sevier  felt,  right  here  at  this 
door-step,  that,  if  this  was  to  be  the  last  of  the 
Richlings,  he  would  feel  the  twinge  of  parting 
every  time  they  came  up  again  in  his  memory. 

He  looked  at  the  house  opposite — where 
there  was  really  nothing  to  look  at —  and  at  a 
woman  who  happened  to  be  passing,  and  who 
was  only  like  a  thousand  others  with  whom 
he  had  nothing  to  do. 

"  Richling,"  he  said,  "  what  brings  you  to 
New  Orleans,  any  way  ?  " 

Richling  leaned  his  cheek  against  the  door- 
post: 

"  Simply  seeking  my  fortune,  Doctor." 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  here  ?  " 

"  I'm  pretty  sure  it  is ;  the  world  owes  me 
a  living." 

The  Doctor  looked  up. 

"  When  did  you  get  the  world  in  your  debt  ?  " 

Richling  lifted  his  head  pleasantly,  and  let 
one  foot  down  a  step. 

"  It  owes  me  a  chance  to  earn  a  living, 
doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say,  replied  the  other  •  "  that's 
what  it  generally  owes." 

«  That's  all  I  ask  of  it,"  said  Richling ;  "  if 
it  will  let  us  alone,  we'll  let  it  alone." 

"  You've  no  right  to  allow  either,"  said  the 
physician.  A  No  sir;  no,"  he  insisted,  as  the 
young  man  looked  incredulous.  There  was  a 
pause.  "  Have  you  any  capital  ?  "  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  Capital !    No," — with  a  low  laugh. 

"  But  surely  you  have  something  to ?" 

"Oh,  yes, — a  little." 

The  Doctor  marked  the  southern  "Oh." 
There  is  no  "  O  "  in  Milwaukee. 

"  You  don't  find  as  many  vacancies  as  you 
expected  to  see,  I  suppose,  h-m-m  ?  " 

There  was  an  under-glow  of  feeling  in  tne 
young  man's  tone  as  he  replied, — 

"  I  was  misinformed." 

"Well,"    said    the   Doctor,  staring  down 
street,    "you'll   find   something.     What   can 
you  do  ?  " 
, "  Do  ?    Oh,  I'm  willing  to  do  anything." 

Dr.  Sevier  turned  his  gaze  slowly,  with  a 
shade  of  disappointment  in  it.  Richling  ral- 
lied to  his  defenses : 

"  I  think  I  could  make  a  good  book-keeper, 
or  correspondent,  or  cashier,  or  any  such " 


62 


DR.  SEVIER. 


The  Doctor  interrupted,  with  the  back 
of  his  head  toward  his  listener  looking  this 
time  up  the  street,  riverward : 

«  Yes?  —  or  a  shoe, — or  a  barrel, — h-m-m?" 

Richling  bent  forward  with  the  frown  of 
defective  hearing,  and  the  physician  raised 
his  voice  — 

"  Or  a  cartwheel — or  a  coat  ?  " 

"  I  can  make  a  living,"  rejoined  the  other, 
with  a  needlessly  resentful-heroic  manner  that 
was  lost,  or  seemed  to  be,  on  the  physician. 

"  Richling," —  the  Doctor  suddenly  faced 
around  and  fixed  a  kindly  severe  glance  on 
him, — "  why  didn't  you  bring  letters  ?  " 

"Why," — the  young  man  stopped,  looked 
at  his  feet,  and  distinctly  blushed.  "  I  think," 
he  stammered,  —  "it  seems  to  me" — he 
looked  up  with  a  faltering  eye — "  don't  you 
think  —  I  think  a  man  ought  to  be  able  to 
recommend  himself" 

The  Doctor's  gaze  remained  so  fixed  that 
the  self-recommended  man  could  not  endure 
it  silently. 

"/  think  so,"  he  said,  looking  down  again 
and  swinging  his  foot.  Suddenly  he  brightened. 
"  Doctor,  isn't  this  your  carriage  coming  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  told  the  boy  to  drive  by  here 
when  it  was  mended,  and  he  might  find  me." 
The  vehicle  drew  up  and  stopped.  "Still, 
Richling,"  the  physician  continued,  as  he 
stepped  toward  it,  "  you  had  better  get  a  let- 
ter or  two,  yet;  you  might  need  them." 

The  door  of  the  carriage  clapped  to.  There 
seemed  a  touch  of  vexation  in  the  sound.  Rich- 
ling,  too,  closed  his  door,  but  in  the  soft  way 
of  one  in  troubled  meditation.  Was  this  a 
proper  farewell  ?  The  thought  came  to  both 
men. 

"  Stop  a  minute ! "  said  Dr.  Sevier  to  his 
driver.  He  leaned  out  a  little  at  the  side  of 
the  carriage  and  looked  back.  "Never 
mind ;  he  has  gone  in." 

The  young  husband  went  upstairs  slowly 
and  heavily; — more  slowly  and  heavily  than 
might  be  explained  by  his  all-day  unsuccess- 
ful tramp  after  employment.  His  wife  still 
rested  in  the  rocking-chair.  He  stood  against 
it,  and  she  took  his  hand  and  stroked  it. 

"  Tired  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  at  him. 
He  gazed  into  the  languishing  fire. 

"  Yes." 

"  You're  not  discouraged,  are  you  ?  " 

''Discouraged?  N-no.  And  yet,"  he  said, 
slowly  shaking  his  head,  "  I  can't  see  why  I 
don't  find  something  to  do." 

"  It's  because  you  don't  hunt  for  it,"  said 
the  wife. 

He  turned  upon  her  with  flashing  counte- 
nance only  to  meet  her  laugh  and  to  have  his 
head  pulled  down  to  her  lips.  He  dropped 
into  the  seat  left  by  the  physician,  laid  his 


head  back  in  his  knit  hands,  and  crossed  his 
feet  under  the  chair. 

"John,  I  do  like  Dr.  Sevier." 

"Why?"  The  questioner  looked  at  the', 
ceiling. 

"  Why,  don't  you  like  him  ? "  asked  the 
wife,  and  as  John  smiled  she  added, — "  You 
know  you  like  him." 

The  husband  grasped  the  poker  in  botfn 
hands,  dropped  his  elbows  upon  his  knees, 
and  began  touching  the  fire,  saying  slowly. 
— "I  believe  the  Doctor  thinks  I'm  a  fool." 

"That's  nothing,"  said  the  little  wife. 
"  that's  only  because  you  married  me." 

The  poker  stopped  rattling  between  the 
grate-bars ;  the  husband  looked  at  the  wife.  \ 
Her  eyes,  though  turned  partly  away,  betrayec 
their  mischief.  There  was  a  deadly  pause: 
then  a  rush  to  the  assault,  a  shower  of  Cupid'* 
arrows,  a  quick  surrender 

But  we  refrain.  Since  ever  the  world  begar 
it  is  Love's  real,  not  his  sham  battles,  thar 
are  worth  the  telling. 


VI. 


NESTING. 

A  FORTNIGHT  passed.  What  with  calls  on  hisi 
private  skill,  and  appeals  to  his  public  zeal] 
Dr.  Sevier  was  always  loaded  like  a  drome^j 
dary.  Just  now  he  was  much  occupied  witW 
the  affairs  of  the  great  American  peoples 
For  all,  he  was  the  furthest  remove  from  i\ 
mere  party  contestant  or  spoilsman;  neither 
his  righteous  pugnacity  nor  his  human  sym- 
pathy would  allow  him  to  "  let  politics  alone.' 
Often  across  this  preoccupation  trfere  flitted  i\ 
thought  of  the  Richlings. 

At  length  one  day  he  saw  them.  He  hac< 
been  called  by  a  patient,  lodging  near  Mad-j 
ame  Zenobie's  house.  The  proximity  of  thd 
young  couple  occurred  to  him  at  once,  bin 
he  instantly  realized  the  extreme  poverty  oil 
the  chance  that  he  should  see  them.  To  iflfl 
crease  the  improbability,  the  short  afternoor 
was  near  its  close,  an  hour  when  people  gen) 
erally  were  sitting  at  dinner. 

But  what  a  coquette  is  that  same  Chance 
As  he  was  driving  up  at  the  sidewalk's  edgcj 
before  his  patient's  door,  the  Richlings  camel 
out  of  theirs,  the  husband  talking  with  ani-j 
mation,  and  the  wife,  all  sunshine,  skipping 
up  to  his  side  and  taking  his  arm  with  botf 
hands,  and  attending  eagerly  to  his  words. 

"  Heels !  "  muttered  the  Doctor  to  himself 
for  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Richling's  gaiters  be' 
trayed  that  fact.  Heels  were  an  innovator 
still  new  enough  to  rouse  the  resentment  oi 
masculine  conservatism.  But  for  them, 
would  have  pleased  his  sight  entirely, 
nets,  for  years  microscopic,  had  again 


DR.  SEVIER. 


come  visible,  and  her  girlish  face  was  prettily 
set  in  one  whose  flowers  and  ribbon,  just  joy- 
ous and  no  more,  were  reflected  again  in  the 
double-skirted  silk  barege,  while  the  dark 
mantilla  that  drooped  away  from  the  broad 
lace  collar,  shading,  without  hiding,  her 

Parodi "  waist,  seemed  made  for  that  very 
street  of  heavy-grated  archways,  iron-railed 
ibalconies,  and  high  lattices.  The  Doctor  even 
[accepted  patiently  the  free  northern  step,  which 
iis  commonly  so  repugnant  to  the  southern  eye. 

A  heightened  gladness  flashed  into  the 
[faces  of  the  two  young  people  as  they  de- 
scried the  physician. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  they  said,  advancing. 

"  Good-evening,"  responded  the  Doctor, 
and  shook  hands  with  each.  The  meeting 
was  an  emphatic  pleasure  to  him.  He  quite 
forgot  the  young  man's  lack  of  credentials. 

"  Out  taking  the  air  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Looking  about,"  said  the  husband. 

"  Looking  up  new  quarters,"  said  the 
.wife,  knitting  her  fingers  about  her  husband's 
!elbow  and  drawing  closer  to  it. 

"  Were  you  not  comfortable  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  the  rooms  are  larger  than  we 
|need." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Doctor;  and  there  the 
conversation  sank.  There  was  no  topic  suited 
to  so  fleeting  a  moment,  and  when  they  had 
smiled  all  round  again,  Dr.  Sevier  lifted  his 
lat.  Ah,  yes,  there  was  one  thing. 

"  Have  you  found  work  ?  "  asked  the  Doc- 
tor of  Richling. 

The  wife  glanced  up  for  an  instant  into  her 
husband's  face,  and  then  down  again. 

"No,"  said  Richling,  "not  yet.  If  you 
should  hear  of  anything,  Doctor "  He  re- 
membered the  Doctor's  word  about  letters, 
jstopped  suddenly,  and  seemed  as  if  he  might 
sven  withdraw  the  request ;  but  the  Doctor 
said  : 

j  "  I  will ;  I  will  let  you  know."  He  gave 
lis  hand  to  Richling.  It  was  on  his  lips  to 
jidd — "  and  should  you  need,"  etc. ;  but 
!:here  was  the  wife  at  the  husband's  side.  So 
le  said  no  more.  The  pair  bowed  their 
:heerful  thanks;  but  beside  the  cheer,  or 
Dehind  it,  in  the  husband's  face,  was  there 
iot  the  look  of  one  who  feels  the  odds 
jigainst  him?  And  yet,  while  the  two  men's 
(hands  still  held  each  other,  the  look  van- 
shed,  and  the  young  man's  light  grasp  had 
;uch  firmness  in  it  that,  for  this  cause  also, 
j:he  Doctor  withheld  his  patronizing  utterance. 
|He  believed  he  would  himself  have  resented 
it  had  he  been  in  Richling's  place. 

The  young  pair  passed  on,  and  that  night  as 
Dr.  Sevier  sat  at  his  fireside,  an  uncompanioned 
widower,  he  saw  again  the  young  wife  look 
quickly  up  into  her  husband's  face,  and  across 


that  face  flit  and  disappear  its  look  of  weary  dis- 
may, followed  by  the  air  of  fresh  courage  with 
which  the  young  couple  had  said  good-bye. 

"  I  wish  I  had  spoken,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self; "  I  wish  I  had  made  the  offer." 

And  again :  ^ 

"I  hope  he  didn't  tell  her  what  I  said 
about  the  letters.  Not  but  I  was  right,  but 
it'll  only  wound  her." 

But  Richling  had  told  her ;  he  always  "  told 
her  everything  ";  she  could  not  possibly  have 
magnified  wifehood  more,  in  her  way,  than 
he  did  in  his.  May  be  both  ways  were  faulty ; 
but  they  were  extravagantly,  youthfully  con- 
fident that  they  were  not. 

UNKNOWN  to  Dr.  Sevier,  the  Richlings  had 
returned  from  their  search  unsuccessful. 
Finding  prices  too  much  alike  in  Custom- 
house street,  they  turned  into  Burgundy. 
From  Burgundy  they  passed  into  Du  Maine. 
As  they  went,  notwithstanding  disappoint- 
ments, their  mood  grew  gay  and  gayer. 
Everything  that  met  the  eye  was  quaint  and 
droll  to  them:  men,  women,  things,  places, 
all  were  more  or  less  outlandish.  The  gro- 
tesqueness  of  the  African,  and  especially  the 
French-tongued  African,  was  to  Mrs.  Richling 
particularly  irresistible.  Multiplying  upon 
each  and  all  of  these  things  was  the  ludicrous- 
ness  of  the  pecuniary  strait  that  brought 
themselves  and  these  things  into  contact. 
Everything  turned  to  fun. 

Mrs.  Richling's  mirthful  mood  prompted 
her  by  and  by  to  begin  letting  into  her  in- 
quiries and  comments  covert  double  meanings 
intended  for  her  husband's  private  under- 
standing. Thus  they  crossed  Bourbon  street. 

About  there,  their  mirth  reached  a  climax ; 
it  was  in  a  small  house,  a  sad,  single-story 
thing  cowering  between  two  high  buildings, 
its  eaves,  four  or  five  feet  deep,  overshadow- 
ing its  one  street  door  and  window. 

"  Looks  like  a  shade  for  weak  eyes,"  said 
the  wife. 

They  had  debated  whether  they  should 
enter  it  or  not.  He  thought  no,  she  thought 
yes ;  but  he  would  not  insist  and  she  would 
not  insist;  she  wished  him  to  do  as  he  thought 
best,  and  he  wished  her  to  do  as  she  thought 
best,  and  they  had  made  two  or  three  false 
starts  and  retreats  before  they  got  inside. 
But  they  were  in  there  at  length  and  busily 
engaged  inquiring  into  the  availability  of  a 
small,  lace-curtained,  front  room,  when  Rich- 
ling  took  his  wife  so  completely  off  her  guard 
by  addressing  her  as  "  Madame,"  in  the  tone 
and  manner  of  Dr.  Sevier,  that  she  laughed 
in  the  face  of  the  householder,  who  had  been 
trying  to  talk  English  with  a  French  accent 
and  a  harelip,  and  they  fled  with  haste  to  the 


DR.  SEVIER. 


sidewalk  and  around  the  corner,  where  they 
could  smile  and  smile  without  being  villains. 

"  We  must  stop  this,"  said  the  wife,  blushing. 
"  We  must  stop  it.  We're  attracting  attention." 

And  this  was  true  at  least  as  to  one  raga- 
muffin who  stood  on  a  neighboring  corner 
staring  at  them.  Yet  there  is  no  telling  to 
what  higher  pitch  their  humor  might  have 
carried  them  if  Mrs.  Richling  had  not  been 
weighted  down  by  the  constant  necessity  of 
correcting  her  husband's  statement  of  their 
wants.  This  she  could  do,  because  his  exac- 
tions were  all  in  the  direction  of  her  comfort. 

"  But,  John,"  she  would  say  each  time  as 
they  returned  to  the  street  and  resumed  their 
quest,  "  those  things  cost ;  you  can't  afford 
them ;  can  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  can't  be  comforfable  without 
them,"  he  would  answer. 

"  But  that's  not  the  question,  John ;  we 
must  take  cheaper  lodgings,  mustn't  we  ?  " 

Then  John  would  be  silent,  and  by  littles 
their  gayety  would  rise  again. 

One  landlady  was  so  good-looking,  so 
manifestly  and  entirely  Caucasian,  so  melo- 
dious of  voice,  and  so  modest  in  her  account 
of  the  rooms  she  showed,  that  Mrs.  Richling 
was  captivated.  The  back  room  on  the  second 
floor,  overlooking  the  inner  court  and  numer- 
ous low  roofs  beyond,  was  suitable  and  cheap. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  sweet  proprietress,  turning 
to  Richling,  who  hung  in  doubt  whether  it 
was  quite  good  enough,  "  Yesseh,  I  think  you 
be  pretty  well  in  that  room  yeh.*  Yesseh,  I'm 
shoe  you  be  very  well ;  yesseh." 

"  Can  we  get  them  at  once  ?  " 

"  Yes  ?    At  once  ?    Yes  ?    Oh,  yes  ?  " 

No  downward  inflections  from  her. 

«  Well,"  — the  wife  looked  at  the  husband 
— he  nodded  —  "  well,  we'll  take  it." 

"  Yes  ?  "  responded  the  landlady ;  "  well  ?  " 
leaning  against  a  bedpost  and  smiling  with  in- 
fantile diffidence,"  you  dunt  want  no  refence  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  John,  generously,  "  Oh,  no ;  we 
can  trust  each  other  that  far,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ? "  replied  the  sweet  creature. 
Then  suddenly  changing  countenance  as 
though  she  remembered  something.  "  But 
daz  de  troub'  —  de  room  not  goin'  be  vacate 
for  t'ree  mont'." 

She  stretched  forth  her  open  palms  and 
smiled,  with  one  arm  still  around  the  bedpost. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Richling,  the  very 
statue  of  astonishment,  "  you  said  just  now 
we  could  have  it  at  once !  " 

"  Dis  room  ?    Oh,  no ;  nod  dis  room." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  misunder- 
stood you." 

The  landlady  lifted  her  shoulders,  smiled, 
and    clasped   her    hands  across   each  other 
*  "  Heah  " — ye,  as  in  yearn. 


under  her  throat.    Then  throwing  them  apart 
she  said  brightly : 

"  No,  I  say  at  Madame  La  Rose.    Me,  my  ( 
room'  is  all  fill'.    At  Madame  La  Rose,  I  say,  ' 
I  think  you  be  pritty  well.   I'm  shoe  you  be  ! 
verrie  well  at  Madame  La  Rose.    I'm  sorry. 
But  you  kin  paz  yondeh  —  'tiz  juz  ad   the 
cawneh?    And  I  am  shoe   I   think  you  be 
pritty  well  at  Madame  La  Rose." 

She  kept  up  the  repetition,  though   Mrs. 
Richling,  incensed,  had  turned  her  back,  and  •{ 
Richling  was  saying  good-day. 

"  She  did  say  the  room  was  vacant !  "  ex- 
claimed the  little  wife,  as  they  reached  the 
sidewalk.    But  the  next  moment  there  came 
a  quick  twinkle  from  her  eye,  and  waving  her  J 
husband  to  go  on  without  her,  she  said :  *'  You 
kin  paz  yondeh ;  at  Madame  La  Rose  I  am  \ 
shoe  you  be  pritty  sick."  Thereupon  she  took 
his  arm, — making  everybody  stare  and  smile 
to  see  a  lady  and  gentleman  arm  in  arm  by  I 
daylight, —  and  they  went  merrily  on  their  way.  < 

The  last  place  they  stopped  at  was  in  Royal 
street.    The  entrance  was  bad.    It  was  narrow  <] 
even  for  those  two.    The  walls  were  stained 
by  dampness,  and  the  smell  of  a  totally  un-  I 
drained  soil  came  up  through  the  floor.   The  j 
stairs  ascended  a  few  steps,  came  too  near  a  ij 
low  ceiling,  and  shot  forward  into  cavernous  I 
gloom  to  find  a  second  rising  place  farther  i 
on.    But  the  rooms,   when  reached,   were  a 
tolerably  pleasant   disappointment,  and   the  j| 
proprietress  a  person  of  reassuring  amiability.  J 

She  bestirred  herself  in  an  obliging  way  I 
that  was  the  most  charming  thing  yet  en- 
countered. She  gratified  the  young  people  j 
every  moment  afresh  with  her  readiness  to  I 
understand  or  guess  their  English  queries  and  jl 
remarks,  hung  her  head  archly  when  she  had  i 
to  explain  away  little  objections,  delivered  her  ij 
no  sirs  with  gravity  and  her  yes  sirs  with  I 
bright  eagerness,  shook  her  head  slowly  with  j 
each  negative  announcement,  and  accompa-  I 
nied  her  affirmations  with  a  gracious  bow  and  i 
a  smile  full  of  rice  powder. 

She  rendered  everything  so  agreeable,  in- 
deed, that  it  almost  seemed  impolite  to  in-  ' 
quire  narrowly  into  matters,  and  when  the  4 
question  of  price  had  to  come  up  it  was  really 
difficult  to   bring   it   forward,  and    Richling 
quite  lost  sight  of  the  economic  rules  to  which   i 
he  had  silently  acceded  in  the  Rue  Du  Main^J{ 

"And  you  will  carpet  the  floor?"  he 
asked,  hovering  off  of  the  main  issue. 

"  Put  coppit  ?  Ah  !  cettainlee  !  "  she  re- 
plied, with  a  lovely  bow  and  a  wave  of  the 
hand  toward  Mrs.  Richling,  whom  she  hat 
already  given  the  same  assurance. 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  little  wife,  with 
captivated  smile,  and  nodded  to  her  husba 

"  We  want  to  get  the  decentest  thing 


•H 


DR.  SEVIER. 


5  cheap,"  he  said,  as  the  three  stood  close 
ogether  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  landlady  flushed. 

"No,  no,  John,"  said  the  wife,  quickly, 
don't  you  know  what  we  said  ?  "  Then, 
urning  to  the  proprietress,  she  hurried  to  add, 
We  want  the  cheapest  thing  that  is  decent." 

But  the  landlady  had  not  waited  for  the 
orrection. 

"Ztosent!  You  want  somesin  dfosent!" 
he  moved  a  step  backward  on  the  floor, 
soured  and  smeared  with  brick-dust,  her  ire 
sing  visibly  at  every  heart-throb,  and  point- 
ig  her  outward-turned  open  hand  energet- 
:ally  downward,  added : 

"'Tis  yeh !  "  She  breathed  hard.  "Mats, 
> ;  you  don't  want  somesin  dissent.  No  !  " 

e  leaned  forward  interrogatively :  "  You 
ant  somesin  tchip  ?  "  She  threw  both  el- 
)ws  to  the  one  side,  cast  her  spread  hands 
in  the  same  direction,  drew  the  cheek  on 

at  side  down   into   the  collar-bone,  raised 

r  eyebrows,  and  pushed  her  upper  lip  with 

r  lower,  scornfully. 

At  that  moment  her  ear  caught  the  words 
the  wife's   apologetic   amendment.    They 

,ve  her  fresh  wrath  and  new  opportunity, 
or  her  new  foe  was  a  woman,  and  a  woman 
ydng  to  speak  in  defense  of  the  husband 

ainst  whose  arm  she  clung. 

"  Ah-h-h!"  Her  chin  went  up;  her  eyes  shot 

htnin  g ;  she  folded  her  arms  fiercely,  and  drew 
prself  to  her  best  height ;  and,  as  Richling's 

es  shot  back  in  rising  indignation,  cried  : 

"  Ziss  pless  ?   'Tis  not  ze  pless  !   Ziss  pless 

-is  diss'nt  pless!    I  am  diss'nt  woman,  me! 
w'at  you  come  in  yeh  ?  " 

"  My  dear  madam !    My  husband " 

',"  Dass  you'  uzban'  ?  "  pointing  at  him. 
|"  Yes  !  "  cried  the  two  Richlings  at  once. 

The  woman  folded  her  arms  again,  turned 
1  If  aside,  and,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling, 
i  nply  remarked,  with  an  ecstatic  smile : 

"  Humph  ?  "  and  left  the  pair,  red  with  ex- 
Aeration,  to  find  the  street  again  through 
tie  darkening  cave  of  the  stair-way. 

|!T  was  still  early  the  next  morning,  when 
]  chling  entered  his  wife's  apartment  with  an 
tf  of  brisk  occupation.  She  was  pinning  her 
iboch  at  the  bureau  glass. 

!"  Mary,"  he  exclaimed,  "  put  something  on 
ad  come  see  what  I've  found !  The  queer- 
5,  most  romantic  old  thing  in  the  city ;  the 
rbst  comfortable — and  the  cheapest !  Here, 
ijthis  the  wardrobe  key  ?  To  save  time  I'll 
at  your  bonnet." 

I"  No,  no,  no !  "  cried  the  laughing  wife, 
chfronting  him  with  sparkling  eyes,  and 
t [owing  herself  before  the  wardrobe ;  "1 
ci't  let  you  touch  my  bonnet !  " 


There  is  a  limit,  it  seems,  even  to  a  wife's 
subserviency. 

However,  in  a  very  short  time  afterward, 
by  the  feminine  measure,  they  were  out  in  the 
street,  and  people  were  again  smiling  at  the 
pretty  pair  to  see  her  arm  in  his,  and  she 
actually  keeping  step.  'Twas  very  funny. 

As  they  went,  John  described  his  discovery  : 
A  pair  of  huge,  solid  green  gates  immediately 
on  the  sidewalk,  in  the  dull  fagade  of  a  tall, 
red  brick  building  with  old  carved  vinework 
on  its  window  and  door  frames.  Hinges  a 
yard  long  on  the  gates;  over  the  gates  a 
semicircular  grating  of  iron  bars  an  inch  in 
diameter ;  in  one  of  these  gates  a  wicket,  and 
on  the  wicket  a  heavy,  battered,  highly  bur- 
nished brass  knocker.  A  short-legged,  big- 
bodied,  and  very  black  slave  to  usher  one 
through  the  wicket  into  a  large,  wide,  paved 
corridor,  where  from  the  middle  joist  over- 
head hung  a  great  iron  lantern.  Big  double 
doors  at  the  far  end,  standing  open,  flanked 
with  diamond-paned  side-lights  of  colored 
glass,  and  with  an  arch  of  the  same,  fan- 
shaped,  above.  Beyond  these  doors,  show- 
ing through  them  a  flagged  court,  bordered 
all  around  by  a  narrow,  raised  parterre 
under  pomegranate  and  fruit -laden  orange, 
and  overtowered  by  vine-covered  and  lat- 
ticed walls,  from  whose  ragged  eaves  vaga- 
bond weeds  laughed  down  upon  the  flowers 
of  the  parterre  below,  robbed  of  late  and  early 
suns.  Stairs  old-fashioned,  broad;  rooms 
their  choice  of  two ;  one  looking  down  into 
the  court,  the  other  into  the  street ;  furniture 
faded,  capacious;  ceilings  high;  windows, 
each  opening  upon  its  own  separate  small 
balcony,  where,  instead  of  balustrades,  was 
graceful  iron  scroll-work,  centered  by  some 
long-dead  owner's  monogram  two  feet  in 
length ;  and  on  the  balcony  next  the  division 
wall,  close  to  another  on  the  adjoining  prop- 
erty, a  quarter  circle  of  iron-work  set  like  a 
blind-bridle,  and  armed  with  hideous  prongs 
for  house-breakers  to  get  impaled  on. 

"  Why,  in  there,"  said  Richling,  softly,  as 
they  hurried  in,  "  we'll  be  hid  from  the  whole 
world,  and  the  whole  world  from  us." 

The  wife's  answer  was  only  the  upward 
glance  of  her  blue  eyes  into  his,  and  a  faint 
smile. 

The  place  was  all  it  had  been  described  to 
be,  and  more, — except  in  one  particular. 

"  And  my  husband  tells  me —  "  The  owner 
of  said  husband  stood  beside  him,  one  foot  a 
little  in  advance  of  the  other,  her  folded  para- 
sol hanging  down  the  front  of  her  skirt  from 
her  gloved  hands,  her  eyes  just  returning  to 
the  landlady's  from  an  excursion  around  the 
ceiling,  and  her  whole  appearance  as  fresh  as 
the  pink  flowers  that  nestled  between  her 


66 


DR.  SEVIER. 


brow  and  the  rim  of  its  precious  covering. 
She  smiled  as  she  began  her  speech,  but  not 
enough  to  spoil  what  she  honestly  believed 
to  be  a  very  business-like  air  and  manner. 
John  had  quietly  dropped  out  of  the  negotia- 
tions, and  she  felt  herself  put  upon  her  metal  as 
his  agent.  "And  my  husband  tells  me  the  price 
of  this  front  room  is  ten  dollars  a  month." 

"  Munse  ?  " 

The  respondent  was  a  very  white,  corpu- 
lent woman,  who  constantly  panted  for  breath, 
and  was  everywhere  sinking  down  into  chairs, 
with  her  limp,  unfortified  skirt  dropping  be- 
tween her  knees,  and  her  hands  pressed  on 
them  exhaustedly. 

"  Munse  ?  "  She  turned  from  husband  to  wife 
and  back  again  a  glance  of  alarmed  inquiry. 

Mary  tried  her  hand  at  French. 

"  Yes ;  oui,  madame.  Ten  dollah  the  month 
—  le  mois" 

Intelligence  suddenly  returned.  Madame 
made  a  beautiful,  silent  O  with  her  mouth 
and  two  others  with  her  eyes. 

"  Ah,  non !  By  munse  ?  No,  madame. 
Ah-h  !  impossybl' !  By  wick,  yes ;  ten  dollah 
dewick!  Ah!" 

She  touched  her  bosom  with  the  wide- 
spread fingers  of  one  hand  and  threw  them 
toward  her  hearers. 

The  room-hunters  got  away,  yet  not  so 
quickly  but  they  heard  behind  and  above  them 
her  scornful  laugh,  addressed  to  the  walls  of 
the  empty  room. 

A  day  or  two  later  they  secured  an  apart- 
ment, cheap,  and  —  morally  —  decent ;  but 
otherwise  —  ah ! 


VII. 


DISAPPEARANCE. 

IT  was  the  year  of  a  presidential  campaign. 
The  party  that  afterward  rose  to  overwhelm- 
ing power  was,  for  the  first  time,  able  to  put 
its  candidate  fairly  abreast  of  his  competitors. 
The  South  was  all  afire.  Rising  up  or  sitting 
down,  coming  or  going,  week-day  or  Sabbath- 
day,  eating  or  drinking,  marrying  or  burying, 
the  talk  was  all  of  slavery,  abolition,  and  a 
disrupted  country. 

Dr.  Sevier  became  totally  absorbed  in  the 
issue.  He  was  too  unconventional  a  thinker 
ever  to  find  himself  in  harmony  with  all  the 
declarations  of  any  party,  and  yet  it  was  a 
necessity  of  his  nature  to  be  in  the  melee. 
He  had  his  own  array  of  facts,  his  own  pecul- 
iar deductions  \  his  own  special  charges  of 
iniquity  against  this  party  and  of  criminal  for- 
bearance against  that ;  his  own  startling  po- 
litical economy ;  his  own  theory  of  rights ;  his 
own  interpretations  of  the  Constitution ;  his 
own  threats  and  warnings ;  his  own  exhorta- 
tions, and  his  own  prophecies,  of  which  one 


cannot  say  all  have  come  true.  But  ht 
poured  them  forth  from  the  mighty  heart  oi 
one  who  loved  his  country,  and  sat  down  witf, 
a  sense  of  duty  fulfilled  and  wiped  his  pal«'f 
forehead  while  the  band  played  a  polka. 

It  hardly  need  be  added  that  he  proposec 
to  dispense  with  politicians,  or  that,  when  "  th..; 
boys  "  presently  counted  him  into  their  party 
team  for  campaign  haranguing,  he  let  then 
clap  the  harness  upon  him  and  splashed  alonj 
in  the  mud  with  an  intention  as  pure  as  snow 

"  Hurrah  for " 

Whom,  is  no  matter  now.  It  was  not  Fre 
mont.  Buchanan  won  the  race.  Out  went  thu 
lights,  down  came  the  platforms,  rocket 
ceased  to  burst ;  it  was  of  no  use  longer  t  i 
"  Wait  for  the  wagon  ";  "  Old  Dan  Tucker  ; 
got  "  out  of  the  way,"  small  boys  were  n 
longer  fellow-citizens,  dissolution  was  posi 
poned,  and  men  began  again  to  have  an  eyj 
single  to  the  getting  of  money. 

A  mercantile  friend  of  Dr.  Sevier  had  ; 
vacant  clerkship  which  it  was  necessary  tj 
fill.  A  bright  recollection  flashed  across  thlj 
Doctor's  memory. 

"  Narcisse !  " 

"  Yesseh !  " 

"  Go  to  Number  40  Custom-house  streej 
and  inquire  for  Mr.  Fledgeling;  or,  if  he  isaj 
in,  for  Mrs.  Fledge' — humph!  Richling,  j 
mean ;  I " 

Narcisse  laughed  aloud. 

"  Ha-ha-ha !    daz  de  way,  sometime' !    M 
hant  she  got  a  honcP —  he  says,  once  'pon  i] 
time " 

"  Never  mind  !    Cfo  at  once  !  " 

"  All  a-ight,  seh  !  " 

"  Give  him  this  card " 

"  Yesseh ! " 

"These  people " 

"  Yesseh  !  " 

"  Well,  wait  till  you  get  your  errand,  cai^ 
you?  These " 

"  Yesseh ! " 

"  These  people  want  to  see  him." 

"  All  a-ight,  seh !  " 

Narcisse   threw   open   and    jerked    off 
worsted  jacket,  took  his  coat  down  from  ape.y 
transferred   a  snowy  handkerchief  from  ffl 
breast  pocket  of  the  jacket  to  that  of  the  coa 
felt  in  his  pantaloons  to  be  sure  that  he  had  h 
match-case  and  cigarettes,  changed  his  shoe 
got  his  hat  from  a  high  nail  by  a  little  lea 
and  put  it  on  a  head  as  handsome  as  Apollo' 

"Doctah    Seveeah,"  he   said,  "in    fact, 
fine  that  a  ve'y  gen'lemanly  young  man,  th  , 
Mistoo  Itchlin,  weely,  Doctah." 

The  Doctor  murmured  to  himself 
letter  he  was  writing. 

"  Well,  au  'evw\  Doctah ;  I'm  goin'." 

Out  in  the  corridor  he  turned  and  j< 


DR.  SEVIER. 


is  chin  up  and  curled  his  lip,  brought   a 
latch  and  cigarette  together  in  the  lee  of  his 
ollowed  hand,  took  one   first,  fond   draw, 
nd  went  down  the  stairs  as  if  they  were  on  fire. 
At  Canal  street,  he  fell  in  with  two  noble 
Hows  of  his  own  circle,  and  the  three  went 
ound  by  way  of  Exchange  alley  to  get  a 
ass  of  soda  at  McCloskey's  old  down-town 
|:and.    His  two  friends  were  out  of  employ- 
ment—  at  the  moment, — making  him,  conse- 
juently,  the  interesting  figure  in  the  trio  as 
e  inveighed  against  his  master. 

Ah,  phooh !  "  he  said,  indicating  the  end 
f  his  speech  by  dropping  the  stump  of  his 
garette  into  the  sand  on  the  floor  and  softly 
sitting  upon  it, — "le  Shylock  de  la  rue  Caron- 
elet !  " — and   then  in  English,  not  to  lose 
te  admiration  of  the  Irish  waiter — 
"  He  don't  want  to  haugment  me !    I  din 
iss  'im,  because  the  'lection.    But  you  juz 
ait  till  dat  firce  of  Jannawerry !  " 
The  waiter  rubbed  the  zinc  counter  and 
quired  why  Narcisse  did  not  make  his  de- 
ands  at  the  present  moment. 
"  W'y  I  don't  hass  'im  now  ?    Because  w'en 
hass  'im  he  know'  he's  got  to  do  it !   You 
ing  I'm  goin'  to  kill  myseff  workin'  ?  " 
Nobody  said  yes,  and  by  and  by  he  found 
mself  alive  in  the  house  of  Madame  Zenobie. 
he  furniture  was  being  sold  at  auction,  and 
e  house  was  crowded  with  all  sorts  and  colors 
men  and  women.   A  huge  sideboard  was  up 
:r  sale  as  he  entered,  and  the  crier  was  crying: 
"  Faw-ty-fi'  dollah !  faw-ty-fi'  dollah,  ladies 
'  gentymen  !    On'y  faw-ty-fi'  dollah  fo'  thad 
agniffyzan  sidebode  !     Quarante-cinque  pias- 
?s,  seulement,  messieurs  /    Les  knobs    vaut 
m  cette prix  !   Gentymen,  de  knobs  is  worse 
i  money  !    Ladies,  if  you  don'  stop  dat  talk- 
',  I  will  not  sell  one  thing  mo' !   Et  qua- 

nte-dnque  piastres  —  faw-ty-fi'  dollah " 

i "  Fifty  !  "  cried  Narcisse,  who  had  not  own- 
that  much  at  one  time  since  his  father  was 
constable ;  realizing  which  fact,  he  slipped 
yay  upstairs  and  found  Madame  Zenobie 
ilf  crazed  at  the  slaughter  of  her  assets. 
She  sat  in  a  chair  against  the  wall  of  the 
om  the  Richlings  had  occupied,  a  spectacle 
j'  agitated  dejection.  Here  and  there  about 
je  apartment,  either  motionless  in  chairs  or 
loving  noiselessly  about  and  pulling  and 
jishing  softly  this  piece  of  furniture  and  that, 
jere  numerous  vulture-like  persons  of  either 
x,  waiting  the  up-coming  of  the  auctioneer, 
arcisse  approached  hei  briskly. 
"Well,  Madame  Zenobie!" — he  spoke 
|  French —  "  is  it  you  who  lives  here  ?  Don't 
]>u  remember  me  ?  What !  No  ?  You  don't 
imember  how  I  used  to  steal  figs  from  you  ?  " 
tie  vultures  slowly  turned  their  heads.  Mad- 
tae  Zenobie  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  way. 


No,  she  did  not  remember.  So  many  had 
robbed  her — all  her  life. 

"But  you  don't  look  at  me,  Madame  Ze- 
nobie. Don't  you  remember,  for  example 
once  pulling  a  little  boy— as  little  as  that— 
out  of  your  fig-tree,  and  taking  the  half  of  a 
shingle,  split  lengthwise,  in  your  hand,  and  his 
head  under  your  arm, — swearing  you  would 
do  it  if  you  died  for  it,  — and  bending  him 
across  your  knee" — he  began  a  vigorous  but 
graceful  movement  of  the  right  arm  which 
few  members  of  our  fallen  race  could  fail  to 
recognize, — "and  you  don't  remember  me 
my  old  friend  ?  " 

She  looked  up  into  the  handsome  face  with 
a  faint  smile  of  affirmation.  He  laughed  with 
delight. 

"  The  shingle  was  that  wide  !  Ah !  Madame 
Zenobie,  you  did  it  well !  "  He  softly  smote 
the  memorable  spot  first  with  one  hand  and 
then  with  the  other,  shrinking  forward  spas- 
modically with  each  contact,  and  throw- 
ing utter  woe  into  his  countenance.  The 
general  company  smiled.  He  suddenly  put 
on  great  seriousness. 

"  Madame  Zenobie,  I  hope  your  furniture 
is  selling  well  ?  "  He  still  spoke  in  French. 

She  cast  her  eyes  upward  pleadingly,  caught 
her  breath,  threw  the  back  of  her  hand  against 
her  temple,  and  dashed  it  again  to  her  lap, 
shaking  her  head. 

Narcisse  was  sorry. 

"  I  have  been  doing  what  I  could  for 
you  down-stairs — running  up  the  prices  of 
things.  I  wish  I  could  stay  to  do  more,  for 
the  sake  of  old  times.  I  came  to  see  Mr. 
Richling,  Madame  Zenobie ;  is  he  in  ?  Dr. 
Sevier  wants  him." 

Richling  ?  Why,  the  Richlings  did  not  live 
there.  The  Doctor  must  know  it.  Why  should 
she  be  made  responsible  for  this  mistake  ?  It 
was  his  oversight.  They  had  moved  long 
ago.  Dr.  Sevier  had  seen  them  looking  for 
apartments.  Where  did  they  live  now  ?  Ah, 
me !  she  could  not  tell.  Did  Mr.  Richling 
owe  the  doctor  something  ? 

"Owe?  Certainly  not.  The  Doctor — on 
the  contrary " 

Ah !  well,  indeed,  she  didn't  know  where 
they  lived,  it  is  true;  but  the  fact  was,  Mr. 
Richling  happened  to  be  there  just  then!  — 
a-c'feure  /He  had  come  to  get  a  few  trifles 
left  by  his  madame. 

Narcisse  made  instant  search.  Richling  was 
not  on  the  upper  floor.  He  stepped  to  the 
landing  and  looked  down.  There  he  went ! 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin  !  " 

Richling  failed  to  hear.  Sharper  ears  might 
have  served  him  better.  He  passed  out  by  the 
street  door.  Narcisse  stopped  the  auction  by 
the  noise  he  made  coming  down-stairs  after 


68 


QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


him.    He  had  some  trouble  with  the   front* 
door, — lost  time  there;  but  got  out. 

Richling  was  turning  a  corner.*  Narcisse 
ran  there  and  looked;  looked  up — looked 
down —  looked  into  every  store  and  shop  on 
either  side  of  the  way  clear  back  to  Canal 
street;  crossed  it,  went  back  to  the  Doctor's 
office,  and  reported.  If  he  omitted  such  de- 
tails as  his  having  seen  and  then  lost  sight  of 
the  man  he  sought,  it  may  have  been  in  part 
from  the  Doctor's  indisposition  to  give  him 
speaking  license.  The  conclusion  was  simple; 
the  Richlings  could  not  be  found. 

THE  months  of  winter  passed.  No  sign  of 
them. 

"They've  gone  back  home,"  the  Doctor 
often  said  to  himself.  How  much  better  that 
was  than  to  stay  where  they  had  made  a 
mistake  in  venturing,  and  become  the  nurse- 
lings of  patronizing  strangers  !  He  gave  his 


admiration  free  play,  now  that  they  wer 
quite  gone.  True  courage  that  Richling  ha< 
— courage  to  retreat  when  retreat  is  best, 
And  his  wife  —  ah  !  what  a  reminder  of — j 
hush,  memory ! 

"  Yes,  they  must  have  gone  home !  "  Th 
Doctor  spoke  very  positively,  because,  afte 
all,  he  was  haunted  by  doubt. 

One  spring  morning  he  uttered  a  soft  e>j 
clamation  as  he  glanced  at  his  office-slatt', 
The  first  notice  on  it  read  : 

Please  call  as  soon  as  you  can  at  nunib&\ 
292  St.  Mary  street:  corner  of  PrytaniA 
Lower  corner — opposite  the  asylum. 

John  Richling.  : 

The  place  was  far  up  in  the  newer  part  ci 
the  American  quarter.  The  signature  had  tbj 
appearance  as  if  the  writer  had  begun  t 
write  some  other  name  and  had  changed  :| 
to  Richling. 


(To  be  continued.) 


QUEEN    VICTORIA.' 


IF  there  is  a  difficulty  in  writing  an  account 
of  the  life  of  any  notable  person  still  living, 
the  difficulty  is  increased  when  the  subject  is 
a  woman,  and  scarcely  diminished  by  the 
fact  that  this  woman  is  a  queen, — for  though 
we  hold  it  one  of  the  most  absurd  of  poetical 
fallacies  that  "love"  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  word  is  "woman's  whole  existence,"  yet 
it  is  very  true  that  the  history  of  a  woman  is 
chiefly  the  history  of  her  affections  and  the 
close  relationships  in  which  her  dearest  inter- 
ests are  always  concentrated.  It  is  true  also 
of  a  man  that  in  these  lie  the  real  records  of 
his  happiness  or  misery;  but  there  is  more  of 
the  external  in  his  life,  and  we  can  more 
easily  satisfy  the  attention  of  the  spectator 
with  his  work  or  his  amusements,  or  even 
the  accidents  that  happen  to  him  and  diver- 
sify his  existence.  A  king's  life  is  very  much 
the  life  of  his  kingdom,  with  brief  references 
to  the  consort  and  children,  about  whom  the 
"  Almanach  de  Gotha  "  is  the  easy  authority. 


The  life  of  the  Queen  of  England,  for  s 
long  a  reigning  sovereign,  and  in  whose  reig 
so  many  great  things  have  happened,  migl 
be  written  in  the  same  way ;  but  this  woul « 
satisfy  no  one,  and  it  would  be  all  the  le$! 
satisfactory,  because  our  Queen,  we  are  prom] 
to  think,  has  made  herself  quite  a  distinc] 
position  in  the  world, —  a  phrase  which,  i  I 
her  case,  does  not  mean,  as  in  ours,  the  littl 
society  in  which  we  are  known,  but  is  reallJ 
the  world,  and  includes  the  great  Republics] 
continent  of  the  west,  besides  all  the  EuKJI 
pean   nations    and,   transcending    even  thj 
bounds  of  Christendom,  includes   unknowl 
myriads  in  the  East.    Her  Majesty  has  beej 
to  multitudes  the  most  eminent  type  of  fern 
nine  character  in  this  vast  world ;  she  Iu9 
been  the  wife  par  excellence,  an  emblem  ol 
the  simplest  and  most  entire  devotion;  hd 
fame,  in  this  respect,  has   penetrated   moul 
deeply  than  the  fame  of  poet  or  of  general^ 
she  has  helped  to  give  luster  to  those  virtuet 


*The  portrait  of  Queen  Victoria,  printed  as  a  frontispiece  to  this  number  of  THE  CENTURY,  is  from  tit! 
original  oil  study  made  from  life  by  the  young  American  artist,  Thomas  Sully,  in  the  year  1818,  now  in  ti' 

_„ ; _r  T71 i~   T>      0—11-.   T\_ -.!___     TT'-'L        -LI 1    •        1  •         •  •„    •      1  ij      m    •        "J.         •, 

3alace, ft  I 

November,  1^869,  Mr.  Sully  states  that  he  gave  a  copy  of  the  large  portrait  to  the  Thistle  Society  of  Charle 
ton,  in  acknowledgment  of  their  kindness  to  him.  The  painter  says  in  these  recollections  that  he  told  thj 
Queen  that  he  would  get  his  daughter  to  sit  with  the  regalia,  if  there  would  be  no  impropriety  —  in  order  to  s:vvj 
her  majesty  the  trouble.  The  latter  replied  that  there  would  be  no  impropriety  —  but  that  he  must  not  spui 
her;  if  she  could  be  of  service,  she  would  sit.  "After  that,"  he  adds,  "my  daughter  sat  with  the  regali: 
which  weighed  thirty  or  forty  pounds.  '  f  One  day  the  Queen  sent  word  that  she  would  come  in  if  J 

daughter  would  remain  where  she  was.  But,  of  course,  Blanche  stepped  down,  and  the  two  girls,  who 
almost  the  same  age,  chatted  together  quite  familiarly." — The  portrait  on  p.  73  was  engraved  by  perr™" 
by  T.  Johnson,  from  a  photograph  by  Alex.  Bassano. —  ED.] 


QUEEN   VICTORIA. 


69 


n  which  the  happiness  of  the  universe  de- 
ends,  but  which  wit  and  fashion  have  often 
eld  lightly.  In  the  days  when  her  young 
xample  became  first  known,  and  the  beauty 
f  the  domestic  interior  in  which  she  pre- 
?nted  herself,  smiling,  before  her  people,  it 
as  thought  that  fashionable  vice  was  slain, 
i  England  at  least,  by  the  pure  eyes  of  the 
•edded  Una, —  as  it  was  thought,  in  those  hal- 
pon  days,  that  war  too  was  slain,  and  would 
ever  again  lift  its  hydra  head  against  man- 
[ind;  and  if  some  shadow  has  fallen  upon 
icse  hopes,  it  is  because  human  nature  is 
»o  strong  for  any  individual,  and  the  purest 
fluence  has  not  yet  been  able  to  conquer 
te  lower  instincts  of  the  mass.  But  wher- 
er  the  Queen  has  stood,  there  has  been  the 
andard  of  goodness,  the  head-quarters  of 
?nor  and  purity.  It  is  this,  above  all  the 
iculiar  attractions  of  her  position,  which 
is  given  her  the  hold  she  has  always  re- 
ined upon  the  interest — we  might  almost 
,y  the  affections  —  of  the  world. 
That  position  at  its  outset,  however,  was 
e  of  especial  picturesqueness  and  attrac- 
m.  After  a  distracted  period,  during  which 
e  history  of  the  royal  family  is  not  one  to 
eer  the  loyal,  or  recommend  the  institution 
those  educated  in  other  theories  of  na- 
>nal  life,  the  advent  of  the  young  Queen, 
ghteen  years  old,  brought  up  in  a  stainless 
tirement  under  the  close  care  of  a  good 
other,  and  unconnected,  even  in  the  most 
stant  way,  with  any  of  the  royal  scandals 
miseries,  was  like  a  sudden  breath  of  fresh 
r  let  into  the  vitiated  atmosphere.  No  one 
ew  anything  but  good  of  the  young  lady 
•stined  to  such  a  charge;  but  there  were,  no 
dmbt,  many  alarms  among  the  statesmen  to 
yom  it  was  committed  to  guide  her  first 
spps  in  life,  and  who  had  been  accustomed 
1!  the  obstinacy  and  caprice  of  princes,  and 
Iji.ew  that  the  house  of  Guelph  had  no  more 
i;tural  love  for  constitutionalism  than  any 
(per  reigning  house.  There  is  a  picture  in 
1p  corridor  at  Windsor  Castle  (a  gallery  full 
C  beautiful  and  costly  things,  but  where  the 
site  pictures  that  clothe  the  walls  laissent 
qiucoup  a  desirer  in  the  way  of  art)  in  which 
^represented  the  first  council  of  the  young 
(been ;  and  it  would  be  a  hard  heart  which 
4uld  look  without  some  tenderness  of  sym- 
pthy  at  the  young  creature,  with  her  fair, 
tpded  locks,  and  the  extremely  simple  dress 
Q  the  period,  a  dress  which  increases  her 
Jjuthful  aspect,  seated  alone  among  so  many 
rjnarkable  men,  no  one  of  them  less  than 
quble  her  age,  and  full  of  experience  of  that 
"vpd  which  it  was  impossible  she  could 
jsjow  anything  of.  A  hundred  years  hence, 
iijall  likelihood,  this  incident  will  attract  the 


imagination  of  both  painter  and  poet  with 
all  the  enchantment  added  that  distance 
lends,  and  the  young  Victoria,  in  her  early 
introduction  to  life,  will  refresh  the  student 
of  those  arid  fields  of  diplomacy  and  politics 
with  the  sudden  introduction  of  human  in- 
terest, tenderness,  and  hope.  How  finely 
she  responded  to  the  lessons  of  her  early 
mentors,  and  how  thoroughly  in  accordance 
with  all  the  highest  tenets  of  constitutional- 
ism her  life  has  been,  it  is  not  necessary  here 
to  tell.  Queen  Victoria  is  indeed  the  ideal 
of  the  constitutional  monarch.  No  one  be- 
fore her  has  fulfilled  the  duties  of  this  exalted 
and  difficult  post  with  the  same  devotion, 
with  so  much  self-denial,  and  so  little  self- 
assertion.  She  has  made  the  machine  of 
state  work  easily  when  it  was  in  her  power 
to  create  a  hundred  embarrassments,  and  has 
suppressed  her  own  prepossessions  and  dis- 
likes in  a  manner  which  has  been  little  less 
than  heroic.  She  is  the  first  of  English  sov- 
ereigns who  has  never  been  identified  with 
any  political  party,  nor  ever  hesitated  to 
accept  the  man  whom  the  popular  will  or  the 
exigencies  of  public  affairs  have  brought  to 
the  front.  It  is  known  that  in  some  cases 
this  has  been  a  real  effort;  but  it  has  always 
been  done  with  a  dignified  abstinence  from 
unnecessary  protest  or  complaint.  The  very 
few  early  mistakes  of  her  girlish  career  are 
just  enough  to  prove  that  it  is  to  no  want  of 
spirit  or  natural  will  that  this  fine  decorum  is 
to  be  attributed.  A  tame  character  might 
have  obeyed  the  logic  of  circumstances,  but 
this  has  never  been  the  characteristic  of  the 
house  of  Brunswick,  which  without  much 
demonstration  of  talent  has  always  had 
abundant  character  both  in  the  English  and 
French  sense  of  the  word.  No  one  should 
be  able  to  understand  this  better  than  the 
great  American  nation,  which  might  have 
been  another  vast  England,  as  loyal  as  Can- 
ada, had  King  George  been  as  wise,  as  self- 
restrained,  and  as  constitutional  as  his  grand- 
daughter. Perhaps  the  world  will  say  that, 
so  far  as  this  goes,  it  was  well  that  the  hot- 
headed old  monarch  was  not  constitutional, 
but  obstinate  as  any  Bourbon. 

It  is  an  additional  charm  to  the  general 
heart  which  in  all  bosoms  beats  so  much  alike, 
that  the  Queen  acquired  this  noble  self-com- 
mand, as  she  has  herself  most  ingenuously 
told  us,  by  the  teaching  of  love.  A  girl  full 
of  animation,  very  warm  in  her  friendships, 
and  disposed,  perhaps,  to  take  up  with  equal 
warmth  the  prepossessions  of  those  about  her, 
it  was  her  good  fortune  to  find  in  her  husband 
one  of  those  rare  characters  which  appear, 
like  great  genius,  only  now  and  then  in  the 
world's  history.  A  mind  so  perfectly  balanced, 


7o 


QUEEN   VICTORIA. 


so  temperate,  so  blameless,  so  impartial  as 
that  of  the  Prince  Consort,  is  almost  as  rare 
as  a  Shakspere,  and  its  very  perfection  gives 
it  an  aspect  of  coldness,  which  stands  between 
it  and  the  appreciation  of  the  crowd.  Thus, 
it  was  not  till  after  his  death  that  England 
was  at  all  duly  conscious  of  the  manner  of 
man  he  had  been ;  but  from  the  date  of  the 
marriage,  this  wonderful,  calm,  and  passion- 
less, but  strong  and  pure  personality  enfolded 
and  inspired  the  quicker  instincts  and  less 
guarded  susceptibilities  of  the  Queen.  The 
story  of  their  courtship  has  been  given  by 
herself  to  the  world,  and  forms  a  little  ro-. 
mance  of  the  most  perfect  originality,  in 
which  something  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  or  the 
old  courtly  fairy  tale,  mingles  with  the  peren- 
nial enchantment  which  is  in  the  eyes  of  the 
simplest  youth  and  maiden.  The  rarity  of  the 
circumstances, —  the  touching  and  childlike 
dignity  of  the  young  Queen,  conscious  how 
much  she  has  to  bestow,  and  how  large  a  circle 
of  spectators  are  watching,  breathless,  for  her 
decision,  yet,  full  of  a  girl's  sweet  sense  of 
secondariness  to  the  object  of  her  love  and 
proud  delight  in  his  superiority, —  gives  such  a 
reading  of  the  well-known  subject  as  fiction 
dares  not  venture  upon.  There  are  many  who 
think  the  position  of  the  young  monarch,  for 
whom  it  was  necessary  to  make  her  own  choice 
and  signify  it,  a  most  unnatural  one ;  but  we 
venture  to  say  these  critics  would  change  their 
opinion  after  reading  that  pretty  chapter  of 
royal  wooing.  Had  either  the  young  Queen 
or  the  Prince  been  of  the  wayward  kind, 
which  choose  perversely  and  will  not  see 
what  is  most  befitting  for  them,  the  story 
might  have  been  very  different ;  but  happily, 
this  was  not  so,  and  it  is  the  Prince  Char- 
mant,  gallant  and  modest,  approaching  "his 
Fairy  Queen,  whom  we  see  in  the  handsome 
young  German  bowing  low  before  those  blue 
eyes,  regal  in  their  full  and  open  regard,  which 
veil  themselves  only  before  him.  There  was 
a  story  current  at  the  time,  that  at  a  state 
ball,  very  near  the  period  of  their  betrothal, 
the  young  lady  gave  her  princely  suitor  a 
rose,  which  he,  without  a  button-hole  in  his 
close-fitting  uniform,  slit  the  breast  of  his  coat 
to  find  a  place  for,  and  that  this  was  a  token  to 
all  the  court  of  the  final  determination  of  the 
great  event, — her  Majesty,  as  it  is  pleasant  to 
hear,  having  shown  herself  a  little  coy  and 
disposed  to  put  off  the  explanation,  as  happy 
girls  are  wont  to  do.  No  more  perfect  mar- 
riage has  ever  been  recorded;  the  Queen 
herself  attributes  the  formation  of  her  charac- 
ter to  it,  and  all  that  is  most  excellent  in  her 
life.  The  spectator  will  naturally  add  that, 
even  were  this  true  to  its  fullest  extent,  the 
mind  which  took  so  high  an  impress,  and  has 


preserved  it  for  so  many  years  after  the  form- 
ing influence  was  gone,  must  have  been  ver) 
little  inferior  to  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  hei 
Majesty's  less  perfect  balance  of  mental  qual-, 
ities  has  always  furnished  the'  little  variety 
that  ordinary  people  love,  and  she  was  at  al 
times  more  popular  than  her  husband,  bette: 
understood  and  more  beloved. 

The  first  time  I  saw  the  Queen  was  on  th< 
occasion  of  some  great  public  ceremonial  ii 
Liverpool,  when  she  must  have  been  in  tin 
fullness  of  her  early  prime,  somewhere  about] 
thirty.    She  was  then  much  like  the  portrai 
which  the  readers  of  this  magazine  have  nov| 
presented  to  them.*    Her  eyes  seemed  to  md 
her  most  remarkable  feature  :  they  were  blue 
of  the  clearest  color,  not  dark  enough  ever  t< 
be  mistaken  for  black,  but  with  nothing  of  tto; 
washy  grayness  into  which  blue  eyes  occa;j 
sionally  fall  on  the  other  side.   This  beautv 
was  very  much   enhanced  by  the   straight 
forward,   all-embracing  look,  which,  to  m^ 
fancy, — that  of  an  admiring  girl  some  tei 
years  younger, — was  queenly  in  the  highesj 
degree.    It  was  the  look  of  one  who  knew] 
with  all  modesty  and  composure,  yet  with  fiiM 
conviction,  that  she  could  encounter  no  glancJ 
so  potent,  so  important,  as  her  own.    She  me|| 
the  thousand  faces  turned  toward  her  with  I 
royal  serenity  which  it  is  impossible  to  de| 
scribe.     By  nature   the   Queen   is   shy,  and 
shrinks  from  the  gaze  of  the  crowd,  but  hef] 
look  was  sovereign  over  all  such  natural  teal 
dencies, — the  true  gaze  of  a  Queen.   This  il 
less  remarkable  now,  perhaps,  than  it  was  i] 
her  younger  days;  but  the  reader  will  se 
something  of  this  open-eyed  serenity  in  th* 
eyes  of  the  portrait,  though  they  are  those  oi 
a  girl  of  nineteen. 

With  this  royal  look  is  conjoined  the  faculty . I 
most  important  to  a  royal  personage^  of  neve  ; 
forgetting  any  one  who  has  been  presented 
to  her,  a  piece  of  princely  courtesy  which  i- 
most  captivating  to  the  unremarkable  indjl 
viduals  who  know  no  reason  why  their  homel; ;| 
personality  should  be   remembered   by  th 
Queen.    Considering  the  numbers  of  peoph i 
who  are  brought  under  her  notice,  this  is .  j 
very  remarkable  gift,  and  it  is  essentially  \ 
royal  one.    Perhaps  it  is  the  kind  of  endow  I 
ment  which  we  can  most  readily  imagine  tjj 
have  been  transmitted   through  generatio 
of  royal  persons,  trained  to  this  quickness 
discrimination  and  retentiveness  of  memory 
it  is,  we  believe,  a  quality  of  all  her  famil 
and  it  is  one  of  the  special  politenesses 
princes.    The  Queen's  extraordinary  memc 
is  evidenced  in  other  ways.    It  is  said 
is  no  such  genealogist  in  her  kingdoi 
one  who  remembers  so  clearly  who  is 

*  [See  frontispiece.] 


QUEEN   VICTORIA. 


id  by  what  alliances  and  descent  he  came 

be  what  he  is.  I  remember  a  story  told 
T  a  court  lady  of  a  question  which  arose  at 
e  royal  table  between  herself  and  Lord 
eaconsfield  as  to  some  obscure  Italian  duke 
bo  had  brought  himself  into  notice  on  ac- 
>unt  of  a  piece  of  public  business.  Who  was 
;  ?  "  There  is  one  person  who  could  give 

the  information,"  said  the  astute  states- 
an,  and  when  an  occasion  offered  he  asked 

s  question.  "  The  Duca  di ?  Oh,  yes, 

remember  perfectly,"  the  Queen  is  reported 

have  said,  and  forthwith  gave  a  sketch  of 
5  family  history,  whom  he  had  married,  and 
lom  his  father  had  married,  and  how  his 
importance  came  about.  The  humblest  per- 
3n  who  has  this  gift  becomes  a  most  amus- 
\y  companion,  and  considering  that  the 
(ueen  has  in  her  life  received  almost  every- 
Idy  of  importance  in  the  civilized  world,  the 
(tent  of  her  information  in  this  particular 
dy  must  be  prodigious,  as  well  as  of  the 
flepest  interest.  She  has  acquired  many 
cjier  kinds  of  knowledge  during  the  long 
jriod  of  her  reign,  and,  it  is  said,  is  more 
ceply  learned  in  the  noble  craft  of  states- 
unship  than  any  of  her  councillors.  She 
lows  precedents  and  examples  as  a  lawyer 
\LO  has  pleaded  half  the  cases  in  the  records 
ljows  those  that  belong  to  his  trade.  Every 
tiblic  document,  and  all  the  correspond- 
eces  and  negotiations  going  on  throughout 
ti  world,  have  to  pass  through  her  hands; 
ad  if  the  Blue  Books  afford  occupation  for 
a  the  spare  time  of  an  assiduous  member  of 
Irliament,  it  may  be  supposed  what  the 
(jieen  has  to  work  through,  whose  office 
des  not  permit  her  to  dwell  upon  one  point 
t|it  may  interest  her  and  slur  over  the 
criers,  but  who  must  give  her  attention  to 
01  We  have  it  on  the  authority  of  a  cabinet 
nbister  that  this  work  has  never  been  re- 
tided  by  a  post,  never  failed  at  the  period 
apointed,  throughout  years  of  uninterrupted 
djigence ;  for,  whatever  holidays  the  rest  of  us 
njy  indulge  in,  there  are  no  holidays  for  the 
Q.een.  There  is  always  something  going  on 
irpne  part  or  other  of  her  great  dominions, 
a^ays  some  foreign  event  to  keep  atten- 
tb  vigilant,  even  when  the  most  profound 
tipquillity  may  reign  at  home.  A  prime 
nnister  even  is  occasionally  out  of  office, 
ttyugh  not  perhaps  with  his  own  will;  but 

ft  sovereign  is  constantly  in  office  and, 
werever  she  goes,  has  always  a  messenger 
irj waiting  and  dispatches  and  state  papers 
p  suing  her.  Thus,  of  all  the  laborious  pro- 
fefions  in  the  world,  that  of  constitutional 
irrnarch  may  be  reckoned  among  the  most 
aiuous  ;  nor  are  the  pageants  of  the  court  the 
liter  parts  of  the  work, — the  shows  and  cere- 


monies to  which  the  presence  of  the  Queen 
lends  dignity,  are  not  at  all  matters  of  play  to 
the  principal  figures.  If  ever  the  Queen  risked 
her  popularity  for  a  moment,  it  was  when  she 
intermitted  these  regal  appearances  and  gave 
up  the  shows  of  state.  No  one  can  be  more 
popular  than  the  Princess  of  Wales,  of  whose 
beauty  the  English  people  are  proud,  and 
whose  amiability  is  one  of  the  dogmas  of  the 
national  creed:  yet  when  that  fair  and  be- 
loved Princess  takes  for  her  Majesty  the 
fatiguing  and  unmeaning  duty  of  a  drawing- 
room,  there  is  a  general  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment. The  English  public  is  without  bowels 
in  this  respect,  and  would  have  the  Queen 
do  everything.  To  stand  for  hours  and  see 
the  fair  procession  file  past,  and  extend  a 
hand  to  be  kissed,  or  acknowledge  a  courtesy 
in  monotonous  succession, — to  form  the  most 
important  part  in  a  state  procession,  mar- 
shaled and  regulated  by  anxious  care  as  if  it 
were  an  affair  of  the  most  vital  national  im- 
portance,—  even  to  drive  at  a  foot's  pace 
through  innumerable  streets,  and  bow  to  cheer- 
ing throngs  for  hours  together, — involve  a 
strain  of  nerves  and  muscles  and  an  amount  of 
bodily  fatigue  which  would  break  down  many 
a  humbler  woman.  But  all  this  is  in  the 
day's  work,  in  addition  to  her  far  more  impor- 
tant duties,  for  the  Queen.  The  most  severe 
critic  has  never  asserted  that  she  neglected 
the  greater  affairs  of  state ;  but  she  has  shrunk, 
as  we  all  know,  from  some  of  the  lighter  ones, 
though  never  with  the  consent  of  her  people. 
There  were  many  younger  and  more  beautiful 
in  the  procession  which  passed  up  the  noble 
nave  of  St.  George's,  ushered  by  gorgeous  med- 
iaeval heralds,  on  the  last  occasion  of  a  royal 
marriage,  but  none  that  fixed  the  crowd  like 
the  one  small  figure  walking  alone,  with  the 
miniature  crown  (not  the  one  worn  in  the  front- 
ispiece, but  a  model  of  the  couronne  fermee, 
the  royal  crown  of  a  reigning  sovereign)  in  a 
white  blaze  of  diamonds  upon  her  head,  above 
the  wedding  veil  which  she  had  worn  at  her 
own  marriage,  and  which  now,  folded  back 
from  her  mature  maternal  countenance,  fell 
over  the  black  dress  of  her  widowhood,  which 
she  never  changes  for  any  ceremonial. 

"On  her  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent, 
To  her  each  lady's  look  was  lent." 

Much  of  the  divinity  which  hedged  a  king 
has  disappeared  in  these  days ;  loyalty  as  a 
sentiment  is  rather  laughed  at  than  otherwise 
(though  we  believe  it  exists  as  strong  and 
genuine  as  ever,  at  least  in  England) ;  but  yet 
there  is  something  beyond  the  mere  respect 
for  a  good  woman  which  inspires  this  universal 
feeling. 

When  the  period  which  will  be  known  in 


72 

history  as  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria  is  as 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and  the  historical 
critic,  looking  back,  sums  up  her  character 
with  the  same  impartiality,  it  will  probably  be 
upon  the  great  grief,  which  has  made  two 
distinct  chapters  of  her  existence,  that  the 
regard  of  posterity  will  chiefly  fall.  Queen 
Anne  was  a  much  less  interesting  woman  in 
her  own  personality,  although  her  surround- 
ings and  her  favorites  have  afforded  large 
scope  for  animadversion ;  but  the  tragedy  of 
her  life,  the  loss  of  her  children,  though  a 
dumb  and  dull  one  according  to  her  nature, 
must  always  create  a  certain  sympathy  for 
her.  The  tragedy  of  Queen  Victoria's  life  is 
more  clearly  upon  the  records.  As  it  recedes 
into  the  distance  and,  apart  from  all  gossip, 
the  spectator  of  the  future  looks  back  upon 
the  story,  with  what  interest  will  he  see 
the  triumphant,  prosperous,  happy  career 
interrupted  in  its  midst :  one  of  these  two 
royal  companions  suddenly  falling  in  his 
prime,  and  the  other  unprepared,  unwarned, 
stricken  to  the  heart,  lifting  up  her  hands  in 
an  appeal  to  heaven  and  earth  with  that 
astonishment  of  grief  which  is  one  of  its 
bitterest  ingredients, —  then  rising,  as  every 
mourner  must,  going  on  again  with  reluctant 
steps,  shrouded  and  silenced  in  that  calam- 
ity which  has  taken  half  of  herself  away, 
for  a  long  time  stumbling  along  the  dark- 
ened path,  and  never,  though  serenity  and 
calm  come  with  the  years,  putting  aside  for 
a  moment  the  sense  of  her  loss,  nor  ever 
feeling  that  this  is  more  than  a  part  of  her 
which  fulfills  the  duties  and  shrinks  from  the 
pageants  of  life.  When,  in  the  calm  of  the 
future,  this  picture  rises  against  the  horizon, 
it  will  be  the  point  upon  which  all  attention 
will  concentrate.  How  we  remember,  among 
the  confusing  records  of  battles  and  con- 
quests, the  few  words  in  which  it  is  recorded 
of  a  great  king  Henry,  that  after  his  son's  loss 
he  never  smiled  again.  The  Queen  has 
smiled  again  :  she  is  too  natural,  too  simple- 
hearted  to  shroud  herself  in  an  artificial 
solemnity;  but  the  two  parts  of  her  life  are 
distinctly  marked,  and  the  calamity  which 
separated  them  cannot,  by  any  who  contem- 
plate her  history,  ever  be  forgotten. 

Her  touching  and  brief  contribution  to  the 
literature  of  this  history  will  never  cease  to 
interest  the  historical  student.  There  she  tells 
the  story  of  her  love  with  a  simplicity  which 
is  above  criticism.  I  am  aware  that  a  great 
many  adventitious  circumstances  must  be 
taken  into  consideration  when  we  estimate 
the  immediate  effect  produced  by  such  a 
work.  A  Princess  publishes  a  birthday  book 
in  which  there  is  nothing  of  the  least  impor- 
tance, and  it  has  a  success  beyond  that  of  any 


QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


work  of  genius,  because  the  Princess  has  done 
it.  That  is  one  thing,  but  the  Queen's  work 
is  another.  It  is  not  a  great  literary  achieve- 
ment, but  it  has  all  the  truth  and  genuine 
feeling  and  unadorned  sincerity  which  make 
any  human  record  valuable.  The  historian  ir 
after  days  will  resort  to  it  with  eagerness  ;  hJ 
will  quote  it  entire  ;  it  will  be  to  him  the  mos1 
wonderful  material,  the  most  valuable  addition 
to  his  work.  We  will  not  ask  to  judge  it  a^ 
we  judge  George  Eliot  ;  but  we  may  be  peri 
mitted  to  say  of  it,  in  its  perfect  simplicity 
something  like  what  has  been  said  of  RafaePl 
sonnets  and  Dante's  angel  by  a  great  poet,— 
and  he  never  wrote  any  lines  more  beautifir 
and  more  true  : 

"  This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  notj 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize!)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 

Using  nature  that  's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that  's  turned  his  natud 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  —   \ 

Does  he  paint?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem,—  *j 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture,    ] 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only." 

This  is  what,  without  any  pretensions,M 
claim  to  excellence  in  the  "  art  alien  torn 
artist's,"  has  been  done  by  the  Queen. 

She  has  reached  the  calm  of  distance,.^ 
the  soothing  influence  of  age  has,  perhaj 
begun  to  touch  the  unbroken  vigor  offl 
life.  And  it  is  of  itself  at  once  amusing  aj 
touching  to  conclude  the  few  pages  which  ajj 
intended  to  accompany  the  portrait  of  am 
of  nineteen  by  repeating,  that  the  position  jj 
Queen  Victoria  is  now  that  of  one  of  the  ml 
experienced  and  instructed  statesmen  of 
age;  one  of  the  natural  governors  andJ 
ereigns  —  not  by  absolute  power,  but  b 
knowledge  and  the  force  of  judicious  couna 
and  large  acquaintance  with  the  practica 
working  of  human  affairs  for  very  nearly  hal 
a  century.* 

M.  a  W. 


*  The^writer  of  this  short  sketch  would  be  gladjj 
be  permitted  to  make  a  personal  explanation.    • 
was  persuaded  some  years  ago  to  write  a  sort  ofb 
raphy  of  the  Queen,  to  accompany  a  number  of  jj 
ures  in   a  popular   newspaper,  of  which,  as  ita 
written  only  in  that  view  as  a  newspaper  articles  . 
prevented   any   republication   in    England.      But 
America,  owing  to  the  state  of  the  law,  an   Englis 
writer  is  helpless,  and  accordingly,  without  her  S3 
tion,  the  newspaper  article,  intended  for  the  merw 
of  the  moment  and  to  form  the  accompanying  let 
press  to  a  number  of  engravings,  has  been  republish 
in  America  under  the  formal  title  of  the  Life  olj 
Queen.     It  is  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  contingei 
cies  of  the  absence  of  any  copyright  law,  that  a  wr 
is  thus  prevented  from  determining  which  of  his 
ductions  are  to  be  given  in  a  permanent  form  to 
public. 


fOL.  XXVII,— 8. 


GLIMPSES    OF    PARIS. 


Go  where  you  may,  I  defy  you  to  find  any 
scene  more  exhilarating  than  the  Paris  boule- 
vards. Naples  is  not  to  be  compared  to  them, 
although  that  Italian  capital  has  advantages 
in  bay,  sky,  landscape,  and  in  the  animation 
and  loquacity  of  its  streets,  which  Paris  does 
not  possess.  But  then  Naples  has  its  Vesu- 
vius, which  is  continually  intruding  upon 
the  feast  of  life  with  a  memento  mori.  Now, 
the  charm  of  Paris  is,  that  on  the  boule- 
vards life  seems  eternal.  You  remember  the 
story  of  the  brawny  young  English  girl  under 
sentence  of  death.  Baring  her  arms  and 
breast  on  the  eve  of  her  execution-day,  and 
striking  them  with  conscious  health  and 
strength,  she  exclaimed  :  "  It  is  not  possible 
I  shall  be  a  corpse  to-morrow!  I  don't — I 
can't  believe  it !  "  This  is  the  sort  of  feeling 
engendered  on  the  boulevards.  You  cannot 
believe  there  that  Death  has  entered  the 
world.  You  could  as  easily  expect  people  to 
tremble  at  a  ghost  story  told  in  summer's 
noon.  Life  reigns  there.  Mammon  is  its  god. 
In  Paris  you  hear  of  nothing  but  earth.  At 
funerals  the  dirges  transport  you  to  the  opera- 
houses.  There  is  nothing  in  the  streets  which 
challenges  reflection.  Vice  floats  as  the  ma- 
laria lurks  above  the  Pontine  marshes.  You 
see  nothing  but  objects  of  admiration  —  the 
lovely  sky,  the  splendid  houses,  the  broad 
avenues  filled  with  idle  animation. 

There  is  no  prettier  sight  in  Paris,  unless 
perhaps  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  should  be 
excepted,  than  the  Avenue  de  1'Observatoire. 
Southward  lies  the  massive  Observatory,  pre- 
ceded by  an  avenue  of  horse-chestnuts,  so 
thickly  planted  one  is  chilled  under  them  even 
in  the  dog-days.  East  is  the  new  broad  Bou- 
levard du  Port-Royal,  with  all  that  is  left  of 
the  famous  convent  associated  with  memories 
of  the  great  family  of  Arnauld,  with  Pascal, 
Racine,  Nicole.  It  is  now  a  lying-in  hospital, 
and  has  the  unenviable  reputation  of  being 
the  hospital  of  Paris  with  the  greatest  mortal- 
ity. The  boulevard  is  a  gentle  declivity  to  the 
river.  West  is  the  Boulevard  Denfert  Roche- 
reau,  ended  by  the  colossal  bronze  Belfort 
Lion,  and  with  the  Foundling  Hospital  and 
Visitation  Convent  near  its  commencement  at 
the  Avenue  de  1'Observatoire.  North  lies  Car- 
peaux's  last  public  monument,  at  the  end  of 
the  Luxembourg  Garden ;  back  of  it  are  four 
lines  of  horse-chestnuts,  with  grass,  flowers, 
statues,  marble  vases,  marble  pillars  between 
them,  all  the  walks  animated  by  people  seated, 


by  people  walking,  by  children  at  play, — a 
great  public  drawing-room  in  the  open  air,  j 
garden-party  given  daily,  an  ever-changing,  re 
volving  kaleidoscope ;  all  these  sights,  togethe- 
with  Carpeaux's  fountain,  madly  tossing  tor 
rents  of  water  in  every  direction  till  they  brea 
in  silver  spray,  make  this  scene  one  of  thi 
prettiest  in  Paris.  I  have  never  admired  thj 
group  which  surmounts  Carpeaux's  fountair 
The  catalogue  of  the  Fine  Arts  Exhibition  o] 
1872  describes  it  as  the  four  parts  of  earth  upj 
holding  the  sphere ;  but  it  is  generally  calleji 
the  four  seasons  bearing  the  sphere,  and  is  thj 
only  piece  gof  sculpture  in  the  world  whid 
represents  women  as  beasts  of  burden. 

Who  has  not  seen  an  engraving  of  Rosa 
Bonheur's  "  Horse  Market,"  the  great  mail 
at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevards  St.  Marcu 
and  de  1'Hopital  ?  It  is  not  as  animated  as  | 
was  when  she  depicted  it.  The  better  horsf \ 
are  taken  to  the  French  Tattersalls  in  til 
Rue  de  Ponthieu.  Now,  a  buyer  in  broad 
cloth  is  rarely  seen  in  the  corner  market  j 
blue  smock-shirts  have  it  all  to  themselves 
The  scene,  however,  is  still  animated.  Lor 
strings  of  horses  come  and  go,  all  with  I 
wisp  of  straw  under  their  tails  (a  sign  thel^ 
are  to  be  sold), — these  with  orange,  those  wit| 
red,  others  with  blue  blankets,  as  the  ownjl 
thinks  this  or  that  color  best  sets  off  his  hors.l 
Mules  are  rare.  Donkeys  and  ponies  a 
plenty.  I  have  seen  Newfoundland  do^j 
larger  than  some  of  the  ponies.  Second-harr 
harness,  saddlery,  and  vehicles  of  every  M 
scription  are  also  on  sale.  All  this  trad 
in  the  hands  of  Normans,  who  are  fam 
throughout  France  for  sharpness. 

Many  people  find  Paris  a  labyrinth  wl 
makes  no  impression  at  first ;  but  try  to  le 
it!  Wasn't  it  Madame  de  Stael  vcho  sai< 
"  Paris  is  of  all  places  on  earth  the  p 
where  one  can  best  do  without  happine 
Of  course,  Necker's  daughter  had  mone 
her  purse.  There  is  no  part  of  Paris  wl 
I  pace  with  more  delight  than  the  out-of-tb 
way  quarter  east  of  the  Rue  Pascal,  south 
the  Boulevard  St.  Marcel.  It  was  still  m 
picturesque  before  this  boulevard  d 
sweeping  away  narrow,  tortuous  streets 
their  old  houses,  all  wall  on  the  street,  £ 
one  or  two  windows  with  iron  bars,  an< 
thick  oaken  door  with  ajudas,  and  a  kno<: 
which  none  but  men  strong  enough  to  1 
armor  could  lift.  Is  not  the  "Judas' 
named?  It  was  designed  to  protect 


fdas" 

K, 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


75 


lates    of  a  house  from    traitors  who    came  thirty  inches  wide  filled  with  lazy  slime,  whose 

i    friendly  disguise.     A   judas  is    a    square  surface  is   all  white  with  foam,  save'  where 

:on    lattice  with    such    small    spaces  in  the  larger  bubbles  of  noxious  gas  drowsily  float 

tietal  that  no  weapon  could  be  thrust  through  There  is  no  visible  current.    If  there  be  no 

hem  while    the    warder  was    reconnoitering  tanners  or  tawers,  with  long  poles  beating 


A    FOUNTAIN     IN    THE    LUXEMBOURG. 


e  visitor.     Some  "  judases  "  have  a  double 
tice ;  all  have  an  iron  flap  inside  to  keep 
quisitive  eyes  from  prying  into  the  house 
d  yard.    In  this  part  of  Paris  live  all  tan- 
rs    and   tawers   and   their  kindred.    Here, 
,  slink  all  of  the  shipwrecked  who  wish  to 
le  from  eyes  which  once  saw  them,  all  sails 
st,  sailing  on  summer  seas.    Who  visits  those 
S'eets  ?    Nobody  who   is    anybody.    There 
[j;  the  haunts  of  Italian   models,  itinerant 
•usicians,    monkey-masters,    organ-grinders, 
(imney-sweeps.    It  is  a  picturesque  sight  to 
jsp  them  in  winter,  soon  after  nightfall,  hud- 
Cid    around  the   fitful   fires  of  some    stithy 
(ley  are  common  in  this  quarter),  now  all 
'alow  with  the  fanned  coals,  presently  softened 
tj  shadows  during  the  nap  of  the  bellows.    It 
\\  picturesque  by  day,    looking   for  all    the 
^rld    like   some  nook  of  Venice  or  some 
crner  of  Amsterdam.    Just  behind  the  stone 
vp  on    the    right,   near   which    an    Italian 
njdelis  standing  (her  costume  betrays  nativity 
ap  calling)  basking  in  the  sun,  and  on  which 
apundress  is  resting  as  she  chews  the  cud  of 
steet  and  bitter  fancy, — just  behind  this  wall 
s^ps  the  Bievre  "river,"  an  open  sewer  about 


measures  of  St.  Vitus's  dance  and  making 
the  skins  tied  to  those  batons  keep  the  frantic 
time,  be  sure  the  "  river's  "  banks  are  filled 
with  laundresses,  sunken  to  the  waist  in  stone 
holes  or  in  wooden  barrels,  that  their  arms 
may  be  nearer  the  water's  level.  Presently 
we  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Pantheon,  looming 
high  above  houses  which  rise  terrace-like.  It 
seems  to  fill  all  the  north-western  horizon. 
Here  are  no  sidewalks.  Vehicles  never  enter, 
except  wagons  with  green  hides,  or  tan- 
bark,  or  leather.  In*  the  street's  middle  is 
the  kennel  filled  with  inky  water.  Stone 
posts,  such  as  are  seen  in  our  picture,  keep 
vehicles  at  a  respectful  distance  from  houses. 
Though  policemen  now  closely  scan  well- 
dressed  men  seen  in  this  quarter,  it  had  its 
days  of  splendor.  The  palace  in  which  Queen 
Blanche  lived  and  died  is  here,  and  is  still 
standing, —  a  noble  edifice,  now  divided  into 
lodgings  and  let  to  tanners'  clerks.  It  must 
be  cold  and  damp,  for  it  is  sunless,  as  it  faces 
north,  and  is  at  the  back  of  a  yard.  Here 
and  there  are  massive  carved  stone  portals 
mantled  with  traditions  of  high-born  lords 
and  ladies  and  their  revelries.  Now  it  is  the 


76 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


HORSE-DEALERS. 


most  savage  quarter  of  Paris.  The  Faubourg  St. 
Marcel  is  now  what  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine 
was  in  the  first  French  Revolution.  Nowhere 
was  the  fighting  more  merciless  than  here  in 
the  days  of  June  and  during  the  Commune. 
Their  beau  ideal  of  government  is  anarchy. 
Their  model  society  is  nihilism.  While  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Marcel  is  full  of  poor  people  and 
of  the  working  classes,  it  has  not  many  beg- 
gars. It  holds  more  men  who  would  knock 
you  down,  more  women  who  would  throttle 
you,  to  strip  you  of  watch  and  purse,  than 
people  who  would  outstretch  a  hand  for  alms. 
The  latter  abound  in  the  Faubourg  St.  An- 
toine. Few  beggars  are  to  be  met  in  Paris, 
except  at  church  doors  when  a  costly  funeral 
or  marriage  is  to  take  place  within  the  sacred 
edifice.  Fewer  still  are  ill-dressed  :  a  French- 
man's first  thought  is  for  show ;  substance 
comes  afterward.  Beggars  of  offensive  appear- 
ance are  rare.  They  are  to  be  seen  in  the  re- 
moter quarters,  in  neighborhoods  where  the 
working  classes  live,  and  where  charity  is  not 
roused  unless  some  gong  is  sounded.  Moans, 
like  "out  of  work,"  "no  bread  at  home,"  "ill- 
ness in  the  house,"  find  deaf  ears  in  those  neigh- 
borhoods, for  there  such  trying  times  come 
often,  and  are  not  thought  to  warrant  piteous 
cry  and  outstretched  hand.  But  rags,  hands 


which   have  lost  their   cunning,  legs   whic 
refuse   their   office,    melt  hearts    and  loosei 
purse-strings    in    labor's    haunts,    for    then| 
all   know  that  when  toil  ends  wretchednes] 
begins.    The  poor  man's  mite  is  rarely  d( 
nied  such  woe  as  is  represented  in  our  wooq 
cut,  crouching  under  a  door  of  the  Rue  d 
Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  where  nine -tenths  cj 
the  Parisian  cabinet-makers  and  upholstereij 
live  and  work,  and  to  whom  "Uncle"  Lai 
arus's  dumb-show  is  rarely  a  vain  appeal. 
Paris  exercises  its  fascination  still  more 
the  French,  even  of  the  lower  classes,  than 
the  foreigner.    The  French  are  fond  of  con 
pany.    You  see  this  in  a  map  of  their  coun 
It   has  more  villages  than  any   other  Ian 
Nobody  lives  in  the  champaign.    Everybo 
is  huddled  in  hamlets.    The  plowman  pi 
miles  to  his  furrow  that  both  elbows  may  tou 
elbows  when    the  hours   of  toil  are  end 
The  stage  directions  Moliere   added  to  o 
of  his  plays  exhibit  his  countrymen's  opin 
of  the  country  :    "  The  stage  represents  a 
ral  scene,  but  nevertheless  agreeable." 
was  the  scene-painter's  business.    Paris  is 
cinating  to  the  French  because  it  offers  a  ce<"S 
less  round  of  company.    Again,  in  Paris  th 
are  none  of  those  social  restrictions,  vesti 
of  more  aristocratic  days,  which  chainec 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


77 


vorking-girl  to  cap  and  woolen  dress,  the 
orkman  to  smock-shirt  and  cap.  In  Paris 
tie  former  may  wear  the  coveted  bonnet  and 
ilk  dress,  the  latter  may  don  what  clothes  his 
iurse  can  provide,  without  challenging  any 
motion  but  envy.  Besides,  the  see-saw  of 
Drtune,  is  observed  by  no  eye,  which  is  a 
reat  relief  to  vanity.  Moreover,  hospital  and 
Imonry  open  portal  and  purse  with  a  facility 
rhich  the  provinces  never  know. 


of  dust  out  of  the  window  upon  the  luckless 
servant  of  the  first  floor. 

There  is  more  unhappiness,  less  happiness, 
in  Paris  than  in  any  other  place  on  earth.  There 
can  be  no  happiness  where  houses  are  built 
as  dove-cotes  and  families  are  huddled  like 
pigeons.  Did  you  ever  read  Dickens's  de- 
scription of  a  London  rookery  tenanted  by 
Irish  ?  It  is  a  true  picture  of  the  incessant 
warfare  waged  in  Paris  houses. 


ST.    ANTOINE     BEGGARS. 


This  fascination  of  Paris  will  be  still  greater 

the  French  as  the  revolution  of  progress 

>es  on.    The  Parisians  themselves  are  get- 

ig  tired  of  their  many-storied  houses.*    The 

ople  of  the  provinces,  and  especially  those 

French  Flanders  and  of  the  counties  on  the 

srrnan  and  Swiss  borders,  say  (it  is  a  proverb 

th  them)  :  "  A  Paris  house  is  a  hell."    Life 

one  long  quarrel  in  most  of  them.    Tenants 

just  put  up  with  a  great  many  annoyances, 

i  they  would  not  be  constantly  in  hot  water. 

j  Frenchman  once  told  me  that  a  servant  of 

te  story  below  him  complained  that  his  foot- 

nn  threw  dust  out  of  the  window,  and  ap- 

I  aled  to  the  hall-porter  to  stop  it.  The  serv- 

i  ts  of  the  higher  stories  heard  the  complaint 

3d  resented  it.     All  of  them  threw  bushels 

"  Everybody  who  has  any  talent  of  observation  and 
«y  knowledge  of  Parisian  manners  and  customs 
1J3WS  that  now  house-rent  has  become  the  greatest 
ebense  of  wealthy  people,  in  consequence  of  the  gen- 
y.  and  very  moral  taste,  which  is  daily  become  wider 
Stead,  for  having  a  house  of  one's  own,  and  with  no 
Hants  but  one's  own  family."—'-  Journal  des  Debats," 
wee.,  1878. 


Frenchmen  and  Frenchwomen  have  a  way 
of  insulting  people  which  makes  chastise- 
ment impossible.  One  day,  a  well-dressed 
woman  of  eighteen  entered  the  train  for  Ver- 
sailles. The  coach  was  two-thirds  full  of 
Frenchmen  and  Frenchwomen.  I  was  the 
only  foreigner.  As  the  new-comer  entered, 
a  scrawny,  brazen-faced,  faded,  ill-dressed 
woman,  seated  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
coach,  looked  out  of  the  window  next  her 
and  said,  in  a  very  loud  tone :  "  Another 
chick-weed  seller !  "  Had  she  been  taken  to 
task  for  her  insolence,  she  would  have  sworn 
by  everything  held  sacred  that  her  ejaculation 
was  called  forth  by  seeing  a  chick-weed  seller 
walking  on  the  farther  side  of  the  station, 
and  that,  so  f|tr  from  intending  to  apply  it  to 
the  new-comer,  she  had  not  so  much  as  seen 
the  latter  enter  the  coach.  The  Frenchmen 
and  Frenchwomen  giggled;  it  was  a  cow- 
ardly insult,  just  after  their  hearts,  for  it  could 
not  be  avenged.  Parisian  streets  are  filled 
with  decayed  women,  who,  in  the  heyday  of 
their  prosperity,  gave  no  heed  to  darker  days 


78 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


(their  coming  undreamt  of),  and  who,  at  life's 
twilight,  are  obliged  to  sell  chick-weed  or  to 
become  rag-pickers  to  fill  mouth  and  cover 
back  till  borne  to  the  hospital  for  the  last  time. 
The  insolent  hag's  meaning  was  that  the  new- 


lapiri],  coming  from  the  Champs  Elysees,  as 
she  crosses  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  meets  a 
music^teacher  on  her  way  to  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain  to  give  lessons.  As  is  a  red  pen- 
non to  a  bull,  so  is  a  tidy  dress  to  a  hag. 


IN    THE     STREET. 


comer  was  doomed  to  this  fate,  for  she  put 
all  her  money  on  her  back.  The  cowardly 
shaft  struck,  and  the  poor  young  woman 
turned  crimson.  I  left  the  train  at  Asnieres. 
It  was  her  destination,  too.  I  gave  her  my 
hand  as  she  alighted.  When  out  of  the  sta- 
tion and  in  the  street,  she  showed  a  green 
cushion,  such  as  lace-makers  use,  held  up  the 
delicate  "  woven  wind  "  on  it,  ^nd  said,  in  a 
voice  still  trembling  with  emotion  :  "As  long 
as  I  have  these  lissome  fingers  I  need  fear 
no  chick-weed  basket !  "  Our  wood-cut  repre- 
sents just,  such  another  scene.  The  hag  on 
the  left,  a  buyer  of  rabbit-skins  and  odds  and 
ends  (there  is  no  cry  of  Paris  so  unintelligible 
to  foreign  ears  as  her  Peaudpain  for  Peaitx  de 


She  vents  her  spite  by  whispering  an  insuW 
The  music-teacher  casts  an  indignant  glanpl 
at  her ;  nothing  more  can  be  done.  Who  call 
touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled  ? 

The  Place  de  la  Concorde  is  one  of  tbl 
most  beautiful  squares  of  Paris.  The  readol 
sees  in  front  of  him  the  Rue  Roy  ale,  with  tbl 
Madeleine  Church  in  the  distance;  on  th 
right  corner  of  the  Rue  Royale  is  the  Navy  D$ 
partment;  on  the  left,  its  very  counterpart,  1<) 
out  as  lodgings.  On  the  right  is  the  Tuileru 
Garden ;  on  the  left,  the  Champs  Ely 
The  Place  de  la  Concorde  itself  is  beai 
with  its  fountains,  obelisk,  allegorical  sta 
of  chief  French  cities,  rostral  and  other  la 
posts,  on  which  gilding  has  been  lavishec 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


79 


irong  of  promenaders  and  greater  throng 
f  vehicles.  At  night  it  fairly  glows,  so  many 
re  its  lighted  lamps. 

Would  you  know  to  whom  we  owe  a  great 

art  of  this  beauty  ?    Glance  at  the  engraving 

n  page    80.    It  represents  "  a   fairy."    The 

Dvely  arrangement    of  trees,  the   incessant 

ound  of  flowers  which  delight  us  from  one 

ear's  end  to  another,  their  skillful  grouping, 

ic  wonderful  or  beautiful  mosaic  of  plants 

ith  colored  leaves,  the  well-trimmed  lawns, 

roken  only  by  Pampas  grass  in  tufts, — all 

tiese  pleasures  we  owe  to  the  gardener.    He 

seated  on  a  marble  bench  in  what  was  once 

ic  private  garden  of  the  Tuileries.    He  for- 

ets  the  beds  of  monthly  roses,  the  violets, 

ododendrons,  and  other  floral  wealth  of  this 

,rden.    He  is  gazing  on  the  workmen  busy 

tearing  down  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries 

d  the  vehicles  passing  along  the  street,  for 

broad  street  has  been  made  through  the 

rivate  garden. 

There  have  always  been    in    Paris   many 
ore  houses  occupied  by  only  one   family 
an   foreigners  commonly  suppose.    Again, 
any  other  families  are  housed  substantially  as 
they  were  the  only  tenants  under  the  roof 
hich  covers  them.  Shop-keepers,  for  instance, 
ho  live  on  the  ground-floor,  with  the  half-floor 
ove  as  lodgings  and  the  cellar  below  for 
ne- vault     and     coal-cellar,    are  "as    com- 
etely  independent   as   if  the    whole   house 
sre  tenanted    by    them    alone.     They   go, 
ey  come,  they  receive  whom  they  please, 
thout   attracting   anybody's   attention.     A 
eat  many  artists   enjoy   similar   independ- 
(|ce.    Their   studio   occupies   two-thirds   of 
t|e  space   rented.    Their  lodgings   are  back 
d   it.    The    studio    is    so    high-pitched    it 
nches    to    the    ceiling     of    the    half-floor 
sove;    back   of  the    studio    the   artist   has 
Ichen  and  dining-room  on  the  ground-floor, 
Id-chambers  on  the  half-floor  above.    These 
jSidios,  like  shops,  are  rented  on  condition 
.tit  six  months'  rent  be  paid  in  advance,  and 
8  ^sequent  quarters'  rent  on  the  usual  rent 
jc  ys,  as  collateral  security  that  the  tenant  will 
rt  disappear  with  all  his  household  goods 
fene  dark  night.    In  all  the    uncommercial 
sects   the   ground-floor  is  let  for  lodgings. 
nese  have  no  door  on  the  street  (as  shops 
a  i  studios  have) ;  their  windows  are  grated ; 
35  there  is  no  danger  of  the  tenants'  disappear- 
aj:e  against  the  landlord's  will ;  hence,  their 
rjt  is  not   paid  in  advance.    Their  tenants 
almost  as  independent  as  if  they  were 
s  occupants  of  the  house  of  six  stories. 
The   number  of  private    houses  tenanted 
b  one  family  is  also  much  greater  than  for- 
einers    imagine.    These   houses    are   of  all 
cteses,  from  the  mansions  of  the  Faubourg  St. 


Germain  and  avenues  near  the  Triumphal 
Arch  to  the  cozy  Anglo-American  houses 
(planned  by  Napoleon  III.)  of  the  Rue  de 
1'Elysee,  down  to  the  petty  lodges  in  the  Rue 
Bezout  and  its  neighborhood.  I  have  been 
offered  a  house  of  the  latter  class  for  $160  a 
year.  The  house  has  a  yard,  plentiful  water, 
excellent  cellars,  a  ground-floor,  a  "first"  floor, 
and  a  garret, — really  a  very  snug  abode,  with- 
in two  minutes  of  Montparnasse  station,  where 
pass  five  lines  of  tramways  and  innumerable 
omnibuses. 

Railways  and  tramways,  which  now  reach 
almost  every  suburban  village,  have  led  a 
great  many  people  to  move  to  the  country. 
Here  a  whole  cottage  may  be  had  for  less 
than  the  cost  of  lodgings  in  Paris.  Families 
where  children  are  numerous  are  almost 
goaded  to  these  suburban  villages,  for  Paris- 
ian landlords  are  most  inhospitable  to  infants. 
One  is  constantly  told  as  one  negotiates  for 
lodgings  :  "  If  you  have  a  dog,  or  a  cat,  or  a 
bird,  or  a  piano,  or  children,  or  a  sewing- 
machine,  we  cannot  let  to  you."  Grass  asks 
no  questions. 

Another  way  to  secure  almost  all  the  inde- 
pendence enjoyed  in  our  American  houses  is 
to  take  lodgings  in  a  small  house.  There  are 
thousands  of  houses  which  contain  only  three 
families;  and  as  these  houses  are  sought  by 


8o 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


THE  "FAIRY"  OF  THE  TUILERIES  GARDEN. 


people  fond  of  a  quiet  and  independent  life, 
they  are  noiseless.  Moreover,  being  small  in 
every  way,  no  large  family  can  live  in  them. 
I  have  tor  years  lived  in  a  house  where  we 
were  only  six  persons  all  told.  These  small 
houses  are  really  like  clubs.  Their  tenants 
rarely  change.  My  lodgings,  for  instance, 
have  had  only  two  tenants  in  forty  years. 
My  predecessor  took  them  when  the  house 
was  built,  and  quitted  them  solely  because 
the  landlord  doubled  the  rent.  In  these  small 
houses  tenants  have  known  each  other  for 
years,  and  show  a  forbearance  toward  each 
other  never  found  in  larger  houses,  where 
every  three  months  somebody  leaves  and  a 
new  neighbor  comes.  Again,  this  union  of 
tenants  makes  them  all-powerful  in  the  house, 
and  keeps  the  hall-porter  their  very  humble 


servant;    he  holds  office  at   their   good-wil 
and  pleasure. 

A  great  many  of  these  small  houses  V 
rented  by  two  families.     I   have    time   am' 
again  been  asked  to  join  another  tenant  a 
co-tenant  of   one  of  these  houses.    The  aij 
rangement  would  have   added  only  $60 
year  to  my  house-rent.     The  hall-porter  i 
.  discarded.    A  common  letter-box  is  added  t 
the  front  door.     Each  tenant   has  his  ow 
door-bell.     One  may  live  very  cheaply  an 
comfortably  in  this  way. 

One  now  constantly  sees  in   Paris 
papers  this  advertisement :    "  To   be   let. 
large  set  of  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  formin 
a  private  mansion ;  five  large  bed-chamber, 
five  dressing-rooms,  a  smoking-room,  a  diniiu 
room,  two  drawing-rooms,  ball-room,  st 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


81 


STREET    IN    OLD     PARIS. 


oach- house,  cellars,  water,  gas,  private  yard, 
)r  $1200  a  year."  This  privacy  is  secured 
y  a  very  simple  artifice,  which  may  be  indi- 
ated  roughly  as  follows,  though  not  in  the 
roper  proportions : 


L  (.arnage-way  and  street  door  of  first  floor. 

»  Carriage-way  and  street  door  common  to  all  other  floors. 

\,  Staircase  to  first  floor  with  hall-porter's  lodge. 

i)  Common  staircase  and  common  hall-porter's  lodge. 

'.  First  floor's  stable  and  coach-house. 

f  First  floor's  private  yard.      G  Common  yard. 

By    this     arrangement,    all    ground-floor, 
tresol,   and  first-floor  lodgings  are  substan- 
ly  as  private  as  if  they  were  respectively 
many  private  houses. 
VOL.  XXVII.— q. 


In  mansions,  each  floor  is  a  complete  house 
in  itself.  Each  floor  contains  two  or  three 
drawing-rooms,  many  bed-chambers  (each 
with  its  own  dressing-room),  a  billiard-room, 
a  study,  a  dining-room,  a  bath-room,  a  kitch- 
en, a  state  staircase  and  a  servants'  staircase 
(these  are  common  to  the  whole  house). 
Breakfast  is  invariably  served  in  the  bed- 
chamber. All  the  members  of  the  family 
meet  only  at  lunch  and  at  dinner. 

When  I  came  to  observe  the  conditions  of 
Paris  life,  I  was  amazed  at  the  better  air  and 
greater  privacy  the  rich  enjoy  here.  The 
wealthier  classes  of  New  York  possess  no 
such  advantages.  I  could  mention  street  after 
street  where  householders  (by  which  I  mean 
tenants  on  each  floor)  may  throw  front  and 
back  windows  wide  open  without  fear  of 
peering  eyes  opposite. 

In  front  of  these  houses  is  a  large  yard 
with  buildings  (stables,  offices,  coach-houses) 
a  story  and  a  half  high.  The  houses  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street  have  similar  yards 
and  buildings  in  front,  of  them.  The  houses 
on  each  side  of  the  street  are  so  far  removed 


82 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


from  this  thoroughfare,  that  the  low  buildings  neath   them,  rarely    grass,   still  more   rarely 

in  the  front   yard   completely  intercept   the  flowers.    You  see  nothing  but  sodden  earth 

view.    The  carriage-way  is  always  closed  by  covered  with  weeds. 

massive  doors  eighteen  or  twenty  feet  high.        This  quiet  and  privacy  are  pleasing.    You 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  how  completely  seem  to  be  buried  in  some  rural  park.    And 


PUBLIC    BENCHES. 


all  street  noises  are  shut  out  by  this  arrange- 
ment. The  streets  where  these  mansions  are 
to  be  found  are  not  noisy ;  but  even  in  the 
Bibliotheque  Nationale,  when  the  Rue  Riche- 
lieu was  twenty  times  more  noisy  than  it 
now  is  (then  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera  was  un- 
opened), I  have  often  been  astonished  at  the 
rural  quiet  students  enjoyed  in  its  reading- 
room.  There  was  not  heard  the  least  rumble 
of  the  street's  ceaseless  traffic.  Marshal  Von 
Moltke,  in  his  recently  published  letters  to 
his  wife,  makes  a  similar  remark  about  the 
quiet  of  the  Tuileries. 

Back  of  all  houses  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  garden  abuts  on  garden  on  three 
sides.  I  ought  rather  to  say  grove  than  gar- 
den. There  is  nothing  but  trees.  They  are 
planted  as  thickly  as  they  can  be.  They  are 
put  there  not  for  shade  or  for  ornament,  but 
simply  as  screens.  There  is  rarely  a  walk  be- 


yet  the  operas,  theaters,  museums,  librarjql 
boulevards,  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  aijl 
near  by. 

Few  people  imagine  the  wealth  and  splenj 
dor  of  Paris  mansions.  I  should  not  like  tj 
estimate  the  market  value  of  the  two  marbffl 
palaces  owned  by  the  Rothschilds, —  thesj 
palaces  are  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris,  in  tnl 
Rue  Laffitte,  have  large  front  yards,  and  stij 
larger  gardens, — or  of  the  late  Duke  de  Galty 
era's  mansion  in  the  Rue  de  Ararenne,  famii 
iar  to  Americans  as  the  residence  of  one  cj 
our  ministers  here,  and  of  Colonel  Thorn 
years  afterward.  But  I  do  know  that 
Baroness  de  Pontalba  spent  a  million  of  do 
lars  on  her  mansion  forty  years  ago,  an: 
every  year  added  something  to  its  beaut; 
At  her  death,  which  recently  occurred, 
Baron  Gustave  de  Rothschild  gave  a 
ion  of  dollars  for  it,  and  has  spent 


>aut 

3 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


0  more  in  fitting  it  for  habitation.    When 
e  late  Mr.  Hope  bought  his  mansion,  forty- 
years  ago  (now  well  known  as  the  Prin- 
ts de   Sagan's  home),  the  "Black  Band" 
,de  sure  of  getting  it,  and  subscribed  $50,- 
D   among    themselves    to  strip  the    bouse 
its  works  of  art  and  keep  them  in  their 

nds  for  speculation.  The  "Black  Band" 
re  a  set  of  speculators  who  clubbed  to- 
her  to  buy  valuable  houses  throughout 
ance,  strip  them  of  every  work  of  art,  then 
[  the  houses  and  divide  the  works  of  art 
ong  themselves  for  resale.  Baron  Seilliere 
ight  this  mansion  at  Mr.  Hope's  death;  it 
understood  he  gave  $800,000  for  it,  and 
it  at  a  bargain  at  this  price;  even  the 
ors  of  that  mansion  are  works  of  art. 
lie.  Lehon  paid  $27,000  for  the  paving  of 
yard  of  her  mansion  in  the  Rond- Point 
Champs  Elysees  (it  is  now  the  Italian 
bassy).  Mme.  de  Paiva  spent  above  a 
lion  on  her  mansion  in  the  same  neigh- 
rhood.  In  her  house,  every  door-knob, 
ndow-knob,  each  banister  of  the  stair- 
e,  is  of  bronze,  designed  especially  for 
•,  and  the  mold  broken  after  the  piece  was 
t.  The  stairs  and  mantel-pieces  of  this 
use  are  of  malachite. 

[t  is  extremely  interesting  to  wander  among 
:se  splendid  mansions,  built  at  different  pe- 
ds  of  time,  and  to  note  the  changes  which 
ilization  has  made  in  their  arrangements, 
e  older  houses  reveal  the  insecurity  of  the 
e  in  which  they  were  built.  A  man's  house 
now  his  castle  much  more  truly  than  when 
vas  defended  by  battlements  and  protected 
moat  and  portcullis.  Isaac  of  York  now 
ts  his  valuables  behind  plate  glass,  under  a 
-jet. 

1  saw  with   pleasure  the  hospitable  stone 
nches  let  into  the  wall    on    each    side  of 
;    portal   of    nearly  all    of   these    houses. 
's  something  to  give  the  weary  rest.    'Tis 
beginning    of    hospitality  —  or,    may    be, 
:  last  vestige  left  of  an  earlier  hospitality 
en  every  door  was  open,  a  chamber  for  silk, 

o|tces  for  rags,  and  a  hall  with  endless,  gener- 
o,  board  for  all. 

En  the  newer  and  "  improved "  parts  of 
Iris,  iron  railings  now  bar  these  antique  seats 
njm  the  wayfarer.  The  Rothschilds'  man- 
siis  alone  give  the  olden  hospitality.  Else- 
wfere,  the  public  provide  for  the  public. 
§e  seats  are  everywhere  to  be  found. 
ley  are  always  full.  Nothing  in  Paris 
a^nishes  a  stranger  more  than  the  num- 
bj  of  idlers,  of  both  sexes,  found  at  every 
tip.  One  expects  to  see  soldiers  sauntering 
etry where ;  for,  despite  Prince  von  Schwart- 
zejberg's  warning  to  Louis  Napoleon  when 

q  latter   made    his  coup  d'etat,  "You   can 


do  everything  with  bayonets  but  sit  upon 
them,"  no  Continental  government  has  yet 
been  able  to  make  for  itself  any  other  than 
this  very  expensive  and  extremely  uncomfort- 
able seat.  But  the  other  idlers  must  eat,  at 
least  sometimes  ;  must  lodge,  even  though  in 
garret;  must  cover  themselves  with  smock- 
shirt  and  trowsers  if  with  nothing  else.  Garret, 
food,  and  clothes  cost  money ;  and  even  nick- 
els cannot  be  had  without  labor.  How  do 
all  these  idlers  live?  Many  of  them  are 
thieves.  Nine-tenths  of  Parisian  workmen  ply 
their  trades  only  four  or  five  of  the  days  of 
the  week,  just  enough  to  earn  a  scanty  support. 
Hence  it  has  been  found  that  the  enormous 
increase  of  wages  of  Parisian  workmen  (it  is 
at  least  fifty  per  cent.)  has  in  no  manner  bet- 
tered their  condition.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  worse  off.  The  larger  their  daily  pay,  the 
fewer  days  they  work;  idleness  lessens  their 
skill;  toil  becomes  distasteful;  expensive 
habits  are  contracted ;  home,  wife,  and  chil- 
dren are  deserted ;  the  hospital  is  reckoned  on 
in  illness,  the  poor-house  in  old  age.  Many  a 
Frenchman's  ideal  of  earthly  bliss  is  to  be  idle, 
to  stroll  the  streets.  During  the  siege,  in  1871, 
the  Parisians  led  their  ideal  life.  They  had  no 
rent  to  pay;  they  had  eighteen  cents  a  day 
and  no  work  to  do.  When  the  war  was  ended, 
and  it  became  necessary  to  pay  house-rent  and 
to  set  to  work,  they  flew  to  arms  rather  than 
accept  the  harsh  alternative.  Our  illustration 
represents  one  of  these  idlers.  She  is  a  maid- 


84 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


LE     CONCIERGE. 


of-all-work  who  has  retired  from  service.  If 
she  have  twenty  cents  a  day  to  live  on,  she 
is  more  than  satisfied.  She  lives  in  a  garret 
closet  without  a  chimney,  with  sky-light  for 
a  window,  which  she  gets  cheap  in  some  old 
house  in  a  narrow  street  of  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter. She  is  her  own  laundress.  She  buys 
her  clothes,  even  her  shoes  and  stockings, 
second-hand.  She  breakfasts  on  bread  and 
cheese,  buys  a  few  cents'  worth  of  beef-tea 
in  which  she  soaks  bread  for  dinner,  eats  dry 
bread  rubbed  with  garlic  or  onion,  and  fol- 
lowed by  two  cents'  worth  of  fire-water  as 
corrosive  as  modern  chemistry  can  make  it, 
and  consents  to  vegetate  in  this  wretched  way 
that  she  may  live  in  idleness,  sitting  all  day 
long  on  a  public  bench  of  the  Luxembourg 
Garden  if  the  weather  be  fair,  or  in  a  chair  of 
some  church  or  chapel  if  the  day  be  inclem- 
ent. She  might  still  get  occupation,  have 
chamber  free,  a  plenty  of  good  food  and  wine ; 
but  she  would  have  to  work  for  them.  She 
prefers  to  starve  in  idleness.  The  river's  banks, 
too,  are  lined  with  idlers.  They  are  not  on  the 
bank  alone.  If  you  think  a  patient  Frenchman 
is  not  to  be  found,  go  to  the  river  and  use  your 


eyes.  You  will  find  there  in  mid-stream  bipei 
with  long  hoes  scraping  up  river  sand,  to  gath] 
from  it  gleanings  of  all  the  objects  criffl 
or  accident  or  flood  tosses  into  the  stream 
There  are  shops  in  the  Quai  de  I'Horlo*] 
where  these  objects  may  be  seen  and  bougljj 
There  are  some  of  them  in  the  Hotel  1 
Cluny ;  more  in  the  Hotel  Carnavalet.  Y | 
will  find  on  the  river's  banks  gatherers  j 
corks,  which  are  always  found  in  eddie| 
these  corks  are  recut  and  made  to  do  dul 
again.  But  of  all  the  patient  Frenchmen  toj 
seen,  there  are  none  so  patient  as  the  fisherml 
represented  in  our  wood-cut.  They  are  at  t 
foot  of  the  Louvre,  half-way  between  the  Pel 
Neuf  and  Pont  des  Arts  (the  bridge  seeniM 
wood-cut,  with  the  Palais  de  PInstitut  acrtl 
the  river  beyond  it).  There  they  stand  J 
day,  though  the  only  object  which  sinks  thfl 
bob  be  floating  weed.  Fish  they  never  cstj 
What  fish  could  live  in  those  polluted  watal 
Nevertheless  they  are  happy,  for  they  are 

Old  architects  sacrificed  everything 
curity.    The  value   of  sun  and   air  wa 
known.    Science  has    let   light  and  pu 
into  all  these  abodes,  where  the  lattice 


GLIMPSES   OF  PARIS. 


more  lead  than  glass,  where  not  a  casement 
opened  save  on  a  court,  and  no  draught 
changed  the  air  on  the  court.  See  the 
mediaeval  houses  on  streets  narrower  than 
lanes,  with  the  well  in  the  central  court  (the 
sole  supply  of  water),  receiving  with  the  aid  of 
wind  and  rain  all  the  refuse  of  roof  and  yard, 
and  with  their  ground-floor  rooms  chilling 
in  August,  and  you  will  not  wonder  at  the 
story  of  the  plague;  your  wonder  will  be 
|  that  people  could  have  lived  amid  all*  these 
Ifoes  to  life. 

But  even  now  the  full  value  of  sun  and  air 
is  unknown  to  Frenchmen.  You  are  made 
very  sensible  of  this  when  you  go  hunting 
lodgings.  The  first  question  asked  is  invari- 
ably, "  What  is  the  rent  ?  "  And  you  may 
ask  what  question  you  please,  the  hall-porter 
always  answers,  "  The  rent  is  so  much  a 
year  "  ;  until  you  let  him  know  that  the  price 
suits  your  purse,  it  is  vain  for  you  to  ply 
j him  with  queries.  The  reason  is  plain.  In 
I  Paris,  lodging  is  a  mere  episode  of  life.  The 
iepic  is  dress.  The  necessaries  of  life  are  mar- 
shaled in  this  order:  Dress,  Dress,  Dress, 
Theaters,  Cafe's,  Eating,  Lodgings.  And  do 
you  suppose  that  "  plaster- wipers  "  appreciate 
the  full  value  of  sun  and  pure  air  ?  "  Plaster- 
wipers  "  are  people  who  have  discovered  the 
art  of  living  in  Paris  rent-free.  The  Italians 
have  a  saying :  "  When  I  build  a  house,  the 
first  year  after  its  co'mpletion  I  give  it  to  my 
enemy ;  I  rent  it  to  my  friend  the  second  year ; 
I  myself  tenant  it  the  third  year."  The  first 
year  after  a  house  has  been  built  the  dampness 
land  drying  of  the  walls  make  it  fatal  to  the 
tenant ;  a  twelvemonths'  habitation,  with  fires 
all  winter,  open  windows  all  summer,  greatly 
(lessens  its  dangers ;  in  twenty-four  months 
all  peril  has  disappeared.  The  French  hold  the 
ame  opinion.  People  who  care  or  who  can  af- 
brd  to  care  for  their  health  shun  new  houses, 
so  a  new  house  cannot  be  let  except  to 
'  plaster- wipers."  They  flock  wherever  they 
Bee  a  new  house  built.  They  have  no  furni- 
ture, except  the  objects  which  the  law  exon- 
erates from  levy  of  distress  warrant.  No 
nquiries  are  made  about  them.  While  a 
ill  for  rent  is  sent  to  them  on  quarter-day, 
t  is  rather  to  assert  authority  than  with 
ope  of  payment.  When  the  third  quarter 
tomes  around,  notice  to  quit  is  served  on 
[hem,  but  never  enforced  until  a  tenant  ap- 
pears who  wants  the  lodgings  they  occupy. 

n  adieu!  No  rent  is  expected  of  them, 
"hey  have  done  all  that  was  asked  of  them : 
tiey  have  wiped  the  plaster  dry ;  they  have 
iven  the  house  an  inhabited  look ;  they  have 
ecoyed  to  it  respectable  tenants.  At  what 
jost  to  themselves !  They  are  lucky  if  they 
|ave  only  rheumatism,  and  have  lost  only 

VOL.  XXVII.— 10. 


teeth  and  hair.  Diseases  of  the  throat  and 
chest  decimate  them.  But  they  can  pay  rent 
with  life  easier  than  with  money,  for  they  can 
lay  down  life ;  they  cannot  lay  down  coin. 

How  lenient  Paris  is  to  these  tall  houses 
built  to  be  rented  !  Paris  refuses  to  admit  that 
there  is  a  single  house  within  its  walls  more 
than  five  stories  high.  What  knowledge  of 
human  nature  it  reveals  in  the  nomenclature 
of  stories !  Here  is  "  the  level-with-the-street." 
No  story,  mind  you  !  Above  it,  is  "  the  be- 
tween-ground "  (and  first  floor  understood). 
Then  when  you  are  fairly  three  stories  above 
ground  comes  the  first  floor.  Next — second, 
third,  fourth,  fifth.  Here  the  stories  end.  If 
the  landlord's  purse  is  buoyant  enough  to 
bear  the  tenant  up  still  higher,  he  reaches 
the  mansarde,  or,  higher  still,  combles.  If  you 
have  a  poor  acquaintance  perched  half-way  to 
Uranus,  call  on  him  and  ask  the  hall-porter  to 
direct  your  ascent.  The  hall-porter  will  not  use 
even  these  words,  but  will  say,  "  Go  to  the 
fifth  floor,  turn  to  your  left,  and  then  mount!" 
If  you  ask,  "  Mansard  ?  "  "  Attic  ?  "  he  will 
notice  no  other  reply.  They  lie  beyond 
Hercules'  Pillars. 

Our  wood-cut  shows  the  hall-porter,  his 
family,  and  his  lodge.  He  is  a  tailor.  This 
trade  is  preferred  to  the  shoemaker's  as  being 
less  noisy.  But  the  lodge  is  not  quiet.  French- 
men cannot  live  without  noise.  Bird  in  cage, 
infant  in  arms,  child  old  enough  to  play  letter- 
carrier  to  the  household,  and  especially  Mad- 
ame Cerbere,  supply  all  necessary  noise.  Ac- 
cording to  tradition,  when  Hugh  Cape  deter- 
mined to  make  La  Cite  his  home,  somewhere 
nigh  a  thousand  years  ago,  he  added  two  im- 
mense buildings  to.  the  palace.  One  of  these 
wings  was  (and  is  to  this  day)  called  Concier- 
gerie,  and  served  both  for  barracks  and  for  jail. 
The  command  and  management  of  the  Con- 
ciergerie  were  confided  to  a  captain  of  noble 
birth,  who  received  the  title  (from  which  the 
building  took  its  name)  of  Comte  des  Cierges 
(the  Earl  of  Wax-Tapers),  and  was  invested 
with  many  prerogatives  and  privileges.  It 
continued  to  be  an  office  of  lucre  and  im- 
portance even  so  late  as  1712,  when  it  was 
shorn  of  its  judicial  powers. 

It  has  not  been  many  years  since  the  hall- 
porters  of  Paris  assumed  the  venerable  title 
of  Comte  des  Cierges.  When  Sterne  visited 
Paris  they  were  called  Suisses.  The  familiar 
proverb,  " Point  d*  argent,  point  de  Suisse" 
means,  "  If  you  be  penniless,  you  can't  have 
a  hall-porter  ";  or,  in  other  words,  "  If  you  be 
penniless,  you  yourself  must  answer  the  door- 
bell." 

The  Swiss  were  for  centuries,  indeed  down 
to  July,  1830,  the  king's  body-guard.  The 
Swiss  nearly  monopolized  the  places  of  hall- 


86 


THO  UGHT-FALL. 


porters,  messengers,  and  bank-collectors.  They 
owed  this  monopoly  to  their  sterling  integrity 
of  character.  Down  to  the  revolution  of  1848, 
ninety-seven  of  every  hundred  collectors  of 
the  Bank  of  France  were  Swiss.  During  those 
stormy  days  a  mob  insisted  that  the  Bank  of 
France  should  employ  none  but  Frenchmen, 
and  the  Bank  was  obliged  to  discard  its  Swiss 
until  quieter  times  returned.  The  lesson  was 
not  lost  on  the  Bank.  As  the  Swiss  collectors 
died  or  retired,  Frenchmen  were  appointed  to 
the  vacancies.  In  the  English  embassy,  and  in 
some  of  the  old  noble  mansions  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain,  you  may  still  see  the  direction  over 
the  hall-porter's  lodge,  "  Speak  to  the  Swiss  !  " 
The  beadle  in  churches  is  still  called  the 
Swiss.  In  new  houses  the  old  direction  has 
been  discarded  for  "  Speak  to  the  concierge" 
and  the  tendency  now  is  to  omit  every- 
thing except  the  word  concierge.  After  Swiss 
went  out  of  use,  portier  came  into  vogue ;  but 
its  favor  was  ephemeral,  and  it  is  now  to  be 
seen  only  in  some  of  the  older  houses  near 
the  great  markets,  and  even  here  I  have  no- 
ticed it  only  on  two  or  three  lodges.  The 
more  aristocratic  term,  Comte  des  Cierges,  is 
now  generally  in  currency,  having  been  cor- 
rupted into  concierge,  just  as  Chere  Reine 
Croix  has  become  Charing-Cross. 

Most  travelers  tell  how,  in  Paris,  one  may 
live  for  years  in  a  house  without  knowing 
anything  about  neighbors.  These  travelers 
could  not  have  spoken  French.  I  am  not,  I 
believe,  very  inquisitive,  and  find  little  charm 
in  gossip.  Nevertheless,  I  not  only  have  never 
lived  in  a  Paris  house  without  knowing  the 
name,  history,  and  occupation  of  each  tenant 


and  his  family,  but  the  same  information  about 
everybody  in  the  neighborhood.  The  more 
secluded,  the  more  retired  a  street  is,  the  less 
seclusion  the  inhabitants  enjoy. 

The  hall-porter's  lodge  is  the  place  where 
the  skeletons  that  haunt  the  families  over- 
head are  kept.  He  knows  all  their  secrets, — 
butcher,  baker,  coal-dealer,  tailor,  milliner, 
mantua-maker,  servants,  all  tell  their  tales  to 
him.  A  thousand  stealthy  figures  come  and 
go  over  his  threshold,  asking  a  thousand 
questions,  and  by  these  very  questions  throw- 
ing a  flood  of  light  on  his  tenants'  history. 
There,  creditors  obtain,  by  palm -crossing,  ink- 
lings of  their  debtor's  true  position.  There, 
tenants  in  debt,  by  still  more  generous  palm- 
crossing,  throw  dust  into  creditors'  eyes.  . 
There,  the  police  ascertain  the  hours  when 
their  prey  may  be  caught  and  carried  to  jail. 
Arrests  usually  take  place  between  2  and  3  I 
o'clock  A.  M.,  the  only  hour  of  the  four-and- 
twenty  when  the  tides  of  Paris  life  know 
slack  water.  You  hear  the  door-bell  sharply 
rung.  The  portal  is  no  sooner  suddenly 
closed  with  a  slam,  which  makes  the  whole 
house  quiver,  than  the  law's  intruders  strike 
a  light.  The  short,  abrupt  questions,  the  ' 
heavy,  imperious  tread  on  the  staircase,  con-  j 
firm  your  suspicion  that  they  are  the  police.  \ 
The  door  they  seek  is  reached — its  bell  is  •* 
jerked  till  answered.  A  woman's  shriek  is 
followed  by  hasty  steps  on  the  staircase.  A 
door  is  slammed  —  a  carriage  driven  rapidly 
away.  The  staircase  is  filled  with  the  sobs 
and  shrieks  of  a  woman.  Another  incident  is 
added  to  the  hall-porter's  store  of  gossip. 

J.  D.   Osborne.  \ 


THOUGHT-FALL. 

WHEN  south-winds  are  richest  with  wealth  of  the  rose, 
And  sweetness  increases,  each  breath  that  blows; 
When  that  human  obscure  of  the  sky  bends  above  me 
Like  a  dark  eye  saying  its  silent  "  I  love  thee !  " 
When  his  music  sings  on  tho'  the  bird  be  at  rest, 
And  there's  light  on  the  lily  and  none  in  the  west; 
When  the  star  and  the  hill  have  gone  under  cover, 
To  the  dwelling  of  dreams,  like  loved  one  and  lover; 
When  passionate  earth  has  her  will  with  the  sky, 
And  the  black  clouds  stop  tho'  the  brooks  go  by, — 
There's  a  falling  of  thought  like  drops  from  the  eaves, 
And  it  rests  in  my  heart  like  the  rain  in  the  leaves. 


John  Vance  Cheney. 


[Begun  in  the  August  number.] 


THE    BREAD-WINNERS.* 


XII. 


A    HOLIDAY   NOT    IN    THE    CALENDAR. 

THE  next  morning  while  Farnham  was  at 
reakfast  he  received  a  note  from  Mr.  Tem- 
le  in  these  words  : 

"  Strikes  will  begin  to-day,  but  will  not  be  general, 
rhere  will  be  no  disturbance,  I  think.  They  don't 

eem  very  gritty." 

After  breakfast  he  walked  down  to  the 
'ity  Hall.  On  every  street  corner  he  saw 
ttle  groups  of  men  in  rather  listless  conver- 
ation.  He  met  an  acquaintance  crossing  the 
treet. 

Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  "  The  man's 
ace  was  flushed  with  pleasure  at  having 
omething  to  tell.  "  The  firemen  and  stokers 
ave  all  struck,  and  run  their  engines  into 
ic  round-house  at  Riverley,  five  miles  out. 
There  wont  be  a  train  leave  or  come  in  for 
ic  present." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"No,  that  aint  a  start.  The  Model  Oil 
men  have  struck,  and  are  all  over  the  North 
^nd,  shutting  up  the  other  shops.  They  say 
lere  wont  be  a  lick  of  work  done  in  town 
ic  rest  of  the  week." 

"  Except  what  Satan  finds  for  idle  hands," 
'arnham  suggested,  and  hastened  his  steps  a 
ttle  to  the  municipal  buildings. 
i  He  found  the  chief  of  police  in  his  office, 
uffering  from  nervousness  and  a  sense  of 
nportance.  He  began  by  reminding  him  of 
ic  occurrence  of  the  week  before  in  the 
ood.  The  chief  waited  with  an  absent  ex- 
ression  for  the  story  to  end,  and  then  said, 
My  dear  sir,  I  cannot  pay  any  attention  to 
ach  little  matters  with  anarchy  threatening 
ur  city.  I  must  protect  life  and  property, 
r — life  and  property." 

"  Very  well,"  rejoined  Farnham,  "  I  am 
iformed  that  life  and  property  are  threatened 
i  my  own  neighborhood.  Can  you  detail  a 
w  policemen  to  patrol  Algonquin  avenue, 
i  case  of  a  serious  disturbance  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  my  dear  sir ;  I  will  do 
lie  best  I  can  by  all  sections.  Why,  man," 
e  cried,  in  a  voice  which  suddenly  grew  a 
hrill  falsetto  in  his  agitation,  "  I  tell  you  I 
jiven't  a  policeman  for  every  ten  miles  of 
!reet  in  this  town.  I  can't  spare  but  two  for 
j.y  own  house !  " 

Farnham  saw  the  case  was  hopeless,  and 


went  to  the  office  of  the  mayor.  That 
official  had  assumed  an  attitude  expressive  of 
dignified  and  dauntless  energy.  He  sat  in  a 
chair  tilted  back  on  its  hind  feet ;  the  boots 
of  the  municipal  authority  were  on  a  desk 
covered  with  official  papers;  a  long  cigar 
adorned  his  eloquent  lips;  a  beaver  hat 
shaded  his  eyes. 

He  did  not  change  his  attitude  as  Farnham 
entered.  He  probably  thought  it  could  not 
be  changed  for  the  better. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Quinlin." 

"  Good-morning,  sorr,  to  you."  This  sal- 
utation was  uttered  through  teeth  shut  as 
tightly  as  the  integrity  of  the  cigar  would 
permit. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  talk  of  possible 
disturbance  to-night,  in  case  the  strikes  ex- 
tend. My  own  neighborhood,  I  am  told,  has 
been  directly  threatened.  I  called  to  ask 
whether,  in  case  of  trouble,  I  could  rely  on 
any  assistance  from  the  city  authorities,  or 
whether  we  must  all  look  out  for  ourselves." 

The  mayor  placed  his  thumbs  in  the  arm- 
holes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  threw  his  head 
back  so  that  he  could  stare  at  Farnham  from 
below  his  hat  brim.  He  then  said,  in  a 
measured  voice,  as  if  addressing  an  assembly: 
"  Sir !  I  would  have  you  to  know  that  the 
working-men  of  Buffland  are  not  thaves  and 
robbers.  In  this  struggle  with  capital  they 
have  my  profound  sympathy.  I  expect  their 
conduct  to  be  that  of  perr-fect  gentlemen.  I, 
at  least,  will  give  no  orders  which  may  tend 
to  array  one  class  of  citizens  against  another. 
That  is  my  answer,  sir ;  I  hope  it  tloes  not 
disappoint  you." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Farnham,  putting 
on  his  hat.  "  It  is  precisely  what  I  should 
have  expected  of  you." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.    Call  again,  sir." 

As  Farnham  disappeared,  the  chief  magis- 
trate of  the  city  tilted  his  hat  to  one  side, 
shut  an  eye  with  profoundly  humorous  sig- 
nificance, and  said  to  the  two  or  three  loun- 
gers who  had  been  enjoying  the  scene : 

"  That  is  the  sort  of  T-rail  I  am.  That 
young  gentleman  voted  agin  me,  on  the 
ground  I  wasn't  high-toned  enough." 

Farnham  walked  rapidly  to  the  office  of 
the  evening  newspaper.  He  found  a  man  in 
the  counting-room,  catching  flies  and  trim- 
ming their  wings  with  a  large  pair  of  office 
shears.  He  said,  "  Can  you  put  an  Adver- 
tisement for  me  in  your  afternoon  editions  ?  " 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved. 


88 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


The  man  laid  down  his  shears,  but  held  on 
to  his  fly,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Have  you  got  it  ready  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  will  not  be  a  minute  about  it." 

"  Be  lively !  You  haven't  got  but  a 
minute." 

He  picked  up  his  scissors  and  resumed  his 
surgery,*  while  Farnham  wrote  his  advertise- 
ment. The  man  took  it,  and  threw  it  into  a 
tin  box,  blew  a  whistle,  and  the  box  dis- 
appeared through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling.  A 
few  minutes  later  the  boys  were  crying  the 
paper  in  the  streets.  The  advertisement  was 
.  in  these  words  : 

"  Veterans,  Attention  !  All  able-bodied  veterans  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  and  especially  of  the  Third 
Army  Corps,  are  requested  to  meet  at  seven  this 
evening,  at  No.  —  Public  Square." 

From  the  newspaper  office  Farnham  went 
to  a  gunsmith's.  The  dealer  was  a  German 
and  a  good  sportsman,  whom  Farnham  knew 
very  well,  having  often  shot  with  him  in  the 
marshes  west  of  the  city.  His  name  was 
Leopold  Grosshammer.  There  were  two  or 
three  men  in  the  place  when  Farnham 
entered.  He  waited  until  they  were  gone, 
and  then  said : 

"  Bolty,  have  you  two  dozen  repeating 
rifles  ?  " 

"  Ja  wohl !  Aber,  Herr  Gott,  was  machen 
Sie  denn  damit  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you. 
They  think  there  may  be  a  riot  in  town,  and 
they  tell  me  at  the  City  Hall  that  everybody 
must  look  out  for  himself.  I  am  going  to  try 
to  get  up  a  little  company  of  old  soldiers  for 
patrol  duty." 

"  All  right,  mine  captain,  and  I  will  be  the 
first  freiwilliger.  But  I  don't  dink  you  wants 
rifles.  Revolvers  and  clubs — like  the  pleece- 
men  —  dat's  de  dicket." 

"  Have  you  got  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  the  belts  thereto.  I  got  der 
gondract  to  furnish  'em  to  de  city." 

"  Then  you  will  send  them,  wrapped  up  in 
bundles,  to  my  office  in  the  Square,  and  come 
yourself  there  at  seven." 

"  Freilich,"  said  Leopold,  his  white  teeth 
glistening  through  his  yellow  beard  at  the 
prospect  of  service. 

Farnham  spent  an  hour  or  two  visiting  the 
proprietors  of  the  large  establishments  affected 
by  the  strikes.  He  found,  as  a  rule,  great 
annoyance  and  exasperation,  but  no  panic. 

Mr.  Temple  said, "  The  poor fools !  I  felt 

sorry  for  them.  They  came  up  here  to  me 
this  morning, — their  committee,  they  called 
it, —  and  told  me  they  hated  it,  but  it  was 
orders !  '  Orders  from  where  ? '  I  asked. 
'  From  the  chiefs  of  sections,'  they  said ;  and 


that  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  them.  Some 
of  the  best  fellows  in  the  works  were  on  the 
committee.  They  put  'em  there  on  purpose. 
The  sneaks  and  lawyers  hung  back." 

"  What  will  they  do  if  the  strike  should 
last  ?  "  asked  Farnham. 

"They  will  be    supported  for   awhile   by 
the  other  mills.    Our  men  are  the  only  ones 
that  have  struck  so  far.    They  were  told  off 
to  make  the  move,  just  as  they  march  out  a 
certain  regiment  to  charge  a  battery.    If  we 
give  in,  then  another  gang  will  strike." 
"  Do  you  expect  to  give  in  ?  " 
"  Between  us,  we  want  nothing  better  than 
ten  days'  rest.    We  want  to  repair  our  fur- 
naces, and  we  haven't  a thing  to  do.  What 

I  told  you  this  morning  holds  good.  There 
wont  be  any  riot.  The  whole  thing  is  solemn 
fooling,  so  far." 

The  next  man  Farnham  saw  was  in  a  far 
less  placid  frame  of  mind.  It  was  Jimmy 
Nelson,  the  largest  grocer  in  the  city.  He 
had  a  cargo  of  perishable  groceries  at  the 
station,  and  the  freight  hands  would  not  let 
them  be  delivered.  "  I  talked  to  the  rascals," 
he  said.  "  I  asked  them  what  they  had 
against  me ;  that  they  was  injuring  Trade!" 
a  deity  of  which  Mr.  Nelson  always  spoke 
with  profound  respect.  "They  laughed  in 
my  face,  sir.  They  said,  <  That's  just  our 
racket.  We  want  to  squeeze  you  respectable 
merchants  till  you  get  mad  and  hang  a  rail- 
road president  or  two ! '  Yes,  sir ;  they  said 
that  to  me,  and  five  thousand  dollars  of  my 
stuff  rotting  in  the  depot." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  mayor  ?  "  asked 
Farnham,  though  he  could  not   suppress  aj 
smile  as  he  said  it. 

"Yes,  I  like  that!"  screamed  Jimmy. 
"  You  are  laughing  at  me.  I  suppose  the 
whole  town  has  heard  of  it.  Well,  it's  a  fact. 
I  went  and  asked  that  infernal  scoundrel 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  said  his  func- 
tion was  to  keep  the  peace,  and  there  wasn't 
a  word  in  the  statutes  about  North  Carliny 
water-melons.  If  I  live  till  he  gits  out  of 
office,  I'll  lick  him." 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  wont  do  that,  Jimmy." 
"You  think  I  wont!"  said  Nelson,  abso- 
lutely incandescent  with  the  story  of  his 
wrongs.  "I'll  swear  by  Matthew,  Mark. 
Luke,  and  John,  that  I  will  thrash  the  hide 
off  him  next  spring  —  if  I  don't  forget  it." 

Farnham  went  home,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  rode  about  the  city  to  see  what  progress 
the  strike  was  making.  There  was  little  dis- 
order visible  on  the  surface  of  things. 
"  sections  "  had  evidently  not  ordered  a 
eral  cessation  of  labor ;  and  yet  there 
curious  signs  of  demoralization,  as  if 
spirit  of  work  was  partially  disint( 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


89 


and  giving  way  to  something  not  precisely 
lawless,  but  rather  listless.  For  instance,  a 
crowd  of  workmen  were  engaged  industri- 
ously and,  to  all  appearance,  contentedly 
upon  a  large  school-building  in  construction. 
A  group  of  men,  not  half  their  number, 
approached  them  and  ordered  them  to  leave 
off  work.  The  builders  looked  at  each  other 
and  then  at  their  exhorters  in  a  confused 
fashion  for  a  moment,  and  ended  by  obeying 
jthe  summons  in  a  sullen  and  indifferent  man- 
ner. They  took  off  their  aprons,  went  to  the 
hydrant  and  washed  their  hands,  then  put 
on  their  coats  and  went  home  in  silence 
and  shamefacedness,  amid  the  angry  remon- 
strances of  the  master-builder.  A  little  far- 
ther on  Farnham  saw  what  seemed  like  a 
burlesque  of  the  last  performance.  Several 
men  were  at  work  in  a  hole  in  the  street ;  the 
tops  of  their  heads  were  just  visible  above 
the  surface.  A  half-grown,  ruffianly  boy,  with 
a  boot-black's  box  slung  over  his  shoulder, 

came  up  and  shouted,  "  You rats, 

come  out  of  that,  or  we'll  knock  the  scalps 
off'n  you."  The  men,  without  even  looking 
to  see  the  source  of  the  summons,  threw 
down  their  tools  and  got  out  of  the  hole. 
The  boy  had  run  away ;  they  looked  about 
for  a  moment,  as  if  bewildered,  and  then  one 
of  them,  a  gray-headed  Irishman,  said,  "  Well, 
we'd  better  be  a  lavin'  off,  if  the  rest  is," 
and  they  all  went  away. 

In  this  fashion  it  came  about  that  by  night- 
jfall  all  the  squares  and  public  places  were 
thronged  with  an  idle  and  expectant  crowd, 
snot  actively  mischievous  or  threatening,  but 
jaffording  a  vast  mass  of  inflammable  material 
Jin  case  the  fire  should  start  in  any  quarter. 
jThey  gathered  everywhere  in  dense  groups, 
exchanging  rumors  and  surmises,  in  which 
fact  and  fiction  were  fantastically  mingled. 

"  The  rolling-mills  all  close  to-morrow," 
said  a  sallow  and  hollow-eyed  tailor.  "  That'll 
let  loose  twenty  thousand  men  on  the  town, 
— big,  brawny  fellows.  I'm  glad  my  wife  is 
in  Clevalo." 

"  All  you  know  about  it !  Clevalo  is  twice 
as  bad  off  as  here.  The  machine  shops  has 
[all  struck  there,  and  the  men  went  through 
the  armory  this  afternoon.  They're  camped 
all  along  Delaware  street,  every  man  with  a 
pair  of  revolvers  and  a  musket." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  Schneider, 
turning  a  shade  more  sallow.  "  I'd  better 
telegraph  my  wife  to  come  home." 

"  I  wouldn't  hurry,"  was  the  impassive  re- 
isponse.  lt  You  don't  know  where  we'll  be  to- 
morrow. They  have  been  drilling  all  day  at 
Riverley,  three  thousand  of  'em.  They'll 
come  in  to-morrow,  mebbe,  and  hang  all  the 
railroad  presidents.  That  may  make  trouble." 


^  Through  these  loitering  and  talking  crowds 
Farnham  made  his  way  in  the  evening  to 
the  office  which  he  kept,  on  the  public  square 
of  the  town,  for  the  transaction  of  the  affairs 
of  his  estate.  He  had  given  directions  to  his 
clerk  to  be  there,  and  when  he  arrived  found 
that  some  half-dozen  men  had  already  as- 
sembled in  answer  to  his  advertisement. 
Some  of  them  he  knew;  one,  Nathan  Ken- 
dall, a  powerful  young  man,  originally  from 
the  north  of  Maine,  now  a  machinist  in 
Buffland,  had  been  at  one  time  his  orderly  in 
the  army.  Bolty  Grosshammer  was  there,  and 
in  a  very  short  time  some  twenty  men  were 
in  the  room.  Farnham  briefly  explained  to 
them  his  intention.  "  I  want  you,"  he  said, 
"  to  enlist  for  a  few  days'  service  under  my 
orders.  I  cannot  tell  whether  there  will  be 
any  work  to  do  or  not ;  but  it  is  likely  we 
shall  have  a  few  nights  of  patrol  at  least. 
You  will  get  ten  dollars  apiece  anyhow,  and 
ordinary  day's  wages  besides.  If  any  of  you 
get  hurt,  I  will  try  to  have  you  taken  care  of." 

All  but  two  agreed  to  the  proposition. 
These  two  said  "  they  had  families  and  could 
not  risk  their  skins.  When  they  saw  the  ad- 
vertisement they  had  thought  it  was  some- 
thing about  pensions,  or  the  county  treas- 
urer's office.  They  thought  soldiers  ought  to 
have  the  first  chance  at  good  offices."  They 
then  grumblingly  withdrew. 

Farnham  kept  his  men  for  an  hour  longer, 
arranging  some  details  of  organization,  and 
then  dismissed  them  for  twenty-four  hours, 
feeling  assured  that  there  would  be  no  dis- 
turbance of  public  tranquillity  that  night.  "  I 
will  meet  you  here  to-morrow  evening,"  he 
said,  "  and  you  can  get  your  pistols  and  sticks 
and  your  final  orders." 

The  men  went  out  one  by  one,  Bolty  and 
Kendall  waiting  for  awhile  after  they  had  gone 
and  going  out  on  the  sidewalk  with  Farnham. 
They  had  instinctively  appointed  themselves 
a  sort  of  body-guard  to  their  old  commander, 
and  intended  to  keep  him  in  sight  until  he 
got  home.  As  they  reached  the  door,  they 
saw  a  scuffle  going  on  upon  the  sidewalk.  A 
well-dressed  man  was  being  beaten  and 
kicked  by  a  few  rough  fellows,  and  the 
crowd  was  looking  on  with  silent  interest. 
Farnham  sprang  forward  and  seized  one  of 
the  assailants  by  the  collar;  Bolty  pulled 
away  another.  The  man  who  had  been  cuffed 
turned  to  Kendall,  who  was  standing  by  to 
help  where  help  was  needed,  and  cried, 
"  Take  me  away  somewhere ;  they  will  have 
my  life ;  "  an  appeal  which  only  excited  the 
jeers  of  the  crowd. 

"  Kendall,  take  him  into  my  office,"  said 
Farnham,  which  was  done  in  an  instant, 
Farnham  and  Bolty  following.  A  rush  was 


9° 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


made, — not  very  vicious,  however, — and  the 
three  men  got  safely  inside  with  their  prize, 
and  bolted  the  door.  A  few  kicks  and  blows 
shook  the  door,  but  there  was  no  movement 
to  break  it  down ;  and  the  rescued  man,  when 
he  found  himself  in  safety,  walked  up  to  a 
mirror  there  was  in  the  room  and  looked 
earnestly  at  his  face.  It  was  a  little  bruised 
and  bloody,  and  dirty  with  mud,  but  not 
seriously  injured. 

He  turned  to  his  rescuers  with  an  air  more 
of  condescension  than  gratitude.  "  Gentle- 
men, I  owe  you  my  thanks,  although  I 
should  have  got  the  better  of  those  scoun- 
drels in  a  moment.  Can  you  assist  me  in 
identifying  them  ?  " 

"  Oh !  it  is  Mayor  Quinlin,  I  believe,"  said 
Farnham,  recognizing  that  functionary  more 
by  his  voice  than  by  his  rumpled  visage. 
"  No,  I  do  not  know  who  they  were.  What 
was  the  occasion  of  this  assault  ?  " 

"  A  most  cowardly  and  infamous  outrage, 
sir,"  said  the  Mayor.  "  I  was  walking  along  the 
sidewalk  to  me  home,  and  I  came  upon  this 
gang  of  ruffians  at  your  door.  Impatient  at 
being  delayed, — for  me  time  is  much  occu- 
pied,—  I  rebuked  them  for  being  in  me  way. 
One  of  them  turned  to  me  and  insolently 
inquired,  '  Do  you  own  this  street,  or  have 
you  just  got  a  lien  on  it  ? '  which  unendurable 
insult  was  greeted  with  a  loud  laugh  from  the 
other  ruffians.  I  called  them  by  some  prop- 
erly severe  name,  and  raised  me  cane  to  force 
a  passage, —  and  the  rest  you  know.  Now, 
gentlemen,  is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

Farnham  did  not  scruple  to  strike  while 
the  iron  was  hot.  He  said :  ^  Yes,  there  is 
one  thing  your  Honor  may  do,  not  so  much 
for  us  as  for  the  cause  of  order  and  good 
government,  violated  to-night  in  your  own 
person.  Knowing  the  insufficiency  of  the 
means  at  your  disposal,  a  few  of  us  propose 
to  raise  a  subsidiary  night-patrol  for  the  pro- 
tection of  life  and  property  during  the  present 
excitement.  We  would  like  you  to  give  it 
your  official  sanction." 

"  Do  I  understand  it  will  be  without  ex- 
pense to  my — to  the  city  government?" 
Mr.  Quinlin  was  anxious  to  make  a  show  of 
economy  in  his  annual  message. 

"  Entirely,"  Farnham  assured  him. 

"  It  is  done,  sir.  Come  to-morrow  morning 
and  get  what  papers  you  want.  The  sperrit 
of  disorder  must  be  met  and  put  down  with 
a  bold  and  defiant  hand.  Now,  gentlemen, 
if  there  is  a  back  door  to  this  establishment, 
I  will  use  it  to  make  me  way  home." 

Farnham  showed  him  the  rear  entrance, 
and  saw  him  walking  homeward  up  the  quiet 
street ;  and,  coming  back,  found  Bolty  and 
Kendall  writhing  with  merriment. 


"  Well,  that  beats  all,"  said  Kendall.  « \ 
guess  I'll  write  home  like  the  fellow  did  from 
Iowa  to  his  daddy,  '  Come  out  here  quick. 
Mighty  mean  men  gits  office  in  this  country.'", 

"  Yes,"  assented  Bolty.  "  Dot  burgermeis- 
ter  ish  better  as  a  circus  mit  a  drick  mule." 

"  Don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  dignitaries,"' 
said  Farnham.  "  It's  a  bad  habit  in  soldiers." 

When  they  went  out  on  the  sidewalk  the 
crowd  had  dispersed.  Farnham  bade  his  re- 
cruits good  night  and  went  up  the  avenue. 
They  waited  until  he  was  a  hundred  yards 
away,  and  then,  without  a  word  to  each  other, 
followed  him  at  that  distance  till  they  saw 
him  enter  his  own  gate. 

XIII. 
A    BUSY    SUNDAY    FOR   THE    MATCHINS. 

MATTERS  were  not  going  on  pleasantly  in] 
the  Matchin  cottage.    Maud's  success  in  gain- 
ing an  eligible  position,  as  it  was  regardec 
among  her  friends,  made  her  at  once  an  ob- 
ject of  greater  interest  than  ever;  but   he! 
temper  had  not  improved  with  her  circum- 
stances, and   she   showed    herself    no   mor< 
accessible    than    before.     Her    father,    whti 
naturally  felt  a  certain  satisfaction  at  having 
as  he  thought,  established   her  so    well,  re 
garded  himself  as  justified  in  talking  to  he:: 
firmly   and  seriously   respecting   her   future 
He  went  about  it  in  the  only  way  he  knew 
"  Mattie,"  he   said  one   evening,  when  the] 
happened  to  be  alone  together,  "  when  ar< 
you  and  Sam  going  to  make  a  match  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him,  and  shot  out ; . 
look  of  anger  and  contempt  from  under  he 
long  lashes   that  made  her  father  feel  ver 
small  and  old  and  shabby. 

"  Never  !  "  she  said,  quietly. 

"Come, come, now,"  said  the  old  man;  "  jusJ 
listen  to  reason.    Sam  is  a  good  boy,  and  witl 
what  he  makes  and  what  you  make " 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.    I  won  j' 
discuss  the  matter  any  further.    We  have  hac 
it   all   out  before.    If  it   is    ever   mentionec 
again,  Sam  or  I  will  leave  this  house." 

"  Hoity-toity,  Missy!  is  that  the  way  yoijj 

take    good  advice "  but    she  was   gom 

before  he  could  say  another  word.  Sau 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  a  few  mo 
ments,  taking  very  short  steps,  and  solacing 
his  mind  by  muttering  to  himself:  "Well 
that's  what  I  get  by  having  a  scholar  in  t.n 
family.  Learning  goes  to  the  head  and  tn 
heels — makes  'em  proud  and  skittish." 

He  punctually  communicated  his  failui 
Sam,  who  received  the  news  with  a  si 
quietness  that  perplexed  still  more  the 
zled  carpenter. 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


91 


On  a  Sunday  afternoon,  a  few  days  later, 
he  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  Bott,  whom  he 
welcomed,  with  great  deference  and  some 
awe,  as  an  ambassador  from  a  ghostly  world 
of  unknown  dignity.  They  talked  in  a  stiff 
and  embarrassed  way  for  some  time  about 
the  weather,  the  prospect  of  a  rise  in  wages, 
and  other  such  matters,  neither  obviously 
taking  any  interest  in  what  was  being  said. 
Suddenly  Bott  drew  nearer  and  lowered  his 
voice,  though  the  two  were  alone  in  the 
shop. 

"  Mr.  Matchin,"  he  said,  with  an  uneasy 
grin,  "  I  have  come  to  see  you  about  your 
daughter." 

Matchin  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  sus- 
picion. 

"  Well,  who's  got  anything  to  say  against 
my  daughter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nobody  that  I  know  of,"  said  Bott, 
growing  suspicious  in  his  turn.  "  Has  any- 
thing ever  been  said  against  her  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  know,"  said  Saul.  "  Well,  what 
have  you  got  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  how  you  would  like  me 
as  a  son-in-law  ?  "  said  Bott,  wishing  to  bring 
matters  to  a  decision. 

Saul  stood  for  a  moment  without  words  in 
his  astonishment.  He  had  always  regarded 
Bott  as  "  a  professional  character,"  even  as  a 
"  litrary  man  " ;  he  had  never  hoped  for  so 
lofty  an  alliance.  And  yet  he  could  not  say 
that  he  wholly  liked  it.  This  was  a  strange 
creature — highly  gifted,  doubtless,  but  hardly 
comfortable.  He  was  too  "  thick "  with 
ghosts.  One  scarcely  knew  whether  he  spent 
most  of  his  time  "  on  earth  or  in  hell,"  as 
Saul  crudely  phrased  it.  The  faint  smell  of 
jphosphorus  that  he  carried  about  with  him, 
which  was  only  due  to  his  imperfect  ablutions 
after  his  seances,  impressed  Saul's  imagina- 
tion as  going  to  show  that  Bott  was  a  little 
too  intimate  with  the  under-ground  powers. 
|He  stood  chewing  a  shaving  and  weighing 
the  matter  in  his  mind  a  moment  before  he 
lanswered.  He  thought  to  himself,  "After  all, 
he  is  making  a  living.  I  have  seen  as  much 
i'as  five  dollars  at  one  of  his  seeunses."  But 
jthe  only  reply  he  was  able  to  make  to  Bott's 
ipomt-blank  question  was : 

"  Well,  I  dunno." 

The  words  were  hardly  encouraging,  but 
the  tone  was  weakly  compliant.  Bott  felt 
that  his  cause  was  gained,  and  thought  he 

ight  chaffer  a  little. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  would  like  to 
ave  a  few  things  understood,  to  start  with. 
jl  am  very  particular  in  business  matters." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Saul,  who  began  to 
think  that  this  was  a  very  systematic  and 
(methodical  man. 


"  I  am  able  to  support  a  wife,  or  I  would 
not  ask  for  one,"  said  Bott. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Saul,  with  effusion  \  *<  that's 
just  what  I  was  saying  to  myself." 

"Oh.  you  was!"  said  Bott,  scowling  and 
hesitating.  "You  was,  was  you?"  Then, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  in  which  he  eyed 
Saul  attentively,  he  continued,  "Well — that's 
so.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  a  business  man, 
and  I  want  to  know  what  you  can  do  for 
your  girl." 

"  Not  much  of  anything,  Mr.  Bott,  if  you 
must  know.  Mattie  is  makin'  her  own  living." 

"  Yes.  That's  all  right.  Does  she  pay  you 
for  her  board  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Bott,  that  aint  none  of 
your  business  yet,  anyhow.  She  don't  pay  no 
board  while  she  stays  here ;  but  that  aint 
nobody's  business." 

"  Oh,  no  offense,  sir,  none  in  the  world. 
Only  I  am  a  business  man,  and  don't  want 
misunderstandings.  So  she  don't.  And  I 
suppose  you  don't  want  to  part  with  your 
last  child — now,  do  you?  It's  like  breaking 
your  heart-strings,  now,  aint  it  ?  "  he  said,  in 
his  most  sentimental  lecture  voice. 

"  Well,  no,  I  can't  say  it  is.  Mattie's  wel- 
come in  my  house  while  I  live,  but  of  course 
she'll  leave  me  some  day,  and  I'llwish  her  joy." 

"  Why  should  that  be  ?  My  dear  sir,  why 
should  that  be  ? "  Bott's  voice  grew  greasy 
with  sweetness  and  persuasion.  "  Why  not  all 
live  together?  I  will  be  to  you  as  a  son. 
Maud  will  soothe  your  declining  years.  Let 
it  be  as  it  is,  Father  Saul." 

The  old  carpenter  looked  up  with  a  keen 
twinkle  of  his  eye. 

"  You  and  your  wife  would  like  to  board 
with  us  when  you  are  married  ?  Well,  mebbe 
we  can  arrange  that." 

This  was  not  quite  what  Bott  expected, 
but  he  thought  best  to  say  no  more  on  that 
subject  for  the  moment. 

Saul  then  asked  the  question  that  had  all 
along  been  hovering  on  his  lips. 

"  Have  you  spoke  to  Mattie  yet  ?  " 

The  seer  blushed  and  simpered,  "  I  thought 
it  my  duty  to  speak  first  to  you ;  but  I  do  not 
doubt  her  heart." 

"  Oh  !  you  don't,"  said  Saul,  with  a  world 
of  meaning.  "  You  better  find  out.  You'll  find 
her  in  the  house." 

Bott  went  to  the  house,  leaving  Saul  pon- 
dering. Girls  were  queer  cattle.  Had  Mattie 
given  her  word  to  this  slab-sided,  lanky  fellow  ? 
Had  she  given  Sam  Sleeny  the  mitten  for 
him  ?  Perhaps  she  wanted  the  'glory  of  being 
Mrs.  Professor  Bott.  Well,  she  could  do  as 
she  liked;  but  Saul  swore  softly  to  himself, 
"  If  Bott  comes  to  live  offen  me,  he's  got  to 
pay  his  board." 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


Meanwhile,  the  seer  was  walking,  not  with- 
out some  inward  perturbation,  to  the  house, 
where  his  fate  awaited  him.  It  would  have 
been  hard  to  find  a  man  more  confident  and 
more  fatuous ;  but  even  such  fools  as  he  have 
their  moments  of  doubt  and  faltering  when 
they  approach  the  not  altogether  known.  He 
had  not  entertained  the  slightest  question  of 
Maud's  devotion  to  him,  the  night  she  asked 
from  him  the  counsel  of  the  spirits.  But  he 
had  seen  her  several  times  since  that,  and  she 
had  never  renewed  the  subject.  He  was  in 
two  minds  about  it.  Sometimes  he  imagined 
she  might  have  changed  her  purpose;  and 
then  he  would  comfort  himself  with  the  more 
natural  supposition  that  maiden  modesty  had 
been  too  much  for  her,  and  that  she  was  anx- 
iously awaiting  his  proffer.  He  had  at  last 
girded  up  his  loins  like  a  man  and  determined 
to  know  his  doom.  He  had  first  ascertained 
the  amount  of  Maud's  salary  at  the  library, 
and  then,  as  we  see,  had  endeavored  to  pro- 
vide for  his  subsistence  at  Saul's  expense; 
and  now  nothing  was  wanting  but  the  maid- 
en's consent.  He  trembled  a  little,  but  it  was 
more  with  hope  than  fear.  He  could  not 
make  himself  believe  that  there  was  any  dan- 
ger— but  he  wished  it  were  over  and  all  were 
well.  He  paused  as  he  drew  near  the  door. 
He  was  conscious  that  his  hands  were  disa- 
greeably cold  and  moist.  He  took  out  his 
handkerchief  and  wiped  them,  rubbing  them 
briskly  together,  though  the  day  was  clear 
and  warm,  and  the  perspiration  stood  beaded 
on  his  forehead.  But  there  was  no  escape. 
He  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened 
by  Maud  in  person,  who  greeted  him  with  a 
free  and  open  kindness  that  restored  his  con- 
fidence. They  sat  down  together,  and  Maud 
chatted  gayly  and  pleasantly  about  the 
weather  and  the  news.  A  New  York  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  furrier,  was  re- 
ported in  the  newspaper  as  about  to  marry 
the  third  son  of  an  English  earl.  Maud  dis- 
cussed the  advantages  of  the  match  on  either 
side  as  if  she  had  been  the  friend  from  child- 
hood of  both  parties. 

Suddenly,  while  she  was  talking  about  the 
forthcoming  wedding,  the  thought  occurred 
to  Bott, "  Mebbe  this  is  a  hint  forme,"  and  he 
plunged  into  his  avowal.  Turning  hot  and  cold 
at  once,  and  wringing  his  moist  hands  as  he 
spoke,  he  said,  taking  everything  for  granted : 

"  Miss  Maud,  I  have  seen  your  father  and 
he  gives  his  consent,  and  you  have  only  to 
say  the  word  to  make  us  both  happy." 

"What?" 

Anger,  surprise,  and  contempt  were  all  in  the 
one  word  and  in  the  flashing  eyes  of  the  young 
woman,  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  rocking- 
chair  and  transfixed  her  unhappy  suitor. 


"  Why,  don't  you  understand  me  ?  I 
mean " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  I 
don't  mean;  and  if  you  had  come  to  me,  I'd 
have  saved  vou  the  trouble  of  going  to  my 
father." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  he  pleaded,  "  you  aint 
a-going  to  take  it  that  way,  are  you  ?  Of 
course,  I'd  have  come  to  you  first  if  I  had 
'a'  thought  you'd  preferred  it.  All  I  wanted 
was " 

"  Oh,"  said  Maud,  with  perfect  coolnessi 
and  malice, — for  in  the  last  moment  she  had 
begun  heartily  to  hate  Bott  for  his  presump- 
tion,— "  I  understand  what  jy<?z/  want.  But  the 
question  is  what  /want — and  I  don't  want 
you." 

The  words,  and  still  more  the  cold  monoto- 
nous tone  in  which  they  were  uttered,  stung  the 
dull  blood  of  the  conjurer  to  anger.  His  mud- 
colored  face  became  slowly  mottled  with  red. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  what  did  you  mean: 
by  coming  and  consulting  the  sperrits,  saying 
you  was  in  love  with  a  gentleman " 

Maud  flushed  crimson  at  the  memory 
awakened  by  these  words.  Springing  from  her 
chair,  she  opened  the  door  for  Bott,  and  said, 
"  Great  heavens!  the  impudence  of  some  men ! 
You  thought  I  meant  you  ?  " 

Bott  went  out  of  the  door  like  a  whipped 
hound,  with  pale  face  and  hanging  head.  As 
he  passed  by  the  door  of  the  shop,  Saul  hailed 
him  and  said  with  a  smile,  "  What  luck  ?  " 

Bott  did  not  turn  his  head.  He  growled 
out  a  deep  imprecation  and  walked  away. 
Matchin  was  hardly  surprised.  He  mused  to 
himself,  "  I  thought  it  was  funny  that  Mattie 
should  sack  Sam  Sleeny  for  that  fellow.  I 
guess  he  didn't  ask  the  sperrits  how  the  land 
lay,"  chuckling  over  the  discomfiture  of  the 
seer.  Spiritualism  is  the  most  convenient  re- 
ligion in  the  world.  You  may  disbelieve  two- 
thirds  of  it  and  yet  be  perfectly  orthodox. 
Matchin,  though  a  pillar  of  the  faith,  always 
keenly  enjoyed  the  defeat  and  rout  of  a 
medium  by  his  tricksy  and  rebellious  ghosts. 

He  was  still  laughing  to  himself  over  the' 
retreat  of  Bott,  thinking  with  some  paternal 
fatuity  of  the  attractiveness  and  spirit  of  his 
daughter,  when  a  shadow  fell  across  him,  and 
he  saw  Offitt  standing  before  him. 

"  Why,  Offitt,  is  that  you  ?  I  did  not  hear 
you.  You  always  come  up  as  soft  as  a 
spook ! " 

"  Yes,  that's  me.    Where's  Sam  ?  " 

"  Sam's  gone  to  Shady  Creek  on  an  excur- 
sion with  his  lodge.  My  wife  went  with  him.'1 

"  I  wanted  to  see  him.    I  think  a  heai 
Sam." 

"  So  do  I.    Sam  is  a  good  fellow." 

"  Excuse  my  making  so  free,  Mr.  Mat< 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


93 


but  I  once  thought  Sam  was  going  to  be  a 
son-in-law  of  yours." 

Well,  betwixt  us,  Mr.  Offitt,  I  hoped  so 
myself.  But  you  know  what  girls  is.  She 
jest  wouldn't." 

"  So  it's  all  done,  is  it  ?  No  chance  for 
Sam  ?  "  Offitt  asked  eagerly. 

Not  as  much  as  you  could  hold  sawdust 
in  your  eye,"  the  carpenter  answered. 

Well,  now,  Mr.  Matchin,  I  have  got 
something  to  say."  ("  Oh,  Lordy,"  groaned 
Saul  to  himself,  "  here's  another  one.")  "  I 
wouldn't  take  no  advantage  of  a  friend ;  but 
f  Sam's  got  no  chance,  as  you  say,  why 
shouldn't  I  try  ?  With  your  permission,  sir, 
[  will." 

Now  look  ye  here,  Mr.  Offitt.  I  don't 
enow  as  I  have  got  anything  against  you, 
I  don't  know  nothing  fur  you.  .If  it's  a 
air  question,  how  do  you  make  your  livin'  ?  " 

"  That's  all  right.  First  place,  I  have  got 
i  good  trade.  I'm  a  locksmith." 

"  So  I  have  heard  you  say.    But  you  don't 
at  it." 

"  No,"  Offitt  answered;  and  then,  assuming 
i  confidential  air,  he  continued,  "As  I  am 
o  be  one  of  the  family,  I'll  tell  you.  I  don't 
vork  at  my  trade,  because  I  have  got  a  better 
hing.  I  am  a  Reformer." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Saul.  "I 
lever  heard  o'  your  lecturin'." 

"  I  don't  lecture.  I  am  secretary  of  a  grand 
ection  of  Labor  Reformers,  vand  I  git  a  good 
alary  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Saul,  not  having  the 
east  idea  of  what  it  all  meant.  But,  like  most 
athers  of  his  kind,  he  made  no  objection  to 
he  man's  proposal,  and  told  him  his  daugh- 
er  was  in  the  house.  As  Offitt  walked  away 
m  the  same  quest  where  Bott  had  so  recently 
:ome  to  wreck,  Saul  sat  smiling,  and  nursing 
lis  senile  vanity  with  the  thought  that  there 
j^ere  not  many  mechanics'  daughters  in  Buff- 
jand  that  could  get  two  offers  in  one  Sunday 
rom  "professional  men."  He  sat  with  the 
bntented  inertness  of  old  men  on  his  well- 
jvorn  bench,  waiting  to  see  what  would  be  the 
Jesuit  of  the  interview. 

"  I    don't    believe    she'll   have   him,"   he 

ought.  "  He  aint  half  the  man  that  Sam 
r,  nor  half  the  scholar  that  Bott  is." 
j  It  was  well  he  was  not  of  an  impatient 
jemperament.  He  sat  quietly  there  for  more 
lhan  an  hour,  as  still  as  a  knot  on  a  branch, 
pondering  why  it  took  Offitt  so  much  longer 
tian  Bott  to  get  an  answer  to  a  plain  question ; 
ut  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  that  he  had 

right  to  go  into  his  own  house  and  partici- 
pate in  what  conversation  was  going  on.  To 
American  fathers  of  his  class,  the  parlor  is 
lacred  when  the  daughter  has  company. 


There  were  several  reasons  why  Offitt 
staid  longer  than  Bott. 

The  seer  had  left  Maud  Matchin  in  a  state 
of  high  excitement  and  anger.  The  admira- 
tion of  a  man  so  splay  and  ungainly  was  in 
itself  insulting,  when  it  became  so  enterprising 
as  to  propose  marriage.  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
suffered  the  physical  contact  of  something 
not  clean  or  wholesome.  Besides,  she  had  been 
greatly  stirred  by  his  reference  to  her  request 
for  ghostly  counsel,  which  had  resulted  in  so 
frightful  a  failure  and  mortification.  After 
Bott  had  gone,  she  could  not  dismiss  the 
subject  from  her  mind.  She  said  to  herself, 
"  How  can  I  live,  hating  a  man  as  I  hate  that 
Captain  Farnham  ?  How  can  I  breathe  the 
same  air  with  him,  blushing  like  a  peony 
whenever  I  think  of  him-,  and  turning  pale 
with  shame  when  I  hear  his  name?  That 
ever  I  should  have  been  refused  by  a  living 
man!  What  does  a  man  want,"  she  asked, 
with  her  head  thrown  back  and  her  nostrils 
dilated,  "  when  he  don't  want  me  ?  " 

As  she  was  walking  to  and  fro,  she  glanced 
out  of  the  window  and  saw  Offitt  approach- 
ing from  the  direction  of  the  shop.  She  knew 
instantly  what  his  errand  would  be,  though 
he  had  never  before  said  a  word  to  her  out 
of  the  common.  "  I  wonder  if  father  has  sent 
him  to  me — and  how  many  more  has  he  got 
in  reserve  there  in  the  shop?  Well,  I  will 
make  short  work  of  this  one.  " 

But  when  he  had  come  in  and  taken  his 
seat,  she  found  it  was  not  so  easy  to  make 
short  work  of  him.  Dealing  with  this  one 
was  very  different  from  dealing  with  the  other 
—  about  the  difference  between  handling  a 
pig  and  a  panther.  Offitt  was  a  human  beast 
of  prey —  furtive,  sly,  and  elusive,  with  all  his 
faculties  constantly  in  hand.  The  sight  of 
Maud  excited  him  like  the  sight  of  prey. 
His  small  eyes  fastened  upon  her ;  his  sinewy 
hands  tingled  to  lay  hold  of  her.  But  he  talked, 
as  any  casual  visitor  might,of  immaterial  things. 

Maud,  while  she  chatted  with  him,  was 
preparing  herself  for  the  inevitable  question 
and  answer.  "  What  shall  I  say  to  him  ?  I 
do  not  like  him.  I  never  did.  I  never  can. 
But  what  shall  I  do  ?  A  woman  is  of  no  use 
in  the  world  by  herself.  He  is  not  such  a 
dunce  as  poor  Sam,  and  is  not  such  a  gawk 
as  Bott.  I  wonder  whether  he  would  make 
me  mind  ?  I  am  afraid  he  would,  and  I  don't 
know  whether  I  would  like  it  or  not.  I  sup- 
pose if  I  married  him  I  would  be  as  poor  as 
a  crow  all  my  days.  I  couldn't  stand  that.  I 
wont  have  him.  I  wish  he  would  make  his 
little  speech  and  go." 

But  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go.  He  was 
talking  volubly  about  himself,  lying  with  the 
marvelous  fluency  which  interest  and  practice 


94 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


give  to  such  men,  and  Maud  presently  found 
herself  listening  intently  to  his  stories.  He 
had  been  in  Mexico,  it  seemed.  He  owned 
a  silver  mine  there.  He  got  a  million  dol- 
lars out  of  it,  but  took  it  into  his  head  one 
day  to  overturn  the  Government,  and  was 
captured  and  his  money  taken ;  barely  escaped 
the  garrote  by  strangling  his  jailer;  owned 
the  mine  still,  and  should  go  back  and  get  it 
some  day,  when  he  had  accomplished  certain 
purposes  in  this  country.  There  were  plenty 
of  people  who  wished  he  was  gone  now.  The 
President  had  sent  for  him  to  come  to  Wash- 
ington ;  he  went,  and  was  asked  to  breakfast ; 
nobody  there  but  them  two ;  they  ate  off  gold 
plates  like  he  used  to  in  Mexico ;  the  Presi- 
dent then  offered  him  a  hundred  thousand  to 
leave,  was  afraid  he  would  make  trouble ;  told 
the  President  to  make  it  a  million  and  then 
he  wouldn't.  His  grandfather  was  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  Europe ;  his  father  ran  away 
with  his  mother  out  of  a  palace.  "  You  must 
have  heard  of  my  father,  General  Offitt,  of 
Georgy?  No?  He  was  the  biggest  slave- 
holder in  the  State.  I  have  got  a  claim  against 
the  Government,  now,  that's  good  for  a  mill- 
ion if  it's  worth  a  cent;  going  to  Washing- 
ton next  winter  to  prosecute  it." 

Maud  was  now  saying  to  herself,  "  Why, 
if  half  this  is  true,  he  is  a  remarkable  man," 
like  many  other  credulous  people,  not  reflect- 
ing that,  when  half  a  man  says  is  false,  the 
other  half  is  apt  to  be  also.  She  began  to 
think  it  would  be  worth  her  while,  a  red 
feather  in  her  cap,  to  refuse  such  a  picturesque 
person ;  and  then  it  occurred  to  her  that  he 
had  not  proposed  to  marry  her,  and  possibly 
had  no  such  intention.  As  his  stream  of  talk, 
dwelling  on  his  own  acts  of  valor  and  craft, 
ran  on,  she  began  to  feel  slightly  piqued  at 
its  lack  of  reference  to  herself.  Was  this  to 
be  a  mere  afternoon  call  after  all,  with  no 
combat  and  no  victory  ?  She  felt  drawn  after 
awhile  to  bring  her  small  resources  of  co- 
quetry into  play.  She  interrupted  him  with 
saucy  doubts  and  questions;  she  cast  at  him 
smiles  and  glances,  looking  up  that  he  might 
admire  her  eyes,  and  down  that  her  lashes 
might  have  their  due  effect. 

He  interpreted  all  these  signs  in  a  favor- 
able sense,  but  still  prudently  refrained  from 
committing  himself,  until  directly  challenged 
by  the  blush  and  simper  with  which  she  said : 

"  I  suppose  you  must  have  seen  a  great 
many  pretty  ladies  in  Mexico  ?  " 

He  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  her  stead- 
ily until  her  eyelids  trembled  and  fell,  and 
then  he  said,  seriously  and  gravely : 

"  I  used  to  think  so ;  but  I  never  saw 
there  or  anywhere  else  as  pretty  a  lady  as  I 
see  at  this  minute." 


This  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Mam 
had  heard   such    words  from   a   man.    San 
Sleeny,  with  all  his  dumb  worship,  had  neve> 
found  words  to  tell  her  she  was  beautiful,  ans', 
Bott  was  too  grossly  selfish  and  dull  to  hav 
thought  of  it.    Poor  Sleeny,  who  would  hav 
given  his  life  for  her,  had  not  wit  enough  t 
pay  her  a  compliment.  Offitt,  whose  love  wa 
as  little  generous  as  the  hunger  of  a  tigei 
who  wished  only  to  get  her  into  his  powei 
who  cared  not  in  the  least  by  what  means  h  j 
should  accomplish  this,  who  was  perfectly  wil 
ing  to  have  her  find  out  all  his  falsehoods  th' 
day  after  her  wedding,  relying  upon  his  bruti] 
strength  to  retain  her  then, — this  conscience 
less  knave  made  more  progress  by  these  word 
than  Sam  by  months  of  the  truest  devotior 
Yet  the  impression  he  made  was  not  altogethe 
pleasant.    Thirsting  for  admiration  as  she  dk 
there  was  in  her  mind  an  indistinct  conscious* 
ness  that  the  man  was  taking  a  liberty ;  an 
in  the  sudden  rush  of  color  to  her  cheek  an ,: 
brow  at  Offitt's  words,  there  was  at  first  a 
most  as  much  anger  as  pleasure.  But  she  haj 
neither  the  dignity  nor  the  training  required  fc  ; 
the  occasion,  and  all  the  reply  she  found  wasJ 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Offitt,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  I  say  so,"  he  answered,  with  the  samj 
unsmiling  gravity,  "because  it's  the  fact.  1 
have  been  all  over  the  world.  I  have  sea] 
thousands  of  beautiful  ladies,  even  queens  anil 
markisses,  and  I  never  yet  saw  and  I  nevtj 
expect  to  see  such  beauty  as  yours,  Miss  Mau  [ 
Matchin,  of  Buffland." 

She  still  found  no  means  to  silence  hiij 
or  defend  herself.    She  said,  with  an  uneasi 
laugh,    "  I  am  sure  I  don't  see  where  th 
wonderful  beauty  is." 

"  That's  because  your  modesty  holds  ov< 
your  beauty.    But  I  see  where  it  is.    It's  i:' 
your  eyes,  that's  like  two  stars  of  the  nighl 
in  your  forehead,  that  looks  full  of  intelld 
and  sense;  in  your  rosy  cheeks  and  smilin 
lips;  in  your  pretty  little  hands  and  feet  — 
Here  she  suddenly  rolled  up  her  hands  in  htl 
frilled  white  apron,  and,  sitting  up   straigh 
drew  her  feet  under  her  gown.    At  this  pe 
formance,  they  both  laughed  loud  and  Ion; 
and  Maud's  nerves  were  relieved. 

"What  geese  we  are,"  she  said  at  las 
"  You  know  I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say!: 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  You've  got  eyes  and 
looking-glass.  Come  now,  be  honest.  Yc 
know  you  never  saw  a  girl  as  pretty  as  you 
self,  and  you  never  saw  a  man  that  didr 
love  you  on  sight." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that." 

"  Don't  all  the  men  you  know  love  yc 

"  There  is  one  man  I  know  hates  m< 
I  hate  him  " 

"  Who  is  it  ?    This  is  very  interesting. 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


95 


Maud  was  suddenly  seized   with  a  desire 
o  tell  an  adventure,  something  that  might 
match  Offitt's  tales  of  wonder. 
"  You'll  never  tell  ?  " 
"  Hope  I  may  die." 

"  It's  Arthur  Farnham ! "  She  had  succeeded 
n  her  purpose,  for  Offitt  stared  at  her  with  looks 
Df  amazement.   "  He  once  wanted  to  be  rather 
oo  attentive  to  me,  and  I  did  not  like  it.    So 
ic  hates  me,  and  has  tried  to  injure  me" 
"  And  you  don't  like  him  very  well  ?  " 
"  I  don't.    I  would  owe  a  good  deal  to  the 
nan  who  would  give  him  a  beating." 

"  All  right.  You  give  me — what  ? — a  kiss, 
)r  a  lock  of  your  hair,  and  he  shall  have  his 
hrashing." 

"  You  do  it  and  bring  me  the  proofs,  and 
fve  will  talk  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  off,"  he  said,  picking  up 
lis  hat.  He  saw  on  her  face  a  slight  disap- 
pointment. He  put  out  his  hand  to  take 
!eave.  She  folded  her  arms. 

"  You  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  she  said, 
outingly.  "  Mother  wont  be  back  for  ever 
o  long,  and  I  was  half  asleep  over  my  book 
rhen  you  came  in." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  he  said.  "  That  suits  me." 

He  walked  deliberately  across  the  room, 

icked  up   a  chair,  and  seated  himself  very 

ear  to  Maud.    She  felt  her  heart  beat  with 

omething  like  terror,  and  regretted  asking 

im  to  stay.    He  had  been  very  agreeable, 

ut  she  was  sure  he  was  going  to  be  disagree- 

ble  now.    She  was  afraid  that  if  he  grew  disa- 

reeable  she  could  not  manage  him  as  she 

ould  the  others.    Her  worst  fears  were  real- 

ced  with  his  first  words. 

"  Miss    Matchin,  if  you   ask   me   to   stay 

nger,  you  must  take  the  consequences.     I 

m  going  to  say  to  you  what  I  never  said  to 

lortal  woman   before :    I    love   you,  and    I 

ant  you  for  my  wife." 

She  tried  to  laugh.    "  Oh,  you  do  ?  "  but 

ler  face  grew  pale,  and  her  hands  trembled. 

|  "Yes,  I  do;  and  I  am  going  to  have  you, 

po." 

!  He  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  his  voice 
troke  in  spite  of  him. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  "  she  replied,  recovering  her- 
blf  with  an  effort.  "  Perhaps  /'//  have  some- 
Siing  to  say  about  that,  Mr.  Confidence." 
|  "  Of  course ;  excuse  me  for  talking  like  a 
pol.  It  shall  be  as  you  say.  Only  have  me, 
pd  you  shall  have  everything  else.  All  that 
lealth  can  buy  shall  be  yours.  We'll  leave 
jiis  dull  place  and  go  around  the  world  seek- 
ig  pleasure  where  it  can  be  found,  and 
tarybody  will  envy  me  my  beauteous  bride." 
"That's  very  pretty  talk,  Mr.  Offitt;  but 
here  is  all  this  wealth  to  come  from  ?  " 
He  did  not  resent  the  question,  but  heard 


it  gladly,  as  imposing  a  condition  he  might 
meet.  "  The  money  is  all  right.  If  I  lay  the 
money  at  your  feet,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 
Only  give  me  your  promise." 

"  I  promise  nothing,"  said  Maud ;  "  but 
when  you  are  ready  to  travel,  perhaps  you 
may  find  me  in  a  better  humor." 

The  words  seemed  to  fire  him.  "That's  prom- 
ise enough  for  me,"  he  cried,  and  put  out  his 
arms  toward  her.  She  struck  down  his  hands, 
and  protested  with  sudden,  cattish  energy  : 

"  Let  me  alone.  Don't  you  come  so  near 
me.  I  don't  like  it. 

"  Now  you  can  go,"  she  added.  "  I  have 
got  a  lot  to  think  about." 

He  thought  he  would  not  spoil  his  success 
by  staying.  "  Good-bye,  then,"  he  said,  kiss- 
ing his  fingers  to  her.  "  Good-bye  for  a  little 
while,  my  own  precious." 

He  turned  at  the  door.  "  This  is  between 
us,  aint  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  what  there  is  of  it,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile  that  took  all  sting  from  the  words. 

He  walked  to  the  shop,  and  wrung  the  old 
man's  hand.  His  look  of  exultation  caused 
Saul  to  say,  "All  settled,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Offitt ;  "  but  I  have  hopes.  And 
now,  Mr.  Matchin,  you  know  young  ladies 
and  the  ways  of  the  world.  I  ask  you,  as  a 
gentleman,  not  to  say  nothing  about  this,  for 
the  present,  to  nobody." 

Saul,  proud  of  his  secret,  readily  promised. 

XIV. 

CAPTAIN    FARNHAM    SEES    ACTIVE    SERVICE 
AGAIN. 

FARNHAM  lost  no  time,  in  calling  upon  the 
Mayor  to  fulfill  his  engagement.  He  found 
his  Honor  a  little  subdued  by  the  news  of 
the  morning.  None  of  the  strikers  of  the  day 
before  had  gone  back  to  work,  and  consider- 
able accessions  were  reported  from  other 
trades.  The  worst  symptom  seemed  to  be 
that  many  shops  were  striking  without  orders. 
The  cessation  of  work  was  already  greater 
than  seemed  at  first  contemplated  by  the 
leading  agitators  themselves.  They  seemed 
to  be  losing  their  own  control  of  the  working- 
men,  and  a  few  tonguy  vagrants  and  con- 
victs from  the  city  and  from  neighboring 
towns,  who  had  come  to  the  surface  from 
nobody  knew  where,  were  beginning  to  exer- 
cise a  wholly  unexpected  authority.  They 
were  going  from  place  to  place,  haranguing  the 
workmen,  preaching  what  they  called  social- 
ism, but  what  was  merely  riot  and  plunder. 
They  were  listened  to  without  much  response. 
In  some  places  the  men  stopped  work;  in 
others  they  drove  out  the  agitators ;  in  others 
they  would  listen  awhile,  and  then  shout, 


96 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


"  Give  us  a  rest ! "  or  "  Hire  a  hall !  "  or 
"  Wipe  off  your  chin !  "  But  all  the  while  the 
crowds  gradually  increased  in  the  streets  and 
public  places ;  the  strike,  if  it  promised  noth- 
ing worse,  was  taking  the  dimensions  of  a 
great,  sad,  anxious  holiday.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  intention  on  the  part  of  the 
authorities  to  interfere  with  it,  and  to  do 
them  justice,  it  is  hard  to  see  what  they  could 
have  done,  with  the  means  at  their  disposal. 
The  Mayor,  therefore,  welcomed  Farnham 
with  great  cordiality,  made  him  a  captain 
of  police,  for  special  duty,  on  the  spot,  and 
enrolled  his  list  of  recruits  of  the  night  be- 
fore as  members  of  the  police  force  of  the  city, 
expressly  providing  that  their  employment 
should  cost  the  city  nothing,  now  or  hereafter. 

Farnham  again  made  his  rounds  of  the 
city,  but  found  nothing  especially  noteworthy 
or  threatening.  The  wide  town,  in  spite  of 
the  large  crowds  in  the  streets,  had  a  deserted 
look.  A  good  many  places  of  business  were 
closed.  There  was  little  traffic  of  vehicles. 
The  whistle  of  the  locomotives  and  the  rush 
of  trains — sounds  which  had  grown  so  fa- 
miliar in  that  great  railroad  center  that  the 
ear  ceased  to  be  affected  by  them — being 
suddenly  shut  off,  the  silence  which  came  in 
their  place  was  startling  to  the  sense.  The 
voices  of  the  striking  employees,  who  retained 
possession  of  the  Union  Passenger  Depot, 
resounded  strangely  through  the  vast  build- 
ing, which  was  usually  a  babel  of  shrill  and 
strident  sounds. 

On  the  whole,  the  feature  which  most  struck 
him  in  this  violent  and  unnatural  state  of  things 
was  the  singular  good-nature  of  almost  all 
classes.  The  mass  of  the  workingmen  made 
no  threats;  the  greater  number  of  employers 
made  no  recriminations.  All  hoped  for  an 
arrangement,  though  no  one  could  say  how 
it  was  to  come.  The  day  passed  away  in 
fruitless  parleys,  and  at  night  the  fever  nat- 
urally rose,  as  is  the  way  of  fevers. 

When  nightfall  came,  the  crowd  had  be- 
come so  great  in  the  public  square  that  Farn- 
ham thought  it  might  be  better  not  to  march 
his  improvised  policemen  in  a  body  up-town. 
He  therefore  dispatched  orders  to  Kendall 
to  send  them  up  with  their  arms,  singly  or  by 
twos  and  threes,  to  his  house.  By  eight 
o'clock  they  were  all  there,  and  he  passed  an 
hour  or  so  in  putting  them  through  a  rude 
form  of  drill  and  giving  them  the  instructions 
which  he  had  prepared  during  the  day.  His 
intention  was  to  keep  them  together  on  his  own 
place  during  the  early  part  of  the  night,  and  if, 
toward  midnight,  all  seemed  quiet,  to  scatter 
them  as  a  patrol  about  the  neighborhood ; 
in  case  of  serious  disturbance  anywhere  else, 
to  be  ready  to  take  part  in  restoring  order. 


About  nine  o'clock  a  man  was  seen  coming 
rapidly  from  the  house  to  the  rear  garden 
where  Farnham  and  his  company  were.  Th( 
men  were  dispersed  about  the  place ;  some  01 
the  garden  seats,  some  lying  on  the  grass  ii 
the  clear  moonlight.  Farnham  was  a  littU 
apart,  talking  with  Kendall  and  Grossham 
mer.  He  started  up  to  meet  the  intruder;  i 
was  Mr.  Temple. 

"  What's  all  this  ?  "  said  Temple. 

"  The  manly  art  of  self-defense,"  sai( 
Farnham,  smiling. 

"  I  see,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  it,  too,"  an 
swered  Temple,  warmly.  "  One  of  my  me] 
told  me  an  hour  ago  that  in  the  Tramps'  Lodg 
ing  House,  last  night,  it  was  the  common  tal. 
that  there  would  be  a  rush  on  the  houses  i: 
this  region  to-night.  I  went  to  the  Mayor  an* 
tried  to  see  him,  but  he  was  hiding,  I  think 
I  went  to  the  Chief  of  Police,  and  he  was  ill 
a  blue  funk.  So  I  thought  I  would  come  u;| 
myself  and  see  you.  I  knew  you  could  raisj 
a  few  men  among  your  servants  over  herd 
and  I  would  bring  half  a  dozen,  and  we  could 
answer  for  a  few  tramps,  anyhow.  But  yoj 
are  all  right,  and  there  is  nothing  to  do  bi 
wait  for  them." 

"  Yes,  thank  you !  "  said  Farnham,  "  thoug  • 
I  am  a  thousand  times  obliged  to   youH 
your  good-will.    I  wont  forget  it  in  a  hurn 
old  man.    Are  you  going  home  now  ?    I  wi 
walk  a  block  or  two  with  you." 

"  No,  I  am  not  going  home — not  by"- 
[we  draw  the  veil  over  Temple's  language  <j 
this  point].  "  I  have  come  to  spend  the  eveij 
ing.    Have  you  any  tools  for  me  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow  !  there  is  mj 
the  least  use  of  it.  There  is  not  one  chanoj 
in  a  million  that  there  will  be  anything  to  doll 

The  two   men  were  walking   toward  trjj 
house.   Temple  said :  "  Don't  be  too  sure  <  I 
it.    As  I  passed  by  the  corner  of  the  Squai& 
ten  minutes  ago,  there  was  a  fellow  in  froil 
of  Mouchem's    gin-mill,  a   long-haired,  sa 
low-looking  pill,  who  was  making  as  ugly 
speech  to  a  crowd  of  ruffians  as  I  ever  hear  ' 
One  phrase  was  something  like  this :  '  Ye 
my  fellow-toilers  ' — he  looked   like  he  hafj 
never  worked  a  muscle  in  his  life  except  h  I 
jaw-tackle, — 'the  time  has  come.  The  hour 
at  hand.    The  people  rule.   Tyranny  is  dow: 
Enter  in  and  take  possession  of  the  spoiler 
gains.     Algonquin   Avenue   is   heaped  will 
riches  wrung  from  the  sweat   of  the  poc 
Clean  out   the  abodes  of  blood   guiltines: 
And  you  ought  to  have  heard  the  ki-yi's  thj 
followed.  That  encouraged  him,  and  he 
on  :  *  Algonquin  Avenue  is  a  robbers' 
It's  very  handsome,  but  it  needs  one 
more.'    'What's  that?'  some  fellows 
'  An   aristocrat    hung    to    every   lamp-] 


THE   BREAD-WINNERS. 


97 


Phis  was  very  popular,  too,  you  can  bet  your 
oots.  On  that  I  toddled  off,  so  as  to  get  you 

chance  to  say  your  peccavy,  anyhow." 

Walking  and  talking  together,  they  had 
assed  the  house  and  come  to  the  gate  open- 
ig  on  the  avenue. 

"  You  might  shut  these  wide  gates,"  said 
emple. 

"  I  do  not  think  they  have  been  shut  in  ten 
ears,"  Farnham  answered.  "  Let's  try  it." 

The  effort  was  unsuccessful.  The  heavy 
ates  would  not  budge.  Suddenly  a  strag- 
ing,  irregular  cheer  was  heard  from  the 
rection  of  the  Square.  "There!"  said 
emple,  "  my  friend  the  orator  has  got  off 
nother  good  thing." 

But  Farnham,  who  had  stepped  outside  at 
sound  and  gazed  on  the  moon-lighted 
venue,  said,  "  There  they  come  now !  " 

They  both  ran  back  to  the  house,  Farnham 
owing  his  watchman's  whistle.  "  See  here," 
lid  Temple,  "  I  must  have  some  tools.  You 
lave  a  club  and  revolver.  Give  me  the  club," 
hich  he  took  without  more  ceremony.  The 
en  came  up  from  the  garden  in  an  instant, 
id  fell  in  at  Farnham's  word  of  command  in 

moment.  Masked  by  the  shadows  of  the 
ees  and  the  shrubbery,  they  were  not  dis- 
jrnible  from  the  street. 

"  Remember,"  said  Farnham.  "  Use  your 
ubs  as  much  as  you  see  fit,  if  you  come  to 
ose  quarters ;  but  do  not  fire  without  or- 
£rs,  unless  to  save  your  own  lives.  I  don't 
ink  it  is  likely  that  these  fellows  are  armed." 

The  clattering  of  feet  grew  louder  on  the 
dewalk,  and  in  a  moment  the  leaders  of  the 
mg — it  could  hardly  be  called  a  mob — 
jopped  by  the  gates.  "  Here's  the  place, 
lome  along,  boys ! "  one  of  them  shouted, 
jit  no  one  stirred  until  the  whole  party  came 
p.  They  formed  a  dense  crowd  about  the 
jites  and  half-filled  the  wide  avenue.  There 
£is  evidently  a  moment  of  hesitation,  and 
Jen  three  or  four  rushed  through  the  gate, 
illowed  by  a  larger  number,  and  at  last  by 
ie  bulk  of  the  crowd.  They  had  come  so 
J:ar  the  porch  that  it  could  now  be  seen  by 
e  light  of  the  moon  that  few  of  them  car- 
id  arms.  Some  had  sticks ;  one  or  two  men 

rried  heavy  stones  in  their  hands ;  one 
>ung  man  brandished  an  axe;  one  had  a 
immer.  There  was  evidently  no  attempt  at 

ganization  whatever. 

Farnham  waited  until  they  were  only  a  few 
fet  away,  and  then  shouted : 

"  Forward  !    Guide   right !    Double   time  ! 

arch !  " 

The  men  darted  out  from  the  shadow  and 
|gan  to  lay  about  them  with  their  clubs.  A 
Jll  of  dismay  burst  from  the  crowd.  Those 
i!  front  turned  and  met  those  behind,  and 


the  whole  mass  began  striking  out  wildly  at 
each  other.  Yelling  and  cursing,  they  were 
forced  back  over  the  lawn  to  the  gate.  Farn- 
ham, seeing  that  no  shots  had  been  fired, 
was  confirmed  in  his  belief  that  the  rioters  were 
without  organization  and,  to  a  great  extent, 
without  arms.  He  therefore  ordered  his  men 
to  the  right  about  and  brought  them  back  to 
the  house.  This  movement  evidently  encour- 
aged the  mob.  Loud  voices  were  distinctly 
heard. 

"  Who's  afraid  of  half  a  dozen  cops  ?  "  said 
a  burly  ruffian,  who  carried  a  slung-shot. 
"  There's  enough  of  us  to  eat  'em  up." 

"  That's  the  talk,  Bowersox,"  said  another. 
"  You  go  in  and  get  the  first  bite." 

"  That's  my  style,"  said  Bowersox.  "  Come 
along,  Offitt.  Where's  Bott?  I  guess  he  don't 
feel  very  well.  Come  along,  boys  !  We'll  slug 
'em  this  time !  "  And  the  crowd,  inspirited  by 
this  exhortation  and  the  apparent  weakness  of 
the  police  force,  made  a  second  rush  for  the 
house. 

Temple  was  standing  next  to  Farnham. 
"  Arthur,"  he  whispered,  "  let's  change  weap- 
ons a  moment,"  handing  Farnham  his  club 
and  taking  the  revolver  from  his  hand.  Farn- 
ham hardly  noticed  the  exchange,  so  intently 
was  he  watching  the  advance  of  the  crowd, 
which  he  saw,  in  a  moment,  was  far  more  se- 
rious than  the  first.  They  were  coming  up 
more  solidly,  and  the  advantage  of  the  sur- 
prise was  now  gone.  He  waited,  however, 
until  they  were  almost  as  near  as  they  had 
been  before,  and  then  gave  the  order  to 
charge,  in  the  same  words  as  before,  but  in  a 
much  sharper  and  louder  tone,  which  rang 
out  like  a  sudden  blast  from  a  trumpet. 

The  improvised  policemen  darted  forward 
and  attacked  as  vigorously  as  ever,  but  the 
assailants  stood  their  ground.  There  were 
blows  given  as  well  as  taken  this  time.  There 
was  even  a  moment's  confusion  on  the  ex- 
treme right  of  the  line,  where  the  great  bulk 
of  Bowersox  bore  down  one  of  the  veterans. 
Farnham  sprang  forward  and  struck  the  burly 
ruffian  with  his  club  ;  but  his  foot  slipped  on 
the  grass,  and  he  dropped  on  one  knee.  Bow- 
ersox raised  his  slung-shot;  a  single  report 
of  a  pistol  rang  out,  and  he  tumbled  forward 
over  Farnham,  who  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
shouted,  "  Now,  men,  drive  'em  !  "  Taking 
the  right  himself  and  profiting  by  the  mo- 
mentary shock  of  the  shot,  they  got  the  crowd 
started  again,  and  by  vigorous  clubbing  drove 
them  once  more  into  the  street. 

Returning  to  the  shTadow  by  the  house,  Farn- 
ham's first  question  was,  "  Is  anybody  hurt  ?  " 

"  I've  got  a  little  bark  knocked  off,"  said 
one  quiet  fellow,  who  came  forward  showing 
a  ghastly  face  bathed  in  blood  from  a  wound 


98 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


in  his  forehead.  Farnham  looked  at  him  a 
moment,  and  then,  running  to  his  door,  opened 
it  and  called  Budsey,  who  had  been  hiding  in 
the  cellar,  praying  to  all  his  saints. 

"  Here,  Budsey,  take  this  man  down  to 
the  coachman's  house,  and  then  go  round  the 
corner  and  bring  Dr.  Cutts.  If  he  isn't  there, 
get  somebody  else.  It  does  not  amount  to 
much,  but  there  will  be  less  scar  if  it  is  at- 
tended to  at  once." 

The  man  was  starting  away  with  Budsey, 
when  Temple  said,  "  Look  here  !  You  wont 
need  that  arsenal  any  more  to-night.  Pass  it 
over,"  and  took  the  man's  belt,  with  club  and 
pistol,  and  buckled  them  around  his  own  slim 
waist.  Handing  Farnham  his  own  pistol, 
he  said :  "  Thanks,  Arthur.  I  owe  you  one 
cartridge." 

"  And  I  owe  you,  God  knows  how  much !  " 

Farnham  then  briefly  announced  to  his 
men  that  the  shot  which  had  just  been  fired 
was  not  by  a  member  of  the  company,  and 
was,  therefore,  not  a  disobedience  of  orders. 
Catching  sight  of  Bowersox  lying  motionless 
on  the  grass,  he  ordered, 

"Two  file-closers  from  the  right,  go  and 
bring  in  that  man !  " 

But  at  that  moment  Bowersox  moved,  sat 
up  and  looked  about  him,  and,  suddenly 
remembering  where  he  was,  struggled  to  his 
feet  and  half-ran,  half-staggered  to  his  friends 
in  the  street.  They  gathered  about  him  for 
a  moment,  and  then  two  of  them  were  seen 
supporting  him  on  his  way  into  the  town. 

Farnham  was  standing  behind  his  men, 
and  a  little  apart.  He  was  thinking  whether 
it  might  not  be  best  to  take  them  at  once  into 
the  street  and  disperse  the  crowd,  when  he 
felt  a  touch  at  his  elbow.  He  turned,  and  saw 
his  gardener,  Ferguson. 

"  If  I  might  speak  a  word,  sir !  " 

"  Certainly — what  is  it  ?  But  be  quick 
about  it." 

"I  think  all  is  not  right  at  the  Widow 
Belding's.  I  was  over  there  but  now,  and  a 
dozen  men — I  did  not  count  them, — but — " 

"  Heavens !  why  did  I  not  think  of  that  ? 
Kendall,  you  take  command  of  these  men  for  a 
moment.  Bolty,  you  and  the  three  files  on  the 
left  come  with  me.  Come,  Temple, — the  back 
way."  And  he  started  at  a  pace  so  rapid  that 
the  others  could  hardly  keep  him  in  sight. 

After  the  first  repulse  of  the  crowd,  Offitt, 
Bott,  and  a  few  more  of  the  Bread-winners, 
together  with  some  of  the  tramps  and  jail- 
birds who  had  come  for  plunder,  gathered 
together  across  the  street  and  agreed  upon  a 
diversion.  It  was  evident,  they  said,  that 
Farnham  had  a  considerable  police  force 
with  him  to  protect  his  property ;  it  was  use- 
less to  waste  any  more  time  there ;  let  the 


rest  stay  there  and  occupy  the  police ;  thej 
could  have  more  fun  and  more  profit  in  somej 
of  the  good  houses  in  the  neighborhood, 
"Yes,"  one  suggested,  "Jairus  BeldingV 
widder  lives  just  a  step  off.  Lots  o'  silver  and 
things.  Less  go  there." 

They  slipped  away  in  the  confusion  of  the! 
second  rush,  and  made  their  way  through  the] 
garden  to  Mrs.  Belding's.  They  tried  the; 
door,  and,  finding  it  locked,  they  tore  off  the] 
shutters  and  broke  the  windows,  and  made! 
their  way  into  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs  j 
Belding  and  Alice  were  sitting. 

They  had  been  alarmed  by  the  noise  and 
tumult  in  front  of  Farnham's  house,  and  hac 
locked  and  bolted  their  own  doors  in  conse- 
quence. Passing  through  the  kitchen  in  thei: 
rounds,  they  found  Ferguson  there  in  conver- 1 
sation  with  the  cook.  "Why,  Fergus ! "  said  the  ] 
widow :  "  why  are  you  not  at  home  ?  They  an 
having  lively  times  over  there,  are  they  not  ? ' 

"  Yes,"  said  the  gardener;  "  but  they  have  i 
plenty  of  men  with  arms,  and  I  thought  I'd  e'er 
step  over  here  and  hearten  up  Bessie  a  bit.' 

"  I'm  sure  she  ought  to  be  very  much 
obliged,"  responded  Mrs.  Belding,  dryly 
though,  to  speak  the  truth,  she  was  not  dtfl 
pleased  to  have  a  man  in  the  house,  however 
little  she  might  esteem  his  valor. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  sneaked  away 
the  fuss,"  she  said  to  Alice;  "but   I  woulc 
rather  have  him  in  the  kitchen  than  nothing.' 

Alice  assented.  "That  is  what  they  meat* 
by  moral  support,  I  suppose." 

She  spoke  with  a  smile,  but  her  heart  was 
ill  at  ease.  The  man  she  loved  was,  for  m 
she  knew,  in  deadly  danger,  and  she  coulc 
not  show  that  she  cared  at  all  for  him, 
fear  of  showing  that  she  cared  too  much. 

"  I  am  really  anxious  about  Arthur  Farn- 
ham," continued  Mrs.  Belding.    "  I  hope  M 
will  not  get  himself  into  any  scrape  with  those 
men." 

The  tumult  on  the  street  and  on  the  lawi< 
had  as  yet  presented  itself  to  her  in  no  worst  j 
light  than  as  a  labor  demonstration,  involving 
cheers  and  rude  language.  "  I  am  afraid  h<] 
wont  be  polite  enough  to  them.  He  migh 
make  them  a  little  speech,  complimenting 
Ireland  and  the  American  flag,  and  then-  the] 
would  go  away.  That's  what  your  father  did 
in  that  strike  on  the  Wabash.  It  was  in  th<t 
papers  at  the  time.  But  these  soldiers  —  I'n 
afraid  Arthur  mayn't  be  practical  enough." 

"  Fortunately,  we  are  not  responsible  fo 
him,"   said  Alice,  whose  heart  was  beat||| 
violently. 

"  Why,  Alice  !   what  a  heartless  remai 

At  this  instant  the  windows  came  eras 
in,  and  a  half-dozen  ruffians  burst  into 
room.  Alice  sprang,  pale  and  silent,  to 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


99 


<le  of  her  mother,  who  sat,  paralyzed  with 

ght,  in  her  rocking-chair. 

A  man  came  forward  from  the  group  of 
^ailants.  His  soft  hat  was  drawn  down  over 
]j  eyes,  and  a  red  handkerchief  concealed 
te  lower  part  of  his  face.  His  voice  was  that 

Offitt,  as  he  said,  "  Ladies,  we  don't  want 

do  no  violence;  but,  in  the  name  of  the 
Evolutionary  Committee,  we  have  called  to 
dllect  an  assessment  on  you."  This  machin- 
tv'  was  an  invention  of  the  moment,  and  was 
•ikeived  with  great  satisfaction  by  the  Bread- 
•ynners. 

"That's  what's  the  matter,"  they  said,  in 
xorus.     "Your   assessment,    and   be    lively 
iout  it.    All  you've  got  handy." 
|  "  I   have  no   money  in  the  house,"  Mrs. 
Ilding  cried.    "  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 
\  "  You  forget,  mamma,"  said  Alice.   "  There 
ji  some   upstairs.     If  these   gentlemen    will 
lit  here  a  moment,  I  will  go  and  get  it." 
\  Offitt  looked  at  her  sharply.    "  Well,  run 

•  d  get  it.    Bott,  you  go  with  her." 

Bott  turned  angrily  upon  his  chief.  "  What's 
ft  j  use  of  calling  names  ?  What  if  I  said 

ljur  name  was " 

\  "  There,  there,  don't  keep  the  lady  waiting." 
i  Alice  turned  from  the  room,  closely  fol- 
Ived  by  Bott.  Reaching  the  stairs,  she 
;sept  up  the  long  flight  with  the  swift  grace 
•c  a  swallow.  Bott  hurried  after  her  as  fast 
a  he  could;  but  she  gained  her  bedroom 
<pr  enough  in  advance  to  shut  and  lock  it 
ttween  them,  leaving  him  kicking  and 
bearing  in  the  hall.  She  ran  to  her  open 
[vndow,  which  looked  toward  Farnham's, 
|ad  sent  the  voice  of  her  love  and  her 
t'uble  together  into  the  clear  night  in  one 
•ijid  cry,  "  Arthur !  " 

fehe  blushed  crimson  as  the  word  involun- 
t ply  broke  from  her  lips,  and  cried  again  as 
ijidly  as  she  could,  "  Help !  " 

I"  I  hope  he  did  not  hear  me  at  first,"  she 
sld,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
aain  she  cried,  "  Help  !  " 

'  Shut  up  that  noise,"  said  Bott,  who  was 
Diking  violently  at  the  door,  but  could  not 
"tyak  it  down.  "  Shut  up,  or  I'll  wring  your 
|hk." 

She  stopped,  not  on  account  of  his  threats, 
vjich  suddenly  ceased,  but  because  she  heard 
tfe  noise  of  footsteps  on  the  porch,  and  of  a 
sprt  but  violent  scuffle,  which  showed  that 

•  of  some  sort  had  arrived.   In  a  few  mo- 
riints  she  heard   Bott  run    away  from   her 
qor.    He  started  toward  the  stairs,  but  find- 
ij  his  retreat  cut  off  ran  to  the  front  win- 
qw,  closely  pursued.    She  heard  a  scramble. 
Tien  a  voice  which   made   her    heart  beat 
tjnultuously  said,  "  Look  out  below  there." 

(A  moment  after,  the  same  voice  said, "  Have 


you   got  him?"  and  then,   "All  right!  keep 
him." 

A  light  knock  on  her  door  followed,  and 
Farnham  said,  "  Miss  Belding." 

Alice  stood  by  the  door  a  moment  before 
she  could  open  it.  Her  heart  was  still  thump- 
ing, her  voice  failed  her,  she  turned  white  and 
red  in  a  moment.  The  strongest  emotion  of 
which  she  was  conscious  was  the  hope  that 
Arthur  had  not  heard  her  call  him  by  his  name. 

She  opened  the  door  with  a  gravity  which 
was  almost  ludicrous.  Her  first  words  were 
wholly  so. 

"Good  evening,  Captain  Farnham,"  was 
all  she  could  find  to  say.  Then,  striving  des- 
perately to  add  something  more  gracious, 
she  stammered,  "  Mamma  will  be  very " 

"  Glad  to  see  me  in  the  drawing-room," 
Farnham  laughed.  "  I  have  no  doubt  of  it. 
She  is  quite  safe  there,  and  your  visitors  have 
gone.  Will  you  join  her  now  ?  " 

She  could  not  help  perceiving  the  slight 
touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone.  She  saw  he 
was  hurt  by  her  coldness  and  shyness,  and 
that  made  her  still  more  cold  and  shy.  With- 
out another  word  she  walked  before  him  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Belding  still 
sat  in  her  rocking-chair,  moaning  and  wring- 
ing her  hands.  Mr.  Temple  was  standing  be- 
side her,  trying  to  soothe  her,  telling  her  it  was 
all  over.  Bolty  was  tying  the  arms  of  one  of 
the  ruffians  behind  him,  who  lay  on  the  floor 
on  his  face.  There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room. 

Alice  knelt  on  the  floor  by  her  mother  and 
took  her  in  her  arms.  "  You  are  not  hurt,  are 
you,  mamma  dear  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  soft,  tender 
tone,  as  if  she  were  caressing  a  crying  child. 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  widow; 
"but  I  am  not  used  to  such  doings  at  this 
time  of  night,  and  I  don't  like  them.  Captain 
Farnham,  how  shall  I  ever  thank  you  ?  and 
you,  Mr.  Temple?  Goodness  knows  what 
we  should  have  done  without  you.  Alice,  the 
moment  you  left  the  room,  some  of  them  ran 
to  the  sideboard  for  the  silver,  another  one 
proposed  to  set  the  house  afire,  and  that  vile 
creature  with  the  red  handkerchief  asked  me 
for  my  ear-rings  and  my  brooch.  I  was  try- 
ing to  be  as  long  as  I  could  about  getting 
them  off,  when  these  gentlemen  came  in.  I 
tell  you  they  looked  like  angels,  and  I'll  tell 
your  wife  so  when  I  see  her,  Mr.  Temple; 
and  as  for  Arthur " 

At  this  moment  Bolty,  having  finished  the 
last  knot  to  his  satisfaction,  rose  and  touched 
his  prisoner  with  his  foot.  "Captain,"  he 
said,  saluting  Farnham,  "  vot  I  shall  do  mit 
dis  schnide  ?  " 

"  They  have  got  the  one  I  dropped  from 
the  window  ?  " 

"  Jawohl !  on  de  gravel- walk  draussen ! ' 


100 


THE  PINES'   THOUGHT. 


"  Very  well.  Take  them  both  to  the  stable 
behind  my  house  for  the  present,  and  make 
them  fast  together.  Then  come  back  here 
and  stand  guard  awhile  with  the  men  on  the 
porch,  till  I  relieve  you." 

"  All  right.  Git  up  mid  yourself,"  he  said, 
touching  his  prostrate  foe  not  so  gently,  "and 
vorwaerts." 

As  they  went  out,  Farnham  turned  to  Mrs. 
Belding  and  said,  "  I  think  you  will  have  no 
more  trouble.  The  men  I  leave  as  a  guard 
will  be  quite  sufficient,  I  have  no  doubt.  I 
must  hurry  back  and  dismiss  the  friends  who 
have  been  serenading  me." 

She  gazed  at  him,  not  quite 'comprehend- 
ing, and  then  said,  "  Well,  if  you  must  go, 
good-night,  and  thank  you  a  thousand  times. 
When  I  have  my  wits  about  me  I  will  thank 
you  better." 

Arthur  answered  laughingly  as  he  shook 
hands, "  Oh,  that  is  of  no  consequence.  It  was 
merely  neighborly.  You  would  have  done  as 
much  for  me,  I  am  sure."  And  the  gentlemen 
took  their  leave. 

When  the  ladies  were  alone,  Mrs.  Belding 
resumed  her  story  of  the  great  transaction. 
"Why,  it  will  be  something  to  tell  about  as 
long  as  I  live,"  she  said.  "  You  had  hardly 
got  upstairs  when  I  heard  a  noise  of  fighting 
outside  on  the  walk  and  the  porch.  Then 
Arthur  and  Mr.  Temple  came  through  that 
window  as  if  they  were  shot  out  of  a  cannon. 
The  thief  who  stood  by  me,  the  red  handker- 
chief one,  did  not  stop,  but  burst  through  the 
hall  into  the  kitchen  and  escaped  the  back 
way.  Then  Mr.  Temple  took  another  one 
and  positively  threw  him  through  the  win- 


dow, while  Arthur,  with  that  policeman's  club, 
knocked  the  one  down  whom  you  saw  the 
German  tying  up.  It  was  all  done  in  an  in- 
stant, and  I  just  sat  and  screamed  for  my 
share  of  the  work.  Then  Arthur  came  and 
caught  me  by  the  shoulder  and  almost  shook 
me  and  said,  '  Where  is  Alice  ? '  Upon  my 
word,  I  had  almost  forgotten  you.  I  said  you 
were  upstairs  and  one  of  those  wretches  was 
there  too.  He  looked  as  black  as  a  fury  and 
went  up  in  about  three  steps.  I  always 
thought  he  had  such  a  sweet  temper,  but  to- 
night he  seemed  just  to  love  to  fight.  Now  I 
think  of  it,  Alice,  you  hardly  spoke  to  him 
to-night.  You  must  not  let  him  think  we  are 
ungrateful.  You  must  write  him  a  nice  note 
to-morrow." 

Alice  laid  her  head  upon  her  mother's 
shoulder,  where  her  wet  eyes  could  not  be 
seen.  "  Mamma,"  she  asked,  "  did  he  say 

*  Where  is  Alice  ? '    Did  he  say  nothing  but 
'  Alice '  ?  " 

"  Now,  don't  be  silly,"  said  Mrs.  Belding., 
"  Of  course  he  said  *  Alice.'  You  wouldn't 
expect  a  man  to  be  Miss  Beldinging  you  at 
such  a  time.  You  are  quite  too  particular." 

"  He  called  me  Miss  Belding  when  he  came \ 
upstairs,"  said  Alice,  still  hiding  her  face.  ^ 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  him — for  saving.1 
this  house  and  all  our  lives  ?  " 

The  girl's  overwrought  nerves  gave  way.-] 
She  had  only  breath  enough  to  say,  "  I  said 

*  Good  evening,  Captain   Farnham  ! '  Wasn't 
it  too  perfectly  ridiculous  ?  "  and  then  burst 
into  a   flood  of  mingled  laughter  and  tears 
which  nothing   could    check,  until  she    had 
cried  herself  quiet  upon  her  mother's  bosom. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE    PINES'   THOUGHT. 

WITHIN  the  shadow  of  ourselves  we  stand, 
And  see  a  thousand  brilliancies  unfold 
Where  autumn  woods,  in  gorgeous  ruin,  hold 

One  late,  last  revel.     Upon  every  hand 

Riot  of  color,  death  in  pomp  and  state, 
Decay  magnificent,  inconstant  blaze, — 
We  have  no  part  or  splendor  in  these  days. 

They  shall  be  changed,  —  we  are  inviolate; 

Their  voices  shall  be  hushed  on  every  hill, 

Their  lights  be  quenched — all  color  fade  and  die, 

And  when  they  stand  like  specters  gaunt  and  still, 
With  naked  boughs  against  the  far,  cold  sky, 

Lo !  we  shall  hide  the  flying  moon  from  sight, 

And  lead  the  wind  on  many  a  roaring  night. 


Juliet  C. 


NATURE    IN    ENGLAND. 

I -HE  first  whiff  we  got  of  transatlantic  nature  was  the  peaty  breath 
of  the  peasant  chimneys  of  Ireland  while  we  were  yet  many  miles 
at  sea.  What  a  home-like,  fireside  smell  it  was;  it  seemed  to 
make  something  long  forgotten  stir  within  one.  One  recognizes  it  as 
a  characteristic  Old  World  odor,  it  savors  so  of  the  soil  and  of  a 
ripe  and  mellow  antiquity.  I  know  no  other  fuel  that  yields  so  agree- 
able a  perfume.  Unless  the  Irishman  in  one  has  dwindled  to  a  very 
small  fraction,  he  will  be  pretty  sure  to  dilate  his  nostrils  and  feel  some  dim 
awakening  of  memory  on  catching  the 
scent  of  this  ancestral  fuel.  The  fat,  unc- 
tuous peat,  the  pith  and  marrow  of  ages 
of  vegetable  growth,  how  typical  it  is  of 
much  that  lies  there  before  us  in  the 
elder  world ;  of  the  slow  ripenings  and 
accumulations,  of  extinct  life  and  forms, 
decayed  civilizations,  of  ten  thousand 
(growths  and  achievements  of  the  hand  and  soul  of  man, 
now  reduced  to  their  last  modicum  of  fertilizing  mold. 

With  the  breath  of  the  chimney  there  came  presently 
the  chimney-swallow,  and  dropped  much  fatigued  upon 
the  deck  of  the  steamer.    It  was  a  still  more  welcome  and 
suggestive  token  :  the  bird  of  Virgil  and  of  Ten- 
nyson, acquainted  with  every  cottage  roof  and 
chimney  in  Europe,  and  with  the  ruined  abbeys 
and  castle  walls.  Except  its  lighter-colored  breast, 
t  seemed  identical  with  our  barn-swallow;  its 
little  black  cap  appeared  pulled  down  over  its 
eyes  in  the  same  manner,  and  its  glossy  steel- 
/lue  coat,  its  forked  tail,  its  infantile  feet,  and 
ts  cheerful  twitter  were  the  same.    But  its  habits 
ire  different;  for  in  Europe  this  swallow  builds 
n  chimneys,  and  the  bird  that  answers  to 
)ur   chimney-swallow,   or   swift,  builds   in 
Devices  in  barns  and  houses. 

We  did  not  suspect  we  had  taken  aboard 
pur  pilot  in  the  little  swallow,   yet  so  it 
roved;  this   light   navigator  always  hails 
rom  the  port  of  bright,  warm  skies;  and 
he  next  morning  we  found  ourselves  sail- 
ng  between  shores  basking  in  full  summer 
unshine.    Those  who  after  ten  days  of  sor- 
owing  and  fasting  in  the  desert 
f  the  ocean  have  sailed  up  the 
rith  of  Clyde,  and  thence  up  the 
^lyde  to  Glasgow,  on  the  morning 
f  a  perfect  mid-May  day,  the  sky 
ill  sunshine,  the  earth  all  verdure, 
[mow  what  this  experience  is ;  and 
mly  those  can  know 
It  takes  a  good 
nany  foul  days  in 
Scotland   to   breed 
me  fair  one;    but 
jvhen  the  fair  day 
Iocs    come,    it    is 
VOL.  XXVIL— ii 


SOME    MEADOW    FLOWERS  —  LADIES*  FINGERS,    YELLOW    RATTLE,    MOON    DAISIES,    AND   SOFT   GRAS 


IO2 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


worth  the  price  paid  for  it.  The  soul  and 
sentiment  of  all  fair  weather  is  in  it;  it  is 
the  flowering  of  the  meteorological  influ- 
ences, the  rose  on  this  thorn  of  rain  and 
mist.  These  fair  days,  I  was  told,  may  be 
quite  confidently  looked  for  in  May;  we 
were  so  fortunate  as  to  strike  a  series  of  them, 
and  the  day  we  entered  port  was  such  a  one 
as  you  would  select  from  a  hundred. 

The  traveler  is  in  a  mood  to  be  pleased 
after  clearing  that  Atlantic  gulf,  the  eye  in  its 
exuberance  is  full  of  caresses  and  flattery,  and 
the  deck  of  a  steamer  is  a  rare  vantage-ground 
on  any  occasion  of  sight-seeing;  it  affords  just 
the  isolation  and  elevation  needed.  Yet  fully 
discounting  these  favorable  conditions,  the 
fact  remains  that  Scotch  sunshine  is  bewitch- 
ing, and  that  the  scenery  of  the  Clyde  is  un- 
equaled  by  any  other  approach  to  Europe.  It 
is  Europe,  abridged  and  assorted  .and  passed 
before  you  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours :  the 
highlands  and  lochs  and  castle-crowned  crags 
on  the  one  hand;  and  the  lowlands,  with  their 
parks  and  farms,  their  manor  halls  and  match- 
less verdure,  on  the  other.  The  eye  is  con- 
servative, and  loves  a  look  of  permanence 
and  order,  of  peace  and  contentment ;  and 
these  Scotch  shores,  with  their  stone  houses, 
compact  masonry,  clean  fields,  grazing  herds, 
ivied  walls,  massive  foliage,  perfect  roads,  ver- 
dant mountains,  etc.,  fill  all  the  conditions. 
We  pause  an  hour  in  front  of  Greenock,  and 
then,  on  the  crest  of  the  tide,  make  our  way 
slowly  upward.  The  landscape  closes  around 
us.  We  can  almost  hear  the  cattle  ripping 
off  the  lush  grass  in  the  fields.  One  feels  as 
if  he  could  eat  grass  himself,  it  is  a  pastoral 
paradise.  We  can  see  the  daisies  and  butter- 
cups; and  from  above  a  meadow  on  the 
right,  a  part  of  the  song  of  a  sky-lark  reaches 
my  ear.  Indeed,  not  a  little  of  the  charm  and 
novelty  -of  this  part  of  the  voyage  was  the 
impression  it  made  as  of  going  afield  in  an 
ocean  steamer.  We  had  suddenly  passed  from 
a  wilderness  of  waters  into  a  verdurous,  sun- 
lit landscape,  where  scarcely  any  water  was 
visible.  The  Clyde,  soon  after  you  leave 
Greenock,  becomes  little  more  than  a  large, 
deep  canal,  inclosed  between  meadow  banks, 
and  from  the  deck  of  the  great  steamer  only 
the  most  charming  rural  sights  and  sounds 
greet  you.  You  are  at  sea  amid  verdant  parks 
and  fields  of  clover  and  grain.  You  behold 
farm  occupations — sowing,  planting,  plow- 
ing—  as  from  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic. 
Playful  heifers  and  skipping  lambs  take  the 
place  of  the  leaping  dolphins  and  the  basking 
sword-fish.  The  ship  steers  her  way  amid  tur- 
nip-fields and  broad  acres  of  newly  planted 
potatoes.  You  are  not  surprised  that  she 
needs  piloting.  A  little  tug  with  a  rope  at  her 


bow  pulls  her  first  this  way  and  then  that,  while 
one  at  her  stern  nudges  her  right  flank  and 
then  her  left.  Presently  we  come  to  the  ship- 
building  yards  of  the  Clyde,  where  rural,  pas- 
toral scenes  are  strangely  mingled  with  those 
of  quite  another  sort.  "  First  a  cow  and  then 
an  iron  ship,"  as  one  of  the  voyagers  ob- 
served. Here  a  pasture,. or  a  meadow,  or  a 
field  of  wheat  or  oats,  and  close  beside  it, 
without  an  inch  of  waste  or  neutral  ground 
between,  rise  the  skeletons  of  innumerable 
ships,  like  a  forest  of  slender  growths  of  iron, 
with  the  workmen  hammering  amid  it  like  so 
many  noisy  woodpeckers.  It  is  doubtful  if 
such  a  scene  can  be  witnessed  anywhere  else 
in  the  world — an  enormous  mechanical,  com- 
mercial, and  architectural  interest,  alternating 
with  the  quiet  and  simplicity  of  inland  farms 
and  occupations.  You  could  leap  from  the 
deck  of  a  half-finished  ocean  steamer  into  a 
field  of  waving  wheat  or  Winchester  beans. 
These  vast  ship-yards  are  set  down  here 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Clyde  with  as  little 
interference  with  the  scene  as  possible ;  one 
would  say  the  vessels  had  come  up  out  of 
the  water  like  seals  to  sun  themselves  here  on 
the  grassy  bank. 

Of  the  factories  and  founderies  that  pu| 
this  iron  in  shape  you  get  no  hint ;  here  the 
ships  rise  as  if  they  sprouted  from  the  soil, 
without  waste  or  litter,  but  with  an  incessant 
din.  They  stand  as  thickly  as  a  row  of  cattle 
in  stanchions,  almost  touching  each  other, 
and  in  all  stages  of  development.  Now  and 
then  a  stall  will  be  vacant,  the  ship  having 
just  been  launched,  and  others  will  be  stand- 
ing with  flags  flying  and  timbers  greased  or 
soaped,  ready  to  take  to  the  water  at  the 
word.  Two  such,  both  large  ocean  steamers, 
waited  for  us  to '  pass.  We  looked  back,  saw 
the  last  block  or  wedge  knocked  away  from 
one  of  them,  and  the  monster  ship  sauntered 
down  to  the  water  and  glided  out  into  the 
current  in  the  most  gentle,  nonchalant  way 
imaginable.  I  wondered  at  her  slow  pace, 
and  at  the  grace  and  composure  with  which 
she  took  to  the  water;  the  problem  nicely 
studied  and  solved — just  power  enough,  and 
not  an  ounce  to  spare.  The  vessels  are 
launched  diagonally  up  or  down  stream,  on 
account  of  the  narrowness  of  the  channel. 
But  to  see  such  a  brood  of  ships,  the  largest 
in  the  world,  hatched  upon  the  banks  of  such 
a  placid  little  river,  amid  such  quiet  country 
scenes,  is  a  novel  experience.  But  this  is 
Britain  :  a  little  island,  with  little  lakes,  littl-2 
rivers,  quiet,  bosky  fields,  but  mighty  inter 
and  power  that  reach  round  the  worl 
was  conscious  that  the  same  scene  at  h 
would  have  been  less  pleasing.  It  wo 
not  have  been  so  compact  and  tidy.  T 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


103 


GRASSY    MOUNTAINS. 


would  not  have  been  a  garden  of  ships 
and  a  garden  of  turnips  side  by  side ;  hay- 
makers and  ship-builders  in  adjoining  fields  ; 
milch-cows  and  iron  steamers  seeking  the 
water  within  sight  of  each  other.  We  leave 
wide  margins  and  ragged  edges  in  this  coun- 
try, and  both  man  and  nature  sprawl  about  at 
greater  lengths  than  in  the  Old  World. 

I  was  perhaps  least  prepared  for  the  utter 
tranquillity,  and  shall  I  say  domesticity,  of  the 
mountains.  At  a  distance  they  appear  to  be 
covered  with  a  tender  green  mold  that  one 
could  brush  away  with  his  hand.  On  nearer 
approach  it  is  seen  to  be  grass.  They  look 
nearly  as  rural  and  pastoral  as  the  fields. 
Goat  Fell  is  steep  and  stony,  but  even  it 
does  not  have  a  wild  and  barren  look.  At 
home,  one  thinks  of  a  mountain  as  either  a 
vast  pile  of  barren,  frowning  rocks  and  preci- 
pices, or  else  a  steep  acclivity  covered  with 
a  tangle  of  primitive  forest  timber.  But  here, 
I  the  mountains  are  high,  grassy  sheep-walks, 
!  smooth,  treeless,  rounded,  and  as  green  as  if 
j  dipped  in  a  fountain  of  perpetual  spring.  I 
jdid  not  wish  my  Catskills  any  different;  but  I 
wondered  what  would  need  to  be  done  to  them 
to  make  them  look  like  these  Scotch  high- 
lands. Cut  away  their  forests,  rub  down  all 
inequalities  in  their  surfaces,  pulverizing  their 
loose  bowlders,  turf  them  over,  leaving  the 
rock  to  show  through  here  and  there ;  then, 
with  a  few  large  black  patches  to  represent 
the  heather,  and  the  softening  and  amelio- 
rating effect  of  a  mild,  humid  climate,  they 
i  might  in  time  come  to  bear  some  resemblance 
to  these  shepherd  mountains.  Then  over  all 
the  landscape  is  that  new  look — that  mellow, 


legendary,  half-human  expression  which  nat- 
ure wears  in  these  ancestral  lands,  an  expres- 
sion familiar  in  pictures  and  in  literature,  but 
which  a  native  of  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  has 
never  before  seen  in  gross,  material  objects 
and  open-air  spaces,  —  the  added  charm  of 
the  sentiment  of  time  and  human  history,  the 
ripening  and  ameliorating  influence  of  long 
ages  of  close  and  loving  occupation  of  the 
soil, — naturally  a  deep,  fertile  soil  under  a 
mild,  very  humid  climate. 

There  is  an  unexpected,  an  unexplained 
lure  and  attraction  in  the  landscape,  a  pensive, 
reminiscent  feeling  in  the  air  itself.  Nature 
has  grown  mellow  under  these  humid  skies, 
as  in  our  fiercer  climate  she  grows  harsh  and 
severe.  One  sees  at  once  why  this  fragrant 
Old  World  has  so  dominated  the  affections' 
and  the  imagination  of  our  artists  and  poets: 
it  is  saturated  with  human  qualities;  it  is 
unctuous  with  the  ripeness  of  ages,  the  very 
marrow-fat  of  time. 


I  HAD  come  to  Great  Britain  less  to  see  the 
noted  sights  and  places,  than  to  observe  the 
general  face  of  nature.  I  wanted  to  steep 
myself  long  and  well  in  that  mellow,  benign 
landscape,  and  put  to  further  tests  the  im- 
pressions I  had  got  of  it  during  a  hasty  visit 
one  autumn,  eleven  years  before.  Hence  I 
was  mainly  intent  on  roaming  about  the 
country,  it  mattered  little  where.  Like  an 
attic  stored  with  relics  and  heir-looms,  there 
is  no  place  in  England  where  you  cannot 
instantly  turn  from  nature  to  scenes  and 


104 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


places   of    deep   historical   or  legendary   or  ment   to   the   smell.    When    I   plucked   the 

artistic  interest.    With  a  suitable  companion,  flowers,  which  seemed  precisely  like  our  own, 

I    should   probably  have   made   many  long  the  odor  was  rank  and  disagreeable ;  but  at 

pedestrian  tours.    As  it   was,  I    took  many  the  distance  of  a  few  yards  it  floated  upon  the 

short  but  delightful  walks  both  in  England  moist  air,  a  spicy  and  pleasing  perfume.   The 


OLD    ELDER-TREES. 


and  Scotland,  with  a  half  day's  walk  in  the 
north  of  Ireland  about  Moville.  'Tis  an  ad- 
mirable country  to  walk  in, —  the  roads  are  so 
dry  and  smooth  and  of  such  easy  grade,  the 
foot-paths  so  numerous  and  so  bold,  and  the 
climate  so  cool  and  tonic.  One  night,  with  a 
friend,  I  walked  from  Rochester  to  Maidstone, 
part  of  the  way  in  a  slow  rain  and  part  of 
the  way  in  the  darkness.  We  had  proposed 
to  put  up  at  some  one  of  the  little  inns  on 
the  road,  and  get  a  view  of  the  weald  of 
Kent  in  the  morning ;  but  the  inns  refused  us 
entertainment,  and  we  were  compelled  to  do 
the  eight  miles  at  night,  stepping  off  very 
lively  the  last  four  in  order  to  reach  Maid- 
stone  before  the  hotels  were  shut  up,  which 
takes  place  at  eleven  o'clock.  I  learned  this 
night  how  fragrant  the  English  elder  is  while 
in  bloom,  and  that  distance  lends  enchant- 


elder  here  grows  to  be  a  veritable  tree:  I 
saw  specimens  seven  or  eight  inches  in  diam- 
eter and  twenty  feet  high.  In  the  morning  we 
walked  back  by  a  different  route,  taking  in 
Boxley  Church,  where  the  pilgrims  used  to 
pause  on  their  way  to  Canterbury,  and  get- 
ting many  good  views  of  Kent  grain-fields 
and  hop-yards.  Sometimes  the  road  wound 
through  the  landscape  like  a  foot-path,  with 
nothing  between  it  and  the  rank  growing 
crops.  An  occasional  newly  plowed  field 
presented  a  curious  appearance.  The  soil 
is  upon  the  chalk  formation,  and  is  full  of 
large  fragments  of  flint.  These  work  om 
upon  the  surface,  and,  being  white  and  full  of 
articulations  and  processes,  give  to  the  grounc 
the  appearance  of  being  thickly  strewn  with 
bones  —  with  thigh-bones  greatly  foreshort- 
ened. Yet  these  old  bones  in  skillful  han " 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAAW. 


I05 


ake  a  most  effective  building  material.    They 
3pear  in  all  the  old  churches  and  ancient 
uildings  in  the  south  of  England.    Broken 
uarely  off,  the  flint  shows  a  fine  semi-trans- 
irent    surface    that,    in    combination   with 
arser  material,  has  a  remarkable  crystalline 
feet.    One    of  the   most   delicious   bits   of 
chitectural    decoration    I  saw   in    England 
as  produced,  in  the  front  wall  of  one  of  the 
d  buildings  attached  to  the  cathedral  at  Can- 
rbury,  by  little  squares  of  these  flints  in  brick 
nel-work.    The  cool,  pellucid,  illuminating 
ect  of  the  flint  was  just  the  proper  foil  to 
e  warm,  glowing,  livid  brick. 
From  Rochester  we  walked  to  Gravesend, 
er  Gad's    Hill;    the  day  soft  and  warm, 
If  sunshine,,  half  shadow ;  the  air  full  of  the 
ngs  of  sky-larks;  a  rich,  fertile  landscape  all 
us;   the  waving  wheat  just  in  bloom, 
shed  with  scarlet  poppies;  and  presently, 
the  right,  the  Thames  in  view  dotted  with 
ssels.    Seldom  any  cattle  or  grazing  herds  in 
nt;  the  ground  is  too  valuable;  it  is  all 
en  up  to  wheat,  oats,  barley,  hops,  fruit, 
|d  various  garden-produce. 
JA  few  days  later  we  walked  from   Fever- 
Sam  to  Canterbury,  and   from   the   top  of 
prbledown  hill  saw  the  magnificent  cathe- 
ckl  suddenly  break  upon  us  as  it  did  upon 
tp  foot-sore  and  worshipful  pilgrims  centuries 
ajo.  At  this  point,  it  is  said,  they  knelt  down, 
Much  seems  quite  probable,  the  view  is  so 
ijposing.  The  cathedral  stands  out  from  and 


above  the  city,  as  if  the  latter  were  the  foun- 
dation upon  which  it  rested.  On  this  walk 
we  passed  several  of  the  famous  cherry 
orchards  of  Kent — the  thriftiest  trees  and 
the  finest  fruit  I  ever  saw;  not  stung  by 
insects,  as  with  us.  About  the  best  glimpses 
I  had  of  the  cathedral — after  the  first  view 
from  Harbledown  hill — were  obtained  while 
lying  upon  my  back  on  the  grass,  under  the 
shadow  of  its  walls,  and  gazing  up  at  the  jack- 
daws flying  about  the  central  tower  and  go- 
ing out  and  in  weather-worn  openings  three 
hundred  feet  above  me.  There  seemed  to  be 
some  wild,  pinnacled  mountain  peak  or  rocky 
ledge  up  there  toward  the  sky,  where  the  fowls 
of  the  air  had  made  their  nests,  secure  from 
molestation.  The  way  the  birds  make  them- 
selves at  home  about  these  vast  architectural 
piles  is  very  pleasing.  Doves,  starlings,  jack- 
daws, swallows,  sparrows  take  to  them  as  to  a 
wood  or  to  a  cliff.  If  there  were  only  some- 
thing to  give  a  corresponding  touch  of  nature 
or  a  throb  of  life  inside !  But  their  interiors 
are  only  impressive  sepulchers — tombs  within 
a  tomb.  Your  own  footfalls  seem  like  the  echo 
of  past  ages.  These  cathedrals  belong  to  the 
pleistocene  period  of  man's  religious  history  — 
the  period  of  gigantic  forms.  How  vast,  how 
monstrous,  how  terrible  in  beauty  and  power ! 
but  as  empty  and  dead  as  the  shells  upon 
the  shore.  The  cold,  thin  ecclesiasticism  that 
now  masquerades  in  them  hardly  disturbs  the 
dust  in  their  central  aisles.  I  saw  five  wor- 


io6 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


shipers  at 
the  choral 
service  in  Can- 
terbury, and 
about  the  same 
number  of  curi- 
ous spectators.  For  my  part,  I  could  not  take 
my  eyes  off  the  remnants  of  some  of  the  old 
stained  windows  up  aloft.  If  I  worshiped  at 
all,  it  was  my  devout  admiration  of  those 
superb  relics.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  the  faith  that  inspired  those.  Below 
them  were  some  gorgeous  modern  memorial 
windows  :  stained  glass,  indeed !  loud,  garish, 
thin,  painty ;  while  these  were  like  a  combi- 
nation of  precious  stones  and  gems,  full  of 
depth  and  richness  of  tone,  and,  above  all, 
serious,  not  courting  your  attention.  My  eye 
was  not  much  taken  with  them  at  first,  and 
not  till  after  it  had  recoiled  from  the  hard, 
thin  glare  in  my  immediate  front. 

From  Canterbury  I  went  to  Dover,  and 
spent  part  of  a  day  walking  along  the  cliffs  to 
Folkestone.  There  is  a  good  foot-path  that 
skirts  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and  it  is  much 
frequented.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  com- 
pactness and  neatness  of  this  little  island  that 
there  is  not  an  inch  of  waste  land  along  this 
sea  margin ;  the  fertile  rolling  landscape,  wav- 
ing with  wheat  and  barley,  and  with  grass 
just  ready  for  the  scythe,  is  cut  squarely  off 
by  the  sea ;  the  plow  and  the  reaper  come  to 
the  very  brink  of  the  chalky  cliffs.  As  you 
sit  down  on  Shakspere's  Cliff,  with  your  feet 
dangling  in  the  air  at  a  height  of  three  hundred 
and  fifty  feet,  you  can  reach  back  and  pluck  the 
grain  heads  and  the  scarlet  poppies.  Never 
have  I  seen  such  quiet  pastoral  beauty  take 
such  a  sudden  leap  into  space.  Yet  the  scene  is 
tame,  in  one  sense  :  there  is  no  hint  of  the  wild 
and  the  savage ;  the  rock  is  soft  and  friable,  a 
kind  of  chalky  bread,  which  the  sea  devours 
reaplily ;  the  hills  are  like  freshly  cut  loaves ; 
slice  after  slice  has  been  eaten  away  by  the 


hungry   elements. 

Sitting  here,  I  saw 

no  "crows  and  choughs"  winging  "the  mio 

way  air,"  but  a  species  of  hawk,  "  haggard 

of  the  rocks,"  were  disturbed  in  the  nicWj 

beneath  me,  and  flew  along  from  point   | 

point. 

—  "The  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes,    ; 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high." 

I  had  wondered  why  Shakspere  had  macj 
his  sea-shores  pebbly  instead  of  sandy,  an 
now  I  saw  why :  they  are  pebbly,  with  n< 
a  grain  of  sand  to  be  found.  This  cha( 
formation,  as  I  have  already  said,  is  full  (] 
flint  nodules ;  and  as  the  shore  is  eaten  awa 
by  the  sea,  these  rounded  masses  remaii 
They  soon  become  worn  into  smooth  pebble 
that  beneath  the  pounding  of  the  surf  gi\j 
out  a  strange  rattling,  clinking  sound.  Acroj 
the  Channel,  on  the  French  side,  there 
more  sand,  but  it  is  of  the  hue  of  mud  an 
not  pleasing  to  look  upon. 

Of  other  walks  I  had  in  England,  I  reca 
with  pleasure  a  Sunday  up  the  Thamt 
toward  Windsor:  the  day  perfect,  the  riy« 
alive  with  row-boats,  the  shore  swarmin 
with  pedestrians  and  picnickers;  young  atl 
letic  London,  male  and  female,,  rushing  fort 
as  hungry  for  the  open  air  and  the  water  i 
young  mountain  herds  for  salt.  One  shotf 
of  the  Thames,  sometimes  the  right,  some 
times  the  left,  it  seems,  belongs  to  the  publi< 
No  private  grounds,  however  lordly,  ar 
allowed  to  monopolize  both  sides. 

Another  salutary  walk  was  along  the  bo: 
ders  of  Surrey  and  Sussex,  and  throug 
Gilbert  White's  country,  in  quest  of  the  nigh 
ingale.  I  was  everywhere  a  day  or  a  half  da; 
or  else  a  few  hours,  too  late  to  hear  tin 
famous  bird  in  full  song,  so  sharply  an 
abruptly  does  then*  musical  period  en< 
Another  walk  was  about  Winchester  an 
Salisbury,  with  more  cathedral  viewing 
One  of  the  most  human  things  to  be 


o  be  s<e 


NATURE   IN  ENGLAND. 


107 


i  the  great  cathedrals  is  the  carven  image 
f  some  old  knight  or  warrior  prince  resting 
bove  his  tomb,  with  his  feet  upon  his  faith- 
il  dog.  I  was  touched  by  this  remembrance 
f  the  dog.  In  all  cases  he  looked  alert  and 
-atchful,  as  if  guarding  his  master  while  he 
ept.  I  noticed  that  Cromwell's  soldiers 
ere  less  apt  to  batter  off  the  nose  and  ears 
f  the  dog  than  they  were  those  of  the 
night. 


the  yellow-hammer,  two  or  three  being  within 
ear-shot.  The  song  is  much  like  certain  spar- 
row songs,  only  inferior  :  Sip,  sip,  sip,  sce-e-e-e; 
or,  If,  if,  if,  you  pleas-e-e-e.  Honey-bees  on 
the  white  clover.  Turf  very  thick  and  springy, 
supporting  two  or  three  kinds  of  grass 
resembling  redtop  and  bearded  rye-grass. 
Narrow-leaved  plantain,  a  few  buttercups, 
a  small  yellow  flower  unknown  to  me  (prob- 
ably ladies'  fingers),  also  a  species  of  dan- 


IN     KENT NEAR     GRAVESEND. 


At  Stratford  I  did  more  walking.  After  a 
w  on  the  river,  we  strolled  through  the  low, 
assy  field  in  front  of  the  church,  redolent 
cattle  and  clover,  and  sat  for  an  hour  on 
e  margin  'of  the  stream  and  enjoyed  the 
.storal  beauty  and  the  sunshine.  In  the  af- 
rnoon  (it  was  Sunday)  I  walked  across  the 
Ids  to  Shottery,  and  then  followed  the  road 
it  wound  amid  the  quaint  little  thatched 
ttages  till  it  ended  at  a  stile  from  which  a 
3t-path  led  across  broad,  sunny  fields  to  a 
itely  highway.  To  give  a  more  minute  ac- 
unt  of  English  country  scenes  and  sounds 
midsummer,  I  will  here  copy  some  jottings 
my  note-book,  made  then  and  there  : 
"July  1 6.  In  the  fields  beyond  Shottery. 
ight  and  breezy,  with  appearance  of  slight 
owers  in  the  distance.  Thermometer  prob- 
ly  66  or  68  degrees ;  a  good  working  tem- 
irature.  Clover — white,  red,  and  yellow 
(lute  predominating) — in  the  fields  all  about 
The  only  noticeable  bird  voice  that  of 


delion  and  prunella.  The  land  thrown  into 
marked  swells  twenty  feet  broad.  Two  Sun- 
day-school girls  lying  on  the  grass  in  the 
other  end  of  the  field.  A  number  of  young 
men  playing  some  game,  perhaps  cards,  seated 
on  the  ground  in  an  adjoining  field.  Scarcely 
any  signs  of  midsummer  to  me ;  no  ripeness 
or  maturity  in  Nature  yet.  The  grass  very 
tender  and  succulent,  the  streams  full  and 
roily.  Yarrow  and  cinque-foil  also  in  the 
grass  where  I  sit.  The  plantain  in  bloom  and 
fragrant.  Along  the  Avon,  the  meadow-sweet 
in  full  bloom,  with  a  fine  cinnamon  odor.  A 
wild  rose  here  and  there  in  the  hedge-rows. 
The  wild  clematis  nearly  ready  to  bloom. 
The  wheat  and  oats  full-grown,  but  not  yet 
turning.  The  clouds  soft  and  fleecy.  Pru- 
nella dark  purple.  The  red  clover  very  ruddy ; 
the  white  large.  A  few  paces  farther  on  I 
enter  a  highway,  one  of  the  broadest  I  have 
seen,  the  road-bed  hard  and  smooth  as  usual, 
about  sixteen  feet  wide,  with  grassy  margins 


io8 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


twelve  feet  wide,  redolent  with  white  and  red    islands  of  shade  in  a  sea  of  grass.    Droves 
A     _:_i_     r~_™: i~~^«-^  ,^^    c-nraoAc     cV>p>^r»    crrs'/incr    artrl    herds    of  cattle  renos 


clover.  A  rich  farming  landscape  spreads 
around  me,  with  blue  hills  in  the  far  west. 
Cool  and  fresh  like  June.  Bumble-bees  here 
and  there,  more  hairy  than  at  home.  A  plow 


sheep  grazing,  and  herds  of  cattle  reposinj 
in  the  succulent  fields.  Now  the  just  fe 
breeze  brings  me  the  rattle  of  a  mowing  mJ 
chine,  a  rare  sound  here.  The  great  motioil 


COTTAGES  AT  SHOTTERY. 


in  a  field  by  the  road-side  is  so  heavy  I  can 
barely  move  it — at  least  three  times  as  heavy 
as  an  American  plow ;  beam  very  long,  tails 
four  inches  square,  the  mold-board  a  thick 
plank.  The  soil  like  putty ;  where  it  dries 
crumbling  into  small,  hard  lumps,  but  sticky 
and  tough  when  damp, —  Shakspere's  soil,  the 
finest  and  most  versatile  wit  of  the  world,  the 
product  of  a  sticky,  stubborn  clay-bank.  Here 
is  a  field  where  every  alternate  swell  is  small. 
The  large  swells  heave  up  in  a  very  molten- 
like  way  —  real  turfy  billows,  crested  with 
white  clover-blossoms." 

'•July  17.  On  the  road  to  Warwick,  two 
miles  from  Stratford.  Morning  bright,  with 
sky  full  of  white,  soft,  high-piled  thunder- 
heads.  Plenty  of  pink  blackberry  blossoms 
along  the  road;  herb  Robert  in  bloom,  and 
a  kind  of  Solomon's-seal  as  at  home,  and 
what  appears  to  be  a  species  of  golden-rod 
with  a  midsummery  smell.  The  note  of  the 
yellow-hammer  and  the  wren  here  and  there. 
Beech-trees  loaded  with  mast  and  humming 
with  bumble-bees,  probably  gathering  honey- 
dew,  which  seems  to  be  more  abundant  here 
than  with  us.  The  landscape  like  a  well-kept 
park  dotted  with  great  trees,  which  make 


less  arms  of  a  windmill  rising  here  and  thei 
above  the  horizon.  A  gentleman's  turn-oi 
goes  by,  with  glittering  wheels  and  spankin 
team;  the  footman  in  livery  behind,  the  gei 
tleman  driving.  I  hear  his  brake  scrape  as  b 
puts  it  on  down  the  gentle  descent.  Now 
lark  goes  off.  Then  the  mellow  horn  of  a  coj] 
or  heifer  is  heard.  Then  the  bleat  of  sheej 
The  crows  caw  hoarsely.  Few  houses  by  th 
road-side,  but  here  and  there  'behind  th 
trees  in  the  distance.  I  hear  the  greenfincl 
stronger  and  sharper  than  our  goldfinch,  br 
less  pleasing.  The  matured  look  of  som 
fields  of  grass  alone  suggests  midsumme 
Several  species  of  mint  by  the  road-side,  als 
certain  white  umbelliferous  plants.  Ever) 
where  that  royal  weed  of  Britain,  the  nettlt 
Shapely  piles  of  road  material  and  pounde 
stone  at  regular  distances,  every  fragment  o 
which  will  go  through  a  two-inch  ring.  Th 
roads  are  mended  only  in  winter,  and  ;u 
kept  as  smooth  and  hard  as  a  rock.  ) 
swells  or  '  thank-y'-ma'ms '  in  them  to  tu 
the  water;  they  shed  the  water  like  a  round  e 
pavement.  On  the  hill,  three  miles  from  Strr 
ford,  where  a  finger-post  points  you  to  Han  f 
ton  Lucy,  I  turn  and  see  the  spire  of  Sh; 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


109 


MEADOW    BY    AVON. 


ere's  church  between  tlie  trees.    It  lies  in  a 
ad,  gentle  valley,   and  rises  above  many 
t>es.    '  I  hope  and  praise   God  it  will  keep 
f  ne,'  said  the  old  woman  at  whose  little  cot- 
t*e  I  stopped  for  ginger-beer,  attracted  by  a 
in  the  window.    '  One  penny,  sir,  if  you 
pase.    I  made  it  myself,  sir.    I  do  not  leave 
front  door  unfastened  '  (undoing  it  to  let 
out)  '  when  I  am  down  in  the  garden.'    A 
asel  runs  across  the  road  in  front  of  me, 
I  is  scolded  by  a  little  bird.    The  body  of 
ead  hedgehog  festering  beside  the  hedge. 
;pecies  of  St.  Johnswort  in  bloom,  teasels, 
i  a  small  convolvulus.    Also  a  species  of 
p.ntain  with  a  head  large  as  my  finger,  pur- 
p    tinged  with   white.   Road  margins  wide, 
assy,  and  fragrant   with   clover.    Privet  in 
Horn  in  the  hedges,  panicles  of  small  white 
flyers  faintly  sweet-scented.     'As  clean  and 
vite  as  privet  when  it  flowers/  says  Tenny- 
S<;L  in  '  Walking  to  the  Mail.'    The  road  an 
a>nue  between  noble  trees,  beech,  ash,  elm, 
al  oak.   All  the  fields  are  bounded  by  lines 
o  stately  trees  :    the   distance  is  black  with 
tl  m.    A  large  thistle  by  the  road-side,  with 
hneless   bumble-bees    on    the  heads  as  at 
hjne,  some  of  them  white-faced  and  sting- 
Thistles  rare  in  this  country.    Weeds  of 
kinds  rare  except  the  nettle.    The  place  to 
the  Scotch  thistle  is  not  in  Scotland  or 
E|gland,  but  in  America." 


VOL.  XXVIL— 12. 


Ill 


ENGLAND  is  like  the  margin  of  a  spring- 
run,  near  its  source— always  green,  always 
cool,  always  moist,  comparatively  free  from 
frost  in  winter  and  from  drought  in  summer. 
The  spring-run  to  which  it  owes  this  charac- 
ter is  the  Gulf  stream,  which  brings  out  of 
the  pit  of  the  southern  ocean  what  the  fount- 
ain brings  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth — a 
uniform  temperature,  low  but  constant;  a  fog 
in  winter,  a  cloud  in  summer.  The  spirit  of 
gentle,  fertilizing  summer  rain  perhaps  never 
took  such  tangible  and  topographical  shape  be- 
fore. Cloud-evolved,  cloud- enveloped,  cloud- 
protected,  it  fills  the  eye  of  the  American 
traveler  with  a  vision  of  greenness  such  as 
he  has  never  before  dreamed  of;  a  green- 
ness born  of  perpetual  May,  tender,  untar- 
nished, ever  renewed,  and  as  uniform  and 
all-pervading  as  the  rain-drops  that  fall, 
covering  mountain,  cliff,  and  vale  alike.  The 
softened,  rounded,  full  outlines  given  to  our 
landscape  by  a  deep  fall  of  snow  is  given  to 
the  English  by  this  depth  of  vegetable  mold 
and  this  all-prevailing  verdure  which  it  sup- 
ports. Indeed,  it  is  caught  upon  the  shelves 
and  projections  of  the  rocks  as  if  it  fell  from 
the  clouds, —  a  kind  of  green  snow, — and  it 
clings  to  their  rough  or  slanting  sides  like  moist 
flakes.  In  the  little  valleys  and  chasms  it 
appears  to  lie  deepest.  Only  the  peaks  and 
broken  rocky  crests  of  the  highest  Scotch 


no 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


and  Cumber- 
land mount- 


ai n  s  are 
bare.  Adown 
their  treeless 
sides  the  moist,  fresh  greenness  fairly  drips. 
Grass,  grass,  grass,  and  evermore  grass.  Is 
there  another  country  under  the  sun  so  be- 
cushioned,  becarpeted,  and  becurtained  with 
grass  ?  Even  the  woods  are  full  of  grass,  and 
I  have  seen  them  mowing  in  a  forest.  Grass 
grows  upon  the  rocks,  upon  the  walls,  on  the 
tops  of  the  old  castles,  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses. 
Turf  used  as  capping  to  a  stone  fence  thrives 
and  blooms  as  if  upon  the  ground.  There  seems 
to  be  a  deposit  from  the  atmosphere, —  a  slow 
but  steady  accumulation  of  a  black,  peaty  mold 
upon  all  reposed  surfaces, — that  by  and  by 
supports  some  of  the  lower  or  cryptogamous 
forms  of  vegetation.  These  decay  and  add  to 
the  soil,  till  thus  in  time  grass  and  other 
plants  will  grow.  The  walls  of  the  old  cas- 
tles and  cathedrals  support  a  variety  of  plant 
life.  On  Rochester  Castle  I  saw  two  or  three 
species  of  large  wild  flowers  growing  one 
hundred  feet  from  the  ground,  and  tempting 
the  tourist  to  perilous  Teachings  and  climb- 
ings  to  get  them.  The  very  stones  seem  to 
sprout.  My  companion  made  a  sketch  of  a 
striking  group  of  red  and  white  flowers 
blooming  far  up  on  one  of  the  buttresses  of 
Rochester  Cathedral.  The  soil  will  climb  to 
any  height.  Indeed,  there  seems  to  be  a 
kind  of  finer  soil  floating  in  the  air.  How 
else  can  one  account  for  the  general  smut  of 
the  human  face  and  hands  in  this  country, 
and  the  impossibility  of  keeping  his  own 


SOME     HEDGE-ROW     FLOWERS — PRIVET,    DOGROSE,    BRAMBLE, 
HONEYSUCKLE. 


clean  ?  The  unwashed  hand  here  quick 
leaves  a  deposit  on  whatever  it  touches, 
prolonged  neglect  of  soap  and  water,  andi 
think  one  would  be  presently  covered  with 
fine  green  mold,  like  that  upon  the  boles  • 
the  trees  in  the  woods.  If  the  rains  were  n; 
occasionally  heavy  enough  to  clean  them  o, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  the  roofs  of  all  buil-, 
ings  in  England  would  in  a  few  years  I1 
covered  with  turf,  and  that  daisies  and  bi 
tercups  would  bloom  upon  them.  Ho 
quickly  all  new  buildings  take  on  the  pr 
vailing  look  of  age  and  mellowness.  Oi 
needs  to  have  seen  the  great  architectur 
piles  and  monuments  of  Britain  to  apprecia 
Shakspere's  line — 


"  That  unswept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish  Time 

He    must    also   have    seen    those    Scotch 
Cumberland  mountains  to  appreciate  the  d 
scriptive  force  of  this  other  line — 

"The  turfy  mountains  where  live  the  nibbling  sheef 

The  turfy  mountains  are  the  unswept  ston 
that  have  held  and  utilized  their  ever  increa 
ing  capital  of  dirt.  These  vast  rock}  en 
nences  are  stuffed  and  padded  with  peat; 
is  the  sooty  soil  of  the  house-tops  and  of  tl 
grimy  human  hand,  deepened  and  accuin- 
lated  till  it  nourishes  the  finest,  sweetest  gn; 

It  was   this  turfy  and   grassy  character 
these  mountains  —  I  am  tempted  to  say  tu 
cushiony  character  —  that  no  reading  or  pictu. 
viewing  of  mine  had  prepared  me  for.   In  ti 
cut  or  on  canvas  they  appeared  like  hai 
frowning  rocks  ;  and  here  I  beheld  tl 


n 


NATURE   IN  ENGLAND. 


green  and  succulent  as  any  meadow-bank  in 
April  or  May, — vast,  elevated  sheep-walks  and 
rabbit-warrens,  treeless,,  shrubless,  generally 
without  loose  bowlders,  shelving  rocks,  or 
sheer  precipices;  often  rounded,  feminine, 
dimpled,  or  impressing  one  as  if  the  rock  had 
been  thrust  up  beneath  an  immense  stretch  of 
the  finest  lawn,  and  had  carried  the  turf  with 
it  heavenward,  rendyig  it  here  and  there, 
but  preserving  acres  of  it  intact. 


in 

larklike  tail.  No  sound  of  wind  in  the  trees; 
there  were  no  trees,  no  seared  branches  and' 
trunks  that  so  enhance  and  set  off  the  wildness 
of  our  mountain-tops.  On  the  summit  the 
wind  whistled  around  the  outcropping  rocks 
and  hummed  among  the  heather,  but  the 
great  mountain  did  not  purr  or  roar  like  one 
covered  with  forests. 

I  lingered  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  gazed 
upon    the    stretch    of    mountain    and    vale 


OLD     BRIDGE    ON    AVON. 


In  Scotland   I   ascended  Ben  Venue,  not 

ne  of  the  highest  or  ruggedest  of  the  Scotch 

nountains,  but  a  fair  sample  of  them,  and  my 

bot  was  seldom  off  the  grass  or  bog,  often 

inking  into  them  as  into  a  saturated  sponge. 

•Vhere  I  expected  a  dry  course,  I  found  a  wet 

me.    The  thick,  springy  turf  was  oozing  with 

Aater.  Instead  of  being  balked  by  precipices, 

was  hindered  by  swamps.  Where  a  tangle  of 

rush  or  a  chaos  of  bowlders  should  have  de- 

ained  me,  I  was  picking  my  way  as  through 

wet  meadow- bottom  tilted  up  at  an  angle  of 

irty-five  degrees.     My  feet  became  soaked 

hen   my  shins    should   have  been  bruised. 

)ccasionally,  a  large  deposit  of  peat  in  some 

vored  place  had  given  way  beneath  the  strain 

f  much  water,  and  left  a  black  chasm  a  few 

ards  wide  and  a  yard  or  more  deep.    Cold 

Dring-runs  were  abundant,  wild  flowers  few, 

rass  universal.  A  loping  hare  started  up  be- 

re  me ;  a  pair  of  ringed  ousels  took  a  hasty 

ance  at  me  from  behind  a  rock ;  sheep  and 

nibs,  gray  as   the  outcropping    rock,  were 

'pattered  here  and  there ;  the  wheat-ear  un- 

)vered  its  white  rump  as  it  flitted  from  rock 

1  rock,  and  the  mountain  pipit  displayed  its 


about  me.  The  summit  of  Ben  Lomond, 
eight  or  ten  miles  to  the  west,  rose  a  few 
hundred  feet  above  me.  On  four  peaks  I 
could  see  snow  or  miniature  glaciers.  Only 
four  or  five  houses,  mostly  humble  shepherd 
dwellings,  were  visible  in  that  wide  circuit. 
The  sun  shone  out  at  intervals;  the  driving 
clouds  floated  low,  their  keels  scraping  the 
rocks  of  some  of  the  higher  summits.  The 
atmosphere  was  filled  with  a  curious  white 
film,  like  water  tinged  with  milk,  an  effect 
only  produced  at  home  by  a  fine  mist.  "  A 
certain  tameness  in  the  view,  after  all,"  I 
recorded  in  my  note-book  on  the  spot,  "  per- 
haps because  of  the  trim  and  grassy  character 
of  the  mountain ;  not  solemn  and  impressive ; 
no  sense  of  age  or  power.  The  rock  crops  out 
everywhere,  but  it  can  hardly  look  you  in  the 
face  ;  it  is  crumbling  and  insignificant ;  shows 
no  frowning  walls,  no  tremendous  cleavage ; 
nothing  overhanging  and  precipitous;  no 
wrath  and  revel  of  the  elder  gods." 

Even  in  rugged  Scotland,  nature  is  scarcely 
wilder  than  a  mountain  sheep,  certainly  a 
good  way  short  of  the  ferity  of  the  moose 
and  caribou.  There  is  everywhere  marked 


112 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


STRATFORD FROM     BARDON     HILL. 


repose  and  moderation  in  the  scenery,  a 
kind  of  aboriginal  Scotch  canniness  and  pro- 
priety that  gives  one  a  new  sensation.  On 
and  about  Ben  Nevis  there  is  barrenness, 
cragginess,  and  desolation;  but  the  charac- 
teristic feature  of  wild  Scotch  scenery  is  the 
moor,  lifted  up  into  mountains,  covering  low, 
broad  hills,  or  stretching  away  in  undulating 
plains,  black,  silent,  melancholy,  it  may  be, 
but  never  savage  or  especially  wild.  "The 
vast  and  yet  not  savage  solitude,"  Carlyle 
says,  referring  to  these  moorlands.  The  soil 
is  black  and  peaty,  often  boggy;  the  heather 
short  and  uniform  as  prairie  grass;  a  shep- 
herd's cottage  or  a  sportsman's  "  box  "  stuck 
here  and  there  amid  the  hills.  The  highland 
cattle  are  shaggy  and  picturesque,  but  the 


moors  and  mountains  are  close  cropped  and 
uniform.  The  solitude  is  not  that  of  a  forest 
full  of  still  forms  and  dim  vistas,  but  of  wide.' 
open,  somber  spaces.  Nature  did  not  look 
alien  or  unfriendly  to  me ;  there  must  be 
barrenness  or  some  savage  threatening  feat- 
ure in  the  landscape  to  produce  this  impres- 
sion ;  but  the  heather  and  whin  are  like  a 
permanent  shadow,  and  one  longs  to  see  the 
trees  stand  up  and  wave  their  branches,^ 
The  torrents  leaping  down  off  the  mountains 
are  very  welcome  to  both  eye  and  ear.  And 
the  lakes — nothing  can  be  prettier  than  Loc 
Lomond  and  Loch  Katrine,  though 
wishes  for  some  of  the  superfluous  rocl 
the  New  World  to  give  their  beauty  'a 
setting. 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


"3 


IV 


IT  is  characteristic  of  nature  in  England 
hat  most  of  the  stone  with  which  the  old 
fridges,  churches,  and  cathedrals  are  built  is 
soft  that  people  carve  their  initials  in  it 
ith  their  jackknives,  as  we  do  in  the  bark 
f  a  tree  or  in  a  piece  of  pine  timber.    At 
tratford  they  have  posted  a  card  upon  the 
utside  of  the  old  church,  imploring  visitors 
ID  refrain  from  this  barbarous  practice.    One 
i3es  names  and  dates  there  more  than  a  cent- 
ry  old.    Often,  in  leaning  over  the  parapets 
f  the  bridges  along  the  highways,  I  would 
nd  them  covered  with  letters  and  figures, 
ourists  have  made  such  havoc  chipping  off 
agments    from   the   old    Brig  o'  Doon  in 
urns's  country,  that  the  parapet  has  had  to 
3  repaired.    One  could  cut  out  the  key  of 
ic    arch  with    his    pocket-knife.     And   yet 
lese  old  structures  outlast  empires.    A  few 
liles  from  Glasgow  I  saw  the  remains  of  an 
d  Roman  bridge,  the  arch  apparently  as 
?rfect  as  when  the  first  Roman  chariot  passed 
it,  probably  fifteen  centuries  ago.    No 
heels  but  those  of  time  pass  over  it  in  these 
ter  centuries,  and  these  seem  to  be  driven 
3\vly  and  gently  in  this  land,  with  but  little 
tear  and  tear  to  the  ancient  highways. 
I  England  is  not  a  country  of  granite  and 
:arble,  but  of  chalk,  marl,  and  clay.  The  old 
utonic  gods  do  not  assert  themselves ;  they 
;e  buried  and  turned  to  dust,  and  the  more 
Ddern  humanistic  divinities  bear  sway.   The 
id  is  a  green  cemetery  of  extinct  rude  forces, 
here  the  highway  or  the  railway  gashed  the 
Is  deeply,  I  could   seldom  tell  where  the 
il  ended  and  the  rock  began,  as  they  grad- 
ijlly  assimilated,  blended,  and  became  one. 
)And  this  is  the  key  to  nature  in  England  : 
'i;  granite  grown  ripe  and  mellow  and  issu- 
i$  in  grass  and  verdure ;  'tis  aboriginal  force 
sd  fecundity  become  docile  and  equable  and 
rjmnting  toward  higher  forms, —  the  harsh, 
liter  rind  of  the  earth  grown  sweet  and  edi- 
tt.   There  is  such  body  and  substance  in  the 
Gor  and  presence  of  things  that  one  thinks 
t)  very  roots  of  the  grass  must  go  deeper 
tin  usual.   The  crude,  the  raw,  the  discord- 
a>,  where  are  they?    It  seems  a  compara- 
tjsly  short  and  easy  step  from  nature  to  the 

?'  vas  or  to  the  poem  in  this  cozy  land, 
thing  need  be  added ;  the  idealization  has 
asady  taken  place.  A  much  sterner  problem 
Cjifronts  the  artist  in  America :  a  greater  gulf 
hj;  to  be  bridged,  a  gulf  like  that  between  the 
a jmal  and  the  mineral.  Life  is  less  pictur- 
ejue,  and  nature  less  moral,  less  mindful  of 
rr'n.  The  Old  World  is  deeply  covered  with 
adnd  of  human,  leaf-mold,  while  the  New 
isjor  the  most  part  yet  raw,  undigested  hard- 
VOL.  XXVIL— 13. 


pan.  This  is  why  these  scenes  haunt  one  like 
a  memory.  One  seems  to  have  youthful  as- 
sociations with  every  field  and  hill-top  he 
looks  upon.  The  complete  humanization  of 
nature  has  taken  place.  The  soil  has  been 
mixed  with  human  thought  and  substance. 
These  fields  have  been  alternately  Celt, 
Roman,  British,  Norman,  Saxon ;  they  have 
moved  and  walked  and  talked  and  loved  and 
suffered;  hence  one  feels  kindred  to  them 
and  at  home  among  them.  The  mother-land, 
indeed.  Every  foot  of  its  soil  has  given  birth 
to  a  human  being  and  grown  tender  and 
conscious  with  time. 

England  is  like  a  seat  by  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  is  as  redolent  of  human  occupancy 
and  domesticity.  It  satisfies  to  the  full  one's 
utmost  craving  for  the  home-like  and  for  the 
fruits  of  affectionate  occupation  of  the  soil. 
It  does  not  satisfy  one's  craving  for  the  wild, 
the  savage,  the  aboriginal,  what  our  poet  de- 
scribes as  his 

"  Hungering,  hungering,  hungering,  for  primal  ener- 
gies and  Nature's  dauntlessness." 

But  probably  in  the  matter  of  natural  scenes 
we  hunger  most  for  that  which  we  most  do 
feed  upon.  At  any  rate,  I  can  conceive  that 
one  might  be  easily  contented  with  what  the 
English  landscape  affords  him. 

Nature,  with  us,  is  a  harsh,  unloving  step- 
mother. She  has  the  continental  swing  and 
stride  and  the  continental  indifference.  Things 
are  on  a  large  scale,  and  not  so  readily  ap- 
propriated and  domesticated  as  in  England. 
Except  here  and  there  in  New  England,  we 
have  cropped  and  shorn  the  earth  without 
taming  her. 

In  the  British  island  the  whole  physiog- 
nomy of  the  land  bespeaks  the  action  of  slow, 
uniform,  conservative  agencies.  There  is  an 
elemental  composure  and  moderation  in 
things  that  leave  their  mark  everywhere, — 
a  sort  of  aboriginal  sweetness  and  docility 
that  are  a  surprise  and  a  charm.  One  does  not 
forget  that  the  evolution  of  man  probably  oc- 
curred in  this  hemisphere,  and  time  would 
seem  to  have  proved  that  there  is  something 
here  more  favorable  to  his  perpetuity  and 
longevity. 

The  dominant  impression  of  the  English 
landscape  is  repose.  Never  was  such  a  rest- 
ful land  to  the  eye,  especially  to  the  Amer- 
ican eye,  sated  as  it  is  very  apt  to  be  with  the 
mingled  squalor  and  splendor  of  its  own  land- 
scape, its  violent  contrasts,  and  general  spirit 
of  unrest.  But  the  completeness  and  com- 
posure of  this  outdoor  nature  is  like  a  dream.  , 
It  is  like  the  poise  of  the  tide  at  its  full : 
every  hurt  of  the  world  is  healed,  every  shore 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 


covered,  every  unsightly  spot  is  hidden.  The 
circle  of  the  horizon  is  brimming  with  the  green 
equable  flood.  (I  did  not  see  the  fens  of  Lin- 
colnshire nor  the  wolds  of  York.)  This  look 
of  repose  is  partly  the  result  of  the  maturity 
and  ripeness  brought  about  by  time  and  ages 
of  patient  and  thorough  husbandry,  and  partly 
the  result  of  the  gentle,  continent  spirit  of 
Nature  herself.  She  is  contented,  she  is  hap- 
pily wedded,  she  is  well  clothed  and  fed. 
Her  offspring  swarm  about  her,  her  paths 
have  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  The  foliage 
of  the  trees,  how  dense  and  massive!  The 
turf  of  the  fields,  how  thick  and  uniform ! 
The  streams  and  rivers,  how  placid  and  full, 
showing  no  devastated  margins,  no  wide- 
spread sandy  wastes  and  unsightly  heaps .  of 
drift  bowlders !  To  the  returned  traveler  the 
foliage  of  the  trees  and  groves  of  New  Eng- 
land and  New  York  looks  thin  and  disheveled 
when  compared  with  the  foliage  he  has  just 
left.  This  effect  is  probably  owing  to  our 
cruder  soil  and  sharper  climate.  In  mid- 
summer the  hair  of  our  trees  seems  to 
stand  on  end;  the  woods  have  a  wild, 
frightened  look,  or  as  if  they  were  just 
recovering  from  a  debauch.  In  our  intense 
light  and  heat,  the  leaves,  instead  of  spread- 
ing themselves  full  to  the  sun  and  crowding 
out  upon  the  ends  of  the  branches  as  they 
do  in  England,  retreat,  as  it  were,  hide  be- 
hind each  other,  stand  edgewise,  perpendic- 
ular, or  at  any  angle,  to  avoid  the  direct 
rays.  In  Britain,  from  the  slow,  dripping 
rains  and  the  excessive  moisture,  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  droop  more,  and  the  branches  are 
more  pendent.  The  rays  of  light  are  fewer 
and  feebler,  and  the  foliage  disposes  itself  so 
as  to  catch  them  all,  and  thus  presents  a  fuller 
and  broader  surface  to  the  eye  of  the  be- 
holder. The  leaves  are  massed  upon  the 
outer  ends  of  the  branches,  while  the  interior 
of  the  tree  is  comparatively  leafless.  The  Eu- 
ropean plane-tree  is  like  a  tent.  The  foliage 
is  all  on  the  outside.  The  bird  voices  in  it 
reverberate  as  in  a  chamber. 

"The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores," 

says  Tennyson.  At  a  little  distance,  it  has 
the  mass  and  solidity  of  a  rock.  A  number 
of  European  maples  growing  in  a  park  near 
me  still  keep  up  their  foreign  habit  under  our 
fierce  skies,  and  sometimes  get  their  leaves 
scorched.  They  spread  the  greatest  possi- 
ble leaf-surface  to  the  light,  and  no  ray  pen- 
etrates their  interiors.  When  their  foliage 
begins  to  turn  in  the  fall,  the  trees  appear  as 
if  they  had  been  lightly  and  hastily  brushed 
with  gold.  The  outer  edges  of  the  branches 
become  a  light  yellow,  while,  a  little  deeper, 


the  body  of  the  foliage  is  still  green.  It  i 
this  solid  and  sculpturesque  character  of  th 
English  foliage  that  so  fills  the  eye  of  th 
artist.  The  feathery,  formless,  indefinite,  nc 
to  say  thin,  aspect  of  our  leafage  is  muc' 
less  easy  to  paint,  and  much  less  pleasin 
when  painted. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  turf  in  the  fielc 
and  upon  the  hills.  The  sward  with  us,  eve 
in  the  oldest  meadows,  will  wear  more  or  le: 
a  ragged,  uneven  aspect.  The  frost  heaves  i 
the  sun  parches  it ;  it  is  thin  here  and  thic 
there,  crabbed  in  one  spot  and  fine  and  so 
in  another.  Only  by  the  frequent  use  of; 
heavy  roller,  copious  waterings  and  top-dres 
ings,  can  we  produce  sod  that  approaches : 
beauty  even  that  of  the  elevated  sheep  rangi 
in  England  and  Scotland. 

The  greater  activity  and  abundance  of  tl 
earth-worm,  as  disclosed  by  Darwin,  prob 
bly  has  much  to  do  with  the  smoothness  ar 
fatness  of  those  fields  when  contrasted  wi 
our   own.     This  little  yet  mighty  engine 
much  less  instrumental  in  leavening  and  lev* 
ing  the   soil  in    New  England  than  in  01 
The  greater  humidity  of  the  mother-countr, 
the  deep  clayey  soil,  its  fattening  for  ages  1 
human  occupancy,  the  abundance  of  foo 
the  milder  climate,  etc.,  are  all  favorable  ! 
the  life  and  activity  of  the  earth-worm.   I 
deed,  according  to  Darwin,  the  gardener  th 
has  made  England  a  garden  is  none  oth 
than  this   little  obscure  creature.    It  plo\\ 
drains,  airs,  pulverizes,  fertilizes,  and  leve 
It  cannot  transport  rocks  and  stone,  but 
can  bury  them ;  it  cannot  remove  the  ancie 
walls  and  pavements,  but  it  can  undermr 
them  and  deposit  its  rich  castings  above  thei 
On   each  acre  of  land,  he  says,  "  in  mai 
parts  of  England,  a  weight  of  more  than  t 
tons  of  dry  earth  annually  passes  throuj 
their  bodies  and  is  brought  to  the  surfaa 
"  When  we  behold  a  wide,  turf-covered  e 
panse,"  he  further  observes,  "  we  should  i 
member   that   its  smoothness,  on  which 
much  of  its  beauty  depends,  is  mainly  due 
all  the  inequalities  having  been  slowly  level-' 
by  worms." 

The  small  part  which  worms  play  in  tl 
direction  in  our  landscape  is,  I  am  convince 
more  than  neutralized  by  our  violent  or  d 
rupting  climate;  but  England  looks  like  t 
product  of  some  such  gentle,  tireless,  ai 
beneficent  agent.  I  have  referred  to  th 
effect  in  the  face  of  the  landscape  as  if  t 
soil  had  snowed  down;  it  seems  the  sue 
came  from  the  other  direction,  namely,  fi'( 
below,  but  was  deposited  with  equal 
ness  and  uniformity. 

The    repose    and   equipoise   of  nati 
which  I  have  spoken  appears  in   the 


SEMITONES. 


f  grain  no  less  than  in  the  turf  and  foliage, 
ne  may  see  vast  stretches  of  wheat,  oats, 
arley,  beans,  etc.,  as  uniform  as  the  surface 

a  lake,  every  stalk  of  grain  or  bean  the 
ze  and  height  of  every  other  stalk.  This, 
7  course,  means  good  husbandry ;  it  means 
mild,  even-tempered  nature  back  of  it,  also, 
hen  the  repose  of  the  English  landscape 

enhanced,  rather  than  marred,  by  the  part 
.an  has  played  in  it.  How  those  old  arched 

idges  rest  above  the  placid  streams ;  how 

sily  they  conduct  the  trim,  perfect  highways 
rer  them!  Where  the  foot  finds  an  easy 
ay,  the  eye  finds  the  same ;  where  the  body 

ds  harmony,  the  mind  finds  harmony, 
nose  ivy-covered  walls  and  ruins,  those 
lished  fields,  those  rounded  hedge-rows,  those 
abowered  cottages,  and  that  gray,  massive 
chitecture,  all  contribute  to  the  harmony 

d  to  the  repose  of  the  landscape.    Perhaps 

no  other  country  are  the  grazing  herds  so 
iuch  at  ease.  One's  first  impression,  on  see- 
i|g  British  fields  in  spring  or  summer,  is  that 
1e  cattle  and  sheep  have  all  broken  into  the 
i^adow  and  have  not  yet  been  discovered 
1  the  farmer;  they  have  taken  their  fill,  and 
j?  now  reposing  upon  the  grass  or  dreaming 
i  der  the  trees.  But  you  presently  perceive 
tit  it  is  all  meadow  or  meadow-like,  that 
ire  are  no  wild,  weedy,  or  barren  pastures 
dout  which  the  herds  toil,  but  that  they  are 
i  grass  up  to  their  eyes  everywhere.  Hence 
tnr  contentment;  hence  another  element  of 
nose  in  the  landscape. 

The  softness  and  humidity  of  the  English 


climate  act  in  two  ways  in  promoting  that 
marvelous  greenness  of  the  land,  namely, 
by  growth  and  by  decay.  As  the  grass  springs 
quickly,  so  its  matured  stalk  or  dry  leaf  de- 
cays quickly.  No  field  growths  are  desiccated 
and  preserved  as  with  us ;  there  are  no  dried 
stubble  and  seared  leaves  remaining  over  the 
winter  to  mar  and  obscure  the  verdancy  of 
spring.  Every  dead  thing  is  quickly  converted 
back  to  vegetable  mold.  In  the  woods,  in 
May,  it  is  difficult  to  find  any  of  the  shed 
leaves  of  the  previous  autumn ;  in  the  fields 
and  copses  and  along  the  highways,  no  stalk 
of  weed  or  grass  remains ;  while  our  wild, 
uplying  pastures  and  mountain-tops  always 
present  a  more  or  less  brown  and  seared  ap- 
pearance from  the  dried  and  bleached  stalks 
of  the  growth  of  the  previous  year,  through 
which  the  fresh  springing  grass  is  scarcely  vis- 
ible. Where  rain  falls  on  nearly  three  hundred 
days  in  the  year,  as  in  the  British  islands,  the 
conversion  and  reconversion  of  the  mold  into 
grass,  and  vice  versd,  take  place  very  rapidly. 
I  have  not  been  at  all  afraid  of  over-prais- 
ing the  beauty  and  the  geniality  of  the  face  of 
the  mother-country,  and  have  not  consciously 
exaggerated  my  impressions  of  any  feature. 
'Tis  the  old  homestead ;  'tis  grandfather's  and 
grandmother's  land.  Nature  has  been  kind 
to  it ;  man  has  been  kind  to  it ;  'tis  the  seat 
of  the  dominant  race.  The  American  feels 
at  home  there ;  the  press  of  his  foot  to  the 
soil,  in  Whitman's  phrase,  springs  a  hundred 
affections — affections  and  admirations  he 
need  not  be  ashamed  to  give  free  rein  to. 

John  Burroughs. 


SEMITONES. 

AH  me,  the  subtle  boundary  between 

What  pleases  and  what  pains !     The  difference 

Between  the  word  that  thrills  our  every  sense 

With  joy,  and  one  which  hurts,  although  it  mean 

No  hurt!     It  is  the  things  that  are  unseen, 

Invisible,  not  things  of  violence, 

For  which  the  mightiest  are  without  defense. 

On  kine  most  fair  to  see  one  may  grow  lean 

With  hunger.     Many  a  snowy  bread  is  doled 

Which  is  far  harder  than  the  hardest  stones. 

'Tis  but  a  narrow  line  divides  the  zones 

Where  suns  are  warm  from  those  where  suns  are  cold. 

'Twixt  harmonies  divine  as  chords  can  hold 

And  torturing  discords,  lie  but  semitones! 


H.  H. 


THE   IMPRESSIONS   OF   A   COUSINS 


BY    HENRY  JAMES, 
Author  of  "The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  "Roderick  Hudson,"  "Daisy  Miller,"  etc. 


PART  I. 

NEW  YORK,  April  3,  1873.— There  are 
moments  when  I  feel  that  she  has  asked  too 
much  of  me — especially  since  our  arrival  in 
this  country.  These  three  months  have  not 
done  much  toward  making  me  happy  here. 
I  don't  know  what  the  difference  is — or 
rather  I  do ;  and  I  say  this  only  because  it's 
less  trouble.  It  is  no  trouble,  however,  to  say 
that  I  like  New  York  less  than  Rome ;  that,  after 
all,  is  the  difference.  And  then  there's  nothing 
to  sketch !  For  ten  years  I  have  been  sketch- 
ing, and  I  really  believe  I  do  it  very  well. 
But  how  can  I  sketch  Fifty- third  street? 
There  are  times  when  I  even  say  to  myself, 
How  can  I  even  endure  .Fifty-third  street  ? 
When  I  turn  into  it  from  the  Fifth  Avenue,  the 
vista  seems  too  hideous :  the  narrow,  imper- 
sonal houses,  with  the  dry,  hard  tone  of  their 
brown-stone,  a  surface  as  uninteresting  as  that 
of  sand-paper ;  their  steep,  stiff  stoops,  giving 
you  such  a  climb  to  the  door;  their  lumpish 
balustrades,  porticoes,  and  cornices,  turned 
out  by  the  hundred  and  adorned  with  heavy 
excrescences, —  such  an  eruption  of  ornament 
and  such  a  poverty  of  effect!  I  suppose  my 
superior  tone  would  seem  very  pretentious  if 
anybody  were  to  read  this  shameless  record 
of  personal  emotion ;  and  I  should  be  asked 
why  an  expensive  up-town  residence  is  not  as 
good  as  a  slimy  Italian  palazzo.  My  answer, 
of  course,  is  that  I  can  sketch  the  palazzo  and 
can  do  nothing  with  the  up-town  residence. 
I  can  live  in  it,  of  course,  and  be  very  grate- 
ful for  the  shelter;  but  that  doesn't  count. 
Putting  aside  that  odious  fashion  of  popping 
into  the  "parlors"  as  soon  as  you  cross  the 
threshold, — no  interval,  no  approach, —  these 
places  are  wonderfully  comfortable.  This  one 
of  Eunice's  is  perfectly  arranged;  and  we 
have  so  much  space  that  she  has  given  me  a 
sitting-room  of  my  own — an  immense  luxury. 
Her  kindness,  her  affection,  are  the  most 
charming,  delicate,  natural  thing  I  ever  con- 
ceived. I  don't  know  what  can  have  put  it 
into  her  head  to  like  me  so  much ;  I  suppose 
I  should  say  into  her  heart,  only  I  don't  like 
to  write  about  Eunice's  heart — that  tender, 
shrinking,  shade-loving,  and  above  all  fresh 


and  youthful  organ.  There  is  a  certain  sel: 
complacency,  perhaps,  in  my  assuming  tha 
her  generosity  is  mere  affection ;  for  her  con 
science  is  so  inordinately  developed  that  sh 
attaches  the  idea  of  duty  to  everything,- 
even  to  her  relations  to  a  poor,  plain,  ur 
loved  and  unlovable  third  cousin.  Whethf 
she  is  fond  of  me  or  not,  she  thinks  it  rigl- 
to  be  fond  of  me ;  and  the  effort  of  he 
life  is  to  do  what  is  right.  In  matters  o 
duty,  in  short,  she  is  a  real  little  artist ;  an 
her  masterpiece  (in  that  way)  is  coming  bac 
here  to  live.  She  can't  like  it ;  her  tastes  ai 
not  here.  If  she  did  like  it,  I  am  sure  sh 
would  never  have  invented  such  a  phrase  £ 
the  one  of  which  she  delivered  herself  th 
other  day,^"  I  think  one's  life  has  more  dig- 
nity in  one's  own  country."  That's  a  phras 
made  up  after  the  fact.  No  one  ever  gave  u, 
living  in  Europe  because  there  is  a  want  c' 
dignity  in  it.  Poor  Eunice  talks  of  "  one's  ow 
country  "as  if  she  kept  the  United  States  i 
the  back-parlor.  I  have  yet  to  perceive  th 
dignity  of  living  in  Fifty-third  street.  This, 
suppose,  is  very  treasonable;  but  a  woma 
isn't  obliged  to  be  patriotic.  I  believe 
should  be  a  good  patriot  if  I  could  sketch  m 
native  town.  But  I  can't  make  a  picture  c 
the  brown-stone  stoops  in  the  Fifth  Avemi' 
or  the  platform  of  the  elevated  railway  in  th 
Sixth.  Eunice  has  suggested  to  me  that 
might  find  some  subjects  in  the  Park,  and 
have  been  there  to  look  for  them.  But  sorm 
how,  the  blistered  sentiers  of  asphalt,  the  rod 
work  caverns,  the  huge  iron  bridges  spannir 
little  muddy  lakes,  the  whole  crowded,  cod 
neyfied  place,  making  up  so  many  faa, 
to  look  pretty,  don't  appeal  to  me — haven' 
from  beginning  to  end,  a  discoverable  "bit 
Besides,  it's  too  cold  to  sit  on  a  camp-sto< 
under  this  clean-swept  sky,  whose  depths  < 
blue  air  do  very  well,  doubtless,  for  the  flo< 
of  heaven,  but  are  quite  too  far  away  for  tf 
ceiling  of  earth.  The  sky  over  here  seen 
part  of  the  world  at  large  ;  in  Europe  it's  pa 
of  the  particular  place.  In  summer,  I  da;( 
say,  it  will  be  better ;  and  it  will  go  hard  v 
me  if  I  don't  find  somewhere  some  leafy  Ian 
some  cottage-roof,  something  in  some  degn 
mossy  or  mellow.  Nature  here,  of  coi 


Copyright,  1883,  by  Henry  James.     All  rights  reserved. 


:  degK 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


117 


sry  fine,  though  I  am  afraid  only  in  large 

eces;  and  with  my  little  yard-measure  (it 

;ed  to  serve  for  the  Roman  Campagna  !  )  I 

n't  know  what   I  shall  be  able  to  do.    I 

ust  try  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

The  Hudson  is  beautiful;  I  remember  that 

ell  enough  ;  and  Eunice  tells  me  that  when 

are   in    villeggiatura  we    shall   be    close 

the  loveliest  part  of  it.    Her  cottage,  or 
lla,  or  whatever  they  call  it  (Mrs.  Ermine, 

the  way,  always  speaks  of  it  as  a  "  coun- 

-seat"),  is  more  or  less  opposite  to  West 
Dint,  where  it  makes  one  of  its  grand- 
sweeps.  Unfortunately,  it  has  been  let 
ese  three  years  that  she  has  been  abroad, 
id  will  not  be  vacant  till  the  first  of  J  une. 
r.  Caliph,  her  trustee,  took  upon  himself 

do  that  ;  —  very  impertinently,  I  think,  for 
rtainly  if  I  had  Eunice's  fortune  I  shouldn't 
;  my  houses  —  I  mean,  of  course,  those  that 
e  so  personal.  Least  of  all  should  I  let  my 
:ountry-seat."  It's  bad  enough  for  people 
tj  appropriate  one's  sofas  and  tables,  without 
j'propriating  one's  flowers  and  trees  and 
<en  one's  views.  There  is  nothing  so  per- 
mal  as  one's  horizon,  —  the  horizon  that  one 
cmmands,  whatever  it  is,  from  one's  window. 
bbody  else  has  just  that  one.  Mr.  Caliph, 
1  the  way,  is  apparently  a  person  of  the  in- 
dculable,  irresponsible  sort.  It  would  have 
len  natural  to  suppose  that,  having  the 
part  of  my  cousin's  property  in  his 


<re,  he  would  be  in  New  York  to  receve 
Ijr  at  the  end  of  a  long  absence  and  a  bois- 
tj'ous  voyage.  Common  civility  would  have 
sggested  that,  especially  as  he  was  an  old 
fend,  or  rather  a  young  friend  of  both  her 
jlrents.  It  was  an  odd  thing  to  make  him  sole 
tjstee  ;  but  that  was  Cousin  Letitia's  doing  : 
'jhe  thought  it  would  be  so  much  easier  for 
ijtnice  to  see  only  one  person."  I  believe  she 
rJd  found  that  effort  the  limit  of  her  own  en- 
€Jjy  ;  but  she  might  have  known  that  Eunice 
v;uld  have  given  her  best  attention,  everyday, 
tjtwenty  men  of  business,  if  such  a  duty  had 
qm^  presented  to  her.  I  don't  think  poor 
Cjusin  Letitia  knew  very  much;  Eunice 
s|:aks  of  her  much  less  than  she  speaks  of 
h|-  father,  whose  death  would  have  been  the 
g;:ater  sorrow  if  she  dared  to  admit  to  her- 
sc  that  she  preferred  one  of  her  parents  to  the 
o|.er.  The  number  of  things  that  the  poor  girl 
dpsn't  dare  to  admit  to  herself  !  One  of  them, 
I  m  sure,  is  that  Mr.  Caliph  is  acting  improp- 
ij/  in  spending  three  months  in  Washington, 
K  at  the  moment  when  it  would  be  most  con- 
Vjiient  to  her  to  see  him.  He  has  pressing 
bjiiness  there,  it  seems  (he  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
pitician  —  not  that  I  know  what  people  do 
^Washington),  and  he  writes  to  Eunice 
week  or  two  that  he  will  "  finish  it  up  " 


in  ten  days  more,  and  then  will  be  completely 

at  her  service;  but  he  never  finishes  it  up, 

never  arrives.  She  has  not  seen  him  for  three 
years;  he  certainly,  I  think,  ought  to  have 
come  out  to  her  in  Europe.  She  doesn't  know 
that,  and  I  haven't  cared  to  suggest  it,  for  she 
wishes  (very  naturally)  to  think  that  he  is  a 
pearl  of  trustees.  Fortunately,  he  sends  her  all 
the  money  she  needs ;  and  the  other  day  he 
sent  her  his  brother, — a  rather  agitated  (though 
not  in  the  least  agitating)  youth,  who  pre- 
sented himself  about  lunch-time,  Mr.  Caliph 
having  (as  he  explained)  told  him  that  this 
was  the  best  hour  to  call.  What  does  Mr. 
Caliph  know  about  it,  by  the  way  ?  It's  little 
enough  he  has  tried !  Mr.  Adrian  Frank  had, 
of  course,  nothing  to  say  about  business ;  he 
only  came  to  be  agreeable,  and  to  tell  us  that 
he  had  just  seen  his  brother  in  Washington — 
as  if  that  were  any  comfort !  They  are  brothers 
only  in  the  sense  that  they  are  children  of  the 
same  mother;  Mrs.  Caliph  having  accepted 
consolations  in  her  widowhood,  and  produced 
this  blushing  boy,  who  is  ten  years  younger 
than  the  accomplished  Caliph.  (I  say  ac- 
complished Caliph  for  the  phrase.  I  haven't 
the  least  idea  of  his  accomplishments.  Some- 
how, a  man  with  that  name  ought  to  have  a 
good  many.)  Mr.  Frank,  the  second  husband, 
is  dead,  as  well  as  herself,  and  the  young  man 
has  a  very  good  fortune.  He  is  shy  and  sim- 
ple, colors  immensely,  and  becomes  alarmed 
at  his  own  silences ;  but  is  tall  and  straight  and 
clear-eyed,  and  is,  I  imagine,  a  very  estimable 
youth.  Eunice  says  that  he  is  as  different  as 
possible  from  his  step-brother;  so  that,  perhaps, 
though  she  doesn't  mean  it  in  that  way  his 
step-brother  is  not  estimable.  I  shall  judge  of 
that  for  myself,  if  he  ever  gives  me  a  chance. 
Young  Frank,  at  any  rate,  is  a  gentleman, 
and  in  spite  of  his  blushes  has  seen  a  great 
deal  of  the  world.  Perhaps  that  is  what  he 
is  blushing  for:  there  are  so  many  things  we 
have  no  reason  to  be  proud  of.  He  staid 
to  lunch,  and  talked  a  little  about  the  far 
East, —  Babylon,  Palmyra,  Ispahan,  and  that 
sort  of  thing, —  from  which  he  is  lately  re- 
turned. He  also  is  a  sketchier,  though  evi- 
dently he  doesn't  show.  He  asked  to  see 
my  things,  however;  and  I  produced  a  few 
old  water-colors,  of  other  days  and  other 
climes,  which  I  have  luckily  brought  to 
America, —  produced  them  with  my  usual 
calm  assurance.  It  was  clear  he  thought  me 
very  clever;  so  I  suspect  that  in  not  showing 
he  himself  is  rather  wise.  When  I  said  there 
was  nothing  here  to  sketch,  that  rectangular 
towns  wont  do,  etc.,  he  asked  me  why  I 
didn't  try  people.  What  people  ?  the  people 
in  the  Fifth  Avenue?  They  are  even  less  pic- 
torial than  their  houses.  I  don't  perceive 


u8 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


that  those  in  the  Sixth  are  any  better,  or 
those  in  the  Fourth  and  Third,  or  in  the 
Seventh  and  Eighth.  Good  heavens!  what 
a  nomenclature!  The  city  of  New  York  is 
like  a  tall  sum  in  addition,  and  the  streets 
are  like  columns  of  figures.  What  a  place 
for  me  to  live,  who  hate  arithmetic !  I  have 
tried  Mrs.  Ermine ;  but  that  is  only  because 
she  asked  me  to :  Mrs.  Ermine  asks  for  what- 
ever she  wants.  I  don't  think  she  cares  for 
it  much,  for  though  it's  bad,  it's  not  bad 
enough  to  please  her.  I  thought  she  would 
be  rather  easy  to  do,  as  her  countenance  is 
made  up  largely  of  negatives — no  color,  no 
form,  no  intelligence;  I  should  simply  have 
to  leave  a  sort  of  brilliant  blank.  I  found, 
however,  there  was  difficulty  in  representing 
an  expression  which  consisted  so  completely 
of  the  absence  of  that  article.  With  her 
large,  fair,  featureless  face,  unillumined  by  a 
ray  of  meaning,  she  makes  the  most  inco- 
herent, the  most  unexpected  remarks.  She 
asked  Eunice,  the  other  day,  whether  she 
should  not  bring  a  few  gentlemen  to  see  her 
— she  seemed  to  know  so  few,  to  be  so 
lonely.  Then  when  Eunice  thanked  her,  and 
said  she  needn't  take  that  trouble :  she  was 
not  lonely,  and  in  any  case  did  not  desire 
her  solitude  to  be  peopled  in  that  manner, — 
Mrs.  Ermine  declared  blandly  that  it  was  all 
right,  but  that  she  supposed  this  was  the 
great  advantage  of  being  an  orphan,  that 
you  might  have  gentlemen  brought  to  see 
you.  "I  don't  like  being  an  orphan,  even 
for  that,"  said  Eunice;  who,  indeed,  does 
not  like  it  at  all,  though  she  will  be  twenty- 
one  next  month,  and  has  had  several  years 
to  get  used  to  it.  Mrs.  Ermine  is  very  vul- 
gar, yet  she  thinks  she  has  high  distinction. 
I  am  very  glad  our  cousinship  is  not  on  the 
same  side.  Except  that  she  is  an  idiot  and  a 
bore,  however,  I  think  there  is  no  harm  in 
her.  Her  time  is  spent  in  contemplating  the 
surface  of  things, — and  for  that  I  don't 
blame  her,  for  I  myself  am  very  fond  of  the 
surface.  But  she  doesn't  see  what  she  looks 
at,  and,  in  short,  is  very  tiresome.  That  is  one 
of  the  things  poor  Eunice  wont  admit  to 
herself, — that  Lizzie  Ermine  will  end  by 
boring  us  to  death.  Now  that  both  her 
daughters  are  married,  she  has  her  time 
quite  on  her  hands;  for  the  sons-in-law,  I 
am  sure,  can't  encourage  her  visits.  She 
may,  however,  contrive  to  be  with  them  as 
well  as  here,  for,  as  a  poor  young  husband 
once  said  to  me,  a  belle-mere,  after  marriage, 
is  as  inevitable  as  stickiness  after  eating 
honey.  A  fool  can  do  plenty  of  harm  with- 
out deep  intentions.  After  all,  intentions 
fail ;  and  what  you  know  an  accident  by  is 
that  it  doesn't.  Mrs.  Ermine  doesn't  like  me; 


she  thinks  she  ought  to  be  in  my  shoes - 
that  when  Eunice  lost  her  old  governes. 
who  had  remained  with  her  as  "  companion, 
she  ought,  instead  of  picking  me  up  i 
Rome,  to  have  come  home  and  thrown  he, 
self  upon  some  form  of  kinship  more  cusl 
iony.  She  is  jealous  of  me,  and  vexed  that 
don't  give  her  more  opportunities;  for 
know  she  has  made  up  her  mind  that 
ought  to  be  a  Bohemian:  in  that  case  sh 
could  persuade  Eunice  that  I  am  a  ver 
unfit  sort  of  person.  I  am  single,  not  younj 
not  pretty,  not  well  off,  and  not  very  desiroi 
to  please;  I  carry  a  palette  on  my  thuml 
and  very  often  have  stains  on  my  apron - 
though  except  for  those  stains  I  pretend  t 
be  immaculately  neat.  What  right  have 
not  to  be  a  Bohemian,  and  not  to  teac 
Eunice  to  make  cigarettes  ?  I  am  convince 
Mrs.  Ermine  is  disappointed  that  I  don 
smoke.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  right,  an 
that  I  am  too  much  a  creature  of  habits,  c 
rules.  A  few  people  have  been  good  enoug 
to  call  me  an  artist;  but  I  am  not.  I  ai 
only,  in  a  small  way,  a  worker.  I  walk  to 
straight;  it's  ten  years  since  any  one  aske 
me  to  dance!  I  wish  I  could  oblige  yen* 
Mrs.  Ermine,  by  dipping  into  Bohemia  one 
in  awhile.  But  one  can't  have  the  defeci 
of  the  qualities  one  doesn't  possess.  I  ai 
not  an  artist,  I  am  too  much  of  a  critic, 
suppose  a  she-critic  is  a  kind  of  monster 
women  should  only  be  criticised.  That's  wfc 
I  keep  it  all  to  myself — myself  being  th 
little  book.  I  grew  tired  of  myself  sore 
months  ago,  and  locked  myself  up  in  a  desl 
It  was  a  kind  of  punishment,  but  it  was  als 
a  great  rest,  to  stop  judging,  to  stop  caring,  ft 
awhile.  Now  that  I  have  come  out,  I  suppos 
I  ought  to  take  a  vow  not  to  be  ill-natured. 

As  I  read  over  what  I  have  written  here, 
wonder  whether  it  was  worth  while  to  hav 
re-opened  my  journal.  Still,  why  not  haveth 
benefit  of  being  thought  disagreeable, — th 
luxury  of  recorded  observation  ?  If  one  : 
poor,  plain,  proud — and  in  this  very  privat' 
place  I  may  add,  clever, —  there  are  certai' 
necessary  revenges ! 

April  10. — Adrian  Frank  has  been  her 
again,  and  we  rather  like  him.  (That  will  d 
for  the  first  note  of  a  more  genial  tone.)  Hi 
eyes  are  very  blue,  and  his  teeth  very  whit( 
— two  things  that  always  please  me.  He  be 
came  rather  more  communicative,  and  almoe 
promised  to  show  me  his  sketches — in  spit 
of  the  fact  that  he  is  evidently  as  much  a 
ever  struck  with  my  own  ability.  Perhaps  h 
has  discovered  that  I  am  trying  to  be  geniil 
He  wishes  to  take  us  to  drive — that  is.  t 
take  Eunice ;  for,  of  course,  I  shall  go  on! 
propriety.  She  doesn't  go  with  young 


is,  t 

* 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


119 


done ;  that  element  was  not  included  in  her 
ducation.  She  said  to  me  yesterday,  "  The 
,nly  man  I  shall  drive  alone  with  will  be  the 
ne  I  marry."  She  talks  so  little  about  marry  - 
ng  that  this  made  an  impression  on  me. 
'hat  subject  is  supposed  to  be  a  girl's  inevita- 
le  topic;  but  no  young  women  could  occupy 
hemselves  with  it  less  than  she  and  I  do.  I 
link  I  may  say  that  we  never  mention  it  at 
11.  I  suppose  that  if  a  man  were  to  read  this, 
e  would  be  greatly  surprised  and  not  partic- 
larly  edified.  As  there  is  no  danger  of  any 
nan's  reading  it,  I  may  add  that  I  always 
ake  tacitly  for  granted  that  Eunice  will  marry, 
he  doesn't  in  the  least  pretend  that  she  wont ; 
nd  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  she  is  capable  of 
onjugal  affection.  The  longer  I  live  with  her, 
ic  more  I  see  that  she  is  a  dear  girl.  Now 
hat  I  know  her  better,  I  perceive  that  she  is 
>erfectly  natural.  I  used  to  think  that  she 
ried  too  much — that  she  watched  herself, 
erhaps,  with  a  little  secret  admiration.  But 
was  because  I  couldn't  conceive  of  a 
irl's  motives  beirfg  so  simple.  She  only  wants 
ot  to  suffer — she  is  immensely  afraid  of  that, 
"herefore,  she  wishes  to  be  universally  tender 
-to  mitigate  the  general  sum  of  suffering,  in 
ic  hope  that  she  herself  may  come  off  easily. 
(oor  thing!  she  doesn't  know  that  we  can 
iminish  the  amount  of  suffering  for  others 
nly  by  taking  to  ourselves  a  part  of  their 
lare.  The  amount  of  that  commodity  in  the 
orld  is  always  the  same ;  it  is  only  the  dis- 
ibution  that  varies.  We  all  try  to  dodge  our 
ortion ;  and  some  of  us  succeed.  I  find  the 
ist  way  is  not  to  think  about  it,  and  to  make 
;tle  water-colors.  Eunice  thinks  that  the 
2st  way  is  to  be  very  generous,  to  condemn 
3  one  unheard. 

A  great  many  things  happen  that  I  don't 
ention  here ;  incidents  of  social  life,  I  believe 
icy  call  them.  People  come  to  see  us,  and 
bmetimes  they  invite  us  to  dinner.  We  go  to 
prtain  concerts,  many  of  which  are  very 
uod.  We  take  a  walk  every  day ;  and  I  read 

Eunice,  and  she  plays  to  me.  Mrs.  Ermine 
akes  her  appearance  several  times  a  week, 
.d  gives  us  the  news  of  the  town — a  great 

al  more  of  it  than  we  have  any  use  for. 
ie  thinks  we  live  in  a  hole;  and  she  has 
ore  than  once  expressed  her  conviction  that 
can  do  nothing  socially  for  Eunice.  As  to 
at,  she  is  perfectly  right ;  I  am  aware  of  my 
>cial  insignificance.  But  I  am  equally  aware 
j.at  my  cousin  has  no  need  of  being  pushed, 
know  little  of  the  people  and  things  of  this 
ace;  but  I  know  enough  to  see  that,  what- 

er  they  are,  the  best  of  them  are  at  her 
rvice.  Mrs.  Ermine  thinks  it  a  great  pity 
Jat  Eunice  should  have  come  too  late  in  the 
ijason  to  "go  out"  with  her;  for  after  this, 


there  are  few  entertainments  a?  which  my 
protecting  presence  is  not  sufficient.  Besides, 
Eunice  isn't  eager;  I  often  wonder  at  her 
indifference.  She  never  thinks  of  the  dances 
she  has  missed,  nor  asks  about  those  at  which 
she  still  may  figure.  She  isn't  sad,  and  it 
doesn't  amount  to  melancholy ;  but  she  cer- 
tainly is  rather  detached.  She  likes  to  read, 
to  talk  with  me,  to  make  music,  and  to  dine 
out  when  she  supposes  there  will  be  "  real  con- 
versation." She  is  extremely  fond  of  real 
conversation ;  and  we  flatter  ourselves  that  a 
good  deal  of  it  takes  place  between  us.  We 
talk  about  life  and  religion  and  art  and  George 
Eliot;  all  that,  I  hope,  is  sufficiently  real. 
Eunice  understands  everything,  and  has  a 
great  many  opinions ;  she  is  quite  the  modern 
young  woman,  though  she  hasn't  modern 
manners.  But  all  this  doesn't  explain  to  me 
why,  as  Mrs.  Ermine  says,  she  should  wish 
to  be  so  dreadfully  quiet.  That  lady's  sus- 
picion to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  it  is 
not  I  who  make  her  so.  I  would  go  with  her 
to  a  party  every  night  if  she  should  wish  it, 
and  send  out  cards  to  proclaim  that  we  "  re- 
ceive." But  her  ambitions  are  not  those  of 
the  usual  girl ;  or  at  any  rate,  if  she  is  wait- 
ing for  what  the  usual  girl  waits  for,  she  is 
waiting  very  patiently.  As  I  say,  I  can't  quite 
make  out  the  secret  of  her  patience.  How- 
ever, it  is  not  necessary  I  should ;  it  was  no 
part  of  the  bargain  on  which  I  came  to  her 
that  we  were  to  conceal  nothing  from  each 
other.  I  conceal  a  great  deal  from  Eunice; 
at  least  I  hope  I  do :  for  instance,  how  fear- 
fully I  am  bored.  I  think  I  am  as  patient  as 
she ;  but  then  I  have  certain  things  to  help 
me — my  age,  my  resignation,  my  ability, 
and,  I  suppose  I  may  add,  my  conceit.  Mrs. 
Ermine  doesn't  bring  the  young  men,  but  she 
talks  about  them,  and  calls  them  Harry  and 
Freddy.  She  wants  Eunice  to  marry,  though 
I  don't  see  what  she  is  to  gain  by  it.  It  is 
apparently  a  disinterested  love  of  matrimony, 
— or  rather,  I  should  say,  a  love  of  weddings. 
She  lives  in  a  world  of  "  engagements,"  and 
announces  a  new  one  every  time  she  comes 
in.  I  never  heard  of  so  much  marrying  in  all 
my  life  before.  Mrs.  Ermine  is  dying  to  be 
able  to  tell  people  that  Eunice  is  engaged : 
that  distinction  should  not  be  wanting  to  a 
cousin  of  hers.  Whoever  marries  her,  by  the 
way,  will  come  into  a  very  good  fortune. 
Almost  for  the  first  time,  three  days  ago,  she 
told  me  about  her  affairs. 

She  knows  less  about  them  than  she  be- 
lieves,—  I  could  see  that;  bu^she  knows  the 
great  matter,  which  is,  that  in  the  course  of  her 
twenty-first  year,  by  the  terms  of  her  mother's 
will,  she  becomes  mistress  of  her  property, 
of  which  for  the  last  seven  years  Mr.  Caliph 


120 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


has  been  sole  trustee.   On  that  day  Mr.  Caliph 
is  to  make  over  to  her  three  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars,  which  he  has  been  nursing  and 
keeping   safe.    So  much    on   every   occasion 
seems  to  be  expected  of  this  wonderful  man ! 
I  call  him  so  because  I  think  it  was  wonderful 
of  him  to  have  been  appointed  sole  depositary 
of  the  property  of  an  orphan  by  a  very  anx- 
ious, scrupulous,  affectionate  mother,  whose 
one  desire,  when  she  made  her  will,  was  to 
prepare  for  her  child  a  fruitful  majority,  and 
whose  acquaintance  with  him  had  not  been 
of  many  years,  though  her  esteem  for  him  was 
great.    He  had  been  a  friend — a  very  good 
friend — of  her  husband,  who,  as  he  neared 
his  end,  asked  him  to  look  after  his  widow. 
Eunice's    father  didn't,  however,  make  him 
trustee  of  his  little  estate;  he  put  that  into 
other  hands,  and    Eunice   has  a  very  good 
account  of  it.    It  amounts,  unfortunately,  but 
to  some  fifty  thousand  dollars.    Her  mother's 
proceedings  with  regard  to  Mr.  Caliph  were 
very  feminine — so  I  may  express  myself  in 
the  privacy  of  these  pages.    But  I  believe  all 
women  are  very  feminine  in  their  relations 
with  Mr.  Caliph.   "Haroun-al-Raschid"  I  call 
him  to  Eunice ;  and  I  suppose  he  expects  to 
find  us  in  a  state  of  Oriental  prostration.    She 
says,  however,  that  he  is  not  the  least  of  a 
Turk,  and  that  nothing  could   be  kinder  or 
more  considerate  than  he  was  three  years  ago, 
before  she  went   to   Europe.    He   was   con- 
stantly with  her  at  that  time,  for  many  months; 
and  his  attentions  have  evidently  made  a  great 
impression  on  her.    That  sort  of  thing  natu- 
rally would  on  a  girl  of  seventeen ;  and  I  have 
told  her  she  must  be  prepared  to  think  him 
much  less  brilliant  a  personage  to-day.    I  don't 
know  what  he  will  think  of  some  of  her  plans  of 
expenditure, — laying  out  an  Italian  garden  at 
the  house  on  the  river,  founding  a  cot  at  the 
children's  hospital,  erecting  a  music-room  in  the 
rear  of  this  house.    Next  winter  Eunice  propo- 
ses to  receive;  but  she  wishes  to  have  an  origin- 
ality, in  the  shape,  of  really  good  music.  She  will 
evidently  be  rather  extravagant,  at  least  at 
first.  Mr.  Caliph,  of  course,  will  have  no  more 
authority ;  still,  he  may  advise  her  as  a  friend. 
April  23. — This  afternoon,  while  Eunice  was 
out,  Mr.  Frank  made  his  appearance,  having 
had  the  civility,  as  I  afterward  learned,  to  ask 
for  me,  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  the  padro- 
nina.    I  told  him  she  was  at  Mrs.  Ermine's, 
and  that  Mrs.  Ermine  was  her  cousin. 

"  Then  I  can  say  what  I  should  not  be 
able  to  say  if  she  were  here,"  he  said,  smiling 
that  singular  sjnile  which  has  the  effect  of 
showing  his  teeth  and  drawing  the  lids  of  his 
eyes  together.  If  he  were  a  young  country- 
man, one  would  call  it  a  grin.  It  is  not 
exactly  a  grin,  but  it  is  very  simple. 


"  And  what  may  that  be  ? "  I  asked,  with 
encouragement. 

He  hesitated  a  little,  while  I  admired  his 
teeth,  which  I  am  sure  he  has  no  wish  to 
exhibit;  and  I  expected  something  wonder- 
ful. "  Considering  that  she  is  fair,  she  is  really 
very  pretty,"  he  said  at  last. 

I  was  rather  disappointed,  and  I  went  sc 
far  as  to  say  to  him  that  he  might  have  made 
that  remark  in  her  presence. 

This  time  his  blue  eyes  remained  wide 
open.  "  So  you  really  think  so  ?  " 

"  '  Considering  that  she's  fair,'  that  part  of 
it,  perhaps,  might  have  been  omitted ;  but  the 
rest  surely  would  have  pleased  her." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  '  really  very  pretty '  is,  perhaps,  not 
quite  right ;  it  seems  to  imply  a  kind  of  sur- 
prise. You  might  have  omitted  the  '  really.' " 

"You  want  me  to  omit  everything,"  he 
said,  laughing,  as  if  he  thought  me  wonder- 
fully amusing. 

"  The  gist  of  the  thing  would  remain,  '  You 
are  very  pretty ' ;  that  would  have  been  un- 
expected and  agreeable." 

"  I  think  you  are  laughing  at  me !  "  cried 
poor  Mr.  Frank,  without  bitterness.  "  I  have 
no  right  to  say  that  till  I  know  she  likes  me." 

"  She  does  like  you ;  I  see  no  harm  in! 
telling  you  so."  He  seemed  to  me  so  modest, 
so  natural,  that  I  felt  as  free  to  say  this  to  him 
as  I  would  have  been  to  a  good  child ;  more, 
indeed,  than  to  a  good  child,  for  a  child  to 
whom  one  would  say  that  would  be  rather  a 
prig;  and  Adrian  Frank  is  not  a  prig.  I 
could  see  that  by  the  way  he  answered;  it 
was  rather  odd. 

"  It  will  please  my  brother  to  know  that ! " 

"  Does  he  take  such  an  interest  in  the  im- 
pressions you  make  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  wants  me  to  appear  well." 
This  was  said  with  the  most  touching  inno- 
cence ;  it  was  a  complete  confession  of  infe- 
riority. It  was,  perhaps,  the  tone  that  made 
it  so;  at  any  rate,  Adrian  Frank  has  re- 
nounced the  hope  of  ever  appearing  as  well 
as  his  brother.  I  wonder  if  a  man  must  be 
really  inferior,  to  be  in  such  a  state  of  mind  as 
that.  He  must  at  all  events  be  very  fond  of 
his  brother,  and  even,  I  think,  have  sacrificed 
himself  a  good  deal.  This  young  man  asked 
me  ever  so  many  questions  about  my  cousin ; 
frankly,  simply,  as  if,  when  one  wanted  to 
know,  it  was  perfectly  natural  to  ask.  So  it  is, 
I  suppose ;  but  why  should  he  want  to  know  ? 
Some  of  his  questions  were  certainly  idle. 
What  can  it  matter  to  him  whether  she  has 
one  little  dog  or  three,  or  whether  she  is  a  a 
admirer  of  the  music  of  the  future  ?  "Docs 
she  go  out  much,  or  does  she  like  a  qi 
evening  at  home  ?  "  "  Does  she  like  livii 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


121 


Europe,  and  what  part  of  Europe  does  she 
jrefer  ?  "  "  Has  she  many  relatives  in  New 
York,  and  does  she  see  a  great  deal  of 
them  ?  "  On  all  these  points  I  was  obliged 
:o  give  Mr.  Frank  a  certain  satisfaction ;  and 
after  that,  I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  ask  why 
ie  wanted  to  know.  He  was  evidently  sur- 
prised at  being  challenged,  blushed  a  good 
deal,  and  made  me  feel  for  a  moment  as  if  I 
md  asked  a  vulgar  question.  I  saw  he  had 
10  particular  reason;  he  only  wanted  to  be 
:ivil,  and  that  is  the  way  best  known  to  him 
)f  expressing  an  interest.  He  was  confused ; 
:>ut  he  was  not  so  confused  that  he  took  his 
leparture.  He  sat  half  an  hour  longer,  and 
et  me  make  up  to  him,  by  talking  very  agree- 
ibly,  for  the  shock  I  had  administered.  I  may 
nention  here — for  I  like  to  see  it  in  black 
md  white — that  I  can  talk  very  agreeably. 
rle  listened  with  the  most  flattering  attention, 
;howing  me  his  blue  eyes  and  his  white  teeth 
n  alternation,  and  laughing  largely,  as  if  I 
lad  a  command  of  the  comical,  —  I  am  not 
;onscious  of  that.  At  last,  after  I  had  paused 
i  little,  he  said  to  me,  apropos  of  nothing : 
'  Do  you  think  the  realistic  school  are — a — 
o  be  admired  ?  "  Then  I  saw  that  he  had 
dready  forgotten  my  earlier  check,  —  such 
vas  the  effect  of  my  geniality, —  and  that  he 
vould  ask  me  as  many  questions  about  my- 
,elf  as  I  would  let  him.  I  answered  him 
reely,  but  I  answered  him  as  I  chose.  There 
ire  certain  things  about  myself  I  never  shall 
ell,  and  the  simplest  way  not  to  tell  is  to  say 
ie  contrary.  If  people  are  indiscreet,  they 
|Qust  take  the  consequences.  I  declared  that 
r  held  the  realistic  school  in  horror;  that  I 
lound  New  York  the  most  interesting,  the 
post  sympathetic  of  cities ;  and  that  I  thought 
he  American  girl  the  finest  result  of  civilization. 

am  sure  I  convinced  him  that  I  am  a  most 
emarkable  woman.  He  went  away  before 
Eunice  returned.  He  is  a  charming  creature 
-a  kind  of  Yankee  Donatello.  If  I  could  only 
>e  his  Miriam,  the  situation  would  be  almost 
omplete,  for  Eunice  is  an  excellent  Hilda. 

April  26. — Mrs.  Ermine  was  in  great  force 
jo-day;  she  described  all  the  fine  things 
Eunice  can  do  when  she  gets  her  money  into 
jier  own  hands.  A  set  of  Mechlin  lace,  a 
\iviere  of  diamonds  which  she  saw  the  other 
nay  at  Tiffany's,  a  set  of  Russian  sables  that 
;he  knows  of  somewhere  else,  a  little  English 
phaeton  with  a  pair  of  ponies  and  a  tiger,  a 
imily  of  pugs  to  waddle  about  in  the  draw- 
ig-room — all  these  luxuries  Mrs.  Ermine 
eclares  indispensable.  "I  should  like  to 
now  that  you  have  them — it  would  do  me 
eal  good,"  she  said  to  Eunice.  "  I  like  to 
£e  people  with  handsome  things.  It  would 
five  me  more  pleasure  to  know  you  have 


that  set  of  Mechlin  than  to  have  it  myself. 
I  can't  help  that— it's  the  way  I  am  made. 
If  other  people  have  handsome  things  I  see 
them  more;  and  then  I  do  want  the  good  of 
others  —  I  don't  care  if  you  think  me  vain 
for  saying  so.  I  sha'n't  be  happy  till  I  see 
you  in  an  English  phaeton.  The  groom 
oughtn't  to  be  more  than  three  foot  six.  I 
think  you  ought  to  show  for  what  you  are." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  for  what  I  am  ?  " 
Eunice  asked. 

"  Well,  for  a  charming  girl,  with  a  very 
handsome  fortune." 

"  I  shall  never  show  any  more  than  I  do 


now. 


I 


"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  do — you  show 
Miss  Condit."  And  Mrs.  Ermine  presented  me 
her  large,  foolish  face.  "  If  you  don't  look  out, 
she'll  do  you  up  in  Morris  papers,  and  then  all 
the  Mechlin  lace  in  the  world  wont  matter !  " 

"I  don't  follow  you  at  all — I  never  follow 
ou,"  I  said,  wishing  I  could  have  sketched 
er  just  as  she  sat  there.  She  was  quite 
grotesque. 

"  I  would  rather  go  without  you,"  she 
repeated. 

"  I  think  that  after  I  come  into  my  prop- 
erty I  shall  do  just  as  I  do  now,"  said  Eunice. 
"After  all,  where  will  the  difference  be?  I 
have  to-day  everything  I  shall  ever  have. 
It's  more  than  enough." 

"You  wont  have  to  ask  Mr.  Caliph  for 
everything." 

"  I  ask  him  for  nothing  now." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ermine,  "  you 
don't  deserve  to  be  rich." 

"  I  am  not  rich,"  Eunice  remarked. 

"Ah,  well,  if  you  want  a  million !  " 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  said  Eunice. 

That's  not  exactly  true.  She  does  want 
something,  but  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

May  2. —  Mr.  Caliph  is  really  very  delight- 
ful. He  made  his  appearance  to-day,  and 
carried  everything  before  him.  When  I  say 
he  carried  everything,  I  mean  he  carried  me; 
for  Eunice  had  not  my  prejudices  to  get 
over.  When  I  said  to  her,  after  he  had  gone, 
"Your  trustee  is  a  very  clever  man,"  she  only 
smiled  a  little,  and  turned  away  in  silence.  I 
suppose  she  was  amused  with  the  air  of  im- 
portance with  which  I  announced  this  dis- 
covery. Eunice  had  made  it  several  years 
ago,  and  could  not  be  excited  about  it.  I 
had  an  idea  that  some  allusion  would  be 
made  to  the  way  he  has  neglected  her— 
some  apology,  at  least,  for  his  long  absence. 
But  he  did  something  better  than  this.  He 
made  no  definite  apology;  he  only  expressed, 
in  his  manner,  his  look,  his  voice,  a  tender- 
ness, a  kind  of  charming  benevolence,  which 
included  and  exceeded  all  apologies.  He 


122 

looks  rather  tired  and  preoccupied;  he  evi- 
dently has  a  great  many  irons  of  his  own  in 
the  fire,  and  has  been  thinking  these  last 
weeks  of  larger  questions  than  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  a  little  girl  in  New  York,  who  hap- 
pened several  years  ago  to  have  an  exuberant 
mother.  He  is  thoroughly  genial,  and  is  the 
best  talker  I  have  seen  since  my  return.  A 
totally  different  type  from  the  young  Adrian. 
He  is  not  in  the  least  handsome — is,  indeed, 
rather  ugly ;  but  with  a  fine,  expressive,  pic- 
torial ugliness.  He  is  forty  years  old,  large 
and  stout,  may  even  be  pronounced  fat ;  and 
there  is  something  about  him  that  I  don't 
know  how  to  describe  except  by  calling  it  a 
certain  richness.  I  have  seen  Italians  who 
have  it,  but  this  is  the  first  American.  He 
talks  with  his  eyes  as  well  as  with  his  lips, 
and  his  features  are  wonderfully  mobile.  His 
smile  is  quick  and  delightful ;  his  hands  are 
well  shaped,  but  distinctly  fat ;  he  has  a  pale 
complexion  and  a  magnificent  brown  beard 
— the  beard  of  Haroun-al-Raschid.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  write  it  very  small ;  but  I  have 
an  intimate  conviction  that  he  is  a  Jew,  or  of 
Jewish  origin.  I  see  that  in  his  plump,  white 
face,  of  which  the  tone  would  please  a  paint- 
er, and  which  suggests  fatigue,  but  is  never- 
theless all  alive ;  in  his  remarkable  eye,  which 
is  full  of  old  expressions — expressions  which 
linger  there  from  the  past,  even  when  they 
are  not  active  to-day ;  in  his  profile,  in  his 
anointed  beard,  in  the  very  rings  on  his  large 
pointed  fingers.  There  is  not  a  touch  of  all 
this  in  his  step-brother;  so  I  suppose  the 
Jewish  blood  is  inherited  from  his  father.  I 
don't  think  he  looks  like  a  gentleman ;  he  is 
something  apart  from  all  that.  If  he  is  not  a 
gentleman,  he  is  not  in  the  least  a  bourgeois, 
—  neither  is  he  of  the  artist  type.  In  short, 
as  I  say,  he  is  a  Jew ;  and  Jews  of  the  upper 
class  have  a  style  of  their  own.  He  is  very 
clever,  and  I  think  genuinely  kind.  Nothing 
could  be  more  charming  than  his  way  of 
talking  to  Eunice  —  a  certain  paternal  inter- 
est mingled  with  an  air  of  respectful  gallantry 
(he  gives  her  good  advice,  and  at  the  same 
time  pays  her  compliments) ;  the  whole  thing 
being  not  in  the  least  overdone.  I  think  he 
found  her  changed — "more  of  a  person,"  as 
Mrs.  Ermine  says ; — I  even  think  he  was  a 
little  surprised.  She  seems  slightly  afraid  of 
him,  which  rather  surprised  me — she  was, 
from  her  own  account,  so  familiar  with  him 
of  old.  He  is  decidedly  florid,  and  was  very 
polite  to  me — that  was  apart  of  the  floridity. 
He  asked  if  we  had  seen  his  step-brother; 
begged  us  to  be  kind  to  him,  and  to  let  him 
come  and  see  us  often.  He  doesn't  know 
many  people  in  New  York,  and  at  that  age 
it  is  everything  (I  quote  Mr.  Caliph)  for  a 


THE   IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


young  fellow  to  be  at  his  ease  with  one  or 
two  charming  women.  "Adrian  takes  a  great 
deal  of  knowing;  is  horribly  shy;  but  is 
most  intelligent,  and  has  one  of  the  sweetest 
natures!  I'm  very  fond  of  him — he's  all  I've 
got.  Unfortunately,  the  poor  boy  is  cursed 
with  a  competence.  In  this  country  there  is 
nothing  for  such  a  young  fellow  to  do;  he 
hates  business,  and  has  absolutely  no  talent 
for  it.  I  shall  send  him  back  here  the  next 
time  I  see  him."  Eunice  made  no  answer  to 
this,  and,  in  fact,  had  little  answer  to  make 
to  most  of  Mr.  Caliph's  remarks,  only  sitting 
looking  at  the  floor,  with  a  smile.  I  thought 
it  proper,  therefore,  to  reply  that  we  had 
found  Mr.  Frank  very  pleasant,  and  hoped 
he  would  soon  come  again.  Then  I  men- 
tioned that  the  other  day  I  had  had  a  long 
visit  from  him  alone ;  we  had  talked  for  an 
hour,  and  become  excellent  friends.  Mr. 
Caliph,  as  I  said  this,  was  leaning  forward 
with  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  hand 
uplifted,  grasping  his  thick  beard.  The  other 
hand,  with  the  elbow  out,  rested  on  the  other 
knee;  his  head  was  turned  toward  me, 
askance.  He  looked  at  me  a  moment  with 
his  deep  bright  eye — the  eye  of  a  much 
older  man  than  he ;  he  might  have  been  pos- 
ing for  a  water-color.  If  I  had  painted  him, 
it  would  have  been  in  a  high-peaked  cap 
and  an  amber-colored  robe,  with  a  wide 
girdle  of  pink  silk  wound  many  times  round 
his  waist,  stuck  full  of  knives  with  jeweled 
handles.  Our  eyes  met,  and  we  sat  there 
exchanging  a  glance.  I  don't  know  whether 
he's  vain,  but  I  think  he  must  see  I  appreciate 
him ;  I  am  sure  he  understands  everything. 

"  I  like  you  when  you  say  that,"  he  re- 
marked, at  the  end  of  a  minute. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  like  me ! "  This 
sounds  horrid  and  pert  as  I  relate  it. 

"  I  don't  like  every  one,"  said  Mr.  Caliph. 

"  Neither  do  Eunice  and  I  ;  do  we, 
Eunice  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  we  only  try  to,"  she  answered, 
smiling  her  most  beautiful  smile. 

"  Try  to  ?  Heaven  forbid !  I  protest  against 
that,"  I  cried.  I  said  to  Mr.  Caliph  that  Eunice 
was  too  good. 

"  She  comes  honestly  by  that.  Your  mother 
was  an  angel,  my  child,"  he  said  to  her. 

Cousin  Letitia  was  not  an  angel,  but  I  have 
mentioned  that  Mr.  Caliph  is  florid.  "You 
used  to  be  very  good  to  her,"  Eunice  mur- 
mured, raising  her  eyes  to  him. 

He  had  got  up ;  he  was  standing  there, 
bent  his  head,  smiling  like  an  Italian, 
must  be  the  same,  my  child." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  Eunice  asked. 

"You  can  believe  in  me — you  can 
me." 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


123 


"  I  do,  Mr.  Caliph.    Try  me  and  see ! " 

This  was  unexpectedly  gushing,  and  I  in- 
stinctively turned  away.  Behind  my  back,  I 
don't  know  what  he  did  to  her  —  I  think  it 
possible  he  did  kiss  her.  When  you  call  a  girl 
"  my  child,"  I  suppose  you  may  kiss  her;  but 
that  may  be  only  my  bold  imagination.  When 
I  turned  round  he  had  taken  up  his  hat  and 
stick,  to  say  nothing  of  buttoning  a  very  tightly 
itting  coat  around  a  very  spacious  person,  and 
was  ready  to  offer  me  his  hand  in  farewell. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  with  her.  I  am  so 
glad  she  has  a  companion  so  accomplished  — 
so  capable." 

"  So  capable  of  what  ?  "  I  said,  laughing ; 
or  the  speech  was  absurd,  as  he  knows  noth- 
ing about  my  accomplishments. 

There  is  nothing  solemn  about  Mr.  Caliph : 
but  he  gave  me  a  look  which  made  it  appear 
to  me  that  my  levity  was  in  bad  taste.  Yes, 
lumiliating  as  it  is  to  write  it  here,  I  found  my- 
self rebuked  by  a  Jew  with  fat  hands  !  "  Cap- 
able of  advising  her  well !  "  he  said,  softly. 

"  Ah,  don't  talk  about  advice,"  Eunice  ex- 
daimed.  "  Advice  always  gives  an  idea  of 
trouble,  and  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  trouble." 

"  You  ought  to  get  married,"  he  said,  with 
tiis  smile  coming  back  to  him. 

Eunice  colored  and  turned  away,  and  I 
observed — to  say  something  —  that  this  was 
just  what  Mrs.  Ermine  said. 

"  Mrs.  Ermine  ?  ah,  I  hear  she's  a  charming 
woman !  "  And  shortly  after  that  he  went  away. 

That  was  almost  the  only  weak  thing  he  said 
—  the  only  thing  for  mere  form,  for,  of  course, 
no  one  can  really  think  her  charming ;  least  of 
ill  a  clever  man  like  that.  I  don't  like  Amer- 
icans to  resemble  Italians,  or  Italians  to 
jresemble  Americans ;  but  putting  that  aside, 
|Mr.  Caliph  is  very  prepossessing.  He  is  won- 
jderfully  good  company ;  he  will  spoil  us  for 
pther  people.  He  made  no  allusion  to  busi- 
jness,  and  no  appointment  with  Eunice  for 
Stalking  over  certain  matters  that  are  pending ; 
put  I  thought  of  this  only  half  an  hour  after  he 
Siad  gone.  I  said  nothing  to  Eunice  about  it, 
|for  she  would  have  noticed  the  omission  her- 
[self,  and  that  was  enough.  The  only  other 

int  in  Mr.  Caliph  that  was  open  to  criti- 
ism  is  his  asking  Eunice  to  believe  in  him 

to  trust  him.  Why  shouldn't  she,  pray? 
f  that  speech  was  curious, —  and,  strange  to 

y,  it  almost  appeared  so, —  it  was  incredibly 
naif.  But  this  quality  is  insupposable  of  Mr. 
Caliph ;  who  ever  heard  of  a  naif  Jew  ?  After 
be  had  gone  I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  to 
Eunice,  "  By  the  way,  why  did  you  never 
[mention  that  he  is  a  Hebrew  ?  That's  an  im- 
portant detail."  But  an  impulse  that  I  am  not 
able  to  define  stopped  me,  and  now  I  am  glad 
|I  didn't  speak.  I  don't  believe  Eunice  ever 


made  the  discovery,  and  I  don't  think  she 
would  like  it  if  she  did  make  it.  That  I  should 
have  done  so  on  the  instant  only  proves  that  I 
am  in  the  habit  of  studying  the  human  profile  ! 
May  9. — Mrs.  Ermine  must  have  discov- 
ered that  Mr.  Caliph  has  heard  she  is  charm- 
ing, for  she  is  perpetually  coming  in  here  with 
the  hope  of  meeting  him.  She  appears  to 
think  that  he  comes  every  day  ;  for  when  she 
misses  him,  which  she  has  done  three  times 
(that  is,  she  arrives  just  after  he  goes),  she 
says  that  if  she  doesn't  catch  him  on  the  mor- 
row she  will  go  and  call  upon  him.  She  is 
capable  of  that,  I  think ;  and  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference that  he  is  the  busiest  of  men  and  she 
the  idlest  of  women.  He  has  been  here  four 
times  since  his  first  call,  and  has  the  air  of 
wishing  to  make  up  for  the  neglect  that  pre- 
ceded it.  His  manner  to  Eunice  is  perfect ; 
he  continues  to  call  her  "  my  child,"  but  in  a 
superficial,  impersonal  way,  as  a  Catholic 
priest  might  do  it.  He  tells  us  stories  of  Wash- 
ington, describes  the  people  there,  and  makes 
us  wonder  whether  we  should  care  for  K 
street  and  14^  street.  As  yet,  to  the  best  of 
my  knowledge,  not  a  word  about  Eunice's 
affairs ;  he  behaves  as  if  he  had  simply  forgot- 
ten them.  It  was,  after  all,  not  out  of  place 
the  other  day  to  ask  her  to  "believe  in 
him";  the  faith  wouldn't  come  as  a  matter 
of  course.  On  the  other  hand  he  is  so 
pleasant  that  one  would  believe  in  him  just  to 
oblige  him.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  trust-busi- 
ness, and  a  great  deal  of  law-business  of  every 
kind.  So  at  least  he  says ;  we  really  know  very 
little  about  him  but  what  he  tells  us.  When  I 
say  "  we,"  of  course  I  speak  mainly  for  myself, 
as  I  am  perpetually  forgetting  that  he  is  not 
so  new  to  Eunice  as  he  is  to  me.  She  knows 
what  she  knows,  but  I  only  know  what  I  see. 
I  have  been  wondering  a  good  deal  what  is 
thought  of  Mr.  Caliph  "  down-town,"  as  they 
say  here,  but  without  much  result,  for  natu- 
rally I  can't  go  down-town  and  see.  The 
appearance  of  the  thing  prevents  my  asking 
questions  about  him ;  it  would  be  very  com- 
promising to  Eunice,  and  make  people  think 
that  she  complains  of  him — which  is  so  far 
from  being  the  case.  She  likes  him  just  as  he 
is,  and  is  apparently  quite  satisfied.  I  gather, 
moreover,  that  he  is  thought  very  brilliant, 
though  a  little  peculiar,  and  that  he  has  made 
a  great  deal  of  money.  He  has  a  way  of  his 
own  of  doing  things,  and  carries  imagination 
and  humor,  and  a  sense  of  the  beautiful,  into 
Wall  street  and  the  Stock  Exchange.  Mrs. 
Ermine  announced  the  other  day  that  he  is 
"considered  the  most  fascinating  man  in 
New  York  " ;  but  that  is  the  romantic  up-town 
view  of  him,  and  not  what  I  want.  His 
brother  has  gone  out  of  town  for  a  few  days, 


124 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


but  he  continues  to  recommend  the  young 
Adrian  to  our  hospitality.  There  is  something 
really  touching  in  his  relation  to  that  rather 
limited  young  man. 

May  ii.  —  Mrs.  Ermine  is  in  high  spirits; 
she  has  met  Mr.  Caliph, —  I  don't  know  where, 
— and  she  quite  confirms  the  up-town  view. 
She  thinks  him  the  most  fascinating  man  she 
has  ever  seen,  and  she  wonders  that  we  should 
have  said  so  little  about  him.  He  is  so  hand- 
some, so  high-bred ;  his  manners  are  so  per- 
fect; he's  a  regular  old  dear.  I  think,  of 
course  ill-naturedly,  several  degrees  less  well 
of  him  since  I  have  heard  Mrs.  Ermine's  im- 
pressions. He  is  not  handsome,  he  is  not 
high-bred,  and  his  manners  are  not  perfect. 
They  are  original,  and  they  are  expressive ; 
and  if  one  likes  him,  there  is  an  interest  in 
looking  for  what  he  will  do  and  say.  But  if 
one  should  happen  to  dislike  him,  one  would 
detest  his  manners  and  think  them  familiar 
and  vulgar.  As  for  breeding,  he  has  about 
him,  indeed,  the  marks  of  antiquity  of  race ; 
yet  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Ermine  would  have 
liked  me  to  say,  "  Oh,  yes,  all  Jews  have 
blood ! "  Besides,  I  couldn't  before  Eunice. 
Perhaps  I  consider  Eunice  too  much ;  perhaps 
I  am  betrayed  by  my  old  habit  of  trying  to 
see  through  millstones;  perhaps  I  interpret 
things  too  richly — just  as  (I  know)  when  I 
try  to  paint  an  old  wall  I  attempt  to  put  in 
too  much  "  character  " ;  character  being  in 
old  walls,  after  all,  a  finite  quantity.  At  any 
rate,  she  seems  to  me  rather  nervous  about 
Mr.  Caliph:  that  appeared  after  a  little 
when  Mrs.  Ermine  came  back  to  the  subject. 
She  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  the  oddity 
of  her  never  having  seen  him  before,  of  old ; 
"  for  after  all,"  as  she  remarked,  "  we  move 
in  the  same  society — he  moves  in  the  very 
best."  She  used  to  hear  Eunice  talk  about 
her  trustee,  but  she  supposed  a  trustee  must 
be  some  horrid  old  man  with  a  lot  of  papers 
in  his  hand,  sitting  all  day  in  an  office.  She 
never  supposed  he  was  a  prince  in  disguise. 
"  We've  got  a  trustee  somewhere,  only  I  never 
see  him ;  my  husband  does  all  the  business. 
No  wonder  he  keeps  him  out  of  the  way  if  he 
resembles  Mr.  Caliph."  And  then,  suddenly, 
she  said  to  Eunice,  "  My  dear,  why  don't 
you  marry  him  ?  I  should  think  you  would 
want  to."  Mrs.  Ermine  doesn't  look  through 
millstones;  she  contents  herself  with  giving 
them  a  poke  with  her  parasol.  Eunice  colored, 
and  said  she  hadn't  been  asked ;  she  was  evi- 
dently not  pleased  with  Mrs.  Ermine's  joke, 
which  was,  of  course,  as  flat  as  you  like.  Then 
she  added  in  a  moment — "  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  marry  Mr.  Caliph,  even  if  he  were 
to  ask  me.  I  like  him,  but  I  don't  like  ,him 
enough  for  that." 


"  I  should  think  he  would  be  quite  in  your 
style, — he's  so  literary.  They  say  he  writes," 
Mrs.  Ermine  went  on. 

"  Well,  I  don't  write,"  Eunice  answered, 
laughing. 

"  You  could  if  you  -would  try.  I'm  sure 
you  could  make  a  lovely  book."  Mrs.  Er- 
mine's amiability  is  immense. 

"  It's  safe  for  you  to  say  that — you  never 
read." 

"  I  have  no  time,"  said  Mrs.  Ermine,  "but 
I  like  literary  conversation.  It  saves  time, 
when  it  comes  in  that  way.  Mr.  Caliph  has 
ever  so  much." 

"  He  keeps  it  for  you.  With  us  he  is  very 
frivolous,"  I  ventured  to  observe. 

"  Well,  what  you  call  frivolous  !  I  believe 
you  think  the  prayer-book  frivolous." 

"  Mr.  Caliph  will  never  marry  any  one," 
Eunice  said,  after  a  moment.  "  That  I  am 
very  sure  of." 

Mrs.  Ermine  stared  ;  there  is  never  so  little 
expression  in  her  face  as  when  she  is  sur- 
prised. But  she  soon  recovered  herself.  "  Don't 
you  believe  that !  He  will  take  some  quiet  lit- 
tle woman,  after  you  have  all  given  him  up." 

Eunice  was  sitting  at  the  piano,  but  had 
wheeled  round  on  the  stool  when  her  cousin 
came  in.  She  turned  back  to  it  and  struck  a 
few  vague  chords,  as  if  she  were  feeling  for 
something.  "  Please  don't  speak  that  way ;  I 
don't  like  it,"  she  said,  as  she  went  on  playing. 

"  I  will  speak  any  way  you  like !  "  Mrs. 
Ermine  cried,  with  her  vacant  laugh. 

"  I  think  it  very  low."  For  Eunice  this  was 
severe.  "  Girls  are  not  always  thinking  about 
marriage.  They  are  not  always  thinking  of 
people  like  Mr.  Caliph — that  way." 

"  They  must  have  changed  then,  since  my 
time  !  Wasn't  it  so  in  yours,  Miss  Condit  ?  " 
She's  so  stupid  that  I  don't  think  she  meant 
to  make  a  point. 

"  I  had  no « time,'  Mrs.  Ermine.  I  was  born 
an  old  maid." 

"  Well,  the  old  maids  are  the  worst.  I  don't 
see  why  it's  low  to  talk  about  marriage.  It's 
thought  very  respectable  to  marry.  You  have 
only  to  look  round  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  look  round  me ;  it's  not 
always  so  beautiful,  what  you  see,"  Eunice 
said,  with  a  small  laugh  and  a  good  deal  of 
perversity,  for  a  young  woman  so  reasonable. 

"  I  guess  you  read  too  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Ermine,  getting  up  and  setting  her  bonnet- 
ribbons  at  the  mirror. 

"  I   should  think  he  would   hate  th< 
Eunice  exclaimed,  striking  her  chords. 

"  Hate  who  ?  "  her  cousin  asked. 

"  Oh,  all  the  silly  girls." 

"Who   is   'he,'   pray?"     This   ingei 
inquiry  was  mine. 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


I25 


<  Oh,  the  Grand  Turk  !  "  said  Eunice,  with 
her  voice  covered  by  the  sound  of  her  piano. 
Her  piano  is  a  great  resource. 

May  12. — This  afternoon,  while  we  were 
having  our  tea,  the  Grand  Turk  was  ushered 
in,  carrying  the  most  wonderful  bouquet  of 
Boston  roses  that  seraglio  ever  produped. 
That  image,  by  the  way,  is  rather  mixed ; 
but  as  I  write  for  myself  alone,  it  may  stand.) 
At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he  asked  Eunice 
jf  he  might  see  her  alone — "on  a  little  matter 
3f  business."  I  instantly  rose  to  leave  them, 
3Ut  Eunice  said  that  she  would  rather  talk  with 
iim  in  the  library ;  so  she  led  him  off  to  that 
ipartment.  I  remained  in  the  drawing-room, 
jaying  to  myself  that  I  had  at  last  discovered 
hejftu  mot  of  Mr.  Caliph's  peculiarities,  which 
s  so  very  simple  that  I  am  a  great  goose  not 
o  have  perceived  it  before.  He  is  a  man 
vith  a  system  ;  and  his  system  is  simply  to 
ceep  business  and  entertainment  perfectly 
distinct.  There  may  be  pleasure  for  him  in 
lis  figures,  but  there  are  no  figures  in  his 
pleasure  —  which  has  hitherto  been  to  call 
ipon- Eunice  as  a  man  of  the  world.  To-day 
ic  was  to  be  the  trustee ;  I  could  see  it,  in 
>pite  of  his  bouquet,  as  soon  as  he  came  in. 
The  Boston  roses  didn't  contradict  that,  for 
he  excellent  reason  that  as  soon  as  he  had 
shaken  hands  with  Eunice,  who  looked  at  the 
lowers  and  not  at  him,  he  presented  them  to 
Catherine  Condit.  Eunice  then  looked  at  this 
ady  ;  and  as  I  took  the  roses  I  met  her  eyes, 
yhich  had  a  charming  light  of  pleasure.  It 
vould  be  base  in  me,  even  in  this  strictly  pri- 
rate  record,  to  suggest  that  she  might  possibly 
lave  been  displeased ;  but  if  I  cannot  say  that 
he  expression  of  her  face  was  lovely  with- 
jrat  appearing  in  some  degree  to  point  to  an 
Ignoble  alternative,  it  is  the  fault  of  human 
jiature.  Why  Mr.  Caliph  should  suddenly 
hink  it  necessary  to  offer  flowers  to  Cather- 
ine Condit  —  that  is  a  line  of  inquiry  by  itself. 
i^-S  I  said  some  time  back,  it's  a  part  of  his 
jloridity.  Besides,  any  presentation  of  flowers 
jeems  sudden;  I  don't  know  why,  but  it's 
|.l ways  rather  a  coup  de  thedtre.  I  am  writing 
jate  at  night ;  they  stand  on  my  table,  and  their 
jragrance  is  in  the  air.  I  don't  say  it  for  the 
[lowers;  but  no  one  has  ever  treated  poor  Miss 
Condit  with  such  consistent  consideration  as 
jilr.  Caliph.  Perhaps  she  is  morbid :  this  is  prob- 
jtably  the  Diary  of  a  Morbid  Woman ;  but  in 
uch  a  matter  as  that  she  admires  consistency. 
That  little  glance  of  Eunice  comes  back  to 
be  as  I  write ;  she  is  a  pure,  enchanting  soul. 
[Irs.  Ermine  came  in  while  she  was  in  the 
library  with  Mr.  Caliph,  and  immediately 
noticed  the  Boston  roses,  which  effaced  all 
jhe  other  flowers  in  the  room. 

"  Were    they   sent   from   her   seat  ? "    she 


asked.  Then,  before  I  could  answer,  "  I  am 
going  to  have  some  people  to  dinner  to-day ; 
they  would  look  very  well  in  the  middle." 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  offer  them  to  you,  I 
really  can't;  I  prize  them  too  much." 

"Oh,  are  they  yours?  Of  course  you  prize 
them !  I  don't  suppose  you  have  many." 

"  These  are  the  first  I  have  ever  received 
—  from  Mr.  Caliph." 

"  From  Mr.  Caliph  ?  Did  he  give  them  to 
you  ? "  Mrs.  Ermine's  intonations  are  not 
delicate.  That  "you  "  should  be  in  enormous 
capitals. 

"With  his  own  hand — a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago."  This  sounds  triumphant,  as  I 
write  it;  but  it  was  no  great  sensation  to 
triumph  over  Mrs.  Ermine. 

She  laid  down  the  bouquet,  looking  almost 
thoughtful.  "  He  does  want  to  marry  Eunice," 
she  declared  in  a  moment.  This  is  the  region 
in  which,  after  a  flight  of  fancy,  she  usually 
alights.  I  am  sick  of  the  irrepressible  verb ;  just 
at  that  moment,  however,  it  was  unexpected, 
and  I  answered  that  I  didn't  understand. 

"  That's  why  he  gives  you  flowers,"  she 
explained.  But  the  explanation  made  the 
matter  darker  still,  and  Mrs.  Ermine  went 
on :  "  Isn't  there  some  French  proverb  about 
paying  one's  court  to  the  mother  in  order  to 
gain  the  daughter  ?  Eunice  is  the  daughter, 
and  you  are  the  mother." 

"  And  you  are  the  grandmother,  I  sup- 
pose !  Do  you  mean  that  he  wishes  me  to 
intercede  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine  why  else !  "  and  smiling, 
with  her  wide  lips,  she  stared  at  the  flowers. 
•     "  At  that  rate,  you,  too,  will  get  your  bou- 
quet," I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  influence  !  You  ought  to 
do  something  in  return — to  offer  to  paint  his 
portrait." 

"  I  don't  offer  that,  you  know ;  people  ask 
me.  Besides,  you  have  spoiled  me  for  com- 
mon models ! " 

It  strikes  me,  as  I  write  this,  that  we  had 
gone  rather  far — farther  than  it  seemed  at 
the  time.  We  might  have  gone  farther  yet, 
however,  if  at  this  moment  Eunice  had  not 
come  back  with  Mr.  Caliph,  who  appeared  to 
have  settled  his  little  matter  of  business  briskly 
enough.  He  remained  the  man  of  business 
to  the  end,  and,  to  Mrs.  Ermine's  evident 
disappointment,  declined  to  sit  down  again. 
He  was  in  a  hurry ;  he  had  an  engagement. 

"  Are  you  going  up  or  down  ?  I  have  a 
carriage  at  the  door,"  she  broke  in. 

"  At  Fifty-third  street  one  is  usually  going 
down";  and  he  gave  his  peculiar  smile,  which 
always  seems  so  much  beyond  the  scope  of 
the  words  it  accompanies.  "If  you  will  give 
me  a  lift,  I  shall  be  very  grateful." 


126 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


He  went  off  with  her,  she  being  much 
divided  between  the  prospect  of  driving  with 
him  and  her  loss  of  the  chance  to  find  out 
what  he  had  been  saying  to  Eunice.  She 
probably  believed  that  he  had  been  propos- 
ing to  her,  and  I  hope  he  mystified  her  well 
in  the  carriage. 

He  had  not  been  proposing  to  Eunice;  he 
had  given  her  a  check,  and  made  her  sign 
some  papers.  The  check  was  for  a  thousand 
dollars,  but  I  have  no  knowledge  of  the 
papers.  When  I  took  up  my  abode  with  her, 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  the  only  way  to 
preserve  an  appearance  of  disinterestedness 
was  to  know  nothing  whatever  of  the  details 
of  her  pecuniary  affairs.  She  has  a  very  good 
little  head  of  her  own,  and  if  she  shouldn't 
understand  them  herself,  it  would  be  quite 
out  of  my  power  to  help  her.  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  care  about  appearing  disinter- 
ested, when  I  have  in  quite  sufficient  measure 
the  consciousness  of  being  so ;  but,  in  point 
of  fact,  I  do,  and  I  value  that  purity  as  much 
as  any  other.  Besides,  Mr.  Caliph  is  her 
supreme  adviser,  and  of  course  makes  every- 
thing clear  to  her.  At  least  I  hope  he  does.  I 
couldn't  help  saying  as  much  as  this  to  Eunice. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  suppose  you  understand 
what  you  sign.  Mr.  Caliph  ought  to  be  — 
what  shall  I  call  it?  —  crystalline." 

She^looked  at  me,  with  the  smile  that  had 
come  into  her  face  when  she  saw  him  give 
me  the  flowers.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so.  If  I 
didn't,  it's  my  own  fault.  He  explains  every- 
thing so  beautifully  that  it's  a  pleasure  to 
listen.  I  always  read  what  I  sign." 

"  Je  respere  Men  /  "  I  said,  laughing. 

She  looked  a  little  grave.  "The  closing 
up  a  trust  is  very  complicated." 

"  Yours  is  not  closed  yet  ?  It  strikes  me 
as  very  slow. 

"  Everything  can't  be  done  at  once.  Be- 
sides, he  has  asked  for  a  little  delay.  Part 
of  my  affairs,  indeed,  are  now  in  my  own 
hands ;  otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  to  sign." 

"  Is  that  a  usual  request — for  delay  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  perfectly.  Besides,  I  don't  want 
everything  in  my  own  control.  That  is,  I 
want  it  some  day,  because  I  think  I  ought  to 
accept  the  responsibilities,  as  I  accept  all  the 
pleasures ;  but  I  am  not  in  a  hurry.  This  way 
is  so  comfortable,  and  Mr.  Caliph  takes  so 
much  trouble  for  me." 

"  I  suppose  he  has  a  handsome  commis- 
sion," I  said,  rather  crudely. 

"  He  has  no  commission  at  all ;  he  would 
never  take  one." 

"  In  your  place,  I  would  much  rather  he 
should  take  one." 

"I  have  asked  him  to,  but  he  wont!" 
Eunice  said,  looking  now  extremely  grave. 


Her  gravity,  indeed,was  so  great  that  it  made 
me  smile.  "  He  is  wonderfully  generous !  " 

"  He  is,  indeed." 

"  And  is  it  to  be  indefinitely  delayed — the 
termination  of  his  trust  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  only  a  few  months,  '  till  he  gets 
things  into  shape,'  as  he  says." 

"  He  has  had  several  years  for  that,  hasn't 
he?" 

Eunice  turned  away;  evidently  our  talk 
was  painful  to  her.  But  there  was  something 
that  vaguely  alarmed  me  in  her  taking  or,  at 
least,  accepting  the  sentimental  view  of  Mr. 
Caliph's  services.  "  I  don't  think  you  are 
kind,  Catherine ;  you  seem  to  suspect  him," 
she  remarked,  after  a  little. 

"  Suspect  him  of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  not  wishing  to  give  up  the  property." 

"  My  dear  Eunice,  you  put  things  into  ter- 
rible words  !  Seriously,  I  should  never  think 
of  suspecting  him  of  anything  so  silly.  What 
could  his  wishes  count  for  ?  Is  not  the  thing 
regulated  by  law — by  the  terms  of  your 
mother's  will  ?  The  trust  expires  of  itself  at  a 
certain  period,  doesn't  it  ?  Mr.  Caliph,  surely, 
has  only  to  act  accordingly." 

"  It  is  just  what  he  is  doing.  But  there  are 
more  papers  necessary,  and  they  will  not  be 
ready  for  a  few  weeks  more." 

"  Don't  have  too  many  papers ;  they  are 
as  bad  as  too  few.  And  take  advice  of  some 
one  else — say  of  your  cousin  Ermine,  who  is 
so  much'  more  sensible  than  his  wife." 

"  I  want  no  advice,"  said  Eunice,  in  a  tone 
which  showed  me  that  I  had  said  enough. 
And  presently  she  went  on,  "  I  thought  you 
liked  Mr.  Caliph." 

"  So  I  do,  immensely.  He  gives  beautiful 
flowers." 

"  Ah,  you  are  horrid !  "  she  murmured. 

"  Of  course  I  am  horrid.  That's  my  busi- 
ness— to  be  horrid."  And  I  took  the  liberty 
of  being  so  again,  half  an  hour  later,  when 
she  remarked  that  she  must  take  good  care 
of  the  check  Mr.  Caliph  had  brought  her, 
as  it  would  be  a  good  while  before  she  should 
have  another.  Why  should  it  be  longer  than 
usual  ?  I  asked.  "  Is  he  going  to  keep  your 
income  for  himself  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  to  have  any  till  the  end  of  the 
year — any  from  the  trust,  at  least.  Mr.  Caliph 
has  been  converting  some  old  houses  into 
shops,  so  that  they  will  bring  more  rent.  But 
the  alterations  have  to  be  paid  for — and 
takes  part  of  my  income  to  do  it." 

"  And  pray  what  are  you  to  live  on  m( 
while  ?  " 

"  I  have  enough  without  that ;  and  I  h 
savings  ?  " 

"  It  strikes  me  as  a  cool  proceeding,  all 
same." 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


127 


"  He  wrote  to  me  about  it  before  we  came 
lome,  and  I  thought  that  way  was  best." 

"  I  don't  think  he  ought  to  have  asked 
ou,"  I  said.  "  As  your  trustee,  he  acts  in  his 
liscretion." 

"  You  are  hard  to  please,"  Eunice  an- 
wered. 

That  is  perfectly  true ;  but  I  rejoined  that 

couldn't  make  out  whether  he  consulted 
icr  too  much  or  too  little.  And  I  don't  know 
lat  my  failure  to  make  it  out  in  the  least 
aatters ! 

May  13. — Mrs.  Ermine  turned  up  to-day 
t  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  and  I  saw  as 
oon  as  she  got  into  the  room  that  she  had 
omething  to  announce.  This  time  it  was  not 
n  engagement.  "  He  sent  me  a  bouquet  — 
Boston  roses  —  quite  as  many  as  yours !  They 
rrived  this  morning,  before  I  had  finished 
reakfast."  This  speech  was  addressed  to 
ae,  and  Mrs.  Ermine  looked  almost  brilliant. 
Eunice  scarcely  followed  her. 

"She  is  talking  about  Mr.  Caliph,"  I  ex- 
lamed. 

Eunice  stared  a  moment;  then  her  face 
iclted  into  a  deep  little  smile.  "  He  seems 
o  give  flowers  to  every  one  but  to  me."  I 
ould  see  that  this  reflection  gave  her  remark- 
ble  pleasure. 

"  Well,  when  he  gives  them,  he's  thinking 
f  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ermine.    "  He  wants  to 
et  us  on  his  side." 
On  his  side  ?" 

Oh,  yes ;  some  day  he  will  have  need  of 
s ! "  And  Mrs.  Ermine  tried  to  look  sprightly 
nd  insinuating.  But  she  is  too  utterly  fade, 
nd  I  think  it  is  not  worth  while  to*  talk  any 
lore  to  Eunice  just  now  about  her  trustee, 
o,  to  anticipate  Mrs.  Ermine,  I  said  to  her, 
uickly,  but  very  quietly — 

"  He  sent  you  flowers  simply  because  you 
ad  taken  him  into  your  carriage  last  night, 
t  was  an  acknowledgment  of  your  great 
ndness." 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "Possibly.  We  had 

charming  drive  —  ever  so  far  down- town." 
'hen,  turning  to  Eunice,  she  exclaimed,  "  My 
ear,  you  don't  know  that  man  till  you  have 
jad  a  drive  with  him  !  "  When  does  one  know 
(Irs.  Ermine  ?  Every  day  she  is  a  surprise  ! 
j  May  19. — Adrian  Frank  has  come  back  to 
few  York,  and  has  been  three  times  at  this 
jouse —  once  to  dinner,  and  twice  at  tea-time. 
?.fter  his  brother's  strong  expression  of  the 
jope  that  we  would  take  an  interest  in  him, 
funice  appears  to  have  thought  that  the  least 
he  could  do  was  to  ask  him  to  dine.  She  ap- 
jears  never  to  have  offered  this  privilege  to 
|Ir.  Caliph,  by  the  way ;  I  think  her  view  of 
jis  cleverness  is  such  that  she  imagines  she 
mows  no  one  sufficiently  brilliant  to  be  in- 


vited to  meet  him.  She  thought  Mrs.  Ermine 
good  enough  to  meet  Mr.  Frank,  and  she  had 
also  young  Woodley —Willie  Woodley,  as 
they  call  him — and  Mr.  Latrobe.  It  was  not 
very  amusing.  Mrs.  Ermine  made  love  to  Mr. 
Woodley,  who  took  it  serenely ;  and  the  dark 
Latrobe  talked  to  me  about  the  Seventh 
Regiment — an  impossible  subject.  Mr.  Frank 
made  an  occasional  remark  to  Eunice,  next 
whom  he  was  placed ;  but  he  seemed  con- 
strained and  frightened,  as  if  he  knew  that 
his  step-brother  had  recommended  him  highly 
and  felt  it  was  impossible  to  come  up  to  the 
mark.  He  is  really  very  modest;  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  like  him.  Every  now  and  then  he 
looked  at  me,  with  his  clear  blue  eye  conscious 
and  expanded,  as  if  to  beg  me  to  help  him  on 
with  Eunice;  and  then,  when  I  threw  in  a 
word,  to  give  their  conversation  a  push,  he 
looked  at  her  in  the  same  way,  as  if  to  express 
the  hope  that  she  would  not  abandon  him. 
There  was  no  danger  of  this,  she  only  wished 
to  be  agreeable  to  him ;  but  she  was  nervous 
and  preoccupied,  as  she  always  is  when  she  has 
people  to  dinner  —  she  is  so  afraid  they  may 
be  bored, — and  I  think  that  half  the  time  she 
didn't  understand  what  he  said.  She  told  me 
afterward  that  she  liked  him  more  even  than 
she  liked  him  at  first;  that  he  has,  in  her 
opinion,  better  manners,  in  spite  of  his  shy- 
ness, than  any  of  the  young  men ;  and  that 
he  must  have  a  nice  nature  to  have  such  a 
charming  face; — all  this  she  told  me,  and  she 
added  that,  notwithstanding  all  this,  there  is 
something  in  Mr.  Adrian  Frank  that  makes 
her  uncomfortable.  It  is,  perhaps,  rather  heart- 
less ;  but  after  this,  when  he  called  two  days 
ago,  I  went  out  of  the  room  and  left  them 
alone  together.  The  truth  is,  there  is  some- 
thing in  this  tall,  fair,  vague,  inconsequent 
youth,  who  would  look  like  a  Prussian  lieuten- 
ant if  Prussian  lieutenants  ever  hesitated,  and 
who  is  such  a  singular  mixture  of  confusion 
and  candor — there  is  something  about  him 
that  is  not  altogether  to  my  own  taste,  and 
that  is  why  I  took  the  liberty  of  leaving  him. 
Oddly  enough,  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what 
it  is ;  I  usually  know  why  I  dislike  people. 
I  don't  dislike  the  blushing  Adrian,  however, 
— that  is,  after  all,  the  oddest  part.  No,  the 
oddest  part  of  it  is  that  I  think  I  have  a  feel- 
ing of  pity  for  him ;  that  is  probably  why  (if 
it  were  not  my  duty  sometimes  to  remain)  I 
should  always  depart  when  he  comes.  I  don't 
like  to  see  the  people  I  pity ;  to  be  pitied  by 
me  is  too  low  a  depth.  Why  I  should  lavish  my 
compassion  on  Mr.  Frank,  of  course  passes 
my  comprehension.  He  is  young,  intelligent, 
in  perfect  health,  master  of  a  handsome 
fortune,  and  favorite  brother  of  Haroun-al- 
Raschid.  Such  are  the  consequences  of  being 


128 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


a  woman  of  imagination.  When,  at  dinner,  I 
asked  Eunice  if  he  had  been  as  interesting 
as  usual,  she  said  she  would  leave  it  to  me  to 
judge ;  he  had  talked  altogether  about  Miss 
Condit !  He  thinks  her  very  attractive !  Poor 
fellow;  when  it  is  necessary  he  doesn't  hesi- 
tate, though  I  can't  imagine  why  it  should  be 
necessary.  I  think  that  au  fond  he  bores 
Eunice  a  little ;  like  many  girls  of  the  delicate, 
sensitive  kind,  she  likes  older,  more  confident 
men. 

May  24. —  He  has  just  made  me  a  remark- 
able communication!  This  morning  I  went 
into  the  Park  in  quest  of  a  "  bit,"  with  some 
colors  and  brushes  in  a  small  box,  and  that 
wonderfully  compressible  camp-stool,  which 
I  can  carry  in  my  pocket.  I  wandered  vague- 
ly enough,  for  half  an  hour,  through  the  care- 
fully arranged  scenery,  the  idea  of  which 
appears  to  be  to  represent  the  earth's  surface 
en  raccourd,  and  at  last  discovered  a  small 
clump  of  birches  which,  with  their  white 
stems  and  their  little  raw  green  bristles,  were 
not  altogether  uninspiring.  The  place  was 
quiet — there  were  no  nurse-maids  nor  bi- 
cycles ;  so  I  took  up  a  position  and  enjoyed  an 
hour's  successful  work.  At  last  I  heard  some 
one  say  behind  me,  "  I  think  I  ought  to  tell 
you  I'm  looking!"  It  was  Adrian  Frank,  who 
had  recognized  me  at  a  distance,  and,  with- 
out my  hearing  him,  had  walked  across  the 
grass  to  where  I  sat.  This  time  I  couldn't 
leave  him,  for  I  hadn't  finished  my  sketch. 
He  sat  down  near  me,  on  an  artistically  pre- 
served rock,  and  we  ended  by  having  a  good 
deal  of  talk — in  which,  however,  I  did  the 
listening,  for  I  can't  express  myself  in  two 
ways  at  once.  What  I  listened  to  was  this — 
that  Mr.  Caliph  wishes  his  step-brother  to 
"  make  up  "  to  Eunice,  and  that  the  candid 
Adrian  wishes  to  know  what  I  think  of  his 
chances. 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  If  I  were  in  love  with 
her  I  should  go  straight  in,  without — with- 
out this  sort  of  thing." 

"  You  mean  without  asking  people's  opin- 
ion ?  " 

"  Well,  yes.   Without  asking  even  yours. 

I  told  him  that  he  needn't  say  "  even  " 
mine;  for  mine  would  not  be  worth  much. 
His  announcement  rather  startled  me  at  first; 
but  after  I  had  thought  of  it  a  little,  I  found 
in  it  a  good  deal  to  admire.  I  have  seen  so 
many  "  arranged  "  marriages  that  have  been 
happy,  and  so  many  "  sympathetic "  unions 
that  have  been  wretched,  that  the  political 
element  doesn't  altogether  shock  me.  Of 
course,  I  can't  imagine  Eunice  making  a 
political  marriage,  and  I  said  to  Mr.  Frank, 
very  promptly,  that  she  might  consent  if  she 


could  be  induced  to  love  him,  but  woulc 
never  be  governed  in  her  choice  by  his  ad- 
vantages. I  said  "  advantages "  in  order  tc 
be  polite;  the  singular  number  would  havt 
served  all  the  purpose.  His  only  advantage 
is  his  fortune ;  for  he  has  neither  looks,  tal 
ents,  nor  position  that  would  dazzle  a  gir 
who  is  herself  clever  and  rich.  This,  then,  if 
what  Mr.  Caliph  has  had  in  his  head  all  this 
while  —  this  is  what  has  made  him  so  anxious 
that  we  should  like  his  step-brother.  I  have 
an  idea  that  I  ought  to  be  rather  scandal- 
ized, but  I  feel  my  pulse  and  find  that  I  air 
almost  pleased.  I  don't  mean  at  the  idea  ol 
her  marrying  poor  Mr.  Frank ;  I  mean  at  sucl 
an  indication  that  Mr.  Caliph  takes  an  interes 
in  her.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  one  of  th( 
regular  duties  of  a  trustee  to  provide  tht 
trustful  with  a  husband ;  perhaps  in  that  cas( 
his  merit  may  be  less.  I  suppose  he  has  saic 
to  himself  that,  if  she  marries  his  step-brother 
she  won't  marry  a  worse  man.  Of  course,  il 
is  possible  that  he  may  not  have  thought  of 
Eunice  at  all,  and  may  simply  have  wished 
the  guileless  Adrian  to  do  a  good  thing,  with- 
out regard  to  Eunice's  point  of  view.  I  am 
afraid  that  even  this  idea  doesn't  shock  me. 
Trying  to  make  people  marry  is,  under  any 
circumstances,  an  unscrupulous  game ;  but  the 
offense  is  minimized  when  it  is  a  question  of  an 
honest  man's  marrying  an  angel.  Eunice  is  the 
angel,  and  the  young  Adrian  has  all  the  air  of 
being  honest.  It  would,  naturally,  not  be  the 
union  of  her  secret  dreams,  for  the  hero  of 
those  pure  visions  would  have  to  be  clever  and 
distinguished.  Mr.  Frank  is  neither  of  these 
things,  but  I  believe  he  is  perfectly  good.  Of 
course,  he  is  weak  —  to  come  and  take  a  wife 
simply  because  his  brother  has  told  him  to— 
or  is  he  doing  it  simply  for  form,  believing 
that  she  will  never  have  him,  that  he  conse- 
quently doesn't  expose  himself,  and  that  he 
will  therefore  have  on  easy  terms,  since  he 
seems  to  value  it,  the  credit  of  having  obeyed 
Mr.  Caliph  ?  Why  he  should  value  it  is  a  matter 
between  themselves,  which  I  am  not  obliged  to 
know.  I  don't  think  I  care  at  all  for  the  rela- 
tions of  men  between  themselves.  Their  rela- 
tions with  women  are  bad  enough ;  but  when 
there  is  no  woman  to  save  it  a  little — merci/  } 
shouldn't  think  that  the  young  Adrian  would 
care  to  subject  himself  to  a  simple  refusal,  for 
it  is  not  gratifying  to  receive  the  cold  shoulder, 
even  from  a  woman  you  don't  want  to  marry. 
After  all,  he  may  want  to  marry  her;  then 
are  all  sorts  of  reasons  in  things.  I  told  him 
I  wouldn't  undertake  to  do  anything,  and  th? 
more  I  think  of  it  the  less  I  am  willing.  It 
would  be  a  weight  off  my  mind  to  see  her 
comfortably  settled  in  life,  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  marrying  some  highly  varnished 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


129 


rute a  fate  in  certain  circumstances  quite 

en  to  her.    She  is  perfectly  capable  —  with 
r  folded  angel's  wings  —  of  bestowing  her- 
If  upon  the  baker,  upon  the  fishmonger,  if 
e  was  to  take  a  fancy  to  him.    The  clever 
an  of  her  dreams  might  beat  her  or  get  tired 
her;  but  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Frank,  if  he 
ould  pronounce  his  marriage-vows,  would 
ep  them  to  the  letter.     From  that  to  push- 
g  her  into  his  arms,  however,  is  a  long  way. 
went  so  far  as  to  tell  him  that  he  had  my 
od  wishes ;    but  I   made  him  understand 
at  I  can  give  him  no  help.    He   sat   for 
me  time  poking  a  hole  in  the  earth  with 
s  stick  and  watching  the  operation.   Then 
said,  with  his  wide,  exaggerated  smile — 
e  one  thing   in   his    face   that  recalls   his 
other,  though  it  is  so  different, —  "  I  think 
should  like  to  try."    I  felt  rather  sorry  for 
m,  and  made  him  talk  of  something  else ; 
d  we  separated  without   his   alluding   to 
unice,  though  at  the  last  he  looked  at  me  for 
moment  intently,  with  something  on  his  lips 
hich  was  probably  a  return  to  his  idea.    I 
Dpped  him ;   I  told  him  I  always  required 
litude  for  my  finishing  touches.    He  thinks 
e  brusque  and  queer,  but  he  went  away.    I 
n't  know  what  he  means  to  do ;  I  am  cu- 
lms whether  he  will  begin  his  siege.    It  can 
iarcely  be  said,  as  yet,  to  have  begun  — 
mice,  at  any  rate,  is  all  unconscious. 
June  6. —  Her    unconsciousness    is    being 
]pidly  dispelled;  Mr.  Frank  has  been  here 
ery  day  since  I  last  wrote.    He  is  a  singular 
uth,  and  I  don't  make  him  out;   I  think 
sre  is  more  in  him  than  I  supposed  at  first, 
e  doesn't  bore  us,  and  he  has  become,  to 
^certain  extent,  one  of  the  family.    I  like 
hi  very  much,  and  he  excites  my  curiosity, 
lon't  quite  see  where  he  expects  to  come  out. 
]lmentioned   some  time   back   that  Eunice 
l;d  told  me   he   made   her   uncomfortable; 
sjd  now,  if  that  continues,  she  appears  to 
I've  resigned   herself.    He    has    asked   her 
rpeatedly  to  drive  with  him,  and  twice  she 
1}3  consented ;  he  has  a  very  pretty  pair  of 
Tirses,  and  a  vehicle  that  holds  but  two  per- 
•sjis.    I  told  him  I  could  give  him  no  posi- 
tte  help,  but  I  do  leave  them  together.    Of 
•chrse,  Eunice  has  noticed  this  —  it  is  the  only 
iiimation  I  have  given  her  that  I  am  aware 
o|his  intentions.    I  have  constantly  expected 
h-  to  say  something,  but  she  has  said  noth- 
in;,  and  it  is   possible   that   Mr.   Frank  is 
Hiking  an  impression.    He  makes  love  very 
Tqsonably;   evidently  his  idea  is  to  be  in- 
Kscly  gradual.   Of  course,  it  isn't  gradual  to 
one  every  day ;  but  he  does  very  little  on 
if  one  occasion.    That,  at  least,  is  my  im- 
Pission ;  for  when  I  talk  of  his  making  love 


I  don't  mean  that  I  see  it.  When  the  three 
of  us  are  together  he  talks  to  me  quite  as 
much  as  to  her,  and  there  is  no  difference  in 
his  manner  from  one  of  us  to  the  other.  His 
shyness  is  wearing  off,  and  he  blushes  so  much 
less  that  I  have  discovered  his  natural  hue. 
It  has  several  shades  less  of  crimson  than  I 
supposed.  I  have  taken  care  that  he  should 
not  see  me  alone,  for  I  don't  wish  him  to  talk 
to  me  of  what  he  is  doing — I  wish  to  have 
nothing  to  say  about  it.  He  has  looked  at 
me  several  times  in  the  same  way  in  which 
he  looked  just  before  we  parted,  that  day  he 
found  me  sketching  in  the  Park ;  that  is,  as  if 
he  wished  to  have  some  special  understand- 
ing with  me.  But  I  don't  want  a  special  un- 
derstanding, and  I  pretend  not  to  see  his 
looks.  I  don't  exactly  see  why  Eunice 
doesn't  speak  to  me,  and  why  she  expresses 
no  surprise  at  Mr.  Frank's  sudden  devotion. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Caliph  has  notified  her,  and  she 
is  prepared  for  everything — prepared  even  to 
accept  the  young  Adrian.  I  have  an  idea  he 
will  be  rather  taken  in  if  she  does.  Perhaps  the 
day  will  come  soon  when  I  shall  think  it  well 
to  say :  "  Take  care,  take  care ;  you  may  suc- 
ceed ! "  He  improves  on  acquaintance ;  he 
knows  a  great  many  things,  and  he  is  a  gentle- 
man to  his  finger-tips.  We  talk  very  often 
about  Rome ;  he  has  made  out  every  inscrip- 
tion for  himself,  and  has  got  them  all  written 
down  in  a  little  book.  He  brought  it  the 
other  afternoon  and  read  some  of  them  out 
to  us,  and  it  was  more  amusing  than  it  may 
sound.  I  listen  to  such  things  because  I  can 
listen  to  anything  about  Rome ;  and  Eunice 
listens,  possibly  because  Mr.  Caliph  had  told 
her  to.  She  appears  ready  to  do  anything  he 
tells  her ;  he  has  been  sending  her  some  more 
papers  to  sign.  He  has  not  been  here  since 
the  day  he  gave  me  the  flowers;  he  went 
back  to  Washington  shortly  after  that.  She 
has  received  several  letters  from  him,  accom- 
panying documents  that  look  very  legal.  She 
has  said  nothing  to  me  about  them ;  and  since 
I  uttered  those  words  of  warning,which  I  noted 
here  at  the  time,  I  have  asked  no  questions 
and  offered  no  criticism.  Sometimes  I  wonder 
whether  I  myself  had  not  better  speak  to 
Mrs.  Ermine;  it  is  only  the  fear  of  being 
idiotic  and  meddlesome  that  restrains  me.  It 
seems  to  me  so  odd  there  should  be  no  one 
else ;  Mr.  Caliph  appears  to  have  everything 
in  his  own  hands.  We  are  to  go  down  to  our 
"seat,"  as  Mrs.  Ermine  says,  next  week. 
That  brilliant  woman  has  left  town  herself, 
like  many  other  people,  and  is  staying  with 
one  of  her  daughters.  Then  she  is  going  to 
the  other,  and  then  she  is  coming  to  Eunice, 
at  Cornerville. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 14. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON    DAVIS. 

AN    EXTRACT    FROM    A    NARRATIVE,    WRITTEN    NOT    FOR   PUBLICATION,    BUT    FOR   THE 
ENTERTAINMENT    OF    MY    CHILDREN    ONLY. 


IN  anticipation  of  the  capture  of  Richmond, 
the  President  had  decided  to  remove  his 
family  to  a  place  of  probable  security.  He 
desired,  however,  to  keep  them  as  near  as 
might  be  to  the  position  General  Lee  intended 
to  occupy  when  obliged  to  withdraw  from 
the  lines  around  Richmond  and  Petersburg. 
Charlotte,  North  Carolina,  was  selected  for 
the  purpose ;  and  I  was  requested  to  accom- 
pany Mrs.  Davis  and  the  children  on  their 
journey. 

We  started  from  Richmond  in  the  evening 
of  the  Friday  before  the  city  was  evacuated. 
The  President  accompanied  us  to  the  cars; 
and  after  the  ladies  had  taken  their  seats,  but 
while  we  were  still  at  the  station  of  the  Dan- 
ville railroad,  awaiting  the  signal  for  the  train 
to  move,  he  walked  a  short  distance  aside 
with  me,  and  gave  his  final  instructions  in 
nearly  or  quite  these  words  : 

"  My  latest  information  from  General  Lee 
is,  that  Sheridan  has  been  ordered  to  move 
with  his  cavalry  to  our  right  flank  and  to 
tear  up  the  railroad ;  he  is  to  remain  there, 
destroying  as  much  of  the  railroad  as  he  can, 
until  driven  off  by  Hampton  or  by  the  lack  of 
supplies ;  he  is  then  to  rejoin  Grant  in  front  of 
Petersburg  if  possible;  otherwise,  to  go  to 
Sherman  in  North  Carolina.  After  establish- 
ing Mrs.  Davis  at  Charlotte,  you  will  return 
to  Richmond  as  soon  as  you  can." 

I  may  here  remark  that,  when  a  prisoner 
in  Washington,  in  the  following  July,  I  one 
day  got  possession  of  a  piece  of  a  newspaper 
containing  a  part  of  the  report,  made  by 
General  Sheridan,  of  the  operations  under 
his  command  known  as  the  "  Battle  of  Five 
Forks."  I  remember  the  impression  it  gave 
me  of  the  accuracy  and  freshness  of  Gen- 
eral Lee's  intelligence  from  General  Grant's 
head-quarters,  when  I  read,  that  day  in 
prison,  Sheridan's  own  statement  showing 
that  his  orders  were  to  move  with  cavalry 
only,  to  .make  a  raid  on  the  railroad  on 
General  Lee's  right  flank,  and,  when  driven 
off,  to  return  to  Petersburg  if  he  could,  other- 
wise to  join  Sherman ;  and  that  it  was  during 
the  night,  when  he  was  about  to  move  with 
the  cavalry  only,  that  General  Grant  notified 
him  of  a  change  of  plan,  afterward  giving 
him  the  corps  of  infantry  with  which  the 
battle  was  actually  fought. 


Bidding  good-bye  to  the  President,  we  go 
away  from  Richmond  about  ten  o'clock.  Itwa: 
a  special  train.  Our  party  consisted  of  Mrs 
Davis,  Miss  Howell  (her  sister),  the  four  chil 
dren,  Ellen  (the  mulatto  maid-servant),  am 
James  Jones  (the  mulatto  coachman).  VVitl 
us  were  also  the  daughters  of  Mr.  Tren 
holm,  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  on  theii 
way  to  South  Carolina,  under  the  escort  oi 
midshipman  James  M.  Morgan.  That  youn^ 
gentleman  was  then  engaged  to  Miss  Tren 
holm,  and  afterward  married  her.  There  wer< 
no  other  passengers,  and  the  train  consistec 
of  only  two  or  three  cars.  In  one  of  them 
the  coachman  had  the  two  carriage  horse; 
recently  presented  to  Mrs.  Davis  by  severa 
gentlemen  of  Richmond.  She  had  owned  anc 
used  them  for  several  years ;  but  during  the 
preceding  winter  the  President's  householc 
had  felt  the  pressure  of  the  "  hard  times"  ever 
more  than  before;  he'  had  sold  all  his  owr 
horses  except  the  one  he  usually  rode;  and 
being  in  need  of  the  money  these  woulc 
fetch,  Mrs.  Davis  had,  some  time  afterward 
sold  them  also  through  a  dealer.  The  after 
noon  of  the  sale,  however,  they  were  returnee 
to  the  stable  with  a  kind  letter  to  her  from  Mr 
James  Lyons  and  a  number  of  other  promi- 
nent gentlemen,  the  purchasers,  begging  hei 
to  accept  the  horses  as  a  gift  in  token  of 
their  regard.  The  price  they  had  paid  for  the 
pair  was,  I  think,  twelve  thousand  dollars — a 
sum  which  dwindles  somewhat  when  stated 
to  have  been  in  Confederate  currency  (worth, 
at  that  time,  only  some  fifty  for  one.  in  gold); 
and  representing  about  two  hundred  and  forty 
dollars  in  good  money. 

It  illustrates  the  then  condition  of  the  rail- 
ways and  means  of  transportation  in  the  Con- 
federate States,  that,  after  proceeding  twelve 
or  fifteen  miles,  our  locomotive  proved  un- 
able to  take  us  over  a  slight  up-grade.  We 
came  to  a  dead  halt,  and  remained  there  all 
night.  The  next  day  was  well  advanced  when 
Burksville  Junction  was  reached ;  and  I  there 
telegraphed  to  the  President  the  account 
received  from  the  battle  between  Sheridan 
and  Pickett. 

It  was  Sunday  morning  before  we  arrived 
at  Danville.  While  preparations  were  making 
there  to  send  on  our  train  toward  Chark 
Morgan  and  I  took  a  walk  through  the 
and  made  a  visit  to  the  residence  of  ~ 


THE    CAPTURE   OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


Sutherlin,  the  most  conspicuous  house  in 
Danville.  The  train  got  off  again  by  midday, 
but  did  not  reach  Charlotte  until  Tuesday. 
At  Charlotte,  we  were  courteously  entertained 
for  a  day  or  two  by  Mr.  Weil,  an  Israelite,  a 
merchant  of  the  town. 

Communication  had  been  so  interrupted 
that  we  did  not  hear  of  the  evacuation  of 
Richmond  until  Mrs.  Davis  received  a  tele- 
gram, on  Wednesday,  from  the  President  at 
Danville,  merely  announcing  that  he  was 
there. 

As  soon  as  I  could  do  so,  and  when  we 
had  comfortably  established  Mrs.  Davis  and 
her  family  in  the  house  provided  for  them,  I 
returned  to  Danville  and  joined  the  President. 
With  several  members  of  his  cabinet,  he  was 
a  guest  at  Major  Sutherlin's  house,  where  I 
arrived  late  in  the  evening,  and  spent  the 
night. 

A  report  coming  in  that  the  enemy's  cavalry 
was  approaching  from  the  westward,  the 
hills  around  Danville,  where  earth-works  had 
already  been  thrown  up,  were  manned  by 
the  officers  and  men  that  had  constituted  the 
Confederate  navy  in  and  near  Richmond; 
and  command  of  the  force  was  given  to 
Admiral  Semmes  (of  the  Alabama),  who  was 
imade  a  brigadier-general  for  the  nonce. 

The  several  bureaus  of  the  War  Depart- 
ment, and  perhaps  several  of  the  other  depart- 
ments, had  arranged  quarters  for  themselves 
in  the  town,  and  were  organizing  for  regular 
work.  A  separate  and  commodious  house  had 
been  provided  (I  think  by  the  town  authorities) 
as  a  head-quarters  for  the  President  and  his 
personal  staff;  and  Mr.  M.  H.  Clark,  our 
ichief  clerk,  had  already  established  himself 
there  and  was  getting  things  in  order.  It  was 
only  the  next  afternoon,  however,  after  my 
return  to  Danville,  that  the  President  re- 
ceived a  communication  informing  him  of 
he  surrender  by  General  Lee  of  the  army 
f  Northern  Virginia,  and  gave  orders  for  an 
mmediate  withdrawal  into  North  Carolina. 
Under  his  directions,  we  set  to  work  at  once 

0  arrange  for  a  railway  train  to  convey  the 
nore  important  officers  of  the  Government 
iml  such  others  as  could  be  got  aboard,  with 
bur  luggage  and  as  much  material  as  it  was 
lesired  to  carry  along,  including  the  boxes 
|)f  papers  that  had  belonged  to  the  executive 
)ffice  in  Richmond.    With  the  cooperation  of 
he  officers  of  the  Quartermaster's   Depart- 
nent,  the  train  was,  with  difficulty,  got  ready; 
md  the  guards  I  placed   upon  it  excluded 
Ul  persons  and  material  not  specially  author- 
ized by  me  to  go  aboard.    Of  course,  a  multi- 
ude  was  anxious  to  embark,  and  the  guards 
yere  kept  busy  in  repelling  them. 

1  As  I  stood  in  front  of  our  head-quarters, 


superintending  the  removal  of  luggage  and 
boxes  to  the  train,  two  officers  rode  up, 
their  horses  spattered  with  mud,  and  asked 
for  the  news.  I  told  them  of  the  surrender 
of  General  Lee's  army,  and  inquired  who 
they  were  and  whence  they  had  come.  They 
had  ridden  from  Richmond,  and  were  just 
arrived,  having  made  a  wide  detour  from 
the  direct  road,  to  avoid  capture  by  the 
enemy.  One  of  them  was  a  colonel  from 
Tennessee.  He  expressed  great  eagerness  to 
get  on  as  rapidly  as  possible  toward  home. 
I  remarked  upon  the  freshness  and  spirit  of 
his  horse,  and  asked  where  he  had  got  so 
good  a  steed.  He  said  the  horse  belonged 
to  a  gentleman  in  Richmond,  whose  name 
he  did  not  recollect,  but  who  had  asked 
him,  in  the  confusion  of  the  evacuation,  to 
take  the  horse  out  to  his  son — then  serving 
on  General  Ewell's  staff.  He  added  that,  as 
General  Ewell  and  staff  had  all  been  captured, 
he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  horse, 
and  should  be  glad  to  turn  him  over  to 
some  responsible  person — exacting  an  obli- 
gation to  account  to  the  owner.  I  said  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  the  horse,  and  would 
cheerfully  assume  all  responsibilities.  The 
colonel  rode  off,  but  returned  in  a  short 
time.  He  had  tried  to  get  on  the  railway 
train,  but  found  he  couldn't  do  it  without  an 
order  from  me;  whereby  he  remarked  that, 
if  I  would  furnish  such  an  order,  he  would 
accept  my  proposition  about  the  horse. 
The  arrangement  was  made  immediately, 
and  the  colonel  became  a  passenger  on 
the  train,  which  also  conveyed  my  horse, 
with  others  belonging  to  the  President  and 
his  staff. 

That  horse  did  me  noble  service,  and  I  be- 
came very  much  attached  to  him.  Further 
on,  I  shall  tell  the  sad  fate  that  befell  him. 
Long  afterward,  I  ascertained  the  owner 
was  Mr.  Edmond,  of  Richmond,  with  whom 
I  had  a  conversation  on  the  subject,  when  I 
was  there  attending  upon  the  proceedings  in 
the  United  States  Court  for  the  release  of 
Mr.  Davis  from  prison  upon  bail.  I  related 
the  adventures  of  his  steed,  and  offered  to 
pay  for  him;  but  Mr.  Edmond  promptly 
and  very  generously  said  he  could  not  think 
of  taking  pay  for  the  horse;  that  the  loss 
was  but  an  incident  of  the  loss  of  every- 
thing else  we  had  all  suffered  in  the  result 
of  the  war,  and  that  his  inquiries  had  been 
made  only  because  the  animal  was  a  great 
pet  with  the  children,  and  they  were  all 
anxious  to  know  his  fate. 

Among  the  people  who  besieged  me  for 

permits  to  enter  the  train  was  General  R , 

with  several  daughters  and  one  or  more 
of  his  staff  officers.  He  had  been  on  duty 


I32 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


in  the  "  torpedo  bureau,"  and  had  with  him 
what  he  considered  a  valuable  collection 
of  fuses  and  other  explosives.  I  distrusted 
such  luggage  as  that,  though  the  General 
confidently  asserted  it  was  quite  harmless. 
I  told  him  he  couldn't  go  with  us  —  there 
was  no  room  for  him.  He  succeeded  at 
last,  however,  in  getting  access  to  the  Presi- 
dent, who  had  served  with  him,  long  years 
before,  in  the  army;  in  kindness  to  an  old 
friend,  Mr.  Davis  finally  said  I  had  better 
make  room  for  the  General,  and  he  himself 
took  one  of  the  daughters  to  share  his  own 
seat.  That  young  lady  was  of  a  loquacity 
irrepressible;  she  plied  her  neighbor  dili- 
gently—  about  the  weather,  and  upon  every 
other  topic  of  common  interest — asking  him, 
too,  a  thousand  trivial  questions.  The  train 
could  not  yet  be  got  to  move ;  the  fires  in  the 
locomotive  wouldn't  burn  well,  or  some  other 
difficulty  delayed  us ;  and  there  we  all  were, 
in  our  seats,  crowded  together,  waiting  to 
be  off,  full  of  gloom  at  the  situation,  won- 
dering what  would  happen  next,  and  all  as 
silent  as  mourners  at  a  funeral;  all  except, 
indeed,  the  General's  daughter,  who  prattled 
on  in  a  voice  everybody  heard.  She  seemed 
quite  unconscious  of  the  impatience  Mr.  Davis, 
evidently  to  everybody  else,  felt  for  her  and 
her  conversation.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  a  sharp 
explosion  occurred  very  near  the  President, 
and  a  young  man  was  seen  to  bounce  into 
the  air,  clapping  both  hands  to  the  seat  of  his 
trowsers.  We  all  sprang  to  our  feet  in  alarm, 
but  presently  found  that  it  was  only  an 

officer  of  General  R 's  staff,  who  had  sat 

down  rather  abruptly  upon  the  flat  top  of  a 
stove  (still  standing  in  the  car,  but  without 
a  fire),  and  that  the  explosion  was  made  by 
one  of  the  torpedo  appliances  he  was  carrying 
in  his  coat-tail  pocket. 

Among  the  servants  at  the  President's 
house  in  Richmond  had  been  one  called 
Spencer.  He  was  the  slave  of  somebody  in 
the  town,  but  made  himself  a  member  of  our 
household,  and  couldn't  be  got  rid  of.  Spen- 
cer was  inefficient,  unsightly,  and  unclean, — a 
black  Caliban, —  and  had  the  manners  of 
a  corn-field  darky.  He  always  called  Mr. 
Davis  "  Marse  Jeff,"  and  was  the  only  one  of 
the  domestics  who  used  that  style  of  address. 
I  fancy  the  amusement  Mr.  Davis  felt  at  that 
was  the  real  explanation  of  the  continued 
sufferance  extended  to  the  fellow  by  the  fam- 
ily for  a  year  or  more.  Spencer  would  often 
go  to  the  door  to  answer  the  bell,  and  almost 
invariably  denied  that  Mr.  Davis  was  at 
home.  The  visitor  sometimes  entered  the 
hall,  notwithstanding,  and  asked  to  have  his 
name  sent  up ;  whereupon  Spencer  generally 
lost  his  temper  and  remarked,  "  I  tell  you, 


sir,  Marse  Jeff  'clines  to  see  you";  and  unless 
somebody  came  to  the  rescue,  the  intruder 
rarely  got  any  further.  This  Spencer  had  ac- 
companied the  party  from  Richmond  to 
Danville,  but  had  made  the  journey  in  a 
box-car  with  a  drunken  officer,  who  beat 
him.  The  African  was  overwhelmed  with 
disgust  at  such  treatment,  and  announced 
in  Danville  that  he  should  go  no  further  if 

was  to  be  of  the  party.    When  he  had 

learned,  however,  that  his  enemy  (being 
in  a  delirium  and  unable  to  be  moved)  was 
to  be  left  behind  at  Danville,  Spencer  cheer- 
fully reported  at  the  train,  and  asked  for 
transportation.  I  assigned  him  to  a  box-car 
with  the  parcels  of  fuses,  etc.,  put  aboard 

by  General  R ;  and  he  had  not  yet  made 

himself  comfortable  there,  when  somebody 
mischievously  told  him  those  things  would 
certainly  explode  and  blow  him  to  "king- 
dom come."  The  darky  fled  immediately, 
and  demanded  of  me  other  quarters.  I 
told  him  he  couldn't  travel  in  any  other 
car;  and  that,  happily,  relieved  us  of 
his  company.  Mournfully  remarking,  "  Den 
Marse  Jeff '11  have  to  take  keer  of  hisself,"  . 
Spencer,  the  valiant  and  faithful,  bade  me 
good-bye,  and  said  he  should  return  to  Rich- 
mond ! 

We  halted  for  several  days  at  Greensboro' 
for  consultation  with  General  Joseph  E. 
Johnston,  whose  army  was  then  confronting 
Sherman.  The  people  in  that  part  of  North 
Carolina  had  not  been  zealous  supporters 
of  the  Confederate  Government ;  and,  so  long 
as  we  remained  in  the  State,  we  observed 
their  indifference  to  what  should  become  of 
us.  It  was  rarely  that  anybody  asked  one  of 
us  to  his  house;  and  but  few  of  them  had 
the  grace  even  to  explain  their  fear  that, 
if  they  entertained  us,  their  houses  would  be 
burned  by  the  enemy,  when  his  cavalry  should 
get  there. 

During  the  halt  at  Greensboro'  most  of 
us  lodged  day  and  night  in  the  very  un- 
comfortable railway  cars  we  had  arrived 
in.  The  possessor  of  a  large  house  in  the 
town,  and  perhaps  the  richest  and  most  con- 
spicuous of  the  residents,  came  indeed  effu- 
sively to  the  train,  but  carried  off  only  Mr. 
Trenholm,  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury. 
This  hospitality  was  explained  by  the  infor- 
mation that  the  host  was  the  alarmed  owner 
of  many  of  the  bonds,  and  of  much  of  the 
currency,  of  the  Confederate  States,  and  that 
he  hoped  to  cajole  the  Secretary  into 
exchanging  a  part  of  the  " Treasury  gold' 
for  some  of  those  securities.  It  appe 
that  we  were  reputed  to  have  many  milli 
of  gold  with  us.  Mr.  Trenholm  was  ill  d 
most  or  all  of  the  time  at  the  house  of 


THE    CAPTURE   OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


warm-hearted  host,  and  the  symptoms  were 
said  to  be  greatly  aggravated,  if  not  caused, 
by  importunities  with  regard  to  that  gold. 

Colonel  John  Taylor  Wood,  of  our  staff, 
had,  some  time  before,  removed  his  family  to 
Greensboro'  from  Richmond,  and  took  the 
President  (who  would  otherwise  have  prob- 
ably been  left  with  us  in  the  cars)  to  share  his 
quarters  near  by.  The  Woods  were  boarding, 
and  their  rooms  were  few  and  small.  The 
entertainment  they  were  able  to  offer  their 
guest  was  meager,  and  was  distinguished  by 
very  little  comfort  either  to  him  or  to  them, 
the  people  of  the  house  continually  and  vig- 
orously insisting  to  the  colonel  and  his  wife, 
the  while,  that  Mr.  Davis  must  go  away,  say- 
ling  they  were  unwilling  to  have  the  ven- 
geance of  Stoneman's  cavalry  brought  upon 
them  by  his  presence  in  their  house. 

The  alarm  of  these  good  people  was  not 
allayed  when  they  ascertained,  one  day,  that 
General  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  with  General 
Breckinridge  (Secretary  of  War),  General 
Beauregard,  Mr.  Benjamin  (Secretary  of 
State),  Mr.  Mallory  (Secretary  of  the  Navy), 
Mr.  Reagan  (Postmaster-General),  and  per- 
haps one  or  two  other  members  of  the  cab- 
inet and  officers  of  the  army,  were  with  the 
President,  in  Colonel  Wood's  rooms,  hold- 
ing a  council  of  war. 

That  route  through  North  Carolina  had 
been  for  some  time  the  only  line  of  commu- 
nication between  Virginia  and  Georgia  and 
the  Gulf  States.  The  roads  and  towns  were 
Ml  of  officers  and  privates  from  those  South- 
ern States,  belonging  to  the  Army  of  North- 
ern Virginia.  Many  of  them  had  been  home 
bn  furlough,  and  were  returning  to  the  army 
when  met  by  the  news  of  General  Lee's 
surrender ;  others  were  stragglers  from  their 
:ommands.  All  were  now  going  home,  and, 
is  some  of  the  bridges  south  of  Greensboro' 
lad  been  burned  by  the  enemy's  cavalry,  and 
he  railways  throughout  the  southern  country 
generally  were  interrupted,  of  course  every- 
pody  wanted  the  assistance  of  a  horse  or 
nule  on  his  journey.  Few  had  any  scruples 
is  to  how  to  get  one. 

I  remember  that  a  band  of  eight  or  ten 
oung  Mississippians,  at  least  one  of  them 
Ln  officer  (now  a  prominent  lawyer  in  New 
Orleans),  and  several  of  them  personally 
|:nown  to  me,  offered  themselves  at  Greens- 
poro'  as  an  escort  for  the  President.  Until 
omething  definite  should  be  known,  how- 
ver,  as  to  our  future  movements,  I  was 
inable  to  say  whether  they  could  be  of  ser- 
rice  in  that  capacity.  After  several  days 
ff  waiting,  they  decided  for  themselves. 
Xrousing  me  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
idght,  their  self-constituted  commander  said 


if  I  had  any  orders  or  suggestions  to  give 
they  should  be  glad  to  have  them  on  the 
spot,  as,  otherwise,  it  had  become  expedient 
to  move  on  immediately.  I  asked  what  had 
happened.  He  showed  me  the  horses  they 
had  that  night_  secured  by  "  pressing  "  them 
from  neighboring  farmers,  and  particularly 
his  own  mount,  a  large  and  handsome  dap- 
ple-gray stallion,  in  excellent  condition.  I 
congratulated  him  on  his  thrift,  and  in  an 
instant  they  were  off  in  a  gallop  through  the 
mud.  The  President's  horses,  my  own,  and 
those  belonging  to  the  other  gentlemen  of  our 
immediate  party,  were  tied  within  a  secure 
inclosure  while  we  remained  at  Greensboro', 
and  were  guarded  by  the  men  (about  a  dozen) 
who,  having  received  wounds  disabling  them 
for  further  service  in  the  field,  had  acted  as 
sentinels  during  the  last  year  at  the  President's 
house  in  Richmond,  under  the  command  of 
a  gallant  young  officer  who  had  lost  an  arm. 

The  utmost  vigilance  was  necessary,  from 
this  time  on,  in  keeping  possession  of  a  good 
horse.  I  remember  that  at  Charlotte,  some 
days  later,  Colonel  Burnett,  senator  from  Ken- 
tucky, told  me  he  had  just  come  very  near 
losing  his  mare.  He  had  left  her  for  a 
little  while  at  a  large  stable  where  there  were 
many  other  horses.  Going  back  after  a  short 
absence,  Burnett  noticed  a  rakish-looking  fel- 
low walking  along  the  stalls,  and  carefully  ob- 
serving the  various  horses  until  he  came  to 
the  mare,  when,  after  a  moment's  considera- 
tion, he  called  out  to  a  negro  rubbing  down 
a  neighboring  horse  :  "  Boy,  saddle  my  mare 
here;  and  be  quick  about  it."  The  negro  an- 
swered, "Aye,  aye,  sir,"  and  was  about  to 
obey,  when  the  senator  stepped  up,  saying : 
"  My  friend,  you  are  evidently  a  judge  of 
horseflesh;  and  I  feel  rather  complimented 
that,  after  looking  through  the  whole  lot,  you 
have  selected  my  mare ! "  The  chap  coolly 
replied,  "  Oh !  is  that  your  mare,  Colonel  ?  " 
and  walked  off.  When  we  had  laughed 
over  the  story,  I  asked  Burnett,  "  Well,  and 
where  is  she  now?"  "Oh,"  said  he,  "I 
sha'n't  trust  her  out  of  my  sight  again ;  and 
Gus  Henry  is  holding  her  for  me  down  at 
the  corner  until  I  can  get  back  there."  The 
person  thus  familiarly  spoken  of  as  "  Gus  " 
Henry,  then  acting  as  a  hostler  for  his  friend, 
was  the  venerable  and  distinguished  senator 
from  Tennessee,  with  all  of  the  stateliness 
and  much  of  the  eloquence  of  his  kinsman, 
Patrick  Henry,  the  great  orator  of  Virginia. 

At  Greensboro'  were  large  stores  of  sup- 
plies belonging  to  the  quartermaster  and 
commissary  departments.  These  were  to  be 
kept  together  until  it  could  be  ascertained 
whether  General  Johnston's  army  would  need 
them.  I  recollect,  as  one  of  the  incidents  of 


134 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DAVIS. 


our  sojourn  there,  that,  after  many  threats 
during  several  days  to  do  so,  a  formidable 
attack  was  made  by  men  belonging  to  a  cav- 
alry regiment  upon  one  of  the  depots  where 
woolen  cloths  (I  think)  were  stored.  They 
charged  down  the  road  in  considerable  force, 
with  yells  and  an  occasional  shot;  but  the 
"  Home  Guards,"  stationed  at  the  store-house, 
stood  firm,  and  received  the  attack  with  a 
well  directed  volley.  I  saw  a  number  of  sad- 
dles emptied,  and  the  cavalry  retreat  in  con- 
fusion. Notwithstanding  the  utmost  vigilance 
of  the  officers,  however,  pilfering  from  the 
stores  went  on  briskly  all  the  time ;  and  I 
fancy  that,  immediately  after  we  left,  there  was 
a  general  scramble  for  what  remained  of  the 
supplies. 

From  Greensboro',  at  this  time,  a  railway 
train  was  dispatched  toward  Raleigh  with 
a  number  of  prisoners,  to  be  exchanged,  if 
possible,  for  some  of  our  own  men  then  in 
General  Sherman's  hands.  They  were  in 
charge  of  Major  William  H.  Norris,  of  Balti- 
more (Chief  of  the  Signal  Corps),  and  Major 
W.  D.  Hennen.  The  latter  had,  before  the 
war,  been  a  distinguished  member  of  the 
New  Orleans  bar,  and  has  since  been  at  the 
bar  in  New  York.  Those  two  officers  were 
at  Yale  College  together  in  their  youth, 
and  had  shared  in  many  a  frolic  in  Paris 
and  other  gay  places.  They  evidently  re- 
garded this  expedition  with  the  prisoners  as 
a  huge  "  lark."  The  train  moved  off  with  a 
flag  of  truce  flying  from  the  locomotive. 
When,  a  day  or  two  afterward,  they  ap- 
proached the  enemy's  lines,  the  prisoners  all 
got  out  of  the  cars  and  ran  off  to  their  friends, 
and  Norris  and  Hennen  were  themselves 
made  prisoners  !  Indignant  at  such  treatment, 
they  addressed  a  communication  to  the  com- 
manding officer  (Schofield,  I  think),  demand- 
ing to  know  why  they  were  treated  as  pris- 
oners, and  why  their  flag  had  not  been  re- 
spected. Schofield  considered  the  Confed- 
erate Government  was  now  no  more,  and 
asked  what  flag  they  referred  to.  This  gave 
Hennen  a  great  opportunity,  and  he  over- 
powered the  enemy  with  a  reply  full  of  his 
most  fervid  eloquence :  "  What  flag  ?  The 
flag  before  which  the  '  star-spangled  banner ' 
has  been  ignominiously  trailed  in  the  dust  of 
a  thousand  battle-fields !  The  flag  that  has 
driven  from  the  ocean  the  commerce  of  the 
United  States !  The  flag  which  will  live  in 
history  as  long  as  the  heroic  achievements  of 
patriotic  men  are  spoken  of  among  the  na- 
tions !  The  glorious,  victorious,  and  immor- 
tal flag  of  the  Confederate  States  of  America! " 

We  moved  southward  on,  I  think,  the  day 
following  the  council  of  war  held  with  Gen- 
eral Johnston,  starting  from  Greensboro'  in 


the  afternoon.  The  President,  those  of  us 
who  constituted  his  immediate  staff,  and 
some  members  of  the  cabinet,  were  mounted. 
Others  rode  in  ambulances,  army  wagons,  or 
such  conveyances  as  could  be  got.  Almost 
at  the  last  minute  I  was  told  I  must  provide 
an  ambulance  for  Mr.  Judah  P.  Benjamin, 
Secretary  of  State.  His  figure  was  not  well 
adapted  for  protracted  riding,  and  he  had 
firmly  announced  that  he  should  not  mount 
a  horse  until  obliged  to.* 

By  good  fortune,  I  was  able  to  secure  an 
ambulance ;  but  the  horses  were  old  and 
broken  down,  of  a  dirty  gray  color,  and  with 
spots  like  fly-bites  all  over  them, — and  the 
harness  was  not  good.  There  was  no  choice, 
however,  and  into  that  ambulance  got  Mr. 
Benjamin,  General  Samuel  Cooper  (Adjutant 
General,  and  ranking  officer  of  the  whole 
army),  Mr.  George  Davis  (of  North  Carolina, 
Attorney-General),  and  Mr.  Jules  St.  Martin, 
Benjamin's  brother-in-law. 

By  the  time  they  got  off,  the  front  of  our 
column  had  been  some  time  in  motion,  and 
the  President  had  ridden  down  the  road. 
Heavy  rains  had  recently  fallen,  the  earth 
was  saturated  with  water,  the  soil  was  a  sticky 
red  clay,  the  mud  was  awful,  and  the  road, 
in  places,  almost  impracticable.  The  wheeled 
vehicles  could  move  but  slowly ;  and  it  was 
only  by  sometimes  turning  into  the  fields  and 
having  St.  Martin  and  the  Attorney- General 
get  out  to  help  the  horses  with  an  occasional 
fence-rail  under  the  axles,  that  their  party  got 
along  at  all — so  difficult  was  the  road  because 
of  the  mud,  and  so  formidable  were  the  holes 
made  during  the  winter,  and  deepened  by  the 
artillery  and  heavy  wagons  that  day.  I  was 
near  them  from  time  to  time,  and  rendered 
what  assistance  I  could.  Darkness  came  on 
after  awhile,  and  nearly  or  quite  everybody  in 
the  column  passed  ahead  of  that  ambulance. 
Having  been  kept  latterly  in  the  rear  by 
something  detaining  me,  I  observed,  as  I  rode 

*  That  he  could  handle  a  steed  in  an  emergency 
was  very  well  known,  and  was  afterward  shown  when 
he  dexterously  got  himself  into  the  saddle  upon  a  tall 
horse,  and,  with  short  legs  hanging  but  an  inconsider- 
able distance  toward  the  ground,  rode  gayly  off  with 
the  others  of  the  President's  following  until,  after  their 
night  march  from  Abbeville,  South  Carolina,  across 
the  Savannah  River,  sniffing  the  danger  of  longer  con- 
tinuance with  so  large  a  party,  he  set  out  alone  for  the 
sea-coast,  whence  he  escaped  (to  Bermuda  and  Havana, 
I  think,  and  finally)  to  England.  I  am  told  that  in  his 
pocket,  when  he  started,  was  a  document  from  one  of 
the  assistants  to  the  adjutant-general  of  the  army,  cer- 
tifying  the  bearer  to  be  a  French  citizen,  entitled  to 
travel  without  hinderance,  and  ordering  all  Confederate 
officers  and  pickets  to  let  him  pass  freely ;  and  that :" 
was  understood  that  if  he  should  encounter  inquisitiv 
detachments  of  the  United  States  forces,  he  was  to 
unable  to  talk  any  other  language  than  French,  wh 
he  speaks  like  a  native.  So  long  as  he  remair 
with  us  his  cheery  good  humor,  and  readiness  to 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DAVIS.                           135 

forward,  the  tilted  hind-part  of  an  ambulance  and  his  party,  including  General  Breckin- 
5tuck  in  the  mud  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  ridge,  were  the  guests  of  the  hospitable 
ind  recognized  the  voices  inside,  as  I  drew  owner,  and  that  we  were  expected  to  join 
rein  for  a  moment  to  chuckle  at  their  mis-  them.  There  we  had  the  first  good  meal 
fortunes.  The  horses  were  blowing  like  two  encountered  since  leaving  Virginia,  and  when 
rusty  fog-horns ;  Benjamin  was  scolding  the  bed-time  came  a  great  bustling  was  made  to 
driver  for  not  going  on;  that  functionary  enable  us  all  to  sleep  within  doors,  though 
was  stoically  insisting  they  could  proceed  no  the  house  was  too  small  to  afford  many  beds, 
whit  further,  because  the  horses  were  broken  A  big  negro  man,  with  a  candle  in  hand,  then 
own ;  and  General  Cooper  (faithful  old  gen-  came  into  the  room  where  we  were  gather- 
eman,  he  had  been  in  Richmond  through-  ed  about  a  huge  fire.  Looking  us  over,  he 
mt  our  war,  and  had  not  known  since  the  solemnly  selected  General  Cooper,  and,  with 
Seminole  war  what  it  is  to  "rough  it")  much  deference,  escorted  him  into  the 
was  grumbling  about  the  impudence  of  a  "  guest-chamber "  through  a  door  opening 
subordinate  officer  ("  only  a  brigadier- gen-  from  the  room  we  occupied.  We  could  see  the 
sral,  sir").  It  seems  the  offender  had  thrust  great  soft  bed  and  snowy  white  linen  the  old 
limself  into  the  seat  in  another  ambulance  gentleman  was  to  enjoy,  and  all  rejoiced  in  the 
drawn  by  good  horses,  that  was  intended  for  comfort  they  promised  to  aged  bones,  that  for 
:he  Adjutant- General.  Getting  alongside,  I  a  week  had  been  racked  in  the  cars.  The  ne- 
:ould  see  the  front  wheels  were  over  the  hubs  gro  gravely  shut  the  door  upon  his  guest,  and, 
n  a  hole ;  the  hind  legs  of  the  horses  were  in  walking  through  our  company,  disappeared, 
he  same  hole,  up  to  the  hocks ;  and  the  feet  He  came  back  after  awhile  with  wood  for 
rf  the  driver  hung  down  almost  into  the  our  fire ;  and  one  of  us  asked  him,  "  Aren't 
nud.  Mud  and  water  were  deep  all  around  you  going  to  give  the  President  a  room  ?  " 
;hem,  and  their  plight  was  pitiful  indeed !  "  Yes,  sir,  I  done  put  him  in  thar,"  pointing  to 
They  plucked  up  their  spirits  only  when  I  the  "  guest-chamber,"  where  General  Cooper 
Dffered  to  get  somebody  to  pull  them  out.  was  luxuriating  in  delights  procured  for  him 
Riding  forward,  I  found  an  artillery  camp,  by  the  mistaken  notion  of  the  darky  that  he 
ivhere  some  of  the  men  volunteered  to  go  was  Mr.  Davis!  The  President  and  one  or 
:>ack  with  horses  and  haul  the  ambulance  up  two  others  were  presently  provided  for  else- 
;he  hill ;  and,  returning  to  them  again,  I  where,  and  the  rest  of  us  bestowed  ourselves 
:ould  see  from  afar  the  occasional  bright  to  slumber  on  the  floor,  before  the  roaring  fire, 
low  of  Benjamin's  cheerful  cigar.  While  the  A  better  team  for  Benjamin's  party  was  fur- 
thers  of  the  party  were  perfectly  silent,  Benja-  nished  next  morning;  and,  just  as  we  were 
urn's  silvery  voice  was  presently  heard  as  he  about  to  start,  our  host  generously  insisted 
•hythmically  intoned,  for  their  comfort,  verse  upon  presenting  to  Mr.  Davis  a  filly,  already 
fifter  verse  of  Tennyson's  ode  on  the  death  of  broken  to  saddle.  She  was  a  beauty,  and  the 
the  Duke  of  Wellington !  The  laureate  would  owner  had  kept  her  locked  for  several  days  in 
[iave  enjoyed  the  situation  could  he  have  the  cellar,  the  only  place  he  considered  safe 
icard  the  appreciative  rendering  of  his  no-  against  horse-thieves. 

3le  poem  — under  the  circumstances  of  that  The  next  night  we  bivouacked  in  a  pine 

noment!  grove  near  Lexington,  and  were  overtaken 

Reaching  the  house  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  there  by  dispatches  from  General  Joseph  E. 

ve  halted   on   hearing   that    the    President  Johnston,  with  information  of  his  arrange- 

limself  to  the  requirements  of  all  emergencies,  made  Chief  Justice  were  among  those  who  spoke  to  toasts, 

lim  a  most  agreeable  comrade.     He  is  now  a  Queen's  and  it    there   was    any   speech    more    graceful    and 

Counsel  in  London,  and  has  just  retired  from  the  active  striking  than   those  made  by  them,  it  was  the  reply 

work  of  a  great  and  lucrative  practice  in  all  the  courts  of  Mr.  Benjamin  himself,  with  singular  modesty  and 

/here,  after  a  career  of  singular  interest.    He  was  born,  felicity,  to  the  words  of  praise  he  had  just  heard  from 

in  1812,  in  one  of  the  British  West  India  possessions,  the  eloquent  Attorney-General.    Lord  Chancellor  Sel- 

fhe  ship,  conveying  his  parents  to  this  country  from  borne  then   said   of  him:    "If   I    had   to   speak   of 

England,  having  put  in  there  on  learning  at  sea  of  Mr.  Benjamin   only   as   an    English  barrister,   as    I 

[he  declaration  of  war  by  the  United  States.     At  Yale  have  known  him  from  the  bench,  I  should  say  that 

pollege  when  a  boy ;  at  the  bar  in  New  Orleans  ;  in  the  no    man,    within    my    recollection,    has     possessed 

Senate  of  the  United  States,  from  Louisiana ;  at  first  greater    learning,    or    displayed    greater    shrewdness 

Wtorney-general,  next   secretary   of  war,  and   finally  or  ability,  or  greater  zeal  for  the  interests  intrusted 

secretary  of  state  of  the  Confederate  States,  at  Rich-  to   him,  than   he  has  exhibited.  (Cheers.)   To  these 

inond.     When  he  was  recently  entertained  at  dinner,  high  qualities    he  has   united  one  still  higher — the 

n  the  beautiful  Inner  Temple  Hall  (surrounded  by  highest    sense    of   honor,   united  with    the    greatest 

he  portraits  of  the  most  illustrious  of  those  who  have  kindness  *and  generosity   (cheers),  and   the   greatest 

jiven  dignity  to  the  profession  in  the  past),  the  bench  geniality  in  his  intercourse  with  all  the  branches  of 

md  bar  of  the  United  Kingdom  were  assembled  to  do  the   profession.   (Loud   cheers.)  That  we   should  no 

him   special   honor;    about  two   hundred   sat  at  the  longer  have   the   benefit   of   his    assistance  and   the 

pble;  the  Attorney-General  presided,  as  leader  of  the  light  of  his  example,  is  a  loss  to  us  all.  (Cheers.) 
par  of  England ;  the  Lord  Chancellor  and  the  Lord 


136 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


ment  for  negotiations  with  General  Sherman. 
General  Breckinridge  and  Mr.  Reagan  (the 
Postmaster- General)  were  thereupon  directed 
by  the  President  to  proceed  immediately  to 
General  Johnston's  head-quarters  for  con- 
sultation with  that  officer,  and  with  large 
discretion  as  to  what  should  be  agreed  to. 
They  set  off  instantly. 

In  Lexington  and  in  Salisbury  we  experi- 
enced the  same  cold  indifference  on  the  part 
of  the  people,  first  encountered  at  Greens- 
boro', except  that  at  Salisbury  Mr.  Davis 
was  invited  to  the  house  of  a  clergyman, 
where  he  slept.  Salisbury  had  been  entered 
a  few  days  before  by  a  column  of  the  enemy's 
cavalry  (said  to  be  Stoneman's),  and  the  streets 
showed  many  evidences  of  the  havoc  they 
had  wrought.  With  one  or  two  others,  I 
passed  the  night  on  the  clergyman's  front 
piazza  as  a  guard  for  the  President. 

During  all  this  march  Mr.  Davis  was 
singularly  equable  and  cheerful;  he  seemed 
to  have  had  a  great  load  taken  from  his 
mind,  to  feel  relieved  of  responsibilities,  and 
his  conversation  was  bright  and  agreeable. 
He  talked  of  men  and  of  books,  particularly 
of  Walter  Scott  and  Byron ;  of  horses  and 
dogs  and  sports ;  of  the  woods  and  the  fields ; 
of  trees  and  many  plants ;  of  roads,  and  how 
to  make  them ;  of  the  habits  of  birds,  and  of 
a  variety  of  other  topics.  His  familiarity  with, 
and  correct  taste  in,  the  English  literature  of 
the  last  generation,  his  varied  experiences  in 
life,  his  habits  of  close  observation,  and  his 
extraordinary  memory,  made  him  a  charming 
companion  when  disposed  to  talk. 

Indeed,  like  Mark  Tapley,  we  were  all  in 
good  spirits  under  adverse  circumstances;  and 
I  particularly  remember  the  entertaining  con- 
versation of  Mr.  Mallory,  the  Secretary  of  the 
Navy. 

Not  far  from  Charlotte,  I  sent  forward  a 
courier  with  a  letter  to  Major  Echols,  the 
quartermaster  of  that  post,  asking  him  to 
inform  Mrs.  Davis  of  our  approach,  and  to  pro- 
vide quarters  for  as  many  of  us  as  possible.  The 
major  rode  out  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and 
there  met  us  with  the  information  that  Mrs. 
Davis  and  her  family  had  hastily  proceeded 
toward  South  Carolina  several  days  before. 
He  didn't  know  where  she  was  to  be  found;  but 
said  she  had  fled  when  the  railway  south  of 
Greensboro'  had  been  cut  by  the  enemy's 
cavalry.  The  major  then  took  me  aside  and 
explained  that,  though  quarters  could  be  fur- 
nished for  the  rest  of  us,  he  had  as  yet  been 
able  to  find  only  one  person  willing  to  receive 
Mr.  Davis,  saying  the  people  generally  were 
afraid  that  whoever  entertained  him  would 
have  his  house  burned  by  the  enemy;  that, 
indeed,  it  was  understood  threats  to  that  effect 


had  been  made  everywhere   by  Stoneman's 
cavalry. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  do  but  to 
go  to  the  one  domicile  offered.  It  was  on  the 
main  street  of  the  town,  and  was  occupied  \ 
by  Mr.  Bates,  a  man  said  to  be  of  northern 
birth,  a  bachelor  of  convivial  habits,  the  local 
agent  of  the  Southern  Express  Company, 
apparently  living  alone  with  his  negro  serv- 
ants, and  keeping  a  sort  of  "  open  house," 
where  a  broad,  well  equipped  sideboard  was 
the  most  conspicuous  feature  of  the  situation 
— not  at  all  a  seemly  place  for  Mr.  Davis. 

Just  as  we  had  entered  the  house,  Mr.; 
Davis  received  by  courier  from  General 
Breckinridge,  at  General  Sherman's  head- 
quarters, the  intelligence  that  President  Lin- 
coln had  been  assassinated;  and,  when  he 
communicated  it  to  us,  everybody's  remark 
was  that,  in  Lincoln,  the  Southern  States  had 
lost  their  only  refuge  in  their  then  emergency. 
There  was  no  expression  other  than  of  sur- 
prise and  regret.  As  yet,  we  knew  none  of 
the  particulars  of  the  crime. 

Presently,  the  street  was  filled  by  a  column 
of  cavalry  (the  command,  I  think,  of  General 
Basil  Duke,  of  Kentucky)  just  entering  the 
town.  As  they  rode  past  the  house,  the  men 
waved  their  flags  and  hurrahed  for  "  Jefferson 
Davis."  Many  of  them  halted  before  the 
door,  and,  in  dust  and  uproar,  called  loudly 
for  a  speech  from  him.  I  was  in  the  crowd, 
gathered  thick  about  the  steps,  and  not  more 
than  ten  feet  from  the  door.  Mr.  Davis 
stood  on  the  threshold  and  made  a  very 
brief  reply  to  their  calls  for  a  speech.  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  every  word  he  said.  He  merely 
thanked  the  soldiers  for  their  cordial  greet- 
ings ;  paid  a  high  compliment  to  the  gallantry 
and  efficiency  of  the  cavalry  from  the  State 
in  which  the  regiment  before  him  had  been  re- 
cruited ;  expressed  his  own  determination  not 
to  despair  of  the  Confederacy,  but  to  remain 
with  the  last  organized  band  upholding  the 
flag;  and  then  excused  himself  from  further 
remarks,  pleading  the  fatigue  of  travel.  He 
said  nothing  more.  Somebody  else  (Mr.  John- 
son, I  think,  a  prominent  resident  there)  read 
aloud  the  dispatch  from  General  Breckinridge 
about  the  assassination  of  President  Lincoln, 
but  no  reference  was  made  to  it  in  Mr.  Davis's 
speech.  There  was  no  other  speech,  arid  the 
crowd  soon  dispersed.* 

Colonel  John  Taylor  Wood,  Colonel  Will- 

*  In  pursuance  of  the  scheme  of  Stanton  and  Holt 
to  fasten  upon  Mr.  Davis  charges  of  a  guilty  fore- 
knowledge of,  if  not  participation  in,  the  murder  of 
Mr.  Lincoln,  Bates  was  afterward  carried  to  Wash- 
ington and  made  to  testify  (before  the  military  tribunal, 
I  believe,  where  the  murderers  were  on  trial)  to  some- 
thing about  that  speech. 

As  I  recollect  the  reports  of  the  testimony,  put 


THE   CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


b 


am  Preston  Johnston,  and  Colonel  Frank 
R.  Lubbock,  staff  officers,  remained  in  Bates's 
louse  with  the  President.  There  was  no  room 
:or  more.  I  was  carried  off  by  my  Hebrew 
riend  Weil  and  most  kindly  entertained,  with 
Mr.  Benjamin  and  St.  Martin,  at  his  residence. 

On  Sunday  (the  next  day,  I  think),  a  num- 
ber of  us  attended  service  at  the  Episcopal 
hurch,  and  heard  the  rector  preach  vigor- 
usly  about  the  sad  condition  of  the  country, 
and  in  reprobation  of  the  folly  and  wicked- 
Less  of  the  assassination  of  President  Lincoln. 
As  Mr.  Davis  walked  away,  after  the  sermon, 
Colonel  Johnston  and  me,  he  said,  with 

smile,  "  I  think  the  preacher  directed  his 
emarks  at  me  ;  and  he  really  seems  to  fancy 
had  something  to  do  with  the  assassination." 
The  suggestion  was  absurd.  No  man  ever 
iarticipated  in  a  great  war  of  revolution 
rith  less  of  disturbance  of  the  nicest  sense 
f  perfect  rectitude  in  conduct  or  opinion  ; 
is  every  utterance,  act,  and  sentiment  was 
ttth  the  strictest  regard  for  all  the  moralities, 
iroughout  that  troubled  time  when  the  pas- 
ions  of  many  people  made  them  reckless  or 
.efiant  of  the  opinions  of  mankind. 

His  cheerfulness  continued  in  Charlotte, 
nd  I  remember  his  there  saying  to  me,  "  I 
innot  feel  like  a  beaten  man  !  "  The  halt 
t  Charlotte  was  to  await  information  from 
he  army  of  General  Johnston.  After  a  few 
ays,  the  President  became  nervously  anxious 
bout  his  wife  and  family.  He  had  as  yet 
eard  nothing  of  their  whereabouts,  but  asked 
ic  to  proceed  into  South  Carolina  in  search 
f  them,  suggesting  that  I  should  probably 
[nd  them  at  Abbeville.  He  told  me  I  must 
sly  on  my  own  judgment  as  to  what  course 
D  pursue  from  there;  that,  for  himself,  he 
hould  make  his  way  as  rapidly  as  possible 
:>  the  Trans-Mississippi  Department,  to  join 
ic  army  under  Kirby  Smith. 

I  started  at  once,  taking  my  horse  on 
ie  railway  train  to  Chester.  On  the  train 
hanced  to  be  Captain  Lingan,  an  officer 
om  New  Orleans,  recently  serving  at  Rich- 
lond  as  an  assistant  to  the  commissioner  for 
ie  exchange  of  prisoners.  He  had  his  horse 
ith  him,  and  from  Chester  we  rode  together 

:  the  time,  they  made  the  witness  say  that  Mr.  Davis 
ad  approved  of  the  assassination,  either  explicitly 
r  by  necessary  implication  ;  and  that  he  had  added, 
(If  it  was  to  be  done,  it  is  well  it  was  done  quickly," 
(r  words  to  that  effect.  If  any  such  testimony  was 
liven,  it  is  false  and  without  foundation  ;  no  com- 
tent  upon  or  reference  to  the  assassination  was  made 
that  speech.  I  have  been  told  the  witness  has 
ways  stoutly  insisted  he  never  testified  to  anything 
"  the  kind,  but  that  what  he  said  was  altogether 
Averted  in  the  publication  made  by  rascals  in  Wash- 
gton.  Colonel  William  Preston  Johnston  tells  me 
[~  has  seen  another  version  of  the  story,  and  thinks 
|ates  is  understood  to  have  fathered  it  in  a  publication 


across  the  country  to  Newberry,  there  to  take 
the  train  again  for  Abbeville.  In  Chester 
the  night  was  spent  in  the  car  that  brought 
us  there.  On  the  march  to  Newberry  we 
bivouacked.  The  weather  was  fine,  and  the 
houses  surrounded  by  jessamines  and  other 
flowers.  The  people  were  very  hospitable, 
and  we  fain  to  rely  upon  them.  Nothing  could 
be  bought,  because  we  had  no  money.  Our 
Confederate  currency  was  of  no  value  now, 
and  there  was  no  other.  Riding  through  a 
street  of  Newberry  in  search  of  the  quarter- 
master's stable,  Lingan  and  I  were  saluted 
by  a  lady,  inquiring  eagerly  whence  we  had 
come,  what  the  news  was,  and  whether  we 
knew  anything  of  Mr.  Trenholm,  adding  she 
had  heard  he  was  ill.  The  town  was  lovely, 
and  this  the  most  attractive  house  we  had 
seen  there.  It  had  a  broad  piazza,  with 
posts  beautifully  overgrown  by  vines  and 
rose-bushes,  and  the  grounds  around  were 
full  of  flowers.  I  replied  I  had  just  left 
Mr.  Trenholm  in  Charlotte;  that  he  had 
somewhat  recovered ;  and  that,  if  she  would 
allow  us  to  do  so,  we  should  be  happy  to 
return,  after  providing  for  our  horses,  and 
tell  her  the  latest  news.  As  we  rode  off, 
Lingan  laughingly  said,  "  Well,  that  secures 
us  *  hospitable  entertainment.' "  And,  sure 
enough,  when  we  went  back  and  introduced 
ourselves,  we  were  cordially  received  by  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  who  invited  us  to  dine. 
The  lady  we  had  seen  on  the  piazza  was  only 
a  visitor  there  for  the  moment.  It  was  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Boyd,  the  president  of  a  bank, 
and  when  that  gentleman  presently  came  in 
he  courteously  insisted  upon  our  making  his 
house  our  home.  An  excellent  dinner  was 
served,  and  I  was  given  what  seemed  to  me 
the  most  delightful  bed  ever  slept  in.  After  a 
delicious  breakfast  next  morning,  Mrs.  Boyd 
dispatched  us  to  the  train  with  a  haversack 
full  of  bounties  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

At  Abbeville,  Mrs.  Davis  and  her  family 
were  the  guests  of  the  President's  esteemed 
friends,  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Burt;  and  there, 
too,  were  the  daughters  of  Mr.  Trenholm,  at 
the  house  of  their  brother.  Abbeville  was  a 
beautiful  place,  on  high  ground;  and  the 

made  in  some  newspaper  after  his  visit  to  Washing- 
ton ;  it  represents  Bates  as  saying  that  the  words  above 
mentioned  as  imputed  to  Mr.  Davis  were  used  by 
him,  not,  indeed,  in  the  speech  I  have  described,  but 
in  a  conversation  with  Johnston  at  Bates's  house. 
Johnston  assures  me  that,  in  that  shape,  too,  the_story 
is  false  —  that  Mr.  Davis  never  used  such  words  in  his 
presence,  or  any  words  at  all  like  them.  He  adds  that 
Mr.  Davis  remarked  to  him,  at  Bates's  house,  with 
reference  to  the  assassination,  that  Mr.  Lincoln  would 
have  been  much  more  useful  to  the  Southern  States 
than  Andrew  Johnson,  the  successor,  was  likely  to  be; 
and  I  myself  heard  Mr.  Davis  express  the  same 
opinion  at  that  period. 


138 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  ,DA  VIS. 


people  lived  in  great  comfort,  their  houses 
embowered  in  vines  and  roses,  with  many 
other  flowers  everywhere.  We  had  now  en- 
tered the  "  sunny  South." 

Mrs.  Davis  insisted  upon  starting  without 
delay  for  the  sea-coast,  to  get  out  of  the  reach 
of  capture.  She  and  her  sister  had  heard 
dreadful  stories  of  the  treatment  ladies  had 
been  subjected  to  in  Georgia  and  the  Caro- 
linas  by  men  in  Sherman's  army,  and  thought 
with  terror  of  the  possibility  of  falling  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy ;  indeed,  she  under- 
stood it  to  be  the  President's  wish  that  she 
should  hasten  to  seek  safety  in  a  foreign  coun- 
try. I  explained  to  her  the  difficulties  and 
hardships  of  the  journey  to  the  sea-coast, 
and  suggested  that  we  might  be  captured 
on  the  road,  urging  her  to  remain  where 
she  was  until  the  place  should  be  quietly 
occupied  by  United  States  troops,  assuring 
her  that  some  officer  would  take  care  that  no 
harm  should  befall  her,  and  adding  that  she 
would  then  be  able  to  rejoin  her  friends. 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Burt  (a  niece  of  John  C. 
Calhoun)  added  their  entreaties  to  mine; 
and  to  her  expression  of  unwillingness  to 
subject  them  to  the  danger  of  having  their 
house  burned  for  sheltering  her,  Colonel  Burt 
magnanimously  replied  that  there  was  no 
better  use  to  which  his  house  could  be  put 
than  to  have  it  burned  for  giving  shelter  to 
the  wife  and  family  of  his  friend.  But  she 
persisted  in  her  purpose,  and  begged  me  to 
be  off  immediately.  It  was  finally  decided 
to  make  our  way  to  the  neighborhood  of 
Madison,  Florida,  as  fast  as  possible,  there  to 
determine  how  best  to  get  to  sea. 

We  had  no  conveyance  for  the  ladies,  how- 
ever, and  were  at  a  loss  how  to  get  one,  until 
somebody  told  me  that  General  John  S. 
Williams,  of  Kentucky  (now  United  States 
Senator  from  that  State)  was  but  a  few 
miles  from  the  town  recruiting  his  health,  and 
that  he  had  a  large  and  strong  vehicle  well 
adapted  to  the  purpose.  I  rode  out  in 
the  direction  indicated,  and  discovered  that 
officer  at  the  house  of  a  man  called,  queerly 
enough,  "  Jeff"  Davis.  General  Williams  evi- 
dently perceived  that,  if  he  allowed  his  wagon 
and  horses  (a  fortune  in  those  times)  to  go 
beyond  his  own  reach,  he  would  never  see 
them  again,  such  was  the  disorder  through- 
out the  country.  But  he  gallantly  devoted 
them  to  Mrs.  Davis,  putting  his  property  at 
her  service  as  far  as  Washington,  Georgia, 
and  designating  the  man  to  bring  the  wagon 
and  horses  back  from  there,  if  possible,  to 
him  at  Abbeville.  Whether  he  ever  recovered 
them  I  have  not  learned ;  but  they  started  back 
promptly  after  we  had  reached  Washington. 

Among  the  "  refugees  "  in  Abbeville  was 


the  family  of  Judge  Monroe,  of  Kentucky. 
At  their  house  were  Lieutenant  Hathaway, 
Mr.  Monroe,  and  Mr.  Messick, —  Kentuck- 
ians  all,  and  then  absent  from  their  command 
in  the  cavalry,  on  sick  leave,  I  think.  These 
three  young  gentlemen  were  well  mounted, 
and  volunteered  to  serve  as  an  escort  for  Mrs. 
Davis. 

We  started  the  morning  of  the  second  day 
after  I  arrived  at  Abbeville,  and  had  not 
reached  the  Savannah  River  when  it  was  re- 
ported that  small-pox  prevailed  in  the  coun- 
try. All  the  party  had  been  vaccinated  except 
one  of  the  President's  children.  Halting  at  a 
house  near  the  road,  Mrs.  Davis  had  the 
operation  performed  by  the  planter,  who  got 
a  fresh  scab  from  the  arm  of  a  little  negro 
called  up  for  the  purpose. 

At  Washington,  we  halted  for  two  nights 
and  the  intervening  day.  Mrs.  Davis  and  her 
family  were  comfortably  lodged  in  the  town. 
I  was  the  guest  of  Dr.  Robertson,  the  cashier 
of  a  bank,  and  living  under  the  same  roof 
with  the  offices  of  that  institution.  Here,  too, 
was  my  friend  Major  Thomas  W.  Hall  (now 
a  busy  and  eminent  member  of  the  Baltimore 
bar),  talking  rather  despondingly  of  the  future, 
and  saying  he  did  not  know  what  he  should 
do  with  himself.  After  we  had  discussed  the 
situation,  however,  he  brightened  up,  with 
the  remark  that  he  thought  he  should  write  a 
book  about  the  war.  I  comforted  him  with 
the  observation  that  that  would  be  just  the 
thing;  and  that,  as  we  ought  all  to  have  a 
steady  occupation  in  life,  if  he  would  write  a 
book,  I  should  try  to  read  it ! 

Near  the  town  was  a  quartermaster's  camp, 
where  I  selected  three  or  four  army  wagons, 
each  with  a  team  of  four  good  mules,  and 
the  best  harness  to  be  got.  A  driver  for  each 
team,  and  several  supernumeraries,  friends  of 
theirs,  were  recruited  there,  with  the  prom- 
ise, on  my  part,  that  the  wagons  and  muleE 
should  be  divided  between  them  when  at  oui 
journey's  end.  These  men  were  all,  I  believe, 
from  southern  Mississippi,  and,  by  volunteer- 
ing with  us,  were  not  going  far  out  of  theii 
own  way  home. 

It  was  night-fall  when  these  arrangements 
were  completed,  and  I  immediately  moved 
my  teams  and  wagons  to  a  separate  bivouac 
in  the  woods,  apart ;  a  wise  precaution,  for, 
during  the  night,  some  men,  on  the  way  tc 
their  homes  in  the  far  South-west,  "  raided ' 
the  quartermaster's  camp  and  carried  off  all 
the  best  mules  found  there.  Senator  Wigfal 
of  Texas,  had  allowed  to  remain  in  the  carrp 
some  mules  he  intended  for  his  own  use ;  the 
next  day  they  were  all  missing.* 

*  A  story  told  afterward  well  illustrates  Wigfall's 
audacity,  resources,  and  wit.  It  seems  that  he 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


Into  the  wagons,  next  morning,  we  put 
Irs.  Davis's  luggage,  a  few  muskets  with 
^munition,  two  light  tents  for  the  ladies 
id  children,  and  utensils  for  cooking,  with 
pplies  for  ourselves  and  feed  for  the  animals 
pposed  to  be  sufficient  to  take  us  to  Madi- 
)n.  As  most  of  the  country  we  were  to  pass 
irough  had  been  recently  devastated  by 
lerman's  army,  or  was  pine  woods,  sparsely 
habited,  these  things  were  necessary. 
We  had  expected  to  leave  Washington 
ith  only  the  party  we  arrived  with,  con- 
sting  of  Mrs.  Davis,  Miss  Howell,  the  four 
lildren,  Ellen,  James  Jones  with  the  two 
irriage  horses,  the  three  Kentuckians,  and 
yself, — adding  only  the  teamsters.  But,  at 
Washington  we  were  acceptably  reenforced 
Captain  Moody,  of  Port  Gibson,  Missis- 
ppi,  and  Major  Victor  Maurin,  of  Louisiana, 
oth  had  served  with  the  artillery  in  Virginia, 
id  been  home  on  leave,  and  had  reached 
ugusta,  Georgia,  on  their  return  to  duty, 
(fearing  there  of  the  surrender  of  the  army, 
ey  set  out  for  home  together,  and  met  us 
Washington,  where  Captain  Moody  kindly 
aced  his  light,  covered  wagon  at  the  service 
Mrs.  Davis;  and  he  and  Major  Maurin 
med  our  party  as  an  additional  escort  for 
r.  Captain  Moody  had  with  him,  I  think, 
negro  servant. 

In  Washington,  at  that  time,  were  Judge 
rump,  of  Richmond  (Assistant  Secretary  of 
e  Treasury),  and  several  of  his  clerks.  They 
d  been  sent  by  Mr.  Trenholm  in  advance, 
th  some  of  the  (not  very  large  amount  of) 
dd  brought  out  of  Richmond.  The  specie 
as  in  the  vaults  of  the  bank  at  Washington, 
'.d  I  did  not  hear  of  it  until  late  at  night, 
e  were  to  start  in  the  morning;  and,  as 
•body  in  our  party  had  a  penny  of  the 
oney  needed  to  prosecute  the  intended  exit 
the  country,  I  was  determined  to  get 
me  of  that  gold. 

One  of  the  Treasury  clerks  went  with  me 
the  house  where  Judge  Crump  was;  we 
>t  him  out  of  bed ;  and,  after  a  long  argu- 
ent  and  much  entreaty,  the  Assistant  Sec- 
tary gave  me  an  order  for  a  few  hundred 

1;  way  as  best  he  could  to  Vicksburg,  and  there, 
jngling  with  a  large  number  of  paroled  soldiers 
turning  to  the  Trans-Mississippi,  and  having  in  his 
icket  a  borrowed  "parole  paper,"  certifying  the 
larer  to  be  "  Private  Smith,"  availed  himself  of  the 
importation  furnished  by  the  United  States  quarter- 
Jster  to  such  prisoners,  by  steam-boat,  I  think,  to 
*reveport.  On  the  voyage  he  had  a  discussion  with 
ine  of  the  guard  as  to  what  should  be  done  by  the 
ivernment  with  the  secession  leaders.  "  And  'as  to 
jigfall,"  said  one  of  the  men,  in  excitement,  "if  we 
<tch  him,  we  shall  hang  him  immediately."  "There 
4gree  with  you,"  remarked  Private  Smith,  "  'twould 
Vve  him  right ;  and,  if  I  were  there,  I  should  be 
tiling  at  the  end  of  that  rope  myself!  " 


dollars  in  gold  for  Mrs.  Davis,  and  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  dollars  for  myself.  The  amounts 
were  to  be  charged  to  the  President  and  me, 
as  upon  account  of  our  official  salaries. 
Armed  with  the  order,  my  friend  the  clerk 
got  the  money  for  us  that  night. 

The  last  two  people  I  talked  to  in  Wash- 
ington were  General  Robert  Toombs,  who 
resides  there,  and  General  Humphrey  Mar- 
shall, of  Kentucky. 

The  latter  was  enormously  fat.  He  had 
been  in  public  life  for  many  years,  and  was 
one  of  the  notables  of  his  State.  As  I  waited 
while  my  horse  was  shod,  he  sat  down  beside 
me  in  a  door-way  on  the  Square,  and,  though 
I  was  but  a  slender  youth,  almost  squeezed 
the  breath  out  of  my  body  in  doing  so. 
He  discussed  the  situation,  and  ended  with, 
"Well,  Harrison,  in  all  my  days  I  never 
knew  a  government  to  go  to  pieces  in  this 
way,"  emphasizing  the  words  as  though  his 
pathway  through  life  had  been  strewed  with 
the  wrecks  of  empires,  comminuted  indeed, 
but  nothing  like  this!  The  next  time  I 
saw  him,  we  were  in  New  Orleans,  in 
March,  1866.  He  told  me  of  his  adventures 
in  escaping  from  Georgia  across  the  Missis- 
sippi River.  The  waters  were  in  overflow, 
and  made  the  distance  to  be  rowed,  where  he 
crossed,  a  number  of  miles.  He  said  he  was 
in  a  "dug-out"  (a  boat  made  of  a  single 
large  log,  with  a  cylindrical  bottom  and 
easily  upset),  and  that  the  boatman  made 
him  lie  down,  for  fear  they  might  be  seen  by 
the  enemy  and  he  recognized  by  his  great  size, 
and  so  captured.  All  went  well  until  the  mos- 
quitoes swarmed  on  him,  and  nearly  devoured 
him  in  his  fear  of  capsizing  if  he  ventured 
to  adopt  effective  measures  to  beat  them  off! 
In  this  connection,  I  remember  that,  when 
Marshall  commanded  a  brigade  in  the  mount- 
ains of  East  Tennessee  and  Kentucky,  he 
was  warned  that  the  mountaineers,  Union 
men,  all  knew  him  because  of  his  size,  and 
that  some  sharp-shooter  would  be  sure  to 
single  him  out  and  pick  him  off.  He  replied : 
"  Ah  !  but  I  have  taken  precautions  against 
that.  I  have  a  fat  staff!  There  be  six  Rich- 
monds  in  the  field !  " 

As  I  rode  out  of  Washington  to  overtake 
my  wagons,  then  already  started,  I  saw  Gen- 
eral Toombs,  and  sung  out  "  Good-bye  "  to 
him.  He  was  dressed  in  an  ill-cut  black 
Websterian  coat,  the  worse  for  wear,  and  had 
on  a  broad-brimmed  shabby  hat.  Standing 
beside  an  old  buggy,  drawn  by  two  ancient 
gray  horses,  he  told  me  he  was  going  to 
Crawfordsville  to  have  a  talk  with  "Aleck" 
Stephens  (the  Vice-President) ;  and,  as  I  left, 
the  atmosphere  was  murky  with  blasphemies 
and  with  denunciations  of  the  Yankees !  He 


140 


THE    CAPTURE   OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


had  been  informed  of  a  detachment  of  the 
enemy's  cavalry  said  to  be  already  on  the  way 
to  capture  him,  and  was  about  to  start  for  the 
sea-coast.  The  next  time  I  saw  him,  he  was  at 
the  "  Theatre  du  Chatelet,"  in  Paris,  in  August 
or  September,  1866.  The  spectacle  was  one 
of  the  most  splendid  ever  put  upon  the  stage 
there,  and  the  French  people  were  in  raptures 
over  the  dazzling  beauty  of  the  scene.  Toombs, 
fashionably  dressed,  sat  in  an  orchestra  chair, 
regarding  it  all  with  the  stolid  composure  of 
an  Indian,  and  with  an  expression  of  coun- 
tenance suggesting  that  he  had  a  thousand 
times  seen  spectacles  more  brilliant  in  Wash- 
ington, Georgia. 

From  Washington  we  went  along  the  road 
running  due  south.  We  had  told  nobody  our 
plans;  though,  starting  as  we  did,  in  the 
broad  light  of  the  forenoon,  everybody  saw, 
of  course,  the  direction  taken.  Our  team- 
sters were  instructed  not  to  say  anything,  to 
anybody  whatever,  as  to  who  we  were  or 
whence  we  came  or  whither  we  were  going. 
They  were  all  old  soldiers  and  obeyed  orders. 
It  frequently  amused  me  to  hear  their  replies 
to  the  country  people,  during  the  next  few 
days,  when  questioned  on  these  matters. 

"  Who  is  that  lady  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Jones." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Up  the  road." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  Down  the  road  a  bit,"  etc.,  etc. 

We  had  not  proceeded  far  when  a  gentle- 
man of  the  town,  riding  rapidly,  overtook  us 
with  a  letter  from  the  President  to  his  wife. 
It  had  been  written  at  York,  South  Carolina, 
I  think ;  was  forwarded  by  courier  to  overtake 
us  at  Abbeville,  and  had  reached  Washing- 
ton just  after  we  started.  It  merely  informed 
us  that  he  and  his  immediate  party  were  well, 
and  that  he  should  probably  ride  south  from 
Washington  to  cross  the  Mississippi,  if  pos- 
sible. I  think  no  reply  was  made  by  Mrs. 
Davis  to  the  letter ;  and,  if  my  memory  serves 
me,  we  left  behind  us  nothing  to  advise  the 
President  as  to  where  we  were  going. 

That  afternoon  I  was  overcome  with  dys- 
entery and  a  low  fever,  and  dropped  behind 
for  a  time,  to  lie  down.  When  I  overtook 
the  party,  they  had  already  gone  into  camp ; 
and,  after  giving  my  horse  to  one  of  the 
men,  I  had  hardly  strength  enough  to  climb 
into  a  wagon,  there  to  pass  the  night. 

The  next  day  we  made  a  long  march,  and  had 
halted  for  the  night  in  a  pine  grove,  just  after 
crossing  a  railway  track,  when  several  visitors 
sauntered  into  our  camp.  Presently,  one  of 
the  teamsters  informed  me  that,  while  water- 
ing his  mules  near  by,  he  had  been  told  an 
attempt  would  be  made  during  the  night  to 


carry  off  our  mules  and  wagons,  and  that  th< 
visitors  were  of  the  party  to  make  the  attack 
A  council  of  war  was  held  immediately,  anc 
we  were  discussing  measures  of  resistance 
when  Captain  Moody  went  off  for  a  persona  - 
parley  with  the  enemy.  He  returned  to  ITK 
with  the  news  that  the  leader  of  the  part} 
was  a  fellow- Freemason,  a  Mississippian,  anc 
apparently  not  a  bad  sort  of  person.  W( 
agreed  he  had  better  be  informed  who  w< 
were,  relying  upon  him  not  to  allow  an  attacl 
upon  us  after  learning  that  Mrs.  Davis  anc 
her  children  were  of  the  party.  Captair 
Moody  made  that  communication  in  the  con 
fidence  of  Freemasonry,  and  the  gallan 
Robin  Hood  immediately  approached  Mrs 
Davis  in  all  courtesy,  apologized  for  having 
caused  her  any  alarm,  assured  her  she  shouk 
not  be  disturbed,  and  said  the  raid  had  beer 
arranged  only  because  it  had  been  supposec 
we  were  the  party  of  some  quartermasters  fron 
Milledgeville,  making  off  with  wagons  anc 
mules  to  which  he  and  his  men  considerec 
their  own  title  as  good  as  that  of  anybody  else 
He  then  left  our  camp,  remarking,  however 
that,  to  intercept  any  attempt  at  escape  dur 
ing  the  night,  he  had  already  dispa  tehee 
some  of  his  men  to  the  cross-roads,  some  dis- 
tance below,  and  that  we  might  be  halted  b) 
them  there  in  the  morning ;  but,  to  provide 
for  that  emergency,  he  wrote  and  delivered 
to  Captain  Moody  a  formal  "  order,"  entit- 
ling us  to  "  pass  "  his  outposts  at  the  cross- 
roads !  The  next  morning,  when  we  reached 
the  cross-roads,  some  men  were  there,  evident- 
ly intending  to  intercept  us  ;  but  —  as  all  the 
gentlemen  of  our  party  were  in  the  saddle, 
and  we  appeared  to  be  ready  for  them — there 
was  no  challenge,  and  we  got  by  without 
recourse  to  Robin  Hood's  "  pass." 

About  the  second  or  third  day  after  that 
we  were  pursued  by  another  party ;  and  one 
of  our  teamsters,  riding  a  short  distance  in 
the  rear  of  the  wagons  on  the  horse  of  one 
of  the  Kentuckians, — the  owner  having  ex- 
changed temporarily  for  one  of  the  carriage 
horses,  I  think, — was  attacked,  made  to  dis-, 
mount,  and  robbed  of  his  horse,  with  the  in- 
formation that  all  the  other  horses  and  the 
mules  would  be  taken  during  the  night.  By 
running  a  mile  or  two,  the  teamster  overtook 
us.  It  was  decided,  of  course,  to  prepare  for 
an  effective  defense.  As  night  came  on,  we 
turned  off  into  a  side  road,  and  reaching  a 
piece  of  high  ground  in  the  open  pine  woods, 
well  adapted  for  our  needs,  halted — corral- 
ling the  animals  within  a  space  inclosed  by 
the  wagons  (arranged  with  the  tongue  of 
one  wagon  fastened  by  chains  or  ropes  to 
the  tail  of  another)  and  placing  pickets 
About  the  middle  of  the  night,  I,  with 


THE  CAPTURE  OE  JEEEERSON  DA  VIS. 


jamsters,  constituted  the  picket  on  the  road 
inning  north.    After   awhile  we  heard    the 
aft  tread  of  horses  in  the  darkness  approach- 
ig  over  the  light,  sandy  soil  of  the  road, 
'he  teamsters  immediately  ran  off  to  arouse 
ie  camp,  having  no  doubt  the  attack  was 
3out  to  begin.    I  placed  myself  in  the  road 
•  detain  the  enemy  as  long  as  possible,  and, 
hen   the   advancing   horsemen  came   near 
nough  to  hear  me,  called  "  Halt."   They  drew 
iin   instantly.    I    demanded    "  Who    comes 
lere  ?  "   The  foremost  of  the  horsemen  re- 
ied  "  Friends,"  in  a  voice  I  was  astonished 
recognize  as  that  of  President  Davis,  not 
ispecting  he  was  anywhere  near  us. 
His  party  then  consisted  of  Colonel  Will- 
m  Preston  Johnston,  Colonel  John  Taylor 
rood,  Colonel  Frank  R.  Lubbock,  Mr.  Rea- 
m,  Colonel  Charles  E.  Thorburn  (the  latter, 
ith  a   negro  servant,  had  joined  them  at 
•reensboro',   North    Carolina),   and   Robert 
vlr.  Davis's  own  servant).    Some  scouts  were 
pattered  through  the  country,  and  were  re- 
rting  to  the  President  from  time  to  time ; 
.t  I  don't  recollect  that  either  of  them  was 
th  him  on  the  occasion  now  referred  to. 
He  had  happened  to  join  us  at  all  only  be- 
use  some  of  his  starT  had  heard  in  the  af- 
rnoon,  from  a  man  on  the  road-side,  that  an 
tempt  was  to  be  made  in  the  night  to  capt- 
e  the  wagons,  horses,  and  mules  of  a  party 
d  to  be  going  south  on  a  road  to  the  east- 
ard.    The  man  spoke  of  the  party  to  be  at- 
cked  in  terms  that  seemed  to  identify  us, 
we  had   been   described  in  Washington, 
he  President  immediately  resolved  to  find 
,  and,  turning  to  the  east  from  his  own  route, 
de  until  after  midnight  before  he  overtook  us. 
e  explained  to  us,  at  the  time,  how  he  had 
ed  several  roads  in  the  search,  and  had  rid- 
n  an  estimated  distance  of  sixty  miles  since 
Qunting  in  the  morning ;  and  said  he  came 
assist  in  beating  off  the  persons  threatening 
e  attack.   As  we  had  camped  some  distance 
>m  the  main  road,  he  would  have  passed  to 
e  westward  of  our  position,  and  would  prob- 
ly  have  had  no  communication  with  us  and 
'  tidings  whatever  of  us,  but  for  the  chance 
mark  about  the  threatened  raid  upon  our 
imals.   The  expected  attack  was  not  made. 
The  President  remained  with  us  the  rest 
<j  that  night,  rode  with  us   the   next  day, 
<pnped  with  us  the  following  night,  and,  after 
leakfast  the  day  after  that,  bade  us  good- 
Ik   arid  rode  forward  with   his  own  party, 
laying  us,  in  deference  to  our  earnest  solic- 
ijtions,  to   pursue  our  journey  as   best  we 
ijght  with  our  wagons  and  incumbrances. 
He  camped  that  night  with  his  own  party 
^Abbeville,  Georgia,  personally  occupying 
weserted  house  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 


141 

As  they  had  reached  that  place  after  dark,  and 
a  furious  rain  was  falling,  but  few  of  the  people 
were  aware  of  his  presence,  and  nobody  in  the 
village  had  had  opportunity  to  identify  him. 

I  halted  my  party  on  the  western  bank  of 
the  Ocmulgee  River  as  the  darkness  came 
on,  immediately  after  getting  the  wagons 
through  the  difficult  bottom-lands  on  the  east- 
ern side,  and  after  crossing  the  ferry.  About 
the  middle  of  the  night  I-was  aroused  by 
a  courier  sent  back  by  the  President  with 
the  report  that  the  enemy  was  at  or  near 
Hawkinsville  (about  twenty-five  miles  to  the 
north  of  us),  and  the  advice  that  I  had 
better  move  on  at  once  to  the  southward, 
though,  it  was  added,  the  enemy  at  Hawkins 
ville  seemed  to  be  only  intent  upon  appropri- 
ating the  quartermaster's  supplies  supposed 
to  be  there.  I  started  my  party  promptly, 
in  the  midst  of  a  terrible  storm  of  thunder, 
lightning,  and  rain.  As  we  passed  through 
the  village  of  Abbeville,  I  dismounted  and 
had  a  conversation  with  the  President  in  the 
old  house,  where  he  was  lying  on  the  floor 
wrapped  in  a  blanket.  He  urged  me  to  move 
on,  and  said  he  should  overtake  us  during 
the  night,  after  his  horses  had  had  more  rest. 
We  kept  to  the  southward  all  night,  the 
rain  pouring  in  torrents  most  of  the  time,  and 
the  darkness  such  that,  as  we  went  through 
the  woods  where  the  road  was  not  well  marked, 
in  a  light,  sandy  soil,  but  wound  about  to  ac- 
commodate the  great  pines  left  standing,  the 
wagons  were  frequently  stopped  by  fallen  trees 
and  other  obstructions.  In  such  a  situation, 
we  were  obliged  to  wait  until  a  flash  of  light- 
ning enabled  the  drivers  to  see  the  way. 

In  the  midst  of  that  storm  and  darkness 
the  President  overtook  us.  He  was  still  with 
us  when,  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
(not  having  stopped  since  leaving  Abbeville, 
except  for  the  short  time,  about  sunrise,  re- 
quired to  cook  breakfast),  I  halted  my  party 
for  the  night,  immediately  after  crossing  the 
little  creek  just  north  of  Irwinville,  and  went 
into  camp.  My  teams  were  sadly  in  need  of 
rest,  and  having  now  about  fifty  miles  be- 
tween us  and  Hawkinsville,  where  the  enemy 
had  been  reported  to  be,  and  our  information 
being,  as  stated,  that  they  did  not  seem  to  be 
on  the  march  or  likely  to  move  after  us,  we 
apprehended  no  immediate  danger.  That 
country  is  sparsely  inhabited,  and  I1  do  not 
recollect  that  we  had  seen  a  human  being 
after  leaving  Abbeville.  Colonel  Johnston 
says  that  he  rode  on  in  advance  as  far  as 
Irwinville,  and  there  found  somebody  from 
whom  he  bought  some  eggs. 

Colonel  Thorburn  had  been,  before  the  war, 
in  the  United  States  navy,  and  was,  I  think, 
a  classmate  of  Colonel  Wood  in  the  Naval 


142 


THE    CAPTURE   OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


Academy  at  Annapolis.  During  the  first  year 
or  two  of  the  war  he  had  served  in  the  army ; 
he  afterward  became  engaged  in  running  the 
blockade,  bringing  supplies  into  the  Confed- 
erate States.  He  says  he  had  a  small  but 
seaworthy  vessel  then  lying  in  Indian  River, 
Florida;  that  his  object  in  joining  the  party 
had  been  to  take  the  President  aboard  that 
vessel  and  convey  him  thence  around  to 
Texas,  in  case  the  attempt  to  get  across  the 
Mississippi  should  for  any  reason  fail  or  seem 
unadvisable ;  and  that  Colonel  Wood  and  he 
had  arranged  that  he  should,  at  the  proper 
time,  ride  on  in  advance,  make  all  the  neces- 
sary arrangements  for  the  voyage,  and  return 
to  Madison,  Florida,  to  await  the  President 
there  and  conduct  him  aboard  the  vessel,  if 
necessary.  We  had  all  now  agreed  that,  if 
the  President  was  to  attempt  to  reach  the 
Trans-Mississippi  at  all,  by  whatever  route,  he 
should  move  on  at  once,  independent  of  the 
ladies  and  wagons.  And  when  we  halted  he 
positively  promised  me  (and  Wood  and  Thor- 
burn  tell  me  he  made  the  same  promise  to 
them)  that,  as  soon  as  something  to  eat  could 
be  cooked,  he  would  say  farewell,  for  the  last 
time,  and  ride  on  with  his  own  party,  at  least 
ten  miles  farther  before  stopping  for  the  night, 
consenting  to  leave  me  and  my  party  to  go 
on  our  own  way  as  fast  as  was  possible  with 
the  now  weary  mules. 

After  getting  that  promise  from  the  Presi- 
dent, and  arranging  the  tents  and  wagons  for 
the  night,  and  without  waiting  for  anything 
to  eat  (being  still  the  worse  for  my  dysentery 
and  fever),  I  lay  down  upon  the  ground  and 
fell  into  a  profound  sleep.  Captain  Moody 
afterward  kindly  stretched  a  canvas  as  a  roof 
over  my  head,  and  laid  down  beside  me, 
though  I  knew  nothing  of  that  until  the  next 
day.  I  was  awakened  by  the  coachman, 
James  Jones,  running  to  me  about  day-break 
with  the  announcement  that  the  enemy  was 
at  hand !  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  in  an 
instant  a  rattling  fire  of  musketry  commenced 
on  the  north  side  of  the  creek.  Almost  at  the 
same  moment  Colonel  Pritchard  and  his 
regiment  charged  up  the  road  from  the  south 
upon  us.  As  soon  as  one  of  them  came  with- 
in range,  I  covered  him  with  my  revolver  and 
was  about  to  fire,  but  lowered  the  weapon 
when  I  perceived  the  attacking  column  was 
so  strong  as  to  make  resistance  useless,  and 
reflected  that,  by  killing  the  man,  I  should 
certainly  not  be  helping  ourselves,  and  might 
only  provoke  a  general  firing  upon  the  mem- 
bers of  our  party  in  sight.  We  were  taken  by 
surprise,  and  not  one  of  us  exchanged  a  shot 
with  the  enemy.  Colonel  Johnston  tells  me  he 
was  the  first  prisoner  taken.  In  a  moment, 
Colonel  Pritchard  rode  directly  to  me  and, 


pointing  across  the  creek,  said,  "  What  doe< 
that  mean  ?  Have  you  any  men  with  you?  V 
Supposing  the  firing  was  done  by  our  team , 
sters,  I  replied,  "  Of  course  we  have — donV 
you  hear  the  firing  ? "  He  seemed  to  b<' 
nettled  at  the  reply,  gave  the  order,  "  Charge,' 
and  boldly  led  the  way  himself  across  the 
creek,  nearly  every  man  in  his  command  fol 
lowing.  Our  camp  was  thus  left  deserted  foi 
a  few  minutes,  except  by  one  mounted  soldier 
near  Mrs.  Davis's  tent  (who  was  afterward 
said  to  have  been  stationed  there  by  Colone 
Pritchard  in  passing)  and  by  the  few  troopen 
who  stopped  to  plunder  our  wagons.  I  hac 
been  sleeping  upon  the  same  side  of  the  roac 
with  the  tent  occupied  by  Mrs.  Davis,  anc 
was  then  standing  very  near  it.  Looking  there 
I  saw  her  come  out  and  heard  her  say  some 
thing  to  the  soldier  mentioned ;  perceiving  she 
wanted  him  to  move  off,  I  approached  and  ac 
tually  persuaded  the  fellow  to  ride  away.  A.*- 
the  soldier  moved  into  the  road,  and  I  walkec 
beside  his  horse,  the  President  emerged  foi 
the  first  time  from  the  tent,  at  the  side  farther 
from  us,  and  walked  away  into  the  woods  tc 
the  eastward,  and  at  right  angles  to  the  road 

Presently,  looking  around  and  observing 
somebody  had  come  out  of  the  tent,  the 
soldier  turned  his  horse's  head  and,  reaching 
the  spot  he  had  first  occupied,  was  again  ap 
preached  by  Mrs.  Davis,  who  engaged  hiir 
in  conversation.  In  a  minute,  this  trooper  was 
joined  by  one  or  perhaps  two  of  his  comrades, 
who  either  had  lagged  behind  the  column  anc 
were  just  coming  up  the  road,  or  had  at  thai 
moment  crossed  over  from  the  other  (the 
west)  side,  where  a  few  of  them  had  fallen  tc 
plundering,  as  I  have  stated,  instead  of  charg- 
ing over  the  creek.  They  remained  on  horse 
back  and  soon  became  violent  in  their  language 
with  Mrs.  Davis.  The  order  to  "  halt"  was  callec 
out  by  one  of  them  to  the  President.  It  was- 
not  obeyed,  and  was  quickly  repeated  in  i 
loud  voice  several  times.  At  least  one  of 
the  men  then  threatened  to  fire,  and  point- 
ed a  carbine  at  the  President.  Thereupon 
Mrs.  Davis,  overcome  with  terror,  cried  out' 
in  apprehension,  and  the  President  (whc 
had  now  walked  sixty  or  eighty  paces  awa), 
into  the  unobstructed  woods)  turned  arounc 
and  came  back  rapidly  to  his  wife  near  the  tent 
At  least  one  of  the  soldiers  continued  his 
violent  language  to  Mrs.  Davis,  and  th< 
President  reproached  him  for  such  conduc 
to  her,  when  one  of  them,  seeing  the  face  oi 
the  President,  as  he  stood  near  and  was  talking 
said,  "Mr.  Davis,  surrender  !  I  recognize  you, 
sir. "  Pictures  of  the  President  were  so  comm<  > 
that  nearly  or  quite  every  man  in  both 
knew  his  face. 

It  was,  as  yet,  scarcely  daylight. 


zeyou. 
)mmoi 

... 


THE    CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


'43 


The  President  had  on  a  water-proof  cloak. 
He  had  used  it,  when  riding,  as  a  protection 
against  the  rain  during  the  night  and  morning 
preceding  that  last  halt ;  and  he  had  probably 
been  sleeping  in  that  cloak,  at  the  moment 
when  the  camp  was  attacked. 

While  all  these  things  were  happening.  Miss 
Howell  and  the  children  remained  within  the 
jother  tent.  The  gentlemen  of  our  party  had, 
jwith  the  single  exception  of  Captain  Moody, 
,11  slept  on  the  west  side  of  the  road  and  in 
)r  near  the  wagons.  They  were,  so  far  as  I 
mow,  paying  no  attention  to  what  was  going 
m  at  the  tents.  I  have  since  talked  with 
ohnston,  Wood,  and  Lubbock,  and  with 
>thers,  about  these  matters ;  and  I  have  not 
ound  there  was  any  one  except  Mrs.  Davis, 
tie  single  trooper  at  her  tent,  and  myself, 
vho  saw  all  that  occurred  and  heard  all  that 
as  said  at  the  time.  Any  one  else  who  gives 
n  account  of  it  has  had  to  rely  upon  hearsay 
r  his  own  imagination  for  his  story. 

In  a  short  time  after  the  soldier  had  recog- 
lized  the  President,  Colonel  Pritchard  and 
is  men  returned  from  across  the  creek — the 
attle  there  ending  with  the  capture  by  one 
arty  of  a  man  belonging  to  the  other,  and 
y  the  recognition  which  followed. 

They  told  us  that  the  column,  consisting  of  a 
etachment  of  Wisconsin  cavalry  and  another 
f  Michigan  cavalry,  had  been  dispatched 
•om  Macon  in  pursuit  of  us,  under  the  com- 
land  of  Colonel  Harnden,  of  Wisconsin ;  that 
rhen  they  reached  Abbeville,  they  heard  a 
arty  of  mounted  men,  with  wagons,  had 
jrossed  the  river  near  there,  the  night  before; 
jiat  they  immediately  suspected  the  identity 
"  the  party,  and  decided  to  follow  it ;  but 
lat,  to  make  sure  of  catching  us  if  we  had 
ot  already  crossed  the  river,  Lieutenant- 
olonel  Pritchard  had  been  posted  at  the 
rry  with  orders  to  remain  there  and  capture 
nybody  attempting  to  pass;  that  Colonel 
jlarnden,  with  his  Wisconsin  men,  marched 
own  the  direct  road  we  had  ourselves  taken, 
id,  coming  upon  us  in  the  night,  had  halted 
a  the  north  side  of  the  creek  to  wait  for 
aylight  before  making  the  attack,  lest  some 
light  escape  in  the  darkness ;  that  Lieuten- 
it-Colonel  Pritchard  had  satisfied  himself, 
i  further  conversation  with  the  ferry-man, 
|tat  it  was  indeed  Mr.  Davis  who  had  crossed 
iiere,  and,  deciding  to  be  in,  if  possible,  at 
lie  capture,  had  marched  as  rapidly  as  he 
jnild  along  the  road  nearer  the  river,  to  the 
fist  of  and  for  most  of  the  distance  nearly 
lirallel  with  the  route  taken  by  Colonel 
|.arnden;  that  he  reached  the  cross-roads 
frwinville)  in  the  night,  ascertained  nobody 
|d  passed  there  for  several  days,  turned 
1)rth,  and  found  us  only  a  mile  and  a  half  up 


the  road;  that,  to  intercept  any  attempt  at 
escape,  he  had  dismounted  some  of  his  men, 
and  sent  them  to  cross  the  creek  to  the  west- 
ward of  us  and  to  post  themselves  in  the  road 
north  of  our  camp ;  that,  as  these  dismounted 
men  crossed  the  creek  and  approached  the 
road,  they  came  upon  the  Wisconsin  troopers, 
and  not  being  able,  in  the  insufficient  light, 
to  distinguish  their  uniforms,  and  supposing 
them  to  be  our  escort,  opened  a  brisk  fire 
which  was  immediately  returned;  and  that, 
on  that  signal,  Colonel  Pritchard  and  his 
column  charged  up  the  road  into  our  camp, 
and  thence  into  the  thick  of  the  fight.  They 
said  that,  in  the  rencontre,  a  man  and,  I  think, 
a  horse  or  two  were  killed,  and  that  an  officer 
and  perhaps  one  or  two  men  were  wounded. 

During  the  confusion  of  the  next  few  min- 
utes, Colonel  John  Taylor  Wood  escaped, 
first  inducing  the  soldier  who  halted  him  to 
go  aside  into  the  bushes  on  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  and  there  bribing  the  fellow  with  some 
gold  to  let  him  get  away  altogether.  As 
Wood  was  an  officer  of  the  navy,  as  well  as 
an  officer  of  the  army,  had  commanded 
cruisers  along  the  Atlantic  coast,  had  capt- 
ured and  sunk  a  number  of  New  York  and 
New  England  vessels,  and  was  generally 
spoken  of  in  the  Northern  newspapers  as  a 
"  pirate,"  he  not  unnaturally  apprehended 
that,  if  he  remained  in  the  enemy's  hands,  he 
would  be  treated  with  special  severity. 

He  made  his  way  to  Florida,  and  there  met 
General  Breckinridge,  with  whom  (and  per- 
haps one  or  two  others)  he  sailed  down  the 
east  coast  of  the  State  in  a  small  open  boat, 
and  escaped  to  Cuba.  When  in  London,  in 
September,  1866,  I  dined  with  Breckinridge, 
and  had  from  him  the  story  of  their  advent- 
ures. He  said  they  kept  close  alongshore,  and, 
frequently  landing,  subsisted  on  turtles'  eggs 
found  in  the  sand.  When  nearing  the  south- 
erly end  of  the  coast,  they  one  day  perceived 
a  boat  coming  to  meet  them  and  were  at  first 
afraid  of  capture;  but  presently,  observing 
that  the  other  boat  was  so  changing  its  course 
as  to  avoid  them,  they  shrewdly  suspected  it 
to  contain  deserters  or  escaped  convicts  from 
the  Dry  Tortugas,  or  some  such  people,  who 
were  probably  themselves  apprehensive  of 
trouble  if  caught.  Wood  therefore  gave 
chase  immediately,  and,  having  the  swifter 
boat,  soon  overhauled  the  other  one.  The 
unsatisfactory  account  the  men  aboard  gave 
of  themselves  seemed  to  confirm  the  suspicion 
with  regard  to  their  character.  The  new  boat 
was  a  better  sea-craft  than  the  one  our  voya- 
gers had,  though  not  so  fast  a  sailer.  They 
were  afraid  theirs  would  not  take  them  across 
the  Gulf  to  Cuba,  and  so  determined  to  appro- 
priate the  other.  Turning  pirates  for  the 


144 


THE   CAPTURE    OF  JEFFERSON  DA  VIS. 


occasion,  they  showed  their  side-arms,  put  on 
a  bold  air,  and  threatened  the  rascals  with  all 
manner  of  dreadful  things ;  but  finally  relented 
so  far  as  to  offer  to  let  them  off  with  an  ex- 
change of  boats !  The  victims  were  delighted 
with  this  clemency,  and  gladly  went  through 
what  President  Lincoln  called  the  dangerous 
process  of  "  swapping  horses  while  crossing  a 
stream."  Each  party  went  on  its  way  rejoicing, 
and  our  friends  finally,  as  I  have  said,  reached 
the  coast  of  Cuba,  though  almost  famished. 
Indeed,  Breckinridge  said  they  were  kept 
alive  at  all  only  by  a  loaf  or  two  of  bread 
kindly  given  them  by  a  Yankee  skipper  as 
they  sailed  under  the  stern  of  his  vessel  at 
day-break  of  the  last  day  of  their  voyage. 

All  of  the  other  members  of  the  President's 
party,  except  Colonel  Thorburn,  and  all  those 
of  my  own  party,  remained  as  prisoners — 
unless,  indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  teamsters 
escaped,  as  to  which  I  do  not  recollect. 

I  had  been  astonished  to  discover  the 
President  still  in  camp  when  the  attack  was 
made.  What  I  learned  afterward  explained 
the  mystery.  Wood  and  Thorburn  tell  me 
that,  after  the  President  had  eaten  supper 
with  his  wife,  he  told  them  he  should  ride  on 
when  Mrs.  Davis  was  ready  to  go  to  sleep ; 
but  that,  when  bed-time  came,  he  finally  said 
he  would  ride  on  in  the  morning — and  so 
spent  the  night  in  the  tent.  He  seemed  to  be 
entirely  unable  to  apprehend  the  danger  of 
capture.  Everybody  was  disturbed  at  this 
change  of  his  plan  to  ride  ten  miles  farther, 
but  he  could  not  be  got  to  move. 

Colonel  Thorburn  decided  to  start  during 
the  night,  to  accomplish  as  soon  as  possible 
his  share  of  the  arrangement  for  the  escape 
of  the  party  from  the  sea-coast;  and,  with 
his  negro  boy,  he  set  out  alone  before  day- 
break. He  tells  me  that,  at  Irwinville,  they 
ran  into  the  enemy  in  the  darkness,  and  were 
fired  upon ;  and  that  the  negro  leveled  him- 
self on  his  horse's  back,  and  galloped  away 
like  a  good  fellow  into  the  woods  to  the  east. 
Thorburn  says  he  turned  in  the  saddle  for  a 
moment,  shot  the  foremost  of  the  pursuers,  saw 
him  tumble  from  his  horse,  and  then  kept  on 
after  the  negro.  They  were  chased  into  the 
woods,  but  their  horses  were  fresher  than  those 
of  the  enemy  and  easily  distanced  pursuit. 
Thorburn  says  he  went  on  to  Florida,  found 
his  friend  Captain  Coxsetter  at  Lake  City, 
ascertained  that  the  vessel  was,  as  expected,  in 
the  Indian  River  and  in  good  condition  for  the 
voyage  to  Texas,  arranged  with  the  captain 
to  get  her  ready  for  sailing,  and  then  returned 
to  Madison  for  the  rendezvous.  There,  he 
says,  he  learned  of  Mr.  Davis's  capture,  and, 
having  no  further  use  for  the  vessel,  sent  back 
orders  to  destroy  her. 


The  business  of  plundering  commenced 
immediately  after  the  capture ;  and  we  were 
soon  left  with  only  what  we  had  on  and 
what  we  had  in  our  pockets.  Several  of  us 
rejoiced  in  some  gold;  mine  was  only  the  one 
hundred  and  ten  dollars  I  have  mentioned, 
but  Colonel  Lubbock  and  Colonel  Johnston 
had  about  fifteen  hundred  dollars  each.  Lub- 
bock held  on  to  nearly  or  quite  all  of  his. 
But  Johnston  had  found  the  coins  an  uncomfort- 
able burden  when  carried  otherwise,  and  had 
been  riding  with  them  in  his  holsters.  There 
his  precious  gold  was  found,  and  thence  it 
was  eagerly  taken,  by  one  or  more  of  our  cap- 
tors. His  horse  and  his  saddle,  with  the 
trappings  and  pistols,  were  those  his  father, 
General  Albert  Sydney  Johnston,  had  used 
at  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  and  were  greatly 
prized.  They  and  all  our  horses  were 
promptly  appropriated  by  the  officers  of  Col. 
Pritchard's  command;  the  colonel  himself 
claimed  and  took  the  lion's  share,  includ- 
ing the  two  carriage-horses,  which,  as  he  was 
told  at  the  time,  were  the  property  of  Mrs. 
Davis,  having  been  bought  and  presented 
to  her  by  the  gentlemen  in  Richmond  upon 
the  occasion  already  mentioned.  Colonel 
Pritchard  also  asserted  a  claim  to  the  horse  I 
had  myself  ridden,  which  had  stood  the  march 
admirably  and  was  fresher  and  in  better  con- 
dition than  the  other  animals.  The  colonel's 
claim  to  him,  however,  was  disputed  by  the 
adjutant,  who  insisted  on  the  right  of  first 
appropriation,  and  there  was  a  quarrel  be- 
tween those  officers  on  the  spot. 

While  it  was  going  on,  I  emptied  the  con- 
tents of  my  haversack  into  a  fire  where 
some  of  the  enemy  were  cooking  breakfast, 
and  there  saw  the  papers  burn.  They  were 
chiefly  love-letters,  with  a  pho'tograph  of  my 
sweetheart, —  though  with  them  chanced  to 
be  a  few  telegrams  and  perhaps  some  letters 
relating  to  public  affairs,  of  no  special  interest. 

After  we  had  had  breakfast,  it  was  arranged 
that  each  of  the  prisoners  should  ride  his 
own  horse  to  Macon,  the  captors  kindly 
consenting  to  waive  right  of  possession  mean- 
time ;  and  that  arrangement  was  carried  out, 
except  that  Mr.  Davis  traveled  in  one  of  the 
ambulances. 

We  marched  in  a  column  of  twos,  and  Major 
Maurin  and  I  rode  together.  He  was  very 
taciturn;  but  when,  on  the  second  or  third 
day,  we  came  upon  a  cavalry  camp  where  a 
brass-band,  in  a  large  wagon  drawn  by  hand- 
some horses,  was  stationed  by  the  road-sida, 
and  suddenly  struck  up  "  Yankee  Doodle " 
as  the  ambulance  containing  Mr.  Davis  caire 
abreast  of  it,  the  silent  old  Creole  was  moved 
to  speech.  The  startling  burst  of  music 
our  horses  to  prancing.  When  Major 


u 


FRIENDSHIP. 


ad  composed  his  steed,  he  turned  to  me 
ith  a  broad  smile  and  revenged  himself 
ith:  "I  remember  the  last  time  I  heard  that 
ne ;  it  was  at  the  battle  of  Fredericksburg, 
hen  a  brass-band  came  across  the  pontoon 
ridge  with  the  column  and  occupied  a  house 
ithin  range  of  my  guns,  where  they  began 
^ankee  Doodle.'  I  myself  sighted  a  field- 
ece  at  the  house,  missed  it  with  the  first 
ot,  but  next  time  hit  it  straight.  In  all  your 
e  you  never  heard  '  Yankee  Doodle '  stop 
short  as  it  did  then ! " 
It  was  at  that  cavalry  camp  we  first  heard 

the  proclamation  offering  a  reward  of 
00,000  for  the  capture  of  Mr.  Davis,  upon 
e  charge,  invented  by  Stanton  and  Holt, 

participation  in  the  plot  to  murder  Mr. 
ncoln.  Colonel  Pritchard  had  himself 
st  received  it,  and  considerately  handed  a 
inted  copy  of  the  proclamation  to  Mr. 
avis,  who  read  it  with  a  composure  unruf- 
d  by  any  feeling  other  than  scorn.  The 
oney  was,  several  years  later,  paid  to  the 
ptors.  Stanton  and  Holt,  lawyers  both, 
ry  well  knew  that  Mr.  Davis  could  never 

convicted  upon  an  indictment  for  treason, 
t  were  determined  to  hang  him  anyhow, 
d  were  in  search  of  a  pretext  for  doing  so. 
The  march  to  Macon  took  four  days.  As 

rode  up  to  the  head-quarters  of  General 
ilson  there,  an  orderly  (acting,  as  he  said, 
der  directions  of  the  adjutant)  seized  my 
n  before  I  had  dismounted,  and  led  off  my 
rse  the  moment  I  was  out  of  the  saddle, 
hen,  that  afternoon,  we  were  sent  to  the 
tion  to  take  the  railway  train  arranged  to 
nvey  the  prisoners  to  Augusta,  on  our  way 
Fortress  Monroe,  the  horses  of  all  or  most 
the  officers  of  our  party  were  standing  in 
nt  of  the  hotel,  and  the  several  ex-owners 
de  them  to  the  station.  My  horse  was  not 
ere,  and  I  had  to  go  to  the  station  afoot. 
Several  years  afterward,  on  the  grand  stand 

the   Jerome    Park   race-course,    in    New 

rk,  I  met  Colonel  ,  from  whom,  in 

tnville,  Virginia,  I  had  got  the  horse  under 
tjs  circumstances  narrated.  He  told  me  he 
us  in  that  part  of  Georgia  shortly  after 
cr  capture,  and  said  the  quarrel  between 
Lionel  Pritchard  and  his  adjutant,  as  to 


who  should  have  my  horse,  waxed  so  hot  at 
Macon  that  the  adjutant,  fearing  he  would 
not  be  able  to  keep  the  horse  himself,  and 
determined  Colonel  Pritchard  should  not 
have  him,  ended  the  dispute  by  drawing  his 
revolver  and  shooting  the  gallant  steed  dead. 
At  General  Wilson's  head-quarters  in  Ma- 
con, I  met  General  Croxton,  of  Kentucky, 
one  of  Wilson's  brigadiers,  who  had  been 
two  classes  ahead  of  me  at  Yale  College. 
He  received  me  with  expressions  of  great 
friendship;  said  he  should  have  a  special 
outlook  for  my  comfort  while  a  prisoner ;  and 
told  me  that  it  was  at  his  suggestion  that 
Harnden  and  Pritchard  had  been  dispatched 
to  intercept  Mr.  Davis  at  the  crossing  of  the 
Ocmulgee  River  at  Abbeville — having  heard 
from  some  of  the  Confederate  cavalry  who 
had  been  disbanded  at  Washington,  Georgia, 
each  with  a  few  dollars  in  silver  in  his  pocket, 
that  the  President  had  ridden  south  from 
that  place. 

HAD  Mr.  Davis  continued  his  journey, 
without  reference  to  us,  after  crossing  the 
Ocmulgee  River,  or  had  he  ridden  on  after 
getting  supper  with  our  party  the  night  we 
halted  for  the  last  time;  had  he  gone  but 
five  miles  beyond  Irwinville,  passing  through 
that  village  at  night,  and  so  avoiding  observa- 
tion, there  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that 
he  and  his  party  would  have  escaped 
either  across  the  Mississippi  or  through 
Florida  to  the  sea-coast,  as  Mr.  Benjamin 
escaped,  as  General  Breckinridge  escaped, 
and  as  others  did.  It  was  the  apprehension 
he  felt  for  the  safety  of  his  wife  and 
children  which  brought  about  his  capture. 
And,  looking  back  now,  it  must  be  thought 
by  everybody  to  have  been  best  that  he  did 
not  then  escape  from  the  country. 

To  have  been  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of 
the  Government  of  the  United  States,  and 
not  to  have  been  brought  to  trial  upon  any 
of  the  charges  against  him,  is  sufficient  refu- 
tation of  them  all.  It  indicates  that  the  people 
in  Washington  knew  the  accusations  could  not 
be  sustained.  ********* 

Burton  N.  Harrison. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

I  WERE  not  worth  you,  could  I  long  for  you: 
But  should  you  come,  you  would  find  me  ready. 
The  lamp  is  lighted,  the  flame  is  steady — 

Over  the  strait  I  toss  this  song  for  you. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 15. 


Helen   Gray  Cone. 


TERRA  INCOGNITA. 

AH  me!  that  it  has  nearly  passed  away, 
The  grateful  mystery,  the  vague  delight, 
Of  those  dim  ancient  days  when  yet  there  might 

Be  undreamed  things  where  somber  Thule  lay 

In  clamorous  seas;  or  where,  'neath  passing  day, 
Hung  blessed  isles  sometimes  almost  in  sight  > 
Or,  later,  where  fair  Avalon  was  bright, 

Or  shone  the  golden  cities  of  Cathay.  ' 

Old  ocean  holds  no  terrors  any  more; 

We  touch  the  limits  of  the  "farthest  zone, 
And  would  all  Nature's  fastnesses  explore: 

Oh,  leave  some  spot  that  Fancy  calls  its  own — 
Some  far  and  solitary  wave-worn  shore, 

Where  all  were  possible  and  all  unknown! 


George  A.  Hibbard. 


MRS.   KNOLLYS. 


BY   THE    AUTHOR    OF    "  GUERNDALE. 


THE  great  Pasterzen  glacier  rises  in  West- 
ern Austria,  and  flows  into  Carinthia,  and  is 
fourteen  or  seventeen  miles  long,  as  you 
measure  it  from  its  birth  in  the  snow-field, 
or  from  where  it  begins  to  move  from  the 
higher  snows  and  its  active  course  is  marked 
by  the  first  wrinkle.  It  flows  in  a  straight, 
steady  sweep,  a  grand  avenue,  guarded  by 
giant  mountains,  steep  and  wide;  a  proto- 
type, huge  and  undesigned,  of  the  giants' 
stairway  in  the  Venice  palace.  No  known 
force  can  block  its  path;  it  would  need  a 
cataclysm  to  reverse  its  progress.  What  falls 
upon  it  moves  with  it,  what  lies  beneath  it 
moves  with  it — down  to  the  polished  surface 
of  the  earth's  frame,  laid  bare ;  no  blade  of 
grass  grows  so  slowly  as  it  moves,  no  meteor 
of  the  air  is  so  irresistible.  Its  substant  ice 
curls  freely,  molds,  and  breaks  itself  like  water, 
— breaks  in  waves,  plastic  like  honey,  crested 
lightly  with  a  frozen  spray ;  it  winds  tenderly 
about  the  rocky  shore,  and  the  granite,  disin- 
tegrated into  crumbs,  flows  on  with  it.  All 
this  so  quietly  that  busy,  officious  little  Man 
lived  a  score  of  thousand  years  before  he 
noticed  even  that  the  glacier  moved. 

Now,  however,  men  have  learned  to  con- 
gregate upon  its  shores,  and  admire.  Scien- 
tists stick  staves  in  the  ground  (not  too  near, 
lest  the  earth  should  move  with  it),  and 
appraise  the  majesty  of  its  motion;  ladies, 
politely  mystified,  give  little  screams  of  pleased 
surprise;  young  men,  secretly  exultant,  pace 
the  yard  or  two  between  the  sticks,  a  distance 
that  takes  the  frozen  stream  a  year  to  com- 
pass, and  look  out  upon  it  half  contemptu- 


ously. Then  they  cross  it — carefully,  the> 
have  enough  respect  left  for  that — with  thei 
cunningly  nailed  shoes  and  a  rope ;  an  hou 
or  two  they  dally  with  it,  till  at  last,  bein^ 
hungry  and  cold,  they  walk  to  the  inn  fo 
supper.  At  supper  they  tell  stories  of  thei) 
prowess,  pay  money  to  the  guides  who  have 
protected  them,  and  fall  asleep  after  tea  witf 
weariness.  Meantime,  the  darkness  falls  out 
side;  but  the  white  presence  of  the  glaciei 
breaks  the  night,  and  strange  shapes  unseer 
of  men  dance  in  its  ashen  hollows.  It  is  sc 
old  that  the  realms  of  death  and  life  conflict 
change  is  on  the  surface,  but  immortalit) 
broods  in  the  deeper  places.  The  moon  rise* 
and  sinks ;  the  glacier  moves  silently,  like  £ 
time-piece  marking  the  centuries,  grooving 
the  record  of  its  being  on  the  world  itself,— 
a  feature  to  be  read  and  studied  by  far-ofl 
generations  of  some  other  world.  The  glaciei 
has  a  light  of  its  own,  and  gleams  to  stars 
above,  and  the  Great  Glockner  mountaii. 
flings  his  shadow  of  the  planets  in  its  face. 

Mrs.  Knollys  was  a  young  English  bride 
sunny-haired,  hopeful- eyed,  with  lips  that 
parted  to  make  you  love  them, — parted  be 
fore  they  smiled,  and  all  the  soft  regions  of 
her  face  broke  into  attendant  dimples.  Anc 
then,  lest  you  should  think  it  meant  for  you 
she  looked  quickly  up  to  "  Charles,"  as  she 
would  then  call  him  even  to  strangers,  aiic* 
Charles  looked  down  to  her.  Charles  was  £ 
short  foot  taller,  with  much  the  same  toil 
and  eyes,  thick  flossy  whiskers,  broad  shoil 
ders,  and  a  bass  voice.  This  was  in  the 
before  political  economy  cut  Hymen's 


""' 


MRS.  K NOLLYS. 


'47 


Charles,  like  Mary,  had  little  money  but  great 
lopes;  and  he  was  clerk  in  a  government 
office,  with  a  friendly  impression  of  every- 
body and   much    trust  in  himself.    And  old 
Harry  Colquhoun,  his  chief,  had  given  them 
six  weeks  to  go  to  Switzerland  and  be  happy 
n,  all   in   celebration   of  Charles    Knollys's 
majority  and  marriage  to  his  young  wife.    So 
jthey   had    both    forgotten    heaven   for    the 
[nonce,  having  a  passable  substitute ;  but  the 
(powers   divine   overlooked   them   pleasantly 
|ind  forgave   it.    And   even   the   phlegmatic 
iriver  of  their  Einspanner  looked  back  from 
:he  corner  of  his  eye  at  the  schone.  Engldn- 
lerin,  and  compared  her  mentally  with  the  far- 
amed  beauty  of  the  Konigssee.    So  they  rat- 
lied  on  in  their  curious  conveyance,  with  the 
l)ole  in  the  middle  and  the  one  horse  out  on 
ne  side,  and  still  found  more  beauty  in  each 
ther's  eyes  than  in  the  world  about  them. 
Uthough  Charles  was  only  one  and  twenty, 
|vtary  Knollys   was  barely  eighteen,  and  to 
er  he  seemed  godlike  in  his  age,  as  in  all 
ther  things.    Her  life  had  been  as  simple  as 
had  been  short.    She  remembered  being  a 
tie  girl,  and  then  the  next  thing  that  oc- 
urred  was  Charles  Knollys,  and  positively 
e  next  thing  she  remembered  of  importance 
as  being  Mrs.  Charles  Knollys ;  so  that  old 
[rs.  Knollys,  her  guardian  aunt  and  his,  had 
rst  called  her  a  love  of  a  baby,  and  then 
ut  a  baby  in  love.    All  this,  of  course,  was 
ve  and  forty  years  ago,  for  you  know  how 
d  she  was  when  she  went  again  to  Switzer- 
nd  last  summer — three  and  sixty. 
They  first  saw  the  great  mountains  from 
ie  summit  of  the  Schaf  berg.    This  is  a  little 
-ight,  three  cornered,  between  three  lakes ; 
jnatural  Belvedere  for  Central  Europe.    Mr. 
id  Mrs.  Knollys  were  seated  on  a  couch  of 
Ipine  roses  behind   a  rhododendron   bush 
atching   the   sunset;    but   as    Charles   was 
circus  of  kissing  Mrs.   Knollys,  and    the 
ododendron  bush  was  not  thick  enough, 
ey  were  waiting  for  the  sun  to  go  down, 
e  was  very  slow  in  doing  this,  and  by  way 
<  consolation  Knollys  was  keeping  his  wife's 
Knd  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  dress.    Un- 
oubtedly  a  modern  lady  would  have  been 
1  king   of    the    scenery,    giving    word-color 
]:tures  of  the  view;  but  I  am  afraid  Mrs. 
•  nollys  had  been  looking  at  her  husband, 
id  talking  with  him  of  the   cottage   they 
id  bought    in    a    Surrey   village,    not    far 
fiim  Box   Hill,  and  thinking  how  the  little 
<jryings  and  embroideries  would  look  there 
>jiich  they  had  bought  abroad.    And,  indeed, 
Ire.  Charles  secretly  thought    Box  Hill  an 
Whence   far   preferable   to    the  Venediger, 
ad  Charles's  face  an  infinitely  more  interest- 
i#  sight  than  any  lake,  however  expressive. 


But  the  sun,  looking  askance  at  them  through 
the  lower  mist,  was  not  jealous ;  all  the  same 
he  spread  his  glory  lavishly  for  them,  and  the 
bright  little  mirror  of  a  lake  twinkled  cannily 
upward  from  below.  Finally,  it  grew  dark ; 
then  there  was  less  talking.  It  was  full  night 
when  they  went  in,  she  leaning  on  his  arm 
and  looking  up ;  and  the  moonbeam  on  the 
snowy  shoulder  of  the  Glockner,  twenty 
leagues  away,  came  over,  straightway,  from 
the  mountain  to  her  face.  Three  days  later, 
Charles  Knollys,  crossing  with  her  the  lower 
portion  of  the  Pasterzen  glacier,  slipped  into  a 
crevasse,  and  vanished  utterly  from  the  earth. 


n. 


ALL  this  you  know.  And  I  was  also  told 
more  of  the  young  girl,  bride  and  widow  at 
eighteen;  how  she  sought  to  throw  herself 
into  the  clear  blue  gulf;  how  she  refused  to 
leave  Heiligenblut ;  how  she  would  sit,  tear- 
less, by  the  rim  of  the  crevasse,  day  after 
day,  and  gaze  into  its  profundity.  A  guide 
or  man  was  always  with  her  at  these  times, 
for  it  was  still  feared  she  would  follow  her 
young  husband  to  the  depths  of  that  still  sea. 
Her  aunt  went  over  from  England  to  her; 
the  summer  waxed ;  autumn  storms  set  in ; 
but  no  power  could  win  her  from  the  place 
whence  Charles  had  gone. 

If  there  was  a  time  worse  for  her  than  that 
first  moment,  it  was  when  they  told  her  that 
his  body  never  could  be  found.  They  did 
not  dare  to  tell  her  this  for  many  days,  but 
busied  themselves  with  idle  cranes  and  lad- 
ders, and  made  futile  pretenses  with  ropes. 
Some  of  the  big,  simple-hearted  guides  even 
descended  into  the  chasm,  absenting  them- 
selves for  an  hour  or  so,  to  give  her  an  idea 
that  something  was  being  done.  Poor  Mrs. 
Knollys  would  have  followed  them  had  she 
been  allowed,  to  wander  through  the  purple 
galleries,  calling  Charles.  It  was  well  she 
could  not;  for  all  Kaspar  could  do  was  to 
lower  himself  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  chisel 
out  a  niche,  and  stand  in  it,  smoking  his  hon- 
est pipe  to  pass  the  time,  and  trying  to  fancy 
he  could  hear  the  murmur  of  the  waters  down 
below.  Meantime  Mrs.  Knollys  strained  her 
eyes,  peering  downward  from  above,  leaning 
on  the  rope  about  her  waist,  looking  over  the 
clear  brink  of  the  bergschrund. 

It  was  the  Herr  Doctor  Zimmermann  who 
first  told  her  the  truth.  Not  that  the  good 
Doctor  meant  to  do  so.  The  Herr  Doctor 
had  had  his  attention  turned  to  glaciers 
by  some  rounded  stones  in  his  garden  by 
the  Traunsee,  and  more  particularly  by  the 
Herr  Privatdocent  Spluthner.  Spliithner,  like 


i48 


MRS.  KNOLL  VS. 


Uncle  Toby,  had  his  hobby-horse,  his  pet 
conjuring  words,  his  gods  ex  mac  hind,  which 
he  brought  upon  the  field  in  scientific  emer- 
gencies ;  and  these  gods,  as  with  Thales,  were 
Fire  and  Water.  Craters  and  flood  were  his  ac- 
customed scape-goats,  upon  whose  heads  were 
charged  all  things  unaccountable;  and  the 
Herr  Doctor,  who  had  only  one  element  left 
to  choose  from,  and  that  a  passive  one,  but 
knew,  on  general  principles,  that  Spliithner 
must  be  wrong,  got  as  far  off  as  he  could  and 
took  Ice.  And  Spliithner  having  pooh-poohed 
this,  Zimmermann  rode  his  hypothesis  with 
redoubled  zeal.  He  became  convinced  that 
ice  was  the  embodiment  of  orthodoxy.  Fix- 
ing his  professional  spectacles  on  his  sub- 
stantial nose,  he  went  into  Carinthia  and  as- 
cended the  great  Venice  mountains,  much  as 
he  would  have  performed  any  other  scientific 
experiment.  Then  he  encamped  on  the 
shores  of  the  Pasterzen  glacier,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  make  a  study  of  it. 

So  it  happened  that  the  Doctor,  taking  a 
morning  stroll  over  the  subject  of  his  experi- 
ment, in  search  of  small  things  which  might 
verify  his  theory,  met  Mrs.  Knollys  sitting  in 
her  accustomed  place.  The  Doctor  had  been 
much  puzzled,  that  morning,  on  finding  in  a 
rock  at  the  foot  of  the  glacier  the  impression, 
or  sign-manual  as  it  were,  of  a  certain  fish, 
whose  acquaintance  the  Doctor  had  pre- 
viously made  only  in  tropical  seas.  This 
fact  seeming,  superficially,  to  chime  in  with 
Spliithnerian  mistakes  in  a  most  heterodox 
way,  the  Doctor's  mind  had  for  a  moment 
been  diverted  from  the  ice;  and  he  was 
wondering  what  the  fish  had  been  going  to 
do  in  that  particular  gallery,  and  secretly 
doubting  whether  it  had  known  its  own  mind, 
and  gone  thither  with  the  full  knowledge  and 
permission  of  its  maternal  relative.  Indeed, 
the  good  Doctor  would  probably  have  as- 
cribed its  presence  to  the  malicious  and  per- 
sonal causation  of  the  devil,  but  that  the  one 
point  on  which  he  and  Spluthner  were  agreed 
was  the  ignoring  of  unscientific  hypotheses. 
The  Doctor's  objections  to  the  devil  were  none 
the  less  strenuous  for  being  purely  scientific. 

Thus  ruminating,  the  Doctor  came  to  the 
crevasse  where  Mrs.  Knollys  was  sitting,  and 
to  which  a  little  path  had  now  been  worn 
from  the  inn.  There  was  nothing  of  scientific 
interest  about  the  fair  young  English  girl,  and 
the  Doctor  did  not  notice  her ;  but  he  took 
from  his  waistcoat-pocket  a  leaden  bullet, 
molded  by  himself,  and  marked  "Johannes 
Carpentarius,  Juvavianus,  A.' U.  C.  2590," 
and  dropped  it,  with  much  satisfaction,  into 
the  crevasse.  Mrs.  Knollys  gave  a  little  cry ; 
the  bullet  was  heard  for  some  seconds  tink- 
ling against  the  sides  of  the  chasm ;  the 


tinkles  grew  quickly  fainter,  but  they  waited  in 
vain  for  the  noise  of  the  final  fall.  "  May  the 
Spluthner  live  that  he  may  learn  by  it,"  mut- 
tered the  Doctor ;  "  I  can  never  recover  it."  j 

Then  he  remembered  that  the  experiment 
had  been  attended  with  a  sound  unaccounted- 
for  by  the  conformity  of  the  bullet  to  the  law?' 
of  gravitation ;  and  looking  up  he  saw  Mrs. 
Knollys  in  front  of  him,  no  longer  crying,  but 
very  pale.  Zimmermann  started, and  in  his  con- 
fusion dropped  his  best  brass  registering  ther- 
mometer, which  also  rattled  down  the  abyss. 

"  You  say,"  whispered  Mrs.  Knollys,  "that 
it  can  never  be  recovered !  " 

"  Madam,"  spoke  the  Doctor,  doifing  hi< 
hat,  "how  would  you  recofer  from  a  blacc 
when  the  smallest  approximation  which  I  haf 
yet  been  able  to  make  puts  the  depth  from  tht 
surface  to  the  bed  of  the  gletscher  at  vroir 
sixteen  hundred  to  sixteen  hundred  and  sixt) 
metres  in  distance?"  Doctor  Zimmermanr 
spoke  very  good  English ;  and  he  pushed  his 
hat  upon  the  back  of  his  head,  and  assumeo 
his  professional  attitude. 

"  But  they  all  were  trying "  Mrs.  Knol 

lys  spoke  faintly.    "  They  said  that  they  hopec 
he  could  be  recovered."   The  stranger  \va; 
the  oldest  gentleman  she  had  seen,  and  Mrs 
Knollys  felt  almost  like  confiding   in   him* 
"  Oh,    I   must    have   the — the   body."   She 
closed  in  a  sob ;  but  the  Herr  Doctor  caugh 
at  the  last  word,  and  this  suggested  to  hntf 
only  the  language  of  scientific  experiment 

"  Recofer  it  ?  If,  madam,"  Zimmerman! 
went  on  with  all  the  satisfaction  attendant  01 
the  enunciation  of  a  scientific  truth,  "  w» 
take  a  body  and  drop  it  in  the  schrund  o: 
this  gletscher;  and  the  ice-stream  moves  s< 
slower  at  its  base  than  on  the  upper  part,  am 
the  ice  will  cover  it ;  efen  if  we  could  read 
the  base,  which  is  a  mile  in  depth.  Then 
see  you,  it  is  all  caused  by  the  motion  of  th< 
ice " 

But  at  this  Mrs.  Knollys  had  given  a  fain 
cry,  and  her  guide  rushed  up  angrily  to  th< 
old  professor,  who  stared  helplessly  forward 
"  God  will  help  me,  sir,"  said  she  to  the  Doc' 
tor,  and  she  gave  the  guide  her  arm  an( 
walked  wearily  away. 

The  professor  still  stared,  in  amazemen 
at  her  enthusiasm  for  scientific  experimen 
and  the  passion  with  which  she  greeted  hi: 
discoveries.  Here  was  a  person  who  utterl] 
refused  to  be  referred  to  the  agency  of  Ice,  o 
even,  like  Spluthner,  of  Fire  and  Water ;  am 
went  out  of  the  range  of  allowable  hypothese; 
to  call  upon  a  Noumenon.  Now  both  Spluth, 
ner  and  Zimmermann  had  studied  all  natuia 
agencies  and  made  allowance  for  them,  but  to 
the  Divine  they  had  always  hitherto  proved  jii 
alibi.  The  Doctor  could  make  nothing  of  i . 


MltS.  KNOLL  YS. 


149 


At  the  inn  that  evening  he  saw  Mrs. 
Knollys  with  swollen  eyes ;  and  remembering 
the  scene  of  the  afternoon,  he  made  inquiries 
ibout  her  of  the  innkeeper.  The  latter  had 
icard  the  guide's  account  of  the  meeting; 
md  as  soon  as  Zimmermann  had  made  plain 
what  he  had  told  her  of  the  falling  body, 

Triple  blockhead ! "  said  he.  "£s  war  ihr 
Mann."  The  Herr  Professor  staggered  back 
nto  his  seat ;  and  the  kindly  innkeeper  ran 
apstairs  to  see  what  had  happened  to  his 
)0or  young  guest. 

Mrs.  Knollys  had  recovered  from  the  first 
hock  by  this  time,  but  the  truth  could  no 
onger  be  withheld.  The  innkeeper  could  but 
lod  his  head  sadly,  when  she  told  him  that 
o  recover  her  Charles  was  hopeless.  All  the 
guides  said  the  same  thing.  The  poor  girl's 
usband  had  vanished  from  the  world  as 
itterly  as  if  his  body  had  been  burned  to 
ishes  and  scattered  in  the  pathway  of  the 
vinds.  Charles  Knollys  was  gone,  utterly 
jone;  no  more  to  be  met  with  by  his  girl- 
vife,  save  as  spirit  to  spirit,  soul  to  soul,  in 
Itramundane  place.  The  fair-haired  young 
Englishman  lived  but  in  her  memory,  as  his 
oul,  if  still  existent,  lived  in  places  indeter- 
minate, unknowable  to  Doctor  Zimmermann 
nd  his  compeers.  Slowly  Mrs.  Knollys  ac- 
uired  the  belief  that  she  was  never  to  see 
er  Charles  again.  Then,  at  last,  she  resolved 
o  go — to  go  home.  Her  strength  now  gave 
ray ;  and  when  her  aunt  left,  she  had  with 
er  but  the  ghost  of  Mrs.  Knollys — a  broken 
gure,  drooping  in  the  carriage,  veiled  in 
lack.  The  innkeeper  and  all  the  guides 
bare-headed,  silent,  about  the  door,  as 

.e  carriage  drove  off,  bearing  the  bereaved 

idow  back  to  England. 


in. 


HEN  the  Herr  Doctor  had  heard  the  inn- 
r's  answer,  he  sat  for  some  time  with  his 
lands  planted  on  his  knees,  looking  through 
is  spectacles  at  the  opposite  wall.  Then  he 
fted  one  hand  and  struck  his  brow  impa- 
ently.  It  was  his  way,  when  a  chemical 
^action  had  come  out  wrong. 

"Triple    blockhead!"    said    he;    "triple 

ilockhead,  thou  art  so  bad  as    Spltithner." 

IQ  self-condemnation  could  have  been  worse 

1)  him  than  this.    Thinking  again   of  Mrs. 

^nollys,  he  gave  one  deep,  gruff  sob.    Then 

>e  took  his  hat,  and  going  out,  wandered  by 

e  shore  of  the  glacier  in  the  night,  repeat- 

g   to  himself  the    Englishwoman's  words : 

They  said  that  they  hoped  he  could  be  recov- 

d"  Zimmermann  came  to  the  tent  where 

£    kept   his   instruments,  and   stood  there, 

[•oking  at  the  sea  of  ice.    He  went  to  his 


measuring  pegs,  two  rods  of  iron :  one  sunk 
deep  and  frozen  in  the  glacier,  the  other 
drilled  into  a  rock  on  the  shore.  "Triple 
blockhead !  "  said  he  again,  "  thou  art  worse 
than  Spluthner.  The  Spluthner  said  the 
glacier  did  not  move;  thou,  thou  knowest 
that  it  does."  He  sighted  from  his  rods  to 
the  mountain  opposite.  There  was  a  slight 
and  all  but  imperceptible  change  of  direction 
from  the  day  before. 

He  could  not  bear  to  see  the  English  girl 
again,  and  all  the  next  day  was  absent  from 
the  inn.  For  a  month  he  stopped  at  Heili- 
genblut,  and  busied  himself  with  his  instru- 
ments. The  guides  of  the  place  greeted  him 
coldly  every  day,  as  they  started  on  their 
glacier  excursions  or  their  chamois  hunting. 
But  none  the  less  did  Zimmermann  return  the 
following,  summer,  and  work  upon  his  great 
essay  in  refutation  of  the  Spluthner. 

Mrs.  Knollys  went  back  to  the  little  cottage 
in  Surrey,  and  lived  there.  The  chests  and 
cases  she  brought  back  lay  unopened  in  the 
store-room ;  the  little  rooms  of  the  cottage 
that  was  to  be  their  home  remained  bare  and 
unadorned,  as  Charles  had  seen  them  last. 
She  could  not  bring  herself  to  alter  them 
now.  What  she  had  looked  forward  to  do 
with  him  she  had  no  strength  to  do  alone. 
She  rarely  went  out.  There  was  no  place 
where  she  could  go  to  think  of  him.  He  was 
gone;  gone  from  England,  gone  from  the 
very  surface  of  the  earth.  If  he  had  only  been 
buried  in  some  quiet  English  church-yard, 
she  thought, —  some  green  place  lying  open 
to  the  sun,  where  she  could  go  and  scatter 
flowers  on  his  grave,  where  she  could  sit  and 
look  forward  amid  her  tears  to  the  time  when 
she  should  lie  side  by  side  with  him, —  they 
would  then  be  separated  for  her  short  life 
alone.  Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  were 
far  apart  forever. 

But  late  the  next  summer  she  had  a  letter 
from  the  place.  It  was  from  Dr.  Zimmermann. 
There  is  no  need  here  to  trace  the  quaint 
German  phrases,  the  formalism,  the  cold  terms 
of  science  in  which  he  made  his  meaning 
plain.  It  spoke  of  erosion  ;  of  the  movement 
of  the  summer;  of  the  action  of  the  under- 
waters on  the  ice.  And  it  told  her,  with  ten- 
der sympathy  oddly  blended  with  the  pride 
of  scientific  success,  that  he  had  given  a 
year's  most  careful  study  to  the  place ;  with 
all  his  instruments  of  measurement  he  had 
tested  the  relentless  glacier's  flow;  and  it 
closed  by  assuring  her  that  her  husband 
might  yet  be  found — in  five  and  forty  years. 
In  five  and  forty  years — the  poor  professor 
staked  his  scientific  reputation  on  the  fact — 
in  five  and  forty  years  she  might  return,  and 
the  glacier  would  give  up  its  dead. 


MRS.  KNOLL  YS. 


This  letter  made  Mrs.  Knollys  happier.  It 
made  her  willing  to  live ;  it  made  her  almost 
long  to  live  until  old  age — that  her  Charles's 
body  might  be  given  back.  She  took  heart 
to  beautify  her  little  home.  The  trifling  ar- 
ticles she  had  bought  with  Charles  were  now 
brought  out, — the  little  curiosities  and  pict- 
ures he  had  given  her  on  their  wedding- 
journey.  She  would  ask  how  such  and  such 
a  thing  looked,  turning  her  pretty  head  to 
some  kind  visitor,  as  she  ranged  them  on  the 
walls ;  now  and  then  she  would  have  to  lay 
the  picture  down,  and  cry  a  little,  silently,  as 
she  remembered  where  Charles  had  told  her 
it  would  look  best.  Still,  she  sought  to  fur- 
nish the  rooms  as  they  had  planned  them  in 
their  mind;  she  made  her  surroundings,  as 
nearly  as  she  could,  as  they  had  pictured 
them  together.  One  room  she  never  went 
into ;  it  was  the  room  Charles  had  meant  to 
have  for  the  nursery.  She  had  no  child. 

But  she  changed,  as  we  all  change,  with 
the  passing  of  the  years.  I  first  remember 
her  as  a  woman  middle-aged,  sweet-faced, 
hardly  like  a  widow,  nor  yet  like  an  old  maid. 
She  was  rather  like  a  young  girl  in  love,  with 
her  lover  absent  on  a  long  journey.  She  lived 
more  with  the  memory  of  her  husband,  she 
clung  to  him  more,  than  if  she  had  had  a  child. 
She  never  married ;  you  would  have  guessed 
that;  but,  after  the  Professor's  letter,  she  never 
quite  seemed  to  realize  that  her  husband  was 
dead.  Was  he  not  coming  back  to  her  ? 

Never  in  all  my  knowledge  of  dear  English 
women  have  I  known  a  woman  so  much  loved. 
In  how  many  houses  was  she  always  the 
most  welcome  guest!  How  often  we  boys 
would  go  to  her  for  sympathy !  I  know  she 
was  the  confidante  of  all  our  love  affairs.  I 
cannot  speak  for  girls ;  but  I  fancy  she  was 
much  the  same  with  them.  Many  of  us  owed 
our  life's  happiness  to  her.  She  would  chide 
us  gently  in  our  pettiness  and  folly,  and  teach 
us,  by  her  very  presence  and  example,  what 
thing  it  was  that  alone  could  keep  life  sweet. 
How  well  we  all  remember  the  little  Surrey 
cottage,  the  little  home  fireside  where  the 
husband  had  never  been !  I  think  she  grew  to 
imagine  his  presence,  even  the  presence  of 
children :  boys,  curly-headed,  like  Charles, 
and  sweet,  blue-eyed  daughters ;  and  the  fact 
that  it  was  all  imagining  seemed  but  to  make 
the  place  more  holy.  Charles  still  lived  to 
her  as  she  had  believed  him  in  the  month 
that  they  were  married ;  he  lived  through  life 
with  her  as  her  young  love  had  fancied  he 
would  be.  She  never  thought  of  evil  that 
might  have  occurred ;  of  failing  affection,  of 
cares.  Her  happiness  was  in  her  mind  alone; 
so  all  the  earthly  part  was  absent. 

There  were  but  two  events  in  her  life — 


that  which  was  past  and  that  which  was  tc 
come.  She  had  lived  through  his  loss ;  now 
she  lived  on  for  his  recovery.  But,  as  I  have 
said,  she  changed,  as  all  things  morta; 
change;  all  but  the  earth  and  the  ice-stream 
and  the  stars  above  it.  She  read  much,  anc 
her  mind  grew  deep  and  broad,  none  the  less- 
gentle  with  it  all;  she  was  wiser  in  the  world: 
she  knew  the  depths  of  human  hope  and 
sorrow.  You  remember  her  only  as  an  old 
lady  whom  we  loved.  Only  her  heart  die 
not  change — I  forgot  that;  her  heart,  and 
the  memory  of  that  last  loving  smile  upon  hie 
face,  as  he  bent  down  to  look  into  her  eyes 
before  he  slipped  and  fell.  She  lived  on,  anc 
waited  for  his  body,  as  possibly  his  othei 
self — who  knows?  —  waited  for  hers.  A< 
she  grew  older  she  grew  taller;  her  eyes 
were  quieter,  her  hair  a  little  straighter,  darkei 
than  of  yore ;  her  face  changed,  only  the  ex- 
pression remained  the  same.  Mary  Knollys : 

Human  lives  rarely  look  more  than  a  year, 
or  five,  ahead ;  Mary  Knollys  looked  five  and 
forty.  Many  of  us  wait,  and  grow  weary  in 
waiting,  for  those  few  years  alone,  and  foi 
some  living  friend.  Mary  Knollys  waited  five 
and  forty  years — for  the  dead.  Still,  aftei 
that  first  year,  she  never  wore  all  black ;  only- 
silvery  grays,  and  white  with  a  black  ribbon 
or  two.  I  have  said  that  she  almost  seemed 
to  think  her  husband  living.  She  would  fancy 
his  doing  this  and  that  with  her;  how  he 
would  joy  in  this  good  fortune,  or  share  her 
sorrows — which  were  few,  mercifully.  His 
memory  seemed  to  be  a  living  thing  to  her, 
to  go  through  life  with  her,  hand  in  hand;  it 
changed  as  she  grew  old ;  it  altered  itself  to 
suit  her  changing  thought;  until  the  very 
memory  of  her  memory  seemed  to  make  it 
sure  that  he  had  really  been  alive  with  her, 
really  shared  her  happiness  or  sorrow,  in  the 
far-off  days  of  her  earliest  widowhood.  It 
hardly  seemed  that  he  had  been  gone  already 
then — she  remembered  him  so  well.  She  could 
not  think  that  he  had  never  been  with  her  in 
their  little  cottage.  And  now,  at  sixty,  I  know 
she  thought  of  him  as  an  old  person  too ;  sit- 
ting by  their  fireside,  late  in  life,  mature,  deep- 
souled,  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  years,  going 
back  with  her,  fondly,  to  recall  the  old,  old 
happiness  of  their  bridal  journey,  when  they 
set  off  for  the  happy  honey-moon  abroad,  and 
the  long  life  now  past  stretched  brightly  out 
before  them  both.  She  never  spoke  of  this, 
and  you  children  never  knew  it;  but  it  was 
always  in  her  mind. 

There  was  a  plain  stone  in  the  little  Surrey 
church-yard,  now  gray  and  moss-grown  witi 
the  .rains  of  forty  years,  on  which  you  r(- 
member  reading:  "  Charles  Knollys — lost  h 
Carinthia" This  was  all  she  would  ' 


I 


MRS.  KNOLL  YS. 


iscribed ;  he  was  but  lost ;  no  one  knew  that 
e  was  dead.  Was  he  not  yet  to  be  found  ? 
'here  was  no  grassy  mound  beside  it;  the 
arth  was  smooth.  Not  even  the  date  was 
here.  But  Mrs.  Knollys  never  went  to  read 
She  waited  until  he  should  come;  until 
lat  last  journey,  repeating  the  travels  of 
leir  wedding-days,  when  she  should  go  to 
rermany  to  bring  him  home. 

So  the  woman's  life  went  on  in  England, 
nd  the  glacier  in  the  Alps  moved  on  slowly ; 
nd  the  woman  waited  for  it  to  be  gone. 


IV. 


IN  the  summer  of  1882,  the  little  Carinthian 
llage  of  Heiligenblut  was  haunted  by  two 
ersons.  One  was  a  young  German  scientist, 
ith  long  hair  and  spectacles ;  the  other  was 

tall  English  lady,  slightly  bent,  with  a  face 
herein  the  finger  of  time  had  deeply  written 
mder  things.  Her  hair  was  white  as  silver, 
nd  she  wore  a  long,  black  veil.  Their  habits 
ere  strangely  similar.  Every  morning,  when 
ic  eastern  light  shone  deepest  into  the  ice- 
avern  at  the  base  of  the  great  Pasterzen 
lacier,  these  two  would  walk  thither;  then 
oth  would  sit  for  an  hour  or  two  and  peer 
ito  its  depths.  Neither  knew  why  the  other 
as  there.  The  woman  would  go  back  for  an 
our  in  the  late  afternoon ;  the  man,  never. 
Ee  knew  that  the  morning  light  was  neces- 
iry  for  his  search. 

The  man  was  the  famous  young  Zimmer- 
lann,  son  of  his  father,  the  old  Doctor,  long 
nee  dead.  But  the  Herr  Doctor  had  written 

famous  tract,  when  late  in  life,  refuting  all 
ipliithners,  past,  present,  and  to  come ;  and 
ad  charged  his  son,  in  his  dying  moments, 
3  a  most  sacred  trust,  that  he  should  repair 
)  the  base  of  the  Pasterzen  glacier  in  the 
ear  1882,  where  he  would  find  a  leaden 
ullet,  graven  with  his  father's  name,  and  the 
ate  A.  U.  C.  2590.  All  this  would  be  vin- 
ication  of  his  father's  science.  Spluthner, 
>o,  was  a  very  old  man,  and  Zimmermann 
ic  younger  (for  even  he  was  no  longer  young) 
as  fearful  lest  Spluthner  should  not  live  to 
itness  his  own  refutation.  The  woman  and 
te  man  never  spoke  to  each  other. 

Alas,  no  one  could  have  known  Mrs. 
Jiollys  for  the  fair  English  girl  who  had 
sen  there  in  the  young  days  of  the  cen- 
iry ;  not  even  the  innkeeper,  had  he  been 
.ere.  But  he,  too7  was  long  since  dead, 
[rs.  Knollys  was  now  bent  and  white- 
aired  ;  she  had  forgotten,  herself,  how  she 
id  looked  in  those  old  days.  Her  life  •  had 
pen  lived.  She  was  now  like  a  woman  of 
pother  world;  it  seemed  another  world  in 


which  her  fair  hair  had  twined  about  her 
husband's  fingers,  and  she  and  Charles  had 
stood  upon  the  evening  mountain,  and  looked 
in  one  another's  eyes.  That  was  the  world  of 
her  wedding-days,  but  it  seemed  more  like  a 
world  she  had  left  when  born  on  earth.  And 
now  he  was  coming  back  to  her  in  this. 
Meantime  the  great  Pasterzen  glacier  had 
moved  on,  marking  only  the  centuries;  the 
men  upon  its  bofders  had  seen  no  change; 
the  same  great  waves  lifted  their  snowy  heads 
upon  its  surface ;  the  same  crevasse  still  was 
where  he  had  fallen.  At  night,  the  moon- 
beams, falling,  still  shivered  off  its  glassy 
face;  its  pale  presence  filled  the  night,  and 
immortality  lay  brooding  in  its  hollows. 

Friends  were  with  Mrs.  Knollys,  but  she 
left  them  at  the  inn.  One  old  guide  remem- 
bered her,  and  asked  to  bear  her  company. 
He  went  with  her  in  the  morning,  and  sat  a 
few  yards  from  her,  waiting.  In  the  afternoon 
she  went  alone.  He  would  not  have  credited 
you,  had  you  told  him  that  the  glacier  moved. 
He  thought  it  but  an  Englishwoman's  fancy, 
but  he  waited  with  her.  Himself  had  never 
forgotten  that  old  day.  And  Mrs.  Knollys 
sat  there  silently,  searching  the  clear  depths 
of  the  ice,  that  she  might  find  her  husband. 

One  night  she  saw  a  ghost.  The  latest 
beam  of  the  sun,  falling  on  a  mountain  oppo- 
site, had  shone  back  into  the  ice-cavern;  and 
seemingly  deep  within,  in  the  grave  azure  light, 
she  fancied  she  saw  a  face  turned  toward  her. 
She  even  thought  she  saw  Charles's  yellow 
hair,  and  the  self-same  smile  his  lips  had 
worn  when  he  bent  down  to  her  before  he 
fell.  It  could  be  but  a  fancy.  She  went 
home,  and  was  silent  with  her  friends  about 
what  had  happened.  In  the  moonlight  she 
went  back,  and  again  the  next  morning  be- 
fore dawn.  She  told  no  one  of  her  going; 
but  the  old  guide  met  her  at  the  door,  and 
walked  silently  behind  her.  She  had  slept, 
the  glacier  ever  present  in  her  dreams. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen  when  she  came; 
and  she  sat  a  long  time  in  the  cavern,  listen- 
ing to  the  murmur  of  the  river,  flowing  under 
the  glacier  at  her  feet.  Slowly  the  dawn 
began,  and  again  she  seemed  to  see  the  shim- 
mer of  a  face — such  a  face  as  one  sees  in  the 
coals  of  a  dying  fire.  Then  the  full  sun  came 
over  the  eastern  mountain,  and  the  guide 
heard  a  woman's  cry.  There  before  her  was 
Charles  Knollys!  The  face  seemed  hardly 
pale;  and  there  was  the  same  faint  smile — a 
smile  like  her  memory  of  it,  five  and  forty 
years  gone  by.  Safe  in  the  clear  ice,  still,  un- 
harmed, there  lay — O  God!  not  her  Charles; 
not  the  Charles  of  her  own  thought,  who  had 
lived  through  life  with  her  and  shared  her 
sixty  years ;  not  the  old  man  she  had  borne 


THE    TWO  DARKS. 


thither  in  her  mind — but  a  boy,  a  boy  of  one 
and  twenty  lying  asleep,  a  ghost  from  an- 
other world  coming  to  confront  her  from  the 
distant  past,  immortal  in  the  immortality  of 
the  glacier.  There  was  his  quaint  coat,  of  the 
fashion  of  half  a  century  before ;  his  blue  eyes 
open ;  his  young,  clear  brow  ;  all  the  form  of 
the  past  she  had  forgotten ;  and  she  his  bride 
stood  there  to  welcome  him,  with  her  wrinkles, 
her  bent  figure,  and  thin  *white .  hairs.  She 
was  living,  he  was  dead ;  and  she  was  two 
and  forty  years  older  than  he. 

Then  at  last  the  long-kept  tears  came  to 
her,  and  •  she  bent  her  white  head  in  the 
snow.  The  old  man  came  up  with  his  pick, 
silently,  and  began  working  in  the  ice.  The 
woman  lay  weeping,  and  the  boy,  with  his 
still,  faint  smile,  lay  looking  at  them,  through 
the  clear  ice- veil,  from  his  open  eyes. 

I  BELIEVE  that  the  Professor  found  his  bullet; 
I  know  not.  I  believe  that  the  scientific 


world  rang  with  his  name  and  the  thesis  tha 
he  published  on  the  glacier's  motion,  and  th 
changeless  temperature  his  father's  lost  thei 
mometer  had  shown.  All  this  you  may  reac' 
I  know  no  more. 

But  I  know  that  in  the  English  church 
yard  there  are  now  two  graves,  and  a  singl 
stone,  to  Charles  Knollys  and  Mary,  hi; 
wife ;  and  the  boy  of  one  and  twenty  sleep 
there  with  his  bride  of  sixty-three ;  his  younj 
frame  with  her  old  one,  his  yellow  hair  besid 
her  white.  And  I  do  not  know  that  there  i 
not  some  place,  not  here,  where  they  are  stii 
together,  and  he  is  twenty-one  and  she  is  stij1 
eighteen.  I  do  not  know  this;  but  I  kno\ 
that  all  the  pamphlets  of  the  German  doctoii 
cannot  tell  me  it  is  false. 

Meantime  the  great  Pasterzen  glacie 
moves  on,  and  the  rocks  with  it;  and  th» 
mountain  flings  his  shadow  of  the  planets  ii 
its  face. 

J.  S.,  of  Dale. 


THE   TWO    DARKS. 


AT  dusk,  when  Slumber's  gentle  wand 
Beckons  to  quiet  fields  my  boy, 

And  day,  whose  welcome  was  so  fond^ 
Is  slighted  like  a  rivaled  toy, — 


In  vain  these  bird-like  flutterings, 

As  when  through  cages  sighs  the  wind: 

My  clearest  answer  only  brings 

New  depths  of  mystery  to  his  mind, — 


When  fain  to  follow,  fain  to  stay,  Vague  thoughts,  by  crude  surmise  beset, 
Toward  night's  dim  border-line  he  peers,        And  groping  doubts  that  loom  and  pass 

We  say  he  fears  the  fading  day:  Like  April  clouds  that,  shifting,  fret 

Is  it  the  inner  dark  he  fears  ?  With  tides  of  shade  the  sun-wooed  grass. 


His  deep  eyes,  made  for  wonder,  keep 
Their  gaze  upon  some  land  unknown, 

The  while  the  crowding  questions  leap 
That  show  his  ignorance  my  own. 

For  he  would  go  he  knows  not  where, 
And  I  —  I  hardly  know  the  more; 

Yet  what  is  dark  and  what  is  fair 
He  would  to-night  with  me  explore. 

Upon  the  shoals  of  my  poor  creed 
His  plummet  falls,  but  cannot  rest ; 

To  sound  the  soundless  is  his  need, 
To  find  the  primal  soul,  his  quest. 


O  lonely  soul  within  the  crowd 
Of  souls !     O  language-seeking  cry  ! 

How  black  were  noon  without  a  cloud 
To  vision  only  of  the  eye ! 

Sleep,  child !    while  healing  Nature  breaks 
Her  ointment  on  the  wounds  of  Thought \\ 

Joy,  that  anew  with  morning  wakes, 

Shall  bring  you  sight  it  ne'er  has  brought. 

Lord,  if  there  be,  as  wise  men  spake, 
No  Death,  but  only  Fear  of  Death, 

And  when  Thy  temple  seems  to  shake 
'Tis  but  the  shaking  of  our  breath, 


Whether  by  day  or  night  we  see 

Clouds  where  Thy  winds  have  driven  none, 

Let  unto  us  as  unto  Thee 

The  darkness  and  the  light  be  one. 


Robert  Underwood  Johm 


TOPICS   OF   THE   TIME. 


Open  Constituencies. 

IT  has  been  the  rule  in  this  country  that  a  legis- 

ive  officer  shall  be  a  resident  of  the  district  from 

rich  he  is  chosen,  and  to  this  rule  there  have  been 

w  exceptions.     Many   of    the    State   constitutions, 

deed,  require  it,  though  some  do  not;  while  the 

mstitution    of    the    United    States    only    requires 

at  a   member   of  the    House    of    Representatives 

all  be  a  resident  of  the   State  from  which  he   is 

osen.    But,  whether  required  or  not,  the  practice 

s  been  everywhere  observed  in  State  and  nation ; 

d  there  has  been,  so  far  as  we  know,  no  important 

Dvement  toward  abandoning  it  in  any  part  of  the 

untry.    To  be  sure,  ambitious  city  men   are  some- 

aes  elected  from  their  country  homes;    but  they  are 

t,  naturally  enough,  to  have  to  combat  a  prejudice  in 

ocuring  a  representative  office  by  such  a  makeshift. 

[n    England,    on    the   contrary,    no   such    rule    is 

own.    Members   of  the  House  of  Commons  are, 

Meed,  chosen  by  districts,  each  having  one  or  more 

)resentatives ;  but  the  member  chosen  need  not  be 

esident  of  the  district  itself,  but  may  be  taken  from 

ty  part  of  the  United  Kingdom.    Hence,  at  every 

ijrliamentary  election,  many  boroughs  and  counties 

sect  as  their  representatives  men  that  have  never  been 

r  idents  there,  and  whose  capacity  for  legislation  is  their 

s  e  recommendation  to  the  favor  of  their  constituents. 

There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of  the 

^icrican  system,  for  in  many  respects  it  has  worked 

\11.     It  has  brought  out  men  who  have  proved  of 

§:at  use  in  public  affairs,  and  who  might  not  have 

one  to  the  front  under  a  different  system.     On  the 

oer  hand,  the  objections  to   the  American  method 

aj  of  no  little  moment.    In  the  first  place,  the  rule 

pfilways  choosing  a  resident  often  results  in  putting 

office  men   of  inferior   ability,  to  the   detriment 

the  public   welfare.     It   frequently   happens   that 

e  is   no   resident   of    conspicuous    ability   whose 

v,vs   are   sufficiently   accordant   with   those   of  the 

srs  to  secure  his  election ;  and  when  this  is  the 

>,  an   inferior  man  is  necessarily  chosen  instead. 

:re  is  in  all  countries  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  the 

Rst  men  to  concentrate  in  or  near  the  large  towns, 

bjause  it  is  here,  as  a  rule,  that  they  find  the  best 

ojortunities  for  the  exercise  of  their  talents.    Com- 

Wce  necessarily   centers    in   such   places,  and   the 

wj.lth  that  thus  gathers  there  brings  with  it  a  large 

ptoortion  of  the  ablest  lawyers,  teachers,  and  other 

pfessional  men,  as  well  as  men  of  business.     In 

otjr  words,  the  rural  districts  are  largely  drained  of 

thr  ablest  men  by  the  superior  attractions  of  the 

ci;s;  so  that,  in  some  districts,  the  number  of  men 

refy  fitted   for  high  political   office  is  small.    The 

cckequence  is,  that  men  of  inferior  character  are  often 

ivoidably  chosen  as  representatives ;  men  who  would 

I'lly  be  selected  if  the  English  custom  prevailed  of 

seeing  a  representative  wherever  a  suitable  person 

m:ht  be  found. 


Again,  the  American  custom  has  the  effect  of  keep- 
ing out  of  office  many  men  who  would  be  of  great 
service  to  the  country  if  they  could  get  elected,  and 
who  might  get  elected  if  they  could  have  their  choice 
of  a  constituency,  but  who  stand  no  chance  at  all  in 
the  district  in  which  they  happen  to  live.  Some  dis- 
tricts, especially  in  the  great  cities,  are  peopled  by 
ignorant  masses,  whose  choice  of  a  representative  is 
but  slightly  governed  by  considerations  of  fitness,  and 
the  ablest  man  in  such  a  district  would  have  small 
chance  of  getting  elected.  Hence,  there  result  from 
our  method  of  election  two  closely  related  evils,  the 
actual  choice  of  inferior  men  who  happen  to  be  resi- 
dents, and  the  consignment  to  private  life  of  many 
abler  men  who  reside  among  an  ignorant  or  unsympa- 
thetic constituency. 

But  perhaps  the  worst  effect  of  the  prevailing  cus- 
tom is  the  spirit  of  provincialism  infused  by  it  into  our 
national  politics.  Every  member  of  Congress  is  obliged, 
under  penalty  of  losing  his  seat,  to  look  out  for  the  local 
interests  of  his  district,  however  opposed  they  may 
be  to  the  general  good;  and  thus  local  interests  are 
liable  to  become  paramount  in  his  mind  over  the  na- 
tional welfare  and  the  principles  of  justice.  Conspic- 
uous instances  of  this  sort  have  been  repeatedly  seen 
in  the  case  of  tariff  legislation,  and  in  the  river  and 
harbor  jobs,  whose  very  name  has  become  odious. 
And  if  a  representative  is  unfaithful  to  these  local 
interests,  however  sinister  they  may  be,  he  may  at 
any  time  lose  his  office,  in  spite  of  important  services 
rendered  to  the  nation  at  large.  But  if  he  could  pre- 
sent himself  for  election  in  any  part  of  his  own  State, 
it  would  often  happen  that,  when  he  was  rejected  by  one 
constituency,  he  would  be  chosen  by  another,  and  thus 
a  man  of  eminent  fitness  would  seldom  lose  his  office 
on  account  of  local  jealousy  or  provincial  dislike. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  the  custom  of 
always  choosing  a  resident  has  been  so  long  retained, 
notwithstanding  its  inconveniences.  But  the  narrow, 
provincial  spirit  which  leads  to  the  magnifying  of  local 
interests  has  too  widely  prevailed  among  us ;  and  so 
long  as  this  continues  to  be  the  case,  the  irrational 
custom  is  likely  to  be  maintained.  We  believe,  how- 
ever, that  this  spirit  is  much  less  prevalent  than  it 
was,  and  that  the  American  people  are  now  more 
truly  one  in  feeling  than  ever  before ;  and  we  think 
that,  in  the  more  enlightened  constituencies,  no  great 
effort  would  be  required  to  abolish  the  present  cast- 
iron  custom  altogether.  That  its  abolition  would 
result,  in  many  instances,  in  giving  us  abler  legis- 
lators there  can  be  little  doubt,  while  at  the  same 
time  it  would  promote  the  independence  of  the  legis- 
lators themselves,  by  freeing  them  from  the  thralldom 
of  mere  local  interests.  In  our  opinion,  a  popular 
leader  would  render  his  country  no  inconsiderable 
service  by  breaking  through  the  absurd  custom  of  a 
hundred  years,  and  presenting  himself  for  election 
in  a  district  where  he  did  not  reside ;  and  we  are  con- 
fident that  if  the  custom  was  once  broken,  the  advan- 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


tages  of  the  new  system  would  speedily  be  recognized. 
One  of  the  principal  uses  of  a  Congressman  has 
hitherto  been  the  obtaining  of  small  federal  offices  for 
his  "constituents."  Under  the  dawning  regime  of 
reform  this  degrading  misuse  of  representatives  will 
be  done  away  with,  and  "  open  constituencies  "  will 
be  more  possible  and  more  probable  in  America. 

Is  the  Old   Faith  Dying  ? 

THE  question  as  to  the  present  status  of  Christianity 
in  Christian  lands  is  now  under  discussion ;  and  the 
statements  made  by  debaters  on  either  side  as  to  the 
facts  of  the  case  are  curiously  variant.  On  the  one 
side,  it  is  asserted  in  the  most  unqualified  manner  that 
belief  in  the  facts  and  doctrines  of  the  Christian  re- 
ligion is  nearly  obsolete ;  that  the  faith  of  our  fathers 
has  no  longer  any  practical  hold  on  the  community ; 
that  the  intelligent  and  influential  citizens  have  nearly 
all  parted  company  with  the  churches ;  and  that  the 
day  is  not  distant  when  Christianity  will  be  numbered 
among  the  effete  superstitions.  The  truth  of  this 
statement  seems,  to  those  who  make  it,  so  obvious  that 
they  take  no  pains  to  prove  it ;  it  is  assumed,  as  a 
postulate,  in  all  their  reasoning ;  it  would  be  super- 
fluous, they  think,  to  show  that  these  things  are  so; 
all  that  is  required  is  to  show  why  they  are  so. 

On  the  other  side,  the  disputants  begin  by  denying 
the  existence  of  any  such  facts  as  these  antagonists 
assume,  and  by  demanding  the  production  of  them. 
Not  only  so,  they  have  recourse  to  the  census  of  the 
United  States  and  to  the  various  year  books  and 
published  records  of  the  various  Christian  sects,  to 
show  that  Christianity  is  gaining  instead  of  losing 
ground ;  that  the  number  of  communicants  in  the 
various  churches  is  increasing  faster  than  the  popula- 
tion; and  that  the  sittings  in  the  churches  are  now 
three  times  as  numerous,  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  the  people,  as  they  were  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution  ; 
so  that  if  one-third  of  the  room  in  them  is  now  occu- 
pied, the  church  attendance  must  be  at  least  as  large, 
relatively,  as  it  was  one  hundred  years  ago.  Every 
habitual  church-goer  knows  that  more  than  one-third 
of  the  room  is  occupied  at  the  ordinary  Sunday  serv- 
ices ;  while  the  extent  to  which  the  church  is  used  for 
purposes  of  worship  and  instruction  is  greatly  in- 
creased by  the  multiplication  of  services,  both  on 
week-days  and  on  Sundays,  and  especially  by  the 
rise  and  progress  of  Sunday-schools.  In  most  Protest- 
ant churches,  the  congregation  which  meets  at  the 
Sunday-school  service  is  nearly  as  large  as  that  which 
gathers  for  the  morning  preaching-service,  and  the 
two  congregations  are  composed,  to  a  large  extent, 
of  different  persons  —  not  one-half  of  the  members 
of  the  Sunday-school  being  present  at  the  preaching- 
service.  This  state  of  things  may  not  be  desirable ; 
but  the  fact  must  be  noted  in  making  up  our  estimate 
of  the  number  of  persons  in  the  community  brought 
under  the  influence  of  the  churches. 

To  this  class  of  facts  constant  appeal  is  made  by 
those  who  dispute  the  assumption  that  Christianity  is 
a  waning  faith.  The  volume  of  the  Rev.  Daniel  Dor- 
chester, in  which  figures  compiled  from  the  census 
and  from  the  official  records  of  the  different  sects  are 
clearly  presented,  makes  a  striking  presentation  of  the 
growth  of  the  Christian  faith.  By  tables  which  have 


been  for  some  time  before  the  public,  and  which  have 
not,  so  far  as  we  know,  been  controverted,  it  is  made 
to  appear  that  the  number  of  communicants  in  the 
evangelical  Protestant  churches  has  increased,  since 
the  beginning  of  this  century,  three  times  as  fast  as 
the  population.  Some  of  these  figures,  with  others 
confirming  them,  have  lately  been  adduced  by  Dr. 
Ward  in  a  discussion  of  this  subject  in  the  "  North 
American  Review."  The  showing  made  in  this  com- 
pact and  vigorous  article  should  have  the  effect  to 
push  the  debate  back  to  the  settlement  of  the  question 
of  fact.  Before  any  further  arguments  are  constructed 
to  show  why  Christianity  is  obsolescent,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  bring  forth  some  reasons  for  believing 
that  such  is  the  case.  To  prove  mathematically  that 
Christianity  is  true,  or  untrue,  may  be  somewhat  dif- 
ficult ;  but  there  can  be  no  serious  difficulty  in  making 
it  appear  whether  or  not  it  is  losing  its  hold  upon  the 
thought  and  life  of  the  people.  And  it  would  be  a 
much  more  scientific  method  of  procedure  if  those 
who  maintain  the  decadence  of  the  popular  faith 
would  take  a  little  trouble  to  acquaint  themselves 
with  the  facts  that  bear  upon  this  particular  point. 

It  is  often  said  specifically  that  men  of  affairs,  as  a 
class,  have  lost  their  interest  in  the  churches,  and  an 
attempt  was  lately  made  to  test  the  truth  of  this  as- 
sertion. In  an  Eastern  city,  with  a  population  of  a 
little  less  than  forty  thousand,  the  president  and  cashier 
of  one  of  the  national  banks  were  requested  to  furnish 
a  list  of  the  fifty  strongest  business  firms  in  the  city, 
with  the  name  of  the  head  of  each  firm.  The  gentle- 
men furnishing  the  list  had  no  knowledge  whatever 
of  the  use  that  was  to  be  made  of  it.  In  classifying 
fifty-four  names  thus  given,  it  was  found  that  there 
were  seven  whose  relation  to  the  churches  was  un- 
known to  the  gentleman  who  had  obtained  the  list; 
six  who  were  not  identified  with  any  of  them ;  and 
forty-one  who  were  all  regular  attendants  upon  the 
churches  and  generous  supporters  of  their  work— 
the  great  majority  of  them  communicants.  In  a  West- 
ern city  of  a  little  more  than  sixty  thousand  inhabit- 
ants, a  similar  list  of  fifty-two  names  was  obtained  in 
the  same  way ;  and  the  analysis  showed  three  whose 
ecclesiastical  standing  was  unknown;  one  Jew;  six 
not  connected  with  churches;  and  forty-two  regular 
church-goers,  of  whom  thirty-one  were  communicants. 
These  lists  were  both  made  up  by  well-informed  and 
sagacious  business  men ;  the  cities  represented  by 
them  are  not  conspicuously  religious  communities;  and 
the  composition  of  them  gives  small  color  to  the 
notion  that  the  business  men  of  our  cities  are  estranged 
from  the  churches.  It  is  astonishing  that  such  a  notion 
should  ever  have  gained  currency,  in  the  face  of  the 
palpable  fact  that  so  much  money  is  contributed  every 
year  for  the  support  of  the  churches  and  the  prose- 
cution of  their  charitable  and  missionary  enterprises. 

It  is  possible  that  a  fair  showing  with  respect  to 
the  business  men  of  other  cities  might  be  less  favor- 
able than  that  here  presented  ;  but  it  is  almost  certain 
that  a  complete  induction  of  facts  would  correct  the 
impression  that  the  churches  have  lost  their  hole1 
upon  this  class  of  men. 

It  is  true  that  a  comparatively  small  number  of ' 
respectable  persons  have  withdrawn  from  all 
tion  with  the  churches,  and  have  shut  their 
a  temper  the  reverse  of  scientific,  against  all  ide 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


'55 


nfluences  which  proceed  from  this  source.  But  for 
his,  they  would  be  made  aware  of  two  facts  of  which 
hey  now  seem  oblivious  :  first,  that  many  of  the 
:hurches  are  quietly  and  cautiously  adjusting  their 
Current  teaching  to  the  growing  light  of  the  age,  so 
hat  there  is  much  less  repugnance  between  their 
doctrines  and  modern  science  than  is  often  imagined ; 
,econd,  that  they  are  learning  to  enter,  by  a  truer 
ympathy  and  a  more  intelligent  ministry,  into  the 
eal  life  of  men,  and  thus  to  maintain  and  strengthen 
heir  hold  upon  the  masses  of  the  people.  Unques- 
ionably,  the  "  non-church-goer "  who  started  this 
iscussion,  and  all  that  class  of  outside  critics  to 
vhich  he  belongs,  have  much  to  learn  respecting  the 
eal  condition  and  prospects  of  the  church  of  Christ 
n  America.  If  their  information  were  better,  their 


estimates  would  be  more  hopeful  and  their  judgments 
more  sympathetic.  And  they  cannot  too  soon  dis- 
abuse their  minds  of  the  belief  that  the  Christian  relig- 
ion is  in  its  decadence.  Such  facts  as  those  to  which 
we  have  referred  show  its  outward  growth ;  but  the 
real  signs  of  its  progress  cannot  be  expressed  in  fig- 
ures. It  is  the  gospel  of  the  leaven  rather  than  the 
gospel  of  the  mustard-seed  whose  triumphs  are  most 
signal  and  most  sure.  The  one  grand  fact  on  which 
defenders  of  Christianity  should  rest  their  case  is 
presented  in  these  words  of  Canon  Fremantle  :  "  The 
Spirit  of  Christ  is  supreme  over  the  whole  range  of  the 
secular  life, —  education,  trade,  literature,  art,  science, 
and  politics, — and  is  seen  to  be  practically  vindicating 
this  supremacy. "  If  this  can  be  seen,  it  is  worth  seeing. 
No  fact  could  be  more  significant  or  more  impressive. 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


Matthew  Arnold  in  America. 


ONE  of  the  signs  that  this  country  has  reached  its 
ajority  —  reached  it  through  the  ennobling  sacrifices 
the  civil  war,  which  changed  our  political  boyhood 
to  manhood — is  the  fact  that  Americans  are  no 
nger  sensitive  to  foreign  criticism.  The  nation  is 
o  big,  prosperous,  good-natured  to  care  what  Europe 
inks.  The  continent  no  longer  trembles  when  a 
stinguished  foreign  critic  sets  his  foot  on  it.  He  is 
elcome  to  fill  his  note-book  and  go  his  way ;  and  by 
d  by,  when  he  publishes  his  "  Notes  of  a  Short 
mrney  in  the  United  States,"  or  "  Observations  on 
e  Social  and  Political  System  of  American  Democ- 
.cy,"  we  will  read  his  little  book,  perhaps  with  amuse- 
ent,  perhaps  with  profit  to  ourselves,  but  certainly 
ithout  that  eager  curiosity  to  know  how  we  look  to 
r  visitors  that  used  to  possess  us  in  ante-bellum  days. 
Yet  the  arrival  among  us  of  so  acute  a  social  ob- 
rver  as  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  deserves  a  passing 
tice.  I  am  not  going  to  try  to  prophesy  what  Mr. 
mold's  experiences  here  may  be,  nor  to  anticipate 
s  judgment  of  society  in  the  United  States.  \Vhat 
thinks  of  us  in  a  general  way  we  already  know 
m  the  preface  to  "  Culture  and  Anarchy,"  and 
5m  his  article  last  year  in  "  The  Nineteenth  Cent- 
y,"  "  A  Word  about  America."  The  opinion  there 
pen  was  evidently  quite  firmly  held,  although  mod- 
tly  expressed,  and  there  is  little  reason  to  expect 
fat  a  brief  stay  in  this  country  will  modify  it  much. 
jit  as  our  critic  is  always  insisting  upon  the  need  of 
greater  flexibility  of  mind  and  accessibility  to  ideas 
jpeople  of  British  stock,  we  may  predict  that  he  will 
}this  instance  practice  that  favorite  virtue,  and  hold 
$  opinion  subject  to  some  revision.  Indeed,  he  has 
oiowledged  that  it  is  difficult  "  to  speak  of  a  people 
rely  from  what  one  reads." 

There  are  one  or  two  things,  however,  which,  it 
iy  with  confidence  be  predicted,  he  will  find  here, 
&  will  find  perhaps  worth  studying.  He  will  find,  for 
^tance,  that  democracy  which  he  foresees  to  be  in- 
Stable,  and  that  equality  which  he  thinks  desirable 


in  modern  society.  But  whether  the  particular  type 
of  democracy  and  equality  which  we  have  developed 
will  seem  to  him  admirable  is  doubtful.  "  In  America 
perhaps,"  he  once  wrote,  "  we  see  the  disadvantages 
of  having  social  equality  before  there  has  been  any 
high  standard  of  social  life  and  manners  formed." 
Again,  Mr.  Arnold  has  written  much  and  ably  on  the 
question  of  secondary  education,  and  has  advocated 
the  establishment  in  England  of  higher  schools  for 
the  instruction  of  the  middle  class,  which  should  enjoy 
state  support  and  supervision  like  the  French  lycees. 
He  will,  therefore,  naturally  be  interested  in  the  pub- 
lic school  systems  of  our  cities,  and  in  the  state  uni- 
versities of  some  of  our  Western  States.  It  is  true  that 
he  has  expressed  in  advance  an  unfavorable  opinion 
of  our  secondary  schools,  and  has  intimated  that,  like 
the  English  classical  and  commercial  academies,  they 
have  not  "  a  serious  programme — a  programme  really 
suited  to  the  wants  and  capacities  of  those  who  are  to 
be  trained."  I  venture,  however,  to  express  the 
hope  that  he  will  have  time  to  look  closer  into  this 
matter,  and  to  give  us  the  results  of  his  observations. 
Finally,  he  will  find  the  Philistine  here  in  great 
rankness  and  luxuriance ;  and  my  chief  object  in  writ- 
ing this  letter  is  to  say  why  I  think  that  we  need  not 
be  overmuch  disquieted  by  the  presence  of  the  Philis- 
tine among  us,  or  by  Mr.  Arnold's  discovery  that  he 
exists  here  in  overwhelming  numbers  and  in  flagrant 
type.  It  is  well  known  that  our  critic  has  divided  Eng- 
lish society  into  three  classes,  which  he  politely  names 
Barbarians,  Philistines,  and  Populace.  In  America,  he 
tells  us,  there  are  no  Barbarians  and  hardly  any  Popu- 
lace. The  great  bulk  of  the  nation  consists  of  the  Phil- 
istines ;  a  livelier  kind  of  Philistine,  he  admits,  and  more 
accessible  to  ideas,  than  his  English  brother,  but  left 
more  to  himself,  and  without  the  social  standard  fur- 
nished by  an  aristocracy.  I  believe  it  was  Mr.  Arnold 
who,  in  his  essay  on  Heine,  first  imported  the  word 
Philistine  into  English,  and  he  has  succeeded  in  do- 
mesticating it  by  dint  of  repetition  in  his  later  essays. 
Yet  even  now  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  great 
British  and  American  public  has  any  clear  notion  of 


'56 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


the  right  meaning  of  the  term.  There  was  an  amusing 
discussion  in  the  English  newspapers  some  time  since 
as  to  whether  Macaulay  was  or  was  not  a  Philistine. 
I  do  not  remember  that  Mr.  Arnold  ever  called  him 
one.  He  has  in  many  passages  of  his  writings  been 
very  hard  upon  Macaulay  for  being  a  rhetorician,  for 
lacking  intellectual  delicacy,  and  for  being  dogmatic, 
superficial,  uncritical,  and  what  not.  But  surely  it 
would  be  a  confusion  of  terms  to  apply  to  a  man  of 
Macaulay's  inquisitive  and  speculative  spirit  a  term 
which  always  implies  in  Mr.  Arnold's  use  of  it  a  dis- 
trust of  ideas,  an  inflexibility  of  mind,  an  adherence 
to  routine  and  machinery. 

The  truth  is  that  Mr.  Arnold's  Philistine  is  iden- 
tical with  what  we  know  in  America  as  the  practical 
man;  the  man  who  is  impatient  of  "theories,"  and 
who  brings  everything  to  the  test  of  utility;  who  does 
not  care  for  "the  things. of  the  mind"  except  in  so 
far  as  they  minister  to  immediate  practical  ends.  To 
Mr.  Arnold  the  representative  par  excellence  of  Philis- 
tinism is  the  respectable  English  Liberal  and  Puritan 
Dissenter  of  the  middle  classes,  whose  life  vibrates 
between  "  business  and  bethels. "  It  is  the  "  hideous- 
ness  and  immense  ennui  "  of  the  life  lived  by  this 
person  which  afflicts  the  critic's  imagination.  The 
Philistine,  he  insists,  must  transform  himself.  He  has 
"  a  defective  type  of  religion,  a  narrow  range  of  intel- 
lect and  knowledge,  a  stunted  sense  of  beauty,  a  low 
standard  of  manners."  He  must  be  civilized,  must 
get  sweetness  and  light.  He  must  aim  at  culture, 
which  is  "  the  study  and  pursuit  of  perfection."  And 
the  chief  agency,  at  present,  for  the  diffusion  of  cult- 
ure is  criticism,  "a  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn 
and  propagate  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in 
the  world."  It  is  admitted,  however,  that  the  Philis- 
tine may  and  does  possess  all  the  solid  virtues,  indus- 
try, integrity,  piety,  etc. 

Now,  I  think  it  is  evident  why  we  need  not  be 
overmuch  disquieted  by  the  reflection  that  the  mass 
of  Americans  are  Philistines.  Mr.  Arnold's  vision  of 
a  transformed  society  in  which  the  Philistine  shall 
have  been  utterly  abolished  out  of  the  land  is,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  an  unattainable  though  a  beautiful  ideal. 
The  rough  work  of  the  world  has  got  to  be  done  by 
men  and  women  who  have  small  leisure  for  the  study 
and  pursuit  of  perfection  —  even  perhaps  of  moral 
perfection — and  to  whom  a  disinterested  concern  for 
the  things  of  the  mind  will  always  be  an  impossibility. 
They  have  got  to  think  of  their  business,  and  to  find 
their  happiness  in  it  rather  than  in  self-culture.  And 
if  their  life  outside  of  their  business,  if  their  religion, 
their  amusements,  etc.,  seem  to  the  man  of  fine  cult- 
ure and  wider  horizons  to  be  unsatisfactory,  humdrum, 
and  full  of  "  immense  ennui,"  he  should  not  therefore 
call  them  hideous,  though  he  may  legitimately  enough 
try  to  show  them  a  better  way.  We  cannot  all  of  us 
employ  our  spare  moments  in  reading  Greek  poetry. 

I  know  that  Mr.  Arnold  says,  or  seems  to  say,  that 
there  have  been  entire  communities  in  possession  of 
sweetness  and  light,  but  that  appears  doubtful.  "  By 
the  Ilissus  there  was  no  Wragg,  poor  thing!  "  Per- 
haps not,  but  the  Philistine  was  there;  yes,  we  may 
feel  sure  that  the  Philistine  was  there,  though  the 
Ilissus  is  so  far  removed  from  us  that  the  unfortunate 
man  is  not  revealed  to  us  as  clearly  as  when  he  is  our 
neighbor. 


The  best  thing  that  we  can  do  with  our  Philistine 
is  to  accept  him  and  live  on  terms  with  him,  while 
offering  him  every  practicable  means  for  self-improve- 
ment. Mr.  Arnold  complains  that  the  English — and 
therefore, by  implication,  the  American  —  middle  class, 
is  vulgarized.  This  would  be  true  if  there  went  noth- 
ing to  make  vulgarity  but  the  absence  of  high  thinking 
and  fine  manners  and  tastes.  But  one  may  be  without 
these  and  yet  not  be  vulgar.  Intellectual  narrowness, 
social  plainness,  the  absence  of  beauty,  the  hard  con- 
ditions to  which  most  men  are  more  or  less  con- 
demned, are  far  from  constituting  vulgarity.  Mr. 
Arnold's  impatience  of  the  Philistine  seems  to  spring 
from  a  certain  unsympathetic  attitude  toward  the 
homely — or,  if  he  chooses,  vulgar  —  aspects  of  human 
life  which,  though  superficially  ugly,  are  necessary,  and 
therefore  not  unwholesome,  nor  indeed  even  altogether 
unlovely.  Even  in  his  more  strictly  literary  criticism 
this  defective  sympathy  is  apparent.  The  quality 
which  he  praises  most  is  distinction  in  style  and 
thought,  urbanity,  dignity,  intellectual  delicacy,  rather 
than  what  is  most  broadly  and  intensely  human.  He 
has  no  relish  of  the  healthy  coarseness  of  nature.  In 
all  his  laudation  of  equality  he  remains  at  heart  aris- 
tocratic. He  does  not  feel  with  or  for  the  lower 
classes  as  they  are,  but  he  wants  to  make  gentlemen 
of  them  !  If  he  wishes  to  understand  the  true  spirit 
of  American  democracy,  let  him  turn  his  attention  for 
a  moment  to  the  remarkable  literary  phenomenon 
offered  by  the  "  poems  "  of  Walt  Whitman.  Here, 
amid  much  rankness  and  formlessness,  much  slovenly 
writing  and  defective  art,  and  some  affectation,  he  will 
find  the  most  vivid  and  powerful  explosions  of  the 
true  democratic  spirit  known  in  literature.  By  the 
true  democratic  spirit,  I  mean  the  spirit  of  exultant 
hope  and  confidence  in  the  future  of  the  people;  the 
spirit  of  good  fellowship,  friendliness,  brotherhood 
with  the  average  man  ;  and  even  a  physical  comfort  in 
the  contact  of  the  healthy  human  animal,  man  or 
woman, —  a  liking  for  the  warm,  gregarious  pressure 
of  the  crowd.  This  is  the  real  equality:  not  merely 
the  praiseworthy  wish  to  elevate  the  middle  and  lower 
classes  by  culture  up  to  a  position  where  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  man  of  refinement  to  sympathize  with 
them  intellectually  ;  but  a  willingness  —  nay,  a  strong 
thirst  and  impulse  —  to  meet  them  on  the  basis  of  their 
common  manhood;  to  interest  one's  self  in  their  char- 
acters, feelings,  life  experiences.  A  man  who  may 
have  an  appreciation  of  Greek  poetry,  but  who  likes 
to  put  on  a  flannel  shirt  on  occasion,  go  about  among 
farmers,  fishermen,  commercial  travelers,  and  see  life1 
from  their  point  of  view  without  being  offended  by 
their  want  of  .sweetness  and  light,  is  the  ideal  Amer- 
ican democrat. 

As  to  the  welcome  which  our  distinguished  guest 
will  receive  in  America,  we  do  not  doubt  that  it  will 
be  a  hearty  one  —  though  heartiness  is  not,  perhaps, 
a  trait  which  Mr.  Arnold  specially  prizes.  It  may  be 
better  to  say,  therefore,  that  his  welcome  will  be  ap- 
preciative. I  do  not  allude  to  personal  hospitalities, 
but  to  the  respectful  gratification  at  his  presence  :n 
the  country  of  the  many  who  have  long  owed  him  '<.  n 
intellectual  debt;  or  perhaps  it  might  be  truer  to  siy 
the  few  who  have  owed  him  this  debt.  He  has  spok<  n 
of  himself,  now  and  then,  as  an  unpopular  writei ; 
and  possibly,  in  view  of  his  rather  low  estimate 


.,, 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


opular  taste,  the  phrase  is  not  altogether  one  of  self- 
sparagement.    His  writings  are  certainly  not  as  dear 
the  great  heart  of  the  people  as  are  those  of  Dick- 
is   Kin^sley,  and  some  other  English  authors  who 
ive  visited  their  American  constituency.    Yet  I  know 
umbers  of  young  men  —  and  some,  alas  !  no  longer 
ung — who  have  found  in  Matthew  Arnold's  poetry 
more  exact  answer  to  their  intellectual  and  emotional 
ants  than  in  any  poetry  of  Tennyson's  or  even  of 
merson's.    They  have  found,  too,  a  classical  purity 
nd  restraint  of  manner,  "  a  certain  Doric  delicacy," 
-  such  as  Sir  Henry  Wotton  was  ravished  with  in  the 
des  and  songs  of  "  Comus," — which  has  imparted  a 
ner  gusto  to  their  literary  palates  than  anything  else 
contemporary  poetry.    They  are  apt  to  regret  that 
poet  who  has  written  such  poetry  as  "  The  Scholar 
ypsy"and  "  Thyrsis,"  as  "  Empedocles  on   Etna" 
id  "The  Sick   King  in   Bokhara,"   should  have  — 
imparatively — wasted  his  time   of  late  in  scolding 
e  British  Philistine.    And  though  they  know  that 
poet  can  compel  the  service  of  his  muse,  yet  they 
e  fond  of  pointing  to   Mr.  Arnold  as  an  instance 
the  peril  which  attends  a  writer  who  allows  him- 
If  to  get  more  and  more  into  an  exclusively  critical 
titude,  and  to  forget  the  habit  of  original  creation.' 
icy  know,  of  course,  what  their  favorite  poet's  plea 
ould  be,  what  it  already  has  been  in  his  essay  on 
The  Function  of  Criticism":  that  the  times  are  un- 
;  that  a  period  of  criticism  is   needed  to  prepare 
other   era   of  creative   power.     But,  besides    that, 
me  of  Mr.  Arnold's  admirers  do  not  altogether  be- 
;ve  the  doctrine  of  that  essay;  they  profess  themselves 
ger  to  take  prose  if  they  cannot  get  poetry ;  such 
ose,  i.  e.,  as  that  of  his  earlier  and  pleasanter  essays 
the  essays  "  On  Translating  Homer,"  on  Heine  and 
e  De  Gue"rins,  on  "  Pagan  and  Mediseval  Religious 
mtiment."  Beautiful  prose  that  was  —  simple,  pliant, 
licate,  flowing   so   subtly  and  quietly  into  all   the 
Ids  of  the  subject.    But  they  are  growing  tired  of 
aring  about  the  Philistine. 

As  regards  the  spread  of  Mr.  Arnold's  ideas  about 
cial  classes,  political  tendencies,  education,  etc.,  or 
other  words,  as  regards  the  general  influence  of  his 
itings  in  this  country,  I  am  afraid  that  his  ideas 
themselves  are  unpopular;  and  then  that  there  is 
mething  fastidious,  patronizing,  de  haul  en  bas  in 
s  way  of  remonstrating  with  the  Philistine,  which 
asperates  the  latter  and  hardens  him  in  his  error, 
once  heard  a  public  speaker  fall  with  great  fury 
on  a  sentence  of  Mr.  Arnold's  in  which  he  had  de- 
ired  that  the  Cornell  University  seemed  "  to  rest  on 
provincial  misconception  of  what  culture  truly  is, 
id  to  be  calculated  to  produce  miners,  or  engineers, 
architects,  not  sweetness  and  light."  What,  then, 
ked  in  effect  this  eloquent  public  speaker  and  influ- 
tial  statesman, — what,  then,  in  Heaven's  name  is  a 
liversity  for  if  not  to  produce  miners  or  engineers 
|  other  trained  men  to  do  their  work  in  the  world, 
;id  to  do  it  thoroughly?  And  what  is  this  vague, 
gacious  "  sweetness  and  light  "  which  this  unpracti- 
11  doctrinaire  offers  us  ?  etc.,  etc.  One  can  imagine 
frth  what  delicate  irony  Mr.  Arnold  would  reply  to 
jis  orating  Philistine.  How  gently  he  would  point 
fit  to  him  that  our  need  is  rather  for  more  light  than 
jr  immediate  acting ;  and  that  this  mania  for  acting, 
|i  the  part  of  the  Liberal  party  in  England,  has  re- 


sulted in  the  bill  for  enabling  a  man  to  marry  his 
deceased  wife's  sister. 

Not  that  Mr.  Arnold  was  wrong  in  what  he  wrote 
about  the  true  purpose  of  a  university;  but  that,  in 
his  way  of  approaching  the  tired  politician  or  business 
man  who  has  been  bearing  the  burden  and  heat  of  the 
fight,  with  his  proffer  of  sweetness  and  light  and  his 
complaint  of  the  hideousness  of  such  names  as  Hig- 
ginbottom,  Stiggins,  Bugg,  Wragg,  anfl  other  Anglo- 
Saxon  outrages  on  euphony  which  have  come  betwixt 
the  wind  and  his  nobility,— in  all  this  there  is  a  slight 
suggestion,  to  the  tired  warrior  of  the  gentleman  whose 
chat  annoyed  Hotspur. 

Not,  I  repeat,  that  he  was  wrong ,  for  it  is  for  the 
steady  maintenance  in  his  writings  of  a  "  disinter- 
ested "  ideal  of  culture  that  the  friends  of  liberal  educa- 
tion should  be  most  grateful  to  him.  At  a  time  when 
many  philosophers  are  telling  us  that  the  development 
of  human  society,  being  the  final  step  in  the  evolution 
of  life,  is  to  be,  and  ought  to  be,  accompanied  by  the 
closer  and  ever  closer  specializing  of  functions  in  the 
individuals  of  that  society  —  so  that  the  miner,  e.  g., 
shall  tend  more  and  more  to  be  merely  a  miner,  and 
the  engineer  merely  an  engineer,  and  every  man  of 
continually  less  importance  as  an  individual  and  con- 
tinually greater  importance  as  a  "  differentiated  "  crank 
or  organ  in  the  social  machine  or  body, — at  such  a 
time  Mr.  Arnold  upholds  the  old  idea  that  the  highest 
product  of  social  machinery  is  a  man,  and  not  a  miner 
or  engineer,  and  the  highest  object  of  educational  sys- 
tems is  the  culture  of  a  man,  or  in  other  words,  "  the 
study  and  pursuit  of  perfection. "  It  is  very  true  that, 
under  present  conditions,  for  a  long  time  to  come 
such  culture  is  attainable  only  by  the  few.  But  for 
that  matter,  wealth,  ease,  leisure,  and  many  other  de- 
sirable things  are  attainable  only  by  the  few.  Perhaps 
the  time  may  come,  in  the  future  of  the  race,  when  every 
one  will  have  the  time  and  means  to  do  his  duty  to 
society  without  neglecting  his  highest  duty  to  himself. 
Of  such  a  time  Matthew  Arnold  is  one  of  the  prophets. 

Henry  A.  Beers. 


"The  Bread-winners." 

A   COMMENT. 

I  BELIEVE  that  all  editors  receive  constantly  letters 
about  novels  which  they  are  publishing;  and  as  it  is 
at  least  a  sign  of  interest,  I  have  general  usage  to  war- 
rant me  in  committing  my  first  sin  of  the  sort,  with 
"  The  Bread-winners "  as  my  text.  This  story  is 
well  written,  and  I  all  the  more  regret  the  assumption 
in  its  second  number  that  trades-unions  are  composed 
either  of  ignorant  and  lazy  dupes,  or  of  such  wretches 
as  Offitt.  It  is  a  bit  of  snobbishness  imported  from 
England,  where  even  it  has  been  an  impossible  position 
to  be  taken  by  good  writers  since  "  Put  Yourself  in  His 
Place  "  was  written.  Strong  as  that  was,  and  attacking 
only  one  of  the  abuses  of  trades-unionism,  it  failed  in  its 
purpose ;  and  while  violence  seldom  now  characterizes 
an  English  strike,  it  is  because  the  unions  have  be- 
come so  strong  that  they  are  a  recognized  power, 
whose  demands  must  be  respected.  When  such  men 
as  Mill  and  Thornton  and  George  advocate  the 
banding  of  laborers  together  for  mutual  protection, 
novelists  who  trade  more  largely  on  sentiment  and 


'5* 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


sympathy  with  the  oppressed  should  at  least  advance 
sufficiently  to  keep  an  even  front  with  the  economists. 
Taking  the  wage-fund  theory  at  its  extreme, —  that 
labor  is  a  commodity, —  it  is  absurd  to  say  that  the 
buyer  only  should  dictate  the  price,  and  that  both 
parties  to  the  transaction  should  not  stand  on  an 
equal  footing  in  the  "haggling  of  the  market,"  either 
side  using  all  the  advantages  that  it  can  obtain,  in  any 
way  short  of  actual  violence.  But,  apart  from  discus- 
sion of  the  wages  question  on  its  merits,  it  is  simply 
untruthful  and  worthy  only  of  the  more  ignorant 
class  of  journalists  to  continue  the  assertion  that 
trades-unions  are  mainly  controlled  and  strikes  in- 
augurated by  agitators,  interested  only  for  what  they 
can  make  out  of  them.  Such  men  as  John  Jarrett, 
the  ex-president  of  the  Iron  and  Steel  Workers,  re- 
ceive salaries  for  their  services,  but  they  earn  every 
cent  of  them ;  and  among  these  "  labor  agitators " 
there  is  not  only  organizing  ability  of  the  highest 
order,  but  more  unselfishness  than  is  displayed  in 
nine-tenths  of  the  business  and  social  bodies  by 
which  work  of  any  sort  is  accomplished  through 
united  effort.  Nor  is  it  fair  or  true  that  only  the 
incompetent  and  idle  workmen  support  these  move- 
ments. If  this  were  so,  they  would  never  have 
attained  the  proportions  to  which  they  have  grown 
abroad,  and  which  they  are  daily  reaching  here.  The 
whole  thing  is  only  a  rational  solution  of  the  labor 
question,  the  only  possible  one  while  men  are  inclined 
to  look  only  at  their  own  interests,  unless  some  equal 
or  superior  power  shall  compel  them  to  consider  the 
interests  of  those  with  whom  they  are  dealing.  Thack- 
eray and  Dickens  were  powerful  because  they  sup- 
ported justice  against  prejudice,  not  less  than  by  reason 
of  their  great  genius ;  and  the  author  of  "  The  Bread- 
winners "  will  never  turn  out  permanently  valuable 
work,  so  long  as  he  misrepresents  a  legitimate  force 
in  the  interests  of  a  false  political  economy  and  an 
antiquated  spirit  of  caste. 

Edward  J.  Shriver. 


REPLY  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

As  I  have  not  represented  Mr.  Offitt  and  his  friends 
as  trades-unionists,  I  might  properly  decline  any  con- 
troversy as  to  the  merits  of  these  organizations.  It 
may  be  as  well,  however,  to  say  a  word  in  answer  to 
the  sweeping  assertions  of  Mr.  Shriver,  though  any- 
thing like  a  discussion  of  the  matter  is  impossible  in 
the  limits  which  THE  CENTURY  can  allow  to  such  a 
note  as  this.  Mr.  Shriver  makes  the  familiar  claim 
of  the  harmless  and  rational  processes  of  trades- 
unions;  yet  he  knows  that  no  important  strike  has 
ever  been  carried  through  without  violence,  and  that 
no  long  strike  has  ever  been  ended  without  murder. 
He  insists  on  the  right  of  the  workman  to  sell  his 
labor  at  the  best  price;  yet  he  knows  that  trades- 
unionism  is  the  very  negation  of  that  right.  The 
inner  circle  of  petty  tyrants  who  govern  the  trades- 
unions  expressly  forbid  the  working-man  to  make 
his  own  bargain  with  his  employer;  his  boys  may 
become  thieves  and  vagabonds,  his  girls  may  take  to 
the  streets,  but  they  shall  not  learn  his  trade,  or  any 
other  honest  trade,  without  the  consent  of  the  union. 
It  is  only  a  few  years  since  we  saw  the  streets  of 
Pittsburgh  devastated  by  murder,  arson,  and  rapine, 


through  a  rising  which  agitators  could  originate  bi 
could  not  control;  it  is  only  a  few  weeks  since  w 
saw  some  thousands  of  telegraph  operators  foolish! 
give  up  their  means  of  livelihood  at  the  dictation  c 
a  few  conspirators,  whose  vanity  and  arrogance  ha' 
blinded  them  to  the  plainest  considerations  of  commo 
sense.  No  one  who  has  read  the  newspapers,  for  tfc 
last  ten  years,  is  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  tho< 
secret  orders,  the  offspring  and  the  hideous  caries 
tures  of  trades-unions,  which  come  to  the  surfac 
occasionally  in  the  Pennsylvania  courts,  in  connectio 
with  a  story  which  begins  with  assassination  an 
ends,  most  properly,  with  the  gallows.  I  have  mad 
I  trust,  a  legitimate  use  of  these  evident  facts,  and  d 
not  feel  myself  called  upon  to  discuss  the  rights  an 
wrongs  of  trades-unions.  I  am  not  touched  by  tr. 
appeal  Mr.  Shriver  makes  to  my  literary  ambitioi 
"  I  follow  use,  not  fame."  If  I  could  make  one  worl 
ing-man  see  that,  in  joining  a  secret  society  whic 
compels  him  by  oath  to  give  up  his  conscience  an 
his  children's  bread  to  the  caprice  or  ambition  of  an 
"  Master  Workman  "  or  "  Executive  Council,"  he  : 
committing  an  act  of  -folly  whose  consequences  h 
cannot  foresee,  and  placing  himself  in  the  power  c 
an  utterly  irresponsible  despotism,  I  should  be  betU 
satisfied  than  if  I  should  "turn  out"  what  Mi 
Shriver  and  Mr.  Offitt  would  consider  "  permanentl 
valuable  work." 

Author  of  "The  Bread-winners.^ 


Opera  in  New  York. 

THOSE  who  ought  to  know  shake  their  heads  at  th 
idea  of  two  Italian  opera  companies  singing  in  Ne^ 
York  at  the  same  time.  German  opera,  at  one  of  th 
two  principal  houses,  offsetting  the  usual  Italia 
opera,  would  be,  they  think,  a  healthier  kind  o 
competition,  and  would  better  serve  the  public  an< 
the  interests  of  musical  culture.  Americans,  and  es 
pecially  New  Yorkers,  have  grown  up  with  Ital 
ian  opera,  which  for  more  than  half  a  century  ha 
kept  the  field.  Fondness  for  beautiful  voices  and  ap 
preciation  of  refined  execution  in  singing  have  beei 
greatly  developed  by  this, education;  but  it  must  t> 
confessed  that  Italian  opera  has  exerted  a  pervert 
ing  influence  upon  church  music,  in  so  far  as  ou 
composers  have  adopted  its  forms  for  sacred  song 
and  church  services.  With  increasing  musical  know! 
edge  our  people  have  learned  to  appreciate  the  grea 
orchestral  and  choral  works  of  the  German  masters 
and  in  latter  years  the  Italian  opera  company  has  at 
tempted  to  give  "  Fidelio,"  "  Lohengrin,"  and  "  Fly 
ing  Dutchman,"  but  only  with  indifferent  success 
The  widespread  appreciation  of  Wagner's  music  ha: 
been  due  to  the  selections  given  in  concert  by  Theo 
dore  Thomas,  who  has  brought  the  orchestral  force: 
in  New  York  to  such  a  degree  of  perfection,  that  a 
the  present  day  the  Philharmonic  Orchestra  is  almos 
unrivaled  by  any  orchestra  in  Europe.  And  prcb 
ably  the  deepest  musical  impression  ever  made  in  thi: 
country  was  when  Frau  Mater na,  at  the  MayFestivil 
sang  portions  of  Wagner's  "  Ring  of  the  Nibelung,'' 

One  necessary  requisite  for  German  opera — a  mag 
nificent  orchestra — we  already  possess.  But  we  ne '( 
besides  a  trained  chorus  of  German  sinj 


lUl    WC  n«- 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


1S9 


.ost  important  of  all,  good  soloists.  Our  public  is 
ccustomed  to  hear  first-class  singers  in  Italian  opera; 
ut  it  would  not  be  easy  to  procure  equally  good 
ngers  of  German  opera.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  German 
n^ers  that  they  like  to  establish  themselves  at  some 
>urt  theater,  where  they  will  be  free  from  the  distrac- 
ons  and  weariness  of  a  nomadic  life,  and  where  they 
ill  have  time  for  conscientious  study  and  are  sure  of 
pension  when  their  vocal  powers  become  impaired, 
n  the  other  hand,  singers  who  are  in  the  employ 

speculators  or  "  impresarios  "  are  as  a  rule  over- 
orked.  A  large  sum  of  money  must  be  made  to 
atisfy  the  manager  and  the  excessive  demands  of 
.e  soloists,  and  the  singers,  without  being  aware  of 

fall  into  routine  ways. 

It  would  not  be  possible  probably  to  secure  the 
rvices  of  such  singers  as  Frau  and  Herr  Vogel, 
rau  Materna,  Sucher,  Marianne  Brandt,  Herren 
caria,  Betz,  Gudehus,  Hill,  Fuchs,  and  Reichmann; 

the  season  in  Germany  lasts  nine  or  ten  months, 
id  their  contracts  only  allow  them  a  leave  of  absence 
j  sometimes,  a  few  weeks  at  a  time,  during  which 
ey  sing  as  "  guests  "  or  stars  in  other  cities.  Their 
ication  is  devoted  to  rest.  But  there  are  in  Germany 
any  good  singers  who  are  not  engaged  at  court  thea- 
rs,  or  are  so  attached  only  for  six  or  seven  years. 


Thus  we  can  hardly  expect  to  hear  German  opera 
from  the  best  representatives  of  vocal  art  in  Germany, 
and  would  need  to  content  ourselves  with  perform- 
ances which  excel  in  point  of"  ensemble  "  and  correct 
interpretation  of  the  music. 

Owing  to  the  cost  of  grand  opera  in  this  country, 
people  of  small  means  are,  for  the  most  part,  reduced 
to  hearing  the  lightest  operettas,  most  of  them  of 
questionable  value.  It  would  be  much  better  if  those 
who  cannot  afford  grand  opera  might  hear  good  comic 
opera,  such  as  is  produced  in  France  and  Germany, 
like  Mozart's  "  Figaro,"  and  many  works  of  Boieldieu 
and  Auber.  In  fact,  the  only  desirable  solution  of  the 
pressing  question  of  popular  opera  in  America,  is  to 
have  the  best  comic  operas  of  France  and  Germany 
sung  in  English  ;  until,  of  course,  we  may  have  operas 
in  which  both  words  and  music  are  composed  by  Ameri- 
cans. The  progress  which  the  American  people  show 
in  every  branch  of  music  is  remarkable,  and  not  less 
astonishing  is  the  great  number  of  young  people 
having  beautiful  voices .  This  talent  and  these  voices 
must  be  given  the  chance  to  be  educated  in  an  operatic 
school,  where  they  may  pass  from  the  school-room  to 
a  practicing  stage,  upon  which  they  may  prepare  them- 
selves to  step  upon  the  stage  of  an  opera-house. 

G.  Federlein. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


Old  Mrs.  Grimes. 
(Tune  :    "  Old  Grimes  is  Dead.") 

OLD  Mrs.  Grimes  is  dead.     Alas  ! 

We  ne'er  shall  see  her  more. 
She  was  the  wife  of  good  old  Grimes, 

Who  died  some  years  before. 

A  very  worthy  dame  is  gone, 
Since  she  gave  up  her  breath; 

Her  head  was  white  with  frosts  of  time 
She  lived  until  her  death. 

Though  rough  the  path,  her  willing  feet 
E'er  walked  where  duty  led ; 

And  never  wore  a  pair  of  shoes, 
Except  when  out  of  bed. 

Busy  she  was,  from  morn  to  night, 
Spite  of  old  Time's  advances; 

Although  her  husband  left  her  here 
In  easy  circumstances. 

Good  Mrs.  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 
'         She'll  rest  through  endless  ages ; 
The  sun  has  set,  her  work  is  done, 
She's  gone  to  claim  her  wages. 


The  Wedding  on   the   Creek. 

OH  !  I's  got  to  string  de  banjer  'g'inst  de  closin'  ob 

de  week, 

For  dar's    gwine   to  be  a  weddin'  'mongst   de   nig- 
gers on  de  Creek. 
Dey's    gittin'  up   a  frolic,  an'   dar's  gwine   to  be  a 

noise 
When   de    Plantation    knocks  ag'in'   de   Slab   Town 

boys! 
Dar'll    be    stranger  folks  a-plenty,   an'    de    gals  is 

comin'  too, 
All    lubly    as    de    day-break,    an'    fresher    dan    de 

jew  ! 
A'nt    Dinah's    gittin'    ready,  wid    her    half  a   dozen 

daughters, 

An'  little   Angelina,  fum  de  Chinkypen  Quarters; 
Anudder    gal's    a-comin',    but    I    couldn't    tell   her 

name ; 

She's  sweet  as  'lasses  candy  an'  pretty  all  de  same  I 
She's  nicer  dan  a  rose-bush  an'  lubly  ebrywhar 
Fum  de  bottom  ob  her  slippers   to  de  wroppin's  in 

her  ha'r. 
Lordy    mussy    'pon    me,    how    'twill    flusterate    de 

niggers 
To  see  her  slidin'  'cross  de  flo'  an'  steppin'  froo  de 


A.  T. 


riggers  ! 


J.  A.  Macon. 


i6o 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


EXTRA!!! 


Engaged. 


COLLISION  DURING  A  FEARFUL  GALE! 

A  SINGULAR  DISASTER! 

One  of  the  Ships  of  the  Royal  Mail 

CUTS  DOWN  A  LARGE  THREE-MASTER! 

FINE  SEAMANSHIP   BY  THE   BOYS   IN   BLUE! 
A  RECORD  TO  BE  CHERISHED  ! 

But  for  the  efforts  of  either  crew 

SIX  HUNDRED  must  HAVE  PERISHED  ! 

Showing  the  skill  and  good  control 

ON  TRANSATLANTIC  MAILERS  ! 
REPORTED    LOST  but  a  SINGLE   SOUL  ! 

And  three-and-twenty  sailors. 

S.  Conant  Foster. 
To  Mrs.  Carlyle. 

I  HAVE  read  your  glorious  letters, 
Where  you  threw  aside  all  fetters, 
Spoke  your  thoughts    and   mind  out  freely,  in  your 

own  delightful  style, 
And  I  fear  my  state's  alarming; 
For  these  pages  are  so  charming, 
That  my  heart  I  lay  before  you,  —  take  it, 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

And  I  sit  here  thinking,  thinking, 
How  your  life  was  one  long  winking 
At  poor  Thomas'  faults  and  failings,  and  his  undue 

share  of  bile ! 

Wont  you  own,  dear,  just  between  us, 
That  this  living  with  a  genius 
Isn't,  after  all,  so  pleasant,— is  it, 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle? 

There  was  nothing  that's  demeaning 
In  those  frequent  times  of  cleaning, 
When  you  scoured  and  scrubbed  and  hammered,  in 

such  true  housewifely  style; 
And  those  charming  teas  and  dinners, 
Graced  by  clever  saints  and  sinners, 
Make  me  long  to  have  been  present — with  you, 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

How  you  fought  with  dogs  and  chickens, 
Playing  young  women,  and  the  dickens 
Knows  what  else;   you  stilled  all  racket,  that  migh 

Thomas'  sleep  beguile; 
How  you  wrestled  with  the  taxes, 
How  you  ground  T.  Carlyle's  axes, 
Making  him  the  more  dependent  on  you  — 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

Through  it  all  from  every  quarter 
Gleams,  like  sunshine  on  the  water, 
Your  quick  sense  of  fun  and  humor,  and  your  bright, 

bewitching  smile; 
And  I  own,  I  fairly  revel 
In  the  way  that  you  say  "  devil," 
'Tis  so  terse,  so  very  vigorous,  so  like 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

All  the  time,  say,  were  you  missing 
Just  a  little  love  and  kissing, — 
Silly    things,  that    help   to   lighten   many   a   weary, 

dreary  while? 

Never  a  word  you  say  to  show  it; 
We  may  guess,  but  never  know  it ; 
You  went  quietly  on  without  it  —  loyal 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

Bessie  Chandler. 


MUTE  the  music  of  the  fiddle 

When  we  wandered  to  the  door  ; 
Must  have  been  about  the  middle 

Of  the  night,  or  may  be  more. 
Every  poising  of  her  face  let 

Loose  the  rhapsodies  of  love ; 
Every  movement  of  her  bracelet, 

Or  her  glove. 

After  each  adieu  was  bidden, 

Leisurely  we  took  our  leave; 
One  white  hand  was  half-way  hidden 

In  a  corner  of  my  sleeve. 
Foolishly  my  fancy  lingers! 

Still,  what  can  a  captive  do  ? 
Just  the  pressure  of  her  fingers 

Thrilled  me  through. 

Spoke  we  of  the   pleasant  dances, 

Costumes,  supper,  and  the  wine ; 
Gossiped  of  the  stolen  glances  ; 

Guessed  engagements, —  mentioned  mine. 
Some  old  sorrow  to  her  eye  lent 

Tears  that  trickled  while  we  talked, 
And  I  found  her  growing  silent 

As  we  walked. 

My  engagement?    Queer,  why  stupid 

People  peddle  little  lies! 
Here,  beside  me,  cunning  Cupid 

Shot  his  arrows  from  her  eyes; 
In  my  heart  a  twinge  and  flutter 

Followed  fast  each  dart  he  dealt, 
And  my  tongue  tried  hard  to  utter 

What  I  felt. 

Standing  near  the  polished  newel, 

With  the  gas  turned  very  low, 
Conscience  seemed  to  whisper,  "Cruel 

Tell  the  truth  before  you  go." 
So  my  courage,  getting  firmer, 

Set  her  doublings  all  aright; 
Tiny  hands  came  with  the  murmur, 

"  Now,  good-night !  " 

'Twas  the  same  delicious  lisp  heard 

At  the  dance  —  a  merry  strain  ! 
True  the  voice  now  softly  whispered, — 

True  she  let  her  hands  remain 
In  my  own,  as  if  in  token 

Of  some  wish  in  sweet  eclipse, 
Cherished  lovingly,  unspoken 

By  her  lips. 

Long-lashed  eyelids  gently  drooping, 

Face  suffused  with  scarlet  flush, 
Told'  the  secret,  as  I,  stooping, 

Kissed  the  rose-leaf  of  her  blush : 
Like  some  happy,  sunny  island 

In  a  sea  of  joy  was  I ; 
Quick  she  turned  her  face  to  smile,  and 

Said  "  Good-bye  !  " 

When  we  met  the  morning  after, 

Blithe  as  any  bird  was  she ; 
Music  mingled  with  her  laughter, 

Every  word  was  love  to  me. 
So  the  genial  Mrs.   Grundy, 

Seeing  how  our  hearts  are  caged, 
Tells  the  truth  at  church  next  Sunday 

"  They're  engaged !  " 

Frank  Dempster  She* 


FHE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE. 


OL.  XXVII. 


DECEMBER,  1883. 


No.  2. 


THE    FAIREST    COUNTY    OF    ENGLAND. 


HISTORY  tells  us  over  and  over  again  how 
sely  the  character  of  a  district  has  been 
pressed  upon  the  race  which  inhabits  it  ; 
d  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  love  of  one's 
tive  land  should  be  deepened  and  intensi- 
d  in  proportion  to  the  boldness  and  beauty 
its  natural  features;  for  a  dull,  flat,  and 
broken  country—  treeless,  desolate,  and 
—  cannot  engender  the  same  feelings 
a  land  of  mountain  and  valley,  of  glen  and 
rge,  of  rock,  stream,  and  forest.  It  is  not 
natural,  therefore,  that  the  sons  of  Devon 
uld  entertain  feelings  of  enthusiastic  love 
d  pride  for  their  native  county  —  feelings 
rn  of  the  sympathy  created  by  nature  her- 
f.  Yet  the  love  of  Devon  —  "the  fairest 
unty  of  England,"  by  the  judgment  of  the 
hor  of  "  Lorna  Doone,"  one  of  the  most 
arming  creations  among  modern  works  of 
ion  —  is  not  confined  to  Devonians.  Well 
es  the  present  writer  remember  the  cordial 
g  of  sympathy  which  reached  him  from 
e  of  his  Scottish  reviewers  anent  some 
ing  descriptions  of  Devonshire  scenery. 
'he  women  of  the  extreme  west  of  Eng- 
d,"  said  this  reviewer,  "  are,  perhaps,  the 
>st  beautiful  of  any;  the  men  are  taller 
d  less  awkward  than  in  the  midland  and 
stern  counties  ;  the  wild  flowers  are  more 
undant;  the  climate  milder  on  the  coast 
d  more  bracing  on  the  moors.  We  have 
Jnt  weeks  in  Devon  in  a  general  state  of 
chantment  with  the  scenery,  the  foliage, 
^  sparkling  Scottish-like  burns,  and  the 
rivaled  tors,  besides  being  filled  with  en- 
isiasm  for  the  abundant  remains  of  British 
cmps  and  circles  and  dolmens,  to  say  nothing 
that  weird  Wistman's  wood  of  which  the 
and  dwarfish  oaks  are  said  to  be 


eval  with  the    Druids."    This   enthusiastic 
tbute  of  praise  from  an  inhabitant  of  North 


Britain  is  no  more  than  fairly  representative 
of  the  feelings  of  all  who  from  outside  have 
crossed  the  border-land  of  Devon. 

It  has  interest  for  the  historian,  for  the 
archaeologist,  for  the  geologist,  and  for  the 
naturalist,  as  well  as  for  the  simple  lover  of 
nature,  be  he  neither  of  these.  In  the  matter 
of  size  it  stands  second  upon  the  list  of  English 
counties,  including  an  area  of  2,654  square 
miles.  Its  greatest  length  from  north  to  south 
is  some  seventy  miles,  and  its  greatest  breadth 
from  east  to  west  is  about  the  same.  Yet 
within  the  small  included  area  —  for,  though 
large  as  compared  with  most  of  the  English 
counties,  it  is  in  reality  but  a  narrow  extent 
of  country  —  is  to  be  found  the  most  mar- 
velous diversity  of  surface.  On  two  sides  it 
is  washed  by  the  sea — northward  by  the 
Bristol,  southward  by  the  English  Channel. 
Cornwall  forms  its  westward  boundary,  and 
Somerset  and  Dorset  lie  on  its  eastward  bor- 
ders. About  two-thirds  of  its  surface  is  under 
cultivation,  and  its  farming  and  dairy  prod- 
uce are  perhaps  the  finest  in  all  England. 
Far-famed  breeds  of  cattle  and  sheep  are 
grazed  on  its  pastures.  Its  moorlands  furnish 
a  race  of  ponies  known  the  wide  world  over ; 
while  the  luscious  cider  and  the  unrivaled 
"cream"  of  Devonshire  are  luxuries  which 
have  been  tried  and  appreciated  by  many  a 
visitor  from  distant  climes.  The  waters  on 
its  coast  teem  with  the  finny  life  which  sup- 
plies an  important  article  of  food  to  many  a 
densely  populated  English  city;  while  its 
sparkling  inland  streams  furnish  to  the  sports- 
man, more  abundantly  than  any  other  Eng- 
lish county,  that  beautiful  inhabitant  of  fresh 
water,  the  red-spotted  trout.  The  "lordly 
salmon,"  too,  throng  in  thousands  into  its 
tidal  rivers.  In  mineral  wealth  Devon  can- 
not vie  with  its  neighbor  Cornwall,  though 


[Copyright,  1883,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved.] 


164 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


it  has  heretofore  produced  gold  and  silver, 
and  a  copper  mine  within  its  borders  has 
proved  to  be  among  the  finest  in  the  whole 
world. 

For  the  historian,  Devonshire  has  furnished 
materials  which  make  a  long  page  in  the  an- 
nals of  England.  Its  castle  of  Rougemont — 
now  only  a  picturesque  ruin  —  was  the  scene 
of  the  stoutest  resistance  offered  to  the  in- 
vasion of  the  Norman  conqueror.  One  of 
the  many  sieges  for  which  Exeter  (one  of 
the  two  chief  towns  of  Devon)  has  been 
famous,  was  on  the  occasion  of  the  Norman 
investment  of  the  city.  It  is  believed  that  Ro- 
mans and  Saxons  had  both  in  their  turn  built 
fortresses  upon  the  site  of  Rougemont  Castle; 
and  after  William  the  Conqueror  had  suc- 
ceeded in  overcoming  the  desperate  resist- 
ance of  the  Exonians  he  rebuilt  the  castle  by 
the  aid,  it  is  said,  of  the  materials  gathered 
from  the  ruins  of  the  houses  shattered  during 


the  siege  of  the  city.  The  red  earth  upoi 
which  the  fortress  was  built  gave  occasion 
it  seems,  for  the  name  of  Rougemont.  Th< 
most  beautiful  and  most  imposing,  however' 
of  the  buildings  of  Exeter  is  its  cathedral'' 
one  of  the  most  magnificent  of  the  archi 
tectural  monuments  of  England.  It  was  Ed 
ward  the  Confessor  who,  in  the  year  1050 
first  made  Exeter  trie  seat  of  a  diocese 
But  the  erection  of  the  existing  cathedra 
building  was  not  commenced  until  the  yea- 
1 1 12.  Bishop  William  Warelvvast  was  it; 
originator,  and  it  received  successive  addii 
tions  by  subsequent  bishops  of  Exeter  durin." 
no  less  than  seven  reigns,  being  complete* 
by  Bishop  Bothe,  in  the  year  1478  and  ii' 
the  reign  of  Edward  the  Fourth.  Its  tota^ 
length  exceeds  400  feet;  and  its  wester] 
front,  in  the  richness  and  beauty  of  its  archil 
tectural  features,  has  few  parallels  in  th 
whole  world.  Another  building,  which  stand 


A    DEVONSHIRE    VILLAGE,    NEAR     EXETER. 


THE   FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


•65 


ext  to  the  beautiful 
athedral  in  impor- 
ance,  is  the  Guild- 
all,  a  building  the 
rejecting  front  of  which  —  sup- 
orted  on  semicircular  arches 
urmounting   moor-stone    col- 
mns,  and  dating  from  the  year 
593  —  forms   a    curious    and 
riking     feature     in     "  High 
treet." 

Around  Plymouth,  the  larger 
'  the  two  chief  towns,  many 
nd  memories  cling ;  and  none, 
erhaps,  is  dearer  in  memory 

New  Englanders  than  this, 
e  chief  sea-port  of  the  south- 
estern  shores  of  Britain  :  for 
lymouth,  the  great  sea-gate  of 
inny  Devon,  gave  the  last 
ght  of  Old  England  to  the  gal- 
nt  band  of  "  Pilgrim  Fathers." 
To  modern  naval  history 
lymouth  contributes  much 
stirring  interest.  Among  the 
reat  names  with  which  this 
wn  is  associated  in  this  con- 
jction  are  those  of  Hawkins 
id  Drake,  of  Cook  and  Fre- 
sher. In  its  harbor,  too,  Rob- 
ft  Blake  died  as,  toward  the 
Jose  of  an  August  day  in  1657, 
j?  was  returning  to  shore  from 
jie  of  his  most  memorable  vic- 
[ries.  Many  pages  would  be 
^eded  to  give  even  a  brief 
jimmary  of  all  that  is  interest- 
|g  in  connection  with  its  dock- 
irds,  its  arsenal,  its  fortifica- 
>ns,  its  shipping,  its  light-house,  and  its 
eakwater.  The  last-named  of  these  objects 

interest  illustrates  strikingly  what  can  be 
:complished  by  indomitable  enterprise  and 
:rseverance. 
!  Prior  to   1812,  Plymouth  Sound  was  open 


VIEW     NEAK     FARMINGTON. 


to  the  full  force  of 
the  Atlantic  waves, 
which,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  strong 
south-westerly  gales,  rolled  into 
it  with  amazing  violence.  If  by 
any  contrivance  of  human  in- 
genuity a  barrier  could  be  erect- 
ed across  the  sound,  thought 
the  projectors  of  the  breakwater, 
one  of  the  finest  harbors  in  the 
world  might  be  created.  How 
could  the  task  be  begun  ?  In 
the  month  of  April,  1812,  a  huge 
block  of  stone  was  cast  into 
the  sea,  about  the  center  of 
Plymouth  Sound,  where  the 
water  was  fifty  feet  deep.  Other 
blocks  followed,  day  after  day, 
and  week  after  week;  and, 
though  two  hundred  men  were 
employed  upon  the  work,  a  year 
passed  without  any  visible  re- 
sult. Sixteen  thousand  tons  of 
stone  had  been  swallowed  up, 
and  still  the  waters  closed  over 
and  hid  from  view  the  enor- 
mous masses  of  granite.  Persist- 
ently, however,  the  work  was 
carried  on,  and  after  a  while  its 
fruit  began  to  be  manifest,  for, 
here  and  there  in  places,  points 
of  stone  began  to  peep  up 
among  the  waves.  For  thirty- 
four  years  the  work  proceeded, 
during  which  time  no  less  than 
four  millions  of  tons  of  granite 
had  been  cast  into  the  sound. 
Then  upon  this  vast  substruct- 
ure, varying  in  depth  from  forty  to  eighty  feet, 
according  to  the  variations  in  the  sea-bottom, 
and  in  width,  at  its  base,  from  three  hundred 
to  four  hundred  feet,— in  length  about  a  mile, 

a  stone  terrace  was  constructed,  the  most 

elevated  platform  of  stone  being  but  two  feet 


i66 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


above  the  level  of  the  highest  spring  tides. 
It  forms  a  magnificent  promenade  in  fine 
weather,  and  in  rough  weather  withstands 
the  utmost  fury  of  the  Atlantic  billows,  form- 
ing on  its  landward  side  a  calm  lake  of  water 
within  which  the  British  navy  might  ride  in 
perfect  safety. 

Many  and  curious,  in  Devonshire,  are  the 
remains  which  link  the  past  in  picturesque 
association  with  the  present,  and  possess  for 
the  antiquarian  an  interest  which  few  other 


counties  can  rival.    The  ruins  of  its  ancient 
castles    at    Okehampton,    at    Plympton,   an 
Tiverton,  at  Totnes,  and  at  Berry  Pomeroy , 
are  among  the  most  striking  and  most  beauti ' 
ful  of  the  relics  of  feudal  times.    Though  neV 
moldering  in  decay,  and  yielding  to  the  gen 
tie  conquests  of  the  ivy  trailers  which  clin§ 
round  and  cover  with  a  thin,  dense,  and  pict 
uresque    mass    of   evergreen    the    crumbling 
stones  of  keep  and  embattlement,  they  attest 
no  less  by  the  thickness  of  their  walls  thai 
by  their   commanding  positions,  that  thev 
were  once  among  the  proudest  of  the  feuda 
strongholds  of  England.  Perhaps,  of  all  thes< 
magnificent   ruins,  the  most   beautiful  an 
those  of  Berry  Pomeroy.    They  stand  on  th< 
crest  of  a  lofty  cliff,  embowered  in  woods 
and  when  viewed  from  the  valley  below 
they  impress  the  beholder  with  a  sense  o 
their  exceeding  grandeur.    Berry  Pomercr 
castle  was  erected  by  Rolf  de  Pomeroy,  onij 
of  the  chief  followers  of  the  Norman  conj; 
queror  of  England.    The  original  extent  o 
its  buildings  may  be  gathered  from  the  state 
ment  that  "  it  was  a  good  day's  work  for ; 
servant  to  open  and  shut  the  casements  bei, 
longing  to  them."    According  to  a  tradition 
of  the  county,  the  castle  was  shattered  by  % 
terrific  thunder-storm;  and  its  exposed  posij 
tion  —  from  which  it  towers  above  the  high 
est  trees  of  the  magnificent  wood  which  sur 
rounds   it  —  would  lend  weight  to  the  stor' 
of  its  destruction. 

Throughout  the  county  are  scattered  th 
remains  of  many  ancient  abbeys  and  monas 
teries.    Of  all  these,  perhaps  the  most  inter 
esting  are   the  ruins  of  Tavistock  Abbe) 
which    was    founde< 
in   the   year  961   b;|, 


IN    A    DEVONSHIRE    LANE. 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


167 


ON    THE     DART    AT    DITTISHAM. 


rdgar,  Earl  of  Devon,  in  obedience,  it  is 
id,  to  an  admonitory  vision.  It  was  com- 
eted  twenty  years  afterward — namely,  in 
Ji — by  Ordulph,  his  son,  a  man  of  such 
gantic  stature  that  he  could,  according  to 

lliam  of  Malmesbury,  the  historian,  stride 
ross  streams  ten  feet  wide.  This  huge  son 

Devon  must  have  been  of  somewhat  simi- 
•  stature  to  the  famous  John  Ridd,  the 
ero  of  Mr.  Blackmore's  "  Lorna  Doone." 
rdgar's  daughter  and  the  sister  of  Ordulph 
as  the  beautiful  Elfleda,  whose  romantic 
story  has  been  given  by  William  of  Malmes- 
ury.  Tavistock  Abbey  was  plundered  and 
.irnt  by  the  Danes  in  the  year  997,  but 

was  subsequently  rebuilt, — after  which  it 
:quired  considerable  endowments,  Henry 
e  First  in  particular  having  bestowed  upon 
>  abbots  the  whole  hundred  of  Tavistock, 
\  well  as  the  right  to  hold  a  weekly  market 
a  three  days'  annual  fair.  The  prosperity 
'  the  abbey  continuing,  it  secured  for  its 
irty-nfth  abbot  the  privilege  of  sitting 
long  the  peers  in  the  legislative  assembly. 
it  the  next  abbot  in  succession,  the  thirty- 
, — John  Peryn. — was  compelled  to  sur- 
nder  the  whole  monastery,  with  all  its 
>ssessions,  to  Henry  the  Eighth,  who  grant- 
'  them  in  the  following  year  to  John,  Earl 

Russell.  In  his  descendant,  the  Duke  of 
^dford,  the  whole  is  now  vested.  The  im- 
!>rtance  of  the  building  may  be  gathered 
6m  the  circumstance  that  it  was  said  at  one 
jne  that  it  "  eclipsed  every  religious  house 
\  Devonshire  in  the  extent,  convenience, 


and  magnificence  of  its  buildings."  Some  of 
the  abbots  of  Tavistock  were  reputed  emi- 
nent scholars,  and  they  established  and 
maintained  a  school  for  teaching  the  Saxon 
language  and  literature  ;  and  very  soon  after 
the  introduction  of  printing  into  England,  a 
printing-press  was  established  in  this  abbey, 
and  from  it  was  issued  the  earliest  printed 
copy  of  the  Stannary  laws.  Even  the  ruins, 
which  are  of  considerable  extent,  attest  the 
importance  and  magnificence  of  this  great 
monument  of  monasticism. 

Other  and  deep  interest  is  afforded  for  the 
antiquarian  in  various  parts  of  Devonshire  by 
the  numerous  Druidical  and  other  remains. 
The  wild  expanse  of  Dartmoor  alone  fur- 
nishes in  great  abundance  some  of  the  most 
remarkable  of  these  remains.  The  designa- 
tion of  "  Forest,"  which  still  attaches  to  Dart- 
moor, though  now  in  a  general  way  inappli- 
cable to  this  remarkable  table-land  on  account 
of  the  entire  absence  of  trees  from  many  parts 
of  it,  was,  no  doubt,  peculiarly  appropriate  in 
ancient  times,  when  a  vast  extent  of  this  moor- 
land must  have  been  covered  by  a  dense  for- 
est growth.  In  the  gloomy  depths  of  this 
primeval  forest  the  Druids  found  ample  op- 
portunity for  the  exercise  of  their  solemn, 
mysterious,  and  fearful  rites ;  and  hence  the 
reason  for  the  existence  of  so  large  a  number 
of  cromlechs,  circles,  and  altars.  The  oak, 
too,  in  whose  groves  the  most  cruel  and 
dreadful  of  the  Druidical  rites  were  per- 
formed, no  doubt  flourished  luxuriantly  on 
Dartmoor  during  the  Druidical  period.  In- 


i68 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


deed,  in  many  of  the  marshy  parts  of  this 
moor  immense  oak  trunks  have  been  found. 
The  weird  "  Wistman's  Wood,"  a  name 
which  is  believed  to  be  a  corruption  of  the 
"  wise  men's  "  (or  Druids')  wood,  still  exists 
to  attest  —  by  such  evidence  as  the  linger- 
ing remains  of  the  present  age  can  afford  — 
what  has  been  alleged  of  the  dark  doings  of 


the  priests  of  the  "  sacred  groves  "  of  ancien 
Britain.  "Wistman's  Wood"  is  distant  about 
mile  from  Two  Bridges  on  Dartmoor.    It  lie,1 
on  the  acclivity  of  a  steep  hill,  and  the  road  t: 
it  is  incumbered  with  huge  blocks  of  granit 
scattered  all  along  the  route.    The  oaks  whic 
form  the  wood  are  gnarled  and  stunted,  thei 
moss-covered  upper  branches  being  strangel 
and  fantastically  twisted.  These  tree 
"""****      grow   from   between    huge  graniti 
|      masses,  and  in  the  hollows  beneat 
lie  adders  and  other  venomous  rep 
tiles.    In  the  neighborhood  of  Mei 
ivale  Bridge,  on  Dartmoor,  there  i 
also  a  very  interesting   assemblag 
of  Druidical  remains.    In  one  plac 
there  is  an  avenue  1140  feet  lonj. 
j      of  rough  stone,  at  each  end  of  whic 
is  a  Druidical  circle.    Near  this  ave 
nue  is   another,  about  5  feet  wid 
and  as  much  as  800  feet  long.   I 
the  same  neighborhood  are  a  roc1' 
pillar   12  feet  high,  the  ruins  of  ,( 
cromlech,  a  pound  175  feet  in  diam 
eter,  and  yet  another  sacred  circljj 
67  feet  in  diameter  and  consistinl 
of  ten  stones. 

Kent's  Cavern,  in  the  vicinity  oj 
Torquay,  is  a  remarkable  cave,  core 
sisting  of  a  great  excavation  in  th 
Devonian  limestone.  It  is  entere* 
by  a  narrow  passage  some  7  fee 
wide  and  only  5  feet  in  height.  Th 
central  cavern,  which  is  almost  60 
feet  long,  has  a  number  of  smalle 
caverns  or  corridors  leading  out  fror. 
it.  Its  farther  extremity  is  terminate 
by  a  deep  pool  of  water.  In  the  be< 


BERRY    POMEROY. 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


169 


this  cavern  modern  research  has  been  re-  For  the  geologist  and  the  naturalist  Devon- 
rded  by  some  deeply  interesting  disco v-  shire  possesses  an  interest  which  a  library  of 
es.  Over  the  original  earth-bottom  of  the  volumes  could  scarcely  exhaust.  The  variety 
ve  is  a  bed  or  layer  of  considerable  thick-  of  formations  within  the  limited  area  of  Dev- 
ss,  in  which  are  contained  strange  mixtures  onshire  is  indeed  remarkable ;  and  it  is,  un- 
human  bones  with  the  bones  of  the  elephant  doubtedly,  chiefly  to  this  fact  that  the  county 
d  the  rhinoceros,  the  hyena,  the  bear,  and  owes  its  greatest  attraction — its  lovely  scen- 
2  wolf,  intermingled  with  stone  and  flint  ery.  All  those  visitors  to  Devon  who  for  the 
ols,  arrow  and  spear  heads,  and  fragments  first  time  have  traversed  its  main  line  of  rail- 
coarse  pottery.  The  animal  remains  testify  way,  entering  it  either  at  Plymouth  or  from 


A     BIT     ON     DARTMOOR. 


tcjhe  presence  in  the  ancient  forests  of  Brit- 
of  beasts  of  prey  which  long  since  have 

b  ome  extinct.  Speculation  may  be  exhaust- 
i  the  endeavor  to  account  for  the  curious 
mingling  in  this  cavern  of  the  remains  of 
an  beings  and  of  wild  animals.  The  rjlace 
have  been  used  for  \shelter  successively 

bjfnan  and  by  the  lords  of  the  forest ;  or,  as 
presence  of  the  rude  weapons  of  man 
it  seem  to  indicate,  the  beasts  of  the  field 
have  been  brought  into  this  natural  re- 
as  trophies  of  the  chase,  and  their  flesh 
skins  used  for  purposes  of  food  and 
ling.  Nothing  less  than  the  most  perse- 

ve  ig  and  enthusiastic  search  could  have  dis- 
red  the  interesting  remains  which,  for  a 
period  of  time,  had  been  buried  in  this 
at ;  tor  the  fossils  were  covered  by  a  thick 
of  stalagmite  which  had  been  formed, 
e  can  be  no  doubt,  by  great  blocks  of 


re 


Ifr 


tone  which  had  fallen  from  time  to  time, 
nding    over   a   very   lengthened   period, 
\  the  roof  of  the  cavern,  and  had  become 
cefented    into    one   mass   by  the  perpetual 
pejolations  of  lime-water  from  above. 
koL.  XXVIL—  17. 


its  Somersetshire  side  just  beyond  the  little 
town  of  Wellington,  have  been  struck  by  the 
singular  beauty  of  the  coast,  where  the  line 
by  Dawlish  and  Teignmouth  runs  along  the 
sea.  Soon  after  leaving  Exeter,  the  glorious 
green  of  the  spreading  vegetation,  which  on 
both  sides  of  the  way  has  been  gently  man- 
tling the  rolling  uplands,  is  suddenly  con- 
trasted with  the  deep-blue  sea  and  bright-red 
cliffs.  These  beautiful  cliffs  proclaim  to  the 
visitor  that  he  is  entering  the  region  of  the 
red  sandstone,  which  gives  a  distinct  geolog- 
ical character  to  this  part  of  Devon.  When, 
after  exploring  this  coast  and  seeing  all  that 
is  immediately  adjacent  to  the  South  Devon 
Railway,  he  turns  inland  to  explore  the  great 
moor-land  of  the  county, —  an  extended  tract 
un traversed  by  the  iron  lines, —  his  attention 
is  called  to  another  of  the  great  geological 
features  of  Devon,  the  granite  formation  as 
exhibited  most  prominently  in  the  famous 
tors  of  Dartmoor.  It  is  in  this  particular"  part 
of  geological  Devonshire  that,  as  already  inti- 
mated, the  most  interesting  of  the  Druidical 
and  other  antiquarian  remains  of  the  county 


170 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


MOUTH     OF     THE     DART. 


in  which  are  inclosed  the  fa. 
sils  of  such  exotic  plants  i 
the  cinnamon  and  palm,  trr 
ferns,  and  pines  in  size  liW 
the  gigantic  Wellingtonia  ( 
California,    we    come    to 
formation — the  Devonian- 
which   has    given    a  sped 
geological   character  to  tl 
county.  In  the  strata  inclui 
ed   in  this  formation  fossi 
representing   no  fewer  thf 
three  hundred  and  eighty-three  sp 
cies  of  plants  and  animals  have  be( 
found.   If  we  turn  from  these  recon 
of  the  rocks  to  the  existing  fauii 
and  flora  of  this  beautiful  county,  v 
shall  find  life  in  marvelous  variety. 

have  been  dis-        The  desire  simply  to  enjoy  the  unrivah 
covered.      The    scenery  of  Devon  has  brought  hundreds 
carboniferous  se-    thousands  of  visitors  to  this  lovely  count; 
ries  of  rocks  are    and   it    is    to    its   wonderful    diversity    th1 
noticeable  in  mid    the  great  charm  of  this  scenery  is  undout 
Devon  and  in  the    edly  due.    Everywhere  throughout  its  leng 
and    breadth    there    is    abundant    chang< 
for  continual  contrasts    are    offered    by  tl 


northern,  north-western,  and  central  parts  of 
the  county.    Where,  in  the  north-western  dis- 
trict of  this  formation,  it  is  shown  upon  the  boldness  of  its  hills,  the   ruggedness  of  i 
coast,  the  cliffs  exhibit  some  remarkable  traces  tors,   the  sparkling    velocity    of  its  streair 
of  plants  whose  forms  are  nature-printed  upon  the  softness  and  grace  of  its  valleys,  and  ti 
the  cliff  side.   Passing  over  with  brief  mention  pervading  charm  of  its  glorious  vegetal 
the   metamorphic  rocks,  the  lias,  the  oolite,  Its    northern     coast-line  —  extending    fio 
and  tertiary  formations,  the  traces  of  subma-  Glenthorne,  which  on  the   east  divides 
rine  forests  and  of  raised  beaches  along  the  county    from    Somersetshire,     to     Marslu 
coast  of  Devon,  the  valley  deposits  in  which  mouth,    which  is  its   extreme   north-wes 
have  been  found  the  fossil  bones  of  the  mam-  boundary — includes  a  bolder  sea-front  t 
moth  and  the  rhinoceros,  the  brown-coal  beds  the  southern  sea-line  of  the  county, 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


171 


om  Boggy  Point   to  Hartland  Point  there  beats  furiously,  while,  above,  great  cliffs  of 

•e  many  gentle  sweeps  of  golden  sand  front-  marble  cleft  into  jagged  peaks  present  a  stern 

g  the  fore-shore  of  Barnstaple    Bay,  into  front  to  the  waves.  But  a  short  distance  from 

hich  the  Taw  and  Torridge  roll  their  joined  this  rugged  cove,  and  within  the  compass  of 

aters.    The  coast  from  Glenthorne  to  Ilfra-  a  short  walk  from  it,  is  the  beautiful  bay  of 

>mbe,  and  from  Hartland  Point  to  the  bor-  Babbicombe,  where  the  steep  cliffs  above  the 

ers  of  Cornwall  at  Marsland  mouth,  is  char-  pebbly  strand  are  charmingly  wooded,  en- 

:terized  by  a  romantic  boldness  which  offers  shrouding  high  over  the  sea  that  "  village  of 

singular  contrast  to  the  exceeding  softness  villas  "  Mary  Church.    In  the  neighborhood 


ANSTEY'S  COVE,  SOUTH  DEVONSHIRE. 


d  grace  of  the  combes  and  valleys  running 

wn  between  the  beetling  cliffs  to  the  sea. 

In  the  southern  lines  of  coast  extending 

m  the  Devonshire  border  to  Plymouth,  the 

(jntrasts,  though  lovely  in  the  extreme,  are 

cj   the   whole   less   bold.    There   is    greater 

\riety,  owing  to  the  larger  number  of  inden- 

t  ions  in  the  sea-front,  and  to  the  more  rapid 

aernation  from  peaceful,  sandy  bay  to  jagged 

s  ngly  inlet  in  the  cliff.    Into  the  waters  of 

I    English  Channel,  from  this  southern  sea- 

Wer,  flow  the  Axe,  the  Otter,  and  the  Sid, 

Exe    and  Teign,   the  Dart,   Plym,   and 

Imar,  by  the  charming   watering-places  of 

Siton  and  Sidmouth,  of  Exmouth,  Dawlish, 

Teignmouth,    and   of    Dartmouth   and 

fymouth.    in  tne  wjld  and  romantic  miet  of 

sea  called  Anstey's  Cove,  strewn  rocks 
H|on  the  rugged  beach,  upon  which  the  sea 


of  Mary  Church  are  to  be  found  quarries  of 
the  richest  and  most  charmingly  colored  of 
the  Devonian  marbles. 

With  the  exception  of  the  great  waste  of 
Dartmoor,  and  the  extreme  northern  part 
of  the  county  which  includes  a  portion  of 
Exmoor,  the  land  of  Devonshire  is  remarkable 
for  its  fertility.  The  country  around  Bideford 
and  Barnstaple  includes  a  large  amount  of 
productive  land,  as  also  does  the  extensive 
tract  known  as  the  Vale  of  Exeter,  a  tract 
comprising  some  two  hundred  square  miles. 
Dartmoor  itself  occupies  an  extensive  area. 
It  is  some  twenty-two  miles  long  by  about 
nineteen  in  breadth,  and  is  chiefly  barren  and 
uncultivated.  It  is  in  fact  an  elevated  table- 
land, with  eminences  rising  to  heights  from 
fifteen  hundred  to,  in  some  cases,  nearly 
eighteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea  level. 


172 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


Its  lofty  hills,  jagged  tors,  and  narrow  valleys, 
strewn  in  many  cases  with  great  masses  of 
granite, —  which  appear  to  have  been  flung 
from  the  tors  during  some  terrible  convulsion 
of  nature, — its  morasses,  and  its  roaring  tor- 
rents help  to  give  a  strangely  wild  aspect  to 
its  scenery.  Yet  in  parts  of  this  moor-land 
the  most  beautiful  contrasts  to  the  general  as- 
pect of  wildness  and  barrenness  are  afforded 
by  the  presence  of  .hill-sides  densely  clothed 
with  trees,  and  by  foaming  streams  winding 
their  way  with  singular  impetuosity  through 
narrow  glens  abounding  with  the  richest  vege- 
tation. South  of  Dartmoor  the  country  as- 
sumes such  fertility  and  possesses  such  a  wealth 
of  natural  beauty  that  it  has  been  called  "  the 
garden  of  Devonshire."  This  very  beautiful 
tract  of  country  is  bounded  northward  by 
Dartmoor  and  the  heights  around  Chudleigh, 
on  the  south  by  the  English  Channel,  on  the 
west  by  the  Tamar  dividing  Cornwall  from 
Devon,  and  on  the  east  by  Torbay.  It  com- 
prises, within  an  area  of  some  two  hundred 
and  fifty  square  miles,  some  of  the  boldest 
and  most  beautiful  contrasts  in  hill  and  valley, 
some  of  the  finest  and  most  productive  land 
in  all  Devon.  Certainly  there  are  few  parts 
even  of  Devonshire  which  can  equal  the 
fascinating  ten  miles  of  moor  winding  from 
the  little  town  of  Totnes  to  Dartmoor. 

The  peculiar  and  individual  beauty  of 
Devonshire  scenery  is  especially  seen  along 
the  banks  of  its  rivers,  in  its  green  lanes,  over 
its  moor-lands,  and  along  its  coasts.  But 
throughout  the  county,  in  green  lane,  by  river- 
border,  on  moor,  or  by  sea-coast,  this  especial 
beauty  owes  its  peculiar  character  to  one  cir- 
cumstance. In  "  The  Fern  Paradise,"  and 
subsequently  in  "The  Fern  World,"  I  have 
suggested  that  it  is  the  great  profusion  and 
beauty  of  its  ferns  which  lend  to  Devonshire 
scenery  its  peculiar  character  of  softness  and 
grace.  "  They  clothe  the  hill-sides  and  the  hill- 
tops; they  grow  in  the  moist  depths  of  the 
valleys ;  they  fringe  the  banks  of  the  streams ; 
they  are  to  be  found  in  the  recesses  of  the 
woods ;  they  hang  from  rocks  and  walls  and 
trees,  and  crowd  into  the  towns  and  villages, 
fastening  themselves  with  sweet  familiarity 
even  to  the  houses."  *  In  most  districts, 
the  presence  of  ferns  in  great  abundance  will 
generally  be  found  to  indicate  the  character 
of  the  scenery. 

Two  beautiful  scenes,  typical  of  the  moor 
and  moor-land  scenery  of  Devon,  are  vividly 
present  to  the  mind's  eye  of  the  writer.  [The 
first  is  a  scene  on  the  river  Plym,  at  Shaugh 
Bridge,  in  the  lovely  vale  of  Berkleigh,  a  few 
miles  only  from  Plymouth,  and  easily  reached 
by  rail  from  the  last-named  place.  Two  little 
*"  The  Fern  Paradise." 


streams,  the  Mew  and  the  Cad,  rising  h 
Dartmoor,  flow  together  near  the  little  villag<| 
of  Shaugh,  in  Berkleigh  vale,  and  their  united 
waters  form  the  Plym.  Just  below  the  poin 
of  junction  abridge  crosses  the  stream,  whos< 
current  rolls  musically  over  big  bowlders 
Above  this  bridge  the  scenery  is  singularh 
beautiful. 

The  second  scene  is  a  changing  one,  repre 
senting  a  transformation  from  the  surround 
ings  of  a  quaint  old  Devonshire  town,  b> 
degrees,  in  which  nature  gradually  asserts  he 
own — town  and  railway  giving  way  to  steej 
hill  and  moorland  glen.  The  route  is  fron 
Totnes,'  a  little  town  so  mingled  with  th< 
country  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  where  th\ 
one  ends  and  the  other  begins.  We  pasi 
along  the  main  line  of  the  South  Devon  Raili 
way  to  Newton  Abbot,  and  the  engine  pant1 
as  it  runs  up  and  down  inclines  whicl 
represent  a  compromise  between  a  level  iroi 
road  and  impossible  rocks.  Engineerinj 
skill  won  here  a  great  victory,  and  the  touria 
may  pass  through  the  very  heart  of  glen  and 
mountain  with  no  more  effort  than  that  inl 
volved  in  the  good  use  of  his  eyes.  Fron 
Newton  a  branch  line  extends  to  Moretor* 
Hampstead,  and,  arrived  there,  the  mooi 
which  ere  while  has  been  struggling  for  he' 
own, — her  hills  resisting  with  more  and  mor- 
of  success  the  attempt  to  cultivate  them, — a;< 
length  triumphs  in  the  undisputed  possession 
of  hill,  valley,  stream,  and  rock.  Leaving 
Moreton  Hampstead,  we  plunge  into  Darti 
moor,  making  for  one  of  its  most  beautifu1 
fastnesses,  the  vale  of  Tingle  Bridge. 

After  having  reached  the  bridge,  and  de, 
scending  to  the  river  level,  we  may  find  ou 
way  into  mid-stream  by  bowlder  stepping 
stones;  and,  by  resting  for  a  moment  on  ; 
great  fragment  of  rock,  we  take  in  with  *j 
single  sweeping  glance  one  of  the  most  en! 
chanting  pieces  of  river-side  landscape.  W< 
are  now  in  the  bed  of  a  vast  amphitheater 
great  hills  sublimely  clothed  with  spreading 
trees  rise  around  us  on  all  sides,  and  shut  u;' 
in,  and  a  delightful  sense  of  being  alone  witl* 
nature  in  one  of  her  grandest  aspects  stealf 
over  us  with  a  refreshing  calm.  The  only 
sounds  are  those  of  birds  singing  sweetly  ii 
the  shrubbery  which  infolds  the  river  bank: 
on  our  right,  and  of  the  river  itself  as  i 
musically  rolls  on  by  the  rock  on  which  w< 
are  seated,  now  falling  with  a  soft  roar  be 
tween  islets  of  contorted  rock  piled  up  or 
each  side  of  a  depression  in  its  bed,  ncv! 
gurgling  over  pebbly  shallows,  now  gently 
splashing  over  the  tops  of  mossy  bowlders. 

If,  returning  from  the  brawling  river-bed 
we  turn  into  a  path  skirting  it  on  the 
from  which  we  approached  our  bowlder 


B 


THE  FAIREST  COUNTY  OF  ENGLAND. 


'73 


m 


ve  shall  enter  upon  a  scene  — 
>ne  of  the  inner  recesses  of 
iis  haunt  of  nature  —  so  pure- 
y  Devonian  in  character  as  to 
emand  some  brief  mention 
i  this  place.  A  narrow  path, 
Ahich  appears  from  where  we 
:and  to  follow  the  winding 
ourse  of  the  stream,  invites 
s  to  enter  a  bushy  avenue, 
tie  issue  from  which,  however, 
sems  closed  by  a  tangled  rrkss 
f  greenery.  We  are  soon  lost 
i  the  mazes  of  this  leafy  tun- 
el,  and  find  ourselves  en- 
irouded  in  verdant  twilight, 
'he  soft  greensward  at  our 
>et  is  densely  covered  with 
ild  flowers,  whose  rich  colors 
re  brought  out  in  strong  re- 
ef where,  by  tiny  openings  in 
ie  thicket  of  green  overhead, 
olden  rays  of  sunshine  gently 
Jill  on  them.  From  a  high 
imbankment  on  our  right,  ris- 
ig  to  a  path  on  the  hill-side 
tr  above  the  river,  the  crus- 
hing foliage  is  enriched  by  a 

ealth  of  fern-fronds  drooping  ~~.«— .,  — -  

jracefully  downward.    By  gently  pressing  aside  the  shrubs  which  from  time  to  time  fling 
kir  twigs  across  our  way,  we  may  follow  this  charming  river-side  path  for  a  long  dis- 


;' 


CLOVELLY,     FROM     THE    PIER. 


174 


THE  FRIEZE    OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


tance,  treading  on  its  rich  carpeting  of  wild 
flowers,  and  listening  to  the  sweet  sounds  of 
bird  and  insect  life. 

It  is  the  sparkle  of  running  water  which 
adds  so  much  of  life  and  beauty  to  Devon- 
shire scenery.  There  is  nowhere  stillness  and 
stagnancy,  and  it  is  to  the  abundance  of  rip- 
pling streams  in  its  woods  and  lanes  that  the 
marvelous  freshness  and  richness  of  their 
vegetation  are  mainly  due.  One  may  some- 
times wander  for  miles  through  a  net- 
work of  green  lanes  bordered  by  high  hedge- 
bank,  whose  topmost  branches,  meeting  across 
the  narrow  way,  form  natural  avenues  of 
green.  Sometimes  these  lanes  are  formed  by 
steep  cuttings  in  the  hill-side,  and  in  such 
cases  there  is  sure  to  trickle,  from  the  higher 
ground  beyond  the  hedge-top,  some  pure 
stream  of  water.  Or  it  may  be  that  the  wa- 
ter gently  percolates  through  the  thickness 
of  the  hedge-bank,  or  flows  in  a  tiny  rill  along 
the  course  of  the  lane.  The  arching  branches, 
spreading  to  meet  each  other  from  each 
hedge-top,  shut  in  the  moist  emanations 
from  the  running  water,  and  vegetation  revels 
in  the  friendly  shelter  thus  extemporized. 

Sweet  Clovelly,  on  the  northern  sea-border 
of  Devon,  is  hung  against  the  side  of  wooded 
sea-cliffs,  and  is  approached  by  a  road,  the 
"  Hobby  Drive,"  which  presents  along  its 
entire  distance  changing  scenes  that  have 
probably  few  equals  in  the  whole  world.  You 
enter,  from  the  high  road  from  Bideford  to 


Clovelly,  a  carriage- drive  which,  if  you  follov 
it  for  a  few  yards,  will  lead  you  away  int< 
the  cool  shadow  of  overarching  trees.  Fron 
this  point  you  pass  through  a  succession  o) 
the  most  enchanting  combes,  now  lost  in  ; 
world  of  leafiness  as  clustering  trees  closi 
in  upon  you  on  all  sides,  now  momentarily 
bathed  in  gleams  of  sunlight  which  fall  on  t< 
you  from  interstices  in  the  leafy  canopy  above 
Down  and  down  your  path  winds,  now  cross 
ing  the  brawling  bed  of  a  stream  whose  bank 
are  densely  covered  by  graceful  forms  of  fern 
now  coming,  on  the  verge  of  an  opening  ii 
the  trees,  upon  a  spot  whence  a  charmin; 
view  can  be  had,  away  at  the  combe  mouth 
over  a  great  expanse  of  waving  trees,  of  thit 
blue  sea  lying  calmly  beyond.  Presently  yoi 
approach  the  brow  of  a  richly  wooded  blufr 
to  which  your  path  leads  from  the  depth  of ; 
bosky  recess ;  and  from  this  charming  stand 
point  you  look  out  from  under  the  shelterinf 
trees  upon  an  enchanting  prospect  of  sea  anG 
cliff.  The  very  cliff-top  is  covered  by  grace 
ful  ferny  forms ;  trees  and  shrubs  rich  in  leafV 
beauty  surround  you.  Across  the  sky  whit- 
clouds  are  gently  sailing,  chased  by  the  sof; 
sea-breeze.  And  sunshine  in  a  golden  floo(l 
bursts  in  upon  your  path. 

"  The  birds  chant  melody  in  every  bush  ; 
The  smoke  lies  rolled  in  the  cheerful  sun ; 
The  green  leaves  quiver  with  the  cooling  wind, 
And  make  a  checkered  shadow  on  the  ground." ' 

Francis  George  Heath. 


THE    FRIEZE    OF    THE    PARTHENON. 


A    DISCOVERY    IN    CONNECTION    WITH    THE    ATHENE. 


IN  an  able  article  on  "  The  Phidian  Age  of 
Sculpture."  which  appeared  in  a  former  num- 
ber of  this  magazine  (February,  i8$2,  page 
554),  Mrs.  Mitchell  referred  to  some  discov- 
eries concerning  the  Parthenon  which  the 
present  writer  had  the  good  fortune  to  make. 
It  is  one  of  these  discoveries,  the  terra-cotta 
sketch  of  the  upper  part  of  the  Athene  from 
the  Parthenon  frieze,  which  it  is  proposed 
here  to  notice.  It  is,  no  doubt,  a  great  gain 
to  be  able  to  restore  to  a  state  of  compara- 
tively original  perfection  a  work  of  Pheidias, 
disfigured  by  the  ravages  of  time  and  vandal 
hands  \  but,  after  all,  to  the  archaeologist  the 
chief  satisfaction  lies  in  the  conditions  which 
led  to  the  discovery.  For  the  discovery  was 
not  a  matter  of  accident,  neither  did  it  depend 
upon  peculiarly  personal  qualification  or  apti- 
tude, but  was  the  result  of  the  simple  appli- 


cation of  a  method  of  archaeological  obser/ 
vation  now  becoming  systematized  and  devel4 
oped — the  result  of  sober,  scientific  work* 
This  method  of  archaeological  investigation 
the  comparative  study  of  style,  consists  ir' 
carefully  studying  and  noting  all  the  charac- 
teristics of  well-identified  remains  of  anciem 
art  with  regard  to  the  subjects  represented 
the  conception  of  these  subjects,  the  style  anc 
manipulation  of  the  rendering,  both  highei 
artistic  and  materially  technical,  and  in  com- 
paring with  the  standard  thus  gained  the 
numerous  extant  works,  the  date,  school,  ard 
artist  of  which  are  not  known.  Thus,  ty 
means  of  scientific  observation  in  all  respects, 
similar  to  that  which  has  been  practiced  with 
so  much  success  in  the  natural  sciences, 
step  from  the  known  to  the  unkno^ 
bridged  over,  the  circle  of  firmly  constiti 


d  with' 

-•„-: 
:""d 


THE   FRIEZE    OF   THE   PARTHENON. 


acts  grows  wider  as  the  sphere  of  the  un- 
ecognized  and  imperfectly  known  grows 
more  restricted. 

Throughout  all  the  works  of  Pheidiac  art 
which  have  come  down  to  us  we  notice  that, 
owever  lofty  their  spiritual  qualities,  however 
rreat  and  ideal  their  artistic  conceptions,  they 
nanifest  to  the  student  one  simple  and  almost 
tumble,  yet  none  the  less  important,  element 
fhidi  is  essential  to  their  great  effect,  namely, 

'due  and  sober  regard  paid  by  the  sculptor 
3  the  physical,  almost  mechanical,  conditions 
fhich  surround  each  individual  work.  With 
,11  his  loftiness  and  ideality,  this  great  artist 
lever  lost  his  firm  footing  on  the  actual 
Around  of  his  work,  never  expected  that  all 
tie  surroundings  should  be  fashioned  in  keep- 
ng  with  his  own  great  ideas,  never  neglected 
uch  seemingly  paltry  considerations  as  the 
imits  of  the  space  that  was  to  be  filled  by  his 
omposition,  the  material  to  be  used,  the  con- 
iitions  of  light  in  the  position  of  the  work, 
nd  the  point  from  which  the  spectator  would 
iew  it.  As  we  learn  from  a  careful  study  of 
his  frieze,  Pheidias  seems  to  have  asked  him- 
elf,  first,  How  can  I  make  my  figures  visible, 
nd  distinctly  visible  ?  secondly,  How  can  I 
elate  the  story  I  wish  to  transfer  to  marble 

0  that  it  may  be  clearly  understood,  and  may 
aintam  its  unity,  though  carried  along  the 
ur  walls  of  this  temple  ?    And  when  he  had 
dved  these  questions  by  dint  of  sober  thought 

nd  hard  work,  he  set  free  from  its  fetters  his 
fty  imagination,  and  it  conceived  a  great 
omposition  which  his  hands  had  the  power 

execute  and  make  real. 

The  first  technical  points  which  we  notice 

1  the  frieze  are  the  exceeding  lowness  of  re- 
ef, the  peculiar  working  of  the  edges  of  the 
utlines,  and  the  increasing  height  of  relief 
3ward  the  top.    All  these  idiosyncrasies  of 
slief  work  must  be  referred  to  the  peculiar 

ay  in  whichTthe  frieze  received  its  light, 
nd  to  the  conditions  under  which  the  spec- 
itor  could  gain  sight  of  it.  It  must  be  borne 
i  mind  that  the  frieze,  representing  the  Pan- 
thenaic  procession,  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
mo feet  in  length,  ran  along  the  outer  wall  of 
ic  cet/a  at  a  height  of  thirty-nine  feet,  and 
iat  this  wall  was  joined  to  the  entablature 
irmounting  the  colonnade  which  ran  round 
le  temple  and  supported  the  roof.*  The 
ieze  could  thus  receive  no  light  from  above. 

*  To  gain  a  clear  view  of  the  general  subject  we 
|e  dealing  with,  the  reader  could  not  do  better  than 
1  consult  Mrs.  Mitchell's  article,  referred  to  above, 
nd  more  especially  to  examine  the  sketch  (page  553) 
j  realize  the  position  of  the  frieze  in  the  buildin  g.  [See 
jso  chapters  XIV.  and  XVII.  of  Mrs.  Mitchell's  «  His- 
ry  of  Ancient  Sculpture  "  (New  York  :  Dodd,  Mead 
Co.  London  :  Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co.). — ED.] 


Furthermore,  the  entablature  surmounting  the 
columns  descended  one  and  a  half  metres 
(434  ft.)  lower  than  the  level  of  the  frieze, 
so  that  the  light  could  not  come  directly  from 
the  side.  It  therefore  received  only  a  diffused 
light  from  the  side  and  below  between  the 
columns,  and  especially  the  light  reflected 
upward  from  the  white  pavement  of  the  col- 
onnade. The  spectator,  moreover,  could  not 
gain  sight  of  the  frieze  if  he  stood  outside 
the  temple  bey  olid  the  columns;  he  had, 
therefore,  to  stand  between  them  or  in  front 
of  them  toward  the  wall.  The  distance  be- 
tween the  wall  and  the  inner  circumference 
of  the  columns  (it  is  about  four  and  a  half 
metres,  including  the  columns)  was  2.96  to 
3.57  metres  (9.7  to  11.7  ft.),  so  that  the  spec- 
tator stood  very  close  to  the  wall  and  nearly 
under  the  relief  itself. 

The  first  result  of  these  conditions  is  that 
Pheidias  had  to  keep  his  relief  very  low. 
For,  in  the  first  place,  if  he  had  worked  his 
figures  in  bold  and  high  relief,  the  spectator 
necessarily  standing  so  closely  under  it,  the 
lower  edges  of  the  relief,  the  feet  of  men  and 
horses,  the  tire  of  the  wheels,  would  not 
only  have  been  the  most  noticeable  features, 
and  have  presented  ugly  lines,  but  would 
have  hidden  from  view  a  great  part  of  the 
composition  above. 

A  positive  evidence  in  the  work  itself  that 
Pheidias  duly  considered  the  special  position 
of  the  spectator,  to  whom  the  lower  sides  of 
the  projections  were  most  visible,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  while,  as  we  shall  see, 
the  other  -edges  of  the  relief  are  straight  cut 
and  not  modeled,  the  lower  surfaces  of  the 
edges  that  can  be  seen  from  below,  such  as 
the  bellies  of  the  horses,  are  more  carefully 
modeled  and  more  highly  finished  than  any 
other  surfaces  in  the  whole  frieze.  In  the 
second  place,  the  light  received  being  in 
every  case  indirect,  either  diffused  upward 
from  between  the  columns,  or  reflected  di- 
rectly from  the  white  floor,  a  strong  relief, 
especially  in  the  lower  parts,  would  have 
thrown  shadows  upward,  and  would  thus 
have  made  the  upper  parts  less  visible,  or 
entirely  hidden  them  from  view.  We  have 
thus  presented  to  us  the  masterpiece  -of  tech- 
nical skill :  layers  of  figures  one  upon  an- 
other, sometimes  two  or  three  horses  and 
riders,  in  a  relief  standing  out  four  and  a 
half  centimetres  (i^  in.),  and  in  the  highest 
parts,  namely,  the  heads  of  horses  and  men, 
five  and  a  half  centimetres  (2^  in.).  Our 
wonder  at  the  technical  skill  must  grow  still 
greater  when  we  consider  that  the  several 
layers  of  figures  put  into  his  exceedingly 
low  relief  were  worked  with  such  definiteness 
that  the  outline  of  each  figure,  forming  a 


i76 


THE   FRIEZE   OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


PLAQUE  .  IN     THE     LOUVRE.        (SEE     PAGE     178.) 


part  of  a  great  mass,  such  as  the  procession 
of  horsemen,  became  distinctly  visible  to  the 
spectator  at  a  distance  of  over  thirty-nine 
feet,  in  spite  of  the  imperfect  light  and  the 
unfavorable  point  of  view.  This  was  effected 
by  another  peculiar  and  characteristic  method 
of  working  the  relief  in  this  frieze. 

The  second  result  of  the  peculiar  physical 
conditions  of  the  Parthenon  frieze  is  the 
manner  of  dealing  with  the  outlines  of  the 
figures  and  the  edges  of  the  outlines.  As 
the  relief  was  kept  very  low,  and  the  light 
was  so  imperfect,  the  outline,  in  order  to  be 
visible,  had  to  be  clearly  cut  and  set  off  from 
the  ground  in  an  abrupt  manner.  In  a  low 
relief,  which  is  placed  on  the  eye-line  before 
us,  we  avoid  a  harsh,  perpendicular  edge, 
which  interrupts  the  flow  of  rounded  lines, 
and  we  allow  the  relief  as  far  as  possible 
to  run  gradually  over  into  the  ground.  In 
the  Parthenon  frieze,  on  the  contrary,  the 
edges  of  the  outlines,  with  the  exception  of 
those  that  are  seen  from  below,  are  cut 
straight  and  sharp  to  the  ground,  often  at  a 


height  of  three  and  even  of  four  and  a  half 
centimetres,  perpendicular  to  the  ground,  and 
sometimes  even  slightly  undercut,  the  edge 
slanting  inward.  In  some  instances,  especi- 
ally where  there  are  several  layers  of  figures 
projecting  over  one  another,  they  are  made 
more  visible  in  that  the  layers  are  not  parallel 
to  one  another,  but  the  one  layer  has  a  more 
slanting  plane.  Another  device  is  that  of 
cutting  a  groove  near  the  edge,  and  thus 
heightening  the  relief  away  from  it.  This  is 
especially  noticeable  at  the  feet  of  the  horse- 
men. Finally,  a  more  projecting  relief  is  ob- 
tained in  the  upper  and  most  distant  parts  of 
the  relief,  especially  in  the  heads  of  .men  and 
horses,  by  somewhat  sinking  the  ground  J 
it  nears  the  outline  of  the  head. 

Lastly,  we  notice  that  the  variations  in  the 
height  of  the  relief  are  only  to  be  found  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  frieze,  which  reaches 
the  extreme  height  of  five  and  a  half  centi- 
metres, while  the  lower  parts  uniformly  re- 
main within  the  limit  of  four  and  a  half 
centimetres.  This  treatment  is  due, 


THE  FRIEZE    OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


first  place,  to  the  fact  that  while,  from  the 
peculiar  lighting,  high  relief  in  the  lower 
parts  might  have  thrown  disturbing  shadows 
over  the  upper  part  of  the  relief,  there  was 
no  fear  of  such  a  disturbance  in  the  upper 
part,  and  the  artist  was  free  to  make  this  more 
strongly  projecting.  Secondly,  it  is  due  to 
considerations  which  we  know  Pheidias  to 
have  studied.  It  is  because  of  the  foreshort- 
ening which  is  the  result  of  the  spectator's 
point  of  viewing  the  composition.  These 
considerations  on  the  part  of  the  artist  are 
manifested  in  the  way  in  which  the  lower 
portions  of  the  bodies,  for  instance  of  the 
seated  gods,  are  proportionately  shorter  than 
the  upper  parts,  because,  to  the  spectator 
viewing  them  in  their  original  position,  the 
lower  parts  would  appear  larger.  The  lower 
parts  also  appear  more  projecting  and  the 
upper  parts  receding  when  viewed  imme- 
diately from  below.  To  avoid  this  effect  and 
thus  to  keep  the  figures  in  drawing,  the  upper 
parts  of  the  frieze  had  to  be  projected  more 
strongly  than  the  lower  parts.  Only  then 
would  they  appear  to  the  spectator  from  be- 
low as  being  of  the  same  height  in  relief. 
From  the  point  in  which  it  was  seen  in  its 
original  position,  the  variation  in  the  height 
of  the  relief  produced  the  same  appearance 
that  a  relief  of  equal  height  throughout, 
(which  is  placed  on  the  eye-line,  presents  to 
the  spectator. 

Furthermore,  the  walls  of  the  temple  which 
Pheidias  was  called  upon  to  decorate  with  a 
:ontinuous  scene  possessing  unity  of  artistic 
organization,  presented  to  the  sculptor  four 
distinct  sides,  only  one  of  which   could  be 
;een  at  a  time.   The  task  was  thus  set  of  giv- 
ing connectedness  to  the  scenes,  while  each 
fas  to  be  endowed  with  a  certain  complete- 
sss  of  meaning  and  harmony  of  composi- 
|ion.   They  were  to  be  like  the  stanzas  of  a 
oem   or  the   movements   of  a   symphony, 
heidias  used  the  limitations  of  outer  phys- 
:al  conditions  to  realize  in  his  work  one  of 
le  central  tasks  of  organized  life,  and  more 
(Specially  the   organized  life   of  art,  which 
pay  be  expressed  by  various  terms,  all  con- 
iiining  the  same  fundamental  idea :  to  find 
ind  constitute  the  proper  relation    and  just 
ialance  between  unity  and  variety,  law  and 
jeedom,  typical  life  and  individual  life,  sym- 
jietry  of  form  and  flow  of  nature,  the  ideal 
jid  the  real.   This  unity  of  artistic  organiza- 
bn  chiefly  depends  upon  giving  to  the  work 
j>me  physically  perceptible  central  point  of 
iterest   and  importance,  toward    which   all 
je  parts  of  the  work  tend,  with  regard  to 
Jiritual  interest,  or  to  volume,  color,  or  line, 
his  central  point  of  unity  was  clearly  sug- 
isted  to  the  sculptor  by  the  fact  that  the 
I    VOL.  XXVII.— 1 8. 


four  walls  were  not  strictly  equal  in  import- 
ance, in  length,  or  in  position ;  but  that  the 
oblong  temple  contained  two  shorter  and  two 
longer  walls,  and  above  all,  a  front  (the  east 
end)  and  a  back  (the  west  end).  Instead  of 
a  mechanical,  unvarying  movement  round 
the  four  walls,  if  they  were  equally  important, 
without  any  growth  of  interest,  the  east  front 
became  the  chief  side  toward  which  all  the 
others  were  to  lead,  upon  which  the  climax 
of  the  action  was  to  be  represented.  The 
action  will  begin  at  the  back,  the  west 
end,  will  proceed  along  either  long  side  of 
the  oblong  temple,  and  like  the  band  of  a 
victor  the  two  ends  meet,  and  the  dramatic 
knot  is  tied  at  the  brow  of  the  temple,  the  east 
front.  The  scene  represented  is  the  proces- 
sion at  the  Panathenaic  festival.  Each  of  the 
four  sides  of  the  temple  contains  one  definite 
stage  of  the  whole  action,  while  the  bulk  of 
the  scene  is  naturally  assigned  to  the  long 
walls,  on  the  north  and  south. 

The  west  wall  or  back  is  the  least  import- 
ant side,  and  at  the  same  time  it  is  the  side 
facing  the  Propylaea,  the  entrance  to  the 
Acropolis,  which  the  visitor  first  saw  upon 
nearing  the  Parthenon.  Thus  it  is  on  this 
side  that  the  beginning  of  the  whole  action 
is  placed,  the  preparation  for  the  procession. 
Horsemen  are  mounting;  there  one  is  trying 
to  hold  back  a  rearing  horse,  another  is  draw- 
ing on  his  boots,  another  is  forcing  the  bit 
into  the  mouth  of  his  restive  horse;  others 
are  already  mounted,  and  are  beginning  to 
fall  into  line. 

The  north  and  south  walls,  as  has  been 
said,  contain  the  procession  proper.  But,  to 
keep  up  the  continuity  of  composition  be- 
tween the  several  sides,  the  figures  at  the 
corners  anticipate  and  take  up  the  character 
of  representation  belonging  to  the  side  on 
to  which  they  join,  forming  an  organic  transi- 
tion from  one  movement  to  another,  as  in  a 
musical  composition  the  key  or  rhythm  of 
the  following  movement  is  led  up  to  in  the 
previous  one,  and  the  motive  of  a  former 
movement  is  repeated  in  a  modified  form 
at  the  beginning  of  the  succeeding  one.  So, 
here,  at  the  end  of  the  western  frieze,  there 
are  figures  which,  by  their  action,  lead  round 
the  corner  to  the  northern  and  southern 
frieze ;  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  northern 
frieze  there  is  one  group  of  preparation,  a 
boy-servant  tying  the  girdle  of  his  master  at 
the  back,  over  which  the  drapery  will  be 
pulled  in  projecting  folds.  Then  follow  the 
matchless  groups  of  horsemen  in  full  proces- 
sions, charioteers  with  warriors  in  armor, 
dignified  elders  carrying  branches,  musicians, 
kitharists  and  flute-players,  maidens  carrying 
offerings,  and  then  the  sacred  hekatombs, 


1 78 


THE  FRIEZE   OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


ATHENE.     (ORIGINAL  CONDITION.) 


cows  and  sheep  offered  by  Athens  and  its 
dependent  colonies.  The  varying  life  and 
movement  of  these  groups,  all  toned  down 
and  made  worthy  of  a  translation  into  so 
lasting  a  material  as  is  marble,  by  harmony 
of  composition,  is  made  still  more  varied  and 
living  by  the  heralds  and  officers  interspersed 
between  the  advancing  grouping  and  keeps 
them  in  order. 

All  this  movement  leads  on  to  the  final 
scene  at  the  east  frieze,  where  the  preparations 
for  the  scene  that  is  to  follow  the  offering 
of  the  hekatombs  to  the  goddess  Athene,  are 
clearly  suggested  in  the  central  group  of  the 
priest  and  priestess  preparing  to  perform  the 
sacrifice.  But  the  true  climax  of  the  scene  as 
represented  is  in  the  arrival  of  the  procession 
before  the  assembled  gods,  who,  according 
to  the  truly  Greek  idea,  are  present  at  the 
feast  which  the  people  give  in  their  honor, 
the  partakers  of  the  people's  joy,  and  are 
grouped  on  either  side  of  the  center.  Such 
is  the  largeness  of  conception  and  treatment 
given  to  these  gods  that,  though  they  be  but 
in  relief  and  half  life  size,  they  each  furnish 
a  model  for  a  great  monumental  statue ;  nay, 
they  need  but  to  be  transferred  from  relief  to 
the  round  and  increased  in  dimensions  to 
make,  each  of  them,  a  great  statue,  equaled 
only  by  the  pedimental  figures  from  the 
same  temple.  They  have  the  dignity  in  con- 
ception and  attitude,  the  breadth  of  treat- 
ment in  modeling,  and,  withal,  the  grace  and 


serenity  which  characterize  the  works  of  Creel 
art,  especially  of  the  art  of  Pheidias. 

Among  these  gods  and  goddesses,  the  figur< 
which  has  been  most  admired  by  archaeolo 
gists,  artists,  and  amateurs  is  that  of  Athene 
who,  corresponding  to  Zeus  on  the  one  side 
is  seated  on  the  other  side  of  the  centra 
group,  and  is  here  figured  from  the  frieze  it 
the  British  Museum.  And  it  has  been  thu: 
admired  despite  the  loss  of  the  head  —  a  los: 
which  has  been  regretted  by  all  writers  or 
the  subject. 

Among  a  number  of  terra-cotta  fragments  ii 
the  Louvre  Museum  at  Paris,  the  writer  cam< 
upon  the  fragment  of  an  antique  terra-cottc 
plaque  which  at  once  arrested  his  attention 
The  fragment  here  figured  (see  page  176 
from  the  original  is  seven  and  a  half  inches  ii 
height,  five  and  a  half  inches  in  width,  am 
one  and  a  half  inches  in  thickness.  The  colo: 
of  the  terra-cotta  is  of  a  faded  reddish  browi 
with  a  few  spots  of  white,  the  remnants  of  ; 
ground-color  which  was  put  on  ancient  terra 
cottas  to  hold  the  upper  colors,  as  we  us< 
white  of  egg  to  fix  the  gilding.  The  relic! 
technique  of  Pheidias  and  the  general  charac 
ter  of  the  whole  made  it  most  evident  that  hen 
was  a  specimen  of  Pheidiac  relief  work,  aiic 
the  writer  felt  convinced  in  a  moment  that  i 
was  one  of  the  figures  from  the  eastern  frie2e 
A  pencil-sketch  made  at  the  time,  whcr 
compared  with  an  illustration  of  the 
afforded  a  complete  confirmation  of  this 


~ 


THE  FRIEZE    OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


jecture,  in  showing  it  to  be  the  seated  figure 
of  Athene.  The  question  was,  What  was  the 
degree  of  relationship  between  this  terra- cotta 
and  the  actual  frieze  ?  When  the  directors  of 
the  Louvre  Museum,  among  whom  M.  Leon 
Heuzey  was  especially  kind,  generously  sent 
a  plaster  cast  of  the  fragment  to  England,  so 
that  it  could  be  carefully  collated  with  the 
frieze  of  the  British  Museum,  the  identity  of 
the  two  works  became  palpable,  and  the  gen- 
eral character  of  the  plaque  as  compared  with 
the  frieze  was  that  of  an  "  early  state  "  as 
compared  with  the  finished  work. 

The  peculiar  working  of  the  edges  of  the 
relief  in  the  Parthenon  frieze  to  which  atten- 
tion has  been  drawn  is  maintained  throughout 
in  the  terra-cotta;  nay,  it  even  acts  disturb- 
ingly when  we  view  it  closely.    The  edge  of 
the  arm  is  worked  straight  down  to  the  back- 
ground, perpendicular  to  it,  and  sometimes 
even  slanting  inward.   The   outline   of   the 
face,  especially  the  line  of  brow  and  nose,  has 
the  same  straight-cut  edge.    The  head  is  high- 
est in  relief,  and  therefore  the  hair  has  suf- 
fered most  from  friction,  being  most  promi- 
nent.  So  close  is  the  resemblance  of  work- 
manship to  that  of  the  Parthenon  frieze,  that, 
as  there,  so  here,  the  stronger  relief  of  the 
bead  is  attained  by  adding  to  the  actually 
greater  height  by  sinking  the  ground  around 
his  upper  part.   The  chiton  is  fastened  in  the 
ame  way  above   the   shoulder,  the   brooch 
>eing  more  distinct  in  the  plaque  than  in  the 
rieze,  where  it  is  rubbed  away.    From  this 
>oint  the  chief  folds  of  the  drapery  radiate, 
wo  running  above  the  right  breast  under  the 
ipper  seam  of  the  garment,  which  projects  in 
i  similar  manner  above  the  left  breast  in  both 
instances.    From   the  shoulder,   running  be- 
ween  the  right  breast  and  the  opening  at  the 
ide,  there  are  five  fold-grooves,  the  upper 
mes  running  toward  the  center  of  the  figure, 
rhere  they  break  up  into  numerous  transverse 
)lds,  while  the  lower  ones  are  subdivided  by 
mailer  grooves,  less  defined  in  the  plaque 
nd  more  clearly  cut  in  the  frieze.    The  tri- 
ngular  opening  is  identical,  as  also  the  man- 
er  in  which  it  runs  out  into  a  curved  fold  at 
ie  bottom.    Below  it  there  is  the  same  cav- 
rnous  fold,  and  between  it  and  the  arm  the 
rapery  is  subdivided  in  both  instances  by  a 
in  all  groove  and  a  larger  one  toward  the 
fin, — in  the  plaque  the  smaller  one  being 
isible  up  toward  the  arm,  while  in  the  frieze 
:  is  visible  further  down.   There  are  no  indica- 
bns  of  a  spear  in  the  terra-cotta,  because  this 
buld  not  well  be  rendered  in  that  material. 
|y  the  side  of  the  cavernous  fold,  just  above 
te  breakage,  there  are  three  parallel  curves 
j  the  folds  which  are  quite  similar  in   the 
[apery  of  the  frieze.    Unluckily,  the  terra- 


cotta is  fractured  at  the  lap  of  the  figure,  and 
the  whole  lower  portion  is  wanting. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  greatest  satisfaction 
is  gained  from  the  plaque  in  that  the  head 
has  been  perfectly  preserved,  and  that  we  can 
now  complete  in  our  mind  the  picture  of  the 
Athene  of  the  frieze,  whose  mutilated  head  so 
painfully  destroys  the  effect  of  the  whole  fig- 
ure. And  when  the  scale  of  the  terra-cotta 
relief  is  taken  into  account,  the  delicacy  and 
nobility  of  the  modeling  of  the  face  and  neck 
are  surprising.  The  firmness  of  the  features 
is  still  far  removed  from  hardness,  the  cheek 
is  soft  and  yet  firm,  and  the  texture  of  the 
hair  is  well  set  off  against  that  of  the  face. 
The  whole  has  a  combination  of  maidenly 
purity  and  graceful  nobility.  There  is  no 
accentuation  of  the  distinctively  feminine 
charms ;  nay,  from  one  aspect,  the  head  is 
almost  boyish  in  character.  And  this  quality 
of  the  head,,  combined  with  the  feminine  forms 
of  the  body,  produces  that  mixture  of  attri- 
butes which  characterized  the  virgin  daughter 
of  Zeus  in  the  less  stern  conception  of  the 
patron  goddess  of  Athens.  It  has  now  be- 
come possible  to  restore  the  headless  Athene 
to  a  state  closely  attaining  the  original  per- 
fection. Accordingly,  the  head  of  the  plaque, 
enlarged  to  the  size  of  the  indications  of  the 
head  on  the  frieze,  has  been  modeled  on  a 
cast  of  the  frieze  at  M.  Brucciani's,  a  new 
mold  taken,  and  from  the  cast  of  this  re- 
stored mold  the  accompanying  illustration 
has  been  copied. 

So  fortunate  and  complete  is  this  discovery 
that,  with  the  fatalistic  skepticism  which  is 
inherent  in  us,  the  thorough  coincidence  in 
all  points  almost  calls  forth  within  us  a  doubt 
"  whether  it  is  not  too  good  to  believe."  The 
question  that  will  have  to  be  answered  at 
the  outset  will  then  be,  What  exactly  is  the 
plaque,  and  what  uses  did  it  serve  ?  It  is 
either  a  Roman  copy  or  a  contemporary 
Greek  sketch. 

The  first  possibility,  that  it  is  a  copy  made 
in  Roman  times,  is  one  which  has  much  in  its 
favor.  Whoever  is  conversant  with  Roman 
history  and  Roman  literature,  knows  how 
intense  was  the  admiration  of  this  people  for 
Greek  culture  in  all  its  forms,  and  how  they 
strove  to  imitate  and  assimilate  with,  their 
own  all  its  manifestations.  We  furthermore 
know  that  it  was  a  common  undertaking  for 
a  high-bred  Roman,  and  an  event  which  was 
almost  essential  to  his  complete  education,  to 
travel  in  Greece.  Here  it  was  that  the  Roman 
patrician's  artistic  nature  was  trained  by  the 
study  of  the  great  art  treasures,  as,  fifty  and 
a  hundred  years  ago,  the  wealthy  inhabitants 
of  northern  Europe  completed  their  educa- 
tion by  a  visit  to  Italy.  It  was  only  excep- 


i8o 


THE  FRIEZE    OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


tionally,  under  the  influence  of  war  and  con- 
quest, and  with  the  ensuing  public  desire  to 
decorate  their  capital,  that  conquerors  like 
Sylla  ventured  to  carry  off  original  works  of 
art.  There  existed  a  strong  quasi-religious 


thought  worthy  of  any  mention  by  ancieni 
authors,  should  be  copied  and  should  be  de-, 
sired  by  artist  or  by  amateur.  Yet  this  ma) 
be  easily  explained.  A  Roman  patrician  ot 
cultivated  taste  is  struck  by  the  beauty  of  ttu1 


II 

^PJfe 


ATHENE.     (RESTORED.) 


piety  which  forbade  them  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances to  desecrate  the  soil  of  the  coun- 
try which  the  Romans  considered  their  orig- 
inal home,  by  despoiling  it  of  its  most  sacred 
treasures  of  art.  And  yet  the  appreciative 
Roman  felt,  as  we  do,  a  desire  to  carry  home 
with  him  reminiscences  of  the  treasures  he 
had  seen,  and  to  adorn  therewith  his  house 
and  gardens.  And  so  there  existed  in  the 
Roman  period,  after  Greece  had  lost  its  in- 
ventive artistic  genius  together  with  its  polit- 
ical independence,  a  numerous  colony  of 
half-mercantile  sculptors,  who  copied,  modi- 
fied, and  combined  works  of  Greek  art  to 
supply  the  demand  of  the  Roman  market. 
Most  of  the  statues  in  Italian  museums  are 
such  copies  or  modifications.  To  this  class 
of  work  the  Paris  plaque  would  belong  if  it 
is  a  copy.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must 
remember  that  there  were  so  many  supreme 
works  of  pure  sculpture  from  the  hands  of  the 
great  artists,  that  we  cannot  well  understand 
why  a  part  of  this  decorative  work,  which,  in 
comparison  with  the  great  works,  is  not 


Parthenon  frieze.  Now,  it  must  be  borne  ir 
mind  that  the  Roman's  true  taste  inclinec 
more  to  great  architectural  works  of  splendoi 
than  toward  pure  sculpture,  and  that  Romar 
sculpture  is  essentially  decorative  in  charac- 
ter. He  feels  a  desire  to  decorate  with  the 
same  reliefs  the  small  temple  in  his  country 
home,  or  still  more  probably  his  house  or  his 
villa,  or  a  room  or  a  court  in  them.  Accord- 
ingly, he  orders  a  reduced  copy  to  be  mack' 
in  terra-cotta,  and  of  this  copy  the  plaque, 
probably  found  in  Rome  or  its  neighborhood 
might  be  a  fragment. 

Much  as  this  possibility  has  in  its  favor.: 
serious  objections  may  still  be  raised.  In  the 
first  place,  the  later  schools  of  artists  in  Rome 
and  even  in  Greece  had  distinct  styles  of  theii 
own,  markedly  differing  from  the  simple 
grandeur  of  the  Pheidiac  age.  Now  it  is  con- 
trary to  experience  that  these  later  character- 
istics of  style  should  be  lost  even  in  copies  of 
earlier  works  intended  to  be  correct. 
later  Roman  copies  that  fill  our  musei 
such  as  those  of  the  Doryphoros  of  Polyl " 


THE  FRIEZE    OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


181 


and  the  Myronian  Discobolos  (of  which  an 
earlier  copy  exists  for  comparison  with  the 
later  ones  in  the  replica  of  the  Palazzo  Massimi 
at  Rome),  are  most  instructive  in  this  respect. 
We  should  expect  traces  of  such  later  work 
in  the  plaque,  if  it  were  a  late  copy.  But  of 
this  there  are  no  traces.  The  plaque  has  all 
the  simplicity  bordering  on  severity  of  the 
figure  in  the  frieze ;  nay,  it  is  almost  severer 
and  larger  in  character,  while  at  the  same 
i  time  it  is  far  removed  from  that  stereotyped 
land  exaggerated  severity  which  is  given  to 
the  copies  of  early  work  when  the  late  copyist 
makes  a  point  of  maintaining  the  character- 
istics of  archaic  art. 

Furthermore,  it  is  physically  impossible  that 
a  copy  so  accurate  in  all  its  details,  including 
not  only  the  folds,  but  even  the  peculiarities 
of  Pheidiac  relief-technique,  should  be  made 
by  a  copyist  standing  below  while  the  frieze 
was  in  its  original  position,  with  the  imper- 
fect conditions  of  lighting  to  which  attention 
[has  been  drawn.  For  this  purpose,  the  copy- 
list  would  have  had  to  be  face  to  face  with 
the  original.  Now,  it  is  hardly  conceivable 
|that,  even  if  it  were  permitted  by  the  magis- 
trates in  charge  of  the  temple,  the  copyist 
Lvould  have  gone  to  the  trouble  and  expense 
pf  erecting  a  scaffolding  round  the  wall  of  the 
-ella  to  the  height  of  thirty-nine  feet — the 
mly  means  of  enabling  him  to  reproduce  it 
vith  such  accuracy. 

There  remain  two  other  possibilities.    If  it 

vas  a  work  contemporaneous  with  the  frieze 

tself,  the  reasons  just  mentioned  would  speak 

Against  its  production  when  once  the  marble 

ielief  was  in  position ;  the   terra-cotta  must, 

herefore,  have  been  made  before  the  relief 

vas  fixed  to  the  temple.    Now,  it  is  hardly 

Tobable  that  copies  of  the  decorative  sculpt- 

res   of    the   Parthenon   should  have   been 

lade  at  the  time.    I  must  again  remind  the 

*ader  of  the  fact  that,  though  to  us  the  sculpt- 

res  of  the  Parthenon  are  of  the  highest  in- 

irest  and  importance  as  independent  works  of 

rt  among  those  that  we  collect  in  our  museums, 

icy  were  not  so  to  the  Greeks  of  the  time  of 

.'heidias.    They  were  to  them  merely  decora- 

ons  of  the  great  architectural  structure;  and 

ie  works  which   were  chiefly  estimated  by 

iem  as  works  of  art,  complete  in  themselves, 

fere  the  statues  by  the  great  artists,  which 

jie  ancient  authors  describe,  while  they  pass 

ver  the  frieze  without  a  remark. 

jWe  naturally  feel  some  hesitation  in  sug- 

bsting  the  third  possibility.    But,  in  spite  of 

tis  hesitation,  we  must  not  hide  from  our- 

blves  the  fact  that  it  is  not  impossible  that 

ie  plaque  is  the  original  sketch,  and  we  are 

pund  to  bring  forvvard  as  fairly  as  possible 

|1  circumstances  which  speak  in  favor  of  such 


a  possibility.  Let  us  make  sure  that  our 
desire  to  possess  an  original  from  the  hand 
of  Pheidias  does  not  prejudice  our  obser- 
vation; but  let  us  equally  make  sure  that 
our  hesitation  to  state  something  uncom- 
mon, and  our  fear  of  laying  ourselves  open  to 
the  easy  denial  and  ready  incredulity  of  those 
who  stamp  even  the  admission  of  such  a  pos- 
sibility as  venturesome,  does  not  equally 
hamper  us  in  a  just  consideration  of  the  work 
before  us. 

When  we  consider  the  extraordinary  cor- 
respondence in  the  details  and,  above  all, 
in  the  working  of  the  relief,  especially  as 
regards  the  edges  of  the  figure,  the  greater 
height  of  the  upper  parts,  and  the  sinking  of 
the  background  about  the  head,  all  of  them, 
as  we  have  seen,  modifications  suggested  by 
the  peculiar  conditions  of  the  frieze  of  the 
Parthenon,  we  at  once  feel  that  they  speak 
strongly  in  favor  of  this  view.  Furthermore, 
the  terra-cotta,  though  it  marks  all  the  chief 
lines  of  the  drapery,  still  (as  compared  with 
the  marble  relief)  does  this  with  a  certain 
definiteness  and  a  want  of  life  which  charac- 
terize the  "  first  state  "  of  a  work  as  distin- 
guished from  the  finished  production. 

When  we  consider  the  actual  mode  in 
which  the  great  works  of  art  were  produced 
during  the  few  peaceful  years  of  the  suprem- 
acy of  Pericles,  a  new  light  is  thrown  upon 
the  possible  destination  of  the  terra-cotta 
relief  of  which  the  plaque  is  a  fragment. 
Within  these  few  years  a  number  of  great 
compositions,  among  which  was  the  colossal 
Athene  Parthenos  decorated  by  many  figures 
in  relief  and  in  the  round,  all  of  them  over 
life  size,  were  designed  and  executed  by 
Pheidias.  To  these  works,  important  temple- 
statues,  Pheidias,  in  addition  to  the  design, 
gave  also  the  technical  execution,  or  at  least 
the  finishing  touches.  According  to  our  mod- 
ern idea  of  the  working  power  of  an  artist,  a 
single  work  like  the  Athene  Parthenos  would 
call  upon  the  time  and  energy  of  a  sculptor 
for  a  period  of  several  years.  Now,  besides 
this,  there  were  all  the  decorations  of  the 
Parthenon  with  its  ninety- two  metopes,  its 
hundreds  of  figures  in  relief  in  the  frieze,  its 
large  pedimental  compositions.  It  is  incon- 
ceivable that  Pheidias  should  have  executed 
with  his  own  hands  all  these  works,  though 
he  may  have  given  the  finishing  touch  to 
some  of  the  most  important  parts.  Though 
the  designs  were  made  by  him,  the  execution 
must  have  been  put  into  the  hands  of  marble- 
workers  ranking  from  high-classed  artists  down 
to  mere  artisans.  The  occasional  discrep- 
ancies in  the  actual  execution  of  the  marble- 
work  in  various  parts  of  the  frieze,  the  pedi- 
ments, and  the  metopes,  is  in  part  to  be  re- 


182 


THE  FRIEZE    OF  THE  PARTHENON. 


ferred  to  this  fact.  This  assumption  is  fully 
verified  by  the  ancient  authorities.  We  hear 
from  Plutarch  that  a  great  number  of  artists 
and  artisans  skilled  in  marble-work,  metal- 
beating,  wood  and  ivory  carving,  etc.,  flocked 
to  Athens  from  all  parts  of  Greece  and  the 
colonies,  and  were  added  to  the  large  num- 
ber of  native  workmen.  These  workmen  were 
free  from  taxation,  and  all  inducements  were 
offered  to  the  skilled  among  them.  The  same 
writer  further  tells  us,  "  that  these  buildings 
were  of  immense  size  and  unequaled  in  form 
and  grace,  the  workmen  striving  emulously 
that  the  workmanship  should  excel  in  artistic 
finish ;  nothing  was  more  to  be  wondered  at 
than  the  rapidity  with  which  they  were  brought 
forth." 

It  has  even  been  assumed  by  archaeolo- 
gists that  works  like  the  frieze  were  sketched 
in  small  in  their  totality  by  Pheidias  himself. 
Quatremere  de  Quincy  gives  the  following 
account  of  what  he  supposed  the  process  of 
their  execution  to  have  been:  —  "  I  quite  be- 
lieve that  a  small  sketch  of  the  whole  com- 
position, either  in  terra-cotta  or  in  wax,  was 
first  made  in  order  to  fix  the  ensemble,  the 
details,  and  the  relation  of  the  parts  of  this 
composition  to  each  other.  But  I  presume 
that  from  the  sketch  an  exact  tracing,  the 
actual  size  of  the  frieze,  was  taken  of  the 
outlines  of  each  figure  and  of  the  forms  of 
each  object;  these  outlines  were  faithfully 
chalked  on  the  unhewn  slab  of  marble  in  ac- 
cordance with  their  succession  and  position 
in  the  sketch.  It  is  after  these  designs  that  the 
sculptor  then  proceeded  to  work  his  marble." 

Now,  it  is  not  likely  that  if  the  sculptor 
had  at  his  disposal  means  of  readily  repro- 
ducing his  designs,  he  would  rely  upon  one 
copy  only  of  so  extensive  a  work,  consisting 
of  so  many  parts,  each  of  which  was  essen- 
tial to  the  whole,  especially  when  we  bear  in 
mind  the  carelessness  of  workmen  and  the 
chances  of  destruction  to  which  whatever  is 
fragile  is  exposed  in  any  marble-works.  Modern 
sculptors  avoid  these  difficulties  by  making 
molds  from  their  clay  models,  from  which  any 
number  of  plaster  casts  can  be  produced.  There 
is  no  evidence  that  the  early  Greek  sculptors 
made  plaster  casts;  there  is  evidence  that 
they  made  lasting  models  of  their  statues. 
Molds  are  still  extant  in  which  terra-cotta 
figures  were  made.  It  is  therefore  not  unrea- 
sonable to  suppose  that  the  small,  thin,  and 
fragile  sketches  of  a  work  like  the  Parthenon 
frieze,  which  were  given  into  the  hands  of  the 
marble-workers,  were  fixed  by  means  of  clay 


molds  from  which  terra-cotta  plaques,  cor- 
responding to  the  fragment  we  are  consider- 
ing, were  reproduced. 

The  last  question  to  be  answered  is,  Is  it 
likely  that  such  sketches  would  be  preserved  ? 
To  answer  this  in  the  affirmative,  it  would 
have  to  be  shown,  first,  that  the  ancients 
valued  original  models  from  the  hand  of 
great  artists,  as  we  prize,  the  sketches  of  a 
Raphael  or  a  Michelangelo;  and  secondly, 
that  Pheidias  stood  in  such  esteem  in  later 
antiquity,  that  his  works  and  sketches  had  an 
interest  corresponding  to  that  which  the 
sketches  of  the  great  Italian  masters  have . 
for  us. 

The  first  of  these  two  points  is  proved  by 
a  passage  from  Pliny  in  which  we  are  told 
that  the  models  ( ' proplasmata )  of  the  sculptor . 
Arkesilaos  brought  higher  prices  than  actual 
statues  of  other  sculptors;  and  also  by  an- 
other which  shows  that  in  the  time  of  Pliny 
an  antiquarian  interest  existed  which  drove 
people  to  pay  high  prices  for  old  Greek  plate 
for  the  sake  of  its  antiquity,  even  if  the  design 
was  almost  effaced.  With  regard  to  the  sec- 
ond point,  the  tone  in  which  the  later  authors 
speak  of  Pheidias  shows  that  he  was  held  in 
reverence  almost  approaching  religious  wor- , 
ship,  and  that  everything  pertaining  to  him 
was  preserved  with  piety.  This  is  confirmed 
by  the  fact  that  his  studio  at  Olympia  was 
built  in  the  sacred  Altis,  and  was  shown  to 
the  traveler  in  after  days,  and  has  been  dis- 
covered by  the  German  excavators  at  Olym- 
pia. Is  it  then  unlikely  that  the  original 
sketches  of  Pheidiac  works  were  carefully 
preserved  by  the  ancients,  and  were  bought 
at  a  high  price  by  one  of  those  rich  Roman 
amateurs  who  gave  so  much  money  for  the 
original  models  of  an  Arkesilaos  ? 

I  do  not  attempt  to  answer  ultimately 
which  of  these  possible  destinations  the 
plaque  had.  I  must  leave  it  to  the  unbiased 
reader  to  draw  the  conclusion.  What  I  have 
proposed  to  myself  is  to  give  the  facts. 

The  writer  cannot  refrain  from  giving  in, 
a  few  words  the  sequel  to  the  story.  A  few 
months  after  this  discovery,  he  found  that 
another  terra-cotta  fragment  in  the  Museum 
at  Copenhagen,  the  relation  of  which  to  the 
Parthenon  was  noticed  by  Professor  Petersen 
of  Prague,  turned  out  to  be  of  the  same  di- : 
mensions,  the  same  material  and  workman- 
ship as  the  Louvre  plaque,  and  moreover  ths 
boy  with  the  peplos  or  cloak,  the  figure  im- 
mediately next  to  the  Athene. 


Charles  WaL 


[Begun  in  November.] 

THE   SILVERADO    SQUATTERS. 

SKETCHES     FROM     A     CALIFORNIAN     MOUNTAIN. 

BY     ROBERT     LOUIS     STEVENSON, 
!  Author  of  "  New  Arabian  Nights,"  "  Travels  with  a  Donkey  in   the   Cevennes,"  "An  Inland  Voyage,"  etc. 


THE  HUNTER'S  FAMILY. 


or  class  of 
we   scarcely 


THERE  is  quite  a  large  race 
I  people  in  America  for  whom 
|  seem  to  have  a  parallel  in  England.  Of  pure 
white  blood,  they  are  unknown  or  unrecog- 
nizable in  towns ;  inhabit  the  fringe  of  settle- 
ments and  the  deep,  quiet  places  of  the 
country;  rebellious  to  all  labor  and  pettily 
theftuous,  like  the  English  gypsies;  rustically 
ignorant,  but  with  a  touch  of  wood-lore  and 
ithe  dexterity  of  the  savage.  Where  they 
!  came  from  is  a  moot-point.  At  the  time  of 
ithe  war  they  poured  north  in  crowds  to  escape 
the  conscription ;  lived  during  summer  on 
fruits,  wild  animals,  and  petty  theft;  and  at 
the  approach  of  winter,  when  these  supplies 
failed,  built  great  fires  in  the  forest  and  there 
|died  stoically  by  starvation.  They  are  widely 
scattered,  however,  and  easily  recognized. 
Loutish  but  not  ill-looking,  they  will  sit  all 
day,  swinging  their  legs,  on  a  field  fence,  the 
mind  seemingly  as  devoid  of  all  reflection  as 
a  Suffolk  peasant's,  careless  of  politics,  for  the 
most  part  incapable  of  reading,  but  with  a 
rebellious  vanity  and  a  strong  sense  of  inde- 
pendence. Hunting  is  their  most  congenial 
business  or,  if  the  occasion  offers,  a  little  ama- 
'teur  detection.  In  tracking  a  criminal,  fol- 
lowing a  particular  horse  along  a  beaten 
highway,  and  drawing  inductions  from  a  hair 
3r  a  foot-print,  one  of  these  somnolent,  grin- 
ling  hodges  will  suddenly  display  activity  of 
)ody  and  finesse  of  mind.  By  their  names  ye 
nay  know  them :  the  women  figuring  as 
Loveina,  Larsenia,  Serena,  Leanna,  Orreana ; 
.he  men  answering  to  Alvin,  Alva,  or  Orion, 
^renounced  Orrion,  with  the  accent  on  the 
irst.  Whether  they  are  indeed  a  race,  or 
Aether  this  is  the  form  of  degeneracy  com- 
jnon  to  all  back-woodsmen,  they  are  at  least 
known  by  a  generic  by-word  as  Poor  Whites, 
>r  Low-downers. 

;  I  will  not  say  that  the  Hanson  family  was 
poor  White ;  but  I  may  go  as  far  as  this : 
'hey  were,  in  many  points,  not  unsimilar  to 
he  people  usually  so  called.  Rufe  himself 
Combined  two  of  these  qualifications ;  for  he 
/as  both  a  hunter  and  an  amateur  detective. 
it  was  he  who  pursued  Russel  and  Dollar, 


the  robbers  of  the  Lake  Port  stage,  and  capt- 
ured them,  the  very  morning  after  the  ex- 
ploit, while  they  were  still  sleeping  in  a  hay- 
field.  Russel,  a  drunken  Scotch  carpenter, 
was  even  an  acquaintance  of  his  own,  and  he 
expressed  much  grave  commiseration  for  his 
fate.  In  all  that  he  said  and  did,  Rufe  was 
grave.  I  never  saw  him  hurried.  When  he 
spoke,  he  took  out  his  pipe  with  ceremonial 
deliberation,  looked  east  and  west,  and  then, 
in  quiet  tones  and  few  words,  stated  his  busi- 
ness or  told  his  story.  His  gait  was  to  match; 
it  would  never  have  surprised  you  if,  at  any 
step,  he  had  turned  around  and  walked  away 
again ;  so  warily  and  slowly,  and  with  so  much 
seeming  hesitation,  did  he  go  about  it.  He  lay 
long  in  bed  in  the  morning,  rarely,  indeed, 
rose  much  before  noon.  He  loved  all  games 
from  poker  to  clerical  croquet;  and  on  the 
Toll  House  croquet-ground  I  have  seem  him 
laboring  at  the  latter  with  the  devotion  of  a 
curate.  He  took  an  interest  in  education, 
was  an  active  member  of  the  local  school- 
board,  and  when  I  was  there  he  had  recently 
lost  the  school-house  key.  His  wagon  was 
broken,  but  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him 
to  mend  it.  Like  all  other  truly  idle  people, 
he  had  an  artistic  eye;  he  chose  the  print 
stuff  for  his  wife's  dresses,  and  counseled  her 
in  the  making  of  a  patchwork  quilt — always, 
as  she  thought,  wrongly — but,  to  the  more 
educated  eye,  always  with  bizarre  and  admi- 
rable taste — the  taste  of  an  Indian.  With  all 
this  he  was  a  perfect,  unoffending  gentleman 
in  word  and  act.  Take  his  clay  pipe  from 
him,  and  he  was  fit  for  any  society  but  that 
of  fools.  Quiet  as  he  was,  there  burned  a 
deep,  permanent  excitement  in  his  dark  blue 
eyes;  and  when  this  grave  man  smiled,  it 
was  like  sunshine  in  a  shady  place. 

Mrs.  Hanson  (nee — if  you  please — Love- 
lands)  was  more  commonplace  than  her  lord. 
She  was  a  comely  woman,  too,  plump,  fair- 
colored,  with  wonderful  white  teeth;  and,  in 
her  print  dresses  (chosen  by  Rufe)  and  with  a 
large  sun-bonnet  shading  her  valued  complex- 
ion, made,  I  assure  you,  a  very  agreeable  figure. 
But  she  was  on  the  surface,  what  there  was 
of  her;  outspoken  and  loud-spoken.  Her 
noisy  laughter  had  none  of  the  charm  of  one 


1 84 


THE   SILVERADO  SQUATTERS. 


of  Hanson's  rare,  slow-spreading  smiles;  there 
was  no  reticence,  no  mystery,  no  manner 
about  the  woman ;  she  was  a  first-class  dairy- 
maid, but  her  husband  was  an  unknown 
quantity  between  the  savage  and  the  noble- 
man. She  was  often  in  and  out  with  us; 
merry  and  healthy  and  fair;  he  came  far 
seldomer ;  only,  indeed,  when  there  was  busi- 
ness, or  now  and  again  to  pay  us  a  visit  of 
ceremony,  brushed  up  for  the  occasion,  with 
his  wife  on  his  arm,  and  a  clean  clay  pipe  in 
his  teeth.  These  visits,  in  our  forest  state, 
had  quite  the  air  of  an  event,  and  turned  our 
red  canon  into  a  salon. 

Such  was  the  pair  who  ruled  in  the  old 
"Silverado  Hotel,"  among  the  windy  trees, 
on  the  mountain  shoulder  overlooking  the 
whole  length  of  Napa  Valley,  as  the  man 
aloft  looks  down  on  the  ship's  deck.  There 
they  kept  house,  with  sundry  horses  and 
fowls,  and  a  family  of  sons,  Daniel  Webster, 
and  I  think  George  Washington,  among  the 
number.  Nor  did  they  want  visitors.  An  old 
gentleman  of  singular  stolidity  and  called 
Breedlove — I  think  he  had  crossed  the  plains 
in  the  same  caravan  with  Rufe — housed  with 
them  for  awhile  during  our  stay;  and  they 
had  besides  a  permanent  lodger  in  the  form 
of  Mrs.  Hanson's  brother,  Irvine  Lovelands. 
I  spell  Irvine  by  guess ;  for  I  could  get  no 
information  on  the  subject;  just  as  I  could 
never  find  out,  in  spite  of  many  inquiries, 
whether  or  not  Rufe  was  a  contraction  for 
Rums.  They  were  all  cheerfully  at  sea  about 
their  own  names  in  that  generation  ;  but  times 
change;  and  their  descendants,  the  George 
Washingtons  and  Daniel  Websters,will  be  clear 
upon  the  point.  Any  way,  and  however  his 
name  should  be  spelt,  this  Irvine  Lovelands 
was  the  most  unmitigated  Caliban  I  ever  knew. 

Our  very  first  morning  at  Silverado,  when  we 
were  full  of  business,  patching  up  doors  and 
windows,  making  beds  and  seats,  and  getting 
our  rough  lodging  into  shape,  Irvine  and  his 
sister  made  their  appearance  together — she 
for  neighborliness  and  general  curiosity — he, 
because  he  was  working  for  me,  if  you  please 
—  cutting  fire-wood  at  I  forget  how  much  a 
day.  The  way  that  he  set  about  cutting  wood 
was  characteristic.  We  were  at  that  moment 
patching  up  and  unpacking  in  the  kitchen. 
Down  he  sat  on  one  side,  and  down  sat  his 
sister  on  the  other.  Both  were  chewing  pine- 
tree  gum,  and  he,  to  my  annoyance,  accom- 
panied that  simple  pleasure  with  profuse 
expectoration.  She  rattled  away,  talking  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  laughing,  tossing  her  head, 
showing  her  brilliant  teeth.  He  looked  on  in 
silence,  now  spitting  heavily  on  the  floor, 
now  putting  his  head  back  and  uttering  a 
loud,  discordant,  joyless  laugh.  He  had  a 


tangle  of  shock  hair,  the  color  of  wool ;  his 
mouth  was  a  grin;  although  as  strong  as  a 
horse,  he  looked  neither  heavy  nor  yet  adroit, 
only  leggy,  coltish,  and  in  the  road ;  but  it 
was  plain  he  was  in  high  spirits,  thoroughly 
enjoying  his  visit,  and  he  laughed  frankly 
whenever  we  failed  to  accomplish  what  we 
were  about.  This  was  scarcely  helpful ;  it  was, 
even  to  amateur  carpenters,  embarrassing; 
but  it  lasted  until  we  knocked  off  work  and 
began  to  get  dinner.  Then  Mrs.  Hanson  re- 
membered she  should  have  been  gone  an 
hour  ago,  and  the  pair  retired,  and  the  lady's 
laughter  died  away  among  the  nutmegs  down 
the  path.  That  was  Irvine's  first  day's  work 
in  my  employment — the  devil  take  him  ! 

The  next  morning  he  returned,  and,  as  he 
was  this  time  alone,  he  bestowed  his  conver- 
sation upon  us  with  great  liberality.  He 
prided  himself  on  his  intelligence ;  asked  us, 
if  we  knew  the  school-ma'am.  He  didn't 
think  much  of  her  any  way.  He  had  tried 
her,  he  had.  He  had  put  a  question  to  her : 
if  a  tree  a  hundred  feet  high  were  to  fall  a 
foot  a  day,  how  long  would  it  take  to  fall 
right  down  ?  She  had  not  been  able  to  solve 
the  problem.  "  She  don't  know  nothing,"  he 
opined.  He  told  us  how  a  friend  of  his  kept 
school  with  a  revolver,  and  chuckled  mightily 
over  that ;  his  friend  could  teach  school,  he 
could.  All  the  time,  he  kept  chewing  gum 
and  spitting.  He  would  stand  awhile,  look- 
ing down ;  and  then  he  would  toss  back  his 
shock  of  hair,  and  laugh  hoarsely,  and  spit, 
and  bring  forward  a  new  subject.  A  man,  he 
told  us,  who  bore  a  grudge  against  him  had 
poisoned  his  dog.  "  That  was  a  low  thing 
for  a  man  to  do,  now,  wasn't  it  ?  It  wasn't 
like  a  man  that,  nohow.  But  I  got  even  with 
him — I  poisoned  his  dog."  His  clumsy  utter- 
ance, his  rude,  embarrassed  manner,  set  a 
fresh  value  on  the  stupidity  of  his  remarks. 
I  do  not  think  I  ever  appreciated  the  mean- 
ing of  two  words  until  I  knew  Irvine — the 
verb,  loaf,  and  the  noun,  oaf.  Between  them, 
they  complete  his  portrait.  He  could  lounge, 
and  wriggle,  and  rub  himself  against  the 
wall,  and  grin,  and  be  more  in  everybody's 
way  than  any  other  two  people  that  I  ever 
set  my  eyes  on.  Nothing  that  he  did  became 
him;  and  yet  you  were  conscious  that  he  was 
one  of  your  own  race,  that  his  mind  was  cum- 
brously  at  work  revolving  the  problem 
existence  like  a  quid  of  gum,  and  in  his  01 
cloudy  manner  enjoying  life  and  pas 
judgment  on  his  fellows.  Above  all  thinj 
he  was  delighted  with  himself.  You  w< 
not  have  thought  it,  from  his  uneasy  mann< 
and  troubled,  struggling  utterance;  but 
loved  himself  to  the  marrow,  and  was  haj 
and  proud  like  a  peacock  on  a  rail. 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


'85 


His  self-esteem  was  indeed  the  one  joint 
in  his  harness.  He  could  be  got  to  work,  and 
even  kept  at  work,  by  flattery.  As  long  as 
my  wife  stood  over  him,  crying  out  how 
strong  he  was,  so  long  exactly  he  would  stick 
to  the  matter  in  hand ;  and  the  moment  she 
turned  her  back,  or  ceased  to  praise  him,  he 
would  stop.  His  physical  strength  was  won- 
derful, and  to  have  a  woman  stand  by  and 
admire  his  achievements  warmed  his  heart 
like  sunshine.  Yet  he  was  as  cowardly  as  he 
was  powerful,  and  felt  no  shame  in  owning 
to  the  weakness.  Something  was  once  wanted 
from  the  crazy  platform  over  the  shaft,  and 
he  at  once  refused  to  venture  there, — "  did 
not  like,"  as  he  said,  "  foolin'  round  them 
kind  o'  places," — and  let  my  wife  go  instead 
of  him,  looking  on  with  a  grin.  Vanity,  where 
it  exists,  is  usually  more  heroic;  but  Irvine 
steadily  approved  himself,  and  expected  others 
to  approve  him, — rather  looked  down  upon 
my  wife,  and  decidedly  expected  her  to  look 
up  to  him,  on  the  strength  of  his  superior 
iprudence.  Yet  the  strangest  part  of  the  whole 
matter  was  perhaps  this,  that  Irvine  was  as 
beautiful  as  a  statue.  His  features  were,  in 
themselves,  perfect;  it  was  only  his  cloudy, 
uncouth,  and  coarse  expression  that  disfigured 
them.  So  much  strength  residing  in  so  spare 
a  frame  was  proof  sufficient  of  the  accuracy 
of  his  shape.  He  must  have  been  built  some- 
vhat  after  the  pattern  of  Jack  Sheppard ;  but 
the  famous  house-breaker,  we  may  be  certain, 
was  no  lout.  It  was  by  the  extraordinary 
Dowers  of  his  mind,  no  less  than  by  the  vigor 
Df  his  body,  that  he  broke  his  strong  prison 
*vith  such  imperfect  implements,  turning  the 
/ery  obstacles  to  service.  Irvine  in  the  same 
case  would  have  sat  down  and  spat  and 
grumbled  curses.  He  had  the  soul  of  a  fat 
sheep ;  but,  regarded  as  an  artist's  model,  the 
exterior  of  a  Greek  god.  It  was  a  cruel 
bought  to  persons  less  favored  in  their  birth, 
hat  this  creature,  endowed,  to  use  the  language 
f  the  theaters,  with  extraordinary  "means," 
hould  so  manage  to  misemploy  them  that 
|ie  looked  ugly  and  almost  deformed.  It  was 
jmly  by  an  effort  of  abstraction,  and  after 
inany  days,  that  you  discovered  what  he  was. 
i  By  playing  on  the  oaf's  conceit,  and  stand- 
ing closely  over  him,  we  got  a  path  made 
bound  the  corner  of  the  dump  to  our  door, 
b  that  we  could  come  and  go  with  decent 
?ase ;  and  he  even  enjoyed  the  work,  for  in 
;hat  there  were  bowlders  to  be  plucked  up 
bodily,  bushes  to  be  uprooted,  and  other  oc- 
tasions  for  athletic  display ;  but  cutting  wood 
|vas  another  pair  of  shoes.  Anybody  could 
cut  wood ;  and  besides,  my  wife  was  tired  of 
iupervising  him  and  had  other  things  to  at- 
jend  to.  And  in  short,  days  went  by,  and 


Irvine  came  daily  and  talked  and  lounged 
and  spat ;  but  the  fire-wood  remained  intact 
as  sleepers  on  the  platform,  as  growing  trees 
upon  the  mountain-side.  Irvine,  as  a  wood- 
cutter, we  could  tolerate;  but  Irvine  as  a 
friend  of  the  family,  at  so  much  a  day,  was 
too  coarse  an  imposition ;  and  at  length,  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  or  fifth  day  of  our 
connection,  I  explained  to  him,  as  clearly  as 
I  could,  the  light  in  which  I  had  grown  to 
regard  his  presence.  I  pointed  out  to  him 
that  I  could  not  continue  to  give  him  a  salary 
for  spitting  on  the  floor ;  and  this  expression, 
which  came  after  a  good  many  others,  at  last 
penetrated  his  obdurate  wits.  He  rose  at 
once  and  said,  if  that  was  the  way  he  was 
going  to  be  spoken  to,  he  reckoned  he  would 
quit.  And  no  one  interposing,  he  departed. 

So  far,  so  good.  But  we  had  no  fire-wood. 
The  next  afternoon,  I  strolled  down  to  Rufe's 
and  consulted  him  on  the  subject.  It  was 
a  very  droll  interview,  in  the  large,  bare, 
north  room  of  the  "  Silverado  Hotel,"  Mrs. 
Hanson's  patchwork  on  a  frame,  and  Rufe, 
and  his  wife,  and  I,  and  the  oaf  himself,  all 
more  or  less  embarrassed.  Rufe  announced 
there  was  nobody  in  the  neighborhood  but 
Irvine  who  could  do  a  day's  work  for  any- 
body. Irvine  thereupon  refused  to  have  any 
more  to  do  with  my  service;  he  "  wouldn't  work 
no  more  for  a  man  as  had  spoke  to  him  's  I 
had  done."  I  found  myself  on  the  point  of 
the  last  humiliation  :  driven  to  beg  the  creat- 
ure whom  I  had  just  dismissed  with  insult ; 
but  I  took  the  high  hand  in  despair,  said 
there  must  be  no  talk  of  Irvine  coming  back 
unless  matters  were  to  be  differently  managed, 
that  I  would  rather  chop  fire-wood  for  my- 
self than  be  fooled ;  and  in  short,  the  Han- 
sons being  eager  for  the  lad's  hire,  I  so 
imposed  upon  them  with  merely  affected 
resolution  that  they  ended  by  begging  me 
to  reemploy  him,  on  a  solemn  promise  that 
he  should  be  more  industrious.  The  prom- 
ise, I  am  bound  to  say,  was  kept;  we  soon 
had  a  fine  pile  of  fire-wood  at  our  door; 
and  if  Caliban  gave  me  the  cold  shoulder  and 
spared  me  his  conversation,  I  thought  none 
the  worse  of  him  for  that,  nor  did  I  find  my 
days  much  longer  for  the  deprivation. 

The  leading  spirit  of  the  family  was,  I  am 
inclined  to  fancy,  Mrs.  Hanson.  Her  social 
brilliancy  somewhat  dazzled  the  others ;  and 
she  had  more  of  the  small  change  of  sense. 
It  was  she  who  faced  Kelmar,  for  instance ; 
and  perhaps,  if  she  had  been  alone,  Kelmar 
would  have  had  no  rule  within  her  doors. 
Rufe,  to  be  sure,  had  a  fine,  sober,  open-air 
attitude  of  mind,  seeing  the  world  without  exag- 
geration. Perhaps  we  may  even  say  without 
enough ;  for  he  lacked,  along  with  the  others, 


1 86 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


that  commercial  idealism  which  puts  so  high 
a  value  on  time  and  money.  Society  itself  is 
a  kind  of  convention ;  perhaps  Rufe  was 
wrong;  but  looking  on  life  plainly,  he  was 
unable  to  perceive  that  croquet  or  poker  was 
in  any  way  less  important  than,  for  instance, 
mending  his  wagon.  Even  his  own  profes- 
sion, hunting,  was  dear  to  him  mainly  as  a 
sort  of  play ;  even  that  he  would  have  neg- 
lected, had  it  not  appealed  to  his  imagination. 
His  hunting  suit,  for  instance,  had  cost  I 
should  be  afraid  to  say  how  many  bucks — 
the  currency  in  which  he  paid  his  way;  it  was 
all  befringed  after  the  Indian  fashion,  and 
it  was  dear  to  his  heart.  The  pictorial  side 
of  his  daily  business  was  never  forgotten ;  he 
was  even  anxious  to  stand  for  his  picture 
in  those  buckskin  hunting  clothes ;  and  I  re- 
member how  he  once  warmed  almost  into 
enthusiasm,  his  dark  blue  eyes  growing  per- 
ceptibly larger,  as  he  planned  the  composi- 
tion in  which  he  should  appear  "  with  the 
horns  of  some  real  big  bucks,  and  dogs,  and 
a  camp  on  a  crick  "  (creek,  stream). 

There  was  no  trace  in  Irvine  of  this  wood- 
land poetry.  He  did  not  care  for  hunting, 
nor  yet  for  buckskin  suits.  He  had  never 
observed  scenery.  The  world,  as  it  appeared 
to  him,  was  almost  obliterated  by  his  own 
great  grinning  figure  in  the  foreground  :  Cali- 
ban-Malvolio.  And  it  seems  to  me,  as  if  in 
the  persons  of  these  brothers-in-law,  we  had 
the  two  sides  of  rusticity  fairly  well  repre- 
sented :  the  hunter  living  really  in  nature,  the 
clod-hopper  living  merely  out  of  society;  the 
one  bent  up  in  every  corporal  agent  to  capac- 
ity in  one  pursuit,  and  doing  at  least  one 
thing  keenly  and  thoughtfully,  and  thoroughly 
alive  to  all  that  touches  it;  the  other,  in  the 
inert  and  bestial  state,  walking  in  a  faint 
dream,  and  taking  so  dim  an  impression  of 
the  myriad  sides  of  life  that  he  is  truly  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  himself.  It  is  only  in 
the  fastnesses  of  nature,  forests,  mountains, 
and  the  backs  of  man's  beyond,  that  a  creature 
endowed  with  five  senses  can  grow  up  into 
the  perfection  of  this  crass  and  earthy  vanity. 
In  towns  or  the  busier  country-sides,  he  is 
roughly  reminded  of  other  men's  existence; 
and  if  he  learns  no  more,  he  learns  at  least  to 
fear  contempt.  But  Irvine  had  come  scath- 
less  through  life;  conscious  only  of  himself, 
of  his  great  strength  and  intelligence;  and 
in  the  silence  of  the  universe,  to  which  he 
did  not  listen,  dwelling  with  delight  on  the 
sound  of  his  own  thoughts. 

THE    SEA    FOGS. 

A  CHANGE  in  the  color  of  the  light  usually 
called  me  in  the  morning.  By  a  certain  hour 


the  long,  vertical  chinks  in  our  western  gable, 
where  the  boards  had  shrunk  and  separated, 
flashed  suddenly  into  my  eyes  as  stripes  of 
dazzling  blue,  at  once  so  dark  and  so  splendid 
that  I  used  to  marvel  how  the  qualities  could 
be  combined.  At  an  earlier  hour  the  heavens 
in  that  quarter  were  still  quietly  colored;  but 
the  shoulder  of  the  mountain  which  shuts  in 
the  canon  already  glowed  with  sunlight  in  a 
wonderful  compound  of  gold  and  rose  and 
green ;  and  this,  too,  would  kindle,  although 
more  mildly  and  with  rainbow  tints,  the  fis- 
sures of  our  crazy  gable.  If  I  were  sleeping 
heavily,  it  was  the  bold  blue  that  struck  me 
awake ;  if  more  lightly,  then  I  would  come  to 
myself  in  that  earlier  and  fairer  light. 

One  Sunday  morning,  about  five,  the  first 
brightness  called  me.  I  rose  and  turned  to 
the  east,  not  for  my  devotions,  but  for  air. 
The  night  had  been  very  still ;  the  little  pri- 
vate gale  that  blew  every  evening  in  our  canon 
for  ten  minutes,  or  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  had  swiftly  blown  itself  out ;  in  the 
hours  that  followed  not  a  sigh  of  wind  had 
shaken  the  tree-tops ;  and  our  barrack,  for  all 
its  trenches,  was  less  fresh  that  morning  than 
of  wont.  But  I  had  no  sooner  reached  the 
window  than  I  forgot  all  else  in  the  sight  that 
met  my  eyes ;  and  I  made  but  two  bounds 
into  my  clothes,  and  down  the  crazy  plank 
to  the  platform. 

The  sun  was  still  concealed  below  the  op- 
posite hill-tops,  though  it  was  shining  already 
not  twenty  feet  above  my  head  on  our  own 
mountain  slope.  But  the  scene,  beyond  a  few 
near  features,  was  entirely  changed.  Napa 
Valley  was  gone;  gone  were  all  the  lower 
slopes  and  woody  foot-hills  of  the  range;  and 
in  their  place,  not  a  thousand  feet  below  me, 
rolled  a  great  level  ocean.  It  was  as  though 
I  had  gone  to  bed  the  night  before,  safe  in  a 
nook  of  inland  mountains,  and  had  awakened 
in  a  bay  upon  the  coast.  I  had  seen  these 
inundations  from  below;  at  Calistoga  I  had 
risen  and  gone  abroad  in  the  early  morning, 
coughing  and  sneezing,  under  fathoms  on 
fathoms  of  gray  sea  vapor  like  a  cloudy  sky: 
a  dull  sight  for  the  artist,  and  a  painful  expe- 
rience for  the  invalid.  But  to  sit  aloft  one's  self 
in  the  pure  air  and  under  the  unclouded 
dome  of  heaven,  and  thus  look  down  on  the 
submergence  of  the  valley,  was  strangely  dif- 
ferent and  even  delightful  to  the  eyes.  Far 
away  were  hill-tops  like  little  islands.  Nearer 
land,  a  smoky  surf  beat  about  the  foot  of 
precipices  and  poured  into  all  the  coves  of 
these  rough  mountains.  The  color  of 
fog  ocean  was  a  thing  never  to  be  forgott 
For  an  instant,  among  the  Hebrides  and  ju 
about  sundown,  I  have  seen  something 
it  on  the  sea  itself.  But  the  white  was  not 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


187 


ipaline,  nor  was  there,  what  surprisingly  in-    whence  it  came.    So,  mightily  relieved  and  a 
reased  the  effect,  that  breathless,  crystal  still-    good  deal  exhilarated  by  the  sight,  I  went 


ess  over  all.  Even  in  its  gentlest  moods,  the 
alt  sea  travails,  moaning  among  the  weeds  or 
isping  on  the  sand ;  but  that  vast  fog  ocean 


into  the  house  to  light  the  fire. 

I  suppose  it  was  nearly  seven  when  I  once 
more  mounted  the  platform  to  look  abroad. 


ay  in  a  trance  of  silence,  nor  did  the  sweet    The  fog  ocean  had  swelled  up  enormously 

.*  •  11".  1  1  *1.T  •.  1/»*  -          * 


,ir  of  the  morning  tremble  with  a  sound. 
As  I  continued  to  sit  upon   the  dump, 


since  last  I  saw  it ;  and  a  few  hundred  fee't 
I    below  me,  in  the  deep  gap  where  the  Toll 


»egan  to  observe  that  this  sea  was  not  so  level  House  stands  and  the  road  runs  through 
,s,  at  first  sight,  it  appeared  to  be.  Away  in  into  Lake  County,  it  had  already  topped  the 
Ihe  extreme  south,  a  little  hill  of  fog  arose  slope,  and  was  pouring  over  and  down  the 
gainst  the  sky  above  the  general  surface;  other  side  like  driving  smoke.  The  wind  had 
nd  as  it  had  already  caught  the  sun,  it  shone  climbed  along  with  it ;  and  though  I  was  still 
n  the  horizon  like  the  top-sails  of  some  giant  in  calm  air,  I  could  see  the  trees  tossing  below 

me,  and  their  long,  strident  sighing  mounted 
to  me  where  I  stood.  Half  an  hour  later,  the 
fog  had  surmounted  all  the  ridge  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  gap,  though  a  shoulder  of 
the  mountain  still  warded  it  out  of  our  canon. 
Napa  Valley  and  its  bounding  hills  were  now 


hip.   There  were  huge  waves,  stationary,  as 
seemed,  like  waves  in  a  frozen  sea ;  and  yet, 
I  looked  again,  I  was  not  sure  but  they 
/•ere  moving  after  all,  with  a  slow  and  august 
dvance.   And  while  I  was  yet  doubting,  a 
romontory  of  the  hills  some  four  or  five  miles 


way,  conspicuous  by  a  bouquet  of  tall  pines,    utterly  blotted  out.  The  fog,  snowy  white  in 


/•as  in  a  single  instant  overtaken  and  swal- 
wed  up.  It  re-appeared  in  a  little  with  its 
ines,  but  this  time  as  an  islet,  and  only  to 
e  swallowed  up  once  more,  and  then  for 
ood.  This  set  me  looking  nearer  hand,  and 
saw  that  in  every  cove  along  the  line  of 
lountains  the  fog  was  being  piled  in  higher 
ind  higher  as  though  by  some  wind  that  was 
laudible  to  me.  I  could  trace  its  progress, 
ne  pine  tree  first  growing  hazy  and  then 
isappearing  after  another;  although  some- 
mes  there  was  none  of  this  forerunning  haze, 
ut  the  whole  opaque  white  ocean  gave  a 
:art  and  swallowed  a  piece  of  mountain-side 
t  a  gulp.  It  was  to  flee  these  poisonous  fogs 
lat  I  had  left  the  seaboard  and  climbed  so 
|igh  among  the  mountains.  And  now,  behold, 
lere  came  the  fog  to  besiege  me  in  my  chosen 
ititudes,  and  yet  came  so  beautifully  that  my 
irst  thought  was  of  welcome. 
I  The  sun  had  now  gotten  much  higher,  and 
(irough  all  the  gaps  of  the  hills  it  cast  long 


the  sunshine,  was  pouring  over  into  Lake 
County  in  a  huge,  ragged  cataract,  tossing 
tree-tops  appearing  and  disappearing  in  the 
spray.  The  air  struck  with  a  little  chill,  and 
set  me  coughing.  It  smelt  strong  of  the  fog, 
like  the  smell  of  a  washing-house,  but  with  a 
shrewd  tang  of  the  sea-salt. 

Had  it  not  been  for  two  things, — the  shel- 
tering spur  which  answered  as  a  dyke,  and 
the  great  valley  on  the  other  side  which  rap- 
idly ingulfed  whatever  mounted, — our  own 
little  platform  in  the  canon  must  have  been 
already  buried  a  hundred  feet  in  salt  and 
poisonous  air.  As  it  was,  the  interest  of  the 
scene  entirely  occupied  our  minds.  We  were 
set  just  out  of  the  wind,  and  but  just  above 
the  fog,  and  could  listen  to  the  voice  of  the 
one  as  to  music  on  the  stage ;  we  could  plunge 
our  eyes  down  into  the  other  as  into  some 
flowing  stream  from  over  the  parapet  of  a 
bridge;  thus  we  looked  on  upon  a  strange, 
impetuous,  silent,  shifting  exhibition  of  the 


ars  of  gold   across  that   white  ocean.   An  powers  of  nature,  and  saw  the  familiar  land- 

^gle,  or  some  other  very  great  bird  of  the  scape  changing  from  moment  to  moment  like 

lountain,   came  wheeling   over  the   nearer  figures  in  a  dream.   The  imagination  loves  to 

ine-tops,  and  hung,  poised  and  something  trifle  with  what  is  not.    Had  this  been  indeed 


deways,  as  if  to  look  abroad  on  that  un-  the  deluge,  I  should  have  felt  more  strongly, 
onted  desolation,  spying,  perhaps  with  but  the  emotion  would  have  been  similar  in 
;rror,  for  the  eyries  of  her  comrades.  Then,  kind.  I  played  with  the  idea,  as  the  child 
ith  a  long  cry,  she  disappeared  again  toward  flees  in  delighted  terror  from  the  creations  of 
fake  County  and  the  clearer  air.  At  length,  his  fancy.  The  look_of  the  thing  helped  me. 

seemed  to  me  as  if  the  flood  were  beginning 
:>  subside.  The  old  landmarks  by  whose  dis- 
^pearance  I  had  measured  its  advance,  here 

crag,  there  a  brave  pine  tree,  now  began, 

the  inverse  order,  to  make  their  re-appear- 
ice  into  daylight.  I  judged  all  danger  of 


jie  fog  was  over  for  this  little  while.  This 
las  not  Noah's  flood;  it  was  but  a  warning 
bring,  and  would  now  drift  out  seaward 


And  when  at  last  I  began  to  flee  up  the 
mountain,  it  was,  indeed,  partly  to  escape 
from  the  raw  air  that  kept  me  coughing,  but 
it  was  also  part  in  play. 

As  I  ascended  the  mountain-side,  I  came 
once  more  to  overlook  the  upper  surface  of 
the  fog;  but  it  was  a  different  appearance 
from  what  I  had  beheld  at  day-break.  For, 
first,  the  sun  now  fell  on  it  from  high  over- 


1 88 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


head,  and  its  surface  shone  and  undulated 
like  a  great  nor'land  moor  country  sheeted 
with  untrodden  morning  snow.  And  next, 
the  new  level  must  have  been  a  thousand  or 
fifteen  hundred  feet  higher  than  the  old,  so 
that  only  five  or  six  points  of  all  the  broken 
country  below  me  still  stood  out.  Napa  Valley 
was  now  one  with  Sonoma  on  the  west.  On 
the  hither  side,  only  a  thin  scattered  fringe  of 
bluffs  was  unsubmerged ;  and  through  all  the 
gaps  the  fog  was  pouring  over,  like  an  ocean, 
into  the  blue,  clear,  sunny  country  on  the 
east.  There  it  was  soon  lost,  for  it  fell  in- 
stantly into  the  bottom  of  the  valleys,  follow- 
ing the  water-shed;  and  the  hill-tops  in  that 
quarter  were  still  clear  cut  upon  the  eastern  sky. 

Through  the  Toll  House  gap  and  over  the 
near  ridges  on  the  other  side,  the  deluge  was 
immense.  A  spray  of  thin  vapor  was  thrown 
high  above  it,  rising  and  falling  and  blown 
into  fantastic  shapes.  The  speed  of  its  course 
was  like  a  mountain  torrent.  Here  and  there 
a  few  tree-tops  were  discovered  and  then 
whelmed  again;  and  for  one  second  the  bough 
of  a  dead  pine  beckoned  out  of  the  spray  like 
the  arm  of  a  drowning  man.  But  still  the  im- 
agination was  dissatisfied,  still  the  ear  waited 
for  something  more.  Had  this  indeed  been 
water  (as  it  seemed  so,  to  the  eye),  with  what 
a  plunge  of  reverberating  thunder  would  it 
have  rolled  upon  its  course,  disemboweling 
mountains  and  deracinating  pines !  And  yet 
water  it  was,  and  sea  water  at  that ;  true  Pa- 
cific billows,  only  somewhat  rarefied,  rolling 
in  mid-air  among  the  hill-tops. 

I  climbed  still  higher,  among  the  red  rattling 
gravel  and  dwarf  underwood  of  Mount  Saint 
Helena,  until  I  could  look  right  down  upon 
Silverado,  and  admire  the  favored  nook  in 
which  it  lay.  The  snowy  plain  of  fog  was 
several  hundred  feet  higher;  behind  the  pro- 
tecting spur  a  gigantic  accumulation  of  cot- 
tony vapor  threatened,  with  every  second,  to 
blow  over  and  submerge  our  homestead ;  but 
the  vortex  setting  past  the  Toll  House  was 
too  strong ;  and  there  lay  our  little  platform, 
in  the  arms  of  the  deluge,  but  still  enjoying 
its  unbroken  sunshine.  About  eleven,  how- 
ever, thin  spray  came  flying  over  the  friendly 
buttress,  and  I  began  to  think  the  fog  had 
hunted  out  its  Jonah,  after  all.  But  it  was  the 
last  effort.  The  wind  veered  while  we  were  at 
dinner,  and  began  to  blow  equally  from  the 
mountain  summit;  and  by  half-past  one  all 
that  world  of  sea-fogs  was  utterly  routed,  and 
fleeing  here  and  there  into  the  south  in  little 
rags  of  cloud.  And  instead  of  a  lone  sea- 
beach,  we  found  ourselves  once  more  inhabit- 
ing a  high  mountain-side,  with  the  clear,  green 
country  far  below  us,  and  the  light  smoke  of 
Calistoga  blowing  in  the  air. 


This  was  the  great  Russian  campaign  for 
that  season ;  now  and  then,  in  the  early 
morning,  a  little  white  lakelet  of  fog  would 
be  seen  far  down  in  Napa  Valley;  but  the 
heights  were  not  again  assailed,  nor  was  the  sur- 
rounding world  again  shut  off  from  Silverado. 

A    STARRY    DRIVE. 

IN  our  rule  at  Silverado,  there  was  a'i 
melancholy  interregnum.  The  queen  and 
the  crown  prince  with  one  accord  fell  sick ; 
and  as  I  was  sick  to  begin  with,  our  lone 
position  on  Mount  Saint  Helena  was  no 
longer  tenable,  and  we  had  to  hurry  back  to 
Calistoga  and  a  cottage  on  the  green.  By; 
that  time  we  had  begun  to  realize  the  difficul- 
ties of  our  position ;  we  had  found  what  an 
amount  of  labor  it  cost  to  support  life  in  our 
red  canon;  and  it  was  the  dearest  desire 
of  our  hearts  to  get  a  China  boy  to  go  along 
with  us  when  we  returned.  We  could  have 
given  him  a  whole  house  to  himself,  self- 
contained,  as  they  say  in  the  advertisements, 
and  on  the  money  question  we  were  prepared 
to  go  far.  Kong  Sam  Kee,  the  Calistoga 
washerman,  was  intrusted  with  the  office ; 
and  from  day  to  day  it  languished  on,  with 
protestations  on  our  part  and  mellifluous 
excuses  on  the  part  of  Kong  Sam  Kee. 

At  length,  about  half-past  eight  of  our  last 
evening,  with  the  wagon  ready  harnessed  to 
convey  us  up  the  grade,  the  washerman,  with 
a  somewhat  sneering  air,  produced  the  boy. 
He  was  a  handsome,  gentlemanly  lad,  attired 
in  rich  dark  blue  and  shod  with  snowy  white ; 
but  alas  !  he  had  heard  rumors  of  Silverado ; 
he  knew  it  for  a  lone  place  on  the  mountain- 
side, with  no  friendly  wash-house  near  by, 
where  he  might  smoke  a  pipe  of  opium  o' 
nights,  with  other  China  boys,  and  lose  his 
little  earnings  at  the  game  of  tan ;  and  he  just 
backed  out  for  more  money,  and  then,  when 
that  demand  was  satisfied,  refused  to  come 
point-blank.  He  was  wedded  to  his  wash- 
houses;  he  had  no  taste  for  the  rural  life; 
and  we  must  go  to  our  mountain  servantless. 
It  must  have  been  near  half  an  hour  before 
we  reached  that  conclusion,  standing  in  the 
midst  of  Calistoga  high  street  under  the  stars, 
and  the  China  boy  and  Kong  Sam  Kee  sing- 
ing their  pigeon  English  in  the  sweetest  voices 
and  with  the  most  musical  inflections. 

We  were  not,  however,  to  return  alone ; 
we  brought  with  us  Joe  Strong,  the  painl 
most   good-natured   comrade  and   a 
hand  at  an  omelette.    I  do  not  know  in  wl 
capacity  he  was  most  valued,  as  a  cook  or  a  < 
panion ;  and  he  did  excellently  well  in  bot 

The  Kong  Sam  Kee  negotiation  had 
layed  us  unduly ;  it  must  have  been  half-] 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


189 


nine  before  we  left  Calistoga,  and  night  came 
fully  ere  we  struck  the  bottom  of  the  grade. 
I  have  never  seen  such  a  night.  It  seemed 
to  throw  calumny  in  the  teeth  of  all  the 
painters  that  ever  dabbled  in  starlight.  The 
sky  itself  was  of  a  ruddy,  powerful,  nameless, 
changing  color,  dark  and  glossy  like  a  serpent's 
back.  The  stars,  by  innumerable  millions, 
stuck  boldly  forth  like  lamps.  The  milky 
way  was  bright,  like  a  moonlit  cloud;  half 
heaven  seemed  milky  way.  The  greater  lumi- 
naries shone  each  more  clearly  than  a  winter's 
moon ;  their  light  was  dyed  in  every  sort  of 
color,  red  like  fire,  blue  like  steel,  green  like 
the  tracks  of  sunset ;  and  so  sharply  did  each 
stand  forth  in  its  own  luster,  that  there  was 
no  appearance  of  that  flat,  star-spangled  arch 
we  know  so  well  in  pictures,  but  all  the  bottom 
of  heaven  was  one  chaos  of  contesting  lumin- 
aries— a  hurly-burly  of  stars.  Against  this,  the 
hills  and  rugged  tree-tops  stood  out  redly  dark. 

As  we  continued  to  advance,  the  lesser 
lights  and  milky  ways  first  grew  pale  and  then 
vanished ;  the  countless  hosts  of  heaven  dwin- 
dled in  number  by  successive  millions ;  those 
that  still  shone  had  tempered  their  exceeding 
brightness  and  fallen  back  into  their  custom- 
ary wistful  distance;  and  the  sky  declined 
from  its  first  bewildering  splendor  into  the 
appearance  of  a  common  night.  Slowly  this 
change  proceeded,  and  still  there  was  no  sign 
of  any  cause.  Then  a  whiteness  like  mist 
was  thrown  over  the  spurs  of  the  mountain. 
Yet  awhile  and,  as  we  turned  a  corner,  a  great 
leap  of  silver  light  and  net  of  forest  shadows 
fell  across  the  road  and  upon  our  wandering 
jwagonful;  and  swimming  low  among  the 
itrees,  we  beheld  a  strange,  misshapen,  waning 
moon,  half  tilted  on  her  back. 

"  Where  are  ye  when  the  moon  appears  ?  " 
as  the  old  poet  sang,  half  taunting,  to  the 
stars,  bent  upon  a  courtly  purpose. 

"As  the   sunlight  round    the  dim   earth's   midnight 

tower  of  shadow  pours, 
Streaming  past  the  dim,  wide  portals, 
_  Viewless  to  the  eyes  of  mortals, 
Till  it  floods  the  moon's  pale  islet  on  the  morning's 
golden  shores." 

So  sings  Mr.  Trowbridge,  with  a  noble 
inspiration.  And  so  had  the  sunlight  flooded 
that  pale  islet  of  the  moon ;  and  her  lit  face 
jput  out,  one  after  another,  that  galaxy  of 
'stars.  The  wonder  of  the  drive  was  over; 
but  by  some  nice  conjunction  of  clearness  in 
the  air  and  fit  shadow  in  the  valley  where 
ke  traveled,  we  had  seen  for  a  little  while 
that  brave  display  of  the  midnight  heavens. 
lit  was  gone,  but  it  had  been;  nor  shall  I 
sver  again  behold  the  stars  with  the  same 
pnind.  He  who  has  seen  the  sea  commoved 
with  a  great  hurricane,  thinks  of  it  very  dif- 


ferently from  him  who  has  seen  it  only  in  a 
calm.  The  difference  between  a  calm  and  a 
hurricane  is  not  greatly  more  striking  than 
that  between  the  ordinary  face  of  night  and 
the  splendor  that  shone  upon  us  in  that  drive. 
Two  in  our  wagon  had  often  seen  night  in 
the  tropics ;  but  even  that  bears  no  compar- 
ison,— the  nameless  color  of  the  sky,  the  hues 
of  the  star-fire,  and  the  incredible  projection 
of  the  stars  themselves,  starting  from  their 
orbits,  so  that  the  eye  seemed  to  distinguish 
their  positions  in  the  hollow  of  space,  these 
were  things  that  we  had  never  seen  before 
and  shall  never  see  again. 

Meanwhile,  in  this  altered  night,  we  pro- 
ceeded on  our  way  among  the  scents  and 
silence  of  the  forest,  reached  the  top  of  the 
grade,  wound  up  by  Hanson's,  and  came  at 
last  to  a  stand  under  the  flying  gargoyle  of  the 
chute.  Sam,  who  had  been  lying  back,  fast 
asleep,  with  the  moon  on  his  face,  got  down  with 
the  remark  that  it  was  pleasant  "to  be  home." 
The  wagon  turned  and  drove  away,  the  noise 
gently  dying  in  the  woods,  and  we  clambered 
up  the  rough  path,  Caliban's  great  feat  of 
engineering,  and  came  home  to  Silverado. 

The  moon  shone  in  at  the  eastern  doors 
and  windows  and  over  the  lumber  on  the 
platform.  The  one  tall  pine  beside  the  ledge 
was  steeped  in  silver.  Away  up  the  canon, 
a  wild-cat  welcomed  us  with  three  discordant 
squalls.  But,  once  we  had  lit  a  candle  and 
begun  to  review  our  improvements,  homely 
in  either  sense,  and  count  our  stores,  it  was 
wonderful  what  a  feeling  of  possession  and 
permanence  grew  up  in  the  hearts  of  the  lords 
of  Silverado.  A  bed  had  still  to  be  made  up 
for  Strong,  and  the  morning's  water  to  be 
fetched,  with  clinking  pail;  and  as  we  set 
about  these  household  duties,  and  showed 
off  our  wealth  and  conveniences  before  the 
stranger,  and  had  a  glass  of  wine,  I  think,  in 
honor  of  our  return,  and  trooped  at  length, 
one  after  another,  up  the  flying  bridge  of 
plank,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  in  our  shattered, 
moon-pierced  barrack,  we  were  among  the 
happiest  sovereigns  in  the  world,  and  certainly 
ruled  over  the  most  contented  people.  Yet, 
in  our  absence,  the  palace  had  been  sacked. 
Wild-cats,  so  the  Hansons  said,  had  broken 
in  and  carried  off  a  side  of  bacon,  a  hatchet, 
and  two  knives. 

TOILS   AND    PLEASURES. 

I  MUST  try  to  convey  some  notion  of  our 
life,  of  how  the  days  passed,  and  what  pleas- 
ure we  took  in  them,  of  what  there  was  to 
do,  and  how  we  set  about  doing  it,  in  our 
mountain  hermitage.  The  house,  after  we 
had  repaired  the  worst  of  the  damages,  and 


190 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


filled  in  some  of  the  doors  and  windows  with 
white  cotton  cloth,  became  a  healthy  and  a 
pleasant  dwelling-place,  always  airy  and  dry, 
and  haunted  by  the  outdoor  perfumes  of  the 
glen.  Within,  it  had  the  look  of  habitation, 
the  human  look.  You  had  only  to  go  into 
the  third  room,  which  we  did  not  use,  and 
see  its  stones,  its  sifting  earth,  its  tumbled 
litter,  and  then  return  to  our  lodging  with 
the  beds  made,  the  plates  on  the  rack,  the 
pail  of  bright  water  behind  the  door,  the 
stove  crackling  in  a  corner,  and  perhaps 
the  table  roughly  laid  against  a  meal;  and 
man's  order,  the  little  clean  spots  that  he  cre- 
ates to  dwell  in,  were  at  once  contrasted  with 
the  rich  passivity  of  nature.  And  yet  our 
house  was  everywhere  so  wrecked  and  shat- 
tered, the  air  came  and  went  so  freely,  the 
sun  found  so  many  port-holes,  the  golden 
outdoor  glow  shone  in  so  many  open  chinks, 
that  we  enjoyed,  at  the  same  time,  some  of 
the  comforts  of  a  roof  and  much  of  the 
gayety  and  brightness  of  al-fresco  life.  A  sin- 
gle shower  of  rain,  to  be  sure,  and  we  should 
have  been  drowned  out  like  mice.  But  ours 
was  a  Californian  summer,  and  an  earth- 
quake was  a  far  likelier  accident  than  a 
shower  of  rain. 

Trustful  in  this  fair  weather,  we  kept  the 
house  for  kitchen  and  bedroom,  and  used 
the  platform  as  our  summer  parlor.  The 
sense  of  privacy,  as  I  have  said  already,  was 
complete.  We  could  look  over  the  dump  on 
miles  of  forest  and  rough  hill-top ;  our  eyes 
commanded  some  of  Napa  Valley,  where  the 
train  ran,  and  the  little  county  townships  sat 
so  close  together  along  the  line  of  the  rail ; 
but  here  there  was  no  man  to  intrude.  None 
but  the  Hansons  were  our  visitors.  Even 
they  came  but  at  long  intervals,  or  twice 
daily,  at  a  stated  hour,  with  milk.  So  our 
days,  as  they  were  never  interrupted,  drew 
out  to  the  greater  length ;  hour  melted  insen- 
sibly into  hour;  the  household  duties,  though 
they  were  many  and  some  of  them  laborious, 
dwindled  into  mere  islets  of  business  in  a  sea 
of  sunny  day-time ;  and  it  appears  to  me,  look- 
ing back,  as  though  the  far  greater  part  of  our 
life  at  Silverado  had  been  passed  propped 
upon  an  elbow  or  seated  on  a  plank,  listening 
to  the  silence  that  there  is  among  the  hills. 

My  work,  it  is  true,  was  over  early  in  the 
morning.  I  rose  before  any  one  else,  lit  the 
stove,  put  on  the  water  to  boil,  and  strolled 
forth  upon  the  platform  to  wait  till  it  was 
ready.  Silverado  would  then  be  still  in  shadow, 
the  sun  shining  on  the  mountain  higher  up. 
A  clean  smell  of  trees,  a  smell  of  the  earth  at 
morning,  hung  in  the  air.  Regularly,  every 
day,  there  was  a  single  bird,  not  singing,  but 
awkwardly  chirruping  among  the  green  ma- 


dronas ;  and  the  sound  was  cheerful,  natural 
and  stirring.  It  did  not  hold  the  attentior 
nor  interrupt  the  thread  of  meditation  like  ; 
blackbird  or  a  nightingale ;  it  was  mere  wood 
land  prattle,  of  which  the  mind  was  consciou: 
like  a  perfume.  The  freshness  of  these  morning 
seasons  remained  with  me  far  on  into  the  day 

As  soon  as  the  kettle  boiled,  I  made  por 
ridge  and  coffee ;  and  that,  beyond  the  litera 
drawing  of  water  and  the  preparation  of  kin 
dling,  which  it  would  be  hyperbolical  tc 
call  the  hewing  of  wood,  ended  my  domestic 
duties  for  the  day.  Thenceforth,  my  wife  la 
bored  single-handed  in  the  palace,  and  I  la) 
or  wandered  on  the  platform  at  my  owr 
sweet  will.  The  little  corner  near  the  forge 
where  we  found  a  refuge  under  the  madrona< 
from  the  unsparing  early  sun,  is  indeed  con 
nected  in  my  mind  with  some  nightman 
encounters  over  Euclid  and  the  Latin  gram 
mar.  These  were  known  as  Sam's  lessons 
He  was  supposed  to  be  the  victim  and  th( 
sufferer ;  but  here  there  must  have  been  sorru 
misconception.  For,  whereas  I  generally  re- 
tired to  bed  after  one  of  these  engagements 
he  was  no  sooner  set  free  than  he  dashed  uj 
to  the  Chinaman's  house,  where  he  had  in- 
stalled a  printing-press,  that  great  element  oi 
civilization,  and  the  sound  of  his  labors  woulc 
be  faintly  audible  about  the  canon  half  the  day 

To  walk  at  all  was  a  laborious  business 
The  foot  sank  and  slid,  the  boots  were  cut  tc 
pieces  among  sharp,  uneven,  rolling  stones. 
When  we  crossed  the  platform  in  any  direc- 
tion, it  was  usual  to  lay  a  course,  using  as 
much  as  possible  the  line  of  wagon-rails, 
Thus,  if  water  were  to  be  drawn,  the  water- 
carrier  left  the  house  along  some  tilting 
planks  that  .we  had  laid  down  and  not  laid 
down  very  -well.  These  carried  him  to  that 
great  high-road,  the  railway,  and  the  railway 
served  him  as  far  as  to  the  head  of  the  shaft. 
But  from  there  to  the  spring  and  back  again 
he  made  the  best  of  his  unaided  way,  stag- 
gering among  the  stones  and  wading  in  low 
growth  of  the  calcanthus,  where  the  rattle- 
snakes lay  hissing  at  his  passage.  Yet  I  liked1 
to  draw  water.  It  was  pleasant  to  dip  the 
gray  metal  pail  into  the  clean,  colorless,  cool 
water;  pleasant  to  carry  it  back,  with  the 
water  lipping  at  the  edge  and  a  broken  sun- 
beam quivering  in  the  midst. 

But  the  extreme  roughness  of  the  walking 
confined  us  in  common  practice  to  the  plat- 
form, and,  indeed,  to   those   parts  of  it  th;it 
were  most  easily  accessible  along  the  line  of 
rails.    The  rails  came  straight  forward  frar 
the   shaft,   here   and   there   overgrown   wii 
little  green  bushes,  but  still  entire,  and  st 
carrying  a  truck,  which  it  was  Sam's  delight 
to  trundle  to  and  fro  by  the  hour  with 


THE   SILVERADO    SQUATTERS. 


191 


ous  ladings.  About  midway  down  the  plat- 
form the  railroad  trended  to  the  right,  leaving 
our  house  and  coasting  along  the  far  side 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  madronas  and  the 
forge,  and  not  far  off  the  latter  ended  in  a 
sort  of  platform  on  the  edge  of  the  dump. 
There,  in  old  days,  the  trucks  were  tipped 
and  their  loads  sent  thundering  down  the 
chute.  There,  besides,  was  the  only  spot 
where  we  could  approach  the  margin  of  the 
dump.  Anywhere  else,  you  took  your  life  in 
your  right  hand  when  you  came  within  a 
yard  and  a  half  to  peer  over ;  for,  at  any  mo- 
ment, the  dump  might  begin  to  slide  and  carry 
you  down  and  bury  you  below  its  ruins.  In- 
deed, the  neighborhood  of  an  old  mine  is  a 
place  beset  with  dangers  ;  for,  as  still  as  Silver- 
ado was,  at  any  moment  the  report  of  rotten 
wood  might  tell  us  that  the  platform  had  fallen 
into  the  shaft,  the  dump  might  begin  to  pour 
into  the  road  below,  or  a  wedge  slip  in  the 
great  upright  seam,  and  hundreds  of  tons  of 
mountain  bury  the  scene  of  our  encampment. 
I  have  already  compared  the  dump  to  a 
rampart,  built  certainly  by  some  rude  people 
and  for  prehistoric  wars.  It  was  likewise  a 
frontier.  All  below  was  green  and  woodland, 
the  tall  pines  soaring  one  above  another, 
each  with  a  firm  outline  and  full  spread  of 
though.  All  above  was  arid,  rocky,  and  bald. 
(The  great  spout  of  broken  mineral,  that  here 
[dammed  the  canon  up,  was  a  creature  of 
man's  handiwork, — its  material  dug  out  with 
pick  and  powder,  and  spread  by  the  service 
fof  the  trucks.  But  Nature  herself,  in  that 
lupper  district,  seemed  to  have  had  an  eye  to 
inothing  besides  mining ;  and  even  the  natural 
hill-side  was  all  sliding  gravel  and  precarious 
Bowlder.  Close  at  the  margin  of  the  well, 
leaves  would  decay  to  skeletons  and  mum- 
mies, which  at  length  some  stronger  gust 
would  carry  clear  of  the  canon  and  scatter  in 
jthe  subjacent  woods.  Even  moisture  and 
(decaying  vegetable  matter  could  not,  with  all 
hature's  alchemy,  concoct  enough  soil  to 
'nourish  a  few  poor  grasses.  It  is  the  same, 
they  say,  in  the  neighborhood  of  all  silver 
mines, — the  nature  of  that  precious  rock  being 
stubborn  with  quartz  and  poisonous  with  cin- 
inabar.  Both  were  plenty  in  our  Silverado. 
The  stones  sparkled  white  in  the  sunshine 
with  quartz;  they  were  all  stained  red  with 
binnabar.  Here,  doubtless,  came  the  Indians 
of  yore  to  paint  their  faces  for  the  war-path, 
and  cinnabar,  if  I  remember  rightly,  was  one 
3f  the  few  articles  of  Indian  commerce.  Now, 
3am  had  it  in  his  undisturbed  possession,  to 
pound  down  and  slake,  and  paint  his  rude 
iesigns  with.  But  to  me  it  had  always  a  fine 
3avor  of  poetry,  compounded  out  of  Indian 
i>tory  and  Hawthornden's  allusion  : 


"  Desire,  alas,  desire  a  Zeuxis  new, 

From  Indies  borrowing  gold,  from  eastern  skies 

Most  bright  cinoper " 

Yet  this  is  but  half  the  picture ;  our  Silver- 
ado platform  had  another  side  to  it.  Though 
there  was  no  soil  and  scarce  a  blade  of  grass, 
yet  out  of  these  tumbled  gravel  heaps  and 
broken  bowlders  a  flower-garden  bloomed  as 
at  home  in  a  conservatory.  Calcanthus  crept 
like  a  hardy  weed  all  over  our  rough  parlor, 
choking  the  railway  and  pushing  forth  its 
rusty,  aromatic  cones  from  between  two  blocks 
of  shattered  mineral.  Azaleas  made  a  big 
snow-bed  just  above  the  well.  The  shoulder 
of  the  hill  waved  white  with  Mediterranean 
heath.  In  the  crannies  of  the  ledge,  and 
about  the  spurs  of  the  tall  pine,  a  red  flower- 
ing stone-plant  hung  in  clusters.  Even  the 
low,  thorny  chaparral  was  thick  with  pea- 
like  blossom.  Close  at  the  foot  of  our  path, 
nutmegs  prospered,  delightful  to  the  sight  and 
smell.  At  sunrise  and  again  late  at  night,  the 
scent  of  the  sweet  bay-trees  filled  the  canon, 
and  the  down-blowing  night  wind  must  have 
borne  it  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  outer  air. 

All  this  vegetation,  to  be  sure,  was  stunted. 
The  madrona  was  here  no  bigger  than  the 
manzanita ;  the  bay  was  but  a  stripling  shrub : 
the  very  pines,  with  four  or  five  exceptions,  in 
all  our  upper  canon  were  not  as  tall  as  my- 
self, or  but  a  little  taller;  and  the  most  of  them 
came  lower  than  to  my  waist.  For  a  pros- 
perous forest  tree,  we  must  look  below  where 
the  glen  was  crowded  with  green  spires.  But 
for  flowers  and  ravishing  perfume,  we  had 
none  to  envy ;  our  heap  of  road  metal  was 
thick  with  bloom  like  a  hawthorn  in  the 
front  of  June ;  our  red,  baking  angle  in  the 
mountain  a  laboratory  of  poignant  scents. 
It  was  an  endless  wonder  to  my  mind,  as  I 
dreamed  about  the  platform,  following  the 
progress  of  the  shadows,  where  the  madrona 
with  its  leaves,  the  azalea  and  calcanthus 
with  their  blossoms,  could  find  moisture  to 
support  such  thick,  wet,  waxy  growths,  or  the 
bay  tree  collect  the  ingredients  of  its  perfume. 
But  there  they  all  grew  together,  healthy, 
happy,  and  happy-making,  as  though  rooted 
in  a  fathom  of  black  soil. 

Nor  was  it  only  vegetable  life  that  pros- 
pered. We  had  indeed  few  birds,  and  none 
that  had  much  of  a  voice,  or  anything  worthy 
to  be  called  a  song.  My  morning  comrade 
had  a  thin  chirp,  unmusical  and  monotonous, 
but  friendly  and  pleasant  to  hear.  He  had 
but  one  rival,  a  fellow  with  an  ostentatious 
cry  of  near  an  octave  descending,  not  one 
note  of  which  properly  followed  another. 
This  is  the  only  bird  I  ever  knew  with  a 
wrong  ear.  But  there  was  something  enthrall- 
ing about  his  performance ;  you  listened  and 


I92 


THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


listened,  thinking  each  time  he  must  surely 
get  it  right.  But  no;  it  was  always  wrong, 
and  always  wrong  the  same  way.  Yet  he 
seemed  proud  of  his  song,  delivered  it  with 
execution  and  a  manner  of  his  own,  and  was 
charming  to  his  mate.  A  very  incorrect,  in- 
cessant human  whistler  had  thus  a  chance  of 
knowing  how  his  own  music  pleased  the 
world.  Two  great  birds,  eagles  we  thought, 
dwelt  at  the  top  of  the  canon,  among  the 
crags  that  were  printed  on  the  sky.  Now 
and  again,  but  very  rarely,  they  wheeled  high 
over  our  heads  in  silence,  or  with  a  distant, 
dying  scream ;.  and  then,  with  a  fresh  impulse, 
winged  fleetly  forward,  dipped  over  a  hill-top, 
and  were  gone.  They  seemed  solemn  and 
ancient  things,  sailing  the  blue  air, — perhaps 
coeval  with  the  mountain  where  they  haunted, 
perhaps  emigrants  from  Rome,  where  the 
glad  legions  may  have  shouted  to  behold 
them  on  the  morn  of  battle. 

But  if  birds  were  rare,  the  place  abounded 
with  rattlesnakes — the  rattlesnakes'  nest,  it 
might  have  been  named.  Whenever  we 
brushed  among  the  bushes,  our  passage  woke 
their  angry  buzz.  One  dwelt  habitually  in 
the  wood-pile,  and,  sometimes,  when  we  came 
for  fire- wood,  thrust  up  his  small  head  between 
two  logs,  and  hissed  at  the  intrusion.  The 
rattle  has  a  legendary  credit ;  it  is  said  to  be 
awe-inspiring,  and,  once  heard,  to  stamp  it- 
self forever  in  the  memory.  But  the  sound 
is  not  at  all  alarming.  The  hum  of  many  in- 
sects and  the  buzz  of  the  wasp  convince  the 
ear  of  danger  quite  as  readily.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  lived  for  weeks  in  Silverado,  com- 
ing and  going,  with  rattles  sprung  on  every 
side,  and  it  never  occurred  to  us  to  be  afraid. 
I  used  to  take  sun-baths  and  do  calisthenics 
in  a  certain  pleasant  walk  among  azalea  and 
calcanthus,  the  rattles  whizzing  on  every  side 
like  spinning-wheels,  and  the  combined  hiss 
or  buzz  rising  louder  and  angrier  at  every 
sudden  movement;  but  I  was  never  in  the 
least  impressed,  nor  ever  attacked.  It  was 
only  toward  the  end  of  our  stay  that  a  man 
down  at  Calistoga,  who  was  expatiating  on 
the  terrifying  nature  of  the  sound,  gave  me 
at  last  a  very  good  imitation ;  and  it  burst  on 
me  at  once  that  we  dwelt  in  the  very  me- 
tropolis of  deadly  snakes,  and  that  the  rattle 
was  simply  the  commonest  noise  in  Silverado. 
Immediately  on  our  return,  we  attacked  the 
Hansons  on  the  subject.  They  had  formerly 
assured  us  that  our  canon  was  favored,  like 
Ireland,  with  an  entire  absence  of  all  poison- 
ous reptiles ;  but,  with  the  perfect  inconse- 
quence of  the  natural  man,  they  were  no 
sooner  found  out  than  they  went  off  at  score 
in  the  contrary  direction,  and  we  were  told 
that  in  no  part  of  the  world  did  rattlesnakes 


attain  to  such  a  monstrous  bigness  as  among 
the  warm,  flower-covered  rocks  of  Silverado. 
This  is  a  contribution  rather  to  the  natural 
history  of  the  Hansons  than  to  that  of  snakes. 

One  person,  however,  better  served  by  his1 
instinct,  had  known  the  rattle  from  the  first, 
and  that  was  Chuchu,  the  dog.  No  rational 
creature  has  ever  led  an  existence  more  poi- 
soned by  terror  than  that  dog's  at  Silverado. 
Every  whiz  of  the  rattle  made  him  bound. 
His  eyes  rolled  ;  he  trembled  ;  he  would  be 
often  wet  with  sweat.  One  of  our  greatest 
mysteries  was  his  terror  of  the  mountain.  A 
little  way  above  our  nook,  the  azaleas  and 
almost  all  the  vegetation  ceased.  Dwarf 
pines,  not  big  enough  to  be  Christmas-trees, 
grew  thinly  among  loose  stones  and  gravel 
seams.  Here  and  there  a  big  bowlder  sal 
quiescent  on  a  knoll,  having  paused  there 
till  the  next  rain,  in  his  long  slide  down  the 
mountain.  There  was  here  no  ambuscade 
for  the  snakes ;  you  could  see  clearly  where 
you  trod ;  and  yet  the  higher  I  went  the  more 
abject  and  appealing  became  Chuchu's  terror. 
He  was  an  excellent  master  of  that  composite 
language  in  which  dogs  communicate  with 
men  ;  and  he  would  assure  me,  on  his  honor, 
that  there  was  some  peril  on  the  mountain, — 
appeal  to  me,  by  all  that  I  held  holy,  to  turn 
back, — and  at  length,  finding  all  was  in  vain, 
and  that  I  still  persisted,  ignorantly  foolhardy, 
he  would  suddenly  whip  round  and  make  a 
bee-line  down  the  slope  for  Silverado,  the 
gravel  showering  after  him.  What  was  he 
afraid  of?  There  were,  admittedly,  brown 
bears  and  California  lions  on  the  mountain; 
and  a  grizly  visited  Rupe's  poultry-yard  not 
long  before,  to  the  unspeakable  alarm  of  Cali- 
ban, who  dashed  out  to  chastise  the  intruder 
and  found  himself,  by  moonlight,  face  to  face 
with  such  a  tartar.  Something,  at  least,  there 
must  have  been ;  some  hairy,  dangerous  brute 
lodged  permanently  among  the  rocks  a  little 
to  the  north-west  of  Silverado,  spending  his 
summer  thereabout,  with  wife  and  family. 

Crickets  were  not  wanting;  I  thought  I 
could  make  out  exactly  four  of  them,  each1 
with  a  corner  of  his  own,  who  used  to  make 
night  musical  at  Silverado.  In  the  matter  of 
voice  they  far  excelled  the  birds,  and  their 
ringing  whistle  sounded  from  rock  to  rock, 
calling  and  replying  the  same  thing,  as  in  a 
meaningless  opera.  Thus,  children  in  full 
health  and  spirits  shout  together,  to  the  dis- 
may of  neighbors;  and  their  idle,  happy, 
deafening  vociferations  rise  and  fall  like  the 
song  of  the  crickets.  I  used  to  sit  at 
on  the  platform  and  wonder  why  these 
ures  were  so  happy,  and  what  was 
with  man  that  he  also  did  not  wind  uj 
days  with  an  hour  or  two  of  shouting ; 


THE    SILVERADO   SQUATTERS. 


'93 


suspect  that  all  long-lived  animals  are 
lemn.  The  dogs  alone  are  hardly  used  by 
ature,  and  it  seems  a  manifest  injustice  for 
oor  Chuchu  to  die  in  his  teens  after  a  life  so 
ladowed  and  troubled,  continually  shaken 
ith  alarms,  and  the  tear  of  elegant  sentiment 
ermanently  in  his  eye. 

There  was  another  neighbor  of  ours  at  Sil- 

erado,  small  but  very  active,  a  destructive 

How.     This  was  a  black,  ugly  fly  —  a  bore, 

e   Hansons    called    him  —  who   lived,   by 

undreds,  in  the  boarding  of  our  house.    He 

itered  by  a  round  hole,  more  neatly  pierced 

lan  a  man  can  do  it  with  a  gimlet,  and  he 

iems  to  have  spent  his  life  in  cutting  out  the 

terior  of  the  plank,  but  whether  as  a  dwell- 

g   or   a  store-house,    I    could   never   find. 

rhen  I  used  to  lie  in  bed  in  the  morning  for 

rest, — we  had  no  easy  chairs  in  Silverado, — 

would   hear,  hour   after  hour,  the    sharp, 

itting  sound  of  his  labors,  and  from  time  to 

me  a  dainty  shower  of  sawdust  would  fall 

pon   the    blankets.    There   lives    no    more 

dustrious  animal  than  a  bore. 

And  now  that  I  have  named  to  the  reader  all 

r  animals  and  insects  without  exception, — 

ly  I  find  I  have  forgotten  the  flies, — he 

11  be  able  to  appreciate  the  singular  privacy 

d  silence  of  our  days.    It  was  not  only  man 

10  was    excluded ;    animals,    the   song   of 
•ds,   the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of 
eep,  clouds,  even,  and  the  variations  of  the 

ather,  were  here  also  wanting ;  and  as  day 
er  day  the  sky  was  one  dome  of  blue,  and 
i  pines  below  us  stood  motionless  in  the 

11  air,  so  the  hours  themselves  were  marked 
t  from  each  other  only  by  the  series  of  our 
fn  affairs  and  the  sun's  great  period  as  he 

r  ged  westward  through  the  heavens.  The 
to  birds  cackled  awhile  in  the  early  morning; 
c  day  the  water  tinkled  in  the  shaft,  the 
1  res  ground  sawdust  in  the  planking  of  our 
uzy  palace — infinitesimal  sounds;  and  it 
A  s  only  with  the  return  of  night  that  any 
cmge  would  fall  on  our  surroundings,  as  the 
f<  ir  crickets  began  to  flute  together  in  the  dark. 

tndeed,  it  would  be  hard  to  exaggerate  the 
p  asure  that  we  took  in  the  approach  of  even- 
11 .  Our  day  was  not  very  long,  but  very  tiring. 
T  trip  along  unsteady  planks  or  wade  among 
s  fting  stones,  to  go  to  and  fro  for  water,  to 
cjmber  down  the  glen  to  the  Toll  House 
afcr  meat  and  letters,  to  cook,  to  make  fires 

1  beds  were  all  exhausting  to  the  body. 
1  c  out-of-doors,  besides,  under  the  fierce  eye 
o  day,  draws  largely  on  the  animal  spirits. 
Isre  are  certain  hours  in  the  afternoon  when 
a  ian,  unless  he  is  in  strong  health  or  enjoys 
a  acant  mind,  would  rather  creep  into  a  cool 


corner  of  a  house  and  sit  upon  the  chairs  of 
civilization.  About  that  time  the  sharp  stones, 
the  planks,  the  upturned  boxes  of  Silverado, 
began  to  grow  irksome  to  my  body  ;  I  set  out 
on  that  hopeless,  never-ending  quest  for  a 
more  comfortable  position ;  I  would  be  fevered 
and  weary  of  the  staring  sun;  and  just  then  he 
would  begin  courteously  to  withdraw  his  coun- 
tenance, the  shadows  lengthened,  the  aromatic 
airs  awoke,  and  an  indescribable  but  happy 
change  announced  the  coming  of  the  night. 

Our  nights  were  never  cold,  and  they  were 
always  still,  but  for  one  remarkable  exception. 
Regularly,  about  nine  o'clock,  a  warm  wind 
sprang  up  and  blew,  for  ten  minutes  or  may 
be  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  right  down  the  canon, 
fanning  it  well  out,  airing  it  as  a  mother  airs 
the  night  nursery  before  the  children  sleep. 
As  far  as  I  could  judge,  in  the  clear  darkness 
of  the  night,  this  wind  was  purely  local ;  per- 
haps dependent  on  the  configuration  of  the 
glen.  At  least,  it  was  very  welcome  to  the 
hot  and  weary  squatters ;  and  if  we  were  not 
abed  already,  the  springing  up  of  this  lilliputian 
valley-wind  would  often  be  our  signal  to  retire. 

I  was  the  last  to  go  to  bed,  as  I  was  the 
first  to  rise.  Many  a  night  I  have  strolled 
about  the  platform,  taking  a  bath  of  darkness 
before  I  slept.  The  rest  would  be  in  bed,  and 
even  from  the  forge  I  could  hear  them  talk- 
ing together  from  bunk  to  bunk.  A  single 
candle  in  the  neck  of  a  pint  bottle  was  their 
only  illumination ;  and  yet  the  old  cracked 
house  seemed  literally  bursting  with  the  light. 
It  shone  keen  as  a  knife  through  all  the  ver- 
tical chinks,  it  struck  upward  through  the 
broken  shingles,  and  through  the  eastern 
door  and  window  it  fell  in  a  great  splash 
upon  the  thicket  and  the  overhanging  rock. 
You  would  have  said  a  conflagration  or,  at 
the  least,  a  roaring  forge ;  and  behold,  it  was 
but  a  candle.  Or  perhaps  it  was  yet  more 
strange  to  see  the  procession  moving  bed- 
ward  around  the  corner  of  the  house  and  up 
the  plank  that  brought  us  to  the  bedroom 
door :  under  the  immense  spread  of  the  starry 
heavens,  down  in  a  crevice  of  the  giant  mount- 
ain, these  few  human  shapes,  with  their  un- 
shielded taper,  made  so  disproportionate  a 
figure  in  the  eye  and  mind.  But  the  more  he 
is  alone  with  nature,  the  greater  man  and  his 
doings  bulk  in  the  consideration  of  his  fellow- 
men.  Miles  and  miles  away  upon  the  opposite 
hill-tops,  if  there  were  any  hunter  belated  or 
any  traveler  who  had  lost  his  way,  he  must  have 
stood  and  watched  and  wondered,  from  the  time 
the  candle  issued  from  the  door  of  the  assay  er's 
office  till  it  had  mounted  the  plank  and  dis- 
appeared again  into  the  miners'  dormitory. 


VOL.  XXVII. —  19. 


ECHOES   IN    THE    CITY    OF  THE   ANGELS. 


THE  tale  of  the  founding  of  the  city  of 
Los  Angeles  is  a  tale  for  verse  rather  than  for 
prose.  It  reads  like  a  page  out  of  some  new 
"  Earthly  Paradise,"  and  would  fit  well  into 
song  such  as  William  Morris  has  sung. 

It  is  only  a  hundred  years  old,  however,  and 
that  is  not  time  enough  for  such  song  to  sim- 
mer. It  will  come  later  with  the  perfume  of 
century-long  summers  added  to  its  flavor. 
Summers  century-long  ?  One  might  say  a 
stronger  thing  than  that  of  them,  seeing  that 
their  blossoming  never  stops,  year  in  nor  year 
out,  and  will  endure  as  long  as  the  visible 
frame  of  the  earth. 

The  twelve  devout  Spanish  soldiers  who 
founded  the  city  named  it  at  their  leisure  with 
a  long  name,  musical  as  a  chime  of  bells.  It 
answered  well  enough,  no  doubt,  for  the  first 
fifty  years  of  the  city's  life,  during  which  not 
a  municipal  record  of  any  sort  or  kind  was 
written  — "  Nuestra  Sefiora  Reina  de  los 
Angeles,"  "  Our  Lady  the  Queen  of  the 
Angels";  and  her  portrait  made  a  goodly 
companion  flag,  unfurled  always  by  the  side 
of  the  flag  of  Spain. 

There  is  a  legend,  that  sounds  older  than  it 
is,  of  the  ceremonies  with  which  the  soldiers 
took  possession  of  their  new  home.  They 
were  no  longer  young.  They  had  fought  for 
Spain  in  many  parts  of  the  Old  World,  and 
followed  her  uncertain  fortunes  to  the  New. 
Ten  years  some  of  them  had  been  faithfully 
serving  Church  and  King  in  sight  of  these 
fair  lands,  for  which  they  hankered,  and  with 
reason. 

In  those  days  the  soft,  rolling,  treeless  hills 
and  valleys,  between  which  the  Los  Angeles 
River  now  takes  its  shilly-shallying  course  sea- 
ward, were  forest  slopes  and  meadows,  with 
lakes  great  and  small.  This  abundance  of 
trees,  with  shining  waters  playing  among 
them,  added  to  the  limitless  bloom  of  the 
plains  and  the  splendor  of  the  snow-topped 
mountains,  must  have  made  the  whole  region 
indeed  a  paradise. 

Navarro,  Villavicencia,  Rodriguez,  Quintero, 
Moreno,  Lara,  Banegas,  Rosas,  and  Canero, 
these  were  their  names :  happy  soldiers  all, 
honored  of  their  king,  and  discharged  with 
so  royal  a  gift  of  lands  thus  fair. 

Looking  out  across  the  Los  Angeles  hills 
and  meadows  to-day,  one  easily  lives  over 
again  the  joy  they  must  have  felt.  Twenty- 
three  young  children  there  were  in  the  band, 
poor  little  waifs  of  camp  and  march.  What 


a  "  braw  flitting  "  was  it  for  them,  away  from 
the  drum-beat  forever  into  the  shelter  of  their 
own  sunny  home.  The  legend  says  not  a 
word  of  the  mothers,  except  that  there  were 
eleven  of  them,  and  in  the  procession  they 
walked  with  their  children  behind  the  men. 
Doubtless,  they  rejoiced  the  most. 

The  Fathers  from  the  San  Gabriel  Mission 
were  there,  with  many  Indian  neophytes,  and! 
Don   Felipe,  the  military  governor,  with  hi' 
showy  guard  of  soldiers. 

The  priests  and  neophytes  chanted.  The 
Cross  was  set  up,  the  flag  of  Spain  and  th( 
banner  of  Our  Lady  the  Queen  of  the  An 
gels  unfurled,  and  the  new  town  marked  0111:] 
around  a  square,  a  little  to  the  north  of  th( 
present  plaza  of  Los  Angeles. 

If  communities,  as  well  as  individuals,  an 
happy  when  history  finds  nothing  to  recorc 
of  them,  the  city  of  the  Queen  of  the  Angel; 
must  have  been  a  happy  spot  during  the  firsfl 
fifty  years  of  its  life,  for  not  a  written  recorcj 
of  the  period  remains,  not  even  a  record  oil 
grants  of  land.   The  kind  of  grant  that  these 
worthy  Spanish  soldiers  and  their  sons  con 
tented  themselves  with,  however,  hardly  de 
served  recording, — in  fact,  was  not  a  grant  a: I 
all,  since  its  continuance  depended  entireljl 
on  the  care  a  man  took  of  his  house  and  tht 
improvement  he  put  on  his  land.    If  he  lef 
his  house  unoccupied  or  let  it  fall  out  of  re  1 
pair,  if  he  left  a  field  uncultivated  for  twc 
years,  any  -neighbor  who  saw  fit   might  de 
nounce  him,  and  by  so  doing  acquire  a  righ 
to  the  property.    This  sounds  incredible,  bu  . 
all  the  historical  accounts  of  the   time  agret 
on  the  point.    They  say  : 

"  The  granting  authorities  could,  and  wen 
by  law  required,  upon  a  proper  showing  o: 
the  abandonment,  to  grant  the  property  t(- 
the  informant,  who  then  acquired  the  sam<( 
and  no  better  rights  than  those  possessed  b; 
his  predecessor." 

This  was  a  premium  indeed  on  staying  a 
home  and  minding  one's  business  —  a  premiun 
which  amounted  to  coercion.  One  wouk 
think  that  there  must  have  been  left  fron 
those  days  teeming  records  of  alienated  cs\ 
tates,  shifted  tenures,  and  angry  feuds  bet\ve-'i 
neighbor  and  neighbor.  But  no  evidence 
mains  of  such  strifes.  Life  was  too  sir" 
and  the  people  were  too  ignorant. 

Their  houses  were  little  more  than  hoi 
built  of  mud,  eight  feet  high,  with  flat 
made  of  reeds  and  asphaltum.    Their 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE   ANGELS. 


THE     FOUNDERS    OF    LOS    ANGELES. 


ith  slight  cultivation,  produced  all  they 
::eded;  and  if  anything  lacked,  the  rich  vine- 
;.rds,  wheat-fields,  and  orchards  of  the  San 
{abriel  Mission  lay  only  twelve  miles  away. 
'iese  vineyards,  orchards,  and  granaries,  so 
Jar  at  hand,  must  have  been  sore  temptation 
\  idleness.  Each  head  of  a  family  had  been 


presented,  by  the  paternal  Spanish  King,  with 
"  two  oxen,  two  mules,  two  mares,  two  sheep, 
two  goats,  two  cows,  one  calf,  an  ass,  and  one 
hoe."  For  these  they  were  to  pay  in  such  small 
installments  as  they  were  able  to  spare  out  of 
their  pay  and  rations,  which  were  still  con- 
tinued by  the  generous  King. 


196 


ECHOES  IN  THE  CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


In  a  climate  in  which  flowers  blossom  win- 
ter and  summer  alike,  man  may  bask  in  sun 
all  the  year  round  if  he  chooses.  Why,  then, 
should  those  happy  Spanish  soldiers  work? 
Even  the  King  had  thought  it  unnecessary, 
it  seems,  to  give  them  any  implements  of 
labor  except  "  one  hoe."  What  could  a  fam- 
ily do,  in  the  way  of  work,  with  "  one  hoe  "  ? 
Evidently,  they  did  not  work,  neither  they  nor 
their  sons,  nor  their  sons'  sons  after  them.  For, 
half  a  century  later,  they  were  still  living  a 
life  of  almost  incredible  ignorance,  redeemed 
only  by  its  simplicity  and  childlike  adherence 
to  the  old  religious  observances. 

Many  of  those  were  beautiful.  As  late  as 
1830  it  was  the  custom  throughout  the  town, 
in  all  the  families  of  the  early  settlers,  for  the 
oldest  member  of  the  family  —  oftenest  it  was 
a  grandfather  or  grandmother — to  rise  every 
morning  at  the  rising  of  the  morning  star, 
and  at  once  to  strike  up  a  hymn.  At  the  first 
note  every  person  in  the  house  would  rise,  or 
sit  up  in  bed,  and  join  in  the  song.  From 
house  to  house,  street  to  street,  the  singing 
spread ;  and  the  volume  of  musical  sound 
swelled,  until  it  was  as  if  the  whole  town  sang. 

The  hymns  were  usually  invocations  to  the 
Virgin,  to  Jesus,  or  to  some  saint.  The  open- 
ing line  of  many  of  them  was, 

"Rejoice,  O  Mother  of  God." 

A  manuscript  copy  of  one  of  these  old 
morning  songs  I  have  seen,  and  had  the  good 
fortune  to  win  a  literal  translation  of  part  of 
it,  in  the  soft,  Spanish-voiced,  broken  English, 
so  pleasant  to  hear.  The  first  stanza  is  the  cho- 
rus, and  was  repeated  after  each  of  the  others  : 

CHORUS.—"  Come,  O  sinners, 

Come,  and  we  will  sing 
Tender  hymns 
To  our  refuge. 

"  Singers  at  dawn, 

From  the  heavens  above, 

People  all  regions, 
Gladly  we  too  sing. 


"  Singing  harmoniously, 

Saying  to  Mary, 
O  beautiful  Queen, 

Princess  of  Heaven: 

"  Your  beautiful  head 

Crowned  we  see; 
The  stars  are  adorning 

Your  beautiful  hair ; 

"  Your  eyebrows  are  arched, 

Your  forehead  serene ; 
Your  face  turned  always 

Looks  toward  God; 

"  Your  eyes'  radiance 

Is  like  beautiful  stars  ; 
Like  a  white  dove, 

You  are  true  to  your  spouse." 

Each  of  these  stanzas  was  sung  first  alone' 
by  the  aged  leader  of  the  family  choir.  Ther 
the  rest  repeated  it;  then  all  joined  in  th( 
chorus. 

It  is  said  that  there  are  still  to  be  found,  ir* 
lonely  country  regions  in  California,  Mexicar 
homes  in  which  these  sweet  and  holy  "  song; 
before  sunrise"  are  sung. 

Looking   forward    to    death,    the   greates 
anxiety  of  these  simple  souls  was  to  providt 
themselves  with  a  priest's  cast-off  robe  to  In 
buried  in.    These  were  begged  or  bought  a«| 
the  greatest  of  treasures;    kept  in  sight,  oJ 
always  at  hand,  to  remind  them  of  approach! 
ing  death.    When  their  last  hour  drew  near! 
this  robe  was   flung  over  their  breasts,  anc 
they  died  happy,  their  stiffening  fingers  graspl 
ing  its  folds.    The  dead  body  was  wrapped  ii 
it,  and  laid  on  the  mud  floor  of  the  house,  i 
stone  being  placed  under  the  head  to  raise  i 
a  few  inches.    Thus  the  body  must  lie  till  th( 
time  of  burial.    Around    it,   day  and   night 
squatted,  praying   and   singing,  friends  whc 
wished  not  only  to   show  their  affection  fo: 
the    deceased,   but    to    win    indulgences   fo 
themselves;  every  prayer   said  thus,  by  the 
side  of  a  corpse,  having  a  special  and  speciJ 
fied  value. 

A  strange  demarkation  between  the  sexe; 


AN    INDIAN    STIRRUP. 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF   THE   ANGELS. 


197 


'THE     BURIAL     OF     A     FOUNDER. 


•>vas  enforced  in  these  ceremonies.  If  it  were 
i  woman  who  lay  dead,  only  women  might 
viied  a*nd  pray  and  watch  with  her  body ; 
;f  a  man,  the  circle  of  watchers  must  be 
exclusively  of  men. 

A  rough  box,  of  boards  nailed  together, 
fvas  the  coffin.  The  body,  rolled  in  the  old 
obe  whose  virtues  had  so  comforted  its  last 
:  on  scions  moments,  was  carried  to  the  grave 
>n  a  board,  in  the  center  of  a  procession  of 


friends  chanting  and  singing.    Not  until  the 
last  moment  was  it  laid  in  the  box. 

The  first  attempts  to  introduce  more  civil- 
ized forms  of  burial  met  with  opposition,  and 
it  was  only  by  slow  degrees  that  changes  were 
wrought.  A  Frenchman,  who  had  come  from 
France  to  Los  Angeles,  by  way  of  the  Sand- 
wich Islands,  bringing  a  store  of  sacred  orna- 
ments and  trinkets,  and  had  grown  rich  by 
sale  of  them  to  the  devout,  owned  a  spring- 


198          ECHOES  IN  THE  CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

wagon,  the  only  one  in  the  country.    By  dint  to  the  civil  and  military  disputation.    In  the 

of  entreaty,  the  people  were  finally  prevailed  general  anarchy  and  confusion,  the  peaceful , 

upon  to  allow  their  dead  to  be  carried  in  this  and  peace-loving  Catholic  fathers  were  robbed  ' 

wagon  to  the  burial-place.    For  a  long  time,  of  their  lands,  their  converts  were  scattered,  i 

however,  they  refused  to  have  horses  put  to  their   industries   broken    up.    Nowhere  were  \ 

the  wagon,  but  drew  it  by  hand  all  the  way ;  these  uncomfortable  years  more  uncomfortable 

women  drawing  women,  and   men  drawing  than  in  Los  Angeles.     Revolts,  occupations, 

men,  with  the  same  scrupulous  partition  of  surrenders,  retakings,  and  resurrenders  kept 

the  sexes  as  in  the  earlier  ceremonies.    The  the  little  town  in  perpetual  ferment.    Disorders 

picture  must  have  been  a  strange  one,  and  were  the  order  of  the  day  and  of  the  night, 

not  without  pathos, —  the  wagon,  wound  and  in  small  matters  as  well  as  in  great, 
draped  with  black  and  white,  drawn  up  and        The  Californian  fought  as  impetuously  for 

down   the  steep  hills   by  the  band  of  silent  his  old  way  of  dancing   as  for  his  political 

mourners.  allegiance.    There  are  comical    traditions  of 

The  next  innovation  was  the  introduction  the  men's  determination  never  to  wear  long 

of  stately  catafalques  for  the  dead  to  repose  trousers  to  dances ;  nor  to  permit  dances  to 

on,  either   in   house    or   church,  during  the  be  held  in  houses  or  halls,  it  having  been  the 

interval    between    their    death    and    burial,  practice  always  to  give  them  in  outdoor  booths 

There   had   been   brought  into  the   town   a  or  bowers  with  lattice- work  walls  of  sycamore 

few  old-fashioned   high-post,  canopied   bed-  poles  lashed  together  by  thongs  of  rawhide, 
steads,  and  from   these  the  first  catafalques        Outside  these  booths  the  men  sat  on  their 

were  made.    Gilded,  decorated  with  gold  and  horses  looking  in  at  the  dancing,  which  was 

silver  lace,  and  hung  with  white  and  black  chiefly  done  by  the    women.    An    old   man 

draperies,  they  made  a  by  no  means  insignifi-  standing  in  the  center  of  the  inclosure  di- 1 

cant  show,  which  doubtless  went  far  to  recon-  rected  the  dances.    Stopping  in  front  of  the 

cile  people's  minds  to  the  new  methods.  girl  whom  he  wished  to  have  join  the  set,  he: 

In  1838  there  was  a  memorable  funeral  of  clapped  his  hands.    She  then  rose  and  took 

a  woman  over  a  hundred  years  old.    Fourteen  her  place  on  the  floor :  if  she  could  not  dance, 

old  women  watched  with  her  body,  which  lay  or  wished  to  decline,  she  made  a  low  bow  I 

stretched  on  the  floor,  in  the  ancient  fashion,  and  resumed  her  seat. 

with  only  a  stone  beneath  the  head.  The  To  look  in  on  all  this  was  great  sport, 
youngest  of  these  watchers  was  eighty-five.  Sometimes,  unable  to  resist  the  spell,  a  man  * 
One  of  them,  Tomasa  Camera  by  name,  would  fling  himself  off  his  horse,  dash  into 
was  herself  over  a  hundred  years  old.  To-  the  inclosure,  seize  a  girl  by  the  waist,  whirl 
masa  was  infirm  of  foot,  so  they  propped  her  around  with  her  through  one  dance,  then 
with  pillows  in  a  little  cart,  and  drew  her  to  out  again  and  into  the  saddle,  where  he 
the  house  that  she  might  not  miss  of  the  sat,  proudly  aware  of  his  vantage.  The  dec- 
occasion.  All  night  long,  the  fourteen  squat-  orations  of  masculine  attire  at  this  time  were 
ted  or  sat  on  rawhides  spread  on  the  floor,  such  as  to  make  riding  a  fine  show.  Around 
and  sang,  and  prayed,  and  smoked :  as  fine  the  crown  of  the  broad-brimmed  sombrero 
a  wake  as  was  ever  seen.  They  smoked  was  twisted  a  coil  of  gold  or  silver  cord  ;  over 
cigarettes,  which  they  rolled  on  the  spot,  out  the  shoulders  was  flung,  with  ostentatious 
of  corn-husks  slit  fine  for  the  purpose,  there  carelessness,  a  short  cloak  of  velvet  or  bro- 
being  at  that  day  in  Los  Angeles  no  paper  cade ;  the  waistcoats  were  embroidered  in 
fit  for  cigarettes.  gold,  silver,  or  gay  colors;  so  also  were  the 

Outside  this  body-guard  of  aged  women  knee-breeches,  leggings,  and  stockings.  Long 

knelt  a  circle  of  friends  and  relatives,  also  silken  garters,  with  ornamented  tassels  at  the 

chanting,  praying,  and  smoking.    In  this  outer  ends,  were  wound  round  and  round  to  hold 

circle,  any  one  might  come  and  go  at  pleasure;  the  stockings  in  place.    Even  the  cumbrous 

but  into  the  inner  ring  of  the  watching  none  wooden   stirrups   were    carved   in    elaborate 

must  come,  and  none  must  go  out  of  it  till  designs.   No  wonder  that  men  accustomed  to 

the  night  was  spent.  such  braveries  as  these  saw  ignominy  in  the 

With  the  beginning  of  the  prosperity  of  the  plain  American  trousers. 

City  of  the  Angels  came  the  end  of  its  prime-        They  seem  to  have  been  a  variety  .of  Cen- ' 

val  peace.    Spanish  viceroys,  Mexican  alcaldes  taur,  these  early  Californian  men.    They  were 

and   governors,    United  States  commanders,  seldom  off  their   horses    except   to  eat  and 

naval  and  military,  followed  on  each  other's  sleep.     They  mounted,  with  jingling   silver 

heels,    with    or    without    frays,   ruling    Cali-  spur   and  glittering  bridle,  for  the    shortest 

forma  through    a   succession    of  tumultuous  distances,  even  to  cross  a  plaza.    They 

years.    Greedy  traders  from  all  parts  of  the  long  visits  on  horseback,  without  dismoi 

world  added  their  rivalries  and  interventions  ing.    Clattering  up  to  the  window  or  door-J 


111  V  VI 

>rtest 

i 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF   THE   ANGELS. 


199 


halting,  throwing  one  knee  over  the  crupper, 
the  reins  lying  loose,  they   sat  at  ease,  far 


Los  Angeles,  the  same  merry  outdoor  party 
broke  every  window  and  door  in  the  building, 


more  at  ease  than  in  a  house.  Only  at  church,  and  put  a  stop  to  the  festivity.  They  persisted 
where  the  separation  was  inevitable,  would  in  taking  this  same  summary  vengeance  on 
they  be  parted  from  their  horses.  They  turned  occasion  after  occasion,  until,  finally,  any 


THE     OLD     MEXICAN     WOMAN. 


the  near  neighborhood  of  a  church  on  Sunday  person  wishing  to  give  a  ball  in  his  own  house 

into  a  sort  of  picket-ground,  or  horse-trainers'  was  forced  to  surround  the  house  by  a  cor- 

jyard,  full  of  horse-posts  and  horses ;  and  the  don  of  police  to  protect  it. 

jscene  was  far  more  like  a  horse  fair  than  like  The  City  of  the  Angels  is  a  prosperous  city 

San  occasion  of  holy  observance.    There  seems  now.    It  has  business  thoroughfares,  blocks 

jto  have  been  a  curious  mixture  of  reverence  of  fine  stone  buildings,  hotels,  shops,  banks, 

land  irreverence  in  their  natures.    They  con-  and  is  growing  daily.   Its  outlying  regions  are 

tfessed  sins  and  underwent  penances  with  the  a  great  circuit  of  gardens,  orchards,  vineyards, 

'simplicity   of   children;    but  when,  in   1821,  and  corn-fields, and  its  suburbs  are  fast  filling 

the  church  issued  an  edict  against :  that  "  es-  up  with  houses  of  a  showy  though  cheap  archi- 

candalosisima  "    dance,   the  waltz,  declaring  tecture.   But  it  has  not  yet  shaken  off  its  past. 

that  whoever   dared  to  dance  it  should  be  A  certain  indefinable,  delicious  aroma  from 

excommunicated,  the  merry  sinners  waltzed  the   old,  ignorant,  picturesque  times  lingers 

pn  only  the  harder  and  faster,  and  laughed  still,  not  only  in  by-ways  and  corners,  but  in 

MI  their  priests'  faces.    And  when  the  advo-  the  very  centers  of  its  newest  activities, 

tcates  of  decorum,  good    order,  and   indoor  Mexican  women,  their  heads  wrapped  in 

(dancing  gave  their  first  ball  in  a  public  hall  in  black  shawls,  and  their  bright  eyes  peering 


2OO 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


CROWNING    THE    FAVORITE. 


out  between  the  close-gathered  folds,  glide 
about  everywhere;  the  soft  Spanish  speech 
is  continually  heard ;  long-robed  priests  hurry 
to  and  fro  ;  and  at  each  dawn  ancient,  jang- 
ling bells  from  the  Church  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Angels  ring  out  the  night  and  in  the  day. 
Venders  of  strange  commodities  drive  in 
stranger  vehicles  up  and  down  the  streets: 


antiquated   carts    piled    high   with    oran$ 
their    golden    opulence    contrasting   \veir( 
with  the  shabbiness  of  their  surroundings  and 
the    evident  poverty  of  their   owner,    ck 
following  on  the  gold  of  one  of  these,  one 
sometimes  the  luck  to  see  another  cart, 
more  antiquated  and  rickety,  piled  high 
something — he  cannot  imagine  what — ten 


ECHOES  IN  THE   CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


201 


cotta  red  in  grotesque  shapes  ;  it  is  fuel  —  the 
same  sort  which  Villavicencia,  Quintero,  and 
the  rest  probably  burned,  when  they  burned 
any,  a  hundred  years  ago.  It  is  the  roots 
and  root-shoots  of  manzanita  and  other 
shrubs.  The  colors  are  superb  —  terra-cotta 
reds,  shading  up  to  flesh  pink,  and  down  to 
dark  mahogany  ;  but  the  forms  are  grotesque 
beyond  comparison:  twists,  querls,  contor- 
tions, a  boxful  of  them  is  an  uncomfortable 
Dresence  in  one's  room,  and  putting  them  on 
;he  fire  is  like  cremating  the  vertebrae  and 
double  teeth  of  colossal  monsters  of  the 
Pterodactyl  period. 

The  present  plaza  of  the  city  is  near  the 
original  plaza  marked  out  at  the  time  of  the 
first  settlement;  the  low  adobe  house  of  one 
of  the  early  governors  stands  yet  on  its  east 
side,  and  is  still  a  habitable  building. 

The  plaza  is  a  dusty  and  dismal  little  place, 
with  a  parsimonious  fountain  in  the  center, 
surrounded  by  spokes  of  thin  turf,  and  walled 
its  outer  circumference  by  a  row  of  (tall 
Monterey  cypresses,  shorn  and  clipped  into 
e  shape  of  huge   croquettes   or  brad-awls 
anding  broad  end  down.    At  all  hours  of 
e  day  idle  boys  and  still  idler  men  are  to 
>e  seen  basking  on  the  fountain's  stone  rim, 
lying,  face  down,  heels  in  .  air,  in  the  tri- 
igles  of  shade  made   by  the  cypress  cro- 
uettes.    There  is  in  Los  Angeles  much  of 
is  ancient  and  ingenious  style  of  shearing 
nd  compressing  foliage  into  unnatural  and 
storted  shapes.    It  comes,  no  doubt,  of  lin- 
ering  reverence  for  the  traditions  of  what 
as  thought  beautiful  in  Spain  centuries  ago  ; 
nd  it  gives  to  the  town  a  certain  quaint  and 
reign  look,  in  admirable  keeping  with  its 
regular    levels,  zigzag,  toppling   precipices, 
id  houses  in  tiers  one  above  another. 
One  comes  sometimes  abruptly  on  a  pict- 
*e  which  seems  bewilderingly  un-American, 
f  a  precipice  wall  covered  with   bird-cage 
|)ttages,  the  little,  paling-walled  yard  of  one 
itting  out  in  a  line  with  the  chimney-tops  of 
le  next  one  below,  and  so  on  down  to  the 
jreet  at  the  base  of  the  hill.   Wooden  stair- 
j.ses  and  bits  of  terrace  link  and  loop  the 
d   little   perches    together  ;     bright   green 
pper-trees,  sometimes  tall  enough  to  shade 
o  or  three  tiers  of  roofs,  give  a  graceful 
]  timed  draping  at  the  sides,  and  some  of  the 
?ep  fronts  are  covered  with  bloom,  in  solid 
rtains,  of  geranium,  sweet  alyssum,  helio- 
t>pe,  and  ivy.     These  terraced  eyries   are 


:  the  homes  of  the  rich  :   the  houses  are 
putian  in  size,  and  of  cheap  quality  ;   but 
y  do  more  for  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
than  all  the  large,  fine,  and  costly  houses 
pt  together. 

Moreover,  they  are  the   only  houses  that 
VOL.  XXVII.—  20. 


command  the  situation,  possess  distance  and 
a  horizon.  From  some  of  these  little  ten-by- 
twelve  flower-beds  of  homes  is  a  stretch  of 
view  which  makes  each  hour  of  the  day  a  suc- 
cession of  changing  splendors.  The  snowy 
peaks  of  San  Bernardino  and  San  Jacinto  in 
the  east  and  south ;  to  the  west,  vast  open 
country,  billowy  green  with  vineyard  and  or- 
chard ;  beyond  this,  in  clear  weather,  shining 
glints  and  threads  of  ocean,  and  again  be- 
yond, in  the  farthest  outing,  hill-crowned 
islands,  misty  blue  against  the  sky.  No  one 
knows  Los  Angeles  who  does  not  climb  to 
these  sunny  outlying  heights  and  roam  and 
linger  on  them  many  a  day.  Nor,  even  thus 
lingering,  will  any  one  ever  know  more  of 
Los  Angeles  than  its  lovely  outward  sem- 
blances and  mysterious  suggestions,  unless  he 
have  the  good  fortune  to  win  past  the  barrier 
of  proud,  sensitive,  tender  reserve,  behind 
which  is  hid  the  life  of  the  few  remaining 
survivors  of  the  old  Spanish  and  Mexican 
regime.  . 

Once  past  this,  he  gets  glimpses  of  the  same 
stintless  hospitality  and  immeasurable  cour- 
tesy which  gave  to  the  old  Franciscan  estab- 
lishments a  world-wide  fame,  and  to  the 
society  whose  tone  and  customs  they  created 
an  atmosphere  of  simple-hearted  joyousness 
and  generosity  never  known  by  any  other 
communities  on  the  American  continent. 

In  houses  whose  doors  seldom  open  to 
English-speaking  people,  there  are  rooms  full 
of  relics  of  that  fast  vanishing  past.  Strong- 
holds also  of  a  religious  faith,  almost  as  obso- 
lete, in  its  sort  and  degree,  as  are  the  garments 
of  the  aged  creatures  who  are  peacefully  rest- 
ing their  last  days  on  its  support. 

In  one  of  these  houses,  in  a  poverty-stricken 
but  gayly  decorated  little  bedroom,  hangs  a 
small  oil  painting,  a  portrait  of  Saint  Francis 
de  Paula.  It  was  brought  from  Mexico,  fifty- 
five  years  ago,  by  the  woman  who  still  owns 
it,  and  has  knelt  before  it  and  prayed  to  it 
every  day  of  the  fifty-five  years.  Below  it  is 
a  small  altar  covered  with  flowers,  candle- 
sticks, vases,  and  innumerable  knickknacks. 
A  long  string  under  the  picture  is  hung  full 
of  tiny  gold  and  silver  votive  offerings  from 
persons  who  have  been  miraculously  cured  in 
answer  to  prayers  made  to  the  saint.  Legs, 
arms,  hands,  eyes,  hearts,  heads,  babies,  dogs, 
horses, — no  organ,  no  creature,  that  could 
suffer  is  unrepresented.  The  old  woman  has 
at  her  tongue's  end  the  tale  of  each  one  of 
these  miracles.  She  is  herself  a  sad  cripple ; 
her  feet  swollen  by  inflammation,  which  for 
many  years  has  given  her  incessant  torture 
and  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  walk,  ex- 
cept with  tottering  steps,  from  room  to  room, 
by  help  of  a  staff.  This,  she  says,  is  the  only 


202 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


thing  her  saint  has  not  cured.  It  is  her 
"  cross,"  her  "  mortification  of  the  flesh,"  "  to 
take  her  to  heaven."  "  He  knows  best."  As 
she  speaks,  her  eyes  perpetually  seek  the  pict- 
ure, resting  on  it  with  a  look  of  ineffable 
adoration.  She  has  seen  tears  roll  down  its 
cheeks  more  than  once,  she  says ;  and  it  often 
smiles  on  her  when  they  are  alone.  When 
strangers  enter  the  room  she  can  always  tell, 
by  its  expression,  whether  the  saint  is  or  is 
not  pleased  with  them,  and  whether  their 
prayers  will  be  granted.  She  was  good 
enough  to  remark  that  he  was  very  glad  to 
see  us;  she  was  sure  of  it  by  the  smile  in  his 
eye.  He  had  wrought  many  beautiful  miracles 
for  her.  Nothing  was  too  trivial  for  his  sym- 
pathy and  help.  Once,  when  she  had  broken 
a  vase  in  which  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  flowers  on  the  altar,  she  took  the 
pieces  in  her  hands,  and  standing  before  him, 
said : 

"  You  know  you  will  miss  this  vase.  I  al- 
ways put  your  flowers  in  it,  and  I  am  too 
poor  to  buy  another.  Now  do  mend  this  for 
me.  I  have  nobody  but  you  to  help  me." 
And  the  vase  grew  together  again  whole  wh'ile 
she  was  speaking.  In  the  same  way  he  mended 
for  her  a  high  glass  flower-case  which  stood 
on  the  altar. 

Thus  she  jabbered  away  breathlessly  in 
Spanish,  almost  too  fast  to  be  followed.  Sit- 
ting in  a  high  chair,  her  poor  distorted  feet 
propped  on  a  cushion,  a  black  silk  handker- 
chief wound  like  a  turban  around  her  head,  a 
plaid  ribosa  across  her  shoulders,  contrasting 
sharply  with  her  shabby  wine-colored  gown, 
her  hands  clasped  around  a  yellow  staff,  on 
which  she  leaned  as  she  bent  forward  in  her 
eager  speaking,  she  made  a  study  for  an 
artist. 

She  was  very  beautiful  in  her  youth,  she 
said ;  her  cheeks  so  red  that  people  thought 
they  were  painted;  and  she  was  so  strong 
that  she  was  never  tired;  and  when,  in  the 
first  year  of  her  widowhood,  a  stranger  came 
to  her  "  with  a  letter  of  recommendation  "  to 
be  her  second  husband,  and  before  she  had 
time  to  speak  had  fallen  on  his  knees  at  her 
feet,  she  seized  him  by  the  throat  and,  top- 
pling him  backward,  pinned  him  against  the 
wall  till  he  was  black  in  the  face.  And  her 
sister  came  running  up  in  terror,  imploring 
her  not  to  kill  him.  But  all  that  strength  is 
gone  now,  she  says  sadly ;  her  memory  also. 
Each  day,  as  soon  as  she  has  finished  her 
prayers,  she  has  to  put  away  her  rosary  in  a 
special  place,  or  else  she  forgets  that  the 
prayers  have  been  said.  Many  priests  have 
desired  to  possess  her  precious  miracle-work- 
ing saint ;  but  never  till  she  dies  will  it  leave 
her  bedroom.  Not  a  week  passes  without 


some  one's  arriving  to  implore  its  aid.  Some- 
times the  deeply  distressed  come  on  their 
knees  all  the  way  from  the  gate  before  the 
house,  up  the  steps,  through  the  hall,  and 
into  her  bedroom.  Such  occasions  as  these 
are  to  her  full  of  solemn  joy,  and  no  doubt, 
also,  of  a  secret  exultation  whose  kinship  to 
pride  she  does  not  suspect. 

In  another  unpretending  little  adobe  house, 
not  far  from  this  Saint   Francis  shrine,  lives 
the  granddaughter  of  Moreno,  one   of  the 
twelve    Spanish    soldiers   who   founded    the 
city.    She  speaks  no  word  of  English ;  and  her 
soft  black  eyes  are  timid,  though  she  is  the 
widow  of  a  general,  and,  in  the  stormy  days 
of  the  City  of  the  Angels,  passed  through  many, 
a  crisis  of  peril  and  adventure.    Her  house  is 
full  of  curious  relics,  which  she  shows  with  a 
gentle,  half-amused  courtesy.    It  is  not  easy 
for  her  to  believe  that  any  American  can  feel 
real  reverence  for  the  symbols,   tokens,  and 
relics  of  the  life  and  customs  which  his  peo- 
ple destroyed.    In   her   mind  Americans  re- 
main to-day  as  completely  foreigners  as  they 
were  when  her  husband  girded  on  his  sword 
and  went  out  to  fight  them,  forty  years  ago. 
Many  of  her  relics  have  been  rescued  at  one 
time  or  another  from  plunderers  of  the  mis- 
sions.   She   has   an   old  bronze  kettle  whicl- 
once  held   holy  water  at  San   Fernando ;  ar 
incense  cup  and  spoon,  and  massive   silvei 
candlesticks ;  cartridge-boxes  of  leather,  wit! 
Spain's  ancient  seal  stamped  on  them  ;  a  hug( 
copper  caldron  and  scales  from  San  Gabriel 
a  bunch  of  keys  of  hammered  iron,  locks,  scis 
sors,  reaping-hooks,  shovels,  carding-brushe: 
for  wool  and  for  flax ;  all  made  by  the  Indiar 
workmen  in  the  missions.  There  was  also 
old  lock,  in  -which  the  key  was  rusted  fast  anc 
immovable,  seemed  to  me  fuller  of  suggestioi 
than  anything  else  there  of  the  sealed  am; 
ended  past  to  which  it  had   belonged;  am 
a   curious   little  iron    cannon,  in   shape  lik«;'j 
an  ale  mug,  about  eight  inches  high,  with  ; 
hole  in  the  side  and  in  the  top,  to  be  used  bj 
setting  it  on  the  ground  and  laying  a  trail  o 
powder  to  the  opening  in  the  side.  Thisgav 
the  Indians    great   delight.    It  was   fired  a 
the    times    of   church    festivals,  and  in   sez 
sons  of  drought  to  bring  rain.    Another  cur  i 
ous  instrument  of  racket  was  the  matrara 
a   strip  of  board  with   two    small   swingin 
iron  handles  so  set  in  it  that,  in  swinging  bac 
and  forth,  they  hit  iron  plates.    In  the  tim 
of  Lent,  when  all  ringing  of  bells  was  fo: 
bidden,  these  were  rattled  to  call  the  India" 
to  church.    The  noise  one  of  them  can  me 
when    vigorously  shaken    is  astonishing, 
crumpled  bundles,  their  stiffened  meshes  op; 
ing  out  reluctantly,  were  two  curious  ru; 
woven  nets  which  had  been  used  by  Ind "> 


ECHOES  IN  THE  CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


203 


women  fifty  years  ago  in  carrying  burdens.  Sim- 
ilar nets,  made  of  twine,  are  used  by  them  still. 
Fastened  to  a  leather  strap  or  band  passing 
around  the  forehead,  they  hang  down  behind 
far  below  the  waist,  and  when  filled  out  to 
their  utmost  holding  capacity  are  so  heavy 
that  the  poor  creatures  bend  nearly  double 
beneath  them.  But  the  women  stand  as  un- 
complainingly as  camels  while  weight  after 
weight  is  piled  in;  then,  slipping  the  band 
over  their  heads,  they  adjust  the  huge  bur- 
den and  set  off  at  a  trot. 

"  This  is  the  squaw's  horse,"  said  an   In- 
dian woman  in  the  San  Jacinto  Valley  one 
day,  tapping  her  forehead  and  laughing  good- 
naturedly,  when  the  shop-keeper  remonstrated 
with  her  husband  who  was  heaping  article 
after  article,  and  finally  a  large  sack  of  flour, 
on  her  shoulders;  "squaw's  horse  very  strong." 
The  original  site  of  the  San  Gabriel  Mis- 
sion was  a  few  miles  to  the  east  of  the  City 
of  the  Angels.   Its  lands  are  now  divided  into 
ranches  and  colony  settlements,  only  a  few 
cres    remaining   in   the    possession    of    the 
hurch.     But  the  old  chapel  is  still  standing 
n  a  fair  state  of  preservation,  used  for  the 
aily  services  of  the  San  Gabriel  parish ;  and 
icre   are   in   its   near  neighborhood   a  few 
rumbling   adobe   hovels   left,    the   only  re- 
nains  of  the  once  splendid  and  opulent  mis- 
on.    In  one  of  these  lives  a  Mexican  woman, 
ighty-two  years  old,  who  for  more  than  half 
century  has  washed  and  mended  the  priests' 
aces,  repaired  the  robes,  and  remodeled  the 
estments  of  San  Gabriel.    She  is  worth  cross- 
ig  the  continent  to  see :  all  white  from  head 
o  foot,  as  if  bleached  by  some  strange  gram- 
rye  ;  white  hair,  white  skin,  blue  eyes  faded 
early  to  white ;  white  cotton  clothes,  ragged 
nd    not    over   clean,    yet   not   a   trace    of 
olor  in  them;    a  white  linen  handkerchief, 
elicately  embroidered  by  herself,  always  tied 
)osely  around  her  throat.    She  sits  on  a  low 
ox,  leaning  against  the  wall,  with  three  white 
illows  at  her  back,  her  feet   on  a  cushion 
n  the  ground ;  in  front  of  her,  another  low 
ox,  on  this  a  lace-maker's  pillow,  with  knot- 
bd  fringe  stretched  on  it ;  at  her  left  hand  a 
attered  copper  caldron  holding  hot  coals  to 
farm  her  fingers  and  to  light  her  cigarettes. 
\.  match  she  will  never  use ;    and   she  has 
pldom  been  without  a  cigarette  in  her  mouth 
pee  she  was  six  years  old.    On   her  right 
land  is  a  chest  filled  with  her  treasures, — 
jigs  of  damask,  silk,  velvet,  lace,  muslin,  rib- 
pn,  artificial  flowers,  flosses,  worsteds,  silks 
p   spools;    here    she    sits    day  in,  day  out, 
faking  cotton  fringes  and,  out  of  shreds  of 
!lk,  tiny   embroidered  scapulars,  which  she 
tils  to  all  devout  and  charitable  people  of 
le  region.    She  also  teaches  the  children  of 


the  parish  to  read  and  to  pray.  The  walls  of 
her  hovel  are  papered  with  tattered  pictures, 
including  many  gay-colored  ones,  taken  off  tin 

cans,  their  flaunting  signs  reading  drolly, 

"Perfection  Press  Mackerel,  Boston,  Mass./' 
"  Charm  Baking  Powder,"  and  "  Knowlton's 
Inks,"  alternating  with  Toledo  Blades  and 
clipper-ship  advertisements.  She  finds  these 
of  great  use  in  both  teaching  and  amusing 
the  children.  The  ceiling,  of  canvas,  black 
with  smoke,  and  festooned  with  cobwebs, 
sags  down  in  folds,  and  shows  many  a  rent. 
When  it  rains,  her  poor  little  place  must  be 
drenched  in  spots.  One  end  of  the  room  is 
curtained  off  with  calico;  this  is  her  bed- 
chamber. At  the  other  end  is  a  raised  dais, 
on  which  stands  an  altar,  holding  a  small 
statuette  of  the  Infant  Jesus.  It  is  a  copy  in 
wood  of  the  famous  Little  Jesus  of  Atoches 
in  Mexico,  which  is  worshiped  by  all  the 
people  in  that  region.  It  has  been  her  con- 
stant companion  and  protector  for  fifty  years. 
Over  the  altar  is  a  canopy  of  calico,  deco- 
rated with  paper  flowers,  whirligigs,  doves, 
and  little  gourds;  with  votive  offerings,  also, 
of  gold  or  silver,  from  grateful  people  helped 
or  cured  by  the  Little  Jesus.  On  the  stat- 
uette's head  is  a  tiny  hat  of  real  gold,  and 
a  real  gold  scepter  in  the  little  hand;  the 
breast  of  its  fine  white  linen  cambric  gown  is 
pinned  by  a  gold  pin.  It  has  a  wardrobe  with 
as  many  changes  as  an  actor.  She  keeps 
these  carefully  hid  away  in  a  small  camphor- 
wood  trunk,  but  she  brought  them  all  out  to 
show  to  us. 

Two  of  her  barefooted,  ragged  little  pupils 
scampered  in  as  she  was  unfolding  these  gay 
doll's  clothes.  They  crowded  close  around 
her  knees  and  looked  on,  with  open-mouthed 
awe  and  admiration  :  a  purple  velvet  cape 
with  white  fringe  for  feast  days;  capes  of 
satin,  of  brocade;  a  dozen  shirts  of  finest 
linen,  embroidered  or  trimmed  with  lace ;  a 
tiny  plume  not  more  than  an  inch  long,  of 
gold,  exquisitely  carved, — this  was  her  chief 
treasure.  It  looked  beautiful  in  his  hat,  she 
said,  but  it  was  too  valuable  to  wear  often. 
Hid  away  here  among  the  image's  best 
clothes  were  more  of  the  gold  votive  offerings 
it  had  received :  one  a  head  cut  out  of  solid 
gold ;  several  rosaries  of  carved  beads,  silver 
and  gold.  Spite  of  her  apparently  unbounded 
faith  in  the  Little  Jesus's  power  to  protect  her 
and  himself,  the  old  woman  thought  it  wiser 
to  keep  these  valuables  concealed  from  the 
common  gaze. 

Holding  up  a  silken  pillow,  some  sixteen 
inches  square,  she  said  : 

"  You  could  not  guess  with  what  that  pillow 
is  filled." 

We    could    not,  indeed.    It    was    her  own 


204 


ECHOES  IN  THE  CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


A    STREET    IN    LOS    ANGELES. 


hair.  With  pride  she  asked  us  to  take  it  in 
our  hands,  that  we  might  see  how  heavy  it 
was.  For  sixteen  years  she  had  been  saving 
it,  and  it  was  to  be  put  under  her  head 
in  her  coffin.  The  friend  who  had  taken 
us  to  her  home  exclaimed  on  hearing  this, 
"  And  I  can  tell  you  it  was  beautiful  hair.  I 
recollect  it  forty-five  years  ago,  bright  brown, 
and  down  to  her  ankles,  and  enough  of  it  to 
roll  herself  up  in."  The  old  woman  nodded 
and  laughed,  much  pleased  at  this  compli- 
ment. She  did  not  know  why  the  Lord  had 
preserved  her  life  so  long,  she  said;  but  she 
was  very  happy.  Her  nieces  had  asked  her 
to  go  and  live  with  them  in  Santa  Ana ;  but 
she  could  not  go  away  from  San  Gabriel.  She 
told  them  that  there  was  plenty  of  water  in 


the  ditch  close  by  her  door,  and  that  God 
would  take  care  of  the  rest,  and  so  he  had; 
she  never  wants  for  anything;  not  only  is  she' 
never  hungry  herself,  but  she  always  has  fooc 
to  give  away.    No  one  would  suppose  it ;  but 
many  people   come  to   eat  with  her  in  hei 
house.    God  never  forgets  her  one  minute. 
She  is  very  happy.    She  is  never   ill;   or  if 
she  is,  she  has  two  remedies,  which,  in  all 
her  life,  have  never  failed  to  cure  her,  anc 
they  cost  nothing :  saliva  and  ear-wax.    Foi 
a   pain,  the    sign  of  the    cross,   made   \ 
saliva  on  the  spot  which  is  in  pain,  is  instan 
taneously  effective;    for  an  eruption  of  ar 
skin  disorder,  the  application  of  ear-wax 
sure  cure.    She  is  very  glad  to  live  so  clc 
the  church  ;  the  father  has  promised  her 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE   ANGELS. 


205 


room  as  long  as  she  lives ;  when  she  dies,  it 
will  be  no  trouble,  he  says,  to  pick  her  up  and 
carry  her  across  the  road  to  the  church.  In 
a  gay  painted  box,  standing  on  two  chairs,  so 
as  to  be  kept  from  the  dampness  of  the  bare 
earth  floor,  she  cherishes  the  few  relics  of  her 
better  days  :  a  shawl  and  a  ribosa  of  silk,  and 


gracious  permission  —  I  shall  speak  by  his 
familiar  name,  Don  Antonio.  Whoever  has 
the  fortune  to  pass  as  a  friend  across  the 
threshold  of  this  house,  finds  himself  trans- 
ported, as  by  a  miracle,  into  the  life  of  a  half 
century  ago.  The  rooms  are  ornamented 
with  fans,  shells,  feather  and  wax  flowers, 


two  gowns,  one   of  black   silk,  one   of  dark    pictures,  saints'  images,  old  laces  and  stuffs, 
blue   satin.    These    are    of    the   fashions    of 
twenty  years  ago ;  they  were  given  to  her  by 
|  her  husband.   She  wears  them  now  when  she 


in  the  quaint  gay  Mexican  fashion.  On  the 
day  when  I  first  saw  them,  they  were  brilliant 
with  bloom.  In  every  one  of  the  deep  window- 


goes  to  church ;  so  it  is  as  if  she  were  "  mar-    seats  stood  a  cone  of  bright  flowers,  its  base 


ried  again,"  she  says,  and  is  "  her  husband's 
work  still."  She  seems  to  be  a  character  well 
known  and  held  in  some  regard  by  the  clergy 
of  her  church.  When  the  bishop  returned  a 
few  years  ago  from  a  visit  to  Rome,  he  brought 
icr  a  little  gift,  a  carved  figure  of  a  saint. 
She  asked  him  if  he  could  not  get  for  her  a 
)it  of  the  relics  of  Saint  Vivia.no. 

Oh,  let  alone !  "  he  replied ;    "  give  you 
:s  ?    Wait  a  bit ;  and  as  soon  as  you  die, 
;'ll  have  you  made  into  relics  yourself." 

She  laughed  as  heartily,  telling  this  some- 
what un ecclesiastical  rejoinder,  as  if  it  had 
;>een  made  at  some  other  person's  expense. 

In  the  marvelously  preserving  air  of  Cali- 
brnia,  added  to  her  own  contented  tempera- 
nent,  there  is  no  reason  why  this  happy  old 
ady  should  not  last,  as  some  of  her  Indian 
neighbors  have,  well  into  a  second  century. 
Before  she  ceases  from  her  peaceful,  pitiful 
ittle  labors,  new  generations  of  millionaires 
n  her  country  will  no  doubt  have  piled  up 
)igger  fortunes  than  this  generation  ever 
ireams  of,  but  there  will  not  be  a  man  of 
hem  all  so  rich  as  she. 

In  the  western  suburbs  of  Los  Angeles  is  a 
jow  adobe  house,  built  after  the  ancient  style, 
n  three  sides  of  a  square,  surrounded  by 
rchards,  vineyards,  and  orange  groves,  and 
ooking  out  on  an  old-fashioned  garden,  in 
hich  southernwood,  rue,  lavender,  mint, 
aarigolds,  and  gillyflowers  hold  their  own 
ravely,  growing  in  straight  and  angular  beds 
mong  the  newer  splendors  of  verbenas,  roses, 
arnations,  and  geraniums.  On  two  sides  of 
he  house  runs  a  broad  porch,  where  stand 
jows  of  geraniums  and  chrysanthemums 
rrowing  in  odd-shaped  earthen  pots.  Here 
pay  often  be  seen  a  beautiful  young  Mexican 
pman,  flitting  about  among  the  plants,  or 
porting  with  a  superb  St.  Bernard  dog.  Her 
:lear  olive  skin,  soft  brown  eyes,  delicate 
Sensitive  nostrils,  and  broad  smiling  mouth, 
re  all  of  the  Spanish  madonna  type;  and 

hen  her  low  brow  is  bound,  as  is  often  her 

ont,  by  turban  folds  of  soft  brown  or  green 
jauze,  her  face  becomes  a  picture  indeed, 
the  is  the  young  wife  of  a  gray -headed  Mex- 
pan  senor,  of  whom  —  by  his  own  most 


made  by  large  white  datura  blossoms,  their 
creamy  whorls  all  turned  outward,  making 
a  superb  decoration.  I  went  for  but  a  few 
moments'  call.  I  staid  three  hours,  and  left, 
carrying  with  me  bewildering  treasures  of 
pictures  of  the  olden  time. 

Don  Antonio  speaks  little  English;  but  the 
senora  knows  just  enough  of  the  language  to 
make  her  use  of  it  delicious,  as  she  translates 
for  her  husband.  It  is  an  entrancing  sight  to 
watch  his  dark,  weather-beaten  face,  full  of 
lightning  changes  as  he  pours  out  torrents  of 
his  nervous,  eloquent  Spanish  speech ;  watch- 
ing his  wife  intently,  hearkening  to  each  word 
she  uses,  sometimes  interrupting  her  urgently 
with  "  No,  no ;  that  is  not  it  " ;  for  he  well 
understands  the  tongue  he  cannot  or  will  not 
use  for  himself.  He  is  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
but  he  is  young :  the  best  waltzer  in  Los  An- 
geles to-day ;  his  eye  keen,  his  blood  fiery 
quick ;  his  memory  like  a  burning-glass  bring- 
ing into  sharp  light  and  focus  a  half  century 
as  if  it  were  a  yesterday.  Full  of  sentiment, 
of  an  intense  and  poetic  nature,  he  looks 
back  to  the  lost  empire  of  his  race  and  peo- 
ple on  the  California  shores  with  a  sorrow 
far  too  proud  for  any  antagonisms  or  com- 
plaints. He  recognizes  the  inexorableness  of 
the  laws  under  whose  workings  his  nation  is 
slowly,  surely  giving  place  to  one  more  repre- 
sentative of  the  age.  Intellectually  he  is  in 
sympathy  with  progress,  with  reform,  with 
civilization  at  its  utmost ;  he  would  not  have 
had  them  stayed,  or  changed,  because  his 
people  could  not  keep  up,  and  were  not  ready. 
But  his  heart  is  none  the  less  saddened  and 
lonely. 

This  is  probably  the  position  and  point  of 
view  of  most  cultivated  Mexican  men  of  his 
age.  The  suffering  involved  in  it  is  inevitable. 
It  is  part  of  the  great,  unreckoned  price  which 
must  always  be  paid  for  the  gain  the  world 
gets,  when  the  young  and  strong  supersede 
the  old  and  weak. 

A  sunny  little  south-east  corner  room  in 
Don  Antonio's  house  is  full  of  the  relics  of 
the  time  when  he  and  his  father  were  fore- 
most representatives  of  ideas  and  progress  in 
the  City  of  the  Angels,  and  taught  the  first 


206 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


school  that  was  kept  in  the  place.  This  was 
nearly  a  half  century  ago.  On  the  walls  of 
the  room  still  hang  maps  and  charts  which 
they  used ;  and  carefully  preserved,  with  the 
tender  reverence  of  which  only  poetic  natures 
are  capable,  are  still  to  be  seen  there  the  old 
atlases,  primers,  catechisms,  grammars,  read- 
ing-books, which  meant  toil  and  trouble  to 
the  merry,  ignorant  children  of  the  merry  and 
ignorant  people  of  that  time. 

The  leathern  covers  of  the  books  are  thin 
and  frayed  by  long  handling;  the  edges  of 


tables,  music,  and  bundles  of  records  of  the 
branding  of  cattle  at  the  San  Gabriel  Mission, 
are  among  the  curiosities  of  this  room.  The 
music  of  the  first  quadrilles  ever  danced  in 
Mexico  is  here:  a  ragged  pamphlet,  which. 
no  doubt,  went  gleeful  rounds  in  the  City  of 
the  Angels  for  many  a  year.  It  is  a  merry 
music,  simple  in  melody,  but  with  an  especial 
quality  of  light-heartedness,  suiting  the  people 
who  danced  to  it. 

There  are  also  in  the   little  room  many, 
relics  of  a  more  substantial  sort  than  tattered 


<!•> 


COPY  OF  A  PAGE  FROM  A  REGISTER  OF  BRANDED  CATTLE.   EVERY  TENTH  ONE  BELONGED  TO  THE  CHURCH. 


the  leaves  worn  down  as  if  mice  had  gnawed 
them  :  tattered,  loose,  hanging  by  yellow 
threads,  they  look  far  older  than  they  are, 
and  bear  vivid  record  of  the  days  when  books 
were  so  rare  and  precious  that  each  book  did 
doubled  and  redoubled  duty,  passing  from 
hand  to  hand  and  house  to  house.  It  was  on 
the  old  Lancaster  system  that  Los  Angeles 
set  out  in  educating  its  children ;  and  here 
are  still  preserved  the  formal  and  elaborate 
instructions  for  teachers  and  schools  on  that 
plan  ;  also  volumes  of  Spain's  laws  for  military 
judges  in  1781,  and  a  quaint  old  volume 
called  "  Secrets  of  Agriculture,  Fields  and 
Pastures,"  written  by  a  Catholic  father  in 
1617,  reprinted  in  1781,  and  held  of  great 
value  in  its  day  as  a  sure  guide  to  success 
with  crops.  Accompanying  it  was  a  chart,  a 
perpetual  circle,  by  which  might  be  foretold, 
with  certainty,  what  years  would  be  barren 
and  what  ones  fruitful. 

Almanacs,     histories,,  arithmetics,    dating 
back  to  1750,  drawing-books,  multiplication- 


papers  and  books  :  a  branding-iron  and  a 
pair  of  handcuffs  from  the  San  Gabriel  Mis- 
sion; curiously  decorated  clubs  and  sticks 
used  by  the  Indians  in  their  games ;  boxes 
of  silver  rings  and  balls  made  for  decorations 
of  bridles  and  on  leggings  and  knee-breeches. 
The  place  of  honor  in  the  room  is  given,  as 
well  it  might  be,  to  a  small  cannon,  the  first 
cannon  brought  into  California.  It  was  mack 
in  1717,  and  was  brought  by  Father  Juniperc 
Serra  to  San  Diego  in  1769.  Afterward  it  was 
given  to  the  San  Gabriel  Mission,  but  it  stil 
bears  its  old  name,  "San  Diego."  It  is  ar 
odd  little  arm,  only  about  two  feet  long,  ant 
requiring  but  six  ounces  of  powder.  Its  swive 
is  made  with  a  rest  to  set  firm  in  the  ground 
It  has  taken  many  long  journeys  on  the  back.' 
of  mules,  having  been  in  great  requisition  ir 
the  early  mission  days  for  the  firing  of  sail 
at  festivals  and  feasts. 

Don  Antonio  was  but  a  lad  when 
father's  family  removed  from  the  city 
Mexico  to  California.  They  came  in  on< 


ECHOES  IN   THE   CITY  OF   THE   ANGELS. 


207 


the  many  unfortunate  colonies  sent  out  by  the 
Mexican  Government,  during  the  first  years 
of  the  secularization  period,  having  had  a 
toilsome  and  suffering  two  months,  going  in 
wagons  from  Mexico  to  San  Bias,  then  a 
tedious  and  uncomfortable  voyage  of  several 
weeks  from  San  Bias  to  Monterey,  where  they 
arrived  only  to  find  themselves  deceived  and 
disappointed  in  every  particular,  and  sur- 
rounded by  hostilities,  plots,  and  dangers  on 
all  sides.  So  great  was  the  antagonism  to 
hem  that  it  was  at  times  difficult  for  a  colo- 
nist to  obtain  food  from  a  Californian.  They 
vere  arrested  on  false  pretenses,  thrown  into 
)rison,  shipped  off  like  convicts  from  place  to 
>lace,  with  no  one  to  protect  them  or  plead 
heir  cause.  Revolution  succeeded  upon  rev- 
>lution,  and  it  was  a  most  unhappy  period 
"or  all  refined  and  cultivated  persons  who 
lad  joined  the  colony  enterprises.  Young 
men  of  education  and  breeding  were  glad 
o  earn  their  daily  bread  by  any  menial  labor 
hat  offered.  Don  Antonio  and  several  of  his 
roung  friends,  who  had  all  studied  medicine 
ogether,  spent  the  greater  part  of  a  year  in 
naking  shingles.  The  one  hope  and  aim  of 
most  of  them  was  to  earn  money  enough  to 
et  back  to  Mexico.  Don  Antonio,  however, 
eems  to  have  had  more  versatility  and  ca- 
acity  than  his  friends,  for  •  he  never  lost 
courage;  and  it  was  owing  to  him  that  at  last 
his  whole  family  gathered  in  Los  Angeles 
ind  established  a  home  there.  This  was  in 
836.  There  were  then  only  about  eight 
mndred  people  in  the  pueblo,  and  the  customs, 
uperstitions,  and  ignorances  of  the  earliest 
lays  still  held  sway.  The  missions  were  still 
ich  and  powerful,  though  the  confusions  and 
:onflicts  of  their  ruin  had  begun.  At  this  time, 
he  young  Antonio,  being  quick  at  accounts  and 
laturally  ingenious  at  all  sorts  of  mechanical 
Drafts,  found  profit  as  well  as  pleasure  in 
journeying  from  mission  to  mission,  some- 
imes  spending  two  or  three  months  in  one 
)lace,  keeping  books,  or  repairing  silver  and 
jold  ornaments. 


The  blow-pipe  which  he  made  for  himself 
at  that  time  his  wife  exhibits  now  with  affec- 
tionate pride,  and  there  are  few  things  she 
enjoys  better  than  translating,  to  an  eager 


/  , 

OTT^     N 


SWIVEL     GUN.        FIRST     CANNON     TAKEN     INTO     CALIFORNIA 


TRACING    FROM    A    MISSION    CASH-BOOK  :   A    CIPHER    STANDS    FOR 

ONE    MEXICAN    SILVER    DOLLAR,   A    HALF    CIPHER    STANDS    FOR 

HALF    A   DOLLAR,    AND    A    STROKE    STANDS    FOR    A  QUARTER. 

listener,  his  graphic  stories  of  the  incidents 
and  adventures  of  that  portion  of  his  life. 

While  he  was  at  the  San  Antonio  Mission, 
a  strange  thing  happened.  It  is  a  good  illus- 
tration of  the  stintless  hospitality  of  those  old 
missions,  that  staying  there  at  that  time  were  a 
notorious  gambler  and  a  celebrated  juggler 
who  had  come  out  in  the  colony  from  Mexico. 
The  juggler  threatened  to  turn  the  gambler 
into  a  crow-;  the  gambler,  after  watching  his 
tricks  for  a  short  time,  became  frightened,  and 
asked  young  Antonio,  in  serious  good  faith, 
if  he  did  not  believe  the  juggler  had  made  a 
league  with  the  devil.  A  few  nights  afterward, 
at  midnight,  a  terrible  noise  was  heard  in  the 
gambler's  room.  He  was  found  in  convul- 
sions, foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  crying : 

"  Oh,  father !  father !  I  have  got  the  devil 
inside  of  me !  Take  him  away." 

The  priest  dragged  him  into  the  chapel, 
showered  him  with  holy  water,  and  exorcised 
the  devil,  first  making  the  gambler  promise 
to  leave  off  his  gambling  forever.  All  the 
rest  of  the  night  the  rescued  sinner  spent  in 
the  chapel,  praying  and  weeping.  In  the 
morning,  he  announced  his  intention  of  be- 
coming a  priest,  and  began  his  studies  at 
once.  These  he  faithfully  pursued  for  a  year, 
leading  all  the  while  a  life  of  great  devotion. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  preparations  were 
made  for  his  ordination  at  San  Jose.  The 
day  was  set,  the  hour  came  :  he  was  in  the 
sacristy,  had  put  on  the  sacred  vestments, 
and  was  just  going  toward  the  church  door, 
when  he  fell  to  the  floor,  dead.  Soon  after 
this  the  juggler  was  banished  from  the 
country,  trouble  and  disaster  having 
everywhere  followed  on  his  presence. 
On  the  first  breaking  out  of  hostili- 
ties between  California  and  the  United 
States,  Don  Antonio  took  command 
^  of  a  company  of  Los  Angeles  volun- 
teers, to  repel  the  intruders.  By  this 
time  he  had  attained  a  prominent  posi- 
tion in  the  affairs  of  the  pueblo ;  had 
been  alcalde  and,  under  Governor  Mi- 
chelorena,  inspector  of  public  works. 
It  was  like  the  fighting  of  children,  the 
impetuous  attempts  that  heterogeneous 
little  bands  of  Californians,  here  and 


'208 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


A    VERANDA     IN    LOS     ANGELES. 


these,  made  to  hold  their  country.  They  were 
plucky  from  first  to  last,  for  they  were  every- 
where at  a  disadvantage,  and  fought  on,  quite 
in  the  dark  as  to  what  Mexico  meant  to  do 
about  them — whether  she  might  not  any 
morning  deliver  them  over  to  the  enemy.  Of 
all  Don  Antonio's  graphic  narratives  of  the 
olden  time,  none  is  more  interesting  than  those 
which  describe  his  adventures  during  the  days 
of  this  contest.  On  one  of  the  first  approaches 
made  by  the  Americans  to  Los  Angeles,  he 
went  out  with  his  little  haphazard  company 
of  men  and  boys  to  meet  them.  He  had  but 
one  cannon,  a  small  one,  tied  by  ropes  on  a 
cart  axle.  He  had  but  one  small  keg  of 
powder  which  was  good  for  anything;  all 
the  rest  was  bad,  would  merely  go  off  "  pouf, 


pouf,"  the  senora  said,  and 
pop   down  near  the  mouth 


the  ball  would 

near  tne  moutn  of  the  cannon. 
With  this  bad  powder  he  fired  his  first  shots.  ' 
The  Americans  laughed ;  this  is  child's  play, 
they  said,  and  pushed  on  closer.  Then  came 
a  good  shot,  with  the  good  powder,  tearing 
into  their  ranks  and  knocking  them  right  and 
left;  another,  and  another.  "Then  the  Ameri- 
cans began  to  think,  these  are  no  pouf  balls ; 
and  when  a  few  more  were  killed,  they  ran 
away  and  left  their  flag  behind  them.  And 
if  they  had  only  known  it,  the  Californians 
had  only  one  more  charge  left  of  the  good 
powder,  and  the  next  minute  it  would  have 
been  the  Californians  that  would  have  had 
run  away  themselves,"  merrily  laughed 
sefiora  as  she  told  the  tale. 


II 


ECHOES  IN  THE    CITY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


209 


This  captured  flag,  with  important  papers, 
were  intrusted  to  Don  Antonio  to  carry  to  the 
Mexican  head-quarters  at  Sonora.    He  set  off 
with  an  escort  of  soldiers,  his  horse   decked 
with  silver  trappings,  his  sword,  pistols  —  all 
of  the  finest :  a  proud  beginning  of  a  journey 
destined  to  end  in  a  different  fashion.   It  was 
in  winter  time ;  cold  rains  were  falling ;  by 
jnight  he  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  stopped 
[at   a   friendly   Indian's   tent   to    change   his 
{clothes.    Hardly  had  he  got  them  off  when 
jthe  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  was  heard.    The 
ndian   flung  himself  down,  put   his   ear  to 
he  ground,  and  exclaimed,     "  Americanos  ! 
.\mericanos !  "    Almost  in  the  same  second 
hey  were  at  the  tent's  door.    As  they  halted, 
Don  Antonio,  clad  only  in  his  drawers  and 
tockings,  crawled  out  at  the  back  of  the  tent, 
,nd  creeping  on  all  fours  reached  a  tree  up 
vhich  he  climbed,  and  sat  safe  hidden  in  the 
larkness  among  its  branches  listening,  while 
ids  pursuers  cross-questioned  the  Indian,  and 
j.t  last  rode  away  with  his  horse.    Luckily,  he 
ad  carried  into  the  tent  the  precious  papers 
nd  the  captured  flag :  these  he  intrusted  to 
n  Indian  to  take  to  Sonora,  it  being  evi- 
ently  of  no  use  for  him  to  try  to  cross  the 
ountry  thus  closely  pursued  by  his  enemies. 
All  night  he  lay  hidden ;  the  next  day  he 
klked  twelve  miles  across  the  mountains  to 
p.  Indian  village  where  he  hoped  to  get  a 
orse.     It   was    dark  when    he   reached    it. 
autiously  he  opened  the  door  of  the  hut  of 
ic  whom  he  knew  well.    The   Indian  was 
•eparing  poisoned  arrows :  fixing  one  on  the 
ring  and  aiming  at  the  door,  he  called  out, 
jigrily,  "  Who  is  there  ?  " 
"  It  is  I,  Antonio." 

"  Don't  make  a  sound,"  whispered  the  In- 
•an,  throwing  down  his  arrow,  springing  to  the 
or,  coming  out  and  closing  it  softly.  He  then 
oceeded  to  tell  him  that  the  Americans  had 
ered  a  reward  for  his  head,  and  that  some 
the  Indians  in  the  rancheria  were  ready  to 
tray  or  kill  him.  While  they  were  yet  talk- 
g,  again  came  the  sound  of  the  Americans' 
Ijrses'  hoofs  galloping  in  the  distance.  This 
t|ie  there  seemed  no  escape.  Suddenly  Don 
4itonio,  throwing  himself  on  his  stomach, 
Jiggled  into  a  cactus  patch  near  by.  Only 
cje  who  has  seen  California  cactus  thickets 
cji  realize  the  desperateness  of  this  act.  But 
itjiucceeded.  The  Indian  threw  over  the  cac- 
'•\  plants  an  old  blanket  and  some  refuse 
sulks  and  reeds ;  and  there  once  more,  within 
hliring  of  all  his  baffled  pursuers  said,  the 
hhted  man  lay,  safe,  thanks  to  Indian  friend- 
sljp.  The  crafty  Indian  assented  to  all  the 
Aiericans  proposed,  said  that  Don  Antonio 
be  sure  to  be  caught  in  a  few  days, 
se  them  to  search  in  a  certain  rancheria 
VOL.  XXVIL—  21. 


which  he  described,  a  few  miles  off,  and  in  an 
opposite  direction  from  the  way  in  which  he  in- 
tended to  guide  Don  Antonio.  As  soon  as  the 
Americans  had  gone,  he  bound  up  Antonio's 
feet  in  strips  of  raw  hide,  gave  him  a  blanket 
and  an  old  tattered  hat,  the  best  his  stores 
afforded,  and  then  led  him  by  a  long  and  dif- 
ficult trail  to  a  spot  high  up  in  the  mountains 
where  the  old  women  of  the  band  were  gath- 
ering acorns.  By  the  time  they  reached  this 
place,  blood  was  trickling  from  Antonio's  feet 
and  legs,  and  he  was  well-nigh  fainting  with 
fatigue  and  excitement.  Tears  rolled  down 
the  old  women's  cheeks  when  they  saw  him. 
Some  of  them  had  been  servants  in  his  father's 
house  and  loved  him.  One  brought  gruel ;  an- 
other bathed  his  feet ;  others  ran  in  search 
of  healing  leaves  of  different  sorts.  Bruising 
these  in  a  stone  mortar,  they  rubbed  him  from 
head  to  foot  with  the  wet  fiber.  All  his  pain 
and  weariness  vanished  as  by  magic.  His 
wounds  healed,  and  in  a  day  he  was  ready  to 
set  off  for  home.  There  was  but  one  pony  in 
the  old  women's  camp.  This  was  old,  vicious, 
blind  of  one  eye,  and  with  one  ear  cropped 
short ;  but  it  looked  to  Don  Antonio  far  more 
beautiful  than  the  gay  steed  on  which  he  had 
ridden  away  from  Los  Angeles  three  days  be- 
fore. There  was  one  pair  of  ragged  shoes  of 
enormous  size  among  the  old  women's  pos- 
sessions. These  were  strapped  on  his  feet  by 
leathern  thongs,  and  a  bit  of  old  sheepskin  was 
tied  around  the  pony's  body.  Thus  accoutered 
and  mounted,  shivering  in  his  drawers  under 
his  single  blanket,  the  captain  and  flag-bearer 
turned  his  face  homeward.  At  the  first  friend's 
house  he  reached  he  stopped  and  begged  for 
food.  Some  dried  meat  was  given  to  him,  and 
a  stool  on  the  porch  offered  to  him.  It  was 
the  house  of  a  dear  friend,  and  the  friend's 
sister  was  his  sweetheart.  As  he  sat  there  eat- 
ing his  meat  the  women  eyed  him  curiously. 
One  said  to  the  other,  "  How  much  he  looks 
like  Antonio ! " 

At  last  the  sweetheart,  coming  nearer,  asked 
him  if  he  were  "  any  relation  of  Don  Antonio  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.  Just  at  that  moment  his 
friend  rode  up,  gave  one  glance  at  the  pitiful 
beggar  sitting  on  his  porch,  shouted  his  name, 
dashed  toward  him,  and  seized  him  in  his 
arms.  Then  was  a  great  laughing  and  half- 
weeping,  for  it  had  been  rumored  that  he  had 
been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Americans. 

From  this  friend  he  received  a  welcome  gift 
of  a  pair  of  trowsers,  many  inches  too  short 
for  his  legs.  At  the  next  house  his  friend  was 
as  much  too  tall,  and  his  second  pair  of  gift 
trowsers  had  to  be  rolled  up  in  thick  folds 
around  his  ankles. 

Finally,  he  reached  Los  Angeles  in  safety. 
Halting  in  a  grove  outside  the  town,  he 


2IO 


ONE   CHAPTER. 


waited  till  twilight  before  entering.  Having 
disguised  himself  in  the  rags  which  he  had 
worn  from  the  Indian  village,  he  rode  boldly 
up  to  the  porch  of  his  father's  house,  and  in 
an  impudent  tone  called  for  brandy.  The 
terrified  women  began  to  scream;  but  his 
youngest  sister,  fixing  one  piercing  glance  on 
his  face,  laughed  out  gladly,  and  cried : 
"You  can't  fool  me;  you  are  Antonio." 
Sitting  in  the  little  corner  room,  looking 
out,  through  the  open  door  on  the  gay  gar- 
den and  breathing  its  spring  air,  gay  even  in 
midwinter,  and  as  spicy  then  as  the  gardens 
of  other  lands  are  in  June,  I  spent  many  an 
afternoon  listening  to  such  tales  as  this.  Sun- 
set always  came  long  before  its  time,  it 
seemed,  on  these  days. 

Occasionally,  at  the  last  moment,  Don 
Antonio  would  take  up  his  guitar,  and,  in  a 
voice  still  sympathetic  and  full  of  melody, 
sing  an  old  Spanish  love  song,  brought  to  his 
mind  by  thus  livingover  the  events  of  his  youth. 
Never,  however,  in  his  most  ardent  youth, 
could  his  eyes  have  gazed  on  his  fairest  sweet- 
heart's face  with  a  look  of  greater  devotion 
than  that  with  which  they  now  rest  on  the 
noble,  expressive  countenance  of  his  wife,  as 


he  sings  the  ancient  and  tender  strains.  Of 
one  of  them,  I  once  won  from  her,  amid  laughs 
and  blushes,  a  few  words  of  translation  : 

"  Let  us  hear  the  sweet  echo 

Of  your  sweet  voice  that  charms  me. 

The  one  that  truly  loves  you, 

He  says  he  wishes  to  love; 

That  the  one  who  with  ardent  love  adores  you, 

Will  sacrifice  himself  for  you. 

Do  not  deprive  me, 
Owner  of  me, 

Of  that  sweet  echo 

Of  your  sweet  voice  that  charms  me." 

Near  the  western  end  of  Don  Antonio's 
porch  is  an  orange  tree,  on  which  were  hang- 
ing at  this  time  twenty-five  hundred  oranges, 
ripe  and  golden  among  the  glossy  leaves. 
Under  this  tree  my  carriage  always  waited 
for  me.  The  senora  never  allowed  me  to 
depart  without  bringing  to  me,  in  the  car- 
riage, farewell  gifts  of  flowers  and  fruit: 
clusters  of  grapes,  dried  and  fresh ;  great 
boughs  full  of  oranges,  more  than  I  couk 
lift.  As  I  drove  away  thus,  my  lap  filled  witf 
bloom  and  golden  fruit,  canopies  of  golder 
fruit  over  my  head,  I  said  to  myself  often 
"  Fables  are  prophecies.  The  Hesperides  hav< 
come  true." 

H.  ff. 


ONE   CHAPTER. 


IT  was  a  very  short  chapter,  and  I  often 
wish  there  had  been  more  of  it.  But  this  is 
all  there  was.  It  was  while  I  was  at  Wies- 
baden. The  doctors  sent  me  there  when  my 
rheumatism  got  so  bad ;  and  though  I  had  my 
faithful  Cummings  with  me, —  she  is  an  excel- 
lent creature,  though  a  little  short-spoken  and 
careless  about  candle-ends, —  I  should  have 
been  lonely  enough  but  for  Phil  Merritt. 
Phil  was  an  American,  and  that  is  what  she 
said  they  called  her,  though  her  real  name 
was  Phyllis — much  prettier  and  more  lady- 
like, to  my  notions.  But  American  ways  are, 
of  course,  not  our  ways,  and  I  .suppose  I 
should  only  be  thankful  she  had  a  Christian 
name  at  all.  However,  I'm  .old-fashioned, 
and  have  never  been  out  of  England  before, 
and  may  not  be  quite  up  with  the  age.  Any- 
way, I  was  particularly  glad  that  Phil  was  an 
American,  for,  while  I  know  more  about  that 
country  than  most  English  women,  having 
read  those  remarkable  works  of  Mrs.  Whit- 
ney's and  Mrs.  Stowe's  and  Miss  Wetherell's, 
still  it  is  always  pleasantest  to  study  the  pe- 
culiarities of  other  nationalities  from  personal 
observation. 

Well,  Phil   and  I    were   great  friends,  in 


spite  of  my  sixty  winters  and  her  twenty-fou 
summers.  We  first  met  in  the  hall  of  th 
Hotel  des  Quatre  Saisons,  as  I  was  toilin; 
laboriously  upstairs  one  day  after  my  min 
eral  bath,  and  thinking  what  a  wonderfi 
cook  Dame  Nature  was  to  contrive  chicke 
broth  out  of  pure  chemicals,  with  not  so  muc 
as  the  ghost  of  a  hen  thrown  in ;  and  Phi 
being  naturally  a  very  good-hearted,  amiabl 
girl,  always  on  the  lookout  to  do  a  kind  deec 
gave  me  her  arm  to  my  room,  which  chance 
to  be  quite  near  hers ;  and  after  that  not 
day  passed  but  she  ran  in  to  see  me. 

She  was  an  orphan,  living  with  her  unc 
and  aunt — enormously  rich  people,  I  pr< 
sume,  for  all  Americans  are  millionaire 
Why,  as  a  sample,  there's  one  family  name 
Vandertilt,  all  whose  men  are  common  ei 
gineers  and  dine  every  day  in  their  smock 
whose  wealth  exceeds  that  of  the  Rothschik 
and  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe  taken  t< 
gether.  But  Phil  dressed  as  simply  as  ST. 
English  girl,  and  though  she  must,  of  couis 
have  had  a  trunkful  of  diamonds  somewht  r 
she  never  appeared  in  them,  or  at  least  ne  /• 
when  I  saw  her.  Uncommonly  quiet,  pret 
taste  she  had.  She  was  a  little  bit  of  a  thi  i 


ONE    CHAPTER. 


with  the  brightest,  clearest,  wisest  brown  eyes 
that  ever  were,  and  a  face  like  a  bird's,  so 
quick  and  alert  and  knowing,  and  just  brim- 
ming over  with  life  and  intelligence, —  quite 
Jan  American  face  I  should  fancy,  it  was  so 
(clear-cut  and  dark.    I  suppose  she  had  a  little 
Indian  blood  in  her  veins,  as  all  old  American 
Families  must   have.    She  had  an  American 
j/oice  too,  wonderfully  distinct  and  articulate, 
though  lower-pitched  than  I  should  have  ex- 
pected, and  with  no  perceptible  nasal  twang ; 
nd  she  had  American  hands  and  feet —  there 
vasn't  a  glove  or  a  shoe  in  the  place  small 
nough  to  fit  her  —  and  American  manners, 
omething  altogether  different  from  our  girls, 
ady-like  and  yet  positive,  modest  and  yet  in- 
iependent  and    thoroughly  self-possessed, — 
n  air  of  always  knowing  exactly  what  she 
ras  about,  and  being  provided  with  the  very 
est  of  reasons  for  her  every  action.  A  most 
liable,  satisfactory,  companionable  girl  she 
If  as, —  a  remarkable  girl,  indeed,  in  every  way, 
ind  gave  me  a  deal  of  information  about  her 
untry,  for  there  wasn't  a  thing  the  dear 
lild  didn't  know  something  about,  from  pol- 
es down  —  or  up,  rather,  since  politics  are 
a  vilely  low  stand  in  America.    It  whiled 
way  the  time  delightfully  to  me,  having  her 
n  in  so  to  chat;  for  I  hadn't  a  friend  in  the 
ace  besides,  and  owing  to  my  rheumatism 
t  is  not  gout ;  none  of  our  family  have  ever 
sen  high-livers)  I  wasn't  able  to  leave  my 
>om  except  just  for  the  baths. 
"  Don't  you  get  tired  reading  ?  "  she  asked 
e   one   day.    "  Or  shall  I  lend   you   some 
)oks  ?    I  have  quite  a  little  library  with  me." 
nd  she  glibly  ran  over  the  names  of  a  num- 
*  of  books  written  by  people  I  had  never 
'iard  of — Bryant,  Aldrich,  Howells,   Haw- 
lorne,  Holmes,  etc. —  and  whom,  indeed,  I 
'dn't  care  to  know.    American  literature  is,  I 
;n  afraid,  on  a  par  with  its  politics,  and  Josh 
llings  and  Walt  Whitman,  who  stand  at  its 
lad,  strike  one  brought  up  on  our  classics  as 
^ry  peculiar.    It's  safest  to  keep  to  their  his- 
trians.    Luke  Twain  and  Cooper  are  really 
liable,  I   am  told,   and  the   "  Conquest  of 
Mexico,"  by  the  latter,  is   said  to  read  quite 
lie  Monte  Cristo.    Phil    sat  looking  at   me 
anoment  through  those  glasses  of  hers  that 
g'e  her  such  a  superhumanly  wise  aspect  when 
s£  puts  them  on. 

"  You  must  find  the  days  very  dull,  Miss 
Adrews,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on  the  floor 
itfront  of  my  china  stove  and  peering  in  to 
sf  if  it  needed  more  wood.  "  I  must  find  you 
S'ine  amusement.  "Whv  don't  vou  write  a 
bbk  ?  " 

'••'  My  dear  !  "  I  cried.    "  Me  write  !  " 
;'  Why,  yes,"  she  answered.   "  Just  to  fill  up 
tlf  time,  you  know.    You  can't  read  forever, 


211 

or  crochet  forever,  and  you  must  get  dull 
with  only  Cummings  for  society." 

"I'm  never  dull  when  I  have  you,  my 
dear,"  I  said.  "  Only  please,  Phil,  don't  put 
on  any  more  wood ;  it's  rather  too  hot  here 
now !  "  (The  dear  child,  with  her  American 
extravagance,  would  have  emptied  my  whole 
wood-basket  into  the  fire  at  once,  and  I  ex- 
pected it  to  hold  out  another  day,  at  least.) 
"  But  what  ever  put  the  idea  of  me  writing 
into  your  head,  my  love  ?  Though,  to  be  sure, 
I  had  quite  a  pretty  talent  for  making  verses 
when  I  was  a  child,  but  I  think  I've  out- 
grown it  now ;  one  mostly  does." 

"  Coax  it  back,"  said  Phil,  folding  her  tiny 
hands  in  her  lap,  and  gazing  meditatively  at 
the  fire,  which  brought  out  the  red  lights  in 
her  dark-brown  hair  in  a  very  pretty  way. 
"  Coax  it  back.  One  mostly  can.  And 
truly,  Miss  Andrews,  you  have  read  so  many 
books  you  must  have  a  world  of  facts,  and 
plots,  and  incidents,  stored  away  in  your  brain 
by  this  time.  Why  don't  you  stir  them  all 
together  and  mix  us  up  one  good,  new,  fresh 
novel  worth  the  reading  ?  " 

"  With  you  for  the  heroine,  my  dear  ?  "  I 
suggested,  laughing.  "Indeed,  I  think  that 
might  do  very  well." 

"  No,"  said  Phil,  with  that  emphatic  tone 
of  hers  that  there  is  never  any  use  in  gain- 
saying. "I  wont  be  a  heroine.  I  decline  to 
be  put  in  a  book.  I  wont  stay  in  it  if  you  put 
me  there.  I  warn  you  I'll  walk  right  out  of 
the  first  chapter  and  spoil  it  all.  You'll  have 
to  take  somebody  else." 

"And  whom  shall  I  take  ? "  I  asked.  "  I 
think  you  are  the  very  one." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  answered  Phil,  screwing  up 
her  pretty  lips:  she  had  a  sweet,  charming 
mouth,  though  it  was  easy  to  see  by  it,  too, 
what  a  will  my  young  lady  had  of  her  own. 
"  I  haven't  a  particle  of  sentiment  about  me, 
you  know;  not  the  scrappiest  bit.  I'm  matter- 
of-fact  and  prosaic  through  and  through.  I 
couldn't  fall  in  love,  and  I  couldn't  flirt  to  save 
my  life.  Anyway,  I  just  wont  be  written  about." 

"  And  whom  else  shall  I  write  about,  my 
love  ?  "  said  I,  still  laughing  at  her  earnest- 
ness—  Phil  was  always  so  energetic  and  de- 
cided about  everything. 

She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 
"  What  a  pity  you  can't  come  down  to  the 
table  d'hote,"  she  said ;  "  there  is  any  num- 
ber of  characters  ready-made  there,  every  day. 
There's  the  old  Russian  countess — if  only 
you  knew  her !  She's  a  whole  comedy  and 
foot-lights  in  herself.  And — and — let  me  see 
— that  Mme.  Latoux  and  the  little  German 
Fraulein — really,  they  must  go  into  books 
some  day.  They  were  born  to  have  histories. 
It's  their  destinv." 


212 


ONE   CHAPTER. 


"  And  how  about  heroes  ?  "  I  said.  "  Wom- 
en by  themselves  wouldn't  do,  would  they, 
dear  ?  " 

"Well,  as  for  heroes,  Miss  Andrews; — " 
Phil  mused  a  little,  then  suddenly  sat  down 
and  began  winding  a  skein  of  worsted  for 
me.  "  I  really  don't  know,"  she  said,  with 
her  head  bent  down  over  her  work,  "  that  you 
could  find  a  better  hero  anywhere,  for  a  thrill- 
ing three-volume  novel,  than  in  the  young 
man  who  sits  next  to  me." 

"  Why,  my  dear ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  this  is 
something  new.  What  young  man?  Why 
haven't  you  mentioned  him  before  ?  " 

"  He  has  only  just  come." 

«  Is  he  English  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  American  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say.  He  might  be  German  from 
his  looks,  American  from  his  manners,  French 
from  his  dress,  and  cosmopolitan  from  his 
language." 

"  American  from  his  manners  !  "  I  repeated, 
at  the  moment  forgetting  the  nationality  of 
my  young  friend.  "  My  poor,  dear  child, 
what  a  trial  it  must  be  to  have  him  next  you ! " 

Phil  looked  up  at  me  with  a  little  smile. 
"  I  meant  that  he  had  perfect  manners,"  she 
said,  quietly.  I  recollected  myself,  and  was 
mortified  enough. 

"  What  does  he  look  like  ?  "  I  asked  hastily, 
to  change  the  ground. 

"  Tall,  slight,  soldierly,  with  light  hair  and 
mustache,  and  blue  eyes,"  replied  Phil, 
dreamily.  "  An  aristocratic  face,  and  small, 
well-shaped  hands.  He  must  be  an  Amer- 
ican." 

"  Has  he  spoken  to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  yet;  he  will,  though." 

"My  dear " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  interrupted  Phil,  rising  to 
light  my  candles.  "  He's  very  nice,  and  the 
only  young  man  in  the  house.  It  would  be 
neglecting  my  chances  not  to  know  him.  At 
home,  of  course,  we  shouldn't  speak  without 
an  introduction  and  credentials  being  given 
on  both  sides ;  but  over  here  it's  different. 
One  can  so  easily  let  an  acquaintance  slide, 
you  know,  if  it  turn  out  badly.  By  the  way, 
I  suppose  you  don't  know  what  slide  means 
in  that  sense,  Miss  Andrews  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear ;  it's  slang  for  cut.  I 
understand  well  enough,  though  I'm  a  little 
set  against  using  those  nasty  words  myself. 
We  considered  slang  a  beastly  habit  in  my 
strait-laced  days.  We'll  let  that  second  candle 
slide  too,  however,  Phil,  please.  One  is  quite 
enough  for  this  little  room."  (I  am  persuaded 
that  dear  child  couldn't  so  much  as  spell  the 
word  economy.)  "  Are  you  going  now  ? 
Well,  I  hope  you'll  eat  your  dinner  to-mor- 


row with  better  appetite  for  your  fine  com- 
pany, my  dear." 

The  next  day  Phil  appeared  again,  estab- 
lishing herself  in  her  usual  place  in  front  of 
the  stove-door.  I  had  taken  care  to  have 
Cummings  hide  away  most  of  the  wood  in 
the  closet,  so  that  there  wasn't  much  left  for 
her  to  dispose  of,  and  I  didn't  mind. 

"  And  how  about  the  young  man  ? "  I 
asked.  "  Is  he  still  here  ?  " 

"  He  will  be  here  till  I  go,"  answered  Phil. 
"  He  is  a  very  nice  young  man,  indeed.  He 
has  lovely  brown  eyes,  soft,  and  dreamy,  and 
kind-looking, —  eyes  just  like  a  dog.  I  love 
dogs'  eyes,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  You  said  he  had  blue  eyes  yesterday." 

"  Did  I  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  said  he  looked  like  a 
German.  Well,  I  got  a  better  look  at  them 
to-day,  you  see,  and  they're  not  blue,  but 
brown,  and  full  of  expression.  I'm  afraid  he's 
a  flirt.  Flirts'  eyes  always  are  full  of  expres- 
sion." 

"  You  haven't  been  flirting  with  him,  I 
hope,  Phil,  and  he  an  utter  stranger  too,  my 
dear?  I  am  sure  your  aunt  couldn't  allow 
that." 

"  Oh,  I  never  flirt,  Miss  Andrews.  I'm  not 
that  style  at  all.  But  he's  not  a  stranger  now 
Why,  I  know  him  quite  intimately.  I  askec 
him  for  the  salt  as  soon  as  we  had  taken  oui 
seats,  and  after  that  we  talked  steadily  on  righl 
through  till  dessert.  I  know  all  about  him,— 
enough  to  write  his  biography.  I  was  right 
He's  an  American.  He's  from  Philadelphia.' 

"  Ah,  that's  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
isn't  it,  my  dear  ?  "  I  asked,  glad  to  show  m) 
geographical  acquaintance  with  her  country 
Phil  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  to  locate  it  ir 
her  mind.  She  is  always  so  exact. 

"  Well,  yes ;  a  little  east,"  she  said  presently 

"  Is  it  near  where  you  live  ?  "    I  continued 

"  Yes,  rather  near,"  Phil  answered,  poking 
at  my  fire.  "  Only  a  few  hundred  miles  off 
I  live  in  Rochester,  in  Western  New  York 
you  know." 

"  So  you  told  me,  my  dear.  Western  Nev 
York.  That's  where  the  gold  mines  are,  | 
understand,  and  the  Indians.  By  the  way 
I  wonder  if  you  ever  met  a  friend  of  mine 
his  name  was  Phipps,  George  Montagui 
Phipps ;  his  family  sent  him  out  for  his  healtl 
and  he  settled  there,  — Dallas,  I  think  th< 
place  was, — he  liked  it  so  much." 

"  Dallas  is  in  Texas,"  said  Phil.  "The 
men  don't  come  over  to  Rochester  from  tl 
much,   but   I'll  keep   a  lookout  for  him. 
don't  believe  he  is  as  nice'as  my  young 
here,  however." 

"And  why  is  he  here,  my  dear?  For  In 
health  ?  Nobody  ever  comes  here  in  Octote 
excepting  for  his  health,  you  know." 


ONE    CHAPTER. 


213 


"He  is  here  for  his  mother.    She  is  an  in- 
valid and  doesn't  appear  at  table.    His  name 
s  Oscar  Heyerman." 
"  Why,  that's  a  German  name,  Phil." 
"  His  father  was  German,  I  believe.    He's 
really  a  charming  young  man,  so  intelligent, 
so  cultivated,  so  handsome.    You  would  lose 
your  heart  to  him  at  once." 

Don't  lose  yours  to  him,  my  child." 
Better  not,  I  think,"  replied  Phil,  with  a 
sage  shake  of  the  head.  "  There's  a  wonder- 
:ully  pretty  little  German  girl  sits  the  other 
side  of  him.  He  looked  at  her  a  great  deal 
to-day,  quite  stared  at  her,  in  fact, — and  he 
spoke  to  her  just  as  we  left  the  table.  I  fore- 
see she  is  going  to  be  my  rival." 

"  She  must  be  very  nice  and  bright  indeed, 
my  dear,  to  be  any  proper  rival  of  yours," 
[  said,  looking  at  Phil  affectionately.  "  I  am 
sure  any  man  would  rather  talk  to  you  than 
;o  most  any  other  girl  I  know.  You  have  so 
hnuch  common  sense  too,  Phil,  as  well  as 
ooks." 

"Yes,  common  sense  is  rather  my  forte," 
hil  acknowledged  gravely.  "The  romance 
ind  sentiment  were  altogether  left  out,  and  the 
)lace  filled  in  with  good,  plain,  ugly  common 
ense.  But  it's  much  less  attractive  to  out- 
iders  than  nonsense,  in  the  long  run.  I  don't 
tand  a  ghost  of  a  chance  beside  that  simper- 
tig  little  German  madchen  with  her  pink 
heeks  and  baby  ideas.  You  see,  if  Oscar 
ays  a  word  to  me  to-morrow.  I  shall  break 
y  heart." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Phil,  please,"  I  begged. 
There's  so  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest." 
"  Oh,"  said  Phil,  and  for  all  further  com- 
lient  made  a  succession  of  horrible  grimaces 
fith  such  rapidity  and  astounding  diversity 
lat  I  nearly  died  with  laughing  at  her,  though 
shook  my  head  rebukingly  all  the  time. 
There  proved  to  be  no  immediate  danger, 
owever,  of  Oscar's  becoming  interested  in  the 
fctle  German  girl.    He  devoted  himself,  on 
contrary,  entirely  to  Phil.    She  had  some- 
ling  new  to  tell  me  about  him  every  day 
[hen  she  ran  in.    Either  she  had  met  him  by 
fiance  at  the  Kursaal,  and  had  such  a  pleas- 
lit  whispered  talk  with  him  while  her  aunt 
roned  over  the  papers;    or  he  had  sat  by 
er  during  the  afternoon  outdoor  concert,  or 
talked  with  her  about  the  beautiful  Kursaal 
punds ;  or  he  had  been  shopping  with  her 
[3wn   through    the   long,    pocket-despoiling 
jcades,  and  had  helped  her  choose  the  pretty 
'tie  trifle  she  brought  to  me. 
"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  she  would  say  roguishly 
the  middle  of  my  thanks.    "  It  is  Oscar's 
te." 

i  He  made  the  fourth  too,  I  fancy,  on  their 
lives  to  the  Russian  chapel,  and  the  Rob- 


ber's cave,  and  to  Biebrich  and  other  out- 
lying places  of  interest,  though  I  only  knew 
it  by  Phil's  accidentally  repeating  some  remark 
or  droll  comment  that  he  had  made  at  the 
time.  I  don't  think  she  quite  liked  me  to 
know  just  how  often  he  was  invited  to  accom- 
pany them.  She  looked  a  little  confused  one 
day  when  I  confessed  how  I  had  been  watch- 
ing at  the  window  to  see  them  start  out,  and 
was  so  disappointed  to  find  they  had  gone  in 
a  close  carriage.  Indeed,  after  that  I  don't 
think  he  was  invited  so  much.  She  didn't 
speak  of  his  driving  with  them  again.  How- 
ever, he  walked  with  her  uncle  and  herself  to 
Sonnenburg  Castle  one  day ;  she  told  me  that. 
Her  uncle  was  old,  and  I  imagine  left  the 
two  young  people  to  scramble  about  the  ruins 
quite  by  themselves, — Americans  are  so  lax 
as  guardians! — and  she  had  a  dainty  little 
bunch  of  wild  flowers  pinned  coquettishly  in 
with  the  lace  at  her  throat  when  she  came 
back.  She  was  fond  of  wearing  flowers,  and 
generally  had  a  rose  or  cluster  of  violets  some- 
where about  her  dress,  and  if  I  chanced  to 
ask  where  it  came  from,  the  answer  was  in- 
variably the  same,  said  with  a  demure  twinkle 
of  her  pretty  eyes  :  "  Oscar,  of  course.  What 
other  young  man  is  there  here  to  give  it  to  me  ?" 

It  was  really  wonderful  how  much  interest 
her  talk  of  Oscar  lent  to  our  meetings,  and  , 
how  eagerly  I  waited  for  the  next  bit  of  news, 
whatever  it  might  turn  out  to  be. 

"  He's  certainly  getting  very  much  inter- 
ested in  you,  Phil,"  I  said  anxiously  one  day. 
It  was  pleasant,  but  it  troubled  me  a  little 
too,  living  so  right  in  the  midst  of  a  love  story. 

Phil  laughed  and  shook  her  heavy  braids. 

"  Indeed  he  is,"  I  insisted.  "  I  can  see  it 
plain  enough,  for  all  I'm  not  there  to  watch 
you  two  foolish  young  things  with  my  curious 
old  eyes.  Old  maids  can  put  two  and  two 
together  better  than  some  clever  arithmeti- 
cians, may  be ;  and  I  only  hope,  my  dear,  that 
your  aunt  approves." 

"  Aunt  Anne  has  nothing  to  say  about  me  ; 
I  am  quite  independent  of  everybody,"  Phil 
rejoined  with  that  determined  look  coming  to 
her  mouth  that  suited  so  well  with  her  glasses 
and  her  straight,  square  way  of  holding  her 
trim  little  figure.  "  I  may  make  what  friends 
I  choose." 

"  It's  that  that  worries  me  about  you,  my 
dear,"  I  said  as  gently  as  I  could.  "  I  feel  as 
if  you  hadn't  anybody  to  look  after  you 
rightly,  my  poor  child.  And  now  this  young 
man,  —  why,  he  may  be  a  gambler  for  aught 
we  know.  He  may  have  dreadful  habits." 

"  One  little  half-bottle  of  cheap  Hochheimer 
every  day  for  dinner,"  interposed  Phil  with  a 
laugh. 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  there's  no  knowing. 


214 


ONE   CHAPTER. 


how  many  whole  bottles  of  Cliquot,  besides 
any  number  of  awful  American  drinks  with 
wicked  names,  he  may  consume  upstairs  in 
private.  One  can't  judge  entirely  about  young 
men  from  just  their  down-stairs  doings.  I 
wonder  if  he  is  high-principled, — if  he  is  a 
really  good  young  man  ?  You  never  mention 
seeing  him  at  church.  Oh,  my  dear,  some- 
body ought  to  look  after  you  a  little,  I  do 
think.  Somebody  ought  to  look  after  you." 

"  Come  and  look  after  him  instead,"  said 
Phil,  who  was  standing  in  the  window. 
"  There  he  goes  now.  Don't  you  want  to  see 
him  ?  He  is  almost  as  good  to  look  at  from 
the  back  as  from  the  front." 

She  pushed  aside  the  window  curtain  as  she 
spoke;  and  though  it  is  such  pain  to  move, 
curiosity  so  far  overmastered  me  that  I  hastily 
left  my  easy-chair,  and  dragged  myself  across 
the  room  to  her  side. 

"  Where  ?  "  I  said  breathlessly,  straighten- 
ing my  cap  as  I  best  could,  lest  the  young 
fellow  should  chance  to  look  up.  Even  at 
sixty  one  doesn't  like  to  be  seen  all  awry. 

"  Such  a  pity ! "  said  Phil,  dropping  the 
curtain  again  almost  in  my  face.  "  You're 
just  one  second  too  late.  He's  gone  around 
the  corner.  It's  a  great  pity  you  didn't  see 
him.  You  would  never  have  suspected  him 
of  anything  bad  again.  He  has  a  charming 
face,  so  good,  so  trustworthy,  and  so — affec- 
tionate, one  might  say.  I'm  sure  he  is  a  lovely 
character.  You  should  only  hear  the  way 
he  speaks  of  his  mother.  He  is  a  devoted 
son." 

I  looked  at  Phil  anxiously.  She  did  not 
look  at  me,  but  stood  with  her  forehead 
pressed  against  the  window,  tapping  her  little 
fingers  on  the  sill. 

"  Don't,  Phil,  dear,"  I  said  gently.  "  It 
makes  me  nervous."  She  stopped  at  once, 
and  glanced  up  at  me  with  her  head  bent  on 
one  side  like  a  little  bird.  Her  eyes  were 
brighter  than  any  stars,  and  there  was  an  odd, 
provoking  smile  on  her  clearly  chiseled  lips. 
"  Phil,"  I  said,  laying  my  two  hands  on  her 
shoulders,  "  I've  not  been  young  in  my  time 
for  nothing,  dear,  and  I  see — I  see." 

"  See  what  ? "  asked  Phil.  She  banished 
all  the  knowingness  out  of  her  face,  and  put 
on  a  look  of  innocence  that  would  have  be- 
come a  year-old  babe,  in  less  than  no  time. 

"  Don't  be  vexed,"  I  said,  "  but  how  can  I 
help  seeing  that,  for  all  your  pretended  lack 
of  romance,  you  are  getting  interested  in  that 
young  man  day  by  day." 

Phil  broke  suddenly  away  from  me  and 
dashed  to  the  wood-basket,  bending  over  it 
with  a  little  inarticulate  sound. 

"  Don't  put  any  more  on,  dear,"  I  en- 
treated, piteously.  "  Really,  you  don't  know 


how  little  it  takes  to  keep  a  fire  alight  in 
those  stoves.  And  you  aren't  vexed,  are  you, 
Phil  ?  I  couldn't  help  speaking,  dear.  I  don'l 
doubt  he's  all  that's  honorable  and  worthy  ij 
you  think  so,  only  you  are  so  young,  and— 
and — in  .England  things  are  so  different.  ] 
cannot  get  quite  used  to  your  American  in 
dependence.  It  seems  so  odd  parents  anc 
guardians  should  never  have  anything  what 
ever  to  say  in  the  matter  of  the  children'; 
marriages." 

"  Oh,  but  they  do, — a  little,"  said  Phil 
frowning  gravely  at  the  stove  as  she  ran  he 
finger  absently  along  its  cracks,  knocking  ou 
the  plaster  upon  the  floor.  "  We  always  in 
vite  them  to  the  wedding." 

"  And  if  they  wont  come  ?  " 

"  We  disinherit  them.  But  it  doesn't  gen 
erally  happen.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Andrews 
you  are  worrying  about  Oscar  Heyermai 
and  me.  Now  let  me  set  your  dear,  kin< 
heart  at  rest  at  once.  He  isn't  thinking  o 
me  at  all.  I  told  you  he  would  like  that  sim 
pering  German  girl  better.  He  does." 

She  spoke  very  low,  and  dropped  her  hea< 
a  little.  Something  in  her  attitude  or  voic 
touched  my  heart,  and  reminded  me  of  th 
days  when — well,  when  I  found  out  Jac 
cared  for  Hannah.  My  foolish  old  eyes  gc 
moist  all  of  a  sudden,  and  I  crossed  the  roor 
to  her  quickly,  as  if  I  hadn't  an  ache  in  m 
miserable  bones,  and  tried  to  take  her  in  m 
arms.  "  My  dear,  my  dear,"  I  whispered,  a 
of  a  tremble,  "  don't  give  up  hope  yet.  Ma 
be  it  isn't  so.  May  be  it  isn't  so.  May  b 
he'll  come  back  to  you  yet."  And  then  I  re 
membered  how  Jack  never  did  come  bacl< 
and  I  sort  of  choked,  and  Phil  just  gave  tha 
queer  little  sound  again  and  fled  out  of  th 
room.  How  I  longed  to  follow  and  comfoi 
her!  I  felt  so  troubled  about  her  I  couL 
scarcely  sleep  all  that  night.  Poor,  dea 
child,  it  had  indeed  gone  far  with  her!  I 
seemed  very  hard  to  stop  quietly  upstair 
and  know  that  all  the  time  that  inane  littl 
German  miss  was  fooling  my  Phil's  love 
away  just  with  two  silly  pink  cheeks.  "  As  i 
any  man  couldn't  choose  better  than  that ! 
I  said  indignantly  to  myself;  for  somehov 
when  I  had  found  out  that  my  poor  chil 
loved  him  and  had  lost  him,  all  doubt  of  h 
worthiness  instantly  vanished  from  my  mine 
and  I  only  fell  to  wishing  I  could  do  som< 
thing  to  bring  him  back  and  make  her  hap])] 
I  never  closed  an  eye  till  three  o'clock,  an 
after  that  the  whole  time  I  was  dreaming  an 
dreaming  of  how  Phil  stood  at  the  altar  a 
in  white,  and  blazing  with  diamonds  fro 
head  to  foot,  and  how  Oscar  stood  by 
side  with  his  back  to  me,  so  that  I  didn' 
his  face  even  then,  and  how  he  call( 


ONE    CHAPTER. 


2I5 


right  in  the  middle  of  the  service  for  a  gin 
cocktail  (I  think  that  was  it),  and  how  it  was 
poor  old  I,  in  my  dingy  wrapper  and  cap, 
who  had  to  come  hobbling  up  the  chancel- 
steps  to  give  the  bride  away. 

I  didn't  see  Phil  all  the  next  day.  Poor 
child !  she  saw  I  had  surprised  her  secret,  and 
though  I  didn't  expect  this  delicacy  of  feel- 
ing on  the  part  of  an  American  girl,  still  I 
admired  it  in  her,  and  only  loved  her  the 
better  for  it.  How /should  have  felt,  had  any 
one  ever  so  much  as  suspected  what  I  felt  for 
Jack! 

But  by  the  day  after,  when  still  Phil  did 
not  come,  it  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  stand  it 
not  to  know  anything;  and  when  the  dinner 
was  begun,  I  sent  Cummings  down-stairs  just 
to  peep  in  through  the  door  and  see  which 
one  Mr.  Heyerman  was  talking  to  the  more 
—  my  Phil,  or  the  little  tow-headed  German 
idiot.  Cummings  didn't  like  being  sent  down 
on  such  an  errand,  and  sniffed  very  disagree- 
|  ably,  and  said  she  had  never  been  engaged 
|  to  do  spy's  work,  and  may  be  there  was  them 
as  would  do  spying  better,  who  wouldn't  be 
so  willing  as  she  was  to  turn  an  old  dress 
for  me  as  had  better  be  give  away  at  once 
and  done  with,  and  not  waste  more  time  over 
it.  However,  she  went  down  at  last,  though 
still  expostulatory,  and  back  she  came  in  less 
than  no  time,  her  tongue  clacking  angrily  all 
along  the  passage-way. 

The  head  waiter  had  espied  her  peering 
through  the  crack  of  the  door,  and  ordered 
her  away.  'Twas  no  place  for  ladies'  maids 
at  no  time,  he  had  said,  unless  may  be  she 
wanted  to  come  in  and  help  serve  the  tables. 
Such  an  indignity  had  never  been  put  on  her 
at  no  time  of  her  life  before,  she  said,  and 
that's  what  came  from  doing  a  nasty  job  at 
some  one  else's  bidding.  I  had  the  greatest 
ado  in  the  world  to  soothe  her  down,  and 
get  anything  else  out  of  her.  Miss  Merritt  ? 
JYes,  she  snarled,  she  had  seen  Miss  Merritt, 
'and  Miss  Merritt  had  seen  her,  and  had 
nodded  to  her ;  that's  what  had  directed  the 
head  waiter's  attention  to  her,  and  the  im- 
pertinence of  that  man  she  should  never  for- 
,get,  not  to  her  dying  day.  The  German 
[young  lady?  Yes,  she  had  seen  her,  too.  A 
jsweet  pretty  dear  she  was,  much  more  lady- 
like and  genteel-looking  than  Miss  Merritt. 
[The  young  gentleman?  There  wasn't  any 
young  gentleman.  There  was  an  old  man 
•seated  between  the  young  ladies,  if  that's 
Iwhat  I  wanted  to  know, —  a  white-haired, 
deaf  old  gentleman.  She  heard  Miss  Merritt 
screeching  at  him  that  it  didn't  matter,  when 
|he  upset  his  soup-plate  over  her  dress.  And 
if  I  was  ever  going  to  ask  her  to  go  down  to 
'that  door  again,  I  might  look  out  for  another 


maid  at  the  year's  end,  if  I  pleased.  She  had 
spoke  her  mind,  and  that  was  all  she  had  to 
say. 

I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it, — not  of 
Cummings's  anger  (that  would  wear  off  with 
time  and  judicious  treatment,  and  a  maid 
must  be  allowed  tantrums  as  well  as  a  mis- 
tress), but  of  her  report;  and  I  worried  and 
worried,  till  late  that  afternoon  Phil  came  in. 
She  was  in  one  of  her  brightest,  gayest 
moods.  I  knew  in  a  moment  she  had  put  it 
on  as  a  mask.  Women  are  always  up  to 
such  little  innocent  hypocrisies,  and  it  takes 
a  woman  to  catch  them  at  it.  I  didn't  mean 
to  say  anything,  but  I  couldn't  help  blurting 
it  right  out: 

"  My  dear,  Cummings  says  he  wasn't 
there." 

Phil  never  changed  color  nor  winced  when 
I  spoke  of  him  so  suddenly.  She  is  a  brave 
little  thing.  She  looked  right  up  at  me. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Oscar  dined  out  to-day. 
It  was  lonely  for  the  little  Fraulein." 

And  she  never  alluded  to  him  once  again 
the  whole  afternoon,  though  I  several  times 
skillfully  led  the  conversation  that  way,  in 
case  she  might  like  to  unburden  her  poor 
heart  to  me.  I  wished  her  at  least  to  feel  that 
I  was  all  readiness  and  all  sympathy.  But 
she  is  a  very  self-contained,  reserved,  intensely 
proud  little  creature,  and  I  am  afraid  it  was 
gall  to  her  to  feel  how  much  I  had  already 
guessed  of  the  truth.  Poor  child,  I  almost 
wished  I  could  tell  her  about  Jack,  so  as  to 
take  out  the  sting  of  it  to  her,  letting  her 
know  that  others  had  felt  just  the  same.  But 
never  a  word  more  would  she  speak  that  day 
of  Oscar.  She  laughed,  she  joked,  she  made 
fun ;  her  clear  voice  never  wavered ;  her  bright 
eyes  never  drooped ;  she  was  as  cheery  and 
sweet-tempered  as  if  she  had  never  known  a 
sorrow.  It  seemed  to  me  that  my  old  heart 
must  break  for  her.  I  haven't  forgotten  even 
yet  how  I  behaved — how  I  danced  and 
laughed  with  the  best  that  very  day  when 
Jack  was  married!  Only  once  her  courage 
gave  way  a  little, —  the  poor,  overburdened 
young  thing.  It  was  in  the  dusk,  and  we 
were  both  very  still,  I  thinking  compassion- 
ately of  her,  and  she — ah,  well,  I  could  guess, 
when  I  heard  a  little  faint  sigh  from  where 
Phil  sat,  or,  rather,  what  started  to  be  a  sigh, 
and  was  checked  in  the  rising.  I  put  out  my 
hand  and  touched  hers.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
must  tell  her  how  I  felt  for  her.  She  gave  a 
start,  and  then  her  usual  little  gay  laugh. 

"  You  have  caught  me,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
fain  to  confess  it,  Miss  Andrews.  I  am  home- 
sick to-night,— awfully  homesick." 

I  pressed  her  hand  without  speaking. 
There  are  moments  when  words  seem  so  cold. 


2l6 


ONE    CHAPTER. 


"  Do  you  know,"  she  continued,  looking  at 
me  gratefully,  and  a  little  wistfully,  "  I  would 
give  all  Europe  — yes,  all  Europe  and  a  good 
part  of  -America  besides,  just  for  five  minutes 
with  my  dear,  dear  little  dog  Dandy  again !  " 

Her  dog  Dandy,  indeed !  Ah,  poor  child, 
poor  child !  Heaven  looks  leniently,  I  am 
sure,  upon  such  innocent,  womanly  lies  as 
these. 

So  the  days  slipped  by,  and  I  never  came 
any  nearer  her  confidence.  If  I  asked  about 
Oscar,  she  would  frankly  answer,  and  she  oc- 
casionally mentioned  that  she  had  met  him 
in  the  street,  or  seen  him  at  the  concert,  or 
run  across  him  in  the  reading-room  flirting 
outrageously  with  the  pretty  German  girl, 
right  under  her  mamma's  ugly  nose.  But  she 
was  very  guarded  in  all  that  she  said  about 
him  now,  and  in  the  way  she  said  it.  No 
stranger  would  ever  have  suspected  that  any 
deeper  feeling  underlay  the  careless  tone  in 
which  she  said  his  name.  But  I  knew. 

And  so  time  wore  around  till  one  night  she 
ran  in  later  than  usual,  just  as  I  was  going  to 
bed.  Cummings  looked  thundery  at  once. 
She  is  like  clock-work,  and  whoever  puts  her 
back,  by  so  much  as  a  minute,  throws  her  all 
out  of  beat,  and  like  as  not  stops  her  short. 

"  It's  going  on  half-past  nine,  Miss  An- 
drews," she  said  stiffly,  as  if  I  had  begged  for 
a  little  extra  grace  that  I  shouldn't  have,  and 
she  immediately  laid  out  my  night-gown  and 
cloth  slippers  with  most  suggestive  and  unbe- 
coming conspicuousness. 

"  I  wont  stay  a  minute,"  said  Phil,  with 
an  intelligent  glance  toward  the  articles,  and 
an  appeasing  nod  to  Cummings,  who,  with  a 
grim  determination  not  to  be  appeased,  looked 
with  fixed  disapprobation  at  a  nail  in  the 
wall,  and  pretended  not  to  see  Phil  at  all.  "  I 
leave  so  early  to-morrow  morning,  I  thought 
I  would  say  my  real  good-bye  to-night." 

"  What !  "  I  cried  aghast.  "  Oh,  Phil,  dear, 
are  you  really  going  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  So  it  seems,"  answered  Phil.  "  And  none 
too  soon.  Why,  we  sail  from  Liverpool  in 
three  weeks,  you  know,  and  Paris  is  to  be  bought 
out  first.  And  right  glad  I  am  to  get  away 
from  this  rainy  old  Wiesbaden.  May  I  never 
have  the  ill  luck  to  be  at  a  German  watering- 
place  again  out  of  the  season.  I  should  have 
died  of  ennui  but  for  you,  Miss  Andrews." 

"  And  oh,  my  child,  think  what  you  have 
been  to  me !  "  I  said,  with  my  eyes  all  at  once 
getting  weak,  and  my  voice  uncomfortably 
husky.  "  I  have  just  lived  on  your  visits. 
I  don't  know  how  ever  I  am  to  get  along 
without  you.  And — and  how  can  others 
spare  you  any  better  ?  " 

"  Others  ?  "  repeated  Phil,  opening  her 
bright  eyes  with  that  questioning  look  which 


seemed  always  to  turn  her  whole  face  into  an 
interrogation  point. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  I  said,  sinking  my  voice  a 
little  because  of  Cummings,  who,  under  pre- 
tense of  arranging  my  bed,  was  pushing  for- 
ward the  chair  with  the  night-gown  into  yet 
more  unavoidable  range  of  vision.  "  I  mean 
Oscar." 

Phil  dropped  her  eyes  suddenly.  I  saw  her 
face  change. 

"  He's  gone,"  she  said  bluntly. 

"  Gone  ?  "  I  gaspe.d.  "  My  dear,  when — 
where  —  you  don't  mean  it  ?  " 

"  He  went  this  morning,"  answered  Phil, 
her  voice  as  steady  as  mine  was  shaky.  "  I 
really  don't  know  where  he  went,  but  probably 
the  little  Fraulein  does.  She  left  yesterday." 

"And  you  really  don't  know?"  I  echoed 
incredulously.  "  Phil,  child,  don't  you  expect 
to  see  him  again  ?  not  to  meet  him  anywhere 
ever  again  ?  " 

"  Not  ever  again,"  repeated  Phil  steadily. 
"  It  is  good-bye  to  Mr.  Oscar  Heyerman  for- 
ever." 

And  she  kissed  her  little  atom  of  a  hand 
saucily  toward  the  window.  The  action  jarred 
on  me.  It  seemed  like  such  a  mockery  of  the 
poor  dear's  real  feelings.  I  could  not  bear  to 
have  her  so  brave.  It  would  have  been  more 
natural  to  seem  weaker.  I  shook  my  head 
and  sighed. 

"  Ah,  Phil,"  I  said,  thinking  of  Jack  and 
of  the  long  pain  that  that  word  forever  cov- 
ered,— "  Ah,  Phil,  things  seem  mysterious  and 
life  looks  long  when  one  is  young ;  but  it's 
astonishing  how  short  the  same  thing  looks 
seen  from  the  other  end,  dear.  Even  forevers 
lose  their  sting  before  one  is  quite  through 
with  life." 

Phil  stood  looking  at  me.  She  was  smiling 
a  little,  and  gradually  the  smile  spread  and 
deepened.  "  You  dear  old  Miss  Andrews," 
she  said,  coming  suddenly  close  and  putting 
her  arms  about  me,  "  I  wish  there  might  not 
be  any  forever  about  my  good-bye  to  you. 
I've  brought  you  one  of  my  American  books 
as  a  parting  souvenir.  It's  a  sweet  little  story,  , 
and  will  help  you  to  think  of  me.  And  don't 
be  too  lonely  when  I  am  gone.  Whom  will 
you  miss  more,  me  or  Oscar  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  so  lightly,  Phil,  dear,"  I  whis- 
pered. "  Not  just  at  the  last  like  this.  Don't 
you  think  I  know  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Phil  aloud.  "  I  don't  thi 
you  know  at  all.  Good-night.  Good-ni^ 
Cummings."  And  she  was  gone  before 
knew  it. 

"  Poor  child,  poor  child !  "  I  murmured, 
I  surrendered  myself  to  Cummings's  not  OA 
tender  mercies.    "  So   young,  too.    It's 
hard  on  her." 


ONE    CHAPTER. 


217 


What's  hard  on  her  ?  "  said  Cummings, 
snatching  off  my  cap  with  a  venomousness 
which  seemed  to  say  she  fancied  it  Phil's 
head. 

Oh,  nothing,"  I  answered,  unwilling  to 
betray  my  brave  child's  secret  to  any  un- 
loving ears.  "  I  was  only  thinking  it  was  hard 
that  those  two  young  people — she  and  that 
young  man  —  shouldn't  really  ever  meet  again. 
I  can't  help  hoping  they  may,  even  yet." 

What  young  man  ?  "  said  Cummings,  in 
tier  hard  unsympathetic  voice,  pulling  off  my 
shoes  as  if  she  were  a  dentist  and  each  foot 
were  a  tooth  she  was  extracting.  "  I  never  see 
any  young  man.  There  aint  any  young  man." 
"Oh, but  Cummings," I  expostulated  gently, 
"  I  mean  Mr.  Oscar  Heyerman,  you  know. 
He's  gone  away." 

"  I'm  thinking  he  can't  be  gone  when  he 
didn't  ever  come,"  retorted  Cummings,  stub- 
bornly.   "There's  a   Mr.  and  a  Mrs.   Oscar 
Heyerman  on  the  liste  des  etrawngers,  right 
nough;  but  there  aint  any  young  man  as 
ver  I  see.    And  so  you  needn't  be  worrit- 
ng  about  him  when  you  ought  to  ha'  been 
sleep  this  half-hour  gone,  and  me  a-waiting 
11  the  time  to  put  you  where  you  should  be." 
u  Cummings,"  I  replied  with  dignity,  "you 
re  speaking  very  unbecomingly.    Will  you 
and  me  my  night-cap?" 
"  I'd  just  like  to  ha'  seen  her  young  man, 
hat's  all,"  said  Cummings,  jerking  open  my 
drawer  with  a  vindictive  snap.    "  I  don't 
elieve   there   never  was    a   bones- and-flesh 
oung  man  at  all,  for  I  aint  seen  him." 

"  It  isn't  to  be  supposed  you  should  have 
sen  him,  Cummings,"  I  returned.  "  You 
ave  other  things  to  occupy  your  attention 
aan  looking  out  for  young  men,  I  hope, 
.nd  now  you  may  put  out  the  candle.  The 
oonlight  is  bright  enough  for  me  to  go  to 
ed  by  without  it." 

But  somehow  I  couldn't  sleep  that  night 
ther.  It  was  such  a  very  queer  idea  this  of 
ummings,  that  there  wasn't  any  young  man. 
:  was  just  like  her  sour,  cross-grained  nature 
)  take  such  a  cynical  stand.  She'll  never 
|-t  to  Heaven,  I'm  afraid,  if  her  getting  there 
!  to  be  entirely  a  matter  of  faith.  Still,  it  was 
!i  uncomfortable  idea  certainly,  and  gave 
je  a  shock  like  a  cold-water  bath. 


Phil  ran  in  bright  and  early  the  next 
morning,  all  dressed  for  the  journey  in  her 
trim,  close-fitting  ulster,  with  her  broad  felt 
hat  set  jauntily  back  of  the  saucy  little  curls 
over  her  forehead,  that  were  just  as  obstinate 
as  she  was,  and  would  always  go  their  way 
and  not  hers ;  and  as  she  bent  over  me  in  the 
bed,  the  very  first  thing  I  said  to  her  was, 
"  Phil,  Cummings  says  there  wasn't  ever  any 
young  man." 

Phil  stopped  short  on  her  way  down  to 
kiss  me.  "  Cummings  doesn't  know,"  she 
said  quietly. 

"  But  there  was,  wasn't  there,  dear  ?  "  I 
entreated  helplessly.  "Phil,  dear,  there  cer- 
tainly was,  wasn't  there  ?  " 

Phil  pursed  up  her  lips  and  meditated  some 
little  time  with  her  head  on  one  side.  Then 
she  put  on  her  glasses  and  looked  down  at 
me,  wise  as  any  Minerva. 

"  You  will  never  know  either,"  she  said. 
"/  know,  of  course,  but  I  am  never,  never 
going  to  tell.  Good-bye." 

"  Phil— oh,  Phil !  "  I  cried,  catching  at  her 
dress  in  desperation.  "  Oh,  indeed,  you  must 
not  leave  it  so, — you  must  tell  me  !  Wasn't 
there  any  young  man  ?  not  any  young  man 
at  all?" 

"  Was  there  or  was  there  not  ?  "  said  Phil, 
backing  off  toward  the  door,  with  always  that 
provoking  little  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  defiant 
brightness  in  her  eyes;  "what  can  it  possibly 
matter  to  anybody  living  but  only  me  ?  It  is 
my  secret.  I  have  a  right  to  it.  And  I  shall 
not  ever,  ever  tell." 

And  that's  the  way  she  left  it.  That  is  why 
there  isn't  any  more  of  it.  You  see  she  kept 
to  her  word  and  walked  right  out  of  my  story 
at  the  end  of  the  first  chapter,  and  how  the 
story  ended  I  never  knew  myself.  When  I 
look  at  the  book  she  left  me  (it's  by  a  Mr. 
Aldrich,  and  indeed  it's  a  clever  little  tale, 
though  very  disappointing),  I  wonder  if  it  is 
possible  she  got  any  inspiration  from  that  ? 
But  I  don't  know,  and  I  never  shall  know, 
and  I  am  still  puzzling  over  it.  Was  it  true 
or  was  it  false  ?  Was  there  or  was  there  not 
a  young  man  ?  When  I  think  of  Jack,  I  am 
sure  that  there  must  have  been ;  and  when 
I  think  of  Phil,  why  I  really  do  not  know. 

Grace  Denio  Litchfield. 


A  GREAT  city  is  usually  credited,  and  truly, 
with  worldly  motives,  which  make  the  pros- 
perous portion  of  its  inhabitants  pushing,  self- 
ish, proud,  and  self-satisfied.  Here  Jews  and 
Gentiles,  Europeans  and  Americans,  are  all 
striving  for  the  common  prizes  of  life,  and  on 
these  prizes,  it  would  seem,  their  imagination 
is  centered.  Yet  for  nearly  a  century,  in  fact 
ever  since  New  York  was  worthy  the  name 
of  city,  a  quiet  man  moved  daily  among  the 
crowd,  busy  as  others  about  commerce  and 
manufactures,  society  and  social  aims.  He 
raised  a  family  of  influential  children,  and 
was  pleasantly  associated  in  business  and 
society  with  nearly  every  person  of  considera- 
tion in  New  York,  his  native  city,  where  he 
was  born  February  12.  1791.  Yet,  in  all  this 
daily  contact  with  men,  his  chief  objects  were 
distinct  from  theirs,  and  he  kept  his  own 
individuality  and  way  of  looking  at  things 
intact  from  the  beginning.  It  has  been  said 
that  Americans  lose  their  individuality  more 
easily  than  the  people  of  other  nations ;  Mr. 
Cooper  certainly  is  an  example  to  the  con- 
trary. No  worldly  enticements  nor  persua- 
sions ever  changed  his  own  way  of  regarding 
things,  and  he  had  a  consistent  and  singu- 
larly straightforward  method  in  considering 
unusual  subjects. 

An  association  of  eleven  years  with  Mr. 
Cooper,  as  head  of  the  "  Woman's  Art 
School,"  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  observe 
him  in  the  life-work  which  most  earnestly  en- 
gaged all  his  powers.  His  practical  ingenuity 
in  connection  with  steam-engines,  his  success 
in  running  the  first  locomotive  in  America, 
his  new  application  of  iron-work  for  building 
purposes,  the  improvements  he  aided  in  New 
York,  such  as  the  locating  of  Union  and  Madi- 
son squares  and  Tompkins  Square  as  breath- 
ing spots  for  the  city,  are  well  known ;  his 
faith  in  the  Atlantic  cable  and  like  enterprises, 
when  other  men  doubted  their  success,  are 
remembered ;  but  only  an  eye-witness  of  it 
could  imagine  the  time,  and  thought,  and 
ingenuity  he  gave,  year  after  year,  to  his  favor- 


ite scheme  for  the  raising  and  bettering  of  his 
fellow-creatures  in  the  "  Cooper  Union."  In 
this  connection,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  give  i 
brief  outline  of  this  institution  : 

The  three  great  branches  of  the  "  Coope 
Union  "  are  the  night  schools,  where  severa 
thousand  men  are  taught  each  season  a  scien 
tific  and  literary  course,  besides  drawing  in  it 
various  branches ;  the  day  schools  for  womer 
comprising  the  "Woman's  Art  School," 
school  for  telegraphy,  and  a  type- writing  clas 
recently  established;  and  a  free  library  am 
reading-room,  open  day  and  evening,  to  whic 
400,000  visits  are  annually  paid. 

In  the  "Woman's   Art  School"  about  fiv 
hundred  young  women   are   taught   differer 
kinds   of  art  work.    Half   of  these    are   ir 
structed  in  various  industrial  branches,  in  a 
absolutely  free  class;   and  the  rest,  at  a  ver 
small  cost,  have  the  best  teachers  of  drawin 
and  painting  in  New  York.    Ever  since  th 
school  was  started  in  1857  or  1858,  the  name 
of  some  of  the  best  artists  in  New  York  hav 
been   connected   with  the  free    school;    an 
in  its  list  of  teachers  are  such    men  as  Jerv: 
McEntee,  N.  A.,  and  Dr.  Rimmer  former!1 
and  at  the  present  time  R.    Swain    Giffon 
N.  A.,  Wyatt  Eaton,  J.  Alden  Weir,  Williai 
Sartain,  A.  N.  A.,  Douglas  Volk,   and  otht 
well-known    painters.     The    "  Woman's   A: 
School  "  is  furnished  with   one  of  the  fine! 
collections  of  casts   in    this    country,  whic 
include  the  chief  of  the  Elgin  marbles  an 
many  of  the  great   classical  statues.     Basj 
reliefs   from    the    Renaissance    period,    sue 
as  the  beautiful  figures  from   Donatello  an 
Delia  Robbia,  together  with  the  best  orm 
mental   models  from    the    schools    at    Sout 
Kensington,  afford  the  pupils   excellent  sul 
jects  for  study.    A  small  but  well-selected  a 
library  consists  of  the  works  of  Ruskin,  Tain 
Sir   Joshua    Reynolds,   Leonardo    da    Vine 
Lalanne,  Fergusson,  and  many  other  autho 
ities;    while  the  illustrated  volumes   of  ] 
cinet,  Owen  Jones,  and   books   on   potter 
engraving,  design,  etching,  besides  art  peri<>( 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PETER    COOPER. 


219 


icals,  cultivate  the  ideas  and  taste  of  the 
pupils.  Lectures  are  given  each  winter  on 
art  •  and  such  men  as  William  Page,  N.  A., 
Louis  C.  Tiffany,  A.  N.  A.,  William  H. 
Goodyear,  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  Hu- 
bert Herkomer,  A.  R.  A.,  aiford  the  pupils 
information  in  all  the  new  ideas  on  art. 

It  is  somewhat  aside  from  the  purpose  of 
this  article  to  speak  of  the  practical  results  of 
the  "  Woman's  Art  School ";  but,  as  it  was  a 
subject  on  which  Mr.  Cooper  liked  to  dwell,  it 
may  be  of  special  interest  to  the  reader.  Be- 
j  sides  learning  a  profession,  at  the  very  time 
jthey  are  studying,  half  the  pupils  in  the  free 
classes  wholly  or  partly  support  themselves 
by  teaching,  designing,  engraving  on  wood, 
and  other  artistic  occupations ;  and  the 
annual  report  of  this  year  shows  that  the 
present  pupils  and  the  last  year's  graduates 
have  earned  between  $27,000  and  $28,000, 
while  probably  of  $10,000  more  earnings  no 
iaccount  has  been  given.  Many  of  the  beauti- 
ul  engravings  in  this  magazine,  in  "  St.  Nich- 
olas," and  in  the  Patent  Office  Reports,  are 
cut  in  the  engraving  room  of  the  "  Woman's 
Art  School  "  at  the  Cooper  Union. 

Observing,  in  the  early  years  of  my  connec- 
;ion  with  the  "  Institute,"  how  much  fonder 
Mr.  Cooper  was  of  scientific  and  mechanical 
work  than  of  art,  I  was  often  surprised 
:hat  he  should  ever  have  undertaken  this 
great  Art  School.  It  was  finally  explained  to 
me  that,  under  the  auspices  of  some  of  the 
nost  cultivated  and  intelligent  ladies  of  New 
ifork,  such  as  Miss  Mary  Hamilton,  who  was 
ifterward  Mrs.  George  L.  Schuyler,  Mrs. 
Jonathan  Sturges,  and  others,  a  "  School  of 
Design "  was  begun  before  the  "  Cooper 
;  Jnion  "  was  established.  In  this  school  were 
:lasses  in  drawing  for  mechanical  purposes 
ind  in  designing  for  paper,  cotton,  and 
voolen  manufactures,  both  branches  being 
iuited  to  women.  The  school  had  prospered 
mder  the  constant  oversight  of  a  committee 
)f  ladies,  and  when  at  length  the  Cooper 
Union  was  completed  in  1857  or  1858,  this 
:lass  was  offered  to  Mr.  Cooper,  who,  seeing 
hat  it  was  likely  to  be  successful  in  a  line 
vhich  he  had  marked  out,  accepted  the 
ransfer  of  this  school  of  design  to  his 
[oundation. 

It  is  difficult  to  analyze  mental  processes; 
ut  it  seems  as  if  the  same  faculties  which 
:nabled  Mr.  Cooper  to  see  the  possibilities 
)f  machinery,  opened  his  eyes  to  the  advan- 
jage  of  practical  education  for  young  men 
tnd  women  who  have  their  bread  to  earn. 
jU  a  time  when  the  colleges  of  this  country 
asisted  on  Latin  and  Greek,  Mr.  Cooper 
,ealized  that,  to  make  young  men  of  mod- 
rate  means  useful  and  happy,  scientific 


knowledge  and  special  study  for  their  own 
business  was  most  important ;  and  in  found- 
ing the  Woman's  Art  School,  it  is  a  question 
whether  he  has  not  settled  the  doubt  of  the 
desirableness  of  a  "  higher  education "  for 
women.  Certainly  he  had  women  taught, 
systematically,  what  would  fit  them  for  intel- 
lectual occupations,  before  any  college  so 
taught  them. 

Nowadays  special  study  has  become  a 
great  part  of  the  instruction  in  the  best 
American  colleges ;  but  Mr.  Cooper  was  one 
of  the  first  educators  in  America  to  carry 
out  the  idea  that  a  practical  and  necessitous 
people  had  better  learn  what  they  could 
apply  to  use.  But  Mr.  Cooper's  aim  was  not 
merely  to  promote  material  prosperity.  He 
always  used  his  influence  in  his  schools  to 
raise  the  standard  of  character.  Young  men 
were  taught  elocution  in  the  night  classes, 
primarily  to  enable  them  to  assist  in  political 
discussion,  and  to  make  them  interested  in  pub- 
lic affairs.  For  women,  Mr.  Cooper  aimed  to 
secure  quiet,  healthful,  and  dignified  pursuits. 

"  I  have  always  tried  to  do  the  best  I  knew 
how,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  "  and  then 
people  have  wanted  what  I  made.  I  deter- 
mined to  make  the  best  glue,  and  found  out 
every  method  and  ingredient  looking  to  that 
end,  and  so  it  has  always  been  in  demand." 
This  habit  of  his  mind  was  a  pervading  influ- 
ence in  the  Institute. 

Reminiscences  of  Mr.  Cooper  ought  not 
to  take  the  form  of  a  sermon ;  yet  it  seems  im- 
possible for  any  one  who  contemplated  him 
in  his  daily  relations  to  the  Cooper  Union 
not  to  be  impressed  with  the  fact  that  the 
first  and  most  positive  lesson  of  his  life 
was  a  spiritual  one.  He  was  occupied  with 
the  various  departments  of  the  schools,  the 
reading-room,  or  the  sanitary  or  building 
arrangements ;  and  yet,  even  when  he  talked 
about  the  very  bricks  and  mortar  of  the  build- 
ing, through  the  crucible  of  his  benevolence 
these  material  objects  seemed  converted  into 
"something  rich  and  strange,"  through  the 
"spiritual  uses,"  as  Swedenborg  designates 
them,  which  were  his  motives  for  them  all. 

Nearly  every  week  Mr.  Cooper  was  at  the 
Institute ;  but  we  never  heard  a  word  from 
his  lips,  nor  saw  a  look  in  his  face,  nor  heard 
a  tone  of  his  voice,  which  could  have  been 
wished  otherwise.  His  influence  was  not  only 
negatively  good,  but  his  presence  always 
acted  as  a  moral  tonic. 

From  the  first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Cooper, 
eleven  years  ago,  till  the  last  occasion  on 
which  he  visited  the  Cooper  Union,  I  was 
struck  with  the  fact  that  his  ideas  and  ac- 
tions were  always  what  is  called  "at  first 
hand."  He  rarely  referred  to  what  anybody 


220 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PETER    COOPER. 


else  thought  or  said;  and  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  verses  he  had  committed  to 
memory  and  thought  about,  till  they  formed 
part  of  the  very  substance  of  his  mind,  he 
never  mentioned  books.  Some  people  take 
hold  of  things  better  if  they  see  and  examine 
them  for  themselves,  and  a  glance  at  a  land- 
scape or  a  look  at  a  person  conveys  much 
more  than  any  description.  Others  prefer 
"  fireside  travels  " ;  and  I  remember  a  distin- 
guished professor  who  once  said  to  me  that 
he  enjoyed  flowers  even  more  in  poems  than 
he  did  in  reality. 

"  A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it(was  nothing  more." 

Not  so,  Mr.  Cooper.  The  sight  of  a  person 
or  a  thing  stimulated  his  mind  at  once  to  new 
conditions,  and  his  imagination  became  fer- 
tile to  plan  and  arrange.  He  was  a  curious 
instance  of  a  man  who  was  intensely  practical, 
yet  never  commonplace;  and  his  desire  for 
material  results  was  always  united  with  a  still 
more  earnest  wish  to  develop  self-respect, 
independence,  and  a  love  of  usefulness  in  the 
young  people  who  studied  at  the  Institute. 

Mr.  Cooper  was  an  early  riser,  and  by  half- 
past  nine,  nearly  every  day,  his  plain,  small 
carriage,  with  its  one  steady  horse,  might  be 
seen  standing  near  the  Seventh  street  entrance 
of  the  Institute.  Mr.  Cooper  usually  went 
about  the  building  by  himself,  and  his  cheer- 
ful, intelligent  face,  which  never  looked  hag- 
gard though  it  was  old,  and  his  slightly  stoop- 
ing form,  in  a  plain  black  coat  and  a  soft 
black  felt  hat,  from  beneath  whose  brim  fell 
his  silky  white  hair,  might  be  seen  for  hours 
every  day,  sometimes  on  the  staircases,  often 
in  the  school-room.  For  a  time  he  sat  in  the 
main  office,  talking  with  some  business  man 
employed  in  the  building,  or  he  conversed 
with  me  about  the  school.  He  rarely  used  the 
elevator  till  toward  the  end,  but  preferred 
to  climb  the  numerous  flights  of  stairs  even 
up  to  the  very  top  story ;  and  many  a  time  it 
has  given  me  a  shiver  of  anxiety  to  see  him 
holding  by  the  baluster  as,  by  himself,  he 
went  down  the  long  stone  staircases.  He  was 
the  kindest  and  most  amiable  of  men  in  saving 
other  people  anxiety  or  pain  ;  and  sometimes 
when  I  begged  him  to  let  me  go  with  him  or 
to  allow  the  office  boy  to  take  his  arm,  he 
said  he  did  not  need  him;  yet  he  suffered  us 
to  accompany  him,  when  he  saw  that  we 
really  desired  it.  Of  late  years,  the  police- 
man, the  janitor,  and  more  recently  a  young 
servant  went  with  him ;  but  he  did  not  like 
to  be  waited  on,  and  always  preferred  to  stand 
when  he  was  talking  to  a  woman. 


When  in  the  school-rooms  he  never  wanted 
any  disturbance  made  on  his  account.  Till 
within  the  last  year  or  two,  he  was  in  the 
Woman's  Art  School  several  times  a  week, 
and  he  generally  came  quite  early,  before  ten 
o'clock.  Often  he  brought  visitors  to  see  the 
building ;  but,  unless  some  stranger  came  to 
view  the  pupils'  work,  he  did  not  wish  me  to 
accompany  the  party.  He  came  noiselessly 
into  the  long  west  corridor,  and  it  was  often 
only  when  I  saw  his  silvery  head  retreating 
into  the  distance  that  I  knew  Mr.  Cooper 
had  been  to  visit  us.  At  times  when  he  ap- 
peared feeble,  I  joined  him;  walking  along 
behind  him,  one  would  have  conjectured  that 
he  was  only  looking  about  in  the  most  casual 
way.  Of  late  years  his  slow  step,  his  ven- 
erable form  slightly  shrunk  about  the  shoul- 
ders, and  his  gentle  bearing  were  a  sight 
which  kept  my  own  thoughts  intent  on  him. 
Often  on  these  occasions  Mr.  Cooper  would 
pause,  turn  around,  and,  leaning  up  against 
one  of  the  cases  which  lined  the  room,  begin 
to  talk  on  some  subject  of  importance,  or  his 
reflective  observations  showed  that  his  mind 
was  busily  employed. 

One  day  he  stood  watching  the  portrait 
class,  who,  to  the  number  of  thirty  pupils  or 
more,  were  drawing  likenesses  of  the  same 
model  from  different  positions.  One  scholar 
made  the  face  in  profile;  another  had  it 
turned  a  little  into  the  shadow;  a  third  saw 
more  of  the  full  face ;  while  others  worked 
still  further  into  or  away  from  the  light.  He 
had  stood  observing  the  scene  for  a  few  min- 
utes, when  he  said,  "  Such  a  sight  as  this 
should  be  a  lesson  in  charity,  when  we  per- 
ceive how  the  same  person  may  be  so  differ- 
ent, according  to  the  way  he  is  looked  at  by 
various  people." 

During  the  first  year  of  my  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Cooper,  I  frequently  told  him  sto- 
ries of  our  pupils  who  were  very  poor,  or 
were  making  extraordinary  efforts  to  remain  in 
the  Art  School.  Finding,  however,  that  such 
cases  could  never  be  mentioned  without  his 
immediately  volunteering  to  aid  them,  as  a' 
matter  of  honor  I  soon  ceased,  to  speak  to 
him  of  instances  which  would  enlist  his  sym- 
pathy. In  spite  of  this,  however,  now  and 
then  some  case  came  up  of  a  girl  in  unusually 
difficult  circumstances.  She  had,  perhaps, 
come  from  the  far  West  or  the  South,  and  was 
away  from  her  friends:  or  was  one  of  many 
children,  or  had  saved,  painfully,  the  money 
to  keep  her  at  the  Cooper  Union.  The 
story  was  told  to  explain  or  illustrate  some 
outside  matter,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me 
that  Mr.  Cooper  would  feel  it  as  an  appeal 
to  his  charity.  But  so  constant  was  his  habit 
of  sympathy,  and  so  strong  his  desire  to  d  > 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF  PETER    COOPER. 


rood,  that  on  such  occasions  his  hand  would 
""e  instantly  in  his  pocket,  and  before  I  could 
)erceive  what  he  was  about,  a  bill  was  slipped 
nto  my  hand,  as  if  he  were  hardly  willing  I 
hould  think  what  he  was  doing,  and  he  said, 
This  may  help  her,  perhaps,  to  get  better 
ood " ;  or,  "  You  can  see  if  she  needs  any- 
ling  specially ;  but  do  not  say  where  it  came 
rom."  These  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone 

0  full  of  kindness,  and   yet   so   absolutely 
without  ostentation,  that  I  never  did  tell  the 
ecipient.    The  feeling  in  Mr.  Cooper  was  too 
acred  a  prompting  to  be  soiled  with    any 
ouch  of  earthly  vanity.  Truly  he  did  not  wish 
is  left  hand  to  know  what  his  right  hand  was 
oing;  and,  by  instantly  speaking  on  some 
ther  subject,  he  tried  to  make  me  forget  the 
ncident  which  had  occurred. 

Many  a  time,  stories  about  pupils  who  had 
>ecome  prosperous  through  their  education 
t  the  Cooper  Union  were  repeated  to  him 
ither  by  letters  or  by  the  people  themselves, 
r  I  told  him  incidents  which  it  seemed  but 
ue  that  he  should  know.  Such  meed  of 
raise,  so  far  from  ever  raising  an  expression 
f  vanity  or  pride  in  him,  was  received  in 
ic  meekest  spirit ;  and  yet  these  were  tthe 
;sults  for  which  he  was  giving  time,  and 
loney,  and  life.  "All  I  want,"  he  said,  "is, 
lat  these  poor  women  shall  earn  decent  and 
^spectable  livings,  and  especially  that  they 
lall  be  kept  from  marrying  bad  husbands." 

This  subject  of  unhappy  marriages  seemed 
)  be  a  very  prominent  one  in  Mr.  Cooper's 
rind.  That  women  were  often  imposed  upon, 
rere  ill-used  and  broken  down,  he  had  a 
vely  conviction;  and  all  his  chivalry  and 
mse  of  fatherly  protection  were  enlisted  to 
ive  them,  so  far  as  he  could,  from  these 
rdinary  misfortunes.  While  the  world  is 
ow  occupied  with  the  question  of  what 
[omen  can  be  taught,  their  "  higher  educa- 
jon,"  and  many  kindred  subjects,  Mr.  Cooper's 
£ute  genius  discovered,  as  by  intuition,  many 
fears  ago,  the  relation  of  women  of  the  mid- 
»e  class  to  society,  to  industries,  and  the 
j.mily.  He  saw  that  many  of  them  could  not 
Siarry,  and  he  realized  what  must  be  the  for- 
j»rn  position  of  a  number  of  elderly  daughters 
f  a  poor  man.  He  had  noted  the  danger- 
lis  likelihood  of  giddy,  ignorant  young  girls 
[tarrying  anybody  for  a  home,  even  if  the 
[ien  they  married  were  dissipated  or  ineffi- 
ient ;  and  he  had  the  tenderest  pity  for  poor 
jidows  or  deserted  wives.  He  talked  many 
bies,  and  at  great  length,  on  these  subjects, 
[id  all  circumstances  and  any  sort  of  ind- 
ent brought  up  this  desire  of  his  heart,  to 
-lp  women  to  be  happy,  independent,  and 
;rtuous. 

1  One  of  the  last  times  he  was  at  the  school, 


221 

and  while  a  celebrated  New  York  clergyman 
was  giving  a  course  of  Lenten  lectures  to 
women,  Mr.  Cooper,  with  his  face  all  ani- 
mated with  his  feeling  about  it,  said :  "  Dr. 

is  of  the  wealthy  class,  and  he  has  been 

used  to  deal  with  wealthy  women.  The  world 
does  not  look  like  the  same  place  to  him  that 
it  does  to  me.  If  he  could  be  in  my  place 
for  a  month,  and  read  the  letters  I  get  from 
poor  and  suffering  women,  he  would  think 
that  it  would  be  best  to  have  them  taught 
anything  which  they  could  learn  to  enable 
them  to  lessen  all  this  trouble." 

Compensation  is  one  of  the  great  laws  of 
life,  and  a  chief  blessing  which  comes  to  those 
who  have  struggled  and  known  all  sorts  of 
classes  of  society  is  the  wider  horizon  gained 
of  human  nature.  Mr.  Cooper  was  perhaps 
as  true  a  democrat  as  ever  lived.  I  never 
could  perceive  that  social  distinctions  made 
the  least  impression  on  him.  He  recognized 
wealth  and  influence  as  means  of  doing 
good,  and  he  saw  that  they  increased  the 
scope  for  improvement  and  happiness.  But 
the  people  who  moved  in  different  stations 
of  life  were  the  same  to  him ;  and  men  and 
women  were  alike  interesting  as  they  were 
his  fellow- creatures,  to  whom  he  could  be  a 
brother-man. 

There  are  many  anecdotes  to  illustrate  how 
completely  his  heart  beat  in  harmony  with 
every  class,  and  how  his  fellow-citizens  had 
learned  to  prize  him.  His  familiar  face  was 
known  all  over  New  York,  and  whenever  his 
plain  carryall  appeared,  it  was  immediately 
recognized,  let  it  be  in  Fifth  Avenue,  in  Broad- 
way, or  in  the  poorest  streets  of  the  city. 
Whether  it  was  an  Irishman  driving  his 
loaded  cart,  or  a  fine  carriage,  everybody 
yielded  Mr.  Cooper  the  u  right  of  way."  Such 
homage  as  this  can  only  be  voluntary,  and  it 
is  a  singular  contrast  to  the  forced  deference 
which  compels  every  vehicle  to  give  way  to 
the  equipages  of  the  court  in  foreign  coun- 
tries. 

At  the  time  that  Mr.  Edward  Cooper  was 
nominated  for  Mayor  of  New  York,  naturally 
many  of  the  foreign  population  knew  nothing 
of  him  personally.  A  gentleman  at  the  head 
of  much  of  the  German  law  practice  at  that 
time,  when  among  his  clients,  was  consulted 
about  the  candidate.  "  We  are  not  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Edward  Cooper,"  the  Germans  said, 
"  but  he  must  be  a  good  man,  as  he  is  Mr. 
Peter  Cooper's  son,  and  so  we  shall  vote  for 
him." 

It  is  rare  to  find  a  man  like  Mr.  Cooper  who, 
in  his  relations  with  women,  has  not  a  "  cer- 
tain condescension"  in  his  feeling  toward 
them.  He  may  be  charmed  with  them,  he 
may  love  them  dearly,  or  he  may  enjoy  their 


222 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PETER    COOPER. 


wit  or  be  disgusted  with  folly  or  strong-mind- 
edness ;  but  he  scarcely  ever  seems  to  regard 
them  as  fellow-creatures,  simply. 

It  would  seem,  from  his  association  with 
people  of  all  classes,  that  Mr.  Cooper  had 
become,  humanly,  a  cosmopolitan,  and  the 
few  simple  needs  which  are  common  to  all 
mankind  were  always  patent  to  his  catholic 
heart.  He  often  came  into  school  with  some 
distinguished  man,  foreign  or  native ;  and  he 
showed  the  work  of  the  Institute  and  its 
classes  to  the  Empress  of  Brazil,  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  Count  de  Lesseps,  Dean  Stanley, 
and  the  scientific  and  the  fashionable,  with 
the  same  unconsciousness  and  simplicity  that 
he  did  to  rough  but  intelligent  men  from 
Western  towns,  or  a  party  of  women  and 
children  who  had  come  in  to  see  the  "sights  " 
of  New  York  from  a  farm-house  in  New 
Jersey. 

Mr.  Cooper  was  fond  of  taking  visitors  by 
the  arm  as  he  walked  about  the  building,  and, 
in  pleasant  tones  and  with  cheerful  and  cheer- 
ing looks,  the  good  old  man  would  speak  to 
them  of  his  hopes  and  objects  and  of  what  he 
had  accomplished.  Carlyle  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  Emerson,  describing  Mr.  Webster,  says, 
"  he  was  perfectly  bred,  though  not  with  Eng- 
lish breeding."  Observing  Mr.  Cooper  with  all 
sorts  of  people,  one  never  saw  him  when  his 
manners  were  not  perfect  as  a  true  gentleman. 
Not  a  shade  of  obsequiousness,  or  pride,  or 
boasting,  or  vanity,  nor  a  thought  of  him- 
self personally,  sullied  the  dignity  and  sweet 
gravity  of  his  bearing. 

His  opinions  were  positive,  and  he  stated 
them  definitely;  and  his  illustrations  were 
often  simple  and  even  homely.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  tell  the  occasions,  so  numerous 
were  they,  which  drew  from  him  the  poems 
and  little  rhymes  which  were  his  solace  and 
delight.  He  told  them  to  strangers  in  their 
visits  to  the  school,  or  often  he  repeated  to 
the  pupils  verses  of  which  he  was  specially 
fond.  Among  those  he  particularly  liked  were 
lines  from  "  Pope's  Essay  on  Man,"  which 
appealed  strongly  to  him  by  its  common 
sense  and  the  knowledge  it  showed  of  human 
nature.  I  believe  he  knew  the  whole  of  the 
poem,  but  the  parts  he  oftenest  quoted  were 
those  that  are  nearly  as  familiar  as  proverbs. 

"  Look  round  our  world ;  behold  the  chain  of  love, 
Combining  all  below  and  all  above." 

And  there  is  hardly  any  one  familiar  with  Mr. 
Cooper  who  has  not  heard  more  times  than 
once: 

"  O  happiness !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 

Good,  pleasure,  ease,  content !   whate'er  thy  name, — 


That  something  still  which  prompts  th'  eternal  sigh 
For  which  we  bear  to  live  or  dare  to  die." 

"  Remember,  man,  '  the  universal  cause 
Acts  not  by  partial  but  by  general  laws,' 
And  makes  what  happiness  we  justly  call 
Subsist  not  in  the  good  of  one,  but  all." 

"  Health  consists  with  temperance  alone, 
And  peace,  O  virtue,  peace  is  all  thine  own." 

"  Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies." 

"  Know  then  this  truth  (enough  for  man  to  know), 
Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below." 

"Our  own  bright  prospect  to  be  blest, 
Our  strongest  motive  to  assist  the  rest." 

Of  all  other  parts  of  this  poem,  the  last 
was  the  one,  perhaps,  about  which  he  cared 
most,  and  which  most  closely  harmonized 
with  his  own  theory  of  life  : 

"  God  loves  from  whole  to  parts  ;  but  human  soul 
Must  rise  from  individual  to  the  whole. 
Self-love  but  serves  the  virtuous  mind  to  wake, 
As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful  lake : 
The  center  mov'd,  a  circle  straight  succeeds, 
Another  still,  and  still  another  spreads, — 
Friend,  parent,  neighbor,  first  it  will  embrace; 
His  country  next,  and  next  all  human  race ; 
Wide  and  more  wide,  th'  o'erflowings  of  the  mind 
Take  every  creature  in  of  every  kind; 
Earth  smiles  around,  with  boundless  bounty  blest, 
And  heaven  beholds  its  image  in  his  breast." 

One  day,  I  remember,  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, a  stranger,  sat  with  him  in  the  office  foi 
an  hour  or  more,  listening  to  Mr.  Cooper's 
relation  of  his  experiences,  personal  and  ex- 
ternal. The  gentleman  was  of  a  reflective  turn 
of  mind  as  well  as  Mr.  Cooper;  and  soon 
Mr.  Cooper  was  pouring  into  his  ear  the  store 
of  poetry,  hymns,  aphorisms,  and  wise  sayings 
which  were  and  had  long  been  his  mental 
support.  Each  turn  of  expression  seemed 
filled  with  Mr.  Cooper's  own  feeling,  and 
these  beautiful  and  wise  words,  no  doubt. 
had,  through  long  familiarity,  in  their  turn 
molded  his  own  mind. 

Anybody  who  has  heard  Mr.  Cooper  speak 
in  the  hall  of  the  Cooper  Union  is  ac- 
quainted with  this  habit  of  recalling  favorite 
verses  and  sayings,  and  can  remember  the 
rapt  look  in  his  face  as  he  repeated  them. 
When  his  mind  was  absorbed  with  contriv- 
ances of  a  practical  nature,  such  as  the  affairs 
of  a  needy  man  or  woman,  his  words  were 
spontaneous,  and  his  thoughts  occupied  with 
the  question  in  hand ;  but  when  alone  or  in 
simple  conversation,  his  mind  flowed  habitual]] 
into  well-remembered  words  or  verses ;  ai 
think  I  have  never  known  a  person  wh( 
called  so  well  or  cared  so  much  for  favorii< 
quotations,  nor  one  on  whose  tongue 
were  so  frequent. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PETER    COOPER. 


223 


When  busy  in  the  general  office  of  the 
Cooper  Union,  with  masons,  carpenters,  or 
people  on  business,  if  by  chance  any  woman 
met  him,  Mr.  Cooper  was  always  ready  to 
listen  to  her  story,  and  to  forward  her  desires 
to  enter  the  Art  School  or  the  class  in  teleg- 
raphy. Frequently  I  was  called,  to  find  that 
Mr.  Cooper  wished  to  see  me.  He  usually 
stood  while  talking ;  and  on  these  occasions 
[  found  him  with  some  woman  at  his  side, 
who  wished  to  become  a  pupil  of  the  Art 
School. 

"This  is  the  lady  who  superintends  the 
school,"  he  said,  as  he  introduced  me.  "You 
nust  tell  her  what  you  want."  And  then  in 
in  aside  to  me,  but  never  except  to  explain 
lis  participation,  he  said :  "  She  is  very 
icedy.  She  has  three  brothers  and  sisters 
;o  take  care  of";  or  more  often  he  told 
TIC  he  had  met  the  person  in  the  office, 
md  she  had  asked  him  to  introduce  her. 
3ut  since  my  connection  with  the  Art 
School,  on  no  occasion  did  Mr.  Cooper 
ver  interfere  with  the  working  of  the  rules ; 
nd  he  always  ended  by  saying,  even  after 
is  most  interested  statements :  "  But  you 
nust  not  take  her  unless  it  is  best;  and 

do  not  want  you  to  break  in  on  any 
jegulation."  His  tenderness  of  heart  to  pres- 
nt  distress  never  interfered  with  his  sense 
>f  justice  to  those  who  were  far  away  and 
ad  applied  to  come  to  the  Cooper  Union, 
>ut  were  unable  to  make  personal  appeals  to 
lis  kindness. 

When  one  considers  the  rough  and  often 
Brusque  ways  of  business  men,  the  considerate 
iespect  Mr.  Cooper  always  showed  in  his 
Banners  for  all  persons  in  his  employ  is  es- 
pecially observable.  His  tone  was  of  pleading 
br  the  unfortunate  or  reasoning  about  changes 
bhich  he  liked  to  suggest ;  but  I  never  saw 
;tim  use  his  authority.  A  gentleman  who 
j^as  most  intimately  related  to  him  once 
laid  that  he  had  never  heard  a  cross  or 
[asty  tone  in  Mr.  Cooper's  voice ;  and  when 
;  recollect  his  uniform  gentleness  and  per- 
ect  consideration,  it  is  no  longer  remarka- 
i>le  that  a  man  who  had  risen,  by  his  own 
bilities,  to  a  position  of  such  trust  and 
ionor  as  Mr.  Cooper,  should  have  kept  his 
simple  relations  with  people  intact  during  so 
t>ng  a  life. 

In  one  of  the  addresses  at  his  funeral,  when 
lergymen  of  three  different  denominations 
ccupied  the  pulpit,  one  of  them  referred  to 
Ir.  Cooper  as  an  example  whom  people  of 
ny  religious  belief  might  imitate,  without  re- 
ard  to  their  theology,  because  of  his  great 
:>ve  of  humanity.  Swedenborg  dwells  on  what 
!e  designates  as  a  "  life  of  uses,"  as  the  high- 
!st  goal  to  which  man  can  attain.  This  was 


preeminently  Mr.  Cooper's  standard,  and  his 
ingenuity  was  incessantly  directed  to  think 
what  he  could  hear  of  or  plan  that  would 
benefit  his  fellow-creatures  and  enable  them 
to  be  independent,  useful,  self-respecting,  and 
intelligent.  Type-writing  seemed  to  him  a 
good  channel  for  the  employment  of  women, 
and  on  one  of  his  last  visits  to  the  Art 
School  he  explained  to  me  his  views  about 
it.  "  It  is  a  light  and  easy  occupation ;  it  is 
much  used  by  business  men,"  he  said ;  and 
finally  added,  speaking  as  if  his  life  and 
health  were  of  no  importance  except  as 
he  could  use  them  for  some  good  end : 
"If  my  life  and  strength  can  last  till  I  get 
such  a  class  started  here  in  the  building, 
I  shall  be  very  glad."  There  was  something 
pathetic  as  the  saintly  old  man  said  these 
words ;  and  at  the  same  time  it  was  inspir- 
ing to  think  that  the  end  and  aim  of  even 
such  a  life  as  his,  in  its  highest  development 
and  purpose,  was  to  arrange  and  invent  what 
was  useful  for  his  fellow-creatures.  To  this  he 
applied  all  his  knowledge  and  experience; 
and  all  his  acquaintance  with  mechanical 
contrivances,  and  what  he  knew  of  developing 
business  interests,  were  made  to  subserve  in 
raising  and  cheering  as  many  men  and  women 
as  possible,  in  their  blind  and  ignorant  efforts 
to  fill  useful  and  independent  places  in  the 
world.  The  very  last  time  I  saw  Mr.  Cooper, 
and  when  his  waning  strength  left  his  coun- 
tenance languid  and  weary,  his  eye  bright- 
ened and  he  straightened  himself  up  firmly, 
as  he  told  me  that  "  the  type-writing  class 
was  started,  and  he  wanted  me  to  go  upstairs 
and  see  it." 

A  few  years  since,  Mr.  Cooper  added  a 
large  section  to  the  top  of  the  Cooper 
Union,  about  two  hundred  feet  long,  from 
Seventh  to  Eighth  street,  and  nearly  a  hun- 
dred wide.  This  was  a  great  pleasure  and 
comfort  to  him ;  he  watched  every  brick  as  it 
was  laid,  and  he  delighted  to  explain  how 
strong  it  was,  and  how  bright  and  fine  the 
new  rooms  were,  and  the  beautiful  view 
which  could  be  seen  from  them  over  the  har- 
bor and  neighboring  country.  He  had  meant 
to  have  pictures  and  machinery  exhibited 
here ;  but  when  it  proved  that  this  section  of 
the  building  was  better  fitted  for  the  men's 
class-rooms,  he  abandoned  his  own  plans  to 
carry  out  the  ideas  of  those  on  whom  he 
could  depend  for  advice. 

Mechanical  contrivances  of  all  sorts  were 
his  delight,  and  when,  in  company  with  his 
faithful  janitor,  whose  knowledge  and  good 
sense  were  in  harmony  with  his  own,  he  went 
about  looking  at  the  steam-heating  apparatus, 
the  ventilators,  the  elevator,  and  any  new  ar- 
rangements which  had  been  made,  he  was 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PETER    COOPER. 


224 

full  of  suggestions  whose  practical  value  we 
soon  learned  to  appreciate.  If  I  told  him 
that  we  had  not  air  enough,  that  the  steam- 
pipes  near  the  pupils'  seats  were  too  hot, 
his  invention  was  stimulated  in  a  moment  to 
contrive  some  remedy  for  the  evil.  He  often 
said  to  me,  as  he  looked  about  the  rooms : 
"  Let  me  know  if  you  can  think  of  any  im- 
provement, and  I  shall  be  glad  to  make  it  if  I 
can."  And  so  there  ha,s  been  a  constant  ad- 
dition to  the  conveniences,  the  studies,  the 
healthful  arrangements,  and  the  books  and 
casts  for  the  school.  Unlike  many  institu- 
tions, there  has  always  been  a  feeling  here 
that  nothing  was  suffered  to  fall  into  a  rut. 
When  the  books  in  the  art  library  became 
worn,  they  were  re-bound  or  replaced  ;  casts 
were  duplicated  and  new  ones  added;  and 
carpenters,  glaziers,  and  plumbers  were  per- 
manently employed,  so  that  the  rooms  could 
be  kept  in  good  condition.  Any  one  with 
experience  knows  what  cheer  there  is  in 
such  a  state  of  things.  It  is  so  much  easier 
for  teachers  and  pupils,  and  all  connected 
with  such  an  establishment,  when  they  are 
sure  they  are  not  neglected  nor  their  inter- 
ests ignored. 

So  completely  was  the  pecuniary  machinery 
organized,  that  though  during  the  eleven  years 
of  my  connection  with  the  Cooper  Union 
great  numbers  of  people  were  to  be  paid 
monthly,  no  teacher  of  the  Woman's  Art 
School  has  ever  had  his  or  her  money  de- 
layed a  week;  only  by  accident  has  it  been 
delayed  even  a  day.  Peace  and  quiet  and 
perfect  order  were  the  direct  result  of  Mr. 
Cooper's  influence  and  habits  of  life. 

As  I  said  before,  Mr.  Cooper  cared  little 
for  art  per  se.  And  so  he  looked  with  some 
suspicion  and  incredulity  on  the  headless 
Torso  of  "  Victory,"  in  the  Elgin  Marbles, 
and  could  see  no  beauty  in  the  "  Fates  ";  but 
he  was  well  content  to  trust  such  matters  to 
more  experienced  judges,  and  to  reiterate  his 
usual  words :  "  If  the  young  women  can  only 
learn,  so  that  they  can  get  decent  and  re- 
spectable livings ! " 

Human  nature  is  a  great  mystery,  and 
in  the  different  periods  of  our  life  one 
stage  does  not  well  understand  the  others. 
How  little  can  the  child  know  the  state  of 
mind  of  the  man !  and  in  middle  life  how 
slightly  are  we  sure  that  we  comprehend  the 
feelings  and  thoughts  of  old  age !  The  world, 
to  a  youth,  is  full  of  hope ;  in  the  midst  of  the 
struggle,  the  accomplishment,  and  the  disap- 
pointments of  maturity,  it  looks  different ;  and 
old  age  probably  conceals  thoughts,  such  as 
other  periods  cannot  understand,  of  what 
things  are  vain  and  what  are  of  value,  as  the 
bodily  powers  and  desires  fade  away  and  the 


certainty  of  death  becomes  more  near  and 
real.  Some  qualities  in  us  are  endued  with 
an  everlasting  youth,  and  it  is  these  which  we 
embody  as  our  conception  of  the  Immortals. 
Benevolence,  charity,  a  love  of  nature,  such 
parts  of  us  as  these,  appear  to  be  the  same 
in  young  and  old;  and  in  our  idea  of  an- 
gelic natures  we  carry  such  qualities  forward 
into  another  world.  It  was  a  strange  and 
new  problem  of  life  to  watch  so  aged  a  man 
as  Mr.  Cooper,  and  observe  of  what  human 
nature  was  capable  at  so  advanced  a  period 
of  development.  Often,  when  I  looked  at 
him  and  saw  his  clear  eye  kindle  with  enthu- 
siasm for  good,  or  his  look  melt  with  pity ; 
when  I  saw  him  so  kind  and  loving  as  he 
spoke  of  his  daughter  or  young  grandchil- 
dren, and  so  full  of  sympathy  for  the  poor ; 
and  especially  when  I  observed  his  step 
drooping  and  feeble,  and  his  head  bowed,  as 
he  first  came  into  the  school  after  a  night 
when  he  had  slept  poorly,  and  then,  at  the 
tale  of  some  helpless  girl  whom  his  benevo- 
lence had  benefited,  saw  him  grow  bright 
again  and  his  eyes  light  up  and  his  breath  be- 
come deeper, — on  such  occasions  it  did  really 
seem  as  if  new  life  came  into  him,  and,  as 
Swedenborg  expresses  it,  as  if  it  was  "  the 
spirit  of  an  angel  which  informed  him." 

To  the  day  when  he  was  taken  with  his 
last  illness,  his  sight  was  perfectly  good,  his 
hearing  as  sharp  as  ever,  and  there  was  no 
trace  on  his  sincere  and  peaceful  face  of 
the  querulousness  or  peevish  discontent  that 
is  so  often  seen  in  old  age.  The  highest 
lesson  taught  by  Mr.  Cooper  was  the  lesson 
of  his  own  life.  As  much  as,  or  more  than 
any  one  I  ever  knew,  Mr.  Cooper  solved  the 
problem  :  "  Is  life  worth  living  ?  " 

Observing  him  carefully  for  a  long  series 
of  years,  it  appeared  that  certain  parts  of 
his  nature  were  cultivated  intentionally,  as 
the  result  of  a  wisdom  which  discriminated 
what  was  really  worth  caring  for  from  what 
was  not  worthy  of  pursuit.  Personal  ambitions 
or  selfish  aims  had  no  weight  with  him,  and 
disappointments  and  annoyances  which  would  • 
have  left  deep  wounds  with  many  passed 
off  from  him  with  scarcely  an  observation. 
He  was  most  kind  and  loving ;  but  if  he 
were  usefully  employed,  no  domestic  loss 
or  separation  from  friends  seemed  to  touch 
his  happiness  seriously.  He  spoke  often 
his  preference  for  plain  living,  and  his 
its  were  as  simple  as  those  of  a  child, 
of  pomp  or  display  never  touched  him 
the  slightest,  and  he  had  an  innocent  op< 
ness  of  character  which  concealed  nothi 
Never,  under  any  circumstance,  did  he  sh< 
a  particle  of  malignity,  revenge,  or  meanne 
If  people  disappointed  him,  he  passed 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PETER    COOPER. 


225 


the  wound  it  made  and  let  his  mind  dwell  on 
something  more  satisfactory.  Swedenborg's 
phrase,  "the  wisdom  of  innocence,"  often  oc- 
:urred  to  my  mind  in  observing  Mr.  Cooper. 
He  knew  what  was  wise,  and  to  that  his  heart 
was  given.  Sensitive  as  any  young  man  in 
all  works  of  sympathy  or  kindness,  the  mean 
and  bad  ways  of  the  world  fell  off  from  his 
perception. 

So  his  life  passed  in   New  York  and   in 
the  Cooper  Union,  serene,  happy  and  con- 
;ented.    With  "  honor,  love,  obedience,  hosts 
f  friends,"  he  was  an  example  and  encourage- 
ment to  those  who  had  not  gained  the  quiet 
leights  on  which  his  inner  self  habitually  dwelt. 
On  the  evening  of  the  yearly  reception  of 
;he  Woman's  Art  School,  which  occurred  the 
atter  part  of  May,  Mr.  Cooper  stood  or  sat 
it  the  south  corner  of  the  east  corridor  to 
•eceive  the  thousands  of  people  who  attended 
:he  reception.    The  guests  consisted  of  old 
|md  present  pupils  and  their  friends,  and  vast 
umbers  of  the  outside  public.    Surrounded 
y  his  family,  the  venerable  founder  of  the 
'ooper  Union  was  always  present, — the  chief 
ttraction  of  the  evening.    For  many  of  the 
rst  years  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  Mr. 
hooper  stood  during  these  receptions  almost 
he  entire  time,  shaking   ha*nds  with   men, 
fomen,   and   children.     The    teachers    and 
fficers   of  the   building   were    usually  near 
im   on   these   occasions,   and   it   was   very 
iteresting  to  observe   the  various   manners 
f  the  crowd  who  approached  him.    Sweet, 
imple,  and  dignified,  he  welcomed  each  per- 
on  cordially.    ^How  do  you  do?   How  do 
[ou  do  ? "  he   said,   over   and   over   again, 
sill  we  who  cared  for  him  tried  to  screen  him 
•om  the  press  of  visitors.    An  old  man  and 
roman  would  approach :  "It  is  many  years 
nee  we  saw  you  last,"  they  said,  grasping 
is  hands.    "  Mr.   Cooper^  we  must  put  our 
ttle   boy's   hand   in  yours,"  said   a   young 
ouple  with  a  child  five  or  six  years  old  at 
icir  side.  Then  a  group  of  boys  would  come 
ong  and  stand  curiously  regarding  him  from 
I  short  distance.  "  That's  Mr.  Cooper,"  they 
'hispered  in  an  under-tone.  Young  men  came 
ong  and  stopped  to  talk  to  him  and  shake 
is  hand,  till  some  of  us  whispered  to  them 
lat  they  must  not  stay  to  tire  him.  Occasion- 
fly,  the  salutations  were  very  amusing,  espe- 
ally  those  of  mechanics  or  workmen,  who 
jilled  him  "  Uncle  Peter,"  with  the  evident 
iitention  of  respectful  endearment ;  and  these 
pople  were  met  with  the  same  affability  as  the 
pt.    Not  infrequently  my  own  nerves  were 
j  little  disturbed  by  some  good  but  incon- 
jderate  person,  who,  grasping  his  hand  and 
joking  at  him  with  mingled   affection  and 
irprise,  told  him,  "  When  I  saw  you  a  year 
1    VOL.  XXVI I.— 22. 


ago,  Mr.  Cooper,  I  thought  it  was  the  last 
time  you  would  be  here.  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  alive  now."  But  by  none  of  these  re- 
marks was  Mr.  Cooper  in  the  least  perturbed. 
"  I  have  had  a  long  life ;  it  can't  be  for  a  very 
great  while  now,"  he  answered.  "  God  bless 
you,  Mr.  Cooper,  for  all  you  have  done  for 
me,"  said  many  a  man  and  woman  as  they 
passed  him.  And  so  the  evening  wore  away, 
and  ten  thousand  people  had  come  and 
gone  through  the  great,  bright  halls  and 
school-rooms;  and  Mr.  Cooper's  presence 
had  put  a  good  thought  or  feeling  into  every- 
body's heart.  I  can  see  him  now,  with  his 
smiling  face  and  interested  look,  and  his  soft 
white  hair  waving  over  his  shoulders,  amid 
flowers,  lights,  and  the  cheerful  music,  while 
his  presence  brooded  like  a  benediction  over 
the  swaying  and  surging  crowd.  The  same 
scene  was  repeated  the  next  night  at  the 
"  Men's  Reception"  and  on  the  "  Commence- 
ment Night,"  when  he  never  failed  to  speak 
some  useful  lessons  to  the  men  and  women 
before  him,  and  to  tell  them  how  their  lives 
might  be  better  and  happier  and  more  useful ; 
but  a  greater  and  better  lesson  than  anything 
he  could  say  was  the  sight  of  what  he  was 
and  had  done. 

New  Yorkers  know  the  touching  and  unique 
spectacle  at  his  funeral  (his  death  occurred 
April  6,  1883,  in  his  ninety-third  year),  and 
remember  the  unbroken  line  of  respectful 
and  sorrowing  faces  which  silently  contem- 
plated the  funeral  procession  in  its  course  of 
three  miles  from  the  church  in  Twentieth 
street  to  the  Battery.  Broadway  was  abso- 
lutely emptied  of  business  and  vehicles  while 
the  body  of  this  good  friend  of  every  one  in 
New  York  was  being  carried  to  the  grave. 
Every  class  of  society  was  represented  in  the 
great  crowd,  and  rich  and  poor  alike  had  the 
same  sorrowful  look  on  their  faces.  In  the 
poorer  cross-streets,  mothers  held  up  their 
little  children  to  look  at  the  funeral,  and 
rough-looking  and  wretched  people  of  every 
nation  seemed  touched  with  a  better  feel- 
ing, while,  as  the  hearse  passed  between  the 
great  business  houses  of  Broadway,  burly  and 
prosperous  merchants  stood  silent  and  with 
heads  uncovered.  The  sight,  looking  down 
the  main  street  of  the  city,  was  most  impres- 
sive. At  that  hour  of  the  afternoon,  the  great 
artery  of  New  York  is  always  crowded  with 
carriages  and  vehicles.  Horses  and  wagons 
are  closely  wedged  together,  and  the  mass 
moves  along  almost  solid  for  miles.  But  now, 
when  the  funeral  carriages  turned  two  abreast 
into  Broadway  from  Fourth  street,  not  another 
vehicle  broke  the  stillness,  and  the  bare  pave- 
ment was  seen  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
On  either  broad  sidewalk  was  the  mass  of 


226 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


upturned,  silent  faces.  When  the  procession 
reached  Fulton  and  Wall  streets,  it  seemed 
nearly  impossible  to  believe  that  life  could 
be  kept  back  from  where  these  streets  join 
Broadway;  yet  such  was  the  love  for  Mr. 
Cooper  that  all  remained  silent  to  the  end, 
and  it  was  only  when  the  carriages  which  had 
followed  the  hearse  turned  again,  after  leaving 
it,  into  Broadway  that  the  crowd  surged  back 
and  life  resumed  its  usual  course,  ebbing 
and  flowing  as  before. 

The  recollection  of  a  great    court  funeral 
is  still  vivid  in  my  mind,  when  the   young 


Queen  Mercedes  of  Spain  was  buried.  At 
this  funeral  the  Spanish  nobility  laughed  and 
flirted  behind  their  fans,  in  the  very  church, 
while  the  Requiem  Mass  was  being  performed 
and  the  funeral  sermons  were  being  preached. 
The  sight  was  a  sad  lesson  on  the  vanity  of 
worldly  greatness,  when  one  compared  it 
with  the  spectacle  of  the  silent  procession 
of  persons  who  moved  for  many  hours  up  the 
aisles  of  the  church  to  look  once  again  on 
the  dead  face  of  Mr.  Cooper,  their  loved  and 
revered  friend. 

Susan  JV.   Carter. 


GEORGE    FULLER. 


ON  the  walls  of  the  New  York  Academy  of 
Design,  in  1878,  there  hung  a  picture  called 
"Turkey  Pasture  in  Kentucky,"  which  at- 
tracted much  attention.  Simple  in  theme,  so- 
ber in  tone,  telling  no  "  story,"  and  making  no 
daring  technical  appeal  to  notice,  it  was  yet 
remarked  by  the  popular  eye  and  was  found, 
I  think,  by  artists  and  all  sensitive  observers 
much  the  most  interesting  picture  of  the  year. 
Who,  it  began  very  soon  to  be  asked,  is  this 
Mr.  Fuller,  whose  name  is  so  unfamiliar, 
whose  work  is  so  original  and  so  charming, — 
who  is,  apparently,  making  his  debut,  yet 
whose  essays  are  so  complete  and  ripe  and 
masterly  ?  If  he  is,  as  he  seems  to  be,  a  "  new 
man,"  he  shows  the  trade-mark  neither  of 
Paris  nor  of  Munich ;  and  if  he  is  a  product 
of  home  culture  he  shows  even  less  affinity 
with  the  traditions  of  our  own  elder  school. 
W^here  does  he  come  from  that  he  has 
learned  to  paint  in  so  peculiar  yet  so  fine 
a  way? 

Glancing  at  the  catalogue  we  found  that 
Mr.  Fuller  was  not  in  any  sense  a  "  new 
man,"  but  an  artist  of  long  standing — actu- 
ally an  Associate  of  the  Academy  itself, 
elected  so  long  ago  as  1857.  Where  and 
why,  then,  had  he  secluded  himself  so  en- 
tirely and  so  persistently  as  to  come  now  a 
stranger  before  the  younger  generation  of  to- 


day ?  The  answer  to  these  questions  may  be 
given  in  a  brief  sketch  of  Mr.  Fuller's  life— - 
a  sketch  most  interesting  because  so  unlike 
the  usual  histories  of  artistic  development, 
whether  in  our  own  country  or  another. 

Mr.  Fuller  was  born  of  Puritan  stock  at 
Deerfield,  Massachusetts,  in  the  year  1822. 
An  instinct  for  art  had  already  shown  itself 
in  several  members  of  his  family,  and  from 
childhood  his  own  tastes  led  him  toward 
a  painter's  brush  and  palette.  He  went  to 
Illinois  at  the  age  of  fourteen  with  a  party  of 
railroad  engineers,  and  remained  two  years, 
during  which  time  he  was  much  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  sculptor  Henry  Kirke  Brown. 
Between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  twenty  Mr. 
Fuller  was  again  at  Deerfield,  following  a 
school  course,  but  making  constant  essays  in 
painting,  chiefly  in  the  way  of  portraiture.  In 
1842  he  wrote  for  counsel  to  Mr.  Brown,  then 
established  in  a  studio  at  Albany,  and  gladly 
accepted  the  sculptor's  invitation  to  go  thithei 
and  study  under  his  tuition.  At  Albany  he 
remained  nearly  a  year,  when  Mr.  Brown 
went  to  Europe  and  Mr.  Fuller  to  Bostcn 
where,  painting  portraits  as  before,  he  devoted 
himself  also  to  the  study  of  whatever  works 
of  art  the  city  then  afforded — especially  tl 
pictures  of  Stuart,  Allston,  and  Alexander. 
A  few  years  later  he  removed  to  New  Yc 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


227 


and,  at  an  age  when  most  painters  have 
finished  their  student  courses,  went  diligently 
to  work  in  the  life-classes  of  the  Academy. 
His  first  public  success  seems  to  have  been 
gained  in  1857,  when  he  was  already  thirty- 
five  years  old.  He  then  exhibited  a  portrait 
of  his  first  friend  in  art,  Mr.  Brown,  and  on 
the  strength  of  its  good  qualities  was  elected 
an  Associate  of  the  National  Academy. 

It  is  curious  to  read  the  list  of  those  who 
(were  at  this  time  Mr.  Fuller's  friends  and 
fellow- workers,  and  to  remember  how  he  now 
stands  side  by  side  in  his  art  with  the  young- 
est and  most  innovating  of  our  painters.  H. 
K.  Brown,  the  two  Cheneys,  Henry  Peters 
Gray,  Quincy  Ward,  Sandford  GirTord,  Daniel 
iHuntington, — these  were  among  his  most 
;onstant  associates ;  while  to-day  we  find  him 
oining  hands  with  the  young  "Society  of 
A.merican  Artists,"  and  feel  that  the  "A.  N. 
."  which  follows  his  name  is  much  less  char- 
icteristic  than  the  place  held  by  that  name 
)n  the  Society's  member-list  and  juries. 

After  a  year  in  New  York  Mr.  Fuller  spent 
hree  winters  at  the  South,  making  studies  of 
egro  life  some  of  which  have  -been  utilized 
i  his  later  work.  Then,  after  a  year  in  Phila- 
.elphia,  he  went  for  the  first  time  to  Europe, 
ot  to  study  in  any  academy  but  to  learn 
•om  nature  and  from  the  treasures  of  earlier 
ays  in  London,  Paris,  Amsterdam,  Florence, 
Lome,  and  Sicily.  In  1860,  he  returned  to 
jnerica,  but  not  to  the  public  practice  of  his 
rt.  Dissatisfied  with  his  previous  efforts  and 
lied  with  visions  and  ideals  proper  to  his 
wn  nature,  he  seems  to  have  felt  that  if  he 
ras  ever  to  work  his  way  to  ripe  performance 
,  would  be  through  his  own  strength,  and 
jot  through  help  from  school  or  patron  or 
How- craftsman.  He  shut  himself  up  in  his 
>eerfield  home,  took  seriously  to  farming, 
id  the  world  of  exhibitions,  of  artists,  and 
critics  knew  him  no  more.  He  was  invis- 
fle  for  many  years — almost  forgotten  save  by 
|  few  old  friends  who  remembered  the  prom- 
!e  of  his  earlier  work.  The  proof  that  he  had 
ot  ceased  to  cultivate  art  while  compelling 
ature  to  his  needs,  was  not  shown  till  1876, 
hen  some  friends  who  had  penetrated  the 
eerfield  studio  persuaded  him  to  exhibit  in 
pston  fourteen  pictures  of  different  kinds, 
jhich  at  once  gained  him  local  fame  and 
Jitronage.  Two  years  .later  he  appeared 
<ain  on  the  walls  of  the  New  York  Acad- 
<ny,  after  so  long  an  absence  that  he  came 
(j  repeat),  as  a  stranger  and  an  aspirant — his 
Ijice  to  be  won  afresh,  his  success  dependent 

<  the  suffrages  of  a  new  generation  of  artists 
3d  of  art  lovers.    He  returned,  not  a  begin- 
i>r  but  a  veteran  in  art,  yet  as  a  debutant 

<  ce  more.    And  to  how  different  an  artistic 


world  from  the  one  he  had  known  in  years 
gone  by!  The  great  exodus  of  students  to 
Parisian  and  Bavarian  schools,  of  amateurs 
to  foreign  studios  and  galleries,  had  begun  a 
few  years  before.  Its  results  were  just  return- 
ing to  us  in  the  shape  of  a  more  cultivated  and 
critical  public,  used  to  the  best  foreign  work 
and  of  a  throng  of  vigorous,  eager,  cosmo- 
politan young  painters,  all  alike  disregardful  of 
older  American  traditions  and  filled  with  new 
ideas  on  every  subject,  from  the  definition  of 
the  abstract  term  "  art "  down  to  the  most  con- 
crete professional  questions  of  the  studio.  But 
in  this  new  world  Mr.  Fuller's  voice  sounded 
not  an  alien  but  a  consonant  note.  The 
artists — I  mean  the  younger  brood,  and  not 
the  brother  Academicians  who  "  skied  "  his 
pictures — were  the  first  and  the  most  enthusi- 
astic in  his  praise.  Their  estimate  of  his 
talent,  and  their  feeling  that  it  was  akin,  in 
these  his  later  efforts,  to  their  own  ideas  rather 
than  to  those  of  his  actual  contemporaries, 
was  before  long  shown  by  his  election  into  the 
Society  of  American  Artists.  In  contrast  with 
this  ready  recognition  has  been  the  action  of 
the  National  Academy,  the  brevet  rank  of 
which  he  has  held  so  long.  Elected  Associate 
in  1857,  placed  indisputably  by  his  recent 
successes  among  the  very  first  of  American 
painters, — and  in  certain  points,  perhaps, 
beyond  them  all, —  Mr.  Fuller  has  not  yet 
been  named  Academician.  We  do  not  feel 
that  it  is  he  who  has  been  injured  by  such 
omission  of  his  due.  But  to  read  the  list  of 
those  whom  the  Academy  has  promoted  over 
his  head  within  the  past  six  years,  affords  a 
factor  which  should  not  be  omitted  in  our 
estimate  of  the  value  of  its  official  titles. 

In  1879  Mr.  Fuller  showed  at  the  Academy 
the  "  Romany  Girl "  and  a  quite  marvelous 
canvas  called  "  And  She  Was  a  Witch  " ;  in 
1880  he  sent  the  "  Quadroon  "  and  a  boy's 
portrait;  and  in  1881,  the  loveliest  of  all  his 
works — the  "  Winifred  Dysart."  To  the  ex- 
hibitions of  the  young  Society  he  has  also 
contributed  year  by  year,  chiefly  portraits  or 
landscapes,  until  in  1882  he  sent  two  large 
figures,  conceived  in  the  same  mood  as  the 
"  Winifred,"  called  "  Lorette  "  and  "  Priscilla 
Fauntleroy,"  and  last  spring  another,  not  dis- 
similar, called  "  Nydia."  Among  other  can- 
vases shown  from  time  to  time,  under  different 
circumstances,  have  been  the  "  Herb  Gath- 
erer," the  "  Dandelion  Girl,"  the  "  Psyche," 
a  Cupid-like  "  Boy  and  Bird,"  and  a  wooded 
landscape  with  figures,  now  in  Mr.  Cottier's 
possession.  And  in  his  studio  he  has  just  now 
a  large  picture  of  a  "  Girl  with  a  Calf,"  more 
akin  in  sentiment,  perhaps,  to  the  "  Romany 
Girl "  than  to  any  other  of  his  works. 

Mr.  Fuller's  summer  studio  is  still  at  Deer- 


228 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


field,  but  his  winter  work  is  now  done  in  Bos- 
ton. Some  German  philosopher  once  decided 
that  an  artist  may  do  his  work  contentedly 
under  one  of  two  opposite  conditions  :  either 
in  rooms  filled  with  beauty  or  in  rooms  de- 
nuded of  everything;  either  surrounded  by 
objects  with  which  his  tastes  are  in  unison 
and  his  works  in  keeping,  or  isolated  as  com- 
pletely as  possible  from  all  things  whatsoever. 
Which  of  these  two  environments  he  prefers 
will  depend  upon  his  temperament  —  upon 
his  craving  for  or  independence  of  external, 
visual  stimulants.  The  sort  of  environment 
with  which  no  really  artistic  temperament 
could  content  itself  would  be  one  half-way 
between  these  two  extremes — an  environ- 
ment of  commonplace,  unsuggestive,  distract- 
ing, Philistine  ugliness.  Whether  Mr.  Fuller 
consciously  objects  to  and  discards  the  ar- 
tistic litter  which  surrounds  most  modern 
painters,  or  whether  he  unconsciously  neg- 
lects it  because  bare  walls  and  his  own  ideals 
are  all  he  needs,  I  cannot  say.  But  his  Bos- 
ton studio  fulfills  with  almost  literal  exact- 
ness the  German's  second  postulate.  If  it  is 
not  "  artistic,"  it  is  certainly  not  "  Philistine  " 
or  suggestive  of  a  tolerance  for  ugliness.  It 
is  a  place  to  work  in,  and  that  is  all  —  a  large 
square  room,  with  one  great  window  overlook- 
ing Boston  Common  ;  two  or  three  chairs  and 
easels,  a  platform  for  the  model,  and  what  we 
may  call,  if  we  will,  a  "  dado  "  of  unfinished 
canvases  turned  against  the  wall.  There  was 
only  one  thing  more  when  I  first  saw  the  studio, 
but  that  thing  was  significant,  Hung  on  the 
empty  wall  was  a  single  little  canvas,  a  gor- 
geous, vague,  entrancing  bit  of  Monticelli's 
color,  shining  like  a  star  from  the  surrounding 
void.  Here  was  the  one  resting-point,  ap- 
parently, that  the  artist's  eye  demanded  —  a 
key-note,  as  it  were,  a  term  of  comparison,  an 
inspiring  draught  to  which  he  might  turn  at 
will. 

In  person,  Mr.  Fuller  offers  at  first  sight  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  spirituality  of  his  art  — 
tall,  massively  built,  with  a  large  head  and  a 
patriarchal  beard  of  white.  Had  we  theories 
on  such  matters,  we  should  expect  very  differ- 
ent things  from  such  a  form  and  physiognomy 
— some  sort  of  vigorous  "  realism,"  most 
probably,  instead  of  the  delicate,  idealizing 
art  he  gives.  But  the  dissonance  is  in  out- 
ward seeming  only.  Mr.  Fuller's  words  and 
thoughts  on  art,  his  judgments  of  the  results 
of  others,  and  his  estimate  of  his  own  aims 
and  his  own  productions,  are  not  only  sug- 
gestive and  interesting  in  themselves  but 
valuable  as  giving  an  insight  into  the  meaning 
and  sentiment  of  his  work. 

To  mark  now  the  chief  characteristic  of  that 
work,  I  may  say  that  it  is  distinctly  ideal  in 


its  essence  —  opposed  in  its  aims  as  in  its 
technical  methods  to  what  we  know  as  "  real- 
istic "  art.  All  art-products  fall  into  one  of 
these  two  classes,  though  the  limits  of  the  two  ! 
meet,  of  course,  and  some  few  men  may  stand 
on  the  wavering  boundary  line  between  them. 
The  distinction  between  the  one  kind  of  work 
and  the  other  is  never  to  be  based  on  choice 
of  subject.  Nor  does  it  rest  primarily  on 
technical  manner,  though,  indeed,  a  painter's 
manner  is  most  apt  to  conform  to  the  nature 
of  his  aims  and  his  conceptions,  since  it  is 
but  his  means  toward  expressing  these.  The 
true  difference,  however,  is  as  between  the 
nature  of  one  painter  and  of  another.  Every 
artist,  like  every  philosopher,  is  born  a  Pla- 
tonist  or  an  Aristotelian.  It  is  not  the  thing 
he  chooses  to  paint,  but  the  way  in  which  he 
sees  and  feels  that  thing,  that  marks  a  man 
as  an  "  idealist "  or  a  "  realist."  Michael 
Angelo  was  an  idealist  while  painting  divine 
creative  power  or  the  wrath  of  judgment 
days ;  Millet,  while  depicting  peasants  at  their 
toil.  Diirer  was  a  realist  when  painting  the 
Madonna,  Vereschagin  is  when  drawing  the 
dead  on  the  field  of  battle.  Even  in  portraiture 
proper  this  same  difference  between  disposi- 
tions makes  itself  as  clearly  felt — Rembrandt 
on  the  one  hand,  Holbein  on  the  other; 
Holbein  a  realist,  though  limning  philoso- 
phers and  queens;  Rembrandt  an  idealist, 
though  portraying  the  tawdry  patriarchs  ol 
the  ghetto. 

In  drawing  this  distinction  I  would  not,  of 
course,  have  it  for  a  moment  understood  that 
I  call  any  art  "  realistic  "  in  the  sense  of  its 
being  a  mere  copyism  of  external  facts.  All 
art,  of  whatever  kind,  however  denuded,  ap- 
parently, of  imagination  or  poetic  sentiment,— 
the  art  of  Holbein  or  Jordaens  or  Metsu,  even 
the  so  nearly  literal  and  therefore  so  inar- 
tistic art  of  Denner,  as  well  as  the  art  of 
Raphael  or  Corot, — is,  as  Emerson  has  put  it 
"  nature  passed  through  the  alembic  of  man.' 
The  difference  between  Denner  and  the  ideal- 
ist— still  more  between  a  great  artist  like 
Holbein  and  the  idealist — .is  a  difference  oi ' 
quantity  only ;  lies  in  the  degree  to  which  £ 
painter  modifies,  transmutes,  transfigures,  ir 
rendering  a  theme  from  nature.  But  thi^ 
difference  in  degree  may  be  so  immensely  wick 
that  we  are  quite  justified  in  drawing  the  dis- 
tinction made  above.  And  to  draw  it  clearl) 
is  one  of  our  most  important  tasks  when  wt 
would  make  an  estimate  of  any  paint  ' 
character. 

Mr.  Fuller's  art  is  not  only  of  the  idealis 
school,  but,  considering  his  time  and  place, 
peculiarly  marked  in  this  respect.    The 
as-may-be  reproduction  of  nature  is  a 
absolutely  alien  to  his  aims.    To  take 


n  we 

listk 
icice,  i; 

i 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


229 


s  his  basis  (as  every  artist  must),  to  keep 
rue  to  her  general  facts  (as  every  artist  should) 
nd  through  them  to  her  meaning,  but  to 
lake  natural  effects  speak  with  a  stronger, 
learer,  more  poetic  voice,  coming  from  the 
.rtist's  own  feelings  and  ideas  when  in  nat- 
ire's  presence, —  this  may,  perhaps,  roughly 
efine  Mr.  Fuller's  theory  of  art.    To-day,  and 
this  new  world,  such  an  artistic  tempera- 
nent  is  uncommon.  It  is  so  rare,  indeed,  that 
aany  prophets  who  are  hopeful  of  our  artistic 
uture   yet  believe  that  it  will  be    a  future 
evoid   of  idealism   to    a  most  marked  de- 
ree.    For  myself,  I  do  not  think  this.    But 
is  the  worst  of  futilities  to  argue  over  the 
idden  things  to  come.    I   will  only  plead, 
tierefore,  that  although  such  a  temperament 
s   Mr.    Fuller's   must  be   confessed  excep- 
onal  with  us  to-day,  yet  in  the  mere  exist- 
nce  of  one  such  temperament  (not  that  I 
lyself  think  it   is   the  only  one),  we  have 
round  for  hopeful  prophecy. 
In  subject  most  of  Mr.  Fuller's  pictures  are 
xtremely  simple,  and  without  exception  they 
•e  all  conceived  in  a  purely  pictorial  spirit, 
epending  for  their  interest  not  at  all  on  any 
literary  "  or  other  extrinsic  element.    Many 
"  them  are  large  single  figures,  simple  in 
DSC,  denuded  of  all  accessories,  connected 
jith  no  incident  upon  the  canvas,  still  less 
'  th  any  that  a  name  might  suggest  to  the 
holder.    In   the   "  Winifred  Dysart,"  *   for 
ample,  which  seems  to  me  the  most  perfect 
them  all  with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
Turkey  Pasture,"  we  see  against  a  shadowy 
ndscape  background,  with  a  very  high  hori- 
n-line  and  a  glimpse  of  cloud-streaked  sun- 
t  sky  above,  the  three-quarter-length  figure 
a  young  girl  dressed  in  a  pale  grayish-lilac 
wn,  her  arms  and  neck  uncovered,  holding 
one  hand  a  small  empty  jug,  and  looking 
it  of  the  canvas  with  a  straight  though  veiled 
•id  dreamy  gaze.    Nothing  could  be  more 
:nple  and  unstudied   than   her   pose,  with 
>th  arms  hanging  loosely  by  her  side.    But 
:>thing  could  be  more  naively  graceful.    It  is 
111  of  pure  poetry,  this  picture, — not  poetry 
j  a  literary  sort,  as  the  factor  is  too  often 
Produced   in    art,  but  of  a   truly  pictorial 
fed.   We  are  told  nothing  of  the  girl ;  there 
ijno  "motive"   used,   no  "anecdote"  sug- 
isted.    It  is  herself  that  interests  and  fasci- 
if.tes  us, — and  less  by  actual  beauty,  though 
tjs  exists  to  a  high  degree,  than  by  psychical 
Jarm,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  by  a  spir- 
illa! emanation  which  shines  from  her  face 
3d  form,  and  from  the  artist's  every  touch. 

!*  This  picture  was  engraved  by  Mr.  Closson  for  the 
American  Art  Review"  in  1881,  and  the  "  Romany 
<jrl"  was  reproduced  by  Mr.  Cole  in  SCRIBNER'S 
IVGAZINE  for  July,  1880. 


He  has  made  us  see  not  only  what  he  saw  in 
a  model  placed  before  him,  but  what  he 
divined,  imagined,  or  created  in  her  presence, 
— her  inner  as  well  as  her  outer  nature.  And 
as  this  was  a  poetical  conception,  and  as  it  is 
expressed  by  consonant  technique,  the  result 
is  painted  poetry.  No  more  fascinating, 
haunting,  individual,  living  figure  has  come 
from  a  contemporary  hand.  And  it  preserves 
its  individuality  in  presence  of  the  art  of  past 
days  also, — has  had  no  prototype  or  inspira- 
tion in  the  work  of  any  other  brush. 

In  the  "  Romany  Girl "  a  rather  more 
forceful  chord  is  struck,  but  with  hardly  less 
of  elusive  charm,  and  nothing  less  of  individ- 
uality or  beauty.  The  wild-eyed,  half  bold, 
passionate,  yet  tender,  face,  the  supple  ac- 
tion expressed  in  the  quiescent  figure,  the  soul 
that  speaks  from  the  features  as  distinctly 
as  does  the  so  different  soul  in  the  "  Wini- 
fred,"—  these  are  the  elements  which  place 
the  canvas  amid  really  creative  works.  The 
"  Quadroon,"  with  less  of  beauty  and  charm, 
has  almost  the  same  impressiveness.  Sitting 
in  the  corn-field,  with  her  arms  resting  on  her 
knees,  her  great,  sad,  half-despairing  eyes 
turned  to  ours,  she  reveals  the  mystery,  the 
suffering  of  her  race.  No  pictured  scene  of 
slave-life,  with  action,  accessories,  and  story, 
could  be  more  expressive,  more  pathetic. 
These  simple  single  figures,  as  Mr.  Fuller  has 
created  them,  are  so  full  of  meaning,  of  char- 
acter, of  individuality,  as  well  as  of  idyllic 
charm,  that  each  becomes  to  us  an  actual 
being — remembered  not  as  a  mere  pictured 
form,  but  as  a  true  poetical  identity. 

The  two  pictures  shown  in  1882  seemed  to 
me  less  perfect  than  these  others,  not  quite  so 
beautiful  or  so  characteristic, —  the  results, 
apparently,  of  visions  which  had  not  been  so 
compellingly  clear  in  the  painter's  own  mind. 
The  "  Priscilla  Fauntleroy,"  however,  was 
only  a  degree  less  charming  than  the  "  Wini- 
fred." It  seemed  captious  to  criticise  her, 
even  in  the  only  possible  way  one  could, — 
by  comparing  her  with  her  elder  sister.  Mr. 
Fuller  is  his  own  severest  critic.  If  his  finest 
works  have  made  us  hypercritical  he  has  but 
himself  to  blame. 

In  the  "  Priscilla,"  by  the  way,  we  have 
what  may  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  a  subject 
of  "  literary "  interest,  emanating,  to  some 
degree  at  least,  from  an  author's  creative 
power  and  not  altogether  from  the  artist's. 
But  this  exception  among  Mr.  Fuller's  pict- 
ures is  such  in  appearance  rather  than  in  fact. 
If  Hawthorne's  ideal  in  "The  Blithedale  Ro- 
mance "  has  inspired  him,  it  has  served  merely 
as  a  point  of  departure  for  the  working  of  his 
own  imagination.  The  canvas  is  not  illustra- 
tive in  the  popular  sense,  nor  does  it  depend 


23o  GEORGE  FULLER. 

for  its  value  to  any  great  extent  upon  its  ad-  tered  tree-trunks   and  its   magical   illumim 

herence  to  its  ostensible  theme.   We  may  or  tion.    The  most  remarkable,  however,  is  th 

we  may  not  find    Hawthorne's    Priscilla   in  lovely  pastoral  he  calls  the  "  Turkey  Pastur 

this  shy,  startled  girl,  with  one  hand  raised  in  Kentucky,"  with  which  he  reappeared  a 

in    a   gentle,  half-bewildered  gesture  to   her  the  Academy  of  Design  in  1878.    The  land 

face.    But  in  either  case  we  find  a  charming  scape   is   wonderful    in    its    strongly   poeti 

picture,  and  one  suggesting  a  definite  person-  yet  truthful  expression  of  light,  of  sun  am 

ality  filled  with  delicacy  and  with  grace.   And  shadow,  and  of  color.    In  grace  of  composi 

this  should  be  the  case  with  every  creation  tion,  in  suggested  life  and  motion  and  vigo 

of  the  sort ;  whether  or  no  it  affords  a  com-  in  the  figures,  it  is,  however,  almost  equall 

plete   realization  of  its  extrinsic   theme,  its  remarkable  —  one  of  the  loveliest,  and  sure! 

chief  value  should  be  intrinsic.    Its  pictorial  one  of  the  most  original  and  therefore  mo< 

quality  should  have  been  first  in  the  artist's  valuable,  creations  of  recent  art. 
mind  and  should  be  first  to  the  spectator's        Such  pictures  as  the  "  Herb  Gatherer  "  an- 

sense ;  and  the  artist  should  have  clearly  real-  the  "  And  She  Was  a  Witch  "  resemble  thi 

ized  an  inward  ideal  of  his  own,  whether  or  last  in  giving  us   small  figures  in  beautifi 

no  in  strict  accordance  with  his  author's.  landscape  settings.    But  they  differ  througl 

The  primarily  pictorial  quality  of  Mr.  Ful-  the  presence  of  a  dramatic,  even  tragic,  ele 

ler's  art  is    strongly  shown  when  he  comes  ment   we   have   not   yet   encountered.    Th 

to    actual   portraiture.    It  must   be   an  emi-  "  Herb  Gatherer  "  is  rather  small  in  size,  am 

nently  "  paintable  "  face,  I  should  think,  that  shows  us  the  aged,  shrunken  figure  of  a  with 

would  tempt  his  brush,  and  a  face  that  he  ered  crone,  finding  her  painful  way  throug] 

could   transmute,   at   least,   into    some  kind  a  weedy  pasture,  carrying   the   simples   sh 

of  beauty.    With  ugliness,   even  of  a  char-  has  sought.    An  uncanny,  witch-like  atmos 

acteristic  and  expressive  sort,  his  idyllic  im-  phere  pervades  the  canvas.    The  face  of  th 

pulse  has  no  concern.    Children  and  young  woman   suggests   past   beauty,  perhaps,  bu 

girls  and  half-grown,  blooming  boys, —  these  present  converse  with  bitter  thoughts;   am 

are  the  models  he  most  often  takes ;  though  the  burden  she  bears  speaks  of  strange,  for 

I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  a  very  old  lady,  bidden  decoctions.  The  picture  casts  a  spel 

painted  not  long  ago,  which  proves  him  sen-  over  us — a  spell  such  as  is  cast  by  much  o 

sible  to*  the  beauty  of  old  age  too,  and  able  Hawthorne's  writing,  though  in  the  one  cas< 

to  give  its  character  with  force  and  truth  as  as  in  the  other  it  is  hard  to  explain  just  how  th< 

well  as  poetry.    Given  sympathetic  models,  subtile  influence  is  diffused.    In  the  "  Witch ' 

Mr.  Fuller's  portraits  have  a  rare  psychologic  picture  the  same  effect  is  wrought  with  mor< 

interest,  and  his  sympathetic  models,  being  distinctly  tragic  factors,  and  with  even  mon 

of  the  classes  I   have  just  noted,  are  those  intensity.    The  scene  is  a  wooded  landscap' 

with  which  psychologic  expression   is   most  with  tall  thin  tree- trunks;  in  the  distance  ; 

difficult  to  attain,  since  it  must  be  divined  woman  led  away  to  the  dread  tribunal ;  in  thi 

under  the  smooth,  unmarked  flesh  of  youth,  foreground  a  girl — her  grand-daughter,  on< 

and  rendered  without  strong  accentuation  of  supposes — fleeing  in  terror  to  the  door  o 

any  kind.    Yet  we  cannot  but  feel  that   of  her   humble    dwelling.    Beautiful   in   its  ex 

quite  as  much  interest  to  their  author  have  ternals  it  is  weirdly  impressive  and  hauntinj 

been  their  strictly  pictorial  possibilities.    In-  in  its  meaning,  though  here,  again,  the  senti 

deed,  I  heard  him  say  once  to  a  would-be  ment  is  suggested   merely,  without  the  ai< 

sitter:    "Don't    expect    too   much.    I    shall  of  very  definite   incident   or  story,  a  grea 

make  it  something  of  a  portrait  and  a  good  deal  being  left  to  the  spectator's  own  imag 

deal   of  a  picture."    His  portraits  are,  in  a  ination. 

word,  like  his  other  works,  of  the  idealizing        Mr.  Fuller  is  among  the  most  conscien 

and  not  the  realistic  school.  And  about  them  tious — it  might  be  better  to  say,  the  mos 

he  most  often  throws  the  same  vague,  misty  loving — of  workmen.    No  time,  no  effort,  n< 

glamour   he    gives  to   his   purely  imaginary  thought,    no   pains  seem   to  him  too  mud 

creations, —  an  atmosphere  that  results  partly  to  bestow  on  his  creations.    He  works  01 

from   his  way  of  seeing  nature,  and  partly  them  sometimes  for  years  before  he  allow; 

from  the  technical  method  which  that  way  the  world  to  see  them,  in  the  effort  (always 

of  seeing  has  induced.  I    suppose,  appearing   fruitless   to   the  trut 

Of  his  landscapes  the  same  words  may  be  artist)  to  make  the  outward  form  tally  witl 

used.    They  are  not  so  much  definite  pictur-  the  inner  vision.    Indeed,  it  is  but  hesitet 

ings  of  definite  localities   as  idealized  stud-  ingly  that    I   venture  to   describe  any   cai 

ies  of  color,  light,  and  foliage.    One  of  the  vas    still    in    Mr.    Fuller's    hands,   knowiiu 

best  is  that  owned  by  Mr.  Cottier,  with  its  well  his  way  of  suddenly  blotting  out, 

wonderful  effect  of  distance  beyond  the  scat-  many  years,  perhaps,   what    to    others 


I 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


231 


es 


em  one  of  his  most  perfect  essays,  and 
eginning  it  all  over  from  the  start.  And  a 
Elector  who  buys  one  of  Mr.  Fuller's  pict- 
has  sometimes,  if  he  could  only  profit 

them,  a  whole  little  gallery  of  other  pict- 
res  under  the  outer  and  ostensible  crea- 
on.  With  regard  to  the  aims  and  ideas  with 
hich  he  approaches  his  work  I  may,  per- 
aps,  quote  a  few  words  of  his  own — words 
hich,  however,  it  is  but  fair  to  say,  were  not 
ritten  for  the  public  eye.  "  I  have  long 
nee  learned,"  he  says,  "  to  look  on  the 
iinter's  stubborn  means  as  a  lion  in  the 
ath,to  be  overcome  without  leaving  evidence 
the  struggle.  What  sad  days  those  Vere, 
enty  years  ago  or  more,  when  every  tyro 
)ted  down  carefully  the  palettes  of  Rem- 
andt,  Rubens,  Reynolds,  and  Stuart,  think- 
g  thereby  to  gain  some  notion  of  their 
)wer;  and,  if  this  was  not  enough,  turning 

the  '  Hand-book  of  Oil  Painting,'  by 
alker,  wherein  were  laid  down  thirty  tints 
^  red,  blue,  and  yellow,  for  the  painting  of 
1e  human  head.  Experience  teaches  one,  in 
Ine,  to  throw  such  rubbish  aside;  to  realize 
lit  one  must  see  for  himself;  that  all  rules 
11  to  guide  him  in  color;  that  the  great 
]  inters  were  not  alike  in  their  ways  of  work- 
ir,but  that  all  were  true  to  their  perception 
(  the  pervading  truth,  to  their  sense  of  gra- 
(tion,  their  control  of  their  subject  (common 
pund  whereon  Holbein  is  a  colorist  with 
rtian),  and  that  the  attainment  of  gradation 
i  utterly  above  and  regardless  of  any  means 
i;d.  To  make  one  part  keep  its  place  or 
ration  to  the  whole  comes  more  through 
cr  feeling  than  our  seeing.  For  myself,  I 
aji  much  controlled  by  the  work  before  me, 
dug  greatly  influenced  by  suggestions  which 
dtne  through  much  scraping  off,  glazing, 
simbling,  etc.,  in  trying  to  extricate  myself 
f  m  difficulties  which  my  way  of  working 
etails  upon  me — always  striving  for  general 
t  th.  Indeed,  the  object  to  be  attained  must 
<yays  be  reached  through  our  own  methods. 
Tie  great  painters  tell  us  this,  and  leave  us  to 
fitit  it  out.  They  only  insist  upon  gradation, 
tf  law  of  which  governs  values,  tone,  and 
hjrmony,  so  no  detail  must  interfere  with 
it!  truth.  The  main  thing  is  to  express 
ttadly  and  simply,  hiding  our  doing,  real- 
ing  representation,  not  reproduction, — to 
g|:  ourselves  above  our  matter.  A  picture 
i  world  in  itself.  The  great  thing  is,  first,  to 
hi/e  an  idea  —  to  eliminate  and  to  clear 
ajay  the  obstructions  that  surround  it.  It  is 
njre  what  is  left  out  than  what  is  put  in. 
T|e  manipulation  admired  by  some,  the  true 
p.nter  seeks  to  hide.  The  question  must 
fcsver  be,  What  is  below  the  surface  ?  Color 
intuitive.  It  belongs  to  the  imagination.  It 


affects  the  mind  like  the  tones  in  music,  and 
lives  only  in  the  minor  key." 

Of  his  own  picture  of  the  "  Girl  and 
Calf,"  now  in  hand,  I  heard  him  say:  "What 
shall  I  make  of  it  ?  I  don't  know  yet.  The 
subject  is  all  there,  of  course,  but  what  is  the 
subject  in  a  picture?  Nothing.  It  is  the 
treatment  that  makes  or  mars.  (By  treatment 
meaning,  of  course,  the  personal  sentiment 
as  well  as  the  technical  manner  an  artist 
brings  to  bear.)  'A  Girl  and  a  Calf — what  is 
that  ?  We  have  all  seen  such  figures  a  thou- 
sand times,  and  taken  no  interest.  It  is  my 
business  to  bring  out  something  the  casual 
eye  does  not  perceive — to  accentuate,  to  in- 
terpret. Just  how  I  shall  do  it  must  come  to  me 
as  I  work — or  the  picture  will  be  nothing." 
These  are  the  words  of  an  idealist,  but  words 
which,  in  more  or  less  of  their  entirety, 
will  be  echoed  by  every  true  artist  of  what- 
ever school.  The  disciples  of  modern  dash  and 
brilliancy  will,  however,  doubtless  see  no  vir- 
tue in  "  hiding  their  doing,"  since  this  very 
"  doing,"  independently  of  what  is  done,  is 
too  often  to-day  a  picture's  and  an  artist's 
highest  claim  to  honor.  That  it  is  a  high 
claim  when  well  sustained,  I  do  not  question ; 
yet,  if  there  were  more  significance  and  indi- 
viduality of  matter  behind  some  of  the  current 
ease  and  grace  and  strength  of  manner,  mod- 
ern art  would  be  greatly  the  gainer. 

Mr.  Fuller's  technical  manner  has  been  the 
subject  of  much  discussion  and  disagree- 
ment —  a  sure  proof  of  its  originality  if  of 
nothing  more.  To  some  observers  it  seems 
not  only  original  but  very  beautiful,  with  its 
subdued  yet  glowing  color,  its  somewhat 
willful  chiaroscuro,  its  almost  diaphanous 
textures,  its  misty  vagueness  of  effect,  and 
its  involved,  half-hesitating  touch.  To  others 
it  has  seemed  a  drawback,  an  imperfection, 
or  even  an  affectation, —  a  mannerism  that 
clouds  the  better  elements  of  his  art.  For 
myself,  however,  it  is  impossible  thus  to  sepa- 
rate Mr.  Fuller's  matter  from  his  manner — to 
imagine  one  as  disassociated  from  the  other. 
His  soft  rich  color,  his  vague  backgrounds, 
his  shadowy  outlines,  his  broadened  details, 
his  misty  touch,  seem  a  very  part  and  parcel 
of  his  conceptions  and  his  aims.  And  this  im- 
pression was  only  confirmed  when  I  saw  one 
of  his  earlier  works,  a  portrait  painted  long 
ago  before  the  European  trip  and  the  Deer- 
field  hermit-life.  It  was  the  head  of  a  com- 
paratively young  man  with  a  fair  complexion 
and  a  brown  beard.  It  was  fine  in  color, 
though  without  the  perfect  harmony  of  tone 
we  know  to-day,  perfectly  simple  in  execution, 
much  more  definite,  more  detailed,  more 
"  realistic,"  more  naive, —  and  more  common- 
place,—  than  we  might  believe  had  ever  been 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


possible  to  his  hand.  Only  in  the  character 
suggested  with  much  sympathetic  force,  in 
its  evidence  not  only  to  the  nature  of  the 
model  but  also  to  the  mood  of  the  painter, 
could  one  see  any  trace  of  the  poetizing  art- 
ist of  to-day.  The  painter's  meaning  seemed 
out  of  harmony  with  his  speech.  We  longed 
to  see  the  same  face  copied  in  the  language 
he  has  taught  himself  since  it  first  was 
painted, —  a  language  so  much  more  delicate, 
more  abstract,  more  dreamy,  and  therefore 
so  much  better  fitted  to  express  the  mood  of 
such  an  artist. 

As  a  colorist,  Mr.  Fuller's  charm  is  to  me 
very  great.  His  range  is  called  narrow,  though 
there  is  an  essential  difference,  I  think,  between 
the  cool  green  scale  he  adopts  in  some  of 
his  landscapes  —  the  delicate  grayish  harmony 
of  the  "  Winifred,"  the  deeper,  browner  tone 
of  the  "  Romany  Girl,"  the  rosy  glow  of  the 
"  Nydia  " —  and  the  soft  golden  hue  he  gives  to 
many  of  his  portraits.  It  is  probably  his  ever- 
present  mistiness  of  technique,  and  the  fact 
that  with  all  his  modulations  he  always  holds 
to  the  "  minor  key  "  he  loves,  that  has  made 
his  color  seem  to  careless  observers  more 
unvarying  than  it  really  is.  Sometimes  it  is 
perfect  in  its  beauty,  and  always,  once  more, 
extremely  individual.  It  is  not  in  brilliancy 
that  its  excellence  consists.  It  is  in  harmony, 
in  complete  tone,  in  the  way  things  are  made 
to  keep  in  place  and  reveal  their  forms  and 
relationships  without  recourse  to  the  least 
violence  of  contrast.  There  is  no  accentuation 
in  Mr.  Fuller's  canvases,  never  a  vivid  hue, 
a  really  high  light  or  a  really  low  dark.  There 
is  no  emphasis  whatever,  either  in  a  color  or 
in  its  application,  but  always  delicacy,  self- 
restraint,  suavity,  mellowness,  low,  soft-toned, 
misty  harmony.  Yet  there  is  no  lack  of 
strength,  it  seems  to  me,  in  his  best  examples, 
and  certainly  no  want  of  complete  gradation 
or  of  the  definite  expression  of  those  broad 
facts  he  seeks  to  give.  The  "  Turkey  Pasture  " 
is  the  most  radiant  of  all  his  works,  the 
"  Winifred  "  perhaps  the  most  delicately  and 
rarely  colored.  But  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful of  all  in  color  was  a  portrait  I  saw  in  his 
Boston  studio — the  three-quarter-length  fig- 
ure of  a  young  girl  standing  against  a  back- 
ground of  russet-hued  landscape,  fine  in  its 
suggestion  of  breeze  and  life.  The  dress  was 
white, — but  the  word  gives  little  notion  of  the 
subtile  tone  by  which  the  artist  had  subdued 
its  crudeness  and  brought  it  into  keeping  with 
the  glowing  background. 

As  there  are  no  accessories  in  Mr.  Fuller's 
compositions,  so  there  are,  as  I  have  already 
implied,  few  details  in  his  execution  and  little 
insistance  upon  textures.  All  is  broadened, 
simplified,  poetized, — taken  out  of  the  world 


of  even  comparatively  detailed  imitation,  an 
brought  into  the  realm  of  somewhat  ethere; 
but  clearly  realized  imaginings. 

The  chief  charge  that  has  been  brougt' 
against  the  artist's  work  is  that  of  monoton 
— not  only  in  the  matter  of  color  just  referre 
to,  but  in  its  essence  as  a  whole.  Looking  j 
his  technical  manner  merely,  it  may  seem  we 
founded ;  but  it  is  not,  I  think,  a  charge  of 
very  serious  sort.  The  versatility  of  son- 
painters  may  multiply  their  crowns  of  glor 
but  cannot  enhance  the  radiance  of  any  sing 
one.  We  delight  in  the  versatility — the  wic 
scope  of  thought,  the  radical  change  of  mooi 
and  fhe  variety  of  treatment — of  certain  ar 
ists  we  could  name.  But  we  do  not  grumb 
at  the  almost  changeless  mood,  the  almo 
uniform  expression  of  such  a  one  as  Core 
And  so  with  Mr.  Fuller.  The  man  who  cou] 
paint  the  "  Winifred  "  and  the  "  Turkey  Pas 
ure  "  is  a  true  creative  artist ;  and  we  go  ou 
side  the  legitimate  bounds  of  criticism  wht 
we  cavil  because  he  cannot  also  give  us  oth< 
and  quite  different  things.  Yet,  even  so, 
feel  it  is  with  his  art  in  general  as  it  is  wit 
his  color, —  there  is  less  monotony  than  son- 
would  have  us  think.  There  is  much  diversit 
indeed,  if  we  look  deeper  than  the  surface  c 
his  paint.  It  is  true  that  he  who  has  seen  or' 
Fuller  will  never  mistake  another.  But  it 
not  true,  as  I  have  heard  it  bluntly  put,  th, 
he  who  has  seen  one  has  seen  them  all.  Tl 
uniformity  of  his  handling  is  great,  and  is  tf 
more  remarked  on  account  of  its  strong  ind 
viduality — its  difference  from  the  work  c 
other  men.  But  in  their  meaning,  their  coi 
ception,  their  inner  essence  as  apart  from  the 
language,  there  is,  it  seems  to  me,  a  vital  di 
ference  between  such  pictures  as  the  "  Nydia 
and  the  "  Witch,"  between  such  as  the  "  Wh 
ifred  "  and  the  "  Herb  Gatherer." 

An  interesting  characteristic  of  Mr.  Fuller 
art,  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  all  whe 
considered  with  his  ideal  tendencies,  is  tl 
evidently  American  flavor  of  the  work  it  giv< 
us.  There  are  idealists  as  well  as  realists  wh 
might  have  been  born  in  any  land.  M' 
Albert  Ryder,  for  example,  to  take  an  instam 
close  at  hand,  may  be  counted  in  with  such 
and  in  much  of  his  work  the  greatest  of  01 
painters,  Mr.  John  La  Farge,  though  thelatte 
in  some  of  his  more  recent  decorative  work 
has  given  us  the  American  type  of  face  wit 
much  distinctness.  But  Mr.  Fuller  is  neve 
and  could  never  be,  anything  but  a  palpab] 
American  in  his  art.  He  is  as  American  £ 
the  most  thorough-going  young  realist  wh 
paints  New  York  streets  by  the  electric 
or  negro  boys  eating  water-melons.  Na) 
more  American  than  the  most  of  these \ 
as  I  have  said,  the  spirit,  the  quality 


)i*    »* 

:  %!- 

s 


234 


GEORGE  FULLER. 


man's  art  do  not  depend  upon  his  subject 
matter;  and  it  so  happens  that  many  of  our 
younger  men  approach  local  subjects  with  a 
sort  of  cold  cosmopolitan  vision,  while  Mr. 
Fuller  feels  his  more  subtily  characteristic 
themes  with  a  characteristically  American 
soul.  No  one,  it  seems  to  me,  but  an  Ameri- 
can could  have  painted  the  "  Winifred  Dysart" 
- — that  etherealization  of  our  own  native  type 
of  beauty.  No  one  else  could  so  preserve  the 
elusive  yet  distinct  American  look  of  all  his 
portrait  sitters,  though  veiling  their  features 
in  the  haze  of  his  vaporous  methods.  Even 
his  "  Romany  Girl "  is  an  American  gypsy, — 
a  wild  creature  of  our  own  woods  and  not  of 
any  other. 

Another  picture  which  reveals  this  quality 
in  a  noteworthy  way  is  the  "  Nydia,"  exhib- 
ited last  spring.  It  is  not  so  interesting  in 
character  as  some  of  its  fellows,  for  the  face 
of  the  single  figure  is  seen  in  something  less 
than  profile ;  but  it  is  a  most  charming  and 
gracious  vision.  In  refinement  and  delicacy 
of  feeling,  in  perception  of  the  peculiar  beauty 
of  early  youth,  of  freshness  and  innocence 
and  shy  grace,  it  is  akin,  as  I  heard  one  ob- 
server say  who  knew  whereof  he  spoke,  "to 
the  creations  of  a  Reynolds  or  a  Greuze."  But 
just  as  surely  as  Sir  Joshua's  young  girls  are 
English,  just  so  distinctly  is  this  little  so-called 
Nydia  an  American,  though  poetized,  trans- 
muted, if  you  will,  into  almost  ethereal  guise. 
The  evidence  thereof  is  intangible,  elusive,  in- 
explicable in  words,  as  is  always  the  evidence 
to  such  imponderable  facts, — lying,  possibly, 
in  the  mere  poise  of  the  head  and  outline  of 
the  nose  and  cheek.  But  it  is  unmistakable 
none  the  less ;  so  I  need  hardly  say  that  the 
chosen  name  is  a  misnomer, —  that  no  one 
could  divine  Bulwer's  blind  girl  of  Thessaly  in 
this  dainty,  rosy  little  maiden,  not  even  with 
the  help  of  certain  shadowy,  volcanic  sugges- 
tions in  the  background.  Nor  need  I  add 
that  the  would-be  Nydia,  like  the  would-be 
Priscilla,  shows  that  Mr.  Fuller's  art  is  always 
really  independent  of  literary  inspiration.  To 
my  mind  it  is  a  mistake  for  an  artist  of  his 
temperament  ever  to  attempt  illustration  even 
of  the  vaguest  and  most  general  sort.  It 
must  hamper  his  brush  a  little,  although  such 
a  brush  cannot  even  seriously  try  to  bend 
itself  to  outward  requirements.  And  though 
no  title  can  help  or  trouble  those  who  care 
for  a  canvas  for  its  own  pictorial  sake,  yet 
there  are  many  persons  who  think  the  sug- 
gestions of  a  name  are  the  main  things  to  be 
looked  for  in  a  picture,  and  who  resent  their 
non-realization  as  they  resent  the  breaking  of 
a  contract. 

Of  course,  with  such  subjects  as  he  chooses 
and  such  methods  as  he  adopts,  the  national 


accent  of  Mr.  Fuller's  art  is  never  of  a  sharp, 
still  less  of  an  aggressive  sort.  He  is  not  the 
man  to  answer  Walt  Whitman's  appeal  to  oui 
artists  to 

"  Formulate  the  modern  ; 

To  limn  with  absolute  faith  the  mighty,  living  pres- 

ent; 

To  exalt  the  present  and  the  real ; 
To  teach  the    average    man  the   glory  of  his  <lail\ 

walk  and  trade.'' 

It  is  nothing  so  definite  as  this  with  Mr.  Fuller. 
His  is  more  the  sort  of  brush  that  says  : 

"  An  odor  I'd  bring  as  of  forests  of  pine  in  Maine.' 

It  is  a  flavor,  not  a  message  from  the  national 
life,  that  we  perceive  in  his  creations.  But  il 
is  a  flavor  both  acute  and  all-pervading ;  so. 
at  least,  it  seems  to  me  —  for  criticism  of  this 
kind  cannot  be  dogmatic,  but  must  be  a  mere 
putting  on  record  of  personal  impressions. 

But  if  I  may  trust  such  impressions  still  a 
little  further,  I  will  add  that  to  me  Mr.  Fuller's 
art  is  not  only  American,  but  distinctly  local 
It  has  an  aroma  —  I  will  not  say  of  Boston 
but  perhaps  of  Concord ;  it  is  a  painter's  ver- 
sion of  the  vague,  transcendental  New  Eng- 
land poesy  that  is  fast  dying  out  of  this  gen- 
eration, but  the  essence  of  which  is  preserved 
to  us  in  the  writings  of  the  last.  Hawthorne's 
name  has  occurred  more  than  once  already 
to  my  pen,  and  it  is,  I  think,  one  which  wel 
suggests  the  quality  of  Mr.  Fuller's  art.  Such 
a  canvas  as  the  "  Witch  "  recalls  Hawthorne's 
mood  to  even  dull  perceptions — not  more  by 
its  choice  of  subject  than  by  its  subtily  artis- 
tic, dreamy,  thrice-peculiar  methods  of  ex- 
pression. But  more  convincing  still  is  the  fact 
that  when  the  "  Winifred  Dysart "  was  first 
exhibited,  and  people  were  speculating  aboui 
its  name,  almost  every  one  said  :  "  I  am  sure  it 
it  must  be  some  character  of  Hawthorne's 
though  I  cannot  fix  its  place " ;  while  the 
truth  is,  that  the  name  was  invented  by  Mr 
Fuller  merely  as  a  title  by  which  the  canvas 
might  be  distinguished  in  the  public  memory.* 

The  creating,  for  his  own  needs,  of  a  novel 
personal,  as  well  as  beautiful  way  of  working 
with  his  colors,  is  what  makes  a  man  a  master 
an  originator  among  technicians,  as  distinct 
from  an  accomplished  (even  consummately 
accomplished)  scholar.  And  imagination — 
the  power  of  individual  vision,  of  character- 
istic, fresh  conception — is  what  makes  him 
an  artist  as  distinct  from  even  a  master!} 


*  It  is  interesting  to  note  in  this  connection  th 
Mr.  Fuller  has  just  now  sketched  a  picture  suggest* 
by  the  witch  trials  in  Massachusetts.    It  is  somer™ 
novel  in  composition  for  him,  containing  many  figu 
but,  both  from  a  pictorial  and  an  expressional  poii 
view,  promises  to  be  one  of  the  best  of  his  creatir 


11     iiiwi-    . 

Bested 

I 

•I 


(ENGRAVED   BY  w.   B.    CLOSSON   FROM   THE   PAINTING   BY  GEORGE   FULLER.     OWNED   BY   MISS   E.  M.  TOWER.) 


236 


GEORGE-  FULLER. 


'THE  ROMANY  GIRL."    ENGRAVED    BY  T.    COLE  FROM  THE  PAINTING  BY  GEORGE  FULLER. 
[REPRINTED  FROM  THE  JULY,  1880,  NUMBER  OJF  THIS  MAGAZINE.] 


technician.  Not  one  alone,  but  both  these 
important  factors  are  to  be  found  in  Mr. 
Fuller's  work.  His  'imagination  is  not  of  a 
powerful  kind.  His  poetry  is  seductive,  not 
compelling;  idyllic,  not  passionate ;  marks 
him  a  dreamer,  not  a  seer.  But  it  is  true  po- 
etry, and  proper  to  himself  alone.  His  tech- 
nique, on  the  other  hand,  is  not  brilliant,  not 
audacious,  not  the  marvelous  legerdemain 
with  which  our  eye  is  dazzled  by  many  lesser 
artists  —  who  may  often  be  more  wonderful 
painters  than  those  with  rarer  mental  gifts. 
But  it  is  most  artistic,  most  expressive ;  when 
at  its  best,  extremely  beautiful ;  and  always 
and  from  the  outset  all  his  own — learned 
from  no  forerunner,  and  communicable  to  no 
successor.  Original  and  lovely  ideas  told  in 
an  original  and  charming  speech  —  a  summing 
up  which  puts  Mr.  Fuller  on  a  high  plane, 


like  to  the  best  of  his  guild  in  kind,  thoui 
not  necessarily   in   degree.    His  long  reti- 
inent  from  the  public  sight  was  a  dangens 
experiment.    With  a  lower  nature,  a  less  .- 
dividual  endowment,  it  would  probably  h;,e 
resulted   in  weaknesses   of  many  kinds—, 
rigid  mannerisms,  in  self-conceit,  in  want  ,f 
balance  (mental  and  technical),  in  loss  of  c  - 
ical  insight  into  his  own  work  and  that  f 
others.    But    to   Mr.    Fuller  it  meant  fift«i 
years  of  patient,  humble,  conscientious,   •• 
thusiastic,  self-reliant  yet  self-criticising  effi 
in  wise    disregard    of  popular   advisings. 
meant  the  persistence  of  his  own  ideal  :  '  | 
the  development  of  his  expressional  me 
in  a  consonant  and  personal  way.    And  r 
resulted  in  pure,  lovely,  and  above  all- 
repeat  the  main  facts  once  more  —  in  ori,$ 
and  ideal  work. 

M.   G.    Van  Renssefat 


[Begun  in  the  November  number.] 


DR.    SEVIER.* 

BY    GEORGE    W.    CABLE, 
Author  of  "Old  Creole  Days,"  "The  Grandissimes,"  "Madame  Delphine,"  etc. 


VIII. 
A    QUESTION    OF    BOOK-KEEPING. 

A  DAY  or  two  after  Narcisse  had  gone 
)oking  for  Richling  at  the  house  of  Madame 
,enobie,  he  might  have  found  him,  had  he 
nown  where  to  search,  in  Tchoupitoulas 
reet. 

Whoever  remembers  that  thoroughfare  as 

was  in  those  days,  when  the  commodious 

cotton-float "  had  not  quite  yet  come  into 

;e,  and  Poydras  and  other  streets  did  not  so 

ie  with  Tchoupitoulas  in  importance  as  they 

0  now,  will  recall   a  scene  of  commercial 
urly-burly  that   inspired  much    pardonable 
anity  in  the  breast  of  the  utilitarian  citizen, 
rays,  drays,  drays  !  Not  the  light  New  York 
lings ;  but  big,  heavy,  solid  affairs,  many  of 
|iem   drawn   by  two   tall   mules   harnessed 
,ndem.    Drays   by  threes   and  by  dozens, 
rays  in  opposing  phalanxes,  drays  in  long 
•ocessions,  drays  with  all  imaginable  kinds 
:  burden :  cotton  in  bales,  piled  as  high  as 

1  omnibus ;  leaf  tobacco  in  huge  hogsheads ; 
ises  of  linens  and  silks ;  stacks  of  rawhides ; 
ates  of  cabbages;  bales  of  prints  and  of 
ly ;  interlocked  heaps  of  blue  and  red  plows ; 
iigs  of  coffee,  and  spices,  and  corn ;  bales  of 
'  gging ;  barrels,  casks,  and  tierces ;  whisky, 

rk,  onions,  oats,  bacon,  garlic,  molasses, 
d  other  delicacies;  rice,  sugar — what  was 
ere  not  ?   Wines  of  France  and  Spain,  in 
pes,  in   baskets,  in   hampers,  in    octaves; 
eensware  from  England  ;  cheeses,  like  cart- 
icels,  from   Switzerland ;  almonds,  lemons, 
ijisins,  olives,  boxes  of  citron,  casks  of  chains, 
^ecie    from   Vera    Cruz;    cries    of    drivers, 
cicking  of  whips,  rumble  of  wheels,  tremble 
<  earth,  frequent    gorge    and  stoppage.    It 
an  idle  tale  to  say  that  any  one  could 
lacking  bread  and  raiment.    "We  are  a 
sat  city,"  said  the  patient  foot-passengers, 
iiting  long  on  street  corners  for  opportunity 
t;  cross  the  way. 

(On  one  of  these  corners  paused  Richling. 
Ie  had  not  found  employment,  but  you  could 
rjt  read  that  in  his  face ;  as  well  as  he  knew 
hiself,  he  had  come  forward  into  the  world 
F^pared  amiably  and  patiently  to  be,  to 


do,  to  suffer  anything,  provided  it  was 
not  wrong  or — ignominious.  He  did  not  see 
that  even  this  is  not  enough  in  this  rough 
world ;  nothing  had  yet  taught  him  that  one 
must  often  gently  suffer  rudeness  and  wrong. 
As  to  what  constitutes  ignominy,  he  had  a 
very  young  man's — and,  shall  we  add?  a 
very  American  — idea.  He  could  not  have 
believed,  had  he  been  told,  how  many  estab- 
lishments he  had  passed  by,  omitting  to  apply 
in  them  for  employment.  He  little  dreamed 
he  had  been  too  select.  He  had  entered  not 
into  any  house  of  the  Samaritans,  to  use  a 
figure ;  much  less,  to  speak  literally,  had  he 
gone  to  the  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel. 
Mary,  hid  away  in  uncomfortable  quarters  a 
short  stone's  throw  from  Madame  Zenobie's, 
little  imagined  that,  in  her  broad  irony  about 
his  not  hunting  for  employment,  there  was 
really  a  little  seed  of  truth.  She  felt  sure  that 
two  or  three  persons  who  had  seemed  about 
to  employ  him  had  failed  to  do  so  because 
they  detected  the  defect  in  his  hearing,  and 
in  one  or  two  cases  she  was  right. 

Other  persons  paused  on  the  same  corner 
where  Richling  stood,  under  the  same  mo- 
mentary embarrassment.  One  man,  especially 
busy-looking,  drew  very  near  him.  And  then 
and  there  occurred  this  simple  accident — 
that  at  last  he  came  in  contact  with  the  man 
who  had  work  to  give  him.  This  person  good- 
humoredly  offered  an  impatient  comment  on 
their  enforced  delay.  Richling  answered  in 
sympathetic  spirit,  and  the  first  speaker  re- 
sponded with  a  question : 

"  Stranger  in  the  city  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Buying  goods  for  up-country  ?  " 

It  was  a  pleasant  feature  of  New  Orleans 
life  that  sociability  to  strangers  on  the  street 
was  not  the  exclusive  prerogative  of  gamblers' 
decoys. 

"  No  ;  I'm  looking  for  employment." 

"  Aha,"  said  the  man,  and  moved  away  a. 
little.  But  in  a  moment  Richling,  becoming 
aware  that  his  questioner  was  glancing  all 
over  him  with  critical  scrutiny,  turned,  and 
the  man  spoke. 

"  D'you  keep  books  ?  " 

Just  then  a  way  opened  among  the  vehicles ; 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  George  W.  Cable.    All  rights  reserved. 
VOL.  XXVII.— 24. 


238 


DR.    SEVIER. 


the  man,  young  and  muscular,  darted  into  it, 
and  Richling  followed. 

"  I  can  keep  books,"  he  said,  as  they 
reached  the  farther  curb-stone. 

The  man  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"  D'you  see  that  pile  of  codfish  and  herring 
where  that  tall  man  is  at  work  yonder  with  a 
marking-pot  and  brush  ?  Well,  just  beyond 
there  is  a  boarding-house,  and  then  a  hard- 
ware store;  you  can  hear  them  throwing  down 
sheets  of  iron.  Here;  you  can  see  the  sign. 
See  ?  Well,  the  next  is  my  store.  Go  in  there 
—  upstairs  into  the  office — and  wait  till  I 
come." 

Richling  bowed  and  went.  In  the  office  he 
sat  down  and  waited  what  seemed  a  very  long 
time.  Could  he  have  misunderstood?  For 
the  man  did  not  come.  There  was  a  person 
sitting  at  a  desk  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
office,  writing,  who  had  not  lifted  his  head 
from  first  to  last.  Richling  said : 

"  Can  you  tell  me  when  the  proprietor  will 
be  in  ?  " 

The  writer's  eyes  rose,  and  dropped  again 
upon  his  writing. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  him  ?  " 

"  He  asked  me  to  wait  here  for  him." 

"  Better  wait,  then." 

Just  then,  in  came  the  merchant.  Richling 
rose,  and  he  uttered  a  rude  exclamation : 

"/forgot  you  completely  !  Where  did  you 
say  you  kept  books  at,  last  ?  " 

"  I've  not  kept  anybody's  books  yet,  but  I 
can  do  it." 

The  merchant's  response  was  cold  and 
prompt.  He  did  not  look  at  Richling,  but 
took  a  sample  vial  of  molasses  from  a  dirty 
mantel-piece  and  lifted  it  between  his  eyes  and 
the  light,  saying, 

"  You  can't  do  any  such  thing.  I  don't 
want  you." 

"Sir,"  said  Richling,  so  sharply  that  the 
merchant  looked  round,  "  if  you  don't  want 
me,  I  don't  want  you ;  but  you  mustn't  attempt 
to  tell  me  that  what  I  say  is  not  true  ! "  He 
had  stepped  forward  as  he  began  to  speak, 
but  he  stopped  before  half  his  words  were 
uttered,  and  saw  his  folly.  Even  while  his 
voice  still  trembled  with  passion  and  his  head 
was  up,  he  colored  with  mortification.  That 
feeling  grew  no  less  when  his  offender  simply 
looked  at  him,  and  the  man  at  the  desk  did 
not  raise  his  eyes.  It  rather  increased  when 
he  noticed  that  both  of  them  were  young — 
as  young  as  he. 

"  I  don't  doubt  your  truthfulness,"  said  the 
merchant,  marking  the  effect  of  his  forbear- 
ance ;  "  but  you  ought  to  know  you  can't 
come  in  and  take  charge  of  a  large  set  of 
books  in  the  midst  of  a  busy  season,  when 
you've  never  kept  books  before." 


"I  don't  know  it  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  the  merchant,  still  more 
coldly  than  before.  "  There  are  my  books," 
he  added,  warming,  and  pointed  to  three  great 
canvassed  and  black-initialed  volumes  stand- 
ing in  a  low  iron  safe,  "  left  only  yesterday 
in  such  a  snarl,  by  a  fellow  who  had  never 
kept  books,  but  knew  how,  that  I  shall  have 
to  open  another  set !  After  this  I  shall  have 
a  book-keeper  who  has  kept  books." 

He  turned  away. 

Some  weeks  afterward  Richling  recalled 
vividly  a  thought  that  had  struck  him  only 
faintly  at  this  time :  that,  beneath  much  super- 
ficial severity  and  energy,  there  was  in  this 
establishment  a  certain  looseness  of  manage- 
ment. It  may  have  been  this  half-recognized 
thought  that  gave  him  courage  to  say,  ad- 
vancing another  step : 

"  One  word,  if  you  please." 

"  It's  no  use,  my  friend." 

"  It  may  be." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Get  an  experienced  book-keeper  for  youi 
new  set  of  books " 

"  You  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar  !  "  said 
the  merchant,  turning  again  and  running  hic 
hands  down  into  his  lower  pockets.  "  Anc 
even  he'll  have  as  much  as  he  can  do 

"  That  is  just  what  I  wanted  you  to  say,' 
interrupted  Richling,  trying  hard  to  smile 
"  then  you  can  let  me  straighten  up  the  ok 
set." 

"Give  a  new  hand  the  work  of  an  ex 
pert !  " 

The  merchant  almost  laughed  out.  Hi 
shook  his  head  and-  was  about  to  say  more 
when  Richling  persisted  : 

"  If  I  don't  do  the  work  to  your  satisfaction 
don't  pay  me  a  cent." 

"  I  never  make  that  sort  of  an  arrangement 
no,  sir ! " 

Unfortunately,  it  had  not  been  Richling' 
habit  to  show  this  pertinacity,  else  life  migh 
have  been  easier  to  him  as  a  problem ;  bu 
these  two  young  men,  his  equals  in  age,  wer 
casting  amused  doubts  upon  his  ability  to  mak. 
good  his  professions.  The  case  was  peculiar 
He  reached  a  hand  out  toward  the  books . 

"  Let  me  look  over  them  for  one  day;  if 
don't  convince  you  the  next  morning  in  fiv 
minutes  that  I  can  straighten  them,  I'll  leav 
them  without  a  word." 

The  merchant  looked  down  an  instan 
and  then  turned  to  the  man  at  the  desk. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Sam  ?  " 

Sam  set  his  elbows  upon  the  desk,  took  lh 
small  end  of  his  pen-holder  in  his  hands  an 
teeth,  and  looking  up,  said : 

"  I  don't  know;  you  might try  him  J 

"  What  did   you  say   your  name   was ? 


DR.    SEVIER. 


239 


asked  the  other,  again  facing  Richling.  "Ah, 
yes  Who  are  your  references,  Mr.  Rich- 
mond ?  " 

"  Sir  ?  "  Richling  leaned  slightly  forward 
and  turned  his  ear. 

"  I  say,  who  knows  you  ?  " 

"  Nobody." 

"  Nobody  !    Where  are  you  from  ?  " 

"  Milwaukee." 

The  merchant  tossed  out  his  arm  impa- 
tiently. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  that  kind  o'  business." 

He  turned  abruptly,  went  to  his  desk,  and, 
sitting  down  half-hidden  by  it,  took  up  an 
open  letter. 

"  I  bought  that  coffee,  Sam,"  he  said,  rising 
jagain  and  moving  farther  away. 

"  Umhum,"  said  Sam ;  and  all  was  still. 

Richling  stood  expecting  every  instant  to 
turn  on  the  next  and  go.  Yet  he  went  not. 
Under  the  dusty  front  windows  of  the  count- 
ling-room  the  street  was  roaring  below.  Just 
|beyond  a  glass  partition  at  his  back  a  great 
windlass  far  up  under  the  roof  was  rumbling 
with  the  descent  of  goods  from  a  hatchway 
it  the  end  of  its  tense  rope.  Salesmen  were 
;alling,  trucks  were  trundling,  shipping  clerks 
md  porters  were  replying.  One  brawny  fel- 
ow  he  saw,  through  the  glass,  take  a  herring 
rom  a  broken  box,  and  stop  to .  feed  it  to  a 
leek,  brindled  mouser.  Even  the  cat  was 
/alued;  but  he — he  stood  there  absolutely 
;ero.  He  saw  it.  He  saw  it  as  he  never  had 
een  it  before  in  his  life.  This  truth  smote 
lim  like  a  javelin  :  that  all  this  world  wants 
5  a  man's  permission  to  do  without  him. 
light  then  it  was  that  he  thought  he  swal- 
Dwed  all  his  pride ;  whereas  he  only  tasted 
s  bitter  brine  as  like  a  wave  it  took  him  up 
nd  lifted  him  forward  bodily.  He  strode  up 

the  desk  beyond  which  stood  the  merchant 
dth  the  letter  still  in  his  hand,  and  said : 

"  I've  not  gone  yet !  I  may  have  to  be 
irned  off  by  you,  but  not  in  this  manner !  " 

The  merchant  looked  around  at  him  with 

smile  of  surprise  mixed  with  amusement 
jnd  commendation,  but  said  nothing.  Rich- 
ing  held  out  his  open  hand. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  trust  me.  Don't  trust 
lie.  Try  me !  " 

He  looked  distressed.  He  was  not  begging, 
fit  he  seemed  to  feel  as  though  he  were. 

The  merchant  dropped  his  eyes  again  upon 
te  letter,  and  in  that  attitude  asked  : 

"  What  do  you  say,  Sam  ?  " 

"  He  can't  hurt  anything,"  said  Sam. 

The  merchant  looked  suddenly  at  Richling. 

"  You're  not  from  Milwaukee.  You're  a 
!>uthera  man." 


j  Richling  changed  color. 
•"I  said  Milwaukee." 


"  Well,"    said    the    merchant,    "  I    hardly 
know.    Come  and  see  me  further  about  it  to- 
morrow morning.   I  haven't  time  to  talk  now." 
***** 

"  TAKE  a  seat,"  he  said,  the  next  morning, 
and  drew  up  a  chair  sociably  before  the  re- 
turned applicant.  "  Now,  suppose  I  was  to 
give  you  those  books,  all  in  confusion  as  they 
are ;  what  would  you  do  first  of  all  ?  " 

Mary  fortunately  had  asked  the  same  ques- 
tion the  night  before,  and  her  husband  was 
entirely  ready  with  an  answer  which  they  had 
studied  out  in  bed. 

"  I  should  send  your  deposit-book  to  bank 
to  be  balanced,  and,  without  waiting  for  it,  I 
should  begin  to  take  a  trial-balance  off  the 
books.  If  I  didn't  get  one  pretty  soon,  I'd 
drop  that  for  the  time  being,  and  turn  in  and 
render  the  accounts  of  everybody  on  the 
books,  asking  them  to  examine  and  report." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  merchant,  carelessly ; 
"  we'll  try  you." 

"  Sir  ?  "  Richling  bent  his  ear. 

"All  right ;  we'll  try  you.  I  don't  care 
much  about  recommendations.  I  generally 
most  always  make  up  my  opinion  about  a  man 
from  looking  at  him.  I'm  that  sort  of  a  man." 

He  smiled  with  inordinate  complacency. 

So,  week  by  week,  as  has  been  said  al- 
ready, the  winter  passed — Richling  on  one 
side  of  the  town,  hidden  away  in  his  work, 
and  Dr.  Sevier  on  the  other,  very  positive 
that  the  "  young  pair  "  must  have  returned 
to  Milwaukee. 

At  length  the  big  books  were  re-adjusted 
in  all  their  hundreds  of  pages,  were  balanced, 
and  closed.  Much  satisfaction  was  expressed ; 
but  another  man  had  meantime  taken  charge 
of  the  new  books,  one  who  influenced  busi- 
ness, and  Richling  had  nothing  to  do  but  put 
on  his  hat. 

However,  the  house  cheerfully  recom- 
mended him  to  a  neighboring  firm  which  also 
had  disordered  books  to  be  righted ;  and  so 
more  weeks  passed.  Happy  weeks !  happy 
days !  Ah,  the  joy  of  them  !  John  bringing 
home  money,  and  Mary  saving  it ! 

"  But,  John,  it  seems  such  a  pity  not  to 
have  staid  with  A,  B  &  Co. ;  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  think  they'll 
last  much  longer." 

And  when  he  brought  word  that  A,  B  & 
Co.  had  gone  into  a  thousand  pieces,  Mary 
was  convinced  that  she  had  a  very  far-seeing 
husband. 

By  and  by,  at  Richling's  earnest  and  rest- 
less desire,  they  moved  their  lodgings  again. 
And  thus  we  return  by  a  circuit  to  the  morn- 
ing when  Dr.  Sevier,  taking  up  his  slate,  read 
the  summons  that  bade  him  call  at  the  cor- 
ner of  St.  Mary  and  Prytania  streets. 


240 


DR.    SEVIER. 


IX. 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS. 

THE  house  stands  there  to-day.  A  small, 
pinched,  frame,  ground-floor-and-attic,  double 
tenement,  with  its  roof  sloping  toward  St. 
Mary  street  and  overhanging  its  two  door-steps 
that  jut  out  on  the  sidewalk.  There  the  Doc- 
tor's carriage  stopped,  and  in  its  front  room 
he  found  Mary  in  bed  again,  as  ill  as  ever. 
A  humble  German  woman  living  in  the  ad- 
joining half  of  the  house  was  attending  to  the 
invalid's  wants,  and  had  kept  her  daughter 
from  the  public  school  to  send  her  to  the 
apothecary  with  the  Doctor's  prescription. 

"  It  is  the  poor  who  help  the  poor," 
thought  the  physician. 

"  Is  this  your  home  ?  "  he  asked  the  woman 
softly,  as  he  sat  down  by  the  patient's  pillow. 
He  looked  about  upon  the  small,  cheaply 
furnished  room,  full  of  the  neat  makeshifts  of 
cramped  housewifery. 

"  It's  mine,"  whispered  Mary.  Even  as  she 
lay  there  in  peril  of  her  life  and  flattened  out 
as  though  Juggernaut  had  rolled  over  her,  her 
eyes  shone  with  happiness  and  scintillated  as 
the  Doctor  exclaimed  in  under-tone, 

"  Yours ! "  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  fore- 
head. "  Where  is  Mr.  Richling  ?  " 

"At  the  office."  Her  eyes  danced  with 
delight.  She  would  have  begun,  then  and 
there,  to  tell  him  all  that  had  happened, — 
"  had  taken  care  of  herself  all  along,"  she 
said,  "  until  they  began  to  move.  In  moving, 
had  been  obliged  to  overwork  —  hardly  fixed 
yet " 

But  the  Doctor  gently  checked  her  and 
bade  her  be  quiet. 

"  I  will,"  was  the  faint  reply;  "  I  will;  but, 
— just  one  thing,  Doctor,  please  let  me  say." 

"  Well  ?  " 

«  John " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know ;  he'd  be  here,  only 
you  wouldn't  let  him  stay  away  from  his 
work." 

She  smiled  assent,  and  he  smiled  in  return. 

"  Business  is  business,"  he  said. 

She  turned  a  quick,  sparkling  glance  of 
affirmation,  as  if  she  had  lately  had  some 
trouble  to  maintain  that  ancient  truism.  She 
was  going  to  speak  again,  but  the  Doctor 
waved  his  hand  downward  soothingly  toward 
the  restless  form  and  uplifted  eyes. 

"  All  right,"  she  whispered,  and  closed  them. 

The  next  day  she  was  worse.  The  phy- 
sician found  himself,  to  use  his  words,  "  only 
the  tardy  attendant  of  offended  nature." 
When  he  dropped  his  finger-ends  gently  upon 
her  temple  she  tremblingly  grasped  his  hand. 

"  You'll  save  me  ?  "  she  whispered. 


"Yes,"  he  replied,  "we'll  do  that  — the 
Lord  helping  us." 

A  glad  light  shone  from  her  face  as  he 
uttered  the  latter  clause.  Whereat  he  made 
haste  to  add : 

"  I  don't  pray,  but  I'm  sure  you  do." 

She  silently  pressed  the  hand  she  still 
held. 

On  Sunday,  he  found  Richling  at  the  bed- 
side. Mary  had  improved  considerably  in 
two  or  three  days.  She  lay  quite  still  as  they 
talked,  only  shifting  her  glance  softly  from 
one  to  the  other  as  one  and  then  the  other 
spoke.  The  Doctor  heard  with  interest  Rich- 
ling's  full  account  of  all  that  had  occurred 
since  he  had  met  them  last  together.  Mary's 
eyes  filled  with  merriment  when  John  told 
the  droller  part  of  their  experiences  in  the 
hard  quarters  from  which  they  had  only 
lately  removed.  But  the  Doctor  did  not  so 
much  as  smile.  Richling  finished,  and  the 
physician  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  we  're  getting  along,"  said  Richling, 
stroking  the  small,  weak  hand  that  lay  near 
him  on  the  coverlet.  But  still  the  Doctor  kept 
silence. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Richling,  very  quietly, 
looking  at  his  wife,  "  we  mustn't  be  surprised 
at  a  backset  now  and  then.  But  we're  get- 
ting on." 

Mary  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  Doctor 
Was  he  not  going  to  assent  at  all  ?  She 
seemed  about  to  speak.  He  bent  his  ear 
and  she  said,  with  a  quiet  smile: 

"'When  the  wind  blows,  the  cradle  wil 
rock.' " 

The  physician  gave  only  a  heavy-eyec 
"  Humph !  "  and  a  faint  look  of  amusement. 

"What  did  she  say?"  said  Richling;  th( 
words  had  escaped  his  ear.  The  Doctor  re 
peated  it,  and  Richling,  too,  smiled. 

Yet  it  was  a  good  speech — why  not! 
But  the  patient  also  smiled,  and  turned  he 
eyes  toward  the  wall  with  a  disconcertec 
look,  as  if  the  smile  might  end  in  tears.  Fo 
herein  lay  the  very  difficulty  that  alway 
brought  the  Doctor's  carriage  to  the  door- 
the  cradle  would  not  rock. 

For  a  few  days  more  that  carriage  con 
tinued  to  appear,  and  then  ceased.  Rich 
ling  dropped  in  one  morning  at  Number  3^ 
Carondelet  and  settled  his  bill  with  Narcissf 

The  young  Creole  was  much  pleased  to  b 
at  length  brought  into  actual  contact  with 
man   of  his  own  years,  who  without  visibl 
effort  had  made  an  impression  on  Dr.  Sevi^i 

Until  the  money  had  been  paid  and  th 
bill  receipted,  nothing  more  than  a  fonts 
business  phrase  or  two  passed  betwe? 
them.  But  as  Narcisse  delivered  the  receipt 
bill  with  an  elaborate  gesture  of  coui 


DR.    SEVIER. 


241 


and  Richling  began  to  fold  it  for  his  pocket, 
the  Creole  remarked : 

"  I  'ope  you  will  excuse  the  'an'-a-'iting." 
Richling  re-opened  the  paper;  the  penman- 
ship was  beautiful. 

"Do  you  ever  write  better  than  this?"  he 
asked.  "  Why,  I  wish  I  could  write  half  as  well." 
"  No ;  I  do  not  fine  that  well  a-'itten.    I 
(cannot  see  'ow  that  is — I  nevva  'ite  to  the 
(satizfagtion  of  my  abil'ty  soon  in  the  maw- 
bin's.    I    am   dest'oying   my  chi'og'aphy    at 
hat  desk  yeh." 

Indeed  ?  "  said  Richling ;  "  why,  I  should 

hink " 

Yesseh,  'tis  the  tooth.  But  consunning 
;he  chi'og'aphy,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  I  'ave  des- 
.ovvud  one  thing  to  a  maul  cettainty,  and 
hat  is,  if  I  'ave  something  to  'ite  to  a  young 
ady,  I  always  dizguise  my  chi'og'aphy.  Ha- 
h !  I  'ave  learn'  that !  You  will  be  aztonish' 
o  see  in  'ow  many  diffe'n'  fawm'  I  can  make 
ny  'an'-a-'iting  to  appeah.  That  paz  thoo 
|ny  fam'ly,  in  fact,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'.  My  hant, 
he's  got  a  honcle  w'at  use'  to  be  cluck  in  a 
iank,  w'at  could  make  the  si'natu'e  of  the 
wesiden',  as  well  as  of  the  cashieh,  with 
lat  so  absolute  puffegtion,  that  they  tu'n  'im 
ut  of  the  bank !  Yesseh.  In  fact,  I  thing 
|ou  ought  to  know  'ow  to  'ite  a  ve'y  fine  'an', 
listoo  'Itchlin'." 

"  N-not  very,"  said  Richling;  "my  hand 
large  and  legible,  but  not  well  adapted  for 
-book-keeping ;  it's  too  heavy." 

You  'ave  the  'ight  physio'nomie,  I  am 
m'.  You  will  pe'haps  believe  me  with  diffi- 
alty,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  but  I  assu'  you  I  can 
11  if  a  man  'as  a  fine  chi'og'aphy  aw  no,  by 
iz  lookin'  upon  his  liniment.  Do  you  know 
iat  Benjamin  Fwanklin  'ote  a  v'ey  fine  chi'- 
5'aphy,  in  fact?  Also  Voltaire.  Yesseh. 
n'  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Lawd  By'on  muz 
ve  'ad  a  beaucheouz  chi'og'aphy.  'Tis  im- 
>ssible  not  to  be,  with  that  face.  He  is  my 
vo'ite  poet,  that  Lawd  By'on.  Moze  people 
yefeh  'im  to  Shakspere,  in  fact.  Well,  you 
iuz  go  ?  I  am  v'ey  'appy  to  meek  yo'  ac- 
tiaintanze,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  seh.  I  am  so'y 
-loctah  Seveeah  is  not  theh  pwesently.  The 
Igs  time  you  call,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  you  muz 
*t  be  too  much  aztonizh  to  fine  me  gone 
f?m  yeh.  Yesseh.  He's  got  to  haugment 
rp  ad  the  en'  of  that  month,  an'  we  'ave  to- 
dy the  fifteenth  Mawch.  Do  you  smoke, 
listoo  'Itchlin'  ?  "  He  extended  a  package 
c  cigarettes.  Richling  accepted  one.  "  I 
sjoke  lawgely  in  that  weatheh,"  striking  a 
ijtch  on  his  thigh.  "  I  feel  ve'y  sultwy  to- 
(%.  Well," — he  seized  the  visitor's  hand, 
- '  au  'evoi,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'."  And  Narcisse 
turned  to  his  desk  happy  in  the  conviction 
tit  Richling  had  gone  away  dazzled. 


GENTLES   AND    COMMONS. 

DR.  SEVIER  sat  in  the  great  easy-chair 
under  the  drop-light  of  his  library  table  try- 
ing to  read  a  book.  But  his  thought  was  not 
on  the  page.  He  expired  a  long  breath  of 
annoyance,  and  lifted  his  glance  backward 
from  the  bottom  of  the  page  to  its  top. 

Why  must  his  mind  keep  going  back  to 
that  little  cottage  in  St.  Mary  street  ?  What 
good  reason  was  there  ?  Would  they  thank 
him  for  his  solicitude?  Indeed!  He  almost 
smiled  his  contempt  of  the  supposition. 
Why,  when  on  one  or  two  occasions  he  had 
betrayed  a  least  little  bit  of  kindly  interest, 
—  what  ?  Up  had  gone  their  youthful  vivac- 
ity like  an  umbrella.  Oh,  yes! — like  all 
young  folks  —  their  affairs  were  intensely  pri- 
vate. Once  or  twice  he  had  shaken  his  head 
at  the  scantiness  of  all  their  provisions  for 
life.  Well?  They  simply  and  unconsciously 
stole  a  hold  upon  one  another's  hand  or  arm, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  To  love  is  enough." 
When,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  it  isn't  enough ! 

"  Pshaw !  "  The  word  escaped  him  audibly. 
He  drew  partly  up  from  his  half  recline,  and 
turned  back  a  leaf  of  the  book  to  try  once 
more  to  make  out  the  sense  of  it. 

But  there  was  Mary,  and  there  was  her 
husband.  Especially  Mary.  Her  image  came 
distinctly  between  his  eyes  and  the  page. 
There  she  was,  just  as  on  his  last  visit,— a 
superfluous  one — no  charge, — sitting  and 
plying  her  needle,  unaware  of  his  approach, 
gently  moving  her  rocking-chair,  and  softly 
singing,  "  Flow  on,  thou  shining  river," — the 
song  his  own  wife  used  to  sing.  "  Oh,  child, 
child!  do  you  think  it's  always  going  to  be 
'  shining '  ?  "  They  shouldn't  be  so  contented. 
Was  pride  under  that  cloak  ?  Oh,  no,  no  !  But 
even  if  the  content  was  genuine,  it  wasn't 
good.  Why,  they  oughtn't  to  be  able  to  be 
happy  so  completely  out  of  their  true  sphere. 
It  showed  insensibility.  But,  there  again, — 
Richling  wasn't  insensible,  much  less  Mary. 

The  Doctor  let  his  book  sink,  face  down- 
ward, upon  his  knee. 

"They're  too  big  to  be  playing  in  the  sand." 
He  took  up  the  book  again.  "  'Tisn't  my  busi- 
ness to  tell  them  so."  But  before  he  got  the 
volume  fairly  before  his  eyes,  his  professional 
bell  rang,  and  he  tossed  the  book  upon  the 
table. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  bring  him  in  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  of  a  servant  who 
presented  a  card ;  and  in  a  moment  the  visitor 
entered. 

He  was  a  person  of  some  fifty  years  of  age, 
with  a  patrician  face,  in  which  it  was  impossi- 


242 


DR.    SEVIER. 


ble  to  tell  where  benevolence  ended  and  pride 
began.  His  dress  was  of  fine  cloth,  a  little 
antique  in  cut,  and  fitting  rather  loosely  on  a 
form  something  above  the  medium  height,  of 
good  width,  but  bent  in  the  shoulders,  and 
with  arms  that  had  been  stronger.  Years,  it 
might  be,  or  possibly  some  unflinching  strug- 
gle with  troublesome  facts,  had  given  many 
lines  of  his  face  a  downward  slant.  He  apolo- 
gized for  the  hour  Of  his  call,  and  accepted 
with  thanks  the  chair  offered  him. 

"  You  are  not  a  resident  of  the  city  ? " 
asked  Dr.  Sevier. 

"I  am  from  Kentucky."  The  voice  was 
rich,  and  the  stranger's  general  air  one  of 
rather  conscious  social  eminence. 

"  Yes  ? "  said  the  Doctor,  not  specially 
pleased,  and  looked  at  him  closer.  He  wore 
a  black  satin  neck-stock,  and  dark-blue  but- 
toned gaiters.  His  hair  was  dyed  brown.  A 
slender  frill  adorned  his  shirt-front. 

"  Mrs." —  the  visitor  began  to  say,  not 
giving  the  name,  but  waving  his  index-finger 
toward  his  card,  which  Dr.  Sevier  had  laid 
upon  the  table,  just  under  the  lamp, — "  my 
wife,  Doctor,  seems  to  be  in  a  very  feeble  con- 
dition. Her  physicians  have  advised  her  to  try 
the  effects  of  a  change  of  scene,  and  I  have 
brought  her  down  to  your  busy  city,  sir." 

The  Doctor  assented.  The  stranger  re- 
sumed : 

"  Its  hurry  and  energy  are  a  great  contrast 
to  the  plantation  life,  sir." 

"They're  very  unlike."  the  physician  ad- 
mitted. 

"  This  chafing  of  thousands  of  competi- 
tive designs,"  said  the  visitor,  "this  great 
fretwork  of  cross  purposes,  is  a  decided 
change  from  the  quiet  order  of  our  rural  life. 
Hmm!  There  everything  is  under  the  ad- 
ministration of  one  undisputed  will,  and  is 
executed  by  the  unquestioning  obedience  of 
our  happy  and  contented  slave  peasantry. 
I  prefer  the  country.  But  I  thought  this  was 
just  the  change  that  would  arouse  and  elec- 
trify an  invalid  who  has  really  no  tangible 
complaint." 

"Has  the  result  been  unsatisfactory  ?  " 

"Entirely  so.  I  am  unexpectedly  disap- 
pointed." The  speaker's  thought  seemed  to 
be  that  the  climate  of  New  Orleans  had  not 
responded  with  that  hospitable  alacrity  which 
was  due  so  opulent,  reasonable,  and  univer- 
sally obeyed  a  guest. 

There  was  a  pause  here,  and  Dr.  Sevier 
looked  around  at  the  book  which  lay  at  his 
elbow.  But  the  visitor  did  not  resume,  and 
the  Doctor  presently  asked : 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  your  wife  ?  " 

"  I  called  to  see  you  alone  first,"  said  the 
other,  "  because  there  might  be  questions  to 


be  asked  which  were  better  answered  in  her 
absence." 

"  Then  you  think  you  know  the  secret  of 
her  illness,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  do.  I  think,  indeed  I  may  say  I  know,  it 
is  —  bereavement." 

The  Doctor  compressed  his  lips  and  bowed. 

The  stranger  drooped  his  head  somewhat, 
and,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  laid  the  tips  of  his  thumbs  and  fingers 
softly  together. 

"  The  truth  is,  sir,  she  cannot  recover  from 
the  loss  of  our  son." 

"An  infant?"  asked  the  Doctor.  His  bell 
rang  again  as  he  put  the  question. 

"  No,  sir;  a  young  man — one  whom  I  had 
thought  a  person  of  great  promise;  just  about 
to  enter  life." 

"When  did  he  die?" 

"  He  has  been  dead  nearly  a  year.    I " 

The  speaker  ceased  as  the  mulatto  waiting- 
man  appeared  at  the  open  door,  with  a  large, 
simple,  German  face  looking  easily  over  his 
head  from  behind. 

"  Toctor,"  said  the  owner  of  this  face,  lift- 
ing an  immense  open  hand,  "  Toctor,  uf  you 
bleace,  Toctor,  you  vill  bleace  ugscooce  me." 

The  Doctor  frowned  at  the  servant  for 
permitting  the  interruption.  But  the  gentle- 
man beside  him  said : 

"  Let  him  come  in,  sir ;  he  seems  to  be  in 
haste,  sir,  and  I  am  not, —  I  am  not,  at  all." 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  physician. 

The  new-comer  stepped  into  the  room. 
He  was  about  six  feet  three  inches  in  height, 
three  feet  six  in  breadth,  and  the  same  in 
thickness.  Two  kindly  blue  eyes  shone  softly 
in  an  expanse  of  face  that  had  been  clean- 
shaven every  Saturday  night  for  many  years, 
and  that  ended  in  a  retreating  chin  and  a 
dewlap.  The  limp,  white  shirt-collar  just 
below  was  without  a  necktie,  and  the  waist 
of  his  pantaloons,  which  seemed  intended  tc 
supply  this  deficiency,  did  not  quite,  but  only 
almost  reached  up  to  the  unoccupied  blank 
He  removed  from  his  respectful  head  a  sofi 
gray  hat,  whitened  here  and  there  with  flour 

"Yentlemen,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you  vil 
ugscooce  me  to  interruptet  you, —  yentle 
men." 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  me  ?  "  asked  Dr 
Sevier. 

The  German  made  an  odd  gesture  of  def 
erential  assent,  lifting  one  open  hand  a  little  ii 
front  of  him  to  the  level  of  his  face,  with  the  wris 
bent  forward  and  the  fingers  pointing  down 

"  Uf  you   bleace,  Toctor,  I  toose;    und 
tat's  te  fust  time  I  effer  tit  vanted  a 
Undt  you  mus'  ugscooce  me,  Toctor,  to 
on   you,  ovver  I  vish   you    come  undt 
mine " 


toctoi 

H 


DR.    SEVIER. 


243 


To  the  surprise  of  all,  tears  gushed  from 
his  eyes. 

"  Mine  poor  vife,  Toctor !  "  He  turned  to 
one  side,  pointed  his  broad  hand  toward  the 
floor,  and  smote  his  forehead. 

"  I  yoost  come  in  fun  mine  paykery  undt 
comin'  into  mine  howse,  fen I  see  some- 
ting  " —  he  waved  his  hand  downward  again 

— "someting layin'  on  te floor 

face  pleck  ans  a  nigger's ;  undt  fen  I  look  to 

see  who  udt  iss, udt  is  Mississ  Reisen! 

Toctor,  I  vish  you  come  right  off!  I  couldn't 
shtayndt  udt  you  toandt  come  right  avay !  " 

"  I'll  come,"  said  the  Doctor,  without  rising; 
just  write  your  name  and  address  on  that 
little  white  slate  yonder." 

'  Toctor,"  said  the  German,  extending  and 
dipping  his  hat,  "  I'm  ferra  much  a-velcome 
to  you,  Toctor ;  undt  tat's  yoost  fot  te  potte- 
kerra  by  mine  corner  sayt  you  vould  too.  He 
sayss,  '  Reisen,'  he  sayss,  '  you  yoost  co  to 
|Toctor  Tsewier.'  "  He  bent  his  great  body 
(Dver  the  farther  end  of  the  table  and  slowly 
worked  out  his  name,  street,  and  number. 

*  Dtere  udt  iss,  Toctor ;  I  put  udt  town  on 
eh  schlate ;  ovver,  I  hope  you  ugscooce  te 
ayndtwriding." 

"  Very  well.    That's  right.    That's  all." 

The  German  lingered.  The  Doctor  gave  a 
)ow  of  dismission. 

"  That's  all,  I  say.  I'll  be  there  in  a  mo- 
nent.  That's  all.  Dan,  order  my  carriage." 

"  Yentlemen,  you  vill  ugscooce  me  ?  " 

The  German  withdrew,  returning  each  gen- 
leman's  bow  with  a  faint  wave  of  the  hat. 

During  this  interview  the  more  polished 
tranger  had  sat  with  bowed  head,  motionless 
j.nd  silent,  lifting  it  only  once  and  for  a  mo- 
inent  at  the  German's  emotional  outburst. 
JThen  the  upward  and  backward  turned  face 
^as  marked  with  a  commiseration  partly  arti- 
ficial, but  also  partly  natural.  He  now  looked 
fp  at  the  Doctor. 

"  I  shall  have  to  leave  you,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

•  "  Certainly,  sir,"  replied  the  other;  "  by  all 
leans !  "   The  willingness  was  slightly  over- 
lone  and  the  benevolence  of  tone  was  mixed 
Hth  complacency.    "  By  all  means,"  he  said 
|gain ;  "  this  is  one  of  those  cases  where  it 
jj  only  a  proper  grace  in  the  higher  to  yield 
(lace  to  the  lower."  He  waited  for  a  response, 
hit  the   Doctor  merely  frowned  into    space 
ind  called  for  his  boots.  The  visitor  resumed  : 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  of  feeling,  sir,  for  the 
plettered  and  the  vulgar.  They  have  their 
tation,  but  they  have  also  —  though  doubt- 
fss  in  smaller  capacity  than  we  —  their 
Measures  and  pains." 

j  Seeing  the  Doctor  ready  to  go,  he  began  to 
se. 


"  I  may  not  be  gone  long,"  said  the  phy- 
sician, rather  coldly;  "if  you  choose  to 
wait " 

"  I  thank  you ;  n-no-o ."  The  visitor 

stopped  between  a  sitting  and  a  rising  posture. 

"  Here  are  books,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  and 
the  evening  papers  —  '  Picayune,'  «  Delta,' 
'  True  Delta.' "  It  seemed  for  a  moment  as 
though  the  gentleman  might  sink  into  his 
seat  again.  "  And  there's  the  «  New  York 
Herald.'  " 

"  No,  sir !  "  said  the  visitor  quickly,  rising 
and  smoothing  himself  out ;  "  nothing  from 
that  quarter,  if  you  please."  Yet  he  smiled. 
The  Doctor  did  not  notice  that,  while  so 
smiling,  he  took  his  card  from  the  table. 
There  was  something  familiar  in  the  stranger's 
face  which  the  Doctor  was  trying  to  make  out. 
They  left  the  house  together.  Outside  the 
street  door  the  physician  made  apologetic 
allusion  to  their  interrupted  interview. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  at  my  office  to-morrow  ? 
I  would  be  happy " 

The  stranger  had  raised  his  hat.  He  smiled 
again,  as  pleasantly  as  he  could,  which  was 
not  delightful,  and  said,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation : 

" Possibly." 


XI. 


A  PANTOMIME. 

IT  chanced  one  evening  about  this  time — 
the  vernal  equinox  had  just  passed — that 
from  some  small  cause  Richling,  who  was 
generally  detained  at  the  desk  until  a  late 
hour,  was  home  early.  The  air  was  soft  and 
warm,  and  he  stood  out  a  little  beyond  his 
small  front  door-step  lifting  his  head  to  inhale 
the  universal  fragrance,  and  looking  in  every 
moment,  through  the  unlighted  front  room, 
toward  a  part  of  the  diminutive  house  where 
a  mild  rattle  of  domestic  movements  could 
be  heard,  and  whence  he  had,  a  little  before, 
been  adroitly  requested  to  absent  himself. 
He  moved  restlessly  on  his  feet,  blowing  a 
soft  tune. 

Presently  he  placed  a  foot  on  the  step  and  a 
hand  on  the  door-post,  and  gave  a  low,  urgent 
call. 

A  distant  response  indicated  that  his  term 
of  suspense  was  nearly  over.  He  turned  about 
again  once  or  twice,  and  a  moment  later 
Mary  appeared  in  the  door,  came  down  upon 
the  sidewalk,  looked  up  into  the  moonlit  sky 
and  down  the  empty,  silent  street,  then  turned 
and  sat  down,  throwing  her  wrists  across  each 
other  in  her  lap,  and  lifting  her  eyes  to  her 
husband's  with  a  smile  that  confessed  her 
fatigue. 


244 


DR.    SEVIER. 


The  moon  was  regal.  It  cast  its  deep  con- 
trasts of  clear-cut  light  and  shadow  among 
the  thin,  wooden,  unarchitectural  forms  and 
weed-grown  vacancies  of  the  half-settled 
neighborhood,  investing  the  matter-of-fact 
with  mystery,  and  giving  an  unexpected 
charm  to  the  unpicturesque.  It  was — as 
Richling  said,  taking  his  place  beside  his 
wife  —  midspring  in  March.  As  he  spoke  he 
noticed  she  had  brought  with  her  the  odor  of 
flowers.  They  were  pinned  at  her  throat. 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  "  he  asked, 
touching  them  with  his  fingers. 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

"  Guess." 

How  could  he  guess  ?  As  far  as  he  knew, 
neither  she  nor  he  had  made  an  acquaintance 
in  the  neighborhood.  He  shook  his  head, 
and  she  replied : 

"  The  butcher." 

"  You're  a  queer  girl,"  he  said,  when  they 
had  laughed. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  You  let  these  common  people  take  to  you 
so." 

She  smiled  with  a  faint  air  of  concern. 

"  You  don't  dislike  it,  do  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  indifferently,  and  spoke 
of  other  things. 

And  thus  they  sat,  like  so  many  thousands 
and  thousands  of  young  pairs  in  this  wide, 
free  America,  offering  the  least  possible  inter- 
est to  the  great  human  army  round  about 
them,  but  sharing  or  believing  they  shared  in 
the  fruitful  possibilities  of  this  land  of  limit- 
less bounty,  fondling  their  hopes  and  recount- 
ing the  petty  minutiae  of  their  daily  experiences. 
Their  converse  was  mainly  in  the  form  of 
questions  from  Mary  and  answers  from  John. 

"And  did  he  say  that  he  would?"  etc. 
"  And  didn't  you  insist  that  he  should  ?  "  etc. 
"  I  don't  understand  how  he  could  require 
you  to,"  etc.,  etc.  Looking  at  everything 
from  John's  side,  as  if  there  never  could  be  any 
other,  until  at  last  John  himself  laughed  softly 
when  she  asked  why  he  couldn't  take  part  of 
some  outdoor  man's  work,  and  give  him  part 
of  his  own  desk-work  in  exchange,  and  why 
he  couldn't  say  plainly  that  his  work  was  too 
sedentary. 

Then  she  proposed  a  walk  in  the  moon- 
light, and  insisted  she  was  not  tired;  she 
wanted  it  on  her  own  account.  And  so,  when 
Richling  had  gone  into  the  house  and  re- 
turned with  some  white  worsted  gauze  for 
her  head  and  neck  and  locked  the  door,  they 
were  ready  to  start. 

They  were  tarrying  a  moment  to  arrange 
this  wrapping  when  they  found  it  necessary 
to  move  aside  from  where  they  stood  in  order 
to  let  two  persons  pass  on  the  sidewalk. 


These  were  a  man  and  woman  who  had  at 
least  reached  middle  age.  The  woman  wore 
a  neatly  fitting  calico  gown ;  the  man,  a  short 
pilot-coat.  His  pantaloons  were  very  tight 
and  pale.  A  new  soft  hat  was  pushed  forward 
from  the  left  rear  corner  of  his  closely  cropped 
head,  with  the  front  of  the  brim  turned  down 
over  his  right  eye.  At  each  step  he  settled 
down  with  a  little  jerk  alternately  on  this  hip 
and  that,  at  the  same  time  faintly  dropping 
the  corresponding  shoulder.  They  passed. 
John  and  Mary  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
nod  of  mirthful  approval.  Why?  Because 
the  strangers  walked  silently  hand-in-hand. 

It  was  a  magical  night.  Even  the  part  of 
town  where  they  were,  so  devoid  of  character 
by  day,  had  become  all  at  once  romantic  with 
phantasmal  lights  and  glooms,  echoes  and 
silences.  Along  the  edge  of  a  wide  chimney- 
top  on  one  blank,  new  hulk  of  a  house,  that 
nothing  else  could  have  made  poetical,  a 
mocking-bird  hopped  and  ran  back  and 
forth,  singing  as  if  he  must  sing  or  die.  The 
mere  names  of  the  streets  they  traversed  sud- 
denly became  sweet  food  for  the  fancy.  Down 
at  the  first  corner  below  they  turned  into  one 
that  had  been  an  old  country  road,  and  was 
still  named  Felicity. 

Richling  called  attention  to  the  word 
painted  on  a  board.  He  merely  pointed  to  it 
in  playful  silence,  and  then  let  his  hand  sink 
and  rest  on  hers  as  it  lay  in  his  elbow.  They 
were  walking  under  the  low  boughs  of  a  line 
of  fig-trees  that  overhung  a  high  garden  wall. 
Then  some  gay  thought  took  him ;  but  when 
his  downward  glance  met  the  eyes  uplifted  to 
meet  his  they  were  grave,  and  there  came  an 
instantaneous  tenderness  into  the  exchange 
of  looks  that  would  have  been  worse  than 
uninteresting  to  you  or  me.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment she  brightened  up,  pressed  herself  close 
to  him,  and  caught  step.  They  had  not  owned 
each  other  long  enough  to  have  settled  into 
sedate  possession,  though  they  sometimes 
thought  they  had  done  so.  There  was  still  a 
tingling  ecstasy  in  one  another's  touch  and 
glance  that  prevented  them  from  quite  behav- 
ing themselves  when  under  the  moon. 

For  instance,  now,  they  began,  though  in 
cautious  under-tone,  to  sing.  Some  person  ap- 
proached them,  and  they  hushed.  When  the 
stranger  had  passed,  Mary  began  again  an- 
other song,  alone : 

"  Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben 

"  Hush,"  said  John,  softly. 
She  looked  up  with  an  air  of  mirthful  in- 
quiry, and  he  added : 

"  That  was  the  name  of  Dr.  Sevier's  wife. 
"  But  he  doesn't  hear  me  singing." 


DR.    SEVIER. 


245 


"  No,  but  it  seems  as  if  he  did." 
And  they  sang  no  more. 
They  entered  a  broad,  open  avenue,  with  a 
treeless,  grassy  way  in  the  middle,  up  which 
came  a  very  large  and  lumbering  street-car, 
with  smokers'  benches  on  the  roof,  and  drawn 
by  tandem  horses. 

"Here we  turndown,"  said  Richling,  "into 
the  way  of  the  Naiades."  (That  was  the 
street's  name.)  "  They're  not  trying  to  get 
me  away." 

He  looked  down  playfully.  She  was  cling- 
ng  to  him  with  more  energy  than  she  knew. 
"  I'd  better  hold  you  tight,"  she  answered. 
Both  laughed.  The  nonsense  of  those  we 
ove  is  better  than  the  finest  wit  on  earth. 
They  walked  on  in  their  bliss.  Shall  we  fol- 
low ?  Fie! 

They  passed  down  across  three  or  four  of 

group  of  parallel  streets  named  for  the  nine 

nuses.    At  Thalia,  they  took  the  left,  went 

me  square,  and  turned  up  by  another  street 

oward  home. 

Their  conversation  had  flagged.  Silence 
yas  enough.  The  great  earth  was  beneath 
heir  feet,  firm  and  solid ;  the  illimitable  dis- 
inces  of  the  heavens  stretched  above  their 
.eads  and  before  their  eyes.  Here  was  Mary 
t  John's  side,  and  John  at  hers ;  John  her 
jroperty  and  she  his,  and  time  flowing  softly, 
fiiningly  on.  Yea,  even  more.  If  one  might 
elieve  the  names  of  the  streets,  there  were 
Faiads  on  the  left  and  Dryads  on  the  right. 
.  little  farther  on,  Hercules ;  yonder  corner 
ic  dark  trysting-place  of  Bacchus  and  Mel- 
pmene ;  and  here,  just  in  advance,  the  corner 
jhere  Terpsichore  crossed  the  path  of  Apollo. 
;  They  came  now  along  a  high,  open  fence 
^at  ran  the  entire  length  of  a  square.  Above 
j  a  dense  rank  of  bitter-orange  trees  over- 
jmg  the  sidewalk,  their  dark  mass  of  foliage 
ittering  in  the  moonlight.  Within  lay  a  deep, 
jd-fashioned  garden.  Its  white  shell  walks 
Beamed  in  many  directions.  A  sweet  breath 
jme  from  its  parterres  of  mingled  hyacinths 
ad  jonquils  that  hid  themselves  every  mo- 
ment in  black  shadows  of  lagustrums  and 
turestines.  Here,  in  severe  order,  a"  pair  of 
jlms,  prim  as  mediaeval  queens,  stood  over 
gainst  each  other;  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
grden,  rising  high  against  the  sky,  appeared 
te  pillared  veranda  and  immense,  four- 
3led  roof  of  an  old  French  colonial  villa,  as 
i  stands  unchanged  to-day. 
The  two  loiterers  slackened  their  pace  to 
ajmire  the  scene.  There  was  much  light 
sirring  from  the  house.  Mary  could  hear 
^fces,  and,  in  a  moment,  words.  The  host 
vs  speeding  his  parting  guests. 
''  The  omnibus  will  put  you  out  only  one 
from  the  hotel,"  some  one  said. 


DR.  SEVIER,  returning  home  from  a  visit  to 
a  friend  in  Polymnia  street,  had  scarcely  got 
well  seated  in  the  omnibus  before  he  wit- 
nessed from  its  window  a  singular  dumb 
show.  He  had  handed  his  money  up  to  the 
driver  as  they  crossed  Euterpe  street,  had 
received  the  change  and  deposited  his  fare 
as  they  passed  Terpsichore,  and  was  just  sit- 
ting down  when  the  only  other  passenger  in 
the  vehicle  said,  half-rising : 

"  Hello !  there's  going  to  be  a  shooting 
scrape !  " 

A  rather  elderly  man  and  woman  on  the 
sidewalk,  both  of  them  extremely  well  dressed 
and  seemingly  on  the  eve  of  hailing  the  om- 
nibus, suddenly  transferred  their  attention  to 
a  younger  couple  a  few  steps  from  them,  who 
appeared  to  have  met  them  entirely  by  acci- 
dent. The  elderly  lady  threw  out  her  arms 
toward  the  younger  man  with  an  expression 
on  her  face  of  intensest  mental  suffering.  She 
seemed  to  cry  out,  but  the  deafening  rattle 
of  the  omnibus,  as  it  approached  them,  inter- 
cepted the  sound.  All  four  of  the  persons 
seemed,  in  various  ways,  to  experience  the 
most  violent  feelings.  The  young  man  more 
than  once  moved  as  if  about  to  start  forward, 
yet  did  not  advance ;  his  companion,  a  small, 
very  shapely  woman,  clung  to  him  excitedly 
and  pleadingly.  The  older  man  shook  a  stout 
cane  at  the  younger,  talking  furiously  as  he 
did  so.  He  held  the  elderly  lady  to  him  with 
his  arm  thrown  about  her,  while  she  now  cast 
her  hands  upward,  now  covered  her  face  with 
them,  now  wrung  them,  clasped  them,  or  ex- 
tended one  of  them  in  seeming  accusation 
against  the  younger  person  of  her  own  sex. 
In  a  moment  the  omnibus  was  opposite  the 
group.  The  Doctor  laid  his  hand  on  his  fel- 
low-passenger's arm. 

"  Don't  get  out.  There  will  be  no  shooting." 

The  young  man  on  the  sidewalk  suddenly 
started  forward,  with  his  companion  still  on 
his  farther  arm,  and  with  his  eyes  steadily 
fixed  on  those  of  the  elder  and  taller  man,  a 
clenched  fist  lifted  defensively,  and  with  a 
tense,  defiant  air  walked  hurriedly  and  silently 
by  within  easy  sweep  of  the  uplifted  staff.  At 
the  moment  when  the  slight  distance  between 
the  two  men  began  to  increase,  the  cane  rose 
higher,  but  stopped  short  in  its  descent  and 
pointed  after  the  receding  figure. 

"  I  command  you  to  leave  this  town, 
sir!" 

Dr.  Sevier  looked.  He  looked  with  all  his 
might,  drawing  his  knee  under  him  on  the 
cushion  and  leaning  out.  The  young  man 
had  passed.  He  still  moved  on,  turning  back 
as  he  went  a  face  full  of  the  fear  that  men 
show  when  they  are  afraid  of  their  own  vio- 
lence ;  and  as  the  omnibus  clattered  away,  he 


246 


DR.    SEVIER. 


crossed  the  street  at  the  upper  corner  and 
disappeared  in  the  shadows. 

"That's  a  very  strange  thing,"  said  the 
other  passenger  to  Dr.  Sevier,  as  they  re- 
sumed the  corner  seats  by  the  door. 

"  It  certainly  is !  "  replied  the  Doctor,  and 
averted  his  face.  For  when  the  group  and  he 
were  nearest  together  and  the  moon  shone 
brightly  upon  the  four,  he  saw,  beyond  all 
question,  that  the  older  man  was  his  visitor  of 
a  few  evenings  before,  and  that  the  younger 
pair  were  John  and  Mary  Richling. 


XII. 


"SHE'S    ALL   THE    WORLD." 

EXCELLENT  neighborhood,  St.  Mary  street, 
and  Prytania  was  even  better.  Everybody  was 
very  retired  though,  it  seemed.  Almost  every 
house  standing  in  the  midst  of  its  shady  gar- 
den,— sunny  gardens  are  a  newer  fashion  of 
the  town, — a  bell-knob  on  the  gate-post,  and 
the  gate  locked.  But  the  Richlings  cared 
nothing  for  this;  not  even  what  they  should 
have  cared.  Nor  was  there  any  unpleasant- 
ness in  another  fact. 

"  Do  you  let  this  window  stand  wide  this 
way  when  you  are  at  work  here,  all  day  ?  " 
asked  the  husband.  The  opening  alluded  to 
was  on  Prytania  street,  and  looked  across  the 
way  to  where  the  asylumed  widows  of  "  St. 
Anna's  "  could  glance  down  into  it  over  their 
poor  little  window-gardens. 

"  Why,  yes,  dear."  Mary  looked  up  from 
her  little  cane  rocker  with  that  thoughtful 
contraction  at  the  outer  corners  of  her  eyes 
and  that  illuminated  smile,  that  between  them 
made  half  her  beauty.  And  then,  somewhat 
more  gravely  and  persuasively  :  "  Don't  you 
suppose  they  like  it  ?  They  must  like  it.  I 
think  we  can  do  that  much  for  them.  Would 
you  rather  I'd  shut  it  ?  " 

For  answer,  John  laid  his  hand  on  her 
head  and  gazed  into  her  eyes. 

"  Take  care,"  she  whispered  ;  "  they'll  see 
you." 

He  let  his  arm  drop  in  amused  despair. 

"  Why,  what's  the  window  open  for  ?  And 
anyhow,  they're  all  abed  and  asleep  these 
two  hours." 

They  did  like  it,  those  aged  widows.  It 
fed  their  hearts'  hunger  to  see  the  pretty  un- 
known passing  and  repassing  that  open  win- 
dow in  the  performance  of  her  morning  duties, 
or  sitting  down  near  it  with  her  needle,  still 
crooning  her  soft  morning  song, — poor,  almost 
as  poor  as  they,  in  this  world's  glitter,  but 
rich  in  hope  and  courage,  and  rich  beyond  all 
count  in  the  content  of  one  who  finds  herself 
queen  of  ever  so  little  a  house,  where  love  is. 


"  Love  is  enough !  "  said  the  widows. 

And  certainly  she  made  it  seem  so.  The 
open  window  brought,  now  and  then,  a  moist- 
ure to  the  aged  eyes ;  yet  they  liked  it  open. 

But  without  warning,  one  day,  there  was  a 
change.  It  was  the  day  after  Dr.  Sevier  had 
noticed  that  queer  street  quarrel.  The  window 
was  not  closed,  but  it  sent  out  no  more  light. 
The  song  was  not  heard,  and  many  small, 
faint  signs  gave  indication  that  anxiety  had 
come  to  be  a  guest  in  the  little  house.  At 
evening,  the  wife  was  seen  in  her  front  door 
and  about  its  steps  watching  in  a  new,  rest- 
less way  for  her  husband's  coming ;  and  when 
he  came  it  could  be  seen,  all  the  way  from 
those  upper  windows,  where  one  or  two  faces 
appeared  now  and  then,  that  he  was  troubled 
and  care-worn.  There  were  two  more  days 
like  this  one ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  fourth 
the  wife  read  good  tidings  in  her  husband's 
countenance.  He  handed  her  a  newspaper, 
and  pointed  to  a  list  of  departing  passengers. 

"  They're  gone !  "  she  exclaimed. 

He  nodded,  and  laid  off  his  hat.  She  cast 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  buried  her  head 
in  his  bosom.  You  could  almost  have  seer 
Anxiety  flying  out  at  the  window.  By  morn- 
ing the  widows  knew  of  a  certainty  that  the 
cloud  had  melted  away. 

IN  the  counting-room  one  evening,  ae 
Richling  said  good-night  with  noticeabk 
alacrity,  one  of  his  employers,  sitting  witf 
his  legs  crossed  over  the  top  of  a  desk,  sale 
to  his  partner : 

"  Richling  works  for  his  wages." 

"  That's  all,"  replied  the  other ;  "  he  don' 
see  his  interests  in  ours  any  more  than  a  tin 
smith  would,  who  comes  to  mend  the  roof. 

The  first  one  took  a  meditative  puff  or  tw< 
from  his  cigar,  tipped  off  its  ashes,  and  re 
sponded : 

"  Common  fault.  He  completely  overlook 
his  immense  indebtedness  to  the  world  a 
large,  and  his  dependence  on  it.  He's  a  goo 
fellow,  and  bright;  but  he  actually  think 
that  he  and  the  world  are  starting  even." 

"  His  wife's  his  world,"  said  the  other,  an 
opened  the  Bills  Payable  book.  Who  will  sa 
it  is  not  well  to  sail  in  an  ocean  of  love  ?  Bi 
the  Richlings  were  becalmed  in  theirs,  am 
not  knowing  it,  were  satisfied. 

Day  in,  day  out,  the  little  wife  sat  at  h< 
window,  and  drove  her  needle.  Omnibust 
rumbled  by,  an  occasional  wagon  or  cart  s 
the  dust  aflying,  the  street  venders  passe 
crying  the  praises  of  their  goods  and  wa  t 
the  blue  sky  grew  more  and  more  intense 
weeks  piled  up  upon  weeks;  but  the  ernp 
repetitions,  and  the  isolation,  and,  worst  of  a 
the  escape  of  time — she  smiled  at  all,  a 


DR.    SEVIER. 


247 


sewed  on  and  crooned  on,  in  the  sufficient 
thought  that  John  would  come,  each  time, 
when  only  hours  enough  had  passed  away 
forever. 

I  Once  she  saw  Dr.  Sevier's  carriage.  She 
jowed  brightly,  but  he — what  could  it  mean? 
—he  lifted  his  hat  with  such  austere  gravity. 
Dr.  Sevier  was  angry.  He  had  no  definite 
;harge  to  make,  but  that  did  not  lessen  his 
lispleasure.  After  long,  unpleasant  wonder- 
ing, and  long  trusting  to  see  Richling  some 
ay  on  the  street,  he  had  at  length  driven  by 
lis  way  purposely  to  see  if  they  had  indeed 
eft  town,  as  they  had  been  so  imperiously 
ommanded  to  do. 

This  incident,  trivial  as  it  was,  roused 
lary  to  thought ;  and  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
he  thought  worked  with  energy  to  dislodge 
he  frame  of  mind  that  she  had  acquired 
•om  her  husband. 

When  John  came  home  that  night  and 
ressed  her  to  his  bosom,  she  was  silent.  And 
'hen  he  held  her  off  a  little  and  looked  into 
er  eyes,  and  she  tried  to  better  her  smile, 
|iose  eyes  stood  full  to  the  lashes  and  she 
>oked  down. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  he,  quickly. 

"  Nothing !  "  She  looked  up  again,  with  a 
jttle  laugh. 

He  took  a  chair  and  drew  her  down  upon 

s  lap. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  girl  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  How,  you  don't  know  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  simply  don't.  I  can't  make  out 
hat  it  is.  If  I  could,  I'd  tell  you;  but  I 

m't  know  at  all."    After  they  had  sat  silent 

few  moments  : 

"  I  wonder,"  she  began 

"  You  wonder  what  ?  "  asked  he,  in  a  rally- 

g  tone. 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  such  a  thing  as  being 

o  contented." 

Richling  began  to  hum,  with  a  playful 
fcnner : 

" '  And  she's  all  the  world  to  me. ' 

that  being  too " 

<  Stop  !  "  said  Mary  ;  "  that's  it !  "   She  laid 

r  hand  upon  his  shoulder.   "  You've  said  it. 


lat's  what  I  ought  not  to  be ! " 
!"Why,   Mary,  what    on    earth!"- 
e  flamed  up. 


His 


"  John,  I'm  willing  to  be  more  than  all  the 
of  the  world  to  you.    I  always  must  be 
t  it.  I'm  going  to  be  that  forever.  And  you  " 
she  kissed  him  passionately — "you're  all 
i  world  to  me!     But  I've  no  right  to  be 
the  world  to  you.    And  you  mustn't  allow 
It's  making  it  too  small !  " 
'  Mary,  what  are  you  saying  ?  " 
k  Don't,  John.    Don't  speak  that  way.   I'm 


not  saying  anything.  I'm  only  trying  to  say 
something,  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  was  the  mock-rueful 
answer. 

"  I  only  know,"  replied  Mary,  the  vision  of 
Dr.  Sevier's  carriage  passing  before  her  ab- 
stracted eyes  and  of  the  Doctor's  pale  face 
bowing  austerely  within  it,  "  that  if  you  don't 
take  any  part  or  interest  in  the  outside  world, 
it'll  take  none  in  you ;  do  you  think  it  will  ?  " 

"  And  who  cares  if  it  doesn't  ? "  cried 
John,  clasping  her  to  his  bosom. 

"  I  do,"  she  replied.  "  Yes,  I  do.  I've  no 
right  to  steal  you  from  the  rest  of  the  world, 
or  from  the  place  in  it  that  you  ought  to  fill. 
John " 

"  That's  my  name." 

"  Why  can't  I  do  something  to  help  you?" 

John  lifted  his  head  unnecessarily. 

"No!" 

"  Well,  then,  let's  think  of  something  we 
can  do,  without  just  waiting  for  the  wind  to 
blow  us  along — I  mean,"  she  added,  appeas- 
ingly,  "  I  mean  without  waiting  to  be  em- 
ployed by  others." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  that  takes  capital." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  why  don't  you  think 
up  something — some  new  enterprise  or  some- 
thing—  and  get  somebody  with  capital  to  go 
in  with  you  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  You're  out  of  your  depth.  And  that 
wouldn't  make  so  much  difference,  but  you're 
out  of  mine.  It  isn't  enough  to  think  of  some- 
thing; you  must  know  how  to  do  it.  And 
what  do  I  know  how  to  do  ?  Nothing !  Noth- 
ing that's  worth  doing  !  " 

"  I  know  one  thing  you  could  do." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  You  could  be  a  professor  in  a  college." 

John  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Without  antecedents  ?  "  he  asked. 

Their  eyes  met ;  hers  dropped,  and  both 
voices  were  silent.  Mary  drew  a  soft  sigh. 
She  thought  their  talk  had  been  unprofitable. 
But  it  had  not ;  John  laid  hold  of  work  from 
that  day  on  in  a  better  and  wiser  spirit. 

XIII. 
THE    BOUGH    BREAKS. 

BY  some  trivial  chance,  she  hardly  knew 
what,  Mary  found  herself  one  day  conversing 
at  her  own  door  with  the  woman  whom  she 
and  her  husband  had  once  smiled  at  for 
walking  the  moonlit  street  with  her  hand  in 
willing  and  undisguised  captivity.  She  was 
a  large  and  strong,  but  extremely  neat,  well- 
spoken,  and  good-looking  Irish  woman,  who 
might  have  seemed  at  ease  but  for  a  faintly 
betrayed  ambition. 


248 


DR.    SEVIER. 


She  praised  with  rather  ornate  English  the 
good  appearance  and  convenient  smallness  of 
Mary's  house ;  said  her  own  was  the  same  size. 
That  person  with  whom  she  sometimes  passed 
"of  a  Sundeh" — yes,  and  moonlight  evenings 
— that  was  her  husband.  He  was  "  ferst  ingin- 
eeur  "  on  a  steam-boat.  There  was  a  little,  just 
discernible  waggle  in  her  head  as  she  stated 
things.  •  It  gave  her  decided  character. 

"  Ah  !  engineer,"  said  Mary. 

"  Ferst  ingineeur,"  repeated  the  woman ; 
"you  know  there  bees  ferst  ingineeurs,  an' 
secon'  ingineeurs,  an'  therd  ingineeurs.  Yes." 
She  unconsciously  fanned  herself  with  the 
dust-pan  that  she  had  just  bought  from  a  tin 
peddler. 

She  lived  only  some  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  away  around  the  corner,  in  a  tidy  little 
cottage  snuggled  in  among  larger  houses  in 
Coliseum  street.  She  had  had  children, but  she 
had  lost  them ;  and  Mary's  sympathy  when 
she  told  her  of  them  —  the  girl  and  two  boys 
— won  the  woman  as  much  as  the  little  lady's 
pretty  manners  had  dazed  her.  It  was  not 
long  before  she  began  to  drop  in  upon  Mary 
in  the  hour  of  twilight  and  sit  through  it 
without  speaking  often,  or  making  herself 
especially  interesting  in  any  way,  but  finding 
it  pleasant  notwithstanding. 

"John,"  said  Mary, — her  husband  had 
come  in  unexpectedly.  —  "our  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Riley." 

John's  bow  was  rather  formal,  and  Mrs. 
Riley  soon  rose  and  said  good-evening. 

"John,"  said  the  wife  again,  laying  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders  as  she  tiptoed  to  kiss 
him,  "  what  troubles  you  ?  "  Then  she  at- 
tempted a  rallying  manner :  "  Don't  my 
friends  suit  you  ?  " 

He  hesitated  only  an  instant,  and  then  said  : 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  all  right." 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  see  why  you  look  so." 

"  I've  finished  the  task  I  was  to  do." 

"  What !  you  haven't " 

"  I'm  out  of  employment." 

They  went  and  sat  down  on  the  little  hair- 
cloth sofa  that  Mrs.  Riley  had  just  left. 

"  I  thought  they  said  they  would  have 
other  work  for  you." 

"  They  said  they  might  have ;  but  it  seems 
they  haven't." 

"  And  it's  just  in  the  opening  of  summer, 
too,"  said  Mary ;  "  why,  what  right " 

"Oh!" — a  despairing  gesture  and  averted 
gaze — "  they've  a  perfect  right  if  they  think 
best.  I  asked  them  that  myself  at  first — not 
too  politely,  either;  but  I  soon  saw  I  was 
wrong." 

They  sat  without  speaking,  until  it  had 
grown  quite  dark.  Then  John  said,  with  a 
long  breath,  as  he  rose : 


"  It  passes  my  comprehension." 

"  What  passes  it  ?  "  asked  Mary,  detaining; 
him  by  one  hand. 

"The  reason  why  we  are  so  pursued  by 
misfortunes." 

"  But,  John,"  she  said,  still  holding  him, 
"  is  it  misfortune  ?  When  I  know  so  well  that 
you  deserve  to  succeed,  I  think  maybe  it's 
good  fortune  in  disguise  after  all.  Don't  you 
think  it's  possible?  You  remember  how  it 
was  last  time — when  A,  B  &  Co.  failed. 
Maybe  the  best  of  all  is  to  come  now  !  "  She 
beamed  with  courage.  "  Why,  John,  it  seems 
to  me  I'd  just  go  in  the  very  best  of  spirits, 
the  first  thing  to-morrow,  and  tell  Dr.  Sevier 
you  are  looking  for  work.  Don't  you  think  it 
might " 

"  I've  been  there." 

"  Have  you  ?   What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  wasn't  in." 

THERE  was  another  neighbor  with  whom 
John  and  Mary  did  not  get  acquainted.  Not 
that  it  was  more  his  fault  than  theirs ;  it  may 
have  been  less.  Unfortunately  for  the  Rich- , 
lings,  there  was  in  their  dwelling  no  toddling, 
self-appointed  child  commissioner  to  find  his 
way  in  unwatched  moments  to  the  play- 
ground of  some  other  toddler,  and  so  plant 
the  good  seed  of  neighbor  acquaintanceship. 

This  neighbor  passed  four  times  a  day.  A 
man  of  fortune,  aged  a  hale  sixty  or  so,  who 
came  and  stood  on  the  corner,  and  sometimes 
even  rested  a  foot  on  Mary's  door-step,  wait- 
ing for  the  Prytania  omnibus ;  and  who,  on 
his  returns,  got  down  from  the  omnibus  step 
a  little  gingerly,  went  by  Mary's  house,  and 
presently  shut  himself  inside  a  very  orna- 
mental iron  gate  a  short  way  up  St.  Mar) 
street.  A  child  would  have  made  him  ac- 
quainted. Even  as  it  was,  they  did  not  escape 
his  silent  notice.  It  was  pleasant  for  him 
from  whose  life  the  early  dew  had  been  driec 
away  by  a  well-risen  sun,  to  recall  its  forme: 
freshness  by  glimpses  of  this  pair  of  youn£ 
beginners.  It  was  like  having  a  bird'snes 
under  his  window. 

John,  stepping  backward  from  his  door  on< 
day,  saying  a  last  word  to  his  wife,  who  stocx 
on  the  threshold,  pushed  against  this  neigh 
bor  as  he  was  moving  with  somewhat  cum 
bersome  haste  to  catch  the  stage,  turne( 
quickly,  and  raised  his  hat.. 

"  Pardon." 

The  other  uncovered  his  bald  head  am 
circlet  of  white,  silken  locks,  and  hurried  01 
to  the  conveyance. 

"  President  of  one  of  the  banks  down-to wi., 
whispered  John. 

That  is  the  nearest  they  ever  came  to  l>e 
ing  acquainted.  And  even  this  accident  mig  ^ 


DR.    SEVIER. 


249 


•not  have  occurred  had  not  the  man  of  snowy 
locks  been  glancing  up  at  Mary  as  he  passed 
instead  of  at  his  omnibus. 

As  he  sat  -at  home  that  evening  he  re- 
marked : 

"  Very  pretty  little  woman  that,  my  dear, 
that  lives  in  the  little  house  at  the  corner ; 
who  is  she  ?  " 

The   lady   responded,  without   lifting   her 

eyes  from  the  newspaper  in  which  she  was 

jinterested ;  she  did  not  know.    The  husband 

mused  and  twirled   his   penknife   between  a 

nger  and  thumb. 

"  They  seem  to  be  starting  at  the  bottom," 
e  observed. 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  much  the  same  as  we  did." 

"  I  haven't  noticed  them  particularly." 

"  They're  worth  noticing,"  said  the  banker. 

He  threw  one  fat  knee  over  the  other  and 
aid  his  head  in  the  back  of  his  easy-chair. 

The  lady's  eyes  were  still  on  her  paper,  but 
ic  asked: 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  see  them  ?  " 

"  No,  no  —  unless  you  wish." 

She  dropped  the  paper  into  her  lap  with  a 
mile  and  sigh. 

"  Don't  propose  it.  I  have  so  much  going  to 
"  She  paused,  removed  her  glasses,  and 
ill  to  straightening  the  fringe  of  the  lamp  mat. 
Of  course,  if  you  think  they're  in  need  of 
friend  —  but  from  your  description " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  quickly,  "  not  at  all. 
"hey've  friends,  no  doubt.  Everything  about 
icrn  has  a  neat,  happy  look.  That's  what 
(ttracted  my  notice.  They've  got  friends, 
jou  may  depend."  He  ceased,  took  up  a 
iamphlet,  and  adjusted  his  glasses.  "  I  think 
i  saw  a  sofa  going  in  there  to-day  as  I  came 
)  dinner.  A  little  expansion,  I  suppose." 

"  It  was  going  out,"  said  the  only  son, 
•oking  up  from  a  story-book. 

But  the  banker  was  reading.  He  heard 
)thing,  and  the  word  was  not  repeated.  He 
d  not  divine  that  a  little  becalmed  and  be- 
gged bark,  with  only  two  lovers  in  her  too 
roud  to  cry  "  Help,"  had  drifted  just  yonder 
bon  the  rocks,  and,  spar  by  spar  and  plank 
/  plank,  was  dropping  into  the  smooth,  un- 
Jerciful  sea. 

jBefore  the  sofa  went,  there  had  gone,  little 
|  little,  some  smaller  valuables. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mary  to  her  husband,  with 
te  bright  hurry  of  a  wife  bent  upon  some- 
ting  high-handed,  "  we  both  have  to  have 
fpiture :  we  must  have  it ;  and  I  don't  have 
tjhave  jewelry.  Don't  you  see  ?  " 

I"  No,  I " 

"  Now,  John !  "    There  could  be  but  one 

d  to  the  debate ;  she  had  determined  that, 
le  first  piece  was  a  bracelet.  "  No,  I 


wouldn't  pawn  it,"  she  said.  "  Better  sell  it 
outright  at  once." 

But  Richling  could  not  but  cling  to  hope 
and  to  the  adornments  that  had  so  often 
clasped  her  wrists  and  throat  or  pinned 
the  folds  upon  her  bosom.  Piece  by  piece  he 
pawned  them,  always  looking  out  ahead 
with  strained  vision  for  the  improbable,  the 
incredible,  to  rise  to  his  relief. 

"  Is  nothing  going  to  happen,  Mary  ?  " 

Yes;  nothing  happened  —  except  in  the 
pawn-shop. 

So,  all  the  sooner,  the  sofa  had  to  go. 

"  It's  no  use  talking  about  borrowing," 
they  both  said.  Then  the  bureau  went.  Then 
the  table.  Then,  one  by  one,  the  chairs.  Very 
slyly  it  was  all  done,  too.  Neighbors  mustn't 
know.  "  Who  lives  there  ?  "  is  a  question  not 
asked  concerning  houses  as  small  as  theirs ; 
and  a  young  man  in  a  well-fitting  suit  of  only 
too  heavy  goods,  removing  his  winter  hat  to 
wipe  the  standing  drops  from  his  forehead ; 
and  a  little  blush-rose  woman  at  his  side  in  a 
mist  of  cool  muslin  and  the  cunningest  of  mil- 
linery,— these,  who  always  paused  a  moment, 
with  a  lost  look,  in  the  vestibule  of  the  sepul- 
chral-looking little  church  on  the  corner  of 
Prytania  and  Josephine  streets,  till  the  sexton 
ushered  them  in,  and  who  as  often  contrived, 
with  no  end  of  ingenuity,  despite  the  little 
woman's  fresh  beauty,  to  get  away  after  serv- 
ice unaccosted  by  the  elders, —  who  could  im- 
agine that  these  were  from  so  deep  a  nook  in 
poverty's  vale  ? 

There  was  one  person  who  guessed  it :  Mrs. 
Riley,  who  was  not  asked  to  walk  in  any 
more  when  she  called  at  the  twilight  hour. 
She  partly  saw  and  partly  guessed  the  truth, 
and  offered  what  each  one  of  the  pair  had 
been  secretly  hoping  somebody,  anybody, 
would  offer  —  a  loan.  But  when  it  actually 
confronted  them,  it  was  sweetly  declined. 

"  Wasn't  it  kind  ?  "  said  Mary ;  and  John 
said,  emphatically,  "  Yes."  Very  soon  it  was 
their  turn  to  be  kind  to  Mrs.  Riley.  They 
attended  her  husband's  funeral.  He  had  been 
killed  by  an  explosion.  Mrs.  R.iley  beat  upon 
the  bier  with  her  fists,  and  wailed  with  a  far- 
reaching  voice : 

"  O  Mike,  Mike  !  Me  jew'l,  me  jew'l ! 
Why  didn't  ye  wait  to  see  the  babe  that's 
unborn  ?  " 

And  Mary  wept.  And  when  she  and  John 
reentered  their  denuded  house,  she  fell  upon 
his  neck  with  fresh  tears  and  kissed  him 
again  and  again,  and  could  utter  no  word, 
but  knew  he  understood.  Poverty  was  so 
much  better  than  sorrow !  She  held  him  fast, 
and  he  her,  while  he  tenderly  hushed  her,  lest 
a  grief,  the  very  opposite  of  Mrs.  Riley's, 
should  overtake  her. 


250 


DR.    SEVIER. 


XIV. 


HARD    SPEECHES   AND    HIGH   TEMPER. 

DR.  SEVIER  found  occasion,  one  morning, 
to  speak  at  some  length,  and  very  harshly, 
to  his  book-keeper.  He  had  hardly  ceased 
when  John  Richling  came  briskly  in. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  with  great  buoyancy, 
"  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

The  physician  slightly  frowned. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Richling." 

Richling  was  tamed  in  an  instant ;  but  to 
avoid  too  great  a  contrast  of  manner,  he  re- 
tained a  semblance  of  sprightliness  as  he  said : 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  had  this 
pleasure  since  you  were  last  at  our  house, 
Doctor." 

"  Did  you  not  see  me  one  evening,  some 
time  ago,  in  the  omnibus  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Sevier. 

"  Why,  no,"  replied  the  other  with  return- 
ing pleasure;  "  was  I  in  the  same  omnibus?  " 

"  You  were  on  the  sidewalk." 

"  No-o,"  said  Richling,  pondering.  "  I've 
seen  you  in  your  carriage  several  times,  but 
you " 

"  I  didn't  see  you." 

Richling  was  stung.  The  conversation 
failed.  He  recommenced  it  in  a  tone 
pitched  intentionally  too  low  for  the  alert  ear 
of  Narcisse. 

"  Doctor,  I've  simply  called  to  say  to  you 
that  I'm  out  of  work  and  looking  for  employ- 
ment again." 

"  Umhum,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  a  cold 
fullness  of  voice  that  hurt  Richling  afresh. 
"  You'll  find  it  hard  to^get  anything  this  time 
of  year,"  he  continued,  with  no  attempt  at 
under-tone;  "it's  very  hard  for  anybody  to 
get  anything  these  days,  even  when  well  rec- 
ommended." 

Richling  smiled  an  instant.  The  Doctor  did 
not,  but  turned  partly  away  to  his  desk,  and 
added,  as  if  the  smile  had  displeased  him  : 

"  Well,  maybe  you'll  not  find  it  so." 

Richling  turned  fiery  red. 

"  Whether  I  do  or  not,"  he  said  rising, 
"  my  affairs  sha'n't  trouble  anybody.  Good- 
morning." 

He  started  out. 

"How's  Mrs.  Richling?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  She's  well,"  responded  Richling,  putting 
on  his  hat  and  disappearing  in  the  corridor. 
Each  footstep  could  be  heard  as  he  went 
down  the  stairs. 

"  He's  a  fool !  "  muttered  the  physician. 

He  looked  up  angrily,  for  Narcisse  stood 
before  him. 

"  Well,  Doctah,"  said  the  Creole,  hurriedly 
arranging  his  coat-collar,  and  drawing  his 
handkerchief,  "  I'm  goin'  ad  the  poss-office." 


"  See  here,  sir !  "  exclaimed  the  Doctor, 
bringing  his  fist  down  upon  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  "  every  time  you've  gone  out  of  this 
office  for  the  last  six  months  you've  told  me 
you  were  going  to  the  post-office  ;  now  don't 
you  ever  tell  me  that  again ! " 

The  young  man  bowed  with  injured  dignity 
and  responded : 

"  All  a-ight,  seh." 

He  overtook  Richling  just  outside  the  street 
entrance.  Richling  had  halted  there  bereft 
of  intention,  almost  of  outward  sense,  and 
choking  with  bitterness.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
if  in  an  instant  all  his  misfortunes,  disappoint- 
ments, and  humiliations,  that  never  befort 
had  seemed  so  many  or  so  great,  had  beer 
gathered  up  into  the  knowledge  of  that  hare 
man  upstairs,  and,  with  one  unmerciful  down- 
ward wrench,  had  received  his  seal  of  ap 
proval.  Indignation,  wrath,  self-hatred,  dis 
may,  in  undefined  confusion,  usurpeel  tht 
faculties  of  sight  and  hearing  and  motion. 

"Mistoo  'Itchlin',"  said  Narcisse,  "I  'opt 
you  fine  you'seff  O.  K*,  seh,  if  you'll  egscus< 
the  slang  expwession." 

Richling  started  to  move  away,  but  checkec 
himself. 

"  I'm  well,  sir,  thank  you,  sir ;  yes,  sir,  I'n 
very  well." 

"  I  billieve  you,  seh.    You  ah  lookin'  well/ 

Narcisse  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  turned  upon  the  outer  sides  of  his  feet 
the  embodiment  of  sweet  temper.  Richling 
found  him  a  wonderful  relief  at  the  moment 
He  quit  gnawing  his  lip  and  winking  int( 
vacancy,  and  felt  a  malicious  good  humor  ru! 
into  all  his  veins. 

"  I  dunno  'ow  'tis,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',"  sai» 
Narcisse,  "  but  I  muz  tell  you  the  tooth,  yo 
always  'ave  to  me  the  appe'ance  ligue  th 
chile  of  p'ospe'ity." 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Richling,  hollowing  his  han 
at  his  ear, — "  child  of " 

"  P'ospe'ity ! " 

«  Yes — yes,"  replied  the  deaf  man  vagueb 
"  I — have  a  relative  of  that  name." 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  the  Creole,  "thass  goo' 
faw  luck !    Mistoo  'Itchlin',  look'  like  you 
lill  mo'  hawd   to   yeh — but  egscuse   me. 
s'pose  you   muz  be  advancing  in   busines 
Mistoo  Ttchlin'.    I  say  I  s'pose  you  m 
gittin'  along !  " 

"  I  ?  yes ;  yes,  I  must." 

He  started. 

"  I'm  'appy  to  yeh  it !  "  said  Narcisse. 

His  innocent  kindness  was  a  rebuke.   Kiel 
ling  began  to  offer  a  cordial  parting  sa 
tion,  but  Narcisse  said  : 

"  You  goin'  that  way  ?    Well,  I  kin  go 
way."   They  went. 

"  I  was  goin'  ad  the  poss-office,  but 


sines 

" 


THE  PRETENDERS   TO    THE    THRONE    OF  FRANCE.  251 


he  waved  his  hand  and  curled  his  lip.    "  Mis- 

too  'Itchlin',  in  fact,  if  you  yeh  of  something 

suitable  to  me  I  would  like  to  yeh  it.    I  am 

not   satisfied    with    that    pless    yondeh   with 

JDoctah  Seveeah.    I  was  compel  this  mawnin', 

Ibiffo  you  came  in,  to   'epoove   'im   faw    'is 

'oodness.    He  called  me  a  jackass,  in  fact.    I 

Ivvoon   allow    that.    I    'ad    to    'epoove    'im. 

I'  Doctah  Seveeah,'  says  I,  *  don't  you  call  me 

la  jackass  ag'in ! '    An'  'e  din  call  it  me  ag'in. 

|No,  seh.    But  'e  din  like  to  'ush  up.   Thass 

the  rizz'n  'e   was  a  lill  miscutteous  to  you. 

Me,  I  am  always  polite.    As  they  say,  '  A  nod 

Is  juz  as  good  as  a  kick  f'om  a  bline  hoss.' 

You  ah.fon'  of  maxim,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'  ?    Me, 

f'm  ve'y  fon'   of  them.    But  they's  got  one 

naxim  what  you  may  'ave  'eard — I  do  not 

ne  that  maxim  always  come  t'ue.    'Ave  you 

vva  yeah  that  maxim,  '  A  fool  faw  luck '  ? 

That  don't  always  come  t'ue.    I  'ave  discov- 

red  that." 

"  No,"  responded  Richling,  with  a  parting 
mile,  "  that  doesn't  always  come  true." 

Dr.  Sevier  denounced  the  world  at  large, 
,nd  the  American  nation  in  particular,  for  two 
ays.  Within  himself,  for  twenty-four  hours, 


he  grumly  blamed  Richling  for  their  rupture; 
then  for  twenty-four  hours  reproached  himself, 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  knocked 
at  the  door,  corner  of  St.  Mary  and  Prytania. 

No  one  answered.  He  knocked  again.  A 
woman  in  bare  feet  showed  herself  at  the 
corresponding  door- way  in  the  farther  half  of 
the  house. 

"  Nobody  don't  live  there  no  more,  sir," 
she  said. 

"  Where  have  they  gone  ?  " 

"  Well,  reely,  I  couldn't  tell  you,  sir.  Be- 
cause, reely,  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it. 
I  haint  but  jest  lately  moved  in  here  myself, 
and  I  don't  know  nothing  about  nobody 
around  here  scarcely  at  all." 

The  Doctor  shut  himself  again  in  his  car- 
riage and  let  himself  be  whisked  away,  in 
great  vacuity  of  mind. 

"They  can't  blame  anybody  but  them- 
selves "  was,  by  and  by,  his  rallying  thought. 
"Still" — he  said  to  himself  after  another  va- 
cant interval,  and  said  no  more.  The  thought 
that  whether  they  could  blame  others  or  not 
did  not  cover  all  the  ground,  rested  heavily 
on  him. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE  PRETENDERS  TO  THE  THRONE  OF  FRANCE. 


IF   France  were   a   republican   nation,  as 
any   Americans,   satisfied   with   their   own 
rtunate   lot,  fondly  suppose,  this  question 
the  various  claimants  to  the  French  throne 
ould  surely  be  scarcely  worth  a  moment's 
tention.  But  the  alarm  shown  by  the  French 
overnment  whenever  the  question  has  been 
ised,  the  stringent  measures  adopted,  and 
ose  proposed  for  the  future,  bear  testimony 
a   feeling    of  insecurity.     It    cannot  be 
ubted  that  a  large  part  of  the  nation  favors 
constitutional   government    under  a  nom- 
al  king,  one   whose  power  would  be   re- 
?icted  —  a  sort  of  president  of  a  republican 
narchy,  if  such  a  contradictory  term  may 
admitted.    A  court  of  some  kind   is  the 
t  want  felt  in  the  luxurious  city  of  Paris ; 
center  of  fashion  and  elegance,  presided 
by  those  whose  undoubted  rank  would 
iturally  call  around  them  the  most  distin- 
gished  individuals  of  their  own  land  and  of 
<ier  nations.    In  Paris,  luxury  is  an  absolute 
i  cessity,  and  Spartan  virtues  will  never  take 
nt  in  that  city  of  gayety  and  pleasure.    The 
Frisian  lives  chiefly  by  the  trades  which  thrive 
c  the  habits  of  a  court  and  an  aristocracy. 
\hen  there  is  none,  he  seeks  the  patronage  of 


any  one  who  will  spend  money  lavishly ;  and 
then  is  seen  what  we  see  now,  the  degrada- 
tion of  the  national  taste,  under  the  auspices 
of  the  meretricious  leaders  of  pleasure. 

That  sooner  or  later  the  monarchy  will  be 
reestablished,  even  many  who  are  antagonis- 
tic to  the  principle  feel  to  be  more  than  a 
probability.  Had  the  Prince  Imperial  lived, 
many  think  he  would  now  be  on  the  throne 
of  France.  The  sensation  produced  by  the  ill- 
ness and*  danger  of  the  Comte  de  Chambord, 
the  anxiety  with  which  news  of  his  condition 
was  awaited,  and  the  in  voluntary  respect  shown 
by  even  Republican  politicians  when  writing 
of  the  almost  unknown  and  exiled  represen- 
tative of  the  old  royal  race,  is  a  striking 
proof  of  what  we  have  said.  If  he  had  lived, 
it  is  probable  that  a  reaction  in  his  favor 
would  have  taken  place.  Still,  the  whole 
education,  the  chivalrous  principles  of  the 
Comte  de  Chambord,  seem  to  have  ren- 
dered him  unfit  to  reign  over  the  French 
nation,  such  as  it  is  now.  No  impartial  ob- 
server can  deny  that  the  whole  moral  and 
intellectual  tone  of  the  nation  has  been  low- 
ered. That  the  profuse  luxury  and  loose 
morality  of  the  imperial  regime  did  harm 


252 


.  THE  PRETENDERS   TO    THE    THRONE    OF  FRANCE. 


must  be  acknowledged.  But  what  do  we  see 
now  ?  Never  has  public  morality  and  de- 
cency been  so  outraged ;  never  have  crimes 
of  the  most  horrible  kind  been  so  frequent. 
We  see  the  reign  of  vice  represented  by  low 
actresses  of  low  theaters  and  women  of 
bad  reputation.  All  the  journals  relate  their 
doings ;  their  funerals  are  followed  by  lit- 
erary men,  who  write  their  biographies  and 
praise  their  "  virtues ." !  As  there  are  no 
royal  ladies  now  to  occupy  public  attention, 
and  as  private  gentlewomen  strive  to  remain 
unnoticed,  these  women  are  the  queens  of 
the  day. 

When  the  "vices  of  a  court"  are  mentioned, 
is  it  not  easy  to  inquire  what  could  be  worse 
than  what  we  see  now  ?  Under  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, the  court  was  a  pattern  of  domestic  life 
and  family  affections.  More  that  was  worthy 
of  blame  might  be  brought  forward  against 
the  Empire ;  still,  whatever  might  have  been 
the  private  lives  of  some  of  the  courtiers,  noth- 
ing serious  could  be  urged  against  the  Em- 
press Eugenie,  and  all  must  feel  respect  for  the 
Princesse  Clotilde.  That,  under  Henri  V.  (had 
the  Comte  de  Chambord  lived  to  obtain  the 
throne),  there  could  have  been  no  danger 
of  royal  toleration  of  moral  laxity  at  court, 
may  be  inferred  from  his  traditions  and 
training. 

His  full  name  was  Henri  Charles  Ferdi- 
nand Marie  Dieudonne  of  Bourbon — "  Son 
of  France  "  (Fils  de  France),  Due  de  Bor- 
deaux, Comte  de  Chambord,  and  in  the  eyes 
of  his  adherents  King  of  France,  de  jure  if 
not  de  facto.  They  called  him  Le  Roi. 

Why  Dieudonne —  God-given  ?  The  heir- 
apparent  of  the  childless  Louis  XVIII.  was 
his  brother,  the  Comte  d'Artois,  afterward 
Charles  X.,  whose  eldest  son,  the  Due  d'An- 
gouleme,  married  to  the  orphan  daughter 
of  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  Antoinette,  was 
likewise  without  children.  The  hopes  of  the 
nation,  as  to  the  continuation  of  the  dynasty, 
were  consequently  centered  in  the  younger 
son  of  the  Comte  d'Artois,  the  Due  de  Berry, 
married  to  the  Princesse  Caroline  of  Naples. 
One  child  was  born,  a  daughter,  who,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  Salic  law,  could  not  ascend  the 
throne  of  France ;  if  he  should  have  no  more, 
there  would  be  an  end  to  the  elder  branch  of 
the  Bourbons.  It  was  then  that  the  assassin 
Louvel  struck  down  the  young  prince  at  the 
door  of  the  opera-house,  just  as  he  turned 
away  from  the  carriage  to  which  he  had  taken 
the  Duchess,  his  wife,  who  did  not  wish  to  re- 
main till  the  end  of  the  performance.  The  stab 
of  the  poniard  had  been  directed  with  a  sure 
hand,  and  the  Due  de  Berry  died  at  the 
opera-house  before  morning,  surrounded  by 
the  weeping  royal  family,  and  in  the  presence 


of  the  old  King,  hastily  summoned  to  witness 
the  death  of  his  murdered  nephew,  whose 
condition  did  not  admit  of  his  removal  to 
the  Tuileries  palace. 

Before  his  death,  after  vainly  entreating 
for  the  pardon  of  his  murderer,  the  Duke 
declared  that  his  wife  had  hopes  of  an  heir. 

The  child  was  born,  and  it  was  a  boy,  who, 
in  thanksgiving,  was  named  Dieudonne,  God- 
given,  and  Henri,  in  memory  of  the  ever 
popular  founder  of  the  Bourbon  dynasty— 
Henri  Quatre  (Henry  of  Navarre). 

The   child   of   sorrow,  the   royal    Benoni, 
grew  up,  educated  with  his  charming  sister, 
beloved  by  all,  Louise  of  France,  afterward 
Duchesse  de  Parma ;  a  princess  of  great  intelli- 
gence and  of  a  masculine  spirit,  like  man) 
other  daughters  of  the  house  of   Bourbon 
withal,  irreproachable  in  her  private  life  — 
truly  Christian  wife  and  mother. 

Henri  was  a  bright  and  spirited  boy ;  kind 
hearted,  with  the  characteristic  kindness  o 
the  Bourbons,  ever  ready  to  respond  to  higl 
and  generous  impulse ;  no  bookworm,  no 
even  very  exemplary  as  a  studious  school 
boy ;  but  an  engaging  child,  with  the  soul  o 
a  prince  and,  what  is  more,  the  soul  of  a  gen 
tleman. 

At  ten  years  of  age  he  left  France,  an  exile 
having   in  vain   been  proclaimed    king  afte 
the  abdication  of  his  grandfather,  Charles  X. 
which  was  immediately  followed  by  that  o 
his  uncle,  the  Due  d'Angouleme.   The  famil 
took  refuge  at  Holy  rood,  the  fated  palace  o 
the  Stuarts,  whose  memories  seemed  to  ca£ 
their  gloomy  shadow  over  the  young  head 
of  Henri  and  Louise.   From  Holyrood  the 
went  to  Prague,  and  from  Prague  to  Gorifc 
where    Charles    X.    died.     Meanwhile   the: 
mother,  the  Duchesse  de  Berry,  had  mad 
an  imprudent   attempt  to  stir  up  the   loyi 
western  provinces  of  France  in  favor  of  he 
son  ;  betrayed  by  the  Hebrew  Deutz,  she  wz 
seized  at  Nantes  by  the  emissaries  of  Lou 
Philippe,  and    detained   as  a   state  prison* 
at  the  fortress  of  Blaye,  near  Bordeaux,  whei 
she  was  forced  to  confess  a  secret  marria£' 
with  the  Comte  Lucchesi-Palli,  which  thre 
ridicule  over  the  whole  affair. 

The  extreme  displeasure  of  the  exiled  Kin 
on  hearing  of  this  act  of  indiscretion, was  sho\v 
by  the  separation  of  the  children  from  the 
mother,  who,  released  by  Louis  Philippe  aft 
the  birth  of  her  child,  followed  her  secor 
husband  to  Venice,  where  she  henceforwa: 
principally  resided;  while  Henri  and  Loui 
were  educated  under  the  superintendence  - 
their  aunt,  the  austere  Duchesse  d'Angoule'  r 
It  was  a  gloomy  life  for  them;  but  they  gre 
up  amiable,  joyous,  and  full  of  noble  spirit,  lo  /< 
by  all  who  knew  them.  A  terrible 


THE   PRETENDERS   TO    THE    THRONE    OF  FRANCE. 


253 


COMTE    DE    CHAMBORD.       (DIED    1883.)      (FROM    A 
PHOTOGRAPH    BY    BIANCO.) 

ich  might  have  been  fatal,  partially  crippled 

young  prince,   and  was  certainly  detri- 

ntal  to  his  fine  presence,  from  the  persistent 

d  marked  lameness  which  remained ;  but 

retained   considerable   beauty  of  feature. 

e  clear,  bright  blue  eyes  had  still  a  most 

culiar  and  charming  expression,  in  which 

re  blended  the  dignity  of  exalted  rank  and 

frank  kindness  of  an  honorable  and  excel- 

t  man,  with  the  searching  penetration  of 

e  accustomed  to  study  character  in  those 

o  sought  his  presence. 

When  the  death  of  his  grandfather  and  of 

uncle  the  Due  d'Angouleme  had  removed 

doubts  as  to  his  position,  he  announced 

intention  of  being  known  simply  as  Comte 

Chambord,  from  the  name  of   an  estate 

ich,  in  happier  days,  had  been  presented 

liim  by  a  national  subscription.    He  lived 

iceforward  chiefly  at  Frohsdorf,  near  Vienna, 

plain   manor,  more  suited  to  an  ordinary 

-intry  gentleman;  but  a  visit  to    England 

s  the  occasion  of  a  demonstration  of  loy- 

y  on  the  part  of  the  young  French  nobility, 

o  gathered  round  the  young  and  handsome 

tender. 

Kt  Frohsdorf  he  chose  to  be  called  simply 
ithe  neutral  title  of  "  Monseigneur"  and  set 
tie  all  ceremonious  etiquette/  The  Duchesse 
VOL.  XXVII.— 2S. 


d'Angouleme,  however,  although  styled  "The 
Queen  "  (La  Reine),  punctiliously  conformed 
to  ancient  usage,  and  invariably  rose  from  her 
seat  when  her  nephew  entered  the  room  or 
left  it. 

A  bride  had  to  be  found  for  the  young 
Prince;  no  easy  matter  when  political  diffi- 
culties were  considered.  The  Princesse  Marie 
Therese,  of  Modena,  consented  to  devote  her 
life  to  the  exile,  to  whom  she  brought  a  large 
fortune,  which,  with  all  that  was  known  of  her 
amiable  qualities,  seemed  to  satisfy  all  re- 
quirements. But,  although  of  an  elegant  figure 
and  distinguished  appearance,  she  could  not 
lay  claim  to  that  beauty  of  feature  to  which 
in  France  so  much  importance  is  attached; 
and  more  than  this,  the  marriage  was  childless, 
a  source  of  lasting  grief  to  the  Comtesse  de 
Chambord,  although  this  privation  may  now 
prove  a  blessing  to  France,  in  simplifying  the 
question  of  the  various  pretenders. 

The  Devolution  of  1848,  with  the  downfall 
of  Louis  Philippe,  seemed  to  open  the  way  to 
the  young  heir  of  the  elder  Bourbons.  After 
the  dreadful  insurrection  of  June,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  country  longed  for  peace,  longed 
for  a  definite  ruler,  and  would  receive  joyfully 
any  one  coming  as  a  savior.  Everything  was 
a  la  Chambord  ;  fleurs-de-lis,  the  Bourbon 
emblem,  were  seen  everywhere ;  all  the  young 
men  wore  white  flowers  in  their  button-holes, 
and  all  looked  eagerly  toward  Henri  Dieu- 
donne. 

But  no  response  came,  and  the  disappoint- 
ment was  universal.  There  was  no  one  at 
hand  to  play  the  part  of  General  Monk,  and 
the  cautious  advisers  of  the  young  Prince, 
men  who  loved  him,  men  who  had  the  recol- 
lection of  the  past  fresh  in  their  minds,  could 
not  bear  that  their  cherished  Prince  should 
play  the  part  of  a  political  adventurer,  or  run 
any  personal  risk.  Had  he  come  forward  then, 
as  probably  his  ancestor,  Henri  Quatre,  would 
have  done,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  the  vic- 
tory would  have  been  his.  But,  restrained  by 
his  too  prudent  advisers,  he  hesitated,  and  that 
interval  gave  time  to  Louis  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte to  step  forward.  As  the  Emperor  him- 
self said,  at  a  later  period  : 

"  One  went  away — the  other  did  not  come 
—  so  I  reached  the  goal."* 

Another  political  mistake  greatly  to  be  re- 
gretted was  the  prohibition  addressed  by  the 
Comte  de  Chambord  to  his  adherents  with 
regard  to  their  acceptance  of  any  public  func- 
tions under  other  forms  of  government.  The 
natural  consequence  has  been  that  all  the 
young  Legitimist  noblemen  lived  in  idleness, 
and  have  become  mere  carpet  knights;  so 

*  "  L  'un  est  parti—  Pantre  rfest  pas  vemi  —je  suis 
arriv/," 


254 


THE  PRETENDERS    TO    THE    THRONE    OF  FRANCE. 

Count;  no  one  spoke  the  French  lan- 
guage with   a  more  perfect  accent,  or 
more  elegance  of  expression ;   no  one  j 
loved   France   better,   or  sought  more  I 
information    as   to    her  destinies    from 
every  source.    Newspapers  of  every  po- 
litical shade  were  received  at  Frohsdorf, 
carefully    read  by  his    secretaries,   and 
marked  for  his  perusal. 

Having  been  told  from  his  childhood 
that  he  was  a  direct  gift  from  the  Al- 
mighty, that  he  was  predestined  from 
his  birth,  he  had,  perhaps,  a  too  absolute 
conviction  that  he  was  a  sort  of  Messiah, 
and  that  his  day  must  come.  "  The  word 
to  be  spokenbelongs  to  France;  the  hour 
belongs  to  God"* — was  his  maxim. 

Well  informed,  but  not  pedantic,  of 
quick  intelligence  and  ready  speech,  the 
Comte  de  Chambord,  by  his  conversa- 
tion, left  the  impression  on  his  hearers 
of  a  superior  mind  and  a  determined 
will.  Some  may  be  inclined  to  say — too 
determined.  Be  this  a  virtue  or  a  de- 
fect,—  for  it  is  not  always  easy  to  mark 
the  exact  point  where  firmness  ceases 
and  obstinacy  begins, —  the  Comte  de 
Chambord  never  yielded  a  point  of 
principle  or  listened  to  suggestions  of 
mere  expediency. 

In  opposition  to  him  for  many  years . 
was  the  young  representative  of  the 
Orleans  branch,  the  Comte -de  Paris.  Like  his 
cousin,  he  had  lost  his  father  by  a  violent  death, 
and  at  ten  years  of  age  had  been  forced  to  fly 
from  France,  an  exile,  with  an  aged  grand- 
father and  a  widowed  mother.  The  Duchesse 
d'Orleans  was,  however,  very  different  from 
the  Duchesse  de  Berry,  mother  of  the  Comte 
de  Chambord.  A  grave,  well-informed  Ger- 
man princess,  as  quiet  and  serious  in  hei 
habits  and  mode  of  life  as  the  Duchesse  dt 
Berry  was  vivacious  and  inconsiderate,  there 
could  be  no  question  of  withdrawing  her  som 
from  her  influence.  Their  education  was  sit- 
perintended  by  herself;  she  was  an  ambitious 
mother,  and  during  her  life  there  could  be  nc 
reconciliation  between  the  two  rival  branches 
of  the  Bourbons.  In  her  sight,  her  son  wa.1 
the  rightful  King,  and  she  would  never  have 
yielded  to  any  compromise.  But,  while  thf 
Comte  de  Chambord  inherited  from  his  Ital- 
ian mother  her  vivacity  and  grace,  tempem 
in  his  case  by  the  austere  guidance  of  tin 
Duchesse  d'Angouleme,  the  Comte  de  Pari.' 
acquired  the  cold  and  grave  exterior  of  tlu 
Duchesse  d'Orleans  and  her  love  of  intellect 
ual  pursuits.  He  is  said  to  have  been  moi 
man  of  science  and  learning  than  a  politi 

La  parole  est  a  la  France,  V  h'eure  esl  <i  Dicu. 


COMTE     DK     PARIS.        (FROM     A     PHOTOGRAPH     BY     JOLIOT.) 

that  if  the  Comte  de  Chambord  had  been 
proclaimed  King  of  France,  he  would  have 
been  forced  to  choose  the  members  of  the 
government  outside  of  the  group  of  his  most 
devoted  followers. 

After  the  establishment  of  the  Empire,  the 
Comte  de  Chambord  seemed  resigned  to  play 
a  passive  part,  only  interrupted  by  occasional 
protestations  and  manifestoes,  to  which  no- 
body paid  much  attention.  He  lived  quietly, 
like  a  private  gentleman,  at  Frohsdorf,  Goritz, 
and  Venice,  making  no  attempt  to  disturb  by 
force  the  established  form  of  government  in 
France.  A  sincere  Catholic,  and  punctual  in 
the  observance  of  the  religious  obligations  of 
that  faith,  he  yet  never  played  the  part  of  a 
gloomy  bigot;  and  his  genial  manners,  his 
love  of  field  sports,  the  cordial  hospitality 
offered  to  all  visitors  in  his  plain,  unpretend- 
ing manner,  endeared  him  to  those  who  had 
the  honor  of  being  received  there;  and  all 
French  visitors  were  heartily  welcomed,  even 
when  known  to  belong  to  antagonistic  polit- 
ical parties. 

The  Comte  de  Chambord  has  been  repre- 
sented as  a  strang*er  to  France  by  education, 
and  as  a  mere  Austrian  gentleman,  who  knew 
nothing  of  France.  This  is  a  great  mistake. 
No  one  was  more  French  than  the  exiled 


THE   PRETENDERS    TO    THE    THRONE    OF  FRANCE. 


255 


r  a  statesman  ;  his  tastes  were  quiet,  his 
abits  were  retired,  and  almost  too  simple  for 
.is  position  for  those  who  think  that  princes 
lould  not  forget  the  old  saying  that  majesty 
rithout  its  externals  is  a  jest,  and  that  they 
mst  not  be  too  much  like  other  people. 

This  the  Comte  de  Chambord  recognized, 
nd  in  his  home  there  was  just  enough  of 
ecessary  eticjuette  to  mark  the  chief  of  the 
oyal  line.  His  table  had  the  simplicity  of  a 
rivate  home ;  but  all  was  served  on  massive 
late,  engraved  with  the  heraldic  fleur-de-lis  of 
ie  Bourbons.  When  dinner  was  announced, 
ic  Count  and  Countess  walked  out  first 
nd  took  the  center  places  at  the  dinner- 
able:  the  visitors  who  were  especially  hon- 
red  were  placed  on  the  left  of  the  Count  and 
le  right  of  the  Countess.  These  seats  of 
onor  were  differently  filled  at  every  meal,  by 
graceful  innovation  of  the  host,  that  all 
light  enjoy  the  privilege  in  turn.  No  one 
entured  to  address  him,  but  his  kindness 
nabled  every  one  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
onversing  with  him.  In  the  case  of  any  vis- 
or of  note,  he  was  honored  with  a  private  in- 
:rview  in  the  study  of  the  Comte  de  Cham- 
ord,  who  delighted  in  prolonged  conversation 
nd  free  discussion  of  every  topic.  The  inter- 
ew  lasted  during  the  pleasure  of  the  royal 
ost,  who  gave  permission  to  retire  by  a  signifi- 
ant  smile  and  bend — motioning  as  if  about 
)  rise,  but  without  actually  leaving  his  seat. 
The  Comte  de  Paris,  on  the  contrary,  lives 
xactly  like  a  private  individual,  and  waives 
1  etiquette.  He  is  considered  to  be  person- 
ly  devoid  of  all  ambition,  but  anxious  to  do 
hat  might  be  considered  his  duty.  In  the 
ope  of  smoothing  difficulties  with  regard  to 
e  pacification  of  France  after  the  war  of  1 87 o, 
e  sought  a  reconciliation  with  the  Comte 
s  Chambord,  who  received  his  young  cousin 
ith  open  arms  and  the  warmest  feeling.  The 
omte  de  Paris  has  always,  since  then,  proved 
lost  honorably  faithful  to  the  engagement 
iken,  at  that  time,  *of  never  putting  forward 
is  own  claims  in  opposition  to  those  of  the 
hief  of  his  race.  His  partisans  were  inclined 
i)  regret  the  promise  given,  when  the  nego- 
ations  which  had  so  nearly  succeeded  in 
facing  the  Comte  de  Chambord  on  the 
jirone  of  France  failed  through  his  refusal 
)  accept  the  tri-colored  flag,  which  he  re- 
jected as  the  emblem  of  the  Revolution, 
jhile  the  French  army  loved  it  as  the  em- 
em  of  military  glory.  Whatever  may  have 
ien  the  feelings  of  the  Comte  de  Paris  on 
tis  occasion,  the  promise  which  he  had  given 
as  faithfully  and  honorably  kept.  A  com- 
•omise  had  been  suggested  which  all  re- 
•etted  to  see  rejected  by  the  Comte  de 
hambord  :  the  tri-colored  flag  to  be  retained 


by  the  army,  and  the  white  flag  to  be  treated 
as  a  royal  standard  peculiar  to  the  sovereign, 
like  that  used  by  Queen  Victoria. 

The  tricolore  had  been  accepted  by  Louis 
Philippe,  and  all  his  sons  had  "  won  their 
spurs  "  under  its  shade.  It  was  not  likely, 
therefore,  to  be  distasteful  to  the  Comte  de 
Paris  as. an  emblem  of  the  liberal  citizen  gov- 
ernment inaugurated  by  his  grandfather,  but 
repudiated  by  the  principles  of  the  elder 
branch  represented  by  the  Comte  de  Cham- 
bord. The  Comte  de  Paris,  however,  has 
made  no  sign,  no  attempt  to  court  popularity. 
He  has  continued,  as  before,  to  live  the  life 
of  a  private  gentleman,  studiously  avoiding 
public  notice,  silent  on  political  matters,  and 
remarked  only  as  the  author  of  clever  articles 
in  reviews,  chiefly  on  social  questions,  and  of 
an  elaborate  "  History  of  the  Civil  War  in  the 
United  States,"  in  which  contest  he  served 
honorably.  He  is  said  to  regard  his  position 
as  a  Pretender  more  in  the  light  of  a  public 
duty  than  as  the  source  of  any  advantage  to 
himself  or  to  his  family. 

Far  different  is  the  character  of  the  Bona- 
parte claimant,  Prince  Jerome  Napoleon 
("  Plon-plon  ").  His  resemblance  in  feature  to 
his  illustrious  uncle,  the  great  Emperor,  is  most 
striking;  but  no  less  striking  is  the  difference  of 
expression,  which  is  certainly  not  to  the  advan- 
tage of  Prince  Napoleon.  All  the  revelations 
of  that  face  are  confirmed  by  popular  report, 
and  universal  sympathy  is  felt  for  the  admir- 
able Princesse  Clotilde,  forced  by  necessity  to 
live  apart  from  the  husband  to  whom  she  had 
been  sacrificed  through  political  consider- 
ations. No  two  individuals  could  be  more 
ill- matched  than  the  atheistical,  dissipated 
Jerome  Napoleon,  as  celebrated  for  his  im- 
moral life  as  for  his  coarse  brutality  of  tem- 
per, and  his  supposed —  what  shall  we  call 
it  ?  — perso?ial  prudence  under  fire,  and  the 
calm,  dignified  Italian  Princess,  fearless,  like 
a  true  daughter  of  the  house  of  Savoy ;  de- 
vout, almost  to  excess;  with  the  tastes  and 
habits  of  a  nun,  and  the  ardent  faith  of  a 
martyr.  She  did  not  possess  the  beauty  or 
the  quick,  brilliant  wit  which  might  have 
pleased  him;  she  cared  little  for  splendid 
dress  or  worldly  pleasures.  She  spent  almost 
too  much  time  in  devotional  practices,  which 
he  abhorred.  During  the  Empire,  the  home 
life  of  the  Princesse  Clotilde  was  austere, 
quiet,  and,  it  must  be  owned,  very  monoto- 
nous; perhaps  too  much  so  to  be  quite  ju- 
dicious, under  the  circumstances  in  which  she 
was  placed.  But  everything  that  surrounded 
her  shocked  her  feelings  so  much  that  she 
could  only  take  refuge  in  silence  and  reserve. 
Her  husband  was  openly  an  unbeliever,  the 
cnemv  of  the  church  to  which  she  was  de- 


256 


THE   PRETENDERS   TO    THE    THRONE    OF  FRANCE. 


voted ;  and  his  conduct  in  other  respects  was  in  consequence  of  the  determined  opposition 
a  permanent  and  cruel  insult  to  his  wife.  of  Prince  Napoleon,  through  motives  of  per- 

When  the  Empire  fell,  the  Princess  went  sonal  ambition,  and  the  dutiful  submission 
to  reside  at  a  country-seat,  in  Switzerland,  of  the  young  heir,  appointed  by  the  boy-like 
on  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  There  she  led  the  will  of  the  Prince  Imperial, —  as  if  the  crown 


PRINCE    NAPOLEON     AND     HIS    SONS,    VICTOR     AND    LOUIS.       (FROM    A    PHOTOGRAPH     BY    NADAR.) 


life  of  a  Sister  of  Charity,  tending  the  poor 
and  the  sick  with  her  own  hands,  and  de- 
priving herself  of  everything  that  could  possi- 
bly be  spared,  in  order  to  give  more  to  those 
in  need.  After  the  death  of  the  King,  her 
father,  she  retired,  without  any  opposition 
from  the  Prince,  her  husband,  to  the  palace 
of  Moncalieri,  near  Turin,  which  had  been 
left  to  her ;  there,  at  least,  she  was  not  obliged 
to  endure  the  affronts  which  hitherto  had  not 
been  spared  to  her.  The  sympathy  of  all  went 
with  her,  and  the  unpopularity  of  Prince  Napo- 
leon consequently  increased.  Notwithstanding 
his  remarkable  intelligence,  which  cannot  be 
denied,  his  eloquence  as  an  orator,  and  the 
prestige  of  that  Bonaparte  face,  so  like  that 
of  the  great  Emperor,  Prince  Napoleon  is  uni- 
versally disliked,  and  despised  as  much  as  he 
is  disliked.  Even  the  Bonapartists  dare  not 
put  forward  his  claims ;  their  chance  of  suc- 
cess would  be  too  small. 

The  attempt  to  transfer  their  allegiance  to 
Prince  Victor,  his  son,  has  proved  a  failure, 


of  France  could  be  given  away  by  will  to  a 
chosen  successor ! 

The  young  Prince  Victor  has  not  yet  had 
time  or  opportunity  to  show  what  he  really 
is.  But  popular  rumor  is  all  in  his  favor.  He 
is  said  to  have  few  of  the  characteristics  of  the 
Bonaparte  race,  and  to  be  more  peculiarly  a 
prince  of  Savoy,  on  the  side  of  his  mother, 
with  the  physical  characteristics  of  the  Italian 
royal  family,  and  the  high,  spirit  of  that  line. 

Which  of  these  various  Pretenders  will 
reach  the  goal  —  if  any  does  ?  Who  knows  ? 
With  the  fickle  character  of  the  French  nation 
everything  is  possible.  Some  expect  that  the 
Comte  de  Paris,  at  no  distant  period,  will  be 
summoned  to  the  throne  of  France,  with  a 
liberal  constitution,  freely  accepted  by  him, 
according  to  the  traditions  of  his  family.  But 
it  is  as  easy  to  foresee,  a  few  years  further 
on,  a  Bonaparte  reaction,  and  the  young 
Prince  Victor,  having  reached  a  riper 
reestablishing  another  Empire. 

A.  Bickne* 


THE   IMPRESSIONS   OF   A    COUSIN.* 

BY    HENRY   JAMES, 
Author  of  "The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  "Roderick  Hudson,"  "Daisy  Miller,"  etc. 


PART    II. 

JUNE  8. — Late  this  afternoon,  about  an 
our  before  dinner,  Mr.  Frank  arrived  with 
rhat  Mrs.  Ermine  calls  his  equipage,  and 
sked  her  to  take  a  short  drive  with  him.  At 
rst  she  declined  —  said  it  was  too  hot,  too 
ate,  she  was  too  tired ;  but  he  seemed  very 
mch  in  earnest,  and  begged  her  to  think 
etter  of  it.  She  consented  at  last,  and  when 
he  had  left  the  room  to  arrange  herself,  he 
urned  to  me  with  a  little  grin  of  elation.  I 
aw  he  was  going  to  say  something  about 
is  prospects,  and  I  determined,  this  time,  to 
ive  him  a  chance.  Besides,  I  was  curious  to 
now  how  he  believed  himself  to  be  getting 
n.  To  my  surprise,  he  disappointed  my 
uriosity ;  he  only  said,  with  his  timid  bright- 
ess: 

'  I  am  always  so  glad  when  I  carry  my 
oint." 

"  Your  point  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  think  I  know 
hat  you  mean." 

"  It's  what  I  told  you  that  day." 

He  seemed  slightly  surprised  that  I  should 
e  in  doubt  as  to  whether  he  had  really  pre- 
pnted  himself  as  a  lover.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
isk  her  to  marry  you  ?  " 
1  He  stared  a  little,  looking  graver.  "  Do 
jou  mean  to-day  ?  " 

|  "  Well,  yes,  to-day,  for  instance ;  you  have 
jrged  her  so  to  drive." 

"  I  don't  think  I  will  do  it  to-day ;  it's  too 
j>on." 

!  His  gravity  was  natural  enough,  I  suppose ; 
|ut  it  had  suddenly  become  so  intense  that 
;ie  effect  was  comical,  and  I  could  not  help 
.lughing.  "  Very  good;  whenever  you  please." 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  too  soon  ?  "  he  asked, 

"Ah,  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  have  seen  her  alone  only  four  or  five 
jmes." 

"  You  must  go  on  as  you  think  best,"  I 
dd. 

"  It's  hard  to  tell.  My  position  is  very  dif- 
pult."  And  then  he  began  to  smile  again. 
[e  is  certainly  very  odd. 
I  It  is  my  fault,  I  suppose,  that  I  am  too 
jipatient  of  what  I  don't  understand ;  and  I 
on't  understand  this  odd  mixture  of  the  per- 


functory and  the  passionate,  or  the  singular 
alternation  of  Mr.  Frank's  confessions  and 
reserves. 

"  I  can't  enter  into  your  position,"  I  said. 
"  I  can't  advise  you  or  help  you  in  any 
way."  .  . 

Even  to  myself,  my  voice  sounded  a  little 
hard  as  'I  spoke,  and  he  was  evidently  dis- 
composed by  it.  He  blushed  as  usual,  and 
fell  to  putting  on  his  gloves. 

"  I  think  a  great  deal  of  your  opinion,  and 
for  several  days  I  have  wanted  to  ask  you." 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  that." 

"  How  have  you  seen  it  ?  " 

"  By  the  way  you  have  looked  at  me." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Yes,  I  have 
looked  at  you  —  I  know  that.  There  is  a 
great  deal  in  your  face  to  see." 

This  remark,  under  the  circumstances, 
struck  me  as  absurd.  I  began  to  laugh  again. 
"  You  speak  of  it  as  if  it  were  a  collection 
of  curiosities." 

He  looked  away  now.  He  wouldn't  meet 
my  eye,  and  I  saw  that  I  had  made  him  feel 
thoroughly  uncomfortable.  To  lead  the  con- 
versation back  into  the  commonplace,  I  asked 
him  where  he  intended  to  drive. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  much  where  we  go  — 
it's  so  pretty  everywhere  now."  He  was  evi- 
dently not  thinking  of  his  drive,  and  suddenly 
he  broke  out :  "  I  want  to  know  whether  you 
think  she  likes  me." 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  She  hasn't  told 
me." 

"  Do  you  think  she  knows  that  I  mean  to 
propose  to  her  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  be  able  to  judge  of  that 
better  than  I." 

"I  am  afraid  of  taking  too  much  for 
granted;  also,  of  taking  her  by  surprise." 

"So  that  —  in  her  agitation  —  she  might 
accept  you  ?  Is  that  what  you  are  afraid  of?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  makes  you  say  that. 
I  wish  her  to  accept  me." 

"  Are  you  very  sure  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure.  Why  not  ?  She  is  a  charm- 
ing creature." 

"So  much  the  better,  then;  perhaps  she 
will." 

"  You  don't  believe  it,"  he  exclaimed,  as 


VOL.  XXVII. —26. 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  Henry  James.     All  rights  reserved. 


258 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


if  it  were  very  clever  of  him  to  have  discov- 
ered that." 

"  You  think  too  much  of  what  I  believe. 
That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Mr.  Frank, 
apparently  wishing  very  much  to  agree  with 


me. 

"  You  had  better  find  out  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble from  Eunice  herself,"  I  added. 

"I  haven't  expected  to  know  —  for  some 
time." 

"Do  you  mean  for  a  year  or  two  ?  She 
will  be  ready  to  tell  you  before  that." 

"  Oh,  no  —  not  a  year  or  two;  but  a  few 
weeks." 

"  You  know  you  come  to  the  house  every 
day.  You  ought  to  explain  to  her." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  come  so  often." 

"  Perhaps  not  !  " 

"  I  like  it  very  much,"  he  said,  smiling. 

I  looked  at  him  a  moment  ;  I  don't  know 
what  he  has  got  in  his  eyes.  "  Don't  change  ! 
You  are  such  a  good  young  man  that  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  do  without  you."  And 
I  left  him  to  wait  alone  for  Eunice. 

From  my  window,  above,  I  saw  them  leave 
the  door;  they  make  a  fair,  bright  young 
couple  as  they  sit  together.  They  had  not 
been  gone  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  Mr. 
Caliph's  name  was  brought  up  to  me.  He 
had  asked  for  me  —  me  alone;  he  begged 
that  I  would  do  him  the  favor  to  see  him  for 
ten  minutes.  I  don't  know  why  this  announce- 
ment should  have  made  me  nervous  ;  but  it 
did.  My  heart  beat  at  the  prospect  of  enter- 
ing into  direct  relations  with  Mr.  Caliph.  He 
is  very  clever,  much  thought  of,  and  talked 
of;  and  yet  I  had  vaguely  suspected  him  — 
of  I  don't  know  what  !  I  became  conscious 
of  that,  and  felt  the  responsibility  of  it  ;  though 
I  didn't  foresee,  and  indeed  don't  think  I  fore- 
see yet,  any  danger  of  a  collision  between  us. 
It  is  to  be  noted,  moreover,  that  even  a 
woman  who  is  both  plain  and  conceited  must 
feel  a  certain  agitation  at  entering  the  pres- 
ence of  Haroun-al-Raschid.  I  had  begun  to 
dress  for  dinner,  and  I  kept  him  waiting  till  I 
had  taken  my  usual  time  to  finish.  I  always 
take  some  such  revenge  as  that  upon  men 
who  make  me  nervous.  He  is  the  sort  of  man 
who  feels  immediately  whether  a  woman  is 
well  dressed  or  not;  but  I  don't  think  this 
reflection  really  had  much  to  do  with  my  put- 
ting on  the  freshest  of  my  three  little  French 
gowns. 

He  sat  there,  watch  in  hand  ;  at  least,  he 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket  as  I  came  into  the 
room.  He  was  not  pleased  at  having  had  to 
wait,  and  when  I  apologized,  hypocritically, 
for  having  kept  him,  he  answered,  with  a  cer- 
tain dryness,  that  he  had  come  to  transact  an 


important  piece  of  business  in  a  very  short 
space  of  time.  I  wondered  what  his  business 
could  be,  and  whether  he  had  come  to  con- 
fess to  me  that  he  had  spent  Eunice's  money 
for  his  own  purposes.  Did  he  wish  me  to  use 
my  influence  with  her  not  to  make  a  scandal  ? 
He  didn't  look  like  a  man  who  had  come  tc 
ask  a  favor  of  that  kind ;  but  I  am  sure  thai 
if  he  ever  does  ask  it,  he  will  not  look  at  al! 
as  he  might  be  expected  to  look.  He  wa< 
clad  in  white  garments  from  head  to  foot,  ir 
recognition  of  the  hot  weather,  and  he  hac 
half  a  dozen  roses  in  his  button-hole.  This 
time  his  flowers  were  for  himself.  His  white 
clothes  made  him  look  as  big  as  Henry  VIII. 
but  don't  tell  me  he  is  not  a  Jew !  He's  a  Jeu 
of  the  artistic,  not  of  the  commercial,  type 
and  as  I  stood  there,  I  thought  him  a  verj 
strange  person  to  have  as  one's  trustee.  I 
seemed  to  me  that  he  would  carry  such  ar 
office  into  transcendental  regions,  out  of  al 
common  jurisdictions ;  and  it  was  a  comfor 
to  me  to  remember  that  I  have  no  proper!) 
to  be  taken  care  of.  Mr.  Caliph  kept  a  pocket 
handkerchief,  with  an  enormous  monogram 
in  his  large,  tapering  hand,  and  every  othe: 
moment  he  touched  his  face  with  it.  Ht 
evidently  suffers  from  the  heat.  With  all  that 
il  est  bien  beau.  His  business  was  not  wha 
had  at  first  occurred  to  me ;  but  I  don't  knov 
that  it  was  much  less  strange. 

"  I  knew  I  should  find  you  alone,  because 
Adrian  told  me  this. morning  that  he  mean 
to  come  and  ask  our  young  friend  to  drive 
I  was  glad  of  that ;  I  have  been  wishing  tc 
see  you  alone,  and  I  didn't  know  how  tc 
manage  it." 

"  You  see  it's  very  simple.  Didn't  you  senc 
your  brother  ?  "  I  asked.  In  another  place 
to  another  person,  this  might  have  soundec 
impertinent ;  but  evidently,  addressed  to  Mr 
Caliph,  things  have  a  special  measure,  anc 
this  I  instinctively  felt.  He  will  take  a  grea 
deal,  and  he  will  give  a  great  deal. 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  as  if  he  wen 
trying  to  measure  what  I  would  take.  "  I  set 
you  are  going  to  be  a  very  satisfactory  persor. 
to  talk  with,"  he  answered.  "  That's  exactly 
what  I  counted  on.  I  want  you  to  help  me.' 

"  I  thought  there  was  some  reason  why  Mr 
Frank  should  urge  Eunice  so  to  go,"  I  wen 
on,  refreshed  a  little,  I  admit,  by  these  word: 
of  commendation.  "  At  first  she  was  unwill 
ing." 

"  Is  she  usually  unwilling — and  does  h< 
usually  have  to  be  urgent  ?  "  he  asked,  like  i 
man  pleased  to  come  straight  to  the  point. 

"  What  does  it  matter,  so  long  as  she  con- 
sents in  the  end  ?  "  I  responded,  with  a 
that   made   him  smile.    There  is  a  sin 
stimulus,  even  a  sort  of  excitement,  in  tal 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


259 


ivith  him;    he  makes   one  wish   to  venture. 

nd  this  not  as  women  usually  venture, 
>ecause  they  have  a  sense  of  impunity ;  but, 
n  the  contrary,  because  one  has  a  prevision 
f  penalties — those  penalties  which  give  a 
ind  of  dignity  to  sarcasm.  He  must  be  a 
iangerous  man  to  irritate. 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  consent,  in  the 
nd  ?  "  he  inquired ;  and  though  I  had  now 
oreseen  what  he  was  coming  to,  I  felt  that, 
ven  with  various  precautions  which  he  had 
lainly  decided  not  to  take,  there  would  still 
ave  been  a  certain  crudity  in  it,  when,  a 
noment  later,  he  put  his  errand  into  words.  "  I 
•ant  my  little  brother  to  marry  her,  and  I  want 
ou  to  help  me  bring  it  about."  Then  he  told 
ne  that  he  knew  his  brother  had  already 
poken  to  me,  but  that  he  believed  I  had  not 
romised  him  much  countenance.  He  wished 
ne  to  think  well  of  the  plan ;  it  would  be  a 
elightful  marriage. 

"  Delightful  for  your  brother,  yes.  That's 
yhat  strikes  me  most." 

"  Delightful  for  him,  certainly ;  but  also 
fery  pleasant  for  Eunice,  as  things  go  here. 
Adrian  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world ;  he's  a 
entleman ;  he  hasn't  a  vice  or  a  fault ;  he  is 
ery  well  educated ;  and  he  has  twenty  thou- 
and  a  year.  A  lovely  property." 

"  Not  in  trust  ?  "  I  said,  looking  into  Mr. 
aliph's  extraordinary  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no ;  he  has  full  control  of  it.  But 
2  is  wonderfully  careful." 

"  He  doesn't  trouble  you  with  it  ?  " 

11  Oh,  dear,  no ;  why  should  he  ?  Thank 
rod,  I  haven't  got  that  on  my  back.  His 
|roperty  comes  to  him  from  his  father,  who 
!ad  nothing  to  do  with  me ;  didn't  even  like 
ae,  I  think.  He  has  capital  advisers — presi- 
ients  of  banks,  overseers  of  hospitals,  and 
111  that  sort  of  thing.  They  have  put  him  in 
fie  way  of  some  excellent  investments." 
j  As  I  write  this,  I  am  surprised  at  my 
|udacity ;  but,  somehow,  it  didn't  seem  so 
jreat  at  the  time,  and  he  gave  absolutely  no 
Ign  of  seeing  more  in  what  I  said  than  ap- 
ieared.  He  evidently  desires  the  marriage 
;nmensely,  and  he  was  thinking  only  of  put- 
'ng  it  before  me  so  that  I,  too,  should  think 
!rell  of  it ;  for  evidently,  like  his  brother,  he 
jas  the  most  exaggerated  opinion  of  my  in- 
juence  with  Eunice.  On  Mr.  Frank's  part, 
his  doesn't  surprise  me  so  much  ;  but  I  con- 
::ss  it  seems  to  me  odd  that  a  man  of  Mr. 
'aliph's  acuteness  should  make  the  mistake 
f  taking  me  for  one  of  those  persons  who 
bvet  influence  and  like  to  pull  the  wires  of 
|ther  people's  actions.  I  have  a  horror  of 
Ifluence,  and  should  never  have  consented 
:»  come  and  live  with  Eunice  if  I  had  not 
fen  that  she  is  at  bottom  much  stronger 


than  I,  who  am  not  at  all  strong,  in  spite  of 
my  grand  airs.  Mr.  Caliph,  I  suppose,  can- 
not conceive  of  a  woman  in  my  dependent 
position  being  indifferent  to  opportunities  for 
working  in  the  dark ;  but  he  ought  to  leave 
those  vulgar  imputations  to  Mrs.  Ermine. 
He  ought,  with  his  intelligence,  to  see  one  as 
one  is ;  or  do  I  possibly  exaggerate  that  in- 
telligence ?  "  Do  you  know  I  feel  as  if  you 
were  asking  me  to  take  part  in  a  con- 
spiracy ?  "  I  made  that  announcement  with 
as  little  delay  as  possible. 

He  stared  a  moment,  and  then  he  said  that 
he  didn't  in  the  least  repudiate  that  view  of 
his  proposal.  He  admitted  that  he  was  a  con- 
spirator— in  an  excellent  cause.  All  match- 
making was  conspiracy.  It  was  impossible 
that  as  a  superior  woman  I  should  enter  into 
his  ideas,  and  he  was  sure  that  I  had  seen 
too  much  of  the  world  to  say  anything  so 
banal  as  that  the  young  people  were  not  in 
love  with  each  other.  That  was  only  a  basis 
for  marriage  when  better  things  were  lacking. 
It  was  decent,  it  was  fitting,  that  Eunice 
should  be  settled  in  life;  his  conscience 
would  not  be  at  rest  about  her  until  he 
should  see  that  well  arranged.  He  was  not 
in  the  least  afraid  of  that  word  "  arrange- 
ment " ;  a  marriage  was  an  eminently  practi- 
cal matter,  and  it  could  not  be  too  much 
arranged.  He  confessed  that  he  took  the 
European  view.  He  thought  that  a  young 
girl's  elders  ought  to  see  that  she  marries  in 
a  way  in  which  certain  definite  proprieties 
are  observed.  He  was  sure  of  his  brother ; 
he  knew  how  faultless  Adrian  was.  He 
talked  for  some  time,  and  said  a  great  deal 
that  I  had  said  to  myself  the  other  day,  after 
Mr.  Frank  spoke  to  me ;  said,  in  particular, 
very  much  what  I  had  thought,  about  the 
beauty  of  arrangements — that  there  are  far 
too  few  among  Americans  who  marry;  that 
we  are  the  people  in  the  world  who  divorce 
and  separate  most;  that  there  would  be  much 
less  of  that  sort  of  thing  if  young  people 
were  helped  to  choose, — if  marriages  were,  as 
one  might  say,  presented  to  them.  I  listened 
to  Mr.  Caliph  with  my  best  attention,  think- 
ing it  was  odd  that,  on  his  lips,  certain  things 
which  I  had  phrased  to  myself  in  very  much 
the  same  way  should  sound  so  differently. 
They  ought  to  have  sounded  better,  uttered 
as  they  were  with  the  energy,  the  authority, 
the  lucidity  of  a  man  accustomed  to  making 
arguments ;  but  somehow  they  didn't.  I  am 
afraid  I  am  very  perverse.  I  answered — I 
hardly  remember  what;  but  there  was  a  taint 
of  that  perversity  in  it.  As  he  rejoined,  I  felt 
that  he  was  growing  urgent — very  urgent; 
he  has  an  immense  desire  that  something 
may  be  done.  I  remember  saying,  at  last, 


260 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


"  What  I  don't  understand  is,  why  your 
brother  should  wish  to  marry  my  cousin. 
He  has  told  me  he  is  not  in  love  with  her. 
Has  your  presentation  of  the  idea,  as  you 
call  it — has  that  been  enough  ?  Is  he  act- 
ing simply  at  your  request  ?  " 

I  saw  that  his  reply  was  not  perfectly  ready, 
and  for  a  moment  those  strange  eyes  of  his 
emitted  a  ray  that  I  had  not  seen  before. 
They  seemed  to  say,  "  Are  you  really  taking 
liberties  with  me  ?  Be  on  your  guard ;  I  may 
be  dangerous."  But  he  always  smiles.  Yes, 
I  think  he  is  dangerous,  though  I  don't  know 
exactly  what  he  could  do  to  me.  I  believe  he 
would  smile  at  the  hangman,  if  he  were  con- 
demned to  meet  him.  He  is  very  angry  with 
his  brother  for  having  admitted  to  me  that 
the  sentiment  he  entertains  for  Eunice  is  not 
a  passion ;  as  if  it  would  have  been  possible 
for  him,  under  my  eyes,  to  pretend  that  he  is 
in  love !  I  don't  think  I  am  afraid  of  Mr. 
Caliph ;  I  don't  desire  to  take  liberties  with 
him  (as  his  eyes  seemed  to  call  it),  or  with 
any  one ;  but,  decidedly,  I  am  not  afraid  of 
him.  If  it  came  to  protecting  Eunice,  for  in- 
stance; to  demanding  justice —  But  what 
extravagances  am  I  writing  ?  He  answered, 
in  a  moment,  with  a  good  deal  of  dignity,  and 
even  a  good  deal  of  reason,  that  his  brother 
has  the  greatest  admiration  for  my  cousin, 
that  he  agrees  fully  and  cordially  with  every- 
thing he  (Mr.  Caliph)  has  said  to  him  about 
its  being  an  excellent  match,  that  he  wants 
very  much  to  marry,  and  wants  to  marry  as  a 
gentleman  should.  If  he  is  not  in  love  with 
Eunice,  moreover,  he  is  not  in  love  with  any 
one  else. 

"  I  hope  not !  "  I  said,  with  a  laugh ;  where- 
upon Mr.  Caliph  got  up,  looking,  for  him, 
rather  grave. 

"  I  can't  imagine  why  you  should  suppose 
that  Adrian  is  not  acting  freely.  I  don't 
know  what  you  imagine  my  means  of  coer- 
cion to  be." 

"  I  don't  imagine  anything.  I  think  I  only 
wish  he  had  thought  of  it  himself." 

"  He  would  never  think  of  anything  that 
is  for  his  good.  He  is  not  in  the  least  inter- 
ested." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  matters,  be- 
cause I  don't  think  Eunice  will  see  it — as 
we  see  it." 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  '  we.'  Is  she  in  love 
with  some  one  else  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of;  but  she  may  expect 
to  be,  some  day.  And  better  than  that,  she 
may  expect — very  justly — some  one  to  be 
in  love  with  her." 

"  Oh,  in  love  with  her !  How  you  women 
talk !  You,  all  of  you,  want  the  moon.  If  she 
is  not  content  to  be  thought  of  as  Adrian 


thinks  of  her,  she  is  a  very  silly  girl.  What 
will  she  have  more  than  tenderness  ?  Thai 
boy  is  all  tenderness." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  too  tender,"  I  suggested 
"  I  think  he  is  afraid  to  ask  her." 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  is  nervous  —  at  the  idea 
of  a  refusal.  But  I  should  like  her  to  refuse 
him  once." 

"  It  is  not  of  that  he  is  afraid;  it  is  of  hei 
accepting  him." 

Mr.  Caliph  smiled,  as  if  he  thought  this 
very  ingenious. 

"  You  don't  understand  him.  I'm  so  sorry 
I  had  an  idea  that  —  with  your  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  your  powers  of  observatioi 
—  you  would  have  perceived  how  he  is  made 
In  fact,  I  rather  counted  on  that."  He  saic 
this  with  a  little  tone  of  injury  which  migh 
have  made  me  feel  terribly  inadequate  if  i 
had  not  been  accompanied  with  a  glance  tha 
seemed  to  say  that,  after  all,  he  was  generou: 
and  he  forgave  me.  "  Adrian's  is  one  of  those 
natures  that  are  inflamed  by  not  succeeding 
He  doesn't  give  up  ;  he  thrives  on  opposition 
If  she  refuses  him  three  or  four  times,  he  wil 
adore  her  !  " 

"  She  is  sure,  then,  to  be  adored  —  though 
I  am  not  sure  it  will  make  a  difference  with 
her.  I  haven't  yet  seen  a  sign  that  she  cares 
for  him." 

"  Why,  then,  does  she  go  out  to  drive  witt 
him  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  brutal  in  the  elatior 
with  which  Mr.  Caliph  made  this  point  ;  still. 
he  looked  a  little  as  if  he  pitied  me  for  ex- 
posing myself  to  a  refutation  so  prompt. 

"  That  proves  nothing,  I  think.  I  woulc 
go  to  drive  with  Mr.  Frank,  if  he  should  asi 
me,  and  I  should  be  very  much  surprised  ii 
it  were  regarded  as  an  intimation  that  I  arc 
ready  to  marry  him." 

Mr.  Caliph  had  his  hands  resting  on  his 


thighs,  and  in  this  position,  bendin 


forwarc 
but  he 


a  little,  with  his  smile  he  said,  "Al  p 
doesn't  want  to  marry  you  !  " 

That  was  a  little  brutal,  I  think;  but  ] 
should  have  appeared  ridiculous  if  I  had  at 
tempted  to  resent  it.  I  simply  answered  thai 
I  had  as  yet  seen  no  sign  even  that  Eunice 
is  conscious  of  Mr.  Frank's  intentions.  I  thinl- 
she  is,  but  I  don't  think  so  from  anything  she 
has  said  or  done.  Mr.  Caliph  maintains  thai 
she  is  capable  of  going  for  six  months  with 
out  betraying  herself,  all  the  while  quietly  con- 
sidering and  making  up  her  mind.  It  is  pos 
sible  he  is  right  —  he  has  known  her  long^i 
than  I.  He  is  far  from  wishing  to  wait  f<>] 
six  months,  however;  and  the  part  I  must 
play  is  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis.  I  told 
him  that  I  didn't  see  why  he  did  not  speak, 
to  her  directly — why  he  should  operat 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


261 


this  roundabout  way.  Why  shouldn't  he  say 
to  her  all  that  he  had  said  to  me  —  tell 
her  that  she  would  make  him  very  happy  by 
marrying  his  little  brother  ?  He  answered 
jthat  this  is  impossible,  that  the  nearness  of 
[the  relationship  would  make  it  unbecoming  ; 
lit  would  look  like  a  kind  of  nepotism.  The 
(thing  must  appear  to  come  to  pass  of  itself, 
land  I,  somehow,  must  be  the  author  of  that 
(appearance !  I  was  too  much  a  woman  of 
(the  world,  too  acquainted  with  life,  not  to 
see  the  force  of  all  this.  He  had  a  great  deal 
to  say  about  my  being  a  woman  of  the  world. 
In  one  sense,  it  is  not  all  complimentary ;  one 
would  think  me  some  battered  old  dowager 
who  had  married  off  fifteen  daughters  I  feel 
that  I  am  far  from  all  that  when  Mr.  Caliph 
leaves  me  so  mystified.  He  has  some  other 
reason  for  wishing  these  nuptials  than  love 
sf  the  two  young  people,  but  I  am  unable  to 
put  my  hand  on  it.  Like  the  children  at  hide- 
jmd-seek,  however,  I  think  I  "  burn."  I  don't 
|;ike  him,  I  mistrust  him ;  but  he  is  a  very 
bharming  man.  His  geniality,  his  richness,  his 
magnetism,  I  suppose  I  should  say,  are  ex- 
traordinary ;  he  fascinates  me,  in  spite  of  my 
>uspicions.  The  truth  is  that,  in  his  way,  he 
s  an  artist,  and  in  my  little  way  I  am  also 
ne ;  and  the  artist  in  me  recognizes  the  art- 
st  in  him,  and  cannot  quite  resist  the  temp- 
ation  to  foregather.  What  is  more  than  this, 
he  artist  in  him  has  recognized  the  artist  in 
ne, —  it  is  very  good  of  him, —  and  would  like 
o  establish  a  certain  freemasonry.  "  Let  us 
ake  together  the  artistic  view  of  life ; "  that  is 
imply  the  meaning  of  his  talking  so  much 
ibout  my  being  a  woman  of  the  world.  That 
s  all  very  well ;  but  it  seems  to  me  there 
ivould  be  a  certain  baseness  in  our  being  art- 
ists together  at  the  expense  of  poor  little 
punice.  I  should  like  to  know  some  of  Mr. 
Caliph's  secrets,  but  I  don't  wish  to  give  him 
jiny  of  mine  in  return  for  them.  Yet  I  gave 
|iim  something  before  he  departed ;  I  hardly 
mow  what,  and  hardly  know  how  he  ex- 
sracted  it  from  me.  It  was  a  sort  of  promise 
;hat  I  would,  after  all,  speak  to  Eunice, — 
f  as  I  should  like  to  have  you,  you  know." 
fie  remained  there  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
tfter  he  got  up  to  go :  walking  about  the 
|oom  with  his  hands  on  his  hips ;  talking,  ar- 
jjuing,  laughing,  holding  me  with  his  eyes,  his 
Admirable  face  —  as  natural,  as  dramatic,  and 
j.t  the  same  time  as  diplomatic,  as  an  Italian. 

am  pretty  sure  he  was  trying  to  produce  a 
ertain  effect,  to  entangle,  to  magnetize  me. 
trange  to  say,  Mr.  Caliph  compromises  him- 
elf,  but  he  doesn't  compromise  his  brother. 
Je  has  a  private  reason,  but  his  brother  has 
othing  to  do  with  his  privacies.  That  was 

y  last  word  to  him. 


"  The  moment  I  feel  sure  that  I  may  do 
something  for  your  brother's  happiness  — 
your  brother's  alone  —  by  pleading  his  cause 
with  Eunice,  that  moment  I  will  speak  to 
her.  But  I  can  do  nothing  for  yours." 

In  answer  to  this,  Mr.  Caliph  said  some- 
thing very  unexpected :  "  I  wish  I  had  known 
you  five  years  ago !  " 

There  are  many  meanings  to  that;  per- 
haps he  would  have  liked  to  put  me  out 
of  the  way.  But  I  could  take  only  the  polite 
meaning.  "  Our  acquaintance  could  never 
have  begun  too  soon." 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  liked  to  know  you," 
he  went  on,  "  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  are 
not  kind,  that  you  are  not  just.  Have  I  asked 
you  to  do  anything  for  my  happiness  ?  My 
happiness  is  nothing.  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  happiness.  I  don't  deserve  it.  It  is  only 
for  my  little  brother  —  and  for  your  charm- 
ing cousin." 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  was  right ; 
that  he  had  asked  nothing  for  himself.  "  But 
I  don't  want  to  do  anything  for  you,  even  by 
accident !  "  I  said,  laughing,  of  course. 

This  time  he  was  grave.  He  stood  look- 
ing at  me  a  moment,  then  put  out  his  hand. 
"  Yes,  I  wish  I  had  known  you  !  " 

There  was  something  so  expressive  in  his 
voice,  so  handsome  in  his  face,  so  tender  and 
respectful  in  his  manner,  as  he  said  this,  that 
for  an  instant  I  was  really  moved,  and  I  was 
on  the  point  of  saying,  with  feeling,  "  I  wish 
indeed  you  had  !  "  But  that  instinct  of  which 
I  have  already  spoken  checked  me  —  the 
sense  that,  somehow,  as  things  stand,  there 
can  be  no  rapprochement  between  Mr.  Caliph 
and  me  that  will  not  involve  a  certain  sac- 
rifice of  Eunice.  So  I  only  replied :  "  You 
seem  to  me  strange,  Mr.  Caliph.  I  must  tell 
you  that  I  don't  understand  you." 

He  kept  my  hand,  still  looking  at  me,  and 
went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard  me.  "  I  am 
not  happy  —  I  am  not  wise  nor  good."  Then, 
suddenly,  in  quite  a  different  tone,  "  For 
God's  sake,  let  her  marry  my  brother !  " 

There  was  a  quick  passion  in  these  words 
which  made  me  say,  "  If  it  is  so  urgent  as 
that,  you  certainly  ought  to  speak  to  her. 
Perhaps  she'll  do  it  to  oblige  you  !  " 

We  had  walked  into  the  hall  together,  and 
the  last  I  saw  of  him  he  stood  in  the  open 
door-way,  looking  back  at  me  with  his  smile. 
"  Hang  the  nepotism  !  I  will  speak  to  her !  " 

Cornerville,  July  6. — A  whole  month  has 
passed  since  I  have  made  an  entry;  but  I 
have  a  good  excuse  for  this  dreadful  gap. 
Since  we  have  been  in  the  country  I  have 
found  subjects  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I 
have  been  painting  so  hard  that  my  hand,  of 
an  evening,  has  been  glad  to  rest.  This  place 


262 


THE   IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


is  very  lovely,  and  the  Hudson  is  as  beautiful 
as  the  Rhine.  There  are  the  words,  in  black 
and  white,  over  my  signature ;  I  can't  do 
more  than  that.  I  have  said  it  a  dozen  times, 
in  answer  to  as  many  challenges,  and  now  I 
record  the  opinion  with  all  the  solemnity  I 
can  give  it.  May  it  serve  for  the  rest  of  the 
summer !  This  is  an  excellent  old  house,  of 
the  style  that  was  thought  impressive,  in  this 
country,  forty  years  ago.  It  is  painted  a 
cheerful  slate-color,  save  for  a  multitude  of 
pilasters  and  facings  which  are  picked  out  in 
the  cleanest  and  freshest  white.  It  has  a  kind 
of  clumsy  gable  or  apex,  on  top ;  a  sort  of 
roofed  terrace,  below,  from  which  you  may 
descend  to  a  lawn  dotted  with  delightful  old 
trees;  and  between  the  two,  in  the  second 
story,  a  deep  veranda,  let  into  the  body  of 
the  building,  and  ornamented  with  white 
balustrades,  considerably  carved,  and  big  blue 
stone  jars.  Add  to  this  a  multitude  of  green 
shutters  and  striped  awnings,  and  a  mass  of 
Virginia  creepers  and  wistarias,  and  fling  over 
it  the  lavish  light  of  the  American  summer, 
and  you  have  a  notion  of  some  of  the  condi- 
tions of  our  villeggiatura.  The  great  condition, 
of  course,  is  the  splendid  river  lying  beneath 
our  rounded  headland  in  vast  silvery  stretches, 
and  growing  almost  vague  on  the  opposite 
shore.  It  is  a  country  of  views ;  you  are  al- 
ways peeping  down  an  avenue,  or  ascending 
a  mound,  or  going  around  a  corner,  to  look  at 
one.  They  are  rather  too  shining,  too  high- 
pitched,  for  my  little  purposes;  all  nature 
seems  glazed  with  light  and  varnished  with 
freshness.  But  I  manage  to  scrape  something 
off.  Mrs.  Ermine  is  here,  as  brilliant  as  her 
setting;  and  so,  strange  to  say,  is  Adrian 
Frank.  Strange  for  this  reason,  that  the  night 
before  we  left  town  I  went  into  Eunice's  room 
and  asked  her  whether  she  knew,  or  rather 
whether  she  suspected,  what  was  going  on. 
A  sudden  impulse  came  to  me ;  it  seemed  to 
me  unnatural  that  in  such  a  situation  I  should 
keep  anything  from  her.  I  don't  want  to 
interfere,  but  I  think  I  want  even  less  to 
carry  too  far  my  aversion  to  interference ;  and 
without  pretending  to  advise  Eunice,  it  was 
revealed  to  me  that  she  ought  to  know  that 
Mr.  Caliph  had  come  to  see  me  on  purpose  to 
induce  me  to  work  upon  her.  It  was  not 
till  after  he  was  gone  that  it  occurred  to  me 
he  had  sent  his  brother  in  advance,  on  pur- 
pose to  get  Eunice  out  of  the  way,  and  that 
this  was  the  reason  the  young  Adrian  would 
take  no  refusal.  He  was  really  in  excellent 
training.  It  was  a  very  hot  night.  Eunice 
was  alone  in  her  room,  without  a  lamp ;  the 
windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  dusk  was 
clarified  by  the  light  of  the  street.  She  sat 
there,  among  things  vaguely  visible,  in  a  white 


wrapper,  with  tier  fair  hair  on  her  shoulders. 
and  I  could  see  her  eyes  move  toward  me 
when  I  asked  her  whether  she  knew  that  Mr. 
Frank  wished  to  marry  her.  I  could  see  her 
smile,  too,  as  she  answered  that  she  knew  he 
thought  he  did,  but  also  knew  he  didn't. 

"  Of  course,  I  have  only  his  word  for  it,"  ] 
said. 

"  Has  he  told  you  ?  " 

lt  Oh,  yes,  and  his  brother,  too." 

"  His  brother  ?  "  And  Eunice  slowly  goi 
up. 

"  It's  an  idea  of  Mr.  Caliph's  as  well.  In 
deed,  Mr.  Caliph  may  have  been  the  first.  He 
came  here  to-day,  while  you  were  out,  to  tel 
me  how  much  he  should  like  to  see  it  come 
to  pass.  He  has  set  his  heart  upon  it,  and  he 
wished  me  to  engage  to  do  all  in  my  powei 
to  bring  it  about.  Of  course,  I  can't  do  any- 
thing, can  I  ?  " 

She  had  sunk  into  her  chair  again,  as  ] 
went  on;  she  sat  there  looking  before  her 
in  the  dark.  Before  she  answered  me  she 
gathered  up  her  thick  hair  with  her  hands 
twisted  it  together,  and  holding  it  in  place 
on  top  of  her  head,  with  one  hand,  tried  tc 
fasten  a  comb  into  it  with  the  other.  I  passec 
behind  her  to  help  her ;  I  could  see  she  wa< 
agitated.  "  Oh,  no,  you  can't  do  anything,' 
she  said,  after  a  moment,  with  a  laugh  tha 
was  not  like  her  usual  laughter.  "  I  know  al 
about  it;  they  have  told  me,  of  course.' 
Her  tone  was  forced,  and  I  could  see  thai 
she  had  not  really  known  all  about  it — hac 
not  known  that  Mr.  Caliph  is  pushing  his 
brother.  I  went  to  the  window  and  lookec 
out  a  little  into  the  hot,  empty  street,  where 
the  gas-lamps  showed  me,  up  and  down,  the 
hundred  high  stoops,  exactly  alike,  and  a< 
ugly  as  a  bad  dream.  While  I  stood  there,  a 
thought  suddenly  dropped  into  my  mind, 
which  has  lain  ever  since  where  it  fell.  But 
I  don't  wish  to  move  it,  even  to  write  it  here. 
I  staid  with  Eunice  for  ten  minutes;  I  told 
her  everything  that  Mr.  Caliph  had  said  tc 
me.  She  listened  in  perfect  silence —  I  could 
see  that  she  was  glad  to  listen.  When  1 
related  that  he  didn't  wish  to  speak  to  hei 
himself  on  behalf  of  his  brother,  because  that 
would  seem  indelicate,  she  broke  in,  with  a 
certain  eagerness,  "  Yes,  that  is  very  nat- 
ural ! " 

"  And  now  you  can  marry  Mr.  Frank  with- 
out my  help!  "  I  said,  when  I  had  done. 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  though  she  was 
smiling  again.  "  It's  too  late  for  your  help. 
He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I 
told  him  he  can  hope  for  it  —  never!  " 

I  was  surprised    to   hear  he   had  spol 
and  she  said  nothing  about  the  time  or 
It  must  have  been  that  afternoon,  during 


£ 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


263 


drive.  I  said  that  I  was  rather  sorry  for  our 
poor  young  friend ;  he  was  such  a  very  nice 
fellow.  She  agreed  that  he  was  remarkably 
nice,  but  added  that  this  was  not  a  sufficient 
reason  for  her  marrying  him ;  and  when  I 
said  that  he  would  try  again,  that  I  had  Mr. 
Caliph's  assurance  that  he  would  not  be  easy 
to  get  rid  of,  and  that  a  refusal  would  only 
make  him  persist,  she  answered  that  he 
might  try  as  often  as  he  liked,  he  was  so 
little  disagreeable  to  her  that  she  would  take 
even  that  from  him.  And  now,  to  give  him  a 
chance  to  try  again,  she  has  asked  him  down 
here  to  stay,  thinking  apparently  that  Mrs. 
Ermine's  presence  puts  us  en  regie  with  the 
proprieties.  I  should  add  that  she  assured  me 
there  was  no  real  danger  of  his  trying  again;  he 
jhad  told  her  he  meant  to,  but  he  had  said  it 
jonly  for  form.  Why  should  he,  since  he  was 
not  in  love  with  her  ?  It  was  all  an  idea  of 
his  brother's,  and  she  was  much  obliged  to 
Mr.  Caliph,  who  took  his  duties  much  too 
seriously,  and  was  not  in  the  least  bound  to 
provide  her  with  a  husband.  Mr.  Frank  and 
she  had  agreed  to  remain  friends, .  as  if 
nothing  had  happened;  and  I  think  she 
then  said  something  about  her  intending  to 
ask  him  to  this  place.  A  few  days  after  we 
got  here,  at  all  events,  she  told  me  that  she 
lhad  written  to  him,  proposing  his  coming ; 
whereupon  I  intimated  that  I  thought  it  a 
singular  overture  to  make  to  a  rejected  lover, 
whom  one  didn't  wish  to  encourage.  He 
Iwould  take  it  as  encouragement,  or  at  all 
events  Mr.  Caliph  would.  She  answered  that 
she  didn't  care  what  Mr.  Caliph  thinks,  and 
that  she  knew  Mr.  Frank  better  than  I,  and 
knew,  therefore,  that  he  had  absolutely  no 
hope.  But  she  had  a  particular  reason  for 
wishing  him  to  be  here.  That  sounded  mys- 
jterious,  and  she  couldn't  tell  me  more ;  but 
in  a  month  or  two  I  would  guess  her  reason. 
As  she  said  this  she  looked  at  me  with  a 
Brighter  smile  than  she  has  had  for  weeks ; 
(or  I  protest  that  she  is  troubled — Eunice 
!is  greatly  troubled.  Nearly  a  month  has 
elapsed,  and  I  haven't  guessed  that  reason. 
Here  is  Adrian  Frank,  at  any  rate,  as  I  say ; 
and  I  can't  make  out  whether  he  persists  or 
renounces.  His  manner  to  Eunice  is  just  the 
pame;  he  is  always  polite  and  always  shy, 
never  inattentive  and  never  unmistakable. 
He  has  not  said  a  word  more  to  me  about 
his  suit.  Apart  from  this  he  is  very  sympa- 
thetic, and  we  sit  about  sketching  together 
n  the  most  fraternal  manner.  He  made  to 
ie  a  day  or  two  since  a  very  pretty  remark ; 
iz.,  that  he  would  rather  copy  a  sketch  of 
mine  than  try,  himself,  to  do  the  place  from 
jtiature.  This,  perhaps,  does  not  look  so  galant 
jis  I  repeat  it  here;  but  with  the  tone  and 


glance  with  which  he  said  it,  it  really  almost 
touched  me.  I  was  glad,  by  the  way,  to  hear 
from  Eunice,  the  night  before  we  left  town, 
that  she  doesn't  care  what  Mr.  Caliph  thinks; 
only,  I  should  be  gladder  still  if  I  believed  it. 
I  don't,  unfortunately  ;  among  other  reasons, 
because  it  doesn't  at  all  agree  with  that  idea 
which  descended  upon  me  with  a  single  jump 
— from  heaven  knows  where — while  I  looked 
out  of  her  window  at  the  stoops.  I  observe 
with  pleasure,  however,  that  he  doesn't  send 
her  any  more  papers  to  sign.  These  days  pass 
softly,  quickly,  but  with  a  curious,  an  unnatu- 
ral, stillness.  It  is  as  if  there  was  something 
in  the  air — a  sort  of  listening  hush.  That 
sounds  very  fantastic,  and  I  suppose  such  re- 
marks are  only  to  be  justified  by  my  having 
the  artistic  temperament — that  is,  if  I  have 
it !  If  I  haven't,  there  is  no  excuse ;  unless  it 
be  that  Eunice  is  distinctly  uneasy,  and  that 
it  takes  the  form  of  a  voluntary,  exaggerated 
calm,  of  which  I  feel  the  contact,  the  tension. 
She  is  as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  and  yet  as  resltess 
as  a  flame.  She  is  neither  well  nor  happy ; 
she  doesn't  sleep.  It  is  true  that  I  asked  Mr. 
Frank,  the  other  day,  what  impression  she 
made  on  him,  and  he  replied,  with  a  little 
start  and  a  smile  of  alacrity,  "  Oh,  delightful, 
as  usual!" — so  that  I  saw  he  didn't  know 
what  he  was  talking  about.  He  is  tremen- 
dously sunburnt,  and  as  red  as  a  tomato.  I 
wish  he  would  look  a  little  less  at  my  daubs 
and  a  little  more  at  the  woman  he  wishes  to 
marry.  In  summer,  I  always  suffice  to  myself, 
and  I  am  so  much  interested  in  my  work  that 
if  I  hope,  devoutly,  as  I  do,  that  nothing  is 
going  to  happen  to  Eunice,  it  is  probably 
quite  as  much  from  selfish  motives  as  from 
others.  If  anything  were  to  happen  to  her,  I 
should  be  immensely  interrupted.  Mrs.  Er- 
mine is  bored,  par  exemple  !  She  is  dying  to 
have  a  garden-party,  at  which  she  can  drag 
a  long  train  over  the  lawn ;  but  day  follows 
day,  and  this  entertainment  does  not  take 
place.  Eunice  has  promised  it,  however,  for 
another  week,  and  I  believe  means  to  send 
out  invitations  immediately.  Mrs.  Ermine 
has  offered  to  write  them  all ;  she  has,  after 
all,  du  bon.  But  the  fatuity  of  her  misunder- 
standings of  everything  that  surrounds  her 
passes  belief.  She  sees  nothing  that  really 
occurs,  and  gazes  complacently  into  the  void. 
Her  theory  is  always  that  Mr.  Caliph  is  in 
love  with  Eunice, — she  opened  up  to  me  on 
the  subject  only  yesterday,  because  with  no 
one  else  to  talk  to  but  the  young  Adrian,  who 
dodges  her,  she  doesn't  in  the  least  mind  that 
she  hates  me,  and  that  I  think  her  a  goose, — 
that  Mr.  Caliph  is  in  love  with  Eunice,  but 
that  Eunice,  who  is  queer  enough  for  any- 
thing, doesn't  like  him,  so  that  he  has  sent 


264 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


down  his  step-brother  to  tell  stories  about 
the  good  things  he  has  done,  and  to  win  over 
her  mind  to  a  more  favorable  view.  Mrs.  Er- 
mine believes  in  these  good  things,  and  ap- 
pears to  think  such  action  on  Mr.  Caliph's 
part  both  politic  and  dramatic.  She  has  not 
the  smallest  suspicion  of  the  real  little  drama 
that  has  been  going  on  under  her  nose.  I 
wish  I  had  that  absence  of  vision ;  it  would 
be  a  great  rest.  Heaven  knows,  I  see  more 
than  I  want — for  instance,  when  I  see  that 
my  poor  little  cousin  is  pinched  with  pain,  and 
yet  that  I  can't  relieve  her,  can't  even  advise 
her.  I  couldn't  do  the  former  even  if  I  would, 
and  she  wouldn't  let  me  do  the  latter  even  if 
I  could.  It  seems  too  pitiful,  too  incredible, 
that  there  should  be  no  one  to  turn  to.  Surely 
if  I  go  up  to  town  for  a  day  next  week,  as 
seems  probable,  I  may  call  upon  William  Er- 
mine. Whether  I  may  or  not,  I  will. 

July  ii. —  She  has  been  getting  letters,  and 
they  have  made  her  worse.  Last  night  I 
spoke  to  her — I  asked  her  to  come  into  my 
room.  I  told  her  that  I  saw  she  was  in  dis- 
tress ;  that  it  was  terrible  to  me  to  see  it ;  that 
I  was  sure  that  she  has  some  miserable  secret. 
Who  was  making  her  suffer  this  way  ?  No 
one  had  the  right  —  not  even  Mr.  Caliph,  if 
Mr.  Caliph  it  was,  to  whom  she  appeared  to 
have  conceded  every  right.  She  broke  down 
completely,  burst  into  tears,  confessed  that 
she  is  troubled  about  money.  Mr.  Caliph  has 
again  requested  a  delay  as  to  his  handing  in 
his  accounts,  and  has  told  her  that  she  will 
have  no  income  for  another  year.  She  thinks 
it  strange  ;  she  is  afraid  that  everything  isn't 
right.  She  is  not  afraid  of  being  poor ;  she 
holds  that  it's  vile  to  concern  one's  self  so 
much  about  money.  But  there  is  something 
that  breaks  her  heart,  in  thinking  that  Mr. 
Caliph  should  be  in  fault.  She  had  always 
admired  him,  she  had  always  believed  in  him, 
she  had  always  —  What  it  was,  in  the  third 
place,  that  she  had  always  done  I  didn't 
learn,  for  at  this  point  she  buried  her  head 
still  deeper  in  my  lap  and  sobbed  for  half  an 
hour.  Her  grief  was  melting.  I  was  never 
more  troubled,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  I  was  furious  at  her  strange  air  of  ac- 
ceptance of  a  probable  calamity.  She  is  afraid 
that  everything  isn't  right,  forsooth !  I  should 
think  it  was  not,  and  should  think  it  hadn't 
been  for  heaven  knows  how  long.  This  is 
what  has  been  in  the  air;  this  is  what  was 
hanging  over  us.  But  Eunice  is  simply  amaz- 
ing. She  declines  to  see  a  lawyer ;  declines  to 
hold  Mr.  Caliph  accountable;  declines  to  com- 
plain, to  inquire,  to  investigate  in  any  way.  I 
am  sick,  I  am  terribly  perplexed — I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Her  tears  dried  up  in  an  instant  as 
soon  as  I  made  the  very  obvious  remark  that 


the  beautiful,  the  mysterious,  the  captivat 
ing  Caliph  is  no  better  than  a  common  swin 
dler ;  and  she  gave  me  a  look  which  mighi 
have  frozen  me  if  when  I  am  angry  I  were 
freezable.  She  took  it  de  bien  haut ;  she  inti- 
mated to  me  that  if  I  should  ever  speak  ir 
that  way  again  of  Mr.  Caliph  we  must  parl 
company  forever.  She  was  distressed;  she 
admitted  that  she  felt  injured.  I  had  seer 
for  myself  how  far  that  went.  But  she  didn't 
pretend  to  judge  him.  He  had  been  in  trou- 
ble,— he  had  told  her  that;  and  his  trouble 
was  worse  than  hers,  inasmuch  as  his  honoi 
was  at  stake,  and  it  had  to  be  saved. 

"  It's  charming  to  hear  you  speak  of  his 
honor,"  I  cried,  quite  regardless  of  the  threat 
she  had  just  uttered.  "Where  was  his  honor 
when  he  violated  the  most  sacred  of  trusts  ? 
Where  was  his  honor  when  he  went  off  with 
your  fortune  ?  Those  are  questions,  my  dear, 
that  the  courts  will  make  him  answer.  He 
shall  make  up  to  you  every  penny  that  he  has 
stolen,  or  my  name  is  not  Catherine  Condit ! " 

Eunice  gave  me  another  look,  which  seemed 
meant  to  let  me  know  that  I  had  suddenly 
become  in  her  eyes  the  most  indecent  of 
women :  and  then  she  swept  out  of  the  room. 
I  immediately  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Mr. 
Ermine,  in  order  to  have  my  note  ready  to 
send  up  to  town  at  the  earliest  hour  the  next 
morning.  I  told  him  that  Eunice  was  in 
dreadful  trouble  about  her  money  matters, 
and  that  I  believed  he  would  render  her  a 
great  service,  though  she  herself  had  no  wish 
to  ask  it,  by  coming  down  to  see  her  at  his 
first  convenience.  I  reflected,  of  course,  as  I 
wrote,  that  he  could  do  her  no  good  if  she 
should  refuse  to  see  him ;  but  I  made  up  for 
this  by  saying  to  myself  that  I  at  least  should 
see  him,  and  that  he  would  do  me  good.  I 
added  in  my  note  that  Eunice  had  been 
despoiled  by  those  who  had  charge  of  her 
property;  but  I  didn't  mention  Mr.  Caliph's 
name.  I  was  just  closing  my  letter  when 
Eunice  came  into  my  room  again.  I  saw  in 
a  moment  that  she  was  different  from  any- 
thing she  had  ever  been  before — or,  at  least, 
had  ever  seemed.  Her  excitement,  her  pas- 
sion, had  gone  down  ;  even  the  traces  of  her 
tears  had  vanished.  She  was  perfectly  quiet, 
but  all  her  softness  had  left  her.  She  was  as 
solemn  and  impersonal  as  the  priestess  of  a 
cult.  As  soon  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  my  letter, 
she  asked  me  to  be  so  good  as  to  inform  her 
to  whom  I  had  been  writing.  I  instantly 
satisfied  her,  telling  her  what  I  had  written ; 
and  she  asked  me  to  give  her  the  document. 
"  I  must  let  you  know  that  I  shall  immediately 
burn  it  up,"  she  added ;  and  she  went  01 
say  that  if  I  should  send  it  to  Mr.  Ermine, 
herself  would  write  to  him  by  the  same 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


265 


that   he  was   to  heed  nothing    I    had   said. 
[   tore   up   my  letter,  but    I    announced   to 
Eunice  that  I  would  go  up  to  town  and  see 
he   person   to    whom    I    had   addressed   it. 
'  That  brings  us  precisely  to  what  I  came  in 
to  say,"  she  answered;  and  she  proceeded  to 
demand  of  me  a  solemn  vow  that  I  would 
never  speak  to  a  living  soul  of  what  I  had 
earned  in  regard  to  her  affairs.    They  were 
ner   affairs    exclusively,  and   no   business  of 
mine  or  of  any  other  human  being,  and  she 
lad  a  perfect  right  to  ask  and  to  expect  this 
jromise.   She  has,  indeed — more's  the  pity; 
}ut  it  was  impossible  to  me  to  admit  just  then 
— indignant  and  excited  as   I  was — that  I 
recognized  the  right.  I  did  so  at  last,  however, 
and  I  made  the  promise.    It  seems  strange 
:o  me  to  write  it  here ;  but  I  am  pledged  by  a 
remendous  vow,  taken   in   this  "  intimate " 
spot,  in   the   small   hours    of  the    morning, 
never  to  lift  a  finger,  never  to  speak  a  word, 
,o  redress  any  wrong  that  Eunice  may  have 
received   at  the   hands   of   her    treacherous 
rustee,   to    bring   it   to   the   knowledge   of 
others,  or  to  invoke  justice,  compensation,  or 
pity.    How  she  extorted  this  promise  from  me 
is  more  than  I  can  say :  she  did  so  by  the 
'force  of  her  will — which,  as  I  have  already 
jhad  occasion  to  note,  is  far  stronger   than 
mine — and  by  the  vividness  of  her  passion, 
which  is  none  the  less  intense  because  it  burns 
inward  and  makes  her  heart  glow  while  her 
face  remains  as  clear  as  an  angel's.    She  seated 
herself  with  folded  hands,  and  declared  she 
wouldn't  leave  the  room  until  I  had  satisfied 
her.    She  is  in  a  state  of  extraordinary  exal- 
itation,  and  from  her  own  point  of  view  she 
was  eloquent   enough.    She   returned   again 
iand  again  to  the  fact  that  she  did  not  judge 
I  Mr.  Caliph;  that  what  he  may  have  done  is 
ibetween  herself  and  him  alone ;  and  that  if 
•she  had  not  been  betrayed  to  speaking  of  it 
(to  me  in  the  first  shock  of  finding  that  certain 
(allowances  would  have  to  be  made  for  him, 
jno  one  need  ever  have  suspected  it.    She  was 
'now  perfectly  ready  to  make  those  allowances. 
She  was  unspeakably  sorry  for  Mr.  Caliph. 
|He  had  been  in  urgent  need  of  money,  and 
he  had  used  hers  :  pray,  whose  else  would  I 
have  wished  him  to  use?    Her  money  had 
Ibeen  an  insupportable  bore  to  him  from  the 
|day  it  was  thrust  into  his  hands.    To  make 
him  her  trustee  had  been  in  the  worst  possible 
taste ;  he  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  make 
a  convenience  of,  and  it  had  been  odious  to 
(take  advantage  of  his  good-nature.    She  had 
always  been  ashamed  of  owing  him  so  much. 
He  had  been  perfect  in  all  his  relations  with 
her,  though  he  must  have  hated  her  and  her 
wretched  little  investments  from  the  first.'  If 
'she  had  lost  money,  it  was  not  his  fault ;  he 


had  lost  a  great  deal  more  for  himself  than 
he  had  lost  for  her.  He  was  the  kindest,  the 
most  delightful,  the  most  interesting  of  men. 
Eunice  brought  out  all  this  with  pure  defiance; 
she  had  never  treated  herself  before  to  the 
luxury  of  saying  it,  and  it  was  singular  to 
think  that  she  found  her  first  pretext,  her  first 
boldness,  in  the  fact  that  he  had  ruined  her. 
All  this  looks  almost  grotesque  as  I  write  it 
here ;  but  she  imposed  it  upon  me  last  night 
with  all  the  authority  of  her  passionate  little 
person.  I  agreed,  as  I  say,  that  the  matter 
was  none  of  my  business ;  that  is  now  definite 
enough.  Two  other  things  are  equally  so. 
One  is  that  she  is  to  be  plucked  like  a  chicken ; 
the  other  is  that  she  is  in  love  with  the  prec- 
ious Caliph,  and  has  been  so  for  years !  I 
didn't  dare  to  write  that  the  other  night,  after 
the  beautiful  idea  had  suddenly  flowered  in 
my  mind;  but  I  don't  care  what  I  write  now. 
I  am  so  horribly  tongue-tied  that  I  must  at 
least  relieve  myself  here.  Of  course,  I  wonder 
now  that  I  never  guessed  her  secret  before  ; 
especially  as  I  was  perpetually  hovering  on 
the  edge  of  it.  It  explains  many  things,  and 
it  is  very  terrible.  In  love  with  a  pickpocket ! 
Merci  !  I  am  glad  fate  hasn't  played  me  that 
trick. 

July  14. —  I  can't  get  over  the  idea  that  he 
is  to  go  scot-free.  I  grind  my  teeth  over  it  as 
I  sit  at  work,  and  I  find  myself  using  the  most 
livid,  the  most  brilliant  colors.  I  have  had 
another  talk  with  Eunice,  but  I  don't  in  the 
least  know  what  she  is  to  live  on.  She  says 
she  has  always  her  father's  property,  and  that 
this  will  be. abundant;  but  that,  of  course,  she 
cannot  pretend  to  live  as  she  has  lived  hitherto. 
She  will  have  to  go  abroad  again  and  econo- 
mize ;  and  she  will  probably  have  to  sell  this 
place  —  that  is,  if  she  can.  "  If  she  can  "  of 
course  means,  if  there  is  anything  to  sell ;  if 
it  isn't  devoured  with  mortgages.  What  I  want 
to  know  is,  whether  justice,  in  such  a  case  as 
this,  will  not  step  in,  notwithstanding  the 
silence  of  the  victim.  If  I  could  only  give 
her  a  hint  —  the  angel  of  the  scales  and  sword 
—  in  spite  of  my  detestable  promise  !  I  can't 
find  out  about  Mr.  Caliph's  impunity,  as  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  allude  to  the  matter  to 
any  one  who  would  be  able  to  tell  me.  Yes, 
the  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  reason  I  see 
to  rejoice  that  fate  hasn't  played  me  that 
trick  of  making  me  fall  in  love  with  a  pick- 
pocket !  Suffering  keener  than  my  poor  little 
cousin's  I  cannot  possibly  imagine,  or  a  power 
of  self-sacrifice  more  awful.  Fancy  the  situa- 
tion, when  the  only  thing  one  can  do  for  the 
man  one  loves  is  to  forgive  him  for  thieving ! 
What  a  delicate  attention,  what  a  touching 
proof  of  tenderness !  This  Eunice  can  do ; 
she  has  waited  all  these  years  to  do  some- 


266 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


thing.  I  hope  she  is  pleased  with  her  oppor- 
tunity. And  yet  when  I  say  she  has  forgiven 
him  for  thieving,  I  lose  myself  in  the  mys- 
tery of  her  exquisite  spirit.  Who  knows 
what  it  is  she  has  forgiven  —  does  she 
even  know  herself?  She  consents  to  being 
injured,  despoiled,  and  finds  in  consenting  a 
kind  of  rapture.  But  I  notice  that  she  has 
said  no  more  about  Mr.  Caliph's  honor.  That 
substantive  she  condemns  herself  never  to 
hear  again  without  a  quiver,  for  she  has  con- 
doned something  too  ignoble.  What  I  further 
want  to  know  is,  what  conceivable  tone  he  has 
taken  —  whether  he  has  made  a  clean  breast 
of  it,  and  thrown  himself  upon  her  mercy,  or 
whether  he  has  sought  refuge  in  bravado,  in 
prevarication  ?  Not,  indeed,  that  it  matters, 
save  for  the  spectacle  of  the  thing,  which  I 
find  rich.  I  should  also  like  much  to  know 
whether  everything  has  gone,  whether  some- 
thing may  yet  be  saved.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
she  doesn't  know  the  worst,  and  that  if  he 
has  admitted  the  case  is  bad,  we  may  take 
for  granted  that  it  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired. 
Let  him  alone  to  do  the  thing  handsomely  ! 
I  have  a  right  to  be  violent,  for  there  was  a 
moment  when  he  made  me  like  him,  and  I 
feel  as  if  he  had  cheated  me  too.  Her  being 
in  love  with  him  makes  it  perfect ;  for  of 
course  it  was  in  that  that  he  saw  his  oppor- 
tunity to  fleece  her.  I  don't  pretend  to  say 
how  he  discovered  it,  for  she  has  watched 
herself  as  a  culprit  watches  a  judge ;  but  from 
the  moment  he  guessed  it,  he  must  have 
seen  that  he  could  do  what  he  liked.  It  is 
true  that  this  doesn't  agree  very  well  with  his 
plan  that  she  should  marry  his  step-brother; 
but  I  prefer  to  believe  it,  because  it  makes 
him  more  horrible.  And  apropos  of  Adrian 
Frank,  it  is  very  well  I  like  him  so  much  (that 
comes  out  rather  plump,  by  the  way),  inas- 
much as  if  I  didn't,  it  would  be  quite  open  to 
me  to  believe  that  he  is  in  league  with  Caliph. 
There  has  been  nothing  to  prove  that  he  has 
not  said  to  his  step-brother,  "  Very  good ; 
you  take  all  you  can  get,  and  I  will  marry 
her,  and  being  her  husband,  hush  it  up,"  — 
nothing  but  the  expression  of  his  blue  eyes. 
That  is  very  little,  when  we  think  that  ex- 
pressions and  eyes  are  a  specialty  of  the 
family,  and  haven't  prevented  Mr.  Caliph 
from  being  a  robber.  It  is  those  eyes  of  his 
that  poor  Eunice  is  in  love  with,  and  it  is  for 
their  sake  that  she  forgives  him.  But  the 
young  Adrian's  are  totally  different,  and  not 
nearly  so  fine,  which  I  think  a  great  point  in 
his  favor.  Mr.  Caliph's  are  southern  eyes, 
and  the  young  Adrian's  are  eyes  of  the  north. 
Moreover,  though  he  is  so  amiable  and  oblig- 
ing, I  don't  think  he  is  amiable  enough  to  en- 
dosser  his  brother's  victims  to  that  extent,  even 


to  save  his  brother's  honor.  He  needn't  care 
so  much  about  that  honor,  since  Mr.  Caliph's 
name  is  not  his  name.  And  then,  poor  fellow. 
he  is  too  stupid;  he  is  almost  as  stupid  a.1- 
Mrs.  Ermine.  The  two  have  sat  together 
directing  cards  for  Eunice's  garden-party  as 
placidly  as  if  no  one  had  a  sorrow  in  life. 
Mrs.  Ermine  proposed  this  pastime  to  Mr. 
Frank ;  and  as  he  has  nothing  in  the  world 
to  do,  it  is  as. good  an  employment  for  him 
as  another.  But  it  exasperates  me  to  see  him 
sitting  at  the  big  table  in  the  library,  opposite 
to  Mrs.  E.,  while  they  solemnly  pile  one 
envelope  on  top  of  another.  They  have  al- 
ready a  heap  as  high  as  their  heads;  they  must 
have  invited  a  thousand  people.  I  can't  im- 
agine who  they  all  are.  It  is  an  extraordinary 
time  for  Eunice  to  be  giving  a  party  —  the 
day  after  she  discovers  that  she  is  penniless ; 
but  of  course -it  isn't  Eunice;  it's  Mrs.  Er- 
mine. I  said  to  her  yesterday  that  if  she  was 
to  change  her  mode  of  life  —  simple  enough 
already,  poor  thing —  she  had  better  begin  at 
once ;  and  that  her  garden-party  under  Mrs. 
Ermine's  direction  would  cost  her  a  thousand 
dollars.  She  answered  that  she  must  go  on, 
since  it  had  already  been  talked  about ;  she 
wished  no  one  to  know  anything  — to  suspect 
anything.  This  would  be  her  last  extrava- 
gance, her  farewell  to  society.  If  such  re- 
sources were  open  to  us  poor  heretics,  I  should 
suppose  she  meant  to  go  into  a  convent.  She 
exasperates  me,  too  —  every  one  exasperates 
me.  It  is  some  satisfaction,  however,  to  feel 
that  my  exasperation  clears  up  my  mind.  It 
is  Caliph  who  is  "  sold,"  after  all.  He  would 
not  have  invented  this  alliance  for  his  brother 
if  he  had  known  —  if  he  had  faintly  suspected 
—  that  Eunice  was  in  love  with  him,  inas- 
much as  in  this  case  he  had  assured  impunity. 
Fancy  his  not  knowing  it— the  idiot ! 

July  20. — They  are  still  directing  cards, 
and  Mrs.  Ermine  has  taken  the  whole  thing 
on  her  shoulders.  She  has  invited  people 
that  Eunice  has  never  heard  of —  a  pretty 
rabble  she  will  have  made  of  it !  She  has  or- 
dered a  band  of  music  from  New  York,  and 
a  new  dress  for  the  occasion  —  something  in 
the  last  degree  champetre.  Eunice  is  perfectly 
indifferent  to  what  she  does ;  I  have  discov- 
ered that  she  is  thinking  only  of  one  thing. 
Mr.  Caliph  is  coming,  and  the  bliss  of  that 
idea  fills  her  mind.  The  more  people  the 
better;  she  will  not  have  the  air  of  making 
petty  economies  to  afflict  him  with  the  sight 
of  what  he  has  reduced  her  to  ! 

"This  is  the  way  Eunice  ought  to  live 
Mrs.  Ermine  said  to  me  this  afternoon, 
bing  her  hands,  after  the  last  invitation 
departed.    When  I  say  the  last,  I  mean 
last  till  she  had  remembered   another 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


267 


was  highly  important,  and  had  floated  back 
into  the  library  to  scribble  it  off.  She  writes  a 
regular  invitation  hand  —  a  vague,  sloping, 
silly  hand,  that  looks  as  if  it  had  done  nothing 
all  its  days  but  write,  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ermine 
request  the  pleasure,"  or.  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ermine  are  delighted  to  accept."  She  told 
me  that  she  knew  Eunice  far  better  than 
Eunice  knew  herself,  and  that  her  line  in 
life  was  evidently  to  "  receive."  No  one 
better  than  she  would  stand  in  a  door- way 
and  put  out  her  hand  with  a  smile ;  no  one 
would  be  a  more  gracious  and  affable  host- 
ess, or  make  a  more  generous  use  of  an  am- 
ple fortune.  She  is  really  very  trying,  Mrs. 
Ermine,  with  her  ample  fortune ;  she  is  like 
a  clock  striking  impossible  hours.  I  think  she 
must  have  engaged  a  special  train  for  her 
guests  —  a  train  to  pick  up  people  up  and 
down  the  river.  Adrian  Frank  went  to  town 
to-day;  he  comes  back  on  the  23d,  and 
the  festival  takes  place  the  next  day.  The 
festival,  —  Heaven  help  us !  Eunice  is  evi- 
dently going  to  be  ill ;  it's  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  keep  from  adding  that  it  serves  her 
right !  It's  a  great  relief  to  me  that  Mr.  Frank 
has  gone ;  this  has  ceased  to  be  a  place  for 
him.  It  is  ever  so  long  since  he  has  said  any- 
thing to  me  about  his  "  prospects."  They  are 
!  charming,  his  prospects  ! 

July  26. — The  garden-party  has  taken  place, 
and  a  great  deal  more  besides.  I  have  been 
too  agitated,  too  fatigued  and  bewildered,  to 
| write  anything  here;  but  I  can't  sleep  to- 
|  night, —  I'm  too  nervous, — and  it  is  better 
j  to  sit  and  scribble  than  to  toss  about.  I  may 
I  as  well  say  at  once  that  the  party  was  very 
pretty  —  Mrs.  Ermine  may  have  that  credit. 
IThe  day  was  lovely ;  the  lawn  was  in  capital 
order ;  the  music  was  good,  and  the  buffet  ap- 
parently inexhaustible.  There  was  an  immense 
number  of  people ;  some  of  them  had  come 
even  from  Albany  —  many  of  them  strangers 
(to  Eunice,  and  proteges  only  of  Mrs.  Ermine ; 
jbut  they  dispersed  themselves  on  the  grounds, 
•and  I  have  not  heard,  as  yet,  that  they  stole 
;the  spoons  or  plucked  up  the  plants.  Mrs. 
(Ermine,  who  was  exceedingly  champetre, — 
•white  muslin  and  corn-flowers, —  told  me  that 
(Eunice  was  "  receiving  adorably,"  was  in  her 
'native  element.  She  evidently  inspired  great 
jcuriosity ;  that  was  why  every  one  had  come. 
;I  don't  mean  because  every  one  suspects  her 
situation,  but  because  as  yet,  since  her  return, 
;she  has  been  little  seen  and  known,  and  is 
(supposed  to  be  a  distinguished  figure — clever, 
beautiful,  rich,  and  a  parti.  I  think  she  satis- 
jfied  every  one ;  she  was  voted  most  interest- 
ing, and  except  that  she  was  deadly  pale,  she 
jwas  prettier  than  any  one  else.  Adrian  Frank 
!did  not  come  back  on  the  23d,  and  did  not 


arrive  for  the  festival.  So  much  I  note  with- 
out, as  yet,  understanding  it.  His  absence 
from  the  garden-party,  after  all  his  exertions 
under  the  orders  of  Mrs.  Ermine,  is  in  need 
of  an  explanation.  Mr.  Caliph  could  give 
none,  for  Mr.  Caliph  was  there.  He  pro- 
fessed surprise  at  not  finding  his  brother ;  said 
he  had  not  seen  him  in  town,  that  he  had  no 
idea  what  had  become  of  him.  This  is  prob- 
ably perfectly  false.  I  am  bound  to  believe 
that  everything  he  says  and  does  is  false ;  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  they  met  in  New  York, 
and  that  Adrian  told  him  his  reason  —  what- 
ever it  was  —  for  not  coming  back.  I  don't 
know  how  to  relate  what  took  place  between 
Mr.  Caliph  and  me.  We  had  an  extraordinary 
scene, —  a  scene  that  gave  my  nerves  the 
shaking  from  which  they  have  not  recov- 
ered. He  is  truly  a  most  amazing  personage. 
He  is  altogether  beyond  me ;  I  don't  pretend 
to  fathom  him.  To  say  that  he  has  no  moral 
sense  is  nothing.  I  have  seen  other  people 
who  have  had  no  moral  sense ;  but  I  have 
seen  no  one  with  that  impudence,  that  cyn- 
icism, that  remorseless  cruelty.  We  had  a 
tremendous  encounter;  I  thank  Heaven  that 
strength  was  given  me !  When  I  found  my- 
self face  to  face  with  him,  and  it  came  over 
me  that,  blooming  there  in  his  diabolical  as- 
surance, it  was  he  —  he  with  his  smiles,  his 
bows,  his  gorgeous  boutonniere,  the  wonderful 
air  he  has  of  being  anointed  and  gilded  —  he 
that  had  ruined  my  poor  Eunice,  who  grew 
whiter  than  ever  as  he  approached :  when  I 
felt  all  this,  my  blood  began  to  tingle,  and  if 
I  were  only  a  handsome  woman  I  might  be- 
lieve that  my  eyes  shone  like  those  of  an 
avenging  angel.  He  was  as  fresh  as  a  day  in 
June,  enormous,  and  more  than  ever  like 
Haroun-al-Raschid.  I  asked  him  to  take  a 
walk  with  me ;  and  just  for  an  instant,  before 
accepting,  he  looked  at  me,  as  the  French 
say,  in  the  white  of  the  eyes.  But  he  pre- 
tended to  be  delighted,  and  we  strolled  away 
together  to  the  path  that  leads  down  to  the 
river.  It  was  difficult  to  get  away  from  the 
people  —  they  were  all  over  the  place ;  but  I 
made  him  go  so  far  that,  at  the  end  of  ten 
minutes,  we  were  virtually  alone  together.  It 
was  delicious  to  see  how  he  hated  it.  It  was 
then  that  I  asked  him  what  had  become  of 
his  step-brother,  and  that  he  professed,  as  I 
have  said,  the  utmost  ignorance  of  Adrian's 
whereabouts.  I  hated  him ;  it  was  odious  to 
me  to  be  so  close  to  him ;  yet  I  could  have 
endured  this  for  hours  in  order  to  make  him 
feel  that  I  despised  him.  To  make  him  feel 
it  without  saying  it' —  there  was  an  inspiration 
in  that  idea ;  but  it  is  very  possible  that  it 
made  me  look  more  like  a  demon  than  like 
the  angel  I  just  mentioned.  I  told  him  in  a 


268 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


moment,  abruptly,  that  his  step-brother  would 
do  well  to  remain  away  altogether  in  future ; 
it  was  a  farce,  his  pretending  to  make  my 
cousin  reconsider  her  answer. 

"  Why,  then,  did  she  ask  him  to  come  down 
here  ?  "  He  launched  this  inquiry  with  con- 
fidence. 

"  Because  she  thought  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  have  a  man  in  the  house ;  and  Mr.  Frank 
is  such  a  harmless,  discreet,  accommodating 
one." 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  object  to  his  coming 
back  ?  " 

He  had  made  me  contradict  myself  a  little, 
and,  of  course,  he  enjoyed  that.  I  was  con- 
fused— confused  by  my  agitation;  and  I 
made  the  matter  worse.  I  was  furious  that 
Eunice  had  made  me  promise  not  to  speak,  and 
my  anger  blinded  me,  as  great  anger  always 
does,  save  in  organizations  as  fine  as  Mr. 
Caliph's. 

"  Because  Eunice  is  in  no  condition  to 
have  company.  She  is  very  ill ;  you  can  see 
for  yourself." 

"  Very  ill  ?  with  a  garden-party  and  a  band 
of  music  !  Why,  then,  did  she  invite  us  all  ?  " 

"  Because  she  is  a  little  crazy,  I  think." 

"  You  are  very  consistent !  "  he  cried,  with 
a  laugh.  "  I  know  people  who  think  every 
one  crazy  but  themselves.  I  have  had  occa- 
sion to  talk  business  with  her  several  times  of 
late,  and  I  find  her  mind  as  clear  as  a  bell." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  that 
you  talk  business  too  much  ?  Let  me  give 
you  a  word  of  advice :  wind  up  her  affairs  at 
once  without  any  more  procrastination,  and 
place  them  in  her  own  hands.  She  is  very 
nervous ;  she  knows  this  ought  to  have  been 
done  already.  I  recommend  you  strongly  to 
make  an  end  of  the  matter." 

I  had  no  idea  I  could  be  so  insolent,  even 
in  conversation  with  a  swindler.  I  confess  I 
didn't  do  it  so  well  as  I  might,  for  my  voice 
trembled  perceptibly  in  the  midst  of  my 
efforts  to  be  calm.  He  had  picked  up  two  or 
three  stones,  and  was  tossing  them  into  the 
river,  making  them  skim  the  surface  for  a  long 
distance.  He  held  one  poised  a  moment,  turn- 
ing his  eye  askance  on  me ;  then  he  let  it  fly, 
and  it  danced  for  a  hundred  yards.  I  won- 
dered whether  in  what  I  had  just  said  I  broke 
my  vow  to  Eunice ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  didn't,  inasmuch  as  I  appeared  to  assume 
that  no  irreparable  wrong  had  been  done  her. 

"  Do  you  wish  yourself  to  get  control  of 
her  property  ?  "  Mr.  Caliph  inquired,  after  he 
had  made  his  stone  skim.  It  was  magnifi- 
cently said,  far  better  than  anything  I  could 
do;  and  I  think  I  answered  it — though  it 
made  my  heart  beat  fast — almost  with  a 
smile  of  applause. 


"  Aren't  you  afraid  ?  "  I  asked  in  a  moment, 
very  gently. 

"  Afraid  of  what, — of  you  ?  " 

"  Afraid  of  justice — of  Eunice's  friends  ?  '" 

"  That  means  you,  of  course.  Yes,  I  am 
very  much  afraid.  When  was  a  man  not,  in 
the  presence  of  a  clever  woman  ?  " 

"  I  am  clever ;  but  I  am  not  clever  enough. 
If  I  were,  you  should  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

He  folded  his  arms  as  he  stood  there  be- 
fore me,  looking  at  me  in  that  way  I  have 
mentioned  more  than  once — like  a  genial 
Mephistopheles.  "  I  must  repeat  what  I  have 
already  told  you,  that  I  wish  I  had  known 
you  ten  years  ago !  " 

"  How  you  must  hate  me  to  say  that ! "  I 
exclaimed.  "  That's  some  comfort,  just  a  lit- 
tle—  your  hating  me." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  makes  me  feel  to 
see  you  so  indiscreet,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he 
had  not  heard  me.  "  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  don't 
meddle — a  woman  like  you!  Think  of  the 
bad  taste  of  it." 

"  It's  bad  if  you  like ;  but  yours  is  far 
worse." 

"  Mine !  What  do  you  know  about  mine  ? 
What  do  you  know  about  me?  See  how 
superficial  it  makes  you."  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment, smiling  almost  compassionately;  and 
then  he  said,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  tone 
and  manner,  as  if  our  conversation  wearied 
him  and  he. wished  to  sum  up  and  return  to 
the  house,  "  See  that  she  marries  Adrian; 
that's  all  you  have  to  do !  " 

"  That's  a  beautiful  idea  of  yours !  "  You 
know  you  don't  believe  in  it  yourself! " 
These  words  broke  from  me  as  he  turned 
away  and  we  ascended  the  hill  together. 

"  It's  the  only  thing  I  believe  in,"  he  an- 
swered, very  gravely. 

"What  a  pity  for  you  that  your  brother 
doesn't !  For  he  doesn't —  I  persist  in  that !  " 
I  said  this  because  it  seemed  to  me  just  then 
to  be  the  thing  I  could  think  of  that  would 
exasperate  him  most.  The  event  proved  I 
was  right. 

He  stopped  short  in  the  path  —  gave  me  a 
very  bad  look.  "  Do  you  want  him  for  your- 
self? Have  you  been  making  love  to  him  ? " 

"Ah,  Mr.  Caliph,  for  a  man  who  talks 
about  taste !  "  I  answered. 

"  Taste  be  d d !  "  cried  Mr.  Caliph,  as 

we  went  on  again. 

"That's  quite  my  idea!"  He  broke  into 
an  unexpected  laugh,  as  if  I  had  said  some- 
thing very  amusing,  and  we  proceeded  i:i 
silence  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Then  I  suddenly 
said  to  him,  as  we  emerged  upon  the 
"  Aren't  you  really  a  little  afraid  ?  " 

He   stopped   again,   looking    toward 
house  and  at  the  brilliant  groups  with  wl 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


269 


the  lawn  was  covered.  We  had  lost  the 
music,  but  we  began  to  hear  it  again.  "Afraid  ? 
of  course  I  am!  I'm  immensely  afraid.  It 
comes  over  me  in  such  a  scene  as  this.  But  I 
don't  see  what  good  it  does  you  to  know." 

"It  makes  me  rather  happy! "  That  was  a 
fib ;  for  it  didn't,  somehow,  when  he  looked 
and  talked  in  that  way.  He  has  an  absolutely 
jbottomless  power  of  mockery;  and  really, 
absurd  as  it  appears,  for  that  instant  I  had  a 
feeling  that  it  was  quite  magnanimous  of  him 
[not  to  let  me  know  what  he  thought  of  my 
idiotic  attempt  to  frighten  him.  He  feels 
strong  and  safe,  somehow,  somewhere ;  but  I 
can't  discover  why  he  should,  inasmuch  as  he 
certainly  doesn't  know  Eunice's  secret,  and 
it  is  only  her  state  of  mind  that  gives  him 
impunity.  He  believes  her  to  be  merely  cred- 
ulous; convinced  by  his  specious  arguments 
that  everything  will  be  right  in  a  few  months ; 
a,  little  nervous,  possibly, —  to  justify  my  ac- 
count of  her, —  but  for  the  present,  at  least, 
completely  at  his  mercy.  The  present,  of 
pourse,  is  only  what  now  concerns  him ;  for 
he  future  he  has  invented  Adrian  Frank.  How 
ic  clings  to  this  invention  was  proved  by  the 
ast  words  he  said  to  me  before  we  separated 
an  the  lawn  ;  they  almost  indicate  that  he  has 
!i  conscience,  and  this  is  so  extraordinary — 

"  She  must  marry  Adrian !  She  must  marry 
Adrian !  " 

With  this  he  turned  away  and  went  to  talk 
o  various  people  whom  he  knew.  He  talked 
o  every  one;  diffused  his  genial  influence  all 
3ver  the  place,  and  contributed  greatly  to  the 
Brilliancy  of  the  occasion.  I  hadn't,  there- 
ore,  the  comfort  of  feeling  that  Mrs.  Ermine 
«vas  more  of  a  waterspout  than  usual,  when 
she  said  to  me,  afterward,  that  Mr.  Caliph 
vas  a  man  to  adore,  and  that  the  party  would 
lave  been  quite  "ordinary"  without  him. 
'I  mean  in  comparison,  you  know."  And 
hen  she  said  to  me,  suddenly,  with  her  blank 
mpertinence :  "  Why  don't  you  set  your  cap 
it  him  ?  I  should  think  you  would !  " 


you  notice  now  i  drew  mm  away 
bid  made  him  walk  with  me  by  the  river.  It's 
|oo  soon  to  say,  but  I  really  think  I  am  gain- 
ing ground."  For  so  mild  a  pleasure,  it  really 
j)ays  to  mystify  Mrs.  Ermine.  I  kept  away 
torn  Eunice  till  almost  every  one  had  gone. 
.  knew  that  she  would  look  at  me  in  a  cer- 
ain  way,  and  I  didn't  wish  to  meet  her  eyes. 
j-  have  a  bad  conscience;  for  turn  it  as  I 
yould,  I  had  broken  my  vow.  Mr.  Caliph 
yent  away  without  my  meeting  him  again  ; 
imt  I  saw  that  half  an  hour  before  he  left  he 
itrolled  to  a  distance  with  Eunice.  I  instantly 
guessed  what  his  business  was;  he  had  made 


up  his  mind  to  present  to  her  directly,  and  in 
person,  the  question  of  her  'marrying  his 
step-brother.  What  a  happy  inspiration,  and 
what  a  well-selected  occasion!  When  she 
came  back  I  saw  that  she  had  been  crying, 
though  I  imagine  no  one  else  did.  I  know 
the  signs  of  her  tears,  even  when  she  has 
checked  them  as  quickly  as  she  must  have 
done  to-day.  Whatever  it  was  that  had 
passed  between  them,  it  diverted  her  from 
looking  at  me,  when  we  were  alone  together, 
in  that  way  I  was  afraid  of.  Mrs.  Ermine  is 
prolific ;  there  is  no  end  to  the  images  that 
succeed  each  other  in  her  mind.  Late  in  the 
evening,  after  the  last  carriage  had  rolled 
away,  we  went  up  the  staircase  together,  and 
at  the  top  she  detained  me  a  moment. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  there  is  no  chance  for  you.  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  he  proposed  to-day  to 
Eunice ! " 

August  19. — Eunice  is  very  ill,  as  I  was 
sure  she  would  be,  after  the  effort  of  her  hor- 
rible festival.  She  kept  going  for  three  days 
more ;  then  she  broke  down  completely,  and 
for  a  week  now  she  has  been  in  bed.  I  have 
had  no  time  to  write,  for  I  have  been  con- 
stantly with  her  in  alternation  with  Mrs.  Er- 
mine. Mrs.  Ermine  was  about  to  leave  us 
after  the  garden-party,  but  when  Eunice  gave 
up,  she  announced  that  she  would  stay  and 
take  care  of  her.  Eunice  tells  me  that  she  is 
a  good  nurse,  except  that  she  talks  too  much, 
and  of  course  she  gives  me  a  chance  to  rest. 
Eunice's  condition  is  strange;  she  has  no 
fever,  but  her  life  seems  to  have  ebbed  away. 
She  lies  with  her  eyes  shut,  perfectly  conscious, 
answering  when  she  is  spoken  to,  but  im- 
mersed in  absolute  rest.  It  is  as  if  she  had 
had  some  terrible  strain  or  fatigue,  and  wished 
to  steep  herself  in  oblivion.  I  am  not  anxious 
about  her — am  much  less  frightened  than 
Mrs.  Ermine  or  the  doctor,  to  whom  she  is 
apparently  dying  of  weakness.  I  tell  the  doc- 
tor I  understand  her  condition — I  have  seen 
her  so  before.  It  will  last  probably  a  month, 
and  then  she  will  slowly  pull  herself  together. 
The  poor  man  accepts  this  theory  for  want 
of  a  better,  and  evidently  depends  upon  me 
to  see  her  through,  as  he  says.  Mrs.  Ermine 
wishes  to  send  for  one  of  the  great  men  from 
New  York,  but  I  have  opposed  this  idea,  and 
shall  continue  to  oppose  it.  There  is  (to  my 
mind)  a  kind  of  cruelty  in  exhibiting  the  poor 
girl  to  more  people  than  are  absolutely  nec- 
essary. The  dullest  of  them  would  see  that 
she  is  in  love.  The  seat  of  her  illness  is  in  her 
mind,  in  her  soul,  and  no  rude  hands  must 
touch  her  there.  She  herself  has  protested — 
she  has  murmured  a  prayer  that  she  may  be 
forced  to  see  no  one  else.  "  I  only  want  to  be 


270 


THE   IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


left  alone — to  be  left  alone."  So  we  leave  her 
alone;  that  is,  we  simply  watch  and  wait. 
She  will  recover— people  don't  die  of  these 
things;  she  will  live  to  suffer — to  suffer 
always.  I  am  tired  to-night,  but  Mrs.  Ermine 
is  with  her,  and  I  shall  not  be  wanted  till 
morning ;  therefore,  before  I  lie  down,  I  will 
repair  in  these  remarkable  pages  a  serious 
omission.  I  scarcely  know  why  I  should  have 
written  all  this,  except  that  the  history  of 
things  interests  me,  and  I  find  that  it  is  even  a 
greater  pleasure  to  write  it  than  to  read  it. 
If  what  I  have  committed  to  this  little  book 
hitherto  has  not  been  profitless,  I  must  make  a 
note  of  an  incident  which  I  think  more  curious 
than  any  of  the  scenes  I  have  described. 

Adrian  Frank  re-appeared  the  day  after  the 
garden-party — late  in  the  afternoon,  while  I 
sat  in  the  veranda  and  watched  the  sunset, 
and  Eunice  strolled  down  to  the  river  with 
Mrs.  Ermine.  I  had  heard  no  sound  of 
wheels,  and  there  was  no  evidence  of  a  vehi- 
cle or  of  luggage.  He  had  not  come  through 
the  house,  but  walked  around  it  from  the  front, 
having  apparently  been  told  by  one  of  the 
servants  that  we  were  in  the  grounds.  On 
seeing  me  he  stopped,  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  came  up  to  the  steps,  shook  hands  in 
silence,  seated  himself  near  me,  and  looked 
at  me  through  'the  dusk.  This  was  all  tolera- 
bly mysterious,  and  it  was  even  more  so  after 
he  had  explained  a  little.  I  told  him  that  he 
was  a  "  day  after  the  fair" ;  that  he  had  been 
considerably  missed,  and  even  that  he  was 
slightly  wanting  in  respect  to  Eunice.  Since 
he  had  absented  himself  from  her  party,  it 
was  not  quite  delicate  to  assume  that  she  was 
ready  to  receive  him  at  his  own  time.  I  don't 
know  what  made  me  so  truculent — as  if  there 
were  any  danger  of  his  having  really  not  con- 
sidered us,  or  his  lacking  a  good  reason.  It  was 
simply,  I  think,  that  my  talk  with  Mr.  Caliph 
the  evening  before  had  made  me  so  much  bad 
blood,  and  left  me  in  a  savage  mood.  Mr. 
Frank  answered  that  he  had  not  staid  away  by 
accident — he  had  staid  away  on  purpose ;  he 
had  been  for  several  days  at  Saratoga,  and  on 
returning  to  Cornerville  had  taken  quarters  at 
the  inn  in  the  village.  He  had  no  intention  of 
presuming  further  on  Eunice's  hospitality,  and 
had  walked  over  from  the  hotel  simply  to  bid  us 
good-evening  and  give  an  account  of  himself. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Frank,  your  account  is  not 
clear !  "  I  said,  laughing.  "  What  in  the  world 
were  you  doing  at  Saratoga?"  I  must  add  that 
his  humility  had  completely  disarmed  me; 
I  was  ashamed  of  the  brutality  with  which 
I  had  received  him,  and  convinced  afresh 
that  he  was  the  best  fellow  in  the  world. 

"  What  was  I  doing  at  Saratoga  ?  I  was 
trying  hard  to  forget  you !  " 


This  was  Mr.  Frank's  rejoinder,  and  I  give 
it  exactly  as  he  uttered  it ;  or,  rather,  not  ex- 
actly, inasmuch  as  I  cannot  give  the  tone — 
the  quick,  startling  tremor  of  his  voice.  But 
those  are  the  words  with  which  he  answered 
my  superficially  intended  question.  I  saw  in 
a  moment  that  he  meant  a  great  deal  by  them 
—  I  became  aware  that  we  were  suddenly  in 
deep  waters ;  that  he  was,  at  least,  and  that 
he  was  trying  to  draw  me  into  the  stream. 
My  surprise  was  immense,  complete ;  I  had 
absolutely  not  suspected  what  he  went  on  to 
say  to  me.  He  said  many  things — but  I 
needn't  write  them  here.  It  is  not  in  detail 
that  I  see  the  propriety  of  narrating  this  inci- 
dent; I  suppose  a  woman  may  be  trusted  to 
remember  the  form  of  such  assurances.  Let 
me  simply  say  that  the  poor,  dear  young  man 
has  an  idea  that  he  wants  to  marry  me.  For 
a  moment — just  a  moment  —  I  thought  he 
was  jesting ;  then  I  saw,  in  the  twilight,  that 
he  was  pale  with  seriousness.  He  is  perfectly 
sincere.  It  is  strange,  but  it  is  real,  and, 
moreover,  it  is  his  own  affair.  For  myself, 
when  I  have  said  I  was  amazed,  I  have  said 
everything ;  en  tete-a-tete  with  myself,  I  needn't 
blush  and  protest.  I  was  not  in  the  least 
annoyed  or  alarmed ;  I  was  filled  with  kind- 
ness and  consideration,  and  I  was  extremely 
interested.  He  talked  to  me  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour ;  it  seemed  a  very  long  time.  I  asked 
him  to  go  away ;  not  to  wait  till  Eunice  and 
Mrs.  Ermine  should  come  back.  Of  course 
I  refused  him,  by  the  way. 

It  was  the  last  thing  I  was  expecting  at 
this  time  of  day,  and  it  gave  me  a  great  deal 
to  think  of.  I  lay  awake  that  night ;  I  found 
I  was  more  agitated  than  I  supposed,  and  all 
sorts  of  visions  came  and  went  in  my  head. 
I  shall  not  marry  the  young  Adrian :  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  vision  was  not  one  of  them ; 
but  as  I  thought  over  what  he  had  said  to 
me,  it  became  more  clear,  more  conceivable. 
I  began  now  to  be  a  little  surprised  at  my 
surprise.  It  appears  that  I  have  had  the 
honor  to  please  him  from  the  first.  When  he 
began  to  come  to  see  us,  it  was  not  for  Eunice ;  • 
it  was  for  me.  He  made  a  general  confession 
on  this  subject.  He  was  afraid  of  me ;  he 
thought  me  proud,  sarcastic,  cold,  a  hundred 
horrid  things ;  it  didn't  seem  to  him  possible 
that  we  should  ever  be  on  a  footing  of  famil- 
iarity which  would  enable  him  to  propose  to 
me.  He  regarded  me,  in  short,  as  unattain- 
able, out  of  the  question,  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  admire  me  forever  in  silence.  (In 
plain  English,  I  suppose  he  thought  I  wa> 
too  old,  and  he  has  simply  got  used  to  th<.' 
difference  in  our  years.)  But  he  wished  to 
near  me,  to  see  me,  and  hear  me  (I  am 
writing  more  details  than  seem  worth  whil 


s 

"* 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


27.1 


so  that  when  his  step-brother  recommended 
him  to  try  and  marry  Eunice,  he  jumped  at 
the  opportunity  to  make  good  his  place.  This 
situation  reconciled  everything.  He  could 
oblige  his  brother,  he  could  pay  a  high  com- 
pliment to  my  cousin,  and  he  could  see  me 
every  day  or  two.  He  wras  convinced  from 
the  first  that  he  was  in  no  danger ;  he  was 
morally  sure  that  Eunice  would  never  smile 
upon  his  suit.  He  didn't  know  why,  and  he 
doesn't  know  why  yet ;  it  was  only  an  instinct. 
That  suit  was  avowedly  perfunctory ;  still,  the 
young  Adrian  has  been  a  great  comedian. 
He  assured  me  that  if  he  had  proved  to  be 
wrong,  and  Eunice  had  suddenly  accepted 
him,  he  would  have  gone  with  her  to  the 
Itar,  and  made  her  an  excellent  husband;  for 
|he  would  have  acquired  in  this  manner  the 
certainty  of  seeing  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
a  great  deal  of  me !  To  think  of  one's  pos- 
sessing, all  unexpected,  this  miraculous  influ- 
ence !  When  he  came  down  here,  after  Eunice 
had  refused  him,  it  was  simply  for  the  pleasure 
of  living  in  the  house  with  me;  from  that 
moment  there  was  no  comedy — everything 
was  clear  and  comfortable  betwixt  him  and 
Eunice.  I  asked  him  if  he  meant  by  this  that 
she  knew  of  the  sentiments  he  entertained  for 
ler  companion,  and  he  answered  that  he  had 
lever  breathed  a  word  on  this  subject,  and 
lattered  himself  that  he  had  kept  the  thing 
iark.  He  had  no  reason  to  believe  that  she 
guessed  his  motives,  and  I  may  add  that  I 
lave  none  either;  they  are  altogether  too 
extraordinary !  As  I  have  said,  it  was  simply 
;ime,  and  the  privilege  of  seeing  more  of  me, 
:hat  had  dispelled  his  hesitation.  I  didn't 
•eason  with  him;  and  though  once  I  was 
;"airly  enlightened,  I  gave  him  the  most  re- 

Jpectful  attention ;  I  didn't  appear  to  con- 
ider  his  request  too  seriously.  But  I  did 
.ouch  upon  the  fact  that  I  am  five  or  six 
ears  older  than  he  :  I  suppose  I  needn't 
nention  that  it  was  not  in  a  spirit  of  coquetry. 
His  rejoinder  was  very  gallant ;  but  it  belongs 
o  the  class  of  details.  He  is  really  in  love, — 
•leaven  forgive  him !  but  I  shall  not  marry 
jiim.  How  strange  are  the  passions  of  men  ! 
;  ^  I  saw  Mr.  Frank  the  next  day.  I  had 
jjiyen  him  leave  to  come  back  at  noon.  He 
joined  me  in  the  grounds,  where,  as  usual,  I 
jiad  set  up  my  easel.  I  left  it  to  his  discretion 
p  call  first  at  the  house  and  explain  both  his 
iibsence  and  his  presence  to  Eunice  and  Mrs. 
Ermine, —  the  latter  especially, —  ignorant,  as 
fet,  of  his  visit  the  night  before,  of  which  I 
aad  not  spoken  to  them.  He  sat  down  be- 
jide  me  on  a  garden-chair  and  watched  me 
«  I  went  on  with  my  work.  For  half  an  hour 
; ery  few  words  passed  between  us.  I  felt  that 
jie  was  happy  to  sit  there,  to  be  near  me,  to 


see  me  —  strange  as  it  seems !  And,  for  my- 
self, there  was  a  certain  sweetness  in  knowing 
it,  though  it  was  the  sweetness  of  charity,  not 
of  elation  or  triumph.  He  must  have  seen  I 
was  only  pretending  to  paint  —  if  he  followed 
my  brush,  which  I  suppose  he  didn't.  My 
mind  was  full  of  a  determination  I  had  ar- 
rived at,  after  many  waverings,  in  the  hours  of 
the  night.  It  had  come  to  me  toward  morning 
as  a  kind  of  inspiration.  I  could  never  marry 
him,  but  was  there  not  some  way  in  which  I 
could  utilize  his  devotion  ?  At  the  present 
moment,  only  forty-eight  hours  later,  it  seems 
strange,  unreal,  almost  grotesque  ;  but  for  ten 
minutes  I  thought  I  saw  the  light.  As  we  sat 
there  under  the  great  trees,  in  the  stillness  of 
the  noon,  I  suddenly  turned  and  said  to  him  : 

"  I  thank  you  for  everything  you  have  told 
me ;  it  gives  me  very  nearly  all  the  pleasure 
you  could  wish.  I  believe  in  you ;  I  accept 
every  assurance  of  your  devotion.  I  think 
that  devotion  is  capable  of  going  very  far ; 
and  I  am  going  to  put  it  to  a  tremendous 
test,  one  of  the  greatest,  probably,  to  which 
a  man  was  ever  subjected." 

He  stared,  leaning  forward,  with  his  hands 
on  his  knees.  "  Any  test  —  any  test  —  "  he 
murmured. 

"  Don't  give  up  Eunice,  then ;  make  an- 
other trial.  I  wish  her  to  marry  you  !  " 

My  words  may  have  sounded  like  an  atro- 
cious joke,  but  they  represented  for  me  a 
great  deal  of  hope  and  cheer.  They  brought 
a  deep  blush  into  Adrian  Frank's  face.  He 
winced  a  little,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  by  a 
hand  whose  blow  he  could  not  return,  and 
the  tears  suddenly  started  to  his  eyes.  "  Oh, 
Miss  Condit !  "  he  exclaimed. 

What  I  saw  before  me  was  bright  and 
definite ;  his  distress  seemed  to  me  no  ob- 
stacle, and  I  went  on  with  a  serenity  of  which 
I  longed  to  make  him  perceive  the  underly- 
ing support.  "  Of  course,  what  I  say  seems 
to  you  like  a  deliberate  insult;  but  nothing 
would  induce  me  to  give  you  pain  if  it  were 
possible  to  spare  you.  But  it  isn't  possible, 
my  dear  friend;  it  isn't  possible.  There  is 
pain  for  you  in  the  best  thing  I  can  say  to 
you ;  there  are  situations  in  life  in  which  we 
can  only  accept  our  pain.  I  can  never  marry 
you ;  I  shall  never  marry  any  one.  I  am  an  old 
maid,  and  how  can  an  old  maid  have  a  hus- 
band ?  I  will  be  your  friend,  your  sister,  your 
brother,  your  mother,  but  I  will  never  be 
your  wife.  I  should  like  immensely  to  be 
your  brother ;  for  I  don't  like  the  brother  you 
have  got,  and  I  think  you  deserve  a  better 
one.  I  believe,  as  I  tell  you,  in  everything 
you  have  said  to  me  —  in  your  affection,  your 
tenderness,  your  honesty,  the  full  considera- 
tion you  have  given  to  the  whole  matter.  I 


272 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


am  happier  and  richer  for  knowing  it  all ;  and 
I  can  assure  you  that  it  gives  something  to 
life  which  life  didn't  have  before.  We  shall 
be  good  friends,  dear  friends,  always,  what- 
ever happens.  But  I  can't  be  your  wife  —  I 
want  you  for  some  one  else.  You  will  say  I 
have  changed  —  that  I  ought  to  have  spoken 
in  this  way  three  months  ago.  But  I  haven't 
changed  —  it  is  circumstances  that  have 
changed.  I  see  reasons  for  your  marrying  my 
cousin  that  I  didn't  see  then.  I  can't  say  that 
she  will  listen  to  you  now,  any  more  than  she 
did  then ;  I  don't  speak  of  her ;  I  speak  only 
of  you  and  of  myself.  I  wish  you  to  make 
another  attempt,  and  I  wish  you  to  make  it, 
this  time,  with  my  full  confidence  and  sup- 
port. Moreover,  I  attach  a  condition  to  it, — 
a  condition  I  will  tell  you  presently.  Do  you 
think  me  slightly  demented,  malignantly  per- 
verse, atrociously  cruel  ?  If  you  could  see 
the  bottom  of  my  heart,  you  would  find  some- 
thing there  which,  I  think,  would  almost  give 
you  joy.  To  ask  you  to  do  something  you 
don't  want  to  do  as  a  substitute  for  some- 
thing you  desire,  and  to  attach  to  the  hard 
achievement  a  condition  which  will  require 
a  good  deal  of  thinking  of  and  will  certainly 
make  it  harder  —  you  may  well  believe  I 
have  some  extraordinary  reason  for  taking 
such  a  line  as  this.  For  remember,  to  begin 
with,  that  I  can  never  marry  you." 

"  Never —  never  —  never  ?  " 

"  Never,  never,  never  !  " 

"  And  what  is  your  extraordinary  reason  ?  " 

"  Simply  that  I  wish  Eunice  to  have  your 
protection,  your  kindness,  your  fortune." 

"  My  fortune  ?  " 

"  She  has  lost  her  own.    She  will  be  poor." 

"  Pray,  how  has  she  lost  it  ?  "  the  poor  fel- 
low asked,  beginning  to  frown,  and  more  and 
more  bewildered. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that,  and  you  must  never 
ask.  But  the  fact  is  certain.  The  greater  part 
of  her  property  has  gone ;  she  has  known  it 
for  some  little  time." 

"  For  some  little  time  ?  Why,  she  never 
showed  any  change." 

"  You  never  saw  it,  that  was  all.  You  were 
thinking  of  me,"  and  I  believe  I  accompanied 
this  remark  with  a  smile — a  smile  which  was 
most  inconsiderate,  for  itcould  only  mystify  him 
more.  I  think  at  first  he  scarcely  believed  me. 

"  What  a  singular  time  to  choose  to  give  a 
large  party ! "  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  me 
with  eyes  quite  unlike  his  old — or,  rather,  his 
young — ones  ;  eyes  that,  instead  of  overlook- 
ing half  the  things  before  them  (which  was  their 
former  habit),  tried  to  see  a  great  deal  more 
in  my  face,  in  my  words,  than  was  visible  on 
the  surface.  I  don't  know  what  poor  Adrian 
Frank  saw — I  shall  never  know  all  that  he  saw. 


"  I  agree  with  you  that  it  was  a  very  sin- 
gular time,"  I  said.  "  You  don't  understand 
me  —  you  can't  —  I  don't  expect  you  to," 
I  went  on.  "  That  is  what  I  mean  by  devo- 
tion, and  that  is  the  kind  of  appeal  I  make  to 
you :  to  take  me  on  trust,  to  act  in  the  dark, 
to  do  something  simply  because  I  wish  it." 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  would  fathom  the 
depths  of  my  soul,  and  my  soul  had  never 
seemed  to  myself  so  deep.  "  To  marry  your 
cousin, —  that's  all  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  strange 
little  laugh. 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  not  all :  to  be  very  kind  to 
her  as  well." 

"  To  give  her  plenty  of  money,  above  all  ?  " 

"  You  make  me  feel  very  ridiculous ;  but  I 
should  not  make  this  request  of  you  if  you 
had  not  a  fortune." 

"  She  can  have  my  money  without  marry- 
ing me." 

"  That's  absurd.  How  could  she  take  your 
money  ?  " 

"  How,  then,  can  she  take  me  ?  " 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  wish  to  see.  I  told 
you  with  my  own  lips,  weeks  ago,  that  she 
would  only  marry  a  man  she  should  love ; 
and  I  may  seem  to  contradict  myself  in  taking 
up  now  a  supposition  so  different.  But,  as  I 
tell  you,  everything  has  changed." 

"  You  think  her  capable,  in  other  words, 
of  marrying  for  money." 

"  For  money  ?  Is  your  money  all  there  is 
of  you  ?  Is  there  a  better  fellow  than  you — 
is  there  a  more  perfect  gentleman  ?  " 

He  turned  away  his  face  at  this,  leaned  it 
in  his  hands,  and  groaned.  I  pitied  him,  but 
I  wonder  now  that  I  shouldn't  have  pitied 
him  more ;  that  my  pity  should  not  have 
checked  me.  But  I  was  too  full  of  my  idea. 

"  It's  like  a  fate,"  he  murmured ;  "  first  my 
brother,  and  then  you.  I  can't  understand." 

"Yes,  I  know  your  brother  wants  it  — 
wants  it  now  more  than  ever.  But  I  don't 
care  what  your  brother  wants ;  and  my  idea 
is  entirely  independent  of  his.  I  have  not 
the  least  conviction  that  you  will  succeed  at 
first  any  better  than  you  have  done  already. 
But  it  may  be  only  a  question  of  time,  if 
you  will  wait  and  watch,  and  let  me  help  you. 
You  know  you  asked  me  to  help  you  before, 
and  then  I  wouldn't.  But  I  repeat  it  again 
and  again,  at  present  everything  is  changed. 
Let  me  wait  with  you,  let  me  watch  with 
you.  If  you  succeed,  you  will  be  very  dear 
to  me;  if  you  fail,  you  will  be  still  more  so. 
You  see,  it's  an  act  of  devotion,  if  there  ever 
was  one.  I  am  quite  aware  that  I  ask  of  you 
something  unprecedented  and  extraordinar) . 
Oh,  it  may  easily  be  too  much  for  you.  \\ 
can  only  put  it  before  you — that's  all;  anc, 
as  I  say,  I  can  help  you.  You  will  both  ' 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


273 


ny  children  —  I  shall  be  near  you  always.  If 
ou  can't  marry  me,  perhaps  you  will  make 
your  mind  that  this  is  the  next  best  thing, 
ou  know  you  said  that  last  night,  yourself." 

He  had  begun  to  listen  to  me  a  little,  as 
f  he  were  being  persuaded.  "  Of  course,  I 
hould  let  her  know  that  I  love  you." 

"She  is  capable  of  saying  that  you  can't 
ove  me  more  than  she  does." 

I  don't  believe  she  is  capable  of  saying 
,ny  such  folly.    But  we  shall  see." 

"  Yes ;  but  not  to-day,  not  to-morrow, 
f  ot  at  all  for  the  present.  You  must  wait  a 
;reat  many  months." 

"  I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  please." 

"  And  you  mustn't  say  a  word  to  me  of 

e  kind  you  said  last  night." 

"  Is  that  your  condition  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  my  condition  is  a  very  different 
latter,  and  very  difficult.  It  will  probably 
ooil  everything." 

"  Please,  then,  let  me  hear  it  at  once." 

"  It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  mention  it ;  you 
mst  give  me  time."  I  turned  back  to  my  lit- 
e  easel  and  began  to  daub  again;  but  I  think 
ly  hand  trembled,  for  my  heart  was  beating 
ist.  There  was  a  silence  of  many  moments ; 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  speak. 

"  How  in  the  world  has  she  lost  her 
oney  ?  "  Mr.  Frank  asked,  abruptly,  as  if  the 
uestion  had  just  come  into  his  mind.  "  Hasn't 
y  brother  the  charge  of  her  affairs  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Caliph  is  her  trustee.  I  can't  tell  you 
pw  the  losses  have  occurred." 
i  He  got  up  quickly.  "  Do  you  mean  that 
jiey  have  occurred  through  him  ?  " 
i  I  looked  up  at  him,  and  there  was  some- 
jiing  in  his  face  which  made  me  leave  my 
'ork  and  rise  also.  "  I  will  tell  you  my  con- 
ition  now,"  I  said.  "  It  is  that  you  should 
nk  no  questions  —  not  one!"  This  was  not 
;hat  I  had  had  in  my  mind ;  but  I  had  not 
j)urage  for  more,  and  this  had  to  serve. 
5  He  had  turned  very  pale,  and  I  laid  my 
|md  on  his  arm,  while  he  looked  at  me  as  if 
;i  wished  to  wrest  my  secret  out  of  my  eyes. 
i.y  secret,  I  call  it,  by  courtesy ;  God  knows 
Shad  come  terribly  near  telling  it.  God  will 
;rgive  me,  but  Eunice  probably  will  not. 
!ad  I  broken  my  vow,  or  had  I  kept  it  ?  I 
(ked  myself  this,  and  the  answer,  so  far  as 
{read  it  in  Mr.  Frank's  eyes,  was  not  re- 
vsuring.  I  dreaded  his  next  question;  but 
tien  it  came  it  was  not  what  I  had  expected. 
|mething  violent  took  "place  in  his  own 
tnd  —  something  I  couldn't  follow. 
j "If  I  do  what  you  ask  me,  what  will  be 
fy  reward  ?  " 

"  You  will  make  me  very  happy." 
i"  And  what  shall  I  make  your  cousin  ? — 
<bd  help  us ! " 
VOL.  XXVII.— 27. 


"  Less  wretched  than  she  is  to-day." 

"  Is  she  *  wretched  '  ?  "  he  asked,  frowning 
as  he  did  before  —  a  most  distressing  change 
in  his  fair  countenance. 

"  Ah,  when  I  think  that  I  have  to  tell  you 
that, — that  you  have  never  noticed  it, —  I 
despair!"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh. 

I  had  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm,  and  he 
placed  his  right  hand  upon  it,  holding  it  there. 
He  kept  it  a  moment  in  his  grasp,  and  then 
he  said,  "  Don't  despair!  " 

"  Promise  me  to  wait,"  I  answered.  "  Ev- 
erything is  in  your  waiting." 

"  I  promise  you."  After  which  he  asked  me 
to  kiss  him,  and  I  did  so  on  the  lips.  It  was 
as  if  he  were  starting  on  a  journey  —  leaving 
me  for  a  long  time. 

"  Will  you  come  when  I  send  for  you  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  I  adore  you ! "  he  said ;  and  he  turned 
quickly  away,  to  leave  the  place  without  go- 
ing near  the  house.  I  watched  him,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  gone.  He  has  not  re-appeared; 
and  when  I  found,  at  lunch,  that  neither 
Eunice  nor  Mrs.  Ermine  alluded  to  his  visit, 
I  determined  to  keep  the  matter  to  myself.  I 
said  nothing  about  it,  and  up  to  the  moment 
Eunice  was  taken  ill — the  next  evening — he 
was  not  mentioned  between  us.  I  believe 
Mrs.  Ermine  more  than  once  gave  herself  up 
to  wonder  as  to  his  whereabouts,  and  declared 
that  he  had  not  the  perfect  manners  of  his 
step-brother,  who  was  a  religious  observer  of 
the  convenances ;  but  I  think  I  managed  to 
listen  without  confusion.  Nevertheless,  I  had 
a  bad  conscience,  and  I  have  it  still.  It  throbs 
a  good  deal  as  I  sit  there  with  Eunice  in  her 
darkened  room.  I  have  given  her  away;  I 
have  broken  my  vow.  But  what  I  wrote  above 
is  not  true ;  she  will  forgive  me !  I  sat  at  my 
easel  for  an  hour  after  Mr.  Frank  left  me,  and 
then  suddenly  I  found  that  I  had  cured  my- 
self of  my  folly  by  giving  it  out.  It  was  the 
result  of  a  sudden  passion  of  desire  to  do 
something  for  Eunice.  Passion  is  blind,  and 
when  I  opened  my  eyes  I  saw  ten  thousand 
difficulties;  that  is,  I  saw  one,  which  con- 
tained all  the  rest.  That  evening  I  wrote  to 
Mr.  Frank,  to  his  New  York  address,  to  tell 
him  that  I  had  had  a  fit  of  madness,  and  that 
it  had  passed  away ;  but  that  I  was  sorry  to 
say  it  was  not  any  more  possible  for  me  to 
marry  him.  I  have  had  no  answer  to  this 
letter ;  but  what  answer  can  he  make  to  that 
last  declaration  ?  He  will  continue  to  adore 
me.  How  strange  are  the  passions  of  men ! 

New  York,  November  20. —  I  have  been 
silent  for  three  months,  for  good  reasons. 
Eunice  was  ill  for  many  weeks,  but  there  was 
never  a  moment  when  I  was  really  alarmed 
about  her;  I  knew  she  would  recover.  In 


274 


THE  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A    COUSIN. 


the  last  days  of  October  she  was  strong  enough 
to  be  brought  up  to  town,  where  she  had 
business  to  transact,  and  now  she  is  almost 
herself  again.  I  say  almost,  advisedly ;  for  she 
will  never  be  herself, — her  old,  sweet,  trust- 
ful self,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  She  has 
simply  not  forgiven  me !  Strange  things  have 
happened — things  that  I  didn't  dare  to  con- 
sider too  closely,  lest  I  should  not  forgive 
myself.  Eunice  is  in  complete  possession  of 
her  property !  Mr.  Caliph  has  made  over  to 
her  everything — everything  that  had  passed 
away ;  everything  of  which,  three  months  ago, 
he  could  give  no  account  whatever.  He  was 
with  her  in  the  country  for  a  long  day  before 
we  came  up  to  town  (during  which  I  took 
care  not  to  meet  her),  and  after  our  return  he 
was  in  and  out  of  this  house  repeatedly.  I 
once  asked  Eunice  what  he  had  to  say  to  her, 
and  she  answered  that  he  was  "  explaining." 
A  day  or  two  later,  she  told  me  that  he  had 
given  a  complete  account  of  her  affairs; 
everything  was  in  order;  she  had  been  wrong 
in  what  she  told  me  before.  Beyond  this  little 
statement,  however,  she  did  no  further  pen- 
ance for  the  impression  she  had  given  of  Mr. 
Caliph's  earlier  conduct.  She  doesn't  yet  know 
what  to  think ;  she  only  feels  that  if  she  has 
recovered  her  property  there  has  been  some 
interference ;  and  she  traces,  or  at  least  im- 
putes, such  interference  to  me.  If  I  have 
interfered,  I  have  broken  my  vow;  and  for 
this,  as  I  say,  the  gentle  creature  can't  forgive 
me.  If  the  passions  of  men  are  strange,  the 
passions  of  women  are  stranger  still !  It  was 
sweeter  for  her  to  suffer  at  Mr.  Caliph's  hands 
than  to  receive  her  simple  dues  from  them. 
She  looks  at  me  askance,  and  her  coldness 
shows  through  a  conscientious  effort  not  to 
let  me  see  the  change  in  her  feeling.  Then 
she  is  puzzled  and  mystified ;  she  can't  tell 
what  has  happened,  or  how  and  why  it  has 
happened.  She  has  waked  up  from  her  illness 
into  a  different  world — a  world  in  which  Mr. 
Caliph's  accounts  were  correct  after  all;  in 
which,  with  the  washing  away  of  his  stains, 
the  color  has  been  quite  washed  out  of  his 
rich  physiognomy.  She  vaguely  feels  that  a 
sacrifice,  a  great  effort  of  some  kind,  has  been 
made  for  her,  whereas  her  plan  of  life  was  to 
make  the  sacrifices  and  efforts  herself.  Yet 
she  asks  me  no  questions ;  the  property  is  her 
right,  after  all,  and  I  think  there  are  certain 
things  she  is  afraid  to  know.  But  I  am  more 
afraid  than  she,  for  it  comes  over  me  that  a 
great  sacrifice  has  indeed  been  made.  I  have 
not  seen  Adrian  Frank  since  he  parted  from 
me  under  the  trees  three  months  ago.  He 
has  gone  to  Europe,  and  the  day  before  he 
left  I  got  a  note  from  him.  It  contained  only 
these  words  :  "  When  you  send  for  me  I  will 


come.  I  am  waiting,  as  you  told  me."  It  i< 
my  belief  that  up  to  the  moment  I  spoke  ol 
Eunice's  loss  of  money,  and  requested  him  tc 
ask  no  questions,  he  had  not  definitely  sus 
pected  his  noble  kinsman,  but  that  my  word; 
kindled  a  train  that  lay  all  ready.  He  wen 
away  then  to  his  shame,  to  the  intolerabk 
weight  of  it,  and  to  heaven  knows  what  sick 
ening  explanations  with  his  step-brother 
That  gentleman  has  a  still  more  brillian 
bloom ;  he  looks  to  my  mind  exactly  as  peo 
pie  look  who  have  accepted  a  sacrifice ;  anc 
he  hasn't  had  another  word  to  say  abou 
Eunice's  marrying  Mr.  Adrian  Frank.  Mrs 
Ermine  sticks  to  her  idea  that  Mr.  Caliph  anc 
Eunice  will  make  a  match ;  but  my  belief  ii 
that  Eunice  is  cured.  Oh,  yes,  she  is  cured 
But  I  have  done  more  than  I  meant  to  do,  anc 
I  have  not  done  it  as  I  meant  to  do  it ;  anc 
I  am  very  weary,  and  I  shall  write  no  more. 

November  27. — Oh,  yes,  Eunice  is  cured 
And  that  is  what  she  has  not  forgiven  me 
Mr.  Caliph  told  her  yesterday  that  Mr.  Franl 
meant  to  spend  the  winter  in  Rome. 

December  3. —  I  have  decided  to  return  t< 
Europe,  and  have  written  about  my  apart 
ment  in  Rome.  I  shall  leave  New  York,  i 
possible,  on  the  icth.  Eunice  tells  me  sh< 
can  easily  believe  I  shall  be  happier  there. 

December  7. —  I ;;///.?/ note  something  I  hac 
the  satisfaction  to-day  to  say  to  Mr.  Caliph 
He  has  not  been  here  for  three  weeks,  bu 
this  afternoon  he  came  to  call.  He  is  nc 
longer  the  trustee ;  he  is  only  the  visitor.  ." 
was  alone  in  the  library,  into  which  he  wa; 
ushered ;  and  it  was  ten  minutes  before  Eunia 
appeared.  We  had  some  talk,  though  my  dis 
gust  for  him  is  now  unspeakable.  At  first,  i 
was  of  a  very  perfunctory  kind ;  but  suddenly 
he  said,  with  more  than  his  old  impudence 
"  That  was  a  most  extraordinary  interview  o 
ours,  at  Cornerville !  "  I  was  surprised  at  hi 
saying  only  this,  for  I  expected  him  to  tab 
his  revenge  on  me  by  some  means  or  othe 
for  having  put  his  brother  on  the  scent  of  hi 
misdeeds.  I  can  only  account  for  his  silenc< 
on  that  subject  by  the  supposition  that  Mr 
Frank  has  been  able  to  extract  from  him  sonn 
pledge  that  I  shall  not  be  molested.  He  was 
however,  such  an  image  of  unrighteous  sue 
cess  that  the  sight  of  him  filled  me  with  gall 
and  I  tried  to  think  of  something  which  woul< 
make  him  smart. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  have  done,  no 
how  you  have  done  it,"  I  said;  ''but  yo 
took  a  very  roundabout  way  to  arrive  at  cei 
tain  ends.  There  was  a  time  when  you  migh 
have  married  Eunice." 

It  was,  of  course,  nothing  new  that  we  wer 
frank  with  each  other,  and  he  only  repeattc  i 
smiling,  "  Married  Eunice  ?  " 


DAWN. 


275 


"  She  was  very  much  in  love  with  you  last 
spring." 

"  Very  much  in  love  with  me  ?  " 
"  Oh,  it's  over   now.    Can't   you   imagine 
;hat  ?    She's  cured." 

He  broke  into  a  laugh,  but  I  felt  I  had 
tartled  him. 

"  You  are  the  most  delightful  woman  ! "  he 
:ried. 

'  Think  how  much  simpler  it  would  have 
)een — I  mean   originally,  when  things  were 
ight,  if  they  ever  were  right.    Don't  you  see 
ay  point  ?    But  now  it's  too  late.    She  has 
een  you  when    you  were  not  on   show.    I 
,ssure  you  she  is  cured !  " 
At  this  moment  Eunice  came  in,  and  just 
fterward  I  left  the  room.    I  am  sure  it  was 
revelation,  and  that  I  have  given  him  a 
lauvais  quart  cfheure. 

Rome,  February  23. — When  I  came  back 

)  this  dear  place,  Adrian  Frank  was  not  here, 

pd  I  learned  that  he  had  gone  to  Sicily.   A 

|reek  ago  I  wrote  to  him  :  "  You  said  you 

ould   come   if  I   should   send   for   you.    I 

ould  be  glad  if  you  would  come  now."  Last 

ening  he  appeared,  and  I  told  him  that  I 

'iild  no  longer  endure  my  suspense  in  regard 

a  certain  subject.    Would  he  kindly  inform 

e  what  he  had  done  in  New  York  after  he 

ft  me  under  the  trees  at  Cornerville  ?    Of 

hat  sacrifice  had  he  been  guilty;  to  what  high 

merosity — terrible  to  me  to  think  of — had 

;  committed  himself?    He  would   tell   me 

>ry  little ;  but  he  is  almost  a  poor  man.   He 

is  just  enough  income  to  live  in  Italy. 

May  9. —  Mrs.  Ermine   has    taken   it  into 

r  head  to  write  to  me.    I  have  heard  from 

>r  three  times ;  and  in  her  last  letter,  received 


yesterday,  she  returns  to  her  old  refrain  that 
Eunice  and  Mr.  Caliph  will  soon  be  united. 
I  don't  know  what  may  be  going  on;  but 
can  it  be  possible  that  I  put  it  into  his  head  ? 
Truly,  I  have  a  felicitous  touch ! 

May  15. —  I  told  Adrian  yesterday  that  I 
would  marry  him  if  ever  Eunice  should  marry 
Mr.  Caliph.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  men- 
tioned his  step-brother's  name  to  him  since 
the  explanation  I  had  attempted  to  have  with 
him  after  he  came  back  to  Rome;  and  he 
evidently  didn't  like  it  at  all. 

In  the  Tyrol,  August. —  I  sent  Mrs.  Ermine 
a  little  water-color  in  return  for  her  last  let- 
ter, for  I  can't  write  to  her,  and  that  is  easier. 
She  now  writes  me  again,  in  order  to  get 
another  water-color.  She  speaks,  of  course,  of 
Eunice  and  Mr.  Caliph,  and  for  the  first  time 
there  appears  a  certain  reality  in  what  she 
says.  She  complains  that  Eunice  is  very  slow 
in  coming  to  the  point,  and  relates  that  poor 
Mr.  Caliph,  who  has  taken  her  info  his  con- 
fidence, seems  at  times  almost  to  despair. 
Nothing  would  suit  him  better,  of  course,  than 
to  appropriate  two  fortunes :  two  are  so  much 
better  than  one.  But  however  much  he  may 
have  explained,  he  can  hardly  have  explained 
everything.  Adrian  Frank  is  in  Scotland ;  in 
writing  to  him,  three  days  ago,  I  had  occasion 
to  repeat  that  I  will  marry  him  on  the  day  on 
which  a  certain  other  marriage  takes  place. 
In  that  way,  I  am  safe.  I  shall  send  another 
water-color  to  Mrs.  Ermine.  Water-colors  or 
no,  Eunice  doesn't  write  to  me.  It  is  clear 
that  she  hasn't  forgiven  me  !  She  regards  me 
as  perjured;  and,  of  course,  I  am.  Perhaps 
she  will  marry  him,  after  all. 

Henry  James. 


DAWN. 

AGAINST  the  radiance  of  the  coming  dawn 

Rose-shadowed  on  the  threshold  stands  a  youth, 

Stiller  than  silence  :  when  he  came,  in  truth, 

Silence  grew  audible  and  sound  was  born, 

And  earth  was  flushed  with  flowers.     As  I  gaze, 

Some  half-familiar  grace  in  floating  hair, 

And  eager,  curving  foot  and  downcast  air, 

Betray  the  charm  of  the  averted  face. 

Why  dost  thou  tarry  here,  O  stranger-guest? 

Whence  comest  thou?  I  said,  and  lo  !  he  is  gone; 

And  now  I  count  alone  the  weary  hours, 

Hoping  for  naught  until  the  rosy  east 

Once  more  shall  throb  with  promise  of  the  dawn — 

And  then  ?     Who  knows  the  perfume  of  to-morrow's  flowers  ? 


A.    W.    W. 


[Begun  in  the  August  number.] 


THE    BREAD  -WINNERS^ 


xv. 


THE    WHIP    OF    THE    SCYTHIANS. 

FARNHAM  and  Temple  walked  hastily  back 
to  where  they  had  left  Kendall  with  the  rest 
of  the  company.  They  found  him  standing 
like  a  statue  just  where  he  had  been  placed 
by  Farnham.  The  men  were  ranged  in  the 
shadow  of  the  shrubbery  and  the  ivy-clad 
ang\e  of  the  house.  The  moon  shone  full  on 
the  open  stretch  of  lawn,  and  outside  the 
gates  a  black  mass  on  the  sidewalk  and  the 
street  showed  that  the  mob  had  not  left  the 
place.  Buf  it  seemed  sluggish  and  silent. 

"  Have  they  done  anything  new  ?  "  asked 
Farnham. 

"  Nothin',  but  fire  a  shot  or  two — went 
agin  the  wall  overhead;  and  once  they  heaved 
a  lot  of  rocks,  but  it  was  too  fur — didn't  git 
more'n  half  way.  That's  all." 

"  We  don't  want  to  stand  here  looking  at 
each  other  all  night,"  said  Farnham. 

"  Let's  go  out  and  tell  them  it's  bed-time," 
suggested  Temple. 

"Agreed !  "  said  Farnham.  He  turned  to 
his  men,  and  in  a  voice  at  first  so  low  that 
it  could  not  have  been  heard  ten  feet  away, 
yet  so  clear  that  every  syllable  was  caught 
by  his  soldiers,  he  gave  the  words  of  com- 
mand. 

"  Company,  attention  !  Right,  forward. 
Fours  right.  Double  time.  March !  " 

The  last  words  rang  out  clear  and  loud, 
and  startled  the  sullen  crowd  in  the  street. 
There  was  a  hurried,  irresolute  movement 
among  them,  which  increased  as  the  compact 
little  corps  dashed  out  of  the  shadow  into  the 
clear  moonlight  and  rushed  with  the  rapid 
but  measured  pace  of  veterans  across  the 
lawn.  A  few  missiles  were  thrown,  without 
effect.  One  or  two  shots  were  heard,  fol- 
lowed by  a  yell  in  the  street — which  showed 
that  some  rioter  in  his  excitement  had 
wounded  one  of  his  own  comrades.  Farnham 
and  his  little  band  took  only  a  moment  to 
reach  the  gate,  and  the  crowd  recoiled  as 
they  burst  through  into  the  street.  At  the  first 
onslaught  the  rioters  ran  in  both  directions, 
leaving  the  street  clear  immediately  in  front 
of  the  gates. 

The  instant  his  company  reached  the  mid- 
dle of  the  avenue,  Arthur,  seeing  that  the 


greater  number  of  the  divided  mob  had  gone 
to  the  left,  shouted : 

"  Fours  left.    March — guide  right." 

The  little  phalanx  wheeled  instantly  anc 
made  rapid  play  with  their  clubs,  but  only  foi 
a  moment.  The  crowd  began  to  feel  the  mys 
terious  power  which  discipline  backed  by  lav 
always  exerts,  and  they  ran  at  full  speed  uj 
the  street  to  the  corner  and  there  dispersed 
The  formation  of  the  veterans  was  not  evei 
broken.  They  turned  at  Farnham's  order 
faced  to  the  rear,  and  advanced  in  doubl< 
time  upon  the  smaller  crowd  which  still  lin 
gered  a  little  way  beyond  the  gate. 

In  this  last  group  there  was  but  one  mai 
who  stood  his  ground  and  struck  out  for  him 
self.  It  was  a  tall  young  fellow  with  fair  hai 
and  beard,  armed  with  a  carpenter's  hammei 
with  which  he  maintained  so  formidable  ai 
attitude  that,  although  two  or  three  policeme:1 
were  opposed  to  him,  they  were  wary  abou 
closing  in  upon  him.  Farnham,  seeing  tha: 
this  was  all  there  was  left  of  the  fight,  ordere< 
the  men  to  fall  back,  and,  approaching  th 
recalcitrant,  said  sharply : 

"  Drop  that  hammer,  and  surrender !  W 
are  officers  of  the  law,  and  if  you  resist  an 
longer  you'll  be  hurt." 

u  I  don't  mind  that.  I  was  waiting  for  you> 
the  man  said,  and  made  a  quick  and  savag 
rush  and  blow  at  Farnham.  In  all  his  can 
paigns,  he  had  never  before  had  so  much  us 
for  his  careful  broadsword  training  as  nov 
With  his  policeman's  club  against  the  worl 
man's  hammer,  he  defended  himself  with  sue 
address  that  in  a  few  seconds,  before  his  me 
could  interfere,  his  adversary  was  disarme 
and  stretched  on  the  sidewalk  by  a  blow  ov< 
the  head.  He  struggled  to  rise,  but  was  seize 
by  two  men  and  held  fast. 

"  Don't  hit  him,"  said  Farnham.  "  I  thin 
I  have  seen  this  man  somewhere." 

"  Why,"  said  Kendall,  "  that's  Sam  Sleen 
a  carpenter  in  Dean  street.  He  orter  be  : 
better  business." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Farnham;  "he 
a  Reformer.  Put  him  with  the  others." 

As  they  were  tying  his  hands,  Sam  turm 
to  Farnham  and  said,  in  a  manner  which  w 
made  dignified  by  its  slow,  energetic  m 
"  You've  beat  me  to-night,  but  I  will  get 
with  you  yet — as  sure  as  there's  a  God.' 

"  That's  reasonably  sure,"  said   Farnl" 


Copyright,  1883,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved. 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


277 


"  but  in  the  meanwhile,  we'll  put  you  where 
you  can  cool  off  a  little." 

The  street  was  now  cleared;  the  last  fugi- 
tives were  out  of  sight.  Farnham  returned  to 
his  garden,  and  then  divided  his  men  into 
squads  for  patrolling  the  neighborhood.  They 
waited  for  half  an  hour,  and,  finding  all  was 
still  quiet,  then  made  arrangements  for  passing 
|the  night.  Farnham  made  Temple  go  into 
the  house  with  him,  and  asked  Budsey  to 
ibring  some  sherry.  "It  is  not  so  good  as 
your  Santa  Rita,"  he  said ;  "  but  the  exercise 
n  the  night  air  will  give  it  a  relish." 

When  the  wine  came,  the  men  filled  and 
drank,  in  sober  American  fashion,  without 
words ;  but  in  the  heart  of  each  there  was 
the  thought  of  eternal  friendship,  founded 
upon  brave  and  loyal  service. 

"Budsey,"   said   Farnham,   "give   all  the 
nen  a  glass  of  this  wine." 
"  Not  this,  sir  ?  "  said  Budsey,  aghast. 
"  I  said  this,"  replied  Farnham.    "  Perhaps 
hey  wont  enjoy  it,  but  I  shall  enjoy  giving 
t  to  them." 

Farnham  and  Temple  were  eating  some 
read  and  cheese  and  talking  over  the  even- 
ing, when  Budsey  came  back  with  something 
khich  approached  a  smile  upon  his  grave 
Countenance. 

"  Did  they  like  it  ?  "  asked  Farnham. 
"  Half  of  'em  said  they  was  temperance 
nd  wouldn't  'ave  any.  Some  of  the  rest  said 

-you  will  excuse  me,  sir  —  as  it  was  d 

oor  cider,"  and  Budsey  went  out  of  the  room 
dth  a  suspicious  convulsion  of  the  back. 
"  I'll  go  on  that,"  said  Mr.  Temple.  "  Good- 
ight.    I  think  we  will  have  good  news  in  the 
lorning.    There  will  be  an  attack  made  on 
Hose  men  at  Riverley  to-morrow  which  will 
elt  them  like  an  iceberg  in  Tartarus."    Mr. 
emple  was  not  classical,  and,  of  course,  did 
ot  say  Tartarus. 

Farnham  was  left  alone.  The  reaction  from 
le  excitement  of  the  last  few  hours  was 
ttling  upon  him.  The  glow  of  the  fight  and 
is  success  in  it  were  dying  away.  Midnight 
jas  near,  and  a  deep  silence  was  falling  upon 
jie  city.  There  was  no  sound  of  bells,  of 
jeam-whistles,  or  of  rushing  trains.  The 
jreeze  could  be  heard  in  the  quiet,  stirring 
lie  young,  soft  leaves.  Farnham  felt  sore, 
paten,  discomfited.  He  smiled  a  little  bit- 
rly  to  himself  when  he  considered  that  the 
iiuse  of  his  feeling  of  discouragement  was 
jat  Alice  Belding  had  spoken  to  him  with 
pldness  and  shyness  when  she  opened  her 
por.  He  could  not  help  saying  to  himself, 
(I  deserved  a  kinder  greeting  than  she  gave 
;e.  She  evidently  wished  me  to  understand 
jat  I  am  not  to  be  permitted  any  further  in- 
(nacy.  I  have  forfeited  that  by  presuming  to 


love  her.  But  how  lovely  she  is  !  When  she 
took  her  mother  in  her  arms,  I  thought  of  all 
the  Greek  heroines  I  ever  read  about.  Still, 
'  if  she  be  not  fair  for  me ' — if  I  am  not  to  be 
either  lover  or  friend — this  is  no  place  for 


me. 


The  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  midnight. 
"A  strange  night,"  he  mused.  "  There  is  one 
sweet  and  one  bitter  thing  about  it.  I  have 
done  her  a  service,  and  she  did  not  care." 

He  went  to  the  door  to  speak  to  Kendall. 
"  I  think  our  work  is  over  for  to-night.  Have, 
our  prisoners  taken  down  to  the  Refrigerator 
and  turned  over  to  the  ordinary  police.  I  will 
make  charges  to-morrow.  Then  divide  the 
men  into  watches  and  make  yourself  as  com- 
fortable as  you  can.  If  anything  happens, 
call  me.  If  nothing  happens,  good-night." 

He  returned  to  his  library,  turned  down  the 
gas,  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  was  soon 
asleep ;  even  before  Alice,  who  sat,  unhappy, 
as  youth  is  unhappy,  by  an  open  window,  her 
eyes  full  of  tears,  her  heart  full  of  remorse. 
"It  is  too  wretched  to  think  of,"  she  be- 
moaned herself.  "  He  is  the  only  man  in  the 
world,  and  I  have  driven  him  away.  It  never 
can  be  made  right  again;  I  am  punished 
justly.  If  I  thought  he  would  take  me,  I  be- 
lieve I  could  go  this  minute  and  throw  myself 
at  his  feet.  But  he  would  smile,  and  raise  me 
up,  and  make  some  pretty  speech,  very  gentle, 
and  very  dreadful,  and  bring  me  back  to 
mamma,  and  then  I  should  die." 

But  at  nineteen  well-nourished  maidens  do 
not  pass  the  night  in  mourning,  however 
heavy  their  hearts  may  be,  and  Alice  slept  at 
last,  and  perhaps  was  happier  in  her  innocent 
dreams. 

The  night  passed  without  further  incident, 
and  the  next  day,  though  it  may  have  shown 
favorable  signs  to  practiced  eyes,  seemed 
very  much,  to  the  public,  like  the  day  which 
had  preceded  it.  There  were  fewer  shops 
closed  in  the  back  streets ;  there  were  not  so 
many  parties  of  wandering  apostles  of  plun- 
der going  about  to  warn  laborers  away  from 
their  work.  But  in  the  principal  avenues  and 
in  the  public  squares  there  were  the  same 
dense  crowds  of  idlers,  some  listless  and  some 
excited,  ready  to  believe  the  wildest  rumors 
and  to  applaud  the  craziest  oratory.  Speak- 
ers were  not  lacking;  besides  the  agitators 
of  the  town,  several  had  come  in  from  neigh- 
boring places,  and  they  were  preaching,  with 
fervor  and  perspiration,  from  street  corners 
and  from  barrel-heads  in  the  beer-houses, 
the  dignity  of  manhood  and  the  overthrow  of 
tyrants. 

Bott,  who  had  quite  distinguished  himself 
during  the  last  few  days,  was  not  to  be  seen. 
He  had  passed  the  night  in  the  station-house, 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


and,  on  brief  examination  before  a  police-justice 
at,  an  early  hour  of  the  morning,  on  complaint 
of  Farnham  and  Temple,  had  been,  together 
with  the  man  captured  in  Mrs.  Belding's 
drawing-room,  bound  over  to  stand  his  trial 
for  house-breaking  at  the  next  term  of  court. 
He  displayed  the  most  abject  terror  before 
his  trial,  and  would  have  made  a  full  con- 
fession of  the  whole  affair  had  Offitt  not 
had  the  address  to  convey  to  him  the  assur- 
ance that,  if  he  stood  firm,  the  Brotherhood 
of  Bread-winners  would  attend  to  his  case 
and  be  responsible  for  his  safety.  Relying 
upon  this,  he  plucked  up  his  spirits  and  bore 
himself  with  characteristic  impudence  in  the 
presence  of  the  police-justice,  insisting  upon 
being  called  Professor  Bott,  giving  his  pro- 
fession as  inspirational  orator,  his  religion 
the  divinity  of  humanity.  When  bound  over 
for  trial,  he  rose  and  gained  a  round  of  ap- 
plause from  the  idlers  in  the  court-room  by 
shouting,  "  I  appeal  from  this  outrage  to  the 
power  of  the  people  and  the  judgment  of 
history." 

This  was  his  last  recorded  oration ;  for  we 
may  as  well  say  at  once  that,  a  month  later,  he 
stood  his  trial  without  help  from  any  Broth- 
erhood, and  passed  away  from  public  life, 
though  not  entirely  from  public  employment, 
as  he  is  now  usefully  and  unobtrusively  en- 
gaged in  making  shoes  in  the  State  peniten- 
tiary— and  is  said  "to  take  serious  views  of 
life." 

The  cases  of  Sleeny  and  the  men  who  were 
taken  in  the  street  by  Farnham's  policemen 
were  also  disposed  of  summarily  through  his 
intervention.  He  could  not  help  liking  the 
fair-bearded  carpenter,  although  he  had  been 
caught  in  such  bad  company,  and  so  charged 
him  merely  with  riotous  conduct  in  the  pub- 
lic streets,  for  which  the  penalty  was  a  light 
fine  and  a  few  days'  detention.  Sleeny  seemed 
conscious  of  his  clemency,  but  gave  him  no 
look  or  expression  of  gratitude.  He  was  too 
bitter  at  heart  to  feel  gratitude,  and  too  awk- 
ward to  feign  it. 

About  noon,  a  piece  of  news  arrived  which 
produced  a  distinct  impression  of  discourage- 
ment among  the  strikers.  It  was  announced 
in  the  public  square  that  the  railway  block- 
ade was  broken  in  Clevalo,  a  city  to  the 
east  of  Buffland  about  a  hundred  miles.  The 
hands  had  accepted  the  terms  of  the  employ- 
ers and  had  gone  to  work  again.  An  orator 
tried  to  break  the  force  of  this  announcement 
by  depreciating  the  pluck  of  the  Clevalo  men. 
"  Why,  gentlemen !  "  he  screamed,  "  a  ten- 
year-old  boy  in  this  town  has  got  twice  the 
sand  of  a  Clevalo  man.  They  just  beg  the 
bosses  to  kick  'em.  When  they  are  fired  out 
of  a  shop  door,  they  sneak  down  the  chimbley 


and  whine  to  be  took  on  again.  We  aint 
made  of  that  kind  of  stuff." 

But  this  haughty  style  of  eloquence  did  not 
avail  to  inspirit  the  crowd,  especially  as  the 
orator  was  just  then  interrupted  to  allow  an- 
other dispatch  to  be  read,  which  said  that  the 
citizens  of  a  town  to  the  south  had  risen  in 
mass  and  taken  the  station  there  from  the 
hands  of  the  strikers.  This  news  produced  a 
feeling  of  isolation  and  discouragement  which 
grew  to  positive  panic,  an  hour  later,  on  the 
report  that  a  brigade  of  regular  troops  was 
on  its  way  to  Bum1  and  to  restore  order.  The 
report  was  of  course  unfounded,  as  a  brigade 
of  regular  troops  could  not  be  got  together  in 
this  country  in  much  less  time  than  it  would 
take  to  build  a  city ;  but  even  the  name  of 
the  phantom  army  had  its  effect,  and  the 
crowds  began  to  disperse  from  that  time. 
The  final  blow  was  struck,  however,  later  in 
the  day. 

Farnham  learned  it  from  Mr.  Temple,  at 
whose  counting-room  he  had  called,  as  usual, 
for  news.  Mr.  Temple  greeted  him  with  a 
volley  of  exulting  oaths. 

"  It's  all  up.  You  know  what  I  told  you 
last  night  about  the  attack  that  was  prepar- 
ing on  Riverley.  I  went  out  there  myself, 
this  forenoon.  I  knew  some  of  the  strikers 

and  I  thought  I  would  see  if  the 

would  let  me  send  my  horse  Blue  Run- 
through  to  Rochester  to-morrow.  He  is  en- 
tered for  the  races  there,  you  know,  and  1 

didn't  want,  by ,  to  miss  my  en 

gagements,   understand  ?    Well,  as   I   drove 
out  there,  after  I  got  about  half  way,  it  begar 
to  occur  to  me  that  I   never  saw  so  man) 
women  since  the  Lord  made  me.   The  roac 
was   full   of  them   in   carts,  buggies,  horse 
back,  and  afoot.   I  thought  a  committee  o: 
'em  was  going;  but  I  suppose  they  couldn' 
trust  a  committee,  and  so  they  all  went.  Ther< 
were  so  many  of  'em  I  couldn't  drive  fast 
and  so  I  got  there  about  the  same  time  th< 
head  of  the   column  began  to  arrive.   Yoi 
never  saw  anything  like  it  in  your  life.    Th 
strikers  had  been  living  out  there  in  a  goo< 
deal  of  style  —  with  sentries  and  republics 
government  and  all  that.  By  the  great  hokey 
pokey !    they  couldn't  keep  it  up  a  minut 
when  their  wives  came.    They  knew  'em  to 
well.    They  just  bulged  in  without  rhyme  c 
rule.    Every  woman   went  for  her   husban 
and   told   him  to   pack   up    and   go    homt 
Some  of  'em — the  artful  kind — begged  an 
wheedled  and  cried ;  said  they  were  so  tire 
— wanted  their   sweethearts  again.    But  th 
bigger  part  talked  hard  sense, —  told  'em  the 
lazy   picnic   had    lasted   long   enough,   tin 
there  was  no  meat  in  the  house,  and  that  tr.  e 
had  got  to  come  home  and  go  to  work.   It 


THE   BREAD-WINNERS. 


279 


siege  didn't  last  half  an  hour.  The  men  bra- 
zened it  out  awhile ;  some  were  rough ;  told 
their  wives  to  dry  up,  and  one  big  fellow 
slapped  his  wife  for  crying.  By  jingo!  it 
[wasn't  half  a  flash  before  another  fellow 
[slapped  him,  and  there  they  had  it,  rolling 
over  and  over  on  the  grass,  till  the  others 
Ipulled  them  apart  by  the  legs.  It  was  a  gone 
(case  from  the  start.  They  held  a  meeting 
loff-hand;  the  women  stayed  by  to  watch 
iproceedings,  and,  not  to  make  a  long  story 
labout  it,  when  I  started  back  a  delegation  of 
the  strikers  came  with  me  to  see  the  president 
of  the  roads,  and  trains  will  run  through  to- 
light  as  usual.  I  am  devilish  glad  of  it,  for 
•ny  part.  There  is  nothing  in  Rochester  of 
my  force  but  Rosin-the-Bow,  and  my  horse 
;an  show  him  the  way  around  the  track  as 
f  he  was  getting  a  dollar  an  hour  as  a  guide." 
"  That  is  good  news  certainly.  Is  it  gener- 
illy  known  in  the  city  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  It  was  too  late  for  the  after- 
lioon  papers.  I  told  Jimmy  Nelson,  and  he 
lore  down  to  the  depot  to  save  what  is  left 
|)f  his  fruit.  He  swore  so  about  it  that  I  was 
juite  shocked." 

"  What   about    the   mill    hands  ? "   asked 
arnham. 

"  The  whole  thing  will  now  collapse  at 
>nce.  We  shall  receive  the  proposition  of  the 
nen  who  left  us  to-morrow,  and  reengage  on 
ur  own  terms,  next  day,  as  many  as  we  want. 
Ve  shan't  be  hard  on  them.  But  one  or  two 
lifted  orators  will  have  to  take  the  road, 
"hey  are  fit  for  nothing  but  Congress,  and 
icy  can't  all  go  from  this  district.  If  I  were 
ou,  Arthur,  by  the  way,  I  wouldn't  muster 
ut  that  army  of  yours  till  to-morrow.  But  I 
'.on't  think  there  will  be  any  more  calls 
i  your  neighborhood.  You  are  too  inhos- 
iitable  to  visitors." 

The  sun  was  almost  setting  as  Farnham 
Balked  through  the  public  square  on  his  way 
ome.  He  could  hardly  believe  so  sudden  a 
jhange  could  have  fallen  upon  the  busy  scene 
f  a  few  hours  before.  The  square  was  almost 
eserted.  Its  holiday  appearance  was  gone. 
!-  few  men  occupied  the  benches.  One  or 
vo  groups  stood  beneath  the  trees  and  con- 
ersed  in  under-tones.  The  orators  had  sought 
'ieir  hiding-places,  unnecessarily — too  fear- 
|il  of  the  vengeance  which  never,  in  this 
|3.ppy  country,  attends  the  exercise  of  un- 
ridled  "  slack  jaw."  As  Arthur  walked  over 
•ie  asphalt  pavement  there  was  nothing  to 
i'mind  him  of  the  great  crowds  of  the  last 
iw  days  but  the  shells  of  the  pea-nuts  crunch- 
tg  under  his  feet.  It  seems  as  if  the  Amer- 
•an  workman  can  never  properly  invoke  the 
;>irit  of  liberty  without  a  pocketful  of  this 
emocratic  nut. 


As  he  drew  near  his  house,  Farnham  caught 
a  glimpse  of  light  drapery  upon  Mrs.  Beld- 
ing's  piazza,  and  went  over  to  relieve  her  from 
anxiety  by  telling  her  the  news  of  the  day. 
When  he  had  got  half  way  across  the  lawn, 
he  saw  Alice  rise  from  beside  her  mother  as 
if  to  go.  Mrs.  Belding  signed  for  her  to  re- 
sume her  seat.  Farnham  felt  a  slight  sensa- 
tion of  anger.  "  It  is  unworthy  of  her,"  he 
thought,  "  to  avoid  me  in  that  manner.  I 
must  let  her  see  she  is  in  no  danger  from  me." 

He  gave  his  hand  cordially  to  Mrs.  Belding 
and  bowed  to  Alice  without  a  word.  He  then 
briefly  recounted  the  news  to  the  elder  lady, 
and  assured  her  that  there  was  no  probability 
of  any  farther  disturbance  of  the  peace. 

"  But  we  shall  have  our  policemen  here  all 
the  same  to-night,  so  that  you  may  sleep  with 
a  double  sense  of  security." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  very  good,"  she  said. 
"  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done 
without  you  last  night,  and  Mr.  Temple. 
When  it  comes  to  ear-rings,  there's  no  telling 
what  they  wouldn't  have  done." 

"Two  of  your  guests  are  in  jail,  with  good 
prospects  of  their  remaining  there.  The  others, 
I  learn,  were  thieves  from  out  of  town;  I  doubt 
if  we  shall  capture  them." 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  let  them  run.  I  never 
want  to  see  them  again.  That  ugly  creature 
who  went  up  with  Alice  for  the  money — 
you  caught  him  ?  I  am  so  glad.  The  impu- 
dence of  the  creature!  going  upstairs  with 
my  daughter,  as  if  she  was  not  to  be  trusted. 
Well,"  she  added  candidly,  "  she  wasn't  that 
time,  but  it  was  none  of  his  business." 

Here  Alice  and  Farnham  both  laughed  out, 
and  the  sound  of  the  other's  voice  was  very 
pleasant  to  each  of  them,  though  they  did 
not  look  toward  each  other. 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  the  world  is 
growing  too  wicked  for  single  women,"  Mrs. 
Belding  continued,  philosophically.  "  Men 
can  take  care  of  themselves  in  so  many  ways. 
They  can  use  a  club  as  you  do " 

"  Daily  and  habitually,"  assented  Arthur. 

"  Or  they  can  make  a  speech  about  Ire- 
land and  the  old  flag,  as  Mr.  Belding  used  to; 
or  they  can  swear  like  Mr.  Temple.  By  the 
way,  Alice,  you  were  not  here  when  Mr. 
Temple  swore  so  at  those  thieves.  I  was 
scandalized,  but  I  had  to  admit  it  was  very 
appropriate." 

"  I  was  also  away  from  the  room,"  said 
Farnham;  "but  I  can  readily  believe  the 
comminatory  clauses  must  have  been  very 
cogent." 

"  Oh,  yes !  and  such  a  nice  woman  she  is." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Temple  is  charming,"  said 
Farnham,  rising. 

"  Arthur,  do  not  go !    Stay  to   dinner.    It 


280 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


will  be  ready  in  one  moment.  It  will 
strengthen  our  nerves  to  have  a  man  dine 
with  us,  especially  a  liberating  hero  like  you. 
Why,  you  seemed  to  me  last  night  like  Perseus 
in  the  picture,  coming  to  rescue  What's-her- 
name  from  the  rock." 

Farnham  glanced  at  Alice.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  ground;  her  fingers  were 
tightly  clasped.  She  was  wishing  with  all  her 
energy  that  he  would  stay,  waiting  to  catch 
his  first  word  of  assent,  but  unable  to  utter  a 
syllable. 

"  Alice,"  said  Mrs.  Belding  rather  sharply, 
"  I  think  Arthur  does  not  regard  my  invita- 
tion as  quite  sufficient.  Will  you  give  it  your 
approval  ?  " 

Alice  raised  her  face  at  these  words  and 
looked  up  at  Farnham.  It  was  a  beautiful 
face  at  all  times,  and  now  it  was  rosy  with 
confusion,  and  the  eyes  were  timid  but  kind. 
She  said  with  lips  that  trembled  a  little  :  "  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  have  Captain  Farn- 
ham stay  to  dinner." 

She  had  waited  too  long,  and  the  words 
were  a  little  too  formal,  and  Arthur  excused 
himself  on  the  plea  of  having  to  look  out  for 
his  cohort,  and  went  home  to  a  lonely  dinner. 


XVI. 
OFFITT    DIGS    A    PIT. 

A  WEEK  had  passed  by;  the  great  strike 
was  already  almost  forgotten.  A  few  poor 
workmen  had  lost  their  places.  A  few  agita- 
tors had  been  dismissed  for  excellent  reasons, 
having  no  relation  with  the  strike.  The  mayor 
had  recovered  from  his  panic,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  work  for  a  renomination,  on  the 
strength  of  his  masterly  dealing  with  the  labor 
difficulties,  in  which,  as  he  handsomely  said  in 
a  circular  composed  by  himself  and  signed 
by  his  friends,  he  "nobly  accomplished  the 
duty  allotted  him  of  preserving  the  rights  of 
property  while  respecting  the  rights  of  the 
people,  of  keeping  the  peace  according  to  his 
oath,  and  keeping  faith  with  the  masses,  to 
which  he  belonged,  in  their  struggle  against 
monopoly." 

The  rich  and  prosperous  people,  as  their 
manner  is,  congratulated  themselves  on  their 
escape,  and  gave  no  thought  to  the  questions 
which  had  come  so  near  to  an  issue  of  fire 
and  blood.  In  this  city  of  two  hundred  thou- 
sand people,  two  or  three  dozen  politicians 
continued  as  before  to  govern  it,  to  assess  and 
to  spend  its  taxes,  to  use  it  as  their  property 
and  their  chattel.  The  rich  and  intelligent 
kept  on  making  money,  building  fine  houses, 
and  bringing  up  children  to  hate  politics  as 


they  did,  and  in  fine  to  fatten  themselves  as 
sheep  which  should  be  mutton  whenever  the 
butcher  was  ready.  There  was  hardly  a  mill- 
ionaire on  Algonquin  avenue  who  knew 
where  the  ward  meetings  of  his  party  were 
held.  There  was  not  an  Irish  laborer  in  the 
city  but  knew  his  way  to  his  ward  club  as 
well  as  to  mass. 

Among  those  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
late  exciting  events  and  had  now  reverted  to 
private  life  was  Sam  Sleeny.  His  short  sen- 
tence had  expired ;  he  had  paid  his  fine  and 
come  back  to  Matchin's.  But  he  was  not  the 
quiet,  contented  workman  he  had  been.  He 
was  sour,  sullen,  and  discontented.  He  nour- 
ished a  dull  grudge  against  the  world.  He 
had  tried  to  renew  friendly  relations  with 
Maud,  but  she  had  repulsed  him  with  positive 
scorn.  Her  mind  was  full  of  her  new  pros- 
pects, and  she  did  not  care  to  waste  time  with 
him.  The  scene  in  the  rose-house  rankled  in 
his  heart;  he  could  not  but  think  that  her 
mind  had  been  poisoned  by  Farnham,  and 
his  hate  gained  intensity  every  hour. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  fell  easily  into  the 
control  of  Offitt.  That  worthy  had  not  come 
under  the  notice  of  the  law  for  the  part  he 
took  in  the  attack  on  the  Belding  house ;  he 
had  not  been  recognized  by  Farnham's  men. 
nor  denounced  by  his  associates ;  and  so,  after 
a  day  or  two  of  prudential  hiding,  he  came 
to  the  surface  again.  He  met  Sam  at  the 
very  door  of  the  House  of  Correction,  sympa- 
thized with  him,  flattered  him,  gained  his  full 
confidence  at  last,  and  held  him  ready  foi 
some  purpose  which  was  vague  even  in  his 
own  brain.  He  was  determined  to  gain  pos- 
session of  Maud,  and  he  felt  it  must  be  through 
some  crimej  the  manner  of  which  was  nol 
quite  clear  to  him.  If  he  could  use  Sam  tc 
accomplish  his  purpose  and  save  his  owr 
skin,  that  would  be  best.  His  mind  rar 
constantly  upon  theft,  forgery,  burglary,  and 
murder ;  but  he  could  frame  no  scheme  which 
did  not  involve  risks  that  turned  him  sick. 
If  he  could  hit  upon  something  where  ht 
might  furnish  the  brains,  and  Sam  the  phys-' 
ical  force  and  the  risk  !  He  dwelt  upon  this 
day  and  night.  He  urged  Sam  to  talk  of  his 
own  troubles ;  of  the  Matchins ;  at  last,  of 
Maud  and  his  love,  and  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  the  tortured  fellow  had  told  him  what  h< 
saw  in  the  rose-house.  Strangely  enough,  th< 
thought  of  his  fiancee  leaning  on  the  shoulde: 
of  another  man  did  not  in  the  least  dimin 
ish  the  ardor  of  Offitt.  His  passion  was  en 
tirely  free  from  respect  or  good-will.  He 
the  story  to  whet  the  edge  of  Sam's 
against  Farnham. 

"  Why,  Sam,  my  boy,"  he  would  say,  " 
honor  is  at  stake." 


THE   BREAD-WINNERS. 


281 


"I  would  as  soon  kill  him  as  eat,"  Sam 
answered.  "But  what  good  would  that  do 
me  ?  She  cares  no  more  for  me  than  she 
does  for  you." 

Offitt  was  sitting  alone  in  his  room  one 
afternoon;  his  eyes  were  staring  blankly  at 
the  opposite  wall;  his  clinched  hands  were 
cold  as  ice.  He  had  been  sitting  in  that  way 
motionless  for  an  hour,  a  prey  to  a  terrible 
excitement. 

It  had  come  about  in  this  way.  He  had 
met  in  one  of  the  shops  he  frequented  a 
machinist  who  rented  one  of  Farnham's 
houses.  Offitt  had  asked  him  at  noon-time  to 
come  out  and  drink  a  glass  of  beer  with  him. 
The  man  complied,  and  was  especially  careful 
to  bring  his  waistcoat  with  him,  saying  with 
a  laugh,  "  I  lose  my  shelter  if  I  lose  that." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Offitt. 

"  I've  got  a  quarter's  rent  in  there  for  Cap 
Farnham." 

"  Why  are  you  carrying  it  around  all  day  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  Farnham  is  a  good  sort 
of  fellow,  and  to  keep  us  from  losing  time  he 
lets  us  come  to  his  house  in  the  evening,  after 
working  hours,  on  quarter-day,  instead  of 
going  to  his  office  in  the  day-time.  You  see, 
I  trot  up  there  after  supper  and  get  rid  of  this 
wad." 

Offitt's  eyes  twinkled  like  those  of  an  adder. 

"  How  many  of  you  do  this  ?  " 

"Oh,  a  good  many, — most  everybody  in 
our  ward  and  some  in  the  Nineteenth." 

"  A  good  bit  of  money  ?  "  said  Offitt  care- 
lessly, though  his  mouth  worked  nervously. 

"You  bet  your  boots!  If  I  had  all  the 
I  cash  he  takes  in  to-night,  I'd  buy  an  island 
iand  shoot  the  machine  business.  Well,  I 
|  must  be  gettin'  back.  So  long." 

Offitt  had  walked  directly  home  after  this 
conversation,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
the  left,  like  a  man  asleep.  He  had  gone  to 
;his  room,  locked  his  door  behind  him,  and 
I  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  given 
j  himself  up  to  an  eager  dream  of  crime.  His 
I  heart  beat,  now  fast,  now  slow ;  a  cold  sweat 
enveloped  him ;  he  felt  from  time  to  time  half 
suffocated. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  loud  knocking  at  his 
Jdoor — not  as  if  made  by  the  hand,  but  as  if 
isome  one  were  hammering.  He  started  and 
j  gasped  with  a  choking  rattle  in  his  throat. 
'  His  eyes  seemed  straining  from  their  sockets. 
He  opened  his  lips,  but  no  sound  came  forth. 

The  sharp  rapping  was  repeated,  once  and 
I  again.  He  made  no  answer.  Then  a  loud 
voice  said: 

"  Hello,  Andy,  you  asleep  ?  " 

He  threw  himself  back  on  his  pillow  and 
;  said  yawningly,  "Yes.  That  you,  Sam  ?  Why 
j  don't  you  come  in  ?  " 


"  'Cause  the  door's  locked." 

He  rose  and  let  Sleeny  in;  then  threw  him- 
self back  on  the  bed,  stretching  and  gaping. 

"  What  did  you  make  that  infernal  racket 
with  ?  " 

"  My  new  hammer,"  said  Sam.  "  I  just 
bought  it  to-day.  Lost  my  old  one  the  night 
we  give  Farnham  the  shiveree." 

"  Lemme  see  it."  Offitt  took  it  in  his  hand 
and  balanced  and  tested  it.  "  Pretty  good 
hammer.  Handle's  a  leetle  thick,  but — pretty 
good  hammer." 

"  Ought  to  be,"  said  Sam.  "  Paid  enough 
for  it." 

"  Where  d'you  get  it  ?  " 

«  Ware  &  Harden's." 

"Sam,"  said  Offitt, — he  was  still  holding 
the  hammer  and  giving  himself  light  taps  on 
the  head  with  it, —  "  Sam." 

"  Well,  you  said  that  before." 

Offitt  opened  his  mouth  twice  to  speak  and 
shut  it  again. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  ? "  asked  Sleeny. 
"  Trying  to  catch  flies  ?  " 

"  Sam,"  said  Offitt  at  last,  slowly  and  with 
effort,  "  if  I  was  you,  the  first  thing  I  did 
with  that  hammer,  I'd  crack  Art  Farnham's 
cocoa-nut." 

"  Well,  Andy,  go  and  crack  it  yourself  if 
you  are  so  keen  to  have  it  done.  You're  mix- 
ing yourself  rather  too  much  in  my  affairs, 
anyhow,"  said  Sam,  who  was  nettled  by  these 
too  frequent  suggestions  of  Offitt  that  his 
honor  required  repair. 

"  Sam  Sleeny,"  said  Offitt,  in  an  impressive 
voice,  "  I'm  one  of  the  kind  that  stands  by 
my  friends.  If  you  mean  what  you  have  been 
saying  to  me,  I'll  go  up  with  you  this  very 
night,  and  we  will  together  take  it  out  of 
that  aristocrat.  Now,  that's  business." 

Sleeny  looked  at  his  friend  in  surprise  and 
with  some  distrust.  The  offer  was  so  generous 
and  reckless,  that  he  could  not  help  asking 
himself  what  was  its  motive.  He  looked  so 
long  and  so  stupidly  at  Offitt,  that  the  latter 
at  last  divined  his  feeling.  He  thought  that, 
without  telling  Sleeny  the  whole  scheme,  he 
would  test  him  one  step  farther. 

"I  don't  doubt,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "but 
what  we  could  pay  ourselves  well  for  the  job, 
— spoil  the  'Gyptians,  you  know, —  forage  on 
the  enemy.  Plenty  of  portables  in  them 
houses,  eh ! " 

"I  never  said" — Sam  spoke  slowly  and 
deliberately — "  I  wanted  to  'sassinate  him,  or 
rob  him,  or  burgle  him.  If  I  could  catch 
him  and  lick  him,  in  a  fair  fight,  I'd  do  it ; 
and  I  wouldn't  care  how  hard  I  hit  him,  or 
what  with." 

"  All  right,"  said  Offitt,  curtly.  "  You  met 
him  once  in  a  fair  fight,  and  he  licked  you. 


282 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


And  you  tried  him  another  way, —  courtin' 
the  same  girl, — and  he  beat  you  there.  But 
it's  all  right.  I've  got  nothin'  against  him,  if 
you  haint.  Lemme  mark  your  name  on  this 
hammer,"  and,  turning  the  conversation  so 
quickly  that  Sleeny  had  no  opportunity  to 
resent  the  last  taunt,  he  took  his  knife  and 
began  dexterously  and  swiftly  to  cut  Sam's 
initials  in  the  handle  of  his  hammer.  Before, 
however,  he  had  half  completed  his  self-im- 
'  posed  task,  he  exclaimed,  "  This  is  dry  work. 
Let's  go  out  and  get  some  beer.  I'll  finish  your 
hammer  and  bring  it  around  after  supper." 

"  There's  one  S  on  it,"  said  Sam;  "  that's 
enough." 

"  One  S  enough !  It  might  mean  Smith, 
or  Schneider,  or  Sullivan.  No,  sir.  I'll  put  two 
on  in  the  highest  style  of  art,  and  then  every- 
body will  know  and  respect  Sam  Sleeny's 
tool." 

They  passed  out  of  the  room  together,  and 
drank  their  beer  at  a  neighboring  garden. 
They  were  both  rather  silent  and  preoccu- 
pied. As  they  parted,  Offitt  said,  "  I've  got  a 
scheme  on  hand  for  raising  the  wind,  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about.  Be  at  my  room  to-night 
between  nine  and  ten,  and  wait  till  I  come, 
if  I  am  out.  Don't  fail."  Sam  stared  a  little, 
but  promised,  asking  no  questions. 

When  Offitt  came  back,  he  locked  the  door 
again  behind  him.  He  bustled  about  the 
room  as  if  preparing  to  move.  He  had  little 
to  pack;  a  few  shabby  clothes  were  thrown 
into  a  small  trunk,  a  pile  of  letters  and  papers 
were  hastily  torn  up  and  pitched  into  the 
untidy  grate.  All  this  while  he  muttered  to 
himself  as  if  to  keep  himself  in  company. 
He  said:  "I  had  to  take  the  other  shoot  — 
he  hadn't  the  sand  to  help — I  couldn't  tell 
him  any  more.  *  *  *  I  wonder  if  she  will 
go  with  me  when  I  come  to-night — ready  ?  I 
shall  feel  I  deserve  her  anyhow.  She  don't 
treat  me  as  she  did  him,  according  to  Sam's 
story.  She  makes  me  keep  my  distance.  She 
hasn't  even  shook  hands  with  me  since  we 
was  engaged.  I'll  pay  her  for  that  after 
awhile."  He  walked  up  and  down  his  room 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  nostrils 
distended.  "  I  shall  risk  my  neck,  I  know ; 
but  it  wont  be  the  first  time,  and  I  never  will 
have  such  a  reason  again.  She  beats  anything 
I  ever  saw.  I've  got  to  have  the  money — to 
suit  such  a  woman.  *  *  *  I'm  almost  sorry 
for  Sam — but  the  Lord  made  some  men  to 
be  other  men's  fools.  *  *  *  " 

This  was  the  staple  of  his  musings ;  other 
things  less  edifying  still  may  be  omitted. 

While  he  was  engaged  in  this  manner  he 
heard  a  timid  knock  at  his  door.  "Another 
visitor?  I'm  getting  popular,"  he  said,  and 
went  to  open  the  door. 


A  seedy,  forlorn-looking  man  came  in ;  he 
took  off  his  shabby  hat  and  held  it  under 
his  arm. 

He  said,  "  Good-evenin',"  in  a  tone  a  little 
above  a  whisper. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Offitt. 

"  Have  you  heered  about  Brother  Bower- 
sox  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  the  brothering — that's  played 
out.  What  is  there  about  Bowersox  ?  " 

"  He's  dangerous;  they  don't  think  he'll 
live  through  the  night." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

This  was  not  encouraging,  but  the  poor 
Bread-winner  ventured  to  say,  "  I  thought 
some  of  the  Brothers" 

But  Offitt  closed  the  subject  by  a  brutal 
laugh.  "  The  Brothers  are  looking  out  for 
themselves  these  times.  The  less  said  about 
the  Brotherhood  the  better.  It's  up  the  spout, 
do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  poor  fellow  shrunk  away  into  his 
ragged  clothes,  and  went  out  with  a  submis- 
sive "  Good-evenin'. " 

"  I'll  never  found  another  Brotherhood," 
Offitt  said  to  himself.  "  It's  more  trouble  than 
it  brings  in." 

It  was  now  growing  dark.  He  took  his  hat 
and  went  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
street.  He  entered  a  restaurant  and  ordered 
a  beefsteak,  which  he  ate,  paid  for,  and  de 
parted  after  a  short  chat  with  the  waiter, 
whom  he  knew.  He  went  around  the  corner, 
entered  another  eating-house,  called  for  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  roll.  There  also  he  was  care- 
ful to  speak  with  the  man  who  served  him, 
slapping  him  on  the  shoulder  with  familiarity. 
He  went  into  a  drug  store  a  little  later  and 
bought  a  glass  of  soda-water,  dropping  the 
glass  on  the  marble  floor,  and  paying  for  it 
after  some  controversy.  He  then  walked  up 
to  Dean  street.  He  found  the  family  all 
together  in  the  sitting-room.  He  chatted 
awhile  with  them,  and  asked  for  Sleeny. 

"  I  don't  really  know  where  Sam  is.  He 
aint  so  reg'lar  in  his  hours  as  he  used  to  be," 
said  Saul.  "  I  hope  he  aint  gettin'  wild." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Offitt,  in  a  tone  of  real 
distress — then,  after  a  pause,  "You  needn't 
mention  my  havin'  asked  for  him.  He  may 
be  sensitive  about  it." 

As  he  came  away,  Maud  followed  him  to 
the  door.  He  whispered,  "  Be  ready,  my 
beauty,  to  start  at  a  moment's  notice.  The 
money  is  on  the  way.  You  shall  live  like  a 
queen  before  many  days  are  gone." 

"  We  shall  see,"  she  answered,  with  a  smi 
but  shutting  the  door  between  them. 

He  clinched  his  fists  and  muttered, 
figure  it  all  up  and  take  my  pay,  Missy.    Sh 
worth  it.    I  will  have  to  do  some  croo" 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


283 


things  to  get  her;  but  by ,  I'd  kill  a  dozen 

men  and  hang  another,  just  to  stand  by  and 
see  her  braid  her  hair." 

Returning  to  his  house,  he  ran  nimbly  up 
the  stairs,  half  fearing  to  find  Sleeny  there, 
but  he  had  not  yet  arrived.  He  seized  the 
hammer,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  came  down 
again.  Still  intent  upon  accounting  for  as 
much  of  the  evening  as  possible,  he  thought 
of  a  variety-show  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
went  there.  He  spoke  to  some  of  the  loafers 
at  the  door.  He  then  walked  to  the  box- 
office  and  asked  for  a  ticket,  addressing  the 
man  who  sold  it  to  him  as  "  Jimmy,"  and  ask- 
ing how  business  was.  The  man  handed  him 
jhis  ticket  without  any  reply,  but  turned  to  a 
friend  beside  him,  and  said,  "Who  is  that 
cheeky  brother  that  knows  me  so  well  ?  " 

"  Oh !  that's  a  rounder  by  the  name  of 
Offitt.  He  is  a  sort  of  Reformer — makes 
speeches  to  the  puddlers  on  the  rights  of 
man." 

"  Seems  rather  fresh,"  said  Jimmy. 

"  A  little  brine  wouldn't  hurt  him." 

Offitt  strolled  into  the  theater,  which  was 
well  filled.  The  curtain  was  down  at  the 
moment,  and  he  walked  the  full  extent  of  the 
center  aisle  to  the  orchestra,  looking  about 
him  as  if  in  search  of  some  one.  He  saw  one 
ar  two  acquaintances  and  nodded  to  them. 
He  then  walked  back  and  took  a  seat  near 
the  door.  The  curtain  rose,  and  the  star  of 
the  evening  bounded  upon  the  stage, — a 
strapping  young  woman  in  the  dress  of  an 
irmy  officer.  She  was  greeted  with  applause 
before  she  began  her  song,  and  with  her  first 
potes  Offitt  quietly  went  out.  He  looked  at 
:he  clock  on  the  City  Hall,  and  saw  that  he 
had  no  more  time  to  kill.  He  walked,  with- 
ut  hurrying  or  loitering,  up  the  shady  side  of 
he  street  till  he  came  to  the  quarter  where 
Farnham  lived.  He  then  crossed  into  the 
|kvide  avenue,  and,  looking  swiftly  about  him, 
•ipproached  the  open  gates  of  Farnham's 
place.  Two  or  three  men  were  coming  out, 
Dne  or  two  were  going  in.  He  waited  till  the 
brmer  had  turned  down  the  street,  and  the 
latter  were  on  the  door-step.  He  then  walked 
jriskly  up  the  path  to  the  house ;  but  instead 
Of  mounting  the  steps,  he  turned  to  the  left 
;md  lay  down  under  the  library  windows 
pehind  a  clump  of  lilacs. 

"If  they  catch  me  here,"  he  thought, 
'they  can  only  take  me  for  a  tramp  and 
jgive  me  the  grand  bounce." 

The  windows  opened  upon  a  stone  plat- 
form a  few  feet  from  the  ground.  He  could 
iiear  the  sound  of  voices  within.  At  last  he 
leard  the  men  rise,  push  back  their  Chairs, 
;ind  say  "  Good-night."  He  heard  their  heavy 
Shoes  on  the  front  steps.  "  Now  for  it,"  he 


whispered.  But  at  that  moment  a  belated 
tenant  came  in.  He  wanted  to  talk  of  some 
repairs  to  his  house.  Offitt  lay  down  again, 
resting  his  head  on  his  arm.  The  soft  turf, 
the  stillness,  the  warmth  of  the  summer  night 
lulled  him  into  drowsiness.  In  spite  of  the 
reason  he  had  for  keeping  awake,  his  eyes 
were  closing  and  his  senses  were  fading, 
when  a  shrill  whistle  startled  him  into  broad 
wakefulness.  It  was  the  melancholy  note  of 
a  whip-poor-will  in  the  branches  of  a  lime- 
tree  in  the  garden.  Offitt  listened  for  the 
sound  of  voices  in  the  library.  He  heard 

nothing.  "  Can  I  have  slept  through no, 

there  is  a  light."  A  shadow  fell  across  the 
window.  The  heavy  tread  of  Budsey  ap- 
proached. Farnham's  voice  was  heard : 
"  Never  mind  the  windows,  Budsey.  I  will 
close  them  and  the  front  door.  I  will  wait 
here  awhile;  somebody  else  may  come.  You 
can  go  to  bed." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 

"  Good-night." 

Offitt  waited  only  a  moment.  He  rose  and 
looked  cautiously  in  at  the  window.  Farnham 
was  seated  at  his  desk.  He  had  sorted,  in  the 
methodical  way  peculiar  to  men  who  have 
held  command  in  the  army,  the  papers  which 
he  had  been  using  with  his  tenants  and  the 
money  he  had  received  from  them. 

They  were  arranged  on  the  desk  before 
him  in  neat  bundles,  ready  to  be  transferred 
to  the  safe,  across  the  room.  He  had  taken 
up  his  pen  to  make  some  final  indorsement. 

Offitt  drew  off  his  shoes,  leaped  upon  the 
platform,  and  entered  the  library  as  swiftly 
and  noiselessly  as  a  panther  walking  over 
sand. 

XVII. 
IN    AND    OUT    OF    WINDOWS. 

ALICE  BELDING  was  seated  before  her  glass 
braiding  her  longhair.  Her  mother  had  come 
in  from  her  own  room,  as  her  custom  often 
was,  to  chat  with  her  daughter  in  the  half 
hour  before  bed-time.  It  gratified  at  once 
her  maternal  love  and  her  pride  to  watch  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  her  child,  as  she  sat, 
dressed  in  a  white  wrapper  that  made  her 
seem  still  taller  than  she  was,  combing  and 
braiding  the  luxuriant  tresses  that  gave  under 
the  light  every  tint  and  reflection  of  which 
gold  is  capable.  The  pink  and  pearl  of  the 
round  arm  as  the  loose  sleeve  would  slip  to 
the  elbow,  the  poise  of  the  proud  head,  the 
full  white  column  of  the  neck,  the  soft  curve 
of  cheek  and  chin, —  all  this  delighted  her  as 
it  would  have  delighted  a  lover.  But  with 
all  her  light-headedness,  there  was  enough  of 


284 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


discretion,  or  perhaps  of  innate  New  England 
reserve,  to  keep  her  from  ever  expressing  to 
Alice  her  pleasure  in  her  beauty.  So  the 
wholesome-minded  girl  never  imagined  the 
admiration  of  which  she  was  the  object,  and 
thought  that  her  mother  only  liked  to  chat  a 
little  before  sleeping.  They  talked  of  trivial 
matters,  of  the  tea  at  Mrs.  Hyson's,  of  Formosa 
Hyson's  purple  dress  which  made  her  sallower 
than  ever,  of  rain  and  fair  weather. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Belding,  "that  Phrasy 
Dallas  gets  more  and  more  stylish  every  day. 
I  don't  wonder  at  Arthur  Farnham's  devo- 
tion. That  would  make  an  excellent  match 
—  they  are  both  so  dreadfully  clever.  By  the 
way,  he  has  not  been  here  this  week.  And  I 
declare  !  I  don't  believe  you  have  written  him 
that  note  of  thanks  yet." 

"  No,"  said  Alice,  smiling — she  had  schooled 
herself  by  this  time  to  speak  of  him  carelessly. 
"  I  was  too  much  frightened  to  thank  him  on 
the  spot,  and  now  it  would  be  ancient  history. 
We  must  save  our  thanks  till  we  see  him." 

"  I  want  to  see  him  about  other  things. 
You  must  write  and  ask  him  to  dinner  to- 
morrow or  next  day." 

"  Don't  you  think  he  would  like  it  better  if 
you  would  write  ?  " 

"There  you  are  again — as  if  it  mattered. 
Write  that  '  Mamma  bids  me.'  There,  your 
hair  is  braided.  Write  the  note  now,  and  I 
will  send  it  over  in  the  morning  before  he  gets 
away." 

Alice  rose  and  walked  to  her  escritoire,  her 
long  robe  trailing,  her  thick  braids  hanging 
almost  to  the  floor,  her  fair  cheek  touched 
with  a  delicate  spot  of  color  at  the  thought 
of  writing  a  formal  note  to  the  man  she  wor- 
shiped. She  took  a  pen  and  wrote  "  My  dear 
Mr.  Farnham,"  and  the  conventional  address 
made  her  heart  flutter  and  her  eyes  grow  dim. 
While  she  was  writing,  she  heard  her  mother 
say: 

"  What  a  joke !  " 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  that  Mrs.  Belding 
had  picked  up  her  opera-glass '  and  was  look- 
ing through  it  at  something  out  of  the  window. 

"  Do  you  know,  Alice,"  she  said,  laughing, 
"  since  that  ailantus  tree  was  cut  down,  you 
can  see  straight  into  his  library  from  here. 
There  he  is  now,  sitting  at  his  desk." 

"  Mamma !  "  pleaded  Alice,  rising  and  try- 
ing to  take  the  glass  away  from  her.  "  Don't 
do  that,  I  beg !  " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  her  mother,  keeping  her 
away  with  one  hand  and  holding  the  glass 
with  the  other.  "There  comes  Budsey  to 
close  the  blinds.  The  show  is  over.  No ;  he 
goes  away,  leaving  them  open." 

"  Mamma,  I  will  leave  the  room  if " 

"  My  goodness !  look  at  that ! "  cried  the 


widow,  putting  the   glass  in   her  daughter's 
hand  and  sinking  into  a  chair  with  fright. 

Alice,  filled  with  a  nameless  dread,  saw  her 
mother  was  pale  and  trembling,  and  took  the, 
glass.  She  dropped  it  in  an  instant,  and  lean- 
ing from  the  window  sent  forth  once  more 
that  cry  of  love  and  alarm,  which  rang  through 
the  stillness  of  night  with  all  the  power  of  her 
young  throat : 

"  Arthur !  " 

She  turned,  and  sped  down  the  stairs  and 
across  the  lawn  like  an  arrow  shot  for  life  or 
death  from  a  long-bow. 

Farnham  heard  the  sweet,  strong  voice 
ringing  out  of  the  stillness  like  the  cry  of  an 
angel  in  a  vision,  and  raised  his  head  with  a 
startled  movement  from  the  desk  where  he 
was  writing.  Offitt  heard  it,  too,  as  he  raised 
his  hand  to  strike  a  deadly  blow ;  and  though 
it  did  not  withhold  him  from  his  murderous 
purpose,  it  disturbed  somewhat  the  precision 
of  his  hand.  The  hammer  descended  a  little 
to  the  right  of  where  he  had  intended  to 
strike.  It  made  a  deep  and  cruel  gash,  and 
felled  Farnham  to  the  floor,  but  it  did  not  kill 
him.  He  rose,  giddy  and  faint  with  the  blow 
and  half-blinded  with  the  blood  that  poured 
down  over  his  right  eye.  He  clapped  his 
hand,  with  a  soldier's  instinct,  to  the  place 
where  his  sword-hilt  was  not,  and  then  stag- 
gered, rather  than  rushed,  at  his  assailant,  to 
grapple  him  with  his  naked  hands.  Offitt 
struck  him  once  more,  and  he  fell  headlong 
on  the  floor,  in  the  blaze  of  a  myriad  lights 
that  flashed  all  at  once  into  deep  darkness 
and  silence. 

The  assassin,  seeing  that  his  victim  no 
longer  moved,  threw  down  his  reeking  weap- 
on, and,  seizing  the  packages  of  money  on 
the  desk,  thrust  them  into  his  pockets.  He 
stepped  back  through  the  open  window  and 
stooped  to  pick  up  his  shoes.  As  he  rose,  he 
saw  a  sight  which  for  an  instant  froze  him 
with  terror.  A  tall  and  beautiful  form,  dressed 
all  in  white,  was  swiftly  gliding  toward  him 
over  the  grass.  It  drew  near,  and  he  saw  its 
pale  features  set  in  a  terrible  expression  of 
pity  and  horror.  It  seemed  to  him  like  an 
avenging  spirit.  He  shut  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment in  abject  fright,  and  the  phantom 
swept  by  him  and  leaped  like  a  white  doe 
upon  the  platform,  through  the  open  window. 
and  out  of  his  sight.  He  ran  to  the  gate, 
quaking  and  trembling,  then  walked  quietly 
to  the  nearest  corner,  where  he  sat  down 
upon  the  curb-stone  and  put  on  his  shoes. 

Mrs.  Belding  followed,  as  rapidly  as 
could,  the  swift  flight  of  her  daughter;  but 
was  some  minutes  after  the  young  girl 
leaped  through  the  window  that  her  mot! 
walked  breathlessly  through  the  front  d( 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


ind  the  hall  into  the  library.  She  saw  there 
i  sight  which  made  her  shudder  and  turn 
"aint.  Alice  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  holding 
n  her  lap  the  blood-dabbled  head  of  Farn- 
lam.  Beside  her  stood  a  glass  of  water,  a 
Ditcher,  and  several  towels.  Some  of  them 
;vere  red  and  saturated,  some  were  still  fresh 
md  neatly  folded.  She  was  carefully  cleans- 
ng  and  wiping  the  white  forehead  of  the 
ifeless  man  of  the  last  red  drop. 

"  Oh,  Alice,  what  is  this  ? "  cried  her 
nother. 

"  He  is  dead !  "  she  answered,  in  a  hoarse, 
strained  voice.  "  I  feared  so  when  I  first 
:ame  in.  He  was  lying  on  his  face.  I  lifted 
lim  up,  but  he  could  not  see  me.  I  kissed 
lim,  hoping  he  might  kiss  me  again.  But  he 
lid  not.  Then  I  saw  this  water  on  the  stand 
Dver  there.  I  remembered  there  were  always 
;owels  there  in  the  billiard-room.  I  ran  and 
yot  them,  and  washed  the  blood  away  from 
lis  face.  See,  his  face  is  not  hurt.  I  am  glad 
rf  that.  But  there  is  a  dreadful  wound  in  his 
lead."  She  dropped  her  voice  to  a  choking 
whisper  at  these  words. 

Her  mother  gazed  at  her  with  speechless 
;onsternation.  Had  the  shock  deprived  her 
rf  reason  ? 

"  Alice,"  she  said,  "  this  is  no  place  for  you. 
|[  will  call  the  servants  and  send  for  a  sur- 
geon, and  you  must  go  home." 

"  Oh,  no,  mamma.  I  see  I  have  frightened 
pou,  but  there  is  no  need  to  be  frightened. 

s,  call  the  servants,  but  do  not  let  them 
:ome  in  here  for  awhile,  not  till  the  doctors 
pome.  They  can  do  no  good.  He  is  dead." 

Mrs.  Belding  had  risen  and  rung  the  bell 
inolently. 

i  "Do,  mamma,  see  the  servants  in  the  hall 
putside.  Don't  let  them  come  in  for  a  mo- 
[nent.  Do !  I  pray  !  I  pray !  I  will  do  any- 
thing for  you." 

There  was  such  intensity  of  passion  in  the 
girl's  prayer  that  her  mother  yielded,  and  when 
the  servants  came  running  in,  half-dressed,  in 
answer  to  the  bell,  she  stepped  outside  the 
door  and  said,  "Captain  Farnham  has  been 
padly  hurt.  Two  of  you  go  for  the  nearest 
doctors.  You  need  not  come  in  at  present. 
My  daughter  and  I  will  take  care  of  him." 

She  went  back,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 
JAJice  was  smiling.  "  There,  you  are  a  dear ! 
![  will  love  you  forever  for  that !  It  is  only 
for  a  moment.  The  doctors  will  soon  be  here, 
|ind  then  I  must  give  him  up." 
I  "  Oh,  Alice,"  the  poor  lady  whimpered, 
I"  why  do  you  talk  so  wildly  ?  What  do  you 
jmean  ?  " 

"  Don't  cry,  mamma  !  It  is  only  for  a  mo- 
jtnent.  It  is  all  very  simple.  I  am  not  crazy. 
He  was  my  lover  !  " 


"  Heaven  help  us !  " 

"  Yes,  this  dear  man,  this  noble  man  of- 
fered me  his  love,  and  I  refused  it.  I  may 
have  been  crazy  then,  but  I  am  not  now.  I 

can  love  him  now.  I  will  be  his  widow if  I 

was  not  his  wife.  We  will  be  two  widows  to- 
gether— always.  Now  you  know  I  am  doing 
nothing  wrong  or  wild.  He  is  mine. 

"  Give  me  one  of  those  towels,"  she  ex- 
claimed, suddenly.  "  I  can  tie  up  his  head 
so  that  it  will  stop  bleeding  till  the  doctors 
come." 

She  took  the  towels,  tore  strips  from  her 
own  dress,  and  in  a  few  moments,  with  sin- 
gular skill  and  tenderness,  she  had  stopped 
the  flow  of  blood  from  the  wound. 

"  There !  He  looks  almost  as  if  he  were 
asleep,  does  he  not  ?  Oh,  my  love,  my  love !  " 

Up  to  this  moment  she  had  not  shed  one 
tear.  Her  voice  was  strained,  choked,  and 
sobbing,  but  her  eyes  were  dry.  She  kissed 
him  on  his  brow  and  his  mouth.  She  bent 
over  him  and  laid  her  smooth  cheek  to  his. 
She  murmured : 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,  till  I  come  to  you, 
my  own  love !  " 

All  at  once  she  raised  her  head  with  a 
strange  light  in  her  eyes.  "  Mamma ! "  she 
cried,  "  see  how  warm  his  cheek  is.  Heaven 
is  merciful !  perhaps  he  is  alive." 

She  put  both  arms  about  him,  and,  gently 
but  powerfully  lifting  his  dead  weight  of  head 
and  shoulders,  drew  him  to  her  heart.  She 
held  him  to  her  warm  bosom,  rocking  him  to 
and  fro.  "  Oh,  my  beloved  !  "  she  murmured, 
"  if  you  will  live,  I  will  be  so  good  to  you." 

She  lowered  him  again,  resting  his  head  on 
her  lap.  A  drop  of  blood,  from  the  napkin 
in  which  his  head  was  wrapped,  had  touched 
the  bosom  of  her  dress,  staining  it  as  if  a 
cherry  had  been  crushed  there.  She  sat,  gaz- 
ing with  an  anguish  of  hope  upon  his  pale 
face.  A  shudder  ran  through  him,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes — only  for  a  moment.  He 
groaned,  and  slowly  closed  them. 

The  tears  could  no  longer  be  restrained. 
They  fell  like  a  summer  shower  from  her  eyes, 
while  she  sobbed,  "  Thank  God !  my  darling 
is  not  dead." 

Her  quick  ear  caught  footsteps  at  the  outer 
door.  "  Here,  mamma,  take  my  place.  Let 
me  hide  before  all  those  men  come  in." 

In  a  moment  she  had  leaped  through  the 
window,  whence  she  ran  through  the  dewy 
grass  to  her  home. 

An  hour  afterward  her  mother  returned, 
escorted  by  one  of  the  surgeons.  She  found 
Alice  in  bed,  peacefully  sleeping.  As  Mrs. 
Belding  approached  the  bedside,  Alice  woke 
and  smiled.  "  I  know  without  your  telling 
me,  mamma.  He  will  live.  I  began  to  pray 


286 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


for  him, — but  I  felt  sure  he  would  live,  and 
so  I  gave  thanks  instead." 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Belding, 
gravely.  "  But  you  are  right.  Dr.  Cutts  says, 
if  he  escapes  without  fever,  there  is  nothing 
very  serious  in  the  wound  itself.  The  blow 
'  that  made  that  gash  in  his  head  was  not  the 
one  which  made  him  unconscious.  They 
found  another,  behind  his  ear;  the  skin  was 
not  broken.  There  was  a  bump  about  as  big 
as  a  walnut.  They  said  it  was  concussion  of 
the  brain,  but  no  fracture  anywhere.  By 
the  way,  Dr.  Cutts  complimented  me  very 
handsomely  on  the  way  I  had  managed  the 
case  before  his  arrival.  He  said  there  was 
positively  a  professional  excellence  about  my 
bandage.  You  may  imagine  I  did  not  set 
him  right." 

Alice,  laughing  and  blushing,  said,  "  I  will 
allow  you  all  the  credit." 

Mrs.  Belding  kissed  her  and  said  "  Good- 
night," and  walked  to  the  door.  There  she 
paused  a  moment,  and  came  back  to  the 
bed.  "  I  think,  after  all,  I  had  better  say  now 
what  I  thought  of  keeping  till  to-morrow.  I 
thank  you  for  your  confidence  to-night,  and 
shall  respect  it.  But  you  will  see,  I  am  sure, 
the  necessity  of  being  very  circumspect,  under 
the  circumstances.  If  you  should  want  to  do 
anything  for  Arthur  while  he  is  ill,  I  should 
feel  it  my  duty  to  forbid  it." 

Alice  received  this  charge  with  frank,  open 
eyes.  "  I  should  not  dream  of  such  a  thing," 
she  said.  "  If  he  had  died,  I  should  have 
been  his  widow ;  but  as  he  is  to  live,  he  must 
come  for  me  if  he  wants  me.  I  was  very  silly 
about  him,  but  I  must  take  the  consequences. 
I  can't  now  take  advantage  of  the  poor 
fellow  by  saving  his  life  and  establishing  a 
claim  on  it.  So  I  will  promise  anything  you 
want.  I  am  so  happy  that  I  will  promise 
easily.  But  I  am  also  very  sleepy." 

The  beautiful  eyelids  were  indeed  heavy 
and  drooping.  The  night's  excitement  had 
left  her  wearied  and  utterly  content.  She  fell 
asleep  even  as  her  mother  kissed  her  fore- 
head. 

The  feeling  of  Offitt  as  he  left  Algonquin 
avenue  and  struck  into  a  side  street  was  one 
of  pure  exultation.  He  had  accomplished  the 
boldest  act  of  his  life.  He  had  shown  address, 
skill,  and  courage.  He  had  done  a  thing 
which  had  appalled  him  in  the  contemplation 
merely  on  account  of  its  physical  difficulties 
and  dangers.  He  had  done  it  successfully. 
He  had  a  large  amount  of  money  in  his 
pocket — enough  to  carry  his  bride  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  When  it  was  gone — well, 
at  worst,  he  could  leave  her  and  shift  for  him- 
self again.  He  had  not  a  particle  of  regret 
or  remorse ;  and,  in  fact,  these  sentiments  are 


far  rarer  than  moralists  would  have  us  be- 
lieve. A  ruffian  who  commits  a  crime  usually 
glories  in  it.  It  exalts  him  in  his  own  eyes, 
all  the  more  that  he  is  compelled  to  keep 
silent  about  it.  As  Offitt  walked  rapidly  in 
the  direction  of  Dean  street,  the  only  shadow- 
on  his  exultation  was  his  sudden  perception 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  better  not  tell  Maud 
what  he  had  done.  In  all  his  plans  he  had 
promised  himself  the  pleasure  of  telling  her 
that  she  was  avenged  upon  her  enemy  by 
the  hands  of  her  lover;  he  had  thought  he 
might  extort  his  first  kiss  by  that  heroic 
avowal;  but  now,  as  he  walked  stealthily 
down  the  silent  street,  he  saw  that  nobody  in 
the  universe  could  be  made  his  confidant. 

"  I'll  never  own  it,  in  earth  or  hell,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

When  he  reached  Matchin's  cottage,  all 
was  dark  and  still.  He  tried  to  attract  Maud's 
attention  by  throwing  soft  clods  of  earth 
against  her  window,  but  her  sleep  was  too 
sound.  He  was  afraid  to  throw  pebbles  for 
fear  of  breaking  the  panes  and  waking  the 
family.  He  went  into  the  little  yard  adjoining 
the  shop,  and  found  a  ladder.  He  brought  it 
out  and  placed  it  against  the  wall.  He  per- 
ceived now  for  the  first  time  that  his  hands 
were  sticky.  He  gazed  at  them  a  moment. 
"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  when  he  fell 
I  held  out  my  hands  to  keep  his  head  from 
touching  my  clothes.  Careless  trick !  Ought 
to  have  washed  them,  first  thing."  Then, 
struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  he  went  to  the  well- 
curb  and  slightly  moistened  his  fingers.  He 
then  rubbed  them  on  the  door-knob  and  the 
edge  of  the  door  of  the  cottage,  and  pressed 
them  several  times  in  different  places  on  the 
ladder.  "  Not  a  bad  scheme,"  he  said,  chuck- 
ling. He  then  went  again  to  the  well  and 
washed  his  hands  thoroughly,  afterward  tak- 
ing a  handful  of  earth  and  rubbing  them  till 
they  were  as  dirty  as  usual. 

After  making  all  these  preparations  for 
future  contingencies,  he  mounted  the  ladder 
and  tried  to  raise  the  window.  It  was  already 
open  a  few  inches  to  admit  the  air,  but  was 
fastened  there,  and  he  could  not  stir  it.  He 
began  to  call  and  whistle  in  as  low  and  pene- 
trating a  tone  as  he  could  manage,  and  at 
last  awoke  Maud,  whose  bed  was  only  a  few 
feet  away.  She  started  up  with  a  lo\v  cry  of 
alarm,  but  saw.  in  a  moment  who  it  was. 

"  Well,  what  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  ? 
Go  away  this  minute,  or  I'll  call  my  father." 

"  Let  me  in,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

"  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.    Begone, 
instant." 

"  Maud,  don't  be  foolish,"  he  pleaded, 
real  alarm  as  he  saw  that  she  was  angry 
insulted.   "  I   have   done  as  you  told  m< 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


have  wealth  for  us  both,  and  I  have  " — he 
had  almost  betrayed  himself,  but  he  con- 
cluded— "  I  have  come  to  take  you  away 
forever." 

"  Come  to-morrow,  at  a  decent  hour,  and 
I  will  talk  to  you." 

"  Now,  Maud,  my  beauty,  don't  believe 
I  am  humbugging.  I  brought  a  lot  of  money 
for  you  to  look  at — I  knew  you  wanted  to 
be  sure.  See  here  !  "  He  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  package  of  bank  bills — he  saw  a  glittering 
stain  on  them.  He  put  them  in  the  other 
pocket  of  his  coat  and  took  out  another 
package.  "And  here's  another.  I've  got  a 
dozen  like  them.  Handle  'em  yourself."  He 
put  them  in  through  the  window.  Maud  was 
so  near  that  she  could  take  the  bills  by  put- 
ting out  her  hand.  She  saw  there  was  a  large 
amount  of  money  there — more  than  she  had 
ever  seen  before. 

"  Come,  my  beauty,"  he  said,  "  this  is  only 
!  spending-money  for  a  bridal  tour.  There  are 
|  millions  behind  it.  Get  up  and  put  on  your 
dress.  I  will  wait  below  here.  We  can  take 
the  midnight  train  east,  be  married  at  Clevalo, 
and  sail  for  Paris  the  next  day.  That's  the 
world  for  you  to  shine  in.  Come !  Waste  no 
time.  No  tellin'  what  may  happen  to-mor- 
row." 

She  was  strongly  tempted.  She  had  no 
longer  any  doubt  of  his  wealth.  He  was  not 
precisely  a  hero  in  appearance,  but  she  had 
never  insisted  upon  that — her  romance  hav- 
ing been  always  of  a  practical  kind.  She  was 
about  to  assent  —  and  to  seal  her  doom  — 
when  she  suddenly  remembered  that  all  her 
I  best  clothes  were  in  her  mother's  closet, 
which  was  larger  than  hers,  and  that  she 
;  could  not  get  them  without  passing  through 
;the  room  where  her  parents  were  asleep, 
j That  ended  the  discussion.  It  was  out  of 
'the  question  that  she  should  marry  this  mag- 
jnificent  stranger  in  her  every-day  dress  and 
I  cotton  stockings.  It  was  equally  impossible 
ithat  she  should  give  that  reason  to  any  man. 
|So  she  said,  with  dignity : 

"  Mr.  Offitt,  it  is  not  proper  for  me  to 
; continue  this  conversation  any  longer.  You 
ought  to  see  it  aint.  I  shall  be  happy  to  see 
iyou  to-morrow." 

Offitt  descended  the  ladder,  grinding  out 
I  curses  between  his  set  teeth.  A  hate,  as  keen 
;as  his  passion,  for  the  foolish  girl  fired  him. 
"  Think,"  he  hissed,  "  a  man  that  killed,  half 
ian  hour  ago,  the  biggest  swell  in  Buffland,  to 
be  treated  that  way  by  a  carpenter's  wench. 
Wait  awhile,  Miss;  it'll  come  my  innings." 
He  lifted  up  the  ladder,  carried  it  carefully 
around  the  house,  and  leaned  it  against  the 
iwall  under  the  window  of  the  room  occupied 
!by  Sleeny. 


He  hurried  back  to  his  lodging  in  Perry 
Place,  where  he  found  Sam  Sleeny  lying 
asleep  on  his  bed.  He  was  not  very  gra- 
ciously greeted  by  his  drowsy  visitor. 

"  Why  didn't  you  stay  out  all  night  ?  "  Sam 
growled.  "  Where  have  you  been,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  I've  been  at  the  variety-show,  and  it  was 
the  boss  fraud  of  the  season." 

"  You  staid  so  long  you  must  have  liked  it." 

"  I  was  waiting  to  see  just  how  bad  a  show 
could  be  and  not  spoil." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  see  me  about  to- 
night ?  " 

"  The  fact  is,  I  expected  to  meet  a  man 
around  at  the  Varieties  who  was  to  go  in  with 
us  into  a  big  thing.  But  he  wasn't  there.  I'll 
nail  him  to-morrow,  and  then  we  can  talk. 
It's  big  money,  Sammy,  and  no  discount. 
What  would  you  think  of  a  thousand  dollars 
a  month  ?  " 

"I'd  a  heap  rather  see  it  than  hear  you 
chin  about  it.  Give  me  my  hammer,  and  I'll 
go  home." 

"  Why,  I  took  it  round  to  your  shop  this 
evening,  and  I  tossed  it  in  through  the  win- 
dow. I  meant  to  throw  it  upon  the  table, 
but  it  went  over,  I  think  from  the  sound, 
and  dropped  on  the  floor.  You  will  find  it 
among  the  shavings,  I  reckon." 

"  Well,  I'm  off,"  said  Sam,  by  way  of  good- 
night. 

"  All  right.    Guess  I'll  see  you  to-morrow." 

Offitt  waited  till  he  could  hear  the  heavy 
tread  of  Sleeny  completing  the  first  flight  of 
stairs  and  going  around  to  the  head  of  the 
second.  He  then  shut  and  locked  his  door, 
and  hung  his  hat  over  the  key-hole.  He 
turned  up  his  lamp  and  sat  down  by  the 
table  to  count  his  night's  gains.  The  first 
package  he  took  from  his  pocket  had  a  glit- 
tering stain  upon  the  outside  bill.  He  sepa- 
rated the  stained  bill  carefully  from  the  rest, 
and  held  it  a  moment  in  his  hand  as  if  in 
doubt.  He  walked  to  his  wash-stand,  but 
at  the  moment  of  touching  his  pitcher  he 
stopped  short.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief, 
but  shook  his  head  and  put  it  back.  Finally, 
he  lighted  a  match,  applied  it  to  the  corner 
of  the  bill,  and  watched  it  take  fire  and  con- 
sume, until  his  fingers  were  scorched  by 
the  blaze.  "  Pity !  "  he  whispered—"  good 
money  like  that." 

He  seated  himself  again  and  began  with  a 
fierce,  sustained  delight  to  arrange  and  sort 
the  bank-bills,  laying  the  larger  denominations 
by  themselves,  smoothing  them  down  with  a 
quick  and  tender  touch,  a  kindling  eye,  and 
a  beating  heart.  In  his  whole  life,  past  and 
future,  there  was  not  such  another  moment 
of  enjoyment.  Money  is,  of  course,  precious 
and  acceptable  to  all  men  except  idiots.  But, 


288 


TEN   YEARS. 


if  it  means  much  to  the  good  and  virtuous, 
how  infinitely  more  it  means  to  the  thoroughly 
depraved — the  instant  gratification  of  every 
savage  and  hungry  devil  of  a  passion  which 
their  vile  natures  harbor.  Though  the  first 
and  principal  thing  Offitt  thought  of  was  the 
possession  of  Maud  Matchin,  his  excited  fancy 
did  not  stop  there.  A  long  gallery  of  vicious 
pictures  stretched  out  before  his  flaming  eyes, 
as  he  reckoned  up  the  harvest  of  his  hand. 
The  mere  thought  that  each  bill  represented 
a  dinner,  where  he  might  eat  and  drink  what 
he  liked,  was  enough  to  inebriate  a  starved 


rogue  whose  excesses  had  always  been  limited 
by  his  poverty. 

When  he  had  counted  and  sorted  his  cash, 
he  took  enough  for  his  immediate  needs  and 
put  it  in  his  wallet.  The  rest  he  made  up 
into  convenient  packages,  which  he  tied  com- 
pactly with  twine  and  disposed  in  his  various 
pockets.  "I'll  chance  it,"  he  thought,  after 
some  deliberation.  "  If  they  get  me,  they  can 
get  the  money,  too.  But  they  sha'n't  get  it 
without  me." 

He  threw  himself  on  his  bed,  and  slept 
soundly  till  morning. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE  MISER. 

HOARDING  up  gold  as  each  swift  summer  flies 
Unto  a  bitter  season  that  he  fears, 
The  miser  shuts  the  portal  of  his  tears, 

And 'bars  out  Mercy,  with  her  piteous  eyes. 

But  when  Death  enters,  in  unwelcome  guise, 
"  Poor  fool,  and  wasteful  of  the  lavish  years!" 
Avenging  Conscience  shrieks  into  his  ears, 

And  "  Fool ! "  the  murmur  of  the  world  replies. 

If  so  late  wealth  can  bring  no  pleasure  in, 

Be  not  to  niggard  spirits  so  akin : 

But  give  me  kisses,  give  me  love,  my  sweet ! 

Hoard  not  the  coin  of  passion  in  thy  breast, 

But  spend  it  freely.     Short  is  life  at  best, 

And  Time  speeds  onward  with  remorseless  feet. 


TEN  YEARS. 

TEN  winters  has  the  north  wind  hurried  by, 

Licking  the  streamlets  with  its  frozen  tongue; 

Ten  summers  through  the  boisterous  robin  sung 
Since,  arm  in  arm  together,  you  and  I 
Walked  from  this  church  beneath  a  flawless  sky. 

So  many  years!     It  seemed  the  air  yet  rung 

With  wedding  marches  yonder  piers  among, 
So  swift  the  happy  seasons  o'er  us  fly! 
And  when  the  vexing  thoughts  I  cannot  quell, 

Which  come  a-tiptoe  at  the  beck  of  care, 
About  my  spirit  weave  their  dreary  spell, 

Your  voice,  resounding  through  the  hollow  air, 
Smites  on  my  quickened  conscience  like  the  bell 

That  calls  a  sinner  to  forgotten  prayer. 


Andrew  B.  Saxton 


AN    AVERAGE    MAN.* 


BY    ROBERT    GRANT, 
Author  of  "  The  Little  Tin  Gods  on  Wheels,"  "  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl,"  etc. 


I. 


IT  was  a  fine  moonlight  night  in  early 
winter.  The  vicinity  of  Madison  Square  was 
a  blaze  of  light.  The  theaters  were  just  over, 
and  a  stream  of  people  was  pouring  along  the 
pavements.  Horse-cars,  packed  to  overflow- 
ling,  jingled  by.  Democratic  omnibuses  thun- 
jdered  over  the  road-bed,  side  by  side  with 
(smartly  equipped  coupes  aglow  with  lanterns. 
(The  huge  plate-glass  windows  of  the  res- 
taurants flashed  a  dazzling  welcome.  All  was 
iglitter  and  roar  and  rush  and  hurry.  The  uni- 
jversal  movement  was  of  a  race  where  each 
lone  fears  to  be  left  behind.  It  is  here  that  the 
|w  ell-known  avenues  of  fashion  and  trade  inter- 
jsect  like  the  blades  of  a  vast  pair  of  shears, 
land  focus  the  rumble,  bustle,  and  glare  of  the 
metropolis. 

Among  the  crowd  that  on  this  particular 
night  peopled  this  famous  New  York  thor- 
oughfare, where  Virtue  and  Vice  touched  each 
other's  cheek, — where  Plenty  delights  to 
flaunt,  and  Want  to  sun  itself, —  were  two 
lyoung  men  whom  a  less  hurried  gait  distin- 
guished from  the  average  passer.  They  had 
been  to  the  play,  and  the  larger  of  the  two — 
ji  compact,  powerfully  built  fellow,  whose 
aands  were  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his  ulster 
^softly  hummed,  between  the  puffs  at  his 
;igarette,  an  air  from  the  reigning  burlesque 
)f  the  day.  They  entered  Delmonico's,  and 
:rossing  the  floor  of  the  restaurant  established 
hemselves  at  one  of  the  tables. 

"  Bring  a  chicken  salad,  Alphonse,  and  a 
[uart  of  that  dry  Monopole,"  said  he  of  the 
lister,  whose  name  was  Woodbury  Stoughton, 
;o  the  sinuous  waiter  at  his  shoulder.  "I 
jlrink  Monopole  entirely  now,"  he  added  sen- 
'entiously,  turning  to  his  friend ;  and  his 
|;lance  began  to  wander  in  note  of  the  occu- 
pants of  the  apartment,  which  was  gay  with 
matrons. 

'  Now  that  one  saw  him  distinctly,  he  was  a 
tandsome  young  man,  with  a  full  round  face, 
I'oid  of  much  color,  large  brown  eyes  fringed 
jy  dark  lashes,  and  a  thick  and  somewhat 
lunt  nose.  Save  for  a  crinkling  mustache 
bat,  without  shading  the  curves  of  his  firm, 
umorous  mouth,  stood  out  beyond  his  cheeks, 
;e  was  smoothly  shaven  ;  but  his  complexion 
|bout  the  lower  jaw  had  the  bluish  tinge 
VOL.  XXVIL— 28. 


peculiar  to  those  whose  beard  is  dark.  Both 
he  and  his  vis-a-vis,  Arthur  Remington,  were 
in  the  neighborhood  of  twenty-five.  The  lat- 
ter lacked  the  robust  beauty  of  his  friend.  His 
was  a  more  delicate  mold, —  a  slim  figure, 
somewhat  above  the  average  height,  and  a 
spare  cast  of  countenance,  with  fresh-colored, 
prominent  features.  He  had  a  thoughtful, 
intelligent  expression,  and  eyes  that  were 
earnest  and  nervous.  He  looked  a  little  tired, 
and,  while  waiting  for  the  supper,  ate  bread 
and  butter  with  a  mechanical  eagerness. 

"  I  notice,"  continued  Stoughton,  drumming 
with  his  fingers  carelessly  on  the  table-cloth, 
"  the  bride,  Mrs.  Tom  Fielding,  is  back  again. 
She  looks  lovely  as  ever ;  I  don't  see  that  her 
damask  cheek  shows  any  traces  of  the  tradi- 
tional worm." 

"  She  was  Miss  Ethel  Linton,  wasn't  she  ?  " 
asked  Remington,  turning  slightly  in  the 
direction  indicated.  The  lady  in  question  was 
one  of  a  merry  party  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room. 

"  Yes.  The  story  is,  you  know,  she  was  in 
love  with  Willis  Blake,  but  her  stern  parent 
lit  down  on  her.  Willis  hadn't  a  dollar  to 
write  after  his  name ;  and  Tom  Fielding 
stood  all  ready  at  the  castle  gate,  so  to  speak, 
a-combing  his  milk-white  steed.  They  say  she 
and  old  man  Linton  had  some  pretty  lively 
times  together ;  but  in  the  end  Tom  carried 
off  the  daughter." 

"  I've  heard  something  of  that  sort  before. 
Poor  girl !  I  pity  her." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  It  isn't  such  a  bad 
thing,  now,  to  marry  a  million.  Tom  isn't 
overburdened  with  intellect,  to  be  sure;  but 
I  guess  he's  a  decent  sort  of  fellow,  and  will 
know  enough  to  let  her  have  her  head. 
There's  no  use  looking  a  gift  horse  in  the 
mouth  merely  because  he  has  no  brains.  Ah  ! 
here  comes  the  salad. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Stoughton  presently, 
"  talking  of  the  other  sex,  I  met  that  little 
Cambridge  girl  you  used  to  be  so  sweet  on 
in  the  street  yesterday." 

"  What !    Maud  Bolles  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Maud  Bolles — as  if  you  didn't  know 
well  enough!  She's  married,  she  tells  me, 
and  to  one  of  those  scientific  duffers.  She 
was  quite  vivacious  for  her,  and  informed  me 
that  her  husband  was  engaged  at  present  in 


Copyright,  1883,  by  Robert  Grant. 


290 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


weighing  thirty  guinea-pigs  before  and  after 
meals,  with  a  view  to  'physiological  induc- 
tion.' Well,  here's  luck ! "  and  Stoughton 
emptied  his  champagne  glass. 

Remington  laughed.  "You  .always  were 
hard  on  those  Cambridge  girls.  Wood.  I  sup- 
pose they  were  rather  provincial  as  a  lot,  but 
somehow  or  other  I  used  to  like  them.  They 
seemed  to  appeal  to  the  best  side  of  me,  and 
had  the  effect  of  a  sort  of  moral  tonic.  I 
dare  say  it  would  have  been  a  first-rate  thing 
for  me  if  I'd  married  Maud  Bolles." 

"  Pshaw,  my  dear  fellow !  Compare  her, 
for  instance,  with  the  girls  one  meets  in 
New  York.  She  can't  hold  a  candle  to  them 
for  genuine  attraction.  Spiritual  graces  are  all 
very  well ;  but  —  dash  it,  Arthur  —  the  body 
counts  for  something.  She  had  a  pretty  face, 
that  was  all." 

"  Oh,  yes !  You're  right  enough,  I  dare 
say.  It's  strange  how  things  happen  in  this 
world.  I  was  pretty  well  cut  up  because  she 
would  not  accept  me  Class -Day  evening." 
Remington  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand 
thoughtfully.  "  Perhaps  now  I'm  glad  she 
didn't ;  and  yet  my  reasons  somehow  don't 
do  me  proud,  as  Tom  Walker  used  to  say." 

"Well,  it'll  be  all  the  same  a  hundred 
years  hence,  my  dear  fellow.  Some  more 
salad  ?  " 

"  No,  I  believe  not,  thank  you.  It's  curi- 
ous, isn't  it,"  he  continued,  "  how  a  fellow 
grows  more  worldly  in  spite  of  himself?  New 
York  knocks  the  romance  out  of  one  very 
fast.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  look  at 
things  frorh  the  same  ideal  point  of  view  I 
used  to,  a  few  years  ago.  I  suppose  I'm  wiser 
in  some  ways  to-day ;  but  I'm  a  cold,  calcu- 
lating creature  compared  to  what  I  was  then. 
This  city  life  doesn't  leave  one  much  time  for 
theorizing.  What  a  whirl  it  is ! "  he  added, 
reflectively,  glancing  about  him;  "and  it 
seems  to  increase  every  day." 

Stoughton  scowled,  as  if  irritated  by  this 
reminder  of  current  existence,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  glass.  He  set  it  down  with  em- 
phasis. "  It's  all  a  race  for  wealth  here.  A 
man  amounts  to  nothing  in  New  York  unless 
he  has  money."  He  poured  out  some  more 
champagne  gloomily.  "  Our  people  have  no 
idea  of  enjoyment.  They  don't  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  Our  ancestors  — 
the  progenitors  of  those  prim  maidens  you 
were  admiring  just  now  —  went  on  the  prin- 
ciple that  everything  except  money-getting 
was  wrong,  and  here  you  have  the  result. 
American  civilization  is  based  on  the  theory 
that  life  is  a  sort  of  *  twenty-minutes-for-din- 
ner '  at  a  way-station,  and  consequently  every 
one  keeps  in  such  a  state  of  nervousness,  lest 
the  train  may  start  without  him,  that  a  com- 


fortable square  meal  is  out  of  the  question. 
If  a  fellow  happened  to  dawdle  over  a  dish 
and  smack  his  lips  a  little,  he  was  sure  to 
hear  some  one  whisper,  l  It'll  be  a  warm  day  ! 
for  that  shrimp  before  long.'  Our  fathers  were 
taught  from  the  cradle  that  the  man  who 
lingers  in  this  world  over  the  peaches  and 
cream  is  bound  to  get  left" 

Remington  laughed.  "At  least,  the  present 
generation  is  not  under  the  influence  of  any 
such  delusion." 

"  Exactly,  my  dear  fellow ;  but  it  doesn't 
know  how  to  enjoy.  That's  the  point.  Beauty 
and  repose  are  sealed  doors  to  our  race." 
And  Stoughton  proceeded  further  to  illustrate 
his  argument  with  the  somewhat  disdainful 
air  common  to  him  when  roused.  He  ad- 
mitted, he  said,  that  it  had  dawned  even  upon 
our  people  that,  after  all,  happiness  is  legiti- 
mate in  this  human  sphere.  The  trouble  was, 
nobody  understood  how  to  set  about  obtain- 
ing it.  Our  organisms  had  become  so  habit- 
uated, in  former  generations,  to  judging 
everything  by  so-called  standards  of  man's 
invention,  which  he  had  had  the  presumption 
to  dub  divine,  that  they  had  become  starved 
and  contracted.  Our  sense  of  the  beautiful, 
the  artistic,  the  exquisite  in  life  was  false  and 
illiterate.  We  had  evolved  as  national  traits  a 
cold,  lofty  moral  standard,  not  lived  up  to, 
and  an  exceeding  commercial  cleverness.  We 
had  made  money,  and  how  were  we  spending 
it?  In  tasteless  extravagance  and  ostentation. 

Remington  was  silent  a  moment.  "  Yes ; 
and  yet,"  said  he,  "  underneath  it  all  there 
lies  something  better.  I  believe  that,  like  our 
fathers,  we  too  are  not  content  with  the  peaches 
and  cream.  We  are  at  heart  an  earnest 
people." 

"  There  spoke  the  spirit  of  some  Puritan 
ancestor.  My  dear  fellow,  life  is  meant  to  be 
enjoyed.  Why  not  get  all  the  pleasure  one 
can  out  of  it,  while  it  lasts  ?  "  And  Stoughton 
sat  back  in  his  chair  vehemently.  His  tone 
betrayed  the  irritation  of  one  conscious  of 
somewhat  sharing  at  heart,  against  his  will, 
his  opponent's  sentiments. 

It  happened  at  this  moment  that  a  party 
of  three  or  four  young  men  entered  the  res- 
taurant, and  passed  close  to  the  table  where 
Remington  and  Stoughton  were  sitting.  One 
of  these  was  a  thick-set  and  rather  coarse- 
looking  fellow,  who  swaggered  a  little  as  he 
walked,  with  a  bullet  head  and  a  doggec 
sort  of  expression  about  the  mouth  that  sug- 
gested a  bull-terrier.  The  points  of  his  dre^s 
were  exaggerated  and  somewhat  careless.  He 
darted  around  him  a  pair  of  keen,  dark  eye: 
as  if  to  take  in  at  a  breath  the  occupant 
the  place.  Catching  sight  of  Stoughton, 
nodded  good-humoredly,  and,  bending 


.  He 
eyes, 
itso 

- 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


291 


whispered  across  the  back  of  his  hand,  in 
passing :  "  I  bought  that  of  yours  at  seventy- 
ive.  It  closed  six  bid,  and  none  offered." 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Finchley,"  said  Stough- 

on,  reaching  out  to  detain  the  new-comer. 

'  Is  it  going  higher  ?    How  do  things  look  ?  " 

The  broker  placed  his  hand  on  the  other's 

shoulder,  and  replied  in  a  confidential  tone : 

['  I  am  a  bull  myself  upon  the  situation.    We 

'nay  have  temporary  reactions,  but  I  look  for 

jiigher  prices.   Mr.  Gould's  brokers,"  he  added, 

|arith   an   increasing   earnestness   of    whisper 

;alculated  to  convey  the  impression  that  his 

vords  were  not  intended  for  the  public,  "have 

>een  large  buyers  to-day.    The  earnings  of 

:he  roads   continue  to  be  enormous.   Take 

rour  purchase,  for  instance ;  the  possibilities 

f  that  stock  are  something  tremendous.    Its 

and-grant  alone  is  an  empire  in  itself, — an 

mpire  in  itself."    He  dwelt   upon   the   last 

xpression  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.    In  the 

rery  ugliness  of  his  smile  there  was  something 

angerously  winning. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  inquired  Remington,  as 
ic  broker  rejoined  his  friends. 
"  That  ?  "  said  Stoughton  absently,  as  if  lost 
calculation.  "  Oh,"  he  continued,  "  don't 
ou  know  Finchley  ?  He's  in  J.  C.  Withing- 
&  Company.  He  used  to  be  a  clerk  in 
leir  concern,  but  proved  so  serviceable  they 
)ok  him  into  partnership.  I  guess  he  makes 
is  fifteen  thousand  a  year  fast  enough." 
"  He  isn't  very  much  to  look  at." 
"  No,  he's  a  genuine  cad ;  but  he's  smart. 
That's  the  sort  of  man,  Arthur,"  he  added 
resently,  "  to  get  on  in  New  York.  He  isn't 
ioubled  by  any  of  the  subtle  considerations 
jiat  trouble  you  and  me.  He'd  call  that 
j.nd  of  thing  filigree  work.  He  knows  what 
b  wants  to  do,  and  has  it  all  cut  out  for  him. 
|.'s  his  ambition  in  life  to  make  a  million, 
tid  he  will  before  he's  forty,  if  his  luck 
besn't  go  back  on  him.  Any  theory  of  liv- 
!g  not  bottomed  on  the  Almighty  Dollar 
|ould  probably  strike  him  as  '  hole-in-the- 
ty.'  I  tell  you  what,  old  man,  we're  too  well 
'lucated,  we've  got  too  many  fine-spun  ideas, 
'  succeed  in  this  place."  Stoughton  spoke  a 
]tle  bitterly.  He  paused,  and  chancing  to 
jok  up,  a  strange  expression  came  over  him. 
Shylock  has  a  daughter,"  he  murmured,  and 
idded  toward  the  door-way. 
I  Remington  turned  his  head  in  the  direc- 
t>n  indicated,  and  his  glance  fell  upon  a 
Jung  girl  standing  on  the  threshold,  as  if 
i|  search  of  some  one  in  the  restaurant.  She 
|s  wrapped  in  a  white  opera-cloak.  The 
Hit  threw  her  figure,  which  was  sufficiently 
tl,  into  perfect  relief.  Remington  felt  that 
|j  had  rarely,  if  ever,  seen  such  a  beautiful 
ting.  Her  person  had  exchanged  the  more 


fragile  grace  of  extreme  maidenhood  for  a 
mature  but  equally  symmetrical  luxuriance 
of  form.  Her  large  blue  eyes  and  round 
cheeks — tinged  with  the  delicate  olive  of  the 
brunette,  yet  suffused  with  color,  and  soft 
with  the  bloom  peculiar  to  youth — were 
crowned  with  a  superabundance  of  fluffy 
golden  hair,  that  strayed  far  down  upon  her 
forehead  in  rebellious  tangles.  Her  mouth 
was  slightly  prominent, — her  lips  full,  un- 
wavering, and  so  brightly  red  as  to  display 
to  advantage  the  whiteness  of  her  small,  regu- 
lar, and  almost  cruelly  incisive  teeth.  The 
exuberance  of  the  smile  by  which  she  now 
indicated  her  discovery  of  the  object  of  her 
scrutiny  betrayed  a  keen  enjoyment  of  life, 
and  a  plentiful  fund  of  vitality.  There  was 
something  vigorous,  fearless,  almost  bold, 
still  not  unrefined,  in  her  expression.  One 
realized  the  presence  of  a  splendid  animal. 
You  felt,  in  regard  to  her  possibilities,  as  one 
feels  in  gazing  on  a  massive  block  of  shining 
marble  before  the  sculptor's  hand  has  fashioned 
it. 

She  was  accompanied  by  a  slim  youth  of 
albino  type  and  lackadaisical  demeanor. 

Remington  had  started  at  the  apparition. 
"  Who  is  she,  Wood  ?  "  and  his  face  wore  a 
half-puzzled,  half-amused  look. 

"  Miss  Idlewild,  daughter  of  Peter  Idlewild, 
the  banker  and  railway  magnate.  She's  a 
stunner,  isn't  she?  Nothing  of  the  pocket 
Venus  about  her;  it's  the  genuine  article." 

Remington  seemed  lost  in  thought.  "  Yes, 
it  must  be  the  same,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  But  they're  not  Jews,  surely  ?  "  he:  suddenly 
asked  of  his  friend,  recalling  the  other's  pre- 
vious remark. 

"  My  language  was  merely  metaphorical. 
I  have  no  cause,  my  dear  fellow,  to  doubt 
her  Aryan  descent,"  said  Stoughton,  with  a 
laugh.  "  But  whence  all  this  mysterious  cogi- 
tation ?  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  It  was  on  a  steam-boat,  four  summers  ago. 
I  was  going  to  Bar  Harbor.  It  was  the  end 
of  my  Junior  year,  and  I  was  feeling  terribly 
blue,  I  remember,  over  a  condition  in  chem- 
istry," said  Remington,  musingly.  "  There 
happened  to  be  very  few  people  on  board, 
and  I  found  myself  sitting  next  to  this  girl, 
near  the  bow.  She  wasn't  as  pretty  as  she  is 
now,  and  was  more  slender-looking ;  but  she'd 
have  passed  in  a  crowd  even  then.  Somehow 
or  other  we  got  into  conversation.  I  think  it 
was  a  shoal  of  porpoises  that  brought  us  to- 
gether. She  inquired  of  a  deck-hand  if  they 
were  whales,  and " 

"And  you  were  on  deck  with  an  answer," 
laughed  Stoughton.  "  I've  been  there  myself." 

"  Exactly.  She  asked  me  what  time  it  was, 
which  broke  the  ice  completely.  I  discovered 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


she  was  traveling  entirely  alone,  and  was  on 
the  way  to  visit  some  relatives  in  Maine.  She 
seemed  inclined  to  be  communicative,  and 
told  me  that  her  name  was  Isabel  Idlewild, 
that  her  mother  was  dead,  and  her  father  in 
business  in  New  York.  'And  when  I'm 
eighteen,'  she  said,  *  I'm  going  to  live  there, 
and  keep  house  for  him.  That'll  be  in  two 
years.  I'm  only  sixteen  now.  Don't  you 
think  I  look  older  than  that  ?  '  I  remember 
it  all  distinctly,  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday. 
There  was  a  moon,  and  after  supper  we  went 
and  sat  aft  of  the  paddle-box,  where  we  could 
see  the  glitter  on  our  wake.  She  produced, 
from  a  little  reticule  she  carried,  some  oranges 
and  a  paper  of  chocolates,  which  she  insisted 
on  my  sharing.  '  Oh  ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  isn't 
it  lovely  ?  ' " 

"  What,  the  confectionery  ?  " 

"  No,  you  unsentimental  cynic.  She  had 
reference  to  the  moon  and  the  general  sur- 
roundings. '  I  suppose,'  said  she,  with  a  little 
sidelong  glance  I  have  never  forgotten,  '  it's 
perfectly  dreadful  of  me  to  be  talking  to  you 
and  telling  you  all  these  things.  Do  you  know, 
the  last  words  my  folks  said  to  me  before  I 
left  home  were  that  I  mustn't  talk  to  any  one. 

But  I  do  like  company ;  don't  you,  Mr. 

what  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?  ' ' 

"  Num,  num  !  "  articulated  Stoughton,  ban- 
teringly. 

"  '  I  didn't  say,'  said  I  with  a  laugh.  '  Oh,' 
said  she,  *  how  unkind  !  but  you  will  write  it 
in  my  album,  I  know.  I  always  make  my 
traveling  friends  write  their  names  in  my  al- 
bum ' ;  and  therewith  she  ferreted  out  of  the 
aforesaid  reticule  a  small  autograph-book." 

"  Did  you  write  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  thought  at  first  of  writing  a  ficti- 
tious name ;  but,  as  I  never  expected  to  see 
her  again,  I  didn't  care  much.  We  sat  out 
until  about  ten  o'clock,"  continued  Reming- 
ton, "  and  then  she  said  it  was  time  for  her 
to  go  to  bed.  I  tried  to  make  her  stay  up 
longer,  but  she  wouldn't.  I  walked  with'  her 
to  the  head  of  the  staircase.  She  was  to  land 
at  an  early  hour  in  the  morning.  '  You  will 
write  to  me  ?  '  she  said,  putting  out  her  hand. 
'  Of  course,'  replied  I,  a  little  staggered  withal. 
'Address  Maud  Vandyke,  care  of  the  post- 
master,' she  continued;  'my  folks  mightn't 
like  it  if  they  knew  I  was  corresponding. 
Good-night !  '  and  I  have  never  seen  her 
since  until  to-day.  She  landed  before  I  was 
up." 

"  And  you  never  wrote  to  her  ?  " 

"No.  I  don't  know  why  exactly,  but  I 
never  did.  I  wonder  if  she'd  remember  me. 
I've  half  a  mind  to  speak  to  her,"  said  Rem- 
ington, turning  slightly  so  as  to  command  a 
glimpse  of  the  young  beauty,  who  had  joined 


some  friends  at  a   distant  table.    "  You  say 
her  father  is  a  banker  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Peter  Idlewild  &  Company.  That's 
he  at  the  table  with  her.  The  blonde  youth  ! 
is  her  brother.  The  old  man  is  one  of  your 
self-made  chaps,  who  came  to  New  York  as 
a  boy,  without  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  and  has 
laid  up  a  colossal  fortune.  Now  he's  trying 
to  get  into  society  on  the  strength  of  his 
money,"  said  Stoughton.  "  I'll  introduce  you, 
if  you  like." 

"  What !    do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  replied  Stoughton,  with  a  grin. 
"  I  met  her  at  Newport  last  summer,  once  or 
twice.  They  had  the*  Spencer  Colgate  cot- 
tage. They're  rich,  you  know,  and  were  in- 
vited about  more  or  less.  She's  a  debutante. 
The  second  wife,  who  is  quite  presentable,  is 
anxious  to  cut  a  dash  '  in  the  swim.'  That's 
their  new  house  on  Fifth  avenue,  near  Sixty- 
second  street, —  the  one  that  looks  big  enough 
for  a  palace.  I'm  invited  to  a  blow-out  there 
next  week.  Come  on ;  I'll  introduce  you." 

Remington  offering  no  objection,  the  other 
presently  led  the  way  across  to  where  the 
Idlewilds  were  sitting.  The  party  included 
the  second  Mrs.  Idlewild,  a  beautifully  dressec 
but  languid-looking  woman,  considerably  hei 
husband's  junior. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Stoughton,  how  do  you  do  r 
We  haven't  met  for  ever  so  long,"  exclaimec 
the  girl  with  a  frank  graciousness,  putting  oir 
her  hand.  "  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you  again.' 
Her  face  wore  an  exuberance  of  expressior 
unusual  with  those  whom  familiarity  with  th( 
world  has  taught  to  temper  the  display  01 
their  emotions. 

"  Permit  me,  Miss  Idlewild,  to  present  mj 
friend,  Mr.  Remington."  Stoughton  spob 
with  the  air  of  subtle  gallantry,  of  self-morti 
fication,  that  charms  a  woman. 

As  Remington's  eyes  encountered  those  o 
the  young  beauty  she  blushed.  "  I  think  w 
have  met  before,  Miss  Idlewild,"  he  said. 

"  I  remember  perfectly."  She  looked  hii) 
now  full  in  the  face  with  fearless,  wide-ope: 
eyes,  her  head  coquettishly  poised  on  on 
side.  Stoughton  had  turned  to  speak  with  he 
parents.  "  But  you  never  wrote  "  ;  and  a  mis 
chievous  smile  parted  her  red  lips,  betwee 
which  her  small  white  teeth  shone  like  pearl; 

"  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  answer  rm 
But  is  there  no  way  in  which  I  can  condon 
my  offense  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I'll  forgive  you  if 
come   and   see   me,    Mr.    Remington, 
where  have  you  been  all  these  years  ? 
me  see  !   Why,  it's  four  since  we  met, — 
years  last  summer.    Father  sent  for  me 
autumn,   and   I've    lived    here    ever    sir 
Father's  married  again.    That's  mother 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


293 


him.    Do    you   think    I've   changed   much, 
Mr.  Remington  ?  " 

"  I  think  you've  become  very  beautiful," 
whispered  the  young  man. 

"  Really  ?  "  She  darted  a  pleased  little 
glance  at  him,  then  dropped  her  eyes  con- 
fusedly. "  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  say  things 
like  that.  I'm  grown  up  now,  and  am  going 
to  be  dreadfully  proper,"  she  said,  drawing 
herself  up  with  mock  dignity.  "You  know 
il'm  just  '  out '  now,  and  —  oh,  Mr.  Reming- 
ton, I  want  you  to  come  to  my  party.  It's 
next  week,  and  I'll  get  mother  to  send  you 
an  invitation."  She  paused  a  moment  while 
Remington  bowed  his  acknowledgments.  "  It 
is  funny,  isn't  it,  we  should  meet  again  after 
,o  long  ?  "  she  said.  "  What  a  nice  time  we 
iad  that  evening !  Do  you  remember  how 
.ovely  it  was  on  deck, —  and  the  chocolates, 
ind  the  album,  and  all  ?  I  suppose  it  was 
dreadfully  improper  of  me,  wasn't  it  ?  Well, 
[  shall  make  up  for  it  by  being  a  perfect  icicle, 
bo  tell  me,  Mr.  Remington,  is  Mr.  Stough- 
;on  a  great  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

Remington  answered  that  they  had  always 
>een  intimate.  "We  were  classmates  in 
:ollege." 

"  Really  ?    Oh,  then  he  must  be,  of  course. 

le's  very   handsome,   isn't   he  ?    But    I'm 

jifraid  of  him,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh. 

I  always  feel  as  if  he  didn't  quite  approve 

f  me."   As  she  glanced  in  the  direction  of 

toughton,  who  was  still  conversing  with  her 

arents,  Remington  detected,  as  he  thought, 

trace  of  something  half  defiant,  as  it  were, 

i  her  eyes.    "  But  I  want  to  introduce  you 

o  father,  Mr.  Remington." 

Peter  I  die  wild  was  a  well-preserved  man 
jbout  sixty  years  old,  of  sturdy  frame.  His 
ice  was  one  which  would  at  once  command 
le  attention.  A  large,  beak-like  nose ;  a  deep- 
id  complexion ;  a  solid  jaw ;  a  firm  mouth, 
expression  of  which  was  shaded  but  not 
oncealed  by  a  stubby,  bristling,  iron-gray 
pustache,  a  trifle  lighter  than  his  still  abun- 
jant  hair ;  and  a  pair  of  glittering,  deep-set 
jyes,  of  cold,  metallic  light,  guarded  by  bushy 
[yebrows  of  that  same  iron-gray, —  such 
rere  its  distinguishing  features ;  and,  as  an 
jffset  to  these  sterner  lineaments,  a  smile  — 
jis  daughter's  smile  intensified  —  suggesting 
pnfidences  and  a  deep  interest  in  your  wel- 
;ire,  and  breathing  that  peculiar  power  which 
rord-painters  of  our  day  style  magnetism. 
!>ne  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  from  him 
jiat  the  daughter  had  inherited  her  superb 
pysique  and  vigor. 

"  Father,  this  is  Mr.  Remington.    Mr.  Rem- 
jigton  and  I  are  old  friends  " ;  and  she  shot  a 
iemure  smile  at  the  young  man. 
"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?    I  am  very  happy 


to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Idlewild,  in  a  deep  bass  voice, —  "  very  happy 
to  make  your  acquaintance." 

He  introduced  Remington  to  his  wife,  and 
insisted  upon  ordering  more  champagne.  His 
voice  and  gestures  were  those  of  one  who 
courts  notoriety.  It  almost  seemed  that,  as 
if  aware  good  breeding  lies  beyond  the  com- 
pass of  even  an  iron  will  or  cunning  fancy, 
he  enjoyed  a  revenge  in  flaunting  his  wealth 
in  the  face  of  the  community.  In  his  pres- 
ence, however,  one  felt  unconsciously  a  dwarf- 
ing of  self,  if  no  effort  were  made  to  withstand 
its  influence, —  realized  the  fascination  that 
flows  from  a  superior,  mastering  vitality.  After 
the  first  outburst  of  hospitality,  he  sat  back  in 
his  chair  sipping  his  wine  with  an  important 
and  sphinx-like  gravity,  while  Remington 
talked  to  his  wife. 

"  Mr.  Stoughton  tells  me  you  were  class- 
mates at  Harvard,  Mr.  Remington.  We  saw 
Mr.  Stoughton  quite  frequently  last  summer 
at  Newport.  I  suppose  you  know  Newport 
very  well  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Idlewild  in  her  listless 
way.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  at  our  house 
on  Wednesday  of  next  week.  My  daughter 
expects  a  few  of  her  friends." 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Idlewild  rose  to 
depart.  There  was  some  little  delay  about 
the  carriage,  and  the  young  men  stood  chat- 
ting with  Miss  Isabel  in  the  vestibule.  While 
thus  engaged,  the  gay  party  previously  alluded 
to  passed  out,  with  velvet  step,  and  wafting  a 
faint  odor  as  of  violets.  A  tall,  lithe  young 
woman  of  graceful  bearing  turned  her  face, 
which  peeped  forth  from  the  folds  of  the  dra- 
pery wound  about  her  head,  back  over  her 
shoulder,  and  nodded  in  a  friendly  manner  to 
Woodbury  Stoughton.  He  raised  his  hat,  and 
flew  to  her  side. 

"  Permit  me  to  see  you  to  your  carriage, 
Mrs.  Fielding." 

The  aristocratic  poise  of  her  head,  the 
springy  piquancy  of  her  motions,  suggested  a 
thorough-bred  race-horse.  Her  face  expressed 
excessive  refinement  and  some  physical  deli- 
cacy. It  was  pretty,  but  pale  and  a  trifle 
pinched.  Its  features  were  small,  save  a  long, 
thin,  pointed  nose.  The  first  bloom  of  youth 
was  gone.  Her  beauty  was  that  of  a  Marshal 
Niel  rose,  of  which  just  the  edges  of  the 
leaves  have  begun  to  curl  and  faintly  to  dis- 
color. 

"That's  the  bride,  Mrs.  Tom  Fielding," 
whispered  Miss  Idlewild  to  Remington.  «'  I 
saw  her  at  Newport,  when  she  was  Miss  Lin- 
ton.  She's  lovely,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That  sleepy-looking  man  with  the 
brown  beard  is  her  husband.  What  a  heav- 
enly night!  It  reminds  me  of  four  years 
ago." 


294 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


She  was  tripping  to  the  carriage  now  on 
the  arm  of  the  young  man.  "  Wasn't  it  lovely ! 
Ah,  but  you  never  wrote!"  she  murmured 
banteringly,  and  her  clear,  unconventional 
laugh  fell  upon  the  night  air. 

Stoughton,  who  had  seen  Mrs.  Fielding 
into  her  coupe,  came  hurrying  forward  to  offer 
his  assistance,  and  a  few  merry  words  passed 
between  the  party.  "  Good-night,  gentlemen, 
good-night,"  said  the  deep  bass  of  Mr.  Idle- 
wild.  The  young  men  lifted  their  hats,  and 
the  powerful,  prancing  horses  bore  away  their 
lovely  burden. 


n. 


THE  young  men  lit  their  cigarettes,  and 
sauntered  slowly  along  the  pavement.  The 
night  was  cool  and  tranquil.  The  moon  had 
set,  but  the  heavens  were  brilliant  with  the 
frosty  glitter  which  the  stars  emit  in  the  clear 
atmosphere  of  winter.  Much  of  the  roar  and 
bustle  of  the  neighborhood  had  subsided ;  yet 
the  reverberations  of  Broadway,  dulled  by  dis- 
tance, still  fell  upon  the  ear  like  the  ceaseless 
rush  of  a  river  heard  by  one  who  wakes  at 
night  amid  the  deathly  stillness  of  the  woods. 
The«ferrules  of  their  canes  struck  the  sidewalk 
with  the  sharp,  distinct  ring  that  betokens 
quiet  surroundings. 

Their  homes  lay  at  some  little  distance  up- 
town, and  they  walked  and  smoked,  lost  in 
their  own  reflections.  How  susceptible  we 
mortals  are  to  the  influences  of  the  natural 
forces !  Our  nervous  systems  respond  to  the 
waves  of  light  and  sound,  to  shadow  and  to 
luster,  to  silence  and  to  turmoil,  even  as  the 
chords  of  a  piano  to  pressure  upon  the  keys. 
Who  shall  escape  his  moods  ?  We  vary  from 
hour  to  hour.  A  kiss,  a  crowd,  a  peaceful 
night,  an  apple-blossom,  the  pale  cold  face  of 
one  beloved, — what  a  widely  opposite  effect 
each  one  of  these  has  upon  the  organism ! 
And  what,  indeed,  is  human  nature  but  a 
series  of  varied  and  recurring  emotions,  strung 
like  pearls  upon  the  thread  of  individual  exist- 
ence, which  is  bounded  by  mystery  at  either 
end? 

Arthur  Remington  and  Woodbury  Stough- 
ton had  alike  reached  one  of  those  halting- 
places  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  where 
even  the  most  impetuous  and  least  self-ques- 
tioning natures  have  the  desire  and  oppor- 
tunity to  pause  and  think.  The  precious 
boon  of  pondering  on  what  has  been  and 
is  to  be,  out  of  the  sweep  of  the  current, 
was  theirs  for  a  moment.  This  had  been 
more  literally  true  of  their  condition  three 
months  previous,  at  which  time  they  had  re- 
turned to  New  York  to  settle  down  to  the 
serious  business  of  life,  as  it  is  called.  The 


eigjit  preceding  years  had  been  passed  away 
from  their  native  city.  They  both  had  been 
graduated  at  Harvard,  and  subsequently  had 
studied  law  and  spent  a  year  in  traveling 
abroad.  Now  they  had  come  back  to  earn 
their  living,  after  having  enjoyed  the  best 
advantages  our  civilization  affords  in  the  way 
of  education.  The  social  position  of  both 
was  likewise  of  the  best.  They  belonged  to 
families  that  had  for  several  generations  been 
people  of  consideration  in  society.  But  al- 
though this  was  the  case,  each  had  his  way  tc 
make  in  the  world.  Beyond  some  five  thousand 
dollars  apiece,  they  had  nothing  of  their  own. 
Their  fathers,  as  is  generally  the  case  in 
America,  had  made  every  effort  to  give  them 
an  excellent  education,  and  now  expected 
them  to  take  care  of  themselves  as  soon  a« 
possible.  The  fathers  were  neither  of  them 
men  of  large  fortune,  and  had  need  of  all  theii 
income  to  provide  for  the  expenses  of  a  hand- 
some establishment  and  growing  family.  The 
young  men  still  lived  at  home.  They  had  jusi 
been  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  had  set  up  la\\ 
offices  of  their  own. 

Woodbury  Stoughton  habitually  producec 
the  effect  of  an  indifferent  and  rather  lazj 
person,  with  a  dash  of  the  cynic.  His  con 
versation  and  bearing  were  apt  to  suggest 
one  to  whom  enthusiasm  or  serious  endeavo] 
was  at  least  distasteful,  if  not  a  theme  fo: 
satire.  It  had  been  seemingly  his  desirt 
while  in  college  to  figure  as  a  skeptic  oi 
all  that  was  intangible  and  otherwise  thai 
mundane.  Watching  him  stroll  along  th< 
streets  of  Cambridge,  with  an  air  both  fas 
tidious  and  reserved,  a  bull-pup  at  his  heels 
his  fellows  tacitly  pigeon-holed  him  as  ar 
embryo  Chesterfield.  For,  despite  his  apa 
thetic  ways,  there  were  curious  whispers  ii 
circulation  concerning  him.  His  intimate: 
declared  that  he  was  immensely  clever.  I 
was  said  he  had  read  everything.  Besides,  h< 
was  a  handsome  fellow,  of  commanding  pres 
ence,  and  even  those  who  resented  his  exclu 
sive  demeanor  could  not  deny  his  ability  t< 
converse  fluently  and  with  pungency.  Severa 
years  of  schooling  abroad  as  a  child  had  givei 
him  a  familiarity  with  foreign  languages  tha 
served  as  an  additional  means  of  prestige, 
came,  in  short,  to  be  currently  stated  that,  i 
Woodbury  Stoughton  only  chose  to  work,  h< 
could  have  any  place  on  the  rank-list, — ; 
measure  of  praise  much  more  flattering  in  th< 
eyes  of  his  classmates  than  actual  succes 
would  have  been.  He  apparently,  however 
studied  but  little  the  college  requiremc 
preferring — as  those  who  voiced  his 
ances  said — to  read  in  self-chosen  dii 
He  professed  to  be  especially  enamort 
literature  which  presented  most  vividly 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


295 


philosophy  of  an  epigrammatic  pessimism. 
Aphorisms  from  Voltaire,  La  Rochefoucauld, 
and  others  of  that  class,  were  constantly  on 
his  lips. 

The  young  ladies  of  the  university  town, 
who — with  the  example  of  the  Trojan  Helen 
constantly  in  mind,  so  to  speak — were  inva- 
riably suspicious  of  Parisian  manners,  did  not 
approve  of  Mr.  Stoughton.  To  begin  with, 
he  seemed  to  prefer  the  parties  in  the  adjacent 
Boston  to  their  own  "  sociables,"  which  was 
an  excellent  reason  for  suspecting  him  of  an 
inclination  toward  worldliness ;  and  when  it 
was  whispered  about  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  several  actresses,  the  Puritan  maidens 
took  refuge  in  the  dreadful  anathema  that 
there  "  was  nothing  in  him."  They  even  took 
Arthur  Remington,  who  was  a  favorite  in 
Cambridge  social  circles,  to  task  for  his  inti- 
macy with  the  handsome  Lothario.  Miss 
Bolles,  who  was  rightly  supposed  to  possess 
great  influence  with  the  former,  was  deputed 
to  inquire  what  there  was  to  recommend  Mr. 
Stoughton. 

"  Isn't  he  dreadfully  fast  ?  "  asked  the  sub- 
urban beauty,  with  a  severe  look  in  her 
serious  face. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Why,  how  could  you 
have  got  such  an  idea  ?  "  answered  Reming- 
ton. "  He's  fond  of  having  a  good  time,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  but  that's  all.  No;  Woodbury 
Stoughton  is  one  of  the  ablest  men  in  the 
class." 

"  Didn't  he  stand  very  low  on  the  rank-list 
last  year  ?  " 

"  That's  no  test.  He  could  have  had  any 
|  rank  if  he  had  chosen  to  study." 

Miss  Bolles,  far  from  convinced,  shook  her 
•  head.  To  have  the  opportunity  of  improv- 
|ing  one's  self  and  not  to  do  so,  seemed  to  her 
jearnest  spirit  quite  incomprehensible.  How 
'many  young  men  there  were  through  the 
.country  struggling  to  obtain  the  means  for  a 
jcollege  education,  and  here  was  a  man — and 
;with  natural  ability,  too — throwing  away  his 
(advantages !  It  was  simply  dreadful,  and  Mr. 
IRemington  was  to  blame  in  seeking  to  de- 
fend him. 

Nevertheless,  the  same  young  ladies  re- 
garded this  black  sheep  with  a  certain  awe 
'that  was  not  perhaps  void  of  secret  admira- 
tion. They  could  not  help  admitting  that  he 
iwas  handsome.  When  they  met  him  in  the 
streets  they  bowed  with  frigidity,  to  be  sure; 
,but  there  was  an  excitement  about  the  en- 
jcounter  for  which  they  could  not  exactly  ac- 
count, and  which  the  more  analytical  were 
[conscious  was  not  consistent  with  the  disap- 
proval they  harbored.  As  time  went  on, 
jindeed,  a  Miss  Margaret  Lamb,  one  of  the 
sweetest  and  most  simple-minded  of  the  set, 


allowed  herself  to  become  intimate  with 
Stoughton,  who  had  made  an  exception  in 
her  favor  in  his  criticism  of  Cambridge  man- 
ners. She  presently  gave  it  to  be  known  that 
she  had  no  idea  there  was  so  much  in  Mr. 
Stoughton,  and  that  he  was  really  very  much 
in  earnest,  and  so  clever.  Some  of  her  com- 
panions, as  a  consequence,  modified  a  little 
their  views  in  his  regard;  but  the  majority 
preferred  to  think  that  Margaret  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  her  own  vanity. 

Remington,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been 
looked  upon  in  his  college  days  as  a  tolera- 
bly easy-going  fellow,  with  amiable,  unpre- 
tentious manners.  There  was  a  nervous 
energy  about  him  always  seeking  vent,  which 
had  made  him  conspicuous  in  various  fields 
of  college  enterprise.  His  exertions  in  the 
line  of  athletics,  theatricals,  and  the  like,  were 
a  contrast  to  the  elegant  inactivity  of  Stough- 
ton, who  used  to  smile  withal  at  the  other's 
restlessness.  He  enjoyed  life  with  a  keenness 
that  was  visible  in  his  expression.  In  the  way 
of  studies  he,  too,  had  been  negligent,  but 
from  a  buoyant  heedlessness  rather  than 
premeditation.  It  was  always  his  intention 
to  work,  and  his  penitence  for  his  idleness 
was  as  sincere  as  it  was  apt  to  prove  transi- 
tory. But,  though  impetuous  and  volatile, 
there  had  ever  been  a  current  of  earnest  se- 
riousness beneath  the  bubbling  surface  of  his 
days.  There  were  those  among  his  classmates 
who  styled  him  visionary,  and  instanced  in 
support  thereof  his  rhapsodizing  talk  at  times, 
and  the  tendency  he  showed  for  the  discus- 
sion of  serious  and  sentimental  problems  with 
his  girl  intimates.  His  devotion  to  Miss  Bolles 
was  a  well-known  circumstance,  and  some  of 
his  associates,  be  it  said  to  their  shame,  looked 
upon  the  pale,  slim  professor's  daughter, whose 
face  reflected  the  fervor  of  her  earnest  views 
of  life,  in  the  light  of  an  infliction.  In  fact, 
before  the  close  of  his  under-graduate  course, 
the  influences  of  sobering  reflection  had  begun 
to  manifest  themselves  in  his  conduct,  and  he 
became  much  more  assiduous  at  his  studies. 
Commencement -Day  found  him  above  the 
middle  of  his  class  on  the  rank-list ;  but,  to 
the  surprise  of  almost  everybody,  Woodbury 
Stoughton's  percentage  for  the  Senior  year 
was  but  two  or  three  removed  from  the  highest. 

Remington  was  one  of  the  few  to  whom 
Stoughton's  sudden  prowess  was  no  revelation. 
He  was  quite  aware  of  the  fire  that  burned 
beneath  his  friend's  calm  and  indifferent  ex- 
terior— a  fire  which  Stoughton  had  ever 
shrunk  from  acknowledging,  but  which  was 
just  as  real  as  the  restless  energy  which  showed 
itself  in  the  other's  very  eyes.  Their  intimacy 
had  been  a  singular  one.  The  dissimilarity 
of  their  traits  had  seemingly  attracted  them 


296 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


toward  each  other.  The  calm,  passive  force 
of  Stoughton,  his  deliberate  ways,  suggestive 
of  reserve  power,  and  his  casuistic  cleverness 
had  alike  appealed  to  his  more  plastic  com- 
panion ;  and  the  former  had  in  turn  silently 
watched,  with  a  curious  interest,  the  develop- 
ment of  Remington's  nervous  nature.  They 
were  known  as  great  cronies ;  but  their  bond 
of  sympathy  largely  consisted  in  antagonism 
to  each  other's  ideas.  Stoughton  had  not 
been  able  to  disguise  from  his  friend  the 
secret  ambition  within  him ;  but  even  in  con- 
fidential moments  his  attitude  was  apologetic, 
as  if  he  considered  all  enthusiasm  a  weakness. 
While  unable  to  conceal  his  own  susceptibility 
to  the  aspirations  common  to  the  sober  mo- 
ments of  youth,  he  inveighed  against  the  same 
as  stumbling-blocks  in  the  path  of  happiness. 
Many  were  the  rambles  they  used  to  take 
together  on  Sunday  afternoons,  when  their 
classmates  who  lived  in  Boston  had  gone 
home.  They  were  wont  to  discuss  all  sorts  of 
questions,  and  with  great  heat,  too;  for  Stough- 
ton was  a  bitter  opponent  of  authority,  and 
resented  the  old-time  arguments  upon  which 
his  comrade  founded  his  conclusions.  And 
Remington,  while  he  deplored  the  upsetting 
of  the  opinions  he  fancied  established  forever, 
could  not  help  admitting  that  the  other  was 
very  clever,  and  that,  perhaps,  what  he  said 
regarding  the  automatism  of  human  beings 
might  have  some  truth  in  it.  For  Woodbury 
Stoughton  professed  great  admiration  for  the 
doctrines  of  the  materialists,  and  delighted^  to 
style  himself  a  victim  of  the  idiosyncrasies'of 
his  ancestors.  He  used  to  quote  the  French- 
man's remark  that  "  to  reform  a  man  you 
must  begin  with  his  grandmother,"  and 
claimed  the  laws  of  heredity  to  be  the  arbiters 
of  fate.  Opinions  ?  Beliefs  ?  Who  dared 
claim  (so  he  argued)  that  any  one  set  of 
opinions  or  beliefs  bore  the  stamp  of  a  super- 
natural approval?  Who  was  prepared  to  as- 
sert that  what  men  symbolized  as  divine  com- 
mands was  aught  but  accumulated  human  ex- 
perience of  what  had  been  best  for  the  race, 
— handed  down  through  the  centuries  from 
father  to  son,  until  it  had  crystallized  as  an 
instinct  of  the  organism  and  been  accredited 
to  a  God  ?  Best, —  and  what  was  best  ?  The 
eternal  strife  went  on,  and  on,  and  on.  Still, 
the  stronger  survived  and  the  weaker  perished. 
To  earn  their  bread,  a  pitiful  mass  of  be- 
ings toiled  day  in,  day  out,  in  reeking  fac- 
tories and  workshops,  and  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth,  that  their  more  prosperous  breth- 
ren might  live  in  luxury.  Here,  too,  the 
teachings  of  one  were  stamped  with  the  dis- 
approval of  his  neighbor.  What  some  called 
right  there  were  others  to  stigmatize  as  wrong. 
The  laws  of  human  device  varied  with  suc- 


ceeding generations,  and  those  of  nature  ever 
found  a  new  interpretation.  Still,  a  portion 
claimed  as  of  divine  revelation  doctrines  to 
which  the  rest  refused  their  faith,  and  the 
creeds  of  the  world  were  as  diverse  as  its 
peoples.  And  so  from  age  to  age  man  labored 
his  allotted  time,  died,  and  was  gathered  to 
his  fathers ;  and  what  came  after,  no  one,  not 
even  the  wisest,  knew. 

Those  delightful  four  years  of  undergrad- 
uate life  came  to  an  end  at  last.  Class -Day 
was  at  hand,  and  after  that  they  were  both 
to  enter  the  law  school.  Remington  was 
chosen  one  of  the  marshals  of  his  class,  an 
office  which  is  commonly  the  reward  of  pop- 
ularity ;  and  his  spirits  were  of  the  best  as  he 
stood  under  the  flower-belted  memorial  elm, 
conducting  what  is  familiarly  known  to  Har- 
vard men  as  "the  exercises  at  the  tree." 
During  these  rites,  which  are  witnessed  annu- 
ally by  enthusiastic  audiences  of  maidens  in 
muslin  and  their  chaperons,  ranged  on 
benches  around  two  sides  of  a  quadrangle  or 
looking  down  from  the  dormitory  window- 
seats  overhead,  the  graduating  class,  having 
exchanged  the  spick-and-span  apparel  of  the 
morning  for  highly  nondescript  garments, 
commit  every  kind  of  student  eccentricity. 
They  cheer  the  favorite  professors,  the  victo- 
rious "crews"  and  "nines,"  and  even  extend 
their  patronage  to  the  college  "  goodies," 
which  is  the  still  more  aged  title  of  the  ven- 
erable dames  who  have  the  charge  of  rooms. 
When  at  last  subjects  for  applause  are  no 
longer  to  be  found,  the  heroes  of  the  occa- 
sion, hand  clasped  in  hand,  begin  to  re- 
volve about  the  ancient  tree,  which  wears 
a  vast  band  of  choice  flowers  around  its 
trunk,  far  removed  from  the  grasp  of  the 
tallest  of  the  revelers.  The  younger  classes 
also  rise  from  the  turf  upon  which  they  have 
been  lounging,  and  form  three  other  rings, 
which  begin  to  revolve  with  alternate  mo- 
tion. The  Sophomores  follow  the  movement 
of  the  graduating  class,  but  the  Juniors  and 
Freshmen  turn  from  right  to  left.  The  class 
song  is  sung,  and  after  it  "  Fair  Harvard," 
the  darling  air  of  the  university ;  and  then, 
as  the  tripping  feet  speed  faster,  the  voices 
take  up  the  burden  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne" 
and  lift  it  to  the  stars.  The  pace  grows 
frantic  now;  the  arms  swing  with  wild,  ec- 
static energy ;  and  at  a  given  signal  the  two 
hundred  youths,  who  are  supposed  to  be  men 
from  this  day  forth,  rush  in  an  indiscriminate 
mass  toward  the  elm  to  tear  the  flowers 
from  their  resting-place.  Regardless  of  ap- 
pearances, or  even  of  justice,  they  swarm 
the  mammoth  trunk  on  the  backs  of  ez 
other.  The  giant  lifts  the  nimble  striplii 
upon  his  shoulders  until  his  fingers  toi 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


297 


the  posies,  and  robs  him  to  the  last  bud  as 
tie  hauls  him  down.  It  is  sauve  qui  peut 
with  a  vengeance.  The  weakest  go  to  the 
wall,  or  rather  to  the  earth,  and  the  strong 
man  carries  off  the  prize  to  his  Dulcinea. 
[t  is  a  mimic  foretaste  of  the  great  world 
nto  which  they  will  be  let  loose  upon  the 
-norrow. 

So     at     least     had     reflected    Woodbury 
|i>toughton,  as  he  stood  a  little  apart  watchi- 
ng  the   scrimmage  with    a   smile   that  was 
alf    disdainful.     He  was    too    lazy,   as   he 
vould  have  expressed  it,  to  make  so  much 
xertion  for  the  sake  of  a  few  roses.   There 
nobody  in  especial  to  whom  he  wished 
o  present  them,  and  he  would  get  heated  for 
othing.    Therefore,  he  let  the  others  do  the 
limbing,  and  amused  himself  with  the  sight  of 
.eir  vicissitudes.  He  would  have  to  encounter 
lenty  of  rough-and-tumble  in  the  struggle  of 
ic  next  few  years  without  beginning  now. 
iolloa !    there  was  Arthur  Remington  bark- 
ng  up  the  tree,  like  a  good  one.    Smithson, 
ic  university  stroke,  had  him  by  the  legs, 
nd  was  lifting  him  toward  the  goal.    A  little 
irther, —  there,  he  had  a  handful  now,  and 
)oked  with  beaming,  mocking  eyes  triumph- 
ntly  down  at  the  envious  faces  below.  "  This 
/•ay,  that's  a  good  fellow,  Remington,"  "  Re- 
lember   your    friends,"  "  Pull    him   down," 
nd  the  like,  rose  from  a  score  of  throats, 
ntil  attention  was  diverted  by  the  success 
f  another  aspirant  who  had  clambered  to 
minence    under    cover    of    the    confusion, 
ust  then,  Remington,  who  was  casting  favors 
grit   and   left,    caught   sight   of  Stoughton 
poking  up  at  him,  and  with  a  simple  wave 
|f  his  arm  tossed  in  his  direction  a  choice 
lunch  of  red  roses  which  he  had  intended  to 
pserve  for  himself.    A  dozen  hands  grasped 
it    them   as    they    floated    downward,   but 
jtoughton  was  not  the  man  to  suffer  himself 
j>  be  robbed  under  his  very  eyes.    He  strove 
aliantly  for  his  property,  and  succeeded  in 
arrying  off  the  major  portion  of  the  blushing 
lossoms.   While  he  was  battling,  the  patience 
F  the  stalwart  Smithson  apparently  gave  way, 
|id  with  it  the  support  of  Remington,  who 
lime  tumbling  to  the  earth,  clinching  however 
jith  the  tenacity  of  desperation  a  few  crum- 
ped remains  of  flowers.  The  tree  was  entirely 
pipped  now.   In  fact,  the  work  of  demolition 
3-d  been  vastly  shorter  than  has   been  its 
•irration,  and  the  crowd,  well  pleased  at  the 
fccess  of  the  spectacle,  already  was  begin- 
pg  to  scatter  in  the  direction  of  the  "  teas." 
t  A  spur  in  the  side  of  Remington's  native 
jiergy  had  been  the  desire  to  obtain  from 
',e  rose-belt   a   bouquet  de  corsage  for  Miss 
piles,  to  whom  he  had  promised  to  show 
jter  on  in  the  evening,  when  the  band  began 


to  play  and  the  college-green  was  alive  with 
lanterns,  the  room  that  he  had  occupied 
during  the  four  years  of  his  student  life.  It 
was  a  sorry-looking  bunch  that  he  had  carried 
off,  so  he  reflected,  as  he  presented  them  to 
the  young  lady,  with  a  stammering,  half  au- 
dible remark,  embodying  the  hope  that  she 
would  keep  them  to  remember  him  by.  Nor 
did  they  look  much  better,  as  he  scanned 
them  by  and  by,  from  a  seat  beside  his  study- 
table,  nestling  in  her  waistband.  Miss  Bolles 
had  possession  of  the  cushioned  window-seat, 
and  her  slim,  girlish  profile,  surmounted  by  a 
jaunty  chip  hat  and  large  white  feather,  were 
outlined  as  in  a  frame  against  the  evening 
air.  She  held  between  her  thumb  and  finger 
the  cord  of  the  shade,  and  gently  and  pen- 
sively swayed  the  tassel  to  and  fro,  while  the 
strains  of  music  and  hum  of  voices  floated  up 
from  below. 

He  had  been  too  generous  at  the  tree.  He 
ought  to  have  kept  the  best  for  her  instead 
of  giving  them  away.  He  had  been  in  a 
position  to  win  for  her  the  choicest  of  all,  and 
yet  there  was  nothing  to  show  for  his  endeav- 
ors but  these  faded  sprigs.  What  had  Wood- 
bury  done  with  his  ?  he  wondered.  He  had 
seen  Miss  Lamb  wandering  about  at  Jack 
Hewson's  tea  looking  quite  disconsolate, 
despite  the  attendance  of  a  cavalier  or  two. 
Very  likely  Woodbury  had  found  her  by  this 
time. 

What  was  he  doing  here  himself?  Why 
had  he  persuaded  Miss  Bolles  to  climb  the 
winding,  narrow  staircase  to  his  nest  in  the 
top  story  of  old  Holworthy  ?  He  had  been 
looking  forward  for  weeks  to  this  interview, 
and  now  it  had  come.  Neither  of  them  had 
spoken  for  several  minutes.  She  was  listen- 
ing to  the  music.  How  pretty  she  looked,  he 
thought,  as  he  stealthily  gazed  at  her.  His 
heart  was  beating  like  a  trip-hammer.  Ought 
he  to  say  anything  to  her  ?  Would  she  like 
it  if  he  did  ?  Did  he  want  to  say  anything  to 
her,  and  what  was  there  to  say  ?  He  loved 
her — yes,  he  loved  her;  but  somehow  he 
wasn't  ready  to  be  married  yet.  What  would 
his  family  say  ?  He  had  his  own  way  to 
make  in  the  world.  He  was  ready  to  work, 
he  was  eager  to  work.  He  would  go  out  on 
a  sheep-farm  or  do  anything  to  make  money, 
if  only  he  was  sure  she  cared  for  him.  Yes, 
come  what  might,  he  would  tell  her  his 
secret, — if  it  was  a  secret, — and  have  it  over 
with.  He  never  could  be  happy  without  her, 
he  was  sure  of  that. 

So  he  had  presently  broken  the  silence, 
which  was  becoming  somewhat  awkward, 
with  a  sententious  little  speech  that  was  so 
suggestive  of  sentiment  as  to  cause  Miss 
Bolles  to  draw  her  wrap  about  her  shoulders 


298 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


with  a  slight  shiver  and  say  she  thought  it 
really  was  time  for  her  to  be  going.  But  the 
young  lover  would  pay  no  attention  to  the 
hint.  She  should  not  escape  him  now.  He 
never  might  have  such  an  opportunity  again. 
And  he  rushed  to  his  fate  very  glibly  when 
once  the  ice  was  broken,  for  he  told  the 
sweet  descendant  of  the  Puritans  he  had 
loved  her  ever  since  he  had  seen  her  first,  that 
she  was  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world,  and  had 
so  much  influence  over  him  that  if  she  would 
only  say  she  loved  him  just  a  little,  he  would 
be  very,  very  happy.  He  called  her  "  Maud," 
too,  and  drawing  his  chair  to  the  window- 
seat  tried  to  take  her  hand,  which  she,  poor 
girl,  would  not  let  him  have.  She  sat  silent 
and  trembling,  nor  did  she  say  a  word  until 
he  had  finished.  Then  she  told  him  quietly, 
and  even  a  little  coldly,  that  what  he  asked 
was  quite  impossible.  She  had  enjoyed  their 
friendship  very  much,  of  course ;  but  the  idea 
of  anything  else  had  never  entered  her  head. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Remington,  but 
you  must  try  and  get  on  without  me.  I  am 
not  half  so  good  a  girl  as  you  make  me  out 
to  be,"  and  she  smiled  faintly  at  her  admirer. 
"  I  only  wish  I  were,"  she  added,  and  she  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands  as  she  spoke. 

Half  an  hour  later,  after  he  had  conducted 
Miss  Bolles  back  to  her  party  and  bade  her  a 
rather  stiff  and  funereal  farewell,  Remington 
took  a  bee-line  for  one  of  the  clubs.  He  felt 
angry  and,  as  if  it  were  incumbent  upon  him  to 
do  something  desperate  in  retaliation  for  his 
discomfiture,  he  would  get  drunk.  He  remem- 
bered that  Harry  Loring  had,  according  to 
popular  report,  gone  on  a  prolonged  spree  of 
ten  days  after  being  thrown  over  by  a  certain 
Miss  Bowdoin,  and  he  could  now  sympathize 
acutely  with  his  action.  The  lights  in  the 
yard  were  dying  out  rapidly,  and  most  of  the 
guests  had  gone  home.  The  songs  of  students 
who  had  exchanged  feminine  society  for  mild 
bacchanalia  were  beginning  to  be  audible  in 
the  distance,  and  the  greensward  was  fast 
assuming  the  appearance  of  a  deserted  battle- 
field. 

As  Remington  was  hurried  on  by  the  impet- 
uosity of  this  mood,  he  was  startled  at  hearing 
a  voice  close  at  hand  ask  him  whither  he  was 
going  so  fast.  Turning  his  head  sharply,  he 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  Woodbury 
Stoughton,  who  was  sitting  placidly  smoking 
a  pipe  on  the  fence  which  bordered  the  side- 
walk. The  shade  of  a  large  tree  concealed  his 
figure  from  the  careless  passer. 

"  Holloa,  Wood,"  exclaimed  Remington, 
and  he  came  to  a  halt.  "  What  in  the  world 
are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Reflecting,  my  dear  fellow.  Nothing 
worse,  I  assure  you,  I've  been  here  most  of 


the  evening."  He  smoked  in  silence  for  £ 
minute.  "  You  see,  I  was  afraid  if  I  wem 
into  the  yard  I  might  be  led  into  saying 
something  foolish.  The  last  thing  my  mothe: 
said  to  me  before  I  left  home  at  Christmas 
was,  that  I  must  be  careful  not  to  do  anything 
foolish.  I've  been  following  her  advice ;  that': 
all." 

Remington  nervously  switched  off  the  heac 
of  an  innocent  dandelion  with  his  cane.  "  IV< 
been  making  a  fool  of  myself  to-night,"  hi 
said. 

"  I  think  very  likely,"  said  Stoughton.  "  Dk 
she  accept  you  ?  "  he  inquired,  presently. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  you've  got  off  better  than  I  feared 
If  any  one  would  have  guaranteed  me  th 
same  result,  I  might  have  had  a  pleasan 
evening;  but  I  didn't  dare  to  risk  it."  As  h 
spoke,  Stoughton  looked  down  half-regretfull 
at  a  bunch  of  withered  roses  which  adorne> 
his  lapel.  Remington  recognized  them  as  th 
same  he  had  thrown  to  him  from  the  tree. 

"  I  saw  Miss  Lamb  at  Jack  Hewson's  tea, 
said  Remington. 

"  She's  a  nice  girl, —  a  very  nice  girl. 
Stoughton  shook  his  head  slowly  from  sid 
to  side,  and  took  another  puff.  "  I'd  told  he 
that  already  though,  so  there  was  no  use  i 
my  repeating  it  to  her  to-night.  It  was  all 
meant  to  tell  her."  He  spoke  the  last  word 
with  a  quiet  deliberation.  Presently  he  gave 
deep  sigh,  and,  rising,  knocked  the  ashes  01 
of  his  pipe  against  the  fence.  "  *  To-morrov 
to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new.'  Com 
on,  old  fellow.  It's  the  luckiest  thing  in  th 
world  she  refused  you,  and  you'll  think  €c 
too,  before  you're  a  week  older." 

This  prediction  did  not  turn  out  to  be  e> 
actly  true ;  for,  despite  a  consciousness  ihs 
there  was  a  certain  compensation  in  still  bein, 
free,  and  not  having  to  go  out  to  a  sheep 
farm  immediately,  Remington  felt  very  gloom 
for  a  number  of  weeks.  Stoughton  rallied  hir 
upon  his  despondency,  and  adduced  man 
excellent  reasons  why  he  should  be  thankfi 
that  Miss  Bolles  Jiad  given  him  the  mitter 
They  passed  most  of  the  summer,  after  grad 
uation,  at  Newport ;  and  it  must  be  confesse< 
that,  when  the  time  came  for  them  to  ente 
the  law  school,  Remington  did  not  experienc 
any  special  elation  at  the  idea  of  meeting  hi 
would-be  sweetheart  once  more.  Indeed,  h 
had  come  to  see  that  there  were  many  thing 
to  be  considered  in  the  matter;  that  is  to  sr> 
his  youth,  lack  of  means,  and  unsettled  pros 
pects  in  life  did  not  warrant  him  in  contract 
ing  an  engagement.  It  was  better  as  it  was 
perhaps.  If  he  continued  to  love  Miss  BolJe 
three  years  hence,  when  he  had  begun  t 
practice  law,  he  would  try  his  fortune 


1^      «.£,". .- 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


299 


Until  then  he  must  be  content  to  take  his 
chance ;  and  it  was  a  little  surprising  to  him- 
self, withal,  to  observe  how  calmly  he  was  able 
to  face  the  prospect  of  taking  his  chance. 

Those  next  two  years  at  the  law  school 
were  years  of  genuine  hard  study  on  the  part 
of  both  Remington  and  Stoughton.  It  is  very 
apt  to  be  the  case  that  those  who  have  been 
|  easy-going  students  while  under-graduates 
'  turn  out  wonderful  workers  as  soon  as  they 
enter  the  professional  schools.  They  each 
managed  to  spend  so  many  hours  a  day  over 
their  law-books  that  the  termination  of  the 
course  found  them  thoroughly  fagged  out, 
and  a  year  abroad  was  decreed  as  the  need- 
ful tonic  in  the  premises.  Miss  Bolles  must 
|  have  been  a  most  unsophisticated  young  per- 
son, for  Remington  left  Cambridge  this  second 
time  with  scarcely  a  pang  at  parting.  Indeed, 
it  is  doubtful  if  there  was  any  formal  leave- 
taking  between  them.  He  had  found  her 
manner  toward  him,  on  his  return  from  New- 
port, so  cool  (which  was  doubtless  caused  by 
a  conscientious  wish  to  avoid  encouragement) 
that  he  soon  began  to  plead  the  multiplicity 
of  his  legal  duties  as  an  excuse  for  not  mak- 
ing more  frequent  visits.  He  scarcely  ever 
went  to  the  Cambridge  sociables,  and  their 
opportunities  for  meeting  were  very  few. 
|Miss  Margaret  Lamb  was  in  poor  health 
Curing  the  greater  portion  of  the  two  years, 
(and  Stoughton  used  to  send  her  fruit  and 
[flowers  occasionally.  She  was  said  to  have 
layed  too  much  tennis  at  Bar  Harbor;  but, 

her  father,  Professor  George  Lamb,  hap- 

med  to  have  been  one  of  the  original  holders 
f  Agueville  and  Tallpeak  Railway  stock,  she 
as  able  to  have  the  best  medical  attendance. 

"  Only  think,"  said  Stoughton,  the  evening 
'after  their  final  law  examinations,  as  he  and 
Ms  friend  sat  on  the  steps  of  Dane  Hall,  tak- 
ing a  last  retrospective  survey — "  Only  think, 
"f  I'd  married  Margaret  Lamb,  what  a  bonanza 
"  should  have  struck  !    Somebody  was  saying 
esterday  that  the  professor  is  worth  a  cool 
aillion." 

!  "And  she's  an  only  daughter,"  added  Rem- 
ington. 

Thus  had  passed  the  days  of  their  novitiate. 
A.  three  months'  experience  of  actual  life  had 
already  begun  to  color  the  current  of  their 
j.deas.  Just  as  buds,  which,  fashioned  through 
;.ong  months  of  dark,  silent  growth,  burst  into 
ight  and  prominence  beneath  a  spring  day's 
/arying  sun  and  shower,  impulses  and  im- 
pressions hitherto  unknown  to  them  were 
'veiling  up  under  contact  with  the  workaday 
korld.  They  were  passing  through  the  dis- 
illusionizing process  common  to  all  carefully 
educated  young  men.  The  realities  of  life 
ivere  very  different  from  what  they  had  pict- 


ured them  at  the  university.  They  had  come 
to  New  York  with  the  knowledge  of  their 
superiority  to  the  mass  of  mankind,  and  con- 
fident of  recognition.  They  were  anxious  to 
shine  in  their  calling,  to  make  money,  to  be- 
come prominent  in  the  community;  and 
though  indefinite  as  to  the  precise  methods, 
they  had  never  doubted  their  ability  to  do  so. 
But  the  result  thus  far  had  been  quite  re- 
moved from  their  expectation.  They  had 
found  their  theories  and  refinements  of  little 
apparent  avail  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  down- 
town life. 

The  discovery  had  been  more  or  less  morti- 
fying. Stoughton,  reserved,  dignified,  almost 
phlegmatic  in  his  apparent  indifference,  yet 
eager  at  heart ;  Remington,  nervous,  impetu- 
ous, scarcely  less  clever, — they  alike  felt  a 
certain  chagrin  at  the  realization  of  their  (so 
to  speak)  helplessness  among  their  fellows. 
The  very  qualities  that  distinguished  them 
from  the  multitude  seemed  to  unfit  them  for 
competition,  to  bar  them  from  success. 

Upon  the  mind  of  each  the  effect  had  been 
peculiar.  To  Remington,  the  most  serious 
shock  had  been  a  keener  appreciation  of  the 
force  of  materialism,  a  rude  revolutionizing 
of  his  emotional  side ;  but  the  feeling  aroused 
in  Stoughton  was  distinctly  one  of  thwarted 
ambition  and  wounded  vanity.  Accustomed 
hitherto,  almost  without  exertion,  to  be  easily 
first,  he  had  looked  forward — vaguely,  per- 
haps, yet  confidently — to  a  conspicuous  rec- 
ognition. He  had  supposed  the  accomplished 
ability  of  which  he  knew  himself  to  be  pos- 
sessed would  be  a  free  pass  to  advancement  j 
instead  of  which  he  saw  himself  outstripped 
by  men  of  Finchley's  stripe, —  men  whom  he 
sneered  at,  but  whom  he  now  secretly  envied. 

Such  reflections  were  a  part  of  their  thoughts 
this  evening,  as  they  pursued  their  way  in 
company  up  Fifth  avenue.  Stoughton's  home 
was  the  nearer,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment 
chatting  at  the  corner  where  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  branch  off.  To-morrow  was  Sun- 
day. For  the  coming  week  they  found  them- 
selves deep  in  engagements. 

"  There's  no  rest  for  the  weary  in  this  life," 
said  Remington,  with  a  sigh.  "  However,  we 
can  sleep  late  to-morrow ;  that's  one  comfort. 
By  Jove,  it's  a  fine  night !  "  Carelessly  swing- 
ing his  cane,  he  gazed  up  at  the  clear  heavens. 

"  Right  you  are,"  answered  Stoughton,  ab- 
sently. "  It's  a  strange  world,  Arthur,"  he 
continued,  suddenly  pulling  himself  together. 
"  Well,  as  the  bard  says, 

"  <  If  you  can't  get  in  by  the  golden  gate, 
Climb  over  the  garden  wall.' 

Good-night !  " 

"  Good-night ! "  And  the  young  men  parted. 


300 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


in. 


IT  was  usual  with  Remington  and  Stough- 
ton  to  remain  down-town  until  late  in  the 
afternoon,  returning  just  in  time  to  get  ready 
for  dinner.  They  were  apt  to  walk  the  dis- 
tance, so  as  to  obtain  a  little  fresh  air  and 
exercise.  Sometimes  they  took  the  "  Ele- 
vated," and  tried  to  make  a  few  calls  at  the 
afternoon  tea  hour.  The  gay  season  had  be- 
gun, and  invitations  to  all  sorts  of  entertain- 
ments were  pouring  in  upon  them.  Their 
social  position  gave  them  the  entree  to  the 
most  agreeable  houses  in  town. 

One  afternoon,  shortly  after  the  episode 
at  Delmonico's,  Stoughton  carried  his  friend 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Fielding.  She  lived  on  Fifth 
avenue  in  the  vicinity  of  Sixtieth  street.  The 
irreproachable  man-servant  who  answered  the 
bell  had  reached  a  period  of  life  equally  re- 
moved from  the  rawness  of  youth  and  the 
seediness  of  age.  With  a  demeanor  subdued, 
and  not  too  unctuous  to  be  consistent  with  a 
proper  self-respect,  he  aided  them  to  take  off 
their  overcoats  in  a  large  hall,  exquisitely  fur- 
nished in  the  spirit  of  the  modern  school  of 
high  art. 

"  What  name  shall  I  say,  sir  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Remington,  please." 

"  Thank  you,  sir."  The  servant  drew  aside 
the  portiere  which  hung  across  the  door-way 
of  the  adjoining  room :  "  Mr.  Woodbury 
Stoughton  —  Mr.  Remington." 

Remington  found  himself  in  a  spacious 
parlor,  dim  with  faint  daylight,  strained 
through  colored  shades,  and  the  afterglow 
of  a  wood  fire.  A  maze  of  low  tables,  foot- 
stools, and  other  tasteful-looking  knickknacks 
separated  the  young  men  from  their  hostess, 
whose  sofa  was  beside  the  distant  hearth. 
She  laid  aside  the  volume  which  lay  open 
on  her  lap  and  rose  to  greet  them  with  a 
cordial  smile. 

She  was  dressed  simply,  in  a  loose-fitting 
costume  of  some  cashmere  material  of  a  neu- 
tral, greenish-brown  tint.  A  single  pale  pink 
rose,  with  a  dash  of  deeper  color  at  the  tips 
of  its  leaves,  lay  on  her  bosom.  Remington 
noticed  the  same  excessively  refined  delicacy 
of  feature  that  had  struck  him  the  evening 
he  had  seen  her  at  Delmonico's ;  but,  in  this 
dimmer  light,  no  suggestion  of  meagerness 
marred  the  fascination  of  her  pretty  face.  The 
apartment  was  in  harmony  with  its  mistress, 
a  soothing  pleasure  to  the  eye  that  appre- 
ciates true  elegance  and  grace.  That  perfec- 
tion of  effect,  of  which  the  heightening  charm 
is  an  apparent  absence  of  art,  was  there  com- 
pletely realized. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Fielding,"  said  Stoughton, 
"  I  have  taken  an  early  advantage  of  your 


permission  to  bring  my  friend  Mr.  Reming- 
ton to  visit  you." 

"You  are  very  good;  Mr.  Remington  is 
welcome  both  on  your  account  and  on  his 
own,"  she  said  in  a  sweet,  low  voice,  and  ' 
with  a  manner  slightly  languid,  but  com- 
pletely gracious.  "  I  know  your  mother  and 
sisters  very  well,  Mr.  Remington,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  she  gave  the  young  man  her  thin 
white  hand.  "  Your  mother  is  well,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  and  my  sister  Mabel  are  in 
Boston  for  a  few  days."  Despite  her  unaf- 
fected simplicity  Remington  blushed,  with  a 
sense  of  that  discrepancy  which  exists  between 
Sevres  china  and  common  ware. 

"  Ah,  how  charming !  Pray  sit  down,  Mr. 
Remington."  She  reestablished  herself  on 
the  lounge,  and  touched  a  little  bell  on  the 
table  beside  her,  which  emitted  a  musical 
sound.  The  decorous  man-servant  appeared. 

"  The  tea,  Dawson." 

Mrs.  Fielding  leaned  back  against  the 
cushions.  "  You  have  come  back  to  New 
York  to  stay,  I  hope,  Mr.  Remington." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,  Mrs.  Fielding." 

"  I  tell  Mr.  Remington,"  said  Stoughton, 
"  that  if  he  desires  to  be  a  success,  he  must 
write  himself  down  in  Mrs.  Fielding's  good 
graces." 

"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Remington  needs  no  as- 
sistance from  any  one  to  win  his  way,"  she 
said  with  a  pleasant  smile ;  "  I  can  see  he  is 
clever." 

Remington  laughed  confusedly.  "  Oh,  I 
assure  you  that  is  quite  a  mistake,"  he  mur- 
mured. Then,  with  an  attempt  at  effusiveness 
which  sounded  a  little  elaborate :  "  I  shall 
try  to  convince  Mrs.  Fielding  of  my  desire 
for  her  favorable  opinion." 

The  tea-things,  a  dainty  Wedgwood  serv- 
ice of  quaint  design,  were  brought  in  by 
Dawson  and  placed  on  the  low  plush-covered 
table  at  her  elbow.  She  proceeded  to  make 
the  tea  while  Stoughton  told  a  bit  or  two  of 
society  news  in  his  amusing  vein. 

"  I   saw  you   the   other  evening  at   Del- 
monico's, I  think,  Mr.  Remington,"  said  Mrs.  '• 
Fielding  presently.    "  That  Miss  Idlewild  is  a 
lovely-looking  girl.    Do  you  know  her  well  ?" 

"  Only  slightly." 

Stoughton  gave  an  amused  laugh.  "  You 
must  not  question  him  too  closely  there,  Mrs. 
Fielding.  I  suspect  Mr.  Remington  of  being 
a  gay  deceiver." 

"  Indeed,"  she  murmured  softly.  She  was 
pouring  out  tea  into  one  of  the  quaint  little 
cups,  and,  as  she  spoke,  raised  her  eyes  there- 
from and  let  them  fall  inquiringly  on  Reming- 
ton. "  Are  you,  too,  of  the  faithless  kind  ?" 
she  asked  with  a  sigh  of  simulated  despair. 

"  Oh,  I  trust  not,"  he  answered,  with  a 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


301 


nervous  laugh ;  and  as  her  glance  encountered 
his,  he  blushed. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Remington  will  make  a  con- 
fidante of  me  some  day  when  he  comes  to  see 
me  alone.  I  can  keep  a  secret.  Do  you  take 
tea,  Mr.  Remington  ?  "  she  asked,  with  her 
head  poised  on  one  side,  and  another  sly, 
blithe  glance  at  the  young  man. 

Remington  disliked  tea.  "  If  you  please," 
he  answered. 

"  One  lump,  or  two  ?  "  and  she  gracefully 
balanced  the  second  bit  of  sugar  in  a  lillipu- 
tian  pair  of  tongs  above  the  smoking  beverage. 
"  But  stay ;  I  will  leave  it  in  the  saucer,  and 
you  shall  choose  for  yourself,"  she  added 
airily,  before  Remington  could  reply. 

As  he  rose  to  receive  his  cup  from  her  hand 
the  portiere  was  drawn  aside,  and  the  voice 
of  Dawson  announced  "  Miss  Tremaine — 
Miss  Lawton — Miss  Crosby." 

"  How  sweet  of  you,  my  dears !  "  Mrs. 
Fielding  embraced  all  of  the  trio,  who,  kept  in 
i  countenance  by  the  superiority  of  their  num- 
bers, all  chattered  effusively  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. They  were  young  girls,  dressed  taste- 
fully and  in  the  height  of  fashion. 

Miss  Tremaine  was  a  tall,  gaunt  girl,  with 
large  bones  and  a  long  neck,  which  gave  her 
something  of  a  giraffe-like  demeanor.  She 
was  eminently  vivacious,  and  began  at  once 
to  relate  in  a  chattering  but  spirited  tone  the 
latest  social  intelligence.  "  Oh,  Ethel,"  she 
cried,  turning  toward  Mrs.  Fielding,  "  have 
you  heard  that  the  Guards  have  been  ordered 
to  the  war  in  the  Transvaal  ?  Isn't  it  quite 
too  distressing  for  poor  dear  Lady  Popple- 
ton  ?  You  know  '  Beauty '  will  have  to  go. 
i  You  remember  '  Beauty/  of  course  ?  " 

"What,  the  little  one  with  the  straw 
whiskers?" 

"  No,  dear,  that  was  '  Adonis.'  '  Beauty ' 
is  the  clever  one  with  the  large  eyes,  who 
I  stopped,  when  he  was  out  here,  at  the  Dud- 
ley Robinsons'." 

Remington  found  himself  beside  Miss  Law- 
ton,  a  young  lady  in  the  vicinity  of  twenty- 
|  three,  who  possessed  a  pretty,  round,  florid 
face,  with  its  traditional  accompaniments  of 
blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  but  was  short  and 
dumpy.  They  had  already  met  at  a  ball  or 
two.  Unlike  Miss  Tremaine,  the  still  hunt 
was  her  method,  and  for  some  minutes  she 
was  very  undemonstrative ;  but  when  the  ice 
was  once  broken,  her  chirpy  prattle  had  the 
easy  flow  of  a  brook  in  early  summer. 

"  Weren't  you  at  Bar  Harbor  last  summer, 
Mr.  Remington  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  short  time." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  you  there.  I  staid  eight 
i  weeks,  and  was  dreadfully  sorry  to  come 
'home.  It  was  my  fifth  season  there.  Isn't  it 


a  fascinating  place  ?  I  do  think  it's  the  nicest 
place  to  go  to  in  the  summer  I  know  of.  Some 
people  call  it  rowdy ;  I  don't ;  do  you,  Mr. 
Remington  ?  Mamma  is  always  complaining 
about  my  being  such  a  gad  down  there,  as  she 
calls-  it ;  but  I  can't  see  the  harm  of  seeing 
people  naturally,  can  you?  I  make  up  for 
it  by  being  frightfully  proper  in  town.  That 
reminds  me,  parties  are  beginning  early  this 
year.  I  suppose  you  will  go  about  a  great 
deal  this  winter,  Mr.  Remington.  Mrs.  David 
Kochlin's  cards  are  out  for  a  large  musicale, 
and  the  George  Butts — this  was  told  me  in 
strict  confidence,  so  you  must  not  say  I  told 
you — are  to  give  a  ball  soon.  Their  daughter 
Pauline  is  a  debutante.  And  then  the  Idle- 
wilds.  Do  you  know  the  Idlewilds,  Mr.  Rem- 
ington ?  " 

"  A  little." 

"  Oh,  really !  '  I  don't  know  th'em,  but 
they've  sent  me  an  invitation.  I  think  I  shall 
go.  I  hear  the  house  is  perfectly  fascinating. 
Mamma  doesn't  approve  much  of  my  going, 
but  it  will  be  such  fun.  Mr.  Stoughton  is  a 
great  friend  of  yours,  isn't  he  ?  I  think  he's 
so  nice!  He's  a  lawyer,  I  hear.  I  should 
think  the  law  would  be  frightfully  stupid.  Oh, 
but  how  dreadful  of  me !  Perhaps  you're  a 
lawyer,  Mr.  Remington  !  "  She  stopped  short 
with  a  little  gasp,  and  then,  in  response  to 
Remington's  amused  nod, —  "What,  really? 
Well,  you'll  forgive  me,  wont  you,  Mr.  Rem- 
ington ?  " 

"  What  is  that,  Florence,  I  hear  about  for- 
giving ? "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fielding,  turning 
toward  them.  "  You  are  getting  on  quite  too 
fast.  I  can't  have  you  monopolizing  Mr. 
Remington  altogether.  You  must  beware  of 
Miss  Lawton,  Mr.  Remington;  she  is  dan- 
gerous." 

"  I  have  discovered  that  already,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  significant  smile. 

"  Ah,  now,"  cried  Miss  Lawton  in  her  de- 
mure way,  "  how  unkind !  And  all,  Ethel, 
because  I  didn't  happen  to  know  that  he's  a 
lawyer." 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  was  all  your  fault, 
dear.  But  you  haven't  drunk  your  tea,  Mr. 
Remington.  It  is  quite  cold.  I  am  going  to 
give  you  another  cup.  Yes,  I  insist ;  and  you 
shall  sit  over  here  where  Miss  Lawton  cannot 
engross  your  attention." 

As  Remington  crossed  over  to  the  vacant 
place  on  Mrs.  Fielding's  lounge,  his  glance 
fell  upon  Miss  Crosby,  who  was  listening  in- 
tently to  something  Stoughton  was  saying. 
Remington  had  been  introduced  to  her  a  few 
evenings  before,  and  although  he  had  ex- 
changed but  a  few  words  with  her,  the  agree- 
able impression  thereof  had  lingered  with  him 
a  little.  She  was  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Fielding, 


302 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


and  had  much  of  her  physique.  The  re- 
fined delicacy  of  her  features  was  animated 
by  the  wistful  interest  of  budding  woman- 
hood. One  became  aware  at  first  that  she 
had  sympathetic  brown  eyes  and  a  quiet 
manner. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Fielding,  interrupting 


"Yes,  but  everything  has  a  beginning," 
she  murmured  in  low,  sweet  tones. 

"True."  There  was  a  pause,  as  if  each 
were  wrapt  in  thought.  Remington  reached 
out  his  hand  and  took  from  the  plush  table 
the  volume  she  had  been  reading.  "  Permit 
me,"  he  said.  "  Ah,  Swinburne ! "  and  he 


his  momentary  reverie  with  a  beseeching  little  opened  the  book  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
air  as  of  a  desire  for  confidence,  "  how  do 
you  think  you  are  going  to  like  New  York  ?  " 
A  few  minutes  later  Remington  found  him- 
self talking  to  his  fair  hostess  with  a  freedom  which  he  paused  to  dwell  upon, 
that  was  delightful,  and  yet  surprising  to  him-  "What  is  it,  Mr.  Remington  ?"  and  she 
self  withal.  The  peculiar  air  of  sympathy  bent  over  so  that  she  might  share  the  page 


pages. 

"  Do  you  know  him,  Mr.  Remington  ?  " 
"A  little."    His   eyes   caught    a    passage 


with  which  she  listened  to  what  he  had  to 
say  drew  from  him,  almost  unwittingly,  a 
frank  exposure  of  his  ideas.  It  was  easy  to 
be  unreserved,  for  she  seemed  so  quick  to 


with  the  young  man.    "  '  Before  Dawn.'   That 
is  one  of  my  favorites.    Is  it  not  lovely  ?  " 

They  were   silent  for  a  moment.    It  was 
the  last  stanza  of  the  poem  which  had  at- 


catch  his  meaning,  so  appreciative  of  mere  tracted  Remington's  attention,  and,  as  he 
suggestions  of  thought.  She  was,  besides,  came  to  it  again  in  conclusion,  he  nodded 
graceful  and  pleasing.  Her  air  expressed  the  his  head  in  acquiescence  with  her  enthusiasm, 
perfection  of  natural  elegance.  She  must  be  Mrs.  Fielding  repeated  in  soft  murmur  the 
very  clever, —  and  yet  how  young-looking  lines  that  had  struck  his  fancy  : 
she  was.  Her  years  could  be  scarcely  greater 
in  number  than  his  own.  But  women  mature 
so  much  faster  than  men.  He  was  a  mere  boy 
beside  her. 

He  spoke  of  his  travels,  of  the  chitchat  of 
the  day,  and  of  the  defects  of  the  reigning 
prima  donna.  Then,  as  he  felt  himself  under- 
stood, he  dwelt  a  little  on  his  impressions  of 
the  great  city.  Money  was  the  ruling  spirit 
of  the  age,  and  the  seeming  dearth  of  lofty 
ambitions  a  depressing  evil. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  talk  so,"  she 
murmured.  "  It  is  refreshing  to  meet  a  man 
who  cares  for  something  beyond  dollars  and 
cents."  She  sighed  gently.  "And  so  you  are 
a  lawyer,  Mr.  Remington  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  decided  on  the  law  as  a  pro- 
fession." 

"  How  interesting ! "  and  she  gently  knocked 


"So  hath  it  been,  so  be  it; 
For  who  shall  live  and  flee  it? 
But  look  that  no  man  see  it 

Or  hear  it  unaware : 
Lest  all  who  love  and  choose  him 
See  love  and  so  refuse  him, 
For  all  who  find  him  lose  him; 

But  all  have  found  him  fair." 

"  Adorable,  are  they  not  ?  "  she  continued. 
"  There  is  a  wealth  of  deliciousness  in  Swin- 
burne." And  her  pupils,  dilated  with  their 
sense  of  enjoyment,  sought  his  own. 

"Exquisite,"  he  replied;  but,  although  the 
effect  of  the  words  just  read  was  vastly 
soothing,  he  was  not  greatly  concerned  with 
their  meaning.  Without  knowing  exactly 
why,  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague  delight  he 
had  no  desire  to  analyze, —  perhaps  lest  he 
might  arouse  that  bugbear  of  a  moral  cen- 


together  in  her  clasped  hands  a  pair  of  silver    sor.  The  atmosphere  of  this  refined,  charm- 


bracelets  which  she  had  untwisted  from 
arms. 


her   ing  woman  had  the  effect  upon  him  as  of 
violets  on  the  sense  of  smell,  or  smooth  rich 


"  Scarcely  interesting,  I  fear,"  replied  Rem-    cream  upon  the  palate.   What  Stoughton  had 


ington  with  a  little  laugh,  which  betrayed, 
however,  that  he  was  pleased.  "  Your  sex  is 
wont  to  apply  that  adjective  less  indulgently." 

"Ah,  but  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  It 
must  be  grand  to  be  a  lawyer  and  have  im- 
portant cases — or  causes,  you  see  I  am  ig- 
norant of  the  precise  term — to  defend."  She 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions  and  looked  he  inquired,  gently, 
at  him  earnestly  from  under  her  penthouse 
lids. 

Remington  blushed  and  his  eyes  fell.  He 
nervously  indented  with  the  point  of  his  cane 
one  of  the  flowers  which  patterned  the  car- 
pet. "  Perhaps  —  when  you  have  them  to  de- 
fend. I  am  only  a  beginner." 


said  regarding  her  previous  attachment  oc- 
curred to  him.  She  had  been  married  about 
a  year  ago,  and  had  recently  returned  home 
from  abroad.  What  was  her  purpose,  her 
object  in  life  now  ?  he  wondered.  What  were 
her  feelings,  her  thoughts,  her  ideas  ? 

"  You  are  fond  of  reading  —  of  books  ? 


«  Yes,— that  is,  of  real  books,  Mr.  Reminj 
ton.    I  sometimes  think,"  she  went  on  to 
"  we  have  no  literature  in  this  country, 
characters  in  our  novels  and  poems  are  w; 
ing  in  color  and  spontaneity.    They  are 
board  men  and  women,  rather  than  flesh 
blood.   We  lack  passion  as  a  nation  —  d< 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


.303 


not  strike  you  so,  Mr.  Remington  ?  We 
re  artificial  and  cold.  We  are  forever  re- 
ressing  ourselves."  She  gave  a  little  shiver, 
nd  the  curve  of  her  lips  wore  for  an  instant 
ie  shadow  of  something  half-bitter,  half- 
eary. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered :  but  before  he  could 
roceed,  he  became  aware  that  the  others  had 
sen   and   were   shaking   hands    with    Mrs. 
ielding.    He  stood  up  mechanically. 
"  I'm  afraid  you  think  I'm  very  dreadful, 
i[r.  Remington,"  piped  Miss  Lawton  wistfully, 
she  tripped  past  him.    He  found  himself 
*side  Miss  Crosby. 

"  I  know  one  of  your  sisters,  Mr.  Reming- 
n,"  she  said  softly.  "We  were  at  school 
gether.  Have  you  returned  to  New  York 
r  good?" 

"  For  better  or  for  worse,  Miss  Crosby,"  an- 
gered Remington,  with  a  smile;  "or  rather, 
should  say,  for  richer  or  for  poorer." 
"  Yes  ?  "  She  pronounced  the  word  with  a 
tie  laugh  and  a  sweet  sibilation  of  the  final 
msonant.  There  was  an  eloquent  earnest- 
jiss  about  her  expression  as  she  gazed  at 
jm  that  made  Remington  almost  regret  his 
ippancy. 

It  was  a  look  Dorothy  Crosby's  face  was 
a>t  to  assume  at  such  times  as  her  imagina- 
im  was  appealed  to,  especially  during  con- 
jrsations  with  the  other  sex,  or  when  in  the 
jesence  of  fine  scenerf  or  listening  to  music. 
!  her  nervous  system  was  powerfully  affected, 
'<.  often  happened  where  beautiful  music 
is  concerned,  the  expression  in  question 
Scored  of  a  pleasure  that  was  almost  pain. 
Jer  large  luminous  brown  eyes,  looking  out 
f;»m  a  physiognomy  noticeably  delicate  and 
ijined,  heightened  the  natural  effect  of  this 
jiculiarity,  which  had  already  caused  her  to 
l!  described  in  society  as  "  interesting."  She 
Iperally  carried  her  head  a  little  on  one 
j|e  at  such  moments.  Young  men  some- 
thes  made  the  mistake  of  ascribing  this  in- 
tjisity  of  expression  to  the  effect  of  their 
i^ntities  instead  of  to  the  interest  of  her 
cm  reflections. 

She  was  a  debutante.  She  lived  alone  with 
Ijr  mother,  who  was  a  widow.  Her  sister, 
^rs.  Charles  Maclane,  a  beauty  of  the  grand, 
cjshing  type,  whose  regular  features  were  for 
sferal  seasons  a  source  of  heart-ache  to 
yuthful  admirers  of  classical  loveliness,  had 
n.de  a  brilliant  match,  it  was  considered,  in 
cowering  _  with  her  charms  the  hearth  of  a 
y[mg  millionaire.  Marian  Crosby,  as  her 
n|ne  was  prior  to  that  step,  had,  to  be  a 
liile  metaphorical,  made  a  triumphal  march 
Hthe  altar  over  a  route  strewn  with  bleeding 
h;irts.  In  short,  she  had  been  widely  ad- 
and  had  flirted  desperately.  The  world 


said  she  came  well  by  this  behavior,  for  her 
mother — whom  no  one,  to  judge  from  the 
demure  repose  of  that  good  lady's  maturity, 
would  have  ventured  to  suspect  of  early 
diablerie — had  been  just  such  another  when 
she  was  a  girl  in  Baltimore.  The  latter,  how- 
ever, unlike  her  elder  daughter,  had  wedded 
a  poor  man.  Mr.  Crosby's  fascinations  had 
carried  her  maiden  heart  by  storm,  and  she 
had  followed  the  young  lawyer  to  his  simple 
home  in  New  York.  He  was  nevertheless, 
though  comparatively  penniless,  an  aristocrat 
by  birth;  and  to  his  charming  ways  were 
added  the  more  substantial  advantage  of 
good  parts  and  a  scholarly  ambition.  Had 
his  health  been  able  to  withstand  the  strain 
of  a  rigorous  devotion  to  his  profession,  dis- 
tinction would  doubtless  in  time  have  blessed 
their  lot;  but  such  was  not  to  be,  and  shortly 
after  Dorothy's  birth  Mrs.  Crosby  was  left  a 
widow. 

Dorothy  was  like  her  father  in  person; 
and  with  the  paternal  form  she  had  inher- 
ited that  mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  gay 
which  had  marked  his  temperament.  Coupled 
with  intelligence  of  expression,  she  possessed 
to  a  high  degree  the  ineffable  air  of  refine- 
ment, the  modest  grace  and  finish  of  bearing, 
that  are  the  outcome  of  generations  of 
good  breeding  alone,  and  without  which 
the  self-possessed  independence  and  smart- 
ness supposed  to  be  the  boasted  heritage 
of  American  girls  are  but  garish  virtues. 
Her  blood  and  nurture  rendered  her  proof 
against  everything  that  lacked  delicacy.  There 
are  dispositions  which,  recognizing  things 
of  unrefined  or  sensual  purport  to  be  hurt- 
ful, bravely  put  them  aside  and  cease 
to  regret  the  self-denial;  but  to  Dorothy 
aught  that  savored  of  coarseness  in  thought 
or  action  gave  absolute  pain.  Such  things 
were  as  repugnant  and  foreign  to  her  nat- 
ure as  soot  to  the  surface  of  the  lily.  She 
had  been  born  so,  and  doubtless  the  purity 
and  delicacy  were  no  more  to  her  merit  than 
it  is  creditable  to  you  and  me  that  we  do  not 
use  our  rudimentary  organs  or  have  ceased  to 
believe  in  witches.  She  could  not  help  being 
what  she  was.  Some  one  before  her  in  the 
ancestral  line  had  striven  to  be  pure  and  re- 
fined, and  Dorothy  was  the  result  of  such  en- 
deavor. And  thereby  hangs  a  philosophy. 
We  bear  fruit  in  our  descendants,  and  indi- 
vidual effort  is  the  secret  of  the  progress  of 
the  world.  A  man's  possibilities  are  decided 
in  his  mother's  womb.  Each  one  of  us  mor- 
tals has  his  limits  —  his  gamut,  so  to  speak ; 
and  the  best  performer  cannot  strike  a  note 
to  thrill  the  soul  from  a  low-priced  instru- 
ment. Life  is  a  growth,  and  whosoever 
touches  the  stops  aright  will,  though  he  play 


3°4 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  CHARLES    WOLFE. 


himself  a  feeble  strain,  transmit  to  his  chil- 
dren the  power  for  sweeter  melody. 

The  strenuous  voice  of  Miss  Tremaine,  urg- 
ing upon  Miss  Crosby  the  necessity  of  imme- 
diate departure,  interrupted  their  conversa- 
tion. Remington  turned  to  proffer  his  own 
adieus. 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  to  see  me  very 
soon,  Mr.  Remington."  Mrs.  Fielding's  eyes, 
as  they  met  his,  seemed  liquid  with  a  mute 
solicitation  for  sympathy.  Her  loose,  open 


sleeve,  receding  up  her  outstretched  arm,  dis- 
played a  frail,  snow-white  wrist. 

The  wished-for  epigram  failed  to  respond 
to  his  need.  "  I  shall  be  very  happy  to,  Fir' 
sure,"  he  replied;  and  he  coveted  the  half 
audacious  badinage  of  Stoughton's  farewell. 

The  young  men  walked  along  Fifth  avenu( 
with  the  attractive  trio,  and  Remington,  ai 
he  left  Miss  Crosby  on  her  threshold,  ob- 
tained her  promise  to  dance  the  german  witr. 
him  at  the  I  die  wilds'. 


(To  be  continued.) 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  CHARLES  WOLFE. 

Wolfe,  the  poet,  is  buried  in  Clonmel  Parish  Churchyard.   Queenstown,  of  which  this  is  the 
cemetery,  was  early  a  resort  for  consumptives. 

WHERE  the  graves  are  many,  we  looked  for  one. 

Oh,  the  Irish  rose  was  red, 
And  the  dark  stones  saddened  the  setting  sun 

With  the  names  of  the  early  dead. 
Then  a  child  who,  somehow,  had  heard  of  him 

In  the  land  we  love  so  well, 
Kept  lifting  the  grass  till  the  dew  was  dim 

In  the  churchyard  of  Clonmel.  • 

The  sexton  came.    "  Can  you  tell  us  where 

Charles  Wolfe  is  buried  ?  "   "I  can. 
See,  that  is  his  grave  in  the  corner  there. 

(Ay,  he  was  a  clever  man 
If  God  had  spared  him  !)     It's  many  that  come 

To  be  looking  for  him  !  "  said  he.  ' 
But  the  boy  kept  whispering,  "  Not  a  drum 

Was  heard"  —  in  the  dusk  to  me. 

(Then  the  gray  man  tore  a  vine  from  the  wall 

Of  the  roofless  church  where  he  lay, 
And  the  leaves  that  the  withering  year  let  fall 

He  swept  with  the  ivy  away; 
And,  as  we  read  on  the  rock  the  words 

That,  writ  in  the  moss,  we  found, 
Right  over  his  bosom  a  shower  of  birds 

In  music  fell  to  the  ground.) 

Young  Poet,  I  wonder  did  you  care, 

Did  it  move  you  in  your  rest, 
To  hear  that  child  in  his  golden  hair 

From  the  mighty  woods  of  the  West, 
Repeating  your  verse  of  his  own  sweet  will, 

To  the  sound  of  the  twilight  bell, 
Years  after  your  beating  heart  was  still 

In  the  churchyard  of  Clonmel  ? 


S.  M.  B.  Piatt. 


ORIGINAL    DOCUMENTS   OF   THE    NEW   TESTAMENT. 


(FROM  A  TENTH  CENTURY  MS.) 


IT  is  well  known  to  those  who  have,  in 
iny  degree,  busied  themselves  with  the  in- 
restigation  of  the  fountains  of  the  text  of  the 

Testament,  as  presented  to  us  by  mod-    school  of  critics  and  reviled  by  the  other  ? 


and  later  witnesses,  very  grave  (not  to 
say  violent)  objections  are  periodically 
made.  Mr.  McLellan,  for  instance,  main- 
tains that  the  characteristic  of  modern 
textual  criticism  is  servile  submission  to 
two  Egyptian  (!)  manuscripts  of  the  fourth 
century,  and  that  the  New  Testament  has 
been  forced  into  the  bondage  of  Egypt! 
And  Mr.  Burgon  believes  the  very  citadel 
of  revealed  truth  to  be  undergoing  assault 
and  battery,  and  that  it  is  the  business  of 
every  faithful  man  to  bestir  himself,  "ne 
quid  detrimenti  civitas  Dei  capiat." 

Into  the  dust  and  heat  of  this  arena  it 
is  no  part  of  ours  to  venture ;  but  the  ques- 
tion presents  itself  here,  as  in  so  many  other 
similar  disputes,  whether  there  be  not  some 
shorter  way  to  obtain  a  correct  estimate  of 
the  worth  of  these  early  manuscripts,  with- 
out coming  between  the  spears  of  the  spe- 
cialists. May  it  riot  be  possible,  by  a  purely 
paleographical  argument,  with  no  theolog- 
ical conscience  at  all,  to  determine  for  our- 
selves whether  the  manuscripts  in  question 
do  really  diverge  from  a  point  near  the  auto- 
graphs ?  Is  there  no  way  of  putting  into  the 
witness-box  the  very  scribes  who  wrote  the 
manuscripts,  and  of  making  them  tell  what  it 
was  that  they  really  copied  from  in  preparing 
those  magnificent  vellum  books  of  the  fourth 
century  which  are  so  much  loved  by  one 


.:rn   scholars,  that,  in   the  vast   majority  of  In  order  to  do  this,  we  begin  with  a  few  simple 

Doubtful  passages,  the  multitudinous  author-  preliminary  considerations,  and  ask  ourselves 

jties  in  the  shape  of  manuscripts,  versions,  what  we  know  about  the  ways  of  that  im- 

md  fathers   are   reduced  to    two,   viz. :    the  portant  race  of  men  whom  the  printing-press 

jJinaitic  manuscript  discovered   by  Tischen-  abolished, —  the   copyists  or  scribes.    Above 

jlorf  in   the    Convent   of  St.    Catharine   on  is  a  picture  from  a  tenth  century  manuscript 

^lount  Sinai,  and  the  Vatican  manuscript  pre-  of  the  Gospels,  described   in   Montfaucon's 

erved  in  the  great  Roman  library.    Without  Bibliotheca  Coisliniana.  It  represents  St.  John 

ntering  into  the  romantic  history  of  the  dis-  at  work,  writing  or  copying  his  own  Gospel, 

overy  of  the  first,  or  the  almost  equally  roman-  His  writing-desk  is  fitted  with  a  double  ink- 

ic  attempts  to  collate  the  jealously  guarded  stand  for  red  and  black  inks,  a  pen-cutter,  a 

sxt  of  the  second,  it  is  sufficient  to  remark  sponge  for  erasing  a  passage  wrongly  written, 

hat  the  most  recent  results  of  criticism,  as  etc.   The  pages,  open  on  the  desk,  contain  the 

fiven  in  the  New  Testament  of  Westcott  and  words  with  which  the  Gospel  begins,  and  are 

lort,  lead  us  to  the  conclusion  that  no  read-  evidently  meant  to  represent  leaves  of  a  vel- 

igs  of  B  (the  Vatican  manuscript)  can  safely  lum  book ;   a  new  leaf  lies  on  the  writer's 

e   rejected;  and   that  the  text  of  the   two  knee;  moreover,  the  writing  is  uncial  (or  in 

jianuscripts  is  much  older  than  the  vellum  the  great  character),  and  is  ornamented  with 

n  which  they  are  written,  and  cannot  be  far  breathings  and  accents.    Observe,  also,  that 

Amoved   from   the    autographs    themselves,  the  writing  is  abbreviated  in  an  unusual  man- 

Lgainst  these  results,  by  means  of  which  such  ner.    The   artist,    then,   has    represented    St. 

reeminence  is  given  to  these  documents  as  John  using  writing  materials  of  his  own  time, 

)  make  them  outweigh  a  crowd   of  lesser  and  is  apparently  unaware  that  the  original 
VOL.  XXV I L— 29. 


3o6 


ORIGINAL   DOCUMENTS   OF   THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 


manuscript  of  the  Gospel  must  have  been  this  discovery  at  once  provokes  pur  closer 
written  upon  paper  rather  than  vellum,  and  scrutiny,  since  we  know  for  certain  that  in 
without  breathings  or  accents,  and  certainly  some  of  the  Epistles  paper,  and  not  parch- 
without  any  such  abbreviation  of  the  word  ment,  was  employed,  and  have  good  reason' 
Logos  as  the  scribe  suggests.  He  imagines  for  believing  it  to  have  been  the  more  usual 

material. 

Before  determining  the  character  of  the 
rolls,  we  note  two  or  three  other  peculiarities 
of  the  early  scribes ;  and,  first  of  all,  that  they 
were  trained,  not  only  to  write  in  large  char- 
acter and  continuously,  but  also  to  write' 
lines  of  given  length.  The  importance  of  such 
a  custom  is  obvious:  it  furnished  a  means 
of  measuring  the  contents  of  the  book,  was 
a  convenience  in  determining  the  pay  of  the 
scribe,  and  was  an  important  help*  in  the  cita- 
tion of  passages  at  a  time  when  the  uniform- 
ity of  printed  editions  was  unknown.  To 
have  engaged  a  scribe,  for  instance,  to  write 
at  so  much  per  hundred  lines  would  have 
been  absurd,  unless  the  lines  had  been  speci- 
fied within  certain  narrow  limits.  In  order 
to  fix  the  line,  two  methods  were  adopted, 
the  models  corresponding  to  which  were, 
selected  from  the  principal  poems  of  the* 
Greek  and  Latin  literature.  First  of  alh 
there  was  the  long  line,  or  hexameter,  taken, 
from  the  Iliad  or  Odyssey;  and  this  seems  toj 
have  been  the  pattern  most  commonly  used.1 
If  it  was  too  long  for  the  width  of  the  strips 
of  paper  upon  which  the  scribe  was  writing, 
he  divided  the  number  of  syllables  or  letter?' 
which  such  a  line  ought  to  contain  into  twc 
or  three  parts,  and  wrote  his  hexameter  as 
two  or  three  lines.  The  effect  would  be  jusl 
as  if  one  were  to  print  an  edition  of  "  Evan- 
geline  "  as  follows  : 


ST.    MARK    AS    A    SCRIBE.       (FROM     A     SIXTH     CENTURY 


St.  John  to  be  a  scribe  of  an  order  not  very 
different  from  himself. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  examine  the 
accompanying  sketch  of  St.  Mark  as  a  scribe, 
taken  from  the  recently  discovered  sixth 
century  manuscript  of  the  Gospels,  the  Co- 
dex Rossanensis,  we  shall  see  that  there 
is  a  distinct  consciousness  in  the  mind  of 
the  artist  that  the  Gospels  were  not  always 
nor  originally  written  upon  vellum.  Instead 
of  a  sheet  of  vellum,  we  have  a  long  strip  of 
writing  material,  which  can  hardly  be  any- 
thing else  than  a  roll  of  papyrus.  It  is  to  this 
material  that  our  minds  must  revert  also  if 
we  would  form  an  idea  of  the  appearance  of 
'  an  original  MS.  of  the  Gospels.  Such  paper 
is  prepared  from  thin  layers  of  the  stem  of 
an  Egyptian  reed,  pressed  and  smoothed  and 
polished,  and  trimmed  into  the  single  sheets 
which,  when  glued  together,  form  the  roll  or 
book.  The  appearance  presented  by  such  a  roll, 
when  opened,  would  be  that  of  a  great  many 


This  is  the  forest  primeval  the 
murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks 
bearded  with  moss  and  in  garments 
green  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

A  little  examination  shows  that  this  mode 
of  writing  survives  in  the  Vatican  Codex, 
The  average  length  of  such  a  line  is  about 
sixteen  syllables,  and  the  half  lines  as  we  fine, 
them  in  the  manuscript  in  question  are  founc 
to  contain  seven  or  eight  syllables,  with  occa- 
sional exceptions.  If,  for  instance,  we  wer(; 


_  -  .       .  j  •  "   J  1  kJAV/J..l.M.J.        >^^V\^V*  L/4.i\_/J..I.O.  -LJ'J        *VA         J.J.J.U  VtVJ.-lX-'^  J          M 

narrow  columns  of  writing  standing  side  by    to  represent  the  opening  of  the   Gospel  ol 
side    Now,  if  anyone  were  to  open  the  pages    Joh/in  E     Hsh   ^  th*  fashkm  in  whici- 
of  the  Vatican  or  the  Sinaitic  manuscript,  he    is  arrangedfn  the  Vatican  Codex,  we  sh< 
would  be  struck  with  a  precisely  similar  ap-    jiave__ 
pearance :  in  the  first  he  would  see  six  narrow 
columns  facing  him,  and  in  the  second  eight 
columns   of  writing;    and   almost   the   first 
thought  that  would  occur  to  the  mind  would 
be  that  each  of  these  manuscripts  was  closely 
related  to  a  papyrus  roll  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, since  they  still  bear  traces  of  the  ar- 
rangement of  text  peculiar  to  such  rolls.    And 


In  the  beginning  was  the  Word 
and  the  Word  was  with  God  and  the 
Word  was  God  the  same  was  in  the 
beginning  with  God  all  things  were 

And  better  evidence  still  may  be   fc 
in  the  case  where  St.  James  has  fallen 
an  accidental  hexameter,  which  is  foun< 


ORIGINAL   DOCUMENTS   OF   THE   NEW  TESTAMENT. 


occupy  exactly  two  lines  of  the  manuscript, 
and  may  be  represented  by 

Every  gift  that  is 
good  and  every  boon  that 

is  matchless. 

The  second  pattern  was  the  meter  used 
>y  the  Greek  tragedians  and  known  as  the 
ambic  trimeter,  a  verse  of  twelve  syllables, 
vhich  may  be  divided  in  the  same  way  as  the 
>revious  pattern.  Precisely  similar  inquiry 
hows  that  this  divided  line  is  the  base  of  the 
Sinaitic  manuscript :  if,  for  instance,  we  take 
he  iambic  verse  which  St.  Paul  quotes  from 
VIenander,  to  the  effect  that  "  Evil  communi- 
ations  corrupt  good  manners,"  we  should 
ind  that  the  passage  occupied  two  lines  ex- 
ictly  in  the  manuscript.  Although  this  type 
f  writing  is  not  so  common  as  the  other,  yet 

believe  it  can  be  shown  that  it  was  the  very 
ne  employed  by  Josephus  in  writing  his  An- 
iquities,  to  say  nothing  of  other  early  writers. 

We  have  now  advanced  in  our  investiga- 
on  by  an  important  step ;  for  in  establishing 
ic  existence  of  pattern  lines,  we  have  quan- 
ties  which  are  capable  of  very  little  variation, 
nd  must  have  remained  very  nearly  the  same 
nee  they  first  appeared  in  the  written  text, 
very  scribe  who  copies  such  a  line  has  a 
sndency  to  preserve  the  line  intact,  because 
e  recognizes  it  as  the  literary  model.  If  he 
iverges  from  it  at  all,  it  will  probably  soon 
ecome  a  wide  variation,  such  as  we  find  in 
lany  irregularly  written  manuscripts  of  later 
mes.  The  next  peculiarity  lies  in  the  fact  that, 
jie  sheets  and  rolls  of  paper  being  prepared 
jnd  sold  in  given  sizes,  a  special  number  of 
nes  comes  to  be  allotted  to  each  page,  so 
Hat  a  scribe  has  not  only  a  tendency  to  write 
jattern  lines,  but,  if  he  is  in  the  habit  of  em- 
jloying  paper  of  a  given  size,  his  tendency 
•  to  write  pages  of  given  size,  containing  a 
jiven  number  of  lines.  In  fact,  before  writing 
j  page,  he  generally  rules  the  paper  with  the 
timber  of  lines  which  he  considers  proper. 
;he  last  peculiarity  is  this :  that  the  early 
j'.ribes  were  far  more  careful  than  we  are  in 
jie  point  of  finishing  the  sheet  of  paper  on 
jhich  they  were  writing:  if,  for  instance,  a 
Itter  was  written  on  a  roll  of  five  columns,  the 
fth  column  would  be  generally  found  to  be 
[most  as  completely  filled  as  the  preceding 
;ur.  Whether  this  was  a  feature  of  polite 
lucation,  or  whether  it  was  simply  due  in 
iany  cases  to  the  economy  of  paper,  it  is 
(ipossible  to  say;  but  I  think  we  shall  be 
|)le  to  establish  the  statement  with  a  good 
i'gree  of  certainty.  St.  John,  for  instance, 

his  Second  and  Third  Epistles,  complains 
;  most  definite  language  of  having  many 
(ings  to-  say  for  which  paper  and  ink  did 


307 


not  suffice;  and  it  would  be  very  unlikely 
that  a  person  should  make  such  a  statement 
and  then  leave  the  last  sheet  of  paper  blank. 
Curiously,  too,  as  may  easily  be  noticed  even 
in  the  English  translation,  the  two  Epistles  are 
precisely  of  the  same  length,  and  must  there- 
fore have  been  written  upon  the  same  space 
of  paper.  We  shall  show  presently  that  each 
of  them  was  a  roll  of  five  columns. 

It  must  now  be  clear  that,  if  the  habits  of 
the  scribes  (and  this  term  is  not  limited  to 
professional  writers)  be  as  we  have  intimated, 
it  ought  to  be  possible  to  restore  approxi- 
mately the  original  pages  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment writers,  and  of  the  Epistles  in  particular, 
as  soon  as  we  can  determine  the  original 
size  of  the  pages  which  they  wrote ;  and  this 
possibility  may  be  realized  in  the  following 


manner : 


The  writer  of  the  Vatican  Codex  arranged 
his  text  so  as  to  place  on  each  page  three  col- 
umns of  forty-two  lines  each.  If  we  divide 
each  of  these  triple  columns  into  three  equal 
parts,  and  place  these  parts  in  succession  so 
as  to  form  a  roll,  it  will  be  found  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  Epistles  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment at  once  divide  into  fully  written  rolls, 
after  the  manner  previously  indicated.  For 
instance,  each  of  the  two  shorter  Epistles  of 
John  occupies  in  the  Vatican  manuscript  a 
column  of  forty-two  lines,  and  twenty-seven 
lines ;  so  that  each  of  them  is  within  a  single 
line  of  five  pages,  such  as  would  be  formed 
by  dividing  the  columns  into  sections  of  four- 
teen lines  :  for  3  x  14  =  42,  and  2x14  =  28. 
If,  then,  we  represent  the  subdivided  page, 
consisting  of  fourteen  lines,  each  of  which  is 
a  half  hexameter  or  near  it,  by  the  letter  V, 
we  should  represent  a  complete  page  of  the 
manuscript  by 


v     v     v 

v     v     v 


or,  in  other  words,  the  manuscript  was  reduced 
from  a  papyrus  roll  by  arranging  the  pages 
of  the  roll,  nine  in  a  square.  And  by  the 
same  method  of  representation,  each  of  the 
shorter  Epistles  of  St.  John  is  represented  by 


v  v 
v  v 
v 


The  appearance  of  such  a  roll  in  its  original 
form  may  be  gathered  from  the  accompany- 
ing figure  (page  308). 

Without  making  any  of  the  previous  as- 
sumptions as  to  model  lines  and  pattern-pages, 
an  observation  of  the  manuscript  itself  will 


3o8  ORIGINAL  DOCUMENTS   OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 

show  that  there  is  a  curious  persistence  in  the 
way  the  separate  Epistles  have  of  ending 

two-thirds  down  the  Vatican  column;   and  o  o       ^  ^ 

this  at  once  invites  the  subdivision  which  we  £^?<2-Nq^       _.! 

made ;  and  without  going  unduly  into  detail, 
we  simply  remark  that  every  one  of  the  Epis- 
tles of  John,  the  Epistles  of  Jude  and  James, 
and  the  Epistles  to  the  Galatians  and  II.  Co- 
rinthians end  at  the  place  in  the  column  which 

we  have  indicated,—  a  very  remarkable  pecul-  (L-O°2ri5£j£  x|  £  z  ® 

iarity,  and  one  for  which  the  scribe  who  copied  <klr"i'?'^5<^l^ui 

the  manuscripts  is  certainly  not  responsible.  x  <»  z  >*^<  ^  <—  *  <  Z  3 

He  might,  perhaps,  have  schemed  to  end  his 
separate  documents  with  the  end  of  the  col- 
umns, but  no  possible  inducement  existed  for 
ending  them  two-thirds  down  the  page.  The 
peculiarity  is,  therefore,  antecedent  to  the 
period  of  production  of  the  manuscript. 

When  we  turn  to  the  Sinaitic  manuscript, 
we  shall  find,  in  a  similar  manner,  that  the  four 
columns,  each  of  forty-eight  lines,  which  go 
to  make  up  a  page  of  the  document  immedi- 
ately suggest  a  subdivision  of  each  column  £  £  ozl&5?i5f-6- 
into  four  equal  parts ;  and  when  this  is  done, 
we  at  once  find  that  a  number  of  the  remain- 
ing books  divide  into  fully  written  paper  rolls. 

In  each  of  these  subdivisions  there  are,  as 
previously  explained,  twelve  half-iambic  lines ;      ^ 
and  if  each  subdivision  be  denoted  by  the 
sign  S,  the  whole  page  is  represented  by 

s    s    s     s 

S      S      S      S 

s     s    s    s 
s     s    s     s 

or,  in  other  words,  the  scribe  reduced  his 
papyrus  document  to  the  vellum  by  placing  -r  *  $  *  *  3  2  i  2  >-* 

sixteen  of  the  papyrus  pages  in  a  square.    In  .^  ><|  v-  J  o  «r[Jpo  I  §  |  J  - 

this  case  also  the  subdivision  was  suggested  g       ^°«z!|z§§><j«_gjE 

by  the  persistent  way  in  which  the   several  gx-|^oQ)z>-Qo-<>-^ 

boojis  ended  at  the  twelfth,  twenty-fourth,  and  £!r  S  °  1  o~<S  o  i  -  ^""i  z  -<  £ 

thirty-sixth  lines  of  the  columns.  t^fl^fe*^0?^" 

We  shall  verify  the  accuracy  of  this  suppo-  ^"£J<  Q  £      ^  ^-S 

sition,  as  to  the  mode  of  composition  of  the  ^  -  i  fe  oHc  ^  ^ 

manuscript,  by  referring  to  some  curious  blun-  o  <»  a.  o  j=.-<  *<  t 

ders  of  the  scribe;  but  before  passing  to  these, 
we  stop  and  examine  the  point  which  the  argu- 
ment has  reached.  By  a  very  simple  process 
of  section,  we  have  reproduced  a  series  of 
papyrus  rolls  of  the  books  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment of  two  distinct  types,  and  in  either  case 
not  infrequently  fully  written  on  the  last  sheet 
of  the  roll.  Now  we  need  scarcely  say  that,  if 
a  series  of  documents  were  written  or  printed 
in  any  regular  form  so  as  to  occupy  complete 
pages,  this  fullness  of  the  pages  will  disappear 
as  soon  as  ever  the  pattern  of  the  original 

Writing   is    deserted ;    and  further,  if  the    Orig-  PROBABLE   FORM   OF   THE   AUTOGRAPH  OF   THE  SECOND 

inal  writings  were  not  written  on  full  rolls,  no  EPISTLE  OF  JOHN 


ORIGINAL   DOCUMENTS    OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 


309 


would  ever  bring  them  into  a  series  of  fully 
written  pages.    It  follows,  therefore,  that  the 


amount  of  change  of  style  or  size  of  page    to  the  letter  of  the  oldest  authorities,  have 

perpetuated  the  blunder  of    a  scribe.    The 
margin  of  the  revised  version  in  II.  Peter  iii. 

papyrus 'rolls  which  we  have  artificially  con-    n  directs  us  to  read,  "  The  earth  and  the 
|  structed  must  be  extremely  close  imitations, 
both  as  to  lines  and  pages,  of  the  actual  auto- 
graph rolls.     The  truth  of  the  theory  will, 

however,  be  most   apparent  in  the   smaller    the  fifteenth  verse  of  the  same  chapter  the 
documents,  where  various  readings  exercise    sentence  reads,  "  That  ye  may  be  FOUND  of 

less  disturbance.  u:~   :~    "     A~ ~~  •Ll-~ 

The  two  great  manuscripts  are,  therefore, 


works  that  are  therein  shall  be  discovered.' 
"  Discovered "  is  more  elegant  English  for 
"  found,"  and  makes  very  doubtful  sense.  In 


him  in    peace."     As  soon    as  the  pages  are 
arranged  in  our  hypothetical  papyrus  roll,  it 

closely  related  to  the  very  autographs  of  the    is  at  once  seen  that  this  is  an  exactly  similar 

New  Testament,  which  was  the  point  which 

we  started  to  establish. 


error  to  the  preceding,  and  arises  from  the 
wandering  of  a  scribe's  eye  from  the  top  of  a 

But  now  we  return  to  the  actual  subdivision  column  to  the  top  of  an  almost  adjacent  col- 
of  the  pages  of  the  Sinaitic  manuscript,  and  umn.  The  error  is  more  unfortunate,  because 
verify  the  method  by  the  consideration  of  it  happens  to  disfigure  first-class  manuscripts, 
some  indubitable  errors  into  which  the  copy-  It  is  needless  to  say  that,  if  the  theory  im- 
ist  has  fallen :  the  errors  shall  be  represented  plied  in  the  foregoing  pages  be  a  correct  one, 


as  nearly  as  possible  by  their  English  equiv- 
alents. 


it  must  have  a  very  important  weight  in  the 
criticism  of  the  text ;  and  the  more  so,  as  it 


In  the  twelfth  verse  of  the  Epistle  of  Jude  is  derived  from  considerations  of  a  distinctly 

the  scribe  of  the  Sinaitic  Codex  ought  to  have  non-subjective  character.    We  shall  illustrate 

written  the  words,  "  These  are  spots  in  your  its  use  in  the  criticism  of  a  very  important 

love  feasts,"  etc. ;    but  by  mistake  he  wan-  passage  in  the  Gospel  of  John,  at  the  close 


dered  to  a  passage  some  verses  lower  down, 
and  began  to  write  '•''These  are  murmurers, 
complainers,"  etc.,  continuing  for  some  lines, 
juntil  he  found  out  his  mistake  and  proceeded 
:o  transcribe  the  passage  correctly,  leaving 
:he  erroneous  words  in  the  text,  where  they 
may  still  be  seen.  When  we  restore  the  docu- 
ment by  the  process  of  subdivision,  the  error 
explains  itself;  both  of  the  passages  con- 


of  the  seventh  chapter,  which  the  critics  and 
revisers  mark  with  brackets  as  being,  prob- 
ably, not  authentic. 

The  passage  describes  an  occasion  on 
which,  to  quote  Professor  Seeley's  fine  judg- 
ment in  "  Ecce  Homo," 

"  He  (Jesus)  exhibited  a  profound  delicacy,  of 
which  there  is  no  other  example  in  the  ancient  world, 
and  which  anticipates  and  excels  all  that  is  noblest  in 


bunded  together  are  the  first  lines  of  pages,  chivalrous  and  finest  in  modern  manners, 
and  the  scribe  has  simply  mistaken  his  page, 
j)r  wandered  from  it  in  search  of  the  words 
"  These  are,"  which  begin  the  two  paragraphs. 
The  next  instance  is  a  still  more  eccentric 
nistake.  In  copying  the  First  Epistle  of  Peter, 
|it  chap.  ii.  v.  12,  the  scribe  seems  to  have 


In  another  passage,  he  refers  to  it  as 
follows : 

"A  remarkable  story  which  appears  in  St.  John's 
biography,  though  it  is  apparently  an  interpolation  in 
that  place,  may  serve  this  purpose,  and  will  at  the  same 

,•  MI       \       A.-     j/i    _     j'fir ' i i _— 1_  —  1 A.I**    3 


inished  a  page,  and  was    to   resume  with  the  time  illustrate  the  difference  between  scholastic  and 

ivords   "  rZorv  to   Onrl    in    thp   rhv   nf  vkiH  living  or  instinctive  virtue.     Some  of  the  leading  re- 

Clay   01   VlSlta-  j.  .  &.  men  of  jerusalem  had  detected  a  woman  in 
ion     ;  but   upon   returning    to    his   work,  he 


KJ^%»*AV*\A        t*l*        bll\^       w^^\^VyilVl         JL_J  I-/1O  tl\^        Vyl        J.    V^LV^A        L/V 

nistake,  and  began  to  look  along  the  pages 
ibr  his  catch-word  "glory";  having  found  it 


adultery.     It  occurred  to  them  that  the  case  afforded 

ppened    at    the   Second    Epistle    Of  Peter  by    a   good  opportunity  of  making  an  experiment  upon 

Christ.  They  might  use  it  to  discover  how  he  re- 
garded the  Mosaic  law.  That  he  was  heterodox  on 
the  subject  of  that  law  they  had  reason  to  believe,  for 

i  sentence   "glory  they  do   not  tremble    he  had  openly  quoted  some  Mosaic  maxims  andde- 
0  blaspheme,"  or,  as  in  the  ordinary  version,     clared  them  at  least  incomplete,  substituting  for  them 
:  they  are  not  afraid  to  speak   evil  of  digni-    new  rules  of  his  own,  which,  at  least  in  some  cases, 
ies  "  he  nrorerder!   to  rnnv    watino-  nn  after    appeared  to  abrogate  the  old.     It  might  be  possible, 
O  copy,  waking  up  atte       ^J^KD&  of  this  woman,  to  satisfy  at  once  themselves 
:  to  the   sense  of  his  error,   which  Still     and  the   people  of  his  heterodoxy.     They  asked  for 
isfigures    the    Sinaitic  manuscript.     But   the    his  judgment.     A  judgment  he  gave  them  ;  but  quite 
econd  passage  would  not  have  misled  him,  if   JS^'i??  ^J?8!^^  JS^^TJiSi  *7 
he  pages  had  not  been  subdivided  as  shown 


tt 


unimportant ;   toward  her  crime  or  her  character  they 
had  no  feeling  whatever,  not  even  hatred,  much  less 


.  .  .  .  .         .  iiUlldl      UAC     VrWUMfrUj     lin~.y     ll«.vi.     iwi  £WIL%-II.    v>  v  WAJ,    i 

the  previous  investigation,  for  it  IS  only  on     What  became  of  the  criminal  appeared  to  them  wholly 

ch  a  hypothesis  that  the  words  in  question 
'e  found  at  the  top  of  a  page  at  all. 

One  other  instance  shall  be  given,  as  it  is 

n  interesting  example  of  a  place  where  the     Mephistopheies,   'She'is   not  "the  first,'  nor  would 
iritics  and    revisers,  by    extreme    adherence     they  have  thought   their  answer   fiendish,  but  only 


3io 


ORIGINAL   DOCUMENTS   OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 


practical  and  business-like.  But  the  judgment  of 
Christ  was  upon  them,  making  all  things  new,  and 
shining  like  the  lightning  from  one  end  of  the  heaven 
to  the  other." 

When  we  come  to  examine  the  passage  in 
question,  the  very  simple  process  of  counting 
the  letters,  or,  if  we  like,  of  writing  the  pas- 
sage out  in  lines  of  the  same  length  as  those 
in  the  Vatican  Codex,  establishes  that  there 
are  fifty-six  lines  of  this  size  in  the  passage 
whose  authenticity  is  questioned.  And  since 
we  have  already  determined  that  the  model 
of  writing  adopted  by  St.  John  is  a  page  con- 
taining fourteen  lines  of  the  same  kind  that 
are  found  in  the  Vatican  manuscript,  it  is 
clear  that  the  doubtful  passage  is,  in  reality, 
four  pages  of  the  papyrus  roll  of  St.  John ;  as 
far,  at  least,  as  its  size  is  concerned. 

We  have  further  to  remark,  that  the  pas- 
sage, as  found  in  ordinary  Bibles,  breaks  the 
thread  of  the  narrative  ;  indeed,  this  is  one  of 
the  main  reasons  which  made  the  critics  de- 
cree its  non-authenticity.  A  little  examination 
will  show  that  the  four  pages  really  belong  to 
the  close  of  the  fifth  chapter,  where  they  form 
a  continuous  narrative  with  the  preceding 
account.  This  may  be  seen  by  comparing  the 
discussion  between  Jesus  and  the  Pharisees  in 
chap.  v. ,  in  which  he  challenged  them  with  their 
non-belief  in  Moses,  with  the  opening  words 
of  the  Pharisees  on  the  next  morning,  to  wit, 
that  "  Moses,  in  the  law,  said  *  *  *  but 
what  sayest  thou  ?  "  And  a  little  study  of 
the  text  will  show  that,  when  the  passage  is 
restored  in  this  way,  not  only  does  the  objec- 
tion of  discontinuity  disappear,  but  the  pages 
are  found  to  fall  into  line  with  the  preceding 
pages,  as  ought  to  be  the  case  if  they  were 
really  a  portion  of  the  original  roll  lost  or 
wantonly  excised. 

It  will  have  been  observed  that,  in  the  pas- 
sage quoted  from  "  Ecce  Homo,"  the  critical 
judgment  of  the  writer  admits  that  the  passage 
in  question  is  an  interpolation  in  its  present 
position;  and  this  perception  that  the  section 
is  out  of  its  right  place,  but  that  it  is  an 
integral  part  of  the  Gospel,  is  shared  by 


JOHNS  HOPKINS  UNIVERSITY. 


another  writer  of  great  insight,  Mr.  George 
MacDonald:  a  man  who  might  well  have  been 
one  of  the  prophets  of  this  generation  if  he  had 
spoken  more  in  his  own  voice,  and  less  through 
the  mouth-pieces  of  imaginary  curates.  In  con- 
cluding with  a  quotation  from  his  "  Thomas 
Wingfold,"  we  must  premise  that  the  writer 
has  fallen  into  the  error  of  supposing  that  the 
earliest  authority  for  the  disputed  passage  is 
the  Codex  Alexandrinus  of  the  British  Museum. 
Now,  the  leaves  of  this  manuscript  are  lost  at 
the  point  in  question,  and  a  very  simple  reck- 
oning will  show  that  they  cannot  possibly 
have  contained  the  section.  The  missing 
matter  would  be  far  too  much  for  the  lost 
leaves.  With  this  exception,  we  may  hear 
what  MacDonald  has  to  say  upon  the  point : 

"  I  don't  know  quite  what  to  think  about  that  storv 
of  the  woman  they  brought  to  Jesus  in  the  Temple,  I 
mean  how  it  got  into  that  nook  of  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John,  where  it  has  no  right  place.  They  didnXbring 
her  for  healing,  or  for  the  rebuke  of  the  demon,  but  for 
condemnation ;  only  they  came  to  the  wrong  man  for 
that.  They  dared  not  carry  out  the  law  of  stoning,  a.1 
they  would  have  liked,  I  suppose,  even  if  Jesus  had  con- 
demned her ;  but  perhaps  they  hoped  rather  to  entrap 
him  who  was  the  friend  of  the  sinners  into  saying 
something  against  the  law.  But  what  I  want  is  tc 
know  how  it  got  there  ;  just  there,  I  mean,  between  th< 
seventh  and  eighth  chapters  of  St.  John's  Gospel. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  an  interpolation  —  thai 
the  twelfth  verse,  I  think  it  is,  ought  to  join  on  to  frit 
fifty-second.  The  Alexandrinus  manuscript  is  the  onl) 
one  of  the  three  oldest  that  has  it,  and  it  is  the  lates 
of  the  three.  I  did  think  once,  but  hastily,  that  it  was 
our  Lord's  text  for  saying  /  am  the  light  of  the  world 
but  it  follows  quite  as  well  on  his  offer  of  living  water 
One  can  easily  see  how  the  place  would  appear  a  ven 
suitable  one  to  any  presumptuous  scribe  who  wishe< 
to  settle  the  question  of  where  it  should  stand.  * 
The  tale  must  be  a  true  one,  only — to  think  of  jus 
this  one  story,  of  the  tenderest  righteousness,  floating 
about  like  a  holy  waif  through  the  world  of  letters!  ; 
sweet,  gray  dove  of  promise  that  can  find  no  rest  fo: 
the  sole  of  its  foot !  Just  this  one  story,  of  all  stories 
a  kind  of  outcast." 

It  will  easily  be  seen  that  the  method  ol 
restoration  of  an  ancient  document  which  w< 
have  employed  is  not  limited  to  the  Greel 
New  Testament,  but  might  be  illustrated,  i 
space  permitted,  by  examples  drawn  from  al 
parts  of  the  field  of  classical  literature. 

J.  Rendel  Harris. 


TOPICS   OF   THE   TIME. 


Central    Park    in    Danger. 

WE  have  a  comely  city,  we  of  New  York, —  a  city 
of  extraordinary  natural  advantages,  some  of  which  re- 
main neglected,  but  many  of  which  we  have  skillfully 
availed  ourselves  of  for  purposes  of  beauty  and  recrea- 
tion. The  trouble  with  us  is  that  we  do  not  fully 
know,  appreciate,  and  cherish  what  we  have.  New 
Yorkers,  as  a  class,  seem  to  be  more  bent  upon  getting 
on  in  the  world, — reaching  out  for  something  beyond, — 
than  upon  enjoying,  providing  for,  and  jealously  guard- 
ing what  they  already  possess.  The  city,  collectively 
considered,  is  supposed  to  be  proud,  for  instance,  of  its 
Central  Park,  and  yet  for  years  it  has  permitted  the 
affairs  of  this  same  much-vaunted  and  really  much- 
enjoyed  pleasure-ground  to  be  grossly  mismanaged  — 
until,  to-day,  notwithstanding  the  existence  of  a  Board 
of  Commissioners  charged  with  the  custody  of  its 
affairs,  the  only  trustworthy  and  vigilant  guardians  of 
the  Park  are  the  newspapers  of  the  city,  which  keep 
a  sharp  look-out,  and  now  and  again  sound  a  note  of 
alarm  when  some  new  act  of  vandalism  is  threatened. 

At  the  moment  of  writing,  the  press  is  once  again 
in  full  cry.  The  Board  of  Commissioners  has  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  rid,  one  after  another,  of  the  two 
jeminent  experts,  Messrs.  Vaux  and  Parsons,  whose 
[engagement  in  the  service  of  the  Board  was,  not  long 
ago,  hailed  as  the  beginning  of  a  new  regime ;  and, 
meantime,  the  Commissioners,  it  seems,  propose  to  go 
to  work  and  destroy,  for  the  purposes  of  a  menagerie, 
one  of  the  prettiest  and  rarest  spots  in  the  whole  Park. 
There  being  now  no  expert  connected  with  the  man- 
igement  of  the  Park,  the  proposed  desecration  is,  of 
:ourse,  not  recommended  by  any  official  whom  the 
lic  are  willing  to  accept  as  both  competent  and 
[responsible ;  and  it  is  known  that  the  experts  who 
Iiave  recently  been  forced  to  resign  their  positions 
jarould  never  have  consented  to  the  ruin  of  the  meadow 
l^hich  the  newspapers  have  been  trying  so  hard  to 
j>ave. 

j  We  say  that  the  newspapers  are  looking  after  the 
Jiffairs  of  the  Park  with  commendable  zeal.  But  on  the 
bart  of  the  general  community  there  appears,  at  least, 
iO  be  an  apathy  which  we  suspect  would  not  exist, 
finder  the  same  circumstances,  in  any  other  large  city 
j>f  this  continent.  Park  management  by  newspaper 
Evidently  works  better  in  New  York  than  park  man- 
|.gement  by  commissioners, —  as  said  commissioners 
jiave  been  managing  these  many  years.  (Or  shall  we 
jail  it  park  butchery,  tempered  by  newspaper  criti- 
jism?)  But  if  the  people  of  this  city  had  the  proper 
leeling  of  citizenship,  they  would  long  ago  have  done 
pmething  more  effectual  than  grumbling  by  proxy. 
!ret,  that  the  public  are  displeased  with  the  present 
jtate  of  affairs  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt.  That 
lie  indignation  is  gathering  force  and  intensity  there 
J;  some  reason  to  hope. 

When  the  public  does  become  thoroughly  aroused, 
;'e  believe  that  it  will  demand  a  more  radical  cure  for 
Jie  present  evils  of  park  management  than  has  yet 


been  applied.  One  trouble  with  the  Board,  as  at  present 
constituted,  is  that  the  number  of  commissioners  estab- 
lished— namely,  four  —  makes  it  difficult  to  arrive  at 
a  majority  vote  for  any  measure.  It  has  been  found  by 
experience  that  the  Board  is  much  more  likely  to  be  at  a 
dead-lock  of  two  to  two  than  it  is  to  reach  a  decision 
by  a  majority  vote  of  three  to  one.  This  is  in  part  the 
origin  of  the. pitiable  wrangling  that,  for  the  past  half  a 
dozen  years  (with  rare  intervals  of  apparent  peace), 
has  made  the  published  proceedings  of  the  Board  of 
Commissioners  of  the  Department  of  Public  Parks  a 
disgrace  to  the  city.  Of  late,  secret  executive  sessions 
have  been  instituted,  and  newspaper  readers  have  been 
spared  those  grotesque  accounts  of  meetings  of  the 
Board,  which,  at  times  in  the  past,  have  seemed  more 
like  reports  of  the  inelegant  altercations  of  pot-house 
politicians  than  the  recorded  debates  of  high  public 
officials  having  in  charge  a  costly  and  magnificent  work 
of  art. 

When  the  public  does  act  in  good  earnest — and, 
judging  by  analogy,  it  is  sure  to  do  so  sooner  or  later 
— it  will,  we  say,  insist  upon  a  radical  cure.  It  will 
strike  both  at  the  membership  and  organization  of  the 
Board ;  and  it  will  insist,  moreover,  upon  the  retention 
in  the  management  of  the  Park  of  the  very  best  and  the 
very  best  known  experts.  Landscape  gardening,  archi- 
tecture, and  tree-planting  are  arts  and  occupations  which 
ordinary  business  men,  or  politicians,  or  engineers,  no 
matter  how  well  trained  and  competent  in  their  own 
lines,  should  not  undertake  without  skilled  and  re- 
sponsible advice.  It  happens  that,  just  at  present,  one 
of  the  ruling  four  has  more  knowledge  of  a  kind  which 
should  be  valuable  to  a  Commissioner  than  has  often 
been  the  case  with  members  of  the  Board.  But  this 
gentleman  does  not,  we  are  sure,  claim  to  be  an  expert 
on  all  the  points  covered  by  Messrs.  Vaux  and  Parsons, 
nor  has  he  the  definite  authority  of  an  expert  with  his 
compeers  of  the  Board,  nor  has  his  reputation  as  an 
"  expert "  been  increased  in  the  community  by  his  hav- 
ing countenanced  the  installation  of  the  menagerie  in 
the  South  Meadow,  and  the  consequent  ruin  of  what 
we  are  inclined  to  believe  the  most  beautiful  glade  of 
the  whole  Park. 

In  a  word,  the  Department  has  forfeited  the  con- 
fidence of  the  public ;  every  man  in  the  Board  pulls 
his  own  way ;  the  experts  are  gone ;  the  entire  service 
is  demoralized;  and  the  Central  Park  is  daily  and 
hourly  in  danger. 


The  Spiritual  Effects  of  Drunkenness. 

THE  curse  of  drunkenness,  on  the  side  of  its  phys- 
ical devastations,  has  been  abundantly  depicted  by  the 
advocates  of  the  temperance  reform.  The  amount  of 
grain  consumed  in  the  manufacture  of  intoxicating 
liquors  ;  the  number  of  men  whose  labor  is  worse  than 
wasted  in  producing  and  in  vending  them  ;  the  number 
of  lives  destroyed  by  them ;  the  number  of  paupers  and 
insane  persons  whose  woes  are  traceable  to  this  source ; 


3I2 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


the  effects  upon  the  health  of  individuals  of  the  habit- 
ual use  of  intoxicants, — all  these  things  are  frequently 
set  forth  with  sufficient  fullness  in  impressive  rhetoric. 
Some  allowances  must  be  made  for  the  over-state- 
ment of  zealous  advocates  ;  but  there  are  facts  enough, 
of  an  appalling  nature,  in  these  representations,  to  call 
for  the  most  serious  thought. 

But  the  worst  side  of  drunkenness  is  not  that  which 
appears  in  these  familiar  figures.  The  most  frightful 
effects  of  the  drink-habit  are  not  those  which  can  be 
tabulated  in  statistics  and  reported  in  the  census.  It 
is  not  the  waste  of  corn,  nor  the  destruction  of  prop- 
erty, nor  the  increase  of  taxes,  nor  even  the  ruin  of  phys- 
ical health,  nor  the  loss  of  life,  which  most  impresses 
the  mind  of  the  thoughtful  observer  of  inebriety.  It 
is  the  effect  of  this  vice  upon  the  characters  of  men, 
as  it  is  exhibited  to  him,  day  by  day,  in  his  ordinary 
intercourse  with  them.  It  is  in  the  spiritual  realm 
that  the  ravages  of  strong  drink  are  most  terrible. 

Body  and  mind  are  so  closely  related  that  when  the 
one  suffers  the  other  must  share  the  suffering;  and  the 
injury  of  the  physical  health  resulting  from  intemper- 
ate drinking  must,  therefore,  be  accompanied  by  sim- 
ilar injury  of  the  mental  and  moral  powers.  But  the 
inclination  of  the  popular  •  thought  is  so  strongly 
toward  the  investigation  of  physical  phenomena,  that 
the  spiritual  consequences  of  drunkenness  are  often 
overlooked.  Degeneration  of  tissue  is  more  palpable 
than  degeneracy  of  spirit ;  a  lesion  of  the  brain  more 
startling  than  a  breach  of  faith ;  but  the  deeper  fact,  of 
which  the  senses  take  no  note,  is  the  more  important 
fact ;  and  it  would  be  well  if  the  attention  of  men  could 
be  fixed  upon  it. 

The  phenomena  to  which  we  have  referred  often 
report  themselves  to  the  quickened  perceptions  of 
those  who  stand  nearest  to  the  habitual  drinker.  Many 
a  mother  observes,  with  a  heart  that  grows  heavier 
day  by  day,  the  signs  of  moral  decay  in  the  character 
of  her  son.  It  is  not  the  flushed  face  and  the  heavy 
eyes  that  trouble  her  most;  it  is  the  evidence  that  his 
mind  is  becoming  duller  and  fouler,  his  sensibilities 
less  acute,  his  sense  of  honor  less  commanding.  She 
discovers  that  his  loyalty  to  truth  is  somewhat  im- 
paired; that  he  deceives  her  frequently,  without  com 
punction.  This  effect  is  often  observed  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  inebriate.  Truthfulness  is  the  fundamental 
virtue;  when  it  is  impaired  the  character  is  under- 
mined ;  and  strong  drink  makes  a  deadly  assault  upon 
it.  Coupled  with  this  loss  of  truthfulness  is  that  weak- 
ening of  the  will  which  always  accompanies  chronic 
alcoholism.  The  man  loses,  little  by  little,  the  mastery 
over  himself;  the  regal  faculties  are  in  chains.  How 
many  of  his  broken  promises  are  due  to  a  debilitated 
will,  and  how  many  to  a  decay  of  his  veraciousness,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  the  victim  himself  to  deter- 
mine. Doubtless  his  intention  to  break  off  his  evil 
habit  is  sometimes  honest,  and  the  failure  is  due  to  the 
paralysis  of  his  will ;  doubtless  he  often  asseverates 
that  such  is  his  purpose  at  the  moment  when  he  is 


contriving  how  he  shall  obtain  the  next  dram.  It  is 
pitiful  to  mark  the  gradual  decay  of  these  prime  ele- 
ments of  manliness  in  the  character  of  the  man  who  is 
addicted  to  strong  drink. 

This  loss  of  self-respect,  the  lowering  of  ambition, : 
and  the  fading  out  of  hope  are  signs  of  the  progress 
of  this  disease  in  the  character.  It  is  a  mournful  spec- 
tacle—  that  of  the  brave,  ingenuous,  high-spirited  man 
sinking  steadily  down  into  the  degradation  of  ine- 
briety; but  how  many  such  spectacles  are  visible  all 
over  the  land !  And  it  is  not  in  the  character  of  those 
alone  who  are  notorious  drunkards  that  such  tenden- 
cies appear.  They  are  often  distinctly  seen  in  the 
lives  of  men  who  are  never  drunk.  Sir  Henry  Thomp- 
son's testimony  is  emphatic  to  the  effect  that  "the 
habitual  use  of  fermented  liquors,  to  an  extent  far 
short  of  what  is  necessary  to  produce  intoxication, 
injures  the  body  and  diminishes  the  mental  power." 
If,  as  he  testifies,  a  large  proportion  of  the  most  pain- 
ful and  dangerous  maladies  of  the  body  are  due  to 
"  the  use  of  fermented  liquors,  taken  in  the  quantity 
which  is  conventionally  deemed  moderate,"  then  it 
is  certain  that  such  use  of  them  must  result  also  in 
serious  injuries  to  the  mental  and  moral  nature.  Who 
does  not  know  reputable  gentlemen,  physicians,  artists, 
clergymen  even,  who  were  never  drunk  in  their  lives, 
and  never  will  be,  but  who  reveal,  in  conversation  and 
in  conduct,  certain  melancholy  effects  of  the  drinking 
habit?  The  brain  is  so  often  inflamed  with  alcohol 
that  its  functions  are  imperfectly  performed ;  and  there 
is  a  perceptible  loss  of  mental  power  and  of  moral 
tone.  The  drinker  is  not  conscious  of  this  loss ;  but 
those  who  know  him  best  are  painfully  aware  that  his 
perceptions  are  less  keen,  his  judgments  less  sound, 
his  temper  less  serene,  his  spiritual  vision  less  clear, 
because  he  tarries  every  day  a  little  too  long  at  the 
wine.  Even  those  who  refuse  to  entertain  ascetic 
theories  respecting  these  beverages  may  be  able  to 
see  that  there  are  uses  of  them  that  stop  short  of 
drunkenness,  and  that  are  still  extremely  hurtful  to 
the  mind  and  the  heart  as  well  as  the  body.  That 
conventional  idea  of  moderation,  to  which  Sir  Henry 
Thompson  refers,  is  quite  elastic ;  the  term  is  stretched 
to  cover  habits  that  are  steadily  despoiling  the  life  of 
its  rarest  fruits.  The  drinking  habit  is  often  defended 
by  reputable  gentlemen  to  whom  the  very  thought  of 
a  debauch  would  be  shocking,  but  to  whom,  if  it  were 
only  lawful,  in  the  tender  and  just  solicitude  of  friend- 
ship, such  words  as  these  might  be  spoken:  "  It  is  true 
that  you  are  not  drunkards,  and  may  never  be ;  but 
if  you  could  know,  what  is  too  evident  to  those  who 
love  you  best,  how  your  character  is  slowly  losing  the 
firmness  of  its  texture  and  the  fineness  of  its  outline ; 
how  your  art  deteriorates  in  the  delicacy  of  its  touch ; 
how  the  atmosphere  of  your  life  seems  to  grow  murky 
and  the  sky  lowers  gloomily  above  you, —  you  would 
not  think  your  daily  indulgence  harmless  in  its  meas- 
ure. It  is  in  just  such  lives  as  yours  that  drir 
exhibits  some  of  its  most  mournful  tragedies." 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


Recent  American  Novels.* 

I  WONDER  if  others  have  noticed  as  I  have  the  large 
top  of  novelists  which  has  sprung  up  of  late,  and  the 
lumber  of  works  of  fiction  we  have  been  favored 
vith  ?  I  imagine  that  some  of  us  are  prone  to  under- 
•ate  both  the  quality  and  the  quantity  of  current  fiction. 
t  is  true  that  Mr.  Cable  and  Mrs.  Burnett  have  been 
ilent  for  the  time  being,  though  Mr.  Cable's  silence 
s  now  broken.  But  without  these  two  the  list  is  far 
rom  short.  There  is  Mr.  Bret  Harte  speaking  again 
vith  all  his  early  vigor  and  point  in  a  story  of  the 
>rquinez  Woods.  A  rare  impressionist  in  his  own 
ay,  is  he  not,  as  he  tells  how  tremendous  influences 
f  sunset  and  atmosphere  overshadow  the  mighty 
orest  of  redwoods,  and  how  in  those  shadows  a 
ieeper  shade  moves  restlessly  to  and  fro  ?  A  delight- 
ful bogey  of  the  night  turns  into  a  wild  beast  no  less 
[brilling;  and  when  its  slayer,  the  half-breed  Cherokee 
nd  hero,  steps  from  the  flies  —  the  heart  of  a  red- 
food  —  on  to  the  big  stage  of  the  forest  so  well  de- 
cribed,  one  has  the  sensation  that  only  boys  are 
upposed  tD  feel  when  they  read  their  first  dime 
ovel.  Mr.  Harte  appears  to  be  able  to  take  what  is 
ne  in  the  adventurous  and  thrilling  quality  of  the 
}ime  novel  and  clothe  it  in  English  that  charms  one 
dth  its  exactness  and  has  the  indefinable  touch  that 
Dnstitutes  style.  Sometimes  the  dramatic  is  very  near 
eing  overdone  in  the  Carquinez  Woods ;  perhaps 
ic  close  is  indefensibly  hurried.  It  is  an  error  one 
ogives  because  of  other  admirable  qualities.  Mr. 
tawthorne  is  less  forgivable.  In  "  Fortune's  Fool," 
je  opens  with  strong  and  romantic  figures,  three  in 
[umber,  carries  them  through  far  too  many  adventures, 
nless  he  meant  to  write  a  "juvenile,"  and  crushes  all 
^mpathy  by  a  blood- and-thunder  series  of  useless 
rimes.  Judge  Tourgee  would  also  be  dramatic,  if 
JDssible,  in  ''-  Hot  Plowshares";  but  while  the  dra- 
latic  is  introduced  unnecessarily,  there  are  other  pas- 
iges  which  are  successful  in  the  same  attempt,  and 
ihich  will  serve  as  excuse  for  the  abundant  failures. 
*ot  the  dramatic,  but  the  historical,  is  the  aim  of  Judge 
jourgee,  and  in  this  field  there  are  few  authors  who 
;'ek  to  rival  him.  Perhaps  Mr.  Hawthorne  may  be 
Llled  historical  in  his  other  novel,  "  Dust,"  a  charm- 
Ig  but  very  irregular  romance  of  London  in  the 
j.rly  part  of  the  century,  in  which  the  author  has,  for 

j*  In  the  Carquinez  Woods.   By  Bret  Harte.   Houghton,  Miffliu 

iCo. 

fortune's  Fool.  By  Julian  Hawthorne.  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co. 

[Hot  Plowshares.    By  Albion  W.  Tourgee.    Fords,  Howard  & 

Albert. 

Dust.     By  Julian  Hawthorne.    Fords,  Howard  &  Hulbert. 

The  Gentle  Savage.   By  Edward  King.  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co. 

The  Siege  of  London  ;  The  Pension  Beaurepas  ;  The  Point  of 

ew.     By  Henry  James.     James  R.  Osgood  &  Co. 

£  Woman's  Reason.     By  W.  D.  Howells.     James  R.  Osgood 

(Co. 

(For  the  Major.     By  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson.     Harper 

(Brothers. 

|Mr.  Isaacs.     By  F.  Marion  Crawford.     Macmillan  &  Co. 

A.  Newport  Aquarelle.     Roberts  Brothers. 

But  Yet  a  Woman.     By  Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy.    Houghton, 

,nnn  &  Co. 

Pr.  Claudius.     By  F.  Marion  Crawford.     Macmillan  &  Co. 


the  sake  of  picturesqueness,  taken  the  liberty  of  giv- 
ing to  Englishmen  of  1825  the  ways  and  looks  of  men 
of  1 750.  The  perspective  of  Judge  Tourgee  in  "  Hot 
Plowshares  "  is  crude  but  bold ;  his  coloring  is  some- 
what lurid;  his  plots  are  needlessly  crowded  with 
incident ;  his  text  is  out  of  all  kindness  long.  Yet  he 
gains  continually  one  good  trait  or  another,  and  shows 
at  his  best  in  this  novel,  which  is  the  last  in  time  of  pro- 
duction, although  the  first  in  point  of  chronology,  of  his 
series  of  historical  novels.  Still  another  novel,  mid- 
way between  the  historical  and  the  romantic,  is  Mr. 
King's  "  Gentle  Savage,"  who  is  more  soberly  a  half- 
breed  than  the  heroes  of  Mr.  Harte  and  Mr.  Hawthorne. 
Among  the  realists,  Mr.  Henry  James  comes  for- 
ward with  "  The  Siege  of  London,"  a  work  by  no 
means  among  his  best,  but  interesting  and  able,  as  all 
his  work  is.  Have  you  remarked  how  Mr.  James 
brings  lessons  to  bear  on  small  but  important  points 
of  etiquette?  He  is  a  Chesterfield  in  a  gentle  and 
roundabout  way.  One  might  suspect  in  him,  hidden 
carefully  under  the  assumption  of  art  for  art's  sake,  a 
mind  not  a  little  didactic  in  its  leanings.  Mr.  How- 
ells  does  not  so  impress  me.  And  yet  Mr.  Howells  really 
does  set  out  to  instruct  much  more  than  Mr.  James; 
he  hardly  conceals,  under  "A  Woman's  Reason,"  a  les- 
son peculiarly  fitted  for  the  time,  for  the  country,  and 
above  all  for  his  home  by  adoption,  Massachusetts. 
The  upshot  of  the  troubles  of  his  heroine,  while  trying 
to  earn  her  own  living,  is  that  most  women  are  only 
fitted  by  nature  to  aid  a  man  in  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence, and  when  there  is  no  man  to  lean  on,  and  the 
woman  must  work,  it  generally  turns  out  that  her  edu- 
cation has  been  such  as  to  unfit  her  pretty  effectually 
for  any  labor  for  which  demand  exists  in  the  markets 
of  the  world.  Much  the  same  conclusion  was  reached 
in  "  Dr.  Breen's  Practice  " ;  but  it  was  not  so  clearly, 
not  so  finely,  put.  I  have  hardly  anything  but  admi- 
ration for  "A  Woman's  Reason."  Unquestionably 
Mr.  Howells  has  never  before  written  so  finely  as 
regards  diction  and  style  nor  so  acutely  as  regards 
observation  of  the  ways  of  women  in  his  part  of 
the  world.  I  forgive  him  gladly  the  exaggerated 
morality  of  his  heroine.  I  forgive  him,  too,  the  making 
such  an  odious  prig  as  Ray  anything  but  a  poor  stick ; 
such  hypocritical  humility  as  his  deserves  at  least  one 
good  chastisement  to  make  a  gentleman  of  him,  and  it 
is  hard  to  take  him  for  a  gentleman  as  he  is.  A  little 
well-dressed  "  cad,"  our  cousins  of  London  would  call 
him.  I  forgive,  also,  the  unreality  of  the  auctioneer's 
trick  and  the  qualms  of  conscience  incidental  thereto. 
What  may  not  be  forgiven  a  writer  who  can  set  so 
quietly  and  handsomely  before  the  people  that  read 
his  work  the  radical  error  in  the  education  of  their 
daughters  ?  Few  girls  would  have  the  pluck  to  fight 
so  long  against  fate  as  Helen  Harkness  did,  even  if 
they  strained  ideas  of  honesty  and  honor  so  near  to 
cracking  as  she.  Still  fewer,  so  few  as  not  to  be 
worth  reckoning,  are  those  who  will  even  have  a 
chance  at  a  Lord  Rainford.  Mr.  Howells  has  lived 
in  Massachusetts,  where  "  cultured  "  and  "  educated  " 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


girls  are  at  a  maximum  and  young  men  able  to  afford 
the  luxury  of  a  rich  man's  wife  are  at  a  minimum.  He 
sees  the  difficulty,  defines  the  error,  and  goes  as  near 
as  he  dares  to  suggest  a  remedy  without  becoming 
absolutely  didactic. 

Miss  Woolson  was  in  a  vein  of  uncommon  power 
and  delicacy  when  she  wrote  "  For  the  Major."  Its 
morality  is  very  high,  without  loss  to  the  charming 
quality  of  the  work ;  as  a  whole,  the  slender  fabric 
rises  to  the  atmosphere  of  the  ideal.  Like  Mr.  Howells, 
she  has  forborne  the  attempt  to  gain  picturesqueness 
by  a  foreign  setting ;  more,  even,  than  Mr.  Howells, 
who  makes  some  play  of  Pacific  steamers,  storms, 
wrecks,  and  Robinson  Crusoe  life  on  an  atoll  island. 
Her  realism  and  her  morality  are  in  sharp  contrast 
with  the  first  novel  by  Mr.  Crawford,  that  delightfully 
fresh  romance  of  the  Himalayas  and  the  Indian  jungles, 
"Mr.  Isaacs." 

This  opens  a  large  field  of  morals  and  ethics, 
without  taking  the  first  step  to  decide  matters  one 
way  or  another,  or  leaving  the  reader  any  better 
prepared  to  come  to  a  decision.  A  true  novice,  Mr. 
Crawford  broached  questions  that  all  the  world  is 
trying  to  solve — polygamy,  Mohammedanism,  Mor- 
monism,  spiritualism.  His  English  girl  in  love  with  a 
Persian  diamond-merchant,  when  regarded  realistic- 
ally, will  not  bear  considering,  so  impossible  is  her 
attitude,  so  phenomenal  her  appearance  in  her  own 
nation  and  station.  Her  death  is  no  solution  of  the 
question  ;  it  is  a  mere  begging  of  it.  Another  realist, 
but  with  a  dash  of  the  romancist,  is  the  anonymous 
pen  that  wrote  "A  Newport  Aquarelle."  Evidently 
this  is  by  a  woman ;  equally  so,  by  a  new-comer. 
She  has  facility  rather  than  experience,  and  offers  a 
light  and  not  displeasing  sketch  of  the  outside  of  New- 
port life  —  a  guide-book  to  Newport  picnics  and  polo 
matches,  with  one  or  two  excellent  touches  of  real 
womanliness  toward  the  end.  The  plot  is  somewhat 
strained,  and  it  has  a  flavor  of  the  didactic  in  the  mor- 
alizing parts.  Like  Mr.  Crawford,  a  college  professor 
seeks  in  "  But  Yet  a  Woman  "  the  picturesqueness  in 
a  foreign  setting  which  is  very  much  harder  to  show 
in  home  pictures.  Professor  Hardy  chose  a  cheap  and 
pointless  title  for  his  first  venture,  which  has  far  more 
romance  in  it  than  reality.  It  is  full  of  sparkling 
things,  good  points  smartly  and  well  expressed,  but 
it  has  not  one  really  well-drawn,  well-pondered  char- 
acter, and  its  close  is  too  melodramatic  to  be  in  keep- 
ing with  the  excellent  quality  of  many  passages.  Ro- 
mance of  the  worst  and  the  best  kind  appears  in  "  Dr. 
Claudius,"  the  second  venture  by  Mr.  Crawford.  It 
has  happy  passages,  but  verges  on  the  ridiculous  from 
the  overcharging  of  colors.  Beginning  well,  the  real- 
ism in  the  character  of  Barker  ends  in  arrant  non- 
sense ;  it  is  somebody  else,  not  Barker,  whom  Mr. 
Crawford  is  drawing  at  the  close.  The  book  is  dislo- 
cated in  the  middle,  and  the  latter  half  is  unworthy 
of  the  author.  What  a  breaking  down  from  the 
really  delightful  love-making  between  Dr.  Claudius 
and  the  heroine  in  the  beginning  !  As  for  Mr.  Craw- 
ford's New  York  lawyer,  he  is  too  preposterous  a 
creation  to  be  mentioned  as  a  creation  at  all.  No  hu- 
man being  has  seen  such  a  man  in  the  flesh  in  New 
York  or  elsewhere.  Neither  has  a  man  like  Dr.  Clau- 
dius ever  been  seen ;  but  in  him  exaggeration  is  pleas- 
antly romantic  until  it  is  grossly  overdone  and  the 


character  ruined  by  its  untrained  and  hasty  creator 
But  perhaps  the  truest  idealist  of  the  year  is  Mis 
Woolson.  Observe  in  "  For  the  Major "  how  sh 
founds  that  idealism  on  the  soberest,  most  patient  stud 
of  the  real.  She  has  painted  life  on  its  good  side.  .< 
true  woman,  she  defends  her  sex  very  nobly  an 
subtly  by  showing  a  couple  of  women  sacrificing  the: 
time  to  an  old  man,  husband  of  the  one,  father  of  tr. 
other.  The  elder  lady  paints  her  face,  wears  fab 
hair,  and  lives  a  daily  lie,  to  save  her  husband,  slow! 
dying  of  a  weakened  brain,  from  the  shock  of  disilh 
sionment.  The  younger,  to  shield  her  step-mothe 
allows  the  man  she  loves  to  misconstrue  her  attentioi 
to  that  step-mother's  son,  who  is  a  roving  charactt 
and  turns  up  unexpectedly  now  and  then,  first  ft 
aid,  then  for  final  care.  As  characters  of  women,  v 
enjoy  these  quiet  ladies  more  than  Mr.  Howells 
heroine,  with  her  straining  over  noblesse  oblige.  Sonv' 
how  it  is  hard  to  imagine  all  the  crises  of  consciei 
tiousness  in  Boston  on  the  part  of  the  heroine  and  h< 
guardian.  But  we  must  not  forget  that  Mr.  Howel 
had  far  the  harder  picture  to  paint. 

Now  let  us  see  what  the  chief  novels  of  the  seasc 
tell  us  as  to  the  locality  of  their  scenes.  Foreig; 
laid  novels  are  Mr.  Hawthorne's  "  Dust,"  Mr.  Hardy 
"  But  Yet  a  Woman,"  Mr.  James's  "  The  Siege  of  Loi-; 
don,"  and  Mr.  Crawford's  "  Mr.  Isaacs."  Home-la 
novels  are  Judge  Tourgee's  "  Hot  Plowshares,"  Mi. 
Woolson's  "For  the  Major,"  Mr.  Harte's  "In  tlj 
Carquinez  Woods,"  and  the  anonymous  "A  Nev 
port  Aquarelle."  Novels  laid  partly  at  home,  part! 
abroad,  are  Mr.  Howells's  "  A  Woman's  Reason 
Mr.  Crawford's  "Dr.  Claudius,"  Mr.  Hawthorne 
"  Fortune's  Fool,"  and  Mr.  King's  "  The  Gent 
Savage."  The  foreign  and  home  books  are  thus  e; 
actly  balanced,  being  four  each.  We  see  from  th 
that  novelists  here  find  it  profitable  to  give  fo 
eign  scenes,  and  in  some  cases  ("Mr.  Isaacs"  arj 
"  But  Yet  a  Woman")  foreign  characters.  I  do  n 
agree  with  people  who  demand  of  the  novelis 
America  and  Americans,  from  a  motive  that  is  pati 
otic  in  its  origin.  It  is  a  narrow  and  ignominioi 
patriotism,  for  the  most  part,  that  quarrels  with  tl 
right  of  the  artist  to  choose  his  ground  and  person 
At  the  same  time  it  seems  to  me  that,  in  estimating  tl 
success  of  a  novel  with  the  public,  the  reviewers  do  n 
sufficiently  bear  in  mind  the  fact  that  to  draw  hon 
characters  acceptably  is  much  harder  than  to  dra 
foreigners,  for  the  reason  that  readers  are  much  mo 
able  to  criticise  the  former  understandingly ;  while 
the  scenes  are  foreign,  they  have  to  take  them  ai< 
the  actors  in  them  largely  on  faith.  Very  few  peop 
here  have  been  in  India  long  enough  to  be  able  to  s; 
whether  "  Mr.  Isaacs  "  is  accurate  in  its  description: 
the  bulk  of  its  readers  swallow  it  all,  like  any  oth 
fairy  tale.  So  "  But  Yet  a  Woman  "  is  accepted  on  i 
own  assumption,  as  depicting  French  people  of  tl 
upper  class  in  Paris.  But  a  novelette  like  Miss  Woe 
son's,  a  sketch  like  "A  Newport  Aquarelle,"  ?.n 
above  all,  a  careful  and  very  serious  literary  study  lil 
"A  Woman's  Reason,"  have  in  almost  every  olh- 
reader  a  fairly  competent  critic.  It  is  only  just 
this  point  should  be  brought  out  much  more  cl 
than  it  ever  has  been  hitherto. 

Suppose  we  recapitulate  and  divide  up  our  n 
mongers  of  the  season, —  good,  bad,  and  indiffere 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


n  accordance  with  the  strongest  trait  of  their  works 
his  year,  into  (i)  ideal,  (2)  romantic,  (3)  dramatic,  (4) 
listorical,  (5)  moral,  (6)  didactic,  (7)  realistic;  then 
ie  get  for  (i)  Miss  Woolson,  (2)  Mr.  Crawford  and 
ir.  King,  (3)  Mr.  Harte  and  Mr.  Hawthorne,  (4) 
udge  Tourge"e,  (5)  Miss  Woolson  and  Mr.  Howells, 
6)  Mr.  Howells  and  Mr.  James,  (7)  Messrs.  Howells, 
ames,  and  King,  and  Miss  Woolson.  I  may  be 
rrong ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  by  classifying  in  this 
ray  one  gets  a  clearer  idea  of  the  conscious  and 
nconscious  aim  of  these  various  writers,  and  brings 
nto  relief  the  really  important  elements  in  books 

hich  are  necessarily  complex  mixtures  in  different 
roportions  of  all  the  above  seven  qualities.  The  field 
or  the  novelist  is  immense,  the  demand  is  great,  the 
rizes  are  immediate  and  rich.  Few  novels  reach  the 
igher  planes  of  literary  art.  Unfortunately  there  is 
very  inducement  for  flashy  and  crude  work.  No 
Bonder  novelists  feel  that  the  sooner  they  rush  into 
rint  the  better,  for  the  poorest  and  hastiest  work 
ften  brings  in  most  money ;  and  if  they  have  a  good 
lea,  ten  to  one  it  will  occur  to  somebody  else  who 
wields  the  pen  of  the  ready  writer  and  appear  before 
le  month  is  up.  Much  trash  is  published,  that  we 
11  know.  Among  the  twelve  novels  considered  above, 

uch  trash  is  distributed.  Yet,  perhaps,  without  the 
ash  no  general  interest  will  awake ;  without  the 

terest  of  the  general,  no  keen  competition  will  set 

between  publishers ;  and  without  keen  competition 

)  great  novels  of  the  future  will  be  forthcoming, 
leantime,  with  so  many  practiced  and  conscientious 

orkmen  and  workwomen  on  hand,  I  for  one  do  not 
espair  of  the  republic  of  letters.  Novels  are  not 
pics,  but  they  are  the  books  that  are  read  to-day.  The 
ublic  has  a  right  to  demand  that  they  shall  contain 

e  best  the  writer  can  afford ;  and  people  should  feel 

dividually  bound  to  encourage  those  novelists  who 
:em  to  aim  for  and  reach  the  highest  standard  of  liter- 

y  art  by  the  simplest,  most  obvious    course — by 

irchasing  their  books. 

Alfred  Arden. 


"The  Temperance  Outlook.' 


JDITOR  OF  THE  CENTURY: 

i  Sir :  The  article  with  the  above  title,  under  "Topics 
f  the  Time,"  in  the  September  number  of  your  mag- 
iine,  calls  for  something  to  be  said  upon  the  other 
lie ;  and  presuming  upon  the  spirit  of  fairness  which 
is  always  characterized  THE  CENTURY  and  its  pred- 
jessor,  I  shall  ask  to  be  heard  in  opposition  to  your 
ews. 

It  is  conceded  that  there  is  considerable  force  in 
ur  first  objection  to  constitutional  prohibition ;  yet 
at  kind  of  legislation  is  justified  by  precedent, 
lere  is  probably  no  State  constitution  which  does  not 
ntain  more  or  fewer  of  such  "  specific  applications 
1  principle";  and  though  it  seems  more  appropriate 
lhave  laws  enacted  by  the  Legislature,  composed  of 
je  representatives  of  the  people,  yet  if  the  people,  in 
pr  capacity  as  the  primary  source  of  all  political 
jwer,  see  fit  to  indulge  in  legislation,  they  are  per- 
ptly  competent  to  do  so ;  and  perhaps  it  is  not  un- 
lasonable  for  them  to  do  this  where  the  object,  as  in 
lis  case,  is  to  make  the  legislation  more  permanent, 
id  not  subject  to  repeal  by  a  temporary  change  in 


public  sentiment  or  by  the  accidents  arising  from 
exciting  partisan  contests. 

Your  second  objection  rests  upon  assumptions 
which  are  unsound,  or  upon  asserted  facts  which  are 
not  facts.  You  say,  "  This  movement  makes  no  dis- 
tinction between  things  that  differ.  Fermented  wine 
differs  as  widely  from  distilled  rum  or  whisky  as  coffee 
differs  from  opium,  and  yet  this  prohibitory  movement 
ties  them  up  in  the  same  bundle  and  puts  one  label  on 
the  whole  !  Human  reason  revolts  at  such  arbitrary 
dealing."  I  think  it  will  be  found,  on  investigation, 
that  the  human  reason  which  revolts  at  this  dealing 
is  the  reason  belonging  to  a  class  of  persons  who  have 
been  educated  to  use  fermented  wine,  and  to  think  the 
use  of  rum  and  whisky  vulgar.  Fermented  wine  does 
not  differ  from  distilled  rum  and  whisky  as  coffee 
differs  from  opium.  The  difference  between  fer- 
mented and  distilled  liquors  is  a  difference  in  degree 
only,  and  not  in  character  or  quality.  The  active 
element  in  all  of  them  is  alcohol ;  and  if  that  were 
eliminated  from  them,  no  one  would  drink  either. 
The  alcohol  in  the  fermented  wine  is  the  same  as  that 
in  the  brandy  distilled  from  it.  The  latter  contains 
four  or  five  times  the  amount  of  alcohol  which  the 
wine  did  before  the  distillation, — that  process  having 
merely  removed  a  large  portion  of  the  water  which 
the  wine  contained ;  and  the  difference  between  them 
is  the  same  as  the  difference  between  the  punch  which 
the  novice  in  tippling  delights  in  and  the  "whisky 
straight"  which  the  old  toper  swallows  with  equal 
satisfaction.  Both  are  drinking  diluted  alcohol, —  the 
one  drink  simply  containing  a  larger  amount  of  nature's 
own  beverage  than  the  other. 

Perhaps  some  "  men  will  not  believe  that  a  glass  of 
wine  at  the  dinner-table  and  a  glass  of  whisky  at  the 
bar  are  the  same  thing";  but  they  nevertheless  pro- 
duce the  same  effect ;  and  the  only  difference  worth 
noting  is  that  the  latter  is  regarded  in  polite  society  as 
more  vulgar.  Both  produce  intoxication,  and  both 
are  damaging  to  the  drinker.  It  may  be  less  dis- 
graceful to  eat  one's  opium  at  home  than  to  take  it  in 
a  pipe  at  Ah  Ching's  den ;  but  the  result  to  the 
individual  who  uses  it  will  be  no  worse  (physically, 
at  least)  in  the  latter  than  in  the  former.  It  will 
require  a  few  more  glasses  of  wine  or  beer  at  the 
dinner-table  to  intoxicate  the  drinker,  but  it  will 
accomplish  that  result  just  as  effectually  as  the 
whisky  that  is  dispensed  at  the  bucket-shop  on  the 
corner.  And  as  for  a  glass  of  wine  being  the  begin- 
ning of  drunkenness,  the  experience  of  mankind  for  a 
thousand  years  and  more  has  demonstrated  the  sound- 
ness of  the  theory;  and  although  some  men  have 
heard  this  declaration  with  disgust,  and  have  sneered 
at  the  fanatics  who  have  urged  it,  yet  a  large  portion 
of  these  same  men,  in  their  subsequent  years,  proved 
the  correctness  of  the  unsavory  assertion.  It  is  sel- 
dom, indeed,  that  men  learn  to  be  drunkards  by 
drinking  whisky,  brandy,  or  any  other  distilled 
liquors,  which  usually  contain  fifty  per  cent,  or  more 
of  pure  alcohol,  and  never  without  diluting  these 
liquors  till  the  drink  contains  as  small  a  percentage 
of  alcohol  as  champagne.  They  commence  with  the 
lighter  beverages  or  fermented  liquors,— beer,  cider, 
and  wine ;  and  in  the  use  of  these  they  can  and 
do  become  as  grossly  intoxicated  as  they  afterward 
do  upon  the  stronger  drinks.  Alcohol  creates  and 


3i6 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


strengthens  a  thirst  for  itself,  and  that  thirst  grows 
constantly,  so  that  it  is  continually  demanding  a 
larger  amount  for  its  satisfaction.  Thus,  drunken- 
ness grows  from  a  glass  of  wine ;  and  even  so  long 
ago  as  the  days  of  the  deluge,  the  drunken  Noah 
would  undoubtedly  have  resorted  to  whisky,  had  there 
been  a  distillery  or  licensed  grog-shop  convenient  to 
Mount  Ararat.  If  some  people  have  heard,  ad  naii- 
seam,  the  assertion  that  wine  is  often  the  beginning 
of  drunkenness,  they  are  like  the  members  of  the 
human  family  generally,  who  thus  listen  to  unwel- 
come truths. 

You  speak  of  the  impropriety  of  "  classing  the  fer- 
mented juice  of  the  grape  from  nature's  own  process 
with  the  results  of  the  manufacture  through  man's 
alembics."  Fermentation  is,  of  course,  nature's  own 
process,  and  so  is  distillation.  But  left  alone,  without 
the  aid  of  man,  nature  produces  no  alcohol ;  at  least, 
none  in  any  appreciable  quantity.  Wine  and  whisky 
are  alike  the  products  of  man's  skill  and  labor,  using 
nature's  own  processes  in  their  manufacture.  But  it 
does  not  follow  that  wine  and  beer  are  innocuous, 
even  if  they  are  produced  by  nature's  own  process, 
and  without  the  aid  of  man;  nor  that  rum  and  whisky 
are  necessarily  poisonous,  because  they  "  are  the  re- 
sults of  the  manufacture  through  man's  alembics." 
The  deadly  nightshade  is  "  the  result  of  nature's  own 
process,"  but  it  is  as  destructive  of  animal  life  as  are 
any  of  the  products  of  man's  manufacture.  It  is  im- 
possible to  make  a  "  discrimination  between  alcoholic 
liquors  that  are  hurtful  and  those  that  are  (in  moder- 
ate use)  healthful,"  because  none  are  healthful.  The 
alcohol  which  you  abominate  in  whisky  and  gin  is 
the  same  alcohol  which  the  total-abstinence  people 
abominate  in  wine  and  beer  also. 

The  total  abstainers  occupy  a  position  where  they 
cannot  be  affected  by  the  cry  of  fanaticism ;  for  the 
total-abstinence  principle  or  theory  rests  mainly  upon 
the  fact,  now  fully  demonstrated  by  science  and  con- 
firmed by  experience,  that  alcohol  is  a  poison.  This 
being  so,  it  cannot  form  an  important  element  in  a 
healthful  beverage ;  and  its  use  as  a  beverage  must  be 
injurious  and  destructive  to  health  and  life,  at  least 
when  used  in  a  quantity  sufficient  to  produce  an  effect 
which  may  be  either  seen  or  felt.  The  experience  of 
humanity  for  many  generations  proves  that  such  is 
the  effect  of  its  use.  But  because  we  and  our 
fathers,  for  hundreds  of  years,  have  been  educated 
with  the  idea  that  this  fiery  liquid  is  not  only  not 
poisonous,  but,  used  in  a  certain  way,  is  healthful, 
nutritious,  and  a  conservator  of  life, —  an  aqua  vitce, — 
we  find  it  difficult  to  rid  ourselves  of  this  notion,  and 
to  learn  how  deadly  and  dangerous  an  agent  it  is. 
And  many  have  not  only  had  this  error  firmly  rooted 
in  their  minds,  but  have  also  learned  to  love  these 
fermented  liquids  so  much  that  that  love  warps  their 
judgment ;  and  seeing  the  community  laid  waste  by 
intemperance,  and  unwilling  to  admit  that  their  favorite 
beverages  have  helped  to  produce  the  drunkenness 
that  stirs  us  to  action,  they  make  their  war  against  the 
distilled  liquors,  and  thereby 

"  Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to." 

The  total-abstinence  people  being  in  the  right,  fidel- 
ity to  truth  and  to  their  convictions  compels  them  to 


pursue  the  course  which  you  condemn.  To  do  othej 
wise  would  be  to  stultify  themselves  and  justly  subje<; 
them  to  the  charge  of  pandering  to  falsehood,  whi) 
professing  a  desire  to  suppress  it.  Knowing  thsj 
alcohol  is  a  poison,  they  must  of  necessity  denouml 
its  use,  whether  it  is  mingled  with  twice  or  six  time! 
its  weight  of  water.  And  they  must  be  allowed  i 
differ  with  you  in  opinion  as  to  the  character  of  fljj 
legislation  which  they  have  defeated.  They  hav 
never  opposed  the  enactment  of  any  laws  "  exact : 
suited  to  diminish  the  curse  and  destroy  the  politic! 
power  of  the  rum  interest";  but  they  have  oppose- 
and  will  continue  to  oppose,  the  enactment  of  lav 
which  are  claimed  to  be  in  the  interest  of  temperanc 
but  which  in  reality  are  well  calculated  to  strengthen 
the  interests  of  the  rum  power. 

Walter  Farrington.  \ 

Hurricane  Reform. 

THE  nostrum  of  constitutional  prohibition  of  tr<j 
liquor  traffic,  which  is  now  pressed  in  many  quarteii 
as  the  panacea  for  the  evils  of  intemperance,  is  a  do.H 
that  should  be  well  shaken  before  taken.  Prohibitidj 
is  one  thing,  and  it  may,  in  certain  states  of  societ1' 
be  a  very  good  thing.  But  constitutional  prohibition 
is  quite  another  thing;  and  there  are  those  who  migM 
under  certain  circumstances  favor  prohibition,  M 
who  would  never,  under  any  circumstances,  conser 
to  introduce  prohibitory  legislation  into  the  organ*] 
law  of  the  State.  Such  an  attempt  to  forestall  publl 
sentiment,  and  to  prevent  the  free  expression  of  tfl 
popular  will  in  legislation,  ought  not  to  be  made  ar»] 
is  not  likely  to  succeed. 

There  are  quite  a  number  of  methods  of  dealing  H 
law  with  the  evils  of  intemperance.    No  one  of  then 
methods  will  be  found  practicable  in  every  comm»*j 
nity ;  much  depends  on  the  sentiments  and  the  habi  < 
of  the  community.    The  people  ought  to  be  free   '] 
adopt  those   measures   which   seem   to  be   the   be 
adapted  to  their  condition,  and  there  ought  to  be  r\ 
obstruction  m  the  way  of  their  changing  a  metWj 
which  has   proved  ineffectual  for  one   that  promis«'J 
better  results.    If  they  come  to  the  conclusion  th 
prohibition  is  the  best  method,  they  ought  to  be  fr«]| 
to  try  it,  and  there  should  be  nothing  in  their  cons; 
tution  to  forbid  the  experiment.    If  they  think  that^ 
combination  of  high  license  or  stringent  taxation  wi 
local  option  would  be  more  effectual,  they  should  nl 
be  debarred  from  trying  that.    But   this    scheme  «"nj 
constitutional  prohibition  shuts  the  Legislature  up 
one  method.    It  is  prohibition  or  nothing.    So  long  :• 
the  Legislature  is  continuously  and  heartily  favorab'1 
to  prohibition,  we  shall  have  prohibition ;  whenever. 
Legislature  that  does  not  favor  prohibition  shall  a  til 
semble,   the    prohibitory  law   will    be    repealed,  $ 
amended  so  that  it  will  have  no  force,  and  then  ?a 
shall  have  free  liquor.    One  runs  no  risk  in  sayirj] 
that  there  are  but  few  States  in  this  Union  in  whif jj 
the  Legislature  will  be  continuously  and  heartily  | 
favor  of  prohibition.    In  States  where  the  public  sen 
ment  tends  so  strongly  in  this  direction  that  su 
Legislature  could  be  kept  in  power,  there  is  no 
of  any  constitutional  provision.    The    only  Sta 
which   prohibition    has    been    successful    is    ]V 
whose  constitution  has  until  the  last  winter  been 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


i  the  subject.  In  those  States  where  the  public 
ntiment  cannot  be  relied  on  to  send  back  a  prohibi- 
ry  Legislature  term  after  term,  the  evil  would  remain, 
uch  of  the  time,  wholly  free  from  legal  restraint,  in 
>ite  of  the  constitutional  provision. 
In  Ohio,  after  a  long  era  of  free  rum, —  the  natural 
uit  of  a  constitutional  provision  forbidding  license, — 
e  have  at  last  succeeded  in  securing  a  tax  law,  with 
local-option  section  by  which  municipalities  are  em- 
wered  to  prohibit  the  sale  of  liquor  within  their 
mits.  The  law  seems  to  be  based  on  a  sound  princi- 
e, —  that  of  laying  a  special  burden  upon  a  business 
bich  is  confessedly  detrimental  to  the  public  welfare, 
-and  there  is  no  difficulty  in  enforcing  it.  It  is  com- 
piling the  liquor-sellers  to  contribute  nearly  two 
illions  of  dollars  a  year  as  a  special  tax  to  the  treas- 
y  of  the  State.  Doubtless  this  law  can  be  improved, 
ic  tax  ought  to  be  heavier  than  it  is,  and  it  can  be 

I  ade  heavier  year  by  year.  The  privilege  of  local 
tion  ought  to  be  extended  to  counties  as  well  as  to 
unicipal  corporations  —  the  township  in  this  State 
ing  a  somewhat  incoherent  political  division.  With 
•me  such  modifications,  this  law  would  probably  prove 
lout  as  effectual  in  restraining  the  evils  of  drunken- 
ess  as  any  law  that  we  are  likely  to  secure  at  present, 
it  a  strenuous  effort  is  now  making  to  pass  a  pro- 
aitory  amendment  to  the  constitution.  Under  this 
lendment,  the  present  law  would,  of  course,  be  null 
d  void.  Whether  anything  would  be  gained  by  this 
ange  may  well  be  doubted.  The  present  law  does 
t  suppress  all  the  evils  of  intemperance,  but  it  does 
ksen  them  somewhat ;  it  has  closed  a  large  number 
|  the  worst  groggeries  in  the  State,  it  has  imposed  a 
lavy  fine  upon  the  liquor  business,  and  it  is  certain 
it  it  can  be  enforced  in  all  parts  of  the  State. 
Could  a  prohibitory  law  be  thus  enforced  ?  I  have 
quently  put  this  question  to  my  prohibitory  friends, 
d  they  all,  with  one  accord,  confess  that  it  could  tiot. 
}  the  smaller  communities  it  could  be  executed,  they 
y ;  but  not  in  Cincinnati,  nor  in  Cleveland,  nor  in 
('lumbus,  nor  in  Toledo,  nor  in  any  other  of  a  dozen 
ties  or  large  towns  that  could  be  named  —  of  course, 
it  at  present.  "  But,"  they  say,  "  we  are  going  to 
^rk  up  a  public  sentiment  that  will  enforce  it  by  and 
"  I  confess  that  this  seems  to  me  a  curious  pro- 
i^ding.  It  is  proposed  to  enact  a  law  which  is  sure 
ijbe  trampled  under  foot  by  a  good  half  of  the  popu- 
l^on,  and  then,  after  enacting  it,  and  while  it  is  being 
ijcked  at  and  dishonored,  to  proceed  to  create  the  pub- 
1;  sentiment  which  shall  make  it  effective  !  The  child 
Ace,  in  Mr.  Carroll's  fairytale,  found  something  like 

.  t'p  in  Looking-glass  Land,  but  I  never  heard  before  of 
flying  such  principles  to  problems  of  statesmanship. 
jvVhat  the  success  of  this  attempt  to  introduce  pro- 
tyition  into  the  constitution  of  Ohio  may  be,  I  wijl 
it  try  to  predict ;  before  these  words  arc  in  print  the 
r|ult  will  be  known.  But  inasmuch  as  the  same  effort 
•nuking  in  other  States,  it  may  be  well  to  consider 
t|  consequences  of  such  a  provision.  These  amend- 
nints  all  forbid  the  manufacture  and  sale  as  a  bever- 
a|  of  all  alcoholic  liquors.  The  execution  of  a  law 
qed  on  this  amendment  would  be  a  difficult  under- 
tyng.  So  far  as  the  retailing  of  liquor  in  saloons  is 
cjcerned,  the  problem  is  simple ;  the  phrase  "  as  a 
Pierage  "  is  easily  applied  to  this  part  of  the  busi- 
es. But  how  could  it  be  determined  whether  the 


manufacturer  was  manufacturing  it  to  be  used  "  as  a 
beverage  "  or  for  use  in  the  arts  ?  Beer,  of  course,  is 
used  almost  exclusively  as  a  beverage,  and  the  brewer 
could  not  shield  his  business  against  the  prohibition. 
If  the  law  were  enforced  the  breweries  would  be  closed. 
But  the  distillers  could  claim  that  they  were  manu- 
facturing liquor  not  to  be  used  as  a  beverage,  but  for 
other  purposes ;  that  they  were  selling  it  to  the  whole- 
sale dealers  with  the  understanding  that  it  should  be 
used  for  other  purposes ;  and  I  am  unable  to  see 
how  the  law  could  be  successfully  enforced  against 
them.  In  this  case  the  distilleries  would  all  be  run- 
ning, and  the  breweries  all  closed ;  we  should  have  an 
abundant  supply  of  the  stronger  intoxicants,  and  a 
small  supply  of  the  lighter  beverages;  it  would  be 
difficult  to  get  lager-beer  and  easy  to  get  whisky. 
Perhaps  the  history  of  Scotland  would  then  be  re- 
peated in  our  country.  The  date  I  am  not  able  to 
mention;  but  students  of  history  will  recall  the  legisla- 
tion which  forbade  or  sharply  restricted  the  manufact- 
ure of  ale  in  Scotland,  with  the  purpose  of  giving  a 
monopoly  of  the  business  to  the  English  brewers. 
The  Scotch  in  anger  forsook  their  ale  and  drank 
whisky  instead,  and  the  result  was  a  swift  and  terrible 
increase  of  drunkenness.  The  excise  returns  of  Great 
Britain  to-day  show  that  the  average  Englishman  con- 
sumes nearly  three  times  as  much  malt  every  year  as 
the  average  Scotchman,  and  only  one-third  as  much 
spirits.  Scotland,  as  its  best  men  sorrowfully  confess, 
is  one  of  the  most  intemperate  countries  in  the  world, 
and  this  sad  result  is  partly  due  to  the  selfish  and 
mischievous  legislation  to  which  I  have  referred. 

There  are  a  good  many  among  us  to  whom  a  sharp 
reduction  in  the  supply  of  both  the  stronger  and  the 
milder  kinds  of  intoxicants  would  cause  no  inconven- 
ience or  regret ;  but  even  to  us  there  appears  to  be  a 
choice  between  evils ;  and  we  should  be  sorry  to  see 
whisky  taking  the  place  of  beer  as  the  popular  bever- 
age. Legislation  having  that  tendency  would  certainly 
be  ill-advised. 

I  find  another  serious  difficulty  with  this  prohibitory 
amendment.  If  it  should  accomplish  the  purpose  of 
its  authors,  it  would,  of  course,  destroy  the  larger  part 
of  the  capital  now  invested  in  the  manufacture  of  spir- 
ituous and  fermented  liquors.  Now  I  confess  that  I 
never  look  with  enthusiasm  on  a  big  distillery  or  a  big 
brewery.  It  is  not  a  kind  of  business  in  which  I  should 
engage.  I  would  starve  first.  It  is  a  wonder  to  me 
that  kind-hearted  and  otherwise  reputable  men  (for 
there  are  such)  should  be  willing,  in  view  of  the  evils 
that  flow  from  it,  to  get  their  living  by  it.  Neverthe- 
less, these  men  have  embarked  all  their  capital  in  the 
business,  and  it  seems  to  me  a  harsh  and  inequitable 
procedure  to  sweep  their  property  out  of  existence 
by  an  act  of  the  Legislature.  Even  these  men  have  some 
rights,  and  the  State  cannot  afford  to  ignore  them. 

I  have  been  reading  an  admirable  speech  lately 
delivered  by  the  Hon.  John  Bright,  at  the  opening  of 
a  coffee  house  in  Birmingham.  Mr.  Bright  has  long 
been  a  total  abstainer;  he  believes  himself  to  be  a 
thorough-going  temperance  man;  but  he  protests 
with  vigor  against  such  sweeping  measures.  "  I  am 
against  dealing,"  he  says,  "  with  a  question  of  this 
nature,  affecting  the  interests  of  so  many  people,  by 
what  you  may  call  a  hurricane.  That  is  fit  only  for 
times  of  revolution.  I  should  like  to  deal  with  it  in  a 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


more  just,  and  what  I  call  more  statesmanlike  manner, 
according  to  the  legislation  that  becomes  an  intelligent 
people  in  a  tranquil  time."  Mr.  Bright  contends  that, 
"  if  a  trade  in  the  country  is  permitted  by  law,  that 
trade  has  a  right  to  be  defended  by  law."  The  liquor 
trade  has  been  permitted,  and  is  now  permitted,  and 
"  it  has  a  right  to  demand  that  it  should  not  be  sub- 
jected to  violent  and  hasty  legislation."  The  simple 
justice  of  this  sentiment  ought  to  be  apparent  to  all  fair- 
minded  men.  If  for  a  long  period  of  time  men  have 
been  allowed,  without  censure  of  the  law,  to  invest 
their  capital  in  any  kind  of  property,  that  property 
should  not  be  extinguished  by  law  without  giving 
them  some  compensation.  At  any  rate,  some  time 
ought  to  be  given  them  to  dispose  of  it,  or  turn  it  to 
other  uses.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the  people  may 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  trade  long  permitted 
and  protected  by  law  is  contrary  to  public  morals 
or  public  policy,  and  may  resolve  upon  extinguish- 
ing it,  but  the  interests  of  the  men  engaged  in  it 
ought  to  be  fairly  considered.  Slavery  was  a  great 
wrong,  and  ought  to  have  been  abolished ;  but  it  would 
not  have  been  right  to  abolish  slavery  in  a  time  of 
peace  by  an  act  of  Congress,  without  providing  com- 
pensation to  the  owners  of  the  slaves.  It  might  justly 
be  enacted,  as  in  New  York,  that  all  persons  born 
after  a  certain  day  should  be  free.  The  liquor  busi- 
ness should  be  dealt  with  in  some  such  manner.  It  could 
be  restricted  more  summarily,  no  doubt ;  but  some 
regard  should  certainly  be  paid  to  the  property  rights 
of  the  men  who  are  engaged  in  it. 

I  am  perfectly  well  aware  of  the  answer  that  will 
be  made  to  these  suggestions.  It  will  be  said  that  the 
writer  is  undoubtedly  a  wine-bibber,  probably  a  "rum- 
my," and  possibly  in  the  pay  of  a  Liquor  Dealers' 
League.  What  will  be  charged  upon  Mr.  Bright,  I 
forbear  to  predict.  But  it  is  easy  to  anticipate  the  recep- 
tion which  awaits  all  moderate  counsels  in  the  camp  of 
the  professional  temperance  reformers.  I  see  that  THE 
CENTURY  has  been  suffering  this  sort  of  violence,  and 
am  reminded  of  the  treatment  Dr.  Holland  received 
in  his  day  from  the  same  hands.  The  following  brief 
paragraph  on  the  temperance  question,  quoted  from  one 
of  his  "  Topics,"  is  particularly  timely  at  this  moment : 

"  It  would  be  impossible  for  any  set  of  men  to 
manifest  greater  bigotry  and  intolerance  toward  all 
who  have  seen  fit  to  differ  with  them  on  moral  and 
legal  measures,  than  have  characterized  those  zealous 
and  thoroughly  well-meaning  reformers  who,  through 
various  organizations,  have  assumed  the  custody  and 
management  of  this  question.  Editors  who  have  un- 
dertaken to  discuss  the  question  independently — as 
they  are  in  the  habit  of  discussing  all  public  questions 
— have  been  snubbed  and  maligned  until  they  have 
dropped  it  in  disgust,  and  turned  the  whole  matter 
over  to  those  who  have  doubted  or  denounced  them." 

This  extract  will  show  that  Dr.  Holland,  though 
dead,  yet  speaketh  in  a  way  that  should  cause  a 
tingling  in  the  ears  of  a  large  number  of  temperance 
reformers. 

Washington  Gladden. 

More  About  "  Law-and-Order  Leagues." 

I  HAVE  read  with  pleasure  the  editorial  in  the 
October  number  of  THE  CENTURY  on  "  Law-and- 
Order  Leagues,"  and  also  E.  V«  Smalley's  letter  on 


the  enforcement  of  law.  Your  article  probably  an- 
swered his  questions,  but  permit  me  to  add  a  word 
of  information,  through  your  columns,  with  reference 
to  the  work  that  is  being  done  in  this  direction. 
especially  in  the  State  of  Illinois  and  in  the  city  of 
Chicago.  At  the  present  time  Law-and-Order  League; 
are  being  organized  all  over  the  country,  and  on  the 
22d  of  February  last  a  delegate  convention  was  helc 
in  Boston,  which  resulted  in  the  organization  of  j 
National  Citizens'  Law-and-Order  League.  This 
League  is  now  ready  to  assist  any  community  ir 
organizing  an  auxiliary  association.  I  shall  be  happj 
to  furnish  any  information  upon  this  subject  tha 
may  be  desired.  The  practicability  of  the  sugges 
tions  made  by  Mr.  Smalley  has  been  fully  demon 
strated.  To  illustrate:  We  have  had  in  Illinois  fo: 
ten  years  a  law  that  any  person  who  shall  sell  or  giv< 
liquor  to  a  minor  (without  orders  from  his  parents 
guardian,  or  physician)  or  to  a  drunkard  shall  be  subjec 
to  a  fine  or  imprisonment.  No  effort  was  made  t( 
enforce  this  law  until  1877,  when  a  Citizens'  Leagui 
was  organized  in  Chicago  with  the  specific  purpose  o 
enforcing  the  law  in  relation  to  minors.  In  two  year 
the  law  was  so  well  enforced  that  the  police  report 
show  a  decrease  of  one-third  in  the  arrests  of  minor 
as  compared  with  the  arrests  in  the  two  years  previou 
to  the  organization  of  the  League.  In  other  words 
the  actual  number  of  criminals  among  boys  and  girl 
was  decreased  one-third.  The  law  with  regard  t< 
both  minors  and  drunkards  is  now  enforced,  and  ou 
three  agents  who  devote  all  their  time  to  the  won 
report  the  arrest  and  prosecution  of  an  average  o 
eighty-five  saloon-keepers  every  month,  and  the  con 
viction  of  more  than  two-thirds  this  number. 

We  have  about  four  thousand  saloons  in  Chicago 
Many  of  them  are  notoriously  vicious  places,  and  thei 
proprietors  do  not  scruple  to  further  their  own  inter 
ests  "whether  in  accordance  with  law  or  not.  But  s 
strong  has  our  Citizens'  League  grown  in  the  esteer 
of  the  public,  that  the  Saloon-keepers'  Organizatio  i 
has  incorporated  a  clause  in  the  constitution  of  it 
society  to  the  effect  that  no  one  who  sells  liquor  to 
minor  or  a  drunkard,  knowingly,  shall  be  eligible  t 
membership  in  this  society.  It  is  now  not  infrequer 
for  saloon-keepers  to  inform  the  League  of  othe 
saloon-keepers  who  are  violating  the  law. 

If  such  an  organization  can  live  and  do  good  in  thi 
city,  in  which  the  government  is  almost  entirely  cor 
trolled  by  the  liquor  interest,  it  certainly  ought  to  liv 
and  do  much  more  good  in  cities  less  under  the  cor 
trol  of  the  saloon  element. 

Through  the  efforts  of  the  Chicago  League,  a  bi 
was  passed  at  the  last  Legislature,  increasing  the  saloo 
license  from  $52  to  $500  (license  to  sell  beer  onh 
$150).  This  law  is  now  being  vigorously  enforcec 

Yours  truly,  J.  C.  Sha/er, 

Sec.  National  Law-and-Order  League 
126  WASHINGTON  ST.  CHICAGO. 

A   Word   about   Christmas. 

WHEN  what  was  designed  to  be  a  pleasure  become 
a  burden,  it  is  time  to  stop  and  examine  it  carefu  lv 
and  see  if  it  is  the  thing  itself  which  has  grown  to  t 
such  a  weight,  or  whether  it  is  simply  an  awkw-i 
manner  of  carrying  it.  Certainly  there  must 


it  be  SOIK 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


ing  wrong  in  any  celebration  of  Christmas  which 
suits  in  serious  fatigue  of  mind  and  body.  During 
e  first  three  months  of  the  year,  nothing  is  more 
mmonly  given  as  a  reason  for  ill  health  than 
overstrain  during  the  holidays.  "  She  got  so 
orn  out  at  Christmas,"  or  "  She  worked  too  hard 

finishing  her  Christmas  presents,"  or  "  The  week 
fore  Christmas  she  was  tired  ouf  with  shopping," 
e  excuses  which  appear  as  surely  as  January  and 
ebruary  come.  The  question  must  occur  sometimes 

every  one,  whether  all   this  worry  and   wear   of 

eart  and  hand  and  brain  are  really  worth  while.    Is 

ere  not  some  better  way  of  celebrating  this  day  of 

ys  than  for  women  to  wear  themselves  out  in  making 

buying  pretty  trifles  for  people  who  already  have 
ore  than  they  can  find  room  for  ?  Setting  aside  all 
brt  of  eyes  and  fingers,  the  mental  strain  is  intense, 
erely  to  devise  presents  for  a  dozen  or  more  people, 
hich  must  be  appropriate  and  acceptable,  and  which 
ey  do  not  already  possess,  and  which  no  one  else  is 
.ely  to  hit  upon,  is  enough  to  wear  upon  the  strong- 
t  brain ;  and  when  one's  means  are  not  unlimited, 
d  the  question  of  economy  must  come  in,  the  mat- 
r  is  still  more  complicated.  The  agony  of  indecision, 
e  weighing  of  rival  merits  in  this  and  that,  the  dis- 
ss  when  the  article  which  is  finally  decided  upon 
>es  not  seem  as  fascinating  as  one  had  hoped,  the 
dless  round  of  shopping,  the  packing  to  send  to  dis- 
nt  friends,  the  frantic  effort  to  finish  at  the  last  mo- 
snt  something  which  ought  to  have  been  done  long 
o,  result  in  a  relapse  when  all  is  over  into  a  com- 
;te  weariness  of  mind  and  body  which  unfits  one 

either  giving  or  receiving  pleasure.    Now,  when 

this  is  looked  at  soberly,  does  it  pay?  It  is  a  re- 
irkable  fact  that,  although  Christmas  has  been  kept 

the  twenty-fifth  day  of  December  for  more  than  a 
msand  years,  its  arrival  seems  as  unexpected  as 
it  had  been  appointed  by  the  President.  No  one  is 

dy  for  it,  although  last  year  every  one  resolved  to 
|  so,  and  about  the  middle  of  December  there  begins 


a  rush  and  hurry  which  is  really  more  wearing  than 
a  May  moving. 

It  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the  fierce  activity  of  our 
time  and  country  that  even  our.pleasures  must  be  en- 
joyed at  high  pressure.  While  it  is  almost  impossible, 
in  matters  of  business,  to  act  upon  the  kindly  sugges- 
tions of  intelligent  critics  that  we  should  take  things 
more  leisurely,  surely,  in  matters  of  enjoyment,  we 
might  make  an  effort  to  be  less  overworked.  Cannot 
the  keeping  of  Christmas,  for  example,  be  made  to 
consist  in  other  things  than  gifts  ?  Let  the  giving  be 
for  the  children  and  those  to  whom  our  gifts  are  real 
necessities.  As  a  people,  we  are  very  negligent  in 
the  matter  of  keeping  birthdays.  If  these  festivals 
were  made  more  of  in  the  family,  especially  among 
the  elder  members,  we  should  not  find  that  we  were 
losing  the  blessedness  of  giving  and  the  happiness  of 
receiving,  even  if  we  did  omit  presents  at  Christmas 
time.  In  many  large  families  a  mutual  understanding 
that  the  Christmas  gifts  were  all  to  be  for  the  children 
would  be  an  immense  relief,  although,  perhaps,  no 
one  would  be  quite  willing  to  acknowledge  it.  Some- 
times a  large  circle  of  brothers  and  sisters  can  unite 
in  a  gift,  in  that  way  making  it  possible  to  give  some- 
thing of  more  value,  and  at  the  same  time  to  lessen 
the  difficult  task  of  selection. 

Above  all  things,  if  you  give  presents,  be  more 
anxious  to  give  something  which  "  supplies  a  want  " 
than  to  send  some  pretty  trifle  which  can  only  prove 
in  the  end  an  additional  care.  A  little  forethought 
and  friendly  putting  of  yourself  in  another's  place 
will  make  this  possible.  In  the  great  world  of 
books  something  can  be  found  to  suit  every  taste. 
Flowers  are  always  a  graceful  gift,  and  can  never  be- 
come burdensome  by  lasting  after  one  has  grown  tired 
of  them.  There  are  numberless  other  things  which 
can  be  procured,  without  a  wear  and  tear  of  mind  and 
body  which  make  the  recipient  feel  as  David  did  of 
the  water  from  the  well  of  Bethlehem,  that  what  cost 
so  much  was  too  valuable  to  be  accepted. 

Susan  Anna  Brown. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


The    Fool. 

From  Ivan  Tourgueneff's  "Poems  in  Prose." 


[THERE  lived  a  fool  in  the  world.  For  a  long  time 
If  remained  content  and  happy ;  but  slowly  rumors 
i|.ched  him  that  everywhere  he  was  held  to  be  a 
liiinless  idiot. 

prieved  was  the  fool,  and  began  to  think  how  he 
cjild  stop  these  slanders.  A  sudden  idea  lightened 
\  poor,  darkened  brain,  and  without  delay  he  began 
tjexecute  it. 

ne  met  an  acquaintance  on  the  street,  who  praised 
Hhly  a  renowned  painter. 

I*  Mercy  !  "  exclaimed  the  fool,  "  this  painter  is  al- 
rist  forgotten.  You  do  not  know  that  ?  I  did  not  ex- 
F-t  to  find  you  so  naif.  You  are  behind  the  time  !  " 

pis  acquaintance  blushed,  and  hurriedly  agreed 
Mh  the  fool. 


"  What  a  beautiful  book  I  read  to-day !  "  another 
acquaintance  said  to  him. 

"  Beg  pardon  !  are  you  not  ashamed?  This  book  is 
good  for  nothing ;  all  have  long  ago  abandoned  it." 

And  this  acquaintance  also  made  haste  to  quickly 
agree  with  the  fool. 

"  What  a  marvelous  man  is  my  friend,  N.  N. !  "  said 
a  third  acquaintance  to  the  fool. 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  the  fool,  "  N.  N.  is  known  to 
be  a  scoundrel !  to  have  robbed  all  his  relatives  !  Who 
does  not  know  that  ?  I  pity  you  !  " 

The  third  acquaintance  did  as  the  others,  and  forgot 
his  friend.  Whomsoever  or  whatsoever  was  praised 
in  the  presence  of  the  fool,  he  made  always  a  similar 
reply,  adding  sometimes  the  refrain,  "  And  you  believe 
yet  in  authorities  ?  " 

"  Malicious,  captious  man ! "  began  the  fool's  ac- 
quaintances to  say  of  him,  "  but  what  a  head  !  "  "  And 


320 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


what  a  tongue  !  "  added  others.  "Ah  !  he  is  a  man  of 
talent !  " 

It  ended  in  a  publisher's  asking  the  fool  to  control 
the  critical  section  of  \jis  paper ;  and  he  began  to  be- 
guile everybody,  without  changing  his  expressions  or 
exclamations. 

And  now  he  who  inveighed  so  much  against  author- 
ities is  himself  an  authority,  and  the  youth  worship 
and  fear  him.  And  what  are  the  poor  youth  to  do  ?  If 
even  it  is  not  proper,  generally  speaking,  to  worship, 
fail  to  do  it  here  and  you  will  be  pronounced  stupid. 
Fools  can  make  their  way  among  cowards  ! 

Translated  by  Borys  F.   Gorow. 

Song  of  the  "  New  Grounds." 

'WAY  down  in  de   slashes  whar  de  cypus    grow  so 
tall, 

Oh,  de    pine-tree    got  to   come  down  an'  de   black- 
gum  got  to  fall; 

Don't  you    hear    dem  axes   holler  ?   don't  you    hear 

dem  niggers  call, — 
'Way  down  whar  de  cypus  grow  so  tall? 

'Way  down  ermongst  de  briers  whar  de  raccoon  lub 

to  play, 
Oh,  de   pile  o'  bresh  is  burnin'  an'  a-blazin'  all   de 

day; 
An'  de    fox-squ'el    got   to    git    out    an'  de  'possum 

couldn't  stay, 
'Way  down  whar  de  raccoon  lub  to  play  ! 

'Way    down   in   de  new  groun's   whar    de   big    old 

white-oaks  grow, 
You  nebber   hear   sich  racket   in  dat    neighborhood 

befo' ; 
Dem  niggers  keep  a-choppin'  tell  de  sun  done  settle 

low, 
'Way  down  whar  de  big  old  white-oaks  grow ! 

'Way  down  whar   de    gra'-vine    use  to  clam    aroun' 

de  tree, 
Whar   de   akuns   kep'  a-droppin'  an'  de    sweet-gum 

use  to  be, 
Dem     cutters    keep    a-choppin'    down    de    stumpy 

cypus-knee, 
Whar  de  gra'-vine  use  to  clam  aroun'  de  tree! 

Oh,  de    young    corn    gwine    to    come    up    whar   de 


Nancy. 


AN    IDYL   OF    THE    KITCHEN. 


cypus  use  to  grow ; 
i, — ho 


Oh, — how    you    do,    Miss    Susy    gal, —  de    time    is 

comin',  sho ! 
When   you   hab    to  roun'  de   hill  o'  corn   an'  chop 

de  cotton-grow, 
'Way  down  whar  de  cypus  use  to  grow! 

'Way  down  in  de  new  groun's  whar'  de  wild-grape 

hang  so  high, 
Whar  de  big  owl  lub  to  holler  an'  de  wild-duck  lub  to 

fly, 
Dem  birds  is  got  to  scatter,  for  de  plantin'  time  is 

nigh  ; 
'Way  down  whar  de  wild-grape  hang  so  high ! 

'Way  down  amongst  de  slashes,  whar  de  scaly-barks 
so  fine, 

An'  de  hick'y-nut  is  growin'  long  beside  de  musca- 
dine, 

Dem  varmints  hear  de  racket  an'  dey  all  'ill  soon  be 

gwine, 
'Way  down  whar  de  scaly-barks  so  fine ! 

J.  A.  Macon. 


IN  brown  holland  apron  she  stood  in  the  kitchen;, 
Her    sleeves   were    rolled  up,  and  her  cheeks  al 

aglow ; 

Her  hair  was  coiled  neatly;  when  I,  indiscreetly, 
Stood    watching  while    Nancy  was    kneading  th< 
dough.    , 

Now,  who  could  be  neater,  or  brighter,  or  sweeter 
Or  who  hum  a  song  so  delightfully  low, 

Or  who  look  so  slender,  so  graceful,  so  tender, 
As    Nancy,    sweet     Nancy,    while    kneading    thi 
dough  ? 

How  deftly  she  pressed  it,  and  squeezed  it,  caressed  it 
And   twisted   and  turned   it,  now  quick  and  no? 

slow. 

Ah,  me,  but  that  madness  I've  paid  for  in  sadness 
'Twas  my  heart  she  was  kneading  as  well  as  th< 
dough. 

At  last,  when  she  turned  for  her  pan  to  the  dresser 
She  saw  me  and  blushed,  and  said  shyly,  "  Please 

go, 

Or  my  bread  I'll  be  spoiling,  in  spite  of  my  toiling 
If  you  stand  here  and  watch  while  I'm  kneadin: 
the  dough." 

I  begged  for  permission  to  stay.    She'd  not  listen 
The  sweet  little  tyrant  said,  "No,  sir!  no!  no!: 

Yet  when  I  had  vanished  on  being  thus  banished,, 
My  heart   staid   with   Nancy  while  kneading  th 
dough. 

I'm  dreaming,  sweet  Nancy,  and  see  you  in  fancy 
Your  heart,  love,  has  softened  and  pitied  my  w<x 
And  we,  dear,  are  rich  in  a  dainty  wee  kitchen 
Where    Nancy,   my  Nancy,   stands    kneading  th 
dough. 

John  A.  Eraser,  Jr. 


Love's  Chase. 

AFTER    READING   HERKICK. 

"IT  must  be  sweet  to  be  in  love, — 
At  least,  so  all  the  maidens  prove  it. 
Alas !  my  heart's  so  hard,"  she  sighed, 
"I  fear  that  love  will  never  move  it; 
For,  out  of  books,  I  cannot  find 
A  single  lover  to  my  mind. 


"  I've  thought  of  all  the  lads  I  know, 
And  on  each  one  have  long  reflected; 
But  since  I  find  they  all  have  faults,  • 
Perforce  I've  every  one  rejected." 

She  leaned  against  the  window  there, 
A  charming  picture  of  despair. 


But  growing  weary  soon,  she  cried, 
Her  dull  looks  changing  all  to  laught 
"Cupid,  I've  chased  you  long  enough 
I  think  it's  your  turn  to  come  after  ! 
But  those  who  knew  the  maid  a 
That  it  was  7  who  followed  her. 


THE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,   1884 


No.  3. 


HOWEVER  unpatriotic  a  Scotchman  may 
Dpear  in  the  eyes  of  local  advocates  of 
Scotland  for  the  Scotch,"  there  is  one  point 

which  he  will  share  the  sentiment  of  the 
atriots.  He  will  admire  Edinburgh,  and  be 
fficult  to  convince  that  any  town  in  the 
ngdom  has  a  more  beautiful  situation,  or 
mains  more  rich  in  memories  of  the  event- 
1  past.  When  one  speaks  of  Edinburgh, 
le  means,  of  course,  chiefly  the  Old  Town, 
he  new  town  has  little  to  boast  of  except 
)mfort,  and  the  unalterable  charm  of  her 
tuation,  with  its  view  of  the  hills,  of  the 
:a,  and  of  the  serrated  front  of  the  ancient 
ty.  Mr.  Ruskin  has  said  so  much  against 
te  architecture  of  the  new  town  that  it 
•ems  superfluous  to  add  a  malison  to  his 
aledictions.  The  new  houses  are  very 
did,  and  built  of  good  gray  stone,  which 
as  a  tendency  to  grow  dark,  and  to  wear 
e  solemn  gloom  admired  in  the  respectable 
aarters  of  Bath.  To  me  Bath  always  appears 
j>  have  been  built  out  of  grave-stones,  funereal 
kbs  of  a  moderate  antiquity.  New  Edinburgh 

not  so  bad  as  Bath,  of  course,  and  stone 
,alls  can  never  seem  so  squalid  and  skimped 
s  the  London  houses  of  dirty,  yellowish 


brick.  But,  on  the  whole,  the  new  town  re- 
flects in  her  architecture  a  life  of  prosperity, 
without  much  stir  or  excitement;  and  the 
spires  and  towers  of  the  various  churches  and 
public  buildings  can  be  credited  at  most  only 
with  good  intentions.  The  sentimental  trav- 
eler soon  leaves  New  Edinburgh,  with  her 
steep  ways,  her  grim  monumental  Moray 
Place,  her  streets  where  the  grass  grows  long 
and  green  in  the  early  autumn,  for  the  pict- 
uresque and  historical  wynds  and  closes  of  the 
ancient  town.  Probably  the  majority  of  the 
dwellers  in  the' new  town  pay  very  few  visits 
to  the  decaying  houses  of  their  ancestors. 
They  are  proud  of  the  old  town,  of  Auld 
Reekie,  but  they  do  not  often  cross  the 
ravine  and  climb  the  Mound  and  moralize 
over  the  scenes  of  old  forays  and  fights,  of 
murders  and  martyrdoms.  To  tell  the  truth, 
there  are  features  in  the  old  town  that  rather 
repel  the  curious.  You  may  be  inured  to  all 
the  odors  of  Cologne,  you  may  have  traveled 
(in  the  interests  of  bric-a-brac)  into  the  Jews' 
quarters  in  Italian  towns,  but  nowhere  will 
you  have  faced  such  dirt  as  in  the  closes  and 
wynds  of  Edinburgh.  Some  of  these  lanes 
leading  into  the  High  street  or  the  Cowgate 


[Copyright,  1883,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved.] 


324 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


— lanes  walled  with  high-roofed  mansions  of 
Scotch  nobles  and  judges  in  past  centuries  — 
are  homes  of  the  most  abominable  filth.  The 
gutter  down  the  middle  of  the  steep,  narrow 
causeway  is  an  open  sewer ;  the  grimy  women 
come  out  and  hospitably  offer  to  let  you  view 
the  rooms  for  which  they  pay  rent,  and  only 
very  keen  curiosity  will  tempt  you  to  accept 
the  offer.  The  condition  of  the  children  play- 
ing in  these  fetid  places  cannot  decently  be 
described.  Overhead,  out  of  most  windows, 
stretch  poles  on  which  a  few  rags  of  clothes 
are  drying  and  dripping.  The  poles  are  the 
substitutes  for  the  bleaching  greens  of  civili- 
zation, and  they  are  everywhere  to  be  seen 
poked  out  of  windows,  even  in  the  wider 
streets  of  old  Edinburgh.  Everything  breathes 
of  cholera,  of  plague,  and  of  that  ancient 
"  pest "  so  often  mentioned  in  civic  annals ; 
yet  it  sometimes  happens  that,  from  the  black 
mouths  of  these  closes,  you  can  see  the  green 
sides  of  the  hills  quite  near  at  hand.  Within  a 
mile  or  less  are  the  smooth  slopes  and  fresh 
sward  of  Arthur's  Seat  or  Salisbury  Crag ;  or 


perhaps,  beyond  the  farther  mouth  of  the 
wynd,  there  is  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  waters 
of  the  Frith  of  Forth.  Thus,  it  is  not  strange 
that  the  dwellers  in  the  new  town  visit 
the  old  as  rarely  as  possible,  except  for  pur 
poses  of  charity,  or  on  a  raid  after  blue  chins 
and  old  chairs.  Between  people  living  ir 
Ainslie  Place  and  people  living  in  the  Play 
house  Close,  the  narrow  ravine  beneath  th< 
Castle,  is  "  a  great  gulf  fixed."  On  the  soutl 
side  of  the  little  glen  where  the  railway  runs 
the  folk  dwell  in  sanitary  conditions  not  ver) 
much  altered  from  those  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  There  is  gas,  of  course,  instead  ol 
the  oil  lamps  which  of  old  were  sometime! 
burned  between  five  and  nine  in  the  winte 
evenings.  The  roofs  are  not  thatched ;  grea 
stacks  of  heather  and  peat  or  turf  are  no 
piled  up  on  either  hand  of  the  door,  as  in  th( 
past.  An  unfortunate  small  boy,  three  hun 
dred  years  ago,  lighted  one  of  these  piles  ol 
heather  "  in  a  waggishness,"  as  Bacon  says 
and  was  himself  burned  at  the  stake  for  tht 
crime,  by  way  of  encouraging  other  boys  noi 


A    RAINY    NIGHT,    LOOKING    TOWARD    OLD    TOWN    OR    NORTH    BRIDGE. 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


325 


Lin 
ang 

f  th 


CANDLE-MAKERS'   ROW. 


indulge  in  such  high  spirits.  From  these  grubbing  among  Roman  remains  and  relics 

.angers  the  old  town  is  now  free;  but  in  many  of  the  bronze  and  stone  ages  (for,  if  once 

the^  wynds  the  dirt  still  reminds  one  of  we  fall  into  that  pit,  we  may  never  scram- 

raat  Smollett's  congenial  muse  described  in  ble  out  again),  it  is  plain  that  the  steep  iso- 

1  Humphrey  Clinker."  The  crowding  of  human  lated  rock  of  the  Castle  first  tempted  people 

eings  in  these  "  lands "  —  houses  fourteen  to  dwell  here.  It  is  like  the  crag  of  the 

ories  high,  crowded  with  scores  of  families  Acropolis  at  Athens,  or  Ithome,  or  Hissarlik. 

-is  probably  about  as  bad  as  ever  it  was.  A  sketch  of  mediaeval  Athens,  recently  re- 

'he  old  conditions  of  life  made  these  tall  published,  shows  that  the  town  stretched  in  a 

3uses  necessary,  and  the  poor  people  who  rough  oblong  east  of  the  Acropolis  rock,  ex- 

jow  inhabit  them  remain  where  they  do  actly  as  old  walled  Edinburgh  clung  to  the 

jartly  out  of  carelessness,  partly  for  want  of  rock  of  the  Castle.  That  rock  was  a  com- 

ieap  accommodations  elsewhere.  London  manding  spot,  easily  rendered  all  but  impreg- 

i  probably  no  such  black  rookeries  as  nable,  and  so  far  from  the  sea  that  precau- 

varm  in  Edinburgh.  tions  could  be  taken  in  time  against  invaders 

The  original  causes  which  made  the  streets  by  water.  The  conditions  are  exactly  those 

)  narrow  and  so  high  are  plainly  written  on  which,  according  to  Thucydides,  were  pre- 

ie  configuration  of  the  soil.  Without  going  ferred  by  founders  of  cities  in  the  ancient  days 

"ep  into  the  history  of  Edinburgh,  without  when  Greeks  were  half  barbarians.  Here, 


P 


326 


EDINBORO   OLD    TOWN. 


DOOR-WAY,     LADY    STAIRS     CLOSE. 

then,  the  Celtic  tribes 
and  the  unknown  ear- 
lier races  would  make 
their  clay  fort;  the  slopes 
of  Arthur's  Seat  they  tilled, 
like  South  Sea  islanders,  on 
the  terrace  system;  and  to  the 
rock  they  would  drive  their 
cattle  on  alarm  of  war.  Then, 
as  always  happened,  a  village 
grew  beneath  the  protecting 
shade  of  the  Castle  rock,  and 
that  village  developed  into  Edinburgh.  But, 
from  its  neighborhood  to  the  English  border 
(whence  the  road  along  the  sea  is  not  difficult), 
Edinburgh  was  always  exposed  to  the  southern 
fire  and  sword.  Again  and  again  her  gates  were 
forced,  her  houses  were  burned,  her  people  fled 
to  the  Castle  and  to  the  shelter  of  the  surround- 
ing forests.  Naturally,  then,  the  city  huddled 
herself  together  as  close  as  might  be  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Castle.  Every  house  be- 
yond the  city  walls  was  certain  to  be  robbed 
and  burned  whenever  a  hostile  force  came 
against  the  town.  Edinburgh  had  been  walled 
in  1450,  and  so  narrow  was  the  circumvalla- 
tion  that  the  Cowgate  was  beyond  the  circle 
of  towers.  The  wealthy  dwellers  in  the  Cow- 
gate  "  were  out  in  the  open  country."  Any 
visitor  to  Edinburgh  has  only  to  stand  where 
the  Cowgate  begins  and  look  back  to  the  Cas- 
tle to  understand  how  narrow  were  the  limits 
of  the  mediaeval  town,  and  what  urgent  need 
there  was  to  pile  the  houses  "  close  and  high." 
After  the  fatal  battle  of  Flodden  (1513),— a 
battle  still  remembered  by  the  border  people 
as  a  day  of  sorrow, —  new  walls  were  built 
round  Edinburgh,  and  "  the  Flodden  wall " 
included  the  Cowgate.  "  The  whole  length  of 
the  old  wall  was  about  one  mile,  that  of  the 
new  was  one  mile  three  furlongs,"  says  Mr. 
Grant,  in  his  "  Old  and  New  Edinburgh." 
So  prudent  were  the  citizens  that,  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years,  scarcely  a  house 
arose  beyond  the  Flodden  wall.  And  it  is 


within  this  miserably  contracted  territory,  in 
the  dark  and  burrowing  lanes,  that  the  poor 
of  Edinburgh  still  herd,  still  regard  the  curi- 
ous visitor  with  curiosity  scarcely  less  than 
his  own.  So  much  it  is  necessary  to  say  about 
the  old  town,  lest  the  stranger  who  examines 
it  should  complain  that  he  has  been  taken 
without  warning  into  a  pestilent,  malodorous 
home  of  dirt  and  disease.  He  is  now  fairly 
warned,  and  he  must  console  himself  with 
the  thought  that  the  dirt  is  historical,  the 
disease  romantic, — a  slight  survival  from  the 
unrivaled  filth  and  pestilence  of  mediaeval 
Scotland. 

"  In  Athens,"  says  Cicero,  "  every  stone 
you  tread  on  has  its  history."  As  much  may 
be  said  for  old  Edinburgh,  where  the  very 
nuisances  are  historical,  and  the  wind  brings 
you  a  realistic  whiff  of  the  middle  ages.  The 
old  ruined  castles  all  around  have  each  its 
legend,  clinging  to  the  place  like  the  ivy. 
haunting  it  like  the  ghost  of  the  murdered 
man  or  child  so  often  found  built  up  within 
the  thick  masonry  of  the  walls.  What  a 
dreadful  mystery  of  old  times  these  walled-up 
skeletons  might  unfold  if  they  could  speak!, 
In  what  midnight  murder  or  brawl  over  cards' 
and  wine,  or  in  what  bitter  family  feud  about 
charters  and  settlements,  did  he  perish  whose' 
bones  were  found  walled  up  among  the  ruins 
of  Craigmillar  ?  What  was  the  secret  of  that 
infant's  birth,  who,  dead,  had  no  other  grave 
than  the  "  stone  shroud  "  of  the  castle  wall 
within  Queen  Mary's  chamber?  There  comes 
no  answer  out  of  darkness  and  the  dust,  nor 
can  we  well  believe  that  some  of  these  dead 
people,  thus  consigned  in  pacem,  were  sacri- 
ficed (according  to  the  practice  of  the  Black 
Art)  to  secure  the  safety  of  the  buildings. 
The  times  were  too  late  for  such  deeds  in 
Scotland,  and  the  dead  men  surely  perished 
in  some  other  cause.  But  if  their  secret  is 
well  kept,  some,  at  least,  of  the  other  secrets 
of  the  town  have  come  into  the  light  of  day, 
and  are  recorded  in  the  annals  of  history 
and  the  black  calendar  of  crime.  The  Scotch 
of  the  middle  ages  (which  in  Scotland  lasted' 
till  1745)  were  a  wild,  passionate,  revengeful 
race.  They  yielded  not  in  fury,  and  cruelty, 
and  pride  to  the  violent  nobles  of  the  Italian 
towns  of  Perugia  and  Verona.  In  such  streets 
as  the  West  Bow  and  the  Cowgate  and 
Canongate,  it  is  easily  seen  that  most  of  the 
ancient  houses  are  as  strong  as  fortresses. 
Observe  the  clean-cut  line  of  the  thick  walls, 
the  narrow  entrances,  the  lintels  each  carve  i 
with  a  text,  more  for  magic  than  in  piety, 
the  small  windows  heavily  barred.  The  arms 
cut  above  the  lintel  may  be  the  bearings 
noble  houses,  Douglases,  Carrs,  Scotts,  or 
trade  blazon  of  the  weavers  or  the  saddl 


* 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


327 


But  everywhere  the  houses  are  strong  enough 
o  stand  an  irregular  siege,  and  in  no  town  in 
tie  British  isles  could  street  fighting  be  so  dan- 
erous  and  so  protracted.  Such  houses  were 
rst  the  homes  of  a  noblesse  who  shrank  from 
o  treachery  and  no  violence.  The  cellars 
erved  well  enough  to  lodge  a  captured  judge 
n  before  he  was  carried  on  a  rider's  saddle  to 
ic  dungeon  of  some  keep  in  lonely  Liddes- 
lale.  The  sudden  steps  on  the  uneven  floor, 
n  dark  corners,  answered  admirably  for  the 
purpose  of  stabbing  a  guest  as  he  stumbled. 
The  barred  windows  might  long  keep  a  de- 
rted  wife  a  prisoner,  till  it  became  conven- 
ent  to  remove  her  to  some  even  more  inac- 
essible  retreat  in  an  island  of  the  western 
eas.  In  these  recesses  noble  ladies  have 
>racticed  sorcery,  melting  the  waxen  effigies 
nd  burning  the  hair  of  their  enemies. 
Through  these  strait  house-doors  burghers 
ave  fled  in  terror,  and  wounded  men  have 
>een  dragged  in  hastily,  when  the  slogan  of 
he  Border  war  was  heard  in  the  midnight 
treets,  when  torches  flared  above  the  thrusts 
>f  spears  and  swords  and  the  noise  of  smitten 
hields.  In  shy  corners  of  these  closes,  on  a 
ater  day,  gentlemen  have  found  what  Sir 
William  Hope  in  his  "  Scots  Fencing  Master  " 
alls  "  an  occasion,"  that  is,  a  chance  for  a 
udden  informal  duel.  Then,  as  the  city  ex- 
>anded  beyond  the  Flodden  wall,  and  the 
jentry  built  houses  in  the  new  streets,  or  mi- 
jrated  to  London,  the  old  town  fortresses  fell 
nto  the  hands  of  the  most  desperate  of  the 
>oor.  The  properties  and  actors  were  changed, 
>ut  the  old  drama  went  on,  and  the  Irish 
murderers,  Burke  and  Hare,  counted  their  vic- 
ims  by  the  score,  till  one  of  them  (more  Hi- 
ernico)  turned  informer  and  had  his  comrade 
anged.  Even  out  of  the  net-work  of  nar- 
ow  lanes,  in  the  wider  places  of  the  city,  the 
ame  of  revenge,  of  bloodshed,  of  burning, 
pent  on  in  the  open  day.  The  gallows  of  the 
prass  Market  saw  brave  men  "  testify  "  to  the 
host  various  causes,  to  faith  and  loyalty,  to 
•eason  and  freedom.  The  stake  had  its  share 
;<f  gentle  and  simple,  when  old  women  of  the 
|»eople  and  beautiful  daughters  of  noble  houses 
ffere  burned  indifferently  for  the  crying  sin 
|f  witchcraft.  Every  room  of  each  old  prison 
j-the  Castle  oubliettes and  theTolbooth — has 
Es  romance,  its  tale  of  some  scarcely  credible 
jscape  by  royal  prince  or  daring  smuggler, 
phe  Scotch  people,  that  is  now  so  "dour,"  so 
prosperous  and  law-abiding,  has  the  fiercest 
bain  in  its  blood.  Our  fathers  sowed 
heir  wild  oats  in  rapine  and  slaughter  and 
fre,  while  the  children  have  subsided  into  a 
peaceful  but  not  unadventurous  race.  Or 
perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  chiefly  the  ravenous, 
Irrogant  nobles,  so  proud,  so  brave,  and  so 


poor,  that  outdid  in  old  Edinburgh  the  feats 
of  the  Baglioni.  In  the  endless  feuds  and 
wars  and  party  strifes,  the  Maiden  (our  Scotch 
guillotine)  and  the  sword,  poison,  and  the 
halter  cut  off  the  fiercer  stocks  of  the  Scotch 
noblesse,  and  in  the  struggle  for  existence 


LADY    STAIRS    CLOSE. 


victory  remained  with  the  quieter  folk,  whose 
necks  were  not  eternally  in  peril.  To  under- 
stand what  manner  of  men  the  "  forbears  " 
of  the  Scotch  were,  it  is  not  enough  to  speak 


328 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


in  general  terms. 
We  must  go  a  lit- 
tle into  detail,  and 
attempt    to   peo- 
ple, for  an  hour,      , 
those  high  crag-      , 
like  houses,  those 
narrow      streets, 
the     Castle,    the 
palace,  with    the 
men    who   wran- 
gled and  reveled 
in  them,  and  who 
held  all  things  cheap- 
er  than   rapine  and 
revenge. 

Probably  the  best 

way  to  see  ancient  Ed-  _=™==__«=__ 

inburgh  aright  is  to  enter    jtETOTALTE 
it  from  the  west.  Before 


penetrating  the  inner  town, 
the  Castle  invites  the  curi- 
ous, and   the  romance  of 
the  Castle  alone  would  de- 
mand much  more  space  than 
we  can  give  to  the  whole  history 
of  Auld  Reekie.    The  Castle  of 
to-day  chiefly  consists  of  barracks, 
of  no   great  antiquity,  perched  on 
that  high  crag  which  frowns  over  Prince 
street  gardens.     Often  the  little  boys  of 
Edinburgh  risk  their  necks  on  these  crags, 
imitating  Randolph,  Bruce's  famous  gen- 
eral, who   won   the   Castle  of  the  Maidens, 
Arx  Puellarum,  from  the  English.    The  keep 
seems  a  place  of  impregnable  strength,  if  we 
think  of  the  conditions  of  war  before  the  in- 
vention of  heavy  siege  pieces   and   modern 


A    MEMORY    OF    HIGH     STREET. 

rocks,  and  (in  old  times)  by  the  North  Loch 
which  lay  where  the  railway  now  runs,  the  Castle 
commands  a  wide  prospect  of  land  and  sea.    No 
enemy  can   approach,  no  prisoner  escape,  without' 
being  observed  in  the  onset  or  the  flight.    So,  prob- 
ably, the  defenders  of  the  Castle  deemed,  and,  lulled 
into  drowsy  security,  suffered  the  enemy  to  seize,  or 
the  captive  to  escape  from,  the  keep.    Randolph 
won  the  Castle  by  a  coup  de  main  in  1311.   The 
English  then  held  it;  but  one  Frank,  a  man-at- 
arms  of  Randolph's,  knew  a  secret  path 
whereby  he  had  often  scaled  it  when  en- 
gaged in  a  love  adventure.  And  so,  with 
Aphrodite  for  guide,  thirty  Scots  clam- 
bered one  dark  night  of  March  into  the 
Castleof  the  Maidens.  It  is  plain  enough 
that  they  never  could  have  scaled 
the  sheer  rock  without  some  artificial 
aid,  and  Mr.  Grant  reports  that,  about 
sixty  years  ago,  there  were  traces  of 
steps  cut  in  the  stone  just  where  the 
cliff  is   steepest   and   where  the 
sentinels  would  be  least  on  their 
guard.    By  these   steps,  perhaps,' 
the  Jacobites  meant  to  climb,  four 
hundred  years  later,  when,  in  the 
characteristic   Jacobite   style,  they 
stopped  too  long  "powdering  their 
hair,"  as    the    slang  term  was  for 


drinking, — Pulveris  exiguijactus.  By  that  little 
toss  of  powder  the  plot  was  ruined,  and  the 


artillery.    From  the  dungeon  prisons  hewn  in    house  of  Hanover  kept  possession  of  the  Castle. 


the  rock,  too,  one  might  guess  that  even  so 
ingenious  a  captive  as  Baron  Trenck  could 
never  have  escaped.  Yet  the  whole  history 
of  Edinburgh  Castle  is  a  long  tale  of  escapes 
and  captures.  Placed  on  such  a  height,  its 
front  secured  by  the  perpendicular  black 


In  1337  the  English  again  held' the  Castle, 
and  were  again  driven  out  by  a  ruse  ot  the 
most  obvious  character,  a  trick  as  transpar- 
ent as  that  of  the  Trojan  horse.  In  the  Castle 
the  fatal  dish  of  the  black  bull's  head  was 
cooked  for  Earl  Douglas  in  1440.  It 


t  woul  i 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


329 


interesting  to  know  whence  the  Scotch 
erived  this  plat,  so  conspicuous  in  their 
ulinary  history,  and  as  purely  national  a 
elicacy  as  "  sheep's  head  "  or  haggis.  I  do 
ot  know  that  the  black  bull's,  head  was  ever 
troduced  at  English,  Irish,  or  Continental 
bles,  and  no  mention  of  the  dainty  occurs, 

far  as  I  am  aware,  in  the  records  of  any 
,vage  or  classical  people.  When  one  power- 
1  party  leader  had  so  far  overcome  the  sus- 
cions  of  a  rival  as  to  induce  that  rival  to 
:cept  an  invitation  to  dinner,  then  the  host 
ent  smiling  home,  consulted  his  cook,  and 
nted  that  a  black  bull's  head  might  as  well 
3  added  to  the  menu.  When  this  ominous 
sh  was  brought  to  the  table,  the  wretched 
lest  knew  that  his  last  hour  had  arrived, 
nd  this  was  what  befell  young  Douglas.  The 
ople  expressed  their  horror  of  the  deed  in 
ballad,  of  which,  apparently,  but  one  verse 


survives,  though  more  may  perhaps  be  known 
to  the  learning  of  Professor  Child  : 

"  Edinburgh  Castle,  towne  and  tower, 
God  grant  thou  sink  for  sinne, 

And  that  even  for  the  black  dinner 
Earle  Douglas  got  therein." 

If  "sinne"  could  sink  town  and  tower, 
Edinburgh  would  centuries  since  have  been 
with  "  Memphis  and  Babylon  and  either 
Thebes."  In  those  old  times,  when  a  Scotch 
prince  hated  a  man,  he  very  commonly  acted 
on  the  maxim,  "  If  you  want  a  thing  well 
done,  do  it  yourself,"  and  dirked  his  foe  with 
his  own  hand.  This  was  the  custom  of  the 
Duke  of  Albany,  brother  of  James  III.,  who 
slew  John  of  Scougal,  and  in  other  ways  so 
conducted  himself  that,  in  1482,  he  was  con- 
signed to  prison  in  the  Castle.  Thence  Al- 
bany deemed  that  he  was  not  likely  to  come 


VOL.  XXVII.— 31. 


JOHN    KNOX  S     HOUSE. 


330 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


HOUSE     OF     BOSWELL    AND     HUME,    JAMES    COURT. 


forth  alive,  especially  as  his  brother  Mar  had 
mysteriously  vanished — so  mysteriously,  in- 
deed, that  even  now  the  manner  of  Mar's 
fate  is  unknown.  Albany's  friends  sent  a 
small  ship  to  wait  in  the  harbor  of  Leith,  and 
a  hamper  of  wine  easily  found  admission  to 
Albany's  rooms  in  the  castle.  The  hamper 
contained  ropes  as  well  as  wine,  and  when 
Albany  had  made  his  keepers  drunk  with  the 
liquor,  had  dirked  them,  and  thrown  their 
mail-clad  bodies  to  grill  on  the  fire,  he  escaped 
to  the  ship  at  Leith  by  aid  of  the  rope.  But 
the  favorite  way  of  escaping  had  a  bland  and 
child-like  simplicity.  The  captive's  wife  paid 
him  a  visit,  the  pair  exchanged  clothes,  and 
the  prisoner  walked  out  in  the  lady's  petti- 
coats !  This  old  trick  was  played  in  the  Castle 
as  often  as  the  "confidence  trick"  in  the 
capitals  of  modern  civilization.  Apparently  it 
never  missed  fire,  and  we  may  conclude  that 
in  every  case  the  turnkeys  were  bribed.  The 
only  prisoner  of  note  who  ever  failed  was  the 
first  Marquis  of  Argyll,  in  1601.  The  Mar- 
chioness came  to  see  him  in  a  sedan  chair; 


he  assumed  her  dress  and  coif,  and  steppe 
into  the  sedan.  But  presently  he  lost  hea 
and  stepped  out  again,  though  what  he  w£ 
afraid  of  it  is  difficult  to  guess.  He  coul 
only  die  once,  his  execution  was  certain,  an 
he  might  as  well  be  shot  privately,  in  tt 
attempt  to  run  away,  as  be  decapitated  pul 
licly  in  the  town  where  the  great  Montros 
his  enemy,  was  done  to  death.  When  tl 
Marquis's  son,  in  his  turn,  was  confined  in  tf| 
Castle,  his  ready  brain  conceived  the  nov 
idea  of  escaping,  not  in  the  dress  of  a  lad 
but  in  that  of  the  lackey  of  his  daughter-ii 
law.  He  let  the  lady's  train  drop  in  the  mu« 
whereon,  with  the  wit  and  coolness  of  a  daugl 
ter  of  the  Lindsays,  she  switched  the  drippir 
silk  in  his  face,  crying,  "  Thou  careless  loon 
Then  the  soldiers  laughed,  and  Argyll, 
that  time,  got  clean  away.  A  most  spirit 
escape,  not  from  the  Castle,  but  from  the  Tc 
booth  prison,  was  arranged  and  executed 
1783  by  James  Hay,  a  lad  of  eighteen,  t 
of  precocious  parts,  who  had  been  senten<:( 
to  death  for  robbery.  Old  Hay,  the  fatl  e 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


ot  the  turnkey  to  drink  with  him,  made  him 
no  that  fu',"  but  still  "  wi'  a  gey  drap  in 
is  ee,"  and  then  induced  the  confiding  jailer 
o   go   out   and    order   some    more    whisky. 
?he  moment  the  turnkey  had  gone,  old  Hay 
ried  (in    a  capital    imitation  of  the  jailer's 
oice),  "Turn  your  hand,"  whereon  the  porter 
ipened  the  prison  door.    Young  Hay  was  off 
ike   a   shot  through  the  open  prison  gate, 
aade  for  the  Greyfriars  Kirk-yard,  scaled  the 
all,  and  hid  himself  in  the  vault  of  "  bloody 
ackenzie,"    the   persecutor    of    the    Cove- 
inters.   The  vault,  of  course,  was  haunted 
*•  the    ensanguined    specter  of  Sir  George 
ackenzie  ;  so  no  one  looked  there  for  young 
ay,  whose  school-fellows  of  Heriot's   Hos- 
tal,  like  bricks  of  boys,  supplied  him  with 
od  for  six  weeks.  Then  young  Hay  escaped, 
ot-free,  to   Holland.     I  don't  know  why  it 
but  I  am  glad  he  got  off.    All  this  happened 
ecisely    one   hundred  years  ago,  and  it  is 
mething  to  think  of  in  Greyfriars   Church- 
ard,  among  the  crumbling  black  grave-stones 
d   ivy  green,  still  haunted  by  memories  of 
e  Covenanters.    One  might  prose  for  hours 
er   the    Castle,    and  the   regalia,  and  the 
ons  Meg,  that  half-mythical  piece  of  ord- 
mce ;  but  all  these  things  are  written  even 
unassuming  sixpenny  guide-books.    It  is 
ne  to  leave  the  Arx  Puellarum  and  enter 
e  city  by  the   West  Port.    I  like  to  think 
at  "  Claverse,"  that  bonny  Dundee,  when 
;  went  northward,  "  wherever  the  spirit 
Montrose  might  lead  him,"  clattered 
ith  his  men  down  these  narrow  streets. 

'\s  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the 

Bow, 
ch  carlin  was  flyting  and  shaking 

her  pow; 
t  the  young  plants  o'  grace  they 

looked  couthie  andslee, 
id    "Good    luck    to    thy 

bonnets,    thou     bonny 

Dundee." 


The  gate  on  the 
est  Port  was  a  fa- 
rite  place  for  ex- 
piring the  heads      _— ^ 

traitors  or  mar- 
t  s,  or,  when  traitors  or 
rtyrs  happened  to  be 
s.rce,  of  any  culprits 
t  it  chanced  to  be  con- 
tent. Here  also,  two 
bndred  years  ago,  was 
s  ked  the  red  right  hand 
c  3hieslie  of  Dairy,  who 
svv  Lockhart.  The 
Uises  have  the  old 
Brow-step  "  on  the  ga- 
b|,  a  series  of  narrow 


stairs  whereby  the  little  sweeps  in  times  past 
were  wont  to  scale  the  chimneys.  Fortu- 
nately the  den  of  iniquity,  down  Tanner's 
close,  where  Hare  and  Burke  carried  on  a 
wholesale  business  in  murder,  has  long  per- 
ished. Perished,  too,  but  only  within  the  last 
five  years,  has  the  house  of  Major  Weir,  the 
most  horribly  haunted  place  in  Edinburgh, 
worse  than  even  Mary  King's  ruined  close, 
where  the  blue  specters  of  those  who  died  in 
the  great  plague  used  to  walk.  If  Hawthorne 
had  been  an  Edinburgh  man,  he  would  have 
made  the  dwelling  of  Major  Weir  immortal  in 
romance.  The  legend  has  that  blending  of 
Puritanism,  of  superstition,  of  horror,  which 
Hawthorne  enjoyed ;  and  over  all  these  is  a 
veil  of  mystery,  which  seems  to  lift  for  a  mo- 
ment only  to  leave  one  more  puzzled  and 
confused.  The  house  of  Major  Weir  was  not 
precisely  in  the  West  Bow ;  but  the  tall,  gaunt 
building  stood  back  within  a  black  narrow 
court  of  its  own,  a  court  with  a  dark,  hungry, 
and  un-  ^  satisfied  look,  fit  home  for  an 
ancient  d>  hypocrite  with  a  heart  full  of 
horrid  T  secrets  and  half-mad  imagin- 
ings and  i  impossible  desires.  Nor  did 
the  Ma-  M  jor  dwell  alone ;  his  sister,  a 
woman  J|l  of  about  the  same  age,  shared 
the  house  and  the  partnership 
in  the  mystery  of  iniquity. 
So  the  legend  runs ;  for,  at 
this  distance  of  time,  and 
with  the  evidence  be- 
fore us,  it  is  im- 
possible to 
feel  cer- 
tain that 


THE     TOLBOOTH,    HIGH     STREET. 


332 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


ALLAN     RAMSAY  S     SHOP    IN     HIGH     STREET. 


Major  Weir  was  not  an  honorable  man  enough 
whose  brain,  perhaps,  was  turned  in  his  ex- 
treme age  by  sickness  and  religious  mania. 
The  major  had  been  an  officer  in  the  army 
which  (in  1641)  protected  the  Scotch  settlers 
then  recently  planted  in  the  North  of  Ireland. 
In  1650  he  was  one  of  the  guard  which  at- 
tended the  execution  of  the  great  Montrose. 
Like  many  soldiers  of  that  age,  Major  Weir 
was,  in  religion,  extremely  evangelical,  and 
his  sermons  and  prayers  met  with  much  ac- 
ceptation in  "  the  sanctified  bends  of  the 
Bow."  It  was  observed  that  he  could  only 
be  eloquent  when  he  leaned  on  his  favorite 
stick,  "  all  of  one  piece  of  thorn- wood  with  a 
bent  head."  Probably  much  of  Major  Weir's 
evil  fame  rises  from  nothing  more  serious 
than  his  fondness  for  this  black  stick,  which 
it  was  his  trick  of  manner  to  fondle.  But,  if 
we  were  still  as  superstitious  as  our  ancestors 
of  two  centuries  ago,  what  young  man  of 
fashion  who  takes  his  "  crook  "  everywhere 
into  society  would  be  safe  from  suspicion  of 
sorcery  ?  When  the  major  was  about  seventy, 
he  fell  into  a  heavy  sickness,  which,  accord- 
ing to  some  authorities,  "  affected  his  mind 
so  much  that  he  made  open  and  voluntary 
confession  of  all  his  wickedness."  Probably 


mm< 


enough   the   malady   "  affected    his 
which  would  then  play,  in  a  fearsome  fashior 
with  horrors  of  sin    and    the    dread   beliel 
of    Calvinism.     The    Lord    Provost   of   th 
period,  like  a  sensible  man,  at  first  treate 
the  confession   as   mere   raving.    But,  plie 
probably  by  the   superstitious,    and   by  th 
Royalist  enemies  whom  the  major  is  sure  t 
have  made,  the  Provost  finally  arrested  Wei 
his  sister,  and  his  black  stick.    In  prison  th 
poor  wretch  stuck  to  his  "  confession,"  but  r< 
fused  to  pray.    "  As  I  am  to  go  to  the  devil, 
do  not  wish   to  anger  him !  "  he  screame< 
On  April  9,  1670,  he  was  sentenced  to  I' 
strangled    and   burned,  while  his   sister  wz: 
merely  to  be  hanged.   When  his  dead  bod 
fell    into    the    fire,    his    stick    twisted   an 
writhed  in  unholy  fashion,  and  "  was  as  Ion' 
in  burning  as  the  major."    As  to  the  conte 
sions  of  the  major's  sister,  we  have  them  c 
the    excellent   authority    of   "  Satan's  Invi 
ible    World    Discovered,"— evidence   whk 
would  not   now  drown  a   kitten,  much  le 
hang  a  woman.    Major  Weir's  house  was  lo 
uninhabited  after  his  execution.    When  soi 
one  did  occupy  it,  in  the  beginning  of 
century,  he  was  startled  by  the  apparition  < 
a  shadowy  being  like  a  calf.    This  is  the  tf  i 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN, 


333 


ase  of  a  ghostly  calf  which  I  have  met  with 
i  a  life-long  study  of  ghost  stories.  One  of 
he  other  calves  haunted  the  place  where  an 
diot  boy  had  been  slain.  The  third  appeared 
n  France,  to  two  lads,  and  is  mentioned  in 
VI.  d'Assier's  recent  volume  on  "  Posthumous 
VLan  "  (L'homme  d'outre-tombe). 

One  follows  the  winding  of  the  West  Port 
o  the  Grass  Market,  a  wide,  airy  place  (for 


still  remember  "  Claverse  "  and  "  bloody  Dal- 
ziel  "  with  a  curse.  The  peasant  populations 
of  the  Lowland  counties  have  not  the  death- 
less Celtic  memory  of  grievances ;  but  the 
persecutors  of  the  Covenanters  they  have 
never  forgotten  nor  forgiven,  and  they  still 
speak  of  the  bones  of  murdered  saints,  found 
in  the  beds  and  "  brae-hags"  of  burns,  where 
Claverhouse  came  on  them  at  their  prayers, 


I  Id  town),  from  the  crown  of  whose  cause- 
J  many  an  old  Covenanting  hero,  trailing 
lis  tortured  limbs  to  the  gallows,  took  his 
ire  well  of  the  sky,  and  the  green  hills,  and 
pe  sea.  From  the  gallows  platform  the  eye 
Jan  glance  to  the  north  and  the  west, —  to  the 
I  hills  of  the  robbers  "  beyond  the  Forth,  and 
t>  where  the  setting  sun  slants  on  moors  and 
wrasses,  faint  and  far  away,  the  hiding-places 
"  the  "  persecuted  remnant."  In  Scotland, 
ie  popular  tradition  is  all  on  the  side  of  the 
tovenanters.  We  read  Sir  Walter's  works, 
ind  give  our  hearts  to  the  gallant  Grahames, 
p  Montrose  and  Dundee;  but  the  people 


IMPRESSIONS    OF    GRASS    MARKET. 


and  where  his  musketeers  shot  them  even  on 
their  knees.  With  such  stories  my  own  child- 
hood was  fed,  and  even  Sir  Walter's  magic  has 
never  quite  cast  the  glamour  over  the  more 
splendid  and  romantic  party  that  stood  for 
the  Church  and  the  King.  But  Scots  of  all  his- 
torical parties  may  find  in  the  Grass  Market 
a  sacred  place ;  for  here  were  done  to  death 
brave  men  and  fair  women  of  every  creed  and 
character.  Among  others,  on  February  iyth, 
1688,  fell  precious  Mr.  Renwick,  the  preacher. 
Quite  lately  I  came  across  Mr.  Renwick's 
last  dying  speech  and  confession,  a  sordid 
little  fly-leaf,  in  a  cheap  book-stall.  This  ex- 


334 


EDINBORO   OLD    TOWN. 


THE     COWGATE,    FROM     GEORGE    THE     FOURTH  S     BRIDGE. 


cellent  martyr  frankly  admitted  that  he  had 
always  preached  the  righteousness  of  resist- 
ing his  lawful  king  in  arms.  This  was  all  very 
well ;  but  the  odd  thing  was  to  find  Ren  wick 
full  of  indignant  surprise  at  his  own  execu- 
tion. It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that 
the  corollary  of  his  doctrine  was  the  king's 
right  to  put  him  to  death  if  he  could  catch 
him.  This  is  a  logical  deficiency  which  one 
has  observed  in  certain  homicidal  patriots  of 
a  much  later  epoch  than  1688.  The  ancient 
stone-socket  of  the  gallows-tree  has  long  been 
removed  from  the  Grass  Market.  In  its  place 
you  may  observe  stones  laid  down  in  the 
shape  of  a  St.  Andrew's  cross  in  the  pave- 
ment; just  as  opposite  the  windows  of  Baliol, 
in  the  Broad  street,  Oxford,  a  small  cross  in 
the  roadway  marks  the  spot  where  Ridley 
and  Latimer  were  burned  at  the  stake.  The 


shop  of  the  dyer  on  whose  pole  Porteoi 
was  hanged  (as  we  have  all  read  in  th 
" Heart  of  Midlothian")  has  also  disappear 
"  Though  much  is  taken,  much  remains,"  hov; 
ever;  for  example,  the  neighboring  churd 
and  church-yard  that  of  old  belonged  to  th 
Greyfriars.  Here  is  the  flat  tombstone  o 
which  the  Solemn  League  and  Covenant  w£ 
signed  by  men  desperately  anxious  to  bim 
back  the  mastodon,  Theocracy;  here  are  th 
graves  of  martyrs  and  of  persecutors;  an 
here  is  the  vault  of  which  we  have  alread 
spoken,  haunted  by  the  red  specter  of  Blocd 
Mackenzie.  And  here  "  Greyfriars  Bobby  "  1 1; 
a  faithful  terrier,  watching  for  many  years  o 
the  grave  of  his  dead  master.  People  fed  p 
Bobby;  otherwise  he  would  have  starv 
and  I  presume  he  occasionally  relaxed 
self  by  chevying  one  of  the  too  numerous 


po( 

i 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


335 


rhich  haunt  the  rusty-green  grass  and  bushes 
f  the  old  church-yard. 

Leaving  the  Greyfriars,  one  naturally  turns 
own    the    Cowgate,  the    fashionable    quar- 
-r  before    Flodden   fight — "  being    deemed 
pen  and  airy."    The  Cowgate  dives  down  a 
eep  and  narrow  ravine,  a  kind  of  canon,  and 
igh  above  it,  as  if  in  mid-air,  passes  the  arch 
f  George  the  Fourth's  bridge.    The  Cowgate 
ilike  a  Highland  torrent  of  turbid  population, 
owing   through  its   narrow  and  precipitous 
len,  and   receiving  at   every   turn  the  trib- 
tary    streams    of  a    score    of  dirty  wynds, 
ouring  in  from  either  hand.    The  Cowgate, 
:  is  said,  was  originally  the  "  Sou'-gate,"  or 
outhern  Gate,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with 
ne.    But   this,  to  my  mind,  is  contradicted 
r  the  fact  that  a  writer  of  1500-1530  calls 
ie  street  Via  Vaccarum,  "  the  Street  of  the 
ows,"  where,   as   he   adds,  you  find  omnia 
agnifica  —  everything  handsome — about  it. 
ow,  it  is  not  likely  that  the  name  of  a  new 
uburb   would   so  rapidly  be   changed   from 
outh  Gate  to  Via  Vaccarum,  or  "Kowgaitt" 
518).    But    a    short   distance  on  the  right 
and  of  the  Cowgate — attained  by  walking 
awn    Robertson's  Wynd — was  the   Kirk  of 
ields,    "St.    Mary's    of    the    Fields."     The 
uildings  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh  now 
ccupy   most   of  the  site  of   the    house.     It 
as  an   ill- famed,   half-abandoned  place,  al- 
;ost   in    the    country,    when    Darnley    was 
rangled  there  and  when  the  mansion  of  the 
Lirk  o'  Fields  was  blown  up.    The  very  next 
ynd  to  Robertson's,  namely,  Niddry's,  led 
ou  straight  to   the  old  High  School,  where 
eorge  Sinclair  shot  the  city  officer  dead  at 
ie   great  barring  out,  and  where  Scott  had 
s  schooling,  and  fought  his  "  battle  of  the 
•oss  causeway," — stones  being  the  weapons, 
very  much  later  times.   But  the  old  High 
chool  has  long  ceased  to  exist.    It  was  en- 
red  by  a  portal  in   a  tower,  very  like  the 
icient  entrance  to  the  new  buildings  of  the 
Diversity  in  St.  Andrews.    The  new  High 
:hool  is  a  handsome  Greek  edifice,  near  the 
uth  side  of  Calton  Hill,  and  has  no  tradi- 
ons  of  the  famous  elder  world.  The  difficulty 
writing    about    Edinburgh   is  that  "  one 
mnot    see  the    town    for   the   houses."    So 
any  legends  cling  to  these  black  and  narrow 
nes  and  these  "dour"  old  piles  of  masonry, 
at  one  is  tempted  to  go  on  telling   story 
fter  story,  and  neglecting  the  general  effect. 
jut  this  one  more  anecdote  I  cannot  resist  the 
jmptation  to  steal  from  Mr.   Grant's  great 
jeasure-house  of  traditions.   Sir  Walter  Scott 
fd  a  grand-aunt,  who  .was  all  that  a  Scotch 
rand-aunt  should  be — a  lady  of  an  ancient 
puse,    with  a  memory  well  stored  with  le- 
fnds.    When  she  was  a  little  girl,  this  Aunt 


Margaret  was  residing  at  Swinton  House,  in 
Berwickshire,  and  happened  to  wander,  in 
the  listless  fashion  of  childhood  unemployed, 
into  the  dining-room  There  sat  a  lady  "  beau- 


tiful  as  an  enchanted  queen,"  and  engaged  in 
taking  the  refreshment  of  tea.  Now,  children 
have  not  a  gift  of  beholding  the  thing  that 
either  is  not,  or  is  hidden  by  a  veil  from  older 
eyes,  that  one  might  set  this  apparition  down 
as  a  ghost  or  a  day-dream.  But  the  beautiful 
lady  broke  silence,  and  begged  little  Marga- 
ret to  speak  first  to  her  mother,  by  herself,  of 
what  "  she  had  witnessed."  When  the  family 
came  home  from  church,  Margaret  was  ad- 
vised to  say  nothing  about  the  beautiful  lady. 
Yet  she  was  not  a  ghost  after  all,  but  a  woman 
of  flesh  and  (in  the  strictest  sense)  of  blood. 
These  things  happened  shortly  after  "the 
Fifteen,"  when  many  English  officials  were  in 
Edinburgh.  Among  them  was  a  Captain 
Cayley,  who  had  grievously  insulted  a  beau- 
tiful and  very  young  lady,  Mrs.  Macfarlane. 
In  penitence,  or  impudence,  he  then  ventured 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


to  call  at  Mrs.  Macfarlane's  house,  near  the 
Cowgate.  What  passed  between  them  is  not 
certainly  known,  but  Cayley  was  shot  dead, 
and  Mrs.  Macfarlane  walked  out  and  was  no 
more  beheld  at  that  season.  She  it  was  whom 
little  Margaret  Swinton  saw  in  Swinton  House 
in  Berwickshire,  where  'the  homicidal  fair 
was  concealed  in  the  secret  chamber  with  the 
sliding  panel,  which  old  Scotch  families  often 
found  so  convenient.  So  one  goes  down  the 
Cowgate,  past  the  site  of  College  Wynd, 
where  Scott  was  born,  and  where  Oliver  Gold- 
smith, though  but  a  medical  student,  and  a 
poor  one  to  boot,  swaggered  in  "  a  superfine 
small  hatt,"  brave  with  eight  shillings'  worth 
of  silver  lace,  and  a  "sky-blue  satin,  rich 
black  Genoa  velvet,  fine  sky-blue  shalloon, 
and  the  best  superfine  high  claret-colored 
cloth."  What  a  genius  for  dress  had  Oliver, 
who,  even  in  years  mature,  wore  a  coat  of 
Tyrian  bloom!  The  odd  thing  is  that  Oliver 
actually  paid,  at  least  in  part,  for  the  splen- 


dors  that   dazzled   the  College  Wynd,  ani 
charmed  all  eyes  in. the  Cowgate. 

From  the  Cowgate  one  reaches  the  Hig 
street,  the  central  way  and  great  battle-field  c 
the  old  turbulent  Scotch.  As  late  as  the  en 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  Scotland  had  ht 
regular  blood-feuds,  like  Corsica.  If  on 
gentleman  slew  another,  no  one  was  so  meai 
as  to  seek  a  legal  remedy  (which,  indeed,  n 
one  was  likely  to  obtain),  but  kinsfolk  waite 
till  they  had  a  chance  to  pink  some  memb( 
of  the  hostile  family.  Far  away  in  Yarrov 
near  the  Dowie  Dens,  where  the  knight  w£ 
slain  in  the  old  ballad,  there  is  an  uplan 
farm  called  Catslack.  The  green  hills  gatlit 
close  together ;  their  slopes  are  dank  and  th :.c 
with  rushes  round  the  narrow  Catslack  bun 
which  leaps  down,  with  little  links  and  littl 
pools,  to  the  Yarrow.  There  my  first  troi 
was  caught,  and  there,  in  an  even  more  «. 
mote  antiquity  (1596),  did  Sir  James  Doug  < 
of  Parkhead,  a  natural  son  of  the  Rege 


rent  Mi 


>n,  meet  his  deadly  foe,  Captain  James  Stew- 
rt.  Chance  or  design  brought  them  together 
the  borders  of  the  way  which  threads  the 
ale  of  Yarrow  and  leads  from  Moffat  to  Sel- 
rk.  There  Sir  James  Douglas,  having  over- 
owered  Stewart  in  fight,  left  his  body  to  be 
evoured  by  dogs  and  birds,  and  rode  away, 


EDINBORO   OLD    TOWN. 


337 


wentwater  to  the  Edinburgh  Cross.  Many 
were  the  revenges  of  the  old  Scotch  noblesse; 
and  the  William  Stewart  who  slew  Torthor- 
wald  was  himself  son  of  the  William  Stewart 
slain,  years  before,  by  Bothwell,  another 
Douglas,  in  the  Blackfriars  Wynd. 

Next  to  the  High  street  and  Cowgate,  the 


OLD    HOUSES    IN    THE    CANONGATE. 


Tinnies,  and   Hangingshaw,  and    Philip- 
ugh,    through    the   oak  wood,  and  below 
ick  Andro,  carrying  the  slain  man's  head 
a  spear.    "  Yarrow  visited,"  indeed,  with  a 
mgeance !    Now  the  house  of  Ochiltree,  of 
ich  Stewart  was  a  member,  could  not  leave 
t(s  shame  unavenged.    Accordingly,  a  trifle 
twelve   years    afterward,   Sir  James,  now 
rd  Torthorwald,  was  walking  in  the  High 
eet,  and,  as  Homer  says,  "  Death  was  not 
his  thoughts."    There,  however,  he  met 
lliam  Stewart,  a  nephew  of  Captain  Stew- 
,  who  drew  his  sword,  and,  without  giving 
rthorwald  any  "show,"  ran  him  through 
Bore  he  could  defend  himself.    This  was  at 
"  Cross,"  hard  by  the  great  and  splendid 
urch  of  St.   Giles,  in  whose  beautiful  lan- 
tm  cannon  have  been  mounted  to  command 
:1   city,   and  in   whose  aisles   Douglas  and 
^)any  built  a  chapel  to  expiate  the  murder 
oRothesay,  whom   they   starved  to  death. 
1e  cross  where  Stewart  took  his  revenge  on 
Tjrthorwald  is  now  marked  only  by  a  kind 
owheel   of  inlaid   stones   in  the  causeway, 
bailies  of  1756  swept  it  away,  as  bail- 
town  councilors,  railway  share-holders, 
their  like  are    always  eager  to  destroy 
is  ancient  or  beautiful,  from  Der- 
.  XXVII—  2. 


Canon  gate  is  the  most  famous  of  the  ways 
through  old  Edinburgh.  The  Canons  in 
Holyrood  built  and  ruled  over  it, —  a  place 
without  the  walls,  defended  by  the  sanctity 
of  the  abbey  and  of  the  holy  fathers.  Yet 
the  devil  was  once  raised  in  the  "back- 
green  "  of  a  house  in  the  Canongate  by  Sir 
Lewis  Bellenden,  a  lord  of  session,  that  is, 
a  judge.  Sir  Lewis  was  so  terrified  "  that  he 
took  sickness  and  thereof  died,"  something 
like  Semele,  who  perished  after  she  beheld 
her  heavenly  lover  in  all  his  glory.  We  may 
trust  that  the  learned  judge  raised  the  devil 
for  no  malignant  purpose,  but  merely  in  the 
course  of  "  psychical  research."  The  visitor 
will  notice  the  wide,  wooden  fronts  of  some 
of  the  old  houses  in  the  Canongate.  Accord- 
ing to  tradition,  these  were  fashioned  out  of 
the  trees  on  the  Borough  Moor,  a  forest  in 
the  possession  of  the  city.  Beggars  and  rob- 
bers found  this  forest  so  convenient  a  shelter 
that  the  town  council  decided  to  fell  it,  and 
all  the  citizens  received  permission  to  carry 
off  as  much  timber  as  they  pleased,  with 
which  they  faced  their  houses.  But  time 
wholly  fails  one  to  tell  a  tithe  of  the  stories 
of  the  Canongate.  The  most  horrible  has 
for  hero  the  gigantic  idiot,  son  of  an  old 


33? 


.EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


duke  of  Queensberry.  One  day  the  idiot 
was  left  unguarded,  the  house  was  empty  of 
retainers,  and  the  giant  strayed  into  the 
kitchen.  There  he  met  one  little  boy  turn- 
ing the  meat  on  the  spit.  When  the  family 

and   servants   came   back,  they   found 

but  no,  that  is  -  quite  .enough !  :The  reader 


SMOLLETT  S     HOUSE. 


may  imagine  what  they  found,  or  may  con- 
sult original  authorities.  Nearly  opposite  the 
house  of  the  dread  ducal  Cyclops  and  de- 
vourer  of  men  is  the  "  Golfers'  Land,"  built 
by  one  Paterson,  who  was  quite  like  an 
Olympian  victor,  for  he  and  his  ancestors 
had  ten  times  won  the  champion  medal  at 
golf — an  excellent  and  delightful  game. 
Golf  may  be  played  wherever  there  is  a  wide 
enough  space  of  broken  grass-land ;  but  he 
who  would  see  the  game  in  its  glory  and  in 
its  ancient  seat  (the  most  picturesque  town 
north  of  the  Forth)  must  go  to  St.  Andrews. 
On  the  right  hand  of  the  Canongate  is  "  the 
old  Playhouse  Close,"  one  of  the  most  char- 
acteristic of  the  antique  wynds,and  the  home 
of  the  sorely  persecuted  stage  in  Presbyterian 
Scotland.  And  so,  passing  the  White  Horse 
Tavern,  where  Boswell  entertained  Johnson, 
and  which,  with  its  gables  and  dormer  win- 
dows, is  one  of  the  best-preserved  relics  of 
the  past,  we  go,  by  the  quaint  "  Queen  Mary's 
Bath,"  into  the  open  free  air,  with  the  green 
slopes  of  Arthur's  Seat  on  one  hand,  and 


Holyrood  on  the  other.  It  is  pleasant  to  fee 
the  salt  breeze  from  the  sea,  and  to  leav»| 
behind  the  fume  and  reek,  the  memory  am 
savor  of  crime  and  sin,  the  dust  that  ma-i 
still  have  grains  in  it  of  burnt  men's  ashe^ 
the  gutters  where  blood  has  flowed  so  free 
the  historical  ghosts  and  horrors  of  the  olrfi 
town  and  of  old  times. 

Not  here,  nor  to-day,  is  there  room  to  speak 
of  Holyrood;  nor,  indeed,  does  its  tale  rq 
quire  to  be  told.  "A  beggarly  palace,  id 
truth,"  Hogg  found  it,  when  he  visited  it  witfl 
Shelley.  A  beggarly  palace,  perhaps,  but  onei 
in  which  it  is  difficult  to  be  quite  unmove« 
and  untouched;  for  in  the  beggarly  bed  slep 
the  fairest  woman  in  the  world,  and  in  tha 
hole  of  a  boudoir  Rizzio  died,  and  up  thj 
winding-stair  came  Darnley,  with  Faldonsid 
and  the  others  that  "  made  sikker."  The  viev 
of  the  hill  from  the  windows  must  be  whar 
Mary  saw  every  morning,  though  probably  th 
bare  sides  of  Arthur's  Seat  were  then  woodec 

Of  New  Edinburgh  I  have  not  propose* 
to  say  much.    A  casual   Scot  whom    Hog- 
(Shelley's  Hogg,  not  the  Shepherd)  found  i 
the  streets  assured  him  that  "  if  all  the  builc 
ings  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  were  molde' 
into  one  edifice,  the  effect  would  not  be  th^ 
same  as  that  of  Edinburgh   University.    Ij 
would  be  far  inferior."   The  effect  would  no 
indeed,  be  precisely  the  same.     But  if  yo 
took  a  few  things  out  of  Queen's,  and  blaci 
ened  that  college,  the  effect  would  not  b 
wholly  unlike  that  of  Edinburgh  Universit) 
The    Register   Office,  according   to    Hogg' 
cicerone,   was   "the   finest   building   in  th' 
habitable   earth."    We   Scots  have  a  "cant 
conceit  o'  oursel's,"  and  New  Edinburgh  i 
the  Sparta  which  we  have  adorned.   The  mor, 
uments  on  the  Calton  Hill  cannot  be  observe'! 
without  admiration.    Here  is  a  Greek  ruii 
a  pepper-box,  "  very  late  and  dreadfully  de 
based,"  with  other  weird  edifices,  testifying 
wildly  and  incoherently  at  once,  to  our  fee 
ing  for  art,  and  to  our  recognition  of  Dugal 
Stewart  and  Robert  Burns. 

The  Register  Office  may  or  may  not  b 
the  finest  building  in  the  habitable  earth,  bu 
the  distant  views  of  Edinburgh,  the  genera 
impressions  from  a  dozen  different  point1 
are  wonderful  and  memorable, — as  pleasan 
and  dear  to  look  back  upon  or  forward  t 
as  the  glowing  spectacle  of  Florence  fror 
any  of  her  storied  and  sacred  heights.  Onl} 
while  in  Florence  all  is  color  and  brillianc) 
with  an  evident  and  beautiful  arrangemer 
and  order,  Edinburgh  depends  for  her  charrj 
on  the  smoke,  the  sea-haze,  the  myste^i 
broken  by  the  faint  and  clear  forms  of  th, 
Castle  Hill  and  its  towery  crown,  by  the  ridg 
of  the  old  city,  the  tall  spires,  and  the  Ian 


EDINBORO    OLD    TOWN. 


339 


f  St.  Giles,  etched  on  the  gray  background, 
ehind  all,  on  three  sides,  are  the  everlasting 
11s,  and  to  the  north  the  gray  or  glittering 
rith,  decked  with  flying  sails,  and  studded 
ith  tiny  islands.  Two  views  of  Edinburgh 
main  impressed  most  deeply  on  my  mem- 
y.  One  was  seen  on  a  late  afternoon  of 
anuary  from  the  Calton  hill.  At  our  feet 
e  straight  line  of  the  lamps  of  Princes 
reet  twinkled  away  into  the  shadow.  Be- 
sath  us  was  swathed  in  long  folds  a  soft 
rown  mist,  from  which  the  crests  of  houses, 
e  spires  of  churches,  the  Castle  rock,  rose 
lemnly,  their  bases  in  shadow  and  dark- 
ess,  their  crowns  clear  against  the  upper 
cy.  Farther  away  emerged  from  a  fainter 
list  the  deep  folds  and  rolling  ridges  of  the 
lls, —  farther  away,  but  yet,  owing  to  some 
ffect  of  light,  the  hills  seemed  quite  near  at 
and,  brooding  about  the  town.  The  other 
a  summer  view  of  Edinburgh,  about  five 
clock  on  a  bright  August  afternoon,  the 
>wn  beheld  from  Fetter  College,  between 
te  new  city  and  the  sea.  Now  the  ocean 
~.  mist,  from  which  the  spires  emerged,  and 
bove  which  stood  the  long  castled  line  of 
ouses,  was  blue  or  silvery  gray ;  the  city 
id  its  towers  were  white  and  distinct  against 
sky  of  deep,  tender  blue.  Behind  was 
rthur's  Seat,  with  its  leonine  air  of  watching 
ver  a  trust.  These  are  two  beautiful  views 
Edinburgh,  but  she  is  beautiful  from  all 
Dints  and  in  every  light,  beautiful  especially, 

perhaps, 
from  the 
height 


THE     PLAYHOUSE     CLOSE.       FIRST    THEATER    IN     SCOTLAND. 

whence  Marmion  saw  her  before  Flodden. 
The  outlines  of  all  the  hills  have  a  pecul- 
iar, almost  a  Greek  grandeur  and  simplicity. 
Everywhere  they  are  within  sight,  except 
when,  from  the  crest  of  George  street,  you 
gaze  down  over  the  sloping  land  to  the  Frith 
_^  and  the  Fifeshire  plains,  or 

when,  from  Princes  street, 
across  the  gorge  where  the 
Norloch's  waters  lay,  you 
watch  the  illumined  heights 
and  peaks  of  the  old  town, 


QUEEN  MARY'S  BATH. 


340 


EDINBORO    OLD   TOWN. 


clear  through  the  rainy  air,  reflected,  with  all  son    and   is    Covenanting   and   Presbyterian 

their  lamps,  in  the  pools  of  water.    This  view  enough  to  dance  in  Lent.    Probably  there  is 

Mr.  Pennell  has  chosen,  and  none  is  more  no  more  hospitable  and  amusing  town  in  the 

familiar  and  characteristic.  kingdom.    I    remember   a   day  of  this  lasl' 

About  the  people  of  Edinburgh,  so  far,  noth-  spring,   a   Sunday,  which   was  horrible  witr.' 


WHITE    HORSE    INN,    WHERE    JOHNSON     STOPPED. 


ing  has  been  said.  People  are  not  like  places, 
deaf  and  insensible,  and  it  is  a  thankless  job 
to  criticise  our  contemporaries.  Edinburgh 
cannot  be  said  to  be  all  that  she  was  when  it 
was  a  far  cry  to  London,  when  Edinburgh 
was  a  capital  indeed,  with  a  literature  and  a 
brilliant  society,  and  a  school  of  art  of  her  own. 
Now,  London  is  within  a  brief  nine  hours' 
journey,  and  has  drawn  away  the  "  county 
people" — the  old  families — from  their  old 
haunted  chateaux  to  Belgravia  and  May- 
fair.  The  artists,  or  many  of  them,  have  gone 
on  where  purchasers  have  gone  before ;  and 
many  of  the  members  of  the  Academy  in 
London  are  Scotch.  Yet  some  remain  in  their 
own  beautiful  town  and  spurn  the  attractions 
of  money  and  of  a  noisier  fame.  The  same 
causes  operate  to  withdraw  men  of  letters 
from  the  capital  of  the  Blackwoods  and  Con- 
stables, from  the  home  of  "  Maga  "  and  the 
"  Edinburgh  Review."  The  lights  of  London 
have  a  magnetic  attraction,  and  people  who 
resist  them  are  usually  either  too  indolent  or 
too  wise  to  be  very  ambitious.  But  "  Maga" 
remains  true  to  the  city  of  Lockhart  and 
Wilson,  and  has  still  her  court  of  wits  and 
scholars.  The  University,  the  Bar,  the  Army 
(as  represented  by  the  regiments  at  the  Castle 
and  Tuck's  Lodge),  these,  with  such  of  the 
surrounding  lairds  as  prefer  the  comparative 
quiet  of  Edinburgh,  make  up  the  society  of 
the  place, —  a  society  which  has  a  winter  sea- 


howling  east  winds  and  tormented  with  dust 
We  struggled  for  a  mile  beyond  the  towi 
and  found  ourselves  in  a  deep  dell,  a  wind 
less  air ;  the  trees  were  breaking  into  leaf,  th|l 
primroses   starred  the  banks,  a  clear  trout' 
stream  flowed  singing  through  the  midst  o 
this   sheltered  paradise.    This   is   the  charr 
of  Edinburgh.    The   unspoiled  country  lie 
within  sight  of  her  gates ;  the  fields,  and  th 
hills,  and  the  towns,  and  the  sea,  and  th 
links  of  Musselburgh,  whereon  to  play  gol 
and  forget   this   troublesome  world,  are  a 
hard  at  hand.    I  do  not  imagine  that  the  pec 
pie  of  the  old  town  think  much  of  these  ac 
vantages.   The  place  is  notorious  for  intox 
cated   Caledonians   and   temperance   hotels 
Though     Edinburgh    has    its    drawback 
(something  about  them,  more   about  its  ir1 
communicable  charm,  may  be  read  in  M: 
R.  L.  Stevenson's  book  on  his  native  city)-. 
though    Edinburgh    has   its    drawbacks,   th 
position  of  a  professor  in  the  University,  wit 
half  the   year    pure,    untrammeled   holiday 
seems  to  be  the  true  paradise  of  men  of  le 
ters.    So  think  all  scribbling  or  bookish  Scot 
and  I  mean  to  send  in  my  testimonials 
soon  as  any  pious  founder  endows  a  chair  fc 
the  study  of  French  fiction.    Till  then,  onl, 
one's  heart,  or  a  great  share  of  it, — dimidli< 
animcB  mece, — and  one's  memories,  happy  c 
sad,  are  in  Edinburgh. 

Andrew  Lang 


[Begun  in  the  August  number.  ] 


THE    BREAD-WINNERS.* 


xvm. 


OFFITT    PLANS    A    LONG   JOURNEY. 

THE  bright  sun  and  the  morning  noises  of 
the  city  waked  Offitt  from  his  sleep.  As  he 
dressed  himself,  the  weight  of  the  packages  in 
his  pockets  gave  him  a  pleasant  sensation  to 
begin  the  day  with.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  en- 
tering upon  a  new  state  of  existence — a  life 
Iwith  plenty  of  money.  He  composed  in  his 
mind  an  elaborate  breakfast  as  he  walked 
down-stairs  and  took  his  way  to  a  restaurant, 
vhich  he  entered  with  the  assured  step  of  a 
man  of  capital.  He  gave  his  order  to  the 
waiter  with  more  decision  than  usual,  and  told 
rim  in  closing  "  not  to  be  all  day  about  it, 
bither." 

While  waiting  for  his  breakfast,  he  opened 
he  morning  "  Bale -Fire  "  to  see  if  there  was 
my  account  of  "  The  Algonquin  Avenue 
LYagedy."  This  was  the  phrase  which  he  had 
irranged  in  his'  mind  as  the  probable  head- 
ine  of  the  article.  He  had  so  convinced  him- 
elf  of  the  efficacy  of  his  own  precautions, 
hat  he  anticipated  the  same  pleasure  in  read- 
ng  the  comments  upon  his  exploit  that  an 
tuthor  whose.,  incognito  is  assured  enjoys  in 
eading  the  criticisms  of  his  anonymous  work. 
He  was  at  first  disappointed  in  seeing  no  allu- 
ion  to  the  affair  in  the  usual  local  columns, 
put,  at  last,  he  discovered  in  a  corner  of  the 
baper  this  double-leaded  postscript : 


rally,  of  themselves,  to  the  conviction  of  Sleeny. 
He  determined  to  frighten  Sam,  if  possible, 
out  of  the  city,  knowing  that  his  flight  would 
be  conclusive  evidence  of  guilt.  He  swallowed 
his  coffee  hurriedly  and  walked  down^to  Dean 
street,  where  by  good  fortune  he  found  Sam 
alone  in  the  shop.  He  was  kicking  about  a 
pile  of  shavings  on  the  floor.  He  turned  as 
Offitt  entered  and  said  :  "  Oh,  there  you  are. 
I  can't  find  that  hammer  anywhere." 

Offitt's  face  assumed  a  grieved  expression. 
"  Come,  come,  Sam,  don't  stand  me  off  that 
way.  I'm  your  friend,  if  you've  got  one  in 
the  world.  You  mustn't  lose  a  minute  more. 
You've  got  time  now  to  catch  the  8.40.  Come, 
jump  in  a  hack  and  be  off." 

His  earnestness  and  rapidity  confused 
Sleeny,  and  drove  all  thoughts  of  the  hammer 
from  his  mind.  He  stared  at  Offitt  blankly, 
and  said,  "Why,  what  are  you  givin'  me 
now  ?  " 

"  I'm  a-givin'  you  truth  and  friendship,  and 
fewest  words  is  best.  Come,  light  out,  and 
write  where  you  stop.  I'll  see  you  through." 

"  See  here,"  roared  Sam,  "  are  you  crazy 
or  am  I  ?  Speak  out !  What's  up  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I've  got  to  speak  it  out,  raw  and 
plain,  have  I  ?  Very  well !  Art  Farnham  was 
attacked  and  nearly  murdered  last  night,  and 
if  you  didn't  do  it,  who  did  ?  Now  come, 
for  God's  sake,  get  off  before  the  police  get 
here.  I  never  thought  you  had  the  sand — 
but 


I  see  you've  got  too  much.    Don't  lose 
time  talking  any  more.    I'm  glad  you've  killed 

op  the  press  to  state  that  an  appalling  crime    him>    YOU  done  just  right— but  I  don't  want 
ight  committed  in  Algonquin  Avenue.    The    ,  ,  Jr      .,  ,y 

5f  Arthur  Farnham,  Esq  ,  was  entered  by    to  see  you.  hung  for  it." 

His  excitement  and  feigned  earnestness  had 
brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes.  Sam  saw  them 
and  was  convinced. 

"  Andy,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  I  know  you're 
my  friend,  and  mean  right.  I'll  swear  before 
God  it  wasn't  me,  and  I  know  nothing  about 
it,  and  I  wont  run  away." 

"  But  how  will  we  prove  it  ?  "  said  Offitt, 
wringing  his  hands  in  distress.  "  Where  was 
you  last  night  from  ten  to  eleven  ?  " 

"  You  know  where  I  was — in  your  room. 
I  went  there  just  after  nine,  and  fell  asleep 
waiting  for  you." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  but  who  knows  it  ?  Sam, 
I  believe  you  are  innocent  since  you  say  so. 
But  see  the  circumstances.  You  have  talked 
about  goin'  for  him.  You  have  had  a  fight 


"  We  stop 
Vas  last  ni 

juansion  of  Arthur  Farnham,  Esq",  was  entered  by 
Burglars  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  and  that  gen- 
Sleman  assaulted  and  probably  murdered. 
j  "  Full  particulars  in  a  later  edition." 

!  "  LATER. —  Captain  Farnham  is  still  living,  and  some 
/opes  are  entertained  of  his  recovery.  The  police 
|iave  found  the  weapon  with  which  the  almost  fatal 
flow  was  struck  —  a  carpenter's  hammer  marked  with 
I  letter  S.  It  is  thought  this  clew  will  lead  to  the  de- 
Action  of  the  guilty  parties." 

1  Offitt  was  not  entirely  pleased  with  the  tone 
|>f  this  notice.  He  had  expected  some  refer- 
nce  to  the  address  and  daring  of  the  burglar. 
Jut  he  smiled  to  himself,  "  Why  should  I  care 
:>r  Sam's  reputation  ?  "  and  ate  his  breakfast 
nth  a  good  appetite.  Before  he  had  finished, 
owever,  he  greatly  modified  his  plan,  which 
:^as  to  have  the  threads  of  evidence  lead  natu- 


VOL.  XXVII.— 33. 


Copyright,  1883,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved 


342 


THE   BREAD-WINNERS. 


with  him,  and  got  put  in  jail  for  it,  and  — " 
he  was  about  to  mention  the  hammer,  but 
was  afraid — "I  wish  you  would  take  my  ad- 
vice and  go  off  for  a  week  or  so  till  the  truth 
comes  out.  I'll  lend  you  all  the  money  you 
want.  I'm  flush  this  week." 

"  No,  Andy,"  said  Sleeny.  "  Nobody  could 
be  kinder  than  you.  But  I  wont  run  away. 
They  can't  put  a  man  where  he  wasn't." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Offitt.  "I  admire 
your  plu^ck,  and  I'll  swear  a  -blue  streak  for. 
you  when  the  time  comes.  And  perhaps  I 
had  better  get  away  now,  so  they  wont  know 
I've  been  with  you." 

Without  a  moment's  delay  he  went  to  the 
chief  of  police  and  told  him  that  he  had  a 
disagreeable  duty  to  perform ;  that  he  knew 
the  murderer  of  Captain  Farnham ;  that  the 
criminal  was  an  intimate  friend  of  his,  a 
young  man  hitherto  of  good  character  named 
Sleeny. 

"  Ah-ha  !  "  said  the  chief.  "  That  was  the 
fellow  that  Captain  Farnham  knocked  down 
and  arrested  in  the  riot." 

"  The  same,"  said  Offitt.  "  He  has  since 
that  been  furious  against  the  captain.  I  have 
reasoned  with  him  over  and  over  about  it. 
Yesterday,  he  came  to  see  me ;  showed  me  a 
hammer  he  had  just  bought  at  Ware  &  Har- 
den's;  said  he  was  going  to  break  Arthur 
Farnham's  skull  with  it.  I  didn't  believe  he 
would,  he  had  said  it  so  often  before.  While 
we  were  talking,  I  took  the  hammer  and  cut 
his  initial  on  it,  a  letter  S."  The  chief  nodded, 
with  a  broad  smile.  "  He  then  left  me,  and 
came  back  to  my  room  a  little  before  mid- 
night. He  looked  excited,  and  wanted  me 
to  go  and  get  a  drink  with  him.  I  declined, 
and  he  went  off.  This  morning,  when  I  heard 
about  the  murder,  I  said,  '  He's  the  man  that 
did  the  deed.' " 

"  You  have  not  seen  him  since  last  night?  " 

"  No ;  I  suppose,  of  course,  he  has  run 
away." 

"  Where  did  he  live  ?  " 

"  Dean  street,  at  Matchin's,  the  carpenter." 

The  chief  turned  to  his  telegraphic  oper- 
ator and  rapidly  gave  orders  for  the  arrest  of 
Sleeny  by  the  police  of  the  nearest  station. 
He  also  sent  for  the  clerks  who  were  on  duty 
the  day  before  at  Ware  &  Harden's. 

"  Mr.  — ,  I  did  not  get  your  name,"  he 
said  to  Offitt,  who  gave  him  his  name  and 
address.  "  You  have  acted  the  part  of  a  good 
citizen." 

"  The  most  painful  act  of  my  life,"  Offitt 
murmured. 

"  Of  course.  But  duty  before  everything. 
I  will  have  to  ask  you  to  wait  a  little  while 
in  the  adjoining  room  till  we  see  whether  this 
man  can  be  found." 


Offitt  was  shown  into  a  small  room,  barely 
furnished,  with  two  doors  —  the  one  through 
which  he  had  just  come,  and  one  opening  ap- 
parently into  the  main  corridor  of  the  build- 
ing. Offitt,  as  soon  as  he  was  alone,  walked 
stealthily  to  the  latter  door  and  tried  to  open 
it.  It  was  locked,  and  there  was  no  key.  He 
glanced  at  the  window;  there  was  an  iron 
grating  inside  the  sash,  which  was  padlocked. 
A  cold  sweat  bathed  him  from  head  to  foot. 
He  sank  into  a  chair,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
He  felt  for  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  wet 
forehead.  His  hand  touched  one  of  the  pack- 
ages of  money.  He  bounded  from  his  chair 
in  sudden  joy.  "  They  did  not  search  me,  so 
they  don't  suspect.  It  is  only  to  make  sure 
of  my  evidence  that  they  keep  me  here." 
Nevertheless,  the  time  went  heavily.  At  last, 
an  officer  came  in  and  said  he  was  to  come 
to  the  police-justice's  for  the  preliminary  ex- 
amination of  Sleeny. 

"  They  have  caught  him,  then  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  assumed  eagerness  and  surprise.  "He 
had  not  got  away  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  man  answered  curtly. 

They  came  to  the  court-room  in  a  few; 
steps.  Sam  was  there  between  two  policemen. 
As  Offitt  entered,  he  smiled  and  slightly 
nodded.  One  or  two  men  who  had  been 
summoned  as  witnesses  were  standing  near 
the  justice.  The  proceedings  were  summary. 

One  of  the  policemen  said  that  he  had  gone 
to  Matchin's  shop  to  arrest  the  prisoner ;  that 
the  prisoner  exhibited  no  surprise ;  his  first 
words  were,  "  Is  Mr.  Farnham  dead  yet  ?  " 

Offitt  was  then  called  upon,  and  he  re- 
peated, clearly  and  concisely,  the  story  he 
had  told  the  chief  of  police.  When  he  had 
concluded,  he  was  shown  the  hammer  which 
had  been  picked  up  on  the  floor  at  Farn- 
ham's, and  was  asked,  "Is  that  the  hammer 
you  refer  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it." 

These  words  were  the  signal  for  a  terrible 
scene. 

When  Sleeny  saw  Offitt  step  forward  andi 
begin  to  give  his  evidence,  he  leaned  over 
with  a  smile  of  pleased  expectation  upon  his 
face.  He  had  such  confidence  in  his  friend's 
voluble  cleverness  that  he  had  no  doubt 
Offitt  would  "  talk  him  free  "  in  a  few  min- 
utes. He  was  confused  a  little  by  his  open- 
ing words,  not  clearly  seeing  his  drift ;  but 
the  story  went  on,  and  Offitt's  atrocious 
hood  became  clear  to  his  mind,  he  was  di 
with  stupefaction,  and  felt  a  strange  curie 
wakening  in  him  to  see  how  the  story  woul 
end.  He  did  not  for  the  moment  see  whet 
object  Offitt  could  have  in  lying  so,  until  the 
thought  occurred  to  him,  "  May  be  there's  " 
reward  out ! "  But  when  the  blood- 


there's  a 

n*n 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


343 


lammer  was  shown  and  identified  by  Offitt, 
ill  doubt  was  cleared  away  in  a  flash  from 
he  dull  brain  of  Sleeny.  He  saw  the  whole 
torrible  plot  of  which  he  was  the  victim. 
[  He  rose  from  his  seat  before  the  officer 
[ould  stop  him,  and  roared  like  a  lion  in  the 
toils,  in  a  voice  filled  equally  with  agony  and 
[age,  "  You  murdering  liar !  I'll  tear  your 
teart  out  of  you !  " 

There  were  a  wide  table  and  several  chairs 
ictween  them,  but  Sleeny  was  over  them  in 
,n  instant.  Offitt  tried  to  escape,  but  was  so 
.emmed  in  that  the  infuriated  man  had  him 
i  his  hands  before  the  officers  could  inter- 
ose.  If  they  had  delayed  a  moment  longer 
11  would  have  been  over,  for  already  Sleeny 's 
ands  were  at  the  throat  of  his  betrayer.  But 
vo  powerful  policemen  with  their  clubs  soon 
jparated  the  combatants,  and  Sleeny  was 
ragged  back  and  securely  handcuffed. 

Offitt,  ghastly  pale  and  trembling,  had  sunk 
pon  a  bench.  The  justice,  looking  at  him 
arrowly,  said,  "  The  man  is  going  to  faint ; 
»osen  his  collar." 

"  No,"  said  Offitt,  springing  to  his  feet.  "  I 
n  perfectly  well." 

In  his  struggle  with  Sleeny  a  button  of  his 
>at  had  been  torn  away.  He  asked  a  by- 
ander  for  a  pin,  and  carefully  adjusted  the 
irment.  The  thought  in  his  mind  was,  "  I 
Dn't  mind  being  killed;  but  I  thought  he 
ight  tear  off  my  coat,  and  show  them  my 
oney."  From  this  moment  he  kept  his  hand 

such  position  that  he  might  feel  the  pack- 
jes  in  his  pockets. 

Sleeny  was  still  panting  and  screaming  ex- 
xations  at  Offitt.  The  justice  turned  to  him 
ith  sternness,  and  said,  "  Silence  there ! 
lave  you  not  sense  enough  to  see  how  your 
rocious  attack  on  the  witness  damages  you  ? 
1  you  can't  restrain  your  devilish  temper 
Uile  your  friend  is  giving  his  evidence,  it 
J.ll  be  all  the  worse  for  you." 
!"  Judge,"  cried  Sam,  now  fairly  beside  him- 
Jf,  "  that's  the  murderer  !  I  know  it.  I  can 
(ove  it.  He  aint  fit  to  live.  I'll  break  his 
}ck  yet !  " 

:  Offitt  raised  his  hands  and  eyes  in  depreca- 
ftg  sorrow. 

"  This  is  the  wild  talk  of  a  desperate  man," 
$d  the  justice.  "  But  you  may  as  well  tell 
il  how  you  passed  last  evening." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Offitt,  consulting  his 
r^mory.  "  Let  me  see.  I  took  supper  about 
yen  at  Duffer's;  I  went  to  Glauber's  drug- 
£>re  next  and  got  a  glass  of  soda  water;  if 
t^y  don't  know  me,  they'll  remember  my 
taking  a  glass ;  then  I  made  a  visit  at  Mr. 
ktchin's  on  Dean  street ;  then  I  went  to  the 
Weans  theater ;  I  came  out  between  the  acts 
3d  got  a  cup  of  coffee  at  Mouchem's  ;  then 


I  went  back  and  stayed  till  the  show  was 
over;  that  was  about  half-past  eleven.  Then 
I  went  home  and  found  Mr.  Sleeny  there." 

"You  had  better  go  with  Mr.  Fangwell, 
and  let  him  verify  this  statement,"  said  the 
justice. 

He  then  called  the  policeman  who  arrived 
first  at  Farnham's  house  the  night  before. 
He  told  his  story  and  identified  the  hammer 
which  had  been  shown  to  Offitt.  A  young 
man  from  Ware  &  Harden's  swore  that  he  had 
sold  the  hammer  the  day  before  to  Sleeny, 
whom  he  knew.  The  justice  held  this  evi- 
dence sufficient  to  justify  Sleeny's  detention. 

'*!  should  think  so,"  said  some  of  the  by- 
standers. "If  it  don't  hang  him,  there's  a 
loud  call  for  Judge  Lynch." 

"  Silence  !  "  said  the  justice.  "  The  pris- 
oner will  be  taken  for  the  present  to  the  city 
jail." 

Sam  was  led  out,  and  Offitt  accompanied 
the  chief  of  police  back  to  the  room  he  had 
just  quitted.  He  remained  there  several 
hours,  which  seemed  to  him  interminable.  At 
last,  however,  the  detective  who  had  been 
sent  to  inquire  as  to  the  truth  of  the  account 
he  had  given  of  himself,  returned  with  a  full 
confirmation  of  it,  and  Offitt  was  suffered  to 
go,  on  his  own  engagement  to  give  further 
evidence  when  called  upon. 

He  left  the  City  Hall  with  a  great  load  off 
his  mind.  It  was  not  without  an  effort  that 
he  had  sworn  away  the  character,  the  free- 
dom, and  perhaps  the  life  of  his  comrade.  If 
he  could  have  accomplished  his  purpose  with- 
out crushing  Sleeny  he  would  have  preferred  it. 
But  the  attack  which  his  goaded  victim  had 
made  upon  him  in  the  court-room  was  now 
a  source  of  lively  satisfaction  to  him.  It  cre- 
ated a  strong  prejudice  against  the  prisoner; 
it  caused  the  justice  at  once  to  believe  him 
guilty,  and  gave  Offitt  himself  an  injured 
feeling  that  was  extremely  comforting  in 
view  of  what  was  to  happen  to  Sleeny. 

He  went  along  the  street  tapping  his  vari- 
ous pockets  furtively  as  he  walked.  He  was 
hungry.  His  diverse  emotions  had  given  him 
an  appetite.  He  went  into  an  eating-house 
and  commanded  a  liberal  supper.  He  had  an 
odd  fancy  as  he  gave  his  order.  "  That's  the 
sort  of  supper  I  would  have  if  it  was  my  last 
—  if  I  was  to  be  hanged  to-morrow."  He 
thought  of  Sleeny,  and  hoped  they  would 
treat  him  well  in  jail.  He  felt  magnanimous 
toward  him.  "  Who  would  have  thought,"  he 
mused,  "  that  Sam  had  such  a  devil  of  a  tem- 
per ?  I  'most  hope  that  Farnham  wont  die  — 
it  would  be  rough  on  Sam.  Though  perhaps 
that  would  be  best  all  round,"  he  added, 
thinking  of  Sam's  purple  face  in  the  court- 
room and  the  eager  grip  of  his  fingers. 


344 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


He  came  out  of  the  eating-house  into  the 
gathering  twilight.  The  lamps  were  spring- 
ing into  light  in  long  straight  lines  down  the 
dusky  streets.  The  evening  breeze  blew  in 
from  the  great  lake,  tempering  the  stale  heat 
of  the  day.  Boys  were  crying  the  late  editions 
of  the  newspapers  with  "  Full  account !  arrest 
o'  the  Farnham  burglar  !  "  He  bought  one, 
but  did  not  stop  to  open  it.  He  folded  it  into 
the  smallest  possible  compass,  and  stuffed  it 
into  his  pocket,  "  along  with  the  other  docu- 
ments in  the  case,"  as  he  chuckled  to  himself. 
"I'll  read  all  about  it  in  the  train  to-morrow 
— business  before  pleasure,"  he  continued, 
pleased  with  his  wit. 

Every  moment  he  would  put  his  hand  into 
his  side-pocket  and  feel  the  package  con- 
taining the  largest  bills.  He  knew  it  was  im- 
prudent—  that  it  might  attract  the  attention 
of  thieves  or  detectives ;  but  to  save  his  life 
he  could  not  have  kept  from  doing  it.  At  last 
he  scratched  his  hand  on  the  pin  which  was 
doing  duty  for  the  button  he  had  lost  in  his 
scuffle  with  Sleeny.  "  Ah !  "  he  said  to  him- 
self, with  humorous  banter,  "it  wont  do  to  be 
married  in  a  coat  with  a  button  off." 

He  went  into  a  little  basement  shop  where 
a  sign  announced  that  "  Scouring  and  Re- 
pairing "  were  done.  A  small  and  bald  Ham- 
burger stepped  forward,  rubbing  his  hands. 
Offitt  told  him  what  he  wanted,  and  the  man 
got  a  needle  and  thread  and  selected  from  a 
large  bowl  of  buttons  on  a  shelf  one  that 
would  suit.  While  he  was  sewing  it  on,  he 
said: 

"  Derrible  news  apout  Gabben  Farnham." 

"  Yes,"  said  Offitt.   "  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  off  he  ish  tet.  Dey  say  he 
ish  oud  mid  his  het,  und  tat  looksh  mighty 
pad.  But  one  ting  ish  goot;  dey  cotch  de 
murterer." 

"  They  have  ?  "  asked  Offitt,  with  languid 
interest.  "  What  sort  of  fellow  is  he  ?  " 

"  Mutter  Gottes  !  "  said  the  little  German ; 
"  de  vorst  kind.  He  would  radder  gill  a  man 
as  drink  a  glass  bier.  He  gome  mighty  near 
gillin'  his  pest  vrient  to-day  in  de  gourt-house 
droben,  ven  he  vas  dellin'  vat  he  knowed 
apout  it  alleweil." 

"  A  regular  fire-eater,"  said  Offitt.  "  So 
you've  finished,  have  you?  How  much  for 
the  job ! " 

The  German  was  looking  at  a  stain  on  the 
breast  of  the  coat. 

"Vot's  dish?"  he  said,  "Looksh  like 
baint.  Yust  lemme  take  your  coat  off  a  min- 
ute and  I  gleans  dot  up  like  a  nudel  soup." 

"Say,  mind  your  own  business,  wont 
you  ?  "  growled  Offitt.  "  Here's  your  money, 
and  when  I  want  any  of  your  guff  I'll  let  you 
know." 


He  hurried  out,  leaving  the  poor  German 
amazed  at  the  ill  result  of  his  effort  to  turn 
an  honest  penny  and  do  a  fellow-creature  a 
service. 

"  Vunny  beebles  ! "  he  said  to  himself. ' 
"  But  I  got  a  kevarter  off  a  tollar  for  a  den- 
cent  chob." 

Offitt  came  out  of  the  shop  and  walked  at 
a  rapid  pace  to  Dean  street.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  make  an  end  at  once  of  Maud's 
scruples  and  coquetry.  He  said  to  himself. 
"  If  we  are  both  alive  to-morrow,  we  shall 
be  married."  He  believed  if  he  could  have 
her  to  himself  for  half  an  hour,  he  coulc 
persuade  her  to  come  with  him.  He  was 
busy  all  the  way  plotting  to  get  her  pa 
rents  out  of  the  house.  It  would  be  eas) 
enough  to  get  them  out  of  the  room ;  but  h< 
wanted  them  out  of  hearing,  out  of  reach  of ; 
cry  for  help  even. 

He  found  them  all  together  in  the  sitting 
room.  The  arrest  of  Sleeny  had  fallen  heav 
ily  upon  them.  They  had  no  doubt  of  hi 
guilt,  from  the  reports  they  had  heard ;  am 
their  surprise  and  horror  at  his  crime  wen 
not  lessened,  but  rather  increased,  by  thei 
familiar  affection  for  him. 

"To  think,"  said  Saul  to  his  wife,  "  tha, 
that  boy  has  worked  at  the  same  bench  am 
slept  in  the  same  house  with  me  for  so  man1 
years,  and  I  never  knowed  the  Satan  tha 
was  in  him  !  " 

"  It's  in  all  of  us,  Saul,"  said  Mrs.  Matchin 
trying  to  improve  the  occasion  for  the  edifi 
cation  of  her  unbelieving  husband. 

Maud  had  felt  mingled  with  her  sorrow 
suspicion  of  remorse.  She  could  not  help  re 
membering  that  Sam  considered  Farnham  hi 
rival,  with  how  little  reason  she  knew  bette 
than  any  one.  She  could  understand  how  he 
beauty  might  have  driven  him  to  violence 
but  when  the  story  of  the  robbery  transpire 
also,  as  it  did  in  the  course  of  the  morning 
she  was  greatly  perplexed.  When  she  joine 
in  the  lamentations  of  her  parents  and  sai 
she  never  could  have  believed  that  of  Sai 
Sleeny,  she  was  thinking  of  the  theft,  an 
not  of  the  furious  assault.  \Vhen  they  ha 
all,  however,  exhausted  their  limited  store  c 
reflections,  a  thing  took  place  which  ir 
creased  the  horror  and  the  certainty  of  M 
and  Mrs.  Matchin,  and  left  Maud  a  prey  t 
a  keener  doubt  and  anxiety  than  ever.  Lat 
in  the  afternoon  a  sharp-faced  man,  with 
bright  eye  and  a  red  mustache,  came  to  th 
house  and  demanded  in  the  name  of  the  Ir 
to  be  shown  Sam's  bedroom.  He  made  s(^ 
eral  notes  and  picked  up  some  trifling  article; 
for  which  he  gave  Mr.  Matchin  receipt 
Coming  out  of  the  room,  he  looked  carefull 
at  the  door-knob.  "  Seems  all  right,"  he  sa  ( 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


345 


_hen  turning  to  Matchin,  he  said,  with  pro- 
essional  severity,  "  What  door  did  he  gener- 
lly  come  in  by  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  one  and  sometimes  another," 
;aid  Saul,  determined  not  to  give  any  more 
nformation  than  he  must. 

"  Well,  I'll  look  at  both,"  the  detective  said. 

The  first  one  stood  his  scrutiny  without 
ffect,  but  at  the  second  his  eye  sparkled  and 
iis  cheek  flushed  with  pleasure,  when  he  saw 
he  faint,  reddish-brown  streaks  which  Offitt 
lad  left  there  the  night  before.  He  could 
ot  repress  his  exultation;  turning  to  Saul, 
e  said,  "  There's  where  he  came  in  last 
light,  any  way." 

He  didn't  do  no  such  a  thing,"  replied 
>aul.  "  That  door  I  locked  myself  last  night 
>efore  he  came  in." 

"  Oh,  you  did  ?  So  you're  sure  he  came  in 
,t  the  other  door,  are  you  ?  We  will  see  if  he 
;ould  get  in  any  other  way." 

Walking  around  the  corner,  he  saw  the  lad- 
iler  where  Offitt  had  left  it. 

"  Hello  !  that's  his  window,  aint  it  ?  " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  the  detect- 
^e  ran  up  the  ladder,  studying  every  inch  of 
;s  surface  as  he  ran.  He  came  down  posi- 
vely  radiant,  and  slapped  Saul  heartily  on 
ie  shoulder. 

"All  right,  old  man.  I'll  trouble  you  to 
eep  that  ladder  and  that  door  just  as  they 
re.  They  are  important  papers.  Why,  don't 
ou  see  ?  "  he  continued.  "  Bless  your  inno- 
ent  old  heart,  he  comes  home  with  his  hands 
ist  reg'larly  dripping  with  murder.  He  fum- 
les  at  that  door,  finds  it  locked,  and  so  gets 
lat  ladder,  h'ists  it  up  to  the  window,  and 
ops  into  bed  as  easy  as  any  Christian  school- 
joy  in  town,  and  he  thinks  he's  all  right; 
ut  he  never  thinks  of  Tony  Smart,  your 
umble  servant." 

This  view  of  the  case  was  perfectly  con- 
incing  to  Saul,  and  also  to  his  wife  when  he 
:peated  it  at  the  supper-table ;  but  it  struck 
taud  with  a  sudden  chill.  She  remembered 
|iat  when  she  had  dismissed  Offitt  from  that 
liidnight  conference  at  her  casement,  he  had 
.refully  taken  the  ladder  away  from  her 

indow,  and  had   set  it  against  the  house 

me  distance  off.  She  had  admired  at  the 
"ne  his  considerate  chivalry,  and  thought 
)w  nice  it  was  to  have  a  lover  so  obedient 
id  so  careful  of  her  reputation.  But  now 
!e  detective's  ghastly  discovery  turned  her 
; ought  in  a  direction  which  appalled  her. 
jould  it  be  possible  ?  And  all  that  money — 
nere  did  it  come  from  ?  As  she  sat  with 
|r  parents  in  the  gathering  darkness,  she 
tpt  her  dreadful  anxiety  to  herself.  She  had 
tan  hoping  all  day  to  see  her  lover;  now 
4e  feared  to  have  him  come,  lest  her  new 


suspicions  might  be  confirmed.  She  quickly 
resolved  upon  one  thing :  she  would  not  go 
away  with  him  that  night — not  until  this 
horrible  mystery  was  cleared  up.  If  she  was 
worth  having,  she  was  worth  waiting  for  a 
little  while. 

They  all  three  started  as  the  door  opened 
and  Offitt  came  in.  He  wasted  no  time  in 
salutations,  but  said  at  once,  "  It's  a  funny 
thing,  but  I  have  got  a  message  for  each  of 
you.  The  district  attorney  saw  me  coming 
up  this  way,  Mr.  Matchin,  and  asked  me  to 
tell  you  to  come  down  as  quick  as  you  can 
to  his  office — something  very  important,  he 
said.  And  stranger  than  that,  I  met  Mr. 
Wixham  right  out  here  by  the  corner,  and  he 
asked  me  if  I  was  comin'  here,  and  if  I  would 
ask  you,  Mrs.  Matchin,  to  come  right  up  to 
their  house.  Jurildy  is  sick  and  wants  to  see 
you,  and  he  has  run  off  for  the  doctor." 

Both  the  old  people  bustled  up  at  this 
authoritative  summons,  and  Offitt  as  they 
went  out  said,  "  I'll  stay  awhile  and  keep 
Miss  Maud  from  gettin'  lonesome." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Matchin. 
"  The  house  seems  eerie-like  with  Sam  where 
he  is." 

Maud  felt  her  heart  sink  at  the  prospect 
of  being  left  alone  with  the  man  she  had  been 
longing  all  day  to  see.  She  said,  "  Mother, 
I  think  I  ought  to  go  with  you  !  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  her  mother  replied.  "  You 
aint  wanted,  and  it  wouldn't  be  polite  to  Mr. 
Offitt." 

The  moment  they  were  gone,  Offitt  sprang 
to  the  side  of  Maud,  and  seized  her  hands. 

"  Now,  my  beauty,  you  will  be  mine.  Put 
on  your  hat,  and  we  will  go." 

She  struggled  to  free  her  hands. 

"  Let  go,"  she  said;  "  you  hurt  me.  Why 
are  you  in  such  a  terrible  hurry  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?  Your  parents  will  be 
back  in  a  few  minutes.  Of  course,  you  know 
that  story  was  only  to  get  them  out  of  our 
way.  Come,  my  beautiful  Maud !  my  joy, 
my  queen !  To-morrow,  New  York ;  next  day, 
the  sea ;  and  then  Europe  and  love  and  pleas- 
ure all  your  life!" 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you  a  minute,"  said 
Maud,  in  a  voice  which  trembled  in  spite  of 
her  efforts.  "  I  can't  talk  in  the  dark.  Wait 
here  till  I  get  a  lamp." 

She  slipped  from  the  room  before  he  could 
prevent  her,  and  left  him  pacing  the  floor  in  a 
cold  rage.  It  was  only  a  moment,  however, 
until  she  returned,  bringing  a  lamp,  which 
she  placed  on  a  table,  and  then  asked  him  to 
be  seated  in  a  stiff,  formal  way,  which  at  once 
irritated  and  enchanted  him.  He  sat  down 
and  devoured  her  with  his  eyes.  He  was  an- 
gry when  she  went  for  the  lamp  ;  but,  as  its 


346 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


light  fell  on  her  rich,  dark  hair,  her  high  color, 
and  her  long,  graceful  figure,  as  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  he  felt  that  the  tenderest 
conversation  with  her  in  the  darkness  would 
lose  something  of  the  pleasure  that  the  eyes 
took  in  her.  This  he  said  to  her,  in  his  coarse 
but  effective  way. 

She  answered  him  with  coquettish  grace, 
willing  to  postpone  the  serious  talk  she 
dreaded  so.  But  the  conversation  was  in 
stronger  hands  than  hers,  and  she  found  her- 
self forced,  in  a  few  minutes,  either  to  go  with 
him  or  give  a  reason  why. 

"  The  fact  is,  then,"  she  stammered,  with  a 
great  effort,  "  I  don't  know  you  well  enough 
yet.  Why  cannot  you  wait  awhile  ?  " 

He  laughed. 

"  Come  with  me,  and  you  will  know  me 
better  in  a  day  than  you  would  here  in  a  year. 
Do  not  waste  these  precious  moments.  Our 
happiness  depends  upon  it.  We  have  every- 
thing we  can  desire.  I  cannot  be  myself  here. 
I  cannot  disclose  my  rank  and  my  wealth  to 
these  people  who  have  only  known  me  as  an 
apostle  of  labor.  I  want  to  go  where  you  will 
be  a  great  lady.  Oh,  come ! "  he  cried,  with 
an  outburst  of  pent-up  fire,  throwing  himself 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet  and  laying  his  head 
upon  her  knee.  She  was  so  moved  by  this 
sudden  outbreak,  which  was  wholly  new  to 
her  experience,  that  she  almost  forgot  her 
doubts  and  fears.  But  a  remnant  of  practical 
sense  asserted  itself.  She  rose  from  her  chair, 
commanded  him  once  more  to  be  seated,  and 
said: 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  going  to  offend  you,  but 
I  must  ask  you  something." 

"  Ask  me  anything,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  except  to  leave  you." 

She  thought  the  phrase  so  pretty  that  she 
could  hardly  find  courage  to  put  her  ques- 
tion. She  blushed  and  stammered,  and  then, 
rushing  at  it  with  desperation,  she  said : 

"  That  money  —  where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  when  we  are  married.  It 
is  a  secret." 

He  tried  still  to  smile,  but  she  saw  the 
laughter  dying  away  from  his  face. 

Her  blood  turned  cold  in  her  veins,  but  her 
heart  grew  stronger,  and  she  determined  to 
know  the  worst.  She  was  not  a  refined  or 
clever  woman ;  but  the  depth  of  her  trouble 
sharpened  her  wits,  and  she  instinctively 
made  use  of  her  woman's  wiles  to  extort  the 
truth  from  the  man  who  she  knew  was  under 
the  spell  of  her  beauty,  whatever  else  he  was. 

"  Come  here ! "  she  said.  Her  face  was 
pale,  but  her  lips  were  smiling.  "  Get  down 
there  where  you  were !  "  she  continued,  with 
tender  imperiousness.  He  obeyed  her,  hardly 
daring  to  trust  his  senses.  "  Now  put  your 


hands  between  my  hands,"  she  said,  still  with 
that  pale,  singular  smile,  which  filled  him  with 
unquiet  transports,  "  and  tell  me  the  truth, 
you  bad  boy !  " 

"The  truth!"  with  a  beating  of  the  heart! 
which  made  his  utterance  thick;  "  the  truth  if 
that  you  are  the  most  glorious  woman  in  th< 
world,  and  that  you  will  be  mine  to-morrow.' 

"  Perhaps,"  she  almost  whispered.  "  Bu 
you  must  tell  me  something  else.  I  am  afrak 
you  are  a  naughty  boy,  and  that  you  lov< 
me  too  much.  I  once  told  you  I  had  ai 
enemy,  and  that  I  wanted  somebody  to  pun 
ish  him.  Did  you  go  and  punish  him  for  me  i 
—  tell  me  that."  . 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  low  and  beguiling 
She  still  smiled  on  him,  leaving  one  hand  ii 
his,  while  she  raised  the  forefinger  of  the  othe 
in  coquettish  admonition.  The  ruffian  at  he 
feet  was  inebriated  with  her  beauty  and  he 
seductive  playfulness.  He  thought  she  ha< 
divined  his  act  —  that  she  considered  it  a  fin* 
and  heroic  test  of  love  to  which  she  had  sub 
jected  him.  He  did  not  hesitate  an  instant 
but  said : 

"  Yes,  my  beauty;  and  I  am  ready  to  d« 
the  same  for  anybody  who  gives  you  a  cros 
look." 

Now  that  she  had  gained  the  terrible  truth 
a  sickening  physical  fear  of  the  man  cam 
over  her,  and  she  felt  herself  growing  faint 
His  voice  sounded  weak  and  distant  as  h 
said: 

"  Now  you  will  go  with  me,  wont  you  ?  " 

She  could  make  no  answer.  So  he  con 
tinued : 

"Run  and  get  your  hat.  Nothing  ek 
We  can  buy  all  you  want.  And  hurry.  The 
may  come  back  any  moment." 

She  perceived  a  chance  of  escape  an> 
roused  herself.  She  thought  if  she  could  onl 
get  out  of  the  room  she  might  save  hersel 
by  flight  or  by  outcry. 

"  Wait  here,"  she  said  gently,  "  and  be  ver 
quiet." 

He  kissed  his  fingers  to  her  without 
word.  She  opened  the  door  into  the  ne> 
room,  which  was  the  kitchen  and  dining-rooi 
of  the  family,  and  there,  not  three  feet  froi 
her,  in  the  dim  light,  haggard  and  wan,  ban 
headed,  his  clothes  in  rags  about  him,  sh 
saw  Sam  Sleeny.  . 

XIX. 

A  LEAP  FOR  SOMEBODY'S  LIF 

WHEN  Sleeny  was  led  from  the 
the  police-justice  in   the   afternoon, 
plunged  in  a  sort  of  stupor.    He  could 
recover  from  the  surprise  and  sense  of  outn  g 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


347 


with  which  he  had  listened  to  Offitt's  story. 
What  was  to  happen  to  him  he  accepted  with 
a  despair  which  did  not  trouble  itself  about  the 
ethics  of  the  transaction.  It  was  a  disaster, 
as  a  stroke  of  lightning  might  be.  It  seemed 
to  him  the  work  had  been  thoroughly  and 
effectually  done.  He  could  see  no  way  out 
of  it ;  in  fact,  his  respect  for  Offitt's  intelli- 
gence was  so  great  that  he  took  it  for  granted 
Andy  had  committed  no  mistakes,  but  that 
he  had  made  sure  of  his  ruin.  He  must  go 
to  prison;  if  Farnham  died,  he  must  be 
hanged.  He  did  not  weary  his  mind  in  plan- 
ning for  his  defense  when  his  trial  should 
come  on.  He  took  it  for  granted  he  should 
be  convicted.  But  if  he  could  get  out  of 
prison,  even  if  it  were  only  for  a  few  hours, 
and  see  Andy  Offitt  once  more — he  felt  the 
)lood  tingling  through  all  his  veins  at  the 
thought.  This  roused  him  from  his  lethargy 
and  made  him  observant  and  alert.  He  began 
to  complain  of  his  handcuffs;  they  were  in  truth 
galling  his  wrists.  It  was  not  difficult  for  him 
to  twist  his  hands  so  as  to  start  the  blood  in 
Dne  or  two  places.  He  showed  these  quietly 
to  the  policemen  who  sat  with  him  in  a  small 
intercom  leading  to  the  portion  of  the  city 
jail  where  he  was  to  be  confined  for  the 
tiight.  He  seemed  so  peaceable  and  quiet 
;hat  they  took  off  the  irons,  saying  good-nat- 
uredly, "  I  guess  we  can  handle  you."  They 
were  detained  in  this  room  for  some  time 
waiting  for  the  warden  of  the  jail  to  come 
ind  receive  their  prisoner.  There  were  two 
windows,  both  giving  view  of  a  narrow  street, 
yhere  it  was  not  bright  at  noonday,  and 
pegan  to  grow  dark  at  sunset  with  the  shade 
Of  the  high  houses  and  the  thick  smoke  of 
:he  quarter.  The  windows  were  open,  as  the 
room  was  in  the  third  story,  and  was  there- 
tore  considered  absolutely  safe.  Sleeny  got 
[ip  several  times  and  walked  first  to  one  win- 
iow  and  then  to  another,  casting  quick  but 
kearching  glances  at  the  street  and  the  walls. 
He  saw  that  some  five  feet  from  one  of  the 
^vindows  a  tin  pipe  ran  along  the  wall  to  the 
(ground.  The  chances  were  ten  to  one  that 
my  one  risking  the  leap  would  be  dashed  to 
oieces  on  the  pavement  below.  But  Sleeny 
:ould  not  get  that  pipe  out  of  his  head.  "  I 
'night  as  well  take  my  chance,"  said  he  to 
limself.  "  It  would  be  no  worse  to  die  that 
jvay  than  to  be  hung."  He  grew  afraid  to 
:rust  himself  in  sight  of  the  window  and  the 
)ipe,  it  exercised  so  strong  a  fascination 
ipon  him.  He  sat  down  with  his  back  to  the 
ight  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands.  But 
ie  could  think  of  nothing  but  his  leap  for 
iberty.  He  felt  in  fancy  his  hands  and  knees 
plasping  that  slender  ladder  of  safety;  he 
pegan  to  think  what  he  would  do  when  he 


struck  the  sidewalk,  if  no  bones  were  broken. 
First,  he  would  hide  from  pursuit,  if  possible. 
Then  he  would  go  to  Dean  street  and  get  a 
last  look  at  Maud,  if  he  could;  then  his 
business  would  be  to  find  Offitt.  "  If  I  find 
him,"  he  thought,  "  I'll  give  them  something 
to  try  me  for."  But  finally  he  dismissed  the 
matter  from  his  mind,  for  this  reason.  He 
remembered,  seeing  a  friend,  the  year  before, 
fall  from  a  scaffolding  and  break  his  leg. 
The  broken  bone  pierced  through  the  leg  of 
his  trousers.  This  thought  daunted  him  more 
than  death  on  the  gallows. 

The  door  opened,  and  three  or  four  rjolice- 
men  came  in,  each  leading  a  man  by  the 
collar,  the  ordinary  riffraff  of  the  street, 
charged  with  petty  offenses.  One  was  very 
drunk  and  abusive.  He  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  everybody  in  the  room  by  his  antics. 
He  insisted  on  dancing  a  breakdown  which 
he  called  the  "  essence  of  Jeems  River " ; 
and  in  the  scuffle  which  followed,  first  one 
and  then  the  other  policeman  in  charge  of 
Sleeny  became  involved.  Sleeny  was  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  the  window,  quite  alone. 
The  temptation  was  too  much  for  him.  He 
leaped  upon  the  sill,  gave  one  mighty  spring, 
caught  the  pipe,  and  slid  safely  to  the  ground. 
One  or  two  passers-by  saw  him  drop  lightly 
to  the  sidewalk,  but  thought  nothing  of  it. 
It  was  not  the  part  of  the  jail  in  which  pris- 
oners were  confined,  and  he  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  carpenter  or  plumber  who  chose 
that  unusual  way  of  coming  from  the  roof. 
His  hat  blew  off  in  his  descent,  but  he  did 
not  waste  time  in  looking  for  it.  He  walked 
slowly  till  he  got  to  the  corner,  and  then 
plunged  through  the  dark  and  ill-smelling 
streets  of  the  poor  and  crowded  quarter,  till 
he  came  by  the  open  gate  of  a  coal-yard. 
Seeing  he  was  not  pursued,  he  went  in,  con- 
cealed himself  behind  a  pile  of  boards,  and 
lay  there  until  it  was  quite  dark. 

He  then  came  out  and  walked  through 
roundabout  ways,  avoiding  the  gas-lights  and 
the  broad  thoroughfares,  to  Dean  street.  He 
climbed  the  fence  and  crept  through  the  gar- 
den to  the  backdoor  of  the  house.  He  had 
eaten  nothing  since  early  morning,  and  was 
beginning  to  be  hungry.  He  saw  there  were 
no  lights  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  thought 
if  he  could  enter  the  kitchen  he  might  get  a 
loaf  of  bread  without  alarming  the  household. 
He  tried  the  backdoor  and  found  it  fastened. 
But  knowing  the  ways  of  the  house,  he  raised 
the  cellar- door,  went  down  the  steps,  shut  the 
door  down  upon  himself,  groped  his  way  to 
the  inner  stairs,  and  so  gained  the  kitchen. 
He  was  walking  to  the  cupboard  when  the 
door  opened  and  he  saw  Maud  coming  toward 
him. 


348 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


She  did  not  seem  in  the  least  startled  to 
see  him  there.  In  the  extremity  of  her  terror, 
it  may  have  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  been 
sent  especially  to  her  help.  She  walked  up 
to  him,  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and 
whispered,  "  Oh,  Sam,  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you.  Save  me !  Don't  let  him  touch  me  !  He 
is  in  there." 

Sam  hardly  knew  if  this  were  real  or  not. 
A  wild  fancy  assailed  him  for  an  instant: 
was  he  killed  in  jumping  from  the  window  ? 
Surely  this  could  never  happen  to  him  on  the 
earth ;  the  girl  who  had  always  been  so  cold 
and  proud  to  him  was  in  his  arms,  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  her  warm  breath  on  his 
cheek.  She  was  asking  his  help  against  some 
danger. 

"All  right,  Mattie,"  he  whispered.  "No- 
body shall  hurt  you.  Who  is  it  ? "  He 
thought  of  no  one  but  the  police. 

"  Offitt,"  she  said. 

He  brushed  her  aside  as  if  she  had  been  a 
cobweb  on  his  path,  and  with  a  wild  cry  of 
joy  and  vengeance  he  burst  through  the  half- 
open  door.  Offitt  turned  at  the  noise,  and 
saw  Sam  coming,  and  knew  that  the  end  of 
his  life  was  there.  His  heart  was  like  water 
within  him.  He  made  a  feeble  effort  at  de- 
fense ;  but  the  carpenter,  without  a  .word, 
threw  him  on  the  floor,  planted  one  knee  on 
his  chest,  and  with  his  bare  hands  made  good 
the  threat  he  had  uttered  in  his  agony  in  the 
court-room,  twisting  and  breaking  his  neck. 

Sleeny  rose,  pulled  the-  cover  from  the 
center-table  in  the  room,  and  threw  it  over 
the  distorted  face  of  the  dead  man. 

Maud,  driven  out  of  her  wits  by  the  dread- 
ful scene,  had  sunk  in  a  rocking-chair,  where, 
with  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  was  sobbing 
and  moaning.  Sam  tried  to  get  her  to  listen 
to  him. 

"  Good-bye,  Mattie.  I  shall  never  see  you 
again,  I  suppose.  I  must  run  for  my  life.  I 
want  you  to  know  I  was  innocent  of  what 
they  charged  me  with " 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,  Sam,"  she  sobbed. 

"  God  bless  you,  Mattie,  for  saying  so.  I 
don't  care  so  much  for  what  happens  now. 
I  am  right  glad  I  got  here  to  save  you  from 

that "  he  paused,  searching  for  a  word 

which  would  be  descriptive  and  yet  not  im- 
proper in  the  presence  of  a  lady;  but  his  vo- 
cabulary was  not  rich  and  he  said  at  last, 
"that  snide.  But  I  should  have  done  that  to 
him  anyhow;  so  don't  cry  on  that  account. 
Mattie,  will  you  tell  me  good-bye?"  he  asked, 
with  bashful  timidity. 

She  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand ;  but  her 
eyes  happening  to  wander  to  the  shapeless 
form  lying  in  the  corner,  she  hid  her  face 
again  on  his  shoulder,  and  said  with  a  fresh 


burst  of  tears,  "  Oh,  Sam,  stay  with  me  a 
little  while.  Don't  leave  me  alone." 
\  His  mind  traveled  rapidly  through  the  in- 
cidents that  would  result  from  his  staying— 
prison,  trial,  and  a  darker  contingency  still 
rearing  its  horrible  phantom  in  the  distance. 
But  she  said,  "You  will  stay  till  father  comes, 
wont  you  ?  "  and  he  answered  simply : 

"  Yes,  Mattie,  if  you  want  me  to." 

He  led  her  to  a  seat  and  sat  down  beside 
her,  to  wait  for  his  doom. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  heard  a  loud  alter- 
cation outside  the  door.  The  voice  of  Saul 
Matchin  was  vehemently  protesting, "  I  tell  ye 
he  aint  here,"  and  another  voice  responded  : 

"  He  was  seen  to  climb  the  fence  and  to 
enter  the  house.  We've  got  it  surrounded, 
and  there's  no  use  for  you  to  get  yourself  intc 
trouble  aidin'  and  abettin'." 

Sam  walked  to  the  door  and  said  to  the 
policeman,  with  grim  humor,  "  Come  in : 
you'll  find  two  murderers  here,  and  neithei 
one  will  show  any  fight." 

The  policemen  blew  their  whistles  to  as- 
semble the  rest,  and  then  came  in  warily,  and 
two  of  them  seized  him  at  once. 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  be  meek  and  lowly, 
my  friend,"  said  one  of  them,  "but  you'll  nol 
play  that  on  us  twice — leastways,"  he  addec 
with  sarcastic  intention,  "not  twice  the  same 
day.  See  here,  Tony  Smart,"  addressing  a 
third,  who  now  entered,  "  lend  a  hand  with 
these  bracelets,"  and  in  a  moment  Sam  was 
handcuffed  and  pinioned. 

"  Where's  the  other  one  you  was  talking 
about  ?  "  asked  the  policeman. 

Sam  pointed  with  his  foot  in  the  direction 
where  Offitt  lay.  The  policeman  lifted  the 
cloth,  and  .dropped  it  again  with  a  horroi 
which  his  professional  phlegm  could  not 
wholly  disguise. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  owdacious  villains  ever  I 

struck Who  do   you  think  it  is  ?  "  he 

asked,  turning  to  his  associates. 

"  Who  ?  " 

"The  witness  this  afternoon — Offitt.  Well 
my  man,"  he    said,   turning  to   Sam,  "you, 
wanted  to  make  a  sure  thing  of  it,  I  see.   If 
you  couldn't  be  hung  for  one,  you  would  foi 
the  other." 

"  Sam !  "  said  Saul  Matchin,  who,  pale  and 
trembling,  had  been  a  silent  spectator  of  the 
scene  so  far,  "  for  heaven's  sake,  tell  us  whal 
all  this  means." 

"  Mind  now,"  said  the  officer,  "  whatevsi 
you  say  will  be  reported." 

"  Very  well,  I've  got  nothing  to  hide," sac 
Sam.  "  I'll  tell  you  and  Mother  Matchin ' 
(who  had  just  come  in  and  was  stariu 
about  her  with  consternation,  questionii£ 
Maud  in  dumb  show)  "  the  whole  story. 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


349 


)we  that  to  you,  for  you've  always  used  me 
veil.  It's  a  mighty  short  one.  That  fellow 
3ffitt  robbed  and  tried  to  murder  Captain 
?arnham  last  night,  and  then  swore  it  on  to 
ne.  I  got  away  from  the  officers  to-night, 
ind  come  round  here  and  found  him  'saulting 
tf  attie,  and  I  twisted  his  neck  for  him.  If  it's 
i  hanging  matter  to  kill  snakes,  I'll  have  to 
tand  it — that's  all." 

"  Now,  who  do  you  think  is  going  to  be- 
ieve  that  ?  "  said  the  captain  of  the  squad. 

Maud  rose  and  walked  up  to  where  Sam 
ras  standing,  and  said,  "  I  know  every  word 
e  has  said  is  true.  That  man  was  the  burg- 
ir  at  Captain  Farnham's.  He  told  me  so 
imself  to-night.  He  said  he  had  the  money 
i  his  pocket  and  wanted  to  make  me  go 
/ith  him." 

She  spoke  firmly  and  resolutely,  but  she 
ould  not  bring  herself  to  say  anything  of  pre- 
ious  passages  between  them;  and  when  she 
pened  her  lips  to  speak  of  the  ladder,  the 
/oman  was  too  strong  within  her,  and  she 
jlosed  them  again.  "  I'll  never  tell  that  un- 
Ess  they  go  to  hang  Sam,  and  then  I  wont 
ell  anybody  but  the  Governor,"  she  swore  to 
lerself. 

It's  easy  to  see  about  that  story,"  said 
ic  officer,  still  incredulous. 
They  searched  the  clothing  of  Offitt,  and 
ic  face  of  the  officer,  as  one  package  of 
.oney  after  another  was  brought  to  light, 
as  a  singular  study.  The  pleasure  he  felt  in 
le  recovery  of  the  stolen  goods  was  hardly 
l  to  his  professional  chagrin  at  having 
aught  the  wrong  man.  He  stood  for  a  mo- 
lent  silent,  after  tying  up  all  the  packages 
i  one. 

"It's  no  use  dodging,"  he  said  at  last. 
We  have  been  barking  up  the  wrong  tree." 
"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  one 
illed  Tony  Smart.  "  Who  has  identified  this 
loney  ?  Who  can  answer  for  this  young 
Idy  ?  How  about  them  marks  on  the  door 
bd  the  ladder  ?  Anyhow,  there's  enough  to 
\)\d  our  prisoner  on." 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  said  the  captain. 
He  hadn't  authority  to  go  twisting  people's 
scks  in  this  county." 

I  At  this  moment  the  wagon  which  had  been 

fnt  for  arrived.    The  body  of  Offitt  was  lifted 

!-    The   captain   gathered   up   the   money, 

Drifted  Matchin  that  he  and  his  family  would 

i  wanted  as  witnesses  in  the  morning,  and 

•foy  all  moved  toward  the  door.    Sam  turned 

say  "  Farewell."    Pinioned  as  he  was,  he 

uld  not  shake  hands,  and  his  voice  faltered 

he  took  leave  of  them.    Maud's  heart  was 

>t  the  most  feeling  one  in  the  world,  but 

er  emotions  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the 

Hft  succession  of  events;  and  as  she  saw 


this  young  fellow  going  so  bravely  to  meet 
an  unknown  fate,  purely  for  her  sake,  the 
tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  put  out  her 
hand  to  him ;  but  she  saw  that  his  hands  were 
fastened,  and,  seized  with  sudden  pity,  she 
put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him, 
whispering,  "  Keep  up  a  good  heart,  Sam !  " 
And  he  went  away,  in  all  his  danger  and 
ignominy,  happier  than  he  had  been  for  many 
a  day. 

The  probabilities  of  the  case  were  much 
discussed  that  night  at  police  head-quarters, 
in  conferences  from  which  the  reporters  were 
rigorously  excluded ;  and  the  next  morning 
the  city  newspapers  reveled  in  the  sensation. 
They  vied  with  each  other  in  inventing  at-, 
tractive  head-lines  and  startling  theories.  The 
"  Bale -Fire  "  began  its  leader  with  these  im- 
pressive sentences :  "  Has  a  carnival  of  crime 
set  in  amongst  us  ?  Last  night  the  drama  of 
Algonquin  Avenue  was  supplemented  by  the 
tragedy  of  Dean  street,  and  the  public, 
aghast,  demands  '  What  next  ? '  A  second 
murder  was  accomplished  by  hands  yet  drip- 
ping with  a  previous  crime.  The  patriotic 
witness  who  yesterday,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
denounced  the  criminality  of  his  friend,  paid 
last  night  with  his  life  for  his  fidelity."  In 
another  column  it  called  for  a  "  monument, 
by  popular  subscription,  for  Andrew  Jackson 
Offitt,  who  died  because  he  would  not  tell  a  lie." 
Oh  the  other  hand,  the  "  Morning  Astral," 
representing  the  conservative  opinion  of  the 
city,  called  for  a  suspension  of  judgment  on 
the  part  of  its  candid  readers ;  said  that  there 
were  shady  circumstances  about  the  ante- 
cedents of  Offitt,  and  intimated  that  docu- 
ments of  a  compromising  character  had  been 
found  on  his  person ;  congratulated  the  city 
on  the  improved  condition  of  Captain  Farn- 
ham ;  and,  trusting  in  the  sagacity  and  dili- 
gence of  the  authorities,  confidently  awaited 
from  them  a  solution  of  the  mystery.  Each 
of  them,  nevertheless,  gave  free  space  and 
license  to  their  reporters,  and  Offitt  was  a 
saint,  a  miscreant,  a  disguised  prince,  and  an 
escaped  convict,  according  to  the  state  of  the 
reporter's  imagination  or  his  digestion ;  while 
the  stories  told  of  Sleeny  varied  from  canni- 
balism to  feats  of  herculean  goodness.  They 
all  agreed  reasonably  well,  however,  as  to  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  two  men;  and 
from  this  fact  it  came  about  that,  in  the  course 
of  the  morning,  evidence  was  brought  for- 
ward, from  a  totally  unexpected  quarter, 
which  settled  the  question  as  to  the  burglary 
at  Farnham's. 

Mrs.  Belding  had  been  so  busy  the  day 
before,  in  her  constant  attendance  upon 
Farnham,  that  she  had  paid  no  attention  to 
the  story  of  the  arrest.  She  had  heard  that 


35° 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


the  man  had  been  caught  and  his  crime 
clearly  established,  and  that  he  had  been 
sent  to  jail  for  trial.  Her  first  thought  was, 
"  I  am  glad  I  was  not  called  upon  to  give 
evidence.  It  would  have  been  very  disagree- 
able to  get  up  before  a  court-room  full  of 
men  and  say  I  looked  with  an  opera-glass 
out  of  my  daughter's  window  into  a  young 
man's  house.  I  should  have  to  mention 
Alice's  name,  too ;  and  a  young  girl's  name 
cannot  be  mentioned  too  seldom  in  the  news- 
papers. In  fact,  twice  in  a  life-time  is  often 
enough,  and  one  of  them  should  be  a  funeral 
notice." 

But  this  morning,  after  calling  at  Farnham's 
and  finding  that  he  was  getting  on  comfort- 
ably, she  sat  down  to  read  the  newspapers. 
Alice  was  sitting  near  her,  with  hands  and 
lap  full  of  some  feminine  handiwork.  A 
happy  smile  played  about  her  lips,  for  her 
mother  had  just  repeated  to  her  the  surgeon's 
prediction  that  Captain  Farnham  would  be 
well  in  a  week  or  two.  "  He  said  the  scalp 
wound  was  healing  'by  the  first  intention,' 
which  I  thought  was  a  funny  phrase.  I 
thought  the  maxim  was  that  second  thoughts 
were  best."  Alice  had  never  mentioned  Farn- 
ham's name  since  the  first  night,  but  he  was 
rarely  out  of  her  mind,  and  the  thought  that 
his  life  was  saved  made  every  hour  bright 
and  festal.  "  He  will  be  well,"  she  thought. 
"  He  will  have  to  come  here  to  thank  mamma 
for  her  care  of  him.  I  shall  see  him  again 
and  he  shall  not  complain  of  me.  If  he 
should  never  speak  to  me  again,  I  shall  love 
him  and  be  good  to  him  always."  She  was 
yet  too  young  and  too  innocent  to  know  how 
impossible  was  the  scheme  of  life  she  was 
proposing  to  herself,  but  she  was  thoroughly 
happy  in  it. 

Mrs.  Belding,  as  she  read,  grew  perplexed 
and  troubled.  She  threw  down  one  news- 
paper and  took  up  another,  but  evidently  got 
no  more  comfort  out  of  that.  At  last,  she 
sighed  and  said,  "Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  I 
shall  have  to  go  down  there  after  all.  They 
have  got  the  wrong  man !  " 

Alice  looked  up  with  wondering  eyes. 

"  These  accounts  all  agree  that  the  assas- 
sin is  a  tall,  powerful  young  man,  with  yellow 
hair  and  beard.  The  real  man  was  not  more 
than  medium  height,  very  dark.  Why,  he 
was  black  and  shiny  as  a  cricket.  I  must  go 
and  tell  them.  I  wonder  who  the  lawyer  is 
that  does  the  indicting  of  people  ?  " 

"  It  must  be  the  prosecuting  attorney,  Mr. 
Dalton,"  said  Alice.  "  I  heard  he  was  elected 
this  spring.  You  know  him  very  well.  You 
meet  him  everywhere." 

"That  elegant  young  fellow  who  leads 
germans  ?  Well,  if  that  is  not  too  absurd !  I 


never  should  have  thought  of  him  outside  ol 
a  dress-coat.  I  don't  mind  a  bit  going  to  set 
him.  Order  the  carriage,  while  I  get  my 
things  on." 

She  drove  down  to  the  City  Hall,  am 
greatly  astonished  Mr.  Dalton  by  walking 
into  his  office  and  requesting  a  moment': 
private  conversation  with  him.  Dalton  wa 
a  dapper  young  man,  exceedingly  glib  am 
well  dressed,  making  his  way  in  political  am 
official,  as  he  had  already  made  it  in  socia 
life.  He  greeted  Mrs.  Belding  with  effusion 
and  was  anxious  to  know  how  he  might  servi 
her,  having  first  cleared  the  room  of  th< 
half-dozen  politicians  who  did  their  lounginj 
there. 

"  It  is  a  most  delicate  matter  for  a  lady  t< 
appear  in,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  keep  nr 
name  as  much  in  reserve  as  possible." 

"  Of  course,  you  may  count  upon  me,"  b 
answered,  wondering  where  this  strange  ex 
ordium  would  lead  to. 

"  You  have  got  the  wrong  man.  I  am  sur 
of  it.  It  was  not  the  blonde  one.  He  wa 
black  as  a  cricket.  I  saw  him  as  plainly  a 
I  see  you.  You  know,  we  live  next  door  t 
Captain  Farnham " 

"Ah!  "Dalton  cried.  "Certainly.  I  un 
derstand.  This  is  very  interesting.  Pray  g- 
on." 

With  a  few  interruptions  from  him,  full  o 
tact  and  intelligence,  she  told  the  whol 
story,  or  as  much  of  it  as  was  required.  Sh 
did  not  have  to  mention  Alice's  name,  or  th 
opera-glass;  though  the  clever  young  ma: 
said  to  himself,  "  She  is  either  growing  ver 
far-sighted,  or  she  was  scouring  the  heaven 
with  a  field-glass  that  night — perhaps  loot 
ing  for  comets." 

He  rang  his  bell,  and  gave  a  message  to  ai 
usher  who  appeared.  "  I  will  not  ask  you  t 
wait  long,"  he  said,  and  turned  the  conversa 
tion  upon  the  weather  and  social  prospect 
for  the  season.  In  a  few  minutes  the  doc 
opened,  and  Sleeny  was  brought  into  th 
room  by  an  officer. 

"Was  this  the  man  you  saw,  Mrs.  Belc 
ing  ?  "  asked  Dalton. 

"  Not  the  slightest  resemblance.  This  on 
is  much  taller,  and  entirely  different  in  color. 

"  That  will  do  " ;  and  Sleeny  and  the  off 
cer  went  out. 

"  Now,  may  I  ask  you  to  do  a  very  dis 
agreeable  thing  —  to  go  with  me  to  th 
Morgue  and  see  the  remains  of  what  I  ai 
now  sure  is  the  real  criminal  ?  "  Dalton  askec 

"  Oh,  mercy !    I  would  rather  not.    Is 
necessary  ?  " 

"  Not  positively  necessary,  but  it  will  <:i 
able  me  to  dismiss  the  burglary  case 
lutely  against  young  Sleeny." 


ase  absc 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


35* 


"  Very  well;  I'll  go.  I  am  so  glad,"  she 
aid  to  herself,  "  that  I*  did  not  bring  Alice." 

They  went  in  her  carriage  to  the  Morgue. 
Dalton  said,  "  I  want  to  make  it  as  easy  as  I 
;an  for  you.  Please  wait  a  moment  in  your 
:arriage."  He  went  in,  and  arranged  that  the 
ace  of  Offitt,  which  was  horrible,  should  be 
urned  away  as  much  as  possible ;  the  head 
md  shoulders  and  back  being  left  exposed, 
md  the  hat  placed  on  the  head.  He  then 
3rought  Mrs.  Belding  in. 

"That  is  the  man,"  she  said,  promptly, 
or  at  least  some  one  exactly  like  him." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  reconducting  her 
o  her  carriage.  "The  first  charge  against 
sleeny  will  be  dismissed,  though,  of  course,  he 
nust  be  held  for  this  homicide." 

A  MONTH  later  Sleeny  was  tried  for  the  kill- 
ng  of  Offitt,  on  which  occasion  most  of  the 
acts  of  this  history  were  given  in  evidence. 
VErs.  Belding  had  at  last  to  tell  what  she 
mew  in  open  court,  and  she  had  an  evil 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dal- 
on,  who  seemed  always  on  the  point  of  ask- 
ng  some  question  which  would  bring  her 
>pera-glass  into  the  newspapers ;  but  he  never 
>roceeded  to  that  extremity,  and  she  came 
iway  with  a  better  opinion  of  the  profession 
han  she  had  ever  before  entertained.  "  I 
uppose  leading  germans  humanizes  even  a 
awyer  somewhat,"  she  observed,  philo- 
ophically. 

Maud  Matchin  was,  however,  the  most  im- 
>ortant  witness  for  the  defense.  She  went  upon 
he  stand  troubled  with  no  abstract  principles 
|p  regard  to  the  administration  of  justice. 
|)he  wanted  Sam  Sleeny  to  be  set  free,  and 
•he  testified  with  an  eye  single  to  that  pur- 
oose.  She  was  perhaps  a  trifle  too  zealous; 
fven  the  attorney  for  the  defense  bit  his  lip 
kcasionally  at  her  dashing  introduction  of 
jvholly  irrelevant  matter  in  Sleeny's  favor. 
P ut  she  was  throughout  true  to  herself  also, 
Lnd  never  gave  the  least  intimation  that  Offitt 
lad  any  right  to  consider  himself  a  favored 
uitor.  Perhaps  she  had  attained  the  talent, 
o  common  in  more  sophisticated  circles  than 
ny  with  which  she  was  familiar,  of  forgetting 
ll  entanglements  which  it  is  not  convenient 
o  remember,  and  of  facing  a  discarded  lover 
nth  a  visage  of  insolent  unconcern  and  a 
leart  unstirred  by  a  memory. 

The  result  of  it  all  was,  of  course,  that 
>leeny  was  acquitted,  though  it  came  about 
b  a  way  which  may  be  worth  recording.  The 
|ury  found  a  verdict  of  "justifiable  homicide," 
fpon  which  the  judge  very  properly  sent 
hem  back  to  their  room,  as  the  verdict  was 
latly  against  the  law  and  the  evidence.  They 
jetired  again,  with  stolid  and  unabashed  pa- 


tience, and  soon  re-appeared  with  a  verdict 
of  acquittal,  on  the  ground  of  "  emotional  in- 
sanity." But  this  remarkable  jury  determined 
to  do  nothing  by  halves;  and,  fearing  that  the 
reputation  of  being  queer  might  injure  Sam  in 
his  business  prospects,  added  to  their  verdict 
these  thoughtful  and  considerate  words,  which 
yet  remain  on  the  record,  to  the  lasting  honor 
and  glory  of  our  system  of  trial  by  jury : 

"  And  we  hereby  state  that  the  prisoner  was 
perfectly  sane  up  to  the  moment  he  committed 
the  rash  act  in  question,  and  perfectly  sane 
the  moment  after,  and  that,  in  our  opinion, 
there  is  no  probability  that  the  malady  will 
ever  recur." 

After  this  memorable  deliverance,  Sam 
shook  hands  cordially  and  gravely  with  each 
of  the  judicious  jurymen,  and  then  turned  to 
where  Maud  was  waiting  for  him,  with  a  rosy 
and  happy  face  and  a  sparkling  eye.  They 
walked  slowly  homeward  together  through 
the  falling  shadows. 

Their  lives  were  henceforth  bound  together 
for  good  or  evil.  We  may  not  say  how  much 
of  good  or  how  much  of  evil  was  to  be  ex- 
pected from  wedlock  between  two  natures 
so  ill-regulated  and  untrained,  where  the  wo- 
man brought  into  the  partnership  the  wreck 
of  ignoble  ambitions  and  the  man  the  memory 
of  a  crime. 


xx. 


"  NOW,    DO    YOU    REMEMBER  ? 

FARNHAM'S  convalescence  was  rapid.  When 
the  first  danger  of  fever  was  over,  the  wound 
on  the  head  healed  quickly,  and  one  morning 
Mrs.  Belding  came  home  with  the  news  that 
he  was  to  drive  out  that  afternoon.  Alice  sat 
in  the  shade  by  the  front  porch  for  an  hour, 
waiting  to  see  him  pass ;  and  when  at  last  his 
carriage  appeared,  she  rose  and  waved  her 
handkerchief  by  way  of  greeting  and  congrat- 
ulation. He  bowed  as  he  went  by,  and  Alice 
retired  to  her  own  room,  where  she  used  her 
handkerchief  once  more  to  dry  her  wet  and 
happy  eyes. 

It  was  not  long  after  that  Farnham  came 
to  dine  with  them.  They  both  looked  forward 
to  this  dinner  as  an  occasion  of  very  consid- 
erable importance.  Each  felt  that  much  de- 
pended upon  the  demeanor  of  the  other. 
Each  was  conscientiously  resolved  to  do  and 
to  say  nothing  which  should  pain  or  embar- 
rass the  other.  Each  was  dying  to  fall  into  the 
other's  arms,  but  each  only  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing the  other  of  his  or  her  entire  indiffer- 
ence and  friendship. 

As  Farnham  came  in,  Mrs.  Belding  went 
up  to  him  with  simple  kindliness,  kissed  him, 
and  made  him  sit  down.  "You  dear  boy," 


352 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


she  said,  'f  you  do  not  know  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you  here  once  more." 

Alice  looked  on,  almost  jealous  of  her 
mother's  privilege.  Then  she  advanced  with 
shy  grace  and  took  Arthur's  hand,  and  asked, 
"  Do  you  begin  to  feel  quite  strong  again  ?  " 

Farnham  smiled  and  answered,  "Quite 
well,  and  the  strength  will  soon  come.  The 
first  symptom  of  returning  vitality,  Mrs. 
Belding,  was  my  hostility  to  gruel  and  other 
phantom  dishes.  I  have  deliberately  come 
to  dinner  to-day  to  dine." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  your  appetite," 
said  Mrs.  Belding;  "but  I  think  you  may 
bear  a  little  watching  at  the  table  yet,"  she 
added,  in  a  tone  of  kindly  menace.  She  was 
as  good  as  her  word,  and  exercised  rather  a 
stricter  discipline  at  dinner  than  was  agreeable 
to  the  convalescent,  regulating  his  meat  and 
wine  according  to  lady- like  ideas,  which  are 
somewhat  oppressive  to  carnivorous  man.  But 
she  was  so  kindly  about  it,  and  Alice  aided 
and  abetted  with  such  bashful  prettiness,  that 
Farnham  felt  he  could  endure  starvation  with 
such  accessories.  Yet  he  was  not  wholly  at 
ease.  He  had  hoped,  in  the  long  hours  of  his 
confinement,  to  find  the  lady  of  his  love 
kinder  in  voice  and  manner  than  when  he  saw 
her  last ;  and  now,  when  she  was  sweeter  and 
more  tender  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before, 
the  self-tormenting  mind  of  the  lover  began 
to  suggest  that  if  she  loved  him  she  would 
not  be  so  kind.  He  listened  to  the  soft,  ca- 
ressing tones  of  her  voice  as  she  spoke  to  him, 
which  seemed  to  convey  a  blessing  in  every 
syllable ;  he  met  the  wide,  clear  beauty  of  her 
glance,  so  sweet  and  bright  that  his  own  eyes 
could  hardly  support  it;  he  saw  the  ready  smile 
that  came  to  the  full,  delicate  mouth  when- 
ever he  spoke ;  and,  instead  of  being  made 
happy  by  all  this,  he  asked  himself  if  it  could 
mean  anything  except  that  she  was  sorry  for 
him,  and  wanted  to  be  very  polite  to  him,  as 
she  could  be  nothing  more.  His  heart  sank 
within  him  at  the  thought;  he  became  silent 
and  constrained;  and  Alice  wondered  whether 
she  had  not  gone  too  far  in  her  resolute  kind- 
ness. "  Perhaps  he  has  changed  his  mind," 
she  thought,  "  and  wishes  me  not  to  change 
mine."  So  these  two  people,  whose  hands  and 
hearts  were  aching  to  come  together,  sat  in  the 
same  drawing-room  talking  of  commonplace 
things,  while  their  spirits  grew  heavy  as  lead. 

Mrs.  Belding  was  herself  aware  of  a  cer- 
tain constraint,  and  to  dispel  it  asked  Alice 
to  sing ;  and  Farnham  adding  his  entreaties, 
she  went  to  the  piano,  and  said,  as  all  girls 
say,  "What  shall  I  sing?" 

She  looked  toward  Farnham,  but  the 
mother  answered,  "  Sing  *  Douglas.' " 

"  Oh,  no,  mamma,  not  that." 


"  Why  not  ?  You  were  singing  it  last  night. 
I  like  it  better  than  any  other  of  your  songs." 
"  I  do  not  want  to  sing  it  to-night." 
Mrs.  Belding  persisted,  until  at  last  Alice) 
said,  with  an  odd  expression  of  recklessness 
"  Oh,  very  well ;  if  you  must  have  it,  I  will 
sing  it.  But  I  hate  these  sentimental  songs, 
that  say  so  much  and  mean  nothing."  Strik- 
ing the  chords  nervously,  she  sang,  with  a 
voice  at  first  tremulous,  but  at  last  full  of 
strong  and  deep  feeding,  that  wail  of  hope- 
less love  and  sorrow : 

"  Could  you  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true." 

There  had  been  tears  of  vexation  in  hei 
eyes  when  her  mother  had  forced  her  to  sin£ 
this  song  of  all  songs;  but  after  she  hac 
begun,  the  music  took  her  own  heart  b) 
storm,  and  she  sang  as  she  had  never  sun^ 
before — no  longer  fearing,  but  hoping  thai 
the  cry  of  her  heart  might  reach  her  lovei 
and  tell  him  of  her  love.  Farnham  listenec 
in  transport;  he  had  never  until  now  hearc 
her  sing,  and  her  beautiful  voice  seemed  tc 
him  to  complete  the  circle  of  her  loveliness 
He  was  so  entranced  by  the  full  rich  volurm 
of  her  voice,  and  by  the  rapt  beauty  of  her  fact 
as  she  sang,  that  he  did  not  at  first  think  o 
the  words ;  but  the  significance  of  them  seizec 
him  at  last,  and  the  thought  that  she  was 
singing  these  words  to  him  ran  like  fire 
through  his  veins.  For  a  moment  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  delicious  consciousness  thai 
their  souls  were  floating  together  upon  thai 
tide  of  melody.  As  the  song  died  away  anc 
closed  with  a  few  muffled  chords,  he  was  or 
the  point  of  throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  anc 
getting  the  prize  which  was  waiting  for  him 
But  he  suddenly  bethought  himself  that  she 
had  sung  the  song  unwillingly,  and  had  taker 
care  to  say  that  the  words  meant  nothing 
He  rose  and  thanked  her  for  the  music,  com- 
plimented her  singing  warmly,  and,  bidding 
both  ladies  good-night,  went  home,  thrillec, 
through  and  through  with  a  deeper  emotior 
than  he  had  yet  known,  but  painfully  puzzlec 
and  perplexed. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  in  his  library,  try- 
ing to  bring  some  order  into  his  thoughts 
He  could  not  help  feeling  that  his  presence 
was  an  embarrassment  and  a  care  to  Alice 
Belding.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  a  great 
friendship  and  regard  for  him,  which  he  to  c 
troubled  and  disturbed  by  his  ill-timed  decl  i- 
ration.  She  could  no  longer  be  easy  and  nat- 
ural with  him ;  he  ought  not  to  stay  to  be  i  r 
annoyance  to  her.  It  was  also  clear  that  J 
could  not  be  himself  in  her  presence ; 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


353 


.ercised  too  powerful  an  influence  upon  him 
make  it  possible  that  he  could  go  in  and 
ut  of  the  house  as  a  mere  friend  of  the  fam- 
JT.  He  was  thus  driven  to  the  thought  which 
ways  lay  so  near  to  the  surface  with  him,  as 
ith  so  many  of  his  kind :  he  would  exile 
imself  for  a  year  or  two,  and  take  himself 
ut  of  her  way.  The  thought  gave  him  no 
Dntent.  He  could  not  escape  a  keen  pang 
f  jealousy  when  he  thought  of  leaving  her 
i  her  beautiful  youth  to  the  society  of  men 
ho  were  so  clearly  inferior  to  her. 
"  I  am  inferior  to  her  myself,"  he  thought 
ith  genuine  humility;  "  but  I  feel  sure  I  can 
ppreciate  her  better  than  any  one  else  she 
Kll  ever  be  likely  to  meet." 
By  and  by  he  became  aware  that  some- 
ling  was  perplexing  him,  which  was  floating 
)me where  below  the  surface  of  his  con- 
:iousness.  A  thousand  thoughts,  more  or 
:ss  puzzling,  had  arisen  and  been  disposed 
f  during  the  hour  that  had  elapsed  since  he 
ft  Mrs.  Belding's.  But  still  he  began  to  be 
ire  that  there  was  one  groping  for  recogni- 
on  which  as  yet  he  had  not  recognized, 
he  more  he  dwelt  upon  it,  the  more  it 
;emed  to  attach  itself  to  the  song  Alice  had 
ing,  but  he  could  not  give  it  any  definite- 
ess.  After  he  had  gone  to  bed,  this  unde- 
tied  impression  of  something  significant  at- 
iching  itself  to  the  song  besieged  him,  and 
orried  him  with  tantalizing  glimpses,  until 
e  went  to  sleep. 

But  Farnham  was  not  a  dreamer,  and  the 
lorning,  if  it  brought  little  comfort,  brought 
t  least  decision.  He  made  up  his  mind  while 
ressing  that  he  would  sail  by  an  early  steamer 
r  Japan.  He  sent  a  telegram  to  San  Fran- 
isco,  as  soon  as  he  had  breakfasted,  to  in- 
uire  about  accommodations,  and  busied 
imself  during  the  day  with  arranging  odds 
ind  ends  of  his  affairs.  Coming  and  going 
as  easy  to  him,  as  he  rarely  speculated  and 
ever  touched  anything  involving  anxious 
sks.  But  in  the  afternoon  an  irresistible 
bilging  impelled  him  to  the  house  of  his 
eighbor. 

"  Why  should  I  not  allow  myself  this  in- 
ulgence  ?  "  he  thought.  "  It  will  be  only  civil 
jo  go  over  there  and  announce  my  depart- 
ure. As  all  is  over,  I  may  at  least  take  this 
fist  delight  to  my  eyes  and  heart.  And  I 
Jvant  to  hear  that  song  again." 

All  day  the  song  had  been  haunting  him, 
lot  on  account  of  anything  in  itself,  but 
ecause  it  vaguely  reminded  him  of  some- 
hing  else — something  of  infinite  importance, 
"  he  could  only  grasp  it.  It  hung  about  him 
|p  persistently,  this  vague  glimmer  of  sugges- 
iion,  that  he  became  annoyed,  and  said  at 
Ml  to  himself,  "It  is  time  for  me  to  be 


changing  my  climate,  if  a  ballad  can  play 
like  that  on  my  nerves." 

He  seized  his  hat  and  walked  rapidly  across 
the  lawn,  with  the  zest  of  air  and  motion  nat- 
ural to  a  strong  man  in  convalescence.  The 
pretty  maid-servant  smiled  and  bowed  him 
into  the  cool,  dim  drawing-room,  where  Alice 
was  seated  at  the  piano.  She  rose  and  said 
instinctively  to  the  servant,  "  Tell  mamma 
Captain  Farnham  is  here,"  and  immediately 
repented  as  she  saw  his  brow  darken  a  little. 
He  sat  down  beside  her,  and  said : 

"  I  come  on  a  twofold  errand.  I  want  to 
say  good-bye  to  you,  and  I  want  you  to  sing 
'  Douglas  '  for  me  once  more." 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  said, 
with  a  look  of  surprise  and  alarm. 

"  To  Japan." 

"  But  not  at  once,  surely  ?  " 

"  The  first  steamer  I  can  find." 

Alice  tried  to  smile,  but  the  attempt  was  a 
little  woful. 

"  It  will  be  a  delightful  journey,  I  am  sure," 
she  faltered,  "but  I  can't  get  used  to  the 
idea  of  it  all  at  once.  It  is  the  end  of 'the 
world." 

"  I  want  to  get  there  before  the  end  comes. 
At  the  present  rate  of  progress  there  is  not 
more  than  a  year's  purchase  of  bric-a-brac 
left  in  the  empire.  I  must  hurry  over  and  get 
my  share.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued, seeing  that  she  sat  silent,  twisting  her 
white  fingers  together.  "  Shall  I  not  bring 
you  the  loot  of  a  temple  or  two  ?  They  say 
the  priests  have  become  very  corruptible  since 
our  missionaries  got  there — the  false  religion 
tumbling  all  to  pieces  before  the  true." 

Still,  she  made  no  answer,  and  the  fixed 
smile  on  her  face  looked  as  if  she  hardly  heard 
what  he  was  saying.  But  he  went  on  in  the 
same  light,  bantering  tone. 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  back  a  jinrickishaw  ?  " 

"  What  in  the  world  is  that  ?  But,  no  mat- 
ter what  it  is,  tell  me,  are  you  really  going 
so  soon  ?  " 

If  Farnham  had  not  been  the  most  modest 
of  men,  the  tone  in  which  this  question  was 
asked  would  have  taught  him  that  he  need 
not  exile  himself.  But  he  answered  seriously : 

"  Yes,  I  am  really  going." 

"  But  why  ?  "  The  question  came  from  un- 
willing lips,  but  it  would  have  its  way.  The 
challenge  was  more  than  Farnham  could  en- 
dure. He  spoke  out  with  quick  and  passion- 
ate earnestness : 

"  Must  I  tell  you,  then  ?  Do  you  not  know  ? 
I  am  going  because  you  send  me." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  murmured,  with  flaming 
cheeks  and  downcast  eyes. 

"  I  am  going  because  I  love  you,  and  I 
cannot  bear  to  see  you  day  by  day,  and  know 


354 


THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 


that  you  are  not  for  me.  You  are  too  young 
and  too  good  to  understand  what  I  feel.  If  I 
were  a  saint  like  you,  perhaps  I  might  rejoice 
in  your  beauty  and  your  grace  without  any 
selfish  wish;  but  I  cannot.  If  you  are  not 
to  be  mine,  I  cannot  enjoy  your  presence. 
Every  charm  you  have  is  an  added  injury,  if 
I  am  to  be  indifferent  to  you." 

Her  hands  flew  up  and  covered  her  eyes. 
She  was  so  happy  that  she  feared  he  would 
see  it  and  claim  her  too  soon  and  too  swiftly. 

He  mistook  the  gesture,  and  went  on  in 
his  error. 

"  There !  I  have  made  you  angry  or 
wounded  you  againi  It  would  be  so  continu- 
ally if  I  should  stay.  I  should  be  giving  you 
offense  every  hour  in  the  day.  I  cannot  help 
loving  you,  any  more  than  I  can  help  breath- 
ing. This  is  nothing  to  you,  or  worse  than 
nothing,  but  it  is  all  my  life  to  me.  I  do  not 
know  how  it  will  end.  You  have  filled  every 
thought  of  my  mind,  every  vein  of  my  body. 
I  am  more  you  than  myself.  How  can  I  sepa- 
rate myself  from  you  ?  " 

As  he  poured  out  these  words,  and  much 
more,  hot  as  a  flood  of  molten  metal,  Alice 
slowly  recovered  her  composure.  She  was 
absolutely  and  tranquilly  happy — so  perfectly 
at  rest  that  she  hardly  cared  for  the  pain  her 
lover  was  confessing.  She  felt  she  could  com- 
pensate him  for  everything,  and  every  word 
he  said  filled  her  with  a  delight  which  she 
could  not  bear  to  lose  by  replying.  She  sat 
listening  to  him  with  half-shut  eyes,  deter- 
mined not  to  answer  until  he  had  made  an 
end  of  speaking.  But  she  said  to  herself,  with 
a  tenderness  which  made  her  heart  beat  more 
than  her  lover's  words,  "  How  surprised  he 
will  be  when  I  tell  him  he  shall  not  go." 

The  rustling  of  Mrs.  Belding's  ample  ap- 
proach broke  in  upon  her  trance  and  Farn- 
ham's  litany.  He  rose,  not  without  some 
confusion,  to  greet  her;  and  Alice,  with  bright 
and  even  playful  eyes,  said,  "  Mamma,  what 
do  you  think  this  errant  young  cavalier  has 
come  to  say  to  us  ?  " 

Mrs.  Belding  looked  with  puzzled  inquiry 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Simply,"  continued  Alice,  "  that  he  is  off 
for  Japan  in  a  day  or  two,  and  he  wants  to 
know  if  we  have  any  commissions  for  him." 

"Nonsense!  Arthur,  I  wont  listen  to  it. 
Come  over  to  dinner  this  evening  and  tell 
me  all  about  it.  I've  got  an  appointment 
this  very  minute  at  our  Oriental  Gospel  rooms, 
and  cannot  wait  to  talk  to  you  now.  But 
this  evening  you  must  tell  me  what  it  all 
means,  and  I  hope  you  will  have  changed 
your  mind  by  that  time." 

The  good  lady  did  not  even  sit  down,  but 
rustled  briskly  away.  Perhaps  she  divined 


more  of  what  was  toward  than  appeared; 
but  she  did  as  she  would  have  wished  to  be 
done  by  when  she  was  young,  and  left  the 
young  people  to  their  own  devices. 

Farnham  turned  to  Alice,  who  was  still 
standing,  and  said,  "  Alice,  my  own  love,  can 
you  not  give  me  one  word  of  hope  to  carry 
with  me?  I  cannot  forget  you.  My  mind 
cannot  change.  Perhaps  yours  may,  wher, 
the  ocean  is  between  us,  and  you  have  time 
to  reflect  on  what  I  have  said.  I  spoke  toe 
soon  and  too  rashly;  but  I  will  make  amends 
for  that  by  long  silence.  Then  perhaps  you 
will  forgive  me — perhaps  you  will  recall 
me.  I  will  obey  your  call  from  the  end  of 
the  world." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  gave 
him  hers  with  a  firm,  warm  grasp.  He  might 
have  taken  courage  from  this,  but  her  com- 
posure and  her  inscrutable  smile  daunted  him. 
•  "  You  are  not  going  yet,"  she  said.  "  You 
have  forgotten  what  you  came  for." 

"Yes — that  song.  I  must  hear  it  again. 
You  must  not  think  I  am  growing  daft,  but 
that  song  has  haunted  me  all  day  in  the 
strangest  way.  There  is  something  in  the  way 
you  sing  it — the  words  and  your  voice  to- 
gether— that  recalls  some  association  too 
faint  for  me  to  grasp.  I  can  neither  remem- 
ber what  it  is,  nor  forget  it.  I  have  tried  to  get 
it  out  of  my  mind,  but  I  have  an  odd  impres- 
sion that  I  would  better  cherish  it — that  it  is 
important  to  me — that  life  or  death  is  not 
more  important.  There !  I  have  confessed 
all  my  weakness  to  you,  and  now  you  will 
say  that  I  need  a  few  weeks  of  salt  breeze." 

"  I  will  sing  you  the  song  first.  Perhaps  we 
may  pluck  out  its  mystery." 

She  preluded  a  moment,  and  sang,  while 
Farnham  waited  with  a  strained  sense  of  ex- 
pectancy, as  if  something  unspeakably  solemn 
was  impending.  She  sang  with  far  more  force 
and  feeling  than  the  night  before.  Her  heart 
was  full  of  her  happy  love,  as  yet  unspoken, 
and  her  fancy  was  pleased  with  the  thought 
that,  under  the  safe  cover  of  her  music,  she, 
could  declare  her  love  without  restraint.  She 
sang  with  the  innocent  rapture  of  a  mavis  in 
spring,  in  notes  as  rich  and  ardent  as  her  own 
maiden  dreams.  Farnham  listened  with  a 
pleasure  so  keen  that  it  bordered  upon  pain. 
When  she  came  to  the  line, 

"  I  would  be  so  tender,  so  loving,  Douglas," 

he  started  and  leaned  forward  in  his  char, 
holding  his  hands  to  his  temples,  and  cried : 

"Can't  you  help  me  to  think  what  thst! 
reminds  me  of  ?  " 

Alice  rose  from  the  piano,  flushing  a 
as  sweet  and  delicate  as  that  of  the 


AURORA. 


355 


;r  belt.  She  came  forward  a  few  paces,  then 
opped,  and  bent  slightly  toward  him,  with 
.Ided  hands.  In  her  long,  white,  clinging 
•apery,  with  her  gold  hair  making  the  dim 
>om  bright,  with  her  red  lips  parted  in  a  ten- 
;r  but  solemn  smile,  with  something  like  a 
do  about  her  of  youth  and  purity  and  ardor, 
ic  was  a  sight  so  beautiful  that  Arthur  Farn- 
im,  as  he  gazed  up  at  her,  felt  his  heart  grow 
javy  with  an  aching  consciousness  of  her 
jrfection  that  seemed  to  remove  her  forever 
om  his  reach.  But  the  thought  that  was 
:tting  her  pulses  to  beating  was  as  sweetly 
iman  as  that  of  any  bride  since  Eve.  She 
as  saying  to  herself  in  the  instant  she  stood 
otionless  before  him,  looking  like  a  pictured 
igel,  "  I  know  now  what  he  means.  He 


loves  me.    I  am  sure  of  him.    I  have  a  right 
to  give  myself  to  him." 

She  held  out  her  hands.  He  sprang  up  and 
seized  them. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  I  know  what  you  are 
trying  to  remember,  and  I  will  make  you 
remember  it." 

He  was  not  greatly  surprised,  for  love  is  a 
dream,  and  dreams  have  their  own  probabil- 
ities. She  led  him  to  a  sofa  and  seated  him 
beside  her.  She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  • 
and  pressed  his  head  to  her  beating  heart, 
and  said  in  a  voice  as  soft  as  a  mother's  to  an 
ailing  child,  "  My  beloved,  if  you  will  live,  I 
will  be  so  good  'to  you."  She  kissed  him  and 
said  gently, 

"  Now,  do  you  remember  ?  " 


THE     END. 


AURORA. 

WHAT  purple  seas  have  kissed  thy  skirts  but  newly  ? 

What  hyacinthine  shore 
Of  Hellas,  or  what  unawakened  Thule, 

Embalmed  thee,  passing  o'er? 
The  Orient  thee  no  further  gift  can  render, 
Goddess  mysterious,  tender! 
Thou  need'st  not  borrow  of  the  fuller  splendor 

Of  him  thou  goest  before. 

That  gushing  fount,  not  filled  for  mortals  sighing, 

Nor  earthly  eyes  to  see- 
That  spring  of  youth,  unchanging  and  undying, 

Hath  poured  its  life  in  thee, 
And  its  cool  spray  about  thee  yet  is  clinging. 
Over  the  desert  winging, 
Thou  bendest  low:  gray  Memnon  greets  thee,  singing 

His  ancient  melody. 

Thou  usherest  in  the  day  with  sweet  assurance; 

Thou  pourest  out  the  dew; 
Rich  life,  by  night  subdued  and  held"  in  durance, 

Pulses  and  springs  anew. 

The  gates  of  morning  open  wide  before  thee; 
Heaven  bends  gently  o'er  thee; 
And,  gazing  upward,  eager  to  adore  thee, 

Leaps  the  broad  ocean  blue. 

Farewell!  though  but  a  moment  thou  hast  lingered, 

Swift  as  the  pinioned  dove! 
Gone  is  that  darkest  hour  which  thou,  warm-fingered. 

Dost  charm  from  earth  above. 
Onward !  awaking  in  thy  path  forever 
New  life  and  strong  endeavor. 
May  thy  bright  promises  forsake  us  never — 

Fresh  hope  and  boundless  love ! 

Henry   TyrreU. 


LOG    OF   AN    OCEAN    STUDIO. 


are  not  to  take 
our  title  too  serious- 
ly. From  a  serious 
--•  point  of  view,  it  was 
not  much  of  a  studio; 
nor  does  this  "  rough 
log,"as  the  sailors  say, 
make  a  very  strong 
appeal  for  solemn  con- 
sideration. Such  as  it 
is,  it  has  to  do  with  the 
vacation  fancies  of 
seven  artists  voyaging 
to  Antwerp.  Their 
serious  aim  in  crossing 
the  sea  was  to  visit  the 
Paris  Salon,  and,  after 
noting  its  degeneracy, 
to  seek,  each  in  his 
own  way,  for  better 
counsel  from  the  Old 
Masters  in  Holland  and  Spain.  Their  bond 
of  union  during  the  ocean  trip  was  partly 
fellowship,  and  partly  the  idea  of  deco- 
rating the  walls  and  ceiling  of  one  of  the 
ship's  cabins  as  a  novel  means  of  killing  time 
— poor  Time,  who  is  never  thought  well  of 
unless  he  is  niggardly,  and  who  is  never  more 
generous  than  at  sea. 

Four  of  our  party,  a  twelvemonth  before, 
had  originated  the  idea  during  a  similar 
trip  in  a  sister  ship.  It  had  been  their  good 
fortune  to  have  the  ladies'  cabin  for  their 
ocean  studio.  In  fact,  their  novel  scheme 
seemed  to  have  been  built  upon  a  new  prin- 
ciple in  aesthetics  :  "Art  for  the  sake  of  the 
ladies'  cabin." 

We  went  aboard  our  steamer  in  the  firm 
belief  that  no  other  cabin  would  do.  It  was 
a  bitter  disappointment,  therefore,  to  learn 
after  we  were  well  out  to  sea,  that — except- 
ing the  little  lounging  room  at  the  head  of  the 
main  companion-way — the  ladies'  cabin  was 
an  artificially  lighted  room  between  decks. 
Both  were  impracticable.  So  the  enterprise 
had  to  be  remodeled  on  the  basis  of  "  art  for 
art's  sake,"  which  any  artist  will  tell  you  is 
something  of  a  humbug. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  Jersey  City  wharf, 
on  that  early  morning  of  a  sunny  third  of 
June,  the  usual  sailing-day  comedy  was 
briskly  acting.  Numerous  large  bouquets 
and  floral  designs  mingled  hot-house  odors 
with  the  peculiar  staleness  of  the  saloon, 
making  us  hope  that  before  dinner-time  the 


recipients  would  cast  them  overboard.  A  rose 
to  somebody  else's  name  never  smells  a± 
sweet;  besides,  wilting  flowers  are  hardly 
appropriate  to  a  steam-ship  —  not  to  men- 
tion the  extreme  of  ostentation  and  theatrica. 
eifect  which  the  fashion  has  reached.  I  ona 
knew  a  young  man  who  sought  to  obviatt 
the  defect  of  a  floral  gift  by  presenting  a  fai] 
voyager  with  a  large  bouquet  of  dried  grasses 
Naturally,  the  gift  was  construed  in  the  Pick 
wickian  sense.  Shortly  afterward  he  removec 
to  the  land  of  the  cactus,  which  would  seen 
to  offer  new  scope  to  his  fatal  ingenuity. 

Though  steam-ships  are  the  safest  mean: 
of  travel  yet  invented,  one  does  not  see  friend 
embark  in  them  without  a  livelier  sense  o 
their  temerity  as  travelers ;  besides,  the  widi 
sea  lends  reality  to  the  idea  of  separation 
There  was  no  lack  of  women's  tears  at  ou 
departure ;  but  we  bachelors  shared  in  then 
only    as   the  party  was  represented  by  th< 
marine  artist,  and  somebody  remarked  tha 
his  pretty  daughter,  trying  to  smile  throug) 
a  mist  of  tears,  was  his  best  picture.   At  tha 
time  the  visitors  had  been  sent  ashore,  am 
the  ship  was  denoting  eagerness  to  slip  he 
leashes  and  begin  the  tireless  chase  over  th 
billowy  hill  to  Antwerp.    I  noticed  that  thos 
who  did  not  feel  justified  in  demanding 
plump  kiss   on   the  hurricane  deck  deeme« 
they  had  a  perfect  right  to  signal  tokens  o 
affection  while  the  steamer  was  gliding  majes 
tically  from  the  wharf.    In  the  initial  letter  t 
this  paper,  the  artist  has  shown  the  most  rt 
poseful  phase  of  an  incident  which  came  uncle 
our  observation.    The  young  man  in  the  ulste 
had  taken  formal  leave  on  deck  of  two  youn 
voyagers.    While   the   whistle   was   warnin 
river  craft  to  make  way  for  the  leviathan,  h 
signaled  them  to  descend  into  the  saloon.  ] 
a  moment  he  was  clasping  two  daintily-glove  • 
hands  reached  out  to    him  from  adjoinin 
port-holes.  Then  he  got  upon  a  friendly  bean 
and  with  masterly  tip-toeing  and  needed  di: 
patch,  for  the  lines  were  cast  off  and  the  er 
gine  bell  was  tinkling,  he  plucked  a  kiss  froi 
each  round,  laughing  window. 

Once  free  from  the  wharf  strings,  01 
steamer  was  nearly  as  independent  of  the  o 
dinary  world  as  a  miniature  planet  people 
to  order.  With  the  grand  air  and  assuraw 
of  a  steamer  outward  bound,  we  threaded  :1 
Narrows,  spun  round  the  half-circle  of  \ 
lower  bay,  caromed,  as  it  were,  on  the  Ho  3 
and  went  down  to  breakfast  as  we  struck  ) 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


357 


j  sea.  That  important  factor  in  "  civilizing 
je  ship,"  the  seating  at  table,  had  been  clev- 
fy  managed  by  the  chief  steward.  There 
Semed  to  be  fewer  heart-burnings  than 
mal  on  the  part  of  persons  who,  having 
frmally  recognized  their  own  importance, 
foked  in  vain  for  a  seat  at  the  captain's 
tble.  At  the  board  of  honor  were,  of  course, 

:  good-looking  young  woman  and  her 
Other,  the  director  of  the  steam-ship  com- 
pny  and  his  family,  the  reverend,  and  the 
Qctor  of  medicine.  Titles  of  any  kind  are 
peon-lights  to  the  chief  steward's  eyes.  Our 
fctain  was  always  genial  at  meals;  but  if 
:p  table  of  honor  has  a  disadvantage,  it  is 

it  the  tone  of  the  conversation  at  the  cap- 
tin's  board  is  inclined  to  rise  and  fall  with  his 

VOL.  XXVII.— 34. 


FAREWELL    TO    SANDY    HOOK.       PANEL    BV    A.    A.    ANDERSON. 


barometer.  No  matter  how  genial  by  nature, 
the  captain  by  profession  is  necessarily  a 
tyrant  and  a  dogmatist.  Our  party  had  a  table 
by  itself  in  the  coziest  corner  of  the  saloon, 
and  the  mother  of  one  of  Gerome's  pupils 
matronized  us  with  graceful  dignity.  There 
were  only  forty  people  in  the  first  cabin, 
which  made  the  social  ice  rather  easy  to 
break.  The  case  is  different  on  the  large 
steamers  carrying  three  or  four  hundred  first- 
class  passengers.  It  is  a  study  then  to  watch 
the  segregation  of  the  company  into  small 
groups.  As  fellow-travelers,  New  Yorkers  may 
claim  the  palm  for  reserve.  Not  long  since, 
two  substantial  men  of  Gotham,  who  had 
met  on  shipboard  and  had  proved  congenial, 
parted  at  Liverpool  to  meet  again,  as  tourists 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


frequently  do,  in  hotels,  museums,  and,  finally, 
in  the  same  compartment  of  a  railway  "  coach." 
In  the  intimacy  of  that  ride,  one  of  them  dis- 
closed the  name  of  the  street  adorned  by  his 
brown-stone  front. 

"  What  number  ?  "  asked  the  other,  eagerly. 

"Fifty-four,  east." 

"  Then  you're  my  next-door  neighbor  but 
one,  for  my  house  is  fifty,  east !  " 

Like  true  citizens  of  Manhattan,  they  had 
lived  up  to  its  golden  rule :  Shun  your  neigh- 
bor as  you  would  malaria. 

Our  first  breakfast  was  a  disorganized  feast. 
Sea-cooks  and  stewards  were  still  under  the 
malign  influence  of  the  land.  To  call  forth 
their  best  efforts,  the  ship  must  be  in  the  toils 
of  the  sea,  with  the  racks  on  the  tables,  the 
kettles  spilling  in  the  cook's  galley,  and  the 
gymnastic  stewards  balancing  soup-plates  on 
their  fingers  and  the  ship  on  their  feet.  Every- 
body grumbles  over  the  fare  at  sea,  and,  in 
general,  there  is  too  much  reason  for  grum- 
bling. There  is  always  a  profusion  of  eat- 
ables, seldom  of  the  best  quality,  and  less 
seldom  served  with  an  eye  to  the  needs  of 
the  passengers.  The  waste  is  enormous.  If 
the  captain  is  an  epicure,  the  outlook  for  the 
passengers  will  be  better.  But,  practically, 
they  cook  for  the  ostrich-like  digestions  of  the 
officers  instead  of  for  a  multitude  of  squeamish 
sea-invalids.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  on  our 
studio-ship  we  were  uncommonly  well  served. 
Yet  we  had  a  grievance  that  illustrat.es  how 
natural  it  is  at  sea  to  grumble.  On  the  fourth 
day  the  oranges  gave  out.  No  one  knew  bet- 
ter than  the  bachelor  artists  and  their  friends, 
the  little  children  of  the  steerage,  why  the 
oranges  prematurely  failed ;  yet  we  grumbled, 
and  one  of  the  artists  joined  two  grievances 
in  volunteering  to  raise  oranges  from  the  seed 
in  his  state-room  in  three  days.  The  gulf 
stream  and  south  winds,  and  a  southerly  course 
to  get  below  reported  icebergs,  and  the  raging 
fires  under  us,  had  combined  to  make  our 
state-rooms  tropical. 

A  dinner  in  honor  of  Fortuny  was  the  mem- 
orable feast  of  the  trip.  His  biographers 
have  made  the  world  believe  he  was  born 
on  the  eleventh  of  June ;  but  Fortuny's  dis- 
ciple in  our  party  had  private  information 
that  the  great  Spaniard  was  born  on  the 
ninth.  With  the*  connivance  of  the  disci- 
ple of  Velasquez,  he  surprised  us  with  a  For- 
tuny birthday  dinner  on  the  ninth,  though 
during  the  morning  the  secret  movements  of 
the  two  had  awakened  suspicion.  WThen  we 
sat  down  as  usual  to  six  o'clock  dinner  we 
found  at  each  plate  a  handsome  menu  on 
brown  paper,  part  hektograph  and  part 
washed  in  with  color;  also,  a  large  cake, 
with  Fortuny's  well-known  signature  imi- 


tated in  the  frosting ;  smoking  fish-balls,  and 
delicious  Boston  baked  beans,  the  product 
of  the  skill  of  one  of  the  artists,  an  ama- 
teur cordon  bleu,  who  had  ingratiated  him- 
self with  the  chief  cook ;  and,  never  to  be 
forgotten,  a  moist  dish  of  most  excellent 
vivacity,  put  aboard  as  a  surprise  by  a 
thoughtful  member  of  the  Tile  Club,  whom 
we  were  to  meet  later  in  Paris.  Speeches 
and  sentiments  of  local  interest  passed  round 
the  board.  I  remember  somebody's  saying, 
in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  that  "  Fortuny 
was  the  most  original  painter  of  his  age.  If 
any  one  had  said,  ten  years  before  he  ap- 
peared, that  there  could  be  something  new 
in  art,  the  world  would  have  replied,  «  Not 
so,  for  art  is  exhausted !  '  "  Toward  the  end. 


COVER     OF    THE    MENU. 


a  sententious  person,  looking  out  of  the  port 
hole  behind  him  upon  the  drear  twilight  oceai 
and  comparing  it  with  the  merry  scene  inside 
said,  "  A  little  sentiment  makes  a  paradise  o 
a  sea-waste." 

"  You're  wrong,"  replied  the  Boston  cynic 
"a  little  sentiment  makes  a  paradise  of; 
small  waist." 

On  the  third  day  the  captain  invited  u 
to  his  cabin  to  judge  for  ourselves  if  its  pan 
els  and  oak-grained  background  would  mee 
the  requirements  of  a  studio.  It  was  a; 
uncommo.nly  large  cabin,  and  the  captain' 
personal  trappings  did  not  crowd  much  upo: 
his  charts  and  logarithms.  It  had  a  coz' 
look,  with  its  sofa  alcove  and  its  red  cui 
tains,  despite  the  overplus  of  chronometer 
and  barometers.  A  miniature  hall,  with  oute 
and  inner  doors,  connected  with  the  dec 
on  the  port  and  the  starboard  sides.  Wir 
dows  on  three  sides — for  it  was  the  foi 
ward  cabin  of  the  deck-house — commande 
a  view  of  the  sea  for  half  the  circle  c 
the  horizon,  and  of  the  forward  deck,  wit 
the  busy  sailors,  the  faithful  lookout  (alwc  > 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets),  and  about  ih 
foremast  the  group  of  steerage  passenger, 
huddling  like  a  remnant  of  the  victims  of  ih 
Deluge  waiting  on  a  hill-top  for  the  rising  flo<>( 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


359 


carcely  a  word  had  been  said  of  cabin  deco- 

ation  among  ourselves.     An  overmastering 

wui  had  settled  upon  us,  a  sort  of  mental 

easickness,  due,  in  part,  to  the  steady  rolling 

nd  teetering  of  the  ship,  and  to  the  eternal 

-r-r-ker-chug !  r-r-r-ker-chug  !  of  the  engines 

hich  kept  a  tremor  running  through  every- 

ling  between  keelson  and  topmast.     Sack- 

ille  suggests  the  feeling  in  a  poem  written 

n  a  man-of-war  lying  off  the  Flemish  coast, 

hich  Locker  has  included  in  his  admirable 

Lyra  Elegantiarum."    He  says: 


:To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land, 

We  men  at  sea  indite; 
But  first,  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write. 


"  For,  tho'  the  muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain; 
Yet,  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen  and  ink,  and  we 

Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea." 


One  morning  an  artist  tried  to  make  ,a 
cetch  of  the  sailors  who  were  holy-stoning 
ic  deck,  but  the  working  mood  staid  with 
im  only  long  enough  to  outline  their  pictur- 
sque  shoes  and  ankles.  Early  on  a  dull  even- 
ig  another  artist  seated  himself  in  the  prow, 
nd  began  sketching  the  ship  from  that  teeter- 
ig  point  of  view.  Five  minutes  later  he  was 
howered  by  the  first  billow  we  had  shipped, 
"he  next  morning  a  third  artist  remarked,  in 

half-hearted  way  :  "  I  feel  like  doing  a  little 
^etching  to-day;  but  if  I  were  to  go  to 
ork,  the  men  who  believe  in  mood  would 
all  me  a  mechanic.  I  think  there's  a  good 
eal  of  humbug  about  mood."  An  hour  later 

saw  him  disposing  himself  to  sketch  in  a 
uiet  place  under  the  lee  of  the  engine-house. 
f  ot  to  disturb  him,  I  took  the  windward  deck 
)r  my  promenade,  and,  on  returning  the 
nd  time  from  the  bow,  found  the  artist 
rho  believed  in  the  humbug  of  mood  on  the 
uarter-deck,  demurely  watching  a  game  of 
tag-toss. 

Only  one  of  the  party  made  good  use  of  his 
isure.  In  view  of  his  youth  and  rather  fantas- 
c  taste,  we  were  not  surprised,  when  he  ap- 
eared  on  the  hurricane  deck,  one  morning, 
i  a  shaggy  Berri  cap,  a  brown  velvet  jacket, 
ancing-pumps,  and  silk  tie  and  silk  stockings 
f  the  color  of  old  gold.  What  a  sailor  to  set 
efore  our  one-eyed  boatswain !  The  rest  of 
who  were  affecting  old  clothes,  did  not 
pprove  of  him.  But  the  French  governess 
|id,  and  hour  after  hour  piloted  him  through 
pe  French  verbs.  And  here  we  may  add  that 
prni-attached  to  our  party  was  an  artist  who 


was  voyaging  in  company  with  \nsfiancee  and 
her  mother — and  doing  it  very  well;  also,  a 
veteran  artist,  who  regarded  our  professional 


UNDER    A     FRENCH     SKY.       PANEL     BY    WILLIAM     M.    CHASE. 

as  well  as  our  unprofessional  proceedings  with 
amiable  contempt.  "Let  me  give  you  some 
advice,"  he  said  to  an  artist  who  was  belittling 
the  work  of  a  fellow- painter.  "You  talk  too 
much  in  that  vein;  I've  had  some  experi- 
ence in  it  myself,  and  I've  learned  it's  a 


36° 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


AT    WORK    IN    THE    CAPTAIN'S    CABIN.      BY    ROBERT    BLUM. 


pretty  safe  rule  to  let  other  artists  make  as 
much  reputation  as  they  can." 

For  good  nature  and  solid  enjoyment  of 
the  voyage,  nobody  held  a  candle  to  our  fel- 
low-passenger, the  Yankee  skipper.  He  was 
a  large,  plain,  quiet  Bostonian,  as  close  as 
an  oyster  about  himself,  but  giving  token  of 
belonging  to  the  old-fashioned  race  of  New 
England  sea-captains.  His  trowsers  had  a 
sedentary  sag  at  the  knee  in  harmony  with 
the  tried  and  true,  steady-going  air  of  his 
general  make-up.  He  was  the  kind  of  man 
you  would  like  to  have  with  you  if  you  were 
to  be  cast  away  at  sea  or  lost  in  a  wilderness. 
If  a  whale  spouted  within  our  dreary,  disk-like 
world  of  water,  he  was  sure  to  see  it.  No  sail 
could  dawn  on  our  horizon  unseen  by  his 
binocular.  It  encouraged  early  rising  to  know 
that  the  Yankee  skipper  would  be  found  on 
deck  with  his  gazette  of  ship's  transactions 
and  sea-happenings.  Tobacco  was  his  enemy, 
so  we  were  a  little  surprised  one  evening  to 
see  him  enter  the  blue  atmosphere  of  the 
smoking-room,  where  we  were  holding  our 
usual  after-dinner  symposium.  When  anec- 
dote and  story  had  been  the  round,  the  skip- 
per "  took  the  floor  "  by  a  glance  round  the 
benches.  "  'Way  back  in  1850,"  he  began, 
"  I  was  six  months  sailing  from  New  York  to 
'Frisco.  Rounding  the  Horn,  we  fell  in  with 
the  deadest  calm  I  ever  experienced.  In  the 
morning  we  sighted  an  albatross  a  little  way 
off,  as  badly  becalmed  as  we  were,  except 
that  she  could  paddle,  while  we  couldn't 


make  much  headway  sculling  a  full-riggei 
We  gave  chase  in  the  yawl,  and  caught  th< 
bird  after  a  hard  tussle;  for,  you  see,  sb 
couldn't  rise  from  the  water  without  a  breez 
to  help  her  spread  her  wings,  and  those  wing 
on  shipboard  measured  fifteen  feet  from  ti] 
to  tip.  Besides,  her  crop  was  full,  and  ma; 
be  she'd  swallowed  too  much  ballast  for  sky 
sailing.  We  took  a  strip  of  sheet-copper 
and  with  a  marline-spike  punctured  in  it  th< 
name  of  the  ship  and  the  date  of  capture 
This  we  fastened  round  the  bird's  neck 
When  we  got  a  breeze,  we  first  made  sai 
and  then  gave  the  albatross  a  chance  t( 
spread  canvas.  With  a  scream  she  flew  of 
a  little  way,  circled  once  or  twice  round  thr 
ship,  and  then  set  her  rudder  for  the  nortl 
pole.  That  bird  was  caught  again,  twenty-fivt 
hundred  miles  from  Cape  Horn,  and  carriec 
into  Callao.  And  I'll  tell  you  how  I  knew1 
it.  At  Callao  the  captain  of  that  ship  wrote 
a  letter  to  a  New  York  newspaper,  describ 
ing  the  capture  of  the  albatross  and  the  writ- 
ing on  the  copper  collar.  My  wife  saw  the 
paper,  and  in  that  way  got  news  of  oui 
ship  six  months  before  my  own  letter  reached 
her." 

Silence  followed  the  recital,  until  somebod) 
expressed  a  regret  that  there  were  only  twc 
"  marines "  in  the  company  to  tell  it  t 
"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  the  skipper,  a 
color  suffusing  his  face ;  "  it's  true,  e 
word  of  it."  By  way  of  amends,  a  loud 
was  made  for  the  elder  marine's  whaling  s 


2 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


361 


hich  always  gains  a  good  deal  from  the  tar    artist  singled  out  the  lines  of  character,  as  well 

id  tarpaulin  manner  in  which  it  is  told.  as  the  subtilties  of  the  costume  which,'  hardly 

"  You  must  fancy  I'm  Mr.  Jones,"  he  said,    less  than  the  curves  of  the  face,  helped  to  ex- 

a  whaler's  mate,  spinning  yarn  for  mess-    press  the  individuality.  Ask  an  artist  to  draw 

ates.    He  shifts  his  quid  and  begins  :    We    from  memory  a  caricature  of  a  person  he  has 

uz  all  feelin'  sort  o'  grumpy,  for  thar  hadn't    seen,  but  whose  features  he  has  not  studied. 

jen  no  kind  o'  luck,  when  the  lookout  cries,    If  he  humors  you,  and  appeals  to  your  mem- 

Theer   she   blows  ! ' — so    I    goes 
to    Cap'n   Simmons  an'  sez  I, 

Jap'n  Simmons,  she's  a  blower; 

lellllower?' 

"  Sez   he  :  *  Mr.  Jones,  she  may 
la  a  blower,  but  I  don't  see  fitten 

r  tu  lower.' 

"  Then  I  goes  forrud,  and  the 

an  aloft  sings  out  agin,  '  Theer 

.e  blows  ! — an'  she's  a  spermer ! ' 

>  I  goes  agin  to  Cap'n  Simmons 

i'  sez  I,  'Cap'n  Simmons,  she's 
spermer  an'  a  blower;   shell  I 

wer  ?' 

"  Sez  he  :  '  Mr.  Jones,  she  may  be 

spermer  an'  she  may  be  a  blower, 

it  /  don't  see  fitten  fur  tu  lower ; 

at  if  so  be  you  see  fitten  fur  tu 

wer,  w'y  lower  away  an'  be  'tar- 

lly  dashed  tu  yer.' 

"  So  I  lowered  away,  an'  when 

e  come  to  about  fifty  yard  o'  the 

itter  sez  I,  '  Hold  on,  boys,  fur 

m  death  with  the  long  harpoon ! ' 

i'  I  struck  her  fair,  an'  we  towed 

r  alongside  the  ship ;  an'  when 

come   aboard,  Cap'n    Simmons 

3od  in  the  gangway,  an'  sez  he, 

V[r.  Jones,  you  air  an  officer  an' 

gentleman,  an'  there's  rum  and 

rbacker  in  the  locker — an'  that 
the  very  best  quality  —  at  yer 
irvice,  sir,  durin'  this  voyage.' 

"  Then  sez  I,  *  Cap'n  Simmons, 

n  a  man  as  knows  his  dooty  and 

>es  it,  an'  all  I  axes  of  you  is  ser- 

lity — an'  that  of  the  commonest, 

<|>g-goned  kind ! " 

J  On  the  sixth  morning  two  or  three  of  the    ory  to  help  him  out  with  the  facts,  his  ques- 

Stists,  nursing  the  mood  lest  it  escape  them,    tions  will  prove  how  superficially  most  of  us 

sjcretly  spread  their  kits  in  the  captain's  cabin,    observe.    Twins  never  looked  so  much  alike 

y  common  consent,  the  right-hand  panel  of    that   an    experienced  portrait-painter  would 

t|e  sofa  alcove  was  reserved  for  the  captain's 

irtrait.    An  excellent  model  was  our  com- 

ender.    Every  line  of  his  figure  proclaimed    time,  but,  for  the  most  part,  if  one  was  at 

lp  master.    "  Captain  "  was  in  the  tones  of 

1;>  voice,  which,  to  the  highest  as  well  as  the 


WAS     IN     THE     TONES     OF     HIS     VOICE. 
VINTON. 


PANEL     BY     FREDERIC     P. 


not  individualize  them  at  a  glance. 

Three  could  paint  in  the  cabin  at  the  same 


work,  the  rest  were  content  to  sit  in  the  cap- 
tain's easy-chair  and  on  his  camp-stools,  and 

Invest  subordinate,  offered  not  the  slightest  even  on  his  narrow  bed,  a  cozy  bunk  on  the 
imitation  to  a  discussion.  Every  attitude,  as  port  side,  and  keep  up  a  ripple  of  chat  and 
1  stood  on  the  bridge  mentally  casting  up  criticism.  One  day,  when  the  captain's  portrait 
ti  weather,  nicknamed  him  "that  harbitrary  was  nearly  finished,  he  said,  by  way  of  criti- 
cVe,"  as  the  London  cabby  designated  John  cism,  "  I  think  you  need  a  little  more  flesh  on 
Irster.  While  he  was  being  sketched,  it  was  the  starboard  cheek."  But  little  other  com- 
clrious  to  note  how  the  practiced  eye  of  the  ment  fell  from  his  lips  regarding  the  pictures. 


362 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


Three  months  later  we  discovered  the  cap- 
tain's honest  opinion.  It  was  painted  on  the 
only  panel  that  had  been  left  vacant  by  us  — 
the  large  panel  of  the  port  door.  While  the 
ship  was  lying  in  Antwerp,  the  captain  en- 
gaged a  local  artist  to  paint  a  Norwegian 
water-fall  on  the  door.  It  was  a  garish,  painful 
daub.  Without  understanding  just  why  the 
water-fall  did  not  make  the  kind  of  a  sensation 
he  had  arranged  for  the  artists  on  their  re- 
turn to  the  ship  for  the  homeward  voyage, 
he  consented  to  have  it  painted  out. 

Five  of  the  six  panels  of  the  sofa     .^fp 
alcove  were    sketched   in  and  half    /M 
finished   in    a   few  hours.    Their 
growth  thereafter  was  a  matter 
of  mood,  with  results  of  fluct- 
uating  value.    In   his   effort      $> 
to    ballast    the   "starboard     j| 
cheek  "  of  the  captain's  por-    J|j 
trait,  the  artist   grew    to 
hate  the  picture,  erased 
it  and  began  over  again. 
In  the  next  panel  was 
painted  a  fanciful  head 
to  personify  the  comet 
of  the  previous  win- 
ter.   A  striking  effect 
was  produced  by  the 
starlit   hair    stream- 
ing through  a  cold, 
dark-blue  sky.  There 
was  along  discussion 
over  the  manner  in 
which  the  sketch  had 
been  developed,  the 
verdict  being  that  it    '§j 
was   characteristic    of 
the  artist  to  paint  the 
allegorical  lady's  cherry    \ 
lips  first  of  all.  Somebody 
discovered  the  head  of  a 
Skye  terrier   in  the  hair. 
For  a  long  time  the  artist 
stood    out    against    amend- 
ments;    then    three    or    four 
clever  strokes  eliminated  the  dog. 

A  sullen  coquette  was  the  com-  ^ 
et's  right-hand  neighbor.  She  wore 
a  poke-bonnet  surmounted  by  the  jaunt- 
iest of  orange  feathers.  Her  entrance  into  soci- 
.ety  was  effected  in  an  incredibly  short  space 
of  time,  and  we  could  not  but  admire  the  per- 
fect manner  in  which  the  colors  harmonized 
with  themselves  and  with  the  pictures  on  either 
side.  But  there  was  a  general  outcry  against 
her  social  status;  and  the  painter,  in  the  dumps, 
dropped  his  brush  and  left  the  creature  hover- 
ing between  the  world  of  existence  and  the 
inferno  of  annihilation.  The  picture  gave  rise 
to  an  animated  discussion.  Such  epithets  as 


"nightmare  painter" — applied  to  an  arris 
skilled  in  painting  rainy  street  scenes  by  ga<( 
light — and  "painter  of  beautiful  nothings, 
were  bandied.  This  last  was  the  retort  direJ 


THE    COMET.       PANEL    BY    J.    CARROLL    BECKWITH 


of  the  "  nightmare  painter,"  and 

seemed  to  be  barbed  with  truth,  fc 

it  called  forth  an  instructive  lectui 

on  art  methods,  in  about  these  worck 

"Very  well — some  artists  paint  pic; 

ures   that  are   not   even    beautiful 

You're  all  down  on  anything  that  ' 

clever.    Here's  an  artist,  say,  who  sue 

ceeds  by  hard,  patient  effort ;  anothf 

will  gain  equal  success  by  sheer  c^ 

erness.    The  first  struggles  with  a  commor 

place  subject,  using  a  model  for  every  littl 

detail,  from  the  sole  of  a  slipper  to  the  ke) 

hole  of  a  door ;  you  call  it  high  art.    But, 

the  other  does  a  dashing  thing  full  of  life 

feeling,  you  call  it  mere  chic  /  " 

First  to  be  finished  was  a  pensive 
in  the  next  panel.    In  rich  sealskin  hat  an 
cloak  she  was  strolling  near  the  sea  on  a 
November  day.   A  feeling  of  romantic  sad] 
pervaded  the  picture.    The  gossip  of  the 


JUL, 

"" 

iaice 

,t  an 

i 


LOG   OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


363 


o  assumed  at  once  that  the  artist  had  drawn 
his  tender  recollections  for  a  subject.  This 
;  denied,  but,  as  an  expression  of  lack  of 
nfidence,  the  picture  was  entitled  "  The- 
irl-he-left-behind-him-when-he-went-to-Mu- 
ch."  By  way  of  confirmation,  one  of  the 
tists  improvised  an  anecdote  to  illustrate, 
he  said,  how  an  artist  may  become  so 
lamored  of  his  art  as  to  forget  a  live  sweet- 
>art.  "A  New  York  artist,"  he  began, "  with  a 
inarkably  fine  studio  [cries  of  '  Hear !  hear  ! '], 
as  visited  one  Saturday  afternoon,  his  'show- 
iy,'  by  two  ladies,  who  behaved  with  singular 
mstraint,  and  who  were  treated  with  that 
uching  politeness  with  which  the  true  artist 
eks  to  overcome  the  natural  embarrass- 
ent  of  visitors  when  brought  face  to  face 
th  the  mute  yet  speaking  witnesses  of  his 
inius.  [Applause.]  When  the  ladies  with- 
ew,  the  artist  turned  to  an  old  friend  who 
ipeared  to  be  greatly  amused,  and  asked : 
"  '  Who  are  those  people  ?  ' 
" '  You  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  ?  ' 
"  '  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  ought,  but  I 
>n't ! ' 

;  <  Not  the  pretty  one  ?  ' 
"'  Not  even  the — she  isn't  pretty!' 
" '  You  thought  she  was  ten  years 
;o,  when  you  started  for  Munich 
th  her  promise  to  marry  you  ! ' ' 
Our  so-called  "  nightmare  paint- 
"  professed  to  have  an  idea  in  his 
:ad  for  one  of  the  end  panels  of  the 
cove.    The  first  time  he  tried  to 
press  it  a  reasonable  success  was 
tained.    He  was  far  from  satisfied, 
id,  against  the  common  voice  of 
ie  studio,  erased  it  thrice  over.  In 
vexed  mood,  he   determined  to 
lint  a  picture  of  the  pit  of  roaring 
irkness   and   fire   which  may  be 
>und  in  the  center  of  every  steam- 
dp, — though  the  passengers  think 
:tle  of  it,  seeing  smoke  and  cin- 
irs  pouring  from  the  crater  smoke- 
ack,  without  realizing  that  a  vol- 
mo  is  raging  beneath.    He  and  I 
ascended  about  forty  feet,  by  means 
"  the  greasy  steps  and  gratings  of 
e  engine-hold,  the  several  floors 
id  ladders  of  which  were  made  of 
on  rods  half  an  inch  in  diameter, 
ith  spaces  between  for  ventilation. 
ft  the  bottom  we  stood  carefully 
jie  side.    The  rumble  of  the  ma- 
pinery  was  almost  deafening.    The 
lighty  arms  reaching  down  to  the 
ranks  of  the  great  shaft  turned  it 

Ellfh  the  light-hearted  ease  of  a  boy's 
t  five  minutes  at  a  grindstone, 
i"  engineer  with  a  hand-lamp  led 


us  into  the  shaft-tunnel.  It  might  have  been 
five  feet  square,  but  there  seemed  hardly  room 
enough  to  walk  between  the  spinning  shaft, 
which  was  at  one  side,  and  the  grimy  wall. 
We  stooped,  instinctively,  and  gathered  the 
skirts  of  our  coats  away  from  the  shaft,  which 
was  revolving  fifty-four  times  a  minute,  and 
at  each  revolution  was  forcing  the  ship  through 
twenty-five  feet  of  water.  At  the  stern,  where 
we  were  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  from  the 
engine-room,  our  ears  were  filled  with  a  buzzing 
as  of  ten  thousand  swarms  of  bees,  so  violently 
was  the  screw  churning  the  brine  in  produc- 
ing a  speed  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  As  we 
emerged  from  the  tunnel,  the  engineers  were 
helping  a  fourteen-year-old  boy  through  a 
small  hole  in  the  floor.  He  was  naked  to 
his  waist  and  smeared  with  rusty  grime.  He 
seemed  to  be  completely  exhausted.  With  a 
little  oil-lamp  to  light  the  shallow  cavern,  he 
had  been  cleaning  the  bilge,  a  space  about 
two  feet  deep  over  the  keel  and  rapidly  con- 
tracting on  the  sides.  His  had  been  a  curious 
position, — twelve  fiery  furnaces  above  him, 
and  a  mile  or  two  of  salt  sea  underneath. 
A  narrow  opening  in  the  bulk-head  admit- 


IN  THE  FURNACE-HOLD.   BY  F.  H.  LUNGREN. 


364 


LOG   OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


MOONLIGHT    THROUGH    THE    LIFTING    FOG.      PANEL    BY    ARTHUR    QUARTLEY. 


ted  us  into  the  furnace-room,  where  there 
were  two  rows  of  fires,  placed  back  to  back, 
with  six  fires  in  a  row.  We  remained  perhaps 
five  minutes,  or  until  we  were  roasted  out, 
though  we  were  standing  under  the  cold- air 
flues  connecting  with  the  curving  trumpet- 
mouthed  pipes  which  rise  above  the  deck  and 
are  made  to  revolve  to  catch  the  freshest, 
strongest  breeze  that  blows.  Between  the 
stirring  and  replenishing  of  the  fires  the  room 
was  filled  with  a  whitish  glare.  When  the 


furnaces  had  been  fed  the  half-naked  stoker 
would  stand  under  the  air-shaft  and  wipe  th< 
perspiration  from  their  faces  and  arms  with  i 
towel  hanging  at  the  belt.  In  that  blanching 
pit  nine  coal-passers  and  twelve  stokers  wen 
speeding  their  lives  double-quick  for  $17  am 
$18  a  month  and  "  found,"  as  the  phrase  runs- 
the  finding  consisting  of  the  common  sea 
men's  mess  and  a  stinking  nest  in  the  fore 
castle.  A  strong  young  fellow  will  grow  o  c 
at  it,  they  said,  in  three  years'  time.  But  wl 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


365 


ne  breaks  down,  a  score 
re  ready  to  take  his  place. 
Vhen  the  watch  changes, 
assengers  see  the  firemen 
mffling,  in  wooden  shoes, 
ong  the  deck  between  their 
eeping-pens  and  the  iron 
.dders.  Their  pale,  gaunt 
atures  and  stooping  shoul- 
ers  tell  a  tragic  story,  which, 
owever,  cannot  be  fully 
nderstood  before  one  has 
reathed  the  air  of  the 
rnace-hold.  When  human 
ves  are  so  cheap,  there 
probably  little  incentive 
give  the  same  attention 
improving  the  sanitary 
rrangements  of  the  furnace- 
old  that  is  given  to  increas- 
g  the  speed  of  the  ship, 
ne  of  the  officers  told  me 
'  an  educated  young  Eng- 
shman  who  ran  short  of 
oney  in  America,  and,  be- 
g  too  proud  to  send  home 
r  a  remittance,  worked  his 
assage  as  a  coal-passer  and 
sh-heaver.  He  paid  his 
assage  with  his  life,  for  the 
icposure  brought  on  a  fatal 
ness. 

A  curious  medley  of  na- 
onalities  were  our  ship's 
Seers  and  crew.  They 
[Quid  have  made  a  notable 
pllection  in  a  museum  of 
hnology.  Our  captain,who 
as  German-born,  spoke 
nglish  and  Plattdeutschbe- 
des  his  native  tongue.  He 
as  sailing,  under  Belgian 
lors,  a  British-built  ship 
tvned  by  an  American  com- 
my.  Our  first  officer  was 
stub-and-twist "  Eng- 
j>hman,  with  legs  that 
j:emed  to  be  rooted  to  the 
J2ck.  The  second  officer  was 
j  blonde-bearded  Scotch- 
Jan,  the  third  a  Welshman, 
fid  the  fourth  officer,  I  be- 
pve,  was  an  Irishman.  In 
fie  engine-room  a  similar 
ixture  of  races  prevailed, 
early  every  country  of 
aritime  Europe  had  contri- 
ited  to  the  crew.  Scotland 


THE  GOOSE  PASTURE.   PANEL  BY  ROBERT 
BLUM. 


time  we  ventured  upon  the 
forecastle.  Peter,  the  saloon 
steward,  had  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  bottles  that 
adorned  the  swinging  shelf 
over  the  tables,  and  some- 
times this  care  was  almost 
too  much  for  his  thirsty  and 
phlegmatic  nature.  We  re- 
member the  captain's  for- 
mula for  securing  his  pres- 
ence in  the  studio.  It 
was  "  Quartermaster!"  in  a 
thunderous  voice.  When 
that  subaltern  thrust  his 
capless  head  into  the  door- 
way the  same  voice  growled, 
"Call  Peter!"  Then  came 
Peter's  face,  wreathed  in 
smiles  and  frowsiness.  We 
discovered  the  importance 
Peter  attached  to  that  rasp- 
ing voice  one  evening  when 
he  was  found  peering  about 
the  hurricane  deck  in  the 
dark.  A  call  for  "Peter" 
from  an  artist  mimicking  the 
captain  made  the  poor  fel- 
low jump  as  if  Satan's  hand 
had  been  laid  upon  his 
shoulder. 

Peter  had  his  revenge  the 
next  afternoon  when  one  of 
the  artists,  with  the  aid  of  a 
curly  wig,  painted  face,  and 
old  clothes,  got  himself  up 
to  look  like  a  drunken  steer- 
age passenger.  Being  a  mas- 
ter of  German  dialect  and 
something  of  an  actor,  the 
artist  created  a  sensation  on 
the  hurricane  deck,  where 
the  ladies  were  in  a  flutter 
of  indignation.  By  the  cap- 
tain's order,  Peter  was  put 
on  the  track  of  the  mas- 
querader,  who  slipped  down 
the  companion-way  into  the 
saloon.  There  Peter  got  him 
by  the  collar,  and  hustled 
him  toward  the  deck  with  a 
dispatch  that  turned  the  joke 
on  the  joker. 

The  same  afternoon  two 
of  the  studio  company  got 
the  boatswain's  permission 
to  climb  the  fore  shrouds, — 
as  if  the  boatswain  had  any 


aimed   our  one-eyed   boatswain,  a  perfect  permission  to  give.   His  one  eye  gleamed  with 

]ick  Deadeye,  who  "  chalked  our  shoes  "  (as  delight  when  the  officer  on  the  bridge  sent  a 

b  called  the  swindle),  for  grog  money,  the  first  quartermaster,  first,  to  order  them  down,  and 
VOL.  XXVII.— 35. 


366 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


again,  on  their  not  complying,  to  "  pull  them 
down."  They  dropped  to  the  deck  and  ap- 
pealed to  the  captain,  who  was  standing  under 
the  hurricane  deck.  The  captain,  from  the 
companion-way,  ordered  the  officer  on  duty 
not  to  interfere.  "  Now,  climb  away,"  he  said. 
They  sprang  into  the  shrouds  and  clambered 
up  the  ratlines.  The  officer  on  the  bridge,  who 
had  not  understood  the  order,  dispatched 
seaman  after  seaman  to  pull  them  down,  while 
the  captain  each  time  called  the  seaman  back, 
until,  to  save  the  officer  from  choking  himself 
with  passion,  the  captain  showed  himself.  By 
that  time  the  climbers  were  under  the  lubber- 
hole  (which  was  out  of  their  reach),  and  think- 
ing of  Black-eyed  Susan's 

"William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rock'd  with  the  billows  to  and  fro." 

Late  on  a  wet,  clammy  evening,  we  were 
chatting  with  the  captain  about  the  relative 
merits  of  life  ashore  and  on  the  seas.  "  Sea-far- 
ing's  a  hard  life,  at  best,"  he  said.  "  I'm  a  young 
man  to  wear  captain's  lace  (he  had  not  turned 
forty),  and  I've  been  on  the  sea  since  I  was  a 
boy.  A  steam-ship  captain  seldom  gets  more 
than  $2500  a  year,  which  is  small  reward  for 
the  hardships  and  responsibilities  of  his  life. 
On  a  crowded  steamer  a  captain  may  often  eke 
out  his  salary  by  giving  up  his  cabin  to  a  rich 
passenger,  but  at  the  cost  of  his  own  comfort." 
He  was  interrupted  by  a  rap ;  the  fourth  offi- 
cer opened  the  door  to  say, "  The  fo 'sail's  being 


reefed,  sir ! — we're  running  into  a  fog."  "  Very 
well,  blow  the  whistle,"  answered  the  cap- 
tain, reaching  at  once  for  his  heavy  ulster,  tar- 
paulin, and  neck- wrap.  "  Here's  a  sample  of 
our  life,"  he  said,  as  he  enveloped  himself. 
"  Instead  of  being  '  well,'  it's  particularly  bad. 
I  look  for  a  long  watch  in  the  fog,  with  this 
temperature  and  the  weather  we've  been  hav- 
ing. You  may  not  see  me  again  this  side  of 
the  Channel,  for  so  long  as  this  fog  lasts  I'm 
bound  to  be  on  the  bridge.  Good-night ! " 
He  hurried  into  the  darkness  and  at  regular 
intervals  the  whistle  strove  to  fill  all  space 
with  its  deafening  drone.  In  half  an  hour 
he  came  back  smiling  and  covered  with  fog 
moisture  "  False  alarm  !  " 

Three  of  us  went  on  deck,  and,  by  a  ruse  we 
had  practiced  before,  reached  the  forecastle 
without  being  seen  by  the  watchful  officer  on 
the  bridge.  It  was  near  midnight,  and  we 
knew  we  should  be  ordered  below  if  we  were 
detected.  The  jib  was  hauled  down  but  not 
furled,  and  we  made  a  screen  of  the  folds. 
Such  a  black,  weird  night  was  worth  en- 
joying. The  fog  had  risen  or  been  blown 
away  by  a  south  breeze  that  filled  the  square- 
sails  of  the  foremast.  In  the  dim  light  of  the 
head-lantern  the  bellying  sails  looked  like  gray 
specters.  Peering  back  over  the  slowly  pitch- 
ing and  rolling  ship,  all  we  could  see  was  the 
great  black,  spark-spotted  serpent  coiling  fropi 
the  smoke-stack,  and  the  wet  decks  and  bul- 
warks where  the  thin  rays  of  the  cabin  lights 


A    MEDITERRANEAN   MEMORY.      PANEL    BY    WILLIAM    M.    CHASE. 


LOG   OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


367 


FLYING    THE    GREAT    KITE.      BY    ROBERT    BLUM. 


ere  reflected.   Nothing  could  be  seen  ahead 

cept  now  and  then  a  gray  suggestion  of  a 

osphorescent    white-cap.      If   the    Flying 

utchman  had  crossed  our  bows,  we  should 

t  have   been  surprised.    We   counted   the 

gular  throbs  of  the  engine  and   knew  we 

ere  cutting  the  darkness  at  full  speed.    Two 

a-dogs   stood   before  us   keeping   lookout. 

:Iow  do  you  like  this  life  ?  "  we  asked  of 

e  big-bearcfed  one.  "  Like  it  ?  "  he  muttered ; 

great  heavens,  I  have  to  like  it !  "  Ah,  we 

ought,  the  sandy  slopes  of  the  sea  are  speck- 

i  with  the  bones  of  just  such  men  as  you ! 

Before  we  went  below,  the  clouds  broke 

ray  just  enough  to  give  us  the  weird  effect 

such  a  night,  rifted  now  and  then  by  a  pale 

Donbeam.    One  of  our  marines  painted  the 

ene  in  a  panel  over  the  captain's  chest  of 

awers,  in  a  way  that  appealed    to   every 

foman  who  saw  it.    The  other  'marine  filled 

tp  remaining  end-panel  of  the  alcove  with  a 

<;>se-gathered  group  of  seamen  hoisting  the 

b-sail  in  a  rain-storm.   And  in  it  we  fancied 

<uld  be  heard,  above  the  wind,  the    boat- 

s  ain's  pipe  trilling  like  a  shrill-voiced  storm- 

JxL 

Speaking  of  storm-birds,  the  ninth  day  out 
^  enlivened  by  an  incident  which  gave  the 
nrine  artist  his  wished-for  stormy  petrel  for  a 


model.  A  large  flock  of  these  sociable,  untir- 
ing little  birds,  joined  us  before  we  were  out 
of  sight  of  Long  Island.  Two-thirds  of  them 
flew  away  in  a  body  while  we  were  off  St. 
George's  Shoals,  leaving  a  flock  of  perhaps 
fifty,  which  followed  us  for  nine  days,  mak- 
ing their  graceful  circlings  over  the  boiling 
wake,  and  observing  a  certain  order  of  prece- 
dence. When  a  mess  from  the  scullery  was 
thrown  overboard,  they  would  settle  upon  it 
and  drift  with  it  perhaps  a  mile  away.  But 
soon  the  leaders  might  be  seen  skimming  the 
billows  with  quickened  wing  and  taking  up 
their  old  positions.  Every  night  at  sunset  they 
disappeared,  dropping,  as  we  supposed,  upon 
the  water  to  sleep ;  but  every  morning  before 
eight  o'clock  they  would  be  in  their  old 
places,  sailing  back  and  forth  over  the  wake 
in  figure-eight  curves.  The  morning  they 
failed  to  re-appear  we  were  only  two  days 
from  Land's  End.  A  strong  head-wind  had 
blown  up  during  the  night.  It  was  evident  to 
us,  therefore,  that  these  little  steam-ship 
chasers  had  followed  us  so  many  days  be- 
cause the  winds  had  steadily  favored  their 
overtaking  us  each  morning  by  a  rapid  flight 
begun  at  the  first  streakings  of  the  dawn. 
The  head-wind  must  have  been  too  strong 
for  them;  in  fact,  it  held  back  the  ship 


368 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


twenty  miles  in  twenty-four  hours.  The  web  feet.  "Let  him  go,"  was  shouted  in- 
sailors  declared  the  head- wind  was  due  to  chorus  by  the  by-standers;  but  one  of  the 
the  sacrilege  of  catching  one  of  the  petrels,  artists,  thinking  the  opportunity  to  get  a  valu- 


THE    EMIGRANT    MODEL.      PANEL    BY    ROBERT    BLUM, 


the  day  before  they  disappeared.  The  man- 
ner of  catching  was  this  :  A  man  who  used 
to  wrangle  a  good  deal  at  table  over  ward 
politics  in  Philadelphia  with  another  coffee- 
house politician,  tied  a  piece  of  beef  to  a 
linen  thread  and  threw  a  lot  of  slack  thread 
overboard  with  it.  One  of  the  chickens 
got  its  wings  caught  in  the  snare  and  was 
drawn  aboard.  It  was  a  wild,  fluttering  cap- 
tive, with  bright,  bead-like  eyes  and  dainty 


able  model  too  good  to  be  lost,  carried  thi 
bird  to  the  ship's  doctor  to  be  chloroforme( 
As  for  the  head-wind,  while  it  blew  ill  fd 
the  sailors,  it  was  just  what  we  wanted  for  fly 
ing  an  enormous  kite  we  had  constructed  c 
stout  ash  sticks  and  a  linen  sheet.  It  was  f  v? 
feet  high.  On  its  face  was  painted  a  red-eye 
monster  intended  to  resemble  the  legend*  r 
dolphin.  We  had  wheedled  a  new  log-ccr 
out  of  the  boatswain  for  a  kite-line,  and  fi  t 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


369 


eet  or  more  of  old  rope  for 

hie  tail.  Our  first  experiments 
flying  it  were  failures,  result- 

ng  in  disaster  to  the  kite  and 
narrow  escape  for  the  man 
ho  had  hold  of  the  line,  and 
ho  was  made  to  travel  rap- 

dly  across  the  deck  in  a  sit- 
ing posture.  If  the  kite  had 

ot  taken  a  header  into  the  sea, 

t  is  possible  he  would  have 

[one  so.  Thoroughly  strength - 

ned  and    patched,  the    kite 

vas  now  brought  out  to  be 

aunched  on  that  head-wind. 

Vs  a  precautionary  measure, 

tie  line  was  passed  through 
ring  in  the  deck  hear  the 

rheel-house,  and    the   slack 

ras   given    to  an  artist  who 

romised  not  to  let  go  even 

"  he  were  drawn  through  the 

ing.  Another  artist  was  placed 

i   charge  of  the    line,  with 

wo    others   to  support  him. 

hese  three  wore  gloves, 
hich  were  ripped  and  cut  as 

le  kite    soared    a    hundred 

eet,    and,    owing     to      the 

trength    of  the  wind,  stood 

irectly  over  our  heads  shak- 
ng  its  angry  crest — but  not 

or  long.  With  a  grand  sweep 

The  Flying  Dolphin  "  dove 

o  port,  skimmed  the  water, 

nd  soared  again,  but  only  to 

nap  the  quarter-inch   hemp 

ord  at  the  deck  ring.  Then 

nth  a  back  somersault  it 
puttered  into  the  water  and 
kvas  lost  to  view  in  the 
froth  of  the  wake.  Kites  of 
jnoderate,  school-boy  sizes 
liad  preceded  the  "Flying 
bolphin  "  and  also  followed 
t  so  long  as  thread  and 
"wine  could  be  raised  by  beg- 
ging and  bribing.  The  most 
'successful  were  the  small  kites 
jlown  with  strong  linen  thread. 
Borne  of  these  flew  twelve 

r  fifteen  hundred  feet  from 

he  ship,  and,  when  the  wind 
fvas  astern,  seemed  to  have  the 
!>hip  in  tow.  It  was  novel  sport 

or  a  sea  voyage,  and  pictur- 
esque enough  to  justify  artist 
Datronage,  especially  the  day 

had  a  kite  up  when  a  fog  came  on.  We 
i^new  our  lookout  above  the  vapor  was  at  its 
|x>st  by  the  faithful  tug  at  the  string.  Tied 


IN     THE     FOREST     OF 
BY    FREDERIC 


to  the  deck-railing  and  left 
to  itself,  it  followed  the  wind 
round  the  heavens,  and  fouled 
the  cord  with  the  fore-top- 
mast. A  sailor  ascended,  and 
with  much  daring  and  patience 
carried  the  string  round  sails, 
spars,  and  shrouds.  For  a 
moment  the  fog  opened,  and 
revealed  the  kite  shining  in 
the  upper  sunlight.  Several 
kites  were  left  flying  at  night, 
tethered  to  the  ship  ;  but  they 
invariably  flew  away  before 
morning. 

No  day  passed  without  a 
little  serious  work  with  brush 
and  palette.  A  brawny  emi- 
grant with  wooden  shoes  was 
painted  in  the  alcove  panel 
which  had  originally  held 
the  girl  with  the  poke-bonnet 
and  orange  feather.  And  the 
"  nightmare  "  artist,  who  had 
such  trouble  in  realizing  his 
idea,  dashed  it  in  one  morning 
in  an  hour's  time.  It  was  an 
impression  in  pink  and  gray, 
— a  gay,  young,  old-fashioned 
beauty  tripping  along  a  coun- 
try road.  A  fine  flower  panel, 
done  with  decorative  effect, 
was  worked  principally  with 
the  palette-knife  into  the  large 
space  between  the  chest  of 
drawers  and  the  starboard 
door.  Summer  and  winter 
landscapes  were  .sketched  on 
the  odd  panels  scattered  about 
the  cabin  walls.  Occasionally 
the  studio  was  honored  with 
a  call  from  the  ladies,  one 
of  whom  sat  for  her  portrait. 
A  tall  panel  was  filled  with  a 
forest  scene —  a  pleasing  tour 
de  chic.  Somebody  paid  a 
compliment  to  the  naturalness 
of  the  picture  by  asking, 
seriously,  "What  woods  are 
those  ?  " 

The  artist  chuckled.  "You 
remind  me,"  he  answered, 

"  of  H 's  reply  to  the  man 

who  inquired  the  name  of 
the  mountains  in  a  land- 
scape he  had  evolved  from 
his  inner  consciousness.  'Ah, 
you  don't  know  those  mount- 
ains ?  '  he  said ;  '  they  are  a  part  of  the 
range  that  passes  through  the  Tenth  street 
studio  building.'" 


'CHIC.          PANEL 
VINTON. 


370 


LOG    OF  AN  OCEAN  STUDIO. 


PETRELS     FOLLOWING    IN    THE     STEAMER  S    WAKE.       BY    ARTHUR    QUARTLEY. 


For  the  sake  of  decorative  unity,  some- 
thing had  to  be  painted  in  the  panels  holding 
the  chronometer  and  the  barometer.  The 
latter  being  in  a  round  metallic  case,  it  oc- 
curred to  one  of  the  artists  to  treat  it  as  a 
cylinder  revolving  on  the  feet  of  a  juggling 
clown,  who,  lying  supinely  beneath  it,  applied 
the  rotary  motion  with  two  remarkably  expres- 
sive black-and-yellow-striped  legs.  Under- 
neath was  painted  the  punning  motto,  "  One 
'  fair '  turn  deserves  another."  The  companion 
panel  was  a  reminiscence  of  the  Latin  quar- 
ter, in  the  shape  of  a  frivolous  young  man  in 
full  dress,  dancing  a  jig  with  the  chronometer 
held  in  his  hands,  over  his  head.  The  motto 
was  "  A  Good  Time."  On  the  eleventh  day, 
when  the  captain  predicted  we  should  see 
Bishop's  Light,  on  the  Scilly  Islands,  between 
seven  and  eight  in  the  evening,  two  artists 
gave  all  their  energies  to  decorating  the  ceil- 
ing with  spreading  branches  of  Japanese 
quince,  the  pink  and  white  blossoms  being 
deftly  worked  in  with  palette-knives. 

That  we  were  nearing  land  was  apparent  from 
the  deep,  long  swell  of  the  sea.  Great  billows 
rolled  the  length  of  the  ship's  sides,  almost  cov- 
ering the  bulwarks  with  their  crests,  and  nearly 
revealing  the  keel  in  the  deep  trough  following 
them.  Everybody  was  on  deck  after  dinner, 
looking  into  the  grayish  twilight  off  the  .port 
bow  for  the  horizon  star  which  should  prove 
the  captain  a  true  sailor.  A  quarter  of  eight 
the  captain  drew  the  first  officer's  attention 
to  a  spot  where  he  thought  the  light-house 
ought  to  be.  They  exchanged  affirmative 
nods.  Then  the  Yankee  skipper  brought  his 
powerful  binocular  to  bear,  and  gave  us  a 
peep  at  a  yellow  pin-point  of  light  —  a  speck 


in  the  eastern  rim.  That  was  a  happy  ha] 
hour,  at  the  end  of  which  Bishop's  Light 
nearly  abreast;  then  the  ship's  course  wa 
shaped  for  Dover.  Within  the  hour  St 
Agnes's  revolving  light  flashed  through  th 
darkness,  and  after  ten  we  were  watchinj 
the  red-and-white  revolving  light  on  Wolf 
Island.  Precisely,  at  midnight,  we  passed  th< 
Lizard  electric  lights,  blazing  like  twin  sun 
on  the  cliffs  of  Merry  England.  We  wen 
about  eight  miles  from  the  signal  station 
"  Look  out  for  fire-works,"  said  the  captain 
going  to  the  bridge.  At  the  word,  red  fin 
blazed  up  at  the  prow,  on  the  bridge,  and  a 
the  stern,  enveloping  the  ship  in  a  spectacula 
glare  which  the  clouds  reflected  back  again 
When  we  were  in  darkness  once  more,  a  blu< 
light  blazed  up  on  the  shore,  assuring  us  tha 
we  had  "  spoken  the  Lizard,"  as  the  Nev 
York  papers  would  say  of  us  a  few  hours  latei 
A  gale  was  at  our  back  the  next  morning 
With  straining  sails  we  scudded  gloriously 
up  the  Channel,  which  was  a  greenish-drat 
angry  sea,  dotted  with  every  variety  of  craf- 
that  incited  the  marine  artists  to  much  rapic 
sketching  in  the  short-hand  of  art.  A  Belgiai 
pilot-boat  intercepted  us.  It  was  a  rough  se; 
to  maneuver  in,  but  after  an  exciting  twent) 
minutes,  the  chunky  Dutch  pilot  and  hi: 
leather  bag  were  lifted  safely  over  the  bul 
warks.  At  noon,  we  were  off  the  Isle  o! 
Wight  —  which,  to  be  appreciated,  must  b< 
seen  from  the  sea  and  bathed  in  such  dream) 
sunlight.  We  could  have  thrown  a  stow 
ashore,  almost,  as  we  passed  St.  Catherine': 
Light-house.  Toward  dark  we  scudded 
Dungeness,  looking  bleak  between  ai 
water  and  tempest  clouds.  Behind  its 


EARLY  MORN. 


int  was  a  forest  of  masts  of  vessels  that 
id  scampered  in  for  shelter  against  the  storm 
at  was  chasing  us.  Nearly  four  hours  later 
over  strand  and  the  barracks  half-way  up 
cliffs  were  revealed  in  dark  outlines  and 
raggling  gas-lights.  Passing  the  twin  lights 
Dover  cliffs  at  midnight,  we  repeated  with 
d  lights  the  spectacular  scene  at  the  Lizard, 
id  sailed  out  into  the  North  Sea  under  a 
ild,  blue-black  sky.  We  remained  on  deck 
i  hour  watching  the  stars.  It  was  a  night  to 
11  up  visions  of  old  Norse  jarls  cruising  in 
orth  Sea  galleys. 

At  seven  the  next  morning  we  were  shiv- 
ing  in  our  warmest  wraps  in  the  lee  of  the 
:ck-house,  and  wondering  how  soon  the 


muddy  Scheldt  would  let  us  over  the  bar. 
Eager  as  we  were  to  get  ashore,  the  run  up 
the  river  was  too  swift  to  satisfy  our  eyes. 
At  the  bend,  not  far  above  the  Belgian  line 
where  Fort  Liefkenshock  frowned  upon  us 
with  iron-plated  front,  the  steeple  of  Antwerp 
Cathedral  came  in  view.  At  the  same  moment 
the  bunting,  which  had  been  drawn  to  all  the 
mast-heads  in  little  bundles  confined  by  slip- 
nooses,  was  simultaneously  shaken  out  to  the 
breeze.  As  we  glided  into  the  river  harbor 
under  the  escort  of  a  tug-boat,  the  cathedral 
chimes  were  tinkling  the  "  Mandolinata  "  in 
honor  of  noon  of  the  fourteenth  day  of  our 
voyage.  By.  night-fall  the  artists  had  laid 
their  wreath  on  the  tomb  of  Rubens. 

C.   C.  Buel. 


IN    HONOR    OF    RUBENS. 


EARLY    MORN. 

WHEN  sleep's  soft  thrall,  with  dawn  of  day,  is  breaking, 

With  joy  I  see — just  lifting  up  my  head  — 

Through  the  broad,  bounteous  windows  near  my  bed, 
The  first  delicious  glow  of  life  awaking. 
I  watch  the  bright,  unruffled  ocean,  making 

The  fair  young  morning  blush  with  timid  red 

To  see  her  beauty  mirrored  there,  and  spread 
Far  o'er  the  waves.    I  watch  the  tall  ships  taking, 

On  flag  and  canvas,  all  the  colors  rare 
Of  her  sweet  beauty  and  her  rich  attire ; 

The  violet  veil  that  binds  her  golden  hair, 
The  chain  of  crimson  rubies  flashing  fire ; 

Until  the  blue,  calm  sky,  with  tender  air, 
Charms  the  beloved  morn  to  come  up  higher. 

Caroline 


May 


TORU    DUTT. 


TORU     DUTT. 

IN  the  year  1876,  there  was  issued  from 
the  Saptahiksambad  Press,  at  Bhowanipore, 
a  volume  entitled  "A  Sheaf  Gleaned  in 
French  Fields,  by  Toru  Dutt."  It  contained 
in  all  one  hundred  and  sixty-six  poems,  orig- 
inal compositions  in  English,  or  almost  lit- 
eral translations  from  the  foremost  of  modern 
French  poets,  including  Victor  Hugo,  Alfred 
de  Musset,  Beranger,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  The- 
ophile  Gautier,  Francois  Coppee,  and  Sully- 
Prudhomme — all  notable  for  their  brilliancy 
of  word-painting  and  intricacy  of  form.  A 
few  copies  of  the  book  found  their  way  to 
England,  and  were  most  kindly  received.  In 
1878,  a  second  edition  appeared,  containing 
forty-three  additional  poems  and  a  prefatory 
memoir;  whence  it  became  known  that  the 
writer,  who  had  been  able  to  reproduce  in  one 
foreign  tongue  the  best  work  of  the  most  cel- 
ebrated poets  of  still  another  foreign  nation, 
was  a  Hindu  girl,  without  a  drop  of  Euro- 
pean blood  in  her  veins,  who  had  died  at  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  leaving  indubitable  proof 
of  application  and  originality  which,  as  one 
of  the  foremost  of  English  reviewers  recently 
remarked,  would  not  have  been  surpassed  by 
George  Sand  or  George  Eliot,  had  they  been 
removed  from  us  at  a  similar  age. 

Toru  Dutt  was  the  youngest  of  three  chil- 
dren of  the  Baboo  Govin  Chunder  Dutt,  for 
many  years  an  honorary  magistrate  and  jus- 
tice of  the  peace  in  Calcutta — a  gentleman 


of  unusual  culture  and  erudition.  Of  thes 
three  children,  the  eldest — a  son,  Abju — die 
in  1865,  at  the  age  of  fourteen;  the  seconc 
Aru,  in  1874,  at  the  age  of  twenty.  Tor 
was  born  March  4,  1856.  In  1869,  th 
two  sisters  visited  Europe  in  company  wit 
their  father,  remaining  abroad  for  four  year; 
With  the  exception  of  a  few  months  in 
French  pension,  the  girls  never  attende 
school.  Under  their  father's  care,  howeve; 
both  became  remarkable  scholars,  Toru  a(, 
quiring  a  perfect  mastery  of  French  an) 
English,  a  thorough  knowledge  of  Germai, 
and,  after  her  return  to  Calcutta,  so  great 
familiarity  with  Sanskrit  that  she  was  enable 
to  make  a  number  of  translations  in  Englis 
blank  verse  from  the  "  Vishnu  Purana. 
While  in  England,  the  sisters  attended  tb; 
lectures  for  women  at  Cambridge  University 
and  mingled  to  some  extent  in  society. 

"  Not  the  least  remarkable  trait  of  Toru 
mind,"  writes  the  Baboo,  "  was  her  wonde, 
ful  memory.  She  could  repeat  by  hea, 
almost  every  piece  she  translated,  and,  wheii 
ever  there  was  a  hitch,  it  was  only  necessai 
to  repeat  a  line  or  two  of  the  translation  t 
set  her  right,  and  draw  out  of  her  lips  tr, 
original  poem  in  its  entirety.  I  have  alreac 
said  she  read  much.  She  read  rapidly,  toe 
but  she  never  slurred  over  a  difficulty  whe, 
she  was  reading.  Dictionaries,  lexicons,  an, 
encyclopedias  of  all  kinds  were  consulte 
until  it  was  solved,  and  a  note  was  take, 
afterward ;  the  consequence  was  that  explan; 
tions  of  hard  words  and  phrases  fixed  then 
selves  in  her  mind,  and,  whenever  we  had  , 
dispute  about  the  signification  of  any  expre 
sion  or  sentence  in  Sanskrit,  or  French,  <, 
German,  in  seven  or  eight  cases  out  of  te 
she  would  prove  to  be  right.  Sometimes 
was  so  sure  of  my  ground  that  I  would  sa> 
'  Well,  let  us  lay  a  wager.'  The  wager  wjj 
ordinarily  a  rupee.  But,  when  the  authoriti<; 
were  consulted,  she  was  almost  always  tr, 
winner.  It  was  curious  and  very  pleasant  f< 
me  to  watch  her  when  she  lost.  First  a  brigl 
smile,  then  thin  fingers  patting  my  grizzle 
cheek,  then,  perhaps,  some  quotation  fro 
Mrs.  Barrett- Browning,  her  favorite  poet 
this: 


Ah,   my  gossip,  you  are 
and  a  man,' 


older,  and   more 


or  some  similar  pleasantry." 

Toru's   first   venture   in   print  was  an 
haustive    and  learned  essay  on   the 


TORU  DUTT. 


373 


>f  Leconte  de  Lisle,  which  appeared  in  the 
['Bengal  Magazine,"  in  1874,  when  she  was  only 
Eighteen.  At  the  same  time  she  began  the  study 
|)f  Sanskrit,  following  it  with  her  customary  en- 
prgy  until  1876,  when  her  declining  health  would 
[10  longer  permit  of  steady  application.  In  the 
neantime,  she  had  been  composing  either 
riginal  or  translated  poetry  in  her  native 
ongue  in  English,  in  French,  and  in  German. 
Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Sheaf 
Cleaned  in  French  Fields,"  Toru  fell  ill.  The 
ame  deadly  disease  which  had  carried  off 
icr  sister — consumption — now  fastened  upon 
icr.  Gradually  all  literary  work  was  given 
ip.  In  the  early  spring  of  1877  she  was  upon 
icr  death-bed ;  occasionally  rallying,  she  sank 
ower  and  lower  until,  on  the  30th  of  August, 
he  passed  away  in  her  twenty-second  year, 
;  a  firm  believer  in  Christianity." 

From  the  portrait  of  Toru  accompanying 
his  article  (the  copy  of  a  photograph  taken 
.t  the  age  of  seventeen),  the  reader  will  ob- 
erve  that  she  must  have  possessed  much 
>ersonal  beauty.  The  delicately  rounded  con- 
pur  of  the  face,  pure  features,  liquid  black 
yes,  and  heavy  tresses  of  raven  hair,  were 
nough  to  distinguish  their  possessor,  aside 
jrom  their  intellectual  expression.  It  is  a 
iileasant  picture  which  the  Baboo  gives  of  the 
'ome  circle  when  the  two  sisters,  Aru  and 
'oru,  were  its  life  and  charm.  In  the  per- 
ormance  of  all  the  household  duties  which 
/ere  incumbent  upon  them,  both  were  exem- 
•lary.  Fond  of  music  and  versed  in  the  art, 
istrumental  and  vocal,  their  leisure  moments 
fere  passed  at  the  piano. 
j  The  "  Sheaf  Gleaned  in  French  Fields " 
|/as,  on  the  whole,  the  most  important  of  the 
j/orks  of  Toru  Dutt.  She  left,  besides,  a  novel 
a  French,  entitled  "Le  Journal  de  Mile. 
b'Arvers,"  which  was  published  in  Paris  early 
!i  1879,  edited,  with  a  biographical  and  critical 
itudy  of  the  author,  by  Mile,  Clarisse  Bader, 
Ariose  work  upon  "La  Femme  dans  PInde 
ptique  "  had  attracted  Toru's  attention  and 
pd  to  a  brief  correspondence.  Toru  also  left 
ight  chapters  of  an  unfinished  English  ro- 
jiance  entitled  "  Bianca ;  or,  The  Young  Span- 
;;h  Maiden,"  which  is  of  interest  only  as  being 
["oru's  first  venture  in  English  prose.  The 
jinguage  throughout  is  notable  for  its  purity 
jnd  grace,  a  few  idiomatic  errors  alone  mark- 
fig  the  author  as  a  foreigner.  A  number  of 
riginal  English  poems  were  also  found  among 
iiss  Dutt's  manuscripts. 
I  The  "Sheaf  Gleaned  in  French  Fields"  is 

remarkable  book.  If  the  reader  will  imagine 
b  American  or  English  woman,  not  out  of 
'er  teens,  selecting  something  like  two  hun- 
ted of  the  best  German  poems  of  the  age,  and 
^producing  them  in  French  with  absolute 
VOL.  XXVII.— 36. 


fidelity  to  the  originals,  and  at  the  same  time 
expressing  herself  in  a  pure  and  idiomatic 
style,  he  will  have  some  idea  of  this  collec- 
tion. The  interest  of  the  poems  does  not  arise 
from  the  fact  that  they  are  faithful  transla- 
tions. They  are  not  translations  at  all,  as  we 
ordinarily  understand  the  term,  but  rather  trans- 
mutations.  The  supreme  test  of  a  translation 
is  in  considering  it  as  an  original  composition. 
The  translations  of  Toru  Dutt  certainly  endure 
such  rigid  examination,  and  there  are  several 
which  defy  the  reader  to  detect,  from  any  in- 
herent quality,  that  they  were  not  purely 
spontaneous  productions.  There  are  serious 
faults  at  times,  but  these  faults  arise  from  no 
awkwardness  in  reproducing  the  thought  of 
the  original  author.  The  errors  are  in  versi- 
fication—  a  superfluous  syllable,  an  uneven 
line,  an  arbitrary  quantity,  or  an  inverted 
phraseology;  but  a  rugged  grace  of  diction 
and  spirited  rhythm  are  uniformly  character- 
istic of  her  work.  Of  the  following  poems,  the 
first  is  the  opening  stanzas  in  a  translation  of 
an  idyl  by  M.  Arsene  Houssaye,  and  the  other 
a  translation  of  one  of  Heinrich  Heine's 
poems : 

The  rural   sounds  of  eve  were  softly  blending — 
The  fountain's  murmur  like  a  magic  rhyme, 

The  bellow  of  the  cattle  homeward  wending, 
The  distant  steeple's  melancholy  chime; 

The  peasant's  shouts  that  charm  from  distance  bor- 
row, 

The  greenfinch  whirring  in  its  amorous  flight, 
The  cricket's  chirp,  the  night-bird's  song  of  sorrow, 

The  laugh  of  girls  who  beat  the  linen  white. 

The  breeze  scarce  stirred  the  reeds  beside  the  river, 
The  swallows  saw  their  figures  as   they  flew 

In  that  clear  mirror  for  a  moment  quiver, 

Before  they  vanished  in  the  clouds  from  view. 

And  school-boys,  wilder  than  the  winging  swallows, 
Far  from  the  master  with  his  look  severe, 

Bounded   like    fawns,  to    gather   weeds,   marsh-mal- 
lows, 
And  primrose  blossoms  to  the  young  heart  dear. 

THE    MESSAGE.       (HEINRICH   HEINE.) 

To  horse,  my  squire !    To  horse,  and  quick 

Be  winged  like  the  hurricane! 

Fly  to  the  chateau  on  the  plain, 
And  bring  me  news,  for  I  am  sick. 

Glide  'mid  the  steeds,  and  ask  a  groom, 
After  some  talk,  this  simple  thing: 
Of  the  two  daughters  of  our  king 

Who  is  to  wed,  and  when,  and  whom  ? 

And  if  he  tell  thee  'tis  the  brown, 
Come  shortly  back  and  let  me  know; 
But  if  the  blonde,  ride  soft  and  slow,— 

The  moonlight's  pleasant  on  the  down. 

And  as  thou  comest,  faithful  squire, 
Get  me  a  rope  from  shop  or  store. 
And  gently  enter  through  this  door, 

And  speak  no  word,  but  swift  retire. 


374 


TORU  DUTT. 


A  number  of  poems  in  this  volume  are  by 
Toru's  sister  Aru ;  none  of  them  involves  the 
difficult  meters  which  make  the  work  of  the 
former  so  much  more  notable,  but  they  show 
a  remarkable  facility. 

In  the  two  hundred  and  more  poems  in- 
cluded in  the  "  Sheaf,"  Victor  Hugo  is  repre- 
sented by  thirty-one,  the  Comte  de  Gramont 
by  seventeen,  Josephin  Soulary  by  fourteen — 
and  in  all  there  are  about  one  hundred  au- 
thors. This  includes  nearly  every  form  of 
versification,  from  the  graceful  Alexandrine  of 
Soulary  to  the  Hugoesque  meters  of  the  au- 
thor of  "  Les  Chatiments  " ;  from  the  sonnet 
of  De  Gramont  to  a  sextine  by  the  same 
author, — a  form  of  verse  which  has  been  at- 
tempted in  English  only  by  two  or  three  other 
writers. 

In  the  notes  which  fill  the  concluding  fifty 
pages  of  the  volume,  Toru  has  displayed  a 
great  deal  of  learning  with  rare  critical  abil- 
ity. She  has  an  epigrammatic  way  of  summing 
up  an  author  in  a  few  words,  as  where  she 
calls  Victor  de  Laprade  "  a  spiritual  athlete," 
or  remarks  of  Brizeux  that  his  poems  "  want 
the  Virgilian  charm."  Truly,  the  "Sheaf 
Gleaned  in  French  Fields  "  is  an  extraordinary 
book;  it  may  be  said,  without  overstepping 
the  limits  of  honest  criticism,  that  no  work 
within  reach  of  the  English  reader  affords  so 
complete  a  survey  of  the  French  poets  of  the 
modern  romantic  school. 

"  Le  Journal  de  Mile.  D'Arvers  "  was  writ- 
ten by  Toru  partly  in  fulfillment  of  an  agree- 
ment with  her  sister  Aru,  who  was  to  illustrate 
the  volume,  she  possessing  considerable  skill 
with  her  pencil ;  unhappily,  her  death  pre- 
vented the  consummation  of  the  contract. 
The  manuscript  of  this  romance,  written  in 
French,  was  consigned  by  Toru  to  her  father's 
hands  while  she  was  upon  her  death-bed.  It 
was,  as  previously  stated,  published  in  Paris  a 
few  years  ago,  and  immediately  attracted  wide 
attention.  While  dealing  entirely  with  French 
characters,  the  romance  is  English  in  senti- 
ment and  is  essentially  a  poem  in  prose.  It 
appeals  to  the  highest  and  tenderest  emotions 
of  our  nature;  it  is  permeated  throughout 
with  the  influence  of  divine  love,  and  cer- 
tainly no  one  whose  heart  is  touched  by  such 
influences  will  lay  it  aside  without  a  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  Toru  Dutt. 


After  the  above  was  written  a  number  of 
original  and  hitherto  unpublished  poems  by 
Toru  Dutt,  from  which  we  select  two,  were 
received  from  the  Baboo,  who  kindly  for- 
warded them  at  the  request  of  the  editor  of 
this  magazine  :  * 

FRANCE. 

1870. 

Not  dead — oh,  no — she  cannot  die! 

Only  a  swoon,  from  loss  of  blood ! 
Levite  England  passes  her  by  — 
Help,  Samaritan !     None  is  nigh  ; 

Who  shall  stanch  me  this  sanguine  flood? 


'Range  the  brown  hair  —  it  blinds  her  eyne; 

Dash  cold  water  over  her  face ! 
Drowned  in  her  blood,  she  makes  no  sign, 
Give  her  a  draught  of  generous  wine! 

None  heed,  none  hear,  to  do  this  grace. 


Head  of  the  human  column,  thus 

Ever  in  swoon  wilt  thou  remain  ? 
Thought,  Freedom,  Truth,  quenched  omi 
Whence  then  shall  Hope  arise  for  us, 
Plunged  in  the  darkness  all  again? 


No  !     She  stirs !     There's  a  fire  in  her  glance- 
'Ware,  oh,  'ware  of  that  broken  sword! 

What,  dare  ye  for  an  hour's  mischance 

Gather  around  her  jeering  France 
Attila's  own  exultant  horde ! 

Lo,  she  stands  up, —  stands  up  e'en  now, 

Strong  once  more  for  the  battle  fray. 
Gleams  bright  the  star  that  from  her  brow 
Lightens  the  world.     Bow,  nations,  bow  — 
Let  her  again  lead  on  the  way. 

SONNET. — THE    LOTUS. 

Love  came  to  Flora  asking  for  a  flower 
That  would  of  flowers  be  undisputed  queen; 
The  lily  and  the  rose  long,  long  had  been 
Rivals  for  that  high  honor.     Bards  of  power 
Had  sung  their  claims.    "  The  rose  can  never  towe 
Like  the  pale  lily,  with  her  Juno  mien." 
"But  is  the  lily  lovelier?"    Thus,  between 
Flower  factions  rang  the  strife  in  Psyche's  bower. 
"  Give  me  a  flower  delicious  as  the  rose, 

And  stately  as  the  lily  in  her  pride " 

"  But  of  what  color?  "  "  Rose-red,"  Love  first  chose 
Then  prayed :   "  No,  lily-white,  or  both  provide." 
And  Flora  gave  the  lotus,  "rose-red"  dyed 
And  "lily-white,"  the  queenliest  flower  that  blows' 

*  Since  this  article  was  put  in  type,  we  have  received  a  luxurioi 
little  volume  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-nine  pages,  containing  th 
original  poems  by  Toru  Dutt,  and  entitled  "  Ancient  Ballac 
and  Legends  of  Hindustan"  (London:  Kegan  Paul,  Frenc 
&  Co.).  It  also  contains  an  interesting  introductory  memoir  b 
Mr.  Edmund  W.  Gosse. 


AN    AVERAGE    MAN.* 

BY    ROBERT    GRANT, 
Author  of  "  The  Little  Tin  Gods  on  Wheels,"  "  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl,"  etc. 


i  PETER  IDLEWILD  had  run  away  from  home 
ome  fifty  years  ago  without  a  dollar  in  his 
ocket.  To-day  he  was  one  of  the  so-called 
ailroad  kings  of  the  country.  His  native 
lace  was  a  small  Massachusetts  town,  from 
hich,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  had  vanished 
.  the  wake  of  a  traveling  circus.  The  hard 
nocks  incident  to  a  tumbler's  career  had 
peedily  dissipated  the  halo  of  hero-worship 
ith  which  his  youthful  imagination  had  sur- 
ounded  such  a  lot.  During  the  next  few 
ears  he  became  severally  a  bareback  rider, 
huckster  of  small  confectioneries,  and  a 
ghtning  ticket  agent.  All  these  occupations, 
owever,  were  but  stepping-stones  toward 
ic  realization  of  a  wider  ambition.  The  thrift 
nd  keen  appreciation  of  the  money-value  of 
lings  peculiar  to  rustic  New  England  were 
fe  within  him.  By  the  time  he  was  nineteen 
is  savings  permitted  him  to  purchase  a  con- 
•olling  interest  in  "  The  Fat  Woman  of 
ruinea,"  a  side-show  connected  with  the  cir- 
us  with  which  he  had  continued  to  travel, 
evering  the  lady  in  question  from  the  main 
ompany,  he  carried  her  about  the  country 
b  an  independent  organization,  with  sig- 
jal  success.  He  was  grown  to  be  a  strong, 
Capping  fellow,  with  a  sonorous  voice  and 
I  happy  gift  of  plausible  statement.  The  vil- 
Ige  folk  flocked  to  see  his  abnormal  prodigy, 
[ho  soon,  however,  became  the  nucleus  of 
considerable  cabinet  of  curiosities.  Money 
wed  in  rapidly ;  but  he  was  not  a  man  to  be 
tisfied  with  moderate  profits.  One  fine  day 
sold  out  to  a  rival  his  entire  live  stock, 
jot  even  exempting  the  foundress  of  his  fort- 
jnes  nor  a  peculiarly  profitable  "  Tattooed 
iant,"  and  invested  a  portion  of  the  proceeds 
i  a  well-stocked  peddler's  van. 
Prospering  here  withal,  he  betook  himself 
-  the  end  of  another  five  years  to  New  York, 
p  become  the  fountain-head  from  which  a 
lumber  of  these  itinerants  were  furnished 
•ith  supplies.  He  was  active  and  diligent, 
id  his  business  throve  in  pace  with  its  in- 
'easing  proportions.  He  launched  out  into 
-w  and  various  fields  of  enterprise.  Omni- 
ns  and  steam-boat  lines,  an  express  business, 
iid  even  a  hotel  or  two,  were  among  the 
bdertakings  that  were  nursed  into  a  lucra- 


tive existence  by  his  clear-sighted  energy.  All 
that  he  touched  seemed  literally  to  turn  to 
gold,  and  men  began  to  point  to  him  as  a 
capitalist.  But  even  now  his  long-practiced 
caution  stood  him  in  good  stead.  As  earlier 
in  his  career,  he  showed  a  willingness  to  allow 
others  to  reap  what  he  was  accustomed  to 
call  the  "  top-story  profits."  The  eve  of  one 
of  the  most  disastrous  financial  panics  that 
had  ever  visited  this  country  found  him  in  a 
position  of  security.  He  had  "  salted  down  " 
into  hard  cash  the  gains  from  his  outlying 
ventures,  amounting  to  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  dollars,  which,  after  the  storm  was 
blown  over,  he  concentrated  in  the  banking 
house  of  Peter  Idlewild  &  Company,  there- 
after to  be  one  of  the  money  powers  of  the 
city.  He  had  had  the  shrewdness  to  foresee 
the  immense  future  of  the  railroad  systems  of 
the  nation,  and  by  bold  yet  prudent  invest- 
ment and  speculation  his  large  wealth  doubled 
and  trebled  itself.  He  had  become  a  million- 
aire in  the  actual  sense  of  the  word. 

His  life,  as  this  epitome  shows,  had  em- 
braced a  wide  and  varied  experience.  He 
was  essentially  a  self-made  man.  His  was  one 
of  those  iron  constitutions  that  defy  abuse. 
Fatigue  was  almost  an  unknown  sensation  to 
him.  He  could  eat  anything,  and  at  any  hour, 
with  seeming  impunity,  and  obtain  the  re- 
freshment of  sleep  at  a  moment's  will.  He 
possessed,  besides,  that  power  of  adaptability 
which  is  itself  one  of  the  keys  to  success. 
Unpolished,  unfamiliar  with  the  graces  of 
language,  he  had  ever  been  able  to  electrify 
a  circle  by  his  quaint  utterances,  the  pithiness 
of  which  was  enhanced  by  their  very  dearth 
of  grammar.  His  fund  of  stories,  animated 
by  the  indescribable  broad  humor  native  to 
our  workaday  population,  was  inexhaustible. 
The  smoking-car  and  hotel  corridor,  the  camp- 
fire  and  village,  had  alike  known  him  well 
and  accorded  him  a  delighted  audience. 

We  whose  efforts  in  life  have  been  less 
prosperous  are  prone  to  entertain  some  hero- 
worship  regarding  one  so  thoroughly  success- 
ful in  practical  fields.  We  like  to  believe 
that  he  must  have  been  actuated  by  broad 
and  elevated  principles,  that  he  must  have 
generalized  with  the  well-balanced  rapidity 
of  genius,  and  been  influenced  by  liberal 
impulses.  And  yet,  if  we  were  to  weave 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  Robert  Grant. 


376 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


for  Peter  Idlewild  such  a  vesture  of  idolatry, 
we  should  assuredly  be  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. He  had  been  completely  a  man  of 
action,  to  whom  theories  were  naught  except 
in  so  far  as  they  could  be  made  use  of  to  for- 
ward his  personal  interests.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether,  after  the  primary  romance  of  his 
boyhood  had  been  rudely  dispelled  through 
an  actual  experience  of  the  hardships  of  the 
tan-ring,  he  had  ever  allowed  considerations 
of  idealism  to  trouble  him.  Thrown  upon  the 
world  and  forced  to  win  his  way,  he  had  made 
use  of  human  nature  and  adapted  himself  to 
its  many-sidedness,  without  becoming  enslaved 
to  what  he  regarded  as  its  weakness.  He  ap- 
preciated the  motive  power  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  limitations  of  theories  and  specula- 
tive opinions,  and  while  humoring  those  of 
others  had  avoided  partisanship  himself.  He 
had  played  upon,  without  sharing,  the  feelings 
and  convictions  of  humanity. 

But  Dame  Nature  is  a  relentless  creditor. 
There  was  one  spot  in  the  heart  of  Peter 
Idlewild  that  had  escaped  these  benumbing 
methods.  He  cherished  for  his  daughter  Isa- 
bel an  absorbing  love.  Her  mother,  a  young 
woman  from  Western  New  York,  whose  ac- 
quaintance he  had  made  during  his  peregrina- 
tions with  the  peddler's  van,  had  died  shortly 
after  confinement.  The  baby  girl,  intrusted 
at  first  to  the  care  of  his  own  sister  who  still 
inhabited  the  New  England  homestead  he 
had  forsaken,  had  become,  after  she  was  able 
to  run  about  freely,  {he  constant  companion 
of  his  wanderings.  For  a  number  of  years 
she  had  shared  with  him  this  roving  life ;  and 
when  at  last  he  was  compelled  by  the  require- 
ments of  education  to  send  her  back  to  his 
kinsfolk,  she  had  yet  ever  lived  in  his  thoughts 
and  become  a  nucleus  about  which  his  pos- 
sessions wound  themselves  with  an  ever-in- 
creasing tension. 

As  time  went  on  he  had  come,  as  we  have 
seen,  to  settle  down  in  New  York ;  and  it 
had  been  half  for  Isabel's  sake  that  he  had 
married  again, — this  time  a  person  of  middle 
age  and  a  certain  social  position,  whom  her 
friends  declared  to  have  accepted  the  banker 
on  account  of  his  money.  Rugged  and  in- 
different to  the  graces  of  life  as  he  was  him- 
self, Peter  Idlewild  had  perhaps  secretly  made 
up  his  mind  that  democracy  avails  women 
little,  and  that  their  only  chance  for  promi- 
nence lies  in  social  prestige.  Content  on  his 
own  part  to  drive  fast  horses  in  the  comparative 
isolation  of  a  single  boon  companion,  he  had 
begun  to  be  eager,  on  his  daughter's  behalf, 
for  the  pass-word  to  good  society.  He  had 
bought  a  house  of  astounding  proportions, 
and  had  it  furnished  by  an  architect  on 
a  high  scale  of  magnificence.  He  was  just 


about  to  give  Isabel  a  "  coming-out  ball,"  to 
which  he  had  invited  upon  the  most  trivial 
pretenses,  in  some  cases  in  fact  upon  none  at 
all,  the  greater  portion  of  the  fashion  of  the 
city.  Nothing  was  good  enough  for  his  only 
child.  "She  should  have  the  best  that  money 
could  bring ;  and  there  the  old  millionaire  at 
least  felt  safe.  He  could  slap  his  pocket  with 
the  sardonic  consciousness  that  he  held  strong 
cards.  It  was  his  wont  to  tell  the  blooming 
girl,  in  moments  of  endearment,  that  she 
ought  to  be  the  wife  of  a  duke;  and  whc 
knows  that  in  his  heart,  despite  his  plebeiar 
tastes  and  instincts,  he  did  not  cherish  sorm 
such  future  for  her  as  an  alliance  with  a  titlec 
foreigner  ? 

Isabel  in  turn  more  than  reciprocated  th( 
affection  of  her  father.  He  was  to  her  ar 
idol  upon  which  she  lavished  the  wealth  ol 
her  nature.  To  go  to  New  York  some  daj 
and  keep  house  for  him  had  been  the  Meca 
of  her  girlish  fancy,  to  which  she  had  lookec 
forward  with  an  impatience  but  little  con 
cealed.  This  had  come  to  pass  when  she  wa: 
sixteen ;  but  the  sweetness  of  realization  ha( 
been  alloyed  for  her  by  the  appearance  01 
the  scene  of  Peter  Idlewild's  second  wife 
The  latter  found  the  country  girl  sadly  defi 
cient  in  the  usages  of  polite  society,  and  fo 
three  years  Isabel  had  been  forced  to  submi 
to  a  series  of  refining  processes  at  the  dicta 
tion  of  her  step-mother,  which  had  resulte( 
in  an  effectual  removal  of  the  young  beauty' 
rougher  edges. 

Isabel's  preceding  years  had  been  passe( 
in  a  New  England  country  town,  under  tin 
tutelage  of  her  father's  sister,  Submit  Idle 
wild,  or  "Aunt  Mitty,"  as  she  was  commonh 
known.  The  latter  was  a  spinster,  whose  na 
tive  strength  of  character  had  developed  ii 
the  direction  of  rigid  views  on  the  subject  o 
discipline.  She  belonged  essentially  to  th- 
older  generation,  and  had  clung  tenaciousl; 
to  the  letter  and  spirit  of  the  Puritan  cod' 
long  after  most  of  her  neighbors  had  cease< 
to  struggle  against  the  encroachments  of  so 
called  progress.  The  young  people  of  th 
day,  in  especial,  incited  her  to  ominous  head 
shakings.  Their  easy-going  independence  am 
lack  of  reverence  for  age  and  authority  wer 
her  favorite  themes  for  homily.  The  linguist!' 
and  other  accomplishments  which  were  be 
ginning  to  revolutionize  the  raw,  though  salu 
tary,  methods  of  New  England  educatioi 
filled  her  with  dismay.  French  she  habitual; 
stigmatized  as  a  pack  of  nonsense,  and"pian 
ner  playing  "  as  a  cloak  for  idleness. 

But,  with  all  this  firmness  of  character,  1 1 
sober-minded  old  maid  had  found  in  he 
niece  a  young  person  who  kept  her  hani] 
full.  Isabel,  in  truth,  had  cost  Aunty  " 


« 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


377 


i  "  peck  o'  trouble  "  to  manage.  As  regards 
>hysique  and  vitality,  she  was  preeminently 
ier  father's  daughter.  She  possessed  the 
ame  determined  energy,  and,  as  a  complement 
hereto,  a  copious  fund  of  animal  spirits  ready 

0  overflow  upon  the  slightest  occasion.    Nat- 
rally  daring  and  self-reliant,  the  freedom  of 
nodern  life  had  had  for  her  a  vivid  attraction, 
existence  was  to  her  a  keen  enjoyment,  and 
he  was  impatient  of  the  restrictions  imposed 
y  her  relative.    She  had  the  stronger  nature 
)f  the  two,  and,  though  the  older  woman  con- 
ested  every  inch,  victory  generally  remained 
vdth  the  splendid  rebel. 

A  more  politic  or  less  conscientious  person 
han  Miss  Submit  Idlewild  would  have  taken 
,dvantage,  in  these  contests,  of  the  impulsive 
lature  of  the  young  girl;  for  the  latter  had, 
leneath  the  harum-scarum  of  her  irresponsible 
vays,  a  warm  heart.  An  appeal  to  her  feel- 
rigs  was  a  weapon  which  a  greater  strategist 
jyould  have  used  with  signal  effect.  But  the 
j-ery  exuberance  of  Isabel's  emotional  side 
iras  a  source  of  alarm,  or  at  least  a  puzzle,  to 
he  sedate  spinster,  in  whose  ideas  a  rapid 
irculation  of  the  blood  was  associated  with 
mate  depravity,  as  it  were.  And  so,  while 

1  secret  deeply  attached  to  her  niece,  she 
iad  felt  it  necessary  to  repress  displays  of  feel- 
ig  on  her  own  part  as  a  check  to  the  other's 
ffusiveness. 

The  years  had  slipped  away.  This  was  the 
vening  of  Isabel's  coming-out  ball.  She  had 
Iready  attended  a  number  of  entertainments 
t  other  houses,  but  to-night  was  to  make  her 
nown  to  the  gay  world  at-  large,  or  at  least 
o  such  part  of  it  as  saw  fit  to  conquer  their 
prejudices  to  the  extent  of  accepting  Mr.  and 
firs.  Peter  Idlewild's  invitation.  And  most 
f  them  would  succeed  in  doing  this ;  for  the 
ouse,  as  has  been  said,  was  reputedly  worth 
l/hile  examining  in  person.  Moreover,  Mrs. 
^om  Fielding's  answer  to  the  surprise  ex- 
ressed  by  her  husband  at  her  willingness  to 
ccept  courtesies  from  such  mushroom  mem- 
!ers  of  society  voiced  the  philosophy  of  many. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Tom,"  said  the  lady  in  ques- 
j.on,  "  in  three  years  everybody  will  visit  the 
jdlewilds ;  and  if  one  must  take  the  plunge, 
i:  is  best  to  do  it  with  good  grace,  you  know." 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  replied  submissively  her 
prd  and  master,  whose  objections  were  per- 
;aps  but  a  pretext  to  escape  for  once  the  role 
if  tame  bear  in  which  he  had  begun  to  figure 
if  late.  It  had  already  become  his  lot  to  be 
[ragged  about  from  house  to  house,  evening 
jfter  evening.  His  wife  adored  society,  as 
he  phrased  it ;  and  he,  poor  fellow,  adored 
is  wife.  A  simile  of  self-invention  was  a  novel 
ning  to  be  flitting  through  his  brain,  and  he 
iaused  in  his  thought  to  grasp  it  more  firmly. 


A  bear, — yes,  that  was  what  he  was ;  a  rough, 
dull-brained  bear.  Why  hadn't  he  been  born 
clever,  like  some  fellows  he  knew  ?  Perhaps 
if  he  had  been  less  stupid,  Ethel  might  have 
been  ready  to  stay  at  home  sometimes.  It 
was  tiresome  for  her,  poor  child.  Thank 
Heaven!  he  had  the  means  to  gratify  her 
every  wish.  How  pretty,  how  delicate,  how 
graceful  she  was,  and  how  he  loved  her !  If 
only  he  could  feel  sure  that  she  loved  him  as 
he  worshiped  her,  what  a  paradise  life  would 
be !  But  at  the  worst  she  was  his, — she  at 
least  belonged  to  him,  and  no  one  could 
take  her  from  him.  Perhaps,  too,  some  day 
she  would  grow  to  love  him ;  and  then 

"  Why,  Sleepy,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You 
look  positively  inspired."  And  the  subject 
of  his  reverie  appeared  almost  amused  at  the 
rapt  expression  on  the  face  of  her  husband, 
an  epitome  of  whose  wonted  demeanor  was 
contained  in  the  pet  name  she  had  employed. 
She  turned  from  the  contemplation  of  her 
delicate  face  in  the  glass,  to  flash  at  her 
spouse  that  caressing  smile  which  she  had 
discovered  to  be  the  "  open  sesame  "  of  her 
matrimonial  status. 

He  looked  awkward.  "  Nothing,"  he  mur- 
mured ;  and  then,  simply,  "  I  was  thinking  of 
you,  Ethel." 

"  fa  va  sans  dire,  my  love,  of  course.  You 
may  order  Holt  for  half-past  ten."  She  smiled 
at  him  once  more,  and  then  as  he  passed  out 
her  glance  strayed  again  to  the  mirror,  where- 
on it  lingered  playfully  and  fondly,  as  if  self- 
fascinated.  She  was  in  her  boudoir.  She  was 
attired  in  a  long,  loose  wrapper.  Her  hair  had 
just  been  done.  She  leant  forward  to  examine 
the  effect  more  closely.  Her  lips  were  close 
to  her  own  lips,  and  she  seemed  to  be  seeking 
the  depths  of  her  own  eyes.  They  grew  soft 
with  the  light  of  a  sudden  fancy. 

"  Narcisse  ?  "  she  murmured. 

She  gazed,  and  now  slowly  the  light  seemed 
to  fade  from  her  face  under  the  spell  of  her 
thought. 

"  Narcisse  !  Ah,  yes,  that  is  it;  I  love  my- 
self alone." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  clasped  her 
hands  behind  her  head,  still  following  in  the 
glass  the  changing  play  of  her  expression. 
From  gay  it  turned  to  grave,  from  grave  to 
something  more  than  that,  half  tired,  half  sad. 

What  was  life  to  her  but  the  admiration  of 
her  reflected  beauty  in  the  pool,  as  in  the  old- 
time  myth?  What  other  interest  had  she? 
Existence  was  so  vapid,  hollow,  colorless. 
And  yet  once  it  was  so  different, —  once,  and 
that  only  a  short  two  years  ago.  She  loved 
then.  Yes;  but  that  was  all  over  now.  She 
had  ceased  to  care ;  the  wound  had  healed. 
She  had  been  a  romantic  girl,  and  her  father  had 


378 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


been  right  when  he  said  she  would  get  over  it. 
"  Ceased  to  care."  Ah !  why  had  she  ceased 
to  care  ?  Why  ?  Why  was  anything  ?  Why 
had  she  become  what  she  was,  so  hard,  so 
indifferent,  so  cold  ?  She  was  almost  incapa- 
ble of  feeling  now,  and  yet  she  was  but 
twenty-five — a  girl  still.  Why  was  she  so 
miserable  —  she  who  ought  to  have  been  so 
happy.  And  how  was  it  to  end,  what  was  to 
be  the  outcome  of  it  all  ?  She  still  lived,  and 
she  was  but  twenty-five.  Her  eyes  dimmed 
with  tears  as  she  mused,  and  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  thin,  white  hands. 

There  was  a  knock,  and  the  maid  entering 
held  out  toward  her  mistress  a  florist's  box, 
with  a  blithe  "  En  voila  un  autre,  madame" 

Ethel  Fielding  raised  her  head,  and  for  a 
moment  the  sparkle  of  flattered  pride  danced 
in  her  eyes.  There  were  those  who  said  her 
face  at  times  recalled  the  patrician  qualities 
of  her  great-grandfather,  Morris  Linton,  the 
caustic  eloquence  of  whose  thin  lips  had  been 
the  jeweled  stiletto  of  the  United  States  Sen- 
ate in  years  long  past.  They  had  been  an 
aristocratic  race,  these  Lintons,  and  their 
motto,  Ab  uno  disce  omnes —  "  From  one  learn 
all " —  was  carved  upon  their  foreheads,  as  it 
were. 

Removing  the  cover  and  the  dainty  gauze 
of  cotton-wool  in  which  the  bouquet  was 
swathed,  she  revealed  a  mass  of  pale  pink 
roses.  A  card,  inclosed  in  a  tiny  envelope, 
lay  half  hidden  amid  their  leaves.  This  she 
seized  with  avidity  and  read.  Dropping  the 
same  upon  her  toilet-table,  she  lifted  up  the 
flowers  and  held  them  at  arm's-length  ad- 
miringly. 

"Are  they  not  lovely,  Clementine  ?" 

"Ah,  out,  madame" 

Ethel  drank  in  their  fragrance  in  a  long, 
audible  breath,  pressing  them  against  her  face 
the  while.  Then,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  exhausted  a  sensation,  she  thrust  the 
bouquet  into  the  hands  of  her  maid  and  said 
briefly,  "  Put  it  with  the  others." 

"  Bien,  madame" 

When  Clementine  was  gone,  Ethel  stood  for 
a  moment  pensively;  then  she  picked  up  the 
card  once  more,  and  from  her  lips  as  she  read 
fell  a  whispered  "  Mr.  Donald  Robinson." 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly,  and  stood 
looking  into  distance  with  a  curious  expres- 
sion, hard,  still  yearning,  about  the  mouth. 
The  card  had  become  a  focus  of  nervous  ac- 
tion, for  she  was  bending  it  mechanically 
between  her  fingers. 

"  What  is  the  use  ?  "  she  said  at  length, 
slowly.  "  What  can  it  lead  to  ?  And  yet," 
she  added  through  her  teeth  bitterly,  "  one 
must  live." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.    She  picked  up 


a  lace  handkerchief  and  passed  it  across  her 
face  with  anger.  But  the  pent-up  tears  still 
flowed,  and  a  look  as  of  a  groping  for  sup- 
port—  for  something  to  soothe  her  sense  of 
desolation — stole  over  her.  Her  glance  fell 
upon  the  toilet-table,  and  with  sudden  trans- 
port she  reached  out  for  and  clasped  a  minia- 
ture crucifix  which  lay  thereon.  Pressing  it  to 
her  lips,  she  kissed  with  passionate  tremor  the 
sacred  effigy,  repeating  the  while,  in  whispers 
broken  by  sobs,  "Thee  only,  blessed  Saviour: 
thee  only."  She  fell  upon  her  knees 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 


AT  this  same  hour  Peter  Idlewild  was  stand- 
ing contemplatively  on  the  threshold  of  his 
large  ball-room,  lustrous  with  its  chandelier 
mirrors,  and  smooth,  inlaid  floor,  as  yet  un- 
tested by  the  foot  of  the  dancer.  He  was  ir 
full  dress.  A  brilliant  solitaire  blazed  in  his 
shirt-bosom  in  lieu  of  the  ordinary  triple  stuck 
of  society.  He  softly  slapped  his  snow-whitt 
kid  gloves  against  the  palm  of  his  hand 
From  behind  a  recess  skillfully  concealed  b) 
large-leaved  plants  came  the  sounds  of  musi 
cians  tuning  their  instruments.  None  of  tht 
guests  had  as  yet  arrived.  On  a  sofa  clos< 
by  in  the  adjacent  parlor  sat  Mrs.  Idlewild,  ir 
a  claret-colored  velvet  and  diamonds.  Sht 
smoothed  out  the  folds  of  her  dress  anc 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions  in  languic 
complacency. 

A  buoyant  step  on  the  staircase  announcec 
the  descent  of  Isabel.  She  entered  the  roon 
beamingly.  The  virgin  white  of  her  debutant* 
attire  was  relieved  by  a  rose  or  two  amid  he: 
masses  of  hair,  and  a  superb  necklace  of  pearls 
the  latest  gift  from  her  father. 

Peter  Idlewild  turned  at  the  sound  of  he 
step.  "Well,  Isabel!" 

"Well,  pa!  Don't.  I  look  lovely?"  anc 
father  and  daughter  gazed  at  one  another  fo 
a  moment  with  undisguised  affection.  Th< 
latter  darted  presently  toward  the  ball-room. 

"  Oh,  how  perfectly  fascinating  the  floo 
looks ! "  She  clapped  her  hands  together 
"I'm  just  crazy  to  try  it.  Come,  pa";  an< 
seizing  the  old  man,  she  tried  to  drag  bin 
forward.  They  executed  a  few  clumsy  move 
ments  together,  the  girl  laughing  merrily  th< 
while.  Mrs.  Idlewild  stood  watching  them  a 
the  door. 

"  What  geese  you  two  are ! "  she  murmured 
"  you  will  tumble  her  all  to  pieces." 

This  last  sentence  was  called  forth  by  th« 
father's  taking  Isabel's  cheeks  between  hi 
hands,  as  they  stopped  almost  breathless  a 
the  threshold,  and  kissing  her  smothering } 
She  shook  herself  free  from  his  embrace.  "  Oh 
pa,  you  can't  dance  a  bit !  "  she  cried,  as  s  i<< 
pirouetted  off  gayly  by  herself. 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


379 


"  Isabel,  Isabel,  you  will  not  look  fit  to  be 
-en,"  besought  Mrs.  Idlewild,  despairingly. 

"  How,  ma  ?  "  and  with  the  impetus  of  the 
raltz  she  sailed  up  to  her  mother's  side. 

"  I  have  cautioned  you  so  often,  dear, 
gainst  using  that  vulgar  form  of  expression. 
f  you  say  how  when  you  mean  what,  people 
all  set  you  down  as  uneducated." 

"  And  pa's  duke  wont  have  me  in  conse- 
uence !  That  would  be  dreadful,  ma."  She 
mghed  gleefully,  and,  passing  her  arm  through 
lat  of  her  languid  parent,  led  the  way  back 
ito  the  parlor  to  where,  upon  a  little  table, 
iveral  large  bouquets  lay  together.  "  Don't 
icy  look  too  beautiful,  ma  ?  "  She  picked  up 
ne  of  them  and  buried  her  face  amid  its  fra- 
rance.  "  It  would  be  rather  nice  to  marry  a 
uke,  wouldn't  it  ? "  she  said,  reflectively. 
Only  think  what  fun  it  would  be  to  be 
ailed  '  My  lady  ' !  And  one  could  use  all 
3rts  of  expressions  then  without  shocking 
ay  body.  People  would  observe,  *  It  is  only 
er  Grace's  way ' ;  and  the  way  of  a  duch- 
ss  must  be  correct,  of  course,  ma." 

At  this  moment  the  maid  brought  in  an- 
ther tell-tale  green  box. 

"  That  makes  four.  What  fun !  Merci, 
larie." 

The  French  words,  as  pronounced  by  Isa- 
el,  had  the  effect  of  Mercy  Murray.  The 
dr  perpetrator  of  this  solecism  proceeded  to 
jmove  the  wrappings  of  the  box. 

"  Oh,  ma,  aint  they  perfectly  lovely  ?  "  She 
isclosed  admiringly  a  mass  of  magnificent 
jeep-red  roses.  A  card  lay  among  them. 
|Mr.  Woodbury  Stoughton,"  she  read  aloud, 
jalf-wonderingly,  and  a  faint  flush  crossed 
fer  cheek.  "  How  nice  of  him !  " 
i  Mrs.  Idlewild  fanned  herself,  with  an  air  of 
'ratification.  "  He  seems  to  have  taken  quite 
i  fancy  to  you,  Isabel." 

"  Pshaw,  ma,  I  don't  think  he  has  at  all." 
j  The  old  man  scanned  the  flowers  rumi- 
ptly.  "  That  young  Stoughton  sent  them, 
id  he  ?  Humph !  He  must  have  a  good 
leal  of  money  to  spare.  You  can't  buy  roses 
>ke  that  for  nothing.  What  does  he  do  for  a 
|ving  ?  "  he  inquired,  abruptly. 

"  He's  a  lawyer,  and  doing  very  well,  I 
bar,"  answered  Mrs.  Idlewild. 
j  Isabel  held  the  bouquet  in  her  hand,  and 
.as  picking  over  the  exquisite  buds  pen- 
ively.  "  They  are  just  too  elegant  for  any- 
;iing,"  she  murmured.  "  I  suppose  they  did 
ost  all  outdoors." 

"  Isabel !  "  groaned  the  mother,  "  where  did 
ou  pick  up  such  expressions  ?  " 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Idlewild,  "  did  I 
HI  you  that  I'd  asked  young  Finchley  to 
pme  to-night  ?  He's  a  broker  down-town, 
[ho  sometimes  does  an  odd  job  for  me,  and 


smart  as  a  steel-trap.  He's  with  J.  C.  With- 
ington  &  Company,  and  bound  to  get  on." 

"  What  does  he  look  like,  pa  ?  " 

"  Look  like  ?  He  looks  like  a  man. 
Humph !  There's  nothing  of  the  fashion- 
plate  about  him" 

It  happened,  some  ten  minutes  later, 
that  the  young  man  in  question  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  Galling  as  the  consciousness 
of  being  the  first  arrival  must  have  been  to 
Finchley,  he  entered  the  room  with  a  crook 
to  his  elbow  and  tight  compressure  by  a 
couple  of  fingers  of  the  bit  of  white  cuff  pro- 
truding below  his  sleeve,  that  argued  neither 
diffidence  nor  dismay.  When  he  shook  hands 
he  dipped  his  body  and  crooked  the  other 
elbow  in  a  masterly  fashion.  His  efforts  at 
politeness  were  so  elaborate  as  to  be  almost 
audible. 

His  host  received  him  with  cordiality. 
Finchley,  despite  his  self-assurance,  was  so 
far  deprived,  for  a  short  spell,  of  his  natural 
glibness  as  to  confine  his  remarks  to  rather 
stilted  praise  of  the  new  establishment.  But 
presently,  encouraged  withal  by  the  old  man's 
friendliness,  he  began  to  feel  himself  at  home, 
and  make  himself  agreeable,  which  was  more 
or  less  synonymous  with  talking  about  him- 
self. He  proceeded  to  tell  Isabel,  in  his  force- 
ful, persuasive  way,  sundry  facts  connected 
with  his  personality.  In  addressing  the  other 
sex  his  winning,  ugly  smile  was  accompanied 
by  a  sort  of  leer.  He  had  recently  bought  a 
driving-horse,  which,  he  informed  her,  was 
the  finest  driving-horse  in  New  York.  In 
fact,  it  was  characteristic  of  Finchley  that 
everything  he  possessed  was  the  finest  of  its 
kind.  He  took  an  almost  enviable  satisfac- 
tion in  his  doings  and  belongings,  and  in  ex- 
patiating thereon  to  his  acquaintances.  He 
had  a  vivid  sense  of  his  own  attainments,  and 
was  never  slow  to  let  people  know  that  he 
had  risen  to  his  present  positition  by  dint  of 
his  individual  exertions.  In  this  connection, 
the  dandified  but  well-bred  young  men  for 
whom  he  carried  stocks  were  a  constant 
source  of  irritation  to  him.  He  sneered  at 
their  deportment,  and,  behind  their  backs, 
habitually  characterized  them  as  snobs. 

And  in  this  lay  one  of  the  keys  to  Finch- 
ley's  disposition.  The  real  cause  of  his  aver- 
sion to  these  fashionable  customers  was  to  be 
found  in  his  secret  consciousness  of  their  su- 
periority. He  recognized  at  heart  that  they 
possessed  an  indescribable  air  of  gentility 
that,  despite  his  cleverness,  he  could  not  at- 
tain. His  efforts,  however  carefully  studied, 
resulted  but  in  a  vulgarity  palpable  to  him- 
self, yet  the  cause  of  which  he  failed  to 
fathom.  With  all  his  air  of  assurance  and 
boldness  he  knew  himself  deficient,  and  chafed 


380 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


inwardly  at  the  discovery.  It  was  therefore  a 
proud  moment  for  him  to  have  been  invited 
to  Peter  Idlewild's  ball,  and  he  had  taken 
care  to  make  the  most  of  the  circumstance 
among  the  patrons  of  his  office, —  mentioning 
it  quite  accidentally,  and  with  an  air  as  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  course. 

Finchley  was  the  son  of  respectable  coun- 
try trades-people.  He  had  come  to  the  great 
city  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  with  his  high-school 
education  and  a  local  prestige  for  smartness 
as  his  only  capital.  He  had  almost  at  once 
fallen  upon  his  feet,  as  a  firm  of  brokers  to 
whom  he  applied  for  work,  happening  to  be 
struck  by  his  apt  replies,  engaged  him  as  a 
clerk.  But  it  is  not  everybody  who  falls  upon 
his  feet  that  can  stand,  and  here  Finchley 
had  shown  himself  equal  to  his  good  fortune. 
His  qualities  were  precisely  suited  to  the 
needs  of  his  employers,  who  from  time  to 
time  had  raised  his  salary  during  an  appren- 
ticeship of  ten  years,  and  had  finally  been 
led,  by  an  intimation  on  his  part  of  an  inten- 
tion to  set  up  for  himself,  to  offer  him  a  share 
in  their  business.  That  had  been  some  two 
years  ago,  and  the  firm  of  J.  C.  Withington 
&  Company  had  as  yet  seen  no  reason  to  re- 
gret their  decision.  In  fact,  they  had  pros- 
pered exceedingly,  and  the  new  partner  had 
developed  a  wonderful  knack  of  obtaining 
custom.  His  statements  were  so  volubly  con- 
fident in  tone,  so  bewilderingly  bristling  with 
figures,  that  the  desire  for  opposition  on  the 
part  of  the  listener  vanished.  There  was  noth- 
ing half-way  in  his  judgments.  He  rarely 
qualified  his  remarks.  There  were  those  who 
said  he  would  persuade  an  inquirer  that  white 
was  black  to-day  and  the  contrary  to-mor- 
row,—  but  never  that  he  was  ambiguous  or 
irresolute.  He  had  been  known  to  be  a  pro- 
nounced bull  at  the  opening  of  the  board  and 
a  relentless  bear  at  its  close ;  but  if  a  customer 
were  doubtful  as  to  what  course  to  pursue, 
he  always  found  Finchley  ready  to  decide  the 
question  for  him  and  supply  him  with  abun- 
dant reasons  for  his  action. 

He  had  prospered  also  financially  himself, 
and  now  enjoyed  a  comfortable  income  for  a 
young  bachelor — or,  verily,  for  a  married 
man — in  any  place  but  New  York.  And  here, 
indeed,  it  is  Finchley's  views  that  we  are 
expressing.  He  had  come,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  into  the  way  of  spending  money  al- 
most with  prodigality,  and  what  others  might 
consider  a  liberal  competence  seemed  to  him 
pitiful  enough.  He  lived  within  his  income, 
to  be  sure, — he  was  too  shrewd  a  business 
man  to  commit  so  fatal  an  error  as  the  re- 
verse would  imply, — but  he  already  required 
a  pretty  handsome  amount  to  supply  his 
wants.  -This  had  come  about  by  degrees. 


While  in  the  employ  of  the  firm  he  had  of 
course  not  been  able,  to  any  considerable 
extent,  to  indulge  in  extravagances ;  but  the 
quality  of  his  tastes  had  kept  pace  with  his 
fortunes.  He  considered  himself  comfortably 
well  off  for  the  present,  but  the  horoscope  of 
his  future  embraced  sums  beside  which  his 
present  affluence  seemed  a  mere  drop  in  the 
bucket.  He  intended  to  make  a  fortune ;  and 
there  was  so  little  doubt  in  his  own  mind  a< 
to  his  chances  of  success,  that  the  thought  oi 
economy,  in  anything  more  than  a  loost 
sense,  rarely,  if  ever,  occurred  to  him.  Ht 
always  talked  poor;  but  that  was  by  way  oi 
comparison,  not  because  he  was  conscious  oi 
any  privations. 

In  his  personal  habits,  as  in  the  item  of  ex 
penditure,  Finchley  had  kept  upon  the  sunn) 
side  of  the  line.  No  one  could  call  him  fas 
in  the  liberal  interpretation  of  the  word,  anc 
yet  his  mode  of  life  was  unmistakably  luscious 
so  far  as  concerned  his  creature  comforts 
He  conformed  to  that  which  he  saw  abou 
him,  and,  provided  he  had  the  example  oi 
others  as  an  authority,  was  content  to  tak( 
the  world  as  he  found  it,  without  troubling  hi; 
head  much  as  to  how  things  ought  to  be.  £. 
man  is  meant  to  enjoy  existence,  and  in  orde: 
to  enjoy  it  he  must  have  money ;  such  wa; 
the  epitome  of  his  philosophy.  The  work 
was  good  enough  for  him ;  so  he  phrased  it 
Accordingly,  he  took  his  cocktail  socially 
dined  luxuriously,  and  played  his  occasiona 
full  hand  for  all  it  was  worth,  without  anj 
very  definite  moral  twinges.  He  owned  a  nea 
open  buggy,  in  which  he  drove  the  previousl) 
mentioned  trotter,  and  he  was  altogether  con 
tent  with  his  present  condition  of  life. 


AN  hour  later  the  scene  was  completely 
altered.  The  chain  of  connecting  rooms  wa: 
crowded  with  a  gay,  brilliant  throng.  A  maze 
of  dancers  whirled  over  the  ball-room  floor,  th< 
entrance  to  which  was  beset  by  that  sombei 
body  of  unemployed  men  one  sees  at  ever), 
large  entertainment.  In  the  main  rooms — ir 
one  of  which  Mrs.  Idlewild  and  Isabel  were  re 
ceiving — were  grouped  the  elders  and  sucl 
of  the  youthful  spirits  as  preferred  the  mor< 
tranquil  joys  of  conversation  to  the  attrac 
tions  of  Terpsichore.  Despite  the  numbers 
the  large  size  of  the  house  prevented  the  effec 
of  a  crush.  Everything  in  the  two  1< 
stories  was  thrown  open.  There  were  charn 
ing  corridors  through  which  to  wander,  anc 
hushed  retiring-rooms — the  library,  the  pict 
ure  gallery,  and  a  seductive  little  boudoir— 
for  those  in  search  of  isolation.  The  hall  w " 
full  of  nooks  and  crannies,  just  large  enoi 


"* 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


accommodate  couples  not  averse  to  having 
leir  whispered  confidences  drowned  by  the 
saceful  splash  of  the  neighboring  fountain ; 
id  everywhere  there  were  tasteful  arrange- 
icnts  of  flowers  and  beautiful  ornaments  and 
riking  paintings  to  charm  the  gazer. 

Arthur  Remington  and  Woodbury  Stough- 
m  had  come  together,  for  they  had  been 

ning  at  the  Sparrows'  Nest, —  a  fraternity 
lat  had  been  brought  into  existence  some 
vo  years  before  by  a  few  fashionable  but 
jmewhat  impecunious  youths,  who  were 
arred  by  expense  from  joining  one  of  the 

gular  clubs.  It  was  the  fourth  consecutive 
arty  at  which  they  had  been  present  this 
eek,  to  say  nothing  of  a  dinner  or  two.  The 

ason  was  going  to  be  a  very  gay  one  ac- 
3rding  to  the  authorities. 

The  young  men  were  fairly  in  the  whirl  of 

ew  York  life.    They  commonly  rose  in  the 

orning  at  the  latest  possible  moment  con- 
stent  with  reaching  their  offices  at  half-past 
ine.  To  be  breathless  and  breakfastless  on 
rrival  down-town  came  to  be  with  them  no 
nusual  occurrence.  The  twenty-four  hours 

emed  excessively  short,  and  they  even  be- 
rudged  the  small  allowance  that  it  was  nec- 
jsary  to  devote  to  sleep.  After  a  day  of 
usiness  they  ordinarily  reached  home  just 
a  time  to  scramble  into  their  dress-clothes, 
•inner  invitations,  as  well  as  those  for  later  en- 
rtainments,  were  becoming  very  abundant, 
umor  declared  young  men  to  be  greatly 

demand.  The  increasing  corps  of  charm- 
g  young  ladies  who  composed  "the  blue- 
ood  ballet,"  as  Stoughton  once  phrased 
,  must  be  danced  with  by  somebody.  The 
der  men  grumbled  at  the  lateness  of  the 
purs,  and  refused  to  stay  to  the  german,  so 
iiat  partners  were  welcomed  from  among 
iiose  new  to  the  social  stage. 
'  But  to-night  there  was  a  very  large  gather- 
g  of  all  ages.  People  were  anxious  to  see 
le  new  house,  concerning  the  magnificence 
r  which  there  were  such  prodigious  rumors. 

Remington  had  become  so  far  interested 
|i  Miss  Dorothy  Crosby,  that  her  where- 
bouts  was  now  what  first  occurred  to  him 
:pon  entering  a  ball-room.  They  had  met  a 
iumber  of  times.  They  had  sat  side  by 
jxle  at  dinner  only  the  evening  before,  and 
je  was  to  dance  the  german  with  her  to-night, 
"here  was  something  about  the  girl  that 
ppealed  to  him  in  the  highest  sense.  She 
seined  to  satisfy  that  thirsty  yearning  for 
'eality  to  which  he  was  susceptible,  though, 

he  had  been  asked  to  analyze  why  he  liked 

r,  his  reply  would  probably  have  been  that 
ie  was  so  refined  and  ladylike.  Her  dispo- 
tion,  too,  seemed  sweet,  and  her  views  of 
Fe  were  earnest  and  unworldly. 


He  was  drawn  to  her  all  the  more,  though 
doubtless  unconsciously,  by  the  fact  of  his 
being  rather  disconsolate  just  now  regarding 
his  prospects.  New  York  life  was  so  very 
different  from  his  expectation.  The  great  am- 
bition of  everybody  seemed  to  be  to  make  an 
enormous  fortune,  and  persons  without  means 
counted  for  very  little.  There  was  no  repose. 
It  was  next  to  impossible  not  to  be  in  a  flurry 
and  state  of  excitement  most  of  the  time. 
The  competition  was  so  great  that  one  was 
obliged  to  overwork  to  avoid  being  left  behind 
in  the  race.  He  had  been  warned,  to  be  sure, 
that  this  was  the  case ;  but  the  reality  exceeded 
the  description.  He  had  been  taught  as  a 
child  to  believe  that  his  countrymen  were  the 
superiors  of  other  nations  in  the  quality  of  their 
thought  and  the  character  of  their  ambitions, 
and  he  was  loth  to  regard  this  as  an  illusion. 
Had  he  not  always  conceived  this  to  be  the 
land  of  noble  aims  and  exalted  views  of  liv- 
ing, as  distinguished  from  the  degeneracy  of 
the  older  countries  ?  And  yet,  looking  about 
him,  he  could  not  clearly  distin'guish  the 
superiority  of  his  fellow-citizens  in  the  matter 
of  tone  and  aim.  They  were  very  clever;  but 
he  missed  that  tendency  in  the  direction  of 
the  ideal  which,  during  the  reveries  of  his 
college  days,  he  had  felt  sure  he  would  en- 
counter in  real  life.  This,  acting  upon  his 
mind  already  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
problems  of  materialism,  had  awakened  within 
him  many  a  cynical  thought. 

But  to-night  he  was  happy  at  the  prospect 
of  a  delightful  evening.  At  least,  he  had  come 
hither  in  that  frame  of  mind ;  but,  from  his 
present  post  by  the  door,  he  could  catch  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  Miss  Crosby  whirling 
through  a  ravishing  waltz  with  a  white- waist- 
coated  exquisite,  who  wore  a  solitary  stud 
that  resembled  a  miniature  plaque  in  his  shirt- 
bosom.  This  was  Ramsay  Whiting,  a  young 
millionaire  of  good  family,  who  happened  as 
well  to  be  very  attractive  and  respectable. 
Remington  was  wondering  who  had  sent  her 
the  second  bouquet  which  she  carried.  He 
had  himself  committed  the  extravagance  of 
sending  her  what  would  be  ordinarily  consid- 
ered a  handsome  bunch  of  roses,  but  some 
other  admirer  had  put  his  gift  to  the  blush 
with  a  superb  mass  of  Jacqueminots.  He  felt 
aggrieved  without  knowing  exactly  why.  His 
sense  of  proprietorship,  as  it  were,  was  of- 
fended. 

When  the  waltz  ceased  he  went  up  to  speak 
to  Miss  Crosby.  He  was  conscious  of  being 
a  little  glum,  and  the  temper  of  his  mood 
was  not  improved  by  the  indifference  of  the 
young  lady,  who  seemed  to  him  much  more 
partial  to  Mr.  Whiting. 

A   few   minutes   later,  Remington    found 


38* 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


himself  convoying  Miss  Lawton  —  whom  his 
eye  had  chanced  to  fall  upon  after  Miss 
Crosby  went  dancing  off  with  Jack  Idle- 
wild,  who  had  engaged  her  for  the  next 
waltz  —  through  the  various  rooms.  She  was 
in  her  usual  talkative  mood,  and  began  to 
entertain  her  escort  in  her  demure  way  with 
a  light,  running  prattle,  interspersed  by  com- 
ments on  the  mutual  acquaintances  they  en- 
countered. He  fancied  himself  quite  happy 
and  amused;  but  who  does  not  know  the 
heart-sickness  of  such  peregrinations  with  the 
wrong  girl  ? 

"  Oh,  do  look  at  Miss  Nourse !  I  don't  see 
why  such  large  girls  persist  in  wearing  white ! 
If  I  were  her  size,  I  should  limit  myself  to 
black  silks.  I  sometimes  think  I  may  grow 
to  be  just  as  large.  I  am  positively  afraid  to 
be  weighed,  I  have  gained  so  much  this  win- 
ter. Dissipation  seems  to  agree  with  me.  .  . 
I  adore  fountains,  don't  you,  Mr.  Rem- 
ington ? "  she  continued,  as  they  strolled  in 
the  cue  of  couples  through  the  spacious 
hall.  "  The  splash  is  soothing  to  the  nerves. 
But  perhaps  men  don't  have  nerves.  Yes, 
though,  they  must ;  for  I  was  told  yesterday 
that  Mr.  Harry  Holmes  is  very  ill  with  nerv- 
ous prostration.  But  you  seem  preoccupied 
this  evening,  Mr.  Remington,  as  if  something 
were  on  your  mind.  I'm  afraid  I  bore  you 
dreadfully.  Do  take  me  straight  to  my  chap- 
eron, Mrs.  Hollis  Beckford.  Mamma  couldn't 
come,  so  she  promised  to  keep  an  eye  on  me. 
Don't  I  really  bore  you?"  she  went  on  to 
say,  in  response  to  the  young  man's  iteration 
of  never  being  more  content  in  his  life.  "  Still, 
I'm  sure  there's  something  on  your  mind.  I 
do  wish  people  could  see  into  others'  minds. 
It  would  be  so  convenient,  wouldn't  it  ?  Oh, 
there's  Mrs.  Fielding,  with  Mr.  Don.  Robin- 
son. How  lovely  she  looks,  doesn't  she? 
I  wonder  who  sent  her  all  those  flowers  ?  Do 
you  believe  in  a  future  life,  Mr.  Remington  ? 
They  say,  you  know,  Mr.  Don.  Robinson  is 
an  atheist.  Isn't  it  a  pity?  —  for  he  is  rather 
fascinating  to  look  at.  I  hear  his  wife  feels 
dreadfully  about  it.  That  reminds  me,  talk- 
ing of  feeling  badly,  do  you  ever  cry  at  the 
theater  ?  Do  you  know,  I  went  night  before 
last  to  see  '  The  Two  Orphans,'  and  posi- 
tively I Oh,  is  this  our  dance,  Mr.  Brum- 

ley?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  another  time, 
Mr.  Remington  " ;  and  Miss  Lawton,  turning 
back  her  head  over  her  dumpy  little  shoulder, 
in  mute  pantomime  of  despair,  was  borne 
away  by  a  somber  youth  in  kid  gloves  much 
too  large  for  him. 

Miss  I  die  wild  naturally  was  fettered  to  her 
mother's  side  during  all  the  early  portion  of 
the  evening,  receiving  the  guests.  Remington 
had  said  a  few  words  to  her  upon  entering, 


and  besought  her  to  steal  away  for  a  waltz. 
"  Oh,  I  can't,  Mr.  Remington.  It  wouldn't 
do  at  all.  Wait  until  by  and  by,  and  then  I'll 
give  you  one,"  she  said  effusively.  She  was 
looking  her  best.  The  increased  flush  of  ex- 
citement was  becoming  to  her.  It  had  passed 
through  Remington's  mind,  as  he  lingered  for 
a  moment  watching  her  undergo  the  ordeal 
of  reception,  that  he  wished  he  could  fall  in 
love  with  her.  She  was  certainly  very  beau- 
tiful,—  twofold  more  beautiful,  for  instance. 
than  Miss  Crosby, —  in  the  common  sense  of 
the  word.  Yet,  much  as  he  admired  her,  Isa- 
bel failed  to  inspire  him  as  a  whole.  He  was 
conscious  of  feeling  himself  in  many  ways 
her  superior;  or  rather,  perhaps,  that  she 
lacked  those  delicate  qualities  intimately  asso- 
ciated with  his  vague  ideal  of  what  a  womar 
ought  to  be.  Perhaps  it  was  his  imagination 
because  he  knew  her  origin ;  but  was  she  noi 
distinctly  of  the  earth  in  her  characteristic' 
and  tastes  ?  And  yet  she  was  so  frank,  sc 
guileless,  so  fresh  and  warm  in  all  her  ways 
Whomsoever  she  did  love  she  would  love  with 
her  whole  heart;  there  would  be  no  hike- 
warmness  in  her  passion.  Calm  analysis  in 
such  matters  would  be  for  her  an  impossi- 
bility. 

The  german  came  at  last,  and  a  magnifi- 
cent affair  it  was,  with  its  flowers  and  elab- 
orate favors,  which  were  each  of  an  appre- 
ciable value.  Isabel,  who  danced  with  Ram- 
say Whiting,  was  in  a  state  of  enthusiastic 
rapture  over  the  fun  of  being  out.  She  re 
ceived  an  amount  of  attention  well  calculatec 
to  turn  the  head  of  any  girl,  for  her  free  anc 
naive  ways  made  her  speedily  a  favorite.  The 
older  heads  among  the  beaus  were  attractec 
to  try  their  fascinations  upon  so  charming  c 
subject.  She  seemed  to  be  perpetually  waltz- 
ing, and  whenever  she  resumed  her  seal 
there  was  always  a  semicircle  of  men  aboul 
her  chair.  Prominent  among  these  was  Finch 
ley,  who — knowing  but  few  people,  and  foi 
once  a  little  daunted  by  the  consciousness  oi 
his  own  want  of  suppleness  in  social  ways- 
stood  his  ground  grimly  among  the  worshiped 
of  the  young  beauty.  He  seemed  quite  con 
temptuous  of  the  conversation  of  the  others. 
and  the  muscles  of  his  face  refused  homage 
to  the  flow  of  badinage,  save  such  as  fell  from 
Isabel's  lips.  He  was  anxious  to  get  hei 
things,  to  oblige  her  in  some  way.  Why 
did  he  not  dance?  she  asked.  He  never 
danced.  Would  he  not  like  to  know  some 
one?  Her  father,  she  was  sure,  would  be  de- 
lighted to  introduce  him  to  any  one  he  ( <-- 
sired.  No ;  he  preferred  to  stay  where  he  w 
if  she  didn't  object.  He  was  quite  hap 
there,  he  said;  and  he  sought  by  dint  of 
leer  to  convey  an  idea  of  his  content.  S 


AN  AVERAGE   MAN. 


383 


as  afraid  he  must  find  it  terribly  dull  with- 
ut  dancing.  The  german  was  perfectly  de- 
ghtful,  but  unsatisfactory  for  conversation. 
)ne  would  just  get  settled,  and  somebody 
ras  sure  to  come  up  and  take  you  out. 

Remington,  whose  own  partner  was  almost 
s  great  a  favorite,  found  himself  frequently 
i  Miss  Idlewild's  neighborhood.  He  made 
er  the  recipient  of  his  bouquet  in  the  flower 
£ure,  and  was  presented  by  her  in  turn  with 

silver  match-box.  "  Don't  you  like  the  fa- 
ors  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  thought  it  was  nice  to 
ave  them  all  different.  Oh,  I  do  think  it's 
ich  fun,  Mr.  Remington.  I  had  no  idea  I 
tiould  enjoy  society  so  much.  Oh,  thank 
ou,  Mr.  Stoughton  ";  and  Isabel  rose  to  re- 
eive  a  bangle  which  the  young  man  in 
luestion  held  out  toward  her.  Again,  as  at 
belmonico's,  Remington  noticed  a  curious 
[xpression  in  her  face,  and  the  flush  on  her 
[heek  deepened  as  she  sailed  away  in  the 
kaltz.  He  had  watched  her  earlier  in  the 
jvening  with  Stoughton,  and  been  struck  by 
'  kind  of  embarrassed  reticence  in  her  man- 
er.  She  was  never  like  that  to  him.  She 
ways  ran  on  in  the  most  confidential  strain. 
Mat  was  the  trouble  ?  he  wondered.  Could 
ic  be  in  love  with  Stoughton  ?  Come  to 
link  of  it,  her  bearing  toward  himself  was 
bmewhat  as  if  he  were  a  brother.  If  she 
ared  very  much  for  any  one,  she  would  prob- 
bly  be  less  frank.  Well,  even  if  she  was  in 
>ve  with  Stoughton,  why  should  he  care  ? 
le  could  not  very  well  have  told,  if  he  had 
ied ;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  young  man 
kes  to  have  it  made  plain  to  him  that  he  is 
pgarded  solely  from  a  sisterly  standpoint. 
i  Remington  had  noticed,  too,  that  Stough- 
;)n  seemed  to  be  quite  devoted  to  Miss 
Crosby.  Stoughton's  own  partner  was  Miss 
premaine,  the  giraffe-like  young  lady  whom 
|iey  had  met  at  Mrs.  Fielding's.  She  had, 
jowever,  after  the  german  was  well  under 
py,  commenced  a  flirtation  with  Muchfeedi 
j'asha,  a  diplomat  whom  she  had  met  the 
'receding  winter  in  Washington.  Miss  Tre- 
iiaine  was  no  gosling.  She  had  been  out  six 
jinters,  and  understood  perfectly  how  to  ar- 
ange  matters  so  as  to  obviate  social  suffer- 
iig.  She  appreciated  that  Woodbury  Stough- 
bn  had  asked  her  to  dance  the  german  out 
if  politeness,  for  he  had  staid  at  her  moth- 
jr's  house  in  Newport  the  preceding  summer, 
fie  had  done  his  part  in  recognizing  the  obli- 
gation, and  it  was  for  her  to  make  things  as 
iomfortable  for  him  as  possible.  She  was  too 
pnsible  to  imagine  that  he  would  care  to  talk 
p  her  all  the  evening,  and  she  was  certain  she 
'/as  not  going  to  bore  herself  by  a  tete-a-tete 
a  boy  like  him.  They  could  perfectly 
each  have  a  good  time  apart,  and  yet 


/ith 


preserve  the  form  of  union,  after  the  manner 
of  an  ill-assorted  couple  that  have  agreed  to 
keep  the  peace.  She  would  have  all  the  credit 
of  having  had  a  partner,  and  all  the  freedom 
that  one  sacrifices  for  such  a  trophy.  There 
was  a  little  boudoir  adjoining  the  ball-room 
to  which  she  accordingly  removed  herself 
with  the  aforesaid  foreigner.  "  Be  sure  and  tell 
me,  Woodbury," — she  had  called  him  by  his 
Christian  name  since  they  were  babies  to- 
gether,— "when  our  turn  comes.  Remem- 
ber, for  I  dote  on  waltzing  with  you,  you 
know."  At  the  other  extremity  of  the  same 
antechamber,  Mrs.  Fielding  was  ensconced 
with  Mr.  Don.  Robinson. 

The  hours  flew  by,  and  it  was  now  far  into 
the  night, —  or,  rather,  early  in  the  morning. 
The  german  was  still  being  danced  with  vigor 
by  a  bevy  of  enthusiastic  spirits,  but  there 
were  gaps  here  and  there  in  the  circle  that 
composed  it.  People  had  begun  to  go  home, 
and  a  disposition  to  seek  the  seclusion  of  re- 
tired spots — where  there  was  less  liability  to 
disturbance  —  had  begun  to  show  itself.  It 
was  pleasant  to  wander  at  will  through  the 
now  thinned- out  rooms  and  comment  sym- 
pathetically on  the  taste  of  one's  host,  or  sip 
an  ice  in  the  shadow  of  the  library  while  your 
partner  told  you  confidences  about  himself. 
The  splash  of  the  fountain  was  an  attractive 
neighbor,  especially  where  an  arrangement  of 
hot-house  plants  afforded  two  recesses  within 
just  the  right  ear-shot  of  its  music. 

"  Let's  sit  down  here,  where  it  is  cool,  Mr. 
Stoughton,"  said  Isabel.  She  was  warm  with 
the  exercise  of  dancing,  and  a  detached  lobe 
of  her  hair,  which  had  broken  loose,  gave 
her  a  somewhat  disheveled  appearance.  This 
but  increased,  however,  the  effect  of  her 
beauty.  She  reached  down  to  pick  up  a  strip 
of  tulle,  trailing  from  her  skirt.  "  Oh,  mamma 
will  be  madder  than  a  March  hare,"  she  ex- 
claimed, as  she  gazed,  half  ruefully,  half 
gleefully,  at  the  havoc. 

She  tore  the  strip  off  short.  "  Please  put  it 
in  your  pocket,  Mr.  Stoughton.  I  haven't  got 
any  pocket.  That's  one  of  the  disadvantages 
of  being  a  girl.  I  should  think  you'd  be  aw- 
fully glad  that  you  weren't  born  a  girl." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  been  born  anything 
half  so  lovely." 

Isabel  gave  a  flattered  little  laugh,  accom- 
panied by  her  artless  "Really?"  There  was 
a  pause.  She  sat  with  her  eyes  on  her  lap, 
and  fingered  thoughtfully  the  roses  in  her 
bouquet.  She  carried  but  one  now ;  the  oth- 
ers had  been  long  since  consigned  to  the 
table  as  too  burdensome.  Stoughton  had 
recognized  that  it  was  to  his  that  she  had 
given  the  preference. 

He  sat  watching  her  with  all  the  rapt  de- 


384 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


votion  of  a  lover  in  his  manner.  He  was 
an  adept  at  that  sort  of  thing.  It  came  to 
him  as  naturally  as  possible  to  give  the 
impression  to  a  woman  that  he  was  an  ad- 
mirer and  perhaps  a  suppliant.  His  ordinary 
air  suggested  something  of  the  kind,  and 
when  he  saw  fit  to  intensify  it  a  little  the 
guise  was  unmistakable.  And  yet,  despite 
this  ardent  exterior,  a  curious  train  of  thought 
was  passing  through  his  mind, — one  that, 
as  it  were,  irritated  him.  Did  he  really  love 
this  girl  ?  Why  was  he  paying  her  attention  ? 
She  was  very  beautiful,  very  splendid,  very 
attractive;  but,  did  he  love  her?  He  had 
been  more  or  less  devoted  to  her  ever  since 
they  had  met  at  Newport  the  previous  sum- 
mer, and  he  had  sent  her  flowers  on  several 
other  occasions.  She  was  full  of  enthusiasm 
and  charm;  but  would  she  make  him  the 
wife  pictured  to  himself  in  those  ideal  dreams 
for  the  future  that  he  had  cherished  in  se- 
cret? Her  tastes,  her  ways,  her  thoughts, 
were  wholly  unlike  his  own.  Compared  with 
him  she  was  illiterate,  and  her  little  lapses 
in  grammar  and  grace  stirred  his  sense  of 
irony.  Was  she  fit  to  be  his  helpmate  in 
the  struggle  of  life,  to  aid  him  with  in- 
telligent counsel  and  sympathy  ?  She  would 
love  him  with  all  her  heart, —  love  him  to 
distraction, —  he  did  not  doubt  that;  but, 
would  it  not  be  a  fervid,  unreasoning  pas- 
sion, an  infatuation  that  saw  in  him  no  faults, 
that  was — in  short  —  as  blind  as  it  was  dot- 
ing ?  He  had  always  believed  he  should  marry 
a  woman  who  would  be  able  to  understand 
and  appreciate  his  ideas  and  interests,  who 
would  be  a  companion  as  well  as  a  lover. 

Why,  then,  was  he  hanging  about  this  girl  ? 
Was  it  not  largely  because  she  was  to  be  very 
rich,  because  her  father  was  worth  millions? 
If  she  had  been  penniless,  would  he  ever  have 
thought  of  her  in  the  way  of  matrimony  ?  He 
might  have  enjoyed  amusing  himself  with  her 
for  a  time  on  account  of  her  originality  or 
beauty,  but  the  idea  of  marriage  would  never 
have  occurred  to  him.  He  was  going  to  offer 
himself  to  her  because  of  her  money.  He  was 
going  to  sacrifice  his  ideal  to  a  consideration 
of  worldliness.  He  would  weary  of  Isabel. 
She  would  be  sure  to  bore  him  after  his  pas- 
sion began  to  cool. 

He  shook  himself  mentally.  Bah !  Bother 
such  suggestions.  She  was  a  magnificent, 
lovely  creature,  and  his  scruples  were  but  the 
sentimentality  of  a  super-aesthetical  fancy. 
The  rest  of  the  world  consulted  their  material 
interests  in  the  choice  of  a  wife ;  and  was  he 
to  fetter  himself  with  moonshine, — with  the 
shadow  of  a  dream  ?  The  world  was  a  prac- 
tical place,  and  one  must  have  money  to  live 
and  get  on.  He  was  ambitious  to  succeed. 


He  wanted  to  make  a  name  for  himself.  / 
rich  wife  would  be  worth  to  him  ten  years  o 
struggle.  Besides,  she  was  beautiful,  orna 
mental, — everything,  in  fact,  to  make  him  ai 
object  of  envy. 

Why  was  he  sitting  here  so  coldly,  so  im 
passively  ?  Why  was  he  reasoning  so  deliber 
ately  ?  Many  men  in  his  place  would  b 
thrilling  with  passion.  Why  did  he  not  fee 
the  desire  to  seize  this  lovely  girl  in  hi 
arms,  to  clasp  her  to  his  breast  ?  It  would  b. 
cruel,  it  would  be  wrong,  but  it  would  be  hu 
man;  and  he — he  with  his  fine-spun  notion 
and  Puritan  blood — was  void  of  humanity 
One's  vital  current  congealed  in  this  northen 
latitude,  and  split  hairs  with  one's  intellect 
His  ancestors  had  bequeathed  to  him,  for 
sooth,  a  goodly  heritage. 

From  behind  the  shrubs  on  the  other  sidt 
of  the  fountain,  a  gentle  laugh,  which  causec 
him  a  sensation  of  annoyance,  fell  on  his  ear 

It  was  that  of  Dorothy  Crosby,  tete-a-tti 
with  Remington.  Ah !  there  was  a  girl  in 
deed  !  Was  she  not  the  kind  of  woman  he  ha( 
dreamed  of.  Was  she  not  charming  enougl 
to  satisfy  his  ideal  ?  If  she  were  rich  as  Mis: 
Idlewild,  would  he  not  to-day  be  at  her  feet  i 

These  thoughts  sped  through  his  brain  ii 
the  few  seconds  of  silence. 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Stoughton,  fo 
these  lovely  roses.  It  was  awfully  kind  of  yoi 
to  send  them." 

The  words  permeated  his  reverie,  and— 
with  a  gesture  as  of  a  clearing  away  of  men 
tal  cobwebs,  a  desire  as  it  were  to  prove  tc 
himself  that  he  really  loved  this  girl  —  ht 
bent  forward  eagerly.  "  I  could  not  helf 
sending  them.  I  wanted  to  send  them." 

"  Well,  they  are  very  pretty,"  she  said 
seemingly  ignoring,  save  for  a  tell-tale  blush 
the  vehemence  of  his  tone.  She  leaned  back- 
ward on  the  lounge  and  raised  her  eyes 
toward  him  experimentally,  as  the  fascinated 
bird  gazes  at  its  magnetizer.  But  there  was 
coquetry  as  well  as  curiosity,  half- suspicion  as 
well  as  a  tribute  to  sorcery,  in  their  blue 
depths.  "  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Stoughton,  1 
sometimes  think  that  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  Yes  ?  Well,  what  can  I  do,  Miss   Idle- 
wild,  to  assure  you  that  such  is  not  the  case  ?- 
and  that,  on  the  contrary,  I " 

"  Do  ?  I  don't  know  that  you  can  do  any- 
thing. But  really  I  often  feel  that  you  must 
be  saying  to  yourself.  '  How  foolish  that  girl 
is ! '  Don't  you,  really  ?  Just  own  up  that 
you  do  occasionally;  I  think  I  should  feel 
better  " ;  and  she  laughed  gleefully. 

Stoughton  shook  his  head  and  look 
her  admiringly.    How  charming  her  n< 
was,  to  be  sure.    She  was  so  bold  with  ot 
so  coy  and  gentle  with  him. 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


385 


"  I  come  from  the  country,  you  know,"  she 
ent  on  to  say, — as  if,  the  ice  of  her  reserve 
ice  broken  and  possible  doubts  as  to  lurk- 
g  irony  dissipated,  she  rather  enjoyed  a  free 
ngue, —  "and  am  frightfully  ignorant, — 
ovincial,  as  ma  calls  it.  Oh,  the  dear  old 
»untry !  I  sometimes  miss  it  so.  I  used  to 
ive  splendid  times  there.  I  was  a  dreadful 
jimboy,  I  guess.  Aunt  Mitty  always  said  So. 
hat's  pa's  sister,  who  took  care  of  me  after 
!was  too  old  to  travel  with  the  circus.  Did 
>u  know  that  I  once  traveled  with  a  circus, 
T.  Stoughton  ?  " 
"  No,"  said  the  young  man. 
"Well,  I  did.  Does  it  shock  you  dread- 
lly  ?  It  was  when  I  was  quite  little.  I  was 
i  intimate  terms  with  the  Fat  Woman,  and 
e  Three-legged  Boy  used  to  buy  me  candy. 
a  said  he  had  a  mash  on  me." 
She  paused  a  moment,  as  they  both  laughed. 
Oh,  but  those  were  delightful  days.  I  won- 
jr  if  I  shall  ever  have  such  a  good  time 
jain.  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Stoughton,  people 
ive  such  a  good  time  when  they  are  grown 
)  as  they  did  when  they  were  children  ?  " 
e  asked  earnestly.  Her  face,  when  serious, 
id  much  of  her  father's  firmness  about  the 
outh,  but  the  eyes  were  soft  and  far-away 
their  expression. 

j "  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so.  I  enjoy  myself  more 
an  I  used  to  when  I  was  younger,"  replied 
oughton. 

"Do  you?"  she  said,  dreamily.  "Well, 
)u're  a  man.  I  think  somehow  it's  harder 
r  girls."  She  stopped  for  a  second,  reflect- 
ely.  "  You  aint  very  well  acquainted  with 
i,  are  you,  Mr.  Stoughton  ?  " 

Not  very  well." 
"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  "  what  I  should 
p  if  anything  ever  happened  to  pa.    I  care 
r  pa,  you  know,  more  than  for  everything 
>se  in  the  whole  world.    He's  been  awfully 
to  me.    My  mother  died  when  I  was 

, — that  is,  my  real  mother.  Here's  her 
jcture."  And  Isabel,  unclasping  a  bracelet 
pm  her  arm,  revealed  a  small  tintype  set  in 
j>  back.  It  was  the  face  of  a  pale,  delicate 
joman,  quite  unlike  that  of  the  daughter, 
tcepting  for  the  eyes.  Their  shade  was  not 
jscernible;  but  the  same  soft,  yearning  ex- 
j'ession  that  one  noticed  at  times  in  those 
j  Isabel  was  plainly  apparent. 
j  Stoughton  had  taken  the  bracelet  into  his 
find.  "  You  do  not  look  much  like  your 
;0ther,"  he  said.  "  She  must  have  been 
lighter  than  you." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  almost  joyfully;  "  they 
111  me  I  am  pa's  daughter.  I  am  thought  to 
e  very  like  pa." 

i  The  young  man  still  gazed  from  the  one  to 
le  other.  Ancestral  portraits  always  inter- 


OVw      J 

)od 

^ 


ested  him.  He  delighted  to  trace  the  signs 
of  inheritance,  and  theorize  therefrom.  There 
must  be  a  certain  portion  of  the  frail,  sen- 
sitive mother  in  this  blooming  girl.  It  was 
easy  to  distinguish  the  father,  but  it  was  not 
from  him  that  she  had  derived  her  gentleness 
of  spirit. 

"  I  wish  ma  had  lived,"  she  went  on,  as 
if  in  echo  of  his  speculative  mood;  "I  miss 
her  dreadfully  sometimes.  Things  puzzle  me. 
Are  men  ever  puzzled,  Mr.  Stoughton  ?  I 
have  been  wondering  lately  why  we  are  made, 
and  what  it  all  means.  I  never  used  to  bother 
my  head  much  about  such  matters.  I  simply 
lived  on  and  was  happy."  She  was  silent  a 
moment,  and  leaning  forward  clasped  her 
hands  over  one  of  her  knees  in  her  absorp- 
tion. "  Do  you  go  to  church,  Mr.  Stoughton?" 
she  asked  presently. 

Her  simplicity  touched  the  young  man ;  but 
the  feeling  produced  upon  him  was  rather  one 
of  pity,  in  which  he  detected,  so  to  speak,  the 
germ  of  future  boredom.  For  him,  with  his 
agnostic  views,  or  at  any  rate  his  searching, 
rigid  tests,  this  girl  would  be  no  fit  helpmate. 
She  was  leagues  behind  him  in  the  region  of 
thought.  She  would  be  unable  to  under- 
stand, to  follow  him.  But  nevertheless  he 
unconsciously  shrank,  in  his  response,  from 
asserting  his  position. 

"  Not  very  often,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said. 

"  Neither  does  pa.  Ma  goes,  though.  She 
takes  me  to  the  Episcopal  church."  She 
paused  again.  "  Do  you  believe  all  they  say 
there  is  true  ?  " 

Stoughton  hesitated.  He  leaned  forward 
and  spoke  in  a  whispered  tone,  half  impress- 
ive, half  endearing :  "  Who  can  say  in  this 
world  what  is  true  and  what  is  false,  my  dear 
Miss  Idlewild  ?  " 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  other  side  of  the 
fountain,  Remington  was  conversing  with 
Miss  Crosby,  whom  finally  he  had  persuaded 
to  desert  the  ball-room.  She  had  been  en- 
joying herself  extremely,  and  her  admirer 
would  probably  not  have  felt  wholly  flat- 
tered had  he  divined  that  her  consent  to 
exchange  waltzing  for  a  tete-a-tete  proceeded 
mainly  from  the  reflection  that,  by  the  latter 
course,  she  would  be  more  likely  to  evade  the 
scrutiny  of  her  mother,  whom  she  suspected 
of  a  design  to  carry  her  home  prematurely. 
To  have  been  taken  out  almost  every  turn  in 
the  german  was  an  attention  which  had  filled 
her  cup  of  happiness  quite  to  the  overflowing 
point,  and  her  vivacity  rendered  her  more 
charming  than  ever  in  the  eyes  of  her  partner, 
who  now  was  telling  her  some  of  his  college 
experiences  with  a  devoted  air.  Once  estab- 
lished in  a  retired  nook,  she  was  quite  recon- 
ciled to  the  situation.  She  liked  Mr.  Remington 


386 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


very  much.  He  had  been  very  kind,  and  his 
bouquet  was  a  beauty.  It  was  so  nice  of  him 
to  send  it.  She  had  had  a  "  perfectly  splen- 
did "  time. 

Remington  finished  a  tale  of  hair-breadth 
escape  from  a  proctor  with  some  self-con- 
gratulation, for  his  companion's  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  keen  interest.  Animation  was 
becoming  to  her,  and  made  her  thoughtful 
face  very  expressive. 

"  Men  have  such  good  times,"  she  mur- 
mured, in  a  tone  of  arch  despondency.  "  They 
have  so  much  more  freedom  than  we  poor 
girls.  I  often  wish  I  were  a  man.  They  have 
such  opportunities." 

She  clasped  her  hands  reflectively.  "  If  I 
were  a  man,  I'm  certain  I  should  be  very 
ambitious,"  she  went  on  to  say. 

"  What  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly.  I  think  I 
should  be  a  lawyer — and  —  and  then  go  to 
Congress.  My  father  was  a  lawyer,  you 
know.  But,  of  course,  you  wouldn't  know. 
You  are  a  lawyer,  too,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Rem- 
ington ?  " 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  You  don't  seem  very  enthusiastic  on  the 
subject.  I  used  to  think,"  she  exclaimed, 
laughingly,  with  a  sudden  recurrence  to  her 
previous  thought,  "  that  I  should  like  to  be 
an  author.  I  would  give  anything  to  be  able 
to  write  poems  or  novels.  But  I  never  could, 
I'm  sure.  Do  you  write  at  all,  Mr.  Remington  ?" 

"  I  wrote  verses  occasionally  when  I  was 
in  college." 

"  Oh,  how  interesting !  Haven't  you  some 
with  you  that  you  can  read  to  me  ?  " 

Remington  laughed.  "  I  don't,  as  a  rule, 
carry  verses  concealed  about  my  person, 
Miss  Crosby.  Besides,  I  have  given  up  all 
that  sort  of  thing  now.  I'm  a  worker,  and 
have  no  time  for  the  poetry  of  life." 

His  tone  made  her  look  serious  again. 
"  Do  you  have  to  work  very  hard  ? "  she 
asked.  "  I  think  all  the  men  in  this  country 
work  too  hard,  don't  you  ?  Why  should  it  be 
so?  " 

Remington  answered  that  it  was  because 
they  all  wanted  to  make  money.  Everybody 
was  afraid  that  some  one  else  would  get  his 
business  if  he  wasn't  always  on  hand  to  look 
after  it.  He  explained  to  her  how  difficult  it 
was  for  a  young  fellow  without  influence  to 
back  him  to  get  ahead.  One  might  take 
great  risks,  of  course,  but  then  you  were 
liable  to  lose  everything.  "You  see,"  he 
added  a  little  more  gay ly,  "  there  are  dis- 
advantages in  being  a  man  after  all.  Girls 
remain  at  home  and  escape  all  these  worries." 

"  Yes  ;  but  they  have  their  own,  Mr.  Rem- 
ington. A  girl's  life  is  so  monotonous  and 


empty.  Her  occupations  are  all  so  pett' 
She  has  such  a  narrow  field  of  usefulness,  aii 
there  seems  no  way  of  doing  anything  grej 
and  noble.  If  one  ever  attempts  what  is  01' 
of  the  common  run,  people  are  sure  to  ca1' 
you  peculiar."  She  spoke  with  her  head  o 
one  side,  almost  as  though  soliloquizinj 
"  There  is  so  much  to  do,  Mr.  Remingtoi 
when  one  considers  the  misery  that  exists  i 
the  world." 

"  I  know,"  said  Remington.  He  was  silei 
for  a  moment.  "  It's  a  puzzling  age  to  hav 
been  born  in.  I  used  to  think  in  college  th; 
it  would  be  all  plain  sailing,  and  if  a  ma' 
only  lived  up  to  his  principles  and  was  tri 
to  himself  he  would  get  on  easily  enougL 
But  it's  pretty  hard  work,  holding  on  to  one 
ideals  in  this  place.  It  sometimes  seems  { 
if  the  happiest  men  are  the  ones  who  try  1: 
get  all  the  amusement  they  can  out  of  lif j 
Those  who  have  been  hewing  at  the  gram 
wall  of  destiny  for  so  many  centuries,  : 
the  hope  of  solving  the  riddle  of  existenc 
do  not  seem  to  have  made  a  great  deal  c' 
progress." 

"  Oh,  but  don't  you  think  the  world  is 
great  deal  better  than  it  used  to  be  ?  "  aske' 
the  girl,  with  a  deep  interest  written  on  h<J 
thin,  intellectual  face. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean  b! 
better.  The  world  runs  smoother,  I  thin] 
People  are  more  comfortable,  and  are  wil< 
ing  to  do  more  to  make  others  comfortabL 
I  dare  say  it  is  better." 

She  sat  looking  before  her,  lost  in  the  pui 
reverie  of  budding  womanhood,  smelling  no 
and  again,  with  unconscious  movement,  of  tt 
roses  sent,  by  him  over  whose  words  she  w; 
grieving.  "  Life  is  a  very  strange  thing,  isn't  it 
But  I  don't  believe  men  have  been  trying,  a 
these  thousands  of  years,  to  find  out  what 
means,  for  nothing ;  do  you  ?  I  can't  hel 
feeling  that  I  am  somebody,  and  that  what 
do  in  this  world  will  make  a  difference  somr 
how — somewhere.  The  trouble  is,  one  ca 
do  so  little.  One  is  so  powerless  to  mak 
others  happy." 

"  I  should  not  think  you  would  find  muc 
difficulty  in  doing  that,"  he  said  significantly 
in  a  quiet  tone. 

The  girl  roused  herself  from  her  abstra( 
tion,  and,  blushing,  replied  that  he  knew  lit 
very  little.  "  Here  is  mamma  come  to  cap'' 
ure  me,"  she  continued,  and  she  rose  to  gree 
Mrs.  Crosby,  who  stood  at  the  entrance  t 
their  hiding-place. 

"  Dorothy,   where  have   you   been  ? 
been  looking  for  you  everywhere." 

"  Here,  mamma,  all  the  time  sine 
stopped  dancing.  It  is  deliciously  coo 
near  the  fountain." 


MORE  LIFE. 


387 


"  Well,  it's  time  to  be  going  now ;  I  do 

pe  you  haven't  caught  cold." 

Ten  minutes  later  Remington  and  Stough- 

encountered  each  other  in  the  supper- 
om,  whither  the  need  of  a  little  refreshment 
:er  the  labors  of  the  evening  had  driven 
em. 

That    Miss    Crosby   you    were    dancing 
th  seems  a  nice  girl,"  said  Stoughton,  as  he 
paled  a  raw  oyster. 
"  She's  very  pleasant." 

She  looks  like  a  lady.    It's  a  comfort  to 
ie  a  thorough-bred  after  so  much  of  the 
itation  article.    She's  intelligent,  too,  isn't 
e? 

'  I  have  found  her  so." 
*  Well,"  said  Stoughton,  presently,  "  I've 
d  enough  of  this.    Let's  skip." 
They   both    seemed    thoughtful    as    they 
],ssed  through  the  nearly  empty  rooms. 

It's  a  pity  she's  poor  as  a  church  mouse." 
"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  ? "  asked 
smington. 

Miss  Crosby,  of  course." 

Oh." 

Further  conversation  on  the  point  was  in- 
Tupted  by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Tom 
elding,  who  came  gliding  down-stairs  en- 
loped  in  swan's-down.  The  two  young  men 
rried  forward  with  offers  to  look  after  her 
rriage. 


"  Thank  you ;  Mr.  Fielding  has  ordered  it, 
I  believe." 

Remington  stood  talking  with  her  while 
she  waited. 

She  took  him  playfully  to  task  for  having 
deserted  her  all  the  evening.  "  You  must 
come  and  see  me  again  soon,  Mr.  Remington. 
I  was  reading  yesterday  a  new  poet  to  whom 
I  want  to  introduce  you." 

Remington  bowed  a  smiling  acquiescence. 
She  was  very  charming,  to  be  sure,  he  re- 
flected, and  quite  too  sylph-like  to  belong  to 
the  heavy-faced,  big-bearded  man  who  now 
stood  vailing  his  impatience  under  a  forced 
smile. 

"  You  had  better  look  after  your  friend ;  I 
fear  he  is  a  sad  flirt.  I  thought  the  young 
lady  was  your  peculiar  province,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Fielding,  as  she  said  good-night. 

Remington's  eyes,  following  the  direction 
indicated,  caught  sight,  through  a  vista  of 
parlor  reflected  in  a  mirror,  of  Woodbury 
Stoughton  leaning  against  a  mantel-piece 
and  looking  down  at  Miss  Idlewild.  The 
girl  was  fastening  in  her  bosom  a  brilliant 
rose,  which  he  evidently  had  just  given  her. 

Afterward,  Remington  remembered  that 
Mrs.  Fielding's  face  wore  an  expression  that 
betokened  annoyance  almost,  and  he  heard 
her  tell  her  husband  in  the  door- way  that  she 
felt  tired. 


(To  be  continued.) 


MORE  LIFE. 


HIS  listless  pulsing  of  our  life 
!  not  enough.    The  daily  strife, 
'ie  dull,  monotonous  round 
ills  on  our  spirits,  and  we  waste 
ith  eager  passion  to  make  haste  — 
e  wither  above  ground. 


e  watch  the  opening  of  the  flower 
;iat  drinks  the  sunlight  for  an  hour, 
'ien  hangs  its  head  and  dies; 
jid  Hope,  in  some  half-shaped  refrain, 
bes  sobbing  through  the  restless  brain 
|er  dim  analogies. 


Like  a  fair  soul,  yon  splendid  star 
Glows  in  the  darkening  sky  afar, 
Its  garments  flashing  light; 
But  when  at  morning  the  Divine 
Holds  to  its  lips  the  sacred  wine, 
Ghost-like,  it  fades  from  sight. 

As  the  unloosened  worlds  go  by, 
They  hear,  unheeding,  many  a  cry, 
And  swerve  not  from  their  way. 
Is  there  no  answer  in   the  air 
Unto  the  oft-repeated  prayer 
For  the  more  perfect  day  ? 


A  longing  after  better  things  — 

A  spreading  of  the  folded  wings  — 

The  breathing  holier  breath  : 

More  life — more  life!    'Tis  this  we  crave. 

More  life — more  life  !   When  this  we  have — 

'Tis  this  that  we  call  death. 


Henry  Gillman. 


PALAIS    MAZARIN. 


THE    FORTY    IMMORTALS." 

O  BELONG  some  day  to  the  Academy  is  th< 
hidden  ambition  of  every  young  Frenchmai 
who  adopts  literature  as  a  profession.  He  ma1 
rail  at  that  body;  may  blame  it  for  not  giv 
ing  an  arm-chair  to  Moliere,  Balzac,  an< 
Michelet ;  may  sneer  at  its  weakness  for  duke 
and  high  ecclesiastics,  and  may  call  it  an  accre 
tion  of  old-fashioned  ways  and  motives;  nev 
ertheless,  he  often  dreams  that  he  is  bein; 
raised  to  "immortality,"  and  often  in  ban 
times  cheers  himself  by  teasing,  in  an  imag 
inary  academical  speech,,  some  rival  autho 
who  has  had  better  luck.  In  the  outset  o 
his  career  he  is  obliged  to  court  the  publi( 
Should  there  be  a  demand  for  ignoble  liters 
ture,  he  may  try,  like  Zola,  to  meet  it.  Bi 
Zola  having  made  his  fortune,  shows,  as  the 
all  do  at  last,  a  wish  to  conciliate  the  Acac 
emy,  which  he  certainly  had  in  his  eye  whe 
he  wrote  his  last  novel,  the  heroine  of  whic 
is  virtuous  enough  to  merit  the  white-roj 
crown  awarded  annually  at  Nanterre  to  the  most  deserving  maiden  in  the  commune. 

Low  comedy  has  never  been  in  favor  at  the  Academy,  where  the  .humorous  dialogue 
of  Moliere  were  deemed  too  broad  for  polite  ears.  The  Grand  Monarch  and  his  red-heele 
courtiers  enjoyed  them;  but  they  offended  the  nicer  taste  of  the  Forty  who,  whe 
M.  Jourdain  and  Tartuffe  were  new  creations,  had  not  yet  emancipated  themselves  from  th 
literary  canons  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet. 

Catherine  de  Vivonne,  Marquise  de  Rambouillet,  and  a  dainty  writer  named  Valenti 
Conrart  were  the  progenitors  of  the  Academy.  Survivals  of  both  are  perceptible  at  tt 
private  meetings  and  the  public  sittings.  Richelieu  was  merely  godfather.  It  was  of  almo: 
spontaneous  growth,  and  issued  from  the  circles  of  Madame  de  Rambouillet  and  Conrar 
The  iron- willed  Cardinal,  whose  ideal  in  the  moral  as  in  the  political  order  of  things,  w; 
uniformity,  lent  himself  to  a  plan  for  creating  a  fixed  standard  of  grammar  and  rhetori* 
He  had  leveled  feudal  strongholds,  broken  down  the  Protestant  federation  at  Rochelle,  an 
turned  the  king's  mother,  who  got  in  his  way,  out  of  the  realm,  to  die  a  beggar  at  the  gate 
All  power  was  concentrated  in  the  sovereign's  hands.  Equality  in  servitude  to  the  crow 
was  established.  It  was  expedient  to  clear  away  dialects  which  were  an  impediment  to  tt 
unification  of  France,  and  would  tend  to  transform  what  survived  of  the  feudal  into  a  feder; 
system.  Richelieu's  policy  was  in  spirit  the  same  as  Napoleon's.  Though  a  man  of  violei 
will,  he  was  politic  enough  to  see  that  it  was  better  to  coax  than  to  force  the  nation  int 
verbal  uniformity.  He  found  the  instrument  for  doing  this  ready  to  hand  at  the  Hotel  c 
Rambouillet  and  in  the  literary  circle  of  Conrart.  They  formed  the  mold.  The  iron-wille 
Cardinal  granted  the  investiture. 

Conrart  was  named  perpetual  Secretary  of  the  Academy.  He  had  permission  to  centra 
ize  literary  activity  and  to  direct  it.  The  function  which  he  and  his  thirty-nine  colleagues  wei 
chiefly  to  discharge  was  "  to  purify  and  fix  the  national  tongue,  to  throw  light  on  its  obsci 
rities,  to  maintain  its  character  and  principles ;  and  at  its  private  meetings  to  keep  th 
object  in  view.  Their  discussions  were  to  turn  on  grammar,  rhetoric,  and  poetry;  the 
critical  observations  on  the  beauties  and  defects  of  classical  French  authors,  in  order 
prepare  editions  of  their  works  and  to  compose  a  new  dictionary  of  the  language, 
director  of  the  Academy  was  to  take  the  advice  of  the  other  members  of  the  company 
the  order  in  which  tasks  were  to  be  executed."  In  virtue  of  another  article,  vacancies  " 
to  be  supplied  by  election  and  members  were  to  be  the  electors.  Richelieu  was  a 
man.  His  idea  was  to  establish  a  literary  conclave.  Circumstances  and  the  sociable 
genius  gave  his  foundation  the  character  of  a  salon.  It  was  furthermore  ordained  that 


"THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS." 


389 


ALEXANDRE    DUMAS    FILS.       (FROM    A     PHOTOGRAPH     BY    MULNIER.) 


year  the  Forty  were,  in  their  corporate  capac- 
r,  to  hear  mass  in  the  church  of  St.  Louis, 
the  Sorbonne.  This  rule  is  obsolete. 
Conrart  was  scholarly  but  not  pedantic, 
e  was  subtle-minded,  and  .had  the  ready 
ixterity  of  a  man  of  the  world.  Being  of 
j;reeable  countenance  and  a  man  of  good 
jrtune,  he  was  received  in  those  salons  in 
nich  dames  of  high  degree  held  literary 
nversazioni.  His  table  was  well  served,  he 
lew  how  to  choose  his  guests,  and  he  often 
tve  hospitality  to  poets  and  aristocratic 
taries  of  the  muses  at  his  country  house, 
oiture,  Gombault,  St.  Amant,  Mile,  de  Scu- 
rry, Colletet,  and  Pelisson  belonged  to  his 
rcle.  They  cultivated  politeness  and  looked 
Italy  for  their  models.  Conceits  were  then 
jgarded  as  a  stamp  of  elegance.  Conrart 
fed  at  an  angle  of  the  Rue  St.  Martin  and 
e  Rue  Vieille  du  Temple.  The  Academy 
jet  at  his  house  before  it  was  installed  at  the 
buvre.  Christina,  the  eccentric  Queen  of 
|veden,  was  sometimes  present  at  the  meet- 
jgs.  She  also  dabbled  in  poetry  and  indited 
jadrigals.  The  mania  for  versification  and 
j  VOL.  XXVII.— 37. 


conceits  led  to  the  formation  of  the  neat, 
pointed  style  which  is  a  characteristic  of 
French  literature.  The  fair  literary  friends  of 
Conrart  v:ere  brought  on  the  stage  by  Moliere, 
to  be  laughed  at  in  "Les Precieuses Ridicules" 

The  "immortality"  of  members  of  the 
Academy  is  a  survival  of  the  high-flown  style 
of  language  which  was  in  vogue  in  Paris 
when  Mile,  de  Scudery  was  writing  her  inter- 
minable novel.  In  ordinary  speech  and 
literary  composition  this  mode  soon  died 
out.  It  took  refuge  in  fine  art.  Louis  Qua- 
torze  became  the  "  Sun-King."  Madame  de 
Montespan,  in  becoming  the  favorite  of  "  le 
grand  monarque,"  brought  in  the  sprightly, 
alert,  piquant,  natural,  and  yet  elegant  ver- 
biage of  which  there  are  so  many  charming 
examples  in  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters. 

The  claim  of  the  present  Academy  to  an 
unbroken  descent  from  the  one  that  first  met  at 
Conrart's  house  is  disputed,  and  with  reason. 
The  original  Academy  was  swept  away  in 
1793,  along  with  the  ancient  nobility  and 
monarchy.  It  was  revived  as  a  part  of  the 
Institute  in  1795;  and  in  1803,  Napoleon, 


39° 


"  THE  FORTV  IMMORTALS^ 


ERNEST    KENAN.        (FROM     A     PHOTOGRAPH     BY    LOPEZ.) 

who  was  then  First  Consul,  re-organized  the 
Institute.  He  had  been  advised  in  the  open- 
ing year  of  the  century  by  Fontanes,  his 
Minister  of  Public  Instruction,  to  restore  the 
literary  corporation  founded  by  Richelieu. 
But  the  Emperor  (in  all  but  name)  shrunk 
from  an  act  which  might  determine  an  out- 
burst of  hostile  opinion.  A  popular  charge 
brought  against  the  Academy  was  that  it  had 
never  offered  an  arm-chair  to  Rousseau.  Vol- 
taire, it  is  true,  was  given  one ;  but  while  he 
only  spoke  to  the  intellect,  Rousseau  ap- 
pealed to  sensibilities  and  sentiments  as  well 
as  to  mind,  and  was  better  understood  by 
women  of  all  classes  and  by  the  laborious 
bourgeoisie.  Napoleon,  much  as  he  wished 
to  set  up  a  disguised  monarchy,  and  to  keep 
within  the  general  lines  of  Richelieu's  policy, 
did  not  dare  to  revive  the  Academy  under  its 
former  style  and  title.  All  he  could  venture 
upon  doing  was  to  add  a  class  of  Litera- 
ture and  Eloquence  to  the  Institute  which  he 
had  lodged  in  the  Palais  Mazarin.  But  he 
placed  this  class  under  the  direction  of  a  per- 
petual secretary,  who  was  instructed  to  act 
as  if  the  original  Academy  had  not  been 
abrogated.  Napoleon  liked  the  graces  and 
amenities  of  the  defunct  monarchy,  although 
he  never  tried  to  practice  them  himself.  He 
enjoyed  the  taste  for  luxury  of  his  soft  and 
brainless  Creole  wife,  and  was  sensible  to 
the  intellectual  refinement  and  lady-like  ad- 
dress of  Madame  de  Remusat.  The  savants 


whom  the  Revolution  had  brought  up  were  of 
hard  grain  and  angular  and  conceited ;  self- 
made  men  in  Europe  generally  are.  It  was 
Bonaparte's  wish  to  draw  together  a  company 
of  well-bred  writers  who  would  advance  lit- 
erature and  cultivate  the  art  de  bien  vivre. 
Conrart,  he  remembered,  did  not  think  the 
less  justly  for  being  a  white-handed  noble- 
man. Buffon  made  an  elaborate  toilet  be- 
fore sitting  down  to  his  daily  task  of  author- 
ship, and  was  careful  not  to  let  sputtering 
quill  pens  stain  his  point-lace  wrist-frills  with 
ink.  Who  ever  turned  a  compliment  with 
more  grace  than  Voltaire  ? 

Suard,  the  perpetual  secretary  01  tne  class 
of  Literature  and  Eloquence  at  the  Institute 
was  at  heart  a  royalist.  But  as  he  had  no 
gone  to  Coblentz  and  endured  the  miserie; 
of  emigration,  his  sympathy  with  the  idea: 
of  progress  that  he  had  imbibed  before  th< 
Revolution  was  not  chilled.  He  remainec 
an  encyclopedist.  Napoleon's  protection  dk 
not  lessen  Suard's  affection  for  the  old  stati 
of  things.  Suard  and  Talleyrand  agreed  ii 
thinking  that  those  who  had  not  lived  ii 
France  previous  to  the  downfall  of  the 
monarchy,  when  freedom  of  thought  was  se 
cured  by  verbal  dexterity  and  polite  manner^ 
could  have  no  conception  of  the  charm  an<j 
suavity  which  can  be  thrown  into  human  life 
The  perpetual  secretary  found  occasion  t< 
injure  the  Emperor  in  1812.  Chateaubrian< 
was  elected  to  fill  a  vacant  arm-chair.  Thi 
was  the  first  political  election  that  ever  too' 
place  in  the  Academy.  It  was  a  protes 
against  the  despotism  of  the  empire  in  thing 
intellectual.  The  recipiendaire  was  to  eulogiz 
Marie -Joseph  Chenier.  But  he  so  violentl 
attacked  the  Emperor  that  the  Bureau  of  th 
Academy  (or  class  of  Literature)  decided  nc 
to  give  him  a  public  reception.  Three  yeai 
later,  the  desire  of  Suard  was  accomplishec 
Louis  XVIII.  was  brought  back  by  the  allie: 
The  perpetual  secretary  enjoyed  his  favor  u 
to  the  time  of  his  death  in  1817.  Suard  die 
that  year  at  the  age  of  eighty-two.  Sine 
1815,  he  had  worked  steadily  to  eliminat, 
those  democratic  elements  which  Napoleo 
could  not  help  admitting. 

All  the  other  sections  or  classes  of  the  Ir 
stitute  have  remained  what  the  Conventioi 
on  the  last  day  but  one  of  its  existence,  an 
Napoleon  made  them.  They  are  assemble 
of  learned  scientists  and  antiquaries.  Lou 
XVIII.  restored  the  old  name  and  statute 
and  the  Academy  proper. 

The  perpetual  secretary  of  the  Acade:n 
has  a  salary  of  12,000  francs  a  year  an 
a  spacious  lodging  at  the  Institute.  His  11 
fluence  in  the  literary  world  is  like  still  v 
ter  that  runs  deep.  The  "  Philistine  "  wori 


nows  little  of  him.    Directors  of  the  Acad-  tyon's  will  disposing  of  this  annuity.    But  for 

my  are  elected   every  year.    The  perpetual  Villemain    the    20,000    francs  a  year   might 

>cretary  is  the    managing  director   for   life,  have  been  spent  in  encouraging  imitations  of 

;e  attends  every  public  and  private  sitting,  Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  and  Miss  Hannah 

nd  is  first  to  enter  and  last  to  leave.    It  is  More's    strictures.    He    caused    the    literary 


THE   FORTY  IMMORTALS: 


391 


JOHN     LEMOINNE.       (FROM     A    PHOTOGRAPH     BY    TRUCHELUT    <fc    VALKMAN.) 


who  gives  sequence  to  the  general  busi- 
ss  and  turns   down    work   for  a  director, 
"io  leaves  all  initiative  to  him.    The  ques- 
nns  set  down  for  consideration  are  studied 
him  and  presented  by  him.    As  he  gives 
ost  attention  to  them,  he  can,  by  the  exercise 
a  little  tact  and  art,  suggest  their  solutions 
d  bring  the  majority  round   to  them.    In 
prize  awards,  which   exceed    yearly   the 
of  85,000  francs,  his  suggestions  nearly 
£vays    tell;    20,000  francs,    the    interest    of 
rt  of  the  fortune  left  by  a  miserly  philan- 
opist,    M.   Montyon,  to    the  Academy,  is 
t  annually  in  recompenses  to  poor  peo- 
for    acts    of    disinterested    benevolence 
humanity.    An  equal  sum  is  given  to  the 
knchman  whom  the  Academy  thinks  has 
jitten   and   published   the  book  most   use- 
f  to  the  advancement  of  manners  (m&urs) 
ad  morals.    When  M.  de  Villemain  was  per- 
litual  secretary,  he  suggested  an  elastic  and 
4'vated  interpretation  of  the  clause  in  Mon- 


Montyon  prize  to  be  awarded  to  Tocque- 
ville  for  his  work  on  Democracy  in  Ameri- 
ca, and  to  authors  of  lexicons  of  Cor- 
neille's,  Racine's,  and  Moliere's  tragedies  and 
comedies,  and  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters. 
The  prize  founded  by  Baron  Gobert  is  an 
annual  one  of  10,000  francs  for  the  most  elo- 
quent page  or  chapter  of  French  history. 
The  names  of  Augustin  Thierry  and  Henri 
Martin  are  on  the  list  of  those  who  have  been 
rewarded  in  pursuance  of  Gobert's  will.  The 
prize  for  eloquence  brings  a  pecuniary  re- 
ward of  only  4000  francs,  but  it  is  held  the 
most  honorable.  "  Eloquence !'  in  this  in- 
stance does  not  mean  oratory,  but  written  eu- 
logium.  The  subject  is  confined  to  the  life  or 
writings  of  some  great  man.  Government 
allows  the  Academy,  for  the  payment  of  its 
officers  and  the  conservation  of  its  library, 
85,000  francs  a  year  and  free  lodgings  at  the 
Palais  Mazarin. 

The  history  of  the  Academy  is  to  be  found 


392 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS:1 


in   the   reigns   of    its   perpetual    secretaries,  prize  award  was  the  salient  event  of  Raynou- 

Suard,  as  I  have  shown,  mended  the  link  in  ard's  secretaryship. 

the  chain  of  tradition  which  was  broken  on  The  baggage-wagons  of  the  allies  brought 

the  tenth  of  August.  Those  who  have  reigned  something  .more   than    the    Bourbons    into- 

since    1817    are    Raynouard,  Auger,  Andri-  France  in  1815.    Waterloo  rendered  English 


HENRI    MARTIN.       (FROM    A    PHOTOGRAPH    BY    LOPEZ.) 


eux  (an  all  but  forgotten  poet),  Villemain, 
and  Camille  Doucet.  Raynouard  was  not 
the  man  for  the  place.  He  was  a  mere  me- 
thodical clerk  and  'a  pedagogue.  When  he 
should  have  insinuated,  he  was  dictatorial.  In 
subjects  chosen  for  prizes  of  eloquence  in  his 
time,  we  find  that  seventeenth  century  liter- 
ature was  in  highest  esteem.  The  choice  of 
the  life  and  writings  of  Vauvenargues,  who 
was  a  moralist  and  indeed  an  epic  character, 
it  should  be  acknowledged,  was  due  to  Ray- 
nouard, and  was  fated  to  bring  up  in  Thiers  a 
mind  created  to  make  France  deflect  from  the 
lines  into  which  the  battle  of  Waterloo  had 
thrown  her.  Vauvenargues  belonged  to  a  noble 
family  near  Aix,  in  Provence,  where,  in  1821, 
Thiers,  who  was  miserably  poor,  was  study- 
ing law.  The  student  was  prompted  by  a 
visit  to  their  castle  to  compete  for  the  prize  of 
4000  francs.  In  winning  it,  he  obtained 
money  enough  to  come  to  Paris  to  seek  his 
fortune  along  with  his  friend  Mignet,  now 
the  senior  member  of  the  Academy.  This 


(which  many  of  the  emigres  had  picked  up 
a  fashionable  language.  In  polite  society 
there  were  Anglomaniacs,  as  there  were  ir 
military  circles,  and  in  most  of  the  middle 
class  families  Anglophobes.  Scott's  novel: 
and  Shakspere's  plays  were  read  at  court' 
Miss  Burney,  the  author  of  "Evelina,"  ha< 
married  General  d'Arblay,  and  occupied  ; 
good  position  in  courtly  circles.  Thos-i 
emigres  who  had  been  to  Germany  im 
bibed  a  taste  for  the  drama  of  Schiller  an< 
Goethe.  The  rising  generation  of  author 
who  had  seen  history  in  violent  action 
and  in  no  classic  garb  either,  were  bittei 
with  the  taste  for  an  English,  that  is  to  say 
a  non-conventional  treatment  of  heroes  an< 
heroines  of  romance  and  tragedy.  Fre* 
thought  was  asserted  in  the  time  of  Vol 
taire.  Free  form  and  literary  expression  \va 
not  demanded  until  after  the  battle  of  Wa- 
terloo. Although  in  close  quarters  with  ti 
court,  which  unknown  to  itself  was  for  in 
novation,  the  Academy  was  hostile  to  liv 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS: 


393 


DUG  D'AUMALE.     (FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH   BY  FRANCK.) 


ooks  and  plays — to  what  was  stirring,  strik- 
g,  and  colored  in  vivid  tints.  The  new 
hool  of  writers  who  were  governed  by  inner 

and  direct  impressions  were  called  Les 
*omantiques.  At  an  annual  meeting  of  all 

classes  or  academies  of  the  Institute, 
loiger,  the  perpetual  secretary  who  succeeded 
Laynouard,  tilted  at  the  romantic  writers, 
rhey  were  "  poetic  barbarians  and  violated 
jvery  principle  of  literary  orthodoxy."  It 
ras  for  the  Academy,  which  had  been 
Swnded  to  improve  and  keep  undefiled  taste 
bd  diction,  to  stand  out  against  the  heretics. 
l)lympian  Victor  Hugo  was  chief  of  the  new 
jchool  and  had  been  already  given  the  Cross 
jf  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Lamartine,  who  had 
ieen  a  child  of  nature  in  the  hills  of  Upper 
furgundy  until  he  became  a  dandified  mem- 
jer  of  the  diplomatic  service,  wrote  according 
p  his  own  impressions.  He  was  received  in 
he  Academy  in  1829.  In  the  same  year, 
fictor  Hugo  brought  out  his  short  and  poign- 
nt  work,  "  Les  Derniers  Jours  d'un  Con- 
amne  a  Mort."  It  set  the  impressionable 
eart  of  Paris  throbbing.  This  was  too  much 
:>r  Auger.  He  threw  himself  into  the  Seine 
:'om  the  bridge  which  connects  the  Palais 
j-lazarin  and  the  Louvre,  and  was  drowned. 


Between  1829  and  1835,  the  Academy 
through  its  perpetual  secretaries,  Andrieux 
and  Arnault,  remained  hostile  to  free  form. 
In  the  latter  years,  the  election  of  M.  de 
Villemain  marked  a  new  departure.  His 
maxim  was,  that  in  keeping  tradition  alive,  the 
present  should  be  closely  observed  and  its 
teachings  accepted.  Thiers,  Guizot,  Mignet, 
and  Flourens  were  elected  before  Victor  Hugo 
was  admitted  in  1841.  Under  Villemain,  who 
died  in  1871,  the  illustrious  company  reached 
a  far  higher  altitude  than  it  ever  previously 
attained.  He  was  singularly  ugly.  The 
figure  was  thick-set  and  vulgar ;  the  face 
was  lumpy  and  pock-pitted,  but  was  lighted 
up  by  a  bright  mind.  His  intellect  was  bold 
and  his  wit  subtle  and  delicate.  Literary 
criticism  was  his  forte.  His  charm  lay  in  his 
conversational  abilities.  As  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction  of  Louis  Philippe,  he  defended 
free  thought  and  free  form  at  the  College 
of  France.  He  exerted  his  influence  to  get 
the  novel,  in  the  person  of  Jules  Sandeau, 
represented  among  the  Forty,  and  the  news- 
paper in  the  person  of  M.  Prevost-Paradol. 
The  Academy's  indirect  action  upon  litera- 
ture and  politics  reached  its  apogee  in 
Villemain's  time.  A  militant  spirit  was 


394 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS:' 


DUG    DE     BROGUE.       (FROM    A    PHOTOGRAPH     BY    FRANCK.) 

aroused  in  it  by  the  Coup  d' Etat.  Berryer 
was  elected  by  way  of  protest  against  the 
Empire  in  1852,  and  the  late  Due  de  Broglie 
in  1855.  This  forensic  orator  submitted  a 
written  speech  or  harangue  to  the  Bureau. 
On  the  day  of  his  reception  he  unfolded  his 
manuscript  to  read  it.  But  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  improvise,  and  needed  liberty  to 
gesticulate  with  his  left  hand.  The  right 
hand  he  usually  thrust  into  the  breast  of  his 
waistcoat.  To  be  at  ease,  he  flung  away  his 
set  discourse,  and,  trusting  to  the  inspiration 
of  the  moment,  delivered  a  speech  of  inimi- 
table grandeur.  It  was  a  philippic  against 
the  Empire.  No  journal  dared  to  report  it. 
The  bold  line  he  thus  took  resulted  in  a 
union  of  all  the  monarchists  and  liberals 
against  imperialism. 

When  the  French  press  was  silenced  by 
Napoleon  III.,  the  educated  classes  watched 
the  receptions  at  the  Academy  with  keen 
interest.  Orleanist  liberalism  had  a  strong 
foot-hold  there.  Villemain,  as  perpetual  secre- 
tary,  was  able  to  foster  opposition.  He  lived 
at  the  Palais  Mazarin,  and  entertained  at  his 
soirees  most  of  the  eminent  writers,  orators, 
and  beaux  esprits  who  stood  aloof  from  the 
court.  Not  to  drive  the  Emperor  to  bay  and 
tempt  him  to  deal  harshly  with  the  Academy, 
Villemain  occasionally  advised  his  friends  to 
vote  for  non-political  adherents  to  the  Em- 
pire. Their  entrance  was  used  as  an  occasion 
for  protesting  against  the  regime  under  which 
they  were  obliged  to  live.  The  public  looked 
on  with  outstretched  head,  as  if  expecting 
that  every  pin-prick  given  by  an  Academician 
would  inflict  a  mortal  wound  on  the  spurious 
Caesar.  There  were  then  many  doors  to  the 
Academy.  One  was  from  the  office  of  the 


"  Debats,"  and  a  second  from  the  office  of 
the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes."  Two  others 
were  from  the  salons  of  Madame  d'Hausson- 
ville,  granddaughter  of  Madame  de  Stael  and 
daughter  of  the  late  Due  de  Broglie,  and  of 
Madame  Jules  Mohl.  This  lady  was  Irish.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Clarke,  and  her  husband 
was  Professor  of  Persian  Literature  at  the 
College  of  France.  For  perhaps  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century  she  never  missed  a 
public  sitting  of  the  Academy.  If  a  foreigner 
wanted  to  see  in  a  few  hours  the  greatest 
men  and  women  of  the  time  of  Louis 
Philippe,  the  best  means  for  succeeding  was 
to  get  himself  invited  to  Madame  MohFs. 
She  was  thin,  lively,  and  had  a  vulgar  face, , 
which  in  her  youth  looked  like  a  wrink- 
led skull  animated  by  fine  eyes.  Her  per- 
sonal appearance  gave  her  small  trouble.  She 
usually  wore  a  coal-scuttle  bonnet  at  the 
Academy,  a  dingy  Paisley  shawl,  and,  when 
crinoline  was  fashionable,  a  limp  and  skimp 
dress  of  some  neutral  color.  She  was  nick- 
named "  Our  Lady  of  the  Academy."  The 
late  Queen  of  Holland,  when  visiting  Paris, 
used  to  go  to  her  dinners  and  soirees  and 
give  her  court  news.  Is  it  because  the1 
Madonna  of  the  Palais  Mazarin  used  to  go 
there  in  the  plainest  garb  that  showy  dress  atj 
a  reception  is  counted  vulgar?  The  salons  of; 
Mesdames  Buloz,  Pailleron,  Jules  Simon,  and 
the  Dues  de  Broglie  and  Chantilly  are  now 
side-ways  into  the  Academy. 

There  is  no  reality  in  the  "  arm-chairs  "  in 
which  the  Forty  are  supposed  to  sit.  Acade- 
micians, with  the  exception  of  the  officers 
(i.  e.,  the  director,  chancellor,  and  perpetual 
secretary,  forming  the  Bureau)  and  the  new 
member,  occupy  ordinary  chairs.  Originally 
the  officers  alone  had  chairs ;  the  others  were 
ranged  on  benches.  But  the  equality  in  the 
republic  of  letters  founded  by  Conrart  and 
Richelieu  did  not  suit  the  cardinals  who  had 
been  admitted.  They  were  princes  of  the 
Church  and  electors  of  the  Sacred  College, 
to  say  nothing  of  their  aristocratic  birth.  In 
1713  a  change  was  brought  about.  Cardinal. 
d'Estrees,  who  was  of  the  Academy,  wantec 
to  vote  for  a  friend,  and  went  to  talk  about 
the  impediment  which  the  sedentary  ruk 
threw  in  his  way  to  Cardinals  de  Rohan  anc 
de  Polignac,  who  also  were  of  the  company 
of  the  Forty.  De  Polignac  had  a  Gascon's  for 
wardness.  He  offered  to  wait  on  the  King 
and  submit  the  matter,  and  ask  him  to  re 
lease  their  eminences  from  the  obligation  3 
sitting  on  benches.  Louis  Quatorze  had  socia 
tact  pushed  to  the  extent  of  genius,  and 
judgment  in  small  things.  He  solved 
difficulty  by  a  general  leveling  up.  All 
to  continue  equal,  but  on  a  higher  ph 


[  nux 

i 


THE   FORTY  IMMORTALS." 


395 


orty    arm-chairs    were    sent  by  the   King's    other  the  new-comer.  It  rarely  happened  that 
•der  to  the  hall  in   the  Louvre  where  the    all  the  two-score  attended.    Twenty-six  was 

the  average  maximum.    But  members  of  the 
Academies  of  Soissons  and  of  Marseilles  re- 


cademy  met,  and  orders  were  given  for  the 
moval  of  the  benches.  This  settlement  of  the 


fficulty  so  won  the  hearts  of  those  who  were    ceived  vacant  arm-chairs.  When  all  the  Aca- 


JULES   SIMON.     (FROM  A   PHOTOGRAPH   BY  E.  LADREY.) 


bt  princes  of  the  Church  or  noble,  that  when 
jouis  XIV.  shortly  after  died  it  was  proposed 
V  one  of  them  that  henceforth  each  recipien- 

re  was  to  add  in  his  harangue  a  eulogium 
that  monarch,  to  the  customary  eulogies 

Richelieu,  the  Chancellor  Seguier  (who  was 
ie  of  the  founders  of  the  Academy  and  a 
end  of  Conrart),  on  the  reigning  king,  and 
i  the  defunct  immortal  whose  chair  he  had 
ien  elected  to  fill.  In  1803  Napoleon  did 
)t  restore  the  chairs.  The  old  sedentary 
le  which  Louis  Quatorze  abrogated  is  now 

force.  At  private  and  informal  meetings, 
jhich  are  held  in  a  room  attached  to  the 
prary  of  the  Institute,  members  sit  as  they 

n,  on  chairs  armless  or  armed. 

Old  court  formalities  were  observed  at  the 
cademy's  receptions  in  the  Louvre,  which 
fpear  to  us  quaint  and  picturesque.  Mem- 
prs  were  placed  round  a  long  table,  at  one 
id  of  which  sat  the  director  and  at  the 


demicians  were  seated,  the  director  and  the 
neophyte,  who  alone  had  entered  with  their 
heads  covered,  placed  themselves  at  the  ends 
of  the  table.  After  he  had  delivered  his  speech, 
the  director  took  off  his  hat  and  made  a 
sweeping  bow  to  the  gentleman  facing  him. 
It  was  the  sign  that  his  turn  had  come. 
Whenever  the  recipiendaire  spoke  of  the  King 
he  uncovered  his  head  and  bowed.  The  sub- 
jects to  which  he  was  limited  have  been 
mentioned.  As  for  the  director,  he  was  to 
speak  only  of  the  new  member  and  his  writ- 
ings and  of  the  reigning  monarch. 

Public  meetings  of  the  Academy  are  held 
in  what  used  to  be,  under  the  old  mon- 
archy, the  Chapel  of  the  Palais  Mazarin, 
an  edifice  taking  the  form  of  a  Greek  cross, 
with  a  central  rotunda  under  a  cupola. 
While  the  muses  are  not  sumptuously  lodged 
there,  they  have  plenty  of  light  and  air. 
No  trace  of  the  Latin  cult  remains  in  the 


396 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS^ 


public  hall;  every  religious  painting,  and 
symbol  was  removed  when  the  Church  was 
secularized.  The  mural  paintings  in  gris- 
saille  are  browned  with  the 'dust  of  eighty 
years.  The  Pierian  Nine,  arranged  in  the 


desk  on  a  pillar-stand,  which  he  may  or  ma 
not  use.  His  entrance  is  a  curious  sight,  ir 
tensely  French  in  its  accompanying  circurr 
stances.  Escorted  by  soldiers,  he  comes  in  b< 
the  portal,  which  opens  and  shuts  with  ' 


£MILE  AUGIER.     (FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  BY  NADAR.) 


pseudo-classic  mode  of  the  First  Empire,  dec- 
orate the  cupola  above  the  amphitheater, 
from  which  tiers  of  narrow  benches  rise  in 
rapid  gradation,  and  after  filling  the  rotunda 
are  continued  up  into  three  ends  of  the  Greek 
cross.  There  should  be  a  tenth  muse  to  per- 
sonify that  essentially  modern  flower  of  the 
human  brain — the  novel. 

The  different  "  classes  "  or  academies  form- 
ing the  Institute  are  seated  on  a  platform 
or  stage,  filling  a  segment  of  the  round 
part  and  the  northern  end  of  the  cross. 
Benches  reserved  for  them  are  to  right  and 
left.  A  wide  central  space  between  the  lateral 
forms  is  covered  with  a  dingy  carpet.  In  the 
middle,  near  a  bronze  portal,  which  used  to 
be  the  grand  entrance  from  the  quai  to  the 
church,  is  placed  a  table  draped  with  a 
green  cloth  of  baize.  Behind  it  are  three 
chairs  for  the  officers.  At  right  angles  to  the 
table,  but  a  short  distance  from  it,  the 
recipiendaire  is  seated  before  a  tall  reading- 


clang.  The  sponsors  walk  on  each  sid 
They  and  the  members  of  the  Bureau  we; 
the  uniform  of  the  Academy.  This  dress 
composed  of  trowsers  and  a  swallow-taile 
coat  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  with  a  hig 
standing  collar,  which,  as  well  as  the  ches 
is  covered  with  palm  leaves  embroidered  i' 
a  crude  shade  of  green  silk.  This  verdure 
very  trying  to  the  masculine  complexion  c 
all  ages,  but  especially  to  the  one  to  whic 
senility  gives  the  tone  of  old  ivory.  Littre 
picturesque  ugliness  was  rendered  hideous  b 
the  embroidery  of  his  uniform. 

Candidates  for  vacant  seats  are  expecte 
to  pay  canvassing  visits  to  immortals.  It  : 
a  popular  error  to  suppose  they  are  oblige 
to  do  so.  Littre  never  paid  any.  This  uscg 
is  contrary  to  a  statute  which,  on  the  gro 
that  electors  should  judge  in  strict  accords 
with  literary  worth,  forbids  personal  solic 
tion  of  votes.  But  the  Academy  is  a  draw 
room  without  ladies,  an  athenaeum  club 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS: 


397 


e  most  refined  character,  at  which  weekly 
id  monthly  as  well  as  annual  meetings  are 
;ld.  The  statute  in  question  has  therefore 
icome  obsolete.  Before  the  Revolution, 
icn,  as  a  matter  of  course,  an  Academician 
ok  off  his  hat  and  made  a  sweeping  bow  in 
entioning  the  King,  politics  did  not  exist, 
iris  was  not  a  city  of  great  distances.  Emi- 
nce  was  not  acquired  in  an  ugly  rushing, 
oving,  and  racing,  as  games  of  foot-ball  are 
in  England.  It  was  obtained  by  the 
ontaneously  uttered  approval  of  a  small 
mber  of  supercivilized.  delicate-nerved,  and 
ry  clever  writers,  and  men  and  women  of 
ality.  Every  one  who  counted  in  arts  and 
ters  knew  everybody  else.  '  It  is  now  possi- 
for  an  author  of  great  talent  to  be  only 

fown  to  his  book-seller  and  a  small  set  of 
sciples  and  journalists. 
When  Thiers.  the  Warwick  of  the  bourgeois 

Anarchy,  paid  the  customary  round  of  visits 
1833,  he  wore  a  camlet  mantle,  fastened  at 
s  neck  with  a  large  buckle.  In  every  house 
which  he  called  he  left  the  cloak  in  the  ante- 

iJ3m,  and  in  again  donning  it  slipped  a  golden 
n  into  the  hand  of  the  servant  who  helped 

In  to  put  it  on.    This  profusion  arose  from 


native  shrewdness.    Parisian  servants  talk 


flely  to  their  employers.    The  widow  of  an 

.{ademician  whom  M.  Thiers  visited  to  ob- 

tn  his  support  has  related  to  me  her  first 

ipressions  of  him.    M.  Laya  was  the  author 

"  L'Ami  de  la  Loi,"  a  drama  written  to 

:end  Louis  XVI.  and  played  in  the  Reign 


Terror.    He  was  out  when  the  candidate 


immortality  called.    But   Madame  Laya 

ed  the  visitor  to  stay  until  her  husband 
rjurned.  She  thought  him  odd.  They  fell  into 
chversation.  He  had  something  original  to 
sr  in  a  falsetto  voice  on  every  topic  that  she 
bached.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  was 
t  king-maker  of  the  days  of  July,  until  M. 
I  ya  came  in  and  recognized  in  him  the  states- 
tyi  and  historian.  When  the  visitor  had  gone, 
mdame  Laya  said  to  her  husband : 

'  Of  course  you  will  vote  for  him  ?  " 

i*  I  don't  know." 

<  Why  ?  " 

t'  He   is   not    a  man  of  the    world ;  he  is 
p;ulant  and  ill  brooks  contradiction." 
But  what  of  that  ?  " 

!'  Why,  because  at  the  Academy  he  would 
U  comme  un  diable  dans  un  benitier  (like 
Sfan  in  the  holy-water  font)." 

I*  What  matter,  since  he  is  charming.  In 
pjing  for  him  you  will  do  me  a  pleasure." 

r  If  monsieur  will  allow  me  to  risk  an  ob- 
sfation,"  broke  in  the  maid,  who  was  sew- 

!  in  the  drawing-room,  "  I  shall  take  the 
grty  of  saying  that  generous  men,  like  good 
^vjie,  soften  down  with  age." 
VOL.  XXVIL— 38. 


OCTAVE     FEUILLET.       (FROM    A    PHOTOGRAPH     BY    NADAR.) 

"  How  do  you  know  he's  generous  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  handed  me  a  twenty-franc  piece 
when  I  buckled  his  cloak.  Monsieur  has  two 
sons.  The  friendship  of  a  man  in  M.  Thiers's 
position  is  not  to  be  thrown  away."  This  ar- 
gument was  conclusive.  M.  Laya  voted  for 
the  little  great  man,  who  was  ever  ready  after- 
ward to  oblige  any  member  of  his  family. 

Victor  Hugo,  who  feels  that  he  should 
not  attend  private  meetings  unless  to  vote, 
only  receives  candidates  at  dinner.  I  was 
at  his  table  in  the  society  of  three  rival 
competitors.  They  were  MM.  Paul  St. 
Victor,  Renan,  and  Eugene  Manuel  the 
poet.  St.  Victor  and  Manuel  talked,  as  well 
as  listened  to  their  illustrious  host.  Paul 
St.  Victor  was  an  old  and  much  cherished 
friend  of  the  poet,  but  angular,  and  held  to 
his  own  opinions  on  socialism,  religion,  and 
philosophy.  He  was  a  Catholic  and  Bona- 
partist.  Renan  for  three  hours  only  listened, 
except  to  ejaculate  every  two  or  three  minutes, 
when  Victor  Hugo  was  speaking,  "  Maitre, 
vous  avez  raison"  He  kept  his  head  hung 
on  one  side,  and  continued  to  smile  as  if  in 
a  state  of  beatitude.  Need  I  say  that  on  the 
day  of  the  election  "  the  Master  "  voted  for 
him  ?  Hugo  excused  himself  to  the  older 
friend,  St.  Victor,  on  the  ground  that  he  was 
bound  to  protest  against  the  fanaticism  of  the 
Bishop  of  Orleans. 

The    Academy  is   a   place   where  literary 
men  rub  shoulders  with  polished  men  of  the 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS:1 


EUGENE    LABICHE.       (FROM     A     PHOTOGRAPH     BY    TRUCHELUT    &    VALKMAN.) 


world  and  forensic  and  parliamentary  orators 
of  the  highest  eminence.  This  mingling  of 
classes  in  a  little  republic  of  letters  is  good 
for  all  the  Forty.  Owing  to  it,  contro- 
versy among  them  loses  its  sting.  Geniuses 
who  are  unable  to  master  their  irritable 
nerves  are  not  held  desirable  associates. 
To  mental  power  combined  with  social 
amenity,  the  Academy  is  of  easy  access. 
Chateaubriand,  whose  vanity  took  a  rudely 
self-assertive  form,  would  not  probably  have 
been  elected  if  the  immortals  had  not  felt 
obliged  to  him  for  standing  out  against  Na- 
poleon's tyranny.  Victor  Hugo,  who  won  an 
arm-chair  in  his  fortieth  year,  was  then  a  lady- 
killer  as  well  as  a  great  poet.  The  virile 
strength  of  his  body,  soul,  and  mind,  were 
toned  down  by  chivalrous  respect  for  women 
and  an  almost  feminine  tenderness  for  little 
children.  He  was  a  lion  in  whose  presence 
a  lamb  might  play  fearlessly.  Lamartine  got 
into  the  Academy  on  the  basis  of  dandyism 
and  poetry.  Palpably,  he  had  blood,  and  he 
had  acquired  the  shibboleth  of  fashionable 
society  in  diplomacy. 

Voltaire  thus  denned  the  Academy :    "  A 
learned  body  in  which  men  of  rank,  men  in 


office,  prelates,  doctors,  mathematicians,  an 
even  literary  persons  are  received."   It  noV 
contains  four  dukes,  one  of  whom  is  roy* 
and  a  soldier,  two   counts,  one  bishop,  tw 
scientists   (Pasteur  and   J.    B.    Dumas),  twf 
political  lawyers  (£mile  Ollivier  and  Rousse 
and  a  great  many  literary  men,  some  of  whor 
enjoy  world-wide  celebrity.  Journalism  is  rej^ 
resented    in    the    latter  group   by   Cuvillie 
Fleury,  and  John  Lemoinrie.    The  first  WE 
secretary  to   the  late  ex- King  of  Hollam 
Louis  Bonaparte,  and  then  tutor  to  the  Duj 
d'Aumale.    He  defended  warmly  the  interest' 
of  the  Orleans  family  under  the  son  of  h 
first  patron,  and,  notwithstanding  his  frienc 
ship  with  the  Dues  d'Aumale  and  de  Montper 
sier,  advocated  in  the  "  Debats  "  a  republica 
form  of  government  when  MacMahon  was  i 
the  Elysee.   He  is  an  accomplished  polemi; 
and  essayist.    The  longest  of  his  essays  fii 
into  the  third  page  of  the  "  Debats."    Whe 
Queen   Mercedes   died,  he  wrote    on  her  J 
necrological    article,     the     spirit    of    wh:c; 
was  grandfatherly  and  very  touching.   Jch 
Lemoinne  is  also  a  "  Debats"  leader-write 
and  has  never  been   anything  else.    He  <'? 
ternally  resembles  those  photographic  ima;;t 


THE   FORTY  IMMORTALS:' 


399 


f  celebrated  men  in  which  the  head  is  vastly 
mgnified  at  the  expense  of  body  and  limbs. 
le  is  gifted  with  that  brilliant  cleverness 
ordering  upon  wit  which  the  French  call 
prit;  plumes  himself  upon  having  no  fixed 
olitical  principles  and  being  able  to  laugh 

all;  and  is  ready  to  break  a  lance  one  day 
r  the  Orleanists,  another  for  the  fusionists, 
id  then  for  the  Republic.  •  Dwarfs  have 
ore  self-confidence  than  giants.  Under  all 
rcumstances,  John  Lemoinne  can  make-be- 
eve  in  his  own  cock-certainty  that  he  is 
ght.  He  was  born  in  the  island  of  Jersey  ,- 
nd  speaks  and  writes  English.  M.  de  Sacy 
as  the  first  journalist  writing  only  for  the 
ily  press  who  was  admitted  to  the  honors 

immortality.  His  election  was  in  1854. 
ignet  and  Henri  Martin  are,  as  Thiers  was, 
storians  and  journalists,  but  have  not  for 
ars  written  articles.  Jules  Simon  was  for 
year  editor  of  the  "  Siecle  "  and  for  three 
onths  of  the  "  Gaulois."  He  is  an  unready 
urnalist.  Ollivier's  attempts  to  find  with  his 
n  a  lever  in  journalism  have  been  utter  fail- 
es.  He  can  never  take  a  ball  on  the  bound, 
d  his  self-consciousness  gets  between  him 
d  the  subject  that  he  should  treat  rapidly 
id  with  which  alone  he  should  be  occupied 
lile  treating  it. 

The  historical  group  used  to  be  the  most 
illiant  one  at  the  Academy,  when  Mignet, 
liers,  and  Guizot  were  in  their  prime.  Mi- 
et  is  now  eighty-seven.  He  walks  or,  when 
e  weather  is  wet  or  snowy,  rides  in  an  omni- 
s  to  the  Academy  from  his  lodging  in  the 
ue  d'Aumale.    The  distance  is  about  a  mile 
d  a  half.    To  attend   to   his   duties  as  a 
erary  executor  of  Thiers,  he  resigned  this 
ar  the  office  of  secretary  to  the  Academy 
Moral  Sciences  and  History.    The  emolu- 
ents  were  6000  francs.    Mignet  fell  in  with 
liers   at  the  law  school   of  Aix.  in    1818. 
ey  were  called  to  the  bar  simultaneously, 
n  academical  money  prizes  which  enabled 
em   to  journey  together  to  Paris    to   seek 
eir  fortune,  shared  the  same  garret,  studied 
the  same  public  libraries,  chose  the  same 
bjects  for  histories  they  meditated  writing 
id  wrote,  worked  in  the  same  journals,  pro- 
oted  the  candidature  of  Louis  Philippe  to 
e  throne  when  he  was  Duke  of  Orleans,  and 
'ed  until  1877  in  the  closest  intimacy.    Mi- 
let  remained  a  bachelor.   He  has  been  from 
$33  a  tenant  in  the  same  house,  first  with 
ladame  Dosne,  afterward   Madame  Thiers, 
&d  now  with  her  sister,  Mile.  Dosne.  It  is  in 
toximity  to  the  historical  mansion  in  which 
piers  lived  in  the  Place  St.   George.    The 
firdens  of  both  dwellings  are  connected  by  a 
Kvate  alley.     Mignet  dined,  as  often  as  he 
d  not  accept  invitations   to  other  houses, 


with  his  illustrious  friend.  He  preserves  his 
erect  carriage  and  the  ardent  southern  bright- 
ness of  his  eyes,  which  gleam  out  from  be- 
neath bushy  eyebrows. 

Henri  Martin  stands  next  to  Mignet.  This 
good  man  has  rehabilitated  the  Druids, 
erected  an  altar  to  Joan  of  Arc,  and  shown 
the  Revolution  to  be  the  triumph  of  the 
equality-loving  Celt  over  the  Frank  and 
his  feudal  system.  Henri  Martin  is  in  his 
seventy-third  year.  He  has  a  tall,  strong- 
boned,  loose-made,  stooping  figure,  and  a 
serious  face  which  easily  lights  up  into  smiles 
and  expresses  pleasure — mental-or  moral — in 
blushing  cheeks.  His  inner  man  lives  in  the 
most  transparent  of  glass  houses.  Though  a 
well  of  erudition,  he  keeps  the  freshness  of 
childhood.  It  delights  him  to  oblige.  His  con- 
versation, when  he  is  set  talking  on  a  subject 
in  which  he  is  at  home,  is  an  instructive  and 
delightful  essay.  He  lives  in  a  pretty  little 
house  of  his  own  at  Passy,  far  from  the  center 
of  the  town.  He,  therefore,  goes  often  to  the 
Senate  and  the  Institute  in  clumsily  made 
evening  dress.  Nothing  fits  him.  The  gloves 
—  of  cotton — are  a  world  too  big  for  hands 
that  are  in  proportion  to  his  stature.  Though 
tolerant  of  every  belief,  or  unbelief,  he  groans 
when  he  sees  materialist  articles  in  the  scien- 
tific columns  of  the  Republican  papers.  His 
grandchildren  are  nourished  with  works  of 
Unitarian  piety.  One  of  his  two  children — a 
daughter  —  was  the  delight  of  his  eyes  and 
pride  of  his  heart.  She  grew  up  in  beauty, 
and  cultivated,  under  Ary  Scheffer,  a  genius 
for  painting.  On  the  day  on  which  she  had 
achieved  an  artistic  triumph  and  was  engaged 
to  be  married  she  died.  Henri  Martin  clings 
to  the  old  belief  in  the  soul's  immortality. 

Taine  has  written  a  history  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, the  aim  of  which  is  to  show  that  France 
might  have  progressed  more  steadily  but  for 
that  movement.  It  is  the  book  of  an  indus- 
trious searcher  into  records,  which  is  devoid 
of  philosophical  scope  and  inferior  to  his 
works  of  criticism. 

The  small  fry  of  historians  in  the  Academy 
are  the  Due  de  Noailles,  who  wrote  about 
St.  Louis;  the  Due  de  Broglie,  who  under- 
took, in  his  history  of  Constantine  the  Great, 
to  refute  Gibbon ;  Camille  Rousset,  whose 
great  achievement  is  having  classed  the 
archives  at  the  War  Office ;  the  Due  d'Au- 
male, who  will  probably  never  have  the 
courage  to  finish  his  history  of  the  house  of 
Conde,  the  first  chapter  of  which  he  brought 
out  in  England  :  and  M.  Viel-Castel,  whose 
literary  "  baggage  "  is  a  history  of  the  Resto- 
ration. 

Jules  Simon  is  also  the  author  of  a  histor- 
ical work.  It  deals  with  the  period  of  four 


400 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS:' 


VICTORIEN    SARDOU.       (FROM    A    PHOTOGRAPH    BY    MELANDRI.) 


years  which  ended  on  the  24th  of  May,  1873. 
His  other  works  are  on  moral  philosophy 
and  sociology,  which  he  treats  more  as  a  man 
of  feeling  than  as  a  reformer.  His  writings 
are  inferior  to  his  lectures;  these  to  his 
speeches ;  and  his  orations  to  his  drawing- 
room  talk,  which  is  the  perfection  of  conversa- 
tional genius  and  art.  Jules  Simon's  private 
life  is  honest,  honorable,  and  morally  healthy. 
His  wife  is  good,  unaffected,  intelligent,  and 
broad-minded,  and  they  both  are  wrapped  up 
in  their  infant  granddaughter,  whose  pretty 
childish  ways  console  them  for  the  ingratitude 
of  old  political  associates. 

The  poets  of  the  Academy  are  Victor 
Hugo,  Lecomte  de  Lisle,  and  Sully- Prud- 
homme.  With  the  first  the  whole  civilized 


world  is  acquainted.  Lecomte  de  Lisle 
"  immortal "  because  he  is  Hugo's  friem 
As  for  Sully-Prudhomme,  he  is  a  modernize 
and  middle- class  Hamlet,  from  whom  th 
tragic  element  has  been  eliminated,  but  who* 
heart  and  soul  are  tormented  and  whos 
intellect  is  perplexed  by  questions  whic 
science  and  the  conditions  of  modern  liii 
now  force  upon  thinking  minds.  He  lives  i 
a  small  and  plainly  furnished  third  floor  oj 
posite  the  Elysee.  He  made  the  acquain 
ance  of  his  neighbor,  President  Grevy,  rr 
day  on  which,  soon  after  his  reception  at  \\- 
Academy,  he  paid  him  the  regulation  visit 

The  dramatic  group  includes  Victor  Hu  ,r< 
Legouve,  Emile  Augier,  Camille  Douce 
Victorien  Sardou,  Dumas  fils,  Labiche,  an 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS: 


401 


ailleron.    Victor  Hugo  may  be  said  to  be 
e  chief  poet,  novelist,  and  dramatist  in  the 
cademy.    He  is  vast,  astounding,  sublime, 
Dutiful,  defective,  and  faulty  in  all    three 
•anches.   His  genius  has  its  scoria.  Legouve 
a  delightful   essayist  and  lecturer.    He  is 
e  author  of  "  Adrienne  Lecouvreur  "  and 
unched  Ristori  in   Paris;    he  was  in  love 
th    Malibran;    is    a    poet,    and    venerates 
oman,  as   well  as  loves  her  by  hereditary 
pulse.    Old  age  —  M.  Legouve  is  seventy- 
ree — has    only   mellowed    the    experience 
earlier  years.     He  is  charitable  and  stimu- 
tes  charity  in  others,  but  avoids  those  trad- 
in  philanthropy.     As  a  lecture-room    or 
Ton  elocutionist  he  has  no  parallel.    Sardou 
better  as  a  reader  of  plays  because  his  face 
ids  itself  to  delicate  mimicry.     Legouve  is 
Breton  origin  and  Paris  breeding. 
Octave  Feuillet's  plays  are  aftermaths  of 
Is  novels.   He  studied  fashionable  life  at  the 
lileries  and  Compiegne,  and  won  not  only 
e  favor  but  the  friendship  of  the  Empress, 
e  went  to  the  Academy  to  witness  his  re- 
<fotion,  and  she  was  to  have   appeared  on 
ts   boards  of  the  palace    theater  of  Com- 
pgne,  in  a  character  expressly  written  to  fit 
Jr.   The  "  Debats  "  first,  and  the  war  with 
rmany  finally,  prevented  her  from  acting 
ts  part,  which    was    a    somewhat    indeco- 
ris  one.  Octave  Feuillet  excels  in  diagnosis 
the    moral    ailments    of    idle,    frivolous, 
dicately-nurtured,    and   rich   women.    His 
famine  characters  might  be  noble,  were  a 
lalthy  sphere  of  action  open  to  them.    As  it 
they  are  flowers  of  evil  and  restless  dwell- 
di  in  the  Land  of  Nod.    The  novelist,  being 
i]able  to  follow  them  into  old  age,  and  to 
sbw   the   ultimate    penalties    which   in   the 
rjtural  order   of  things    overtake    all   such, 
rlkes   suicide    the    wind-up   of  their   vain, 
file,  and  unhappy  lives.    He  is  a  painter  of 
(jcadence.      His    morbidness   is  sui  generis 
has  a  penetrating  and  intoxicating  charm. 
L6,  in  Normandy,  is  his  birthplace,  and 
ftures  of  Norman  localities  abound  in  his 
ijvels. 

Camille  Doucet  is  the   dwarf  of  the  dra- 

itic  group.     He  has  written  only  one  play 

a   comedy,  in  five    acts,  which  is  almost 

fjgotten.    It  is  entitled  "  Consideration,"  or 

^Respectability. "    Two  lines    of  it  are  still 

rjnembered.    They  are  : 

^Consideration !   Consideration  ! 

C'est  ma  seule  passion!   ma  seule  passion." 

-  is  the  incarnation  of  amiable  kindliness 
afi  social  tact.  His  election  was  owing  to  his 
rations,  as  director  of  theaters  under  the 
Ippire,  with  dramatic  authors  belonging  to 


the  Academy.  He  was  the  link  connecting 
them  with  the  imperial  court.  No  great  dra- 
matic author  save  Victor  Hugo  resented  the 
Coup  d }  Etat. 

Dumas  fils  tried  novel -writing  at  the  out- 
set of  his  career,  but  with  small  success. 
Description  is  not  his  forte.  He  is  an  analyst 
and  a  polemist,  a  superficial  prober  of  sores 
and  wounds,  but  knows  nothing  of  those 
tempests  between  good  and  evil  which  some- 
times rage  in  the  human  heart  and  con- 
science. We  get  very  soon  to  the  bottom  of 
a  worthless  person.  Dumas's  bad  people  are 
natural.  His  good  folks  are  conventional,  and 
simply  mouth-pieces  whereby  the  author  ex- 
presses his  own  views  in  short,  strong,  clear, 
ringing,  and  ear-catching  sentences  upon  cur- 
rent vices  or  desirable  virtues. 

Dumas  pere   was  never  an  Academician. 
In  his  time  the  Academy  would  have  fainted 
at  the  idea  of  letting  in  a  man  so  spontaneous, 
irrepressible,  imaginative,  exuberant,  and  orig- 
inal, to  say  nothing  of  the.Bohemianism  of  his 
life  and  the  Africanism  of  his  head.  Guizot  was 
then  king  of  the  Academy,  and  he  was  a  prig. 
Dumas  fils   inherits   nothing  from  Africa, 
unless  the  texture  of  his  hair  and  the  savage 
frankness    of    speech.     He    takes    from   his 
father  capacity  for  rapid  literary  production, 
light  blue  eyes,  which  protrude  and  stare,  and 
the  vein  of  kindness  which  runs  through  his 
man-of-business  flintiness.    He  has  a  heart, 
and  a  good  one,  but  it  is  not  on  his  sleeve. 
In  the  example  of  his  father  he  saw  how  un- 
disguised  good  nature  is  preyed  upon,  and 
how   thankless   people  are  for   spontaneous 
kindness.     Dumas  —fils  buys  pictures   as   an 
investment.    He  is  married  to  a  Russian  lady 
of  rank  and  fortune,  and  has  two  daughters 
to  whom  he  is  devotedly  attached.    Desclee 
was  to  him  the  beau  ideal  of  a  modern  actress. 
Sarah   Bernhardt's  affectations   irritate   him. 
As  he   cannot   take  her  by  the  back  of  the 
neck  and  shake  her,  he  says  to  her  and  of 
her  the  rudest  things  imaginable.    He   was 
the  author  of  that  mot,  Un  os  jete  a  un  chien 
(A  bone  thrown  to  a  dog),  which  described 
a  picture  of  her  with  a  big  dog  at  her  side. 
Dumas  fils  is   a   neighbor   at    the   sea-side 
near    Dieppe,  of  Lord    Salisbury.    He   lives 
in   Paris,  in   a  detached  house  of  his  own, 
beautifully  furnished  with  salable  bric-a-brac 
and   furniture,    in    the    Avenue   de   Villiers. 
Since  he  entered  the  Academy  he  has  cut  the 
demi-monde.    He  is  now  engaged  in  a  cam- 
paign against  those  sumptuous   stage  toilets 
which  oblige  actresses  to  lead  vicious  lives. 

Pailleron  writes  flimsy  and  sparkling  plays 
in  verse.  They  are  like  those  diaphanous 
Eastern  stuffs  into  which  gold  and  silver 
threads  are  interwoven ;  if  well  acted,  they  are 


402 


THE   FORTY  IMMORTALS." 


very  effective.    Their   author   is   young  and    the  valet,  he  accompanied  the  visitor  to  tf 

already  very  wealthy.  He  is  married  to  a  sis-    door. 

ter  of  Buloz,  the  actual  editor  of  the  "  Revue        Sardou  is  the   sole   author  whom   a  bu' 


lliliillllllllllllllH 

LOUIS  PASTEUR.   (FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  BY  TRUCHELUT  &  VALKMAN.) 


des  Deux  Mondes,"  and  inhabits  a  stately 
flat  in  what  used  to  be  the  residence  of  the 
de  Chi  may  family  on  the  Quat  Voltaire. 

Labiche's  muse  is  purely  farcical.  His  plays 
are  as  droll  to  read  as  to  see  acted.  Labiche 
is  a  prodigiously  hard  worker.  He  constantly 
rewrites  whole  scenes  of  his  comedies.  His 
father  was  an  opulent  grocer.  Labiche  has  a 
passion  for  agriculture  and  has  reclaimed  a 
large  tract  in  Sologne.  He  is  there  "  Farmer 
Labiche  "  and  mayor  of  a  commune  which  he 
created.  As  such,  he  often  unites  in  marriage 
the  hands  of  rustic  couples.  Until  Labiche 
as  a  candidate  for  the  Academy  visited  the 
Due  de  Noailles,  this  nobleman  had  never 
seen  him.  The  duke  is  a  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  formal,  and  apt  to  stand  on  his  dig- 
nity. In  showing  out  an  author  who  visits 
him  to  canvass,  he  never  advances  beyond  a 
certain  number  of  steps.  But  Labiche  told 
with  a  quietness  that  did  not  ruffle  the  octo- 
genarian's nerves  mirth-exciting  stories,  and 
made  comical  remarks  which  so  tickled  and 
pleased  the  duke  that,  instead  of  ringing  for 


foon  piece  served  at  the  Academy.  K 
got  in  there  for  two  reasons.  One 
having  caricatured  Gambetta  in  "Rabagas 
and  the  other  was  in  having  for  his  con; 
petitor  the  Due  d'Audiffret-Pasquier,  whoi' 
M.  Thiers  after  the  24th  of  May  deteste- 
Sardou  is  very  much  dependent  upon  sta£ 
accessories  and  bewildering  toilets  for  tlj 
success  of  his  pieces.  What  would  "  F<] 
dora"  be  without  Sarah  Bernhardt's  woj( 
drous  dresses,  or  the  "  Famille  Benoiton' 
have  been  were  it  not  for  the  mantua-make 
hair-dresser,  and  milliner  ?  Perhaps  this  im 
account  for  the  heat  with  which  the  auth< 
of  "  La  Dame  aux  Camelias  "  (Dumas  fils)  r 
sents  the  intrusion  of  Worth  upon  the  stag 
Sardou  regards  dramatic  literature  from  a  pure 
business  point  of  view.  Foreigners  who  con 
to  Paris  to  spend  their  money,  and  who  " 
the  theaters  well  filled,  would  not  under 
his  best  literary  efforts.  "  Les  Pattes 
Mouches,"  a  chef  d'ceuvre  of  wit,  fancy, 
invention,  is  not  appreciated  by  them.  It 
the  first  play  that  he  brought  out,  but  n< 


THE   FORTY  IMMORTALS: 


403 


means  the  first  that  he  wrote.    Dejazet 
educed  it  at  her  theater,  Sardou,  who  had 
led  upon  her  at  her  country  cottage,  having 
pired  that   aged  actress  with  a  half  ma- 
•nal    half  sentimental    interest.     He   had 
inly  knocked  at  many  other  doors.   A  trag- 
y  in  five  acts  and  in  verse  was  his  initial 
iy.     He  wrote  it  in  the  hope  that  Rachel 
mid  patronize  it;  but  as  the  heroine  was 
t  a  Greek  or  Roman,  but  a  Queen  of  Swe- 
n,  she  refused.    For   some   years  Sardou 
ed  by   teaching  Latin  to  the  son  of  an 
yyptian  pasha  at  a  salary  of  five  francs  a  day. 
e  is  now  a  millionaire  and  the  possessor  of 
historical  chateau,  standing  in  a  fine  park  at 
arly,  and  of  a  villa  at  Nice.   He  spends  the 
mmer  in  one  place  and  winter  in  the  other.  • 
Emile  Augier,  taken  all  round,  is  the  great- 
t  modern  French  dramatist.    Le  style  c'est 
ommc,  and  he  is  one  of  nature's  noblemen, 
rength  and  good  proportion  are  two  lead- 
g  features  of  his  drama.   He  does  not  at- 
ch  much  importance  to  scenic  accessories, 
hen  the  passions  of  human  beings  are  in 
anifest  play,  we  only  think  of  the  action  in 
hich  they  show  themselves.     It   does   not 
cur  to  us  to  look  whether  there  are  fine 
rtains   to    a   window  from   which  we   see 
man  or  woman  jump  with  suicidal  intent, 
e  do  not  think  of  the  window  at  all.    Un- 
e  Dumas,  Augier  sounds  the  conscience  and 
ings  it  into  play  with  a  dramatic  effect  which 
ars  away  the  spectator.    He  comes  of  a  fine 
ce,  probably  of  Latin  origin.    Valence,  his 
tive  town,  was  the  center  of  a  Gallo  -Ro- 
an colony.    Pigault-Lebrun  was  his  grand- 
ther,  and  he  has  inherited  his  fun  and  clever- 
These  qualities  are  allied  with  others  of 
j  higher  order.   Augier  has  the  sculptural  in- 
:nct  and  philosophical  elevation.    His  com- 
iies  in  prose  are  stirring  and  excitants  to 
mental  gayety  " ;  his  dramas  in  verse,  though 
odern   in    their   subjects,  are  written    with 
assical    simplicity   and   verve.     The    char- 
ters are  clean-built.     Augier  writes  French 
Dryden  wrote  English.     This  dramatist  is 
i  old  bachelor.    He  has  remained  one  be- 
luse  his  only  sister,  as  he  rose  to  eminence, 
as  left  a  widow  with  five  young  children, 
ic  and  they  live  with  "  Uncle  Emile."  The 
•eater  part  of  the  year  they  reside  in  a  plain, 
pomy  house  on  the  edge  of  the   Seine  at 
iroissy.    Augier  is  almost  a  Chinese  in  an- 
bstral  cult.    He  venerates  and  cherishes  the 
jiemory  of  father  and  mother   and   of  the 
earty  and  humorous  Pigault-Lebrun. 
Taine  is  like  a  stiff  cold  soil  which  is  hard  to 
reak,  and  when  broken,  produces  excellent 
heat,  but  rarely  brings  forth  sweet,  delicate 
prbage.    He  is  an  encyclopedia,  and  has  a 
|tethodic  brain,  which   he   beats  very  hard 


when  he  wants  to  entertain  and  interest. 
Nor  does  he  beat  in  vain.  But  the  force  ac- 
quired in  the  beating  process  carries  him  on 
too  far  in  the  same  direction.  He  rides  to 
death  the  system  borrowed  from  Condillac, 
by  which  he  explains  the  peculiarities  of  Eng- 
lish and  French  literature,  and  of  the  Dutch, 
Flemish,  and  Italian  schools  of  art.  Variety 
in  Taine's  books  and  lectures  is  a  result  of 
will,  not  of  spontaneous  cerebration.  Ardennes 
is  his  native  country.  He  has  a  strong  frame, 
and  his  complexion  and  physiognomy  are 
Flemish.  One  of  the  eyes  is  slightly  turned 
inward.  Both  are  near-sighted.  Glasses  hide 
and  remedy  these  defects. 

Taine  and  his  fellow-Academicians,  Caro, 
Mezieres,  M.  de  Mazade,  and  Gaston  Boissier, 
are  all  distinguished  lecturers  in  great  public 
seats  of  fine  art  and  learning.  Caro  descants 
on  moral  philosophy  at  the  Sorbonne.  He  is 
a  handsome  man,  and  has  a  bland,  persuasive 
style.  Ladies  of  quality  form  perhaps  three- 
fourths  of  his  auditory.  He  has  made  mince- 
meat of  the  works  of  German  philosophers 
to  suit  their  taste  and  mental  digestions,  and 
has  explained  to  them,  in  combating  it,  Schop- 
enhauer's pessimism.  Schopenhauer  advises 
human  beings  not  to  marry,  because  the  best 
thing  in  his  opinion  that  could  happen  to  the 
world  would  be  the  extinction  of  humanity. 
He  hated  women  because  they  stood  in  the 
way  of  this  desideratum.  Caro  became  the 
darling  of  the  drawing-rooms.  At  the  exami- 
nation for  the  bachelor's  degree  last  session, 
a  candidate  who  feared  not  said  to  him  in 
passing : 

"  I  am  so  anxious  to  get  through  in  order 
to  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  attending  your 
lectures." 

"  May  I  ask,"  inquired  the  professor,  with 
a  smile,  "  whether  you  have  a  rendezvous  in 
my  lecture-room  ?  " 

M.  de  Mazade  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne  on 
Latin  literature,  and  writes  articles  on  con- 
temporaneous French  history  for  the  "Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes."  They  are  in  a  severe 
and  somewhat  pompous  style.  In  private  life, 
their  author  is  an  exuberant  Southern,  speak- 
ing with  a  Languedoc  accent. 

Renan  also  occupies  a  chair  at  the  College 
of  France.  He  is  the  most  complex  of  all 
the  immortals.  He  is  a  strange  compound  of 
Gascon  keenness  and  expansiveness,  Breton 
superstition,  and  of  Celtic  sensibility,  of  verve, 
of  scholastic  erudition,  theological  lore,  and 
Virgilian  grace.  An  aeolian  harp  is  not  more 
impressionable.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  aeolian 
harpism  in  the  female  population  of  little  sea- 
ports in  Brittany.  Every  scudding  cloud,  every 
moaning  breeze,  every  storm  sign  affects  them. 
They  rejoice  in  every  precursor  of  fine  weather. 


404 


-THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS: 


VICTOR    CHERBULIEZ.       (FROM    A     PHOTOGRAPH     BY    TRUCHELUT    &    VALKMAN.) 


Kenan's  mother  was  a  Breton  woman,  who 
was  reared,  as  all  her  people  had  been  time 
out  of  mind,  at  Treguier,  a  small  port  of 
Brittany,  with  an  old  church  and  monastery. 
Kenan's  father  was  a  Bordelais  skipper.  He 
was  found  dead  at  the  foot  of  a  cliff  when  his 
son  was  five  years  old.  Had  he  been  acci- 
dentally drowned,  thrown  overboard  by  the 
crew,  or  had  he  committed  suicide  ?  Nobody 
can  tell.  The  son  found  more  than  a  mother 
in  his  only  sister,  who  was  grown  when  they 
were  orphaned.  She  had  the  seolian-harp  im- 
pressionability, but  great  heart-power  behind 
it,  and  the  adventurous  courage  of  a  hero. 
Though  their  mother  was  alive,  the  sister  at- 
tended to  the  education  of  Ernest.  He  and 
she  were  intellectual,  and  letters  were  repre- 
sented at  Treguier  only  by  the  Church.  Eccle- 
siasticism  became  the  nursing  mother  of  his 
literary  faculties.  Feminine  converse  and  sym- 
pathy and  wild  sea-side  nature  did  the  rest. 
How  well  Kenan  understands  the  fishers  who 
followed  Jesus  !  He  went  from  Treguier  to  St. 
Sulpice  to  study  theology.  Rosalie,  who  had 
gone  as  a  teacher  to  Russia,  helped  him  with 
her  purse.  When  she  came  back  to  France, 
and  learned  that  he  did  not  believe  in  the 
Catholic  dogmas,  she  said :  "  Follow  the  inner 
light.  Have  faith  in  it  only."  She  was  the 


first  to  discard  dogmas.    She  accompanied  ht 
brother  to  Syria  when  he  went  there  to  stud 
Biblical  localities,  and  there  she  died.  Madam 
Cornu,  foster-sister  of  the  late  Emperor,  er: 
couraged   Kenan  to  transmute  into  a  pros 
poem  the.  work  of  Strauss,  which   ordinar, 
minds  could  not  digest.    Kenan  has  alway 
been  taken  care  of  by  women.    His  wife, 
daughter   of  Henri   Scheffer,  Ary   Scheffer 
brother,  is  a  cheerful  Martha, — very  intell: 
gent,  well  instructed,  and  competent  to  cha, 
with  him  about  his  literary  plans  and  project* 
She  is  an  agnostic  brought  up  in  Protestant 
ism,  and  he  a  materialist  reared  in  the  Cathoi 
lie  faith  and  still  loving  it. 

Monsignor  Perraud,  the  Bishop^of  Autur 
was  a  class-fellow  of  Taine  at  the  Ecole  Nor 
male.  He  is  a  man  of  refined  mind,  vibratinj 
heart,  and  elevated  aims.  He  wrote  twent; 
years  ago  an  account  of  "A  Tour  in  Ireland, 
which  was  read  with  delight  by  Madarni 
d'Haussonville,  and  he  has  never  missed  ai 
opportunity  to  lift  up  his  voice  in  behalf  o 
Poland.  He  is  of  an  emaciated  countenance 
but  his  eyes  beam  with  hope  and  faith.  H« 
believes  that  God's  grace  is  inexhaustible 
that  it  will  operate  a  wide-world  miracle. 

There  are  usually  two  scientists  at  the  Ac 
emy.    Dumas,  the  chemist,  and  Pasteur 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS. 


405 


w  occupants  of  chairs.  It  is  a  remarkable 
ct  that  both  stood  out  against  materialism 
the  harangues  they  delivered  on  being  re- 
ived. Dumas  is  &  Spiritualist  of  a  deistical 
ade.  Pasteur  is  a  Catholic  and  a  reactionist, 
utside  of  his  special  studies  Pasteur  is  nar- 
w.  It  is  erroneously  supposed  that  he  did 
t  rise  to  eminence  through  the  school  of 
y  faculty.  What  he  did  was  to  work  his 
rn  way  into  the  great  seats  of  learning, 
e  began  as  an  usher  in  the  lyceum  of  Be- 
n$on,  and  set  before  himself  the  task  of 
lalifying  at  the  Normal  School  for  the 
evet  of  a  university  professor.  His  mind 
is  led  toward  the  lilliputian  side  of  creation 
an  accident.  The  usher  had  a  good-nat- 
ed  pupil,  to  whom  a  kind  godfather  sent  a 
ijcroscope  for  a  birthday  present.  The  boy- 
Id  not  time  to  amuse  himself  with  the  sci- 
(tific  plaything,  and  lent  it  to  Pasteur,  who 
jidied  with  it  so  far  as  he  was  able  the  in- 
s;t  world  and  the  organizations  of  plants. 
i  was  then  not  quite  twenty.  The  idea  that 
amalcules  were  the  origin  of  contagious  dis- 
eses  was  suggested  to  him  by  an  apothecary 
c  Dole,  who  got  it  from  Raspail,  a  quack  of 
pius.  This  idea  was  often  thought  over,  and 
c missed,  and  then  taken  up  again.  As  Ras- 
fil  was  nearly  all  his  life  in  prison  for  his 
Bitical  opinions,  he  had  not  opportunities 
t  demonstrate  experimentally  the  truth  of 
h  notion.  Pasteur  won  his  university  gown. 
1 1  he  yielded  to  his  vocation,  and,  instead 
o  teaching  in  high  schools,  became  a  scien- 
t:  and  obtained  a  chair  in  the  faculty  of 
Sasburg.  There  he  came  in  contact  with 
(Jrman  thinkers,  and  had  almost  a  European 
nutation  as  a  geologist  and  chemist,  when 
hi  was  appointed  scientific  director  of  the 
Bole  Normale  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon 
I .  He  owed  his  nomination  to  the  head 
nster,  Nisard,  under  whom  he  studied  in 
tilt  school,  and  who,  being  a  devout  Cath- 
oL  liked  him  for  his  attachment  to  his  re- 
litous  principles.  Pasteur  entered  the  Insti- 
K  when  a  controversy  was  going  on  there 
al'Ut  spontaneous  generation  and  the  unity 
a|  origin  of  species.  He  fell  back  upon  his 
mroscope,  which  he  had  been  neglecting,  to 
ftidate  these  problems.  He  was  thus  brought 
"uid  again  to  his  starting-point — that  of  the 
efjct  of  animalculesin  giving  rise  to  contagious 
R^ses.  Swift's  penetration  into  many  things 
Hgeneration  did  not  understand  was  justified 
)}|Pasteur.  The  scientist  proved  that  the  Lil- 
Hjtians  could,  and  often  did,  get  the  better 
ofpulliver.  In  binding  him  down  they  took 
th|  names  of  small-pox,  scarlatina,  yellow 
te'ir,  cholera  morbus,  tuberculosis,  glanders, 
PJrain,  hydrophobia,  and  other  fell  plagues. 
Lijiput  transformed  grape-juice  into  wine 
VOL.  XXVII.- 39. 


and  dough  into  leavened  bread.  Pasteur  then 
studied  the  laws  of  existence  of  the  infinites- 
imal creatures  and  the  conditions  most  fa- 
vorable for  the  irreproduction  or  destruction. 
Could  he  modify  their  virulence,  and  turn 
those  bred  in  specially  arranged  liquids  into 
protecting  agencies  against  the  maladies 
which,  in  their  natural  state,  they  would 
cause  ?  To  use  a  Scriptural  expression,  he 
aimed  at  casting  out  Beelzebub  by  Beelzebub. 
It  is  certain  that  his  "  vaccines  "  are  effica- 
cious ;  but  it  is  also  to  be  feared  that  they 
break  down  health  and  weaken  defenses  against 
other  morbid  agencies.  M.  de  Lesseps  has 
deliberately  averred  that  he  never  knew  a 
fearless  man  to  die  of  cholera.  He  was  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  it  in  Egypt  in  1831,  and 
turned  his  house,  in  which  he  continued  to 
live,  into  a  hospital.  Yet  the  plague  never 
touched  him.  The  discoveries  that  fresh  air, 
rich  in  oxygen,  will  consume  microbes,  and 
that  animalcules  cannot  live  in  boiling  water, 
are  precious  ones  for  the  world.  Pasteur  may 
be  known  at  the  Academy  by  his  absent  air, 
and  eyes  in  which  there  is,  to  judge  by  their 
look,  no  visual  power.  They  are  too  habitu- 
ated to  the  microscope  to  have  any  ordinary 
human  focus,  and  they  see  as  through  a  fog. 
Pasteur  is  free  from  conceit  and  loves  what 
he  thinks  is  true.  He  has  been  freed  from 
the  cares  of  life  by  his  country.  The  present 
Chamber  of  Deputies  has  doubled  the  yearly 
pension  of  12,000  francs  which  the  Versailles 
Assembly  granted  to  him.  He  has  a  rugged 
temper  and  a  crabbed  style  as  a  writer.  Per- 
severance is  his  dominant  quality.  He  is  un- 
demonstrative. The  face  is  not  an  expressive 
one;  but  the  forehead  and  head  are  power- 
fully shaped. 

Cherbuliez  is  a  Swiss  by  birth  and  French 
by  descent  and  by  option.  There  is  a  bright- 
ness in  his  eyes  that  makes  me  think  of 
mild  moonbeams  in  which  there  is  no  heat. 
And  so  it  is  with  the  novels  of  Cherbuliez. 
They  are  sweet  as  the  moonbeams  that  slept 
upon  the  bank  in  Portia's  garden,  and  they 
are  honest  and  of  good  report ;  but  they  do 
not  take  a  grip  of  the  reader,  or  stir  him  up 
to  thought,  emotion,  or  action.  What  the 
moon  is  to  an  ardent  summer's  sun,  they  are 
to  the  novels  of  George  Sand,  of  whom  Cher- 
buliez confesses  himself  an  imitator. 

Maitre  Rousse  is  the  law  Academician. 
He  cannot  be  said  to  "  replace  "  the  Doric 
Dufaure,  who  had  the  genius  of  common 
sense,-  and  whose  plain,  unvarnished  style 
was  more  effective  than  brilliant  flights  of 
rhetorical  eloquence.  Rousse  was  brought 
into  the  Academy  by  the  dukes,  with  the 
consent  of  Jules  Simon  and  the  aid  of  Taine, 
and  some  'other  reactionists.  He  was  thus 


406 


THE  FORTY  IMMORTALS." 


rewarded  for  placing  his  talent,  which  is  not 
of  a  high  order,  at  the  service  of  the  religious 
orders  when  the  famous  decrees  were  executed 
against  them. 

Notwithstanding  the  laurels  M.  Emile  Ol- 
livier  won  at  the  bar,  he  would  resent  being 
called  "  Maitre,"  as  advocates  are  styled  in 
France.  He  hung  up  forever  his  cap  and  gown 
when  he  entered  the  Corps  Legislatif.  He  is 
in  his  own  eyes  a  statesman,  and  he  dreams 
of  being  again  the  prime  minister  of  an  em- 
peror. Prince  Napoleon  is  the  quenched  sun 
round  which  he  revolves.  Ollivier  is  a  man 
who  is  set  drunk  by  his  own  eloquence  and 
who  has  lived  for  eighteen  years  in  a  fool's 
paradise.  His  talent — which  as  a  rhetorician 
is  remarkable — is  entirely  subjective.  He  is 
a  man  of  friendly  disposition  and  boundless 
vanity.  His  infatuation  led  him  to  desert  his 
Republican  friends  and  become  an  Imperial- 
ist. It  dragged  him  into  a  war  with  Germany, 
because  he  imagined  the  Empress  was  dazzled 
by  his  genius.  In  return  for  her  supposed 
admiration,  he  lent  himself  to  her  desire  "  to 
give  Prussia  a  lesson."  If  he  had  kept  his 
head,  he  would  have  brought  the  whole  Or- 
leanist  party  and  moderate  liberals  of  every 
kind  round  to  the  Empire.  They  were  tired 
of  being  governed  and  wanted  to  reenter  the 
governing  class.  In  sign  thereof,  M.  Emile 
Ollivier  was  elected  an  Academician  shortly 
after  he  formed  a  cabinet.  Thiers  did  not 
believe  that  the  Empire  could  avoid  a  col- 
lision with  Germany,  and  he  foresaw  that 
United  Italy  would  not  be  with  France.  But 
not  to  seem  factious,  he  advised  his  friends  at 
the  Academy  to  vote  for  the  Emperor's  "lib- 
eral "  prime  minister. 

Maxime  Descamps  is  able  to  sign  himself 
"Academician,"  because  he  "  slew  the  slain" 
in  writing  a  virulent  book  against  the  Com- 
mune after  its  defeat.  He  has  the  St.  Simo- 
nian  talent  for  extracting  all  the  good  out 
of  the  world  that  it  is  capable  of  yielding  him. 
As  a  writer  he  is  not  first-rate.  What  he 
excels  in  is  giving  a  readable  form  to  statis- 
tics in  review  articles. 

M.  de  Falloux,  the  most  clerical  of  the 
Forty,  is  a  wealthy  land-holder  in  Anjou ; 
cultivates  a  large  estate  there,  and  corre- 


sponds actively  with  a  few  distinguished  ol 
gentlemen  who  share  his  ideas. 

The  chair  of  Sandeau  is  now  compete 
for  by  Alphonse  Daudet  and  Edmond  Abou 
The  former  is  an  exquisite  novelist,  but  onl 
that.  His  rival  has  many  strings  to  his  bov 
and  can  use  them  all  with  a  master's  ham 
He  is  a  journalist  and  polemist  of  the  highe: 
order,  every  inch  a  man,  healthy  in  bod 
and  in  mind,  -  warm-hearted,  and  sharj 
tongued  when  vexed,  writes  and  speaks  Frenc 
as  might  a  grandson  of  Voltaire  and  Didero 
is  frank  as  a  man  who  has  risen  direct  fro 
the  popular  class,  thinks  the  best  of  those  \ 
likes,  and  says  the  worst  of  those  who  ang 
him.  He  is  one  of  the  best  family  men 
Paris.  With  his  wife  and  ten  children  1 
occupies  a  handsome  and  most  comfortab 
town  house  and  a  chateau  in  the  country, 
both  of  which  the  virtue  of  hospitality  is  large 
exercised.  Daudet,  through  his  brother  E 
nest,  may  count  on  a  good  number  of  Orlea 
ist  votes.  But  many  of  the  Forty  do  not  lil 
the  idea  of  having  him  at  their  Thursd; 
meetings.  What  they  object  to  in  him  is  r 
habit  of  observing  those  whom  he  is  with 
if  they  were  insects  stuck  on  the  glass  plai 
of  a  microscope. 

The  Academy  has  no  action  now  on  po 
tics.    Its  action  on  literature,  as  I  have  show 
is  becoming  remote.    Life  is  too  busy  und 
the    Republic   for   Academicians    to    attei 
faithfully  to  the  task,  enjoined  in  the  statute 
of  compiling  a  dictionary.   Littre,  it  may 
said,  left  the  illustrious  company  nothing 
do.    There  are  social  advantages  in  being  o: 
of  the  Forty.    An  Academician's  wife  finds 
easy  to  obtain  good  matches  for  her  daug 
ters,  although  their  portions  are  small.   T. 
book-seller,  also,  is  more  ready  to  enter  in 
terms  with  a  novelist,  dramatist,  or  histori; 
who   is    of   the    Academy,    provided   he 
not   fossilized    or  that  his  works  have  ci 
rency.    But   if  an    author  is  in  the  way 
become  a  fossil,  the  right  to  don  the  pal: 
embroidered  coat  hastens  the  change.   T 
literary  man  does  not  keep  so  fresh   in  , 
out  of  the  Academy.    Legouve  and  Migi 
have   been   exceptions.    Renan   has   visit 
gone  down  since  he  obtained  a  chair. 


GARFIELD    IN    LONDON. 

EXTRACTS    FROM    A   JOURNAL    OF    A    TRIP   TO    EUROPE    IN    1867. 

The  following  portions  of  the  journal  kept  by  Gen.  Garfield  during  a  trip  to  Europe  with  Mrs.  Garfield 
1867,  while  he  was  yet  a  member  of  Congress,  have  been  transcribed  with  absolute  fidelity,  saving  the 
rrection  of  such  verbal  and  other  errors  as  are  inseparable  from  writing  under  such  circumstances  : 


NEW  YORK,  July  13,  1867. 

DURING  the  last  few  years  of  my  life,  I 
],ve  learned  to  distrust  any  resolution  I  may 
Jake  which  involves  keeping  a  diary  for  any 
msiderable  length  of  time.  My  life  has  been 
i:ently  so  full  of  action  that  I  have  but  little 
tne  or  taste  for  recording  its  events.  But 
|w  that  I  am  about  starting  for  Europe  with 
if  wife,  leaving  our  little  ones  behind,  I  am 
mstrained,  for  two  reasons,  to  attempt  a 
i;ord  of  the  leading  points  that  impress  me 
nile  abroad:  first,  as  my  friend  Dr.  Lieber 
>ites,  if  I  do  not  take  notes,  I  shall  leave 
r)ach  of  the  trip  a  chaos  behind  me  ;  second, 
i  some  what  particular  statement  of  occur- 
nces  and  impressions  will  probably  some  day 
1  pleasant  and  profitable  for  our  children. 
"iese  two  points  being  kept  in  mind  will 
2:ount  for  the  notices  of  little  things  which 
a?  likely  to  be  found  in  these  pages,  and 
a)o  for  the  speculations  on  national  and 
ilividual  life  and  character. 

When  I  entered  Williams  College,  in  1854, 
brobably  knew  less  of  Shakspere  than  any 
sdent  of  my  age  and  attainments  in  the 
cmtry.  Though  this  was  a  shame  to  me,  yet 
Lad  the  pleasure  of  bringing  to  those  great 
perns  a  mind  of  some  culture  and  imagina- 
t  n,  and  my  first  impressions  were  very  strong 
a|i  vivid.  Something  like  this  may  occur  in 
rfcrence  to  this  trip ;  and,  however  much  ig- 
•rance  I  may  exhibit,  I  shall  here  speak  of 
viat  impresses  me,  whether  it  be  that  which 
h  been  adjudged  remarkable  or  not. 

PREPARATIONS. 

Material.  We  have  reduced  our  luggage 
Wtwo  large  leather  satchels,  and  we  take  no 
b->ks  except  "  Harper's  Book  of  Travel," 
Fsquelle,  a  French  dictionary,  and  a  book  of 
Knch  conversation. 

.  Funds.    I  take   a  letter  of  credit  from 
wn  Brothers,  a  small  bill  of  exchange  on 
•twn,  Shipley  &  Company,  of  London,  and 
|r  balance   in   sovereigns   and    napoleons. 
Ts  sight  of  coin  is  a  reminder  of  the  days 
btpre  greenbacks  and  scrip  had  been  born  of 
reellion.    In   running  over  my  coin  with  a 
eddish  curiosity,  I  find   the    stamp  of  the 
ehr  Napoleon,  of  Louis  XVI.,  Louis  Phi- 
»e,  and  Napoleon  III.    I  notice  that  the 
stamps   of    Napoleon    III.  have    no 


laurel  wreath  on  the  brow,  but  the  later  ones 
have.  Did  he  assume  that  because  of  the 
Austrian  war  or  the  Crimean  ? 

3.  The  Start.  At  12  o'clock  and  twenty- 
five  minutes,  New  York  time  (12.08  by 
Washington  time),  our  lines  were  cast  off, 
and  the  steamer  City  of  London  left  her  wharf, 
Pier  Number  45,  North  River.  As  I  looked 
upon  the  crowd  of  people  on  the  shore  wav- 
ing their  good-byes,  some  with  streaming 
eyes  and  the  shadow  of  loneliness  and  sorrow 
coming  over  them,  I  felt  that,  though  there 
was  not  one  face  among  them  I  knew,  and 
probably  none  who  knew  me,  yet  they  were 
my  countrymen,  sharers  with  me  of  the  honor 
and  glory  of  the  great  Republic  which  I  was 
leaving,  and  then  sprang  up  in  my  heart  a 
kind  of  feeling  of  bereavement  at  leaving 
them.  Our  steamer  is  one  of  the  largest  on 
the  ocean.  She  is  395  feet  long,  draws  22^ 
feet  of  water,  as  now  loaded ;  is  registered 
for  1880  tons  burden,  and  allowed  to  carry 
780  passengers.  She  was  built  on  the  Clyde, 
and  is  commanded  and  manned  by  English- 
men. The  master,  Captain  Brooks,  is  a  fine 
type  of  the  solid,  capable  Englishman.  We 
have  about  50  cabin  passengers,  and  270  in  the 
steerage.  The  freight  is  mainly  cheese,  destined 
ultimately  for  the  ports  of  the  Mediterranean. 
We  had  hardly  passed  the  "  Hook "  when 
we  sailed  due  east.  At  eight  in  the  evening 
we  saw  the  last  glimpse  of  land :  it  was  the 
eastern  point  of  Long  Island.  A  splendid 
cloud-rack  in  the  north  gave  us  a  picture, 
which,  by  looking  at,  became  Niagara  in  the 
sky.  A  fine  breeze  gives  a  delightful  coolness 
to  the  atmosphere,  and  now,  at  9  p.  M.,  we 
go  below  to  sleep,  after  saying  to  our  native 
land  good-night. 

SUNDAY,  July  14,  1867. 

AFTER  a  tolerably  fair  night's  rest,  awoke 
at  half-past  five.  The  sea  was  only  a  little 
rougher  than  last  evening,  and  in  consequence 
of  not  having  the  windows  of  our  state-room 
closely  fastened,  the  salt  water  had  dashed  in 
and  pretty  thoroughly  saturated  our  carpet 
and  lounge.  At  six,  went  on  deck  and  found 
the  try-sails  set  and  the  wind  from  the  north- 
east helping  us  a  little. 

At  half-past  10,  Dr.  H.  read  service  in  the 
cabin,  and  preached  a  short  discourse.  We 


408 


GAR  FIELD  IN  LONDON. 


were  so  intent  in  watching  the  sailors,  as  they 
loosed  and  unfurled  the  top-sails  to  catch 
the  breeze,  which  had  veered  a  little  to  the 
north,  that  we  did  not  know  that  there  was 
any  religious  service  till  it  was  nearly  ended. 
We  went  in  long  enough  to  hear  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  sermon  and  the  last  prayers.  There 
was  a  muscular  denunciation  of  sin,  which 
struck  me  as  not  usual  to  modern  thoughts. 
Why  not  better  to  let  sin  alone,  and  preach 
mercy  and  righteousness  ?  After  all,  may  it 
not  be  found  in  the  final  analysis  that  sin  is 
negative,  and  duty,  truth,  and  love  are  the 
only  positive  classes  of  realities  ?  If  we  attend 
to  these,  we  may  let  sin  take  care  of  itself. 

When  the  Doctor's  service  ended,  he  came 
to  me  and  talked  of  his  visit  to  America.  He 
said  there  was  more  liberality  between  de- 
nominations in  the  United  States  than  in 
Europe ;  thought  it  was  partly  the  result  of  the 
late  war  for  the  Union.  I  think  there  is  qiwd- 
dam  commune  vinculum  among  virtues  and 
great  reforms,  as  Cicero  says,  in  his  Oration  for 
the  poet  Archias,  there  is  among  the  liberal  arts. 
Hence,  political  union  is  inducing  religious 
union  and  the  abolition  of  sects.  Among  all  the 
evils  of  sectarianism,  there  is  this  one  good  thing 
to  a  philosophical  mind :  it  enables  us  to  see  the 
solidarity  of  religious  truth,  as  we  do  objects  in 
the  stereoscope.  Wonder  if  "  Ecce  Homo  "  and 
"Ecce  Deus"*  might  not  be  the  two  eyes  of 
the  same  observer,  and  thus  enable  him  to  see 
the  God-man  on  both  sides  at  once  ? 

There  is  a  most  pure  and  refreshing  breeze 
on  deck,  and  the  day  is  as  beautiful  as  we 
could  wish.  A  steamer  has  just  come  in  sight 
behind  us,  faster  than  we  are,  and  we  must  be 
humiliated,  I  suppose,  by  having  her  pass  us. 
They  say  it  is  the  steamer  Manhattan  which  is 
to  conquer  us.  Well,  it  is  some  consolation 
that  it  is  New  York  versus  London. 

Took  a  good  dinner  at  4  P.  M.,  after  which 
I  was  invited  by  the  captain  to  his  room  to 
take  a  cup  of  coffee  with  him  and  his  friend 
Mr.  G.,  agent  for  English  claims  in  the  United 
States.  Had  a  pleasant  conversation  on  the 
late  war.  and  the  relations  of  the  two  countries. 
Walked  the  deck  with  C.  for  an  hour  and 
a  half;  saw  the  sun  sink  and  the  stars  come 
out.  The  full  moon  is  on  our  starboard,  and 
paves  a  broad  highway  from  us  to  the  horizon 
with  silver.  On  the  larboard,  we  watch  the 
faint  moon-shadow  of  the  ship  on  the  waves, 
and  wonder  if  shadows  are  not  entities  which 
shall  never  perish,  but,  in  the  infinite  permu- 
tations of  the  water,  may,  a  thousand  years 
hence,  reconstruct  the  image  of  this  ship  and 
crew  somewhere  on  the  ocean. 

*  These  two  remarkable  books  had  recently  ap- 
peared anonymously,  and  there  was  much  curiosity 
and  speculation  regarding  their  authorship. 


MONDAY,  July  15,  1867. 

AROSE  at  6  A.  M.  Day  more  beautiful,  i 
possible,  than  yesterday.  Warmer  than  then 
and  it  was  suggested  by  some  of  the  passen' 
gers  that  we  had  reached  the  influence  of  th-l 
Gulf  Stream.  Temperature  of  the  air,  62° 
of  the  sea,  66°;  wind  same  as  last  evening- 
nearly  ahead.  Sailors  in  the  forecastle  thin! 
it  is  because  we  have  a  clergyman  aboarc 
Had  some  fun  with  Dr.  H.  in  reference  to  ii 
Told  him  the  opinion  was  evidently  descende- 
from  the  example  of  Jonah.  Talked  with  hir 
and  the  captain  in  reference  to  the  superst: 
tions  of  sailors.  The  captain  says  not  on 
sailor  in  a  thousand  would  throw  a  cat  ovei 
board.  Should  it  be  done,  they  would  expec, 
disaster.  Dr.  H.  spoke  of  the  habit  in  En§ 
land  of  throwing  a  slipper  after  a  friend  £ 
he  was  leaving.  He  told  of  an  Irish  gentle 
man  who  was  going  away,  and,  being  anxioi 
that  his  wife  should  throw  her  slipper,  looke 
back  and  caught  the  heel  of  it  in  his  ey< 
which  gave  him  a  severe  wound.  While  h 
was  gone,  his  ticket  drew  a  large  prize  in  thj 
lottery,  and  all  his  neighbors  said  it  was  b( 
cause  of  the  vigorous  throw  of  the  slippe 
The  Doctor  thought  this  custom  is  derive1 
from  the  Bible,  wherein  a  shoe  is  considere 
the  symbol  of  a  good  wife.  I  do  not  remeni 
ber  the  passage  to  which  he  referred ;  but 
ventured  to  quote,  per  contra,  "  Over  Edoi 
will  I  cast  out  my  shoe,"  which  I  had  alwaj. 
regarded  as  a  malediction.  The  Doctor  e 
capes  the  force  of  this  by  declaring  the  passa£ 
improperly  translated.  The  virtue  of  horst 
shoes  fastened  up  over  doors  and  on  the  bov 
of  ships  was  also  discussed.  It  is  common  1 
England  and  the  United  States.  This  th 
Doctor  was  disposed  to  trace  to  a  Bible  or 
gin.  Iron,  he  said,  was  the  symbol  of  tl" 
Roman  Empire,  or  of  power ;  hence  it  is  coi 
sidered  a  good  omen  to  find  iron,  especial! 
a  horseshoe.  I  don't  think  that  is  the  origi 
of  it.  I  suggested  it  might  be  from  the  hors* 
shoe  magnet  and  its  marvelous  propertie 
This  theory  seemed  to  take  with  the  compar 
better  than  the  Doctor's;  but  I  suspect  • 
would  be  necessary  to  find  out,  before  niakir 
much  noise  about  my  theory,  whether  tl 
horseshoe  magnet  is  older  or  younger  tha 
the  superstition. 

A  few  minutes  before  12  our  engines  stoppe< 
in  consequence  of  some  derangements  of  tl 
brass  bearings,  and  now,  at  1.40,  we  are  si 
lying— 

"  As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  sea  is  very  calm,  and  a  fishing 
from  Nova  Scotia  is  within  a  few  miles 
her  sail  flapping  uselessly,  though  she 
to  creep  a  little  to  the  westward.    I  am 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


409 


much  annoyed  as  most  of  the  passengers 
iem  to  be  at  the  delay,  for  I  came  to  rest, 
nd  this  is  almost  the  first  time  for  six  years  I 
Duld  say  I  had  nothing  to  do,  and  I  am  trying 

let  my  body  and  mind  lie  fallow  awhile. 

I  take  this  opportunity  to  set  it  down  that  I 
ave  no  plan  of  travel  determined  upon,  it 
eing  my  main  purpose  to  rest,  and  do  as 

may  please  when  the  time  comes.  I  have 
ot  even  determined  whether  I  will  stop  at 
ueenstown  or  go  on  to  Liverpool. 

After  nearly  four  hours'  delay  we  started 
rain,  and  the  day  passed  off  most  delightfully. 

TUESDAY,  July  16,  1867. 

AROSE  to  a  bright  morning  and  a  good 
reakfast.  The  sea  is,  if  possible,  more  quiet 
tan  yesterday.  It  realizes  the  "czquora  vitrea  " 
':  which  Horace  speaks. 

Found  a  young  man  who  is  on  his  way  to 
ermany  to  study.  He  is  beginning  German, 
id  I  have  agreed  to  hear  him  recite  while 
is  on  board.  In  the  afternoon,  several 
purs  were  consumed  on  the  main  deck  in 
imes  of  skill,  viz. :  quoits,  shuffle-board, 
arking  with  a  piece  of  chalk  with  the  feet 

spended  in  a  noose,  and  backing  up  on  the 

nds  as  far  as  possible.  Only  the  captain 
ent  beyond  me.  The  clergy  looked  on  and 
liled  a  condescending  smile ;  but  I  have  no 

ubt  they  wanted  to  be  at  it  themselves, 
id  would  have  been  but  for  the  laws  of 

nisterial  propriety.  The  barometer  is  drop- 
ng  a  little. 

WEDNESDAY,  July  17,  1867. 

AWOKE  with  a  rough   sea,  and  a  strong 

nd  with  driving  rain. 

After  dinner,  took  coffee  and  a  cigar  with 
<e  captain,  and  played  cribbage  in  the  even- 

g.   To-night  I  won  a  game  of  chess  from 

tn.    He  says  if  this  day  does  not  make  me 

asick,  none  will.  Heard  from  him  the  story 
his  life.   Very  interesting.   I  could  almost 

;1  the  old  passion  for  the  sea  arise  in  my 

art  again.   Were  I  not  what  I  am,  I  should 

ve  been  a  sailor. 

THURSDAY,  July  18,  1867. 

SEA  calmer  this  morning.  C.  well.  We 
imt  on  deck  about  half-past  seven,  and  soon 

vv  Newfoundland   low-lying   to  the  north 

d  east.    This  is  the  last  glimpse  we  shall 

ve  of  North  America. 

I  am  feeling  better  than  for  three  weeks. 

Strange  I  am  not  sick  with  this  rocking 
totion. 

SUNDAY,  July  21,  1867. 
IA  LOVELY  day,  with  bright,  warm  sunshine. 
|  io.  the  captain  read    the  church-service, 

^d  at  its  conclusion  Doctor  H delivered 

vigorous    and    impressive    discourse 


from  Acts  iv.  12.  It  is  rarely  that  I  listen  to 
a  broader  or  more  liberal  sermon.  The  lead- 
ing thought  was  that  salvation  would  be  the 
result  of  attraction  to  Christ,  and  not  the  fear 
of  hell ;  that  religion  did  not  make  cowards, 
but  heroes,  of  men.  His  illustrations,  borrowed 
from  the  ship  and  our  voyage,  were  very  fine ; 
e.  £".,  the  ship's  lamps  compared  with  reason 
or  conscience  as  a  guide ;  the  ship  stranded 
and  broken  up — not  by  storm,  but  by  the 
usual  motion  of  the  waves — likened  to  the 
common  effects  of  sin  on  the  soul  to  destroy  it. 

I  hear  that  the  Doctor  is  called  the  Spur- 
geon  of  Ireland,  and  I  can  well  believe  it. 

A  young  Episcopalian  clergyman  from  Con- 
necticut preached  at  6  p.  M.  a  very  sensible 
and  earnest  discourse.  We  have  had  a  de- 
lightful day. 

WEDNESDAY,  July  24,  1867. 

THE  belief  that  we  are  to  reach  Ireland 
before  to-morrow  morning  has  made  a  great 
change  in  the  appearance  of  all  on  board.  The 
ship  is  being  washed  and  the  upper  works  re- 
painted, that  she  may  reach  home  with  a  bright 
face.  Passengers  we  are  to  leave  at  Queens- 
town  are  packing  up  their  luggage  and  making 
ready.  Many  who  have  become  pleasant  ac- 
quaintances are  now  asking  each  other's  names 
for  the  first  time.  This  arises  from  the  peculiar- 
ity of  life  on  shipboard ;  all  formality  is  aban- 
doned, and,  being  involved  in  a  common  des- 
tiny for  the  time  being,  they  feel  that  right  to 
each  other  which  isolation  confers  and  assume 
to  be  acquainted.  The  name  and  antecedents 
are  of  little  consequence,  the  chief  test  being 
what  each  brings  on  board  of  intellect  and 
good-fellowship  for  the  benefit  of  all.  The 
people  I  have  become  acquainted  with  on 
this  ship  will  remain  in  my  memory  as  a  little 
world  apart  from  all  the  rest  of  mankind.  I  am 
quite  sure  I  have  no  adequate  or  even  correct 
knowledge  of  their  characters,  and  am  equally 
sure  that,  from  what  they  have  seen  of  me, 
they  have  no  knowledge  of  mine. 

The  life  on  board  ship  is  not  altogether  an 
artificial  one,  but  it  is  another  from  the  usual 
life  we  lead.  Each  human  being  has  a 
number  of  possible  characters  in  him  which 
changed  circumstances  may  develop.  Cer- 
tainly life  on  the  sea  brings  out  one  quite 
unique.  Mine  is  as  much  a  surprise  to  me  as 
it  could  be  to  any  one  else.  I  have  purposely 
become  absorbed  in  the  parenthetic  life,  and 
have  enjoyed  it  so  much  that  a  fellow-pas- 
senger remarked  to  C.  that  it  must  be  that  I 
would  be  sorry  when  we  landed. 

The  record  I  have  kept  of  the  bearings  and 
distances  of  our  passage  has  been  kept  chiefly 
for  the  purpose  of  testing  the  practical  accu- 
racy of  the  science  of  navigation.  The  test 
was  brought  to  trial  to-day.  At  noon  the 


410 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


captain,  after  telling  where  we  were,  and 
computing  the  distance  to  Queenstown  (one 
hundred  and  sixty-nine  miles),  and  taking  into 
account  the  speed  of  the  ship  and  the  con- 
dition of  sea  and  sky,  said  we  would  see  an 
Irish  island,  called  the  "  Little  Skelligs,"  about 
6  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  to-day.  He  said  it 
would  not  be  thirty  minutes  either  way  from 
that  time.  At  5  o'clock  there  came  a  bright, 
brief  shower,  which  cleared  up  the  atmosphere, 
and  at  ten  minutes  before  6  the  little  speck  of 
an  island  was  seen;  and  the  joyful  "Land 
ho !  "  and  the  bells  brought  everybody  on 
deck.  C.  suggested  that  it  was  fitting  we  should 
first  see  Ireland  in  sunshine  and  tears.  In 
half  an  hour  we  were  within  three  miles  of  the 
main-land,  our  signals  were  answered  from 
the  shore,  and  it  was  known  probably  in  an 
hour  afterward  to  the  two  worlds  that  our 
ship  had  safely  crossed  the  Atlantic. 

The  first  impression  that  Ireland  makes 
upon  me  is  the  peculiar  light  which  surrounds 
distant  objects.  Instead  of  the  deep  indigo- 
blue  of  our  American  landscape,  there  is  a 
delicate,  hazy  purple,  which  I  am  told  is  pe- 
culiar to  the  whole  of  north-western  Europe. 
It  must  arise  from  the  difference  in  climatic  and 
atmospheric  conditions ;  it  will  be  a  pleasant 
question  to  discuss  with  some  artist  or  scien- 
tific man.  We  came  near  enough  to  land  to 
see  the  verdure,  and  this  also  had  a  peculiar 
coloring;  not  the  dark,  rich  green  of  the 
United  States,  but  a  light  terre  verte  tint,  which 
our  lichens  have.  I  asked  Dr.  H.  if  they  were 
not  lichened  cliffs  which  we  saw ;  but  he  said 
it  was  probably  heather,  or  the  usual  verdure. 
I  was  told  by  the  Doctor  and  his  party  that 
our  verdure  is  a  much  darker,  richer  green 
than  that  of  Europe. 

THURSDAY,  July  25,  1867. 
AT  3  o'clock,  just  as  the  dawn  was  mak- 
ing the  east  gray,  a  little  side-wheel  steamer 
came  alongside  as  we  lay  still  at  the  mouth 
of  Cork  Harbor,  ten  miles  from  Queenstown, 
and  after  a  terrible  tumbling  of  luggage, 
without  regard  either  to  trunks  or  contents, 
more  than  three-quarters  of  all  our  com- 
pany went  on  board.  The  bell  of  the  little 
tender  rang,  and  with  three  cheers  for  the 
ship,  answered  by  our  debarking  friends  with 
three  more,  away  they  went.  Our  stately 
ship  turned  her  head  toward  the  dawn,  and 
steamed  along  the  Irish  coast,  while  I  went 
back  to  sleep  and  dream  of  the  brave  old 
world  that  has  just  greeted  us  with  such  a 
happy  welcome.  Arose  at  half-past  8,  and 
found  we  were  still  steaming  along  the  south- 
ern coast  of  Ireland.  Passed  the  Tuskar 
Rock  light-house  about  10  A.  M.,  and  a  little 
before  noon  lost  sight  of  Ireland,  and,  cross- 


ing the  mouth  of  St.  George's  Channel,  carm 
in  sight  of  Wales,  and  coasted  up  the  channe 
all  day.  The  rough  promontories  and  jaggec 
hills  were  quite  in  keeping  with  the  characte: 
of  that  hardy  race  of  Cambrians  from  whon 
I  am  glad  to  draw  my  origin.  We  passed  th< 
Menai  Strait,  which  separates  Anglesea  fron 
the  main-land,  but  which  was  bridged  by  th< 
genius  and  enterprise  of  Stephenson.  Passec 
Amlwch,  near  where  the  Royal  Charte. 
steam-ship  was  wrecked  a  few  years  since 
The  water  has  here  a  peculiar  pea-greei 
color,  quite  different  from  our  American  seas 
The  channel  appears  to  be  a  very  fickle  water 
easily  provoked  by  the  wind.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  the  breeze  converted  its  calm  water 
into  a  troubled  sea.  After  passing  around  th« 
island  of  Holyhead,  from  which  we  saw  thi 
Dublin  mail  steamer  making  her  way  to  Ire 
land,  we  turned  into  the  Irish  Sea,  and  at  io.3< 
p.  M.  lay  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mersey,  wait 
ing  for  the  tide  to  enable  us  to  cross  the  ba 
and  go  on  to  Liverpool,  nine  miles  above 
We  could  not  cross  till  3,  and  so  slept  on< 
night  more  on  board  ship. 

FRIDAY,  July  26,  1867.  ' 
BETWEEN  3  and  5  o'clock  A.  M.,  the  shi] 
made  her  way  up  the  Mersey,  and  waited  fo 
higher  tide  to  get  into  her  dock.  In  lookin, 
out  upon  the  muddy  water  of  the  river,  I  wa 
reminded  of  the  use  made  of  Shakspere  b 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  in  her  "  Sunny  Mem 
ories  of  Foreign  Lands  "  : 

*•'  The  quality  of  Mersey  is  not  strained !  " 

When  the  pier-mark  showed  twenty-on 
feet,  we  were  enabled  to  be  worked  into  ou 
dock.  Our  ship  drew  twenty-two  and  a  hal 
feet  when  we  left  New  York,  but  we  hav 
consumed  about  seven  hundred  tons  of  coa! 
which  has  lifted  us  out  of  water  about  tw< 
feet.  The  Liverpool  docks  are  a  most  re 
markable  exhibition  of  skill  and  energy.  1 
long  sea-wall,  extending  for  miles  on  th 
Mersey,  and  parallel  to  the  shore,  is  opene< 
every  few  hundred  feet  by  entrances  am- 
gates,  where  ships  may  enter,  and  manifol< 
docks  branch  off  in  the  interior  from  thes 
entrances.  The  masonry  is  peculiar  in  havin, 
large  masses  of  stone  set  in  obliquely  to  bint 
the  walls.  There  are  fifteen  miles  of  docks,  am 
the  city  derives  its  wealth  almost  wholly  fror 
its  commerce.  The  name  of  the  city  is 
to  be  derived  from  "  liver,"  the  name 
fabulous  bird,  and  a  pool  which  origi 
occupied  most  of  the  space  of  the  p: 
city.  At  7.30  A.  M.  we  lay  in  dock, 
thousands  of  masts  on  all  sides  of  us, 
before  8  stood  on  English  soil.  Just  as 
were  landing,  a  drove  of  cabs  came  in  si' 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


411 


clumsy,  heavy-wheeled  vehicle,  drawn  by 
ne  horse.  After  the  inspection  of  our  lug- 
;age,  we  took  a  cab,  and  in  fifteen  minutes 
/ere  set  down  at  the  "  Angel,"  and  took  a 
uiet,  quaintly  furnished  room  on  the  third 
oor.  I  was  struck  with  the  fact  that  the 
ricks  were  from  half  an  inch  to  an  inch 
licker  than  ours. 

We   drove   through    the   market   and  the 

emetery,  visited  Nelson's  statue  and  Hus- 

isson's.    This  place  was  the  home  of  both 

|:Iuskisson    and    Canning.    The   former   was 

ailed  in  1830,  on  the  occasion  of  opening  the 

irst  important  steam  railway  in  the  world — 

hat  between  Liverpool   and  Manchester,  I 

hink.    I  am  particularly  interested  in  him  in 

Consequence  of  the  prominent  part  he  took 

n  the  great  financial  discussions  of  1810. 


MONDAY,  July  29,  1867. 

AT  half-past  9  A.  M.  we  took  the  N.  W. 
R.'y  for  London.  We  took  a  second-class 
poach,  at  £2  2S.  for  both.  The  road  was  very 
smooth,  and  after  stopping  at  Crewe — there 
,vas  but  one  stop  (Rugby)  in  one  hundred 
md  eighty  miles — we  reached  London  in 
ess  than  six  hours,  sometimes  going  at  the 
•ate  of  fifty  miles  per  hour.  Stayed  at  the 
Langham  Hotel  in  Regent  street.  Found 
jHenry  J.  Raymond  and  Benj.  Moran,  U.  S. 
Secretary  of  Legation,  and  went  with  them 
o  Parliament.  The  separation  of  specimens 

natural  history  from  works  of  art  in  the 
British  Museum  was  the  subject  under  dis- 
cussion. The  Liberals  held  that  the  Museum 
s  so  managed  that  the  common  people  can 
*et  but  little  benefit  from  it,  since  it  is  not  open 
at  night  or  on  Sundays.  Layard  spoke  on 
the  side  of  the  Opposition.  Heard  Disraeli 
'and  two  others  from  the  Treasury  bench.  The 
speaking  is  much  more  conversational  and 
!busines's-like  than  in  Congress ;  but  there  is  a 
;curious  and  painful  hesitating  in  almost  every 
jspeaker.  At  half-past  8,  Mr.  Moran  called 
for  me,  and  obtained  my  admission  into  the 
(House  of  Lords,  where  I  sat  on  the  steps  of 
[the  throne,  and  heard  the  debates  for  about 
two  hours,  so  far  as  such  speaking  could  be 
heard  at  all.  Bulwer  and  the  Prince  of  Wales 
had  been  in,  but  were  out  when  I  arrived. 
Heard  Lord  Russell,  Lord  Malmesbury,  and 
several  others,  and  saw  a  division  on  the  Re- 
jform  Bill.  I  am  strongly  impressed  with  the 
\  democratic  influences  which  are  very  mani- 
<  test  in  both  Houses.  There  seems  to  be  as 
much  of  the  demagogical  spirit  here  as  in 
our  Congress.  Underneath  the  wigs  of  the 
Speaker  and  Chancellor  there  is  still  a  con- 
!  stant  reference  to  the  demands  of  the  people. 
The  halls  are  very  elaborately  furnished,  and 
]  have  the  brilliancy  which  the  florid  Gothic 


always  gives  to  a  building ;  but  they  are  not 
so  well  fitted  to  stand  the  assaults  of  time  as 
is  our  more  Grecian  Capitol. 

Went  to  Covent  Garden  Music  Hall, — an 
old  place  of  resort  for  theatrical  people  for  a 
hundred  years,  filled  with  pictures  of  actors, 
— and  heard  fine  singing  of  ballads,  by  men 
and  boys  only.  Home  at  midnight. 

TUESDAY,  July  30,  1867. 

VISITED  St.  Paul's  and  Westminster  Ab- 
bey, where  we  spent  most  of  the  day.  In  the 
evening  went  to  the  House  of  Lords  with 
Senator  Morrill  of  Vermont  and  Mr.  Gibbs 
of  Paris.  Heard  Lord  Cairns's  speech  on  his 
two-vote  system  for  three-cornered  constitu- 
encies.* 

Also,  short  speech  from  Lord  Cardigan, 
once  the  leader  of  the  "  noble  six  hundred  " 
at  Balaklava.  Also  had  a  drive  late  in  the 
evening  through  the  streets.  Home  a  little 
before  midnight.  Can't  undertake  to  give  the 
details  of  the  day's  work. 

THURSDAY,  Aug.  i,  1867. 

SPENT  the  afternoon  in  Westminster  Hall 
and  Abbey.  The  statuary  and  paintings  in 
Westminster  Hall  are  worthy  of  the  nation, 
and  shame  me  when  I  think  of  the  art  in  our 
noble  Capitol  at  Washington.  Note  the  "  Last 
Sleep  of  Argyle,"  both  from  its  subject  and 
its  execution.  In  all  the  monuments  I  have 
observed  a  manifest  determination  to  ignore 
Cromwell  and  his  associates  in  the  work 
they  accomplished  for  England.  One  picture, 
"The  Burial  of  Charles  I.,"  is  an  evident 
attempt  to  canonize  him  and  vilify  the  Puri- 
tans, and  yet  there  is  the  picture  of  "The 
Embarkation  of  the  Pilgrims"  for  New  Eng- 
land from  Delft  Haven,  which  seems  to  indi- 
cate some  love  for  them. 

The  sad  evidences  of  decay  which  meet 
one  everywhere  in  the  Abbey  make  the 
pomp  of  kings  a  mockery.  The  Poets'  Cor- 
ner is  far  more  to  me  than  the  Chapel  of 
Henry  VII.  and  all  the  costly  shrines  and 
tombs  with  which  the  head  of  the  cross  is 
filled.  Went  through  the  cloisters  where  old 
monks  secluded  themselves  in  Catholic  times. 

In  the  evening,  visited  both  Houses  of  Par- 
liament, but  spent  most  of  the  evening  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  Lord  Derby's  gout  is  suffi- 
ciently allayed  to  allow  him  to  be  in  his  seat, 
and  I  had  the  privilege  of  hearing  speeches 
from  him,  Lord  Russell,  and  Earl  Grey — the 

*  "  After  clause  8,  Lord  Cairns  moved  to  insert  the 
following  clause :  '  At  a  contested  Election  for  any 
County  or  Borough  represented  by  Three  Members, 
no  Person  shall  vote  for  more  than  Two  Candidates.'  " 

(Parliamentary  Reform — Representation  of  the 
People  Bill  — No.  227,  Lords.) 


4I2 


GAR  FIELD  IN  LONDON. 


latter  two  in  the  Opposition.  On  a  division 
on  raising  the  disfranchising  clause  from  ten 
thousand  to  twelve  thousand,  the  vote  was : 
Ministry,  98;  Opposition,  86, — a  close  pull 
for  Derby.  Derby  is  the  best  speaker  I  have 
heard.  Saw  Wm.  E.  Gladstone, — fine  face. 

FRIDAY,  August  2,  1867. 
SPENT  the  whole  day  in  the  lower  story  of 
the  British  Museum.  The  Elgin  marbles  dis- 
appoint me.  They  are  more  decayed  and  frag- 
mentary than  I  had  expected  to  see  them ; 
still,  I  observe  that  decay  is,  in  some  instances, 
in  the  inverse  order  of  age.  Westminster 
Abbey  is  more  decayed  than  the  Elgin  mar- 
bles, and  they  much  more  than  the  statues 
and  tablets  from  Nineveh.  A  question  was 
raised  in  my  mind,  whether  the  age  of  statuary 
has  not  passed,  and  whether  better  and  higher 
methods  of  conserving  the  past  cannot  be 
found.  This  suggestion  applies  only  to  out- 
door statuary.  With  such  as  I  saw  in  St. 
Stephen's  Hall  I  am  delighted.  Their  value 
cannot  be  overestimated.  The  autographs  of 
kings  and  authors  are  very  full  and  valuable ; 
but,  everywhere,  I  find  an  old  writer  takes  a 
stronger  hold  on  my  heart  than  most  of  the 
old  kings.  There  was  John  Milton's  contract 
for  the  sale  of  the  copyright  of  "  Paradise 
Lost,"  and  the  autographs  of  nearly  every 
literary  man  England  has  produced.  The 
famous  library  which  George  III.  bequeathed 
to  the  Museum  makes  me  like  the  old  hater 
of  the  United  States.  The  Anglo -Roman 
antiquities  were  of  the  most  interesting  char- 
acter, exhibiting  Roman  art  and  industry  as 
established  in  Britain ;  immense  pigs  of  lead, 
with  Roman  emperors'  names  stamped  upon 
them.  I  should  have  mentioned  that,  in  the 
morning,  I  called  on  our  Minister,  Charles 
Francis  Adams,  with  whom  I  had  a  long  and 
interesting  conversation  on  American  politics. 

SATURDAY,  August  3,  1867. 

WE  took  the  train  on  the  South-Western 
Railway,  at  Waterloo  Station,  for  Teddington, 
about  sixteen  miles  from  London.  From  there 
we  walked  about  two  miles  to  Hampton 
Court,  passing,  on  the  way  through  Bushy 
Park,  a  noble  grove,  with  an  avenue  of  horse- 
chestnut  trees  in  the  center  more  than  a  mile 
long.  The  trees  are  from  two  to  three  feet  in 
diameter,  and  are  in  exact  rows.  The  avenue 
is  about  one  hundred  feet  wide,  and  the  trees 
on  either  side  three  rods  apart.  Back  of  each 
row  of  horse-chestnuts  are  four  rows  of  elms 
and  oaks,  making  in  all  more  than  one  thou- 
sand five  hundred  noble  trees,  on  a  sward  of 
most  soft  and  beautiful  texture.  The  upper 
end  of  the  avenue  expands  into  a  broad  circle, 


inclosing  a  fine  pond,  in  the  center  of  whid 
is  a  statue  of  Diana  and  her  attendants.  Three 
hundred  yards  beyond  the  basin  we  enter  th< 
grounds  of  Hampton  Court,  through  a  gat* 
on  the  posts  of  which  are  two  huge  lions  i> 
stone.  This  noble  old  palace  and  ground 
were  for  a  long  time  the  seat  of  a  Chapti 
the  Hospitallers  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem.  I: 
1515,  when  Cardinal  Wolsey  was  at  the  heigh 
of  his  power,  he. sent  physicians  to  find  th< 
most  healthful  locality  within  twenty  miles  o 
London.  They  selected  this  spot,  and  Wol 
sey  purchased  it,  erecting  a  palace  more  rega 
than  any  King  of  England  had  yet  built 
When  Henry  VIII.  became  jealous  of  it: 
magnificence,  Wolsey  presented  it  to  him 
Here  Henry  lived,  and  here  much  of  th< 
splendor  and  shame  of  his  social  life  was  ex 
hibited.  Here  Elizabeth  lived  many  years 
The  good  William  and  Mary  engaged  Wrei 
to  enlarge  and  beautify  the  palace  and  grounds 
and  resided  here.  Anne,  also,  and  James,  anc 
the  two  Charleses,  and  succeeding  sovereigns 
down  to,  and  including,  George  II.  Sinct 
then  the  sovereigns  have  made  Windsor  theb 
country  place,  and  Hampton  Court  has  passec 
into  a  kind  of  hospital.  The  only  royal  rule 
imposed  upon  visitors  is  that  they  must  nol 
enter  the  precincts  with  any  such  plebeiar 
vehicle  as  a  hansom  or  cab ;  nothing  less  than 
a  u  fly  "will  do.  The  building  covers  about 
eight  acres,  and  the  grounds  are  almost  as 
beautiful  as  I  can  conceive  level  ground  tc 
be  made.  I  never  weary  of  looking  at  English 
turf;  we  have  nothing  like  it  in  the  United 
States.  When  London  can  put  over  a  square 
mile  of  land  in  a  single  park,  and  have  a 
dozen  of  them,  great  and  small,  it  is  a  shame 
that  in  a  country  where  we  have  both  room 
and  noble  trees  we  have  not  one  outside  of 
New  York  and  Baltimore  worthy  of  the 
name.*  The  grounds  of  Hampton  Court 
are  laid  out  a  little  too  regularly,  evi- 
dently on  the  artificial  French  model;  but 
they  are,  nevertheless,  very  beautiful.  We 
visited  the  state  apartments  of  William  and 
Mary,  which  seemed  to  have  been  constructed  § 
to  symbolize  and  perpetuate  the  true  and  no- 
ble love  of  those  two  most  worthy  people. 
There  are  few  sovereigns  for  whom  I  have  so 
high  a  regard  and  admiration  as  these.  Much 
of  the  state  furniture  remains  in  the  building, 
and  there  are  about  one  thousand  two  hundred 
pictures, —  many  poor,  but  some  very  good. 
A  large  number  of  quaint  old  pictures  by 
Hans  Holbein,  which  made  me  laugh  at  tl 
grotesqueness,  and  yet  I  greatly  admire  tl 
power  and  perfection.  A  portrait  of  bluff  K 
Hal,  seated  under  a  canopy  with  one  of  r 
wives,  and  the  Princess  Elizabeth  near  hi 
*  Written  in  1867. 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


as  a  most  singular  specimen  of  a  Dutch  in- 
rior.  The  embarkation  of  Henry  VIII.  from 
'over,  in  1520,  and  the  meeting  of  Henry 
ith  Francis,  were  remarkable  specimens  of 
e  Dutch  notions  of  perspective  three  hun- 
red  years  ago. 

One  room  was  wholly  devoted  to  the 
aintings  of  our  Philadelphian,  Benj.  West, 
tio  did  much  service  for  George  III.  The 
ork  was  good,  but  I  wondered  how  it  af- 
cted  the  Republican  loyalty  of  West.  Sev- 
al  pictures  by  Titian  and  Rubens,  and  two 
sads  by  Rembrandt,  the  latter  specially  no- 
ceable,  attracted  me.  One  room  exhibited 
e  beauties  of  the  court  of  Charles  II., 
tnong  whom  the  apple-girl,  Nell  Gwynne, 
as  prominent.  Fine  old  vases  of  Delft  ware, 
hich  William  and  Mary  brought  over  from 
olland,  were  in  one  room.  We  visited  the 
rand  Hall,  hung  with  tapestry,  where  the 
reat  assemblies  were  held,  and  where  a  sport 
as  had,  cruel  as  history  or  literature  could 
evise.  Shakspere's  "  Henry  VIII."  (The 
all  of  Wolsey)  was  acted  on  the  very  stage 
ver  which  were  the  portraits  of  Wolsey  and 
lenry,  wrought  into  the  very  structure  of  the 
uilding.  Beyond  the  Hall  was  the  with- 
rawing-room,  tapestried  also,  where  James  I., 
stter  fitted  to  be  a  professor  of  Latin  or 
icology  than  a  king,  presided  over  a  con- 
ocation  of,  and  discussion  between,  the  doc- 
>rs  of  the  Established  Church  and  the  old  Kirk, 
hich  produced  great  results  for  Great  Britain. 
We  visited  the  old  Black  Hamburg  vine  in 
ic  vinery,  which  is  101  years  old,  and  has 
ow  1500  clusters.  The  England  for  which 
s  first  clusters  ripened  was  not  fit  to  drink 
f  the  wine  of  its  last  vintage.  No  country 
|as  made  nobler  progress  against  greater  ob- 
!:acles  than  this  heroic  England  in  the  last 
jundred  years.  After  going  through  "The 
Jlaze,"  we  partook  of  a  good  dinner  at  the 
ptel  near  the  gates,  and  taking  the  S.  W.  Rail- 
jay,  were  in  London  in  a  few  minutes,  and  in 
Rir  rooms  before  9  p.  M. 

SUNDAY,  Aug.  4,  1867. 
WENT  at  an  early  hour  down  Regent  street, 
'cross  Westminster  Bridge,  into  that  part  of 
l-ondon,  called  Newington,  to  the  Metropoli- 
jin  Tabernacle  of  the  Rev.  C.  H.  Spurgeon. 
*y  good  fortune  we  were  invited  by  a  pew- 
lolder  to  take  seats  in  his  pew  in  the  second 
gallery,  and  finding  our  shipmate,  Rev.  Mr. 
loodrich,  of  New  Haven,  on  the  steps,  took 
im  with  us.  I  did  not  intend  to  listen  to 
burgeon  as  to  some  lusus  natnrce,  but  to  try 
p  discover  what  manner  of  man  he  was,  and 
fhat  was  the  secret  of  his  power.  In  the  first 
lace,  the  house  is  a  fine  building,  and  we 
jad  a  good  opportunity  to  examine  it  while 


the  people  were  assembling.  It  will  seat  com- 
fortably at  least  seven  thousand  people.  The 
popular  estimate  is  ten  thousand,  but  seven 
thousand  is  nearer  the  fact.  The  building  was 
two-thirds  filled  before  the  main  doors  were 
opened  to  the  public.  When  they  were 
opened,  a  great  throng  poured  in  and  filled 
every  seat,  step,  and  aisle  to  the  utmost.  At 
half-past  ii  Spurgeon  came  in,  and  at  once 
offered  a  short,  simple,  earnest  prayer,  and 
read  and  helped  the  whole  congregation  to 
sing  Dr.  Watts's  stirring  hymn  : 

"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight." 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  some 
sympathy  with  the  doctrine  that  would  reject 
instrumental  music  from  church  worship. 
There  must  have  been  five  thousand  voices 
joining  in  the  hymn.  The  whole  building 
was  filled  and  overflowed  with  the  strong 
volume  of  song.  The  music  made  itself  felt  as 
a  living,  throbbing  presence  that  entered  your 
nerves,  brain,  heart,  and  filled  and  swept  you 
away  in  its  resistless  current. 

After  the  singing,  Spurgeon  read  a  chapter  of 
the  lamentations  of  Job,  and  then  a  contrasted 
passage  from  Paul,  both  relating  to  life  and 
death.  He  accompanied  his  reading  with 
familiar  and  sensible,  sometimes  striking, 
expositional  comments;  and  then  followed 
another  hymn,  a  longer  prayer,  a  short  hymn 
and  then  the  sermon,  from  a  text  from  the 
chapter  he  had  read  in  Job  :  "  All  my  ap- 
pointed days  will  I  wait  till  my  change  come." 
He  evidently  proceeded  upon  the  assump- 
tion that  the  Bible,  all  the  Bible,  in  its  very 
words,  phrases,  and  sentences,  is  the  word  of 
God;  and  that  a  microscopic  examination  of 
it  will  reveal  ever-opening  beauties  and  bless- 
ings. All  the  while  he  impresses  you  with 
that,  and  also  with  the  living  fullness  and 
abundance  of  his  faith  in  the  presence  of  God, 
and  the  personal  accountability  of  all  to 
Him.  An  unusual  fullness  of  belief  in  these 
respects  seems  to  me  to  lie  at  the  founda- 
tion of  his  power.  Intellectually  he  is  marked 
by  his  ability  to  hold  with  great  tenacity, 
and  pursue  with  great  persistency  any  line  of 
thought  he  chooses.  He  makes  the  most 
careful  and  painstaking  study  of  the  subject 
in  hand.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  fully 
as  much  of  his  success  depends  upon  his 
labor  as  upon  his  force  of  intellect.  He  has 
chosen  the  doctrines  and  the  literature  of  the 
Bible  as  his  field,  and  does  not  allow  himself 
to  be  drawn  aside.  He  rarely  wanders  into 
the  fields  of  poesy,  except  to  find  the  stirring 
hymns  which  may  serve  to  illustrate  his 
theme.  He  uses  Bible  texts  and  incidents 
with  great  readiness  and  appropriateness,  and 
directs  all  his  power,  not  toward  his  sermon, 


414 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


but  toward  his  hearers.  His  arrangement  is 
clear,  logical,  and  perfectly  comprehensible, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  main  division  of  the 
sermon  he  makes  a  personal  application  of 
the  truth  developed  to  his  hearers,  and  asks 
God  to  bless  it.  His  manner  is  exceedingly 
simple  and  unaffected.  He  does  not  appear 
to  be  aware  that  he  is  doing  a  great  thing, 
and  I  could  see  no  indication  that  his  success 
has  turned  his  head.  He  has  the  word-paint- 
ing power  quite  at  his  command,  but  uses  it 
sparingly.  I  could  see  those  nervous  motions 
of  the  hands  and  feet  which  all  forcible 
speakers  make  when  preparing  to  speak ;  and 
also  in  his  speaking,  the  sympathy  between 
his  body  and  his  thoughts,  which  controlled 
his  gestures,  and  produced  those  little  touches 
of  theatrical  power,  so  effective  in  a  speaker. 
His  pronunciation  is  exceedingly  good.  In 
the  whole  service  I  noticed  but  one  mispro- 
nunciation. He  said  "  transient."  There  ap- 
pears to  be  almost  no  idiom  in  his  language. 
•An  American  audience  would  hardly  know 
he  was  not  an  American. 

Every  good  man  ought  to  be  thankful  for 
the  work  Spurgeon  is  doing.  I  could  not  but 
contrast  this  worship  with  that  I  saw  a  few 
days  ago  at  Westminster  Abbey.  In  that 
proud  old  mausoleum  of  kings,  venerable  with 
years  and  royal  pride,  the  great  organ  rolled 
out  its  deep  tones,  and  sobbed  and  thundered 
its  grand  music,  mingled  with  the  intoning  of 
the  hired  singers.  Before  the  assembly  of  rich 
and  titled  worshipers  sat  a  choir  of  twenty 
persons.  The  choir  boys,  in  their  white  robes, 
had  been  fighting  among  the  tombs  and  monu- 
ments of  the  nave  just  before  the  service  be- 
gan. However  devout  and  effective  their  wor- 
ship may  be,  it  is  very  costly,  and  must  be 
confined  to  a  great  extent  to  the  higher 
classes.  I  felt  that  Spurgeon  had  opened  an 
asylum  where  the  great  untitled,  the  poor 
and  destitute  of  this  great  city,  could  come 
and  find  their  sorrows  met  with  sympathy ; 
their  lowliness  and  longings  for  a  better  life 
touched  by  a  large  heart  and  an  undoubted 
faith.  God  bless  Spurgeon !  He  is  helping  to 
work  out  the  problem  of  religious  and  civil 
freedom  for  England  in  a  way  that  he  knows 
not  of. 

In  the  afternoon  we  walked  in  the  Botani- 
cal Gardens,  in  Regent's  Park,  and  spent 
nearly  three  hours  in  these  delightful  grounds. 
I  never  tire  of  the  sweet  and  subduing  beau- 
ties of  this  park.  While  sitting  in  the  great 
greenhouses,  under  the  tropical  plants,  we  read 
an  article  from  the  "  Westminster  Review," 
for  August,  1867,  entitled  "The  Social  Era 
of  George  III."  The  writer  says  the  three 
greatest  indications  of  a  people's  civilization 
are:  i.  The  state  of  the  roads  ;  2.  The  state 


of  agriculture ;  3.  The  mode  of  transportation 
and  proceeds  to  apply  these  texts  to  the  stat 
of  England  at  the  beginning  (1760)  of  Georg 
the  Third's  reign  and  at  its  close  (1820).  I  ar 
surprised  at  the  facts  he  developed.  I  ha 
supposed  that  such  great  contrasts  could  onl 
be  shown  between  periods  of  centuries, — lik 
that  exhibited  by  Macaulay  in  the  thir 
chapter  of  the  first  volume  of  his  Historj 
But  this  article  shows  that  the  greater  pai 
of  all  the  change  that  Macaulay  shows  in  the 
chapter  has  taken  place  within  the  memor 
of  men  now  living. 

I  make  this  note  in  order  to  keep  in  min 
the  article,  that  I  may  call  it  up  hereafter. 

I  notice  the  old  Vauxhall  Gardens,  s 
admirably  described  in  Frances  Burney 
"  Evelina,"  have  disappeared.  The  S.  V 
Railway  runs  through  them,  and  a  thousan 
tenements  fill  the  space  where  only  people  i 
full  dress  could  be  admitted  fifty  years  ago. 

London   is   still   growing   rapidly,  and 
destined  to  do  all  that  cities  in  this  age  ca 
accomplish.    It  is  a  phenomenon — a  \vond< 
which  grows  upon  me  every  day. 

MONDAY,  August  5,  1867.  , 
WENT  again  to  the  British  Museum,  an 
spent  three  hours  in  the  upper  story.  Weij 
through  the  zoological  collection,  which  \ 
very  full.  C.  thought  our  American  bin 
had  a  touch  of  the  impudence  and  freedo: 
in  their  bearing  which  characterizes  the  pe< 
pie !  African,  Australian,  and  South  Amei 
can  vie  with  each  other  in  gorgeousness  < 
plumage.  The  Geological  Department 
exceedingly  fine.  I  should  know  the  pla< 
from  Hugh  Miller's  description  of  it.  Tl 
Pompeian  remains  were  full  of  interest,  ar 
another  room  of  Anglo -Roman  antiquiti< 
confirms  me  in  the  opinion  that  we  do  n< 
make  sufficient  account  of  the  influence  < 
the  Romans  upon  our  English  civilizatio: 
From  the  Museum,  we  passed  down  Oxfoi 
street,  among  the  second-hand  book-store, 
and  took  an  omnibus  to  the  Bank  of  Englan«, 
near  which,  at  Brown,  Shipley  &  Go's,  \*,: 

find  a  letter  from  H . 

Visited  the  Tower  of  London,  so  full  ( 
sad,  strange  history.  It  was  built  by  Williai 
the  Conqueror,  soon  after  the  conquest,  i 
1066,  as  a  defense  for  himself  and  his  cou. 
against  the  turbulent  Britons,  and  has  bee 
added  to  by  many  succeeding  sovereigi 
until  it  is  now  a  curious  compound  of  all  th 
fusions  of  architecture,  and  an  embodi 
of  the  ideas  and  purposes  of  seven  or 
centuries.  The  White  Tower  in  the  c 
built  by  William,  has  many  of  the  old 
man  features  in  its  architecture ;  and,  th 
much  of  its  exterior  has  been  renovate 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


lere  is  here  and  there  a  double-arched  win- 
ow  of  the  Norman  style,  and,  in  the  inte- 

or,  a  wonderfully  well-preserved  chapel  of 
uaint  Norman  pillars.  Its  walls  are  thirteen 
;et  thick,  and  its  dungeons  admitted  no 

;ht  nor  air,  except  through  the  main  en- 

ince.  The  cell  in  which  Raleigh  slept,  and 
ie  room  where  he  wrote  his  "  History  of  the 
/orld,"  were  touching  memorials  of  the  hero- 

m  and  intellect  of  a  cruel  age.  The  dun- 
eons  and  inscriptions  on  the  walls,  carved 
y  prisoners ;  the  instruments  of  torture,  the 
lock  and  axe,  and  mark  of  the  stroke ;  the 
uaint  suits  of  armor,  from  the  earliest  days 
f  the  Norman  kings  till  gunpowder  stripped 
uldiers  of  all  defense ;  the  cavalry  cuirasses, 
)rn  by  shot  and  shell  on  the  field  of  Water- 
>o,  being  the  last  attempt  at  armor  on  the 
eld ;  the  conquered  banners  of  civilized  and 
ncivilized  nations ;  the  weapons  of  all  sizes 
nd  forms  for  the  destruction  of  human  life, 
om  the  battle-axe,  pike,  matchlock,  stone- 
lot,  to  the  one  hundred  thousand  breech- 

ading  Enfield  rifles  with  which  England 
as  just  armed  herself;  the  crown  jewels ;  the 
rowns  worn  by  so  many  English  sovereigns; 
ie  scepters,  from  the  heavy  rod  of  solid  gold 
f  one  of  the  Edwards,  and  the  splendid  ivory 
nd  gold  wand  of  the  unfortunate  Anne  Bo- 
pyn,  to  the  costly  scepter  which  Victoria  bore 
t  her  coronation ;  the  baptismal  font  of  solid 
old,  used  at  the  baptism  of  her  children ; 
ie  massive  golden  maces,  with  which  she 
pens  Parliament ;  the  inclosed  spot  of  green 
i  the  yard,  where  the  gallows  stood,  where 

many  criminal  and  innocent  were  put  to 
eath ;  the  Traitor's  Gate,  through  which  all 
risoners  charged  with  high  treason  were 
Irought  from  the  Thames;  the  stairway, 
Inder  which  the  fierce  King  John  secreted 
ne  bones  of  his  royal  nephews,  whom  he  here 
aurdered ;  the  room  where  an  English  duke 
pis  drowned  in  a  butt  of  Malmsey, — all  these 
[ave  been  associated  in  my  mind  with  the 
j)inotherium,  the  Mastodon,  the  Megathe- 
|ium,  and  the  Ichthyosaurus  which  I  saw 
jiis  morning  in  the  Museum.  This  Tower 
jeemed  a  monster,  tearing  down  men  and 
amilies,  and  crunching  them  in  its  merciless 
aws,  as  the  Dinotherium  crushed  and  de- 
loured  the  fern-trees,  dateless  ages  ago.  Both 
jre  passed  away.  The  fern-trees  burn  in 
be  grates  and  glow  in  the  chandeliers  of 
pousands  of  happy  homes,  and  the  broken 
kearts  and  crushed  hopes  of  a  thousand  mar- 
CTS,  who  sleep  under  the  shadows  of  this 
errible  Tower,  have  given  civil  and  religious 
liberty ;  and  their  memories  and  brave  words 
ive  and  glow  in  the  hearts  of  many  millions  of 
Englishmen,  and  will  bless  coming  generations. 
jtfay  the  Tower  stand  there  many  centuries, 


as  a  mark  to  show  how  high  the  red  deluge 
rose,  and  how  happy  is  this  England  of  Vic- 
toria compared  with  that  of  her  ancestors  ! 

On  our  way  home,  we  walked  through  Bil- 
lingsgate, which  has  given  a  word  to  our  lan- 
guage. I  saw  in  the  stalls  a  curious  little 
animal,  which  seemed  a  cross  between  a  lob- 
ster and  a  beetle.  I  asked  the  fish  woman  who 
presided  what  they  were. 

"  Four-pence  a  pint,"  said  she. 

"  But/'  said  I,  "  what  are  they  ?  " 

"  Four-pence  the  pint,  I  tell  ye." 

"  But,"  I  persisted,  "  what  is  the  name  of 
the  animals  you  have  for  sale  ?  " 

"  Humph !  shrimps"  and,  with  a  look  of 
contemptuous  indignation  :  "  That's  all  you 
wanted ! " 

After  dinner  we  went  to  Madame  Tussaud's, 
in  Baker  street,  and  spent  two  or  three  hours 
among  her  wax  figures  and  historical  relics. 
Here  were  all  the  sovereigns  of  Europe,  from 
William  the  Conqueror  down,  and  many  dis- 
tinguished men  of  other  nations  and  other 
ages.  The  verisimilitude  of  life  in  these  figures 
produced  a  singular  effect  upon  my  mind,  not 
altogether  pleasing.  I  think  it  shocks  us  when 
we  see  Art  so  nearly  a  copy  of  Nature  as  al- 
most to  deceive  us.  When  I  see  Napoleon  in 
marble,  without  the  accidents  of  boots,  hat,  or 
coat,  I  think  of  those  permanent  characteris- 
tics of  head  and  face  which  belong  to  history ; 
but  when  I  see  him  so  like  life  as  to  feel  like 
begging  his  pardon  for  crowding  him,  I  am 
balanced  between  a  live  and  a  dead  man,  and 
the  effect  is  not  pleasing.  Yet  I  get  a  more 
vivid  and,  I  presume,  a  more  correct  impres- 
sion of  how  men  looked  than  in  any  other 
way.  The  effigy  of  Washington  gave  me  a 
better  idea  of  how  he  looked  when  President 
than  any  statue  or  picture  I  have  seen.  Many 
of  the  dresses  are  the  identical  ones  worn  on 
State  occasions.  The  effigies  of  many  of  the 
kings  of  England  will  long  remain  in  my  mem- 
ory, such  as  William  the  Norman,  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion,  the  murderer  John,  from 
whom  Magna  Charta  was  forced,  old  Hal  and 
his  six  wives,  red-haired  Elizabeth,  handsome, 
thoughtful  William  of  Orange.  I  also  mention 
the  fine  head,  face,  and  eye  of  Walter  Scott. 

TUESDAY,  Aug.  6,  1867. 
OUR  first  rainy  day  in  London.  Though 
we  have  had  remarkably  cool  weather,  a  thin 
overcoat  being  almost  every  day  comfortable, 
we  have  had  but  little  London  fog,  and  no 
shower  until  to-day.  But  all  day,  London  has 
been  like  Mantilini's  supposed  condition  :  "  a 
demmed,  damp, moist,  unpleasant  body."  The 
fog  was  visible,  palpable,  tangible;  a  wet,  cold 
sheet,  which,  like  that  in  Mrs.  Barbauld's 
"  Washing  Day,"  "  flaps  in  the  face  abrupt." 


4i  6 


GARFIELD  IN  LONDON. 


Called  on  Mr.  Adams  and  his  wife.  Mrs. 
Adams  is  a  woman  of  fine  sense  and  vigor, 
*  *  *  and  showed  a  keen  appreciation  of  the 
diplomatic  struggle  through  which  we  have 
passed  with  England.  Had  a  pleasant  talk  of 
an  hour  with  Mr.  Adams  at  his  office ;  also 
with  Morgan,  Secretary  of  Legation.  Mr. 
Adams  spoke  of  the  character  of  his  father  and 
grandfather.  He  thinks  the  chief  difference 
was  in  culture,  his  father  having  much  more 
training.  He  is  preparing  his  father's  works 
for  publication.  I  spoke  of  his  grandmother's 
letters,  which  he  edited  many  years  ago,  and 
he  said  there  were  many  more  that  should 
have  been  published. 

WEDNESDAY,  Aug.  7,  1867. 

CAME  this  morning  by  way  of  St.  James's 
Park,  and  entered  again  the  old  Abbey  and, 
with  my  inkstand  resting  on  the  tablet  of 
Chaucer's  tomb,  I  make  this  note.  We  have 
just  read  Irving's  chapter  on  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  find  it  wonderfully  suggestive  to 
look  upon  the  objects  that  met  his  eye  when 
he  wrote.  I  notice  that  he  praises  an  inscrip- 
tion which  declares  that  "  all  the  sons  "  of  the 
deceased  "  were  brave,  and  all  his  daughters 
virtuous,"  and  the  same  thing  is  mentioned 
contemptuously  by  Hawthorne  in  his  late 
book,  "  Our  Old  Home."  I  found  myself 
leaning  rather  toward  Hawthorne  in  this  mat- 
ter. I  am  struck  with  the  different  estimate 
which  a  man's  contemporaries  place  upon  him 
from  that  in  which  later  generations  hold  him. 
Of  course,  I  know  how  mendacious  epitaphs 
are ;  yet  they  may  be  supposed  to  be  about 
equally  false,  and  may  enable  us  to  judge  of 
the  relative  estimation  in  which  the  different 
dead  were  held.  Here  by  my  side  lies  Abra- 
ham Cowley,  under  a  fine  marble  monument 
surmounted  by  a  lofty,  flower-wreathed  urn. 
A  few  steps  away  is  the  bust  of  Milton, 
surmounting  a  decorated  tablet  on  which 
William  Benson,  Esquire,  attempts  to  make 
the  world  know  who  he  was,  by  telling  us  that 
in  the  year  1737  he  caused  this  bust  to  be 
made  and  placed  here ;  he,  who  had  the  "  dis- 
tinguished honor  of  being  one  of  the  two  Au- 
ditors of  the  Imprests  of  George  II."*  He 
does  not  see  fit  to  tell  us  that  Milton  was  Latin 
Secretary  of  State  to  the  stout  old  Common- 
wealth, which  did  so  much  in  its  rough  way  for 
English  liberty.  That  reign  is  quite  ignored. 
It  is  only  in  Madame  Tussaud's  wax-work  that 
I  have  seen  "  Old  Noll "  recognized. 

*  "  Auditors  of  the  Prest,  or  Imprests,  are  officers 
in  the  Exchequer  who  formerly  had  the  charge  of 
auditing  the  great  accounts  of  the  king's  customs, 
naval  and  military  expences,  and  of  all  monies  im- 
pressed to  any  man  for  the  king's  service ;  but  they 
are  now  superseded  by  the  commissioners  for  auditing 
the  public  accounts."  Rees's  Cyclopedia:  London, 
1819. 


Another  thing  that  strikes  me  with  force,— 
that  many  of  the  bewigged  and  highly  be 
praised  busts  are  mere  intruders,  who  ough 
to,  if  they  could,  feel  ashamed  to  be  thrusi 
into  such  august  company.  For  instance ' 
why  should  Gulielmus  Outram  fill  so  larg< 
a  space  with  his  long,  Latin  eulogium,  whicl 
no  one  cares  to  read,  that  Macaulay's  bus 
must  be  pushed  almost  out  of  sight  betweei 
him  and  the  full  length  of  Addison  ?  By  th. 
way,  this  prim  Addison  would  be  ashamed 
if  he  knew  his  nearest  neighbors — Macaula1 
and  Thackeray  —  to  stand  so  plumply  befor< 
them,  who  are  so  much  his  superiors  in  every 
thing  except  style.  It  is  appropriate  tha 
Garrick  should  be  buried  where  he  is,  at  thy, 
feet  of  Shakspere  j  but  his  ridiculous,  life-siz 
statue,  on  the  wall  nearly  opposite,  is  in 
theatrical  attitude,  which  I  am  sure  he  wouk 
not  approve ;  and  the  epitaph  is  fustian,  whicl-1 
he  would  not  have  spoken.  I  am  glad  to  se 
that  Lamb  thought  of  it  as  it  impresses  me 
His  statue  reminds  me  of  Sam  Weller,  a 
Cruikshank  shows  him  to  us  in  the  frontis 
piece  of  "  The  Pickwick  Papers." 

It  is  raining  now  (1.15  p.  M.),  and  "th 
dim,  religious  light "  is  too  feeble  to  read  by< 
much  too  feeble  to  write  by.  I  very  muc 

want  B here,  that  I  might  watch  his  fac; 

and  see  the  conflict  between  the  historical  an-1 
literary  pleasure  he  would  feel  and  his  chroni 
disgust  at  all  humbug  and  pretension. 

In  the  main  nave  of  the  Abbey  is  the  torn 
of  Newton,  with  his  statue  reclining  on 
block  -sarcophagus,  with  sculptured  desigm 
showing  his  astronomical  and  mathematica 
discoveries,  and  also  his  work  in  the  Mint  01 
the  recoinage. 

THURSDAY,  August  8,  1867. 

VISITED  Kensington  Museum  and  Hyd 

Park.  Met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H ,  of  Cleveland. 

who  were  jaded  and  weary  of  sixteen  month 
of  sight-seeing.  The  museum  is  of  much  mor 
consequence  than  I  supposed.  It  contains 
large  collection  of  manufactures,  ancient  am 
modern;  of  articles  of  furniture  and  house, 
building,  as  well  as  casts  of  the  most  cele 
brated  pieces  of  sculpture.  Also,  the  cartoon 
of  Raphael,  or  part  of  them ;  many  painting 
by  Edwin  and  Charles  Landseer,  West,  Re> 
nolds,  Turner,  and  the  original  of  Rosa  Bon 
heur's  "  Horse  Fair."  We  spent  nearly  thre 
hours  here,  and  came  away  regretfully, 
we  went  to  Westminster  Hall.  I  sent 
Chase's  letter  to  John  Bright,  who  came 
and  got  me  in  back  of  the  Peers'  seat,  u 
the  Speaker's  gallery,  where  I  had  a  fine  ' 
and  where  I  staid — except  when  div' 
were  being  taken — till  near  midnight. 

When   I   went  in  at  half-past  4,  peti 


GARFIELD   IN  LONDON. 


re  being  presented  in  open  house;  each 
-mber  reading  his  petition,  and  carrying  it 
'the  Speaker's  table.  There  are  no  pages, 
d,  besides  the  doorkeepers,  there  appear  to  be 
>  officers  in  the  House,  except  the  Speaker, 
no  wears  a  full-bottomed  wig,  and  three 
arks,  who  sit  directly  before  him,  in  half,  or 
ort  wigs. 

When  a  member  read  a  petition  of  four 
ousand  citizens  of  Birmingham  in  favor  of 
3rd  Cairns's  amendment  for  a  third  vote  in 
partite  constituencies,  Bright  followed  with 
monster  petition  on  the  other  side.  Then 
llowed  a  volley  of  questions  fired  at  the 
dministration  from  all  sides,  and  their  re- 
onses.  Disraeli  sat  passionless  and  motion- 
ss,  except  a  trotting  of  the  foot,  indicative 
a  high  pitch  of  intellectual  activity  and  ex- 
ctancy.  His  face  reveals  nothing.  The  most 
nnted  'allusions,  either  of  logic,  fact,  or  wit, 
il  to  move  a  muscle  or  change  a  line  of  the 
pression. 

At  5,  the  Reform  Bill  is  announced,  and  all 
unds  subside  in  the  crowded  hall  —  so  full 
at    several    members    sit   in   the    gallery.* 
israeli,  in  a    very  calm,  somewhat  halting 
ay,  goes  over  the  chief  points  of  the  Lords' 
fiendments,  puts  them  very  adroitly,  and  in 
very  conciliatory  tone  speaks  about  twenty 
nutes.  Meanwhile,  Bright  has  been  sitting  on 
e  second  row,  and  next  the  gangway,  taking 
note   now  and  then,   manifesting  a  little 
rvousness  in  the  hands  and  fingers,  and  oc- 
sionally  passing  his  hand  over  his  ample 
rehead.    Mill  is  settled    down  in  his  seat, 
ith  his  chin  resting  in  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
id  giving  close  attention,  as  he  does  to  ev- 
ything  that  passes.     By  the  way,  his  face 
reatly  disappoints  me  in  one  respect :    there 
|  nothing  of  the  Jovine  breadth  and  fullness 
|f  brow  I  expected ;  but  there  is  great  depth 
om  brow  to   cerebellum,  and  strong,  well- 
armed  features.  There  is  a  nervous  twitching 
;"  the  muscles  of  his  head  and  face,  which 
jrobably  results  from  hard  work.    Gladstone 
Ises  and  opens  the  debate  on  the  Opposition 
jde,  in   an  adroit  speech  of  eight  minutes, 
'  idently  reserving  himself  for  a  fuller  assault 
ter  in    the   evening.    He   is   the  most  un- 
nglish  speaker  I  have  yet  heard,  and  the  best, 
j'israeli  shows  great  tact  in  determining  how 
tr  to   persist   and  when  to   yield.   In   that 
fesential  point  of  leadership,  Palmerston  has 
jrobably  never  been  excelled.    Disraeli  is  no 
iiean  disciple  of  his.    Gladstone,  with  more 

*  Bill  79,  Commons.  The  Bill  is  very  voluminous, 
iid.  is  a  comprehensive  demand  of  the  people  of 
(Hgland  for  a  broader  and  fairer  participation  in  the 
tefelation  and  administration  of  the  affairs  of  their 
imntry,  and  for  the  correction  of  evident  abuses  of 
l^e  Franchise. 


ability  than  either,  is  said  to  be  especially 
lacking  in  that  respect. 

After  several  more  amendments  have  been 
given  up  with  apparent  reluctance,  but  for 
the  sake  of  harmony,  the  amendment  of  Lord 
Cairns  is  reached,  on  which  the  ministry  in- 
tend to  make  a  stubborn  fight.  Bright  opens 
the  attack  in  a  speech  of  half  an  hour  or  more. 
Though  cordially  disliked  by  the  Tories,  he 
compels  attention  at  once.  With  a  form  like 
that  of  Senator  Wilson,  of  Massachusetts,  he 
has  a  large,  round,  full,  fine,  massive  head, 
and  straight,  almost  delicate  nose.  He  has  a 
full,  rotund  voice,  and,  like  Gladstone,  is  un- 
English  in  his  style — that  is,  he  speaks  right 
on,  with  but  little  of  that  distressful  hob- 
bling which  marks  the  mass  of  Parliament- 
ary speakers.  With  all  my  sympathy  with 
Bright  and  the  Liberals,  I  am  inclined  to 
favor  the  amendment.  I  remember  Mill's  dis- 
cussion of  it  in  his  "  Representative  Gov- 
ernment," and  his  approving  reference  to  the 
work  of  Hare  on  the  same  subject.  Bright 
put  the  case  very  strongly  on  his  side,  and 
pointed  out  the  anomalies  it  would  produce ; 
but  I  thought  they  would  result  from  the 
limited  application  of  the  principle,  rather 
than  from  the  principle  itself.  I  also  thought 
it  a  little  inconsistent  in  him,  who  has  been 
so  bold  an  advocate  for  change,  to  object  to 
this  as  an  innovation.  But  he  put  his  case 
very  strongly,  and  made  us  sympathize  with 
his  earnestness.  Many  speeches  were  leveled 
at  him ;  but,  like  all  politicians,  he  seems  to 
have  become  a  pachyderm,  and  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  it.  Howmuchsoever  they  may  affect  to 
despise  him,  they  cannot  blink  the  fact,  which 
even  "The  Times"  admitted  this  morning 
in  a  mean  attack  on  him,  that  "  John  Bright 
was  the  most  skillful  speaker  in  England,  and, 
in  some  kinds  of  oratory,  the  first  orator." 

I  notice  that  many  of  the  leaders  were  high 
honor  men  at  the  universities.  Gladstone  took 
a  "  double-first " ;  Roundell  Palmer  took  a 
"  first "  in  classics,  and  many  other  classic 
honors  and  prizes.  Mill  is  not  a  University 
man,  but  his  u  Logic  "  has  been  a  text-book 
at  Oxford  for  twenty  years.  Tom  Hughes, 
who  made  Rugby  and  himself  immortal,  was 
not  a  first-class  scholar.  Forster  is  a  good 
speaker  and  a  Radical,  but  I  do  not  know 
what  his  scholarship  was. 

At  10,  Gladstone  rose  and  spoke  for  nearly 
an  hour,  going  into  the  whole  question  with 
great  clearness  and  incisive  force.  He  spoke 
with  much  more  feeling  than  any  other  except 
Bright.  Gladstone  was  followed  by  Lowe, 
who  is  considered  the  strongest  man  of  his 
school  in  the  House.  He  sits  on  the  Opposi- 
tion side ;  but  on  this  question  of  suffrage  is 
Conservative.  He  is  nearly  blind,  and  spoke 


418 


IN   WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY. 


without  notes  and  with  his  eyes  apparently 
shut.  He  combines  sharpness  with  a  remark- 
able toughness  of  intellectual  fiber,  which 
makes  him  a  powerful  assailant.  It  was  ex- 
ceedingly fine,  the  way  he  sought  out  and 
javelined  the  exposed  joints  of  his  antago- 
nist's harness.  Gladstone  winced  manifestly. 
About  half-past  n  a  division  was  had, 
which  resulted :  206  against,  and  258  in 
favor.  This  is  a  strong  example  of  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Ministry.  When  the  same  prin- 
ciple was  discussed  in  the  Commons  a  few 
weeks  ago,  Disraeli  made  a  strong  speech 
against  it,  and  it  was  negatived  by  140  major- 
ity. It  has  been  very  curious  to  see  what  dif- 
ferent and  opposite  motives  have  moved  men 
to  favor  this  new  feature  in  representative 
government.  Mill  votes  for  this  only  as  an 
installment  of  what  he  has  long  advocated  as 
a  doctrinaire :  that  minorities  should  be  repre- 


sented, and  he  hopes  to  see  it  prevail  in  a! 
elections.  He  thinks  it  will  vitalize  voter; 
and  virtually  extend  the  suffrage.  He  vote 
for  it  as  a  higher  step  toward  democracy 
Gladstone  opposes  it  for  this  very  reasoi 
and  several  others  because  it  will  give  thei 
a  Tory  member.  "  The  Times  "  favors  it  fc 
this  reason,  and  because  it  thinks  it  will  cor 
trol  the  democratic  tendencies  of  the  bill. 

The  measure  seems  to  me  to  be  vulnerable 
first,  because  of  the  practical  difficulties  i 
carrying  it  into  operation  ;  secondly,  becaus 
of  its  partial  application. 

The  voting-paper  clause  was  taken  up,  an 
the  House  of  Commons  refused  to  conci 
with  the  Lords. 

I  left  the  Commons  a  little  before  midnigh 
having  witnessed  the  practical  consumm; 
tion  of  the  greatest  advance  toward  politic; 
liberty  made  in  England  in  a  century. 


From  London,  before  leaving  Great  Britain,  General  and  Mrs.  Garfield  went  to  Warwick,  Stratford,  Yorl 
Edinburgh,  Melrose  and  Abbotsford,  Glasgow  and  Ayrshire,  and  Leith,  whence  they  took  steamer  to  Rotter 
dam.  The  remainder  of  the  trip  was  devoted  to  Holland,  the  Rhine,  Switzerland,  Italy,  France,  and  Londo 
again.  The  return  voyage  was  made  from  Queenstown,  October  24,  in  the  Helvetia. 


DUM    VIVIMUS,   VIVAMUS 

LET  us  enjoy  the  present  as  is  meet, 

Nor  anger  heaven  to  take  our  joys  away 
By  weak  complainings  that  the  hours  are  fleet, 

And  death  too  soon  shall  close  our  little  day. 

In  the  brief  space  that  lies  'twixt  morn  and  eve, 

Some  trees  of  life  may  bloom,  some  hopes  may  grow, 

Some  clear  persuasion  that  the  bliss  we  leave 
Is  but  a  gleam  of  that  to  which  we  go. 

So  that,  when  falls  the  dusk  at  set  of  sun, 
Glad  we  may  turn  from  toil  to  rest  awhile, 

Sure  to  complete  the  tasks  we  leave  undone, 

With  stronger  purpose  'neath  the  morrow's  smile. 

E.  D.  R.  Bianciardi. 


IN    WORDSWORTH'S    COUNTRY. 


No  OTHER  English  poet  has  touched  me 
quite  so  closely  as  Wordsworth.  All  classes 
of  men  delight  in  Shakspere ;  he  is  the  uni- 
versal genius;  but  Wordsworth's  poetry  has 
more  the  character  of  a  message,  and  a  mes- 
sage special  and  personal  to  a  few  readers. 
He  stands  for  a  particular  phase  of  human 
thought  and  experience,  and  his  service  to 
certain  minds  is  like  an  initiation  into  a  new 
order  of  mysteries.  His  limitations  make  him 
all  the  more  private  and  precious,  like  the 
seclusion  of  one  of  his  mountain  dales.  He 
is  not  and  can  never  be  the  world's  poet,  but 


the  poet  of  those  who  love  solitude  and 
solitary  communion  with  nature.  Shakspere' 
attitude  toward  nature  is  for  the  most  part  lik< 
that  of  a  gay,  careless  reveler,  who  leaves  hi: 
companions  for  a  moment  to  pluck  a  flowe 
or  gather  a  shell  here  and  there,  as  they  stroll  i 

"  By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea." 

But  in  Wordsworth's  love,  nature  is  not 
ond,  but  first ;  the  poetic  rill  with  him  ris 
the  mountains. 

You  can  hardly  appreciate  the  extent 


ctent  ic  , 


IN   WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY. 


419 


.hich  he  has  absorbed  and  reproduced  the 
pirit  of  the  Westmoreland  scenery  until  you 
ave  visited  that  region.  I  paused  there  a  few 
ays  in  early  June,  on  my  way  south,  and  again 
n  my  return  late  in  July.  I  walked  up  from 
Vindermere  to  Grasmere,  where,  on  the  sec- 
nd  visit,  I  took  up  my  abode  at  the  historic 
wan  Inn,  where  Scott  used  to  go  surrepti- 
iously  to  get  his  mug  of  beer  when  he  was 
(topping  with  Wordsworth. 
I  The  call  of  the  cuckoo  came  to  me  from  over 
ilydal  Water  as  I  passed  along;  I  plucked  my 
irst  foxglove  by  the  road-side;  paused  and 
istened  to  the  voice  of  the  mountain  torrent; 
»eard 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep  "  ; 

.aught  many  a  glimpse  of  green,  unpeopled 
ills,  urn-shaped  dells,  treeless  heights,  rocky 
romontories,  secluded  valleys,  and  clear, 
wift-running  streams.  The  scenery  was  som- 
>er;  there  were  but  two  colors,  green  and 
)rown,  verging  on  black ;  wherever  the  rock 
-.ropped  out  of  the  green  turf  on  the  mountain- 
ides,  or  in  the  vale,  it  showed  a  dark  face. 
3ut  the  tenderness  and  freshness  of  the  green 
'ints  were  something  to  remember, — the  hue 
>f  the  first  springing  April  grass,  massed  and 
vide-spread  in  midsummer. 

Then  there  was  a  quiet  splendor,  almost 
grandeur,  about  Grasmere  vale,  such  as  I  had 
lot  seen  elsewhere, — a  kind  of  monumental 
Beauty  and  dignity  that  agreed  well  with 
)ne's  conception  of  the  loftier  strains  of  its 
ooet.  It  is  not  too  much  dominated  by  the 
nountains,  though  shut  in  on  all  sides  by 
;hem ;  that  stately  level  floor  of  the  valley 
ceeps  them  back  and  defines  them,  and  they 
•ise  «up  from  its  outer  margin  like  rugged, 
'^reen-tufted  and  green-draped  walls. 

It  is  doubtless  this  feature,  as  De  Quincey 
;ays,  this  plane-like  character  of  the  valley, 
:hat  makes  the  scenery  of  the  Grasmere 
n  ore  impressive  than  the  scenery  in  North 
WTales,  where  the  physiognomy  of  the  moun- 
tains is  essentially  the  same,  but  where  the 
valleys  are  more  bowl-shaped.  Amid  so  much 
:hat  is  steep  and  rugged  and  broken,  the  eye 
lelights  in  the  repose  and  equilibrium  of  hor- 
zontal  lines, —  a  bit  of  table-land,  the  surface 
pf  the  lake,  or  the  level  of  the  valley  bottom. 
The  principal  valleys  of  our  own  Catskill  re- 
'gion  all  have  this  stately  floor  so  characteristic 
of  Wordsworth's  country.  It  was  a  pleasure 
which  I  daily  indulged  in  to  stand  on  the 
bridge  by  Grasmere  Church,  with  that  full, 
limpid  stream  before  me,  pausing  and  deepen- 
ing under  the  stone  embankment  near  where 
'the  dust  of  the  poet  lies,  and  let  the  eye  sweep 
across  the  plane  to  the  foot  of  the  near  mount- 
iains,  or  dwell  upon  their  encircling  summits 


above  the  tops  of  the  trees  and  the  roofs  of  the 
village.  The  water-ouzel  loved  to  linger  there 
too,  and  would  sit  in  contemplative  mood  on  the 
stones  around  which  the  water  loitered  and 
murmured,  its  clear  white  breast  alone  defining 
it  from  the  object  upon  which  it  rested.  Then  it 
would  trip  along  the  margin  of  the  pool,  or  flit 
a  few  feet  over  its  surface,  and  suddenly,  as  if 
it  had  burst  like  a  bubble,  vanish  before  your 
eyes ;  there  would  be  a  little  splash  of  the 
water  beneath  where  you  saw  it,  as  if  the  drop 
of  which  it  was  composed  had  reunited  with 
the  surface  there.  Then,  in  a  moment  or  two, 
it  would  emerge  from  the  water  beneath 
which  it  had  disappeared  so  quickly,  and  take 
up  its  stand  as  dry  and  unruffled  as  ever.  It 
was  always  amusing  to  see  this  plump  little 
bird,  so  unlike  a  water-fowl  in  shape  and 
manner,  disappear  in  the  stream.  It  did  not 
seem  to  dive,  but  simply  dropped  into  the 
water,  as  if  its  wings  had  suddenly  failed  it. 
Sometimes  it  fairly  tumbled  in  from  its  perch. 
It  was  gone  from  sight  in  a  twinkling,  and  while 
you  were  wondering  how  it  could  accomplish 
the  feat  of  walking  on  the  bottom  of  the  stream 
under  there,  it  re-appeared  as  unconcerned 
as  possible.  It  is  a  song-bird,  a  thrush,  and 
gives  a  feature  to  these  mountain  streams  and 
water-falls,  which  ours,  except  on  the  Pacific 
coast,  entirely  lack.  The  stream  that  winds 
through  Grasmere  vale,  and  flows  against  the 
embankment  of  the  church-yard,  as  the  Avon 
at  Stratford,  is  of  great  beauty  —  clean,  bright, 
full,  trouty,  with  just  a  tinge  of  gypsy  blood 
in  its  veins,  which  it  gets  from  the  black 
tarns  and  the  mountains,  and  which  adds  to 
its  richness  of  color.  I  saw  an  angler  take 
some  trout  from  it,  not  so  brilliantly  colored 
or  so  finely  made  as  American  trout.  After 
a  heavy  rain  the  stream  was  not  roily,  but 
slightly  darker  in  hue ;  these  fields  and  mount- 
ains are  so  turf-bound  that  no  particle  of  soil 
is  carried  away  by  the  water. 

Falls  and  cascades  are  a  great  feature  all 
through  this  country,  as  they  are  a  marked  feat- 
ure in  Wordsworth's  poetry.  One's  ear  is  every- 
where haunted  by  the  sound  of  falling  water ; 
and  when  the  ear  cannot  hear  them,  the  eye 
can  see  the  streaks  or  patches  of  white  foam 
down  the  green  declivities.  There  is  no  hum 
of  woods,  and  no  trees  above  the  valley  bot- 
tom to  obstruct  the  view  or  muffle  the  sounds 
of  distant  streams.  When  I  was  at  Grasmere 
there  was  much  rain,  and  this  stanza  of  the 
poet  came  to  mind  : 

"  Loud  is  the  Vale !    The  voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when   storms  are  gone, 

A  mighty  unison  of  streams  ! 

Of  all  her  voices,  one  !  " 

The  words  vale  and  dell  come  to  have  a 
new  meaning  after  one  has  visited  Words- 


420 


IN   WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY. 


worth's  country,  just  as  the  words  cottage 
and  shepherd  also  have  so  much  more  sig- 
nificance there  and  in  Scotland  than  at  home. 

"  Dear  child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 

—  There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbor  and  a  hold, 
Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shall  see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 

A  light  to  young  and  old." 

Every  humble  dwelling  looks  like  a  nest ;  that 
in  which  the  poet  himself  lived  had  a  cozy, 
nest-like  look;  and  every  vale  is  green  —  a 
cradle  amid  rocky  heights,  padded  and  car- 
peted with  the  thickest  turf. 

Wordsworth  is  described  as  the  poet  of  nat- 
ure. He  is  more  the  poet  of  man,  deeply 
wrought  upon  by  a  certain  phase  of  nature, — 
the  nature  of  those  somber,  quiet,  green,  far- 
reaching  mountain  solitudes.  There  is  a  shep- 
herd quality  about  him;  he  loves  the  flocks, 
the  heights,  the  tarn,  the  tender  herbage,  the 
sheltered  dell,  the  fold,  with  a  kind  of  poet- 
ized shepherd  instinct.  Lambs  and  sheep  and 
their  haunts,  and  those  who  tend  them,  recur 
perpetually  in  his  poems.  How  well  his  verse 
harmonizes  with  those  high,  green,  and  gray 
solitudes,  where  the  silence  is  only  broken  by 
the  bleat  of  lambs  or  sheep,  or  just  stirred  by  the 
voice  of  distant  water-falls !  Simple,  elemental, 
yet  profoundly  tender  and  human,  he  had 

"  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be." 

He  brooded  upon  nature,  but  it  was  nature 
mirrored  in  his  own  heart.  In  his  poem  of 
"  The  Brothers,"  he  says  of  his  hero,  who  had 
gone  to  sea : 

"  He  had  been  rear'd 

Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a  shepherd  on  the  stormy  seas. 
Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 
The  tones  of  water-falls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees  "  ; 

and  leaning  over  the  vessel's  side  and  gazing 
into  the  "  broad  green  wave  and  sparkling 
foam,"  he 

"  Saw   mountains, —  saw    the    forms    of    sheep    that 

grazed  • 

On  verdant  hills. '? 

This  was  what  his  own  heart  told  him  ;  every 
experience  or  sentiment  called  those  beloved 
images  to  his  own  mind. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  sun  seemed  likely 
to  get  the  better  of  the  soft  rain-clouds,  I  set 
out  to  climb  to  the  top  of  Helvellyn.  I  fol- 
lowed the  highway  a  mile  or  more  beyond 
the  Swan  Inn,  and  then  I  committed  myself  to 
a  foot-path  that  turns  up  the  mountain-side 
to  the  right,  and  crosses  into  Grisedale  and 
so  to  Ulleswater.  Two  school-girls  whom  I 
overtook  put  me  on  the  right  track.  The 
voice  of  a  foaming  mountain  torrent  was  in 


my  ears  a  long  distance,  and  now  and 
the  path  crossed  it.  Fairneld  Mountain 
on  my  right  hand,  Helm  Crag  and 
mail  Raise  on  my  left.  Grasmere  plain 
lay  far  below.  The  hay-makers,  encouraj 
by  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  were  hastily 
together  the  rain-blackened  hay.  From 
outlook  they  appeared  to  be  slowly  and  h 
riously  rolling  up  a  great  sheet  of  dark-1 
paper,  uncovering  beneath  it  one  of  the 
fresh  and  vivid  green.  The  mown  grass  is 
long  in  curing  in  this  country  (frequently  ti 
weeks)  that  the  new  blades  spring  beneath  i 
and  a  second  crop  is  well  under  way  bei 
the  old  is  "  carried."  The  long  mountain  si 
up  which  I  was  making  my  way  were  as 
dant  as  the  plain  below  me.  Large  coarse  fe 
or  bracken,  with  an  under  lining  of  fine 
covered  the  ground  on  the  lower  poi 
On  the  higher,  grass  alone  prevailed.  On 
top  of  the  divide,  looking  down  into  the 
ley  of  Ulleswater,  I  came  upon  one  of  those 
black  tarns  or  mountain  lakelets  which  are 
such  a  feature  in  this  strange  scenery.  The 
word  tarn  has  no  meaning  with  us,  though 
our  young  poets  sometimes  use  it  as  they  dc 
this  Yorkshire  word  wold ;  one  they  get  from 
Wordsworth,  the  other  from  Tennyson.  But 
when  you  have  seen  one  of  those  still,  inky 
pools  at  the  head  of  a  silent,  lonely  West- 
moreland dale,  you  will  not  be  apt  to  mis- 
apply the  word  in  future.  Suddenly  the  serene 
shepherd  mountain  opens  this  black,  gleaming 
eye  at  your  feet,  and  it  is  all  the  more 
weird  for  having  no  eyebrow  of  rocks,  or 
fringe  of  rush  or  bush.  The  steep,  encircling 
slopes  drop  down  and  hem  it  about  with 
the  most  green  and  uniform  turf.  If  its  rim 
had  been  modeled  by  human  hands,  it  could 
not  have  been  more  regular  or  gentle  in  out- 
line. Beneath  its  emerald  coat  the  soil  is 
black  and  peaty,  which  accounts  for  the  hue 
of  the  water  and  the  dark  line  that  encircles  it. 

"  All  round    this  pool    both  flocks  and   herds  might 

drink 

On  its  firm  margin,  even  as  from  a  well, 
Or  some  stone  basin,  which  the  herdsman's  hand 
Had  shaped  for  their  refreshment." 

The  path  led  across  the  outlet  of  the  tarn 
and  then  divided,  one  branch  going  down 
into  the  head  of  Grisedale,  and  the  other 
mounting  up  the  steep  flank  of  Helvellyn. 
Far  up  the  green  acclivity  I  met  a  man  and  two 
young  women  making  their  way  slowly 
They  had  come  from  Glenridding  on  Ull 
water,  and  were  going  to  Grasmere. 
women  looked  cold,  and  said  I  would  fin< 
wintry  on  the  summit. 

Helvellyn  has  a  broad  flank  and  a  loi 
back,  and  comes  to  a  head  very  slowly 
gently.    You   reach   a   wire   fence   well 


IN   WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY. 


421 


>n  the  top  that  divides  some  sheep  ranges, 
)ass  through  a  gate,  and  have  a  mile  yet  to 
he  highest  ground  in  front  of  you ;  but  you 
:ould  traverse  it  in  a  buggy,  it  is  so  smooth 
ind  grassy.  The  grass  fails  just  before  the 
ummit  is  reached,  and  the  ground  is  cov- 
jred  with  small  thin  stone  and  pebbles.  The 
iew  is  impressive,  and  such  as  one  likes  to 
,it  down  to  and  drink  in  slowly — a 

"  grand  terraqueous  spectacle, 
From  center  to  circumference,  unveil'd." 

The  wind  was  moderate  and  not  cold.  To- 
ward Ulleswater  the  mountain  drops  down 
ibruptly  many  hundred  feet,  but  its  vast 
western  slope  appeared  one  smooth,  unbroken 
surface  of  grass.  The  following  jottings  in  my 
lote-book  on  the  spot  preserve  some  of  the 
eatures  of  the  scene.  "  All  the  northern  land- 
>cape  lies  in  sunlight  as  far  as  Carlisle 
'  a  tumultuous  waste  of  huge  hill-tops ; ' 

lot  quite  so  severe  and  rugged  as  the  Scotch 
j-noun tains,  but  the  view  more  pleasing  and 
aiore  extensive  than  the  one  I  got  from 
Ben  Venue.  The  black  tarns  at  my  feet, — 
fveppel  Cove  Tarn  one  of  them,  according  to 
ny  map, — how  curious  they  look !  I  can  just 
discern  the  figure  of  a  man  moving  by  the 
narge  of  one  of  them.  Away  beyond  Ulles- 
vvater  is  a  vast  sweep  of  country  flecked  here 
md  there  by  slowly  moving  cloud  shadows. 
To  the  north-east,  in  places,  the  backs  and 
iides  of  the  mountain  have  a  green,  pastoral 
voluptuousness,  so  smooth  and  full  are  they 
With  thick  turf.  At  other  points  the  rock  has 
'retted  through  the  verdant  carpet.  St.  Sun- 
day's Crag,  to  the  west  across  Grisedale,  is  a 
steep  acclivity  covered  with  small  loose  stone, 
is  if  they  had  been  dumped  over  the  top,  and 
Were  slowly  sliding  down ;  but  nowhere  do  I 
tee  great  bowlders  strewn  about.  Patches  of 
Dlack  peat  are  here  and  there.  The  little  rills, 
lear  and  far,  are  white  as  milk,  so  swiftly  do 
;hey  run.  On  the  more  precipitous  sides  the 
^rass  and  moss  are  lodged,  and  hold  like 
|mow,  and  are  as  tender  in  hue  as  the  first 
April  blades.  A  multitude  of  Takes  are  in  view 
;ind  Morecambe  Bay  to  the  south.  There  are 
jsheep  everywhere,  loosely  scattered  with  their 
ambs;  occasionally  I  hear  them  bleat.  No 
other  sound  is  heard  but  the  chirp  of  the 
mountain  pipit  (the  wheat-ear  flitting  here  and 
there).  One  mountain  now  lies  in  full  sun- 
shine, as  fat  as  a  seal,  wrinkled  and  d,impled 
inhere  it  turns  to  the  west,  like  a  fat  animal 
jwhen  it  bends  to  lick  itself.  What  a  spectacle 
ts  now  before  me! — all  the  near  mount- 
Jains  in  shadow,  and  the  distant  in  strong  sun- 
light; I  shall  not  see  the  like  of  that  again. 
On  some  of  the  mountains  the  green  vest- 
ioients  are  in  tatters  and  rags,  so  to  speak,  and 
!  VOL.  XXVII.— 40. 


barely  cling  to  them.  No  heather  in  view.  To- 
ward Windermere  the  high  peaks  and  crests 
are  much  more  jagged  and  rocky.  The  air  is 
filled  with  the  same  white,  motionless  vapor  as 
in  Scotland.  When  the  sun  breaks  through 

*  Slant  watery  lights,  from  parting  clouds,  apace 

Travel  along  the  precipice's  base, 

Cheering  its  naked  waste  of  scatter'd  stone.'  " 

Amid  these  scenes  one  comes  face  to  face 
with  nature, 

"  With  the  pristine  earth, 
The  planet  in  its  nakedness," 

as  he  cannot  in  a  wooded  country.  The  pri- 
mal, abysmal  energies,  grown  tender  and  med- 
itative as  it  were,  thoughtful  of  the  shepherd 
and  his  flocks,  and  voiceful  only  in  the  leaping 
torrents,  look  out  upon  one  near  at  hand  and 
pass  a  mute  recognition.  Wordsworth  perpet- 
ually refers  to  these  hills  and  dales  as  lonely 
or  lonesome ;  but  his  heart  was  still  more 
lonely.  The  outward  solitude  was  congenial 
to  the  isolation  and  profound  privacy  of  his 
own  soul.  "  Lonesome,"  he  says  of  one  of 
these  mountain  dales,  but 

"  Not  melancholy, —  no,  for  it  is  green 
And  bright  and  fertile,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 
In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 
How  tenderly  protected." 

It  is  this  tender  and  sheltering  character  of 
the  mountains  of  the  Lake  district  that  is  one 
main  source  of  their  charm.  So  rugged  and 
lofty,  and  yet  so  mellow  and  delicate !  No 
shaggy,  weedy  growths  or  tangles  anywhere ; 
nothing  wilder  than  the  bracken,  which  at  a 
distance  looks  as  solid  as  the  grass.  The  turf 
is  as  fine  and  thick  as  that  of  a  lawn.  The 
dainty-nosed  lambs  could  not  crave  a  tender- 
er bite  than  it  affords.  The  wool  of  the  dams 
could  hardly  be  softer  to  the  foot.  The  last  of 
July  the  grass  was  still  short  and  thick,  as  if  it 
never  shot  up  a  stalk  and  produced  seed,  but 
always  remained  a  fine,  close  mat.  Nothing 
was  more  unlike  what  I  was  used  to  at  home 
than  this  universal  tendency  (the  same  is  true 
in  Scotland  and  in  Wales)  to  grass,  and  on  the 
lower  slopes  to  bracken,  as  if  these  were  the 
only  two  plants  in  nature.  Many  of  these 
eminences  in  the  north  of  England,  too  lofty 
for  hills  and  too  smooth  for  mountains,  are 
called  fells.  The  railway  between  Carlisle  and 
Preston  winds  between  them,  as  Houghill 
Fells,  Tebay  Fells,  Shap  Fells,  etc.  They  are, 
even  in  midsummer,  of  such  a  vivid  and  uni- 
form green  that  it  seems  as  if  they  must  have 
been  painted.  Nothing  blurs  or  mars  the  hue : 
no  stalk  of  weed  or  stem  of  dry  grass.  The 
scene,  in  singleness  and  purity  of  tint,  rivals 
the  blue  of  the  sky.  Nature  does  not  seem  to 
ripen  and  grow  sere  as  autumn  approaches, 
but  wears  the  tints  of  May  in  October. 

John  Burroughs. 


[Begun  in  the  November  number.] 


DR.    SEVIER.* 

BY    GEORGE    W.    CABLE, 
Author  of  "  Old  Creole  Days,'*  "  The  Grandissimes,"  "  Madame  Delphine,"  etc. 


XV. 


THE    CRADLE    FALLS. 

IN  the  rear  of  the  great  commercial  center 
of  N  e  w  Orleans,  on  that  part  of  Common  street 
where  it  suddenly  widens  out,  broad,  unpaved, 
and  dusty,  rises  the  huge  dull-brown  structure 
of  brick,  famed,  well-nigh  as  far  as  the  city  is 
known,  as  the  Charity  Hospital. 

Twenty-five  years  ago,  when  the  emigrant 
ships  used  to  unload  their  swarms  of  home- 
less and  friendless  strangers  into  the  streets  of 
New  Orleans  to  fall  a  prey  to  yellow  fever 
or  cholera,  that  solemn  pile  sheltered  thou- 
sands on  thousands  of  desolate  and  plague- 
stricken  Irish  and  Germans,  receiving  them 
unquestioned,  until  at  times  the  very  floors 
were  covered  with  the  sick  and  dying,  and 
the  sawing  and  hammering  in  the  coffin- 
shop  across  the  inner  court  ceased  not  day  or 
night.  Somber  monument  at  once  of  charity 
and  sin  !  For  while  its  comfort  and  succor 
cost  the  houseless  wanderer  nothing,  it  lived 
and  grew,  and  lives  and  grows  still,  upon  the 
licensed  vices  of  the  people, — drinking,  har- 
lotry, and  gambling. 

The  Charity  Hospital  of  St.  Charles — such 
is  its  true  name — is,  however,  no  mere  plague- 
house.  Whether  it  ought  to  be,  let  doctors 
decide.  How  good  or  necessary  such  mod- 
ern innovations  as  "  ridge  ventilation,"  "  mov- 
able bases,"  the  "pavilion  plan,"  "trained 
nurses,"  etc.,  may  be,  let  the  Auxiliary  Sani- 
tary Association  say.  There  it  stands  as  of 
old,  innocent  of  all  sins  that  may  be  involved 
in  any  of  these  changes,  rising  story  over 
story,  up  and  up ;  here  a  ward  for  poisonous 
fevers,  and  there  a  ward  for  acute  surgical 
cases ;  here  a  story  full  of  simple  ailments, 
and  there  a  ward  specially  set  aside  for 
women. 

In  1857  this  last  was  Dr.  Sevier's  ward. 
Here,  at  his  stated  hour  one  summer  morning 
in  that  year,  he  tarried  a  moment,  yonder  by 
that  window,  just  where  you  enter  the  ward 
and  before  you  come  to  the  beds.  He  had 
fallen  into  discourse  with  some  of  the  more  in- 
quiring minds  among  the  train  of  students  that 
accompanied  him,  and  waited  there  to  finish 


and  cool  down  to  a  physician's  proper  temper- 
ature.   The  question  was  public  sanitation. 

He  was  telling  a  tall  Arkansan,  with  high- 
combed  hair,  self-conscious  gloves,  and  very 
broad,  clean-shaven  lower  jaw,  how  the 
peculiar  formation  of  delta  lands,  by  which 
they  drain  away  from  the  larger  watercourses, 
instead  of  into  them,  had  made  the  swamp 
there  in  the  rear  of  the  town,  for  more  than 
a  century,"  the  common  dumping-ground  and 
cess-pool  of  the  city,  sir !  " 

Some  of  the  students  nodded  convincedly 
to  the  speaker ;  some  looked  askance  at  the 
Arkansan,  who  put  one  fore-arm  meditatively 
under  his  coat-tail ;  some  looked  out  through 
the  window  over  the  regions  alluded  to ;  and 
some  only  changed  their  pose  and  looked 
around  for  a  mirror. 

The  Doctor  spoke  on.  Several  of  his  hearers 
were  really  interested  in  the  then  unusual 
subject,  and  listened  intelligently  as  he  pointed 
across  the  low  plain  at  hundreds  of  acres  of 
land  that  were  nothing  but  a  morass,  partly 
filled  in  with  the  foulest  refuse  of  a  semi-tropical 
city,  and  beyond  it  where  still  lay  the  swamp, 
half  cleared  of  its  forest  and  festering  in  the 
sun — "every  drop  of  its  waters,  and  every 
inch  of  its  mire,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  saturated 
with  the  poisonous  drainage  of  the  town  !  " 

"  I  happen,"  interjected  a  young  city 
student ;  but  the  others  bent  their  ear  to  the 
Doctor,  who  continued : 

"Why,  sir,  were  these  regions  compactly 
built  on,  like  similar  areas  in  cities  confined 
to  narrow  sites,  the  mortality,  with  the  climate 
we  have,  would  be  frightful." 

"I  happen  to   know,"    essayed   the    city; 
student;   but  the    Arkansan   had   made  an 
interrogatory  answer  to  the  Doctor,  that  led 
him  to  add : 

""Why,  yes;  you  see  the  houses  here  on 
these   lands  are  little,  flimsy,  single  ground- 
story   affairs,   loosely   thrown  together, 
freely  exposed  to  sun  and  air." 

"  I  hap ,"  said  the  city  student. 

"And  yet,"  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  " 
is  king ! " 

He  paused  an  instant  for  his  hearers 
take  in  the  figure. 

"  Doctor,  I  happen  to " 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  George  W.  Cable.    All  rights  reserved. 


DR.    SEVIER. 


423 


Some  one's  fist  from  behind  caused  the 
peaker  to  turn  angrily,  and  the  Doctor  re- 
umed: 

"  Go  into  any  of  those  streets  off  yonder, 
— Treme,  Prieur,  Marais.  Why,  there  are 
>ften  ponds  under  the  houses  !  The  floors  of 
jedrooms  are  within  a  foot  or  two  of  these 
tonds  !  The  bricks  of  the  surrounding  pave- 
ments are  often  covered  with  a  fine,  dark 
loss !  Water  seeps  up  through  the  side- 
walks !  That's  his  realm,  sir  !  Here  and  there 
mong  the  residents — every  here  and  there 
-you'll  see  his  sallow,  quaking  subjects  drag- 
ing  about  their  work  or  into  and  out  of  their 
eds,  until  the  fear  of  a  fatal  ending  drives 
iem  in  here.  Congestion  ?  Yes,  sometimes 
ongestion  pulls  them  under  suddenly,  and 
icy're  gone  before  they  know  it.  Sometimes 
icir  vitality  wanes  slowly,  until  malaria  beck- 
ns  in  consumption." 

"Why,  Doctor,"  said  the  city  student, 
jjffling  with  pride  of  his  town,  "  there  are 
[lenty  cities  as  bad  as  this.  I  happen  to 

row,  for  instance " 
Dr.  Sevier  turned  away  in  quiet  contempt. 
|  "  It  will  not   improve  our   town  to  dirty 
thers,  or  to  clean  them,  either." 
He  moved  down  the  ward,  while  two  or 
iree  members  among  the  moving  train,  who 
ever  happened  to  know  anything,  nudged 
ach  other  joyfully. 

The  group  stretched  out  and  came  along, 
ic  Doctor  first  and  the  young  men  after, 
)me  of  one  sort,  some  of  another, —  the  dull, 
ic  frivolous,  the  earnest,  the  kind,  the  cold, 
[-following  slowly,  pausing,  questioning,  dis- 
pursing,  advancing,  moving  from  each  clean, 
lender  bed  to  the  next,  on  this  side  and  on 
iiat,  down  and  up  the  long  sanded  aisles, 
bong  the  poor,  sick  women. 
Among  these,  too,  there  was  variety.  Some 
ere  stupid  and  ungracious,  hardened  and 
ulled  with  long  penury  as  some  in  this 
rorld  are  hardened  and  dulled  with  long 
|ches.  Some  were  as  fat  as  beggars;  some 
;ere  old  and  shriveled  ;  some  were  shriveled 
;nd  young;  some  were  bold;  some  were 
lightened ;  and  here  and  there  was  one  al- 
jiost  fair. 

|  Down  at  the  far  end  of  one  aisle  was  a  bed 
[hose  occupant  lay  watching  the  distant, 
owly  approaching  group  with  eyes  of  un- 
)eakable  dread.  There  was  not  a  word  or 
lotion — only  the  steadfast  gaze.  Gradually 
•ie  throng  drew  near.  The  faces  of  the  stu- 
jents  could  be  distinguished.  This  one  was 
parse ;  that  one  was  gentle ;  another  was 
leepy ;  another  trivial  and  silly ;  another 
savy  and  sour ;  another  tender  and  gracious, 
•resently  the  tones  of  the  Doctor's  voice  could 
P  heard,  soft,  clear,  and  without  that  trum- 


pet quality  that  it  had  beyond  the  sick-room. 
How  slowly,  yet  how  surely,  they  came ! 
The  patient's  eyes  turned  away  toward  the 
ceiling;  they  could  not  bear  the  slowness  of 
the  encounter.  They  closed ;  the  lips  moved 
in  prayer.  The  group  came  to  the  bed  that 
was  only  the  fourth  away ;  then  to  the  third ; 
then  to  the  second.  There  they  paused  some 
minutes.  Now  the  Doctor  approaches  the 
very  next  bed.  Suddenly  he  notices  this 
patient.  She  is  a  small  woman,  young,  fair 
to  see,  and,  with  closed  eyes  and  motionless 
form,  is  suffering  an  agony  of  consternation. 
One  startled  look,  a  suppressed  exclamation, 
two  steps  forward, —  the  patient's  eyes  slowly 
open.  Ah,  me !  It  is  Mary  Richling. 

"  Good-morning,  madam,"  said  the  physi- 
cian, with  a  cold  and  distant  bow ;  and  to 
the  students,  "  We'll  pass  right  along  to  the 
other  side,"  and  they  moved  into  the  next  aisle. 

"I  am  a  little  pressed  for  time  this  morn- 
ing," he  presently  remarked,  as  the  students 
showed  some  gentle  unwillingness  to  be 
hurried.  As  soon  as  he  could,  he  parted  with 
them  and  returned  to  the  ward  alone. 

As  he  moved  again  down  among  the  sick, 
straight  along  this  time,  turning  neither  to 
right  nor  left,  one  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity — 
the  hospital  and  its  so-called  nurses  are  under 
their  oversight — touched  his  arm.  He  stop- 
ped impatiently. 

"  Well,  Sister  ?  "  (bowing  his  ear). 

"I  —  I,—  the— the  —  "  His  frown  had 
scared  away  her  power  of  speech. 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Sister  ?  " 

"The  —  the  last  patient  down  on  this 
side " 

He  was  further  displeased.  "/'//  attend 
to  the  patients,  Sister,"  he  said;  and  then, 
more  kindly,  "  I'm  going  there  now.  No, 
you  stay  here — if  you  please."  And  he  left 
her  behind. 

He  came  and  stood  by  the  bed.  The 
patient  gazed  on  him. 

"  Mrs.  Richling,"  he  softly  began,  and  had 
to  cease. 

She  did  not  speak  or  move;  she  tried  to 
smile,  but  her  eyes  filled,  her  lips  quivered. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  exclaimed  the  physi- 
cian, in  a  low  voice,  "  what  brought  you 
here  ?  " 

The  answer  was  inarticulate,  but  he  saw  it 
on  the  moving  lips. 

"  Want,"  said  Mary. 

"  But  your  husband  ?  "  He  stooped  to 
catch  the  husky  answer. 

"  Home." 

"  Home  ?  "  He  could  not  understand. 
"  Not  gone  to — back — up  the  river  ?  " 

She  slowly  shook  her  head :  "  No,  home. 
In  Prieur  street." 


424 


DR.    SEVIER. 


Still  her  words  were  riddles.  He  could  not 
see  how  she  had  come  to  this.  He  stood 
silent,  not  knowing  how  to  utter  his  thought. 
At  length  he  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  hesi- 
tated an  instant,  and  then  asked  : 

"  Mrs.  Richling,  tell  me  plainly :  has  your 
husband  gone  wrong  ?  " 

Her  eyes  looked  up  a  moment  upon  him, 
big  and  staring,  and  suddenly  she  spoke : 

"  Oh,  Doctor !  My  husband  go  wrong  ?  John 
go  wrong  ?  "  The  eyelids  closed  down,  the 
head  rocked  slowly  from  side  to  side  on  the 
flat  hospital  pillow,  and  the  first  two  tears  he 
had  ever  seen  her  shed  welled  from  the  long 
lashes  and  slipped  down  her  cheeks. 

"  My  poor  child !  "  said  the  Doctor,  taking 
her  hand  in  his,  "  No,  no  !  God  forgive  me ! 
He  hasn't  gone  wrong ;  he's  not  going  wrong. 
You'll  tell  me  all  about  it  when  you're 
stronger." 

The  Doctor  had  her  removed  to  one  of  the 
private  rooms  of  the  pay  ward,  and  charged 
the  Sisters  to  take  special  care  of  her.  "Above 
all  things,"  he  murmured,  with  a  beetling 
frown,  "  tell  that  thick-headed  nurse  not  to 
let  her  know  that  this  is  at  anybody's  ex- 
pense. Ah,  yes;  and  when  her  husband 
comes,  tell  him  to  see  me  at  my  office  as 
soon  as  he  possibly  can." 

As  he  was  leaving  the  hospital  gate  he  had 
an  after- thought :  "  I  might  have  left  a  note." 
He  paused,  with  his  foot  on  the  carriage-step. 
"  I  suppose  they'll  tell  him," — and  so  he  got 
in  and  drove  off,  looking  at  his  watch. 

On  his  second  visit,  although  he  came  in 
with  a  quietly  inspiring  manner,  he  had  also, 
secretly,  the  feeling  of  a  culprit.  But  midway 
of  the  room,  when  the  young  head  on  the 
pillow  turned  its  face  toward  him,  his  heart 
rose.  For  the  patient  smiled.  As  he  drew 
nearer  she  slid  out  her  feeble  hand.  "  I'm 
glad  I  came  here,"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "this  room  is  much 
better  than  the  open  ward." 

"  I  didn't  mean  this  room,"  she  said.  "  I 
meant  the  whole  hospital." 

"  The  whole  hospital !  "  He  raised  his  eye- 
brows, as  to  a  child. 

"  Ah  !  Doctor,"  she  responded,  her  eyes 
kindling,  though  moist 

"  What,  my  child  ?  " 

She  smiled  upward  to  his  bent  face. 

"  The  poor  —  mustn't  be  ashamed  of  the 
poor,  must  they  ?  " 

The  Doctor  only  stroked  her  brow,  and 
presently  turned  and  addressed  his  profes- 
sional inquiries  to  the  nurse.  He  went  away. 
Just  outside  the  door  he  asked  the  nurse : 

"  Hasn't  her  husband  been  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  she  was  asleep, 
and  he  only  stood  there  at  the  door  and 


looked  in  a  bit.    He  trembled,"  the  unintelli- 
gent woman  added,  for  the  Doctor  seemed 
waiting   to    hear    more — "  he    trembled    all 
over;    and  that's    all  he  did,  excepting  his 
saying  her  name  over  to  himself  like,  over 
and  over,  and  wiping  of  his  eyes." 
"  And  nobody  told  him  anything  ?  " 
"  Oh,  not  a  word,  sir !  "  came  the  eager 
answer. 

"  You  didn't  tell  him  to  come  and  see  me?" 
The  woman  gave  a  start,  looked  dismayed, 
and  began : 

"  N-no,  sir ;  you  didn't  tell " 

"Um — hum,"  growled  the  Doctor.  He  took 
out  a  card  and  wrote  on  it.  "  Now  see  if  you 
can  remember  to  give  him  that." 


XVI. 


MANY    WATERS. 


As  THE  day  faded  away  it  began  to  rain. 
The  next  morning  the  water  was  coming 
down  in  torrents.  Richling,  looking  out  from 
a  door  in  Prieur  street,  found  scant  room  for 
one  foot  on  the  inner  edge  of  the  sidewalk ; 
all  the  rest  was  under  water.  By  noon  the 
sidewalks  were  completely  covered  in  miles 
of  streets.  By  two  in  the  afternoon  the  flood 
was  coming  into  many  of  the  houses.  By 
three  it  was  up  at  the  door-sill  on  which  he 
stood.  There  it  stopped. 

He  could  do  nothing  but  stand  and  look. 
Skiffs,  canoes,  hastily  improvised  rafts,  were 
moving  in  every  direction,  carrying  the  un- 
sightly chattels  of  the  poor  out  of  their  over- 
flowed cottages  to  higher  ground.  Barrels, 
boxes,  planks,  hen-coops,  bridge  lumber,  piles 
of  straw  that  waltzed  solemnly  as  they  went, 
cord-wood,  old  shingles,  door-steps,  floated 
here  and  there  in  melancholy  confusion ;  and 
down  upon  all  still  drizzled  the  slackening 
rain.  At  length  it  ceased. 

Richling  still  stood  in  the  door-way,  the 
picture  of  mute  helplessness.  Yes,  there  was1 
one  other  thing  he  could  do ;  he  could  laugh.' 
It  would  have  been  hard  to  avoid  it  some- 
times, there  were  such  ludicrous  sights — such 
slips  and  sprawls  into  the  water ;  so  there  he] 
stood  in  that  peculiar  isolation  that  deaf  peo- 
ple content  themselves  with,  now  looking  the 
picture  of  anxious  waiting,  now  indulging  z 
low  deaf  man's  chuckle  when  something  made 
the  rowdies  and  slatterns  of  the  street  roar. 

Presently  he  noticed  at  a  distance  up  the 
way  a  young  man  in  a  canoe,  passing,  much 
to  their  good-natured  chagrin,  a  party  of  thrct 
in  a  skiff,  who  had  engaged  him  in  a  trial  oi 
speed.  From  both  boats  a  shower  of  hilarious 
French  was  issuing.  At  the  nearest  corn<;i 


DR.    SEVIER. 


425 


the  skiff  party  turned  into  another  street  and 
disappeared,  throwing  their  lingual  fire- works 
to  the  last.  The  canoe  came  straight  on  with 
the  speed  of  a  fish.  Its  dexterous  occupant 
was  no  other  than  Narcisse. 

There  was  a  grace  in  his  movement  that 
kept  Richling's  eyes  on  him,  when  he  would 
rather  have  withdrawn  into  the  house.  Down 
went  the  paddle  always  on  the  same  side, 
noiselessly,  in  front;  on  darted  the  canoe; 
jack  ward  stretched  the  submerged  paddle 
and  came  out  of  the  water  edgewise  at  full 
reach  behind,  with  an  almost  imperceptible 
swerving  motion  that  kept  the  slender  craft 
true  to  its  course.  No  rocking;  no  rush  of 
water  before  or  behind;  only  the  one  con- 
stant glassy  ripple  gliding  on  either  side  as 
silently  as  a  beam  of  light.  Suddenly,  with- 
out any  apparent  change  of  movement  in  the 
sinewy  wrists,  the  narrow  shell  swept  around 
in  a  quarter  circle,  and  Narcisse  sat  face  to 
face  with  Richling. 

Each  smiled  brightly  at  the  other.  The 
handsome  Creole's  face  was  aglow  with  the 
pure  delight  of  existence. 

"  Well,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  'ow  you  enjoyin' 
that  watah  ?  As  fah  as  myseff  am  concerned, 
!  I  am  afloat,  I  am  afloat  on  the  fee-us  'oiling 
tide.'  I  don't  think  you  fine  that  stweet  pwetty 
dusty  to-day,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'  ?  " 

Richling  laughed. 

"  It  don't  inflame  my  eyes  to-day,"  he  said. 

"  You  muz  egscuse  my  i'ony,  Mistoo  Ttch- 
lin'; I  can't  'ep  that  sometime'.  It  come 
natu'al  to  me,  in  fact.  I  was  on'y  speaking 
i'oniously  juz  now  in  calling  allusion  to  that 
dust ;  because,  of  co'se,  theh  is  no  dust  to-day, 
because  the  g'ound  is  all  covvud  with  watah, 
in  fact.  Some  people  don't  understand  that 
jfiggah  of  i'ony." 

"  I  don't  understand  as  much  about  it  my- 
self as  I'd  like  to,"  said  Richling. 

"  Me,  I'm  ve'y  fon'  of  it,"  responded  the 
Creole.  "I  was  making  seve'al  i'onies  ad 
.those  fwen'  of  mine  juz  now.  We  was  'unning 
la  'ace.  An'  thass  anotheh  thing  I  am  fon'  of. 
I  would  'ather  'un  a  'ace  than  to  wuck  faw  a 
llivin'.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  should  thing  so  !  Any- 
ibody  would,  in  fact.  Bud  thass  the  way  with 
me  —  always  making  some  i'onies."  He 
stopped  with  a  sudden  change  of  counte- 
nance, and  resumed  gravely :  "  Mistoo  Ttch- 
lin', looks  to  me  like  you'  lookin'  ve'y  salad." 
He  fanned  himself  with  his  hat.  "  I  dunno 
W  'tis  with  you,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  but  I  fine 
jmyseff  ve'y  oppwessive  thiz  evening." 

"  I  don't  find  you  so,"  said  Richling,  smil- 
ing broadly. 

And  he  did  not.  The  young  Creole's  burn- 
ing face  and  resplendent  wit  were  a  sunset 
jglow  in  the  darkness  of  this  day  of  overpow- 


ering adversity.  His  presence  even  supplied, 
for  a  moment,  what  seemed  a  gleam  of  hope. 
Why  wasn't  there  here  an  opportunity  to 
visit  the  hospital  ?  He  need  not  tell  Narcisse 
the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Richling,  persua- 
sively, crouching  down  upon  one  of  his  heels, 
"  that  I  could  sit  in  that  thing  without  turn- 
ing it  over  ?  " 

"  In  that  pee-ogue  ?  "  Narcisse  smiled  the 
smile  of  the  proficient  as  he  waved  his  paddle 
across  the  canoe.  "  Mistoo  Ttchlin'," — the 
smile  passed  off, — "  I  dunno  if  you'll  billiv 
me,  but  at  the  same  time  I  muz  tell  you  the 
tooth " 

He  paused  inquiringly. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Richling,  with  evident 
disappointment. 

"  Well,  it's  juz  a  poss'bil'ty  that  you'll  we- 
fwain  fum  spillin'  out  fum  yeh  till  the  negs 
cawneh.  Thass  the  manneh  of  those  who  ah 
not  acquainted  with  the  pee-ogue.  *  Lost  to 
sight,  to  memo'y  deah  ' — if  you'll  egscuse  the 
maxim.  Thass  Chawles  Dickens  mague  use 
of  that  egspwession." 

Richling  answered,  with  a  gay  shake  of 
the  head,  "  I'll  keep  out  of  it."  If  Narcisse 
detected  his  mortified  chagrin,  he  did  not 
seem  to.  It  was  hard :  the  day's  last  hope 
was  blown  out  like  a  candle  in  the  wind. 
Richling  dared  not  risk  the  wetting  of  his 
suit  of  clothes ;  they  were  his  sole  letter  of 
recommendation  and  capital  in  trade. 

"  Well,  au'  evoi,  Mistoo'  Itchlin."  He  turned 
and  moved  off — dip,  glide,  and  away. 

DR.  SEVIER  stamped  his  wet  feet  on  the 
pavement  of  the  hospital  porch.  It  was 
afternoon  of  the  day  following  that  of  the 
rain.  The  water  still  covering  the  streets 
about  the  hospital  had  not  prevented  his  car- 
riage from  splashing  through  it  on  his  double 
daily  round.  A  narrow  and  unsteady  plank 
spanned  the  immersed  sidewalk.  Three  times, 
going  and  coming,  he  had  crossed  it  safely, 
and  this  fourth  time  he  had  made  half  the  dis- 
tance well  enough ;  but,  hearing  distant  cheers 
and  laughter,  he  looked  up  street;  when — 
splatter !  —  and  the  cheers  were  redoubled. 

"  Pretty  thing  to  laugh  at !  "  he  muttered. 
Two  or  three  by-standers,  leaning  on  their 
umbrellas  in  the  lodge  at  the  gate  and  in  the 
porch,  where  he  stood  stamping,  turned  their 
backs  and  smoothed  their  mouths. 

"  Hah !  "  said  the  tall  Doctor,  stamping 
harder.  Stamp  !  —  stamp  !  He  shook  his  leg. 
— "  Bah !  "  He  stamped  the  other  long,  slen- 
der, wet  foot  and  looked  down  at  it,  turn- 
ing one  side  and  then  the  other. —  "  F-fah  !  " 
—  The  first  one  again. — "  Psha  !  " — The 
other. —  Stamp !  —  stamp !  —  "  Right — into  it  1 


426 


DR.    SEVIER. 


— up  to  my  ankles!"  He  looked  around 
with  a  slight  scowl  at  one  man,  who  seemed 
taken  with  a  sudden  softening  of  the  spine  and 
knees,  and  who  turned  his  back  quickly  and  fell 
against  another  who,  also  with  his  back  turned, 
was  leaning  tremulously  against  a  pillar. 

But  the  object  of  mirth  did  not  tarry.  He 
went  as  he  was  to  Mary's  room,  and  found 
her  much  better  —  as,  indeed,  he  had  done  at 
every  visit.  He  sat  by  her  bed  and  listened 
to  her  story. 

"  Why,  Doctor,  you  see,  we  did  nicely  for 
awhile.  John  went  on  getting  the  same  kind 
of  work  and  pleasing  everybody,  of  course, 
and  all  he  lacked  was  finding  something  per- 
manent. Still,  we  passed  through  one  month 
after  another,  and  we  really  began  to  think 
the  sun  was  coming  out,  so  to  speak." 

"  Well,  I  thought  so,  too,"  put  in  the  Doc- 
tor. "I  thought  if  it  didn't,  you'd  let  me 
know." 

"  Why,  no,  Doctor,  we  couldn't  do  that; 
you  couldn't  be  taking  care  of  well  people." 

"Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  dropping  that 
point,  "  I  suppose  as  the  busy  season  began 
to  wane  that  mode  of  livelihood,  of  course, 
disappeared." 

"Yes," — a  little  one-sided  smile, — "and 
so  did  our  money.  And  then,  of  course," — 
she  slightly  lifted  and  waved  her  hand. 

"  You  had  to  live,"  said  Dr.  Sevier,  sin- 
cerely. 

She  smiled  again,  with  abstracted  eyes. 
"  We  thought  we'd  like  to,"  she  said.  "  I 
didn't  mind  the  loss  of  the  things  so  much 
— except  the  little  table  we  ate  from.  You 
remember  that  little  round  table,  don't 
you  ?  " 

The  visitor  had  not  the  heart  to  say  no. 
He  nodded. 

"  When  that  went,  there  was  but  one  thing 
left  that  could  go." 

"  Not  your  bed  ?  " 

"The  bedstead;  yes." 

"  You  didn't  sell  your  bed,  Mrs.  Richling  ?  " 

The  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  She  made 
a  sign  of  assent. 

"  But  then,"  she  resumed,  "  we  made  an 
excellent  arrangement  with  a  good  woman 
who  had  just  lost  her  husband  and  wanted 
to  live  cheaply,  too." 

"  What  amuses  you,  madam  ?  " 

"  Nothing  great.  But  I  wish  you  knew  her. 
She's  funny.  Well,  so  we  moved  down- 
town again.  Didn't  cost  much  to  move." 

She  would  smile  a  little  in  spite  of  him. 

"And  then  ?  "  said  he,  stirring  impatiently 
and  leaning  forward.  "  What  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  then  I  worked  a  little  harder  than  I 
thought, —  pulling  trunks  around  and  so  on, — 
and  I  had  this  third  attack." 


The  Doctor  straightened  himself  up,  folded 
his  arms,  and  muttered : 

"  Oh !  —  oh !  Why  wasn't  I  instantly  sent 
for?" 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  again,  but  — 

"  Doctor,"  she  answered,  with  her  odd  lit- 
tle argumentative  smile,  "how  could  we? 
We  had  nothing  to  pay  with.  It  wouldn't 
have  been  just." 

"  Just !  "  exclaimed  the  physician,  angrily. 

"Doctor,"  said  the  invalid,  and  looked  at 
him. 

«  Oh  —  all  right." 

She  made  no  answer  but  to  look  at  him 
still  more  pleadingly. 

"  Wouldn't  it  have  been  just  as  fair  to  let 
me  be  generous,  madam  ? "  His  faint  smile 
was  bitter.  "  For  once  ?  Simply  for  once  ?  " 

"  We  couldn't  make  that  proposition,  could 
we,  Doctor  ?  " 

He  was  checkmated. 

"  Mrs.  Richling,"  he  said  suddenly,  clasp- 
ing the  back  of  his  chair  as  if  about  to  rise, 
"  tell  me;  —  did  you  or  your  husband  act  this 
way  for  anything  I've  ever  said  or  done?  " 

"  No,  Doctor !  no,  no ;  never.   But 

"But  kindness  should  seek — not  be 
sought,"  said  the  physician,  starting  up. 

"  No,  Doctor,  we  didn't  look  on  it  so.  Of 
course  we  didn't.  If  there's  any  fault,  it's  all 
mine.  For  it  was  my  own  proposition  to 
John,  that  as  we  had  to  seek  charity,  we 
should  just  be  honest  and  open  about  it.  I 
said,  'John,  as  I  need  the  best  attention,  and 
as  that  can  be  offered  free  only  in  the  hos- 
pital, why,  to  the  hospital  I  ought  to  go.'  " 

She  lay  still,  and  the  Doctor  pondered. 
Presently  he  said : 

"  And  Mr.  Richling  —  I  suppose  he  looks 
for  work  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  From  daylight  to  dark !  " 

"  Well,  the  water  is  passing  off.  He'll  be : 
along  by  and  by  to  see  you,  no  doubt.  Tell 
him  to  call,  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,  at 
my  office."  And  with  that  the  Doctor  went 
off  in  his  wet  boots,  committed  a  series  of 
indiscretions,  reached  home,  and  fell  ill. 

In  the  wanderings  of  fever  he  talked  of 
the  Richlings,  and  in  lucid  moments  inquired 
for  them. 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  the  sick  doctor's 
physician,  "  they're  attended  to.  Yes, 
their  wants  are  supplied.  Just  dismiss  thei 
from  your  mind."  In  the  eyes  of  this  ph] 
sician,  the  Doctor's  life  was  invaluable,  and 
these  patients  or  pensioners  an  unknown  and, 
most  likely,  an  inconsiderable  quantity  ;  tw< 
sparrows,  as  it  were,  worth  a  farthing.  Bi 
the  sick  man  lay  thinking.  He  frowned. 

"  I  wish  they  would  go  home." 

"  I  have  sent  them." 


DR.    SEVIER. 


427 


"  You  have  ?    Home,  to  Milwaukee  ?" 

«  Yes." 

«  Thank  God !  " 

He  soon  began  to  mend.  Yet  it  was  weeks 
Before  he  could  leave  the  house.  When  one 
lay  he  reentered  the  hospital,  still  pale  and 
aint,  he  was  prompt  to  express  to  the  Mother- 
Superior  the  comfort  he  had  felt  in  his  sick- 
jiess  to  know  that  his  brother  physician  had 
[sent  those  Richlings  to  their  kindred. 

The  Sister  shook  her  head.  He  saw  the 
ieception  in  an  instant.  As  best  his  strength 
would  allow,  he  hurried  to  the  keeper  of  the 
rolls.  There  was  the  truth.  Home  ?  Yes, — 
;o  Prieur  street, — discharged  only  one  week 
Defore.  He  drove  quickly  to  his  office. 

'  Narcisse,  you  will  find  that  young  Mr. 
Richling  living  in  Prieur  street,  somewhere 
Between  Conti  and  St.  Louis.  I  don't  know 
he  house ;  you'll  have  to  find  it.  Tell  him  I'm 
n  my  office  again,  and  to  come  and  see  me." 

Narcisse  was  no  such  fool  as  to  say  he  knew 
he  house.  He  would  get  the  praise  of  find- 
ng  it  quickly. 

"  I'll  do  my  mose  awduous,  seh,"  he  said, 
;ook  down  his  coat,  hung  up  his  jacket,  put 
on  his  hat,  and  went  straight  to  the  house 
nd  knocked.  Got  no  answer.  Knocked 
again  and  a  third  time ;  but  in  vain.  Went 
jnext  door  and  inquired  of  a  pretty  girl,  who 
[fell  in  love  with  him  at  a  glance. 

"Yes,  but  they  had  moved.  She  wasn't 
\jess  ezac'ly  sure  where  they  had  moved  to, 
lunless-n  it  was  in  that  little  house  yondeh  be- 
jtween  St.  Louis  and  Toulouse;  and  if  they 
wasn't  there,  she  didn't  know  where  they  was. 
People  ought  to  leave  words  where  they's 
movin'  at,  but  they  don't.  You're  very  wel- 
;come,"  she  added,  as  he  expressed  his  thanks ; 
and  he  would  have  been  welcome  had  he 
questioned  her  for  an  hour.  His  parting  bow 
and  smile  stuck  in  her  heart  a  six  months. 

He  went  to  the  spot  pointed  out.  As  a 
Creole,  he  was  used  to  seeing  very  respectable 
ipeople  living  in  very  small  and  plain  houses. 
This  one  was  not  too  plain  even  for  his  ideas 
of  Richling,  though  it  was  but  a  little  one- 
,street-door-and-window  affair,  with  an  alley 
on  the  left  running  back  into  the  small  yard 
behind.  He  knocked.  Again  no  one  an- 
swered. He  looked  down  the  alley  and  saw, 
moving  about  the  yard,  a  large  woman,  who, 
'he  felt  certain,  could  not  be  Mrs.  Richling. 

Two  little  short-skirted,  bare-legged  girls 
were  playing  near  him.  He  spoke  to  them 
in  French.  Did  they  know  where  Monsieu' 
'Itchlin'  lived?  The  two  children  repeated 
the  name,  looking  inquiringly  at  each  other. 

"  JVtm,  miche"  "  No,  sir,  they  didn't  know." 

"Qui  reste  id?"  he  asked.  "Who  lives 
here  ?  " 


"  Id  ?  Madame  qui  reste  la  c'est  Mizziz 
Ri-i-i-ly  !  "  said  one. 

"  Yass,"  said  the  other,  breaking  into  Eng- 
lish and  rubbing  a  mosquito  off  of  her  well- 
tanned  shank  with  the  sole  of  her  foot,  "  'tis 
Mizziz  Ri-i-i-ly  what  live  there.  She  jess  move 
een.  She's  got  a  lill  baby. —  Oh!  you  means 
dat  lady  what  was  in  de  Chatty  Hawspill !  " 

"  No,  no  !  A  real,  nice  lady.  She  nevva  saw- 
that  Cha'ity  Hospi'l." 

The  little  girls  shook  their  heads.  They 
couldn't  imagine  a  person  who  had  never 
seen  the  Charity  Hospital. 

"  Was  there  nobody  else  who  had  moved 
into  any  of  these  houses  about  here  lately  ?  " 
He  spoke  again  in  French.  They  shook  their 
heads.  Two  boys  came  forward  and  verified 
the  testimony.  Narcisse  went  back  with  his 
report :  "  Moved, — not  found." 

"  I  fine  that  ve'y  d'oll,  Doctah  Seveeah," 
concluded  the  unaugmented,  hanging  up  his 
hat ;  "  some  peop'  always  'ard  to  fine.  I  h-even 
notiz  that  sem  thing  w'en  I  go  to  colic  some 
bill.  I  dunno  'ow  'tis,  Doctah,  but  I  assu' 
you  I  kin  tell  that  by  a  man's  physio'nomy. 
Nobody  teach  me  that.  'Tis  my  own  ingeen- 
itty  'as  made  me  to  disco vveh  that,  in  fact." 

The  Doctor  was  silent.  Presently  he  drew 
a  piece  of  paper  toward  him  and,  dipping  his 
pen  into  the  ink,  began  to  write  : 

"  Information  wanted  —  of  the  whereabouts 
of  John  Richling " 

"  Narcisse,"  he  called,  still  writing,  "  I 
want  you  to  take  an  advertisement  to  the 
*  Picayune '  office." 

"  With  the  gweatez  of  pleazheh,  seh."  The 
clerk  began  his  usual  shifting  of  costume. 
"  Yesseh !  I  assu'  you,  Doctah,  that  is  a 
p'oposition  moze  enti'ly  to  my  satizfagtion ; 
faw  I  am  suffe'ing  faw  a  smoke,  and  deztitute 
of  a  ciga'ette !  I  am  aztonizh'  'ow  I  did  that, 
to  egs-hauz  them  unconsciouzly,  in  fact."  He 
received  the  advertisement  in  an  envelope, 
whipped  his  shoes  a  little  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  went  out.  One  would  think,  to  hear 
him  thundering  down  the  stairs,  that  it  was 
twenty-five  cents'  worth  of  ice. 

"  Hold  o "  The  Doctor  started  from 

his  seat,  then  turned  and  paced  feebly  up  and 
down.  Who,  besides  Richling,  might  see  that 
notice?  What  might  be  its  unexpected  re- 
sults? Who  was  John  Richling?  A  man 
with  a  secret,  at  the  best ;  and  a  secret,  in 
Dr.  Sevier's  eyes,  was  detestable.  Might  not 
Richling  be  a  man  who  had  fled  from  some- 
thing ?  "No!  no!  "  The  Doctor  spoke  aloud. 
He  had  promised  to  think  nothing  ill  of  him. 
Let  the  poor  children  have  their  silly  secret. 
He  spoke  again.  "  They'll  find  out  the 
folly  of  it  by  and  by."  He  let  the  advertise- 
ment go ;  and  it  went. 


428 


DR.    SEVIER. 


XVII. 


RAPHAEL    RISTOFALO. 


RICHLING  had  a  dollar  in  his  pocket.  A 
man  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

But  let  us  see.  On  the  day  that  John  and 
Mary  had  sold  their  only  bedstead,  Mrs. 
Riley,  watching  them,  had  proposed  the 
joint  home.  The  offer  had  been  accepted 
with  an  eagerness  that  showed  itself  in  nerv- 
ous laughter.  Mrs.  Riley  then  took  quarters 
in  Prieur  street,  where  John  and  Mary,  for  a 
due  consideration,  were  given  a  single  neatly 
furnished  back  room.  The  bedstead  had 
brought  seven  dollars.  Richling,  on  the  day 
after  the  removal,  was  in  the  commercial 
quarter,  looking,  as  usual,  for  employment. 

The  young  man  whom  Dr.  Sevier  had  first 
seen,  in  the  previous  October,  moving  with 
a  springing  step  and  alert,  inquiring  glances 
from  number  to  number  in  Carondelet  street 
was  slightly  changed.  His  step  was  firm,  but 
something  less  elastic,  and  not  quite  so  hur- 
ried. His  face  was  more  thoughtful,  and  his 
glance  wanting  in  a  certain  dancing  freshness 
that  had  been  extremely  pleasant.  He  was 
walking  in  Poydras  street  toward  the  river. 

As  he  came  near  to  a  certain  man  who  sat 
in  the  entrance  of  a  store,  with  the  freshly 
whittled  corner  of  a  chair  between  his  knees, 
his  look  and  bow  were  grave,  but  amiable, 
quietly  hearty,  deferential,  and  also  self-re- 
spectful —  and  uncommercial :  so  palpably 
uncommercial  that  the  sitter  did  not  rise  or 
even  shut  his  knife. 

He  slightly  stared.  Richling,  in  a  low,  pri- 
vate tone,  was  asking  him  for  employment. 

"  What  ?  "  turning  his  ear  up  and  frown- 
ing downward. 

The  application  was  repeated,  the  first 
words  with  a  slightly  resentful  ring,  but  the 
rest  more  quietly. 

The  store-keeper  stared  again  and  shook 
his  head  slowly. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  barely  audible  tone. 
Richling  moved  on,  not  stopping  at  the  next 
place,  or  the  next,  or  the  next ;  for  he  felt  the 
man's  stare  all  over  his  back  until  he  turned 
the  corner  and  found  himself  in  Tchoupitou- 
las  street.  Nor  did  he  stop  at  the  first  place 
around  the  corner.  It  smelt  of  deteriorating 
potatoes  and  up-river  cabbages,  and  there 
were  open  barrels  of  onions  set  ornamentally 
aslant  at  the  entrance.  He  had  a  fatal  con- 
viction that  his  services  would  not  be  wanted 
in  malodorous  places. 

"  Now  isn't  that  a  shame  ?  "  asked  the 
chair- whittler,  as  Richling  passed  out  of  sight. 
"  Such  a  gentleman  as  that,  to  be  beggin'  for 
work  from  door  to  door !  " 


"  He's  not  beggin'  f'om  do'  to  do',''  said  a 
second,  with  a  Creole  accent  on  his  tongue 
and  a  match  stuck  behind  his  ear  like  a  pen. 
"  Beside,  he's  too  much  of  a  gennlemun." 

"  That's  where  you  and  him  differs, "said  the 
first.  He  frowned  upon  the  victim  of  his  delicate 
repartee  with  make-believe  defiance.  Num- 
ber Two  drew  from  an  outside  coat-pocket  a 
wad  of  common  brown  wrapping-paper,  tore 
from  it  a  small,  neat  parallelogram,  dove  into 
an  opposite  pocket  for  some  loose  smoking- 
tobacco,  laid  a  pinch  of  it  in  the  paper,  and, 
with  a  single  dexterous  turn  of  the  fingers, 
thumbs  above,  the  rest  beneath — it  looks  sim- 
ple, but  'tis  an  amazing  art — made  a  cigar- 
ette. Then  he  took  down  his  match,  struck 
it  under  his  short  coat-skirt,  lighted  his  cigar- 
ette, drew  an  inhalation  through  it  that  con- 
sumed a  third  of  its  length,  and  sat  there  with 
his  eyes  half-closed  and  all  that  smoke  some- 
where inside  of  him. 

"  That  young  man,"  remarked  a  third,  wip- 
ing a  tooth-pick  on  his  thigh  and  putting  it  in 
his  vest-pocket  as  he  stepped  to  the  front, 
"  don't  know  how  to  look  fur  work.  There's 
one  way  fur  a  day-laborer  to  look  fur  work, 
and  there's  another  way  fur  a  gentleman  to 
look  fur  work,  and  there's  another  way  fur  a 
— a — a  man  with  money  to  look  fur  some- 
thin'  to  .  put  his  money  into.  It's  jest  like 
fishing!  "  He  threw  both  hands  outward  and 
downward,  and  made  way  for  a  porter's  truck 
with  a  load  of  green  meat.  The  smoke  began  to 
fall  from  Number  Two's  nostrils  in  two  slender 
blue  streams.  Number  Three  continued  : 

"  You've  got  to  know  what  kind  o'  hooks 
you  want,  and  what  kind  o'  bait  you  want, 
and  then,  after  that,  you've " 

Numbers  One  and*  Two  did  not  let  him 
finish. 

"  —  Got  to  know  how  to  fish,"  they  said; 
"  that's  so  !  "  The  smoke  continued  to  leak 
slowly  from  Number  Two's  nostrils  and  teeth, 
though  he  had  not  lifted  his  cigarette  the  sec- 
ond time. 

"  Yes,  you've  got  to  know  how  to  fish,"  re- 
affirmed the  third.  "  If  you  don't  know  how 
to  fish,  it's  as  like  as  not  that  nobody  can  tell 
you  what's  the  matter ;  an'  yet,  all  the  same, 
you  aint  goin'  to  ketch  no  fish." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  the  first  man,  with  an  un- 
convinced swing  of  his  chin," spunk  '11  some- 
times pull  a  man  through ;  and  you  can't 
he  aint  spunky."  Number  Three  admitt 
the  corollary.  Number  Two  looked  up  : 
chance  had  come. 

"  He'd  a  w'ipped  you  faw  a  dime,"  said 
to  Number  One,  took  a  comforting  draw  fi- 
nis cigarette,-and  felt  a  great  peace. 

"  I    take  notice  he's   a  little   deaf," 
Number  Three,  still  alluding  to  Richling. 


DR.    SEVIER. 


429 


"  That'd  spoil  him  for  me,"  said  Number 

ne. 

Number  Three  asked  why. 

"  Oh,  I  just  wouldn't  have  him  about  me. 

idn't  you  ever  notice  that  a  deaf  man  always 

ems  like  a  sort  o' stranger?  I  can't  bear 'em." 

Richling  meanwhile  moved  on.  His  crit- 
s  were  right.  He  was  not  wanting  in  cour- 
but  no  man  from  the  moon  could  hUve 
sen  more  an  alien  on  those  sidewalks.  He 
as  naturally  diligent,  active,  quick-witted, 
id  of  good,  though  may  be  a  little  too  schol- 

ly  address ;  quick  of  temper,  it  is  true,  and 
niting  his  quickness  of  temper  with  a  certain 
ishfulness —  an  unlucky  combination,  since, 

a  consequence,  nobody  had  to  get  out  of 

way ;  but  he  was  generous  in  fact  and  in 
>eech,  and  never  held  malice  a  moment, 
ut  besides  the  heavy  odds  which  his  small 

cret  seemed  to  be  against  him,  estopping 

m  from  accepting  such  valuable  friendships 

might  otherwise  have  come  to  him,  and 
esides  his  slight  deafness,  he  was  by  nature 
recluse,  or,  at  least,  a  dreamer.  Every  day 

at  he  set  foot  in  Tchoupitoulas,  or  Caron- 
elet,  or  Magazine,  or  Fulton,  or  Poydras 
reet,  he  came  from  a  realm  of  thought, 
ieking  service  in  an  empire  of  matter. 

There  is  a  street  in  New  Orleans  called 
Triton  Walk.  That  is  what  all  the  ways  of 
Dmmerce  and  finance  and  daily  bread- 
etting  were  to  Richling.  He  was  a  merman 
-ashore.  It  was  the  feeling  rather  than  the 
nowledge  of  this  that  prompted  him  to  this 
aily,  aimless  trudging  after  mere  employ- 
lent.  He  had  a  proper  pride,  once  in  awhile 

little  too  much;  nor  did  he  clearly  see  his 
ieficiencies ;  and  yet  the  unrecognized  con- 
piousness  that  he  had  not  the  commercial  in- 
tinct  made  him  willing — as  Number  Three 
rould  have  said — to  "cut  bait"  for  any 
'Sherman  who  would  let  him  do  it. 
j  He  turned  without  any  distinct  motive  and, 
btracing  his  steps  to  the  corner,  passed  up 
jcross  Poydras  street.  A  little  way  above  it 
je  paused  to  look  at  some  machinery  in  mo- 
jion.  He  liked  machinery — for  itself  rather 
aan  for  its  results.  He  would  have  gone  in 
;:nd  examined  the  workings  of  this  apparatus 
S-ad  it  not  been  for  the  sign  above  his  head, 
j  No  Admittance."  Those  words  always 
jeemed  painted  for  him.  A  slight  modifica- 
|ion  in  Richling's  character  might  have  made 
fim  an  inventor.  Some  other  faint  difference, 
;nd  he  might  have  been  a  writer,  a  historian, 
In  essayist,  or  even — there  is  no  telling — 

well-fed  poet.  With  the  question  of  food, 
jaiment,  and  shelter  permanently  settled,  he 
tight  have  become  one  of  those  resplendent 
;.ash  lights  that  at  intervals  dart  their  beams 
[cross  the  dark  waters  of  the  world's  igno- 


rance, hardly  from  new  continents,  but  from 
the  observatory,  the  study,  the  laboratory. 
But  he  was  none  of  these.  There  had  been  a 
crime  committed  somewhere  in  his  bringing 
up,  and  as  a  result  he  stood  in  the  thick  of 
life's  battle,  weaponless.  He  gazed  upon 
machinery  with  child-like  wonder ;  but  when 
he  looked  around  and  saw  on  every  hand 
men, — good  fellows  who  ate  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves at  restaurants,  told  broad  jokes,  spread 
their  mouths  and  smote  their  sides  when  they 
laughed,  and  whose  best  wit  was  to  bombard 
one  another  with  bread-crusts  and  hide  be- 
hind the  sugar-bowl, — men  whom  he  could 
have  taught  in  every  kind  of  knowledge  that 
they  were  capable  of  grasping,  except  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  get  money, — when  he 
saw  these  men,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  grow 
rich  daily  by  simply  flipping  beans  into  each 
other's  faces,  or  slapping  each  other  on  the 
back,  the  wonder  of  machinery  was  eclipsed. 
Do  as  they  did?  He?  He  could  no  more 
reach  a  conviction  as  to  what  the  price  of 
corn  would  be  to-morrow  than  he  could  re- 
member what  the  price  of  sugar  was  yesterday. 

He  called  himself  an  accountant — gulping 
down  his  secret  pride  with  an  amiable  glow 
that  commanded,  instantly,  an  amused  esteem. 
And  to  judge  by  his  evident  familiarity  with 
Tonti's  beautiful  scheme  of  mercantile  records, 
he  certainly — those  guessed  whose  books 
he  had  extricated  from  confusion — had  han- 
dled money  and  money  values,  in  days  be- 
fore his  unexplained  coming  to  New  Orleans. 
Yet  a  close  observer  would  have  noticed  that 
he  grasped  these  tasks  only  as  problems, 
treated  them  in  their  mathematical  and  enig- 
matical aspect,  and  solved  them  without  any 
appreciation  of  their  concrete  values.  When 
they  were  done,  he  felt  less  personal  interest 
in  them  than  in  the  architectural  beauty  of 
the  store-front,  whose  window-shutters  he  had 
never  helped  to  close  without  a  little  heart- 
leap  of  pleasure. 

But  standing  thus,  and  looking  in  at  the  ma- 
chinery, a  man  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

u  Good-morning,"  said  the  man.  He  wore 
a  pleasant  air.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  I'm  noth- 
ing much,  but  you'll  recognize  me  in  a 
moment;  I'll  wait."  He  was  short,  square, 
solid,  beardless;  in  years,  twenty- five  or  six. 
His  skin  was  dark,  his  hair  almost  black,  his 
eyebrows  strong.  In  his  mild  black  eyes  you 
could  see  the  whole  Mediterranean.  His 
dress  was  coarse,  but  clean ;  his  linen  soft  and 
badly  laundered.  But  under  all  the  rough 
garb  and  careless,  laughing  manner  was  vis- 
ibly written  again  and  again  the  name  of  the 
race  that  once  held  the  world  under  its  feet. 

"  You  don't  remember  me  ?"  he  added  after 
a  moment. 


43° 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"  No,"  said  Richling,  pleasantly,  but  with 
embarrassment.  The  man  waited  another 
moment,  and  suddenly  Richling  recalled  their 
earlier  meeting.  The  man,  representing  a 
wholesale  confectioner  in  one  of  the  smaller 
cities  up  the  river,  had  bought  some  cordials 
and  sirups  of  the  house  whose  books  Rich- 
ling  had  last  put  in  order. 

"  Why,  yes  I  do,  too ! "  said  Richling. 
"  You  left  your  pocket-book  in  my  care  for 
two  or  three  days ;  your  own  private  money, 
you  said." 

"  Yes."  The  man  laughed  softly.  "  Lost 
that  money.  Sent  it  to  the  boss.  Boss  died — 
store  seized — everything  gone."  His  English 
was  well  pronounced,  but  did  not  escape  a 
pretty  Italian  accent,  too  delicate  for  the 
printer's  art. 

"  Oh !  that  was  too  bad  !  "  Richling  laid 
his  hand  upon  an  awning-post  and  twined  an 
arm  and  leg  around  it  as  though  he  were  a 
vine.  "I  —  I  forget  your  name." 

"  Ristofalo.  Raphael  Ristofalo.  Yours  is 
Richling.  Yes,  knocked  me  flat.  Not  got 
cent  in  world."  The  Italian's  low,  mellow 
laugh  claimed  Richling's  admiration. 

"  Why,  when  did  that  happen?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes'day,"  replied  the  other,  still  laughing. 

"And  how  are  you  going  to  provide  for 
the  future  ?  "  Richling  asked,  smiling  down 
into  the  face  of  the  shorter  man.  The  Italian 
tossed  the  future  away  with  the  back  of  his 
hand. 

"  I  got  nothin'  do  with  that."  His  words 
were  low,  but  very  distinct. 

Thereupon  Richling  laughed,  leaning  his 
cheek  against  the  post. 

"  Must  provide  for  the  present,"  said  Ra- 
phael Ristofalo.  Richling  dropped  his  eyes 
in  thought.  The  Present!  He  had  never 
been  able  to  see  that  it  was  the  present  which 
must  be  provided  against,  until,  while  he  was 
training  his  guns  upon  the  future,  the  most 
primitive  wants  of  the  present  burst  upon  him 
right  and  left  like  whooping  savages. 

"  Can  you  lend  me  dollar  ?  "  asked  the 
Italian.  "  Give  you  back  dollar  an'  quarter 
to-morrow." 

Richling  gave  a  start  and  let  go  the  post. 

"Why,  Mr.  Risto— falo,  I ,  I ,  the 

fact  is,  I  " — he  shook  his  head — "  I  haven't 
much  money." 

"  Dollar  will  start  me,"  said  the  Italian, 
whose  feet  had  not  moved  an  inch  since  he 
touched  Richling's  shoulder.  "  Be  aw  righ' 
to-morrow." 

"You  can't  invest  one  dollar  by  itself," 
said  the  incredulous  Richling. 

"  Yes.    Return  her  to-morrow." 


Richling  swung  his  head  from  side  to  sid 
as  an  expression  of  disrelish.  "  I  haverv 
been  employed  for  some  time." 

"  I  goin'  t'employ  myself,"  said  Ristofalo. 

Richling  laughed  again.  There  was  a  fair/ 
betrayal  of  distress  in  his  voice  as  it  fell  upo 
the  cunning  ear  of  the  Italian;  but  h 
laughed  too,  very  gently  and  innocently,  an 
stdt)d  in  his  tracks. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  refuse  a  dollar  to 
man  who  needs  it,"  said  Richling.  He  too 
his  hat  off  and  ran  his  fingers  through  h: 
hair.  "I've  seen  the  time  when  it  was  muc 
easier  to  lend  than  it  is  just  now."  H 
thrust  his  hand  down  into  his  pocket  an 
stood  gazing  at  the  sidewalk. 

The  Italian  glanced  at  Richling  askana 
and  with  one  sweep  of  the  eye  from  the  sof 
ened  crown  of  his  hat  to  the  slender,  white 
bursted  slit  in  the  outer  side  of  either  wel 
polished  shoe,  took  in  the  beauty  of  his  fac 
and  a  full  understanding  of  his  conditior 
His  hair,  somewhat  dry,  had  fallen  upon  hi 
forehead.  His  fine,  smooth  skin  was  darty 
ened  by  the  exposure  of  his  daily  wandering; 
His  cheek-bones,  a  trifle  high,  asserted  the; 
place  above  the  softly  concave  cheeks.  H| 
mouth  was  closed  and  the  lips  were  slightl' 
compressed;  the  chin  small,  gracefully  turneci 
not  weak  —  not  strong.  His  eyes  were  ab4 
stracted,  deep,  pensive.  His  dress  told  much 
The  fine  plaits  of  his  shirt  had  sprung  apai 
and  been  neatly  sewed  together  again.  Hi 
coat  was  a  little  faulty  in  the  set  of  the  col. 
lar,  as  if  the  person  who  had  taken  the  gar 
inent  apart  and  turned  the  goods  had  not  pu 
it  together  again  with  practiced  skill.  It  wa 
without  spot  and  the  buttons  were  new.  Th 
edges  of  his  shirt- cuffs  had  been  trimme» 
with  the  scissors.  Face  and  vesture  alik 
revealed  to  the  sharp  eye  of  the  Italian  th« 
woe  underneath.  "  He  has  a  wife,"  though 
Ristofalo. 

Richling  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "  Ho\ 
can  you  be  so  sure  you  will  make,  and  no. 
lose  ?  " 

"  I  never  fail."  There  was  not  the  leas' 
shade  of  boasting  in  the  man's  manner.  Rich 
ling  handed  out  his  dollar.  It  was  given  with 
out  patronage  and  taken  with  simple  thanks. 

"  Where  goin'  to  meet  to-morrow  morn 
ing  ?  "  asked  Ristofalo.  "  Here  ?  " 

"Oh!  I  forgot,"  said  Richling.  "Ye 
suppose  so ;  and  then  you'll  tell  me  how 
invested  it,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes;  but  you  couldn't  do  it." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

Raphael    Rist6falo    laughed.    "Oh! 


reason 

(To  be  continued.) 


SEAL    OF    THE    TWENTY-FOUR    PROPRIETORS   OF    EAST    JERSEY. 


HUSBANDRY    IN    COLONY   TIMES.* 


BY    EDWARD    EGGLESTON. 


II. 


NEW    WAYS    IN   A   NEW    WORLD. 

WHEN  Philip  Carteret,  the  first  governor 

New  Jersey,  landed  at  Elizabethtown,  he 

d  not  come  ashore   with   the   petty-royal 

>mp  affected  by  many  provincial  governors, 

t  marched  from  the  landing-place  to  his 

pital  town,  which  contained  four  families, 

th  a  hoe  on  his  shoulder,  —  a  bit  of  theat- 

:al  display  by  which  he  signified  his  inten- 

n  of  becoming  a  planter  with  the  people. 

3r  by  the  time  the  English  settlement  of  the 

rseys  began,  the  old  illusions  were  dead ; 

.d  it  had  become   a  recognized   principle 

at  colonies  could  not  live  by  mines,  or  by 

e  fur  trade,  and  that  tillage  was  the  only 

re  basis  for  a  ^plantation.    The  device  on 

je  seal  of  East  Jersey  is  wrought  of  "  Eng- 

jh  corn  "  and  "  Indian  corn," — wheat  and 

faize, —  symbols  of  the  soberer  expectation 

the    period   of  the    Scotch    and    Quaker 

igrations. 

I  But  in  the  earliest  period,  even  the  agri- 
kltural  notions  of  the  planters  and  projectors 
|id  the  prevailing  hue  of  romance ;  it  was 
jily  from  a  few  men  of  impertinent  com- 
jon  sense,  like  Captain  John  Smith,  that  one 
;ard  of  breadstuffs  as  profitable  for  colonial 
eduction.  Having  a  new  world  to  try  in, 
}e  English  emigrants  were  bent  on  trying 
jr  new,  or  at  least  for  un-English,  sources  of 
palth.  It  was,  indeed,  a  sort  of  commercial 
jeason  to  grow  that  which  might  disturb  the 
Market  for  the  produce  of  English  farms  or 
joms ;  and  hence  the  most  child-like  experi- 
jents  were  made  upon  the  youthful  hemi- 
j'here  in  husbandry,  as  well  as  in  religion  and 
')vernment. 


VISIONARY    PROJECTS    AND    FAILURES. 

PERHAPS  the  most  curious  and  instructive 
example  on  record  of  persistent  effort  to  run 
counter  to  economic  gravitation  is  to  be 
found  in  the  attempts  at  silk-raising  in  the 
colonies.  For  more  than  a  hundred  and  sixty 
years,  down  to  the  very  outbreak  of  the  Rev- 
olution, persevering  efforts  were  made  by 
kings,  privy  councils,  parliaments,  governors, 
proprietaries,  provincial  councils,  legislative 
assemblies,  noblemen,  philosophers,  and  ladies 
to  secure  the  success  of  silk-growing  in  the  thir- 
teen British- American  provinces.  During  most 
of  this  period  England  itself  was  seething  with 
the  spirit  of  commercial  and  agricultural  inno- 
vation. About  the  time  of  the  sailing  of  the  Vir- 
ginia argosy,  an  effort  was  making  to  introduce 
the  silk- worm  to  the  ungenial  British  climate,  in 
order  that  the  newly  imported  silk  throwsters 
and  weavers  of  Spitalfields  and  Moorfields 
might  have  fiber  which  had  not  paid  a  commer- 
cial tribute  to  France  and  Italy.  Two  years 
after  the  settling  of  Jamestown,  the  first  mul- 
berries were  planted  in  England,  and  the  king 
himself  engaged  in  the  silk  business.  The 
rudiments  of  colonization  were  not  understood 
then ;  everything  must  be  forced  prematurely 
from  a  plantation  that  had  no  adequate  roofs 
to  shelter  it,  or  corn  enough  to  keep  away  star- 
vation. Along  with  the  making  of  potash,  iron, 
and  glass,  and  the  growing  of  cotton  and 
the  vine,  silk-culture  was  begun  by  men  who 
required  to  be  fed  and  clothed  from  England. 
Before  the  James  River  plantation  was  nine 
years  old,  Virginia  sent  to  England  silk  that 
had,  perhaps,  cost  more  than  the  value  of  an 
equal  bulk  of  gold.  A  little  later  it  was  ob- 


Copyright,  1883,  by  Edward  Eggleston.     All  rights  reserved. 


432 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


SILK-WINDING. 


served  that  the  wild  caterpillars 
of  America  spun  silk  upon  the 
native  mulberries,  and  the  flag- 
ging silk  craze  was  revived,  a 
French  treatise  on  silk-growing 
was  translated,  and  in  1620  a 
new  attempt  was  made  by  skilled 
Frenchmen  sent  over  for  the 
purpose.  The  highest  hopes 
were  raised  to  be  dashed  by  the 
Indian  outbreak  of  1622,  which 
saved  divers  visionary  projects 
from  a  more  disgraceful  failure. 
In  1 623,  before  the  smoke  of  the 
Indian  massacre  and  the  coun- 
ter-massacres had  cleared  away, 
law  was  invoked  to  compel  the 
planting  of  white  mulberries 
and  the  raising  of  silk.  This  was 
desired  not  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  silk,  but  in  order  to  supplant  tobacco  — to- 
bacco being  almost  the  only  thing  concerning 
which  the  Stuart  kings  had  scruples  of  con- 
science. While  yet  the  Indian  war  raged 
fitfully,  cocoons  seem  to  have  been  again  pro- 
duced ;  there  is  a  story  that  Charles  I.,  at  his 
coronation  in  1625,  wore  a  robe  of  silk  grown 
in  Virginia.  Having  clothed  a  king,  the  silk- 
worms rested.  Fourteen  years  later,  new  at- 
tempts were  made  and  a  considerable  quan- 
tity of  silk  was  sent  to  the  king,  but  again 
failure  was  covered  by  an  Indian  massacre. 
Edward  Digges,  who  was  chosen  governor 
of  Virginia  under  the  Commonwealth  in  1655, 
produced  four  hundred  pounds  of  Virginia 
silk  in  that  year,  and  announced  that  he  had 
overcome  all  the  main  difficulties ;  whereupon 
the  silk  fever  broke  out  afresh  and  raged  with 
unabated  fury  for  ten  years ;  the  excitement 
spread  also  among  sentimental  economists  in 
England,  and  silk-worms'  eggs  were  gratui- 
tously dispatched  to  the  James  River,  along 
with  no  end  of  good  advice.  A  young  lady  in 
England  sent  word  to  the  colony  that  if  the 
worms  were  only  let  loose  upon  the  trees, 
they  would  feed  themselves.  Wild  projects 
for  raising  silk  from  the  native  silk-worm  were 
elaborated  by  writers  who  had  never  seen  an 
American  caterpillar  or  his  coarse  cocoon  of 
silken  homespun.  Writers  of  more  conse- 
quence announced  that  tobacco  would  soon 
be  wholly  laid  aside  for  the  light  work  of  silk- 
culture,  and  that  servants  would  thenceforth 
be  little  needed  in  the  Arcadian  land  of  Vir- 
ginia. Digges  went  so  far  as  to  import  "  two 
Armenians  out  of  Turkey,"  to  show  the  way 
of  feeding  and  winding,  whereupon  this  poetic 
apostrophe  to  him  was  spun  in  England  : 

"  Courage,  brave  Sir ;  since  ayde  from  God  is  sent, 
Proceed,  go  on,  drive  forth  thy  great  intent." 


FAC-SIMILE    OF    A     PICTURE     IN     EDWARD     WILLIAMS  S     "VIRGIN 

TRULY  VALUED":  1650. 

The  House  of  Burgesses  passed  a  law  ft, 
the  planting  of  one  mulberry-tree  to  eveifl 
ten  acres  of  land.  Rewards  of  many  grad< 
were  offered  for  the  production  of  silk.  Geor^ 
the  Armenian  was  paid  four  thousand  poumj 
of  tobacco  in  1656  to  induce  him  to  stayi, 
the  country,  and  he  received  another  thoij 
sand  pounds  of  tobacco  when,  at  length,  rj 
had  actually  produced  ten  pounds  of  sil]j 
The  premiums  offered  by  the  Assembly  row 
until,  in  1658,  ten  thousand  pounds  of  fo] 
bacco  were  promised  for  the  raising  of  fifi, 
pounds  of  silk.  Sir  William  Berkeley,  wn 
in  1662  made  many  fair  promises  to  tlj 
court  that  he  would  secure  for  England  CODJ 
mercial  independence  in  silk,  flax,  and  po, 
ash,  was  promised  a  liberal  reward  for  tlj 
first  ship  of  three'hundred  tpns  that  he  shoiq 
send  home  from  Virginia  laden  with  the: 
commodities.  The  chief  result  from  all  thj 
excitement  was  that,  in  1668,  Charles  II.  r.j 
ceived  a  present  of  three  hundred  pounds  <j 
Virginia  silk,  which  he  ordered  to  be  wroug'.j 
up  for  "  our  owne  use,"  and  to  the  excellent 
of  which  he  gave  a  certificate.  But  Virgin 
silk  cost  too  much  for  other  than  royal  weaj 
and  by  this  time  the  fourth  and  greatest  »j 
Virginia  silk  manias  was  on  the  wane ;  the  laj. 
requiring  the  planting  of  mulberries  had  £, 
ready  been  withdrawn,  in  1666,  as  useless.  ' 

And  yet  the  colony  was  in  the  position  < 
a  delinquent  that  had  failed  to  fulfill  tl^ 
promise  of  its  youth.  At  the  coming 
Huguenot  refugees  to  the  upper  James 
the  project  was  once  more  revived,  am 
French  Protestants  long  produced  sill 
domestic  use.  In  1730,  about  a  hundrec 
twenty  years  after  the  first  attempt  to 
silk  in  Virginia,  raw  silk  was  again 
thence  to  England,  this  time  to  the  ai 
of  three  hundred  pounds. 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


433 


!ln  almost  every  colony  the  same   experi- 
i  :nts  were  tried,  with  the  same  apparent  suc- 
(;s  and  with  the  same  ultimate  failure,  due 
it  to   physical,   but    to    economic   causes. 
]jguenot  refugees  were  sent  to  South  Caro- 
Jaat  the  king's  expense,  in  1679, -to  intro- 
<ce  the  culture  of  wine,  oil,  and  silk ;  but  the 
(gs  of  the  silk-worms  which  they  brought 
tched  out  at  sea  and  perished  for  want  of 
ilberry  leaves.    Sir  Nathaniel  Johnson,  af- 
ward  governor  of  South   Carolina,  called 
;  plantation  Silkhope,  and  sent  silk  to  Eng- 
id  in  1699.   Under  his  fostering  care,  by 
07,  the  rearing  of  the  worms  "  had  come 
o  great  improvement,"  some  families  pro- 
cing  forty  or  fifty  pounds  a  year  apiece, 
part  of  this  they  worked  up  in  their  do- 
jstic  manufacture,  mixed  with  wool,  to  make 
at  was  called  "  druggets."    Silk  was  pro- 
ced    fitfully   after    this    time,    and    very 
quantities  occasionally  appear  in   the 
pie  of  exports.    In  1750  the  export  reached 
idimax  of  a  hundred  and  eighteen  pounds. 
me  public-spirited  Charleston  ladies  of  high 
inding  substituted  the  winding  of  silk  for 
3  tamer  recreations  of  needle-work  and  the 
a,ying  of  the  harpsichord.    One  of  them,  the 
other  of  General  Pinckney,  spun  and  wove 
ree    dress-patterns   from  silk   of  her   own 
oduction;  of  these,  one  naturally  went  to 
orn  a  royal  person  —  this  time  the  princess- 
Wager   of   Wales ;    another   was    sent    to 
prd  Chesterfield;  and  the  third  remains  in 
merica  to  this  day. 

But  Georgia,  the  devoted  victim  of  many 
topian  schemes,  was  the  principal  scene  of 
I  e  silk  folly.  Next  to  the  founding  of  an 
Lrthly  paradise,  the  most  cherished  purpose 
f  the  Georgia  trustees  was  the  supplanting 
!'  all  other  countries  in  the  production  of  silk. 
ji  a  beautiful  garden  of  acclimation,  at  Sa- 
innah,  the  cross-walks  were  planted  with 
range-trees,  and  the  squares  filled  with  white 
julberries.  One  mulberry-tree  to  every  ten 
cres  had  been  exacted  in  Virginia.  Georgia 
raained  the  planting  of  a  hundred  times  as 
jiany,  or  ten  trees  to  every  acre.  Italian 
jorkmen  were  employed,  with  English  girl 
Apprentices;  English  gardeners  were  taught 
p  care  for  the  trees,  and  English  joiners 
tamed  to  make  the  machines.  In  1734  the 
irst  windings  of  Georgia  silk  were  carried  to 
England,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the 
lueen  wore  a  dress  of  the  new  silk  at  the 
iext  celebration  of  the  king's  birthday.  A 
llature  was  built  in  Savannah,  and  bounties 
rare  paid,  by  which  means  the  price  of  silk 
7as  doubled.  The  production  under  this  ar- 
'ficial  stimulation  grew  apace.  In  1762  and  in 
iach  of  the  the  two  following  years,  over  fifteen 
faousand  pounds  of  cocoons  were  bought  at 


the  filature,  and  in  1766  the  production  had 
mounted  to  twenty  thousand  pounds.  But, 
with  all  this  apparent  prosperity,  a  first  step 
had  not  been  taken  toward  the  permanent  es- 
tablishment of  the  industry.  The  bounty  was 
taken  off  in  this  year,  and  silk  left  to  sell  at  its 
normal  price.  In  three  or  four  years  the  pro- 
duction had  almost  entirely  ceased. 

At  various  times,  the  rage  for  mulberry 
planting  extended  to  Massachusetts  and  a 
governor  of  Connecticut,  among  others,  is 
said  to  have  succeeded  in  raising  silk  enough 
to  clothe  himself  and  his  family.  Silk  was 
believed  at  one  time  to  be  the  long-sought 
staple  that  should  take  away  the  reproach  of 
barrenness  from  New  England.  Jared  Eliot, 
the  most  eminent  of  New  England  agricult- 
urists, thought  after  trial  that  it  was  as  easy 
to  make  silk  as  linen,  and  he  advocated  the 
planting  of  mulberries  with  arguments  of  the 
kind  in  vogue  at  the  time  :  the  tree  was  good 
for  fire- wood,  bore  good  fruit,  was  equal  to 
cedar  for  timber,  improved  the  land  by  shad- 
ing it,  and  lastly  afforded  groves  for  retire- 
ment; the  garden  of  Eden,  remarks  the 
farmer-clergyman  in  triumphant  conclusion, 
was  not  furnished  with  palaces,  but  with  a 
multitude  of  trees. 

Nor  did  the  middle  provinces  escape  the 
contagion.  The  Swedes  who  first  settled  on 
the  Delaware  were  to  raise  silk  according  to 
the  programme  prepared  for  them.  Half  a 
century  later,  Penn  proposed  mulberry-trees, 
and  a  specimen  of  silk  from  Pennsylvania 
was  seen  in  England  in  1726.  Franklin  was 
an  active  promoter  of  silk-culture;  a  filature 
was  established  in  Philadelphia,  and,  by  the 
old  method  of  offering  premiums,  two  thou- 
sand three  hundred  pounds  were  procured 
for  winding  in  1771,  the  most  of  it  from  the 
New  Jersey  side  of  the  river.  The  Queen  of 
George  III.  wore  a  full  court-dress  of  this 
silk  —  the  last  of  all  the  garbs  produced 
by  loyal  American  silk-growers  for  English 
royalty.  The  succeeding  silk  fever  produced 
a  suit  for  Washington,  and  it  is  at  this 
writing  given  out  that  a  society  of  enthusiasts 
have  their  silk-worms  at  work  on  one  for 
Mrs.  Garfield. 

All-  the  American  colonial  experiments 
proved  that  there  is  no  physical  obstacle  to 
the  production  of  silk  in  America ;  but  they 
all  showed  also  the  insuperable  economic 
objection  to  such  an  enterprise.  The  Swiss  at 
Purrysburg,  in  South  Carolina,  and  the  Salz- 
burgers  in  Georgia,  whose  modes  of  life  and 
labor  were  those  of  European  peasants,  pro- 
duced cocoons  with  more  success  than  any 
others.  The  pastor  of  the  Salzburgers  touched 
the  core  of  the  difficulty  when  he  showed  that, 
after  the  premiums  were  taken  off,  his  people 


434 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


could  earn  two  shillings  a  day  at  other  labors 
and  barely  one  at  tending  silk-worms.  But 
hobby-riders  are  never  unhorsed :  the  failure 
was  attributed  to  the  culpable  negligence  of 
the  planters  in  not  importing  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  women  slaves  who  might  have  been 
put  to  raising  silk. 

Wine-culture  was  set  agoing  by  the  same 
considerations  of  national  policy  as  silk-rais- 
ing, was  tried  with  the  same  persistent  itera- 
tion in  almost  if  not  quite  every  one  of  the 
American  colonies,  and  failed  from  the  same 
economic  difficulties.  Before  they  had  bread 
to  satisfy  hunger,  the  James  River  settlers  had 
made  sour  wine  of  wild  grapes.  In  1632  the 
growing  of  five  vines  was  made  obligatory 
on  every  planter,  and  in  1658  ten  thousand 
pounds  of  tobacco  were  promised  to  him  who 
should  first  produce  two  tuns  of  Virginia 
wine.  The  tolerable  fitness  of  the  Virginia 
climate  and  soil  for  grape-growing  was  proved 
over  and  over  again,  by  the  vine-dressers 
brought  over  from  France  in  the  first  years, 
by  the  Huguenots,  who  produced  wine  on 
a  small  scale  for  a  long  time,  by  the  Palatines 
on  the  Rappahannock,  and  by  many  others. 
Beverley,  the  historian,  won  a  wager  of  a 
thousand  guineas  by  making  four  hundred 
gallons  of  wine  from  his  vineyard  of  three 
acres.  Yet,  so  late  as  1762,  subscriptions  were 
solicited  to  set  on  foot  a  new  beginning  of 
grape-culture  in  Virginia. 

Undaunted  by  climate,  the  Massachusetts 
immigrants  asked  for  French  vine-dressers  in 
1629,  and  later  an  island  in  Boston  harbor 
was  leased  to  Governor  Winthrop  by  the 
sanguine  General  Court  for  a  hogshead  of  the 
best  wine  that  should  be  made  there  annu- 
ally. In  the  patroonship  of  Rensselaer  at 
Albany  wine  was  proposed,  as  it  was  by  the 
Swedish  pioneers  on  the  Delaware.  It  was  at- 
tempted by  French  settlers  in  Rnode  Island 
and  Carolina;  the  latter  province  was  ex- 
pected to  supply  the  whole  demand  of  the 
West  Indies.  William  Penn  only  hesitated 
whether  to  import  foreign  wines  or  to  "fine" 
the  American  ones,  and  ended  by  trying  both 
plans,  establishing  a  vineyard  with  two  thou- 
sand French  vines  near  Philadelphia.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  trace  further  this  chronicle  of 
failure  in  wine-growing.  To  the  end  of  the 
colonial  epoch  these  efforts  were  renewed; 
vine-dressers  were  sent  over  and  rewards  were 
offered,  but  no  considerable  quantity  was 
ever  made.  It  was  cheaper  at  that  day  to 
import  from  Madeira  and  Portugal  than  to 
divert  labor  from  the  profitable  American 
staples  to  grow  wine,  and  the  law  of  relative 
cheapness  is  as  hard  to  escape  as  that  of 
gravitation. 

Other  favorite  plants  for  experiment  were 


madder,  which  was  tried  from  the  ext 
South  to  Albany,  and  olive  trees,  which 
several  times  introduced;  for  there 
good  hope  that  the  South  would  prove 
the  phrase  of  a  writer  of  the  time,  "  a 
good  oyl  country."  Leave  was  given  to 
oil  from  nuts,  in  South  Carolina,  in  : 
Minuit  and  his  Swedes  sowed  canary 
on  the  Delaware,  but  it  was  "  afterward 
lected" — probably  from  lack  of  canary  birc 
to  eat  it.  The  Utopian  plans  of  Oglethorp 
for  Georgia  led  to  experiments  in  gross  wit 
coffee,  cotton,  palma  christi,  tea,  and  "  set 
eral  physical  plants  of  the  West  Indies."  Tb 
cinchona  tree  would  have  been  tried  also,  bi 
for  the  impossibility  of  procuring  anything  t 
plant  except  the  bark.  North  Carolina  is  sai 
to  have  attempted  coffee. 

The  persistent  effort  to  find  some  stapl 
commodity  for  New  England,  other  than  thj 
which  grew  in  the  sea,  led  to  experiments  i 
that  inhospitable  clime  with  almost  ever 
agricultural  plant  of  the  world.  "  Staple  con 
modities  are  things  they  want  there,"  says  ! 
writer  named  Wiggins,  whose  letter,  bearin 
date  1632,  is  preserved  in  the  English  archive: 
He  recommends  a  consultation  with  "  on 
Lane,  a  merchant  tailor,"  who  had  just  com' 
from  the  West  Indies,  and  who  desired  t| 
introduce  into  New  England  a  staple,  th* 
name  of  which  is  to  this  day  shrouded  in  th 
mystery  thrown  about  it  by  Wiggins  and  th! 
merchant  tailor.  But  neither  Lane  nor  Wi§ 
gins,  nor  any  of  the  long  line  of  projector 
who  came  after,  succeeded  in  finding  an  in; 
portant  agricultural  commodity  suited  to  th 
New  England  sandy  coasts  and  rocky  hit 
sides;  and  this,  notwithstanding  the  hopr 
licorice,  madder,  and  woad  roots  sent  out  a 
the  beginning,  the  mulberries  so  often  plantec^ 
and  the  coffee-berries  sown  by  Harvard  stu 
dents  in  1723,  and  by  other  students  in  174$ 
and  in  spite  of  the  cotton  attempted  in  ConJ 
necticut  by  Jared  Eliot, — which  last  woufc 
perhaps  have  succeeded,  had  not  the  frost  intei 
fered  with  it  before  it  was  ripe, —  and  in  spit' 
of  the  licorice,  hemp,  and  indigo  tried  by  th^ 
same  enterprising  clergyman,  and  the  Englisl 
walnuts  ingrafted  by  Judge  Sewall.  New  York' 
New  Jersey,  and  Pennsylvania  had  wheat 
Maryland  and  Virginia  tobacco,  the  Carolina; 
rice  and  indigo;  but  New  England,  like  ;' 
disinherited  youth,  was  forced  to  take  to  th«: 
sea;  from  which,  by  the  hard  toil  of  fisherie; 
and  foreign  trade,  was  won  a  fortune  as  good 
certainly,  as  that  gotten  by  the  richest  staplv 
commodities  of  the  more  genial  countri< 
the  southward. 

The  ardor  for  novel  projects  in  the 
nies  was  but  a  symptom  of  the  fever  in 
metropolis.   Manifestations  of  this  spirit 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


435 


find  in  the  repeated  propositions  from  Eng- 
lid  and  the  actual  attempts  in  America  to 
( mesticate  the  American  bison  as  a  substi- 
t;e  for  the  ox;  and  the  yet  more  startling 
jin  for  the  "  unwilding  "  of  the  James  River 
sirgeon,  and  for  the  extraction  of  perfume 
fun  the  musk-rat.  Any  one  of  these  seems 
fisible,  however,  when  compared  with  the 
pposal,  made  in  1650,  to  tame  the  American 
Jdian,  and  use  him  in  winding  silk,  and  in 
(j/ing  for  pearls  in  the  Virginia  waters. 


in. 


THE   TOBACCO    STAPLE. 

BUT  in  a  new  land  trial  of  many  ways  is 
icdful,  and  the  bold  man  who  makes  experi- 
imts  has  always  the  chance  of  finding  a  new 
|thway;  out  of  the  thousand  experiments 
merges  one  discovery.  Of  all  the  colonial 
dperimenters  and  projectors,  one  of  the  most 
f  tunate  was  John  Rolfe,  the  first  English- 
nn  to  hazard  marriage  with  an  American 
Sfage,  whereby  he  procured  years  of  peace, 
i  which  the  pioneer  colony  took  firm  root, — 
zd  the  first  Virginian  to  risk  the  planting  of 
t)acco  for  the  market.  Two  facts  had  put 
t|s  last  experiment  well  out  of  the  reach  of 
pbable  failure;  tobacco  was  already  grow- 
\\  in  the  Indian  fields  in  Virginia,  and  it 
,TS  already  an  article  of  sale  in  Europe, 
living  been  introduced  into  Portugal  nearly 
a:entury  before  the  settlement  of  Jamestown. 

When  the  Virginians  applied  the  spade  to 
ii  culture  it  soon  became  much  more  pro- 
dctive  than  it  had  been  in  'the  rudely  tilled 
Ijdian  patches;  in  1621,  before  the  planting 
cj  tobacco  was  ten  years  old,  fifty-five  thou- 
sid  pounds  were  sent  from  the  James  River 
t  Holland,  the  land  of  smokers.  In  this  same 
)ir  began  the  efforts  of  the  royal  govern- 
r;nt  in  England  to  put  restrictions  on  the 
reduction  of  the  despised  narcotic.  The 
Mie-spread  opposition  to  tobacco  at  that 
tsie  seems  to  have  come  partly  from  a  dis- 
1|2  of  novelties,  partly  from  a  belief  that  it 
tiided  to  produce  a  degeneration  of  the  Eng- 
lii  race,  and  partly  from  the  multiform  puri- 
tjiism  that  was  spreading  among  people  of 
epry  rank,  and  which  objected  to  self-indul- 
gices  except  in  the  ancient  and  well-estab- 
Ijled  English  forms  of  heavy  eating  and 
S;ut  drinking.  James  I. notwithstanding  his 
Qn  intemperate  use  of  strong  liquors  and  his 
lired  of  puritanism,  had  already  published 
a)'  Counterblast  to  Tobacco,"  and  he  now 
ujdertook  to  resist  economic  forces,  with  as 
n;ich  chance  of  success  as  his  remote  prede- 
Cjisor  Knut  had  of  arresting  the  incoming 


tide.  Tobacco  was  in  demand ;  a  few  years 
later  a  hundred  thousand  Englishmen  were  in 
bondage  to  it,  and  the  very  plowmen  had 
learned  to  take  it  in  the  field.  Virginia  was 
able  to  supply  it  in  better  quality  than  any 
other  country.  This  conjunction  of  demand 
and  supply  settled  the  destiny  of  the  much- 
battered  pioneer  colony.  In  five  years  after 
the  destructive  massacre,  and  still  more  de- 
structive terror,  of  1622,  there  were  more  than 
four  thousand  English  on  the  Virginia  river 
banks,  well  housed  and  prosperous.  Two 
years  later,  in  1631,  the  Privy  Council  of 
Charles  I.  declared  that  this  plant  enervated 
"  both  body  and  courage,"  and  the  king  an- 
nounced that  he  had  "  long  expected  some 
better  fruit  than  tobacco  and  smoke  "  from 
Virginia.  The  colony  also  desired,  for  other 
reasons  than  those  assigned  by  the  king,  to 
prevent  excessive  production.  Having  tried 
in  vain  every  conceivable  form  of  minute  reg- 
ulation, the  legislature  ordered  the  destruc- 
tion of  all  the  bad  and  half  the  good  in 
1640;  and  when  the  price  had  further  de- 
clined, divers  attempts  were  made  to  wholly 
suppress  tobacco- growing  for  one  season  in 
order  that  the  market  might  rally. 

All  natural  conditions  were  favorable  to  the 
culture  of  tobacco  in  the  Chesapeake  region. 
Virgin  land  was  without  any  known  limit, 
and  the  climate  was  congenial.  The  small 
farmer,  and  the  English  servant  newly  freed 
from  a  four  or  five  years'  bondage,  could  be- 
gin a  tobacco-field  without  other  capital  than 
an  axe,  a  mattock,  and  a  hoe.  Every  comer 
was  entitled  to  fifty  acres  of  land,  subject  to 
an  insignificant  quit-rent.  The  easy  applica- 
tion to  tobacco  of  the  labor  of  indentured 
servants,  convicts,  and  negro  slaves,  made  it 
a  favorite  crop  with  the  large  land-holder; 
the  navigable  rivers  and  broad  estuaries  of 
the  Chesapeake  and  Albemarle  regions  ena- 
bled the  planters  to  ship  their  bulky  hogs- 
heads direct  from  their  own  barns,  or  to  boat 
them  to  the  inspector's  warehouse.  These 
advantages,  and  the  agreement  of  tobacco- 
raising  with  the  country-gentleman  notions 
and  pride  in  land-ownership  brought  from 
England,  made  it  inevitably  the  leading  occu- 
pation of  the  country.  The  habits  of  the  peo- 
ple in  the  two  Chesapeake  colonies  were  soon 
molded  by  their  staple,  so  that  tobacco  held 
its  own,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
productions,  except  wheat  and  maize ;  and 
this  in  the  teeth  of  the  restrictions  of  royal 
monopolies  at  first  and  of  burdensome  navi- 
gation acts  afterward,  and  notwithstanding 
a  duty  of  six  times  the  plantation  value  on 
what  was  consumed  in  England.  Tobacco 
was  subjected,  besides,  to  plunder  on  ship- 
board, to  exasperating  frauds  in  the  customs, 


436 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


to  unreasonable  extortions  from  the  merchants 
under  pretense  of  samples,  and  to  a  tare  of 
one  twenty-sixth  of  what  remained  after  all 
this  robbery. 

At  first  the  planters  simply  threw  their 
tobacco  in  heaps  and  allowed  it  to  cure  as 
heaven  pleased  by  exposure  to  the  sun  and 
the  air.  As  early  as  1617  a  Mr.  Lambert 
invented  the  better  way  of  hanging  it  on 
lines,  and  an  order  was  sent  to  England 
for  cordage ;  but  it  occurred  to  somebody 
at  a  later  time  that  the  plant  would  hang  as 
well  on  Virginia  sticks  as  on  London  strings. 
Pegs  were  driven  into  the  stalks  to  hang  it 
by,  until  some  new  inventor  saved  the  trouble 
with  pegs  by  partly  splitting  the  stalks  and  so 
hanging  them  on  the  sticks.  A  more  impor- 
tant change  was  wrought  when,  at  some  not 
remembered  period,  the  primitive  dependence 
on  outdoor  exposure  for  curing  gave  way  to 
the  method  of  drying  by  a  slow  fire  in  an  airy 
barn.  The  Virginia  and  Maryland  planters, 
though  conservative  and  slow-going  in  all 
besides,  carried  their  own  particular  art,  step 
by  step,  to  high  perfection ;  and  then,  by  ex- 
cluding the  poorer  sorts  from  European  ship- 
ment, through  a  rigorous  system  of  inspection, 
they  gained  a  world-wide  reputation  for  pro- 
ducing the  staple  at  its  best. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century 
private  "  rolling  houses,"  for  the  deposit  and 
shipment  of  the  staple,  had  become  common, 
and  early  in  the  century  both  the  Chesapeake 
colonies  established  public  places  for  the  de- 
posit of  tobacco.  The  quality  was  more  per- 
fectly guaranteed  by  the  utterance  of  transfer- 
able warehouse  certificates  of  deposit,  which 
passed  current  for  money. 

In  1730  twenty-four  thousand  tons  of 
shipping  were  required  to  carry  a  year's  crop 
from  Maryland  and  Virginia,  and  before  the 
close  of  the  provincial  period  there  were  two 
hundred  large  vessels  in  the  trade,  carrying  a 
hundred  thousand  hogsheads  annually.  The 
navigation  laws  required  that  all  of  this  should 
first  be  landed  in  England,  where  it  paid  a 
duty  equal  to  a  million  and  a  half  of  dollars, 
an  amount  greater  than  that  brought  into  the 
exchequer  by  any  other  commodity.  No 
bounty  was  ever  paid  to  promote  the  culture 
of  the  despised  "  weed,"  as  King  James  had 
nicknamed  it;  the  English  government  and 
the  colonial  legislatures  alike  sought  to  re- 
press it ;  but  the  sure  action  of  an  economic 
gravitation  begotten  of  climate,  soil,  social 
condition,  and  market  demand,  was  strong 
enough  to  restrict  even  the  profitable  wheat 
culture,  and  to  -extinguish  almost  all  other 
forms  of  industry  in  the  two  tobacco  colonies. 
The  staple  entered  into  the  whole  life  of  the 
people,  furnished  currency,  gave  form  to  com- 


merce, affected  manners,  made  slavery  profit 
able  and  persistent,  and  pervaded  all  legis 
lation. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  sharp  line  o 
demarkation  for  the  growth  of  a  staph 
When  the  early  overproduction  of  tobacc; 
made  a  secondary  crop  desirable  in  Virgini 
and  Maryland,  wheat  was  profitably  grown 
and  became  a  crop  of  such  magnitude  in  th 
later  years  of  the  colonial  period,  that  it  Wc; 
believed  to  threaten  the  ascendancy  of  tc 
bacco.  Tobacco,  in  turn,  stretched  the  are 
of  its  growth  far  to  the  north.  The  Del; 
ware  country  was  famous  for  its  fine  tobacc 
in  the  days  of  the  Swedish  and  Dutch  domii 
ions,  and  at  one  period,  after  the  coming  c 
the  Quakers,  Philadelphia  loaded  fourtee 
ships  a  year  with  this  staple.  New  Yoi 
from  Dutch  times  grew  tobacco  for  exporl 
there  were  official  inspectors  of  it  as  early  ; 
1638.  It  was  grown  in  New  England,  ar 
as  far  toward  the  pole  as  v  Quebec.  But  : 
the  English  colonies  north  of  Delaware  Ba 
climate  and  social  conditions  turned  tl 
balance  slowly  but  surely  in  favor  of  whes 
and  the  middle  colonies  became  like  tl 
ancient  land  of  Egypt  for  corn.  North  Car, 
lina  grew  tobacco;  but  in  the  southern  ar 
sea-coast  counties  of  that  colony,  the  rosi, 
pitch,  and  turpentine  of  the  pine  forests  we' 
more  profitable,  and  their  production  was  mo 
suited  to  the  habits  of  the  people.  Even  : 
South  Carolina  tobacco  was  the  great  staple  < 
the  "  upper  counties." 


IV. 


RICE    AND    INDIGO. 

THE  destiny  of  South  Carolina  was  changt 
by  a  single  lucky  experiment.    In  1696,  whi 
the  colony  was  more  than  thirty  years  olj 
the  pioneers  were  still  engaged  in  buying  ft; 
from  the  Indians,  extracting  rosin,  tar,  ar 
turpentine  from  the  pines,  cutting  timber  f ' 
shipment,  and  growing  slender   harvests 
grain  on  the  light  soil  along  the  coast.   / 
tempts  had  already  been  made  to  grow  im 
go,  ginger,  and  cotton;  but  these  had  n 
answered  expectation.    A  small  and  unprol 
able  kind  of  rice  had  also  been  tried  in  i6£ 
But  one  Thomas  Smith  thought  that  a  pat 
of  wet  land   at   the   back   of  his  garden 
Charleston  resembled  the  soil  he  had  se 
bearing  rice  in  Madagascar.    It  chanced 
1696,  that  a  brigantine  from  that  island  a 
chored  in  distress  near  Sullivan's  Island,  a:- 
the  captain,  an  old  friend  of  this  enterpri*  i . 
Thomas  Smith,  was  able  to  furnish   hin 
bag  of  Madagascar  rice  suitable  for  seed, 
grew  luxuriantly  in    the  wet  corner  of  t-1 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


437 


JARED    ELIOT.       (FROM    AN     OIL    PORTRAIT    IN     POSSESSION     OF     CHARLES     G.    ELLIOT,    ESQ.,    CLINTON,    CONN.) 


irden,  and  the  seed  from  this  little  harvest 
!as  widely  distributed.  In  three  or  four 
bars  the  art  of  husking  the  rice  was  learned, 
frican  slaves  were  easily  procured  in  the 
jest  Indies,  and  the  face  of  society  in  the 
pung  State  was  presently  changed :  South 
farolina  became  a  land  of  great  planters 
lid  of  a  multitude  of  toiling  negroes.  Smith 
as  raised  to  the  rank  of  landgrave,  and 
'ade  governor  of  the  colony  three  years 
[ter  the  success  of  his  rice-patch.  The  new 
fain  was  at  first  grown  on  uplands;  but 
le  planters  afterward  discovered  that  the 
pglected  swamps  were  more  congenial  and 
!  VOL.  XX VI I.—  41. 


less  exhaustible.  The  cruelly  hard  labor  of 
separating  the  grains  from  the  adhering- 
husks  crippled  the  strength  and  even  checked 
the  increase  of  the  negroes ;  but  in  the  years- 
just  preceding  the  Revolution  this  task  came 
to  be  performed  with  mills  driven  by  the  force 
of  the  incoming  and  outgoing  tides,  or  turned 
by  horses  or  oxen.  A  hundred  and  forty  thou- 
sand barrels  of  Carolina  rice,  of  four  or  five 
hundred  weight  apiece, were  annually  exported 
before  the  war  of  independence.  Through  the 
example  of  a  governor  of  Georgia,  the  culture 
of  rice  spread  into  that  colony,  and  com- 
pleted the  ruin  of  the  silk  business. 


43* 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY   TIMES. 


Nearly  half  a  century  before  the  bag  of 
seed-rice  fell  into  Thomas  Smith's  hands,  this 
grain  had  been  tried  in  Virginia  by  Governor 
Sir  William  Berkeley,  and  had  yielded  thirty- 
fold.  It  seems  to  have  had  a  humble  place 
as  one  of  the  products  of  south-eastern  Vir- 
ginia many  years  afterward.  Rice  was  also 
grown  as  far  northward  as  New  Jersey;  there 
was  a  considerable  exportation  of  it  from 


In  South  Carolina,  where  indigo  became 
leading  staple,  rivaling  rice  and  only  yielding 
to  cotton  after  the  Revolution,  its  introductioi 
was  due  to  the  enterprise  and  intelligence 
a  young  lady.    Miss  Eliza  Lucas,  who  after-1 
ward,  as  Mrs.  Pinckney,  made  gowns  fr 
home-grown    silk,  not  daunted  by  the 
ure  of  early   experiments  with   indigo, 
cured  seed  from  Antigua  about  1741  or  1742 


PRIMITIVE     MODE     OF     GRINDING    CORN. 


Salem  as  early  as  1698,  while  the  culture  of 
it  was  yet  in  its  beginnings  in  Carolina. 

We  may  reckon  among  Virginia  commodi- 
ties indigo,  which  awakened  in  1649  almost 
as  much  interest  as  the  experiments  with  silk 
and  vines.  "  All  men  begin  to  get  some  of 
the  seeds,"  says  a  writer  of  the  time,  "  and 
know  it  will  be  of  ten  times  the  gaine  to  them 
as  tobacco."  He  adds  that  "  gaine  now  carries 
the  Bell."  During  this  indigo  fever  some  of 
the  more  sanguine  Virginians  modestly  hoped 
to  wrest  the  indigo  trade  "  from  the  Mogull's 
country,  and  to  supply  all  Christendome. 
This  will  be  many  thousands  of  pounds  in  the 
year."  More  than  a  hundred  years  after  the 
experiment  of  1649,  indigo  is  again  mentioned 
along  with  bar  iron  and  ginseng  as  one  of  the 
less  important  exports  from  the  colony  to 
Great  Britain,  but  its  culture  was  in  a  feeble 
and  failing  condition. 


Her  first  planting,  made  in  March,  was 
stroyed  by  a  frost;  the  second  attempt 
April  was  cut  down  by  a  worm ;  but  the 
succeeded.    An  expert,  brought  to  show 
manner  of  making  the  dye,  proved  tre; 
ous;  but  the  perseverance  of  the  lady 
the  victory  at  length,  and  by  1745  the 
bility   of  growing   indigo    in    Carolina 
proven.    Two  years  later  two  hundred  tl 
sand  pounds  were  sent  to  England,  and 
annual  exportation  reached  more  than  a 
ion  pounds  in  the  last  yearss  of  the  colon; 
period. 


WHEAT,    MAIZE,    AND    MINOR    PRODUCTS 

IN  1634  Massachusetts,  having  more 
emigrants  on  her  untamed  soil  than  she 


HUSBANDRY  IN   COLONY   TIMES. 


439 


Die  to  feed,  sent  a  ship  to  Bermuda  for  bread, 
inding  none  there,  the  captain  secured  five 
lousand  bushels  of  wheat  in  Virginia,  "  for 
ie  relief  of  New  England."  But  a  few  years 
ter,  when  emigrants  suddenly  ceased  to 
Dine  to  Massachusetts  Bay,  the  supply  of 
loney  which  the  new-comers  brought,  and 
ie  market  for  food  products  which  they  af- 
>rded,  abruptly  failed,  and  there  was  no 
cans  for  paying  the  debts  due  in  England, 


which  the  planters  had  either  captured  in  the 
chase  or  bought  of  the  Indians. 

For  what  legislation  had  failed  to  achieve, 
natural  causes,  when  left  to  themselves,  had 
wrought.  The  overproduction  and  conse- 
quent low  price  of  tobacco  in  1640,  and  at 
later  periods,  had  promoted  the  culture  of 
wheat  and  maize  in  both  of  the  Chesapeake 
colonies ;  so  that  before  the  Revolutionary 
struggle  set  in,  Maryland  was  accustomed  to 


A     CONESTOGA     WAGON     IN     THE     BULI/S     HEAD     YARD,     PHILADELPHIA. 


for  purchasing  things  needed  thence.  It 
as  in  this  emergency  that  the  first  exporta- 
:m  of  farm  produce  from  Massachusetts  took 
ace.  A  ship-load  of  wheat  was  made  up 
ith  much  ado  and  sent  abroad  as  the  best 
.irchasing  agent  within  reach.  The  Gejieral 
jourt  expressed  the  opinion  that  wheat  would 
p  the  staple  of  New  England,  and  forbade 
;s  use  for  bread  or  malt.  But  in  Massachu- 
;tts,  as  elsewhere,  it  was  found  that  the  pro- 
action  of  staples  depended  on  causes  not 
ithin  the  control  of  law-making  bodies. 
pdian  corn  at  this  early  day  had  not  become 
p  article  for  shipment,  and  in  this  same  year 
was  so  abundant  as  to  be  unsalable.  Later, 
hen  the  prolific  New  England  people  had 
ultiplied  and  given  themselves  to  the  fish- 
'ies,  to  whale-hunting,  and  to  foreign  com- 
erce,  and  when  the  belts  of  alluvial  land 
jid  been  impoverished  by  bad  husbandry, 
pd  was  sought  farther  south.  In  all  the 
ivers  flowing  into  the  Chesapeake  and  Albe- 
:.arle  Sound  the  New  England  peddling  craft 
rought  to  the  very  door  of  the  easy-going 
anters  rum,  sugar,  molasses,  and  salt,  with 
[ady-made  clothing,  at  exorbitant  prices,  be- 
!des  smaller  commodities.  These  were  bar- 
ged for  the  superabundant  bread  and  meat 
|  the  southerly  colonies,  and  for  the  peltries 


send  six  hundred  thousand  bushels  of  wheat 
annually  to  England,  and  Virginia  nearly  as 
much.  The  latter  colony  and  North  Carolina 
also  exported  maize  to  Portugal,  to  South 
America,  and  to  feed  the  West  Indian  ne- 
groes. Oats  were  early  and  abundantly  sown 
in  Virginia.  As  the  English  beer  passed  out 
of  use,  Indian  corn  took  the  place  of  barley, 
and  was  even  used  to  make  a  sort  of  beer  by 
a  process  of  "  malting  by  drying  in  an  oven." 
Rye  was  sown  for  bread  in  New  England 
from  the  first.  In  Virginia  its  culture  was 
promoted  by  the  Scotch  and  Irish  settlers  of 
the  valley,  who  used  it  as  a  basis  for  the 
whisky  which  they  preferred  to  the  tamer 
beer  of  the  English.  The  white-blossoming 
and  red-ripening  buckwheat,  which  is  so 
bright  an  object  in  our  spring  and  summer 
landscapes,  was  used  in  Carolina  to  feed  cattle 
in  the  first  years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
was  early  brought  into  the  valley  of  Virginia, 
perhaps  by  emigrants  from  the  European 
continent.  The  raising  of  cereals  for  the 
market  extended  from  New  England  to  South 
Carolina.  From  the  latter  Indian  corn  was  ex- 
ported after  1739,  while  wheat  was  produced 
by  the  German  palatines  in  the  interior. 

But  the  great  bread-giving  region  lay  in 
New  York,  New  Jersey,  and  Pennsylvania; 


44° 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


A  PLANTATION  GATE-WAY.   ENTRANCE  TO  THE  ESTATE  OF 
WILLIAM  BYRD  AT  WESTOVER,  VA. 


from  the  lands  between  the  Connecticut  and 
the  Susquehanna,  the  British  West  Indies  and 
the  Mediterranean  countries  received  large 
supplies  of  wheat  and  flour.  By  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  eight  or  nine 
thousand  of  the  great  white-topped  Cones- 
toga  wagons,  drawn  each  by  four,  six,  or  even 
eight  horses,  were  required  to  bring  to  the 
busy  little  market  city  of  Philadelphia  the 
produce  of  the  farms  of  the  interior,  besides 
all  that  was  floated  down  the  Delaware  and 
the  Schuylkill.  New  York  at  the  same  time 
sent  out  large  shipments  of  grain,  brought 
from  the  Hudson  valley,  Long  Island,  and  the 
Jersey  bays,  in  sloops.  Of  flour  and  bread, 
also,  New  York  exported  about  six  thousand 
tons  annually.  The  "  bread,"  which  was  a 
large  element  in  the  outward  trade  of  the  three 
chief  wheat  provinces,  was  hard-tack,  sold  to 
ships  and  sent  to  the  West  Indies  and  else- 
where. There  was  a  bakery  attached  to 
almost  every  mill.  In  1770  the  exports  of 
flour  and  bread  from  all  the  colonies  were 
equal  in  value  to  three  millions  of  our  money, \ 


besides  a  million  bushels  of  wheat  and  more 
than  half  as  much  of  Indian  corn.  For  do- 
mestic use  Indian  corn  became  very  early 
the  indispensable  source  of  supply.  At  first 
it  was  pounded  in  wooden  mortars,  after 
the  Indian  way,  or  ground  in  hand-mills, 
after  the  old  English  fashion.  In  all  the  colo- 
nies, farmers  lived  chiefly  upon  bread  of  In- 
dian meal. 

The  greatest  difference  between  the  agri-j 
culture  of  the  later  provincial  period  and! 
that  of  our  time,  so  far  as  the  nature  of  the 
products  is  concerned,  lies  in  the  fact  that  the) 
cotton  staple  held  then  a  very  insignificant 
place.  It  was  introduced  into  Virginia  before 
1620,  and  many  efforts  were  made  to  give  itl 
commercial  importance.  Governor  Andros 
succeeded  in  awakening  an  enthusiasm  for 
cotton  culture  in  Virginia  at  the  close  of  the 
seventeenth  century ;  but  enthusiasm  is  a  poor 
substitute  for  profit,  and  cotton  fell  away 
again,  though  at  the  Revolutionary  period  Vir- 
ginia grew  more  than  any  other  State.  Cotton 
for  domestic  use  was  grown  successfully  from 
southern  New  Jersey  southward,  and  a  small 
quantity  was  exported  from  South  Carolina 
in  1 748.  But  the  economic  barrier  to  its  com-1 
mercial  importance  seemed  insurmountable  a i 
one  man  could  grow  more  than  all  the  spare 
hands  on  a  plantation  could  clean  from  the! 
seed.  The  irksomeness  of  this  work  of  clean- 
ing led  to  the  invention  of  gins  to  rid  the 
cotton  of  its  seed ;  but  they  all,  in  some 
way,  injured  the  fiber.  It  was  not  until  after 
the  separation  of  the  colonies  from  England1 
that  the  invention  of  Whitney's  gin  gave  the 
cotton,  plant  a  swift  ascendancy  in  the  South, 
driving  indigo  from  the  field. 

Hemp  was  much  fostered  by  legislative 
bounties,  and  its  culture  was  advocated  by 
theorists  and  patriots  who  wished  to  see  the 
king's  navy  supplied  from  the  king's  domin- 
ions, and  not  from  the  distant  land  of  "the 
Czar  of  Muscovy."  Liberal  bounties  were 
paid  to  promote  its  culture,  and  among  othei 
visionary  schemes  one  was  broached  in  the 
bubble  period  of  1720  to  settle  a  whole  count}. 
in  Virginia  with  felons  who  should  be  forcer 
to  cultivate  hemp,  the  county  to  be  callec 
Hempshire — name  full  of  disagreeable  sug- 
gestion to  those  who  were  to  have  inhabitec 
it.  Like  other  petted  children  of  colonial  agri- 
culture, hemp  came  to  no  great  things.  The 
Massachusetts  people  in  1641  set  "all  hands', 
to  work  on  hemp  and  flax,  and  burned  dour 
several  houses  while  zealously  drying  theii 
flax.  In  1646  the  Virginia  Assembly  require  e 
every  county  to  send  ten  boys  or  girls  '(; 
Jamestown  for  instruction  in  the  flax  houj 
In  spite  of  all  this  coddling,  flax  was 
fortunate  than  hemp,  for  its  culture  was 


:  houses 

& 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES.  44I 

loted  in  all  the  colonies  by  Irish  immigrants  was  required  to  inclose  a  quarter  of  an  acre 

ccustomed  to  fields  of  flax  and  linen- wheels  for   vines,   roots,   and   so    forth.    Nine  years 

t  home.    There  was  a  thriving  trade  to  Ire-  later,  the  observant  Dutch  voyager  De  Vries 

md   in  flaxseed,  the    Irish    flax   not    being  saw  a  garden  on  the  James,  in  which  was  a 


HOME    OF    JOHN     BARTRAM,    THE     COLONIAL    BOTANIST    AND    AGRICULTURIST,    NEAR    PHILADELPHIA. 


Mowed  to  ripen  its  seed;  and  there  were  a 
|ood  many  mills  in  New  England  for  express- 
jig  linseed  oil. 

The  potato,  originally  a  South  American 
jlant,  was  introduced  to  Virginia  by  Sir  John 
larvey  in  1629,  though  it  was  unknown  in 
pme  counties  of  England  a  hundred  and 
ifty  years  later.  In  Pennsylvania,  potatoes 
Ire  mentioned  very  soon  after  the  advent  of 
he  Quakers;  they  were  not  among  New 
|rork  products  in  1695,  but  in  1775  we  are 
old  of  eleven  thousand  bushels  grown  on  one 
jxteen-acre  patch  in  this  province.  Potatoes 
rere  served,  perhaps  as  an  exotic  rarity,  at 
j  Harvard  installation  dinner  in  1707;  but 
pe  plant  was  only  brought  into  culture  in 
New  England  at  the  arrival  of  the  Presby- 
?rian  immigrants  from  Ireland  in  1718.  Five 
jushels  were  accounted  a  large  crop  of  pota- 
bes  for  a  Connecticut  farmer;  for  it  was  held 
pat,  if  a  man  ate  them  every  day,  he  could 
jot  live  beyond  seven  years. 
J  Gardens,  with  whatever  else  made  for  lux- 
;ry_in  living  prospered  among  the  Virginia 
quires.  As  early  as  162/1,  every  freemen 


profusion  of  Provence  roses,  apple,  pear,  and 
cherry  trees,  and  all  the  fruits  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  in  the  horticultural 
land  of  Holland.  In  1649,  "potatoes,  spara- 
gus,  carrets,  turnips,  parsnips,  onions,  and  har- 
tichokes  "  are  set  down  among  Virginia  "  roots." 
"  The  gallant  root  of  potatoes  are  common,  and 
so  are  all  kinds  of  garden  stuff,"  says  the  un- 
grammatical  Hammond,  in  1656.  On  the  other 
hand,  Beverley,  the  historian  of  Virginia,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  an  agricultural  reformer, 
declares,  at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  that  "they  ha'nt  many  gardens  in  the 
country  fit  to  bear  the  name."  The  Labadist 
travelers  complained  in  1680  that  the  garden 
vegetables  in  one  part  of  Maryland  were  "  few 
and  coarse";  but  in  1775  Arthur  Young,  the 
best  known  of  English  agriculturists,  thought 
that  no  part  of  the  world  could  boast  more 
plentiful  or  more  general  production  of  gar- 
den vegetables  than  the  two  Chesapeake 
colonies. 

The  climate  and  other  conditions  were  less 
favorable  to  gardens  in  New  England,  but 
vegetables,  vines,  arid  orchards  vrcre  tried  from 


442 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


the  outset  in  Massachusetts.  Gardening  in 
New  England  largely  fell  to  women;  even 
the  sale  of  garden  seeds  was  in  their  hands. 
Besides  the  medicinal  and  culinary  herbs  of 
the  old  English  gardens,  New  England  women 
were  accustomed  to  give  little  plats  to  flowers. 
In  1698  Pennsylvania  colonists  boasted  the 
possession  of  ".  most  of  the  garden  herbs  and 
roots  of  England";  but  the  best  gardening 
in  Pennsylvania  was  due  to  the  patient  and 
thorough-going  Germans.  In  the  genial  cli- 
mate of  the  South,  a  great  variety  of  garden 
plants  were  found  to  thrive ;  but  the  opening 
of  new  lands  for  the  culture  of  rice  and  indigo 
in  South  Carolina  brought  about  a  general 
neglect  of  horticulture  ;  cabbages,  onions,  and 
potatoes  were  imported  at  Charleston  until 
after  the  Revolution.  The  sweet  potato  was 
adopted  from  the  aborigines  in  all  the  South- 
ern colonies,  and  it  is  yet  known  in  the  market 
as  the  "  Carolina."  The  squash  in  many 
varieties  was  of  aboriginal  origin,  and,  every- 
where planted ;  the  water-melon  was  largely 
used  in  the  Middle  and  South,  and  Jared 
Eliot  brought  a  new  variety  from  Russia 
suited  to  the  New  England  climate. 

Perhaps  the  best  of  colonial  gardeners  were 
the  Dutch  of  the  Hudson  River  region.  With 
the  love  of  horticulture  characteristic  of  their 
nation,  they  wrought  the  rugged  interior  of 
Manhattan  island  into  thrifty,  and  in  some 
cases  elegant  gardens.  The  growth  of  New 
Amsterdam,  in  the  period  of  Dutch  rule,  was 
held  in  check  by  the  engrossing  of  large  lots 
for  village  gardens.  To  the  Hollanders  is 
attributed  the  introduction  of  the  red.  white, 
and  carnelian  roses,  gillyflowers,  tulips,  white 
lilies,  marigolds,  and  garden  violets.  Orchards, 
chiefly,  though  not  wholly,  of  seedling  fruit, 
became  common  in  every  province  at  an 
early  period ;  even  the  Iroquois  adopted  the 
apple  from  early  comers,  and  in  the  course 
of  time  raised  large  orchards.  The  Lenni 
Lenape  on  the  Delaware  grew  peaches  before 
Penn  came,  and  the  Congarees  in  Carolina, 
about  1708,  had  the  art  of  drying  peaches. 
One  large  and  hardy  peach-tree  was  so  early 
and  so  widely  distributed,  even  among  tribes 
remote  from  European  settlers,  that  it  was 
called  the  Indian  peach,  and  was  thought  to 
be  indigenous  even  by  John  Bartram,  the 
botanist. 

Cider  was  at  first  made  by  pounding  the 
apples  by  hand,  often  in  wooden  mortars,  such 
as  were  used  for  Indian  corn.  The  pomace 
was  sometimes  pressed  in  baskets.  Vast  quan- 
tities of  cider  were  made  in  New  England  in 
the  eighteenth  century ;  a  village  of  but  forty 
families  made  three  thousand  barrels  in  1721; 
a  larger  town  turned  out  ten  thousand.  The 
greater  part  of  the  cider  was  sent  to  "the 


islands,"  whither  also  went  large  shipments  of 
American  apples,  accounted  already  superior 
to  those  from  England.  From  Pennsylvania 
to  Virginia,  fruit  on  trees  was  by  custom  free 
to  all-comers;  in  Virginia, the  surplus  peaches' 
from  orchards  of  ten  to  thirty  acres  in  extent 
were  thrown  to  the  hogs,  after  the  annual 
supply  of  brandy  had  been  distilled. 

All  the  bees  in  the  colonies  were  the  offspring 
of  a  few  swarms  brought  to  Massachusetts  Bay 
at  or  soon  after  the  first  settlement.  The  pro- 
duction of  honey  was  not  large  in  New  Eng- 
land; in  Pennsylvania  almost  every  farmer 
kept  seven  or  eight  swarms ;  but  in  the  south- 
ern colonies  the  quantity  of  honey  about  1750 
is  described  as  "prodigious."  This  was  used 
not  only  for  the  table,  but  for  making  the  old 
English  strong  liquor,  metheglin.  The  bees 
were  for  the  most  part  rudely  hived  in  cross 
sections  of  the  gum-tree,  hollowed  by  natural 
decay ;  whence,  in  the  South  and  West,  a  bee- 
hive of  any  kind  is  often  called  a  bee-gum. 


VI. 


CATTLE. 

THE  first  cattle  that  were  brought  over  sea| 
to  be  the  beginners  of  new  herds  were  valu- 
able beyond  price,  and  in  Virginia  it  was 
made  a  crime  punishable  with  death  to  kill 
one  of  them.  In  the  great  migration  to  Mas- 
sachusetts Bay,  the  death  of  a  cow  or  a  goat 
was  signaled  from  ship  to  ship.  Sometimes, 
in  the  chronicles  of  the  time,  the  death  of  a 
brute  and  that  of  a  person  are  set  down  in 
the  same  sentence  in  such  a  way  as  to  excite 
a  smile  in  the  modern  reader,  who  fails  tc 
remember  that  the  animal  was  of  greatei 
consequence  to  the  welfare  of  the  colon) 
than  the  person, —  the  brute  was  the  hardei 
to  replace.  But  having  the  wide,  unfenced 
earth  for  pasture  ground,  cows  soon  became 
cheap  and  abundant;  in  New  England  they 
shrank  to  less  than  one-third  their  formei 
value  about  1642,  and  the  decline  had  tlu 
effect  of  a  modern  financial  crash  on  the 
trade  and  credit  of  the  little  colony.  In  Vir- 
ginia, notwithstanding  the  destruction  of 
breeding  cattle  in  the  early  famines  and  thai 
wrought  by  the  savages  in  1622,  they  were 
counted  by  thousands  in  1629.  F"orty  yean 
after  the  Susan  Constant  brought  Englishmen 
to  James  River,  there  were  twenty  thousarc 
horned  cattle  there,  with  three  thousar.c 
sheep,  two  hundred  horses,  fifty  asses,  arc 
five  thousand  goats. 

In  1670  a  planter  in  the  new  settlement; 
of  Carolina  thought  it  a  great  matter  to  ban 
three  or  four  cows;  thirty  years  later  tvu 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


443 


undred  were  a  common  allowance,  and  some 
ad  a  thousand  head  of  cattle  apiece.  In  all 
e  colonies  the  wild  grass  and  the  browse  of 
e  woods  was  the  main  dependence;  but 
e  rich  annual  grasses  were,  after  awhile, 


TTLK    KAR-MARK,    AS    REGISTEREDj    FROM  BAILEY*  S     "HISTORY 
OF     ANDOVER." 

(From  the  Records  of  Andover:  *'  December  the  25th  1734  the 
Ir-mark  that  James  Frie  Giveth  his  cattel  and  other  Creatures 
las  follovveth  viz,  a  half  cross  cut  out  of  the  under  side  of  the 

t  ear  split  or  cut  out  about  the  middel  of  the  Top  of  the  ear, 

lied  by  som  a  figger  of  seven." 

cluced  or  extirpated  by  the  close  cropping, 
hich  did  not  allow  opportunity  to  mature 
:ed,  and  long  before  the  artificial  culture  of 
-asses  had  become  common  in  England,  the 
^rennial  English  grasses  were  introduced 
to  New  England,  Long  Island,  and  Penn- 
Ivania,  by  sowing  the*unwinnowed  sweep- 
gs  of  English  haymows.  A  few  corn-husks 
id  a  little  wheat-straw  were  sometimes  fed 
cows;  but  in  the  depth  of  winter  the  half 
ild  and  starving  creatures  often  perished  by 
^nturing  too  far  into  the  marshes  in  search 
'  food.  In  Pennsylvania,  so  late  as  the  mid- 
e  of  the  eighteenth  century,  superstitious 
?ople  were  wont  to  tie  a  dogwood  bough 
>out  a  cow's  neck  when  she  staggered  and 
11  down  from  inanition  in  the  spring ;  the 
Dgwood  was  probably  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
nic.  In  Virginia,  at  one  period,  it  was  ex- 
acted that  the  hides  of  the  cattle  dying 
|/ery  winter  would  furnish  shoes  for  all  the 
kgroes  on  the  plantation.  In  the  seventeenth 
bntury  some  of  the  Virginians  held  that  to 
Duse  or  milk  cows  in  the  winter  would  be 
le  death  of  them.  A  better  system  came  in 
» the  colonial  period  drew  to  its  close ;  the 
rerman  settler  in  Pennsylvania,  indeed,  ad- 
bred  from  the  first  to  the  usage  of  the  father- 
*nd,  and  sheltered  his  cows  from  the  tempests 
f  the  winter  under  the  same  roof  with  his 
Sumerous  children,  and  later  in  the  great 
jirns  that  marked  the  growing  prosperity 
jhich  follows  hard  work  and  frugal  living  in 
I  fertile  country. 

I  On  the  other  hand,  the  English  colonists 
['ought  the  bad  custom  of  neglecting  live 
jock  from  England.  At  the  beginning  of 
merican  settlements,  cattle  were  almost  as 
uch  exposed  and  starved  in  England  as 
ey  were,  for  a  century  afterward,  in  the 
Monies.  The  culture  of  forage  plants  was  a 
pvelty  in  the  mother  country  in  the  time  of 
jte  Commonwealth ;  the  growth  of  root  crops, 


for  winter  feeding,  was  introduced  among 
English  farmers  about  1760.  The  branding- 
iron,  which  in  the  colonies  was  used  to  mark 
the  ownership  and  the  town  to  which  the 
wandering  beast  belonged,  was  employed  in 
England  in  the  fourteenth  century,  and  prob- 
ably earlier,  and  no  doubt  lingered  in  the 
mother  country  until  after  the  North  Ameri- 
can migrations. 

Notwithstanding  the  multitude  of  herds 
that  filled  the  woods  from  Maine  to  Georgia, 
one  hears  little  of  the  exportation  of  any 
dairy  products  except  from  Rhode  Island, 
Pennsylvania,  and  New  York.  Farmers  in 
the  northern  colonies  often  had  no  milk  at 
all  in  the  winter,  and  little  children  were 
obliged  to  soak  their  bread  in  cider  for  a 
substitute.  On  the  eastern,  shore  of  Mary- 
land, in  1680,  it  was  matter  of  doubt  whether 
one  would  find  milk  or  butter  in  a  planter's 
house  even  in  summer. 

In  1666  it  was  a  boast  that  it  cost  no  more 
to  raise  an  ox  in  Carolina  than  it  did  to  rear 
a  hen  in  England.  The  ranch  system  had 
its  beginning  in  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas 
and  among  the  Spaniards  of  Florida.  "  Cow- 
pens,"  as  they  were  then  called,  were  estab- 
lished on  lands  not  yet  settled,  and  cattle 
were  herded  in  droves  of  hundreds  or  thou- 
sands. Small  prairies  existed  in  many  places, 
North  and  South,  and  these,  with  thinly 
wooded  plains,  were  especially  devoted  to 
pasturage  after  beef  came  to  have  a  commer- 
cial value.  In  some  parts  of  Massachusetts 
a  "  hayward "  was  employed  to  attend  the 
cattle  of  a  whole  township,  which  were  kept 
together  in  one  drove.  Sometimes  the  towns- 
men took  turns  in  herding  the  cows,  after  a 
very  ancient  European  custom.  Similar  ar- 
rangements prevailed  in  the  great  herds  on 
the  plains  of  Long  Island,  where  little  artificial 
ponds,  lined  with  clay,  were  made  to  hold 
rain-water  for  the  stock — a  device  brought 
from  England,  and  still  used  in  Texas.  In 
some  places  a  peninsula  was  chosen  for  a 
"  herd  walk,"  and  fenced  at  its  junction  with 
the  mainland,  to  keep  the  cows  in  and  the 
wolves  out.  The  reach  at  Nahant,  and  Cow 
Neck  on  Long  Island,  for  examples,  were 
thus  fenced  to  inclose,  by  aid  of  the  sea, 
gigantic  common  pastures.  Coney  Island 
was  filled  with  cattle,  completely  hedged  by 
natural  barriers  and  sheltered  by  the  bushes, 
and  Fisher's  Island,  at  New  Haven,  was  in- 
habited by  goats. 

At  first,  the  settlers  fired  the  woods  in 
spring,  to  get  rid  of  the  undergrowth  and 
make  room  for  grass.  The  practice,  like  many 
others,  was  borrowed  from  the  Indians,  who 
burned  out  the  bushes  systematically  that 
they  might  get  about  easily,  and  that  the 


444 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


deer  might  have  better  range.  There  are 
traditions  yet  preserved  of  the  splendor  of 
these  fires  when  seen  by  night.  At  a  later 
period,  when  fires  had  come  to  be  dangerous 
to  the  denser  settlements,  the  people  in  some 
places  were  required  to  cut  underbrush  for 
a  certain  number  of  days  every  spring.  In 
the  first  years  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
wild  meadows  of  the  South  and  the  marshes 
of  New  England  began  to  be  reclaimed  by 
drainage ;  sometimes  they  were  inclosed  with 
fences  or  ditches,  and  used  for  fattening  cat- 
tle. The  value  of  marsh  hay  became  known; 
timothy — first  cultivated  by  Timothy  Hansen 
in  Maryland  or  Virginia — and  clover  were 
sown  by  thrifty  farmers  in  the  more  settled 
regions;  and  the  value  of  corn-fodder  began 
to  be  understood. 

If  the  cattle  were  countless,  the  hogs 
"  swarmed  like  vermin  upon  the  earth."  On 
the  New  England  coast,  in  the  earliest  time, 
the  droves  of  .pigs  fed  on  the  refuse  of  the 
fishing,  stages,  and  their  meat  acquired  a  flavor 
so  rank  and  aquatic  that  the  Indians  pre- 
ferred that  of  the  white  man's  dogs.  In  Caro- 
lina, the  .  swarming  hogs  came  out  of  the 
woods  at  the  sound  of  a  horn  to  eat  a  little 
refuse  of  potatoes  or  turnips  fed  to  keep  them 
from  becoming  utterly  wild.  In  Virginia,  no 
account  was  made  of  swine  in  the  inventory 
of  the  estate  of  a  man  of  substance ;  uncaught 
pigs  were  not  easily  numbered.  The  count- 
less hogs  furnished  the  most  of  the  meat,  as 
Indian  corn  supplied  the  greater  part  of  the 
bread,  in  all  the  colonies.  In  New  England, 
each"  family  had,  after  the  old  English  custom, 
its  "powdering  tub," — not  yet  everywhere 
disused, — in  which  the  pork  for  the  family 
table  was  salted,  and  from  which  it  was  taken 
to  be  smoked  by  hanging  in  the  ample 
chimney. 

Small  attention  could  be  paid  to  the  breed 
of  animals  living  at  large;  from  this  cause, 
and  the  annual  course  of  semiTstarvation,  the 
stock  of  all  kinds  degenerated  in  size,  but 
acquired,  by  merely  natural  selection,  the 
tough  vitality  which  has  made  our  so-called 
"  native  "  cattle  valuable  for  cross-breeding. 
Only  in  the  pineries  of  the  North-east  was 
attention  given  to  the  size  of  cattle  ;  the  lum- 
berman of  the  Piscataqua  prided  himself,  be- 
yond all  things,  on  the  size  and  strength  of 
his  yellow  oxen.  Instead  of  improving  the 
breed  of  the  myriads  of  neat  cattle  in  the 
colonies,  the  experimenters  of  that  day  made 
repeated  attempts  to  domesticate  buffalo 
calves.  These  became  gentle  enough,  but  per- 
sisted in  going  where  they  listed  by  butting 
down  any  fence  that  stood  in  the  way ;  and 
it  was  discovered  after  awhile  that  a  species 
tamed  for  thousands  of  years  was  better. 


Six  or  seven  dollars  of  our  money  was  the 
price  in  Virginia  of  a  cow  and  calf,  "  sigh 
unseen,"  as  the  phrase  went ;  whether  big  o 
little,  young  or  old,  was  not  considered! 
Horses,  cattle,  and  sheep  were  not  taxed' 
"  they  turn  to  so  little  account,"  says  th* 
chronicler.  The  Virginia  beef  was  small,  bu 
sweet ;  that  of  Carolina  poor  and  lean ;  bu 
large  droves  of  Carolina  cattle  were  drive) 
through  Virginia  to  fatten  on  Pennsylvani. 
blue  grass,  before  going  to  the  Philadelphi 
market.  New  England  cattle  in  early  time 
survived  the  long  winters  rather  as  outline 
than  oxen ;  but  later  they  were  better  caret 
for,  and  Massachusetts  people  learned  the  ai 
of  giving  to  an  ox  exhausted  in  the  yoke  - 
year  or  two  of  rest  and  good  feed ;  by  whic 
beef  was  produced  "  that  would  credit  th- 
stalls  of  Leadenhall  market,"  as  an  Englis 
traveler  attested.  Connecticut,  less  given  t 
the  fisheries  than  the  colonies  to  the  eas 
exported  more  salt  beef  than  all  the  otha 
colonies  together,  while  Rhode  Island  be 
came  known  for  its  dairies. 

The  growing  up  of 'many  horses,  neat  cattl< 
and  hogs  in  the  wilderness,  without  knowledg 
of  men  or  marks  of  branding-irons  upon  then* 
gave  rise  to  new  and  exciting  forms  of  sporu 
Wild  beeves  and  hogs  were  fair  game  fcj 
the  rifle  of  the  hunter.  A  wondering  Scotch 
Irishman  writes,  in  1737,  from  New  York  t 
the  Presbyterian  minister  in  the  town  of  h|; 
nativity,  relating,  as  one  of  the  attractions  o 
America,  "  horses  that  are  wild  in  the  woldo 
ness,  that  are  yer  ain  when  ye  can  grip  them. 
In  some  of  the  royal  and  proprietary  colonie 
these  wild  animals  were  at  times  claimed  i 
part  of  the  revenue,  under  the  old  Englis 
doctrine  of  the  right  of  the  king  or  the  mam 
lord  to  estrays.  But  such  a  claim  was  har 
of  enforcement.  In  some  parts  of  the  Ches; 
peake  region,  and  perhaps  elsewhere,  a  cu: 
ternary  "  right  in  the  woods  "  pertained  ti 
every  planter,  and  was  matter  of  sale  an) 
purchase.  It  consisted  in  a  claim  upon  a  defr 
nite  proportion  of  the  unmarked  cattle  in  tb 
forest.  In  Virginia  and  North  Carolina,  mej 
mounted  on  steeds  trained  to  thread  ttj 
mazes  of  the  forest  without  touching  ttj 
rider's  foot  against  a  tree  would  give  char 
for  hours  to  a  wild  horse  until  he  stoppe 
from  exhaustion,  whereupon- one  of  the  pu 
suers  would  clap  bridle  and  saddle  upon  tf 
captive  and  mount  while  yet  he  was  too  weai; 
to  rebel.  The  scrubby  little  "  tackeys "  stij 
taken  in  the  marshes  along  the  North  C 
Una  coast  are  descendants  of  the  wild  h( 
of  the  colony. 

A  horse  whose   stature  reached  fourt 
and  in  some   colonies   thirteen   hands, 
accounted  large  enough  to  breed  from, 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


445 


r  those  who  were  seeking  to  arrest  by  legis- 
tion  the  deterioration  of  the  stock.  But 
ese  undersized  creatures  were  exceedingly 
irdy  and  suited  to  a  new  country,  whether 
r  riding  or  for  work  under  the  pack-saddle. 
arely  shod,  their  hoofs  became  hard,  and 
ey  were  frequently  ridden  fifty  miles  in  a 
y  at  "  a  good,  sharp  hand-gallop." 
From  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
ntury,  attention  was  given  to  the  improve- 
ent  of  their  horses  by  the  Virginians,  whose 
>untry-squire  traditions  and  frantic  love  for 
cing  made  them  always  more  careful  of  the 
rain  of  their  steeds  than  the  other  colonists 
ere.  Many  horses  of  pure  Arabian  blood 
ere  bred  in  Virginia  and  some  in  Maryland, 
id  these  "fleet  and  beautiful  thorough- 
eds  "  were  the  admiration  of  travelers.  Vir- 
nia  horses,  in  the  Revolutionary  time, 
tched  double  the  price  of  those  bred  with- 
it  care  in  the  northern  colonies,  which  latter 
ere  much  derided  by  foreigners. 
Good  horses  were  not  entirely  wanting  in 
e  other  colonies ;  the  rich  rice-planters  of 
arolina,  indeed,  toward  the  close  of  the 
lonial  period,  rivaled  the  Virginians  in  their 
uly  English  passion  for  fine  horses  and  for 
cing.  Penn  imported  three  blood  mares  at 
s  first  coming,  and  in  1699  he  brought  over 
:he  magnificent  colt  Tamerlane,"  of  the 
:st  strain  in  England.  But  to  the  German 
rmers  of  Pennsylvania  is  due  the  credit  of 
oducing  the  great  Conestoga  horses,  the 
iest  draught  animals  on  the  continent  in  the 
ilonial  age,  and  perhaps  the  most  substan- 
illy  valuable  of  all  American  horses  so  long 
the  horse  had  to  do  the  work  now  done 
the  railway.  Staten  Island  was  also  noted 
r  horses  larger  than  the  degenerate  breed 
the  mainland.  As  early  as  1667,  Hull,  the 
aker  of  the  Massachusetts  pine-tree  shillings, 
t  on  Point  Judith  as  a  peninsula  suited  to 
ie  raising  of  "large  and  fair  mares  and 
prses  "  •  and  in  later  times  Rhode  Island, 
jith  parts  of  Connecticut,  became  famous 
r  excellent  horses,  many  valuable  stallions 
aving  been  brought  from  Virginia.  That 
plightful  American  eccentricity,  the  natural 
jicer,  was  known  in  Virginia  not  later  than 
ie  first  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
ne  "  Narragansett  pacers  "  of  Rhode  Island 
jime  into  request  at  about  the  same  time,  and 
I  New  England,  where  racing  was  unknown, 
j.e  pace  became  the  commonest  gait  of  horses 
I  the  country  towns.  The  awkward  but "  pro- 
Igiously  "  rapid  natural  amble  of  the  Ameri- 
In  pacer  was  a  sort  of  world's  wonder,  and 
las  thought  to  have  been  learned  from  the 
»ws  with  which  the  colts  were  herded. 
;  The  hardy  Canadian  horse,  longest  natural- 
jsd  to  American  conditions,  was  much  valued 
|  VOL.  XXVII.— 42. 


and  widely  distributed  through  the  colonies 
in  later  times.  One  other  breed  deserves  men- 
tion :  the  Chickasaws — the  first  mounted 
Indians  known  to  the  English — carefully 


ANCIENT     HORSESHOES     PLOWED    UP   IN    SCHENECTADY    CO.,    N.  Y. 
(IN    THE   NEW   YORK    STATE   AGRICULTURAL   MUSEUM.) 

guarded  from  mixture  their  fine  race  of  horses 
derived  from  the  Spaniards. 

Notwithstanding  the  large  numbers  sent  to 
the  West  India  Islands  from  all  the  colonies, 
horses  were  more  than  abundant.  Laws  were 
made  in  several  provinces  to  reduce  "  the  ex- 
travagant multitude  of  useless  horses  and 
mares  that  are  in  the  woods." 

The  only  domestic  animal  that  did  not 
multiply  to  excess  in  the  wild  pastures  of 
America  was  the  sheep,  which  had  for  dead- 
ly foes  the  American  wolf  and  the  English 
woolen  manufacturer.  The  wolves  were  re- 
duced by  a  system  that  had  been  followed 
for  centuries  in  England,  of  paying  liberal 
bounties  for  the  heads  of  destructive  animals. 
The  public  officer  who  redeemed  these  heads 
cropped  the  ears,  so  that  a  head  once  paid  for 
might  be  debarred  from  passing  current  for  a 
second  reward.  In  the  province  of  New  York 
the  constable's  house  was  rendered -conspicu- 
ous by  the  decoration  of  its  front  with  grin- 
ning wolf-heads,  which  the  law  required  him 
to  nail  up  in  this  fashion.  But,  however  much 
the  colonists  might  have  desired  it,  they  could 
not  affix  the  head  of  an  English  cloth- worker 
to  the  front  gable  of  the  constable's  house. 
There  was  nothing  that  English  legislation 


446 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


of  the  time  sought  more  persistently  than  the 
development  of  the  English  woolen  trade;  — 
among  the  devices  for  promoting  this  end  was 
a  law  commanding  every  Englishman  to  go 
to  his  grave  in  a  woolen  shroud  for  the  good 
of  his  country.  The  growth  of  the  woolen 
industry  in  Ireland  or  the  colonies  was  re- 
pressed with  severity ;  the  importation  of  a 
sheep  for  the  improvement  of  the  colonial 
breed  was  punishable  with  the  amputation 
of  the  right  hand.  In  spite  of  wolves  and 
acts  of  parliament,  many  thousand  sheep  were 
raised,  but  they  had  to  be  folded  within  hear- 
ing of  the  farmer  and  his  dogs.  The  negli- 
gent methods  prevalent  in  a  new  country 
bore  more  hardly  on  sheep  than  on  other  ani- 
mals, and  it  was  estimated  that  about  one- 
third  of  all  the  sheep  in  the  northern  colonies 
perished  in  a  single  hard  winter,  a  little  before 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  keeping  of  sheep  in  New  England  and 
on  Long  Island  was  much  promoted  by  the 
holding  of  lands  and  tending  of  herds  in  com- 
mon; and  the  one  thousand  New  England 
sheep  of  1642  had  trebled  their  number  by 
.1652.  The  town  of  Milford,  in  Connecticut, 
sequestered  a  large  common  and  kept  more 
than  a  thousand  sheep  as  public  property, 
the  profits  going  to  defray  town  expenses. 
When,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  the  common 
lands  and  such  vast  Long  Island  pastures  as 
Hempstead  plains  were  divided,  sheep-rais- 
ing became  more  expensive  and  difficult. 


VII. 
TOOLS    AND    TILLAGE. 

THE  cumbrous  and  complicated  English 
plow  of  the  period  could  not  have  been  of 
much  use  to  the  colonists  until  it  had  under- 
gone modification.  As  late  as  1786  it  required 
"  four  oxen,  two  men,  and  a  boy  "  to  run  a 
plow  in  the  west  of  England;  the  midland 


plow  of  the  same  period  required  five  or  sb 
horses ;  the  old  Scotch  plow  two  horses,  aidec 
by  two  or  four  oxen ;  and  the  primitive  plcw 
team  of  eight  oxen,  known  from  remotes' 
antiquity,  could  still  be  found  in  use  in  GreaJ 


COLONIAL    PLOW    WITH     WOODEN     MOLD-BOARD.     1706.       (STATE 
AGRICULTURAL    MUSEUM,    ALBANY,    N.    Y.) 


ANCIENT    HAND-MADE    SPADE.      (STATE   AGRICULTURAL   MUSEUlk 
ALBANY,    N.    Y.) 

Britain.  One  hears  of  a  plow  in  the  coloir- 
of  Virginia  drawn  by  four  horses,  driven  \)j 
a  postilion  riding  the  near  horse  next  the  plo\v- 
and  of  a  plow  in  Georgia,  in  1 735,  drawn  by  si: 
horses.  The  plow  in  the  colonies,  however 
generally  took  on  a  simpler  and  ruder  form ;  i] 
was  sometimes  built  by  the  farmer,  and  ironer 
at  the  nearest  smithy.  The  one-handled  plovj 
was  held  by  the  left  hand ;  the  right  bore  J 
plow  staff  for  cleaning  the  dirt  from  tfa 
wooden  mold-board.  Simplicity  was  carried 
to  an  extreme  in  Virginia,  where  there  wer 
few  artisans ;  in  some  cases  a  grubbing  ho? 
bound  to  a  plow-beam  was  used  with  perfec 
seriousness  to  scratch  the  light  soil  of  th 
peninsulas.  In  Massachusetts,  the  fortunat 
owner  of  a  plow  sometimes  made  a  busines? 
of  going  about  to  plow  for  his  neighbors ;  th; 
town  would  now  and  then  pay  a  bonus  fo 
keeping  in  repair  the  only  plow  within  it' 
bounds. 

Carts  also  were  often  home-made — th 
body  being  fast  to  the  axle-tree,  so  that  dump; 
ing  was  impossible.  The  first  Swedes  on  th 
Delaware,  and  perhaps  others,  had  carts  witJ 
truck  wheels  sawed  from  the  liquid-ambe! 
or  sweet-gum  tree — probably  mere  cross, 
sections  of  a  round  log.  Two  skids  fast 
ened  together  made  a  "  drag,"  or  "  sledge,: 
to  which  was  hitched  a  single  ox  or  horse,  fo 
drawing  burdens  over  the  grass  or  ground  i 
summer.  This  sledge  was  used  on  the  north 
ern  frontier,  in  Pennsylvania,  and  in  Carolina 
and  with  it  the  Maryland  and  Virginia  plant  e 
sometimes  dragged  his  tobacco  hogshead 
to  the  place  of  shipment.  But  the  common 
est  mode  of  moving  tobacco  was  yet  mcr 
naked :  the  cask  was  strongly  hooped,  an- 
then  rolled  by  human  strength  along  the  ho 
and  sandy  roads  often  fifteen  or  twenty 


ALEXANDER  SPOTSWOOD,   GOVERNOR  OF  VIRGINIA  FROM   1710  TO  1723. 

(FROM  A  PORTRAIT  BELONGING  TO  BENJAMIN  ROBINSON,  ESQ.,  OF  KING 

WILLIAM  CO.,  VA.,  AND  NOW  IN  THE  VIRGINIA  STATE  LIBRARY.) 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 

the  inspector's  warehouse,  known 
this  reason  as  a  "rolling-house." 
"he  road,  which  went  round  about 
)  avoid  hills,  was  called  a  "  rolling- 
Dad."  When  oxen  or  horses  were 
sed  in  rolling,  a  tongue  and  axle  were 
tted  into  the  ends  of  the  hogshead. 

The  New  England  settlers  were 
uriously  slow  to  learn  the  great  les- 
on  of  their  climate.  While  the  Dutch 
ere  traveling  and  hauling  great  loads 
pon  the  snow,  their  Connecticut  and 
lassachusetts  neighbors  laid  in  wood 

November  in  cumbrous  carts,  and 
his  continued  to  the  close  of  the  sev- 
nteenth  century ;  it  was  much  later 
efore  long  journeys  were  undertaken 
pon  sleigh-runners.  English  farmers, 
lore  than  five  hundred  years  ago, 
lade  their  own  horse-collars  of  straw, 
"he  American  colonists  also  made 
hem  of  straw,  and  added. the  art  of 
weaving  them  from  the  husks  of  the 
aaize.  But  oxen  chiefly  were  used 
)r  plowing  and  other  farm  work  in 
he  seventeenth,  and  even  into  the 
ighteenth  century.  When  the  "  horse- 
oe,"  a  progenitor  of  our  modern  cul- 
vator,  came  into  vogue  in  England, 
nd  was  brought  to  the  colonies,  Jared  Eliot  Eliot,  used  creek  mud  and  sand,  and  sowed 
ised  oxen  to  draw  it,  yoking  them  far  apart  clover  to  recuperate  worn-out  fields,  as  did 
lat  they  might  pass  on  each  side  of  the  row  the  Pennsylvania  botanist  and  agriculturist, 
f  Indian  corn.  But  the  cheapness  of  the  Bartram,  following  a  fashion  then  just  coming 
orse  brought  that  animal  into  more  general  into  English  agriculture.  But  Eliot  could 
se  in  the  years  just  preceding  the  Revolution,  not  introduce  another  practice  freshly  brought 

Grain  was  reaped  with  sickles,  though  to  England  from  the  Low  Countries, —  that 
scythe-cradles  "  were  not  unknown.  Thresh-  of  growing  turnips  on  poor  lands  and  putting 
ng  was  done  in  New  England  with  a  flail ;  sheep  on  them.  "  Our  poor  land  is  so  poor," 
in  New  York  and  to  the  southward  wheat  was  he  writes,  "that  it  will  not  bear  turnips  big- 
bften  trodden  out  by  horses  or  oxen  on  the  ger  than  buttons."  In  Maryland  and  North 
lard  and  well-prepared  threshing  floor  in  the  Carolina,  no  method  of  fertilizing  was  known 
>pen  field.  Both  methods  are  older  than  hu-  but  one  that  has  been  followed  in  Europe 
,nan  records,  and  both  continue  in  out-of-the-  since  the  middle  ages,  —  that  of  using  a  pen 
|vay  places  to-day.  Winnowing  was  performed  of  movable  hurdles  for  confining  cattle  at 
jn  the  primitive  way,  by  throwing  the  grain  night  on  an  impoverished  piece  of  ground ; 
Igainst  the  wind  and  then  running  it  through  and  sheep  were  thus  confined  for  the  same 
ieves;  in  some  places  large  willow  winnow-  purpose  in  New  England, 
bg  fans  were  used.  The  winnowing  machine  Travelers  from  Europe  united  with  colonial 

its  simplest  form  is  a  Dutch  device,  and  writers  in  condemning  the  general  badness 
id  not  reach  England  until  1710;  "  Dutch  of  farming  in  the  thirteen  provinces.  Clayton 
ns  "  were  little  known  in  the  colonies.  and  Beverley  in  Virginia  and  Eliot  in  New 

While  virgin  land  was  abundant,  manure  was  England  were  unsparing  in  their  denuncia- 
)ut  little  sought  for,  though  in  New  England  tions  of  the  slovenly  husbandry  of  their 
[he  settlers  learned  from  the  Indians  the  art  of  neighbors.  Clearings  were  frequently  made  by 
jurying  a  whole  fish  in  each  hill  of  corn.  In  merely  girdling  the  larger  trees  and  burning 
tome  places,  the  horse-foot  crab  was  cut  in  up  the  undergrowth.  On  land  treated  in  this 
pieces  and  put  into  the  hill  for  both  corn  and  po-  way,  the  dead  trees  presented  a  ghostly  ap- 
latoes.  A  part  of  the  stipend  of  a  minister  in  pearance,  and  their  falling  boughs  endangered 
tape  Cod  was  two  hundred  fish  from  each  the  lives  of  travelers.  Wheat  was  dragged 
;)f  his  parishioners  to  fertilize  his  sandy  in  with  a  tree-top  or  with  a  wooden-tine 
torn-ground.  The  Connecticut  agriculturist,  harrow.  Spades  and  hoes  were  made  by 


448 


HUSBANDRY  IN  COLONY  TIMES. 


country  smiths,  and  were  unwieldy.  Penn- 
sylvanians  sometimes  sowed  oats  in  the  rows 
of  Indian  corn  and  followed  with  wheat,  thus 
killing  out  the  noxious  blue  grass  and  destroy- 
ing the  fertility  of  the  soil  at  a  blow.  In  this 
and  the  more  southern  provinces,  land  weary 
of  hard  usage  was  allowed  to  lie  fallow,  or 
was  abandoned  to  old-field  pines.  The  colo- 
nial farmer,  North  and  South,  had  so  long 
scratched  the  earth's  cuticle  that  he  came  to 
believe  that  deep  plowing  ruined  the  land. 
Jared  Eliot  was  one  of  the  first  to  set  the 
example  of  actually  stirring  the  ground. 

But  in  every  new  land  a  sort  of  bad  hus- 
bandry is  good  husbandry.  The  very  first 
comers  suffered  from  their  failure  to  perceive 
this.  They  felt  obliged,  in  the  antique  phrase 
of  Jared  Eliot,"  to  stubb  all  staddles,"— that 
is,  to  grub  up  by  the  roots  the  smaller  sap- 
lings,— and  to  cut  down,  or  at  least  trim  up, 
all  the  great  trees.  They  even  leveled  and 
pulverized  the  ground  with  rollers,  after  the 
method  of  English  farmers.  It  took  years  to 
show  them  that  the  conditions  of  success  were 
different  in  a  new  world.  In  England,  land  was 
precious  and  labor  cheap ;  the  problem  was  to 
get  as  much  as  possible  out  of  an  acre.  But  in 
America,  acres  were  unnumbered  and  human 
hands  were  few.  To  get  as  much  as  possible 
out  of  a  man  was  the  stint  set  before  the  colo- 
nists. The  Virginian  never  calculated  how 
much  his  field  yielded  to  the  acre  :  he  counted 
his  yield  to  the  hand.  It  was  inevitable  that 
the  planter  of  tobacco  should  girdle  and  burn 
the  trees  for  new  ground  in  preference  to  fer- 
tilizing an  old  field,  and  that  the  New  England 
farmer  should  leave  the  roots  in  his  field  and 
impoverish  the  soil  by  the  shallowest  culture. 
The  newly  come  English  farmer  who  tried  to 
improve  colonial  methods  no  doubt  paid  the 
penalty  of  failure;  just  as  the  emigrant  from 
the  older  States  who  tries  deep  plowing  and 
clean  culture  on  cheap  prairies  remote  from 
markets  now  grows  poor,  while  his  neighbors 
prosper  by  an  energetic  skimming  of  the 


land.  The  difficulties  of  the  very  earliest  co- 
lonial agriculture  discouraged  careful  farming. 
The  forest  was  a  deadly  foe ;  a  great  part  of 
the  settler's  life  was  passed  in  killing  trees. 
The  New  Englander  had  to  watch  his  sandy 
field  on  the  coast  for  two  weeks  after  corn 
planting,  to  keep  the  wolves  from  digging 
it  up  in  search  of  the  fish  that  enriched  the 
hill.  In  some  colonies,  the  squirrels  were  so 
pernicious  that  two-pence  apiece  was  paid 
for  killing  them;  in  Maryland  and  northern 
Virginia,  every  planter  was  obliged  by  law  to 
bring  to  a  public  office  the  heads  of  four  of 
these  pests.  Then,  too,  the  woods  tempted 
the  settler  from  his  toils  with  abundant  and 
savory  meat,  and  the  virgin  streams  were 
alive  with  fish.  Only  the  indefatigable,  con- 
servative, and  frugal  German  peasant  on  the 
Pennsylvania  limestone  soil,  aided  as  he  was 
by  the  toil  in  the  field  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, could  farm  with  thoroughness  in  such 
an  environment. 

As  population  increased,  as  cities  were 
built,  as  commerce  opened  markets,  and  land 
grew  valuable  in  the  parts  of  the  country 
that  had  been  earliest  settled,  superficial 
farming,  grown  by  this  time  to  a  tradition,  was 
no  longer  commendable,  or  even  excusable. 
The  influence  of  enlightened  example  became 
necessary  to  abolish  it.  Virginia  was  said  to 
have  been  more  improved  in  Governor  Spots- 
wood's  time  than  in  the  century  preceding. 
The  governor  himself,  and  some  such  lords 
of  great  estates  as  William  Byrd  of  Westover, 
were  influential  in  introducing  improvements; 
and  half  a  century  later  Josiah  Quincy  found 
Virginia  agriculture  very  far  advanced.  Jared 
Eliot  —  an  enlightened  and  wealthy  clergy- 
man-farmer in  Connecticut  —  tried  all  the 
artificial  grasses  of  England.  He  introduced 
the  drill,  and  persuaded  the  ingenious  Presi- 
dent Clap,  of  Yale  College,  to  simplify  its 
construction  from  the  cumbrous  English 
model.  In  a  hundred  ways,  this  grandson  of 
the  apostle  Eliot  strove  for  the  betterment  of 


ROX  PROM 

.AMERICAN 
Wi BLAOvSAXD 


MEDAL  AWARDED    TO    REV.    JARED    ELIOT,    NOW     IN     POSSESSION     OF    CHARLES    G.    ELLIOT,    ESQ.,    GOSHE.N,  N.    Y. 


SOME    OLD    CONSIDERATIONS. 


449 


American  husbandry ;  but  his  writings  have 
the  air  of  begging  pardon  that  a  clergyman 
should  make  himself  useful  beyond  the 
range  of  his  profession.  He  excuses  him- 
self by  telling  how  Charles  V.,  on  a  visit  to 
the  Netherlands,  sought  out  the  tomb  of 
Buckhelsz,  who  enriched  his  country  by  find- 
ing out  a  method  for  curing  and  barreling 
!herring.  Bartram,  the  botanist,  and  other 
Pennsylvania  Quakers  used  many  improve- 
ments in  farming,  and  the  wet  lands  on  the 
iSchuylkill  were  drained.  Irrigation  was  also 
used  in  some  parts  of  Pennsylvania  to  pro- 
mote the  growth  of  grass,  and  the  agricult- 
urist Masters  made  composts  of  forest  leaves 
in  the  modern  fashion.  It  is  interesting  to 
know  that  there  was  occasional  correspond- 
ence between  the  men,  scattered  through  the 
colonies,  who  were  striving  to  lift  agriculture 
Dut  of  the  rut  of  stupidity  into  which  it  is 
always  apt  to  sink.  One  reads  with  pleasure 
L.hat  fifty  copies  of  Eliot's  first  little  "  Essay 
3n  Field  Husbandry  "  were  bought  by  "  Ben- 
jamin Franklin,  Esq.,  of  Philadelphia,"  and 
;hat  the  progressive  Bordley,  of  Maryland,  or- 
dered "  Dr.  Eliot's  Essays  "  by  way  of  London. 
Alongside  the  new-born  enthusiasm  for 
science  and  the  desire  for  improvement  in 
practical  affairs,  which  makes  the  later  colo- 
jaists  seem  to  belong  to  our  age  rather  than 
;o  the  preceding  one,  there  lingered  many  in- 
:ongruous  superstitions,  even  in  the  minds  of 


intelligent  men.  The  almanacs  of  the  time 
were  publications  of  considerable  importance, 
and  one  finds  in  these  little  pamphlets  exact 
directions  for  regulating  farming  operations 
by  the  position  of  jthe  sun  in  the  zodiac. 
Even  Eliot  cannot  shake  himself  free  from 
these  notions ;  his  essays  tell  us  with  unruf- 
fled gravity  that  trees  must  be  girdled  in  the 
old  of  the  moon,  "  that  day  the  sun  moves 
out  of  the  foot  into  the  head,"  but  brush  is 
to  be  cut  when  the  sun  is  in  the  heart.  This 
day  for  giving  a  fatal  stab  to  obnoxious  alders 
unhappily  falls,  now  and  then,  on  Sunday,  as 
the  good  parson  confesses.  In  one  of  his  later 
papers  he  half  apologizes  for  his  astrological 
nonsense,  as  though  he  had  a  dawning  per- 
ception of  its  absurdity.  In  the  very  year 
before  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution  the 
"  Massachusetts  Calendar  "  tells  its  readers 
to  cut  timber,  for  lasting,  in  the  last  quarter  of 
the  moon,  naturally;  but  wood  for  firing 
should  come  down  in  the  first  quarter  —  per- 
haps because  the  moon  is  then  firing  up;  and 
there  follows  a  list  of  the  proper  phases  of  the 
moon  for  killing  beeves,  for  sheep-shearing, 
apple-gathering,  hedge-cutting,  manuring  land, 
grafting  trees,  cutting  hair,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  operations  besides.  Similar  notions 
can  be  found  to-day  among  the  illiterate ;  a 
hundred  years  ago  and  more,  they  were  treat- 
ed as  scientific  principles  by  men  of  liberal 
training. 


SOME    OLD    CONSIDERATIONS. 


E  Puritan  lies  in  his   tomb  — 
A  grand  fellow  was  he  in  his  day ; 
But  now  he's  so  bothered  for  room 
!    He'd  have  hardly  the  space  to  pray, 
Should  he  rise  on  his  knees. 

Not  a  foot  from  him  down  below 
!    Great  Sachem  Paupmunock  lies, 
With  his  kettle  of  corn  and  his  bow ; 
;   And  both  he  might  use,  could  he  rise, 
And  sit  at  his  ease. 

Right  over  the  two  is  my  bed, 

k  Delightfully  propped  on  the  great; 
nd  here  at  my  ease  overhead 
I  rest  on  two  Pillars  of  State, 
And  I  sleep  very  well. 


If  they  muttered  a  word  under  ground, 
I  dare  say  'twould  come  to  my  ears; 

But  I've  heard  not  the  slightest  sound, 
And  they've  slept  there  two  hundred  years, 
So  the  records  tell. 

I  muse  as  I  think  of  them  there, 
And  sometimes  I  laugh  to  myself, 

As  I  say  —  What  a  fine  old  pair ! 
But  how  easily  laid  on  the  shelf, 
When  we  youngsters  came ! 

The  Sachem  sang  in  his  throat, 

The  Puritan  twanged  through  his  nose; 

We  sing  a  more  lively  note 

Of  the  ruby  red  and  the  rose:  — 
In  the  end  'tis  the  same. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 43. 


We  too  shall  hobble  away 

From  the  merry  folk  and  the  fire; 
"  Good-bye  "  to  the  singers  shall  say, 

And  pass  from  the  lute  and  the  lyre, 
From  the  folk  and  the  flame. 


James  Herbert  Morse. 


GENERAL   SHERMAN.* 


FOR  a  few  days  prior  to  the  first  of  Novem- 
ber last,  a  tall,  spare  man,  with  erect  soldierly 
bearing,  a  face  curiously  furrowed  up  and 
down,  crosswise  and  diagonally,  with  wrinkles, 
gray,  stubbly  beard,  but  with  light  brown 
hair  showing  scarcely  a  trace  of  time's  first 
touches,  and  with  a  hazel  eye  of  a  keen 
and  youthful  expression,  might  have  been 
seen  directing  the  packing  of  books  and  pa- 
pers in  a  large,  handsome  room  of  the  new 
War  Department  building  at  Washington. 
He  wore  a  simple  business  suit,  and  the  two 
assistants  who  helped  him  in  the  task  of  ar- 
ranging the  volumes  and  documents  were  also 
clad  in  plain  clothes.  Occasionally  the  tall 
man  sat  down  at  a  desk  and  wrote  a  page  or 
two  of  foolscap,  which  he  added  to  a  pile  of 
manuscript,  or  rapidly  wrote  a  letter  in  a 
small,  clear,  peculiar  hand.  His  movements 
were  so  alert  and  his  physical  expression  was 
so  vigorous  that  no  one,  seeing  him  for  the 
first  time,  would  have  thought  for  a  moment 
of  calling  him  old.  It  was  William  Tecumseh 
Sherman,  General  of  the  Army  of  the  United 
States ;  the  manuscript  was  his  last  report  as 
Commander-in- Chief;  the  assistants  were  his 
aides-de-camp,  and  the  preparations  going 
on  were  for  the  removal  of  his  personal  pa- 
pers, and  for  turning  over  the  office  to  his 
successor.  A  recent  act  of  Congress  provided 
for  the  retirement  from  active  service  of  all 
officers  on  reaching  the  age  of  sixty-four.  Gen- 
eral Sherman  will  reach  this  limit  of  age  on 
the  1 8th  of  February,  but  he  anticipated  the 
date  for  relinquishing  his  command  to  the 
Lieutenant- General,  in  order  that  the  latter 
might  make  recommendations  concerning 
the  army,  as  its  new  chief,  to  Congress  at  the 
present  session. 

The  signing  of  a  few  official  papers,  and  a 
cordial  shaking  of  hands  with  the  new  com- 
mander, was  all  there  was  of  ceremony  con- 
nected with  the  transfer  of  command.  The 
control  of  the  military  forces  of  a  powerful 
nation  was  passed  over  without  the  beat  of 
a  drum  or  the  firing  of  a  salute.  Aside  from 
the  great  martial  renown  of  the  two  general 
officers  who  took  part  in  this  simple,  ceremony, 
the  event  was  one  of  national  interest.  Our 
system  of  government  provides  very  few  po- 
sitions of  dignity  in  which  the  tenure  is  suffi- 


ciently long  for  the  occupants  to  get  a  firm 
hold  upon  the  regard  and  memory  of  theii' 
fellow-citizens.  Presidents  come  and  go,  and 
the  fame  of  each  largely  effaces  that  of  him  whc 
went  before.  As  to  cabinet  ministers,  who  car 
remember  those  in  office  ten  years  ago  ?  The 
office  of  commander-in-chief,on  the  other  hand 
is  one  of  both  dignity  and  permanence.  Even' 
if  there  had  been  no  Shiloh,  no  Vicksburg; 
no  Atlanta,  and  no  March  to  the  Sea,  tht< 
retirement  from  this  high  post  of  one  who' 
like  General  Sherman,  has  held  it  for  nearly1 
fifteen  years,  would  be  a  memorable  eventj 
When  such  an  event  marks  the  withdrawa 
from  public  life  of  one  of  the  most  famous 
generals  of  modern  times  and  one  of  the 
great  popular  heroes  of  our  Civil  War,  it  at| 
tracts  universal  attention. 

The  title  of  General  does  not  pass  frorr 
Sherman'  to  Sheridan  with  the  transfer  of  tM 
command  of  the  army.  Sheridan  remains  Lieu, 
tenant-General.  In  1 869,  soon  after  the  promo ' 
tion  of  Sherman  to  the  rank  of  general,  mad<» 
vacant  by  Grant's  accession  to  the  Presidency 
and  the  consequent  promotion  of  Sheridan  t< 
Sherman's  former  rank  of  lieutenant-general,1 
Congress,  in  a  spirit  of  small  economy  botl; 
of  titles  and  of  pay,  enacted  that  the  tw(. 
highest  grades  in  the  military  establishmen 
should  continue  only  during  the  life  of  the  thet 
incumbents.  Thus  there  is  no  further  promo 
tion  beyond  the  grade  of  major-general.  Sine 
the  foundation  of  the  government  there  hav' 
been  but  three  commanders  with  the  full  titl< 
of  general.  The  first  was  Washington,  upov 
whom  the  rank  was  conferred  by  Congress  I 
few  weeks  before  his  death,  and  a  few  month 
after  he  had  been  made  lieutenant-general  L 
anticipation  of  a  war  with  France ;  the  second 
was  Grant,  to  honor  whom  Congress  reviver 
the  grade  in  1866;  the  third  was  Sherman,  wh'! 
was  promoted  to  Grant's  place  in  1869.! 

The  Memoirs  of  General  Sherman,  writte: 
by  himself,  and  published  in  1875,  begin  a, 
his  twenty-sixth  year  and  end  with  the  clos 
of  the  civil  war.  They  form  a  remarkabl 
vivid  and  graphic  picture  of  nineteen  year 
of  his  life.  The  personality  of  the  writer  i 
everywhere  infused  into  the  narrative.  Th 
book  mirrors  the  man.  It  takes  no  account 
however,  of  his  boyhood  or  early  manhocc. 


*  The  writer  wishes  to  acknowledge  indebtedness  tThe  following  is  a  list  of  the  officers  who  lu 
in  particular  to  General  Grant  and  to  General  Sher-  acted  as  commanders-in-chief  of  the  army,  by  senior 
man,  for  information  and  for  revision  of  the  proofs.  of  rank  or  by  special  assignment  from  the  Presiden 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


45 1 


ts  opening  sentence  is,  "  In  the  spring  of 
846,  I  was  a  first-lieutenant  of  Company  G, 
liird  Artillery,  stationed  at  Fort  Moultrie, 
outh  Carolina."  We  like  to  read  about  the 
arly  careers  of  famous  men.  We  want  to 
now  whether  the  boy  showed  the  budding  of 
ie  genius  which  made  the  man  great,  what 
onditions  molded  his  character,  what  circum- 
ances  threw  him  into  the  channels  of  action 
here  he  won  renown.  General  Sherman  has 
ft  this  curiosity  to  be  satisfied  by  some  future 
iographer.  A  few  facts  concerning  his  youth 
nd  early  manhood  have  been  gathered  for 
lis  sketch. 

General  Sherman  did  not  come  of  a  mili- 
iry  family.  His  ancestors  were  mainly  lawyers 
nd  preachers.  The  Sherman  genealogy,  like 
aat  of  most  old  New  England  families,  goes 
ack  to  the  first  of  the  name  who  emigrated 
om  Europe,  and  no  further.  Edmund  Sher- 
lan  left  Dedham,  Essex  County,  England,  in 
634,  with  his  three  sons,  and  landed  in  Mas- 
achusetts.  The  sons  were  Edmund.  Samuel, 
nd  John,  and  all  were  at  Boston  in  1636. 
ohn  was  a  preacher.  There  also  came  over 

cousin,  one  Captain  John  Sherman,  from 
horn  descended  Roger  Sherman,  of  Revo- 

tionary  fame,  and  William  M.  Evarts  and 

eorge  F.   Hoar,  statesmen  of  the  present 

ay.   From  Samuel  descended  the  family  of 

eneral  Sherman,  through  the  following  line: 

ev.  John  Sherman,  born  1650;  another  John, 

orn  1687;  Daniel,  a  judge,  born  1721;  and 

aylor,  also  a  judge,  born   1758,  grandfather 

:  the  General,  who  married  Betsey  Stoddard 

nd  had  three  children  —  Charles,  Daniel,  and 

[tetsey.  To  Grandmother   Betsey  might  be 

[ttributed  the  talent  of  the  later  members  of 

jhe  family.   She  was  a  woman  of  uncommon 


strength  of  character,  who  was  always  called 
on  to  give  advice  in  times  of  trouble  to  her 
whole  circle  of  relatives  and  descendants — a 
strong-willed,  intelligent,  managing  woman, 
of  a  type  much  rarer  in  the  present  genera- 
tion than  it  was  a  century  ago.  Judge  Taylor 
Sherman  was  a  man  of  position  in  Norwalk, 
Connecticut,  and  was  one  of  the  commission- 
ers appointed  by  the  State  to  quiet  the  In- 
dian title  to  the  Fire  Lands  district  in  Ohio, 
a  part  of  the  tract  ceded  by  Congress  to  com- 
pensate Connecticut  people  for  their  losses 
in  Benedict  Arnold's  raid.  The  Fire  Lands 
are  embraced  in  the  present  counties  of  Hu- 
ron and  Erie.  Judge  Sherman  established  the 
county  seat  of  Huron  and  named  it  Norwalk, 
from  his  home  town.  He  received  two  sec- 
tions of  land  for  his  services,  and,  returning 
to  Connecticut,  died  in  1815. 

His  son,  Charles  R.  Sherman,  was  admitted 
to  the  Norwalk  bar  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
and  signalized  the  event  by  marrying  his 
sweetheart,  Mary  Hoyt,  in  defiance  of  the 
dictates  of  prudence ;  and  then,  starting  for 
Ohio  to  make  a  career  for  himself,  leaving 
his  bride  behind,  he  settled  at  Lancaster,  and 
next  year  returned  to  bring  his  wife  and  a 
baby,  that  had  arrived  in  the  meantime,  out 
to  his  new  home,  by  a  horseback  journey  of 
over  six  hundred  miles.  The  young  lawyer 
volunteered  in  the  war  of  1812,  but  saw  no 
fighting,  his  service  being  as  a  commissary; 
and  after  that  brief  episode  he  came  back  to  his 
practice  at  Lancaster.  His  family  increased 
and  multiplied,  as  was  the  way  of  the  sturdy 
New  England  stock  of  that  day.  Eleven 
children  were  born  to  him,  six  boys  and 
five  girls,  and  all  grew  up  and  married.  Of 
these  are  now  living  Elizabeth,  William  Te- 


:  I.  George  Washington,  from  June,  1775,  to  De- 
smber,  1783. 

2.  Henry  Knox,  from  December,  1783,  to  June, 
784. 

,  Major  Doughty,  from  June,  1784,  to  September, 
.789.  There  was  no  United  States  army  during  this 
jeriod,  except  two  companies  of  artillery  commanded 
!ya  major.  The  Continental  line  had  been  disbanded, 
ind  a  new  army  had  not  been  formed. 
[  4.  Josiah  Harmar,  from  September,  1789,  to  March, 
791. 

5-  Arthur  St.  Clair,  from  March,  1791,  to  March, 
'792. 

!  6  Anthony  Wayne,  from  March,  1 792,  to  Decem- 
er  1796. 

I  7  James  Wilkinson,  from  December,  1 796,  to  July, 
798. 

!  8  George  Washington,  who  was  created'a  lieuten- 
<nt  general  and  resumed  the  command  of  the  army, 
rom  July,  1798,  to  December,  1799. 

9-  Alexander  Hamilton,  from  December,  1799,  to 
June,  1800.  It  used  to  be  a  mooted  question  in  the 
|Var  Department  whether  Hamilton  had  ever  com- 
manded the  army,  but  the  recent  discovery  of  an  order 
Bearing  his  signature  as  "major-general  commanding  " 
jettled  the  dispute. 


10.  James  Wilkinson,  from  June,  1800,  to  January, 
1812. 

11.  Henry  Dearborn,  from  January,  1812,  to  June, 
1815,  the  period  of  the  war  of  1812. 

12.  Jacob  Brown,  from  June,  1815,  to  February, 
1828. 

13.  Alexander  McComb,  from  May,  1828,  to  June, 
1841. 

14.  Winfield  Scott,  from  June,  1841,  to  November, 
1861,  the  longest  term  of  all.    Scott  was  the  first  offi- 
cer, after  Washington,  who  held  the  rank  of  lieutenant- 
general.    This  was  conferred  upon  him  by  Congress 
after  the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war,  but  did  not  pass  to 
his  successor  in  command. 

15.  George  B.   McClellan,  from  November,  1861, 
to  March,  1862. 

1 6.  Henry  W.  Halleck,  from  July,  1862,  to  March, 
'1864. 

17.  Ulysses  S.  Grant,  from  March,  1864,  to  March, 
1869. 

1 8.  William  T.  Sherman,  from  March,  1869,  to  No- 
vember, 1883. 

19.  Philip  H.  Sheridan,  from  November,  1883. 
The  portraits  of  all  these  commanders,  except  Major 

Doughty,  can  be  seen  on  the  walls  of  the  Army  Head- 
quarters office  at  Washington. 


452 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


cumseh,  John  Hoyt,  and  Fanny.  The  father 
took  a  fancy  to  the  character  of  the  Indian 
chief  Tecumseh,  who  flourished  in  the  North- 
west in  the  early  part  of  the  present  century 
and  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Tippecanoe, 
and  wanted  to  bestow  the  name  on  his  first- 
born son ;  but  the  mother  objected,  and  the 
baby  was  called  Charles,  after  one  of  her  broth- 
ers. The  father  renewed  his  proposition  when 
the  second  son  was  to  be  named,  but  was 
again  overruled  in  favor  of  James ;  but  after 
both  brothers  had  been  honored,  a  third  son 
was  born,  and  a  compromise  was  effected  by 
the  parents,  by  virtue  of  which  the  father 
assented  that  his  first  name  should  be  William, 
and  the  mother  that  the  cognomen  of  the  In- 
dian chief  should  be  his  second,  or  "  middle 
name."  So  he  was  called  William  Tecumseh 
Sherman,  and  as  he  grew  up  his  companions, 
seizing  upon  the  more  uncommon  word,  usu- 
ally nicknamed  him  "  Cump,"  or  "  Tecumps." 
The  father  was  appointed  a  judge  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  Ohio  in  1824,  soon  after 
Tecumseh's  birth,  by  Governor  Ethan  A. 
Brown.  One  of  the  General's  earliest  recol- 
lections is  of  the  group  of  children  waiting  on 
the  porch  of  the  Lancaster  house  for  the 
Judge  to  come  riding  home  from  his  circuit, 
and  of  their  competition  for  the  honor  of 
mounting  his  horse  and  taking  it  to  the  stable. 
On  one  occasion  success  in  this  rivalry  came 
near  being  fatal  to  Tecumseh,  for  the  animal 
threw  him  upon  a  pile  of  stone,  where  he  was 
picked  up  for  dead  with  wounds  upon  his 
head,  the  scars  of  which  he  still  carries. 

Judge  Sherman  died  suddenly  in  Lebanon, 
in  1829,  leaving  his  widow  an  income  of 
only  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year 
with  which  to  bring  up  eleven  children.  The 
second  boy  had  obtained  a  place  in  a  store 
in  Cincinnati.  The  eldest  was  in  college  at 
Athens.  The  other  children  were  at  home  at- 
tending the  village  schools.  Fortunately,  the 
Judge  had  left  behind  him  many  friends,  who 
came  forward  with  practical  offers  of  assist- 
ance to  the  family.  He  was  a  kindly,  social 
man,  and  was  greatly  beloved  by  his  asso- 
ciates of  the  bench  and  bar.  Good  humor 
beamed  from  his  face.  He  had  a  clear  head, 
a  generous  heart,  and  a  ready  wit.  The  three 
older  boys  were  adopted  by  friends  and  rel- 
atives. Charles  Hammond,  of  Cincinnati,  took 
Lampson.  John,  the  future  Senator  and  Secre- 
tary of  the  Treasury,  was  sent  to  an  uncle  in 
Mount  Vernon.  Tecumseh  entered  the  house- 
hold of  Thomas  Ewing,  then  a  member  of  the 
United  States  Senate,  and  one  of  the  most 
powerful  of  the  Whig  statesmen  of  that  day. 
Ewing  was  warmly  attached  to  the  dead  Judge, 
and  treated  his  friend's  son  as  though  he  had 
been  his  own.  The  lad  was  destined  for  the 


West  Point  Military  Academy  by  his  guardian, 
and  his  studies  in  the  village  schools  took  the 
direction  of  preparing  him  for  the  examina- 
tion required  for  admission  to  that  institution, 
One  summer  he  laid  aside  his  books  and  workec 
as  rod-man  with  the  engineers  who  were  con- 
structing the  Hocking  Valley  Canal.  For  ever) 
day's  work  he  was  paid  a  silver  half  dollar 
and  he  was  supremely  happy  in  the  possession 
of  the  first  money  gained  by  his  own  toil. 

In  looking  back  upon  his  youth  in  Lancas 
ter,  General  Sherman  does  not  remember  tha- 
ne had  even  the  ordinary  boy's  fondness  fo: 
reading  about  wars  and  battles.  He  carec 
most  for  history  and  books  of  travel,  and  wa: 
very  fond  of  novels  —  a  taste  he  has  no 
outgrown.  The  grizzly  veteran  of  sixty- fou 
reads  a  good  romance  with  as  much  interes 
as  did  the  school-boy  of  eighteen.  He  is  <• 
remarkably  fast  reader,  having  a  faculty  o: 
going  through  a  volume  rapidly  and  extract 
ing  what  is  new  and  interesting  to  him,  whil< 
rejecting  all  the  dullness,  repetition,  and  men 
padding.  For  poetry  he  never  cared  much 
reading  with  most  pleasure  Shakspere  am 
narrative  poems  of  dramatic  character,  sucl 
as  Scott's  "Marmion  "  and  "The  Lady  of  th- 
Lake."  He  was  a  good  student,  getting  alonj 
in  his  Latin  as  far  as  Horace,  and  in  Greek  t» 
the  Grseca  Majora,  before  going  to  West  Point 
In  his  physical  habits  he  was  active  and  vigor 
ous,  fond  of  outdoor  sports  and  of  long  tramp 
with  rod  and  gun.  All  the  region  around  Lan 
caster  was  as  well  known  to  him  as  his  owi 
door-yard.  Every  wood,  stream,  and  hill  wa 
familiar  ground.  He  had  a  great  memory  fo 
the  topography  of  a  country  and  an  instinc 
for  pushing  his  way  through  forests  and  thick 
ets — faculties  that  in  after  years  stood  him  i: 
good  stead. 

He  went  to  the  Military  Academy  with  n 
ambition  to  be  a  soldier,  but  with  a  great  ck 
sire  to  secure  the  education  offered.  In  tha 
day,  to  get  an  education  was  the  ambitio 
of  every  bright  boy  in  the  West.  Good  school 
were  rare  then,  and  the  people  were  poo 
Education  was  not  the  cheap  and  convenier 
thing  it  is  to-day.  To  be  fed,  clothed,  an 
housed  at  the  expense  of  the  Governmen 
and  taught  mathematics,  languages,  and  er 
gineering,  seemed  an  enormous  prize  to  lac 
who  worked  hard  on  farms  and  in  shops  eigl 
months  in  the  year  to  get  the  means  to  g 
to  school  the  other  four.  The  fortunate  poi 
sessors  of  cadetships  at  West  Point  w 
universally  envied.  Young  Sherman  did 
like  Lincoln  and  Garfield,  pass  throuj 
boyhood  of  toil  and  privation,  for  his  g 
dian  was  in  comfortable  circumstances ; 
he  fully  appreciated  the  advantage  of  go 
to  the  Military  Academy.  His  idea  at 


GENERAL    SHERMAN. 


453 


me  was  that  he  would  not  stay  long  in  the 
rmy  when  through  with  the  Academy,  but 
ould  go  West  and  become  a  civil  engineer. 

He  was  sixteen  when  he  received  his  ap- 
ointment  to  West  Point,  procured  by  the 
ifluence  of  his  guardian,  and  started  on 
hat  then  seemed  a  long  and  adventurous 

urney.  Three  days  and  nights  of  stage  travel 
rought  him  to  Frederickstown,  Maryland, 
rhence  there  was  a  railroad  to  Washington ; 
ut  he  was  advised  to  avoid  the  novel  and 
angerous  mode  of  travel  and  stick  to  the 
oach,  which  he  did.  General  Jackson  was 
Resident  at  the  time,  and  was  at  the  zenith 
f  his  fame.  The  young  cadet  stared  for  an 
our  through  the  wooden  palings  of  the  White 
louse  grounds,  watching  the  great  man  pace 
p  and  down  the  gravel  walk,  muffled  in  an 
normous  overcoat  and  wearing  upon  his 
ead  an  uncouth  cloth  cap.  The  journey  to 
few  York  was  made  by  railroad  to  Baltimore, 
oat  to  Havre  de  Grace,  rail  to  Wilmington, 
oat  to  Philadelphia,  boat  to  Bordentown, 
jail  to  Amboy,  and  boat  to  New  York.  Sher- 
han  stopped  at  the  American  Hotel  in  Broad- 
way, just  above  the  Astor  House,  kept  by 
1  Billy  "  Cozzens,  and  the  next  day  went  up 
he  river  to  West  Point,  and  reported  at  the 
.Icademy.  He  had  no  trouble  in  passing  the 
|:xamination. 

The  life  of  the  Academy  was  irksome  to 
tim  because  of  its  restraints.  In  the  Corps 
,»f  Cadets  he  was  not  considered  a  good 
loldier.  This  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  he  was 
liever  selected  for  any  office  in  the  corps,  but 
'emained  a  private  for  the  entire  four  years. 
Ie  was  not  particular  in  his  dress,  and  his 
tearing  was  not  sufficiently  military  to  secure 
he  commendation  of  the  martinets  of  the 
'chool.  He  applied  himself  closely  to  his  stud- 
es,  however,  •  stood  high  in  drawing,  chem- 
stry,  mathematics,  and  philosophy,  and  so 
:.ucceeded  in  reaching  the  grade  of  sixth  in  a 
:lass  of  forty-three.  It  is  perhaps  worth  re- 
narking  here  that  men  who  have  successfully 
:onducted  great  campaigns  and  fought  great 
>attles  have  not,  as  a  rule,  taken  much  interest 
n  the  polishing  of  buttons,  or  the  exact  align- 
inent  of  a  company  of  troops. 
|  Sherman's  distaste  for  military  matters  went 
further  than  the  details  of  dress  and  drill.  He 
elt  no  special  liking  or  aptitude  for  the  pro- 
ession  of  a  soldier.  That  he  succeeded  in  it 
>o  remarkably  he  now  attributes  to  mental 
•?rasp  and  intensity  of  purpose  rather  than  to 
,iny  inborn  talent.  In  his  own  opinion  .he 
vas  not  a  natural  soldier ;  but  he  could  make 
|ill  his  thoughts  and  feelings  converge  to  one 
ooint,  which  he  acknowledges  to  be  a  mili- 
tary quality.  He  had  no  love  for  pomp  and 
oarade,  for  uniforms,  gold  lace,  and  feathers ; 


the  paraphernalia  of  war  excited  no  enthu- 
siasm in  his  nature,  and  he  instinctively 
abhorred  violence.  We  must  admit  that  there 
was  nothing  manifested  in  the  character  of 
the  West  Point  cadet  that  marked  him  as  one 
destined  to  play  a  great  part  in  the  greatest 
war  of  modern  times.  Yet  he  displayed  excel- 
lent qualifications  for  either  soldier  or  citizen — 
self-poise,  a  quick  intelligence,  close  applica- 
tion to  the  task  at  hand,  keen  observation  both 
of  persons  and  things,  and  conscientiousness. 

After  his  graduation,  in  1840,  Sherman  was 
commissioned  a  second  lieutenant  in  the  Third 
regiment  of  artillery,  and  sent  to  Florida  with 
a  company  of  recruits.  General  Zachary 
Taylor  was  in  command  there.  The  worst  of 
the  Seminole  war  was  over;  but  there  were 
still  many  savages  lurking  in  the  Everglades, 
and  the  business  of  the  troops  was  to  hunt 
them  out,  capture  them,  and  remove  them  to 
the  Indian  Territory.  It  was  rough  work  for 
the  young  lieutenant;  but  he  enjoyed  the  wild 
life  of  the  forest,  the  bayous,  and  the  swamps. 
The  habit  of  independent  judgment  which 
characterized  his  opinions  and  operations 
during  the  civil  war,  showed  itself  thus  early. 
He  thought  the  policy  of  the  Government 
toward  the  Seminoles  a  mistake.  The  Indian 
Territory  he  believed  to  be  much  better  fitted 
for  the  abode  of  white  people  than  Florida. 
The  latter  was  an  Indian  paradise,  abounding 
in  game  and  fish,  but  of  small  account  for. 
white  settlement.  The  Seminoles,  Choctaws, 
Chickasaws,  Cherokees,  and  Creeks  should 
have  been  concentrated  in  Florida,  where 
they  would  have  been  surrounded  by  the  sea 
on  all  sides  but  one,  and  could  easily  have 
been  protected  against  encroachment,  and 
the  vast  agricultural  plains  west  of  Arkansas 
should  have  been  left  open  to  civilization. 
This  was  his  idea  then,  and  he  has  never 
changed  it. 

From  Florida,  after  two  winter  campaigns, 
Lieutenant  Sherman  was  transferred  to  Fort 
Moultrie,  near  Charleston,  South  Carolina. 
There  he  remained  four  years,  fretting,  no 
doubt,  at  the  uneventful  life  of  the  garrison, 
but  finding  diversion  in  hunting  all  through 
the  lowland  counties  of  the  State,  and  in  the 
aristocratic  society  of  the  then  rich  and  proud 
little  city  close  at  hand  across  the  bay  from 
the  fort,  to  which  his  uniform  was  a  passport. 
Charleston  then  exercised  an  intellectual  and 
political  leadership  throughout  the  South  out 
of  all  proportion  to  her  population,  and  Sher- 
man was  able  to  gain  an  insight  into  the 
Southern  character  which  was  of  great  serv- 
ice to  him  when  he  came  to  march  armies 
through  the  Southern  States.  What  was  of 
even  greater  importance,  he  learned,  and 
never  afterward  forgot,  the  topography  of  the 


454 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


region.  After  the  March  to  the  Sea  in  1864, 
when  his  victorious  army  turned  northward 
through  South  Carolina,  he  knew  the  roads 
and  the  fords,  and  remembered  that  when  the 
"  up  country  "  was  impassable  by  reason  of 
the  spring  mud,  the  low  country,  nearer  the  sea, 
was  sandy,  and  the  river  bottoms  were  hard. 

It  is  remarkable  to  what  an  extent  Sher- 
man's early  career  gave  him  special  fitness 
for  the  great  part  he  played  during  the  re- 
bellion. In  1843  he  was  ordered  to  Marietta, 
Georgia,  on  some  duty  connected  with  losses 
of  property  during  the  Seminole  war.  He 
spent  three  weeks  there,  and,  with  his  habit 
of  riding  and  hunting,  became  well  acquainted 
with  the  region  north  of  Atlanta,  where  he 
was  to  fight  battles  and  conduct  grand 
strategic  movements  twenty-one  years  later. 
A  ride  across  western  Georgia  to  Belfonte, 
Alabama,  and  a  stay  of  four  weeks  at  the 
Augusta  Arsenal,  gave  him  a  further  acquaint- 
ance with  the  region.  "  That  the  knowledge  I 
then  gained  was  of  infinite  use  to  me,  and  con- 
sequently to  the  Government,  I  have  always 
felt  and  stated,"  wrote  General  Sherman  in  a 
recent  letter  referring  to  his  early  career.  When 
he  fought  his  way  down  to  Atlanta  in  1864, 
pushing  back  mile  by  mile  a  daring  and  active 
enemy,  he  remembered  all  the  features  of  the 
country — the  course  of  the  streams,  the  gaps 
in  the  mountain  ranges,  the  roads,  and  the 
strong  defensible  positions.  His  knowledge 
even  went  so  far  as  the  location  of  farms  and 
houses.  On  ordering  General  McPherson  to 
charge  with  his  corps  the  Confederate  in- 
trenchments  on  Kenesaw  Mountain,  he  said: 
"  About  half-way  up  the  mountain  you  will 
find  a  plateau  where  there  is  a  peach  orchard; 
it  will  be  a  good  place  to  stop  and  let  your 
men  get  breath  for  the  assault."  He  recalled, 
just  at  the  time  when  the  recollection  was 
most  valuable,  his  visit  to  the  peach  orchard 
in  1843,  and  how  the  owner  had  told  him  he 
had  planted  it  on  the  north  side  of  the  moun- 
tain so  that  the  buds  would  not  develop  too 
soon  and  be  nipped  by  the  spring  frosts. 

The  Mexican  war  gave  Sherman  no  experi- 
ence in  fighting.  His  company  was  sent  out 
to  California  to  help  hold  the  territory  on  the 
Pacific  coast  just  wrested  from  Mexico.  He 
got  a  valuable  experience,  however,  as  adju- 
tant to  Colonel  Mason,  who  exercised  both 
civil  and  military  power  prior  to  the  organi- 
zation of  the  State.  In  this  position  he  min- 
gled in  the  political  and  business  life  of  the 
strangely  varied  and  energetic  community 
which  the  gold  discoveries  had  attracted  to 
California.  It  was  an  excellent  place  to  study 
human  nature,  and  to  weigh  the  characters 
and  powers  of  individuals.  There  was  little 
military  routine  in  the  life  of  the  lieutenant 


of  artillery,  but  a  great  deal  of  active  inter- 
course with  men  and  affairs.  In  1850  he  re- 
turned to  the  East,  and  on  May  day  married 
in  Washington  Ellen  Boyle  Ewing,  a  daugh- 
ter of  his  former  guardian,  Senator  Thomas 
Ewing.  The  house  in  which  the  wedding 
took  place  is  still  standing  on  Pennsylvania 
avenue — a  very  plain  building  now,  but  a 
fine  mansion  in  those  days.  There  were 
famous  guests  at  the  wedding — Clay,  Web- 
ster, and  Benton,  and  President  Zachary  Tay- 
lor with  all  his  cabinet  —  and  it  was  a  brilliant 
affair,  with  music,  dancing,  and  feasting,  and 
was  followed  by  a  bridal  tour  to  Niagara  Falls. 

The  lieutenant  was  appointed  Captain  and 
Acting  Commissary  of  Subsistence  and  sta- 
tioned at  St.  Louis,  whence  in  1852  he  was 
transferred  to  New  Orleans.  In  1853  he  ac- 
cepted a  proposition  to  go  back  to  California 
with  money  furnished  by  a  St.  Louis  capitalist 
and  in  company  with  a  friend  to  start  a  bani 
in  San  Francisco.  He  was  tired  of  the  army 
where  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  ahead  foi 
him  but  the  rank  of  major,  which  was  the 
highest  he  supposed  he  could  reach  by  a  life- 
time of  service ;  so  he  embraced  this  very  flat- 
tering opportunity  to  get  into  civil  life,  anc 
threw  up  his  commission.  The  St.  Louis  cap- 
italist must  have  reposed  extraordinary  con- 
fidence in  the  two  young  ex- officers  to  whoir 
he  gave  his  money  to  use  on  the  other  side  of 
the  continent ;  but  they  justified  his  faith  ir 
their  honesty  and  capacity.  The  bank  wa^ 
established  and  did  a  good  business.  Shermar 
took  it  safely  through  a  panic,  mingled  in  the 
turbulent,  eager  life  of  those  days  of  wile 
speculation,  sudden  fortunes,  and  as  sudder 
ruin,  vigilance  committees,  and  political  up- 
heavals ;  a  major-general  of  State  militia  al 
one  time,  and  at  all  times  a  conservative  citi- 
zen, upon  whom  men  could  rely  to  pay  debts 
when  due,  give  sound  advice,  keep  a  coo" 
head  under  all  circumstances,  and  act  ener- 
getically when  occasion  required. 

The  San  Francisco  bank  flourished  for  five 
years;  but  in  1858,  after  the  flush  times  wert 
over,  the  St.  Louis  capitalist  wished  to  with- 
draw his  funds.  So  the  business  was  closed  up 
and  all  the  creditors  were  paid  in  full,  and  Sher- 
man soon  found  himself  back  in  his  boyhood's 
home  at  Lancaster  without  occupation.  In 
1859  he  went  to  Leaven  worth,  Kansas,  as  a 
lawyer  and  real  estate  agent.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  law  except  what  he  had  learned  from 
reading  Blackstone  and  Kent  while  in  the 
army ;  but  Judge  Lecompte  said  he  would  ad- 
mit him  to  the  bar,  without  examination,  " 
the  ground  of  general  intelligence."  He 
now  thirty-nine  years  old,  with  a  wife  ai 
children,  and  had  still  his  place  to  make 
life.  From  his  thirteen  years'  army  service 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


455 


ad  gained  the  reputation  of  being  a  quick, 
itelligent,  willing  officer,  and  that  was  all. 
torn  his  venture  in  business  life  he  had  gained 
lenty  of  experience,  but  no  fortune.  The  ex- 
•enses  of  his  family  and  of  travel  had  con- 
umed  his  savings. 

In  this  situation,  and  with  no  very  flatter- 
ig  outlook  for  legal  business  in  a  rude  fron- 
ier  town,  he  was  glad  to  receive  an  offer  from 
he  Governor  of  Louisiana,  through  the  influ- 
nce  of  a  friend,  of  the  superintendency  of  a 

w  educational  institution  endowed  with  a 
rant  of  land  from  Congress  and  of  money 
•om  the  State,  called  the  "  Louisiana  Sem- 
tiary  of  Learning  and  Military  Academy," 

0  be  established  at  Alexandria.    The  State 
onferred   upon    him   the    title   of  Colonel, 
nd  he  set  to  work  with  his  characteristic  zeal 
nd  concentration  of  purpose  to  organize  the 
chool.    In  a  few   months   it   was   in   good 
lape,  with  a  fair  attendance  of  cadets.   The 
uperintendent  was  well  liked  and  respected ; 
ut  the  high  excitement  of  the  Presidential 
ampaign  of  1860   soon   made  his  position 
ncomfortable.   The  mania  of  secession  was 
treading  rapidly  through  the  South.  A  grow- 
ig  prejudice  against  Northern  men  pervaded 

1  classes.    Colonel  Sherman's  brother  John 
•as  a  United  States  Senator  from  Ohio,  and 

be  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  Republican 
saders.  Naturally  the  Superintendent  of  the 
.xmisiana  Military  Academy  fell  under  sus- 
>icion  as  being  unsound  on  the  slavery  ques- 
ion  and  the  so-called  rights  of  the  South, 
lome  of  the  leading  politicians  undertook  to 
:orner  him  at  a  dinner  party,  and  asked  him 
joint-blank  to  give  his  views  on  the  institution 
»f  slavery.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  he 
jhought  the  field  hands  should  receive  better 
sreatment,  and  that  the  practice  of  separating 
amilies,  and  selling  wives  away  from  their  hus- 
)ands  and  children  from  their  mothers  should 
j>e  reformed  altogether.  The  slave-holders 
•espected  him  for  his  frankness,  and  did  not 
jrouble  him  further ;  but  when  Louisiana  pre- 
pared to  join  in  the  mad  whirl  of  disunion, 
Sherman  wrote  to  the  Governor  asking  to  be 
j-elieved  from  his  position  at  the  Academy  the 
moment  the  State  determined  to  secede.  "  On 
(10  earthly  account,"  he  wrote,  "  will  I  do  any 
jict  or  think  any  thought  hostile  to  or  in  de- 
jiance  of  the  old  Government  of  the  United 
States."  He  left  Louisiana  soon  after,  with  an 
official  acceptance  of  his  resignation  and  a 
letter  from  the  Governor  abounding  in  hand- 
tome  and  hearty  compliments.  His  family 
Ivere  sent  to  the  Ewing  homestead  in  Lan- 
caster, a  refuge  always  in  times  of  trouble 
ind  uncertainty,  while  he  went  to  St.  Louis  to 
ook  for  something  to  do.  When  the  rebellion 
began  with  the  firing  on  Fort  Sumter,  in  April, 


1 86 1,  he  was  president  of  a  street  railroad 
company  in  that  city. 

Soon  after  the  first  outbreak  of  hostilities, 
Sherman  proffered  his  services  to  the  War 
Department  in  a  frank  letter,  in  which  he  said 
that  his  army  record  would  indicate  the  position 
in  which  he  could  be  of  most  service.  He  was 
offered  the  chief  clerkship  of  the  War  Depart- 
ment, coupled  with  the  promise  of  early  ad- 
vancement to  the  post  of  Assistant  Secretary. 
This  clerkly  office  in  a  Washington  bureau  was 
not  at  all  to  his  liking.  He  did  not  volunteer 
under  the  three  months'  call  for  troops,  be- 
cause he  had  a  family  to  support  and  could  not 
give  up  his  new  business  relations  for  a  ninety- 
days'  commission.  Besides,  he  had  no  faith  in 
Secretary  Seward's  ninety-day  theory  of  the 
war.  His  residence  in  Louisiana  had  im- 
pressed him  with  a  just  conception  of  the  de- 
termination, enthusiasm,  and  courage  of  the 
Southern  people.  He  knew  they  were  in  ear- 
nest in  their  States'  rights  doctrine,  and  be- 
lieved they  would  fight  long  and  bravely  in 
defense  of  their  idea.  With  that  idea  he  had 
no  sympathy,  and  he  was  eager  to  combat  it 
in  behalf  of  the  unity  and  supremacy  of  the 
nation.  When  the  three  years'  call  for  volun- 
teers was  made  by  Lincoln  in  May,  1861,  he 
was  eager  to  go  to  the  field,  and  gladly  ac- 
cepted the  colonelcy  of  one  of  the  new  regi- 
ments of  regulars,  the  Thirteenth.  It  was  a 
long  step  forward  from  his  last  army  rank  of 
captain  to  the  colonelcy  of  a  regiment ;  but 
those  were  days  when  colonels  and  even 
generals  were  made  out  of  shop-keepers 
and  lawyers,  and  trained  soldiers  were  in 
great  request.  It  might  be  said  that  Sher- 
man had  powerful  friends  close  to  the  Ad- 
ministration at  Washington,  who  no  doubt 
had  a  hand  in  influencing  his  appointment ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  his  West 
Point  education,  his  thirteen  years  of  army 
service,  and  the  impression  he  had  everywhere 
made  upon  his  seniors  as  a  man  competent 
for  command  and  for  the  management  of  large 
affairs.  If  he  had  had  no  brother  in  the  Sen- 
ate and  no  friends  in  the  Cabinet,  he  would 
in  the  end  have  made  his  way  to  the  front  of 
events  just  as  Grant  did,  and  Sheridan  and 
Thomas  and  McPherson,  and  all  the  other 
really  great  commanders  of  the  civil  war. 

Soon  the  War  Department  sent  for  the  new 
colonel  to  come  to  Washington  and  to  leave 
the  recruiting  of  his  regiment  to  his  subordi- 
nates. Into  the  next  four  years  were  closely 
crowded  the  great  events,  experiences,  and 
successes  of  Sherman's  life.  He  now  entered 
upon  the  field  of  action  for  which  his  whole 
previous  career  was  a  fortunate  schooling  and 
training.  His  military  studies ;  his  campaigns 
in  the  Florida  Everglades ;  his  hunting  excur- 


456 


GENERAL    SHERMAN. 


sions  and  travels  in  South  Carolina,  Georgia, 
and  Alabama ;  his  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  Southern  people ;  his  participation  in  the 
military  government  of  California;  his  busi- 
ness career  in  that  State  in  times  when  the 
'strongest  qualities  of  human  nature  were  de- 
veloped by  the  eager  rush  and  competition 
of  a  wild  multitude  from  all  over  the  world 
seeking  sudden  wealth ;  his  residence  in  Lou- 
isiana and  association  with  its  public  men 
when  the  ferment  of  secession  was  in  prog- 
ress—  all  this  varied  experience  was  a  remark- 
ably effective  preparation  for  a  quick-brained, 
positive,  patriotic  man  to  play  a  great  role  in 
the  war.  There  was  nothing  fortuitous  in  Sher- 
man's success.  He  had  no  "lucky  star."  His 
great  military  achievements  were  the  result  of 
training  and  experience  acting  upon  a  nature 
at  once  susceptible  and  resolute,  thoughtful 
and  energetic,  prudent  and  courageous.  Let 
us  add  that  he  had  the  emphatic  advantage 
for  a  military  commander  of  perfect  physical 
health  and  a  robust,  wiry  constitution,  capable 
of  enduring  great  fatigue,  and  that  he  was 
forty-one  years  old,  and  therefore  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  his  bodily  and  mental  powers. 

It  is  not  within  the  scope  of  this  article  to 
describe  in  detail  the  events  connected  with 
Sherman's  war  record.  They  are  a  part  of 
recent  history,  known  to  every  school-boy. 
Besides,  he  has  himself  described  them  in  the 
very  frank,  clear,  straightforward  narrative 
of  his  "  Memoirs,"  wherein  the  story  of  his 
campaigns,  his  relations  with  his  superior  and 
subordinate  officers,  and  his  personal  opinions 
and  feelings,  from  Bull  Run  to  Bentonville,  is 
fully  told.  Within  the  limits  of  the  present 
sketch,  we  can  only  glance  at  the  most  salient 
points  of  his  war  record  —  turning-points 
where  the  pathway  to  success  was  not  plain, 
or  steps  of  progress  to  greater  eminence  as  a 
commander. 

At  Blackburn's  Ford,  just  before  the  Bull 
Run  battle,  he  "  saw  for  the  first  time  cannon- 
balls  strike  men  and  crash  through  the  trees." 
He  commanded  a  brigade  in  the  battle,  and 
threw  his  three  regiments  in  succession,  in 
good  military  shape,  across  an  open  field  upon 
a  portion  of  the  enemy's  line  sheltered  in  a 
wood,  but  each  came  back  repulsed.  He  held 
them  together,  however,  and  did  not  take 
them  off  the  field  until  the  rout  became  gen- 
eral all  around  them.  Then  he  brought  them 
back  to  the  forts  near  Washington  in  rather 
better  shape  than  most  of  the  other  brigades. 
He  was  profoundly  mortified  at  the  result  of 
the  affair;  and  when  a  report  came  to  camp 
that  he  with  certain  other  colonels  were  to  be 
made  brigadier- generals,  he  was  incredulous, 
and  remarked  that  it  was  more  probable  they 
would  all  be  court-martialed  and  cashiered,  as 


they  deserved,  for  the  loss  of  the  battle  and 
the  shamefully  disorderly  retreat. 

The  promotions  were  made,  however,  and 
Sherman  was  sent  off  to  Kentucky  as  a 
brigadier-general.  He  had  gained  a  valuable 
experience  at  Bull  Run,  though  he  did  not 
realize  it  at  the  time.  He  had  discovered  that 
he  could  handle  a  brigade  under  fire  with 
coolness  and  presence  of  mind,  and  that  he 
did  not  "  get  stampeded,"  as  the  expression 
was  at  the  time,  by  disaster. 

The  beginning  of  Sherman's  career  as  a 
general  officer  was  clouded  by  a  cruel  slander, 
which  gained  wide  currency  in  the  press  of 
the  country  and  came  near  blasting  all  his 
hopes  of  usefulness  in  the  struggle  against 
the  rebellion.  From  Washington  he  was  sent 
to  Louisville,  and  was,  temporarily  and  much 
against  his  wishes,  placed  in  command  of 
the  forces  gathered  to  resist  the  movement 
of  the  enemy  into  Kentucky.  While  busy 
organizing  his  raw  levies,  he  was  visited  by 
the  Secretary  of  War,  Simon  Cameron,  who 
asked  him  how  many  troops  he  wanted  in  his 
department.  At  that  time,  new  regiments,  as 
fast  as  raised,  were  being  sent  either  to  the 
army  of  the  Potomac  at  the  East  or  to  Fremont 
in  Missouri.  McClellan  had  one  hundred 
thousand  men  to  operate  on  a  line  sixty  miles 
long ;  Fremont  as  many  to  move  from  a  base 
one  hundred  miles  long ;  while  Sherman  had 
only  eighteen  thousand  men  to  hold  a  line 
three  hundred  miles  long,  which  was  the 
center  and  key  to  the  whole  position.  With 
these  facts  in  mind,  he  answered  Camer- 
on's question  by  saying,  "  Sixty  thousand 
men  now,  and  two  hundred  thousand  be- 
fore we  are  done."  Soon  after,  some  one  in 
the  war  office,  in  a  conversation  with  Ad- 
jutant-General Lorenzo  Thomas,  at  which  a 
newspaper  correspondent  was  present,  said, 
"  Sherman  must  be  crazy ;  he  wants  two  hun- 
dred thousand  men  sent  to  Kentucky."  Next 
day  it  was  telegraphed  to  a  New  York  daily 
that  the  Secretary  of  War  thought  Sherman 
crazy,  and  in  a  few  days'  time  the  story  had 
spread  throughout  the  press  of  the  country, 
that  he  was  actually  insane,  or,  at  least,  rather 
off  his  mental  balance.  Perhaps  his  quick, 
nervous,  earnest  manner  gave  some  color  to 
the  wretched  story  ;  at  all  events,  there  were 
returning  officers  who  pretended  to  know 
him  and  who  professed  to  have  doubts  as  to 
his  soundness,  when  questioned  by  news- 
paper reporters.  His  "  insanity  "  proved  to  be 
prophecy,  for  before  six  months  had  elapsed 
there  were  more  than  sixty  thousand  Unioi 
soldiers  in  Kentucky,  and  before  the 
ended  the  Federal  armies  south  of  the  Ol 
were  fully  two  hundred  thousand  st 
Sherman  was  relieved  and  sent  to  St. 


GENERAL    SHERMAN. 


457 


here  Halleck  had  succeeded  Fremont.    Hal- 
ck  put  him  in  command  of  a  camp  of  in- 
ruction;  but  when  General  Grant  began  his 
rilliant  campaign  against   Fort   Henry  and 
ort  Donelson,  he  was  posted  at  Paducah  to 
ather  troops  from  Indiana  and  Ohio    and 
jnd  them  up  to  reenforce  Grant.    Both  Grant 
nd   Sherman   were   brigadier-generals;    but 
iherman  then  outranked  Grant  by  virtue  of  his 
jugular  army  colonelcy,  and  Congress  had  not 
jassed  the  law  which  authorized  the  assign- 
jient  of  general  officers  to  command  seniors 
f  the   same   grade.    Nevertheless,  Sherman 
lade  no  assertion  of  his  right  to  command, 
very  boat  loaded  with  troops  which  went 
p  the  Cumberland  or  the  Tennessee  brought 
>  Grant  a  cordial  note  from  him,  asking  what 
lore  he  could  do  to  aid  him,  and  offering  to 
)me  and  serve  under  him  in  any  capacity, 
[ere  was  the  beginning  of  the  historic  mili- 
ry  and   personal   friendship   which    lasted 
iroughout  the  war  and  since,  and  was  never 
aired  by  clashing  ambition  or  jealousy. 
Grant  was  made  a  major-general  for  the 
ipture  of  Fort  Donelson,  so  there  was  no 
jestion  of  relative  rank  after  that.    Sherman 
ined  him  soon  after  with  fresh  troops,  and 
as  assigned  to  the  command  of  a  division, 
rom  that  time  on,  whenever  Grant  was  pro- 
|oted,  he  recommended  Sherman  for  the  po- 
tion he  had  vacated.   As  the  one  advanced, 
e  other  followed,  step  by  step — to  the  com- 
and  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee,  to  the 
bmmand  of  the  four  armies  operating  in  the 
lilitary  division  of  the    Mississippi,  to  the 
imtenant-generalship  of  the  army  after  the 
ar,  and  then  to  the  post  of  general  when 
rant  became  President. 
i  General  Sherman's  hardest  battle  was  Shiloh. 
[e  commanded  the  key  of  the  position  and 
;ld  it.    He  regards  it  as  the  most  severe 
niggle  of  the  war.  There  was  no  chance 
r  military  genius  to  show  itself  by  strategy 
id  maneuvers.   It  was  a  soldiers'  fight — a 
jst  of  manhood  where  courage  and  steadi- 
pss  won  the  day.    The  question  was  whether 
•rant's    forces    could    stand    their    ground 
j;ainst  the  tremendous  assaults  of  the  enemy 
jitil  dark,  when  Buell  could  come  up  with 
[enforcements.    General    Grant    has    often 
jid,  in  describing  the  battle,  that,  as  he  rode 
j>m  end  to  end  of  the  line  -again  and  again, 
f  always  felt  renewed  confidence  when  he 
tssed  Sherman's  position  and  exchanged  a 
W  words  with  him.    Whatever  happened,  he 
}t  sure  Sherman  would  hold  his  ground. 
jShiloh  gave    Sherman   new  life.    He  had 
fen  cast  down  by  the  newspaper  stories  about 
fe  sanity.    "  Now  I  was  in  high  feather,"  he 
•ites  in  his  Memoirs.    He  had  led  a  division 
\  a  pitched  battle,  and  felt  confidence  in 


himself.  The  insanity  story  was  revived  again 
after  his  repulse  at  Chickasaw  Bayou ;  but  he 
had  gained  the  friendship  and  good  opinion 
of  his  commanding  general  and  the  love  of  his 
soldiers,  and  could  afford  to  laugh  at  it.  The 
Chickasaw  Bayou  affair  was  a  part  of  the 
failure  of  General  Grant's  first  demonstration 
against  Vicksburg.  Grant  moved  down  from 
Holly  Springs;  Sherman  with  his  division 
went  down  the  Mississippi  and  up  the  Yazoo 
on  steam-boats;  they  were  to  meet  in  the  rear 
of  Vicksburg.  The  Confederate  generals 
Van  Dorn  and  Forrest  raided  and  destroyed 
Grant's  communications.  Sherman,  who  was 
cut  off  from  telegraphic  news  of  his  chief, 
failed  to  get  a  lodgment  in  the  rear  of  Vicks- 
burg, and  the  whole  plan  miscarried,  to  be 
succeeded,  however,  by  the  more  brilliant  and 
entirely  successful  movement  of  the  following 
spring. 

Certain  incidents  connected  with  the  Vicks- 
burg campaign  of  1863  are  well  worth  nar- 
rating here,  as  showing  Sherman's  lack  of  the 
jealousy  and  egotism  which  marred  the  char- 
acters of  many  of  the  generals  of  the  late 
war.  All  that  rainy  winter,  when  the  country 
along  the  Mississippi  was  flooded  and  the 
army  was  inactive,  General  Grant  held  to  a 
purpose,  never  once  divulged  to  any  person, 
of  sending  the  fleet  past  the  Vicksburg  bat- 
teries when  the  spring  opened,  and  throwing 
his  army  below  the  town  to  invest  it  from  the 
south.  When  fair  weather  came,  he  secured 
the  cooperation  of  Admiral  Porter,  and  then 
issued  his  orders  to  his  division  commanders. 
Sherman's  part  in  the  plan  was  to  go  up  the 
Yazoo  and  make  a  feint  against  Haines's  Bluff. 
When  he  received  his  orders,  he  hastened  to 
Grant's  head-quarters  and  argued  against  what 
seemed  to  him  a  very  hazardous  move.  He 
thought  Grant  was  placing  himself  in  a  posi- 
tion where  an  enemy  would  have  maneuvered 
a  year  to  get  him — a  hostile  force  on  both 
sides  of  him,  and  one  of  them  between  him 
and  his  base  of  supplies.  Sherman  failed  to 
convince  Grant,  who  had  been  cut  off  from 
his  base  at  Oxford  some  months  before  and 
had  learned  that  he  could  subsist  an  army 
upon  the  country.  Besides,  he  believed  that 
in  the  critical  condition  of  opinion  in  the 
North,  a  great  risk  ought  to  be  taken  for  the 
prospect  of  a  great  success.  In  a  letter  to 
Rawlins,  Grant's  chief  of  staff,  written  next 
day,  Sherman  reiterated  his  objections  to  the 
plan  of  campaign.  The  letter  was  shown  to 
Grant  and  remained  unanswered.  With  per- 
fect loyalty  to  his  chief,  and  without  the  least 
feeling  of  resentment  for  the  rejection  of  his 
plan  of  falling  back  on  Memphis  and  opera- 
ting on  the  line  of  the  railroad,  Sherman  carried 
out  his  part  of  the  campaign  as  zealously  and 


458 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


energetically  as  though  the  whole  scheme  had 
been  his  own.  During  eighteen  days  of  forced 
marches  and  fighting  and  forty-nine  days  of 
siege,  he  did  not  once  take  off  his  clothes  to 
sleep.  After  Grant's  forces  had  crossed  the 
Big  Black,  Sherman  was  given  the  lead  in 
the  advance  upon  Vicksburg.  The  two  gen- 
erals rode  out  one  morning  ahead  of  the 
marching  columns,  careless  of  the  occasional 
bullets  that  came  whistling  by  from  squads  of 
retreating  rebel  pickets.  They  reached  the  top 
of  Walnut  Hills,  which  Pemberton,  the  Con- 
federate general,  had  occupied  the  year  before, 
and  which  Sherman  had  in  vain  assaulted 
from  the  low  land  in  front.  There  Sherman 
exclaimed  with  enthusiasm,  "  Grant,  this  is  the 
biggest  campaign  in  history.  You  ought  to 
write  a  report  on  it  at  once.  Napoleon  never 
made  a  campaign  like  this."  A  few  days  later, 
when  Sherman  was  holding  the  lines  facing 
east  from  the  Big  Black  to  Haines's  Bluff,  Gov- 
ernor Yates  came  down  from  Illinois  to  visit 
the  camps,  accompanied  by  all  the  State  offi- 
cers. As  Grant  was  passing  along  the  lines 
one  day,  he  came  upon  Sherman,  whose  back 
was  toward  him,  and  who  was  saying  to  a 
knot  of  the  Illinois  visitors  :  "  This  is  the 
greatest  campaign  in  history,  and  Grant  de- 
serves all  the  credit  for  it.  I  wrote  him  a  letter 
before  we  started,  in  opposition  to  the  whole 
plan."  Now  the  letter  was  never  sent  to  .the 
War  Department,  nor  made  public  in  any  way, 
and  Sherman  need  not  have  mentioned  it; 
but  he  was  not  willing  to  have  any  credit 
given  to  him  which  belonged  to  Grant. 

After  the  fall  of  Vicksburg,  the  battle  of 
Chattanooga,  and  the  relief  of  Knoxville,  Sher- 
man marched  across  the  State  of  Mississippi 
from  west  to  east,  making  what  is  known  in  the 
history  of  the  war  as  the  Meridian  raid.  He 
had  two  divisions  of  troops,  and  found  no 
great  difficulty  in  penetrating  the  enemy's 
country,  and  foraging  for  supplies  for  his  men 
and  animals.  The  success  of  the  raid  set 
him  to  thinking  about  the  feasibility  of  a 
much  longer  one,  which  should  cut  the  Con- 
federacy in  two.  Indeed,  the  expedition  was 
the  forerunner  of  Sherman's  March  to  the 
Sea.  It  emancipated  him  from  the  "base-of- 
supplies  "  theory  of  campaigning,  to  which 
all  the  Union  generals  in  the  first  two  years 
of  the  war  had  been  closely  wedded,  and 
from  which  the  rough  experience  of  having 
his  communications  cut  and  his  stores  burned 
had  freed  Grant  the  previous  fall  after  his  ad- 
vance south  from  Holly  Springs.  The  autumn 
of  1863  brought  the  half-defeat,  half- victory 
of  Chickamauga,  the  retirement  of  Rosecrans 
from  the  command  of  the  Army  of  the  Cum- 
berland, the  concentration  of  forces  under 
Grant  at  Chattanooga,  the  skillfully  planned 


and  brilliantly  fought  battle  of  Missionary 
Ridge,  in  which  Sherman  bore  a  conspicuous 
part,  the  promotion  of  Grant  to  the  general 
command  of  all  the  Union  forces  and  the1 
immediate  command  of  the  Army  of  the  Po-! 
tomac,  and  Sherman's  succession  to  the  lead- 
ership of  the  four  armies  of  the  Tennessee, 
the  Cumberland,  the  Ohio,  and  the  Trans- 
Mississippi.  Sherman  now  felt  that  the  time 
was  close  at  hand  to  strike  a  death-blow 
at  the  vitals  of  the  Confederacy.  He  had 
in  round  numbers  one  hundred  thousand 
men,  after  providing  for  the  garrisons  in  his 
rear  and  for  the  protection  of  the  railroad 
to  Nashville  which  brought  him  supplies. 
The  conditions  of  the  war  had  changed.  For 
the  first  two  years  of  the  struggle,  no  general 
was  wholly  responsible  for  the  result  of  a 
movement,  because  no  one  could  be  sure  that 
his  plans  would  be  carried  out  by  his  subor- 
dinate commanders.  Well-meaning  incom- 
petency,  bungling  zeal,  if  not  positive  dis- 
obedience of  orders,  were  constantly  spoiling 
the  best-laid  schemes.  When  a  commanding 
general  sent  a  brigade  or  a  division  out  on 
one  or  the  other  flank  to  march  to  a  giver 
place,  or  make  a  particular  demonstration.1 
the  chances  were  hardly  even  that  the  orders 
would  be  strictly  carried  out.  But  by  1864) 
the  political  generals,  and  what  the  soldiers 
called  the  "  corn-stalk  brigadiers,"  had  beer 
weeded  out  or  seasoned  into  good  officers 
and  the  rank  and  file  had  been  inured  tc 
hard  marching  and  steadiness  under  fire, 
"  We  could  now  play  the  game  of  war,"  says 
Sherman,  speaking  of  the  plans  for  his  Atlanta 
campaign.  How  well  he  played  the  game 
need  not  be  rehearsed  here.  By  vigorous  at-: 
tacks  in  front,  followed  by  skillful  flank  move-: 
ments,  he  .  crowded  his  enemy  southwarc 
through  the  broken  and  difficult  country  oii 
upper  Georgia,  driving  him  from  one  strongl} 
fortified  position  after  another.  The  campaigr 
might  truthfully  be  called  a  hundred-days 
battle,  for  there  was  hard  fighting  almost 
every  day,  from  the  time  the  advance  begar 
until  the  evacuation  of  Atlanta.  Up  to  than 
time  Atlanta,  the  focus  of  the  Georgia  systeir, 
of  railways,  had  been  the  objective  point ;  bui 
when  Atlanta  fell,  and  the  Confederate  Gen- 
eral Hood  extricated  his  army  from  the 
steadily  encircling  grasp  of  his  antagonist 
and  made  off  into  Alabama,  with  evident  de- 
signs on  Middle  Tennessee  and  Kenti 
Sherman  chose  a  new  objective  point — 1 
army  of  General  Lee,  nearly  a  thousand 
distant  at  Richmond,  Virginia.  Here  was 
crisis  of  his  career.  Here  his  military  g< 
shone  with  the  brightest  luster.  Both  Line 
and  Grant  urged  him  by  telegraph  to  fol 
Hood  in  his  retreat — urged,  but  did  not 


GENERAL    SHERMAN. 


459 


land,  and  wisely,  at  last,  left  all  to  his  own 
udgment.  Sherman  penetrated  Hood's 
lans,  divining  that,  after  gathering  up  ree'n- 
)rcements  in  Alabama,  he  would  strike  at 
Jashville.  He  sent  back  the  prudent,  cour- 
geous  Thomas  with  two  corps  to  encounter 
lood  and  hold  Nashville,  and  destroying  his 
wn  communications  set  out  with  sixty  thou- 
md  men  to  march  through  the  enemy's 
ountry  to  the  sea,  three  hundred  miles  dis- 
mt,  with  the  ultimate  purpose  of  getting  in 
ic  rear  of  Lee's  army  in  Virginia. 

The  plan  of  this  boldest  and  most  success- 
il  strategic  movement  of  the  war  was  entirely 
tierman's.  There  was  no  council  of  war.  The 
rst  information  the  corps  commanders  had 
f  the  movement  was  in  the  orders  for  the 
larch.  Each  received  a  map  showing  the 
;a-board,  from  Hilton  Head  to  Ossabaw 
ound,  and  the  country  back  as  far  as  Atlanta, 
herman  had  no  doubt  about  his  ability  to 
libsist  his  army  on  the  country  as  he  advanced, 
pd  if  provisions  should  wholly  fail  he  reflect- 
i  that  he  had  twelve  thousand  horses  and 
mles.  He  remembered  that,  while  he  was  in 
alifornia,  an  army  officer  had  traversed  two 
lousand  miles  of  desolate  country  with  a 
nail  party,  living  upon  mule  meat  the  whole 
ay.  Besides, he  had  carefully  studied  the  latest 
msus  returns  from  the  counties  he  expected 
•  march  through,  and  knew  about  how  many 

ousands  of  people  were  living  in  each.  These 
2ople  must  be  producing  corn  and  meat,  and 
teir  food  supplies  would  subsist  his  soldiers. 

General  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  who  com- 
anded  the  Confederate  forces  engaged  in 
sisting  the  advance  upon  Atlanta,  once  nar- 
'tted  the  following  incident,  which  well  illus- 
[ated  the  impression  Sherman  had  made 
pon  the  minds  of  the  Southern  soldiery  at 
iat  time  as  a  commander  of  resources  and 
ady  expedients.  Johnston  stood  on  Ken- 
;aw  Mountain  watching  with  his  glass  the 
.ovements  of  his  enemy's  wagon-trains  on 
jie  great  plain  to  the  northward.  A  staff  offi- 
|:r  came  riding  up  with  the  news  that  the  rebel 
jivalry  had  got  in  the  rear  of  Sherman's  army 
jid  had  burned  a  number  of  railroad  bridges, 
jhe  officer  had  been  forced  to  make  a  detour 
|'  two  days  to  get  around  the  Union  Army, 
tarcely  had  he  finished  speaking  when  a 
jhistle  was  heard,  and  a  moving  train  ap- 
pared  in  the  distance,  showing  that  Sherman 
fid  already  rebuilt  the  bridges  and  re-opened 
is  communications.  Walking  past  a  group 
[  soldiers  lounging  in  the  shade  a  few  min- 
es ^  later,  the  General  overheard  them  dis- 
lissing  Sherman's  chances  of  success.  Said 
ie  of  them  :  "  We'll  make  it  a  Moscow  cam- 
jiign  and  destroy  his  whole  army."  "  How 
p  you  make  it  a  Moscow  campaign  without 


any  snow  ?  "  asked  his  less  enthusiastic  com- 
rade. "  I  mean  that  we'll  cut  his  communi- 
cations, destroy  everything,  and  starve  him 
out.  We'll  burn  all  the  bridges."  "Don't 
you  know  he  carries  duplicate  bridges  along 
with  him  ? ''  "  Well,  we'll  blow  up  the  big 
tunnel."  "  Oh,  hell !  "  exclaimed  the  other 
man,  with  a  look  of  disgust;  "you  don't 
know  old  Tecumseh  Sherman.  He's  got  a 
duplicate  tunnel  too  !  " 

The  Atlanta  campaign,  followed  by  the 
March  to  the  Sea  and  the  subsequent  rapid 
movement  through  the  Carolinas,  may  be  said 
to  have  disemboweled  the  Confederacy.  The 
rebellion  collapsed  when  Lee  surrendered 
his  army  in  Virginia  to  Grant,  because  there 
was  no  line  of  retreat,  no  practicable  point 
for  resistance.  Hood's  army  had  been  crushed 
by  Thomas  at  Nashville  in  exact  accordance 
with  Sherman's  foresight.  After  the  surrender 
of  Johnston  in  North  Carolina,  there  was  no 
organized  rebel  force  nearer  than  Texas  pow- 
erful enough  to  be  called  an  army.  Public 
opinion  North  and  South  was  right  in  instantly 
according  to  Grant  and  Sherman  the  supreme 
honors  for  bringing  the  war  to  an  end. 

For  Sherman,  however,  the  war  closed,  as 
it  had  begun,  with  much  bitterness  and  in- 
justice. His  laurels  were  made  very  thorny 
for  a  time  by  a  fierce  political  animosity  which 
cruelly  misconstrued  his  acts  and  motives.  The 
terms  of  surrender  for  Johnston's  army,  which 
he  forwarded  to  Washington  for  approval, 
raised  a  tempest  of  passionate  denunciation. 
He  was  accused  of  surrendering  to  Johnston. 
Even  the  Secretary  of  War,  Mr.  Stanton,  usu- 
ally cool-headed  and  just,  sent  a  dispatch  to 
the  newspapers  intimating  that  Sherman  was 
facilitating  the  escape  of  Jefferson  Davis  with 
wagon-loads  of  specie.  At  this  distance  of 
time  it  is  difficult  to  comprehend  this  sudden 
outburst  of  distrust  and  hostility,  and  impos- 
sible to  find  excuse  for  the  calumnies  heaped 
upon  a  gallant  soldier  who  had  rendered  such 
conspicuous  service  to  his  country.  His  terms 
for  Johnston's  surrender  provided  that  the 
rebel  soldiers  should  return  home  with  a  pledge 
that  they  would  not  be  molested  so  long  as 
they  obeyed  the  laws,  and  that  the  State  gov- 
ernments existing  in  the  South  should  go  on 
with  their  civil  functions.  A  short  time  before 
he  had  met  Lincoln,  and  believed  that  these 
conditions  were  approved  by  the  President. 
But  since  then  Lincoln  had  been  assassinated, 
and  the  new  President,  Andrew  Johnson,  was 
at  that  time  full  of  gall  and  bitterness  toward 
the  conquered  South.  The  Republican  leaders 
had  conceived  projects  of  holding  the  con- 
quered States  by  military  force,  obliterating 
their  local  governments,  and  giving  the  elective 
franchise  to  the  blacks.  Sherman's  simple  and 


460 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


generous  terms  clashed  with  these  plans. 
Grant  was  sent  post-haste  by  Stanton  to  take 
charge  of  matters  in  North  Carolina ;  but  on 
arriving  there  he  wisely  left  Sherman  to  ne- 
gotiate the  new  terms  with  Johnston,  and  to 
march  his  victorious  army  up  to  Washington  to 
be  mustered  out.  The  whole  question  of  the 
political  future  of  the  revolted  States  was  left 
for  Congress  to  determine.  Sherman  soon 
realized  the  truth  of  the  prediction  made,  by 
old  General  Scott  in  1861,  that  after  the  war 
should  end  no  power  on  earth  would  be  able 
to  restrain  the  fury  of  the  non-combatants. 

That  the  question  was  determined  unfor- 
tunately and  wrongly,  General  Sherman  still 
believes.  Though  a  Republican  in  his  party 
attachment,  he  had  no  sympathy  with  the 
reconstruction  measures.  He  still  thinks  the 
long  epoch  of  misgovernment,  turbulence, 
discontent,  and  bloodshed  through  which  the 
South  passed,  after  the  war  ended,  to  reach  its 
present  condition  of  quiet  and  prosperity, 
might  have  been  avoided;  that  a  dozen  years 
were  worse  than  lost,  and  the  general  prog- 
ress of  the  whole  country  checked ;  that  ne- 
gro suffrage  was  prematurely  enforced;  that 
it  would  have  come  in  good  time  through  the 
operation  of  political  forces  in  the  States 
themselves.  In  his  opinion  the  long,  costly, 
and  angry  experiment  of  reconstruction  only 
brought  the  South,  in  the  end,  to  the  point 
where  he  proposed  it  should  start  when  arms 
were  laid  down —  that  is  to  say,  to  the  en- 
forcement of  order  and  individual  rights  by 
local  public  opinion  and  State  law,  without 
the  interference  of  the  national  government. 

SHERMAN'S  habits  during  his  campaigns 
wereof  the  simplest.  He  rose  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  was  up  late  at  night.  In  the  face  of 
the  enemy,  five  hours'  sleep  sufficed  him.  Be- 
fore the  reveille  sounded,  he  was  often  in  the 
saddle  and  out  on  the  most  exposed  parts  of 
his  line.  The  orders  were  always  to  arouse 
him  at  any  hour  of  the  night,  if  reports  came 
in.  During  the  Atlanta  campaign  he  set  the 
example  to  his  troops  of  discarding  tents  and 
reducing  baggage  to  a  minimum.  There  was 
but  one  tent  attached  to  his  head-quarters, 
and  that  was  used  by  his  adjutant-general 
and  his  clerks.  With  his  staff  he  slept  on  the 
ground  under  a  tent  fly,  which  was  stretched 
at  night  over  a  pole  resting  in  the  crotches 
of  some  convenient  saplings.  It  used  to  be 
said  that  his  head-quarters  were  in  a  candle- 
box,  because  one  or  two  small  boxes,  emptied 
of  the  candles  they  originally  had  contained, 
served  to  transport  his  papers.  The  soldiers 
called  him  "  Old  Tecums "  and  "  Uncle 
Billy,"  the  latter  nickname  coming  into  gen- 
eral use  in  the  army  during  the  March  to  the 


Sea.  At  his  head-quarters  a  single  sentry 
stood  guard ;  but  nobody,  whether  officer  or 
private  soldier,  who  wanted  to  speak  to  the 
General,  was  stopped.  He  always  had  a  cor- 
dial and  encouraging  word  for  the  soldiers 
when  he  rode  along  the  lines  in  front  of  the 
enemy  or  passed  a  marching  column.  For 
the  details  of  military  etiquette  and  ceremony 
he  cared  nothing;  but  for  steadiness  in  ac- 
tion and  endurance  in  hard  marching,  he  had 
a  quick  eye  and  a  ready  word  of  praise.  He 
was  usually  communicative  and  outspoken, 
unless  his  plans  demanded  secrecy.  Some- 
times his  frankness  deceived  the  enemy  more 
than  concealment  would  have  done.  After  he 
captured  Savannah,  he  sent  a  flag-of-truce  boat 
to  Charleston  and  gave  permission  to  go  upon 
it  to  the  families  of  Confederate  officers  who 
wished  to  get  inside  the  Confederate  lines. 
Among  the  applicants  for  passes  was  the  wife 
of  a  Confederate  surgeon,  who  told  the  Gen- 
eral she  wanted  to  go  to  Columbia,  South 
Carolina,  to  join  her  husband.  "  Don't  go  to 
Columbia,  madam,"  exclaimed  Sherman.  "  I 
shall  be  there  myself  in  a  few  days  with  my 
whole  army.  You  are  at  liberty  to  tell  -that 
to  your  rebel  friends  in  Charleston."  The 
lady  made  haste  to  communicate  this  infor- 
mation to  the  Confederate  commanders  in 
Charleston  as  soon  as  she  arrived;  but  all 
agreed  that,  if  Sherman  actually  meant  to 
march  to  Columbia,  he  would  never  have 
said  so.  His  advance  reached  Columbia  a 
day  after  the  surgeon's  wife  arrived. 

Many  good  anecdotes  of  Sherman  were 
current  during  the  war.    Some  of  them,  he 
once  said,  when  they  were  brought  to  his  no- 
tice, had  been  told  of  every  general  since 
Hannibal.    Here   is   one   of  unquestionable 
authenticity,   which    shows   his   sagacity  in 
dealing  with   the   population   of  conquered 
towns.   After  he  occupied  Memphis,  the  peo- 
ple kept  the  churches,  schools,   and  places 
of  business  closed,  so  that,  save  for  the  move- 
ments of  the  soldiers,  the  place  looked  like  2 
city  of  the  dead.    He  issued  an  order  direct- 
ing that  the  stores  and  shops  should  be  openec. 
during   business  hours,   the   schools   resumt 
their  courses,  and   the   churches  hold  then 
customary  services.    Among  the  people  whc 
called  at  his  head-quarters  to  protest  agains 
this  order,  or  to  ask  for  explanations,  was  tht 
clergyman  of  an  Episcopal  church,  who  saic 
that  the  ritual  of  his  denomination  container 
a  prayer  for  the  President  which,  under  tht 
circumstances,  embarrassed  him.    "  WThom  <1< 
you  regard  as  your  President  ?  "  asked  Sher 
man,  bluntly.    "  We  look  upon  Mr.  Davis  i 
our  President,"  replied  the  minister.    "  Ve  •) 
well ;  pray  for  Jeff  Davis  if  you  wish.    P  ' 
needs  your  prayers  badly.    It  will  take  a  grei 


GENERAL   SHERMAN. 


461 


deal  of  praying  to  save  him."   "  Then  I  will 
not  be  compelled  to  pray  for  Mr.  Lincoln  ?  " 

Oh,  no.  He's  a  good  man,  and  don't  need 
your  prayers.  You  may  pray  for  him  if  you 
feel  like  it,  but  there's  no  compulsion,"  an- 
swered Sherman,  instantly  divining  that  the 
worthy  clergyman  wanted  to  pose  as  a  mar- 
tyr before  his  parishioners,  and  had  hoped 
that  he  would  be  ordered  to  use  the  prayer 
for  the  President  of  the  United  States.  The 
next  Sunday  the  prescribed  prayer  was  so 
modified  by  the  preacher  as  to  leave  out  all 
mention  of  the  President,  and  to  refer  only  to 
"  all  in  authority." 

After  the  great  review  of  homeward-bound 
troops  in  Washington,  in  the  spring  of  1865, 
General  Sherman  was  sent  to  St.  Louis,  to 
command  in  the  Indian  country.  He  was  not 
intrusted  with  any  of  the  business  of  recon- 
struction, and  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
In  the  West  he  found  a  field  of  effort  entirely 
(congenial,  the  protection  of  the  great  Pacific 
[Railroad  then  being  built  westward  from  the 
jMissouri  River.  He  took  the  warmest  inter- 
est in  this  enterprise,  regarding  it  as  destined 
to  complete  the  work  of  consolidating  and 
unifying  the  American  people — a  work  in  the 
progress  pf  which  the  great  civil  war  would 
be  regarded  from  the  historical  point  of  view 
as  only  a  tragic  incident.  Much  of  the  time 
le  spent  out  on  the  line  in  Nebraska  and  Wy- 
oming. He  held  councils  with  the  Indian 
tribes,  and  told  the  chiefs  that  if  they  inter- 
fered with  the  construction  of  the  railroad  the 
(Government  would  send  out  all  the  soldiers 
it  lately  had  in  the  South  and  exterminate 
them.  In  later  years,  the  Northern  and 
Southern  roads  to  the  Pacific  had  the  benefit 
,of  his  active  interest  and  protection.  His 
troops  guarded  the  surveyors  and  track-build- 
ers, and  cleared  hostile  Indians  from  the  path 
of  the  advancing  rails.  Strongly  inspired,  as 

E'  vays,  with  the  national  idea,  he  saw  in  the 
ig  lines  reaching  across  the  continent  the 
nds  of  perpetual  union  for  the  Republic  as 
'well  as  the  arteries  for  the  circulation  of  the 
forces  of  civilization. 

Since  his  promotion  to  the  rank  of  gen- 
eral, Sherman  has  been  the  commander  of 
the  army  in  fact  as  well  as  in  name.  He  has 
traversed  every  State  and  Territory,  and  visit- 
ed every  military  post  in  the  country  except 
two.  He  used  to  direct  the  movement  of 
troops  in  Idaho  and  Arizona  by  telegraph  from 
his  head-quarters  in  the  War  Department 
as  effectually  as  he  had  those  of  the  compa- 
nies at  the  Washington  Arsenal,  almost  within 
sight  of  his  windows.  It  may  well  be  doubted 
whether  there  is  any  man  living  as  familiar 
.with  the  geography,  resources,  and  means  of 
[communication  of  the  wholeUnited  States,  from 


Florida  to  Alaska  and  from  Maine  to  Mexico. 
He  has  been  a  great  'traveler,  making  long 
journeys  every  summer,  traversing  thousands 
of  miles  of  bridle- trails  and  rough  roads  over 
deserts  and  mountains,  in  the  far  West,  to  in- 
spect the  garrisons,  visit  the  Indian  reserva- 
tions, and  facilitate  the  construction  of  the 
Pacific  railroads, —  always  observant,  ener- 
getic, hardy  and  cheerful,  defying  fatigue,  and 
picking  up  bits  of  information  from  every  one 
he  met, —  a  delightful  companion  for  a  tough 
march  or  for  an  evening  at  a  frontier  post  or 
by  a  hunter's  camp-fire. 

IN  1871  and  1872  General  Sherman  spent 
a  year  in  the  Old  World,  visiting  the  Medi- 
terranean countries,  Turkey,  the  Caucasus, 
Russia,  Austria,  Germany,  and  the  nations  of 
Western  Europe.  He  kept  a  journal  of  the 
tour  —  a  big,  solidly  bound  volume,  written 
in  a  clear,  graceful  hand,  intended  only  for  a 
personal  record,  but  abounding  in  vigorous 
descriptions  of  people  and  places.  Friends 
who  are  privileged  to  read  it  do  not  find 
much  about  the  armies  of  Europe.  He  at- 
tended reviews  when  invited,  but  he  cared 
more  for  the  affairs  of  peace  —  the  people,  their 
ways  of  living,  and  their  comparative  stand- 
ing in  the  scale  of  civilization ;  the  cities  and 
their  characteristics;  the  railways,  ports,  ag- 
riculture, and  manufactures  of  the  regions  he 
visited.  In  time  of  peace  he  is  evidently 
more  a  citizen  than  a  soldier.  He  went  to  the 
battle-fields  of  the  then  recent  Franco-Prus- 
sian war,  however,  and,  remembering  with 
what  vigor  his  antagonist  at  Atlanta,  General 
Hood,  had  resisted  the  movements  to  coop 
him  up,  what  tremendous  blows  he  had  struck 
in  quick  succession  at  different  points  on  the 
steadily  enveloping  line,  and  how  he  had 
finally  escaped  with  his  whole  army,  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  with  courage  and  good 
generalship,  Napoleon  could  have  cut  his  way 
out  of  Sedan,  or  Bazaine  out  of  Metz. 

It  may  be  permitted  to  glance  at  the  home 
and  social  life  of  one  who  has  been  so  long 
in  a  conspicuous  public  position.  Eight  chil- 
dren have  been  born  to  General  Sherman,  of 
whom  six  are  living.  One  died  an  infant,  and 
was  never  seen  by  the  father.  Willie,  the 
eldest  boy,  who  was  with  the  General  in  his 
campaign  on  the  Mississippi,  and  was  greatly 
beloved  by  the  soldiers,  died  in  1863.  The 
eldest  of  those  living  is  Minnie,  now  Mrs. 
Fitch,  whose  husband  resigned  a  lieutenancy 
in  the  navy  that  he  might  enjoy  a  home  life, 
and  is  now  a  manufacturer.  The  second 
daughter,  Lizzie,  is  unmarried.  Thomas,  the 
eldest  son  remaining,  was  educated  first  in 
the  Georgetown  Seminary,  then  at  Yale  Col- 
lege, and  then  in  the  St.  Louis  Law  School. 


462 


HER    CHOICE. 


He  gave  up  a  law  partnership  to  become  a 
Catholic  priest,  greatly  against  his  father's 
wishes.  The  third  daughter,  Ella,  Mrs.  Thak- 
ara,  is,  like  her  eldest  sister,  the  wife  of  an 
ex-naval  officer,  who  is  now  engaged  in  man- 
ufacturing. Rachel  and  Philemon  Tecumseh 
are  the  two  younger  children. 

General  Sherman  enjoys  a  harmonious  and 
affectionate  family  life.  He  is  social  in  his 
nature,  and  during  his  long  residence  in  Wash- 
ington he  mingled  freely  in  the  society  of  the 
capital,  liking  best,  however,  not  the  grand 
parties  and  receptions,  but  small  gatherings 
having  an  intellectual  bent  —  a  paper  to  be 
read,  perhaps,  on  some  scientific  discovery 
or  some  recent  explorations,  and  afterward 
a  little  unpretentious  music  and  much  good 
conversation.  Such  gatherings  are  frequent 
in  Washington  during  the  winter  season,  and 
the  tall,  erect  form  of  the  General  of  the  Army 
was  often  conspicuous  at  them.  It  made  no 
difference  whether  the  house  was  that  of  a 
millionaire  or  a  foreign  Minister,  or  of  some 
poor  artist  or  department  clerk  ;  for  Sherman 
was  always  very  democratic  in  his  social  hab- 
its, caring  little  for  wealth  or  high  position.  He 
is  exceedingly  fond  of  the  drama  in  all  its  high- 
er forms,  and  is  a  frequent  visitor  of  theaters. 
Writing  of  this  taste  in  a  private  letter,  pub- 
lished in  the  newspapers  not  long  ago,  he  said : 

"  To  me  the  stage  is  not  only  a  powerful  instructor, 
but  the  very  best  kind  of  a  rest  in  the  midst  of  the 
cares  of  life.  Seated  in  an  audience,  with  some  well- 
arranged  play,  one  experiences  not  only  a  needed  rest, 
but  more,  a  cheerful  mental  support,  relieving  the 
mind  far  more  than  reading  or  even  social  converse. 
I  have  always  been,  am  now,  and  purpose  to  be,  a 
great  friend  of  the  drama,  a  friend  of  those  who  play 
upon  the  stage,  and  a  friend  of  the  managers  who  bear 
the  burden  of  preparation  and  arrangement." 

He  is  active  and  temperate  in  his  habits, 
eating  but  twice  a  day  and  taking  much  ex- 


ercise on  horseback  and  on  foot,  frank  and 
cordial  in  his  manner,  accessible  to  all,  still 
fond  of  the  woods  and  the  fields,  of  good  nov- 
els, and  of  young  company,  and  not  appearing 
as  old  within  eight  or  ten  years  as  the  Army 
Register  makes  him  out  to  be.  It  seems  a  pity 
that  he  should  be  shelved  upon  the  retired  list 
when  he  is  as  well  fitted  as  ever  for  command. 

If  we  were  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  verdict  i 
of  history  and  to  the  glamour  of  romance  which 
surrounds  successful  commanders,  and  should 
take  an  original  and  coldly  critical  view  of 
General  Sherman's  career  during  the  civil 
war,  we  should  still  have  to  dissent  wholly 
from  his  modest  estimate  of  himself,  that  he 
had  no  natural  military  genius.  For  the  minor 
business  of  soldiering  as  a  profession  we  may 
grant  that  he  had  no  taste  or  special  talent  \ 
but  for  leading  great  armies  he  certainly  dis- 
played the  highest  qualities.  His  is  the  genius. 
not  of  drills  and  reviews,  but  of  grand  maneu- 
vers and  of  decisive  action  in  the  crisis  of  a 
campaign, — the  genius  that  directs  large  bod- 
ies of  troops  over  a  wide  expanse  of  country 
to  produce  a  prearranged  result ;  that  divines 
where  an  enemy  is  going  to  strike  and  pre- 
pares for  the  event ;  that  sees  the  weak  spot 
in  an  adversary's  strategic  plan  or  line  of  bat- 
tle and  delivers  an  effective  blow  at  the  right 
time ;  the  genius,  too,  that  inspires  a  whole 
army  with  lofty,  patriotic  fervor  and  perfect 
esprit  de  corps,  that  commands  the  confidence 
of  officers  and  men,  and  that  makes  of  regi- 
ments, brigades,  divisions,  and  corps  a  single 
vast  organism  moved  by  one  will.  In  these 
highest  attributes  of  successful  generalship. 
Sherman  must  fairly  be  ranked  with  the  great 
military  chiefs,  not  of  our  own  country  and  oui 
late  war  alone,  but  of  the  whole  world  and  of 
all  history. 

E.  V.  Smalley. 


HER    CHOICE. 

"  BEHOLD  !  it  is  a  draught  from  Lethe's  wave. 

Thy  voice  of  weeping  reacheth  even  that  strand 

Washed  by  strange  waters  in  Elysian  land ; 

I  bring  the  peace  thy  weary  soul  doth  crave. 

Drink,  and  from  vain  regret  thy  future  save." 

She  lifted  deep,  dark  eyes  wherein  there  lay 

The  sacred  sorrow  of  love's  ended  day, 

Then  took  the  chalice  from  the  angel's  hand. 

Life  with  new  love,  or  life  with  memory 

Of  the  old  love  ?    Her  heart  made  instant  choice ; 

Like  tender  music  rang  the  faithful  voice : 

"  O  sweet  my  love,  an  offering  to  thee !  " 

And  with  brave  smile,  albeit  the  tears  flowed  fast, 

Upon  the  earth  the  priceless  draught  she  cast. 

Eliza  Calvert  Hall 


HIS   WIFE'S   DECEASED    SISTER.' 


IT  is  now  five  years  since  an  event  occurred 

hich  so  colored  my  life,  or,  rather,  so  changed 
ome  of  its  original  colors,  that  I  have  thought 

well  to  write  an  account  of  it,  deeming  that 
ts  lessons  may  be  of  advantage  to  persons 
fhose  situation  in  life  is  similar  to  my  own. 

When  I  was  quite  a  young  man  I  adopted 
terature  as  a  profession,  and,  having  passed 
hrough  the  necessary  preparatory  grades,  I 
bund  myself,  after  a  good  many  years  of  hard 
|.nd  often  unremunerated  work,  in  possession 
f  what  might  be  called  a  fair  literary  practice. 
ly  articles,  grave,  gay,  practical,  or  fanciful, 
ad  come  to  be  considered  with  a  favor  by  the 
ditors  of  the  various  periodicals  for  which  I 
rrote,  on  which  I  found  in  time  I  could  rely 
nth  a  very  comfortable  certainty.  My  pro- 
uctions  created  no  enthusiasm  in  the  reading 
ublic ;  they  gave  me  no  great  reputation  or 
ery  valuable  pecuniary  return ;  but  they  were 
Iways  accepted,  and  my  receipts  from  them, 
t  the  time  to  which  I  have  referred,  were  as 
igular  and  reliable  as  a  salary,  and  quite 
jufficient  to  give  me  more  than 'a  comfortable 
ppport. 

It  was  at  this  time  I  married.  I  had  been 
ngaged  for  more  than  a  year,  but  had  not 
een  willing  to  assume  the  support  of  a  wife 
ntil  I  felt  that  my  pecuniary  position  was  so 
ssured  that  I  could  do  so  with  full  satisfac- 
.on  to  my  own  conscience.  There  was  now 
'0  doubt  in  regard  to  this  position,  either  in 
ly  mind  or  in  that  of  my  wife.  I  worked 
'rith  great  steadiness  and  regularity ;  I  knew 
xactly  where  to  place  the  productions  of  my 
en,  and  could  calculate  with  a  fair  degree  of 
ccuracy  the  sums  I  should  receive  for  them, 
i^ewerebyno  means  rich;  but  we  had  enough, 
tod  were  thoroughly  satisfied  and  content. 

Those  of  my  readers  who  are  married  will 
ave  no  difficulty  in  remembering  the  peculiar 
cstasy  of  the  first  weeks  of  their  wedded 
fe.  It  is  then  that  the  flowers  of  this  world 
loom  brightest ;  that  its  sun  is  the  most  gen- 
ii ;  that  its  clouds  are  the  scarcest ;  that  its 
nit  is  the  most  delicious ;  that  the  air  is  the 
lost  balmy ;  that  its  cigars  are  of  the  highest 
iavor;  that  the  warmth  and  radiance  of -early 
latrimonial  felicity  so  rarefy  the  intellectual 
jtmosphere  that  the  soul  mounts  higher  and 
kjoys  a  wider  prospect  than  ever  before. 
!  These  experiences  were  mine.  The  plain 
aret  of  my  mind  was  changed  to  sparkling 
lampagne;  and  at  the  very  height  of  its  effer- 
£scence  I  wrote  a  story.  The  happy  thought 


that  then  struck  me  for  a  tale  was  of  a  very 
peculiar  character,  and  interested  me  so  much 
that  I  went  to  work  at  it  with  great  delight 
and  enthusiasm,  and  finished  it  in  a  compar- 
atively short  time.  The  title  of  the  story  was 
"His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister";  and  when  I 
read  it  to  Hypatia  she  was  delighted  with  it, 
and  at  times  was  so  affected  by  its  pathos 
that  her  uncontrollable  emotion  caused  a  sym- 
pathetic dimness  in  my  eyes  which  prevented 
my  seeing  the  words  I  had  written.  When 
the  reading  was  ended,  and  my  wife  had 
dried  her  eyes,  she  turned  to  me  and  said: 
"  This  story  will  make  your  fortune.  There 
has  been  nothing  so  pathetic  since  Lamar- 
tine's  'History  of  a  Servant  Girl.'  " 

As  soon  as  possible  the  next  day  I  sent  my 
story  to  the  editor  of  the  periodical  for  which 
I  wrote  most  frequently,  and  in  which  my 
best  productions  generally  -appeared.  In  a 
few  days  I  had  a  letter  from  the  editor,  in 
which  he  praised  my  story  as  he  had  never 
before  praised  anything  from  my  pen.  It  had 
interested  and  charmed,  he  said,  not  only 
himself,  but  all  his  associates  in  the  office. 
Even  old  Gibson,  who  never  cared  to  read 
anything  until  it  was  in  proof,  and  who  never 
praised  anything  which  had  not  a  joke  in 
it,  was  induced  by  the  example  of  the  others 
to, read  this  manuscript,  and  shed,  as  he  as- 
serted, the  first  tears  that  had  come  from  his 
eyes  since  his  final  paternal  castigation,  some 
forty  years  before.  The  story  would  appear, 
the  editor  assured  me,  as  soon  as  he  could 
possibly  find  room  for  it. 

If  anything  could  make  our  skies  more 
genial,  our  flowers  brighter,  and  the  flavor  of 
our  fruit  and  cigars  more  delicious,  it  was  a 
letter  like  this.  And  when,  in  a  very  short 
time,  the  story  was  published,  we  found  that 
the  reading  public  was  inclined  to  receive  it 
with  as  much  sympathetic  interest  and  favor 
as  had  been  shown  to  it  by  the  editors.  My 
personal  friends  soon  began  to  express  en- 
thusiastic opinions  upon  it.  It  was  highly 
praised  in  many  of  the  leading  newspapers; 
and,  altogether,  it  was  a  great  literary  success. 
I  am  not  inclined  to  be  vain  of  my  writings, 
and,  in  t  general,  my  wife  tells  me,  think  too 
little  of  them;  but  I  did  feel  a  good  deal  of 
pride  and  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  "  His 
Wife's  Deceased  Sister."  If  it  did  not  make 
my  fortune,  as  my  wife  asserted  that  it  would, 
it  certainly  would  help  me  very  much  in  my 
literary  career. 


464 


<HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER." 


In  less  than  a  month  from  the  writing  of 
this  story,  something  very  unusual  and  unex- 
pected happened  to  me.  A  manuscript  was 
returned  by  the  editor  of  the  periodical  in 
which  "  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister  "  had  ap- 
peared. "  It  is  a  good  story,"  he  wrote,  "  but 
not  equal  to  what  you  have  just  done.  You 
have  made  a  great  hit,  and  it  would  not  do 
to  interfere  with  the  reputation  you  have 
gained,  by  publishing  anything  inferior  to 
'  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister,'  which  has  had 
such  a  deserved  success." 

I  was  so  unaccustomed  to  having  my  work 
thrown  back  on  my  hands  that  I  think  I 
must  have  turned  a  little  pale  when  I  read 
the  letter.  I  said  nothing  of  the  matter  to  my 
wife,  for  it  would  be  foolish  to  drop  such 
grains  of  sand  as  this  into  the  smoothly  oiled 
machinery  of  our  domestic  felicity.  But  I 
immediately  sent  the  story  to  another  editor. 
I  am  not  able  to  express  the  astonishment  I 
felt  when,  in  the  course  of  a  week,  it  was  sent 
back  to  me.  The  tone  of  the  note  accom- 
panying it  indicated  a  somewhat  injured 
feeling  on  the  part  of  the  editor.  "  I  am  reluc- 
tant," he  said,  "  'to  decline  a  manuscript  from 
you,  for  you  know  very  well  that  if  you  sent 
me  anything  like  *  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister ' 
it  would  be  most  promptly  accepted." 

I  now  felt  obliged  to  speak  of  the  affair  to 
my  wife,  who  was  quite  as  much  surprised, 
though  perhaps  not  quite  as  much  shocked, 
as  I  had  been. 

"  Let  us  read  the  story  again,"  she  said, 
"  and  see  what  is  the  matter  with  it." 

When  we  had  finished  its  perusal,  Hypartia 
remarked  :  "  It  is  quite  as  good  as  many  of 
the  stories  you  have  had  printed,  and  I  think 
it  very  interesting,  although,  of  course,  it  is 
not  equal  to  '  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister.' " 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  I ;  "  that  was  an  in- 
spiration that  I  cannot  expect  every  day.  But 
there  must  be  something  wrong  about  this 
last  story  which  we  do  not  perceive.  Perhaps 
my  recent  success  may  have  made  me  a  little 
careless  in  writing  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,"  said  Hypatia. 

"  At  any  rate,"  I  continued,  "  I  will  lay  it 
aside,  and  will  go  to  work  on  a  new  one." 

In  due  course  of  time  I  had  another  man- 
uscript finished,  and  I  sent  it  to  my  favorite 
periodical.  It  was  retained  some  weeks,  and 
then  came  back  to  me.  "  It  will  never  do," 
the  editor  wrote  quite  warmly,  "  for  you  to 
go  backward.  The  demand  for  the  number 
containing  '  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister' 
still  continues,  and  we  do  not  intend  to  let 
you  disappoint  that  great  body  of  readers 
who  would  be  so  eager  to  see  another  num- 
ber containing  one  of  your  stories." 

I  sent  this  manuscript  to  four  other  period- 


icals, and  from  each  of  them  it  was  returnee 
with  remarks  to  the  effect  that,  although  i 
was  not  a  bad  story  in  itself,  it  was  not  wha 
they  would  expect  from  the  author  of  "  Hii 
Wife's  Deceased  Sister." 

The  editor  of  a  western  magazine  wrofc 
to  me  for  a  story,  to  be  published  in  a  specia 
number  which  he  would  issue  for  the  holidays1 
I  wrote  him  one  of  the  character  and  lengti 
he  asked  for,  and  sent  it  to  him.  By  retur. 
mail  it  came  back  to  me.  "  I  had  hoped, 
the  editor  wrote,  "  when  I  asked  for  a  stori 
from  your  pen,  to  receive  something  like  « Hi 
Wife's  Deceased  Sister,'  and  I  must  own  tha 
I  am  very  much  disappointed." 

I  was  so  filled  with  anger  when  I  rea; 
this  note  that  I  openly  objurgated  "  Hi 
Wife's  Deceased  Sister." 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  I  said  to  my  aster* 
ished  wife,  "  for  expressing  myself  thus  in  yow 
presence,  but  that  confounded  story  will  fcf 
the  ruin  of  me  yet.  Until  it  is  forgottei| 
nobody  will  ever  take  anything  I  write." 

"  And   you   cannot    expect   it  ever  to  t| 
forgotten,"  said  Hypatia,  with   tears   in 
eyes. 

It  is  needless  for  me  to  detail  my  literal  I 
efforts  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  monthi 
The  ideas  of  the  editors  with  whom  my  princi 
pal  business  had  been  done,  in  regard  to  ml 
literary  ability,  had  been  so  raised  by  my  ui 
fortunate   story   of   "  His   Wife's'  DeceaseL 
Sister  "  that  I  found  it  was  of  no  use  to  senM 
them  anything  of  lesser  merit ;  and  as  to  trjl 
other  journals  which  I  tried,  they  evident)! 
considered  it  an  insult  for  me  to  send  the:  j 
matter  inferior  to  that  by  which  my  reput?! 
tion  had  lately  risen.   The  fact  was  that  n»| 
successful  story  had  ruined  me.    My  inconDjI 
was  at  an  end,  and  want  actually  stared  njl 
in  the  face ;  and  I  must  admit  that  I  did  n<jjl 
like   the   expression  of  its   countenance,   j 
was  of  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  write  anothjM 
story  like  "  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister." 
could  not  get  married  every  time  I  began* 
new  manuscript,  and  it  was  the  exaltation  c| 
mind  caused   by  my  wedded  felicity  whkjj 
had  produced  that  story. 

"  It's  perfectly  dreadful,"  said  my  wiii 
"  If  I  had  had  a  sister,  and  she  had  died,1 
would  have  thought  it  was  my  fault." 

"  It  could  not  be  your  fault,"  I  answere; 
"  and  I  do  not  think  it  was  mine.  I  had  i 
intention  of  deceiving  anybody  into  the  t; 
lief  that  I  could  do  that  sort  of  thing  eve 
time,  and  it  ought  not  to  be  expected  of  )i 
Suppose  Raphael's  patrons  had  tried  to  k-- 
him  screwed  up  to  the  pitch  of  the  Sisli: 
Madonna,  and  had  refused  to  buy  anythi: 
which  was  not  as  good  as  that.  In  that  a 
think  he  would  have  occupied  a  much  eail: 


HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTER." 


465 


nd  narrower  grave  than  that  on  which  Mr. 
lorris  Moore  hangs  his  funeral  decorations." 

But,  my  dear,"  said   Hypatia,  who  was 
osted  on  such  subjects,  "the  Sistine  Madonna 
as  one  of  his  latest  paintings." 
"  Very  true,"  said  I ;  "  but  if  he  had  married 
s  I  did,  he  would  have  painted  it  earlier." 

I  was  walking  homeward  one  afternoon 
bout  this  time,  when  I  met  Barbel,  a  man  I 
ad  known  well  in  my  early  literary  career. 
Ie  was  now  about  fifty  years  of  age,  but 
)oked  older.  His  hair  and  beard  were  quite 
ray,  and  his  clothes,  which  were  of  the  same 
eneral  hue,  gave  me  the  idea  that  they,  like 
is  hair,  had  originally  been  black.  Age  is 
ery  hard  on  a  man's  external  appointments, 
arbel  had  an  air  of  having  been  to  let  for  a 
ing  time,  and  quite  out  of  repair.  But  there 
as  a  kindly  gleam  in  his  eye,  and  he  wel- 
)med  me  cordially,  and  on  his  invitation 
went  with  him  to  his  room.  It  was  at 
ic  top  of  a  very  dirty  and  well-worn  house, 
hich  stood  in  a  narrow  and  lumpy  street, 
ito  which  few  vehicles  ever  penetrated  ex- 
bpt  the  ash  and  garbage  carts,  and  the  rick- 
y  wagons  of  the  venders  of  stale  vegetables. 
"  This  is  not  exactly  a  fashionable  prom- 
ade,"  said  Barbel,  as  we  approached  the 
>use,  "  but  in  some  respects  it  reminds  me 
"  the  streets  in  Italian  towns,  where  the  pal- 
;es  lean  over  toward  each  other  in  such  a 
endly  way." 

Barbel's  room  was,  to  my  mind,  rather 
ore  doleful  than  the  street.  It  was  dark,  it 
is  dusty,  and  cobwebs  hung  from  every 
rner.  The  few  chairs  upon  the  floor,  and 
Ie  books  upon  a  greasy  table,  seemed  to  be 
picted  with  some  dorsal  epidemic,  for  their 
j,cks  were  either  gone  or  broken.  A  little 
Jdstead  in  the  corner  was  covered  with  a 
Iread  made  of  New  York  "  Heralds,"  with 
leir  edges  pasted  together. 
l"  There  is  nothing  better,"  said  Barbel, 
Kicing  my  glance  toward  this  novel  coun- 
tpane,  "for  abed-covering  than  newspapers, 
[ley  keep  you  as  warm  as  a  blanket,  and  are 
Mch  lighter." 

;The  only  part  of  the  room  which  was  well 
Ijhted  was  at  one  end  near  the  solitary  win- 
<jw.  Here,  upon  a  table  with  a  spliced  leg, 
^>od  a  little  grindstone. 
•l  At  the  other  end  of  the  room,"  said  Bar- 
tji,  "  is  my  cook-stove,  which  you  can't  see 
Vless  I  light  the  candle  in  the  bottle  which 
s<nds  by  it ;  but  if  you  don't  care  particularly 
tjexamine  it  I  wont  go  to  the  expense  of 
lilting  up.  You  might  pick  up  a  good  many 
$  pieces  of  bric-a-brac  around  here,  if  you 
tyse  to  strike  a  match  and  investigate,  but 
lyould  not  advise  you  to  do  so.  It  would 
J/f  better  to  throw  the  things  out  of  the  win- 

VOL.  XXV1L—  44. 


dow  than  to  carry  them  down  stairs.  The 
particular  piece  of  in-door  decoration  to  which 
I  wish  to  call  your  attention  is  this."  And 
he  led  me  to  a  little  wooden  frame  which 
hung  against  the  wall  near  the  window.  Be- 
hind a  dusty  piece  of  glass  it  held  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  leaf  from  a  small  magazine  or 
journal.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  you  see  a  page 
from  'The  Grasshopper,'  a  humorous  paper 
which  flourished  in  this  city  some  half  dozen 
years  ago.  I  used  to  write  regularly  for  that 
paper,  as  you  may  remember." 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,"  I  exclaimed.  "  And  I 
shall  never  forget  your  '  Conundrum  of  the 
Anvil,'  which  appeared  in  it.  How  often  have 
I  laughed  at  that  most  wonderful  conceit,  and 
how  often  have  I  put  it  to  my  friends." 

Barbel  gazed  at  me  silently  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  pointed  to  the  frame. 

"That  printed  page,"  he  said  solemnly, 
"  contains  the  '  Conundrum  of  the  Anvil.'  I 
hung  it  there  so  that  I  can  see  it  while  I  work. 
That  conundrum  ruined  me.  It  was  the  last 
thing  I  wrote  for  '  The  Grasshopper.'  How 
I  ever  came  to  imagine  it,  I  cannot  tell.  It 
is  one  of  those  things  which  occur  to  a  man 
but  once  in  a  life-time.  After  the  wild  shout 
of  delight  with  which  the  public  greeted  that 
conundrum,  my  subsequent  efforts  met  with 
hoots  of  derision.  l  The  Grasshopper '  turned 
its  hind  legs  upon  me.  I  sank  from  bad  to 
worse., — much  worse, —  until  at  last  I  found 
myself  reduced  to  my  present  occupation, 
which  is  that  of  grinding  points  to  pins.  By 
this  I  procure  my  bread,  coffee,  and  tobacco, 
and  sometimes  potatoes  and  meat.  One  day, 
while  I  was  hard  at  work,  an  organ-grinder 
came  into  the  street  below.  He  played  the 
serenade  from  Trovatore,  and  the  familiar 
notes  brought  back  visions  of  old  days  and 
old  delights,  when  the  successful  writer  wore 
good  clothes,  and  sat  at  operas ;  when  he 
looked  into  sweet  eyes,  and  talked  of  Italian 
airs ;  when  his  future  appeared  all  a  succession 
of  bright  scenery  and  joyous  acts,  without 
any  provision  for  a  drop-curtain.  And  as  my 
ear  listened,  and  my  mind  wandered  in  this 
happy  retrospect,  my  every  faculty  seemed 
exalted,  and,  without  any  thought  upon  the 
matter,  I  ground  points  upon  my  pins  so  fine, 
so  regular,  and  smooth,  that  they  would  have 
pierced  with  ease  the  leather  of  a  boot,  or 
slipped,  without  abrasion,  among  the  finest 
threads  of  rare  old  lace.  When  the  organ 
stopped,  and  I  fell  back  into  my  real  world 
of  cobwebs  and  mustiness,  I  gazed  upon  the 
pins  I  had  just  ground,  and  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  threw  them  into  the  street, 
and  reported  the  lot  as  spoiled.  This  cost  me 
a  little  money,  but  it  saved  me  my  livelihood." 

After  a  few  moments  of  silence  Barbel  re- 


466 


"HIS    WIFE'S  DECEASED   SISTEX." 


sumed :  "  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you,  my 
young  friend.  All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  look 
upon  that  framed  conundrum,  then  upon  this 
grindstone,  and  then  to  go  home  and  reflect. 
As  for  me,  I  have  a  gross  of  pins  to  grind 
before  the  sun  goes  down." 

I  cannot  say  that  my  depression  of  mind 
was  at  all  relieved  by  what  I  had  seen  and 
heard.  I  had  lost  sight  of  Barbel  for  some 
years,  and  I  had  supposed  him  still  floating 
on  the  sun-sparkling  stream  of  prosperity, 
where  I  had  last  seen  him.  It  was  a  great 
shock  to  me  to  find  him  in  such  a  condition 
of  poverty  and  squalor,  and  to  see  a  man  who 
had  originated  the  "  Conundrum  of  the  Anvil" 
reduced  to  the  soul-depressing  occupation  of 
grinding  pin-points.  As  I  walked  and  thought, 
the  dreadful  picture  of  a  totally  eclipsed  fut- 
ure arose  before  my  mind.  The  moral  of  Bar- 
bel sank  deep  into  my  heart. 

When  I  reached  home  I  told  my  wife  the 
story  of  my  friend  Barbel.  She  listened  with 
a  sad  and  eager  interest. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  if  our  fortunes 
do  not  quickly  mend,  that  we  shall  have  to 
buy  two  little  grindstones.  You  know  I  could 
help  you  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  together  and  talked, 
and  devised  many  plans  for  the  future.  I  did 
not  think  it  necessary  yet  for  me  to  look  out 
for  a  pin  contract,  but  I  must  find  some  way 
of  making  money  or  we  should  starve  to  tf  eath.s 
Of  course  the  first  thing  that  suggested  itself 
was  the  possibility  of  finding  some  other 
business ;  but,  apart  from  the  difficulty  of 
immediately  obtaining  remunerative  work  in 
occupations  to  which  I  had  not  been  trained, 
I  felt  a  great  and  natural  reluctance  to  give 
up  a  profession  for  which  I  had  carefully  pre- 
pared myself,  and  which  I  had  adopted  as  my 
life-work.  It  would  be  very  hard  for  me  to 
lay  down  my  pen  forever,  and  to  close  the 
top  of  my  inkstand  upon  all  the  bright  and 
happy  fancies  which  I  had  seen  mirrored  in 
its  tranquil  pool.  We  talked  and  pondered 
the  rest  of  that  day  and  a  good  deal  of  the 
night,  but  we  came  to  no  conclusion  as  to 
what  it  would  be  best  for  us  to  do. 

The  next  day  I  determined  to  go  and  call 
upon  the  editor  of  the  journal  for  which,  in 
happier  days,  before  the  blight  of"  His  Wife's 
Deceased  Sister  "  rested  upon  me,  I  used  most 
frequently  to  write ;  and,  having  frankly  ex- 
plained my  condition  to  him,  to  ask  his  ad- 
vice. The  editor  was  a  good  man,  and  had 
always  been  my  friend.  He  listened  with 
great  attention  to  what  I  told  him,  and  evi- 
dently sympathized  with  me  in  my  trouble. 

"  As  we  have  written  to  you,"  he  said, 
"  the  only  reason  why  we  did  not  accept  the 
manuscripts  you  sent  us  was,  that  they  would 


have  disappointed  the  high  hopes  that  the 
public  had  formed  in  regard  to  you.  We  have 
had  letter  after  letter  asking  when  we  were 
going  to  publish  another  story  like  '  His 
Wife's  Deceased  Sister.'  We  felt,  and  we  still 
feel,  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  allow  you  to 
destroy  the  fair  fabric  which  yourself  has 
raised.  But,"  he  added,  with  a  kind  smile, 
"  I  see  very  plainly  that  your  well-deserved 
reputation  will  be  of  little  advantage  to  you  if 
you  are  to  starve  at  the  moment  that  its  genial 
beams  are,  so  to  speak,  lighting  you  up." 

"  Its  beams  are  not  genial,"  I  answered 
"  They  have  scorched  and  withered  me." 

"  How  would  you  like,"  said  the  editor 
after  a  short  reflection,  "  to  allow  us  to  pub 
lish  the  stories  you  have  recently  written  un 
der  some  other  name  than  your  own  ?  Tha 
would  satisfy  us  and  the  public ;  would  pu 
money  in  your  pocket,  and  would  not  inter 
fere  with  your  reputation." 

Joyfully  I  seized  that  noble  fellow  by  th< 
hand  and  instantly  accepted  his  proposition 
"  Of  course,"  said  I,  "  a  reputation  is  a  ver 
good  thing  ;  but  no  reputation  can  take  th 
place  of  food,  clothes,  and  a  house  to  live  in 
and  I  gladly  agree  to  sink  my  over-illumine'' 
name  into  oblivion,  and  to  appear  before  th 
public  as  a  new  and  unknown  writer." 

"I  hope  that  need  not  be  for  long,"  h 
said,  "  for  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  yet  writ 
stories  as  good  as  '  His  Wife's  Decease 
Sister.' " 

All  the  manuscripts  I  had  on  hand  I  no- 
sent  to  my  good  friend  the  editor,  and  in  du 
and  proper  order  they  appeared  in  his  jou: 
nal  under  the  name  of  John  Darmstadt,  whic 
I  had  selected  as  a  substitute  for  my  own,  pe 
manently  disabled.  I  made  a  similar  arrangi 
ment  with  other  editors,  and  John  Darmsta( 
received  the  credit  of  everything  that  pr< 
ceeded  from  my  pen.  Our  circumstances  no 
became  very  comfortable,  and  occasional 
we  even  allowed  ourselves  to  indulge  in  litt 
dreams  of  prosperity. 

Time  passed  on  very  pleasantly  one  yea: 
another,  and  then  a  little  son  was  born  to  i, 
It  is  often  difficult,  I   believe,  for  thought! 
persons  to  decide  whether  the  beginning  • 
their  conjugal  career  or  the  earliest  weeks 
the  life  of  their  first-born  be  the  happiest  ai 
proudest  period  of  their  existence.    For  m 
self,  I  can  only  say  that  the  same  exaltatij 
of  mind,  the  same  rarefaction  of  idea  and  i 
vention,  which  succeeded  upon  my  weddi: 
day,  came  upon  me  now.    As  then,  my  £ 
static  emotions  crystallized  themselves  into 
motive  for  a  story,  and,  without  delay,  I 
myself  to  work  upon  it.    My  boy  was  ate 
six  weeks  old  when  the  manuscript  was  f 
ished ;  and  one  evening,  as  we  sat 


TOPICS   OF   THE    TIME. 


467 


comfortable  fire  in  our  sitting-room,  with  the 
curtains  drawn  and  the  soft  lamp  lighted,  and 
the  baby  sleeping  soundly  in  the  adjoining 
chamber,  I  read  the  story  to  my  wife. 

When  I  had  finished,  my  wife  arose,  and 
threw  herself  into  my  arms.  "  I  was  never  so 
proud  of  you,"  she  said,  her  glad  eyes  sparkling, 
"  as  I  am  at  this  moment.  That  is  a  wonder- 
ful story !  It  is,  indeed !  I  am  sure  it  is  just 
as  good  as  '  His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister.' " 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  a  sudden  and 
chilling  sensation  crept  over  us  both.  All  her 
warmth  and  fervor,  and  the  proud  and  happy 
jglow  engendered  within  me  by  this  praise  and 
appreciation  from  one  I  loved,  vanished  in 
ian  instant.  We  stepped  apart,  and  gazed 
lupon  each  other  with  pallid  faces.  In  the 
same  moment  the  terrible  truth  had  flashed 
upon  us  both : 

This  story  was  as  good  as  "  His  Wife's 
Deceased  Sister  " ! 

We  stood  silent.  The  exceptional  lot  of 
Barbel's  super-pointed  pins  seemed  to  pierce 
our  very  souls.  A  dreadful  vision  rose  before 
me  of  an  impending  fall  and  crash,  in  which 
our  domestic  happiness  should  vanish,  and 
our  prospects  for  our  boy  be  wrecked  just  as 
we  had  begun  to  build  them  up. 

My  wife  approached  me,  and  took  my 
ihand  in  hers,  which  was  as  cold  as  ice.  "  Be 
istrong  and  firm !  "  she  said.  "  A  great  danger 
[threatens  us,  but  you  must  brace  yourself 
(against  it.  Be  strong  and  firm !  " 

I  pressed  her  hand,  and  we  said  no  more 
(that  night. 

The  next  day  I  took  the  manuscript  I  had 
just  written,  and  carefuly  folded  it  in  stout 


wrapping  paper.  Then  I  went  to  a  neighbor- 
ing grocery  store,  and  bought  a  small  strong 
tin  box,  originally  intended  for  biscuit,  with 
a  cover  that  fitted  tightly.  In  this  I  placed 
my  manuscript ;  and  then  I  took  the  box  to 
a  tinsmith,  and  had  the  top  fastened  on  with 
hard  solder.  When  I  went  home  I  ascended 
into  the  garret,  and  brought  down  to  my 
study  a  ship's  cash-box,  which  had  once  be- 
longed to  one  of  my  family  who  was  a  sea- 
captain.  This  box  was  very  heavy,  and  firmly 
bound  with  iron,  and  was  secured  by  two 
massive  locks.  Calling  my  wife,  I  told  her 
of  the  contents  of  the  tin  case,  which  I  then 
placed  in  the  box;  and  having  shut  down  the 
heavy  lid,  I  doubly  locked  it. 

"  This  key,"  said  I,  putting  it  in  my  pocket, 
"  I  shall  throw  into  the  river  when  I  go  out 
this  afternoon." 

My  wife  watched  me  eagerly,  with  a  pallid 
and  firm-set  countenance,  but  upon  which  I 
could  see  the  faint  glimmer  of  returning  hap- 
piness. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  well,"  she  said,  "to  secure 
it  still  further  by  sealing-wax  and  pieces  of 
tape  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I ;  "  I  do  not  believe  that  any 
one  will  attempt  to  tamper  with  our  prosper- 
ity. And  now,  my  dear,"  I  continued  in  an 
impressive  voice,  "  no  one  but  you  and,  in 
the  course  of  time,  our  son  shall  know  that 
this  manuscript  exists.  When  I  am  dead, 
those  who  survive  me  may,  if  they  see  fit, 
cause  this  box  to  be  split  open,  and  the  story 
published.  The  reputation  it  may  give  my 
name  cannot  harm  me  then." 

Frank  R.  Stockton. 


TOPICS  OF  THE  TIME. 


The  Difficulty  of  Political  Reform. 

^HE  difficulty  of  effecting  political  reforms  is  illus- 
trated in  every  age,  and  is  a  frequent  source  of  dis- 

iragement  to  those  actually  engaged  in  such  work. 
Cven  simple  reforms  often  require  years  for  their  ac- 

iplishment,  while  greater  ones  are  sometimes 
lelayed  for  generations.  Nothing  could  be  much 
iimpler  or  more  obviously  advantageous,  for  instance, 
han  the  administrative  reforms  that  have  so  long 
oeen  desired  in  this  country;  yet,  after  more  than 
wenty  years  of  discussion  and  agitation,  these  re- 
arms are  only  just  begun.  Among  the  greater  politi- 
pal  movements  we  may  mention  that  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  slavery,  which  had  continued  for  nearly  a 
generation  before  public  sentiment  was  thoroughly 
iroused.  In  this  case,  indeed,  there  was  a  power- 
jul  interest  arrayed  against  the  reformers;  but  the 


strangest  circumstance  in  the  case  was  the  prolonged 
opposition  or  apathy  of  the  people  of  the  free  States 
themselves.  Another  remarkable  example  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  reform  was  seen  in  the  case  of  the  anti-corn-law 
movement  in  England.  The  abolition  of  the  corn-laws 
was  obviously  for  the  benefit  of  the  mass  of  the  Eng- 
lish people ;  yet  it  is  matter  of  history  that  at  first  the 
people  could  not  be  brought  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
reform,  and  that  the  difficulty  of  effecting  it  was  so 
great  that  at  one  time  Cobden  himself,  the  great  leader 
of  the  movement,  was  on  the  point  of  abandoning  the 
task  in  despair.  We  think  that  few  instances  can  be 
found  in  history  of  important  improvements  in  political 
affairs  without  a  prolonged  and  persistent  agitation 
in  advance. 

The  reasons  for  this  fact  are  various.  The  sluggish- 
ness of  public  opinion,  the  opposition  of  sinister  inter- 
ests, the  absorption  of  men's  minds  in  their  personal 


468 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


affairs,  and  that  pride  of  opinion  which  makes  men 
unwilling  to  acknowledge  that  anything  they  have 
approved  or  sanctioned  can  be  wrong,  all  have  an 
influence  in  keeping  things  as  they  are,  even  when 
a  change  is  imperatively  required.  The  fact,  too,  that 
most  men  are  impervious  to  new  ideas  after  they  have 
reached  middle  life  is  an  essential  factor  in  the  case  ; 
and  it  not  infrequently  happens  that  a  new  genera- 
tion has  to  be  trained  up  in  the  reform  principles  be- 
fore any  outward  improvement  can  be  effected. 

Our  purpose  at  this  time,  however,  is  not  to  in- 
quire into  the  causes  which  render  political  changes 
difficult,  but  to  point  out  certain  circumstances  which, 
in  a  free  country,  go  far  to  compensate  the  evil,  and 
which  deserve  to  be  accounted  among  the  benefits  of 
free  government.  Some  men,  seeing  the  difficulty  of 
moving  public  opinion  in  a  democratic  community, 
and  eager  to  effect  improvements  in  political  affairs, 
are  led  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  popular  government, 
and  to  say  that  a  benevolent  despot  and  an  enlightened 
aristocracy  is  a  better  depositary  of  political  power 
than  the  people  themselves.  But,  besides  the  difficulty 
of  securing  benevolence  in  a  despot  or  enlightenment 
in  an  aristocracy,  history  shows  that  even  if  they 
possess  these  qualities,  they  are  less  easily  moved  to 
effect  reforms  than  the  people  themselves. 

There  have  been  benevolent  despots  who  effected 
nothing  for  the  political  improvement  of  the  nations 
they  governed.  The  Antonines,  for  instance,  were 
among  the  best  personal  rulers  the  world  ever  saw ; 
yet  they  did  nothing  of  importance  in  the  way  of  po- 
litical reforms,  but  left  the  Roman  empire  as  they 
found  it.  As  for  aristocracies,  though  they  often  ad- 
minister the  government  with  much  intelligence  so 
far  as  their  own  interests  are  concerned,  they  are, 
nevertheless,  the  most  conservative,  the  most  bigotedly 
opposed  to  progress  of  all  the  species  of  government 
that  ever  existed,  as  the  history  of  Sparta,  Carthage, 
and  Venice  abundantly  proves.  The  states  that  have 
been  most  largely  and  most  uniformly  progressive  have 
been  without  exception  those  of  a  popular  character, 
or  those  in  which  popular  influence  has  been  power- 
fully felt ;  and  therefore  the  impatience  that  earnest 
reformers  sometimes  feel  at  the  sluggishness  and 
perversity  of  the  popular  mind  ought  never  to  make 
them  lose  faith  in*the  benefits  of  free  government. 

But  even  if  monarchs  and  aristocracies  were  as  ac- 
tive friends  of  progress  and  as  ready  to  effect  improve- 
ments as  popular  governments  are,  yet  improvements 
made  through  the  agency  of  the  people  are  far  more 
beneficial  than  those  effected  without  them.  For,  in 
the  first  place,  reforms  effected  by  the  people  them- 
selves, or  in  accordance  with  their  deliberate  desire, 
are  likely  to  be  permanent ;  while  if  not  thus  effected, 
their  permanence  is  uncertain.  A  benevolent  monarch 
may  make  great  improvements  in  laws  and  institutions, 
and  thereby  largely  promote  the  well-being  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  but  if  his  successor  happens  to  be  a  man  of  a 
different  stamp,  as  is  quite  likely  to  be  the  case,  all 
the  improvements  thus  made  may  be  set  aside,  and  the 
condition  of  the  people  may  become  worse  than  before. 
Besides,  the  government  of  a  nation,  even  under  an 
absolute  monarch,  is  largely  influenced  by  public 
opinion  ;  and  if  public  opinion  has  not  been  educated 
to  approve  and  support  a  reform,  it  may  be  set  aside 
or  rendered  nugatory  by  the  opposition  of  the  people 


themselves.  There  are  even  instances  in  history  where 
a  nation  has  surrendered  liberty  itself,  simply  because 
the  mass  of  the  people  had  not  learned  to  appreciate 
its  value.  But,  under  a  popular  government,  where  no 
considerable  change  can  be  made  without  the  concur- 
rence of  the  people,  a  reform  once  effected  is  very 
rarely  reversed.  So  well  is  this  understood  in  Eng- 
land, that  when  an  important  measure  has  been  carried 
there  with  the  express  approval  of  the  people,  no 
statesman  ever  thinks  of  repealing  it,  but  the  popular 
decision  is  everywhere  accepted  as  final.  This,  then, 
is  one  of  the  benefits  of  free  government  —  that  politi- 
cal improvements  once  effected  are  certain  to  endure; 
and  in  this  fact  reformers  may  find  encouragement 
when  their  temper  is  tried  and  their  patience  ex- 
hausted by  the  sluggishness  of  public  opinion  and 
the  seeming  dullness  of  the  popular  conscience. 

But  there  is  another  consideration  of  still  greater 
importance.  The  general  and  prolonged  discussion 
which  necessarily  precedes  reform  in  a  popular  gov- 
ernment has  an  educating  effect  of  the  highest  value. 
This  has  long  been  recognized  by  political  philoso- 
phers as  one  of  the  principal  benefits  that  popular  gov- 
ernment confers,  and  the  history  of  such  government 
in  all  ages  bears  out  this  view.  Even  the  routine  work 
of  government,  such  as  the  conduct  of  municipal  affairs, 
has  an  educating  influence  of  no  little  value ;  but  it  is 
far  surpassed  in  this  respect  by  those  discussions  of 
principle  which  necessarily  precede  the  enactment  of 
great  reforms.  Questions  involving  the  principles  of 
morals  and  the  happiness  perhaps  of  millions  cannot 
be  pondered  by  any  man  without  improving  to  some 
extent  both  his  intellect  and  his  character ;  and  this 
educating  influence  is  especially  valuable  in  the  case 
of  the  masses  of  men,  because  of  the  narrowness  of 
their  mental  horizon.  Men  of  leisure  and  men  of 
intellectual  tastes  can  find  means  of  culture  and  men- 
tal stimulus  in  various  ways  ;  but  the  minds  of  the 
uneducated  and  toiling  masses  are  seldom  roused  to 
thought  except  by  some  matter  of  great  practical  im- 
portance. Now,  political  affairs  are  of  the  highest  im- 
portance to  every  one ;  and  hence,  in  a  country  where 
the  control  of  affairs  is  lodged  in  the  hands  of  the 
people,  the  educating  influence  of  political  discussion 
and  action  is  felt  in  a  high  degree,  and  is  one  of  the 
most  potent  means  of  popular  culture.  This  influ- 
ence cannot  be  made  available  except  under  popular 
government;  for  the  people  will  seldom  take  a  very 
lively  interest  in  governmental  affairs  if  they  are  not 
to  be  called  upon  to  help  in  deciding  them.  But  if 
their  voice  is  potent  in  deciding  what  shall  be  done, , 
no  question  of  importance  can  arise  in  which  they  will 
not  take  an  interest ;  and  then  the  discussion  of  such 
questions  by  the  more  instructed  minds  will  quicken 
the  popular  intelligence  and  educate  the  popular  con- 
science as  few  other  agencies  will. 

When,  therefore,  the  advocates  of  political  reform' 
in  a  free  country  grow  discouraged,  as  they  sometimes 
will,  and  wish,  perhaps,  that  they  themselves  had  in- 
dependent power  to  carry  out  their  measures,  they 
may  find  comfort  in  the  thought  that  while  the  re- 
forms they  desire,  if  really  beneficial,  can  hardly  fail 
to  be  realized  at  last,  the  mere  discussion  of  the  r 
before  the  people  has  an  effect  on  the  popular  mini 
that  may  be  little  less  important  than  the  reforn  > 


themselves. 


TOPICS   OF  THE  'TIME. 


469 


Religious    Snobbery. 


THERE  is  a  tone  in  the  manner  in  which  some  men 
preach  religion  that  may  be  called  demagogical.  It 
is,  as  it  were,  an  ignoble  bidding  for  votes,  an  appeal 
to  something  not  the  best  in  the  man  who  is  listening 
in  order  to  win  his  sympathy  and  suffrage.  It  is  a 
spirit  that  ignores  the  decent  instincts  of  human  nat- 
ure ;  that  does  not  hesitate  to  offend  the  refined  list- 
ener, while  catering  to  the  prejudices  and  vulgarities 
of  the  more  ignorant  and  brutal.  It  is  a  kind  of  preach- 
ng  that  has  not  even  the  excuse  of  being  based  on  the 
dangerous  principle  of  doing  evil  that  good  may  come. 
It  is  the  preaching  of  vulgarians,  who  naturally  express 
themselves  in  terms  that  are  coarse,  and  who  are, 
moreover,  bent  upon  making  effects  by  fair  means  or 
foul.  They  are  themselves  vulgar  by  nature,  and  their 
determination  to  be  effective  carries  them  into  orator- 
cal  excesses,  unmitigated  either  by  taste  or  conscience. 
We  could  give  numerous  and  recent  examples  of  dem- 
agogical preaching  of  the  Gospel,  but  we  should  then 
DC  compelled  to  disfigure  our  page  with  vulgarities? 
and  even  with  shameless  blasphemies. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  certain  kind  of  relig- 
ous  snobbery  which  is  not  altogether  unknown  in 
America,  but  which  has  hitherto  taken  no  very  deep 
root  here.  That  it  is  not  a  wide-spread  or  serious  so- 
cial disease  in  this  country  may  be  inferred  from  the 
act  that  our  fiction  does  not  often  deal  with  examples  of 
;his  sort  of  snobbery,  though  the  thing  is,  of  course,  by 
no  means  unknown,  and  is  perhaps  yet  to  receive  the 
;reatment  it  deserves  at  the  hands  of  our  story- writers. 

Native  religious  snobbery  does  not  flourish  among 
us  very  vigorously,  nor  does  the  plant  give  signs  of 
powerful  growth  in  its  exotic  varieties.  We  are  led  to 
this  statement  by  the  comparative  non-success,  on  this 
side  of  the  water,  of  one  who  has  been  called  in  Eng- 
and  "  the  apostle  to  the  genteel."  This  apostle  (fa- 
mous not  only  socially,  but  by  means  also  of  the  gla- 
mour wrought  by  the  pen  of  an  eminent  romancer) 
came  among  us  not  long  ago  and  began  at  once  a  pub- 
ic career  of  interviewing  and  lecturing.  In  the  nat- 
ural course  of  events,  a  number  of  "wealthy"  and 
''  fashionable  "  (in  lieu  of  "noble")  converts  should 
have  adorned  the  mission  of  the  distinguished  apostle. 
So  far,  however,  we  have  heard  of  few  or  no  "  con- 
jversions,"  and  we  have  been  led  to  consider  the  cause. 
iAs  nearly  as  we  can  determine,  this  cause  lies  in  the 
fact  that  Americans  recognized  immediately  the  un- 
bongenial  tone  and  bearing  of  the  religious  snob.  The 
interviewers  early  discovered  in  the  apostle  a  willing- 
ness to  talk,  with  seemly  deprecation,  of  the  fact  that 
ie  had  been  the  means  of  converting  the  rich  and  the 
loble ;  and  when  the  apostle  called  their  attention  to 
•iot  that  he  had  also  converted  at  least  one  poor 
nan,  this  poor  man,  it  was  noticed,  was  that  interest- 
ing social  phenomenon,  a  noble  bankrupt.  Finally  the 


reporters  were  called  upon  to  chronicle  the  public 
statement,  by  the  modern  apostle,  that  his  great  prede- 
cessor as  a  converter,  St.  Paul,  was  the  one  man 
among  the  Apostles  who  might  be  called  a  "  gentle- 
man !  " 

It  was,  therefore,  soon  understood  that  the  genius 
of  the  romancer  had  created  a  fascinating  image  which 
had  no  counterpart  in  reality  ;  and  as  snobbery  in  re- 
ligion is  not  considered  beautiful  or  desirable  in  this 
country,  the  "  apostle  to  the  genteel "  e  -idently  made 
the  same  mistake,  in  coming  to  America,  that  was 
made  by  a  fellow-countryman  and  fellow-apostle  of  his 
who,  instead  of  the  robes  of  a  priest,  wore  the  knee- 
breeches  of  an  aesthete. 


"  Minister  and  Citizen." 

THE  recent  consecration  of  Dr.  Henry  C.  Potter  as 
Assistant  Bishop  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  diocese 
of  New  York,  while  an  event  of  unusual  interest  and 
importance  inside  the  denomination  to  which  Bishop 
Potter  belongs,  is  also  an  event  of  public  and  general 
interest,  not  only  on  account  of  the  prominence  of  the 
office,  but  more  especially  owing  to  the  antecedents 
and  character  of  the  man.  For  Dr.  Potter,  as  rector 
of  Grace  Church,  has  not  only  proved  himself  on  occa- 
sion a  sympathizer  and  co-worker  with  other  com- 
munions, but  he  has  shown  himself  to  be  one  of  those 
clergymen  who  were  described  not  long  ago  in  these 
columns  (on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Dr.  Bel- 
lows) as  equally  zealous  and  useful  in  the  capacity  of 
minister  and  in  that  of  citizen. 

While  rector  of  a  parish  which  has  been  unfortu- 
nately known  as  "fashionable,"  Dr.  Potter  has  distin- 
guished himself  and  his  church  as  leaders  in  charitable 
work ;  he  has  been  a  helper  of  the  poor, —  not  of  the 
miserably  poor  only,  but  also  of  the  respectably  (and 
therefore  sometimes  neglected)  poor.  He  has  not 
troubled  himself  with  partisan  politics  in  either  church 
or  state,  but  his  labors  have  been  directed  to  advance 
the  causes  of  religion  and  civilization  in  this  great  and 
teeming  city  among  the  poor  and  among  the  rich  as 
well ;  and  he  has  been  an  earnest  worker  in  every 
movement  in  which  a  good  and  public-spirited  citizen 
should  make  himself  felt.  It  is  not  every  faithful 
preacher  of  the  Gospel  who  has  the  qualities  which  fit 
him  in  addition  for  this  work  of  citizenship ;  it  is  not 
necessary  that  every  minister  should  be  so  gifted ; 
nevertheless,  such  men  are  greatly  needed  in  New 
York.  They  form,  and  always  have  formed,  an  impor- 
tant and  most  valuable  part  of  our  life  as  a  commu- 
nity ;  and  it  is  a  satisfaction  that  Dr.  Potter's  church, 
in  bidding  him  go  higher,  has  not  bidden  him  go  away 
from  a  city  where  his  usefulness  has  been  so  pro- 
nounced, but  has  merely  placed  him  in  an  office  of 
wider  and  more  visible  influence. 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


"New  York  as  a  Field  for  Fiction." 

COMMENT. 

DEAR  MR.  BUNNER  :  The  chief  fault  I  should  find 
with  your  literary  family,  as  presented  in  your  "  Open 
Letter"  on  "New  York  as  a  Field  for  Fiction," 
in  THE  CENTURY  for  September,  is  that  the  best 
part  of  it  is  under  ground.  The  next  faults  I 
should  find  are  its  over  deference  to  the  "for- 
eign" sentiment  and  the  episodical  character  of  the 
material  suggested  as  new.  I  dare  say  that  you  did 
not  intend  to  convince  me,  but  I  do  not  see  how  you 
can  expect  to  convince  others,  in  these  active  times, 
that  your  Dutch  colonists  of  the  earliest  period,  or 
those  coming  next  after  them,  with  a  "  forced  infusion 
of  English  blood," — your  Huguenots,  your  Knicker- 
bockers of  the  middle  period,  your  Battery  beaux  and 
Bowling  Green  belles, —  are  more  suitable  material 
than  their  descendants  now  actually  alive  and  well.  We 
want  vital  questions,  even  in  our  fiction.  I  will  back 
Gertrude's  descendant,  "  leading  the  dance  of  youth 
and  love  in  some  grander  new  house  far  up-town," 
for  interest  against  Gertrude  herself  in  old  Bleecker 
street  or  Greenwood  Cemetery,  every  time.  So,  too,  the 
briefless  young  lawyer,  whom  we  fully  understand, 
struggling  for  his  living  up  in  the  rarefied  air  of  sky- 
offices  near  Trinity  chimes  and  through  Marine  Court, 
Part  II.,  seems  a  much  more  worthy  object  of  sym- 
pathy than  your  English  Cambridge  graduate,  whose 
customs  we  know  nothing  about  except  by  hearsay, 
and  whom  we  only  half  believe  in.  Such  a  one,  if 
stranded  here, —  as  he  might  be  stranded  anywhere, 
— would  be  but  a  mere  episode  in  the  life  of  the  great 
city,  and  not  an  essential  part  of  it.  If  it  were  intended 
to  display  New  York,  he  would  have  to  be  connected 
with  its  typical  and  essential  features,  which  would 
still  remain  to  be  discovered. 

Nor  do  I  see  why  even  the  Columbia  boys  should 
be  ruled  out  of  New  York  fiction.  For  my  part,  I  no 
longer  seem  to  yield  the  same  prompt  allegiance  as 
once  to  the  warm  and  mellow  Good  Old  Times,  to  the 
Quaint,  the  Genial,  nor  even  the  Foreign ;  and  I  believe 
that  many  story-reading  persons  are  of  the  same  way  of 
thinking.  The  old  times  have  been  pretty  thoroughly 
utilized,  in  one  way  and  another.  To  have  recourse 
to  them  now  seems  a  manner  of  dodging  the  present. 
Here  we  are,  with  all  our  passions,  humors,  fancies, 
stirrings  of  romance  as  genuine  as  ever  were.  Who 
will  picture  us  ?  who  go  a  little  deeper  than  ever 
before  ?  who  add  a  trifle  to  the  knowledge  of  human 
nature  ?  That  is  the  original  field.  The  original  man 
will  have  a  keen  eye  for  such  study  of  character  as 
can  be  actually  put  to  the  test.  Something  in  the 
nature  of  social  science  is  what  is  wanted,  rather  th»n 
archaeology ;  the  method  of  examination  of  the  sub- 
ject on  his  feet  and  going  about  his  affairs,  instead  of 
that  by  exhumation  and  autopsy,  after  long  burial. 

I  think,  perhaps,  I  have  been  a  rather  extreme 
example  of  the  opposite  view.  I  fear  that  I  was 
a  bad  case  of  it.  I  remember  when  I  thought  Egypt, 


classic  antiquity,  knights,  minnesingers,  chatelaines, 
moss-troopers,  burghers,  pilgrim- fathers,  and  bucca- 
neers,—  you  know  the  whole  menagerie, —  down  to 
about  the  year  1800,  the  only  part  of  created  exist- 
ence worth  the  slightest  attention.  The  greatest  rec- 
ommendation to  favor  .was  that  one  should  be  dead 
and  should  have  worn  a  party-colored  costume.  Next 
to  this,  if  he  would  live,  it  was  to  be  European.  At 
present,  I  flatly  do  not  believe  in  them.  They  were 
no  better,  no  whit  more  worthy  of  interest,  than 
ourselves.  Come  !  They  were  not  so  good.  We  are 
the  fish  still  remaining  in  the  sea  better  than  any  yet 
caught. 

It  was  Europe  itself  that  finally  dispelled  that  im- 
pression. I  found  that  an  individual  was  not  neces- 
sarily the  more  great,  glorious,  wise,  nor  entertaining 
for  being  a  European,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  he 
might  not  be  for  being  dead,  even  for  several  hundred 
years.  Foreignness  is  a  kind  of  antiquity  ;  distance  in 
time  and  in  space  is  practically  the  same  thing,  and 
the  sentiment  about  them  hangs  together. 

You  allow  a  small  modern  and  home  department, 
however,  to  those  who  will  not  be  satisfied,  for  a  novel 
of  New  York,  with  colonial  ancestors  merely.  A  part 
of  the  new  material  is  "  the  New  England  invasion." 
But  you  will  surely  remember  that  this  is  just  what 
Rodman  Harvey  was, —  a  New  England  invasion.  He 
had  succeeded  with  his  store  in  a  smaller  place,  had 
come  here  and  had  married,  for  a  second  wife,  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  Knickerbocker  blood,  and  had  become 
a  magnate.  He  must  have  resembled,  in  several  ways, 
the  late  ex-Governor  Morgan,  William  E.  Dodge, 
and  their  class,  and  no  men  were  more  essentially  of 
New  York  than  these. 

You  omit  from  the  list,  entirely,  low  life,  which  we 
must  agree  to  be  full  of  interest,  and  characteristic, 
here  as  elsewhere.  You  omit,  too,  the  life  around  the 
great  newspaper  offices,  the  seat  of  government  and 
local  politics,  and  the  great  financial  institutions.  And 
then  you  choose  a  class  in  one  of  the  lower  wards, 
who  ran  with  the  machine  to  fires  in  their  youth,  and 
now  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  call  them  the 
bourgeois  of  New  York.  If  there  be  a  proper  bour- 
geois of  New  York,  since  when  has  this  thick-witted 
class  anywhere  —  the  Philistines  of  the  violent  mod- 
ern protest  —  become  the  most  entertaining  material 
for  the  use  of  the  literary  artist  ?  Upon  what  theory, 
too,  can  it  be  maintained  that  East  Broadway,  with 
half  a  dozen  immigrant  Mulligans  and  Lochmullers 
domiciled  in  it  to  each  ex-running-to-fires-with-the- 
machine  bourgeois,  is  more  essentially  New  York 
than  the  vast  area  of  brown-stone  houses  above 
Twenty-third  street  ? 

Of  all  the  material  which  you  sketch  in,  after  hav- 
ing somewhat  too  hastily  cleared  the  decks,  I  venture 
to  find  most  serviceable  the  contingent  of  Parisiar  - 
ized  Americans  fleeing  from  the  wreck  of  the  la;  t 
French  Empire.  A  similar  contingent  is  at  this  mo- 
ment intimately  allied  with  the  British  Empire.  Bot  i 
of  these  would  do  excellently  in  New  York  as  a  fiel  i 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


471 


"or  fiction,  not  simply  for  themselves,  but  because  they 
are  part  and  parcel  of  the  society  which  gives  New 
York  its  peculiar  aspect  at  home  and  reputation  abroad. 

We  must  agree  that  everything  cannot  be  put  into 
a  single  book.  What,  then,  is  the  thing  to  do,  having 
set  out  with  the  purpose  of  giving  some  faint  idea  of 
:he  life  of  the  metropolis  in  a  story  ?  Is  it  to  take  iso- 
ated  and  eccentric  figures  and  episodes,  however  in- 
cresting,  which  might  have  passed  anywhere  ?  It  is 
rather  to  take  those  leading  personages,  traits,  and 
ocalities  with  which  its  identity  is  bound  .up.  You 
appear  to  complain  of  the  typicalness  of  the  characters 
with  which  I  have  very  inadequately  attempted  to  do 
this,  as  if  typicalness  were  a  vice.  I  have  taken,  you 
say,  "  the  typical  merchant,"  "  the  typical  belle,"  "  the 
typical  snob,"  and  so  forth;  and  you  would  seem  to 
imply  that  this  should  not  have  been  done,  but  that 
the  future  aspirant  should  depend  for  his  effects  upon 
personages  of  a  very  different  sort,  it  is  not  at  all 
clear  what.  An  interesting  supplement  to  your  article 
would  be  a  brief  review  of  fiction  in  New  York,  to 
show  whether  the  field  is  really  so  preempted  as  to  leave 
no  room  on  that  score  for  the  figures  most  prominent 
in  actual  life.  I  think  it  would  be  found  much  less 
full  than  indicated.  It  is  doubtful  if  it  can  ever  be  so 
full  as  to  exclude  that  central  figure  of  our  money- 
making  day,  the  merchant  prince,  at  all. 

However  poorly  I  have  treated  them,  the  typical- 
bess  of  my  characters  cannot  justly  be  blamed.  There 
[is  considerable  misconception  on  this  point.  It  is  fan- 
pied  that  a  character  which  is  a  type  must  become  a 
jmere  abstraction.  But  a  type  should  be  a  very  clearly 
but  individual,  who  has  the  added  value  of  represent- 
ing not  only  himself,  but  a  whole  interesting  class.  It  is 
of  such  characters  that  we  can  say  "  How  natural !  " 
"  I,  too,  have  seen  that."  To  seek  for  mere  individ- 
uals who  are  not  types,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible, 
would  be  to  make  a  literature  of  bearded  ladies  and 
iving  skeletons,  to  pretend  that  "  cranks  "  and  mon- 
Istrosities  were  the  best  material.  I  do  not  think  we 
'are  really  at  issue  on  this  point,  but  rather  in  some 
difference  of  statement.  I  have  happened,  just  at  the 
moment  of  writing  this,  upon  Pailleron's  amusing 
play  of  "  le  Monde  ou  Ton  s'ennuie."  There  is  a 
short  preface  to  it,  in  which  it  appears  that  he  has 
been  attacked  for  alleged  portraiture  in  some  of  his 
characters.  He  replies,  defending  himself  in  a  few 
words  which  express  so  well  what  types  really  are 
.and  ought  to  be  as  to  seem  worth  quoting  as  a  final 
(definition.  He  says :  "  I  have  taken  the  traits  of 
which  I  have  made  my  types  from  drawing-rooms 
and  from  individuals  in  the  privacy  of  home.  And 
!they  are  so  thoroughly  types  and  so  little  portraits  that 
[as  many  as  five  different  names  have  been  given  to 
leach  of  them.* 

Yours  very  truly, 

W.  H.  Bishop. 


:  MY  DEAR  MR.  BISHOP  :  The  chief  fault  I  should 
find  with  your  pleasant  note,  just  received,  is  that  it 
seemingly  is  addressed  to  some  person  of  views  very 

1    *  "  J'ai  pris  dans  les  salons  et  chez  les  individus  les  traits  dont 
]  ai  fait  mes  types.  <  Et  ce  sont  si  bien  des  types  et  si  pen  des 
portraits  qu'on  a  mis  sur  chacun  d'eux  jusqu'a  cinq  noms  diffe- 
" 


different  from  those  of  the  writer  of  the  "  Open  Let- 
ter "  in  the  September  CENTURY. 

I  have  looked  carefully  over  that  document,  and  I 
cannot  find  that  anything  I  have  said  there  makes  me 
responsible  for  the  somewhat  startling  theory  which 
you  attribute  to  me, —  that  an  individual  is  the  less  an 
individual  because  he  is  also  a  type.  What  I  did  try 
to  point  out  is  that  one  cannot  draw  an  individual  by 
describing  merely  the  traits  he  has  in  common  with 
all  others  of  his  class, —  which  is,  you  will  agree 
with  me,  simply  substituting  an  abstraction  for  a 
character. 

And  I  must  have  made  myself  sadly  misunderstood 
if  you  have  taken  the  few  incidental  suggestions  I 
sketched  out  as  prescriptive  or  directive,  or  designed 
to  cover  the  whole  field  of  fiction.  I  chose  them,  in 
fact,  purely  as  illustrations  of  my  idea, —  that  the  roots 
of  our  metropolitan  life  are  deeper  and  older,  and  the 
fruit  that  springs  therefrom  richer  and  mellower,  than 
most  people  believe. 

It  makes  little  matter,  I  think,  when  or  where  a 
man  finds  the  time  and  scene  of  his  story.  But  it  is 
all-essential  that  he  should  give  his  work  sympathetic, 
conscientious,  and  unprejudiced  study,  and  should  not 
trust  too  readily  to  accepted  traditions  or  unfonven- 
tional  valuations. 

Allow  me  to  thank  you  for  the  pleasant  way  in 
which  you  have  met  me,  and  to  add  a  sincere  wish 
that  whatever  field  you  choose  for  yourself  may  prove 
prolific  in  laurels. 

Yours  sincerely, 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


Our  Jury  System. 

To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  CENTURY: 

SIR,— In  reading  in  the  June  CENTURY  the  re- 
plies to  "  Is  the  Jury  System  a  Failure  ?  "  it  struck 
me  that  the  defenders  of  the  present  system  had 
confined  themselves  too  strictly  to  a  statement  of 
the  direct  and  immediate  results  that  would  be  likely 
to  ensue  from  the  abolition  of  the  jury  system  and 
the  substitution  therefor  of  'a  tribunal  of  judges. 
Not  infrequently  the  indirect,  uncalculated  results  of 
a  sweeping  change  in  civil  government  are  of  vastly 
greater  moment  to  society  than  the  direct  results. 

The  consideration  of  such  a  change  in  our  judicial 
system  suggests  three  important  queries  as  to  its 
results.  These  are : 

First.  Its  direct  effect  upon  the  administration  of 
justice. 

Second.  Its  ultimate  effect  upon  the  constitution 
and  character  of  the  new  tribunal. 

Third.  Its  effect  upon  public  opinion  regarding 
the  administration  of  justice. 

There  is,  I  presume,  no  advocate  of  the  jury  system 
who  will  deny  that  it  might  be  improved  by  wiser 
legislation,  especially  as  regards  the  manner  of  select- 
ing juries.  And  no  one  who  has  seen  its  workings  will 
deny  that  it  has  some  advantages  over  any  system  that 
has  ever  been  tried.  It  is  an  advantage  that  no  litigant 
can  know,  until  his  case  is  on  trial,  the  precise  per- 
sonnel of  the  tribunal  which  is  to  decide  his  case.  He 
may  know  a  few  days  beforehand,  it  is  true,  who  will 
probably  compose  the  panel  from  which  his  jury  will 
be  drawn,  but  no  man  can  tell  him  who  will  be  drawn. 


472 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


If  he  knows  or  believes  that  any  member  of  the  panel 
is  hostile  or  prejudiced  against  him,  or  will  be  influ- 
enced by  sinister  motives  in  deciding  the  cause,  he  has 
only  to  challenge  him  peremptorily,  without  giving 
any  reason,  and  his  opponent  has  a  like  opportunity. 
And  any  party  to  a  cause  who  desires  to  use  improper 
means  to  influence  the  tribunal  in  his  favor,  is  likely 
to  be  baffled  in  any  attempt  he  may  make  by  this 
uncertainty  as  to  who  will  constitute  this  tribunal. 
In  fact,  the  obstacles  to  any  attempt  to  tamper  with 
the  jury  are,  in  most  cases,  practically  insurmountable, 
since  the  majority  of  cases  which  are  tried  by  juries 
occupy  less  than  two  days  after  the  jury  is  drawn,  and 
this  affords  too  little  time  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  the  individual  jurors  sufficiently  to  enable  a  man 
to  approach  them  safely  with  corrupt  propositions. 
It  is  the  opinion  of  many  of  our  ablest  lawyers  that 
on  questions  of  fact,  where  the  jury  are.  carefully  in- 
structed as  to  the  law,  the  average  judgment  of  twelve 
good  jurymen  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  correct  as  that 
of  a  bench  of  judges. 

Upon  the  second  question,  the  ultimate  effect  of  the 
proposed  change  upon  the  constitution  and  character 
of  the  new  tribunal,  we  must  first  remember  that  we 
cannot^iresume  that  the  new  tribunals  would  be  com- 
posed of  the  same  quality  of  men  as  those  who  now 
constitute  the  judges  of  our  courts ;  for  I  will  premise, 
for  the  sake  of  the  argument,  that  the  judges  of  our 
courts  throughout  the  United  States  are,  as  a  class, 
upright,  incorruptible,  impartial,  and  able  men.  When 
it  is  charged  in  the  public  prints  that  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  judge  of  the  most  august  tribunal  of 
the  nation  (I  might  say  in  the  whole  world,  since  no 
other  tribunal  has  such  extensive  powers  conferred 
upon  it)  has  at  least  in  a  single  instance  been  the 
work  of  an  unscrupulous  speculator,  would  it  not  be 
well,  whether  we  believe  this  terrible  accusation  or 
not,  to  pause  before  making  such  changes  in  our  judi- 
cial system,  to  consider  whether  we  should  not  be 
making  it  easy  for  soulless  corporations  and  million- 
aires whose  god  is  mammon,  in  many  localities,  and 
especially  in  our  great  commercial  centers,  to  pack 
our  judicial  tribunals  and  to  give  us  courts  in  com- 
parison with  which  the  New  York  city  courts  during 
the  Tweed  regime  were  Aristidean  ?  —  courts  that 
would  not  only  nullify  as  unconstitutional  all  legisla- 
tion that  sought  to  release  the  people  from  the  toils 
of  the  masters  whose  behests  these  courts  would  be 
chosen  to  carry  out,  but  courts  that  would,  upon  occa- 
sion, twist  the  facts  in  a  case  into  conformity  with  the 
desires  of  their  masters.  It  is  said  that  some  men  of 
shining  legal  abilities,  but  of  sullied  personal  charac- 
ter, have  made  very  acceptable  judges.  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult for  a  lawyer  to  see  how  this  might  be.  Since  men 
are  always  controlled  by  the  strongest  motive,  and 
with  some  men  ambition  may  be  a  stronger  motive 
than  avarice,  a  desire  to  rank  high  as  a  jurist  might 
prevail  over  any  other  incentive  with  a  man  not  over- 
scrupulous. When  a  judge  decides  questions  of  law,  he 
does  it  under  the  eyes  and  in  the  face  of  a  jury  he  dare 
not  defy,  i.  e.,  a  vigilant  and  critical  bar.  He  has  be- 
fore him  two  interested  contending  parties,  each  ever 
ready  and  watchful  to  take  exceptions  to  his  errors 
of  judgment  even.  He  must  state  clearly  his  positions 
in  regard  to  the  law,  and  they  are  subject  to  revision 
by  a  higher  tribunal.  They  then  go  into  the  reports, 


and  are  read  and  reread  by  lawyers  who  have  made 
a  thorough  and  exhaustive  study  of  their  subject 
matter,  and  who  are  competent  to  pass  upon  his  rul- 
ings. In  matters  of  law,  all  his  faults  "  observed 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learned  and  conned  by  rote." 
And  a  man  of  good  legal  abilities  who,  while  occupy- 
ing the  position  of  a  nisi  prius  judge  even,  should  at- 
tempt to  go  very  far  in  modifying  or  wresting  the 
existing  law,  contrary  to  precedent  and  authority, 
would  soon  find  that  he  had  entered  upon  a  thorny 
road,  whatever  might  be  his  motive  for  wandering. 

Any  one  who  has  prepared  a  case  for  an  appel- 
late court,  when  it  is  essential  to  review  the  evidence, 
knows  how  extremely  difficult  it  is,  in  many  cases,  to 
present  any  adequate  picture  of  the  testimony  to  the 
higher  court,  even  with  the  aid  of  a  stenographer's  re- 
port of  the  testimony.  The  appearance  and  manner 
of  the  different  witnesses,  which  oftentimes,  and  justly 
too,  has  so  much  weight  with  the  jury,  is  entirely 
wanting.  A  skillful  and  unscrupulous  court,  organ- 
ized in  the  interests  of  a  wealthy  corporation,  seconded 
by  able  attorneys,  as  such  corporations  usually  employ, 
might  make  short  shrift  for  a  poor  man  with  a  doubtful 
or  even  a  just  cause,  aided,  as  too  often  he  would  be, 
only  by  inexperienced  counsel,  such  as  his  lack  of 
means  would  frequently  compel  him  to  employ.  The 
testimony  in  such  cases  would  often  not  be  reported, 
and  very  frequently  the  only  spectators  of  the  conduct 
of  the  court  would  be  the  litigants  and  their  witnesses. 
Moreover,  every  party  having  a  cause  for  trial  could 
know  with  tolerable  certainty,  for  clays  and  usually  for 
weeks  and  months  before  the  trial,  what  persons  would 
constitute  the  tribunal  which  would  try  the  case,  and,  if 
he  had  corrupt  intentions,  would  have  ample  time  to 
discover  the  weakest  points  in  the  character  of  each 
individual  composing  the  tribunal.  The  old  saying, 
that  "  every  man  has  his  price,"  is  undoubtedly  true  in 
the  sense  that  every  man  is  approachable  in  some  way. 
and  is  susceptible  to  certain  influences, —  in  some  cases 
consciously,  and  in  others  unconsciously. 

Proceeding  to  the  third  point, —  the  effect  of  the  pro- 
posed system  upon  public  opinion, —  there  are  men,  and 
their  number  is  not  small,  whose  own  self-knowledge 
justifies  them  in  the  belief  that  all  courts  are  corrupt 
and  that  a  poor  man  has  no  chance  in  our  courts,  or  whc 
have  so  often  asserted  such  an  opinion  that  they  have 
come  to  believe  it.  Under  our  present  system,  most 
reproaches  of  this  kind  are  thrown  upon  the  jury;  but 
the  jury  is  an  impersonal,  ever-changing  body.  The 
odium  of  an  unjust  verdict,  or  one  that  is  condemned 
by  public  sentiment,  whether  such  condemnation  it. 
merited  or  not,  is  divided  among  twelve  men,  whc 
separate  to  their  several  homes  and  never  meet  again 
to  act  together  under  any  circumstances  whatsoever. 
If,  through  mistake,  or  for  any  other  reason,  they  have 
given  an  unrighteous  verdict,  the  harm  is  largely 
confined  to  the  particular  case  decided;  there  is  nc 
danger  that  the  same  body  will  repeat  the  offense 
thus  acquire  a  cumulation  of  odium.  Would 
succession  of  unpopular  verdicts,  occurring  in  tolei 
close  succession,  even  if  right,  tend  to  bring  a 
tinuing  tribunal  into  contempt,  and  would  not  the 
dency  be  toward  causing  the  populace  to  sus 
bribery  and  corruption  on  the  part  of  the 
Would  not  every  decision  in  which  there  was 
general  interest,  if  made  contrary  to  an  uninf 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


473 


oiblic  opinion,  whether  right  or  wrong,  by  a  court 
already  unpopular,  add  to  its  unpopularity  ?  I  need 
not  occupy  space  to  show  that  anything  that  tends  to 
Dring  our  courts  into  contempt,  or  to  throw  suspicion 
upon  them,  is  subversive  of  our  institutions. 

When  we  see  what  an  outcry  is  raised  in  one  of  the 
arger  States  of  this  Union  against  its  supreme  court, 
for  deciding  a  question  of  abstract  law,  i.  e.,  whether 
a  certain  proposed  amendment  to  the  State  constitu- 
tion was  legally  adopted  so  as  to  become  a  part  of  that 
constitution,  and  such  decision  was  against  the  wishes 
of  what  claimed  to  be  a  majority  of  the  people  of  the 
State,  and  the  renomination  of  the  Chief  Justice  of 
hat  court  was  successfully  opposed  by  some  of  the 
eading  journals  of  his  own  political  party  for  the 
eason,  openly  avowed,  that  his  decision  on  this  ques- 
ion  was  not  satisfactory,  we  may  well  hesitate  before 
>ve  subject  our  courts  to  the  odium  to  which  they 
certainly  be  subjected  in  doing  their  duty  to 
nen  accused  of  heinous  crimes  and  generally  sus- 
ected  by  the  community  to  be  guilty,  where  there  is 
,ret  no  sufficient  evidence  of  guilt.  And  a  fair-minded 
nan  with  an  average  amount  of  common  sense  has 
ften  but  to  carefully  sit  through  and  watch  an  impor- 
ant  trial  of  this  kind  to  know  how  unjustly  juries  are 
lometimes  abused  by  the  newspapers  and  the  general 
ublic,  for  performing  their  plain  duty  under  the  law 
nd  the  evidence  submitted  to  them. 

Eugene  Lewis. 
MOLINE,  ILL. 

Some   New  Inventions. 

A  DESCRIPTION  was  given  in  this  magazine  some 
lonths  since  of  a  new  design  in  steam-ship  construe- 
on,  with  a  promise  of  further  information  when  the 
esign   was    realized    in    actual    practice.     A    small 
teamer,  built  to  test  this  design,  has  been  launched, 
nd  from  an  examination  of  the  vessel  in  dock  at  East 
Joston  a  note  may  be  made  of  the  present  position  of 
he  experiment.    The   objects   sought   appear   to    be 
(peed  and  safety.   To  insure  these,  the  hull  is  extremely 
lharp  and  built  upon  very  fine  lines,  the  boat  being 
}ery  long  and  narrow,  and  with  the  greatest  width 
bmewhat  in  advance  of  the  center.    The  upper  part 
f  the  vessel   is   rounded,  beginning  just  above  the 
rater-line,  the  sides  bending  inward  and  meeting  in 
:ie  center  in  the  form  of  a  low  arch  slightly  flattened 
i  the  middle.    To  give  the  ship  this  peculiar  form,  the 
;bs  are  continuous  from  the  keel  upward  and  over 
he  deck,  the  outer  skin  being  carried  directly  over 
|ie  top  of  the  vessel.    On  the  deck  is  a  small  wheel- 
puse,  with  a  dome-shaped  roof  of  heavy  glass,  one  or 
vo  hatchways,   and  the   two  smoke-stacks.    A  light 
idling  serves  as  a  guard  round  the  narrow  deck,  and, 
eyond  the  ventilators  and  sky-lights,  there  is  nothing 
(ore  visible  on  the  outside.    This  peculiar  form  is  in- 
,nded  to  give  great  strength  to  resist  the  shock  and 
"eight  of  water  falling  on  the  deck  as  the  vessel  is 
reed   through   the    waves.    It   is    thought   the   hull 
ill  plunge  through  the  waves  instead  of  riding  over 
jem,  and  that  in  rough  water  the  deck  will  be  often 
^ept  by  heavy  seas   that,  finding  no  hold,  will  sim- 
(y  roll  off  without   inflicting  damage  or  materially 
'.ecking  the  headway.    How  far  this  interesting  the- 
<y  may  prove   correct,  exoeriment  can  alone  decide. 
it  the  present  writing  nothing  has  been  done.     This 


is  explained  by  an  apparent  failure  of  the  motive- 
power  put  into  the  vessel.  Suitable  boilers  and  en- 
gines are  to  be  provided,  and  the  tests  will  be  made 
upon  a  complete  and  thorough  scale.  The  vessel  as  it 
now  stands  certainly  presents  an  admirable  opportunity 
to  conduct  what  might  be  called  physical  research  in  the 
field  of  navigation,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  when  the 
new  engines  are  complete  something  of  value  may  be 
added  to  the  science  of  ship-building. 

Objections  are  sometimes  raised  against  the  study  of 
mechanics  by  girls  as  being,  in  a  general  way,  useless, 
seeing  tha't  the  feminine  mind  is  not  inventive.  To  the 
mechanical  mind  this  objection  has  a  certain  flavor  of 
decayed  absurdity,  a  mingled  air  of  ignorance  and 
prejudice.  How  shall  the  bird  fly  if  it  is  born  and 
reared  in  a  cage  ?  The  most  valuable  mental  faculty 
in  invention  is  imagination.  Women  certainly  have 
that.  The  trouble  is  not  that  they  cannot  invent,  but 
that  they  have  not  imagined  the  necessity  of  an  inven- 
tion. One  of  the  greatest  of  American  inventors 
could  construct  complete  in  his  mind  a  working  car- 
pet-loom, and  then  make  the  drawings  and  build  the 
loom,  and  it  would  at  once  make  such  carpets  as  he 
saw  in  his  mind.  Given  imagination,  there  need  be 
only  a  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  mechanics,  patience, 
and  work.  These  are  the  essentials  of  invention,  and 
they  are  as  much  feminine  as  masculine.  The  seeing 
a  want  prompts  to  a  lively  imagination  of  a  way  of 
supplying  the  want,  and  this  is  invention.  When 
women  are  educated  to  see  the  relations  of  things  and 
understand  something  of  mechanics,  feminine  inven- 
tions will  follow  quickly  enough.  In  fact,  the  Patent 
Office  reports  already  contain  a  very  considerable 
number  of  patents  issued  to  women,  some  of  which 
have  proved  of  great  commercial  value. 

One  of  the  two  exhibitions  recently  opened  in  Bos- 
ton devoted  liberal  space  for  the  display  of  work  by 
women  and  girls.  From  an  examination  of  this  dis- 
play, something  may  be  learned  of  the  more  recent 
inventions  brought  to  a  practical  commercial  position 
by  women.  The  list  is  small,  but  suggestive,  as  it  in- 
cludes such  diverse  subjects  as  iron  castings,  bronze 
bearings  for  journals,  and  improved  furniture.  The 
only  criticism  that  can  be  made  against  the  display  as- 
sumes the  form  of  a  regret  that  what  seems  to  be  a 
really  good  alloy,  that  has  stood  the  severe  test  of  regu- 
lar work  in  heavy  machinery,  should  not  be  boldly  put 
with  the  machine  tools  in  another  part  of  the  exhibition, 
where  it  would  be  seen  of  men.  In  the  "  woman's  de- 
partment" it  is  half  smothered  by  the  Kensington 
stitch.  Among  the  inventions  patented  and  exhibited  by 
women,  may  be  mentioned  a  few  that  seem  to  indicate 
a  clear  knowledge  of  what  is  wanted  and  the  wit  and 
skill  to  supply  the  want.  A  trunk  with  a  tray  has  the 
objection  that,  if  a  dress  is  laid  in  the  tray  and  it  does 
not  fill  it  to  the  top  of  the  cover,  the  garment  will  not 
stow  well,  and  if  the  trunk  is  turned  over  it  will  be 
injured.  To  obviate  this,  an  improved  tray  is  shown, 
having  a  canvas  bottom  with  straps  and  pockets,  and 
arranged  in  such  a  way  that  it  can  be  placed  in  any 
position  in  the  trunk  and  securely  fastened  there. 
The  garment  is  placed  in  the  tray  and  pinned  to  the 
canvas  or  fastened  by  the  straps,  and  then,  if  the  trunk 
is  turned  over,  it  cannot  get  out  of  place  nor  be  thrown 
about,  even  if  the  trunk  is  half  empty.  In  furniture 
three  exhibits  are  made  by  women.  One  of  these  is  a 


474 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


bedstead  with  the  space  under  the  mattress  utilized  as  a 
bureau,  a  number  of  drawers  being  provided  on  each 
side,  the  exhibit  showing  considerable  skill  in  design- 
ing cabinet  work.  Allied  to  this  is  a  large  arm- 
chair for  school-teachers,  with  smaller  chairs  arranged 
under  the  seat  in  the  manner  of  drawers,  and  designed 
to  be  drawn  out  to  give  seats  for  children  who,  in  the 
discipline  of  school  life,  must  "sit  with  teacher."  A 
bureau  is  shown,  having  apparently  two  sets  of  draw- 
ers. One  of  these  is  false  and  opens  as  a  cupboard 
door.  Within  is  a  shelf  that  may  be  drawn  out,  and 
is  intended  to  support  a  washing-bowl,  while  the 
space  below  is  for  the  water-jar.  These  three  exhibits 
clearly  indicate  the  pressing  necessity  for  economy  of 
space  in  domestic  life  in  city  tenements  and  apart- 
ments, and  will,  no  doubt,  fill  a  want  and  find  a  mar- 
ket.  The  most  profitable  patents  are  often  those  that 
seem  the  most  simple  and  commonplace.  Perhaps  the 
most  promising  design  by  a  woman  is  an  adjustable 
book-cover.  Every  one  is  familiar  with  the  art  of 
covering  books  with  paper,  but  no  one  before  seems 
to  have  hit  upon  the  happy  thought  of  a  locking  de- 
vice that  will  keep  the  paper  shield  always  firmly  in 
position  without  the  aid  of  paste.  The  idea  was 
plainly  suggested  by  the  many  forms  of  locking  paper 
boxes,  and  it  will,  no  doubt,  prove  quite  as  valuable 
in  a  commercial  sense.  An  improved  stove-grate,  un- 
fortunately not  shown  in  position,  a  new  oil-stove 
showing  a  clear  understanding  of  the  theory  of  this 
class  of  stoves,  a  new  glaze  for  pottery,  a  new  life- 
preserver,  and  a  new  plastic  material  that  may  be 
used  as  a  substitute  for  clay  are  also  exhibited  by 
women.  In  practical  scientific  work  there  is  also  a 
creditable  display  of  chemicals  and  dye-stuffs,  all  by 
women.  These  are  only  a  few  of  the  exhibits  made 
by  women  that  depart  in  any  degree  from  the  conven- 
tional needle-work,  and  they  are  worthy  of  notice  for 
two  reasons :  they  indicate  an  effort  to  grasp  the 
wants  of  the  world  and  a  right  understanding  of 
means  to  ends ;  and  they  also  show  that  there  is  a 
steady  widening  of  the  field  in  which  women  may  find 
profitable  employment. 

The  increasing  attention  given  to  outdoor  life  and 
sports  has  naturally  led  to  the  introduction  of  im- 
proved appliances  for  comfort  or  convenience  in  fields 
and  woods.  In  boats,  tents,  and  camping  facilities  this 
is  specially  noticeable.  American  canoes  and  travel- 
ing boats  have  exhibited  several  new  types,  some  of 
which  have  been  described  in  this  magazine.  Of  late, 
attention  seems  to  be  given  more  to  camping  facilities. 
Among  these  is  a  tent  of  the  common  A  shape,  having 
rounded  ends  completely  closed,  and  movable  sides, 
which  may  be  raised  so  as  to  make  it  by  day  in 
good  weather  into  a  large  dining  or  shelter  tent,  fully 
open  to  the  air ;  while  at  night  or  in  rough  weather  one 
or  both  of  the  sides  may  be  let  down,  closing  the  tent 
either  partially  or  completely,  one  loose  corner  making 
a  door  when  required.  Another  device  consists  of  a 
lawn  seat  with  a  canopy  or  sun-shade,  that  may  be 
turned  into  a  single  bed  with  a  small,  low  tent  over 
it  for  camp  use.  In  camp  furniture  a  new  outfit,  con- 
sisting of  six  chairs,  two  beds,  and  one  table,  may  de- 
serve attention,  as  all  these  pieces  are  designed  to  be 
packed  into  one  trunk  of  medium  size.  The  outfit 
examined  seemed  to  be  strong  and  well  made,  and  very 
neatly  and  compactly  fitted  to  the  trunk. 


An   invention  has  just  been  brought    out  in  this 
country  as  a  substitute  for  stained  glass.     In  stained 
glass,  each  piece  of  glass,  in  the  mosaic  that  forms  the 
design  or  picture,  must  be  inclosed  in  the  lead  sash  or 
"leads."  These  lines  of  leads  cross  the  window  in  every  ' 
direction,  and  often  greatly  mar  the  effect  of  the  design.  ' 
In  the  new  method  of  treating  window   glass  there 
are  the  same  leads,  but  they  are  used  in  a  manner 
that  is  not  possible  in  stained  glass,  and  for  a  wholly 
different  reason.    The  method  of  preparing  the  glass 
is   quite   simple.    A   suitable    design    is  prepared  in 
colors,  and  in  its  treatment  there  may  be  the  greatest 
freedom,  as  the  leads  that  follow  the  main  lines  of  the 
design  or  picture  are  merely  the  divisions   between 
the  colors.    Over  the  pattern  is  laid  a  sheet  of  clear 
glass.   A  composition  that  melts  only  at  a  high  tem- 
perature is  then  placed  in  a  tube  having  a  cone  at  the 
lower   end  and   a  small   opening  at  the  point.    The 
heated    composition   flows    through   this,   like   pain! 
from  a  color  tube,  and  is  allowed  to  fall  on  the  glass 
over  the  pattern,  where  it  leaves  a  raised  line  that  in- 
stantly hardens  and  clings  firmly  to  the  glass.    With 
this  fluid  pencil   the  main  lines  of  the   pattern  art 
drawn  on  the  glass,  making  the  leads  of  the  future 
work,  and  marking  the  divisions  of  the  colors.    It  i< 
plain  that,  in  the  hands  of  the  designer,  a  picture 
pattern,  or  geometrical  design  can  thus  be  drawn  di 
rectly  in  free-hand  on  the  glass,  which  is  a  wholb 
novel  method  of  treatment.    The  lines  of  the  patten 
having  been  drawn  in  the  hot  composition,  the  nex 
step  follows  at  once.    Each  of  the  spaces  between  th> 
leads  is  then  filled  in  with  a  colored  composition  tha 
sets  quickly  and  forms  a  transparent  or  translucen 
adherent  film  on  the  glass.    In  about  forty-eight  hour 
this  coloring  material  is  dry  and  hard,  and  when  var 
nished  will  stand  washing  and  all  ordinary  tempera 
tures.    The  finished  work  examined  appeared  to  give 
closer  imitation  of  stained  glass   than  anything  ye 
produced.    The  colors  are  pure  and  strong,  and  th 
designs  showed  a  degree  of  freedom  not  before  ot 
tained  in  any  decorative  treatment  of  glass.    The  ir 
vention  is  worthy  of  examination  chiefly  on  accour 
of  this  very  freedom,  as  any  design  or  picture  can  h 
drawn  on  the  glass  and  reproduced  in  transparer 
colors.    The  cost  is  said  to  be  about  one  half  that  o 
the  cheaper  forms  of  stained  glass. 


Charles  Barnard. 


Free  Trade  with  Canada. 

IN  the  July  number  of  THE  CENTURY  appeare 
an  interesting  article  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Watso 
Griffin  on  the  above  subject.  For  us  Canadians 
possessed  a  peculiar  value,  indicating  as  it  did  tl. 
opinion  of  a  well-informed  and  thoughtful  America 
on  the  trade  relations  between  the  two  countries.  ] 
a  certain  degree  it  was  also  flattering  to  Canada,  M 
Griffin  freely  recognizing  the  boundless  resources  < 
the  Dominion  and  the  rapid  strides  toward  prosperi 
made  in  the  past  few  years.  Dealing  with  the  qi :.e 
tion  of  reciprocity,  Mr.  Griffin  has  presented  us  v  i 
an  American  view  —  how  widely  entertained  I  krc 
not  —  of  the  trade  relationship  between  Canada  ;u 
the  United  States.  He  urges  on  his  fellow-coun  r 
men  to  turn  their  attention  to  the  land  so  rapid 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


475 


ining  in  wealth  and  strength  immediately  on  their 
Drders,  and  before  it  is  too  late  to  secure  better  terms 
ith  a  market  which  would  repay  them  a  hundred-fold. 
;e  readily  sees  the  immense  advantages  which  would 
icrue  to  the  United  States  were  the  "  tariff  wall"  re- 
oved,  and  the  corresponding  injury  done  to  Canadian 
ade,  and  he  candidly  acknowledges  that  Canada 
ould  suffer  as  the  United  States  would  gain  by  a 
itiprocity  treaty.  Winnipeg  would  be  forced  into 
mipetition  with  Chicago,  St.  Paul,  and  Minneapolis, 
id,  in  Mr.  Griffin's  own  words,  a  certain  blow  would 
e  struck  at  its  future  greatness.  Continuing,  he  con- 
sses  that  the  growth  of  eastern  Canada  would  be 
eatly  retarded,  and  that  were  free  trade  established 
etween  the  two  countries  the  United  States  would 
the  lion's  share  of  the  advantages.  But  Mr. 
riffin  has  a  most  peculiar  view  of "  the  eternal  fit- 
ess  of  things,"  to  use  an  Americanism.  He  coolly 
scusses  the  probabilities  of  the  Canadian  people 
Dreeing  to  reciprocity,  and,  without  showing  any 
[equate  results  to  be  gained  by  them,  concludes  that 
ey  would  accept  it !  No  new  markets  opened  up  to 
,  no  impetus  to  our  manufactures,  no  demand  for 
ur  products,  our  rising  industries  crushed  in  the 
iid,  and  our  country  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  a  pure 
d  disinterested  affection.  But  we  are  an  eminently 
actical  people,  and  without  some  corresponding 
ain  would  hardly  be  inclined  thus  to  lay  bare  our 
arkets  and  expose  our  industries.  Once  on  a  time, 
ot  so  very  long  ago  either,  we  would  gladly  have 
cepted  reciprocity,  but  the  Federal  Government  at 
Washington  saw  fit  to  reject  our  advances.  It  was 
le  best  thing  the  United  States  ever  did  for  us — the 
lost  fortunate  event  which  has  happened  to  Canada 
nee  confederation.  In  self-defense  we  were  forced 
>  retaliate ;  but  what  was  once  a  mere  means  of  pro- 
;ction  has  now  become  to  us  a  tower  of  strength, 
nder  the  National  Policy,  the  "  tariff  wall "  of  which 
jlr.  Griffin  writes,  Canada  has  suddenly  sprung  from 


nation  there  was  a  feeling  of  relief.  And  how  that 
foresight  has  been  verified  needs  but  a  glance  at  the 
Canada  of  to-day.  In  1881  her  trade  in  proportion  to 
her  population  exceeded  that  of  the  United  States, 
and  her  shipping  likewise  in  proportion  was  more 
than  four  times  as  great,  while  the  volume  of  trade 
had  increased  from  $130,000,000  in  1868  to  $210,000,- 
ooo  in  1882.  The  abrogation  of  the  treaty  forced  her 
to  find  new  markets,  and  to-day  she  enjoys  the  best 
of  trade  relations  with  the  commercial  countries  of 
the  globe.  Her  trade  demanded  new  outlets ;  direct 
steam  communication  has  been  opened  with  France 
and  Brazil ;  her  products  find  a  ready  sale  in  South 
America,  and  the  business  done  with  the  West  Indies 
has  more  than  quadrupled.  The  increase  of  immigra- 
tion in  1882  was  one  hundred  and  ninety  per  cent, 
over  that  of  1880,  and  sixty-five  per  cent,  over  that  of 
1 88 1,  while  the  increase  in  the  United  States  in  1882 
was  only  three  and  a  half  per  cent,  more  than  the 
previous  year.  And  while  these  statistics  give  us 
every  encouragement  as  a  growing  people,  still  they 
show  us  our  youth  as  a  nation,  being  barely  sixteen 
years  of  age,  alongside  the  one  hundred  and  six 
which  have  elapsed  since  the  signing  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  The  growth  of  Canada  has 
been  rapid  since  confederation,  the  intellect  of  the 
Dominion  keeping  pace  with  its  progress  as  a  State. 
In  a  speech  recently  made  by  Lord  Dufferin  at  the 
Empire  Club,  London,  he  stated  that,  in  his  opinion, 
the  population  of  Canada  at  the  close  of  the  next 
century  would  be  forty  millions.  That,  however,  is 
but  a  moderate  estimate. 

Mr.  Griffin  writes  that  in  the  recent  elections,  in 
which  the  National  Policy  was  the  question  at  issue, 
many  of  those  who  voted  for  it  did  so  merely  with  a 
view  of  forcing  the  United  States,  by  retaliation,  to  en- 
tertain the  idea  of  reciprocity;  that  in  negotiations 
for  free  trade,  Americans  could  rely  upon  the  full  sup- 
port of  the  Reformers  with  a  liberal  sprinkling  of  Con- 


outh  to  young  and  sturdy  manhood.  Self-dependence  servatives ;  and  that  as  many  of  the  Conservative  mem- 
as  been  taught  her ;  she  gives  employment  to  her  own  bers  were  elected  by  small  majorities,  a  slight  change 
outh  —  no  longer  annually  sending  them  away ; 
iidustries  that  were  never  dreamt  of  have  come  into 
xistence,  and  she  is  on  the  opening  of  a  career  bright 
"ith  every  promise.  We  are  not  a  particularly  vision- 
;y  people,  but  we  have  faith  in  our  country.  Perhaps 
!  lies  not  on  the  surface  and  is  not  readily  seen,  but 
!  is  implanted  deep  and  strong  in  the  hearts  of  the 
feople.  Despite  Mr.  Griffin's  opinion  to  the  contrary, 
lie  Canadians  have  every  trust  in  their  National 
olicy.  Since  its  introduction  in  1879,  Canada  has 
iade  unexampled  progress.  A  land  rich  and  fertile 
the  verge  of  unbelief,  o  which  Canadians  them- 
:lves  knew  but  little,  has  been  opened  up,  trade  with 
j>reign  countries  has  increased  to  an  enormous  ex- 
bt,  the  people  of  the  different  provinces  have  been 
(rawn  into  closer  connection,  and  a  new  impetus  has 
jsen  given  the  varied  interests  of  the  country. 
I  Canada,  on  the  whole,  gladly  accepted  the  Reciproc- 
jy  Treaty  in  1854,  throwing  open  her  priceless  fish- 
Hes  in  return  for  the  manufactured  products  of  her 
pighbor.  But  even  then  there  was  disappointment 
pd  grumbling  in  the  provinces  by  the  sea.  And 
hen  the  treaty  expired,  and  the  United  States  re- 


in public  sentiment  might  make  a  great  change  in  par- 
liamentary representation.  This  is  certainly  a  sur- 
prising statementfrom  one  apparently  so  well  informed 
as  Mr.  Griffin.  Does  he  imagine  that  the  Reformers 
would  readily  play  into  the  hands  of  the  Americans — 
cheerfully  throw  open  the  markets  of  their  country 
for  the  surplus  products  of  the  United  States  ?  He 
should  know  that  our  political  institutions  are  suffi- 
ciently democratic  to  allow  the  people  to  have  some- 
thing  to  say  in  such  matters.  It  is  they  who  say 
whether  we  shall  have  free  trade  or  protection.  And 
Mr.  Griffin's  notions  of  our  political  men  must  indeed 
be  crude.  Were  the  Conservative  party  defeated  to- 
morrow, there  would  be  but  few  changes  made  in  their 
policy  by  the  Liberals.  For  the  policy  is  not  a  cast- 
iron  one;  it  is  regulated  and  moderated  as  the  trade  of 
the  country  demands,  building  up  our  industries,  and 
discouraging  all  species  of  monopoly.  Many  of  the 
Reform  party  support  it  as  a  general  measure.  But 
Mr.  Griffin  makes  the  greatest  mistake  when  he  thinks 
that  a  slight  change  in  public  sentiment  would  make  a 
great  change  in  parliamentary  representation,  and  that 
free  trade  with  the  United  States  would  be  the  result. 


hold 
jrto  the  future  and  saw  the  destiny  awaiting  the  young     seats   by  narrow  majorities   as    Conservatives. 


iised  all  offers  of  renewal,  among  those  who  looked     Fully  as   many,    if  not  more,  Reformers 


their 
The 


476 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


great  mass  of  the  people  in  the  Dominion  support  the 
Liberal  Conservative  party.  They  have  a  majority 
ijot  only  in  parliamentary  representation,  but  also  of 
the  entire  vote  cast  in  every  province  but  one,  and  it 
would  take  a  very  powerful  and  complicated  combina- 
tion of  circumstances  to  oust  them  from  their  position. 
Time  alone  will  solve  the  question  which  Mr.  Griffin 
imagines  is  in  the  power  of  the  Reform  party,  and 
which  he  considers  they  are  only  too  eager  to  effect. 
The  day  of  reciprocity  has  gone  by ;  we  were  taught 
a  severe  lesson  once,  and  we  have  profited  by  it,  and 
though  at  some  future  time  the  "  tariff  wall  "  may  be 
lessened,  for  the  present  Canada  is  content  with  mat- 
ters as  they  are. 

J.  Fred.  Harley. 


Joseph  Jefferson   as  "  Caleb   Plummer." 

THE  actor  who  permits  himself  to  become  identified 
with  one  impersonation  imperils  his  artistic  fame,  how- 
ever excellent  as  a  work  of  art  that  impersonation  may 
be.  The  reason  of  this  is  obvious.  The  public,  which 
never  looks  below  the  surface,  first  learns  to  imagine 
that  the  man  who  plays  only  one  part  can  play  no 
other,  and  then,  having  studied  and  enjoyed  each  look, 
gesture,  and  vocal  modulation  which  made  the  original 
characterization  famous,  is  prompt,  when  the  actor  ap- 
pears in  a  new  guise,  to  recognize  everything,  however 
insignificant,  which  is  familiar,  and  consider  it  evidence 
of  his  lack  of  versatility,  without  giving  him  credit  for 
the  many  instances  wherein  that  very  gift  of  versatility 
is  shown  most  clearly.  Shallowness  of  this  kind  is  to 
be  expected  on  the  part  of  the  general  mass  of  theater- 
goers, who  never  think  of  the  means  so  long  as  there- 
suit  is  pleasing,  and  care  more  for  the  personality  of  the 
player  than  for  his  art ;  but  is  surprising  when  exhib- 
ited in  the  judgment  of  persons  professing  themselves 
to  be  thoughtful  observers.  And  yet  there  is  nothing 
more  common  in  the  current  dramatic  criticism  of  the 
day  than  the  tendency  to  pronounce  general  condemna- 
tions of  the  work  of  even  the  most  competent  actors  on 
the  score  of  their  "  mannerisms,"  without  vouchsafing 
any  consideration  to  artistic  merits  which  atone  hand- 
somely for  many  minor  defects. 

It  is  plain  that  in  many  cases  the  word  "  manner- 
ism" is  used  without  the  least  comprehension  of  the 
only  meaning  which  it  can  have  legitimately  in  dramatic 
criticism.  An  actor,  being  after  all  only  a  man,  cannot 
be  blamed  because  he  does  not  possess  supernatural 
attributes.  It  is  manifestly  impossible  for  him  to 
change  at  will  the  physical  characteristics  which  nat- 
ure gave  him  to  distinguish  him  from  his  fellow  mor- 
tals. His  figure,  his  carriage,  his  speech,  his  features, 
although  they  may  be  greatly  disguised  by  theatrical 
device,  impose  certain  arbitrary  limitations  in  the  way 
of  impersonation ;  and  to  hold  him  artistically  responsi- 
ble for  these  would  be  just  as  reasonable  as  to  denounce 
him  for  not  having  been  born  somebody  else.  The  re- 
proach of  "  mannerism  "  is  not,  therefore,  necessarily 
applicable  to  the  actor  who  fails  to  conceal  his  own 
identity  (for  that  identity  may  be,  and  often  is,  ex- 
quisitely appropriate  to  the  stage  character) ;  but  to 
the  actor  who,  through  ignorance,  incapacity,  or  con- 
ceit, is  the  slave  of  violent,  absurd,  and  inartistic 
habits,  which  are  foreign  to  his  natural  behavior,  and 


are  displayed  in  every  character  he  undertakes,  froir 
Romeo  to  Caliban. 

There  have  been  few  more  delightful  examples  of 
the  art  of  the  skilled  comedian  in  this  generation  thar 
that  furnished  in  the  Caleb  Plummer  of  Mr.  Joseph 
Jefferson,  witnessed  in  the  Union  Square  Theater 
Nevertheless,  many  of  the  critics  of  the  daily  press 
while  admitting  its  charm  and  its  effect  upon  th< 
spectators,  found  fault  with  it  because  it  remindec 
them  at  times  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  reproducec 
certain  little  tricks  of  Mr.  Jefferson's  own  manner 
It  would  have  been  ^rnost  miraculous  if  it  had  not 
and  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  this  performance  is  no  les 
remarkable  for  the  versatility  which  it  displays  thai 
foi  its  extraordinary  mastery  of  theatrical  resource 
That  in  it  Mr.  Jefferson  occasionally  awakens  reminis 
cences  both  of  Rip  and  of  himself  is  indisputable ;  bu 
what  then?  No  actor  ever  did  or  ever  will  attaii' 
artistic  eminence,  without  embodying  in  his  best  im 
personations  some  of  his  own  personal  characteristics 
for  the  simple  reason  that  only  men  of  strong  individu 
ality  (in  one  direction  or  another)  and  with  markec 
personal  or  mental  traits  can  ever  hope  to  compre 
hend  or  express  the  emotions,  whether  of  joy  or  sor 
row,  which  impart  life  and  reality  to  the  dramati 
fiction.  It  does  not  follow  at  all  that  the  great  actor 
either  in  tragedy  or  comedy,  should  be  dominated  b; 
the  emotions  which  he  simulates, —  this,  indeed,  is  no 
commonly  the  case, —  but  simply  that  there  must  be  ii 
his  own  nature  a. chord  which  is  capable  of  stirring  ii 
response  to  the  feigned  joys  or  woes  to  be  portrayed 
If  any  one,  after  witnessing  Mr.  Jefferson's  Caleb,  v.il 
take  the  trouble  to  read  carefully  Dickens's  beautifu 
little  story  of  "  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  he  wil 
find  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  of  this  theor 
in  the  radical  difference  between  the  author's  concep 
tion  of  the  old  toy-maker  and  the  actor's  exposition  o 
it.  There  is  not  a  trace  in  Mr.  Jefferson's  Caleb  of  th 
dull,  vacant,  hopeless  depression  which  the  novelis 
paints  with  so  pathetic  a  touch.  He  has  not  the  dul 
eye  and  vacuous  manner  which  tell  of  a  spirit  crushei 
by  perpetual  and  remediless  misery,  because  there  i 
not  in  the  comedian  himself  any  sympathy  with  thi 
particular  phase  of  human  nature.  Hi.-,  own  tempera 
ment  is  buoyant,  hopeful,  placid,  and  sunny,  and  h 
naturally — it  might  be  said,  necessarily  —  invest 
Caleb  with  some  of  his  own  brightness  and  humor 
He  effects  this,  too,  without  robbing  the  part  of  an 
.  of  its  exquisite  pathos.  He  even  heightens  the  colo 
of  the  picture  by  the  artistic  employment  of  contrast 
The  scene  with  the  blind  Bertha  and  Tackleton  woul  • 
not  be  half  so  touching  and  suggestive  as  it  is,  if  th 
pitiful  anxiety  and  wistful  tenderness  of  Caleb  at  thi 
juncture  were  not  emphasized  by  the  memory  of  th 
childlike  mirth  and  simple  gayety  of  his  meeting  wit 
Peerybinglc,  in  the  preceding  scene.  This  old  man,  s 
ragged,  cold,  and  timid,  with  his  grateful  appreciate 
of  a  "kind  word, — his  bustling,  nervous  efforts  to  b 
of  some  assistance, —  his  beaming  smile,  playin 
around  the  pinched  and  drawn  old  lips, —  his  bri£;l: 
eye,  now  beaming  with  merriment,  now  eloquent  w  t 
love  or  commiseration, — is  a  creation  so  absolut^l 
human  and  real  that,  for  the  moment,  all  sense  of  th 
wonderful  skill  which  creates  the  illusion  is  lost. 

The  full  extent  of  that  skill  may  be  appreciate 
best  by  comparing  this  study  of  Caleb  with 


th  that  o 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


477 


ip,  and  noting,  not  the  occasional  intonation,  the 
irious  little  gasp,  and  other  trifling  points  common 

both  impersonations,  but  the  radical  differences 
hich  exist  between  them.  These  are  to  be  found, 
:>t  in  the  variety  of  costume  only, —  the  only  pretense 
'  versatility  afforded  by  the  ordinary  hack-actor  of 
e  day, —  but  in  the  man  himself,  in  his  walk,  in  his 
:stures,  in  his  carriage,  in  his  address,  in  his  voice, 
id  in  his  laugh.  The  only  constant  point  of  resem- 
ance  between  the  two  men  is  in  the  matter  of  age. 
i  all  other  respects  they  are  as  opposite  as  the  poles, 
here  is  nothing  in  common  between  the  reckless  and 
Lameless,  if  fascinating,  jollity  of  Kip  and  the  sweet, 
jiselfish,  indomitable  cheerfulness  of  Caleb,  or  be- 
Lreen  the  methods  which  throw  a  glamour  of  poetry 
id  romance  about  the  forlorn  and  forgotten  reveler 
id  those  which  are  so  infinitely  pathetic  in  the  case 

the  old  toy-maker.  On  the  one  hand,  a  detestable 
aracter  is  endowed  with  irresistible  charm  by  the 
eer  force  of  poetic  imagination ;  and  on  the  other,  a 
ture  of  a  type  at  once  the  simplest  and  the  highest 
portrayed  with  a  truth  which  is  as  masterly  as  it  is 
ecting.  There  is  nothing  in  "Rip  Van  Winkle" 
ore  touching  than  those  scenes  where  Caleb  listens 
lile  Dot  reveals  to  Bertha  the  story  of  his  noble 
:ceit,  and  where  he  recognizes  the  son  whom  he 
:emed  lost  in  "the  golden  South  Americas."  The 
ay  of  emotion  on  Mr.  Jefferson's  face  at  the  moment 

recognition,  as  wonderment,  doubt,  and  hope  are 
.cceeded  by  certainty  and  rapturous  joy, —  his  depre- 
tory,  spasmodic  action  as  he  turns  away  from 
lat  he  evidently  fears  is  a  delusion  of  the  senses, — 
d  his  final  rush  into  the  arms  of  his  son, —  are 
umphs  of  the  highest  kind.  Here  the  actor  is  lost 

the  fictitious  character,  and  the  simulation  becomes 
i  actual  impersonation,  which  is  the  highest  possible 
amatic  achievement. 

It  would  be  easy  to  dilate,  if  space  permitted,  on 
e  beauty  of  the  merely  mechanical  as  opposed  to  the 
iritual  part  of  this  performance.  The  fineness  of  the 
ish,  noticeable  in  all  Mr.  Jefferson's  creations,  is 
jually  remarkable  in  this.  The  minutest  "business  " 
i  transacted  with  a  neatness  and  precision  which 
mid  not  easily  be  surpassed.  Nowhere  is  there  a 
jjn  of  premeditation  or  design ;  all  is  done  simply, 
Rurally,  and  without  strain.  The  methods  employed 
je  those  of  comedy,  and  he  never  once  permits  him- 
ilf  to  fall  into  extravagance  except  in  his  manner  of 
issing  Tilly  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  The  indiscre- 
|>n  here  is  small  perhaps,  but  it  is  a  blot  on  a  most 
flightful  picture,  which  ought  not  to  remain.  It  is 
|ily  in  works  of  the  rarest  excellence  that  the  smallest 
•emishes  are  serious. 

iThis  impersonation  would  place  Mr.  Jefferson  at 
|e  head  of  contemporary  comedians  if  he  had  never 
.en  seen  in  other  parts,  and  is  an  unanswerable  proof, 
jany  were  needed,  of  the  great  range  of  his  powers. 


Jefferson  Davis  and  General  Holt. 


IN  THE  CENTURY  for  November  is  an  article,  "  The 
Capture  of  Jefferson  Davis,"  by  Mr.  Burton  N.  Har- 
rison. The  following  phrases  and  sentences  are  to 
be  found  in  this  article :  In  a  note  by  the  author,  on 
page  1 36  of  the  magazine:  "  *  *  *  The  scheme 
of  Stanton  and  Holt  to  fasten  upon  Mr.  Davis  charges 
of  a  guilty  foreknowledge  of,  if  not  participation  in, 
the  murder  of  Mr.  Lincoln."  And  in  the  text,  on 
page  145 :  "  Stanton  and  Holt,  lawyers  both,  very 
well  knew  that  Mr.  Davis  could  never  be  convicted 
on  an  indictment  for  treason,  but  were  determined 
to  hang  him  anyhow,  and  were  in  search  of  a  pre- 
text for  doing  so.  *  *  *  To  have  been  a  pris- 
oner in  the  hands  of  the  Government  of  the  United 
States,  and  not  to  have  been  brought  to  trial  upon  any 
of  the  charges  against  him,  is  sufficient  refutation  of 
them  all.  It  indicates  that  the  people  in  Washington 
knew  the  accusations  could  not  be  sustained." 

Now,  I  can  safely  leave  the  defense  of  Secretary 
Stanton  to  abler  pens  than  mine.  But  I  hold — con- 
trary, I  know,  to  the  usual  opinion  —  that  the  dead, 
whose  time  of  action  is  past,  stand  less  in  need  of 
vindication  than  the  living.  Therefore,  I  wish  to 
speak  as  to  the  charges  made  by  Mr.  Harrison 
against  General  Holt;  yet  not  with  my  own  mouth; 
for  it  strikes  me  that  the  fitting  answer  to  them  is 
found  in  General  Holt's  own  statement  concerning 
another  matter,  published  within  the  month,  but  be- 
fore Mr.  Harrison's  paper  was  given  to  the  public. 

General  Holt,  in  this  statement  (a  reply,  in  the  form 
of  a  letter  published  in  the  "  Philadelphia  Press,"  under 
the  date  of  October  8th,  to  an  attack  upon  him  by  the 
ex-conspirator,  Mr.  Jacob  Thompson),  speaks  as  fol- 
lows concerning  the  actions  of  a  certain  Sanford  Con- 
over,  first  known  to  the  General  and  the  public  as  a 
witness  in  the  trial  of  the  assassins  of  President  Lin- 
coln (though  Conover's  testimony  concerned  not 
those  conspirators  executed  for  that  crime,  but  others 
who  were  never  brought  to  trial) : 

"  In  July,  after  the  trial,  Conover  addressed  a 
written  communication  to  me  from  New  York,  of 
which  the  following  is  the  opening  paragraph: 

"  «  NEW- YORK,  July  26,  1865. 
"'BRIG. -GEN.  HOLT: 

"  'Dear  Sir:  Believing  that  I  can  procure  witnesses 
and  documentary  evidence  sufficient  to  convict  Jeff. 
Davis  and  C.  C.  Clay  of  complicity  in  the  assassination 
of  the  President,  and  that  I  can  also  find  and  secure 
John  H.  Surratt,  I  beg  leave  to  tender  the  Government, 
through  you,  my  services  for  these  purposes.  * 

"  On  the  second  of  August  following,"  General 
Holt  continues,  "another  letter  to  the  same  effect, 
but  more  urgent,  was  received  from  him  [Con- 
over],  and,  after  a  conference  with  the  Secretary 
of  War,  with  his  full  approval  the  proposal  was 
accepted,  and  Conover  entered  on  the  fulfillment  of 


would  be  pleasant  to  say  something  of  other  recent    his   engagement.     Some  six  or  seven  months    _____ 
jhievements  of  the  player  who  is  now  renewing  the    occupied  in  this,  and  after  all  the  witnesses  produced 
ptories  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  —  of  his  Bob 
\res    and    his    Golightly  ;    but   the  time  does  not 
We,  and  nothing  remains  but  to  express  the  hope 
U  it  will  not  be  ,ong  before  he  introduces   soL 

re  portraits  from  his  unrivaled  gallery. 


J.  Ranken   Towse. 


by  him  —  none  of  whom  were  known  to  me  —  had 
been  examined,  and  their  depositions  filed  in  the  Bureau 
of  Military  Justice,  Conover,  under  the  supervision  of 

*£&$£'£?£  S  "  l*y  3^' 

deemed  just,  and  no  more,  for  his  services—  such 
sums  as  were  required  for  the  attendance  of  the  wit- 
nesses  themselves  having  been  before  paid  out  from 


478 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


time  to  time.  Conover  himself  gave  no  deposition. 
In  this  there  was  no  departure  from  the  course 
habitually  pursued  by  all  the  departments  of  the 
Government.  *  *  *  At  this  time,  nothing  had 
occurred  to  excite  the  slightest  suspicion  of  Conover's 
integrity  in  all  that  he  had  done,  or  in  the  credibility 
of  his  witnesses.  Some  time  afterward,  two  of  these 
witnesses,  conscience-stricken,  came  and  confessed 
that  they  had  sworn  falsely,  having  been  suborned  to 
do  so  by  Conover.  Investigation  satisfied  me  that 
they  were  sincere  in  their  avowals,  and  without  delay 
appropriate  action  was  taken.  A  prosecution  was  set 
on  foot  against  Conover,  and  he  was  convicted  and 


last  tendency,  in  its  undervaluing  of  the  significance 
of  persons,  and  of  the  mysterious  personal  agency 
which  is  not  to  be  resolved  into  anything  merely  phys- 
ical or  distinct  from  itself,  is  specially  manifest  wher 
the  attempt  is  made  to  explain  the  origin  of  the  Chris-' 
tian  religion.  Here  the  great  originating  cause  is  i 
Person.  Nothing  in  his  environment  suffices  to  ex-J 
plain  him.  Nothing  in  his  antecedents  or  circum- 
stances accounts  for  the  appearance,  then  and  there 
of  an  individual  so  transcendently  gifted,  and  predes 
tined  to  exert  so  transforming  an  influence  on  humai 


sent  to  the  penitentiary  for  perjury  and  subornation    society 

f  *  1  ,1      _      '„       _.T     —11      a1_~.  ,^«*r-     ~****AA  AL-1T1 


of  perjury,  and  on  the  margin  of  all  the  reports  made 
by  me  on  the  depositions  of  the  witnesses  he  had  pro- 
duced, an  indorsement  was  made,  stating  that  the 


Akin  to  the  tendency  which  leads  men  to  dwell  01 
the  history  of  Jesus,  and  to  gather  up  all  that  can  b 
ascertained  respecting  him,  is  the  disposition  to  trac 


depositions  were  withdrawn  and  had  been  discredited.     the  stream  of  consequences  which  have  flowed  fron 

#         #         #         T?rv»-fiTr.«foUr     tlijc   rnrvct    rrmlfv  HprPntmn    WS1S 


Fortunately,  this  most  guilty  deception  was 
discovered  so  soon  that  neither  the  reputation  nor  the 
sensibilities  of  anybody  had  suffered  by  the  temporary 
credit  given  to  it." 

Had  General  Holt  been  maliciously  determined  to 
have  the  life  of  any  one,  would  he  have  acted  thus  ? 
Of  course  not.  He  showed  himself  in  this  affair, 
as  always,  a  most  honorable,  high-minded,  and  just 
man. 

The  Secessionists  will  never  forgive  him,  because, 
being  a  "  Border  man," — a  Kentuckian  by  birth, —  he 
chose  rather  to  remain  true  to  the  Union  than  to 
join  them.  But  no  loyal  person  will  make  this  a 
ground  of  complaint  against  him. 

Loyalist. 
The  Influence  of  Christ.* 

WHO,  after  the  Evangelists,  will  venture  to  write 
the  Life  of  Jesus  ?  This  deprecatory  question  of  Les- 
sing  has  not  prevented,  during  the  last  three  or  four 
decades,  the  composition  of  numerous  biographies  of 
him  whose  career  is  depicted  inimitably  by  the  Four 
Evangelists.  Germany  has  been  most  prolific  of  these 
works.  France  has  produced  one  excellent  book  of 
this  class,  "  The  Life  of  Jesus,"  by  Pressense,  and 
another  famous  writing,  of  a  critical  and  distinctive 
cast,  the  "  Vie  de  Jesus  "  of  M.  Renan.  Even  Scot- 
land, where  the  abstract  discussions  of  theology  have 
still  the  strongest  fascination,  has  made  its  contribu- 
tions to  this  species  of  biographic  writing.  It  is  easy 
to  see  how  the  minds  of  men  are  drawn  away  from 
the  problems  of  dogmatic  theology,  such  as  predes- 
tination and  free  will,  and  fastened  on  the  wonderful 
personality  of  the  Founder.  The  attention  is  drawn 
away  from  the  circumference  to  the  center.  It  is  re- 
markable that  this  vivid  interest  in  the  question, 
"What  think  ye  of  Christ  ?"— this  concentration  of 
thought  on  the  Person  who  gives  to  Christianity  its 
being, —  is  simultaneous  with  a  widespread  tendency, 
rife  in  all"  the  empirical  schools,  to  make  little  of  per- 
sonality and  personal  force,  and  to  make  everything 
of  general  causes  and  impersonal  forces  as  determining 
the  current  of  history.  The  one-sided  character  of  this 

*  Gesta  Christ! ;  or,  A  History  of  Human  Progress  under  Chris- 
tianity. By  Charles  Loring  Brace.  New  York :  A.  C.  Armstrong. 


his  life,  teaching,  and  death.    In  the  mist  of  critica 
conjecture  which  is  thrown  over  certain  portions  o 
the  Evangelical  narratives,  and  the  doubts  which  ai 
flict  many  minds,  it  is  a  relief  to  contemplate  the  veri 
fiable  results  of  the  work  of  Jesus  among  men.    Not 
few  derive  their  profoundest  impressions  of  his  ine) 
fable  power  and  excellence  from  a  close  survey  of  th 
history  of  Christendom.    The  growth  of  the  grain  o 
mustard-seed,  the  spread  of  the  leaven,  have  a  realit 
and  impressiveness  which  the  most  skeptical  mind 
are  capable  of  recognizing.    It  is  one  of  the  best  sen 
ices  which  a  work  like  the  "  Gesta  Christi  "  of  Mi 
Brace  renders  that  it  gives  the  reader  a  fresh  idea  o . 
the  energy,  the  beneficent  energy,  that  resides  in  th . 
religion  of  Christ,  and  emanates  from  him,  accour 
for  it  as  one  may.    Mr.  Brace's  work  confines  itself  ti 
the  various  forms  of  philanthropy  in  which  the  infli 
ence  of  Christ  is  directly  traceable.    He  dwells  on  tt 
mitigation  of  the  excessive  paternal  authority  whic 
prevailed  in  the  ancient  world ;  the  elevation  of  woma 
under  the  benign  and  pure  teaching  of  the  Gospel;  tt 
sanctity  thrown   around  marriage  and   the   domest 
hearthstone;  the  melting  of  the  chains  of  the  bone 
man ;  the  abolition  of  cruel  and  brutal  sports,  like  tf 
contests  of  the  arena;   the  increased  tenderness  f( 
children,  compared  with  the  practice  and  spirit  of  ai 
tiquity ;  the  abandonment  of  the  private  wars  whic 
prevailed  in  the  feudal  ages ;  the  discarding  of  tortui 
and  the  reform  of  criminal  jurisprudence ;  the  subst 
tution  of  arbitration  for  war,  and  the  astonishing  mi 
igation  of  the  horrors  of  war  which  the  spirit  of  humai 
ity  in  modern  times  has  introduced,  etc.    The  effect  ( 
such  a  discussion  depends,  of  course,  on  the  intere 
that  belongs  to  the  illustrative  facts.    One  sees  fro 
such   a  broad   survey  that   there   has  been   steadi , 
operating  a  subtle  and  powerful  influence  which,  whf 
followed  back,  leads  to  the  Cross  of  Christ.    The  tru 
of  the  sacredness  of  humanity,  of  the  dignity  and  wor 
of  every  human  soul,  be  its  outward  condition  nev 
so  humble,  obtained  then  a  permanent  lodgment 
the  human  heart.    There  it  has  been  living  and  acti 
with  an  increasing  efficiency.    Thus   human 
becomes  more  and  more  Christian.    Christ  is  seen,  i 
in   visible  form,  but  in  his    spirit,  incorporated  ii 
men's  thoughts  and  lives. 

George  P.  Fish 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


An  Evening  with  Burns. 

^uggested  by  a  lecture  on  Burns  by  the  Rev.  Principal  Grant, 
if  Queen's  University,  Kingston,  Jan.  23,  1880. 

WITHOUT,  the  "blast  of  Jan  war  wind" 
About  the  building  seemed  to  linger, 

That,  on  a  wintry  night  "  lang  syne," 
«  Blew  hansel  in  "  on  Scotland's  singer. 

,  Within,  we  listened,  soul  attent, 

To  tones  attuned  by  tenderest  feeling; 

1  The  music  of  the  poet's  soul 

Seemed  o'er  our  pulses  softly  stealing. 

We  saw  again  the  plowman  lad, 
As  by  the  banks  of  Ayr  he  wandered, 

With  burning  eyes  and  eager  heart, 
And  first  on  Song  and  Scotland  pondered; 

We  saw  him,  as  from  Nature's  soul 

His  own  drew  draughts  of  joy  o'erflowing: 

The  plower's  voice,  the  brier-rose, 
The  tiny  harebell  lightly  growing, 

The  wounded  hare  that  passed  him  by, 
The  timorous  mousie's  ruined  dwelling, 

The  cattle  cowering  from  the  blast, 
The  dying  sheep  her  sorrows  telling, — 

All  touched  the  heart  that  kept  so  strong 

Its  sympathy  with  humbler  being, 
And  saw  in  simplest  things  of  life 

The  Doetrv  that  waits  the  seeing! 


We  saw  him,  'mid  the  golden  grain, 
Learning  the  oldest  of  romances, 

As  first  his  boyish  pulses  stirred 
"  A  bonnie  lassie's  "  gentle  glances. 


4 


We  saw  the  birk  and  hawthorn  shade 
Droop  o'er  the  tiny,  running  river, 
"  ere  he  and  his  dear  Highland  maid 
poke  their  farewell — alas,  forever! 


There  be  the  poet's  wish  fulfilled, 
That  summer  ever  "langest  tarry," — 

For  all  who  love  the  singer's  song 
Must  love  his  gentle  Highland  Mary ! 

Alas !  that  other  things  than  these 

Were  written  on  the  later  pages 
That  made  that  tortured  soul  of  his 

A  by-word  to  the  after  ages. 

For  many  see  the  damning  sins 

They  lightly  blame  on  slight  acquaintance, 
But  not  the  agony  of  grief 

That  proved  his  passionate  repentance. 

'Twas  his  to  feel  the  anguish  keen 
Of  noblest  powers  to  mortals  given, 

While  tyrant  passions  chained  to  earth 

The  soul  that  might  have  soared  to  heaven. 


'Twas  his  to  feel  in  one  poor  heart 
Such  war  of  fierce  conflicting  feeling 

As  makes  this  life  of  ours  too  sad 
A  mystery  for  our  unsealing;  — 

The  longing  for  the  nobler  course, 
The  doing  of  the  thing  abhorrent, — 

Because  the  lower  impulse  rose 
Resistless  as  a  mountain  torrent, — 

Resistless  to  a  human  will, 

But  not  to  strength  that  had  been  given, 
Had  he  but  grasped  the  anchor  true 

Of  "  correspondence  fixed  wi'  heaven." 

,Ah  well!  he  failed.     Yet  let  us  look 

Through  tears  upon  our  sinning  brother, 

As  thankful  that  we  are  not  called 
To  hold  the  balance  for  each  other  ! 

And  never  lips  than  his  have  pled 

More  tenderly  and  pitifully 
To  leave  the  erring  heart  with  Him 

Who  made  it,  and  will  judge  it  truly. 

Nay,  more,  it  is  no  idle  dream 

That  we  have  heard  a  voice  from  heaven : 
"Behold,  this  heart  hath  loved  much, 

And  much  to  it  shall  be  forgiven!" 

Agnes  Maule  Machar. 


The    Summer    Girl. 

No  more  she'll  stroll  by  moonlight  this   year  upon 

your  arm ; 
She's    gone    to    study  Latin   in   a    spot  well   fenced 

from  harm. 

How  cool  her  muslins  somehow  seemed, —  she  always 

brought  a  breeze; 
And   how   short    she    made    the   evenings   in   those 

walks  beneath  the  trees ! 

I  must  say  it  to  her  credit  that  she  never  lost  her  heart, 
Nor  in  any  piece  of  acting  ever  failed  to  know  her  part. 

For  she   laughed  at   jokes,  no    matter   how  old  and 

stale  and  bad, 
And  she  thought  the  present  company  the  best  she'd 

ever  had. 

Then  she  gave  us  all  her  photograph,  each  the  first 
she  ever  gave : 

"Would  the  recipient  please  be  silent  on  the  sub- 
ject as  the  grave  ?  " 

But  her  art  was  quite  transparent,  and  as  harmless 

as  the  sun, 
And  the  misanthrope  who  shunned  her  did  but  lose 

a  heap  of  fun. 

So,  old  fellow,  ere  we    separate   to  join   the  winter 

whirl, 
Let's  drink  a  parting  bumper  to  that  jolly  summer 

girl. 

W.  H.  A. 


480 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


The   Way  of  It. 


THE  wind  is  awake,  little  leaves,  little  leaves, 
Heed  not  what  he  says  — he  deceives,  he  deceives : 
Over  and  over 
To  the  lowly  clover 
He  has  lisped   the   same  love  and  pledged  himself 

true, 
As  he'll  soon  be  lisping  and  pledging  to  you. 

The  boy  is  abroad,  dainty  maid,  dainty  maid, 
Beware  his  soft  words  —  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid : 

He's  said  them  before 

Times  many  a  score, 
Ay,  he    died   for   a  dozen   ere   his    beard    pricked 

through 
As  he'll  soon  be  dying,  my  pretty,  for  you. 

The  way  of  the  boy  is  the  way  of  the  wind, 
As  light  as  the  leaves  is  dainty  maid-kind : 

One  to  deceive 

And  one  to  believe — 
That  is  the  way  of  it,  year  to  year, 
But  I  know  you  will  learn  it  too  late,  my  dear. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


I  Wonder  what  Maud   will   Say  ! 

DEAR  Harry,  I  will  not  dissemble, 

A  candid  confession  is  best; 
My  fate  —  but  alas,  how  I  tremble  ! — 

My  fate  I  must  put  to  the  test : 
This  morning  I  gathered   in  sadness 

A  strand  from  my  locks  slightly  gray; 
To  delay  any  longer  were  madness  — 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will   say ! 

The  deed  it  were  well  to  do  quickly, — 

Macbeth  makes  a  kindred  remark: 
I  wonder  if  Mac  felt  as  sickly 

When  he  carved  the  old  king  in  the  dark! 
The  fellows  who  marry  all  do  it, 

But  what  is  the  usual  way  ? 
Heigho  !  don't  I  wish  I  were  through  it ! 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will  say ! 

Pray  advise.   Would  you  fix  up  a  letter 

With  rhymes  about  roses  and  trees  ? 
To  tell  it  perchance  would  be  better: 

Alas,  must  I  get  on  my  knees  ? 
No ;  kneeling  is  now  out  of  fashion 

Except  in  a  novel  or  play. 
Ah,  love  is  a  Protean  passion  ! 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will  say! 

Would  you  give  her  a  pug  or  a  pony, 

A  picture  or  only  a  book ; 
A  novel  —  say  Bulwer's  "  Zanoni," 

Or  a  poem — "  Lucile,"  "  Lalla  Rookh"; 
Bonbons  from  Maillard's,  or  a  necklace 

Of  pearls,  or  a  mammoth  bouquet  ? 
By  Jove !    I  am  perfectly  reckless  — 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will  say ! 

Shall  I  speak  of  the  palace  at  Como 

Which  captured  the  heart  of  Pauline? 
There's  a  likeness  of  Claude  in  a  chromo; 

Would  you  buy  it  and  practice  the    scene? 
But  no !    I'm  no  Booth,  nor  an  Irving ; 

My  fancy  has  led  me  astray. 
To  a  lover   so  true  and  deserving 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will  say  ! 


Could  I  warble  like  Signer  Galassi, 

In  passionate  song  I  would  soar, — 
I  recall  she  applauded  him  as  he 

Serenaded  the  fair  Leonore; 
My  strain  should  resound  love-compelling, 

Far  sweeter  than    Orpheus'  lay; 
Already  my  bosom  is  swelling  — 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will  say ! 

Shall  I  tell  her   my  love  very  gravely, 

Or  propose  in  a  moment  of  mirth, 
Or  lead  to  the  subject  suavely, 

And  mention  how  much  I  am  worth? 
Old  fellow,  I  know  I  shall  blunder ; 

When  she  blossoms  as  bright  as  the  day, 
My  wits  will  be  dazzled.    Oh,  thunder ! 

I  wonder  what  Maud  will  say ! 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


Good-bye. 

WE  say  it  for  an  hour  or  for  years ; 
We  say  it  smiling,  say  it  choked  with  tears ; 
We  say  it  coldly,  say  it  with  a  kiss ; 
And  yet  we  have  no  other  word  than  this, — 

Good-bye. 

We  have  no  dearer  word  for  our  heart's  friend, 
For  him  who  journeys  to  the  world's  far  end, 
And  scars  our  soul  with  going ;  thus  we  say,  .* 
As  unto  him  who  steps  but  o'er  the  way, — 

Good-bye. 

Alike  to  those  we  love  and  those  we  hate, 
We  say  no  more  in  parting.     At  life's  gate,    \ 
To  him  who  passes  out  beyond  Earth's  sight, 
We  cry  as  to  the  wanderer  for  a  night, — 

Good-bye. 

Grace  Denio  Litchfield* 


Aphorisms  from  the  Quarters. 

DE  price  ob  your  hat  aint  de  medjer  ob  your  braim 

Ef  your  coat-tail  cotch  a-fire,  don't  wait  tell  youki 
see  de  blaze  'fo'  you  put  it  out. 

De  grave-yard  is  de  cheapes'  boardin'-house. 

Makin'  new  law-books  don't  swell  de  natchul  hor-i 
esty  in  folks. 

Dar's  a  fam'ly  coolness  'twix'  de  mule  an'  de  s'irj 
gle-tree. 

It  pesters  a  man  dreadful  when  he  git  mad  an'  don 
know  who  to  cuss. 

Buyin'  on  credit  is  robbin'  nex'  'ear's  crop. 

Chris 'mas  widout  holiday  is  like  a  candle  widout 
wick. 

A  fat  tramp  better  change  his  bizniss. 

A  bull-dog  is  a  po'  jedge  o'  coat-tails. 

De  craw-fish  in  a  hurry  look  like  he  tryin'  to  gitds 
yistiddy. 

'Tis  hard  for  de  bes'  an'  smartes'  folks  in  de  wuP  1 
git  'long  widout  a  little  tech  o'  good  luck. 

Lean  houn'  lead  de  pack  when  de  rabbit  in  sight. 

J.  A.  Macon.   [ 


Strephon  and  Sardon. 

tl  YOUNG  Strephon  wears  his  heart  upon  his  slee 
Thus  wizened  Sardon  spake  with  scoffing  air 

Perhaps  'twas  envy  made  the  gray-beard  grieve 
For  Sardon  never  had  a  heart  to  wear. 

J?.  W. 


HEAD    OF    A    MAN,   BY    REMBRANDT. 

ENGRAVED    BY    T.   JOHNSON,    AFTER    A  PHOTOGRAPH,   BY    AD.    BRAUN  <fc  CO.,   PARIS,   OF    PART    OF    A    PAINTING    IN    THE 
MUSEUM    OF    THE    HERMITAGE,    ST.    PETERSBURG. 


MIDWINTER     NUMBER. 


CENTURY  MAGAZINE. 


OL.  XXVII. 


FEBRUARY,   1884. 


No.  4. 


•GUSTAVE    COURBET,    ARTIST    AND    COMMUNIST. 


IT  is  a  lovely,  un visited  region, —  unvisited 
Americans  and  English  at  least, —  the  an- 
ent  province  of  Franche-Comte.  Lying 
)on  the  eastern  limits  of  France,  its  hills 
vide  the  streams  of  the  through-routes,  the 
avel  toward  the  Rhine  going  to  the  north, 
e  travel  to  Switzerland  passing  by  on  either 
ind ;  so  that  the  greater  part  of  the  region 
11  remains  unknown  to  the  tourist, —  a  sort 
water-shed  of  travel.  But  the  new  railway 
Dm  Besangon  to  Locle  will  soon  change 
at.  Already,  from  the  sweet  valley  of  the 
oubs,  the  parting  genii  have  been  sent, 
id  construction  trains  are  rolling  to  and  fro 
)on  the  very  face  of  those  romantic  preci- 
ces.  As  yet,  however,  the  only  tourist  who 
s  made  a  book  about  this  region  is  Miss 
stham  Edwards,  with  her  pleasant  "  Holi- 
lys  in  Eastern  France."  Two  summers  ago 
found  a  new  route  into  this  land  of  hills, 
'om  New  York  I  took  the  new  and  in  every 
ly  excellent  line  of  steamers  direct  to  Bor- 
;aux ;  and  thence,  a  cross-lot  route  through 
ntral  France,  stopping  overnight,  or  longer, 
Perigueux,  Tulle,  Clermont-Ferrand,  Paray- 
-Monial,  and  Bourg,  and  so  to  Besancon, 
e  ancient  capital  of  the  ancient  province. 
Province,  of  course,  it  has  not  been  for 
any  a  year,  at  least  administratively  and  ear- 
graphically.  The  old  division  is  still  con- 
nient  for  several  purposes ;  but  the  modern 
aps  of  France  do  not  often  mark  other 
ditical  divisions  of  the  country  than  those  of 
92  into  departments.  The  ancient  Franche- 
bmte  is  distributed  into  three  —  the  Haute- 
tone  and  the  Doubs,  named  from  their  riv- 
s,  and  the  Jura,  named  from  its  mountains. 
pe  two  last-named  departments  border  upon 
(vitzerland;  from  the  nearest  point  of  the 
fcnch  boundary,  in  the  Jura,  Geneva  is 
stant  scarcely  twice  the  range  of  modern 


cannon-shot.  These  four  thousand  square 
miles  of  mountain,  valley,  meadow,  and  for- 
est form  one  of  the  most  beautiful  regions 
in  France  or  in  Europe.  The  Jura  and  the 
Doubs  are  Courbet's  country. 

Ornans,  in  the  Doubs,  was  the  painter's 
birthplace.  The  little  stone-built  village 
stands  in  the  valley  of  the  Loue,  a  stream 
that  slips  down  between  grassy  banks  to  the 
/Doubs,  and^s^rTcf  the  Saone,  and  so  to  the 
Rhone,  and  so  to  the  Mediterranean.  What 
an  inland  place  is  Ornans!  what  woodland 
glades  are  there,  what  still  haunts  and  roman- 
tic combes, — small  deep  valleys,  walled  in  by 
green  turf  on  three  sides,  and  without  water- 
courses. It  is  a  region  of  magical  beauty. 
Ornans  is  a  place  for  Keats  to  have  been 
born  in,  or  Claude.  Victor  Hugo  was  born  a 
few  miles  away,  under  the  citadel  of  Vauban, 
in  Besancon.  But  it  was  quite  out  of  keeping 
for  the  rude-striding  figure  of  Gustave  Cour- 
bet,  the  iconoclast  artist,  to  appear  in  that 
vale  of  Rasselas,  Ornans  in  the  Doubs. 

There,  however,  with  nature's  too  frequent 
disregard  of  the  proprieties,  Courbet  was  born 
(June  loth,  18^19),  and  there  still  reside  the 
survivors  of  his  father's  family  and  his  old- 
est friends.  Among  the  latter  his  name  is 
not  yet  "rehabilitated."  For  them,  and  in- 
deed for  most  Frenchmen,  Courbet  is  less  an 
artist  than  a  vandal.  After  the  events  of  the 
Commune,  his  friends  turned  upon  him.  A 
painter  notorious  rather  than  distinguished 
in  France,  and  little  known  outside  of  France, 
an  agitator  and  a  Communist,  he  achieved 
infamy  by  destroying  works  of  art  when  he 
found  that  he  could  not  win  fame  by  creating 
them, —  this,  or  something  like  it,  is  the  sub- 
stance of  the  judgments  you  will  hear  from 
his  countrymen  to-day.  Ornans  is  visited  by 
many  artists,  who  seek  to  fix  the  visionary 


[Copyright,  1884,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved.] 


484 


GU STAVE   COURBET,  ARTIST  AND   COMMUNIST. 


beauty  which  generally  eluded  the  sturdy, 
realistic  art  of  Courbet ;  but  his  birthplace  is 
not  a  shrine  for  his  countrymen,  who  more 
than  most  other  people  seek  to  do  honor  to 
the  memory  of  those  whom  they  consider 
worthy. 

Let  us  ask  how  much  of  his  countrymen's 
censure  is  deserved  by  the  painter  of  Ornans  ; 
and  for  the  better  answering,  let  us  not  take 
sides  in  the  quarrel  which  still  goes  on  re- 
specting his  merits  as  a  painter  and  as  a  man. 
It  is  the  vice  of  criticism  to  reduce  itself  to 
terms  of  praise  and  blame.  Is  it  not  better  to 
study  Courbet  neither  as  a  praiseworthy  nor  a 
blamable,  but  simply  as  an  interesting  person  ? 

Courbet's  father  was  an  independent  farmer, 
and  an  uneducated  man  except  in  his  own 
business.  He  had  a  relative  in  the  University 
of  Paris,  a  law  professor;  but  Courbet  pere 
was  chiefly  acquainted  with  the  soil,  the 
changes  of  crops,  the  spots  where  the  wine 
and  the  fruit  would  ripen  best ;  he  had  per- 
sonal acquaintance,  after  the  pottering  way 
of  French  farmers,  with  every  quince  and 
peach  in  his  orchard.  He  was  well  to  do ; 
and,  like  most  French  farmers,  he  was  con- 
tented ;  he  was  satisfied  with  his  life  and  his 
position.  If,  now,  he  could  only  have  been 
induced  to  take  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the 
rest  of  the  world,— say  in  European  politics 
or  in  American  progress !  But  the  French 
farmer  is  painfully  narrow;  he  persists  in 
understanding  his  own  things,  in  caring  for 
his  own  things,  and  in  caring  but  little  for 
the  things  of  other  people.  He  is  content  to 
be  prosperous  and  happy  at  home ;  and  he 
shows  a  sad  apathy  to  the  claims  of  politics 
and  literature.  That  eminent  critic  of  Bceo- 
tia,  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  used  to  say  that  the 
Athenians  were  "  brutes  "  because  they  had 
no  newspapers.  The  French  farmer  has  his 
newspaper,  but  he  cares  less  for  the  news 
than  for  the  regular  installments  of  \hsfeuille- 
toti.  Love  of  the  soil  and  of  the  home  is 
his  deepest  feeling, — a  narrowness  for  which 
he  is  commiserated  by  most  of  my  country- 
men. Yes,  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  contented 
and  happy!  Yet  we  may  remark  that  the 
French  farmer  has  at  least  this  much  of  good 
fortune :  he  does  not  spend  his  life  in  merely 
hoping  to  be,  at  some  future  time  in  this 
world  or  the  next,  contented  and  happy. 

From  such  stock  came  Gustave  Courbet, — 
himself  a  man  of  quite  different  qualities.  He 
inherited  one  trait,  of  which  I  have  not  spoken, 
—  a  certain  willfulness  that  had  stood  more 
than  once  in  the  way  of  his  parents'  own 
interests,  and  came  in  part  from  their  pos- 
session of  independent  means.  On  the  Cour- 
bet farm  one  may  see,  or  might  have  seen 
last  September  a  year,  an  unusual  thing  in 


thrifty  France ;  to  wit,  a  large  pile  of  fire- 
wood decaying  in  the  open  air.    The  nearest 

neighbor  of  the   Courbets,  Dr.  C ,  told' 

me  that  years  ago  the  old  farmer  had  cut  thel 
wood  to  sell,  offering  it  at  a  certain  figure.! 
No  one  would  give  his  price;  and  when  some 
of  the  neighbors  offered  less,  Courbet  pen 
was  nettled.    "  My  price  or  none,"  said  he 
But,  the  neighbors   having  their  own  mine 
about  it  too,  the  wood   has  lain  there  rot 
ting  ever  since, — a  Declaration  of  Indepen  j< 
dence  that  is  vears  older  than   the   Frencl 
Republic. 

The  young  artist  thus  came  of  a  self-willec 
stock ;  and  his  own  self-will  was  shown  in  ; 
very  early  and  a  very  resolute  bent  to  wan 
painting.  He  began  with  caricature  while  a 
school  in  Ornans  (his  first  tea'cher  was  thi 
Abbe  Gousset,  since  a  well-known  cardinal) 
In  school  and  out  of  it,  he  caricatured  every 
body — teachers,  comrades,  family  and  friends 
The  wife  of  my  informant  just  mentioned,  Di 

C ,  was  one   of  his   involuntary  sitters  : 

At  church  he  caricatured  the  priests  and  th 
choir-singers ;  he  was  getting  his  hand  in  fo 
the  coarse  but  telling  assaults  upon  the  priest 
hood  which  are  among  the  best  known  of  hi 
later  pictures. 

As  the  boy  grew  up,  his  parents  sent  hir, 
to  the  college  at  Besancon.    Here  there  wer 
brief  studies  and  long  rambles  among  thos 
beautiful  hills  and  along  the  Doubs.     Whe 
his   course   was   finished  they  found  him  \ 
teacher  in  mathematics,  a  Mr.  Delby;  butth 
amiable  Delby  secretly  favored  his  inclinatio 
for  painting.  While  ostensibly  struggling  wit 
co-sines  and  other  disagreeable  things  ol  ttu 
sort,  he  was  doing  the  first  art-work  of  whic 
I  have  been  able  to  find  any  trace;  and  |l 
is  curious  enough.    M.  Auguste  Castan,  th 
accomplished  librarian  of  the   great   librar    . 
in  Besangon,  showed  me,  a  year  ago,  a  li 
tie  book  of  poems,  excessively  rare,  by  Mail 
Buchon,  the  first  publication  by  that  autho 
who  became  famous  in  his  country  befojM 
his  death :   and  Buchon's  venture  was  illu: 
trated  by  his  friend  Courbet's  first  engrave 
work,  four   small  vignettes.    The    title-paai 
reads :  "  Essais  poetiques,  par  Max  B.  ViguM 
ettes  par  Gust.  C.     Besancon,   1839."     TK 
vignettes  are  quite  boyish  and  commonplace  j 
"  Both  the  pictures  and  the  verses  are  be 
enough  to  break  your  heart,"  says  Max  Claij ; 
det,  the  gifted  sculptor  of  Salins,  and  an  o.:  I 
intimate  of  both   Buchon  and  Courbet.   1 
they  show  the  strong  story-telling  bent  of  tljj 
artist — the  dominating  impulse,  as  we  she.  \ 
see,  in  all  of  Courbet's  work  outside  of  p-u 
landscape;  and  they  show,  too,  his  domira 
ing  trait  as  a  man,  his  egotism.    These  tli! 
tracting   little  vignettes    (I  wish    they  we:  I 


GUSTAVE   COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


485 


THE    FAIR    DUTCHWOMAN. 


rorth  reproducing  here)  are  signed  in  full. 
)ther  bad  vignettes  have  been  made  before 
nd  since,  but  I  doubt  whether  an  equally 
itelligent  artist  has  often  set  his  name  to 

ork  as  poor  as  this.  M.  Paul  Mantz,  in  the 
Gazette  des  Beaux- Arts,"  compares  Courbet 
b  Vacca,  an  artist  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
fhose  epitaph,  composed  by  himself,  may 
all  be  read  in  the  Pantheon  at  Rome :  "  Here 
jes  Flaminius  Vacca,  a  Roman  sculptor,  who 
iitisfied  himself  in  none  of  his  works."  The 
bcription  supplies  a  contrast  rather  than 
!  comparison.  The  fitting  epitaph  of  the 
pinter  of  Ornans  would  read  as  follows : 
i  Here  lies  Courbet,  a  painter  who  more  than 
iitisfied  himself  in  all  his  works." 

School  and  college  ended,  what  was  to  be 
bne  with  the  energetic  youth  ?  His  father, 
*  we  have  seen,  had  a  learned  cousin  in  Paris ; 
id  thither  young  Courbet  was  sent,  in  the 
par  1839,  to  study  the  learned  cousin's  pro- 
tssion  of  law.  But  law  was  not  for  Courbet, 
either  in  books  nor  in  art  nor  in  life.  He 
bandoned  himself  to  painting  and  to  the 
leasures  for  which  in  our  country  Paris  is 
tiefly  reputed.  He  tried  his  hand  at  figure- 
rawing  and  at  landscape :  his  first  efforts  in 
bdscape  date  from  1841, — views  in  the  forest 
i  Fontainebleau.  In  1842  he  painted  his  own 


portrait,  and  for  several  successive  years  he 
sent  it  to  the  Salon.  Each  time  it  was  refused. 
But  portraits  of  himself,  more  or  less  flattered, 
appear  more  than  a  few  times  in  the  course 
of  his  work;  as  in  "  The  Lovers  in  the  Coun- 
try," and,  notably,  in  "  The  Man  with  the 
Leather  Girdle"  (L'Homme  a  la  Ceinture  de 
Cuir),  now  No.  424  in  the  Luxembourg  gal- 
lery. In  this  powerful  portrait  the  head  is 
too  ideal  for  Courbet's  at  any  time,  unless, 
possibly,  for  the  year  or  two  during  his  col- 
lege lire  when  he  studied  Goethe,  and  even 
painted  a  scene  from  the  "  Walpurgis  Night." 
But  Courbet  had  as  little  of  poetry  or  of  the 
dramatic  gift  in  his  nature  as  any  painter  who 
ever  painted ;  and  in  later  years,  looking  on 
this  scene  as  treason  to  his  rigid  doctrine  of 
realism,  he  obliterated  it  by  painting  another 
picture  over  it. 

Courbet's  first  exhibited  pictures,  portraits 
of  himself  and  of  his  dogs  (1844),  attracted 
little  attention.  But  before  long  his  work 
began  to  tell  upon  the  public  and  the  critics. 
The  "After  Dinner  at  Ornans,"  in  1849,  was 
especially  noticed.  In  1850  Courbet  awoke 
and  found  himself  famous.  Two  of  his  most 
important  works  were  upon  the  Salon  walls 
that  year :  "  A  Burial  Scene  at  Ornans"  (  Un 
Enterrement  a  Onians),  and  Les  Casseurs 


486 


GUSTAVE    COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


de  Pierfes  ("The  Stone-Breakers").  These 
works  placed  him  at  once  among  the  men  who 
cannot  be  put  aside ;  right  or  wrong,  here  was 
a  new  force  in  European  art.  De  Maistre  says : 
"  He  who  has  not  conquered  at  thirty  years 
will  never  conquer."  Is  not  the  aphorism  a 
little  too  stringent,  a  little  too  brilliant? 
Doubtless;  yet  Courbet's  first  pictures  illus- 
trated the  aphorism.  When  he  conquered  he 
was  not  yet  thirty-one. 

These  are  strong  pictures ;  they  have  great 
faults,  too,  if  one  judge  them  by  any  canons  of 
perfection.  Certainly  I  do  not;  I  am  content 
to  take  them,  as  other  works  of  art,  for  their 
own  merits  and  defects,  for  what  they  are  in 
themselves  and  in  their  expression  of  their 
time.  It  is  better  to  judge  a  picture  by  what 
is  in  it  than  by  what  is  out  of  it.  And  these 
pictures  are  at  least  full  of  truth  after  their 
own  kind. 

The  "Burial  Scene  at  Ornans  "  (now  in  trie 
Salle  des  Colonnades  at  the  Louvre)  is  a 
"stunning  stroke"  of  realism.  Into  a  canvas 
ten  feet  by  twenty-two  are  hustled  nearly  fifty 
heads  and  figures  of  life-size :  you  can  count 
forty-nine  and  a  dog.  They  are  hustled  upon 
the  canvas,  as  I  say.  There  is  no  composition 
there,  no  beauty  of  expression  in  the  faces ; 
but  there  is  severe  truth  in  the  greater  part 
of  the  picture,  even  in  the  details  of  the  back- 
ground landscape.  The  overhanging  cliffs  of 
the  valley  of  the  Loue,  for  instance,  will  recall 
the  country  to  any  one  who  knows  it  well. 
The  picture  is  truthful,  yet  not  wholly  true  : 


are  still  living ;  and  the  portraits  are  quite  the 
reverse  of  flattered.  And  one  might  say  that 
even  in  the  technique  of  the  handling  there 
was  a  pugilistic  spirit.  The  delicate  French 
criticism  complained  of  a  "  brutality  in  some 
of  the  dark  tones  and  in  some  of  the  reds  " ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  a  certain  tenderness  of 
sentiment  cannot  be  denied  to  the  group  of 
women  mourners  who  stand  toward  the  right. 
This  unwonted  note  of  gentleness  was  wel- 
comed by  Courbet's  critics;  it  led  some  of 
them  to  hope  that  Courbet  might  come  to 
value  and  to  reproduce  in  his  art  more  deli- 
cate things  than  the  "  paint-slinger,"  as  in 
their  equivalent  phrases  they  called  him,  had 
theretofore  chosen  to  render, —  some  such 
tender  beauty  as  that  which  his  birth-mate 
in  years,  Edouard  Frere,  was  already  produ- 
cing. But  nature  loves  to  make  opposites  of 
her  twins.  Frere  she  consecrated  to  tender- 
ness and  poetry,  Courbet  to  "  brutality  "- 
so  far,  at  least,  as  relates  to  his  dealing  with 
human  sentiment.  Courbet  was  a  realist,  but 
a  narrow  realist  in  spite  of  his  power ;  for  to 
him  emotion  was .  merely  a  .sentimentalism, 
instead  of  a'  prime  "truth  with  which  art  is 
concerned.  He  excluded  the  fruitful  emotions 
from  his  pictures ;  and  this  deficiency  is  their 
main  demerit. 

But,  as  if  in  compensation  for  this,  Courbet  \ 
had  great  sympathy  with  animals.    This  you 
feel,  for  instance,  in  that  spirited  "  At  Bay  " 
(LHallali  du  Cerf).    How  ardently  the  dogs 
bound  upon    the  scene,  breaking  out  from 


A     BURIAL    SCENE    AT    ORNANS. 


there  is  a  strong  note  of  caricature  in  the  por-  every  copse  and  cover ;  in  what  a  rapture  a 

traits  of  the  priests  and  beadles,  whom  Courbet  excitement  they  tremble  between  fear  of  t'.i 

hated;  he  has  made  their  faces  radiant  with  master  huntsman,  who  towers  over  them  wit 

vulgarity.    They,  and  the  rest  of  the  group,  his  long  whip,   and  dread  of  the  wound  3 

are  portraits  of  actual  persons,  many  of  whom  stag,  who  has  already  sent  one  of  the  pack  t 


GU STAVE    COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


487 


Dite  the  snow.  Never  was  such  a  tempest  of 
;he  chase,  such  a  stirring  tumult  of  hounds. 
The  life  and  action  of  the  work  are  extraor- 
dinary ;  the  picture,  in  spite  of  more  than  a 
ittle  bad  drawing,  is  a  fascinating  one,  be- 
cause it  is  full  of  vitality  ;  it  thrills;  its  errors 
of  execution  are  overlooked  because  it  tells  a 
story  with  extraordinary  vividness  and  power.* 
In  the  "  Hallali "  our  sympathies  go  with 
the  chase,  with  that  excited  and  intelligent 
democracy  of  hunting-dogs.  There  is  a  com- 
panion picture,  the  antithesis  of  this,  "  The 
Doe  Run  Down  in  the  Snow  "  (La  Chevrette 
forcee  a  la  Neige).  It  is  the  end  of  the  chase ; 
the  poor  creature  can  run  or  stand  no  longer ; 
she  has  fallen  breathless  on  her  track.  The 
hunter  blows  a  strong  blast,  the  horn  rings 
out  the  fatal  hallali;  all  four  feet  in  the  air 
at  once,  the  dogs  are  bounding  down  the  hill- 
side like  demons ;  in  a  minute  they  will  be 
upon  her.  For  those  last  few  seconds  she 
takes  her  tranquil  rest  there  in  the  snow. 

A  companion  piece,  "  The  Quarry  "  (La 
Curee  du  Chevreuil),  an  interesting  work,  in 
spite  of  faulty  drawing  and  an  inexplicable 
)erspective,  was  exhibited  in  the  same  Salon 
\ 1 85 7),  and  was  bought  by  the  Allston  Club 
)f  Boston. 

But  I  am  a  little  in  advance  of  the  record, 
it  the  Salon  of  1850-51,  beside  the  "  Burial 
scene,"  another  of  Courbet's  chief  works  ap- 
peared, "  The  Stone-Breakers  "  (Les  Cas- 
•eurs  de  Pierres).  This,  too,  is  transcribed 
rom  the  life;  and  the  figures  are  portraits 
ind  life-size,  as  if  Courbet  feared  to  lose 
my  detail  of  the  scene.  A  hard,  laborious 
•cene  it  is, — the  true  presentation  of  men 
mtworn,  swinked,  in  Chaucer's  phrase,  with 
labor  and  travail.  The  painting  was  held  by 
le  susceptible  critics  of  the  Salon  to  have 
message,  an  extra-aesthetic  significance, 
'roudhon  declared  that  "The  Stone-Break- 
rs  "  signified  morality  in  action;  he  said  that 
ertain  good  peasants  had  wished  to  see  the 
ainting  used  for  an  altar-piece, — in  the 
hurch  of  the  agnostics,  I  presume.  The 
ctive  intelligence  of  the  French  is  continually 
Detecting  and,  it  must  be  in  fairness  added, 
jontinually  expressing  meanings  in  art  that 
e  quite  outside  of  the  pictorial  or  technical 
jalues  of  the  work.  But  through  his  art 
fourbet  did  not  discourse  as  a  preacher ;  he 
aised  the  laugh  as  a  satirist. 

During  the  few  years  immediately  after 
851  Courbet  painted  much  that  seemed 
jone  less  in  neglect  than  in  actual  defiance  of 
'atural  beauty ;  he  created  what  one  of  his 
(iographers  calls,  and  not  unjustly,  "  types  of 
basoned  ugliness."  The  only  exception  that 

*  This  picture,  too,  is  in  the  Louvre ;  it  is  eleven  by 
jxteen  feet,  and  cost  the  government  33,900  francs. 


I  know  is  a  portrait,  "The  Fair  Dutchwoman  >; 
(La  Belle  Hollandaise ) .  In  this  picture  is 
presented  the  most  refined  type  of  beauty 
that  Courbet  ever  painted.  "  The  Spanish 
Lady"  (La  Dame  Espagnole)  has  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  distinction,  though  the  sub- 
ject is  not  attractive.  But  most  of  his  studies 
were  made  from  peasant  girls  and  women, 
as  the  Demoiselles  de  Village  (1852),  the 
Baigneuses  (1853),  and  many  others. 

Portraits  and  landscapes  were  not  wanting 
during  this  period ;  nor  were  critics  wanting 
to  labor  with  him  in  behalf  of  the  ideal.  They 
sought  to  reclaim  him  to  a  more  poetical 
treatment  of  life  and  nature ;  they  expounded 
to  him  the  idea  of  archetypal  beauty,  etc., 
etc.  To  all  of  which  Courbet  made  answer, 
as  also  to  his  friends  who  urged  him  to  marry 
and  to  become  a  pillar  of  society,  by  ex- 
claiming "Quelle  balan$oire  /  "  * 

About  the  year  1854  Courbet  gave  exhibi- 
tions of  his  works  in  Besangon,  Dijon,  Mu- 
nich, and  Frankfort, —  everywhere  dismaying 
the  critics,  and  awaking  a  moderate  degree 
of  popular  interest.  In  Munich  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  an  artist  named  Leibl.  .  Cour- 
bet could  not.  speak  a  word  of  German,  Leibl 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  French ;  but  the 
two  men  were  united  by  a  deep  love  of  paint- 
ing and  of  beer.  They  admired  each  other  and 
each  other's  works ;  and  they  made  the  round 
of  the  Munich  galleries  together.  Neither  of 
the  comrades  tried  to  learn  the  first  phrase 
of  the  other's  language ;  but  they  gazed  ad- 
miringly together  upon  the  great  pictures, 
and  slapped  each  other's  backs  by  way  of 
genial  criticism,  these  interpretations  being 
helped  out  by  the  circumstance  that  Leibl 
was  a  skillful  mimic  and  pantomimist.  But  it 
was  over  the  beer  of  Munich  that  the  boon 
companions  came  to  their  first  understanding 
of  Munich's  art.  Both  the  Frenchman  and 
the  German  were  mighty  drinkers  ;  and  each 
was  no  less  astonished  than  delighted  at  the 
prowess  of  the  other.  Neither  of  the  men  had 
dreamed  that  such  great  qualities  could  exist 
outside  of  his  own  country.  Here  was  true 
communion.  Not  a  word  was  exchanged 
during  Courbet's  visit;  but  the  two  artists 
parted  eternal  friends. 

In  Ornans  I  went  to  Courbet's  favorite 
cafe.  "  Many  an  afternoon  has  he  passed  in 
that  corner,"  said  the  tidy  woman  who  kept 
the  place ;  many  a  bock  of  beer  had  she 
brought  him  there;  and  as  she  mentioned 
Courbet's  name,  a  sitter  at  another  table,  ap- 
parently an  habitue,  said  to  his  companion, 

*  It  is  not  my  fault  that  this  slang  is  not  elegantly 
translatable.  "  Don't  tear  your  shirt  "  is,  I  fear,  what 
a  New  York  or  Chicago  Bohemian  would  say  under 
corresponding  provocation. 


488 


GU STAVE  COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


"  Courbet  used  to  drink  forty  glasses  at  a 
sitting."  Here,  too,  he  would  put  in  from  time 
to  time,  like  a  ship  in  distress,  to  mend  his 
tackle  —  a  bit  of  twine  serving  to  repair  some 
accident  to  the  contrivances  of  his  "original " 
apparel.  There  was  a  boyishness  in  his  char- 
acter to  the  last,  as  in  that  of  many  another 
old  bachelor. 

At  the  Universal  Exposition  of  1855,  in 
Paris,  Courbet  hung  eleven  pictures,  and 
made  a  private  exhibition  of  thirty-eight  more. 
A  noticeable  profession  of  Courbet's  art-creed 
appears  in  the  preface  to  his  catalogue  of  this 
private  exhibition;  the  document,  however  (so 
his  reviewers  say),  was  touched  by  a  friendly 
critic's  hand  before  the  printers  saw  it.  He 
says:  "  I  have  studied  ancient  art  and  mod- 
ern art,  and  without  committing  myself  to 
any  system  or  party.  Nor  have  I  imitated 
the  old  or  copied  the  new.  I  have  simply 
sought  to  nurture,  through  a  complete  knowl- 
edge of  the  record  of  art,  my  own  intelligent 
and  independent  individuality.  To  know  in 
order  to  achieve, —  such  has  been  my  aim." 

An  admirable  purpose;  the  words,  too,  are 
admirable.  "  Through  a  complete  knowledge 
of  the  .record  of  art."  Alas  !  of  that  particular 
thing,  the  record  of  art,  our  egotist  had  least 
of  all  a  sufficient  knowledge  ;  and  if  his  knowl- 
edge had 'been  sufficient,  his  temperament 
would  scarcely  the  less  have  held  him  to  his 
limited  range  of  work. 

Meanwhile,  Courbet  was  getting  well  talked 
about,— -  not  always- quite  as  he  would  like, 
but  "still  talked1  about;  a  good  thing  for  one's 
immediate  necessities  of  vanity,  and  a  form 
of  ambition  which  is  common  and  perennial 
among  both  painters  and  writers.  My  courteous 

informant,  Dr.C -,  once  asked  him  if  he  liked 

being  abused  as  he  was.  "All  those  people  ad- 
vertise me  well,"  was  Courbet's  answer.  The 
desire  to  be  talked  about,  or,  as  he  would  have 
put  it,  to  be  "  original,"  was  a  leading  trait 
of  Courbet's  character.  He  would  not  even 
dress  well,  lest  he  should.be  taken  for  a  com- 
monplace citizen.  More  than  one  of  his  old 
acquaintance  have  described  to  me  his  "  orig- 
inal"  wardrobe  :  two  shirts,  one  on  his  back, 
and  two  pairs  of  socks ;  as  for  outer  clothes, 
he  seldom  had  any  others  than  those  he  wore. 
"In  1864,"  says  Max  .Buchon,  "  when  cold 
weather  came,  he  bought  a  bed-quilt  from  a 
Jew ;  he  made  a  hole  in  the  middle  of  it  for 
his  head.;  that  was  his  winter  overcoat."  This 
was  all  for  oddity's  sake,  for  Courbet  had 
abundant  means  to  dress  decently.  These 
manners  naturally  gave  him  an  odd  reputa- 
tion among  the  critics.  Champfleury  writes  : 
"  It  is  believed  by  some  that  Courbet  is  a 
wild  creature,  who  has  studied  painting  in 
the  interests  of  his  toil  as  a  swine-herd."  It 


is  true  that  Courbet  had  about  him  a  good 
deal  of  the  bucolic  rudeness  of  the  mount- 
aineer and  the  peasant.  Courbet  did  not 
Osricize.  Even  his  affectations  were  forcible. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  he  purposely  accented 
his  own  tricks  and  affectations,  as  this  of  rude 
simplicity,  of  playing  the  montagnard.  He 
made  himself  more  of  a  peasant  than  he  really 
was.  Most  men  have  their  affectations.  It 
was  Courbet's  affectation  to  be  natural.  That 
charming  man  and  artist,  my  friend  M.  Paul 
Franceschi,  of  Besangon,  another  of  Courbet's 
old  acquaintances,  thus  expressed  the  thought 
to  me : "  C'etaitsa  coquetteriederi'ctre  pas  coquet" 

I  have  noticed  Courbet's  chief  work  of 
1857.  In  1858116  visited  the  south  of  France 
and  the  Mediterranean,  and  in  the  following 
year  went  to  Belgium.  It  was  a  time  of  re- 
serve with  the  artist ;  he  put  forth  no  work 
which  distracted  the  critics.  In  1861  he  had 
them  all  by  the  ears  again.  The  cause  was  his 
important  picture,  the  "Stags  Fighting"  (Rut 
du  Printemps  or  Combat  de  Cerfs) — a  title 
which  I  would  paraphrase  "  The  Struggle  for 
Existence."  A  stirring  scene,  an  arcamim  of 
nature,  is  revealed  upon  this  spacious  can- 
vas ;  but  much  of  its  merit  is  necessarily 
lost  in  the  engraving.  All  painting  does  not 
lose  in  engraving,  but  most  paintings  do; 
the  paintings  of  Courbet  lose  more  than 
most  others.  His  strongest  point,  technic- 
ally, was  color;  his  weakest  points  Were  draw- 
ing and  composition;  it  must  be  added,  how- 
ever, that  he  professed  at  least  to  despise 
composition.  Engraving,  then,  necessarily  re- 
produces not  the  essential  merit,  but  the  es- 
sential faults  of  his  work.  As  an  apostle  of 
realism,  Courbet  did  not  hesitate  to  make  the 
leading  lines  in  the  "  Fighting  Stags "  fal 
into  an  arrangement  of  rhomboidal  figures 
one  cannot  avoid  remarking  the  parallel  lines, 
the  equal  acute  angles  that  are  formed  by  the 
legs  of  the  animals.  But  in  the  painting  you 
scarcely  notice  this;  you  are  deep  within  the 
ancient  wood,  the  dark  green  forests  of  the 
Jura  deepen  beyond,  the  cool  stream  flows 
down  from  the  heart  of  the  glade;  and,  in  con- 
trast, the  fury  of  the  conflicting  stags  is  given 
and  the  flight  of  the  mortally  wounded  creat- 
ure that  tosses  up  its  head  in  agony.  We  are 
present  at  a  woodland  mystery,  and  far  more 
really  present  than  when  we  read  the  poets  anc 
essayists  who  falsely  tell  us  that  the  "spirit  of 
nature"  is  a  spirit  of  rest  and  peace. 

There  are  great  faults  of  handling  in  the 
work;  there  is  also  great  power.  The  mere 
critic  sees  nothing  but  its  handling.  Bi  1 
what,  for  instance,  would  Blake's  art  be  if 
we  looked  to  the  handling  only?  In  ever) 
feature  of  his  technique  Blake  was  crude: 
than  Courbet,  and  Martin  was  more  accorr 


THE    MUSICIAN. 
(ENGRAVED  BY  T.  COLE,  FROM  THE  PAINTING  BY  COURBET  IN  THE  POSSESSION  OF  ERWIN  DAVIS.) 


VOL.  XXVII.  — 46. 


49° 


GUSTAVE    COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


plished  than  either ;  but  Martin's  "  Belshaz- 
zar  "  and  all  other  extant  Martins  are  forgot- 
ten, because  Martin  did  not  build  on  truth. 
Blake  and  Courbet  must  be  remembered  for 
their  truth — for  the  spiritual  realism  of  the 
one,  for  the  material  realism  of  the  other. 

I  may  add  that  Courbet  has  not  neglected 
to  paint  repose.  "  The  Hay-makers'  Nooning  " 
(La  Sieste)  is  one  of  his  best  examples  of  a 
pastoral  scene. 

In  1862  Courbet  was  urged  to  admit  stu- 
dents to  his  studio.  He  declined  to  do  this ; 
it  -would  have  been  too  conventional  a  thing, 
at  least  to  open  his  studio  formally.  For  a 
short  time,  however,  he  gave  "  advice  "  to 
students,  and  a  cow  was  quartered  in  his  stu- 
dio for  a  model.  Except  for  the  advantage  of 
this  cow,  it  is  hard  to  make  out  the  difference 
between  Courbet's  advising  and  the  routine 
privileges  of  any  other  master's  studio.  During 
the  following  year  Courbet  exhibited  at  his 
studio,  because  it  was  refused  at  the  Salon  as  a 
libel  upon  religion,  the  work  by  which  I  dare 
say  he  is  better  known  than  by  any  other  — 
the  "  Priests  Returning  from  the  Conference  " 
( ' Retour  d'une  Conference).  The  satire  of  it 
is  extremely  coarse  and  telling,  and  all  the 
more  so  in  Courbet's  country  because  the 
story  is  substantially  a  true  one;  the  figures 
depicted  are  portraits  of  which  I  could  name 
the  originals.  Several  of  them,  indeed,  are 
still  living.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  clergy  to 
meet  at  stated  times  at  one  another's  houses, 
both  for  social  and  professional  purposes ;  and 
in  this  case  there  was  a  good  cellar,  and  the 
genial  cures  drank  too  much.  One  does  not 
often  see  tipsy  folk  in  France,  least  of  all 
among  the  clergy.  Thirty  years  ago,  both  in 
Europe  and  in  America,  it  was  the  fashion  to 
drink  more  than  is  drunk  now ;  but  even  then 
the  occurrence  was  rare  enough  to  cause  a  scan- 
dal, which  Courbet  remembered  as  such  and 
caricatured  in  his  painting.  One  of  the  con- 
vives was  too  "  mellow  "  to  walk,  and  the  rest 
of  the  company  actually  propped  him  upon  a 
donkey,  as  set  forth  in  the  picture.  It  is  full 
of  telling  points.  One  remarks  especially  the 
peasants  at  the  left  of  the  consecrated  oak-tree ; 
the  husband  is  convulsed  with  laughter,  but 
his  wife,  though  in  dismay  at  the  scene,  has 
fallen  on  her  knees  from  the  old  habit  of  rever- 
ence to  the  priest.  Courbet  painted  three  com- 
panion scenes  to  this  picture,  still  more  vulgar 
caricatures  of  the  priests  and  their  failings. 
Their  injustice  is  the  common  injustice  of  cari- 
cature of  manners  —  the  effort  to  make  an 
unusual  incident  or  accident  appear  as  the 
usual  course  of  things. 

I  have  mentioned  the  best  known  of  Cour- 
bet's paintings ;  but  we  need  not  try  to  follow 
in  detail  the  long  catalogue  of  this  prolific 


artist's  work.  We  have  now  reached  the  most 
fortunate  period  of  his  life,  his  culminating 
time, — from  1860  to  the  yearof  the  Commune. 
Let  us  follow  him  back  from  his  Paris  studio 
into  his  beloved  Franche-Comte  on  his 
summer  tours.  He  made  frequent  visits  to 
Ornans.  The  son  of  one  of  my  informants 
lived  directly  opposite  to  his  studio ;  the  two 
houses  are  the  first  that  you  come  to  on  en- 
tering Ornans  by  the  road  from  Besa^on. 
The  young  man  was  very  fond  of  music ;  the 
father,  Dr.  C ,  intended  him  to  study  med- 
icine ;  Courbet  urged  him  to  give  up  all  for 
music :  "  You  have  a  talent  for  music,  as  I 
have  for  painting;  give  up  all  for  music." 
"  But  my  father  ? "  said  the  young  man. 
"  Your  father  is  a  vieille  ganache "  (an  old 

imbecile),  said   Courbet.     Dr.  C 's  eyes 

twinkled  as  he  told  me  this.  I  asked  him, 
"  What  did  your  son  do  ?  "  "  He  studied 

medicine,"  said  Dr.  C .    But  art  was  not 

forgotten  in  the  doctor's  house.  The  open 
piano  is  still  in  the  parlor;  and  every  summer 
painters  come  for  his  permission  to  paint  the 
hills  of  Ornans  from  his  balcony. 

The  gifted  sculptor  of  Salins  shall  describe 
one  of  these  summer  episodes  of  artist  life. 
Max  Claudet  was  the  youngest  of  the  joyous 
trio  who  wandered  in  the  deep  valley  of  the 
Lison,  I  translate  from  his  brochure,  "  Sou- 1 
venirs  de  Courbet"  (Besan9on,  1880): 

"One  day  in  1864  Buchon  said  to  me, '  They  tell  me 
that  Courbet  is  at  Nans.  You  ought  to  go  and  find 
him,  and  bring  him  down  to  spend  a  few  days  with  us.'; 

"  It  was  the  end  of  September ;  and  September  is 
the  finest  month  in  our  mountains  of  the  Jura.  The 
country  was  alive  with  a  swarm  of  vintagers. 

"  I  set  out  at  ten  A.  M.  with  one  companion.  We 
went  afoot ;  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  ride  through  a 
country  so  unspeakably  lovely  that  you  have  to  pause 
at  every  other  step  to  admire  great  nature. 

"  Nans  is  a  wonderful  place ;  it  is  a  corner  of  Switzer- 
land strayed  into  the  French  Jura.  The  roacl  finds  its 
way  thither  through  a  wood ;  first  the  village  appears, 
with  its  beautiful  houses ;  then  the  Saracen's  Grotto,  a 
niche  among  the  rocks,  worthy  of  the  Lago  di  Maggiore; 
then  the  source  of  the  Lison,  and  the  Creux-Billarcl, 
the  wildest  of  cascades.  It  is  the  region  that  now  is 
full  of  artists  during  the  season  of  good  weather;, 
Courbet,  indeed,  in  good  part  set  them  the  fashion. 

"  We  found  him  at  the  inn,  just  finishing  his  dinner. 

"  '  You  have  come  for  me,  then  ?  '  said  he.    '  The 
diable !  but  I  have  a  picture  to  paint  this  afternoon, — 
the  source  of  the  Lison.    You  want  us  to  leave  at  five 
o'clock  ?    Well,  there  is  time  enough,  but  I  can't  fool 
around  any.     You  sit  down  and  eat;   I   will  go  on 
ahead  with  Jerome,  and  you  shall  come  on  after  me! 
Jerome   was  a  handsome  donkey   that  Courbet  hal 
provided,  with  a  little  wagon,  to  carry  all  his  artrs 
'  traps  '  when  he  went  on  his  painting  excursions  near 
Ornans. 

"I  confess  that  I  was  somewhat  incredulous  as  U 
the  birth  of  a  landscape  which  should  be  begun  £ 
two  o'clock  and  finished  by  four.  However,  we  lost 
no  time  in  following  Courbet.  It  is  two  kilometers 
from  the  inn  to  the  outpouring  fountain  of  the  river. 
There  we  found  the  painter  installed  upon  a  level  spo 


GUSTAVE   COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


491 


facing  the  torrent-spring;  the  canvas  was  upon  the 
easel;  Jerome  was  grazing  philosophically  by  his  side. 

•'  A  high  wind  was  blowing.  Just  as  we  arrived 
upon  the  scene  the  easel  blew  over  ;  and,  to  make 
matters  worse,  one  of  the  forks  of  the  easel  was 
forced  through  the  canvas. 

"  '  That's  nothing  !  said  Courbet.  He  set  up  his 
apparatus  again  ;  he  smeared  some  pigment  upon  the 
torn  place ;  he  stuck  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  said : 
'You  wont  see  anything.' 

"  We  were  standing  before  a  great  cliff  of  many- 
colored  rock ;  a  forest  crowned  its  summit.  A  vast 
cavity,  like  the  nave  of  a  church,  opens  in  this  cliff; 
its  roof  is  sustained  by  rock  pillars.  From  the  depths 
of  the  chasm  pours  a  stream  of  blue  water,  as  cold  as 
that  which  flows  from  glaciers.  It  falls  in  a  cascade 
to  the  base  of  the  cliff,  and  thence  takes  its  way  down 
1  the  valley,  bathing  the  foundations  of  the  houses  in 
,  Nans,  the  scene  of  the  first  love  of  Mirabeau  and 
Sophie. 

"  Courbet  stood  before  this  beautiful  scene,  a  black 

i  canvas  at  his  side ;  it  was   still  untouched,  except  for 

|  the  torn  place.  We  secured  his  easel  as  well  as  we  could, 

with  a   wagon-frame  and  with  heavy  stones,  so  that 

the  master  could  begin  without  fear  of  further  mishap. 

"  '  It  surprises  you  that  my  ground  is  black  ?  '  said 
he.  '  Nature  is  dark  without  the  sun.  I  do  as  the  sun 
does.  Bring  out  the  lights,  and  the  picture  is  done.' 

"  He  had  a  box  containing  tumblers  filled  with 
I  colors, — white,  yellow,  red,  blue.  With  his  knife  he 
I  mixed  them  upon  his  palette ;  then,  still  with  his  knife, 
}  he  began  to  cover  the  canvas ;  his  strokes  were  firm 
and  sure. 

"  '  Let  me  see  you  paint  rocks  like  those  with  a 
brush,'  said  he, — 'rocks  rusted  in  long  veins  from  top 
to  bottom  by  time  and  flowing  water  !  ' 

"  He  painted  in  the  water  in  the  same  way ;  the 
\ensemble  of  the  picture  began  to  appear.  'A  few  trees 
J here,  some  green  grass  in  the  foreground,  and  we 
shall  soon  be  done,'  said  he  ;  and  his  knife  was  run- 
ning constantly  over  the  canvas. 

"  At  four  o'clock  the  picture  was  actually  complete  : 
the  hand  of  the  master  was  in  it,  and  his  strong  in- 
spiration. We  Vere  stupefied  by  this  swiftness  of 
execution.  Hardly  two  hours  to  cover  a  canvas  more 
jthan  a  yard  square  ! 

"  '  Now,'  said  Courbet,  '  en  route  for  Salins  !  ' 

"  All  the  traps  were  put  into  the  little  wagon  ;  the 
picture  was  firmly  secured  behind  ;  Jerome,  who  ap- 
peared vexed  at  this  interruption  of  his  dinner,  was 
harnessed  up,  and  we  started.  At  the  village  we 
brought  another  donkey  to  the  aid  of  Jerome,  because 
the  road  is  up-hill  for  nearly  four  miles.  We  fol- 
lowed on  foot,  watching  the  donkeys,  who  did  not 
.behave  very  well. 

;<  When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill  we  sent  back 
die  duplicate  donkey.  We  had  now  an  equal  distance 
llown-hill  before  us,  ; 


hide. 


and  Courbet  said,  '  Now  let  us 


"  You  should  have  seen  us  three  in  that  wagon. 
We  were  crowded  like  herrings,  for  Courbet  filled  a 
jjpod  large  place.  Our  donkey  trotted  along  slowly; 
light  fell ;  we  were  nearly  in  sight  of  Salins.  The 
road  is  constructed  upon  giddy  ground ;  the  mountain 
lose  up  straight  on  our  left  hand ;  on  our  right  was 
[he  profound  gulf  of  a  ravine. 

"  In  this  situation  we  met  an  ox-cart,  weighted  with 
j.n  immense  tun  of  the  new  vintage.  We  kept  to  the 
light,  the  outside,  in  order  to  get  by.  To  our  horror, 
;erome  took  fright,  and  set  off  at  full  gallop. 

"  Courbet  pulled  the  reins  violently.  The  left  rein 
koke.  The  right  rein  pulled  the  donkey's  head  over 
he  precipice.  Donkey,  painter,  passengers,  wagon, 
,nd  all,  began  to  go  over ;  it  was  an  awful  moment, 
[iappily,  the  two  hind  wheels  of  the  machine  caught 
]pon  the  stone  parapet  of  the  road,  and  held  us  hang- 


ing. We  scrambled  out ;  we  hauled  back  the  donkey, 
the  wagon,  and  the  picture.  Long  after  night-fall  we 
got  safely  back  to  Salins.  But  none  of  us  got  into  that 
wagon  again  ! 

"That  picture  remained  with  Buchon  until  his 
death.  Then  Courbet  took  it.  Where  is  it  now?  I 
do  not  know.  If  its  owner  chances  to  read  these  lines, 
he  will  know  the  history  of  it." 

It  is  a  charming  episode ;  and  M.  Claudet 
adds  that  Courbet,  who  came  to  Salins  to  re- 
main a  week,  was  still  there  after  three  months 
had  passed  away. 

Here  is  another  picture  from  those  fortu- 
nate years  before  the  trouble  came, — a  scene 
near  Paris  this  time.  Max  Claudet  will  let  me 
borrow  once  more,  I  am  sure,  from  his  charm- 
ing ';  Souvenirs  "  :  . 

"  I  shall  never  forget  a  dinner  that  we  had  together 
one  beautiful  spring  day,  in  the  country  near  Paris. 

"  Our  party  met  at  the  railway  station  at  half-past 
one.  Max  Buchon  and  I  were  among  the  first  on  the 
ground ;  then  came  Champfleury  with  Castagnary 
and  Courbet.  The  latter  brought  a  spectacled  young 
man  with  him,  armed  with  a  large  umbrella,  whom  he 
introduced  as  M.  Vermorel. 

"  We  got  off  at  Chatou,  and  walked  to  Bougival ; 
there  Courbet  decided  that  we  should  get  a  better  din- 
ner at  a  hostelry  on  the  Seine,  opposite  to  the  charm- 
ing islet  of  Croissy  ;  'so  we  walked  thither  by  the  river- 
side, following  a  path  that  was  traced  lightly  on  the 
green  grass.  Courbet  talked  about  painting. 

"  Arrived  att  our  inn,  he  ordered  dinner.  We  sat 
down.  In  the  midst  of  our  festa  Gambetta  came  in. 
The  future  minister  chatted  a  moment  with  us,  then 
returned  into  the  neighboring  room. 

"  It  was  a  merry  dinner.  Courbet  told  the  funniest 
stories  of  Franche-Comte.  The  afternoon  sped  quickly 
in  such  company  ;  in  the  evening  we  returned  to  Paris. 

"  To  wind  up  the  day  properly,  we  went  to  a  bras- 
serie. There  we  met  Chaudey,  the  advocate,  who 
argued,  with  his  usual  fire,  that  the  artists  were  all 
fools, — men  who  hadn't  enough  wit  to  associate  them- 
selves for  their  mutual  benefit,  as  even  the  shoe-makers 
do.  Vermorel,  as  great  a  ranter  as  he,  opposed  him  ; 
Courbet  fretted  at  being  prevented  from  talking  about 
his  beloved  painting;  and  Buchon  stroked  his  mus- 
tache,—  his  habit  whenever' he  was  wearied  of  a  dis- 
cussion. 

"  Alas  !  what  somber  days  were  to  come  between 
these  companions,  then  so  droll  and  so  merry ! 

"  If  a  voice  had  spoken  to  us  then  and  there,  desig- 
nating each  one  of  the  company :  '  You,  Chaudey,  you 
will  be  shot  by  your  own  partisans  !  You,  Vermorel, 
you  will  die  upon  a  barricade  in  the  midst  of  Paris, 
the  city  blazing  and  running  with  blood,  and  a  hun- 
dred thousand  Germans  applauding !  You,  Courbet, 
will  bid  farewell  to  the  arts,  and  go  to  die  in  exile  ! 
You,  advocate  of  Cahors,  you  are  to  be  Minister  of 
War;  you  are  to  struggle  in  vain-against  the  enemy, 
and  to  escape  from  Paris  in  a  balloon  [and,  we  may 
now  add,  to  die  prematurely,  a  full  generation  before 
your  time]  !  And  you,  Buchon,  who  are  so  strong,  so 
robust,  always  ready  to  sing  the  old  songs  of  the 
Franche-Comte,  you  will  not  see  all  that  — you  will 
be  dead  the  first !  '  —  Ah,  well;  if  a  prophet  had  said 
that  to  us  on  that  day,  we  should  have  dined  less  gayly, 
and  even  Courbet  would  have  had  an  indigestion." 

Then  came  the  war,  the  invasion  of  Cour- 
bet's  country;  the  German  troops  made  of 
Courbet's  studio  a  stable  for  mules,  and  kicked 


492 


GUSTAVE   COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


their  boots  through  his  pictures  on  the  walls. 
Let  us  glance  at  the  later  scenes  of  this  active 
life.  Courbet  was  no  less  a  radical  in  politics 
than  in  religion,  and  from  a  similar  love  of 
oddity;  but  radicals  of  this  cast  are  never  de- 
voted reformers.  Reform  implies  reconstruc- 
tion ;  but  destruction  is  an  easier  work,  and 
Courbet's  most  famous  act  was  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Vendome  Column. 

In  France  and  out  of  it  the  act  provoked 
a  storm  of  criticism.    Why  did  he  pull  down 


GUSTAVE  COURBET.   FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  BY  CARJAT  &  CO. 

the  Column  ?  .."  In  the  interest  of  European 
peace,"  was  Courbet's  own  professed  defense. 
"  In  the  interest  of  high  art,  to  which  the 
Column  was  a  flagrant  offense,"  said  Courbet's 
friends.  But  I  fear  that  Courbet  did  not  have 
either  the  interest  of  the  arts  or  of  humanity 
very  deeply  at  heart.  There  were  other  mo- 
tives ;  the  desire  of  notoriety,  even  the  desire 
of  money,  was  not  absent.  I  am  able  to  con- 
tribute something  to  the  story  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  this  Column, —  a  story  that  has  been 
discussed  at  great  length,  and  with  great  heat, 
never  fully  told.* 


It  was  no  new  idea  of  Courbet's.  During 
the  Commune  he  posted  placards  invoking 
destruction  upon  the  Column,  because  it  per- 
petuated the  memory  of  so  many  French  vic- 
tories. Why  record  in  eternal  brass  the  humilia- 
tion of  Germans,  Italians,  Spaniards,  Swiss,  and 
other  good  people  ?  The  Column,  in  short,  he 
said,  was  a  standing  offense  to  the  good-fellow- 
ship of  European  nations.  This  appeal  was 
surprisingly  humanitarian,  considering  the 
moment  —  that  of  the  profound  humiliation 
of  his  own  country,  his  patrie ;  and  it  was,  in 
any  case,  a  little  out  of  keeping,  one  would 
think,  as  addressed  to  the  men  of  the  Com- 
mune—  a  class  of  persons  not  eminent  for 
humanitarian  sentiment. 

After  the  Column  was  pulled  down,  his 
friends  took  the  other  line  of  defense,  as  al- 
ready noted.  They  said  that  the  Column  was 
a  bad  work  of  art ;  never  was  more  atrocious 
taste;  the  sight  of  it  galled  the  delicate  sensibil- 
ity of  Courbet,  and  of  other  similarly  organized 
persons.  It  was,  in  short,  in  a  righteous  rapt- 
ure of  iconoclasm  that  he  threw  it  down ;  it 
was  the  logical  consummation  of  his  love  of 
high  art,  and  is  not  the  love  of  high  art  an 
excellent  thing  ? 

Doubtless ;  yet  this  claim,  again,  seems  a 
little  inconsonant  with  what  we  have  seen  of 
the  man  who  scorned  the  ideal,  and  whom 
his  best  friends  described  as  a  montagnard,  a 
"  mountaineer." 

A  more  genuine  clew  to  Courbet's  motives 
in  destroying  the  Column  was  given  me  by 
Max  Claudet.  Though  a  younger  man  by 
some  fifteen  years  than  Courbet,  he  was  one 
of  his  intimate  associates  during  many  years, 
and  they  were  much  in  each  other's  studios ; 
and  years  before  the  Franco-German  war 
Courbet  used  to  talk  about  the  Vendome 
Column.  "  You  can  quote  me  for  the  fact," 
said  Claudet  to  me  in  his  mountain  studio 
in  September,  "  that  Courbet  repeatedly  told 
me,  as  much  as  ten  years  before  the  war, 
that  he  would  like  to  destroy  the  Colpnne 
Vendome." 

"And  why?"  I  demanded.  "Was  it  be- 
cause of  his  devotion  to  high  art,  as  his 
friends  said  ?  or  because  he  regarded  the 
Column  as  an  offense  against  the  friendship 
of  nations,  as  he  said  himself?  " 

"  For  neither  reason,"  answered  the  sculp- 
tor. "  What  Courbet  more  than  once  said  to 
me  was  this :  '  It  took  a  vast  quantity  of 
bronze  to  build  the  Colonne  Venddme;  it  is 
very  valuable.  How  I  should  like  to  pull  it 


*  M.  Castagnary  has    recently  sought   to   rehabili-  ordered  it  to  be  thrown  down  until  some  days  after 

tate  his  old  friend  in  the  esteem  of  the  French.     He  the  thing  was  actually  done.     He  was  none  the  less 

argues  that  Courbet  was  not  responsible  for  the  de-  the  inspiring  spirit  of  the  affair.     It  will  be  hard  to 

struction  of  the  Column,  by  pointing  out  that  he  was  prove  that  Courbet  was  not  Courbet. 
not   a   member   of   the   Communist   committee  who 


GUSTAVE    COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


493 


THE    QUARRY. 

•-NGRAVED   BY  K.   C.  ATWOOD,  FROM    THE    PAINTING   OWNED    BY  HENRY  SAYLES,  ESQ.,  NOW  IN   THE    BOSTON    MUSEUM    OF    FINE    ARtS. 


lown  for  the  sake  of  the  bronze  that  it  con- 
jains ! '  Would  you  believe,"  said  Claudet, 
F  that  Courbet  actually  supposed  that  the 
•Jolumn  was  made  of  massive  bronze  ?  " 
|  On  the  1 6th  of  May,  1871,  at  a  quarter 
jfter  four  in  the  afternoon,  the  Vendome  Col- 
limn,  previously  undermined  by  the  masons, 
iielded,  but  only  after  many  efforts  and  slowly, 
p  the  strain  of  powerful  windlasses.  It  came 
j.own  with  a  great  crash,  rilling  the  adjacent 
(treets  and  squares  with  dust.  An  immense 
irowd  was  in  attendance;  they  saw  Napo- 
bon's  statue  roll  headless  in  the  debris.  The 
Commune  was  suppressed ;  all  of  its  leaders 
fho  had  saved  their  lives  were  brought  to  trial. 
!)n  the  3d  of  the  following  September,  Courbet 
/as  duly  sentenced  to  six  months'  imprison- 


ment for  destroy  ing  the  Column,  and  to  restore 
it  at  his  own  expense.  The  heavy  cost  of  this 
was  paid  in  part,  and  on  Courbet' s  death  his  de- 
voted sister,  who  had  the  Gallic  dread  of  pecun- 
iary dishonor  to  her  family,  assumed  the  remain- 
ing debt ;  which,  however,  was  canceled  by  the 
Government.  They  restored  the  Column :  they 
could  not  restore  to  the  French  mind  the 
idea  which  fell  with  it, — that  military  glory 
is  the  first  glory  of  a  nation.  Courbet  un- 
builded  better  than  he  knew  when  he  threw 
the  Column  down.  But  his  good  time  was  over. 
Then  followed  sickness,  neglect,  the  horror 
and  aversion  of  his  friends  and  countrymen, 
and  voluntary  exile  to  Switzerland.  Courbet 
went  to  a  little  place  near  Vevay,  Tour-de- 
Peil  by  name ;  it  is  not  far  from  the  bound- 


494 


GUSTAVE   COURBET,  ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


PULLING    DOWN    THE    VEND6ME    COLUMN. 


ary  of  the  Jura ;  he  painted  a  little  there,  but 
not  much.  November  18,  1877,  his  pictures 
were  sold  in  Paris,  or  "  slaughtered"  rather, 
toward  the  payment  of  his  fine  ;  they  brought 
only  twelve  thousand  one  hundred  and  ten 
francs.  On  the  3ist  of  December  following 
Courbet's  troubled  life  had  ended. 

An  exhibition  of  nearly  two  hundred  of 
Courbet's  works  was  held  in  the  summer  of 
.1882  in  the  Ecole  des  Beaux -Arts,  in  Paris. 
There  it  was  to  be  seen  that  in  one  important 
sense  Courbet  was  a  born  painter.  He  had  the 
unappeasable  instinct  of  creation  ;  he  would 
paint  anything,  down  to  a  broomstick,  and 
call  it  good.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  the 


"  natural  truthfulness "  of  his  landscapes  and 
his  animals. 

But  in  another  sense  he  was  not  a  painter 
at  all,  at  least  outside  of  his  landscapes.  In 
all  his  other  work  he  was  a  story-teller.  He 
did  not  paint  for  the  sake  of  painting ;  neither 
for  beauty's  sake,  nor  even  for  the  sake  of  the 
unbeautiful,  like  so  many  of  our  young  realists, 
American  and  English,  who  are  sated  with 
beauty,  and  so  devote  themselves  to  Our  Lady 
of  Ugliness.  Courbet  cared  for  neither;  he  was 
a  born  story-teller  and  satirist,  and  he  painted 
to  tell  stories  and  to  satirize.  As  he  once  saic , 
he  was  the  "  preappointed  historian  of  th- 
priests."  He  told  stories  of  all  kinds  with  th  i 


GUSTAVE    COURBET,   ARTIST  AND    COMMUNIST. 


495 


brush.  As  pure  art,  his  works  have  little 
value  outside  of  their  color.  But  they  have 
a  sturdy  material  verity.  They  are  free  from 
self-consciousness,  and  they  tell  us  much 
about  the  French  country  and  country  life  of 
our  time.  It  is  unfortunate  that  he  took  up, 
as  over-willful  men  are  apt  to  do,  with  a 
coarse  theory,  in  his  case  the  theory  of  a  nar- 
row realism  in  painting. 

He  had  one  of  the  characteristics  of  dilet- 
tante art :  he  never  learned  to  draw  thorough- 
ly well.  But,  in  its  spirit,  in  its  results,  his  work 
was  virile,  not  dilettante.  Dilettante  and  ama- 
teur work  in  general  tells  us  more  about  the 
artist  than  about  the  object  represented;  it 
even  describes  the  whims  of  his  inner  con- 
sciousness, which  are  dearer  to  many  contem- 
porary painters  and  poets  than  anything  in  the 
outer  world,  the  world  in  which  the  true  artist 
mainly  lives.  But  it  was  egotism,  and  not 


Courbet's 
painter 


dilettantism,  which  appeared  in 
work  throughout.  His  faults  as  a 
were  those  of  his  temperament — coarseness 
|  of  nerve-fiber,  and  consequent  egotism. 
|  Courbet  was  in  love  with  himself  to  a  degree 
!  seldom  exemplified.  As  a  matter  almost  of 
consequence,  he  had  little  sentiment  or  poetry 
in  him,  and  that  little  he  sought  to  exclude 
from  his  work.  M.  Silvestre  says  well  of  his 
landscapes  :  "  They  are  true,  but  they  express 
only  the  material  truth  of  nature.  They  do 
not  express  her  vast  and  mysterious  aspects." 
Even  of  his  own  works  his  criticism  was 
coarse ;  he  could  not  tell  his  better  from  his 
poorer  work.  "//  rfavait  pas  conscience  [criti- 
cal insight]  surce  gu'il  avaitfait"  said  one  of 
his  old  friends  to  me,  speaking  with  the  frank- 
ness which  the  truest  friends  permit  themselves 
to  use  in  France. 

Courbet's  art,  of  course,  was  the  outcome 
of  his  character;  not  indeed  of  the  visible 
traits  only — but  the  art  and  the  character 
hung  together.  A  rude,  masculine  energy,  a 


ruling  egotism,  were  at  the  foundation  of  his 
nature ;  but  his  abounding  animal  spirits 
made  these  traits  more  tolerable  than  they 
are  in  less  abundant  natures.  He  had  an 
overflowing  physical  life,  warmth  and  vivacity 
of  feeling,  energy  of  mind  and  body,  and  a 
sort  of  boyish  freshness  about  him.  Was  he 
a  good  companion  ?  Not  always ;  that  exces- 
sive self-love  stood  in  the  way.  He  was  any- 
thing but  catholic  as  regarded  his  intellectual 
companionships.  He  avoided  his  superiors; 
he  did  not  get  along  very  well  with  his  equals; 
his  inferiors  were  more  to  his  taste, —  a  sure 
mark  of  deficient  intellectual  nobility.  Cour- 
bet lived  in  a  time  of  superior  men,  but  he 
numbered  few  of  them  among  his  friends. 
Ste.  Beuve  was  one  of  the  few;  it  was  the 
friendship  of  the  sturdiest  and  one  of  the 
subtlest  minds  in  France.  They  were  drawn 
together  by  the  frequent  attraction  of  entirely 
opposite  temperaments ;  they  enjoyed  each 
other's  natures,  and  profited  by  each  other. 
But  in  general  Courbet  did  not  show  in  his 
friendships  any  faculty  of  ascending  fellow- 
ship ;  he  preferred  the  descending  fellowship 
with  his  flatterers.  Of  these,  in  Paris,  a 
body-guard  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  was 
commonly  in  his  train.  He  was  like  the 
chess-player  who  refuses  to  learn  from  an 
opponent  stronger  than  himself.  This  ego- 
tism led  him  to  the  exhausting  life  of  the 
cafe's;  too  much  beer  and  his  heavy  troubles 
broke  that  doughty  form  and  rude  mind  at 
last.  We  may  look  upon  him  more  gently  than 
his  countrymen  can  do.  "Comwe  homme,  il 
n'  a  pas  laisse  un  souvenir  tres  regrette  "  ("  As 
a  man,  he  is  not  very  kindly  remembered  "), 
said  one  of  his  old  fellows  to  me  in  the  Jura. 
But  with  all  his  errors,  he  was  an  original  and 
interesting  figure  in  a  passionately  interesting 
time  and  society.  With  all  his  faults,  and  with 
all  the  faults  of  his  work,  it  was  still  worth 
while  for  Courbet  to  have  lived  and  painted. 

Titus  Munson  Coan. 


LIEUT.-GENERAL    SHERIDAN. 

HANNIBAL,  having  been  sent  into  Spain,  from  his  very  first  arrival  drew  the  eyes  of  the  whole  army 
pon  him.    And  there  never  was  a  genius  more  fitted  for  the  two  most  opposite  duties  of  obeying  and  com- 
manding, so  that  you  could  not  easily  decide  whether  he  were  dearer  to  the  general  or  the  army ;  and  neither 
id  Hasdrubal  prefer  giving  the  command  to  any  other  when  anything  was  to  be  done  with  'courage  and  ac- 
vity,  nor  did  the  soldiers  feel  more  confidence  and  boldness  under  any  other  leader.  LIVY,  B.  xxi. 


PHILIP  HENRY  SHERIDAN  was  born  March 
>,  1831,  in  the  village  of  Somerset,  Perry 
.ounty,  Ohio.  He  lived  there  continuously 
ntil  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age.  His 
ather  was  a  contractor  for  the  construction 
f  various  important  roads  at  the  West,  and 
pent  most  of  his  time  away  from  home, 
foung  Sheridan  lived  with  his  mother  and 
ent  to  the  village  school,  where  he  learned 
eading,  writing,  spelling,  English  grammar, 
rithmetic,  and  geography.  This  was  all  the 
ducation  he  received  until  he  entered  the 
Vtilitary  Academy  at  West  Point.  He  was, 
owever,  an  attentive  student  of  history,  and 
specially  of  military  history  and  biography ; 
military  matters  indeed  rilled  his  mind,  and 
is  dream  was  always  to  become  a  soldier, 
"here  seemed,  however,  little  prospect  of 
lis,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  do  any- 
ling  for  himself  he  entered  the  country 
store  "  of  Mr.  John  Talbot,  in  Somerset,  at 

salary  of  twenty-four  dollars  a  year,  his 
ome  being  still  with  his  mother.  In  due 
ourse  he  was  promoted  to  a  situation  in  an- 
ther "  store,"  where  his  pay  was  sixty  dollars, 
nd  finally  arrived  at  the  point  where  his  serv- 
ces  were  worth  one  hundred  and  twenty 
.ollars  a  year.  For  this  sum  he  acted  as 
ook-keeper,  and  managed  what,  for  the  time 
nd  region,  constituted  an  extensive  trade.  He 
^ad  never  been  ten  miles  from  the  place  of 
is  birth  until  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age; 
fien  he  was  sent  occasionally,  for  his  employ- 
es-, distances  of  sixteen  and  eighteen  miles, 
ut  this  was  the  extent  of  his  travel. 

During  all  this  while  the  future  general-in- 
lief  had  not  neglected  his  books,  and  he  was 
ell  up  in  all  the  English  studies  already 
lentioned;  but  he  still  kept  his  mind  bent  on 

military  career.  A  vacancy  occurring  at 
fest  Point  when  he  was  seventeen,  Sheridan 
jplied  to  the  member  of  Congress  from  his 
istrict  for  the  appointment.  The  answer  in- 
osed  his  warrant  as  cadet,  and  directed  him 
;)  report  at  West  Point,  June  i,  1848.  He 
'rushed  up  his  spelling  and  grammar,  and 
jissed  his  preliminary  examinations  without 
'ouble.  When  he  entered  the  Academy  he 
lew  nothing  of  algebra,  geometry  or  any 
1"  the  higher  branches  of  study.  But  cadet 
VOL.  XXVII.— 47. 


Henry  W.  Slocum,  since '  major-general  of 
volunteers  and  member  of  Congress  from 
New  York,  was  his  room-mate.  Slocum  was 
an  industrious,  hard-working  student,  and 
from  him  Sheridan  derived  much  assistance, 
especially  in  the  solution  of  knotty  points  of 
algebra.  The  two  boys  were  very  much  in 
earnest,  and  after  taps,  when  the  lights  were 
put  out  and  every  cadet  was  expected  to 
remain  in  bed,  Slocum  and  Sheridan  were 
in  the  habit  of  hanging  a  blanket  over  the 
window,  and  then  lighting  their  lamp  and 
pursuing  their  studies.  At  the  first  exam- 
ination Slocum  went  up  toward  the  head  of 
the  class,  and  Sheridan  stood  several  files 
higher  than  he  had  expected  with  his  disad- 
vantages. 

In  1852,  in  his  graduating  year,  he  had 
some  trouble  of  a  belligerent  sort  with  another 
cadet,  which  resulted  in  his  suspension.  He 
thought  at  the  time  the  punishment  was  un- 
just, but  riper  experience  convinced  him  that 
the  authorities  were  right  and  he  was  wrong. 
He  was  suspended  for  a  year,  after  which  he 
joined  the  class  of  1853,  and  in  this  he  was 
graduated.  He  was  at  first  assigned  to  the 
First  Infantry,  but  soon  afterward  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  Fourth. 

He  was  not  long  in  developing  the  traits 
which  have  since  made  him  famous.  In  1856 
he  was  stationed  in  Washington  Territory,  and 
while  there  was  engaged  in  defending  the 
Cascades  of  the  Columbia  River  against  In- 
dians. At  one  point  the  enemy  were  posted 
on  an  island,  and  the  troops  were  obliged  to 
land  under  heavy  fire ;  but  Sheridan  took  a 
little  force  down  the  stream  unperceived  by 
the  Indians,  crossed  the  river,  and  got  around 
in  their  rear,  and  by  this  maneuver  rendered 
the  success  of  his  command  practicable.  He 
was  especially  commended  in  orders  by  Gen- 
eral Scott  for  this  achievement,  which  not 
only  foiled  the  savages  in  their  own  strategy, 
but  was  the  exact  device  he  afterward  em- 
ployed in  several  of  his  most  important  battles 
on  a  very  much  larger  scale. 

When  the  war  of  the  Rebellion  broke  out, 
Sheridan  was  on  the  Pacific  coast,  but  found 
his  way  eastward  as  soon  as  possible ;  for  he 
snuffed  the  battle  from  afar,  and  was  from  the 


498 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


first  heart  and  soul  for  the  Union.  In  May, 
1 86 1,  he  became  a  captain,  and  in  December 
was  appointed  Chief  Quartermaster  and  Com- 
missary in  Southwest  Missouri,  on  the  staff 
of  Major- General  Curtis.  The  service  at  that 
time  and  in  that  region  was,  in  some  respects, 
in  a  deplorable  condition.  Many  officers  of 
high  rank  were  concerned  in  dealings  not  at 
all  creditable.  Valuable  property  of  the  region 
was  regarded  as  a  private  prize,  and  much  that 
was  ostensibly  taken  for  the  use  of  the  quarter- 
master's department  was  really  secured  in  the 
private  interest  of  high  officers.  Sheridan, 
as  chief  quartermaster,  determined  to  put  a 
stop  to  these  proceedings.  He  prohibited  the 
use  of  government  wagons  for  private  pur- 
poses whatsoever,  and  required  that  all  horses 
and  mules  taken  from  the  country  should 
be  immediately  branded  U.  S.  This  brought 
him  into  collision  with  many  officers,  and  he 
was  directed  to  rescind  the  instructions  he 
had  given  his  subordinates.  He  protested, 
but  in  vain;  and  feeling  that  his  usefulness 
would  be  impaired  by  a  course  which  tended 
to  demoralize  the  officers  of  his  department, 
he  applied  to  be  relieved  from  duty  with 
General  Curtis's  army.  This  request  was 
shortly  afterward  complied  with,  and,  report- 
ing at  St.  Louis,  he  was  assigned  by  General 
Halleck  to  another  field. 

In  April,  1862,  Halleck  assumed  command 
in  person  of  the  army  in  Tennessee,  taking 
Sheridan  with  him  on  his  staff.  Shortly  after- 
ward the  colonelcy  of  one  of  the  Michigan 
regiments  fell  vacant,  and  the  Governor  of 
the  State  wrote  to  Halleck  to  name  a  good 
man  for  the  post ;  it  was  immaterial  whether 
he  was  from  Michigan  or  not,  so  that  he  was 
an  educated  soldier.  Halleck  at  once  nom- 
inated Sheridan,  who  thus  received  his  first 
command,  as  colonel  of  the  Second  Michigan 
Cavalry.  He  participated  in  several  engage- 
ments during  the  advance  on  Corinth,  and 
on  the  2d  of  June  was  given  command  of 
the  Second  Cavalry  Brigade  of  the  Army  of 
the  Mississippi. 

On  the  ist  of  July  he  was  attacked  at 
Booneville  by  a  force  at  least  forty-five  hun- 
dred strong,  and  at  once  displayed  the  qual- 
ities of  steady  determination  and  fertility  of 
resource  in  emergencies  for  which  he  was  af- 
terward so  preeminent.  After  a  stiff  resist- 
ance he  fell  back  to  an  advantageous  position 
on  the  edge  of  a  swamp,  where  he  could  hold 
the  assailants  at  bay.  Finding,  however,  that 
the  enemy  was  passing  around  his  left  and 
threatening  his  camp,  he  determined  to  make 
a  bold  dash  on  the  right  and  convert  the  de- 
fense into  an  offensive  movement.  Selecting 
four  of  his  best  saber  companies,  he  sent  them 
several  miles  around  the  enemy's  left  to  attack 


in  rear  and  flank,  while  he  was  to  make  a  si- 
multaneous charge  in  front. 

The  plan  worked  admirably.  The  four  com- 
panies appeared  suddenly  in  the  enemy's  rear, 
not  having  been  seen  till  near  enough  to  fire 
their  carbines,  and,  having  emptied  these,  they 
charged  with  drawn  sabers  on  the  astonished 
enemy,  who  doubtless  took  them  for  the  ad- 
vanced guard  of  a  very  much  larger  force ;  for 
it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  so  small  a  body 
would  have  the  audacity  to  throw  themselves 
against  a  force  of  forty-five  hundred  men  with- 
out the  promise  of  speedy  support. 

Before  the  enemy  could  recover  from  the 
confusion  of  this  attack  they  were  fiercely 
charged  by  Sheridan  with  his  remaining  hand- 
ful of  men,  and,  utterly  routed,  fled  from  rtu 
field.  This  engagement,  in  which  two  smal 
regiments  of  cavalry  defeated  nine,  won  foi 
Colonel  Sheridan  his  first  star, —  his  commis- 
sion as  brigadier-general  dating  from  the  bat 
tie  of  Booneville.  Those  who  study  his  afte 
career  will  find  numerous  examples  of  the 
same  peculiarities  so  strikingly  illustrated  ii 
this  his  earliest  independent  fight. 

The  reputation  he  acquired  by  this  affai 
made  Sheridan  known  to  all  his  superiors  a 
the  West.    Halleck,  Rosecrans,  H.  G.  Wright 
and   Gordon   Granger  all  recommended  hi 
promotion.    Several  expeditions  in  which  h< 
was  engaged  still  further  developed  his  pow 
ers;  and  when  Halleck  was  transferred  t< 
Washington,  leaving  Grant  at  the  head  o 
the  Western  army,  the  new  commander  full 
appreciated  his  subordinate.    In  Septembei 
1862,  the  situation  of  Buell  in  Kentucky  wa 
such  that  Grant  was  ordered  to  reenforce  hirr 
Grant  selected  some  of  his  best  troops  for  th 
purpose.    He  was  superintending  the  move 
ment  himself  when  he  perceived  Sheridan  £ 
the  head  of  his  command,  about  to  mard 
"What!"  exclaimed  Grant,  "are  you  her< 
Sheridan  ?    I  did  not  intend  that  you  shoul 
leave  this  army."    He  had  not  remembere 
that  the  colonel  commanding  a  brigade  i 
reality  belonged  to  the  Second  Michigan  Ca^ 
airy,  and  had  purposed  to  keep  a  man  whos' 
ability  he  so  highly  esteemed  in  his  own  con 
mand.    But  Sheridan  had  no  desire  to  remaii 
He  had  been  ordered  to  the  field  where  figh 
ing  was  most  imminent,  and  he  said  nothin   . 
to  Grant  to  induce  him  to  change  his  destin; 
tion.    Grant  was  a  little  touched  at  this  indi   • 
ference,  and  Sheridan  went  on  to  join  Bue! 
Neither  suspected  then  how  close  and  int  \ 
mate   their  relations  would  become   in  i:l   : 
wider  spheres  that  awaited  them. 

Arriving  at    Louisville,  Sheridan  was   a 
signed  to  the   command  of  a  division,  zi 
with  this  force  constructed  in  a  single  nitf-  ; 
the  whole  series  of  rifle-pits  from  the  railrc ; 


LIEUT.-GENERAL    SHERIDAN, 


499 


station  in  Louisville  to  the  vicinity  of  Port- 
land, a  distance  of  five  or  six  miles.  In  Octo- 
ber he  accompanied  Buell  in  his  advance 
against  Bragg,  and  on  the  8th  of  that  month 
he  bore  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  battle  of 
j  Perry ville,  holding  the  key-point  of  the  posi- 
jtion,  and  successfully  defending  it  against 
jseveral  attacks  of  the  enemy.  Hardee  repeat- 
ledly  charged  him  with  fixed  bayonets,  but  was 
nvariably  driven  back  in  disorder  from  the 
open  ground  in  front  of  the  heights  where 
Sheridan  was  posted. 

He  remained  in  command  of  a  division  in 
the  Army  of  the  Cumberland  until  the  battle 
of  Murfreesboro,  in  which  he  sustained  four 
separate  attacks,  and  four  times  repulsed  the 
enemy,  when  his  ammunition  became  ex- 
lausted,  and  he  was  compelled  to  fall  back 
rom  his  original  position.  Even  after  this  he 
engaged  the  advancing  enemy,  recapturing 
;wo  pieces  of  artillery,  and  absolutely  routing 
:he  force  that  had  driven  him.  For  his  con- 
luct  in  this  battle  he  was  made  major-gen- 
pral  of  volunteers,  on  the  recommendation  of 
Rosecrans. 

He  participated  in  the  march  on  Chicka- 
nauga,  and  on  the  2d  of  July  arrived  at  the 
ilk  River,  but  found  the  stream  so  swollen 
>y  recent  and  heavy  rains  as  to  be  impassa- 
ble.   He  thereupon  turned  the  head  of  his 
j;olumn  and  marched  it  parallel  with  the  river 
ill  he  discovered  what  seemed  to  be  a  practi- 
cable ford.    But  the  enemy  was  guarding  it 
irith  a  cavalry  regiment ;  the  stream  was  waist 
eep,  and  the  current  was  quite  too  impetuous 
Dr  infantry  to  pass  unaided ;  it  would  have 
jeparated  and  swept  away  his  column.  In  this 
jmergency  Sheridan's  invention  came  to  his 
lid,  and  a  device  worthy  of  Hannibal  indi- 
jated  the  genius  of  the  Union  commander. 
le  first  drove  the  enemy  from  the  opposite 
Shore,  and  after  a  sharp  skirmish  crossed  his 
avalry.   A  cable  was  next  stretched  across 
le  river,  by  the  aid  of  which  the  weak  men 
f  the  division  were  passed.   The  remainder 
if  the  command  was  then  formed  in  solid 
jhalanx  to  resist  the  stream.    With  muskets 
jad  cartridge-boxes  on  their  shoulders,  and 
|ieir  hands  resting  on  the  knapsacks  of  the 
'ink  in  front,  they  went  in  with  a  cheer,  sup- 
prting  each  other,  and  the  entire   division 
rossed  the  deep  and  rapid  stream  without 
lie  loss  of  a  man.* 

I  In  the  battle  of  Chickamauga,  Sheridan 
iiared  the  terrible  fighting  and  the  disasters 
f  the  army.  He  was  on  the  extreme  right 
ji  the  second  day,  and  entirely  disconnected 

".The  Spaniards,  without  making  any  difficulty, 
t-ving  put  their  clothes  in  bags  of  leather,  and  them- 
ilves  leaning  on  their  bucklers  placed  beneath,  swam 
ross  the  river.  LIVY. 


from  the  remainder  of  the  command.  At 
eleven  o'clock  he  was  directed  to  move  to 
the  left  to  the  support  of  Thomas;  and,  while 
marching  at  the  double  quick  to  carry  out 
the  order,  he  received  an  overwhelming  as- 
sault, and  was  driven  back  three  hundred 
yards.  In  the  meantime  he  was  receiving  the 
most  urgent  orders  to  throw  in  his  entire 
command;  and,  rallying  his  men,  he  drove  the 
enemyin  his  turn, inflicting  immense  slaughter, 
and  regaining  the  line  he  had  originally  held; 
but  the  enemy  had  strong  supports  and  Sheri- 
dan none,  and  he  was  driven  back  again. 
But  the  assailants  showed  no  disposition  to 
follow  up  their  advantage,  and  Sheridan  had 
learned  positively  that  the  divisions  on  his 
left  had  also  been  driven,  so  that  he  was 
completely  cut  off.  He  therefore  determined 
to  connect  himself  with  Thomas  by  moving 
back  on  the  arc  of  a  circle  until  he  was  able 
to  form  a  junction.  But  the  enemy  moved 
parallel  with  him,  and  arrived  first  at  the 
point  at  which  he  was  aiming.  Sheridan  then 
moved  quite  around  in  the  rear  of  Thomas, 
and  at  last  came  in  on  his  left  flank.  Shortly 
after,  the  whole  command  was  retired. 

Sheridan's  part  of  this  disastrous  battle  was 
fought  under  the  most  disadvantageous  cir- 
cumstances. No  time  was  given  to  form  line 
of  battle,  he  had  no  supports,  and  one  divis- 
ion contended  against  four  or  five.  His  com- 
mand numbered  four  thousand  bayonets,  and 
he  lost  ninety-six  officers  and  one  thousand 
four  hundred  and  twenty-one  private  soldiers. 
He  did  his  best  to  beat  back  the  furious  storm 
which  so  nearly  destroyed  the  army,  and  never 
displayed  more  stubborn  courage  or  military 
skill  in  a  subordinate  sphere  than  on  this  ter- 
rible day. 

Hitherto  his  fighting  had  all  been  on  the 
defensive.  He  had  served  under  unsuccessful 
soldiers,  and  his  ability  was  directed  rather  to 
efforts  to  repel  and  resist  than  to  those  more 
congenial  to  his  nature — to  assault  and  ad- 
vance. These  were  to  find  their  scope  and 
opportunity  under  Grant. 

The  battle  of  Chattanooga,  two  months 
later,  redeemed  that  of  Chickamauga,  and  in 
this  it  fell  to  Sheridan  to  lead  a  division  in 
the  famous  charge  on  Missionary  Ridge.  The 
situation  at  Chattanooga  was  simple,  and  can 
be  understood  by  the  most  unmilitary  reader. 
The  town  lies  on  the  south  bank  of  the  Ten- 
nessee, with  a  vast  plain  extending  toward  the 
hills  in  front  and  on  either  side.  On  the  right 
is  Lookout  Mountain,  rising  abruptly  two 
thousand  feet,  while  the  southern  limit  of  the 
plain  is  Missionary  Ridge,  so  called  by  the 
Indians,  who  allowed  the  missionaries  to  pass 
no  farther.  Grant  was  in  possession  of  Chat- 
tanooga, and  the  enemy  held  Missionary  Ridge 


5oo 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


and  Lookout  Mountain.  On  the  24th  of  No- 
vember Sherman  carried  the  hills  at  the  end  of 
the  ridge  on  the  left,  and  Hooker  stormed  the 
works  on  Lookout  Mountain.  Thomas  had 
already  moved  out  from  Chattanooga  to  a  point 
in  front  of  the  center  of  the  ridge.  Sheridan 
held  the  extreme  right  of  Thomas's  command. 
Grant's  plan  was  to  move  Sherman  and  Hooker 
simultaneously  against  the  enemy's  flanks, 
and,  when  Bragg  was  weakened  or  distracted 
by  these  attacks  on  right  and  left,  to  assault  his 
center  on  the  ridge.  The  movements  on  either 
flank  occurred.  Sherman's  attack  was  very  vig- 
orous, but  the  enemy  were  obliged  to  maintain 
the  point  in  his  front,  for  it  commanded  their 
trains  and  their  only  possible  line  of  retreat. 
Bragg,  therefore,  reenforced  heavily  from  the 
center,  and  when  Grant  perceived  this  move- 
ment he  ordered  Thomas  to  assault. 

Thomas's  command  consisted  of  four  di- 
visions, with  Sheridan,  as  already  stated,  on 
the  extreme  right.  The  center  of  his  division 
was  opposite  Bragg's  head- quarters  on  Mis- 
sionary Ridge.  The  ground  in  his  front  was, 
first,  open  timber ;  then,  a  smooth  and  open 
plain,  the  distance  across  which,  to  the  first 
line  of  the  enemy's  rifle-pits,  varied  from  five 
hundred  to  nine  hundred  yards;  next,  a  steep 
ascent  of  about  five  hundred  yards  to  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  the  face  of  which  was  rugged 
and  covered  with  fallen  timber.  About  half- 
way up  the  ridge  was  a  partial  line  of  pits, 
and,  last  of  all,  the  works  on  the  crest  of  the 
mountain. 

While  Sheridan  was  making  his  dispositions 
to  attack,  the  enemy's  regiments  could  be 
plainly  seen  moving  to  the  still  unoccupied 
rifle-pits  on  the  summit,  their  blue  battle-flags 
waving  as  they  marched.  As  he  rode  in 
front  of  his  line  to  examine  the  works,  which 
looked  as  if  they  would  prove  untenable  if 
carried,  a  doubt  arose  in  his  mind  as  to 
whether  he  had  understood  his  order,  and  he 
sent  an  officer  to  ascertain  if  it  was  the  first 
line  only  that  was  to  be  carried,  or  the  ridge 
itself.  Grant  had  intended  to  carry  the  works 
at  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  and,  when  this  was 
done,  to  reform  the  lines  in  the  rifle-pits,  with 
a  view  to  carrying  the  top.  But  Sheridan's 
aide-de-camp  had  scarcely  left  his  side  when 
the  signal  was  given,  and  the  division  rushed 
to  the  front  under  a  terrific  burst  of  shot  and 
shell.  Nevertheless,  it  moved  steadily  on, 
Sheridan  in  front  of  the  line,  and,  emerging 
from  the  timber,  took  up  the  double-quick  step 
and  dashed  over  the  open  plain  and  at  the 
enemy's  first  line  with  a  mass  of  glittering 
bayonets  that  was  irresistible.  Many  of  the 
enemy  fled ;  the  remainder  threw  themselves 
prostrate  before  the  assaulting  line  and  were 
either  killed  or  captured,  and  the  national 


troops  rushed  over.  The  three  brigades  had 
reached  the  first  line  of  pits  simultaneously. 
The  enemy's  fire  from  the  top  now  changed 
from  shot  and  shell  to  canister  and  musketry. 

At  this  moment  Sheridan's  officer  returned^ 
and  brought  word  that  it  was  the  first  line 
only  that  was  to  be  carried.  He  first  reached 
the  left  of  Sheridan's  command;  and  one 
brigade  on  the  left  was  accordingly  withdrawn 
to  the  rifle-pits  which  they  had  already 
crossed.  The  officer  then  rode  up  to  Sheridan 
himself  with  the  order,  but  the  attack  had  by 
this  time  assumed  a  new  and  unexpected  phase. 
Sheridan  saw  that  he  could  carry  the  ridge, 
and  he  could  not  order  officers  and  men  whc 
were  already  gallantly  ascending  the  hill,  step 
by  step,  to  return.  He  rode  from  the  center 
to  the  left,  and  saw  disappointment  on  the 
faces  of  the  men  who  had  been  withdrawn : 
he  told  them  to  rest  for  a  few  moments,  anc 
they  should  "  go  at  it "  again. 

Meanwhile  the  right  and  right  center  were; 
nearly  half-way  up  the  hill,  and  approaching 
the  second  line  of  pits,  led  by  twelve  sets  oi 
regimental  colors.  First,  one  flag  would  b( 
advanced  a  few  feet,  then  another  would  come 
up  to  it,  each  vying  with  the  other  to  be  fore- 
most, until  the  entire  twelve  were  planted  or 
the  crest  of  the  second  line  of  works.  Nov 
came  another  aide-de-camp  to  say  that  th( 
original  order  had  been  to  carry  the  first  line 
but  that  if,  in  Sheridan's  judgment,  the  ridg< 
could  be  carried,  he  was  to  take  it.  Sheridan': 
judgment  was  that  Missionary  Ridge  couk 
be  carried,  and  he  gave  the  order.  "  When  '. 
saw  those  flags  going  up,"  he  said  to  me,  ii 
describing  the  fight,  "  I  knew  we  shouh 
carry  the  ridge,  and  I  took  the  responsibility. : 
The  men  obeyed  with  a  cheer. 

Thirty  pieces  of  artillery  now  opened  01  i 
the   assailants   with  direct,   plunging,   cross 
and  enfilading  fire,  and  a  tempest  of  musketr 
from  the  still  well-filled  rifle-pits  on  the  sum 
mit ;  but  the  men  put  their  faces  to  the  breas 
of  the   mountain   to  avoid   the    storm,  an< 
thus  worked  their  way  up  its  front,  till  at  las'  fl 
the   highest   crest    was   reached.    Sheridan' 
right  and  right  center  were  the  first,  behr  : 
nearest.   They  crossed   at   once   to   Bragg1 
head-quarters,  but  the  rebel  chief  had  flee 
The   contest,  however,  was   maintained   fc 
several  minutes,  when  the  enemy  was  drive 
from   his   artillery,   and    guns    and   support  ; 
were    captured   together.    Whole   regimenlij 
threw  down  their  arms,  others  fled  headlong 
down  the  further  slope,  the  national  soldieiij 
not  waiting  to  reload  their  pieces,  but  drivin1  i 
the   enemy   with    stones.    Before    the    entii.  j 
division  had  reached  the  crest,  the  disorgn 
ized  troops  of  Bragg  could  be  plainly  se«'i 
with  a  large  wagon- train  and  several  pie( •< 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


of  artillery,  flying  through  the  valley  below, 
within  a  distance  of  half  a  mile. 

Sheridan,  however,  had  no  idea  of  resting 
upon  his   laurels.    The   victory  was   gained, 
but  the  results  must  be  secured.    He  at  once 
directed  two  of  his  brigades  to  press  the  fly- 
ing rear-guard  and  capture  their  wagon  trains 
and  artillery.    Nine  guns  were  speedily  taken; 
but,  about  a  mile  beyond  the  ridge,  the  road 
ran    over   a   high    and   formidable    crest  on 
which  the  enemy  had  posted  eight  guns,  sup- 
jported  by  a  large  infantry  force.    Sheridan  at 
once  rode  to  the  front  with  a  couple  of  regi- 
ments, and   found   the  advance  contending 
against   greatly  superior  numbers,   the   men 
clinging  to  the  face  of  the  hill,  as  they  had 
done  a  few  hours  before  on  Missionary  Ridge. 
It  was  dusk,  but  he  determined  to  flank  the 
enemy    with    the    fresh    regiments    he    had 
wrought.    In  order  to  accomplish  the  flanking 
movement,  a  high  bluff,  where  the  ridge  on 
:he  left  terminated,  had  to  be  carried.    When 
;he  head  of  the  column  reached  the  summit  of 
|;his  hill,  the  moon  was  rising  from  behind, 
a  medallion  view  of  the  column  was  dis- 
Josed  as  it  crossed  the  moon's  disk  and  at- 
ackecl  the  enemy,  who,  outflanked  on  right 
,nd  left,  fled  hurriedly,  leaving  two  pieces  of 
rtillery  and  many  wagons  behind.    "  This," 
ays  Sheridan  in  his  report,  "  was  a  gallant 
.ttle  fight." 

One  hundred  and  twenty-three  officers  and 
leven  hundred  and  seventy-nine  men  of  the 
livision  bathed  Missionary  Ridge  with  their 
lood.  For  one  and  one-eighth  miles,  emerg- 
ag  from  the  timber,  and  crossing  the  open 
lain,  the  troops  were  subjected  to  as  terrible 
cross  fire  of  artillery  and  musketry  as  any 
a  the  war. 

It  was  Sheridan's  conduct  during  this  battle 
nd  the  pursuit,  which  inspired  Grant  with  the 
upreme  confidence  he  always  afterward  felt 
i  his  great  subordinate.  This  was  the  first 
me  that  Sheridan  had  fought  immediately 
inder  the  eyes  of  Grant,  who  has  often  told  me 
p  the  impression  made  on  him  by  Sheridan's 
etermination  to  advance  up  the  mountain, 
[is  gallantry  in  leading  the  charge,  and,  quite 
J3  much  as  either,  the  remorseless  energy  with 
fhich  he  pursued  the  routed  enemy.  This 
J.st  trait  is  most  uncommon  even  with  brill- 
j.nt  soldiers;  for  many  are  apt  to  sit  con- 
futed with  an  incomplete  victory.  In  this 
pry  battle  more  than  one  of  Sheridan's  su- 
fcriors  displeased  or  dissatisfied  the  chief  by 
i  willingness  to  rest  before  the  fruits  of  suc- 
bss  were  all  secured ;  but  Sheridan  never 
isplayed  this  fault ;  and  on  this  occasion  he 
'.lined  the  advancement  which  he  afterward 
jceived,  and  which  gave  him  the  opportunity 
achieve  what  has  made  him  world-re- 


nowned. At  Chattanooga  he  really  did  as 
much  as  in  any  other  battle  to  earn  the  gen- 
eralship of  the  army. 

Only  two  or  three  months  later,  Grant  was 
made  general-in-chief  of  the  armies,  and  de- 
termined to  take  command  in  person  at  the 
East.  He  was  dissatisfied  with  the  results 
accomplished  by  the  cavalry  in  Virginia,  and 
was  talking  with  the  President  and  the  Sec- 
retary of  War  of  his  designs.  "  I  want,"  he 
said,  "  an  active,  energetic  man,  full  of  life, 
and  spirit,  and  power."  Halleck,  who  was 
present,  inquired :  "  How  would  Sheridan 
do  ?  "  "  The  very  man  I  want,"  said  Grant, 
and  telegraphed  for  him  that  hour. 

But,  with  the  ignorance  of  the  future  that 
besets  us  all,  Sheridan  was  unwilling  to  leave. 
He  had  won  his  laurels  at  the  West ;  he  had 
fought  only  with  Western  troops ;  success  at 
last  seemed  opening  there,  and  he  was  loth 
to  change  his  sphere  and  come  to  untried  men 
and  unknown  theaters.  Of  course,  he  was  too 
good  a  soldier  to  express  unwillingness,  but 
the  honors  pressed  on  him  by  Grant  were 
all  unwelcome;  and  he  left  the  West  with 
regret  to  enter  upon  those  fields  where  he 
was  destined  to  gather  so  splendid  a  harvest 
of  renown. 

When  Sheridan  took  command  of  the  cav- 
alry of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  it  numbered 
from  ten  to  twelve  thousand  effective  men, 
and  was  employed  to  encircle  the  infantry 
and  artillery  with  a  picket  line  which,  if  con- 
tinuous, would  have  stretched  out  nearly 
sixteen  miles.  This  was  a  use  of  the  force 
which  Sheridan  disapproved.  It  was  shortly 
after  dispensed  with,  and  the  horses  instead 
were  nursed  for  the  coming  campaign.  It 
was  Sheridan's  idea  that  cavalry  should  fight 
the  enemy's  cavalry,  and  infantry  the  enemy's 
infantry.  He  thought,  too,  that  he  perceived 
a  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  power  of  a  large 
and  well-managed  body  of  horse.  This  power 
he  was  destined  himself  to  display  in  a  strik- 
ing manner  in  the  events  of  the  following 
year. 

He  participated  in  the  battle  of  the  Wilder- 
ness, opening  a  way  for  the  movement  of  the 
various  columns,  crossing  the  Rapidan  in  ad- 
vance, and  guarding  the  trains  and  the  left 
of  the  army.  This  battle  was  fought  on  the 
5th  and  6th  of  May,  1864;  on  the  yth  Sheri- 
dan again  led  the  way  to  Spottsylvania,  fight- 
ing the  battle  of  Todd's  Tavern  to  clear  the 
road  for  the  infantry.  On  the  8th  he  was  sent 
for  by  Grant,  and  received  orders  to  go  out 
and  engage  the  rebel  cavalry ;  and  when  out 
of  forage,  of  which  he  had  half  rations  for  one 
day,  he  was  to  proceed  to  the  James  River, 
sixty  miles  away,  and  replenish  from  Butler's 
stores  at  Bermuda  Hundred.  This  was  carry- 


502 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


ing  out  Sheridan's  own  idea  that  cavalry 
should  fight  cavalry.  The  details  of  the  move- 
ment were  left  to  himself,  and  he  at  once  de- 
termined to  march  around  the  right  of  Lee's 
army,  and  put  his  command,  before  fighting, 
in  a  region  where  he  could  find  grain.  There 
he  believed  that  the  enemy's  infantry  would 
not  molest  him,  and  he  felt  fully  able  to  con- 
tend with  Lee's  cavalry. 

This  plan  was  executed.  He  moved  his 
three  divisions  on  a  single  road,  making  a 
column  thirteen  miles  long ;  "  for,"  he  said, 
, "  I  preferred  this  to  the  combinations  arising 
from  separate  roads —combinations  rarely 
working  as  expected,  and  generally  failing, 
unless  subordinate  officers  are  prompt  and 
fully  understand  the  situation":  a  maxim 
which,  coming  from  a  master  of  the  art,  is 
worthy  commemoration.  He  soon  came 
into  a  green  country  where,  as  he  expected, 
he  found  supplies,  and  also  destroyed  immense 
quantities  of  grain  and  ammunition  intended 
for  Lee. 

The  enemy's  cavalry,  under  Stuart,  at  once 
started  in  pursuit,  and  threw  themselves  be- 
tween the  national  forces  and  Richmond; 
but  their  leader  unwisely  divided  his  com- 
mand, sending  a  large  party  to  attack  Sheri- 
dan in  rear.  He,  on  the  contrary,  threw  his 
principal  strength  against  the  force  which 
attacked  him  in  front,  and  fought  the  re- 
mainder with  a  small  rear-guard.  He  was 
completely  successful ;  the  enemy  were  beaten 
front  and  rear.  Stuart  was  killed,  and  Rich- 
mond itself  exposed  to  the  victorious  troops. 
A  reconnoitering  party  indeed  dashed  over 
the  outer  works  of  the  town. 

It  was  no  part,  however,  of  Grant's  design 
that  Sheridan  should  enter  Richmond  at  this 
time.  He  could  not  possibly  have  held  the 
place,  and  though  Jefferson  Davis  and  his 
Congress  were  greatly  alarmed,  the  cavalry 
leader  obeyed  his  orders  and  turned  his  col- 
umn eastward.  He  was  now  between  the 
Chickahominy  and  the  James,  and  as  soon 
as  the  enemy  ascertained  that  Sheridan  had 
no  intention  of  attacking  Richmond,  they 
came  out  in  force  to  assail  him.  The  bridges 
on  the  Chickahominy  were  destroyed  and 
had  to  be  rebuilt  under  fire,  while  the  enemy 
were  advancing  on  the  other  side  from  Rich- 
mond. But  the  opposition  in  front  was  re- 
pelled while  the  work  on  the  bridges  con- 
tinued, and  a  severe  encounter  in  the  rear 
also  resulted  favorably  for  Sheridan,  who 
then  proceeded  to  the  James  River  and  went 
into  camp.  After  resting  three  days  he  set 
out  to  return  to  Grant.  The  enemy  molested 
him  again,  and  at  a  point  on  the  York  River 
he  once  more  found  the  bridges  burned.  But 
he  sent  out  mounted  parties,  each  man  to 


bring  back  a  board,  and  made  the  river  pass- 
able in  a  day.  In  sixteen  days  from  leaving 
the  army  he  rejoined  it  at  Chesterfield. 

The  skill  and  pluck  he  had  displayed  in 
this  expedition,  eluding  the  enemy  when  it 
was  necessary,  attacking  and  beating  him  at 
the  right  moment,  destroying  stores,  burning 
and  building  bridges  with  almost  equal  facility, 
greatly  delighted  Grant,  and  amply  justified 
that  general  in  the  choice  he  had  made  of  a 
cavalry  commander. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  Wilderness 
campaign,  the  cavalry  was  engaged  in  the 
battles  of  H awe's  shop,  Totopotomoy,  and 
Cold  Harbor,  and  always  satisfied  the  expec- 
tations of  the  general -in- chief,  whether  in 
active  battle,  or  on  the  march,  or  in  the  strate- 
gic maneuvers  of  the  campaign. 

On  the  6th  of  June  Sheridan  was  ordered 
to  proceed  with  two  divisions  to  cut  the  Vir- 
ginia Central  Railroad  near  Charlottesville, 
and,  if  possible,  unite  with  General  Hunter, 
at  that  time  moving  up  the  Valley  of  Virginia. 
Another  object  of  the  maneuver  was  to  entice 
the  enemy's  cavalry  from  the  Chickahominy 
during  Grant's  contemplated  passage  of  the 
James.  The  latter  part  of  the  scheme  was 
entirely  successful,  for  the  greater  portion  of 
Lee's  cavalry  set  out  to  follow  Sheridan,  and 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac  achieved  its  difficult 
passage  of  the  James  without  molestation  or 
hinderance.  Eight  or  ten  miles  of  the  railroad 
were  also  destroyed  by  Sheridan,  after  a  smart 
battle  at  Trevillian's  station,  in  which  the 
enemy  was  driven  off  in  a  panic ;  but  at  this 
time  Sheridan  learned  that  Hunter  had  moved 
in  a  different  direction  from  that  proposed, 
and  the  junction  between  the  two  commands 
became  impracticable.  He  accordingly  re- 
turned to  Grant.  When  near  the  James  River, 
a  cavalry  force  attempted  to  obstruct  him, 
but  he  placed  his  trains  at  the  rear,  and  threw 
out  his  troops  toward  the  enemy,  fighting 
heavily  in  front,  while  the  trains  under  cover 
of  the  battle  marched  safely  by. 

In  July  Sheridan  took  part  in  the  move- 
ments around  Deep  Bottom,  preliminary  to 
the  explosion  of  Burnside's  famous  mine.  He 
was  sent  to  the  north  bank  of  the  James  with 
Hancock,  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  en- 
emy while  the  real  movement  against  Peters- 
burg took  place  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river.  His  force  was  attacked  by  a  large  body 
of  infantry,  and  at  first  he  was  driven  back 
over  a  ridge;  but  he  made  his  men  lie  quickly 
down  in  line  of  battle  about  fifteen  yards  be- 
hind the  crest,  and,  when  the  enemy  reached 
this  crest,  he  opened  fire  with  his  repeating 
carbines,  and  the  assailants  gave  way  in  die- 
order.  The  cavalry  followed  them  over  the 
plain,  capturing  two  hundred  and  fifty  mer , 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


503 


besides  those  that  they  killed  and  wounded,    for  one  of  his  independent  and  most  impor- 
In  this  affair,  which  is  known  as  the  battle  of    tant  armies. 
Darby  town,  the   cavalry  repulsed  a  superior 
force  of  infantry,  a  circumstance  most  unu- 
sual in  recent  war. 

The  enemy,  as  Grant  had  hoped,  was  com- 


pletely deceived  by  the  long  front  presented 


After  the  advance  of  Early  upon  Washing- 
ton in  1864,  the  greatest  alarm  and  confusion 
prevailed  at  the  national  capital.  The  Gov- 
ernment was  disturbed,  the  people  of  the 
North  mortified,  and  apprehensions  for  the 


by  Hancock  and  the  cavalry,  and  supposed    safety  not  only  of  Washington  and  Baltimore, 


that  nearly  the  entire  army  had  been  moved 
to  the  north  side  of  the  James.  Lee  there- 
fore transferred  a  large  body  of  his  own  troops 


but  even  of  Philadelphia,  were  rife.  Grant  was 
in  front  of  Richmond,  and  Halleck,  the  rank- 
ing officer  at  Washington,  declined  positively 


|  to  oppose  them,  thus  leaving  a  way  open  for    to  take  any  responsibility.    At  no  time  during 


the  national  advance  on  the  southern  side. 

The  object  of  the  movement  being  accom- 
iplished,  Hancock  was  moved  back  to  the 
I  river,  near  the  bridge-head;  but,  to  continue 


the  war  did  the  prospect  of  disaster  seem 
closer  or  more  imminent.  Grant  had  been 
for  weeks  urging  that  a  single  and  competent 
commander  should  be  opposed  to  Early;  but 


O~  .7  ~J  ^  J.     1  J     J 

the  deception  of  the  enemy,  Sheridan  during    his  suggestions  were  unnoticed,  and  he  finally 


the  night  sent  one  of  his  divisions  to  the  oppo- 
site bank  of  the  James,  first  covering  the 
bridge  with  moss  and  grass  to  prevent  the 
tramp  of  horses  being  heard,  and  at  daylight 
marched  it  back  again  on  foot  in  full  view  of 
ithe  enemy,  to  create  the  impression  that  a 
jlarge  and  continuous  movement  to  the  north 
iside  was  still  going  on.  On  the  second  night 
Hancock  was  withdrawn  to  take  part  in  the 


started  himself  for  the  north,  having  pre- 
viously ordered  Sheridan  with  two  divisions 
of  cavalry  to  the  same  field.  He  went  directly 
to  the  front,  not  stopping  at  Washington  on 
the  way,  and  then,  without  consulting  the 
Government,  put  Sheridan  in  command. 

His  orders  were  to  protect  the  capital,  to 
drive  Early  back,  and  to  hold  and  strip  the 
Valley  of  Virginia,  which  had  afforded  supplies 


(engagement  expected  to  follow  the  mine  ex-    so  long  to  the  enemy,  so  that  it  never  again 

U-kl^-vr-^  f~\-Y\          CV\  t*'***  f\  f\  *-»     -ITTOO     r\  -i  •*•£*  *-»  f  t\  r\     ±/-\     -frf-vll  »"*tTr    ot-»/-1         C"V»/^iil/-l   V\n  <->    T-\oc*£i  s\i*  o    rrvo-n  o -»-TT  -fXi*   T    £\t**r>   n^.1  ^J-Iy-**.^. 


plosion.  Sheridan  was  directed  to  follow  and 
'withdraw  by  brigades  from  the  right,  succes- 
sively passing  them  over  the  bridge.  This 


should  be  a  base  or  a  granary  for  Lee's  soldiers. 
"  Put  yourself  south  of  the  enemy,"  said 
Grant,  "  and  follow  him  to  the  death."  After 


imovement  was  one  of  extreme  delicacy,  as,    laying  down  these  general  aims,  he  added : 


after  Hancock  had  crossed,  the  space  at  the 
mouth  of  the  bridge,  occupied  by  Sheridan, 
was '  so  circumscribed  that  an  attack  by  the 
enemy  in  force  might  have  resulted  in.  the  an- 
nihilation of  his  entire  command.  The  whole 
operation,  however,  was  successfully  executed, 
and  every  point  made ;  but  it  was  attended 
iwith  such  anxiety  and  sleeplessness  as  to 
jprostrate  nearly  every  officer  and  man  in 
Ithe  command. 


I  feel  every  confidence  that  you  will  do  the 
best,  and  will  leave  you  as  far  as  possible 
to  act  on  your  own  judgment,  and  not  em- 
barrass you  with  orders  and  instructions." 

For  nearly  six  weeks  the  new  commander 
moved  cautiously  about  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Valley.  He  was  unwilling  to  fight  until  he 
could  get  Early  at  a  disadvantage,  and  till  he 
should  receive  whatever  reinforcements  Grant 
could  allow  him.  His  operations,  besides, 


From  May  to  August  Sheridan  had  lost  were  a  part  of  the  great  strategy  in  which  all 

between    five    thousand    and    six   thousand  the  armies  were  involved,  and  he  was  some- 

naen,  killed,  wounded,  and  missing;  but  he  times   obliged  to  move  in  accordance  with 

captured  more   than    two   thousand   prison-  necessities  hundreds  of  miles  away.   Still,  the 


prs.  In  his  marches  he  had  been  obliged  to 
ive,  to  a  great  extent,  off  the  country ;  his 
lardships  were  great,  but  the  men  endured 


general  control  of  his  army  was  his  own.  He 
corresponded  daily  with  the  general-in-chief, 
and  the  two  were  in  perfect  accord.  The 


pillingly  under  a  leader  who  shared  alike  country  meanwhile  was  impatient,  and  the 
<:heir  dangers  and  their  toils.  He  had  already  enemies  of  the  Government  at  the  North 
biade  them  know  that  he  led  them  to  victory,  made  the  most  of  the  delay.  Sheridan  was 
jmd  had  aroused  that  feeling  which  enables  a  pronounced  another  failure,  and  the  capital 
Commander  to  take  his  troops  whithersoever  was  said  to  be  still  in  danger.  But  Sheridan 
lie  accompanies  them.  His  cavalry  had  indeed  was  not  to  be  forced  inopportunely  or  while 
ought  the  enemy's  cavalry.  He  had  always  unready  into  battle. 
i)een  the  attacking  party,  and  had  achieved 
almost  constant  success.  The  enemy's  force 
lie  believed  superior  to  his  own;  but  their 
ipirit  diminished  daily,  while  that  of  his  corn- 


nan  d   increased.    All    this  was   apparent   to 
,jrant,  who  was  now  in  want  of  a  commander 


Finally,  Grant  paid  him  another  visit,  near 
Winchester,  to  decide,  after  conference  with 
his  lieutenant,  what  order  should  be  made.  As 
before,  he  went  direct  from  his  own  army  to 
Sheridan,  without  consulting  the  Government. 
Sheridan  he  found  ready  for  battle.  The 


5°4 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


enemy  were  weakening  their  force,  and  he 
felt  able  to  contend  with  the  remainder.  He 
had,  however,  never  commanded  so  large  a 
body  before,  and  in  fact  had  never  been  at 
the  head  of  an  independent  army,  and  he  says 
in  his  report :  "I  was  a  little  timid  about 
this  movement  until  the  arrival  of  General 
Grant,  who  indorsed  it."  Grant,  on  the  other 
hand,  informed  the  writer  of  this  article  that 
he  had  a  plan  of  battle  for  Sheridan  in  his 
pocket;  but  he  found  him  so  ready  to  advance, 
so  confident  of  success,  and  his  plans  so  ma- 
tured, that  he  gave  him  no  orders  except  the 
authority  to  move,  and  hurried  away  lest  the 
credit  should  be  given  to  him  for  the  success 
he  foresaw,  and  not  to  Sheridan.  On  Friday 
he  asked  Sheridan  if  he  could  be  ready  by 
Tuesday,  and  Sheridan  replied  he  would  be 
ready  by  daylight  on  Monday. 

On  the  iyth  of  September  Early  unwisely 
divided  his  command,  sending  two  divisions 
to  Martinsburg,  twenty-two  miles  away.  Sheri- 
dan at  once  detected  this  blunder,  and  de- 
termined to  attack  the  enemy  in  detail.  Early, 
however,  learned  that  Grant  had  been  with 
Sheridan,  and  therefore  concluded  that  he 
would  be  speedily  attacked,  and  ordered  back 
his  detachment.  Sheridan  nevertheless  pro- 
ceeded with  his  plan.  This  was  to  assault 
with  the  greater  part  of  his  force,  holding 
one  division  in  reserve  to  be  used  as  a  turning 
column  when  the  crisis  of  the  battle  occurred. 
The  cavalry  were  on  the  right  and  left  of  the 
infantry.  The  attack  was  made  as  proposed ; 
but  Early's  detachments  had  now  returned, 
and  after  a  serious  fight  the  national  center 
was  first  forced  back  and  then  regained  its 
ground.  Sheridan  now  brought  forward  the 
reserve  under  Crook,  and  directed  it  to  find 
the  rebel  left  and  strike  it  in  flank  and  rear, 
while  he  himself  made  a  left  half  wheel  of  his 
main  line  in  support.  The  maneuver  was 
executed  with  complete  success ;  the  reserve 
advanced  with  spirit,  forcing  the  enemy  from 
their  position,  and  the  cavalry  on  the  right  at 
the  same  moment  came  sweeping  up,  over- 
lapping the  enemy's  left  and  driving  their  cav- 
alry in  confusion  through  the  infantry.  Sheridan 
now' advanced  himself,  and  the  rout  of  the  ene- 
my was  complete.  Crowded  in  on  both  flanks, 
their  lines  were  broken  in  every  direction, 
and,  as  Sheridan  said  in  his  famous  dispatch, 
he  "  sent  them  whirling  through  Winchester." 
Early  lost  four  thousand  five  hundred  men,  of 
whom  two  thousand  two  hundred  were  pris- 
oners. "The  result,"  said  Grant,  "was  such 
that  I  have  never  since  deemed  it  necessary 
to  visit  General  Sheridan  before  giving  him 
orders."  This  battle  was  fought  September 
1 9th. 

Sheridan,  however,  was  not  content  with 


victory.  He  pushed  rapidly  after  Early, 
twenty  or  thirty  miles,  and  came  up  with  him 
on  the  night  of  the  2oth  at  Fisher's  Hill, 
where  the  Valley  is  only  three  miles  wide; 
and  here,  behind  a  stream  called  Tumbling 
River,  the  enemy  had  erected  a  line.  Early, 
indeed,  felt  so  secure  that  he  unloaded  his 
ammunition  boxes  and  placed  them  behind 
his  breastworks.  But  he  did  not  know  his 
antagonist. 

On  the  2ist  the  eager  Sheridan  determined 
to  use  Crook's  command  as  a  turning  column 
again,  and  strike  the  enemy  in  left  and  rear, 
while  the  remainder  of  the  army  made  a  left 
half  wheel  in  his  support.  This  maneuver, 
however,  demanded  secrecy,  and  Crook  was 
concealed  in  the  forest  till  the  main  line  had 
moved  up  in  front  of  the  enemy's  position. 
Before  daylight  on  the  22d,  Crook  was  massed 
in  the  heavy  woods  on  the  face  of  the  moun- 
tain on  the  west  of  the  Valley,  and  the  main 
line  moved  ostentatiously  forward  toward 
Early's  right  and  center.  When  the  enemy's 
attention  was  thus  attracted  on  the  east, 
Crook  suddenly  burst  from  the  hill-side  on 
the  west,  striking  them  in  flank  and  rear, 
doubling  up  their  line,  and  sweeping  down  be- 
hind the  breastworks.  The  main  line  at  once 
took  up  the  movement  in  front;  the  works 
were  everywhere  carried,  and  the  enemy  again 
completely  routed.  Many  threw  down  their 
arms,  abandoning  their  artillery,  and  sixteen 
guns  with  eleven  hundred  prisoners  fell  into 
the  national  hands,  though  Early  reported  a 
loss  of  only  two  hundred  and  forty  killed  and 
wounded.  It  was  dark  before  the  battle  was 
ended,  but  the  flight  was  continued  during 
the  night  and  on  the  following  day.  Sheridan 
pursued,  and  drove  his  antagonist  completely 
out  of  the  main  valley  into  the  gaps  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  while  his  own  infantry  took  pos- 
session of  the  country  as  far  as  Staunton  and 
Waynesboro,  and  advanced  a  hundred  miles 
from  Harper's  Ferry.  "  Keep  on,"  said  Grant, 
"  and  your  good  work  will  cause  the  fall  of 
Richmond." 

The  effect  of  these  double  victories  was 
startling  upon  the  army  and  the  people  of 
the  North,  and  even  greater  on  the  Southern 
soldiery  and  the  population  behind  them. 
The  troops  of  Early  were  disheartened;  he 
himself  reported  a  panic,  and  was  directly 
censured  by  Lee ;  while  the  Richmond  mob 
painted  on  the  fresh  artillery  ordered  to  his 
support :  "  General  Sheridan,  care  of  General 
Early." 

Till  October  ist  Sheridan  was  occupied  in 
carrying  out  Grant's  directions  for  the  de- 
struction of  crops  and  mills;  and  having  ac- 
complished this  most  thoroughly,  he  himself 
recommended  that  his  command  should 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


5°5 


i  reduced  and  his  troops  distributed  elsewhere. 
!  "  The  Valley  of  Virginia,"  he  said,  "  can  now 
!  be  held  with  a  small  force."    But  Lee  was  not 
yet  ready  to  abandon  the  important  region 
beyond  the  Blue  Ridge,  and  determined  to 
j  make  one  more  effort  to  recover  what  had 
been  lost.    He  sent  reinforcements  to  Early 
I  of  ten  thousand  men,  and  a  new  commander 
j  for  his  cavalry,  and  when  Sheridan  fell  back 
,  Early  advanced.   At  Tom's  Brook,  however, 
|  Sheridan  deemed  it  best  to  delay  one  day,  "to 
j  settle,"  he  said,  "  this  new  cavalry  general." 
Torbert,  with  all  the  national  horse,  was  or- 
I  dered  to  engage  the   enemy's  cavalry,  and 
|  Sheridan  reported  the  result  as  follows  :  "  The 
enemy,  after  being  charged  by  our  gallant 
cavalry,  were  broken  and  ran ;  they  were  fol- 
lowed by  our  men  on  the  jump  twenty-six 
|  miles,  through  Mount  Jackson  and  across  the 
•north  fork  of  the  Shenandoah."    Early  lost 
(eleven    guns,   with  caissons,   battery  forges, 
head-quarters'   wagons,  and  everything  else 
I  that  was  carried  on  wheels. 

Sheridan,  however,  had  so  devastated  the 
I  valley  that  it  could  furnish  him  no  supplies, 
and  he  was  fifty  miles  from  a  base.  He  there- 
[fore  continued  his  retrograde  movement  as 
I  far  as  Cedar  Creek.  From  this  point,  on  the 
j  1 5th  of  October,  he  was  summoned  by  the 
I  Government  to  Washington  for  consultation, 
land  during  his  absence  Early  determined  once 
imore  to  attack  the  national  army.  The  plan 
i  was  well  conceived.  The  enemy  advanced  in 
(the  night,  and  before  dawn  surprised  and  at- 
tacked the  national  forces  still  in  camp.  The 
army  was  driven  back,  portions  of  it  in  great 
disorder,  six  or  seven  miles.  Eighteen  guns 
were  captured,  and  nearly  a  thousand  prison- 
ers, a  large  part  of  the  infantry  not  preserving 
even  a  company  organization. 

Sheridan  had  left  Washington  on  the  i8th, 
and  slept  at  Winchester,  twenty  miles  from 
his  command.  Artillery  firing  was  reported 
early  on  the  igth,  but  it  was  supposed  to  pro- 
ceed from  a  reconnoissance,  and  at  nine 
.o'clock  Sheridan  rode  out  of  Winchester,  all 
unconscious  of  the  danger  to  his  army.  Soon, 
however,  the  sound  of  heavy  battle  was  un- 
mistakable, and  half  a  mile  from  the  town  the 
"ugitives  came  in  sight  with  appalling  rapidity. 
He  at  once  ordered  the  trains  halted  and 
parked,  and  stretched  a  brigade  of  his  troops 
it  Winchester  across  the  country  to  stop  the 
stragglers.  Then,  with  an  escort  of  twenty 
nen,  he  pushed  to  the  front.  The  effect  of. 
iis  presence  was  electrical.  He  rode  hot 
•laste,  swinging  his  hat,  and  shouting  as  he 
Massed,  "Face  the  other  way,  boys!  face  the 
other  way  !  "  And  hundreds  of  the  men  turned 
I  at  once  and  followed  him  with  cheers. 
;  After  reaching  the  army  he  gave  some  hur- 


ried directions,  and  returned  to  collect  the 
fugitives.  He  was  in  major-general's  uniform, 
mounted  on  a  magnificent  horse,  man  and 
beast  covered  with  dust  and  foam ;  and  as  he 
rose  in  his  stirrups,  waving  his  hat  and  his 
sword  by  turns,  he  cried  again  and  again : 
"  If  I  had  been  here,  this  never  would  have 
happened.  We  are  going  back.  Face  the 
other  way,  boys  !  face  the  other  way ! "  The 
scattered  soldiers  recognized  their  general, 
and  took  up  the  cry :  "  Face  the  other  way !  " 
It  passed  along  from  one  to  another,  rising 
and  falling  like  a  wave  of  the  sea,  and  the 
men  returned  in  crowds,  falling  into  ranks  as 
they  came.  They  followed  him  to  the  front, 
and  many  who  had  fled,  panting  and  panic- 
stricken,  in  the  morning,  under  Sheridan's 
lead  had  covered  themselves  with  the  glory 
of  heroes  long  before  night.  Such  a  reenforce- 
ment  may  one  man  be  to  an  army. 

A  few  dispositions,  and  the  battle  began 
afresh.  But  now  all  was  changed.  The  en- 
emy advanced,  it  is  true,  but  were  at  once 
repelled,  and  the  national  line,  in  its  turn,  be- 
came the  assailant.  Sheridan  led  a  brigade 
in  person,  and  the  enemy  everywhere  gave 
way.  Their  officers  found  it  impossible  to 
rally  them;  a  terror  of  the  national  cavalry 
had  seized  them.  The  captured  guns  were  all 
retaken,  and  twenty-four  pieces  of  artillery  be- 
sides. Sixteen  hundred  prisoners  were  brought 
in,  and  Early  reported  eighteen  hundred  killed 
and  wounded.  Two  thousand  made  their  way 
to  the  mountains,  and  for  miles  the  line  of 
retreat  was  strewn  with  the  debris  of  a  beaten 
army.  Early  himself  escaped  under  cover  of 
darkness  to  Newmarket,  twenty  miles  away. 

This  battle  ended  the  campaign  in  the  Shen- 
andoah Valley.  The  enemy  made  no  subse- 
quent attempt  to  invade  the  North;  Lee 
withdrew  the  greater  part  of  Early's  troops, 
and  Sheridan's  detachments  marched  when 
and  whither  they  wished.  The  whole  coun- 
try south  of  the  Potomac  was  in  his  hands. 
In  a  short  time  more  than  half  of  his  army 
was  restored  to  Meade's  command,  for  its 
presence  in  the  Valley  was  no  longer  neces- 
sary. 

Sheridan  was  made  a  major-general  in  the 
regular  army,  as  he  was  informed,  in  Lincoln's 
own  words,  "  for  the  personal  gallantry,  mil- 
itary skill,  and  just  confidence  in  the  courage 
and  gallantry  of  your  troops,  displayed  by 
you  on  the  igih  day  of  October,  at  Cedar 
Run,  whereby,  under  the  blessing  of  Provi- 
dence, your  routed  army  was  reorganized,  a 
great  national  disaster  averted,  and  a  brilliant 
victory  achieved  over  the  rebels  for  the  third 
time  in  pitched  battle  within  thirty  days." 

It  was  just  eleven  weeks  since  Sheridan 
had  assumed  command  in  the  Valley.  In  that 


506 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


time  he  had  taken  thirteen  thousand  prison- 
ers, forty-nine  battle  flags,  and  sixty  guns,  be- 
sides recapturing  eighteen  cannon  at  Cedar 
Creek.  He  must  besides  have  killed  and 
wounded  at  least  nine  thousand  men,  so  that 
he  destroyed  for  the  enemy  twenty-two  thou- 
sand soldiers.  "  Turning  what  bid  fair  to  be 
disaster  into  glorious  victory  stamps  Sheri- 
dan," said  Grant,  "what  I  have  always  thought 
him,  one  of  the  ablest  of  generals." 

During  the  winter  he  remained  near  Win- 
chester, but  as  soon  as  the  roads  and  the  rains 
allowed,  Grant  directed  him  to  push  once 
more  up  the  Valley — this  time  not  to  return. 
He  was  to  advance  in  the  direction  of  Rich- 
mond, destroying  the  railroads  in  every  direc- 
tion, as  well  as  all  stores  that  could  possibly 
be  of  use  to  the  enemy.  In  order  to  conceal 
his  purpose,  Sheridan  resorted  to  one  of  those 
ingenious  devices  in  which  he  was  unrivaled 
since  the  days  of  Hannibal.  He  learned  that 
the  people  of  the  neighborhood  were  fond  of 
hunting,  and  encouraged  his  staff  to  make 
their  acquaintance  and  talk  of  foxes  and 
hounds.  A  pack  of  hounds  was  found,  and 
a  day  set  for  the  chase.  The  hounds  were 
brought  into  Winchester,  the  horses  were  shod, 
and  all  the  talk  of  the  country  around  was  of 
Sheridan's  hunt.  On  the  appointed  day  the 
whole  neighborhood  came  to  the  meet,  the 
general  and  his  staff  conspicuous.  The  start 
was  made  and  the  run  was  good,  but  the 
general  and  staff  went  further  than  the  Vir- 
ginians, and  the  army  followed.  They  rode 
after  the  enemy,  and  never  returned.  The 
stratagem  had  kept  all  news  of  Sheridan's  in- 
tentions secret,  as  all  preparations  were  at- 
tributed to  the  hunt,  and  he  was  far  on  his 
way  before  the  wile  was  discovered.  He  took 
rations  for  only  four  days  in  haversacks,  and 
coffee,  sugar,  and  salt  for  fifteen  days  in  wag- 
ons; and  with  this  provision,  and  thirty  pounds' 
of  forage  for  each  horse,  ten  thousand  men 
moved  into  an  enemy's  country,  already 
stripped  bare,  for  a  campaign  whose  object- 
ive point  was  two  hundred  miles  away,  and 
expecting  to  march  at  least  two  hundred 
more. 

The  weather  was  bad,  the  rains  and  thaws 
of  spring  had  begun,  the  streams  were  too 
high  to  ford,  and  most  of  the  bridges  were 
burned.  But  they  marched  sixty  miles  in  two 
days,  swimming  the  streams  and  molested  by 
partisan  troops.  Horses  and  men  could  hardly 
be  recognized  for  the  mud  that  covered  them. 
Early  was  found  at  Waynesboro,  with  his  back 
to  the  Shenandoah,  and  here  the  last  battle 
between  the  two  commanders  was  fought. 
The  attack  was  impetuous  and  irresistible. 
The  troopers  charged  through  the  town  and 
over  the  breastworks,  sabering  the  enemy  as 


they  passed,  and  forced  their  way  to  the  rear 
of  Early's  command,  where  they  turned 
with  drawn  sabers  and  held  the  approach  to 
the  Shenandoah.  Early's  entire  force  threw 
down  their  arms  and  surrendered  with  a  cheer. 
The  leader  himself  and  a  handful  of  officers 
escaped,  hiding  in  the  houses  of  the  town  or 
in  the  neighboring  woods  until  dark.  Sixteen 
hundred  prisoners  and  eleven  guns  fell  into 
Sheridan's  hands.  After  his  defeat,  Early  was 
relieved  by  Lee  of  all  command.  His  army 
and  his  reputation  had  both  been  destroyed 
by  Sheridan. 

The  victorious  general  pursued  his  now 
unmolested  march,  and  fulfilled  his  orders  lit- 
erally, destroying  railroads  and  canals,  mills, 
factories,  and  bridges,  and  finally  determined 
to  join  Grant  at  Richmond,  fortunately  for 
himself  as  well  as  his  commander.  The 
rain  and  mud  again  impeded  him ;  but  Sheri- 
dan replaced  his  worn-out  mules  with  those 
he  had  captured  from  Early,  and  set  two 
thousand  negroes  who  had  joined  him  to 
work  destroying  the  roads.  As  he  approached 
the  Pamunkey  River,  he  was  notified  that 
Longstreet  intended  to  dispute  the  pass- 
age. He  was  still  west  of  Richmond,  and  at 
once  determined  to  push  toward  the  city 
and  attack  the  enemy  in  that  direction,  and, 
when  they  came  out  to  meet  him,  to  move 
rapidly  round  by  a  circuitous  route  to  a  point 
where  the  river  could  be  crossed.  The  feint 
completely  succeeded.  A  brigade  was  left  to 
amuse  the  enemy,  and  the  remainder  of  the 
command  made  haste  to  White  House,  whither 
Grant  had  sent  a  force  to  repair  the  bridges 
and  await  them  with  supplies. 

He  had  annihilated  whatever  was  useful 
to  the  enemy  between  Richmond  and  Lynch- 
burg;  besides  capturing  prisoners  and  muni- 
tions of  war,  he  had  destroyed  forty-six  canal 
locks,  five  aqueducts,  forty  canal  and  road 
bridges,  twenty-three  railroad  bridges,  twenty- 
seven  warehouses,  forty-one  miles  of  railroad, 
and  fourteen  mills.  These  are  some  of  the 
results  of  war.  He  had  been  nineteen  days 
on  the  march,  and  had  lost  only  one  hundred 
soldiers;  many  of  these  were  men  unable  tc- 
bear  the  fatigues  of  the  road. 

His  command  arrived  at  the  James  on  the 
25th  of  March,  and  after  halting  a  few  days 
to  shoe  his  horses  and  rest  both  them  and  the 
men,  he  was  ordered  to  take  the  left  of  the 
army  with  which  Grant  meant  to  make  hi1 
final  movement  against  Lee.  That  army  la) 
in  front  of  Petersburg,  and  Grant's  plan  was :( 
stretch  westward  until  he  should  turn  the  e:.i 
emy's  right,  while  Sheridan  was  to  destroy  ei 
tirely  the  two  railroads  by  which  alone  Lee  wi 
now  supplied.  Lee  could  not  possibly  allcv. 
these  roads  to  be  interrupted,  and  must 


LIEUT.-GENERAL    SHERIDAN. 


5°7 


fight  to  save  them,  or  fly.  Grant  read  his 
instructions  to  Sheridan  in  person.  Toward 
the  close  there  was  a  passage  directing  him 
in  certain  contingencies  to  proceed  to  North 
Carolina  and  join  Sherman.  Grant  perceived 
that  this  passage  was  distasteful  to  Sheridan, 
and  quickly  added :  "  Although  I  have  pro- 
vided for  your  joining  Sherman,  I  have  no 
idea  that  it  will  be  necessary.  I  mean  to  end 
this  business  here."  Sheridan's  face  bright- 
ened at  once,  and  he  replied  :  "  That's  what 
I  like  to  hear  you  say.  Let  us  end  this  busi- 
ness here."  The  instincts  of  the  two  were  in 
complete  accord,  and  their  natures  struck  fire 
from  each  other  in  the  contact. 

The  army  move"d  on  the  2gth  of  March, 
and  that  night  Grant  sent  word  to  Sheridan, 
"  I  feel  now  like  ending  the  matter,  if  it  is 
possible,  before  going  back."  He  therefore 
modified  his  order,  directing  Sheridan  to  re- 
main with  the  main  army,  but  to  "push 
around  the  enemy  and  get  on  his  right  rear." 

The  rain  that  night  fell  heavily,  and  before 
morning  it  became  impossible  to  move  any- 
thing on  wheels.  The  soil  was  like  quicksand, 
the  frosts  were  disappearing,  and  the  roads 
became  a  soft  and  shifting  mass.  The  advance 
of  the  troops  seemed  nearly  impracticable,  and 
some  of  those  nearest  to  Grant  strove  hard 
to  induce  him  to  return.  The  gloom  of  the 
morning  penetrated  the  minds  of  all,  until, 
Ilike  a  gleam  of  light,  Sheridan  came  riding 
up  to  confer  with  Grant  about  "  ending  the 
matter."  He  was  full  of  spirit,  anxious  for 
orders,  certain  of  success  if  only  an  attack 
were  made.  The  officers  felt  the  influence  of 
jhis  magnetic  temper,  and  knew  how  Grant 
jappreciated  the  soldierly  instinct  and  judg- 
ment of  his  great  subordinate.  They  urged 
ISheridan  to  say  the  same  to  the  chief  that  he 
had  said  to  them.  But  he,  for  all  his  victories 
and  his  fame,  was  modest  and  subordinate.  He 
thought  it  his  duty  to  take  orders  from  Grant, 
not  to  offer  advice.  But  those  who  had  the 
right  took  the  great  trooper  in  to  Grant,  who 
|saw  at  once  that,  with  such  a  lieutenant,  ad- 
vance was  the  wisest  course.  He  sympathized 
with  his  ardor  for  battle,  and  Sheridan  went 
(back  with  orders  to  attack  the  enemy. 

He  pushed  out  at  once  from  Dinwiddie 
Court-House  to  a  point  called  Five  Forks,  be- 
tause  of  the  meeting  of  so  many  roads.  Grant 
was  to  support  him  by  an  attack  on  his  right 
with  two  infantry  corps.  Sheridan,  however, 
was  separated  by  eight  or  ten  miles  from  the 
eft  of  the  army,  and  Lee,  perceiving  this  isola- 
pon,  at  once  sent  a  large  force  under  Pickett 
1:0  crush  him  before  he  could  be  reenforced. 
Sheridan  reported  this  to  Grant,  who  made 
'iirther  dispositions  to  support  the  cavalry. 
These  movements  occupied  the  3oth  of  March. 


On  the  morning  of  the  3ist  the  enemy  had 
eighteen  thousand  men  in  front  of  Sheridan's 
ten  thousand.  The  national  general,  however, 
moved  simultaneously  with  his  opponent,  but, 
being  heavily  outnumbered,  was  forced  to  re- 
tire. His  line  was  penetrated,  and  two  entire 
brigades  on  the  right  were  isolated  from  the 
command.  But  Sheridan  at  once  ordered  this 
detached  force  to  move  still  further  to  the 
right,  and  march  around  to  join  the  reserve 
in  rear.  The  enemy,  deceived  by  this  retro- 
grade maneuver,  which  they  mistook  for  a 
rout,  followed  it  up  rapidly,  making  a  left 
wheel,  and  presenting  their  own  rear  to  Sheri- 
dan. He  of  course  perceived  his  opportunity, 
and  ordered  the  remainder  of  the  command 
to  advance ;  and  then,  as  the  enemy  went 
crashing  through  the  woods  in  pursuit  of  the 
detached  portion  of  the  cavalry,  Sheridan 
struck  them  in  flank  and  rear.  This  movement 
compelled  them  to  abandon  the  pursuit  and 
face  by  the  rear  rank. 

But  now  the  entire  force  of  Pickett,  foot  and 
horse,  had  turned  on  the  national  cavalry; 
and  "  here,"  said  Grant,  "  Sheridan  displayed 
great  generalship."  Instead  of  retreating  with 
his  whole  command  to  tell  the  story  of  supe- 
rior forces,  he  deployed  the  cavalry  on  foot, 
leaving  only  mounted  men  enough  to  take 
care  of  the  horses.  This  compelled  the  enemy 
also  to  deploy  over  a  vast  extent  of  woods 
and  broken  country.  Thus,  holding  off  the 
enemy  and  concentrating  his  own  men,  Sher- 
idan fell  back  to  an  advantageous  position  at 
Dinwiddie,  where  he  repelled  every  assault 
until  dark.  His  detached  command  came  up 
all  safe,  but  the  enemy  lay  on  their  arms,  not 
a  hundred  yards  from  his  line. 

He  had  extricated  his  force  for  the  time 
from  formidable  dangers  and  difficulties,  and 
had  displayed  extraordinary  genius  and  au- 
dacity in  all  the  movements  of  the  day ;  but 
he  had  been  driven  back  five  miles,  and  was 
confronted  by  a  vastly  outnumbering  force  of 
infantry  as  well  as  cavalry.  His  danger  was 
still  imminent,  and  he  sent  word  to  Grant : 
"  The  enemy  have  gained  some  ground,  but 
we  still  hold  in  front  of  Dinwiddie.  This  force 
is  too  strong  for  us.  I  will  hold  Dinwiddie 
until  I  am  compelled  to  leave."  He  asked  for 
no  help,  and  made  no  suggestions,  but  simply 
reported  the  situation,  leaving  Grant  to  de- 
termine how  to  aid  him.  He  and  Grant  were 
not  obliged  to  explain  to  each  other  in  detail 
their  necessities  or  their  dangers. 

Later,  however,  an  aide-de-camp  brought  fur- 
tner  word  to  the  general-in-chief  from  his  be- 
leaguered subordinate.  Sheridan,  being  driven 
back  and  hard  beset,  naturally,  for  him,  con- 
sidered the  time  had  come  when  the  enemy 
should  be  forced  to  fight  outside  of  cover, 


5°8 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


where  the  national  troops  could  make  their 
blows  decisive.  Grant  fully  sympathized  with 
the  feeling,  and  sent  an  entire  corps  of  in- 
fantry that  night  to  Sheridan,  determining  to 
convert  his  defense  into  an  offensive  move- 
ment. Still  later  he  dispatched  a  cavalry 
force  to  support  the  movement. 

On  the  ist  of  April  the  reinforcements  had 
not  arrived,  but  Sheridan  nevertheless  moved 
out  against  the  enemy.  The  rebels,  however, 
had  learned  of  the  approach  of  national  in- 
fantry, and  gave  way  rapidly,  reaching  the 
position  of  Five  Forks  before  Sheridan  was 
able  to.  intercept  them.  Warren,  who  com- 
manded the  infantry  reinforcements,  and 
Mackenzie,  with  the  cavalry  supports,  came 
up ;  and  when  his  force  was  all  in  hand,  Sher- 
idan devised  a  brilliant  scheme.  It  was  his 
old  maneuver,  a  feint  upon  the  enemy's  front 
and  right,  and  suddenly  a  turning  movement 
to  overwhelm  the  left.  But  in  this  instance  its 
application  was  more  felicitous  than  ever  be- 
fore ;  for  the  success  of  the  movement  would 
isolate  those  of  the  enemy  who  might  escape, 
and  separate  them  entirely  from  Lee.  It  would 
thus  not  only  secure  victory  in  the  imme- 
diate field  where  Sheridan  fought,  but  break 
the  entire  right  wing  of  Lee,  and  open  the 
way  for  Grant  to  destroy  the  army  of  North- 
ern Virginia. 

These  tactics  were  executed  as  brilliantly 
as  they  had  been  conceived.  It  was  late  be- 
fore the  troops  were  in  position,  but  at  five 
o'clock  the  cavalry  moved  briskly  forward  on 
the  left  and  attracted  the  enemy,  while  the 
infantry,  marching  at  right  angles,  took  the 
rebel  line  in  flank.  There  was  hard  fighting 
in  front  and  flank,  and  the  infantry  at  first 
wavered ;  but  Sheridan  himself  seized  a  bat- 
tle flag  and  plunged  into  the  charge.  The 
man  who  had  borne  the  flag  was  killed,  and 
one  of  Sheridan's  staff  was  wounded;  but 
the  fiery  enthusiasm  of  the  leader  was  con- 
tagious. The  bands  were  ordered  to  play,  and 
the  division  burst  on  the  enemy's  left  like  a 
tornado,  sweeping  everything  before  them, 
overrunning  the  works  at  the  bayonet  point, 
breaking  the  enemy's  flank  past  mending,  and 
capturing  one  thousand  five  hundred  pris- 
oners. 

The  cavalry  in  front  advanced  simulta- 
neously, and  the  battle  was  won.  The  troop- 
ers had  been  dismounted,  but  many  were 
now  mounted  and  rode  into  the  broken  ranks 
of  the  enemy.  Pickett  himself  was  nearly 
captured,  and  galloped  off  with  a  mere  rem- 
nant of  his  force ;  six  thousand  prisoners  were 
taken,  and  six  pieces  of  artillery,  and  the  fu- 
gitives were  driven  north  and  west,  miles 
away  from  Lee,  Sheridan  pursuing  until  long 
after  dark.  This  was  the  last  battle  of  the  war 


in  which  the  enemy  fought  for  victory ;  after 
this  their  struggle  was  to  escape. 

As  soon  as  the  news  reached  Grant,  he  or- 
dered an  immediate  assault  all  along  the  lines. 
To  Sheridan  he  said  :  "  From  your  isolated 
position  I  can  give  you  no  positive  directions, 
but  leave  you  to  act  according  to  circum- 
stances." Sheridan  accordingly  moved  up 
against  the  right  flank  of  Lee.  But  the  crash 
had  come  before  he  arrived.  On  the  morn- 
ing of  April  2d  the  works  in  front  of  Peters- 
burg were  carried.  During  the  day  Grant 
telegraphed  to  the  President :  "  I  have  not 
yet  heard  from  Sheridan,  but  I  have  an  abid- 
ing faith  that  he  is  in  the  right  place  and  at 
the  right  time."  He  had  found  out  his  man. 

That  night  the  army  of  Lee  fled  westward 
from  the  defenses  of  its  capital.  Lee's  object 
was  to  reach  Burksville  Junction,  where  two 
railroads  meet,  and  thence  either  to  join  John- 
ston's army  in  front  of  Sherman,  or,  if  this 
proved  impracticable,  to  escape  to  the  mount- 
ains of  West  Virginia.  Grant  followed  with 
his  whole  command  to  intercept  the  fugitive 
army.  Sheridan,  being  on  the  extreme  left, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  cavalry,  was  ordered 
to  take  the  advance,  and  the  Fifth  Corps  of 
infantry  was  added  to  his  command.  But  he 
replied  to  Grant :  "  Before  receiving  your  dis- 
patch, I  had  anticipated  the  evacuation  of 
Petersburg,  and  commenced  moving  west." 
Thus  it  was  till  the  end.  Sheridan  anticipated 
Grant,  and  Grant  confirmed  Sheridan.  The 
same  idea,  the  same  instinct,  animated  both. 
They  moved  with  one  impulse,  like  the  brain 
and  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

That  day  and  the  next  Sheridan  moved 
with  superhuman  energy,  but  the  enemy  fled 
with  the  eagerness  of  despair.  At  times  the 
cavalry  came  up  with  the  fugitives  in  the 
chase,  driving  them  from  fords,  picking  up 
thirteen  hundred  prisoners,  and  not  stopping 
to  count  the  abandoned  cannon.  On  the  4th 
Grant  got  word  of  a  railroad  train  loaded  with 
supplies  on  the  way  from  the  south  for  Lee, 
and  at  once  sent  the  information  to  Sheridan. 
But  before  receiving  the  dispatch  Sheridan 
had  come  up  with  Lee.  At  a  place  called  ' 
Jetersvilie,  about  forty  miles  from  Petersburg, 
he  captured  a  telegraphic  message  not  yet 
sent  over  the  lines,  ordering  three  hundred 
thousand  rations  immediately  to  feed  Lee's 
army.  He  forwarded  the  message  in  the  hope 
that  the  rations  would  be  sent  and  received 
by  the  national  army.  At  this  point  Sheridan 
was  planted  directly  across  Lee's  path,  on 
only  road  by  which  the  enemy  could  obt 
supplies ;  and  the  unhappy  leader  halted  and 
sent  out  his  men  in  every  direction  to  gather 
what  they  could  for  food.  The  fortunate  ones 
had  two  ears  of  Indian  corn  apiece  uncool 


idan 

± 


~ 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


5°9 


and  others  plucked  the  buds  and  twigs  just 
swelling  in  the  early  spring,  and  strove  with 
these  to  assuage  their  hunger.  Half  of  the 
artillery  was  dismissed  to  relieve  the  famished 
horses. 

Sheridan  had  only  the  Fifth  Corps  and  the 
cavalry,  and  was  still  far  inferior  to  Lee  in 
numbers;  but  he  intrenched  across  the  rail- 
road, and  sent  word  to  Grant  that  he  had  in- 
tercepted the  enemy.  He  had  accomplished 
exactly  what  Grant  intended.  The  chief,  of 
course,  hurried  up  with  his  whole  command; 
but,  before  the  army  could  all  arrive  and  take 
position,  Lee  became  aware  of  his  danger  and 
marched  with  the  keenness  and  eagerness  of 
those  who  fly  for  life,  moving  by  a  circuitous 
route  that  brought  him  a  few  miles  west  of 
Sheridan.  Grant  at  once  detected  the  maneu- 
ver, and  faced  his  army  about  to  the  left, 
dispatching  Sheridan  again  in  the  advance. 
The  fiery  trooper  struck  the  flying  column 
of  Lee  in  flank  near  Sailor's  Creek,  and  then 
disposed  his  troops  with  marvelous  skill  and 
celerity.  His  cavalry  was  sent  around  in 
front  of  the  enemy,  and  the  remainder  pushed 
against  the  flank.  Grant  had  by  this  time  dis- 
patched the  Sixth  Corps  to  reenforce  Sheri- 
dan, and  it  was  important  to  detain  the  enemy 
until  the  cavalry  could  make  its  detour  and 
appear  in  front  and  the  Sixth  Corps  arrive. 
Sheridan  therefore  sent  a  single  brigade  to 
|  make  a  mounted  charge  against  Lee's  line. 
The  daring  demonstration  accomplished  its 
object  and  delayed  the  movement  of  any 
large  force  against  the  cavalry. 

As  soon  as  the  Sixth  Corps  came  up,  Sheri- 
I  dan  advanced  in  force.  The  enemy  pushed  on 
to  the  creek,  and,  facing  about,  made  a  stand 
on  the  further  side.  There  was  a  severe  fight 
|of  some  minutes.  The  stream  was  muddy 
j  and  difficult,  and  the  position  strong ;  but  the 
cavalry  had  now  attained  the  point  where 
they  were  in  rear  of  the  enemy,  and  a  simul- 
taneous attack  was  made  on  every  side.  The 
I  national  troops  closed  in,  like  gates,  upon  the 
!  entire  force  of  the  enemy.  There  was  one 
bewildering  moment  of  fighting  on  every  hand, 
land  then  seven  thousand  men,  seven  generals, 
,and  fourteen  guns  were  surrendered  in  the 
open  field.  The  general  officers  were  taken 
;to  Sheridan's  head-quarters,  and  shared  the 
isupper  and  blankets  of  their  conquerors,  but 
jSheridan  started  before  daybreak  in  pursuit 
'of  what  was  left  of  Lee's  army.  He  sent  word 
to  Grant :  "  If  the  thing  is  pressed,  I  think 
that  Lee  will  surrender."  Grant  forwarded 
[the  dispatch  and  an  account  of  the  victory  to 
Lincoln,  at  City  Point,  and  the  President  re- 
iplied  :  "  Let  the  thing  be  pressed." 

There  were  other  battles  and  other  move- 
ments after  this  and  simultaneous  with  it,  but 


Sheridan  always  had  the  advance.  He  was 
always  on  the  left  to  head  the  fugitives,  and  the 
remainder  of  the  army  followed  on  the  right 
and  rear.  Lee  was  literally  between  them. 
Grant  was  plotting  to  drive  the  enemy  into 
Sheridan's  grasp,  and  Sheridan  was  striving  to 
outmarch  Lee  and  receive  him  in  his  flight. 

Sheridan  soon  learned  that  supplies  were 
awaiting  Lee  at  Appomattox  Junction,  the 
same  that  had  been  ordered  and  driven  so 
often  and  so  far;  it  was  certain,  therefore,  that 
Lee  would  make  for  that  point  to  obtain  the 
stores.  He  notified  Grant  of  the  news,  and 
the  chief  ordered  up  all  his  columns.  The  Fifth 
Corps  and  the  army  of  the  James,  under  Ord, 
were  now  following  Sheridan  on  the  south 
side  of  the  Appomattox,  while  the  remainder 
of  the  army  of  the  Potomac  came  up  on  the 
8th  of  April  within  a  few  miles  of  Lee,  north 
of  the  river.  That  night  Custer,  with  the  ad- 
vance of  the  cavalry,  rode  into  Appomattox 
and  captured  four  heavily  loaded  trains, — cars, 
engines,  and  supplies.  They  were  hardly  in 
his  hands  when  a  force  of  the  enemy,  infantry 
and  artillery,  appeared.  Twenty-five  guns 
were  captured  and  a  large  number  of  prisoners, 
the  advance  of  a  heavy  column.  Sheridan  had 
headed  Lee's  army. 

At  this  great  news,  though  he  had  only 
cavalry  to  oppose  to  all  that  was  left  of  the 
army  of  Northern  Virginia,  Sheridan  held  fast 
to  what  he  had  gained,  and,  at  9.20  p.  M., 
sent  word  to  Grant :  "  If  Gibbon  and  the 
Fifth  Corps  can  get  up  to-night,  we  will  per- 
haps finish  the  job  in  the  morning."  Gibbon 
and  the  Fifth  Corps  got  the  message,  and 
moved  with  terrible  speed,  marching  from  day- 
light on  the  8th  to  daylight  again  on  the  gth, 
halting  only  three  hours  on  the  road.  They 
reached  Sheridan's  position  just  as  Lee  was 
approaching  in  heavy  force  to  batter  his  way 
through  the  cavalry.  Ord  and  Sheridan  held 
a  short  consultation,  and  the  cavalry  leader 
proceeded  to  the  front,  while  the  infantry  was 
deployed  across  the  valley  through  which 
Lee  must  pass.  The  cavalry  advanced  to 
engage  the  enemy,  and  then  fell  back  grad- 
ually, so  as  to  give  time  for  Ord  to  dispose 
his  men  in  the  woods  out  of  sight  of  Lee. 
This  last  ruse  of  Sheridan  succeeded.  The 
enemy,  with  the  energy  of  desperate  men, 
rushed  on,  thinking  they  had  only  cavalry  in 
front.  Sheridan  fell  back,  to  deceive  them 
further,  and  the  soldiers  of  the  rebellion  gave 
one  more  battle  yell — when  suddenly  the 
infantry  emerged  from  the  woods,  their  line 
wavered,  and  Lee  sent  forward  a  white  flag 
with  a  request  for  a  cessation  of  hostilities. 

I  have  thought  the  best  way  to  indicate 
and  illustrate  Sheridan's  traits  as  a  man  and 
a  soldier  was  to  tell  his  story.  No  reader  can 


510 


LIEUT.-GENERAL   SHERIDAN. 


have  failed  to  perceive  wherein  his  greatness 
consists.  From  first  to  last,  the  same  pecul- 
iarities are  apparent.  In  his  earliest  fight,  as 
a  second  lieutenant,  with  the  Indians,  he 
showed  the  same  determination  and  the  same 
ingenious  readiness  of  device  as  in  the  pursuit 
of  Lee  and  the  final  stratagem  of  Appomat- 
tox.  He  was,  indeed,  the  Hannibal  of  the 
American  war.  Full  of  the  magnificent  passion 
of  battle,  as  every  one  knows,  riding  around 
with  his  sword  drawn,  rising  in  his  stirrups, 
grasping  a  battle  flag,  turning  disaster  into 
victory,  or  pursuing  the  enemy  with  the  terror 
and  speed  of  a  Nemesis,  he  was  also  abun- 
dant in  caution,  wily  as  an  Indian,  original' 
and  astounding  in  his  strategy — always  deceiv- 
ing as  well  as  overwhelming  the  enemy.  It 
was  not  only  his  personal  courage  and  mag- 
netic bearing,  his  chivalric  presence  and  in- 
tense enthusiasm,  which  produced  his  great 
results.  He  was  more  than  one  of  Froissart's 
paladins,  although  in  many  traits  he  recalled 
the  heroes  of  the  ancient  chronicler.  He  was 
a  great  commander  of  modern  times ;  learned 
in  the  maneuvers  and  practice  which  require 
intellectual  keenness  and  comprehensive  cal- 
culation. The  combinations  which  he  em- 
ployed in  all  his  greatest  battles  are  strokes 
of  military  genius  almost  matchless  in  our 
time.  The  daring  with  which  at  Dinwiddie 
he  seized  the  critical  moment,  and,  when  the 
enemy  had  driven  a  part  of  his  force,  and 
thus  presented  their  own  rear,  advanced  and 
compelled  the  pursuing  column,  all  superior 
in  numbers,  to  desist  and  defend  itself,  was 
hardly  paralleled  during  the  war.  The  re- 
peated maneuver  to  which  he  resorted  of  at- 
tacking with  a  smaller  portion  of  his  force, 
and,  when  the  enemy's  attention  was  attracted 
by  the  feint,  hurling  an  irresistible  column 
upon  an  unexpected  point  elsewhere,  and  that 
point  always  a  flank  which  could  be  turned, 
is  in  accordance  with  the  best  canons  of 
military  science,  and  the  practice  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  the  art. 

His  strategy  was  fully  equal  to  his  tactics 
in  battle.  The  prudent  skill  with  which  he 
delayed  in  the  Valley,  not  allowing  himself 
to  be  enticed  into  attacking  Early  until  he 
was  ready,  and  the  series  of  evolutions  by 
which  he  held  off  the  enemy,  advancing  and 
withdrawing,  and  only  fighting  when  it  was 
necessary,  till  at  last  the  great  moment  came, 
are  as  worthy  of  study  as  the  brilliant  achieve- 
ments at  Cedar  Creek  and  Fisher's  Hill; 
while  the  keenness  with  which  he  detected 
every  movement  of  Lee  in  that  remorseless 
chase  after  Appomattox, —  than  which  the 
world  has  never  seen  an  instance  of  more 
terrible  and  consummate  energy  and  power, — 
and  the  skill  with  which  he  followed  and 


finally  headed  Lee,  are  instances  of  strategic 
ability  in  action  unsurpassed  since  the  time  of 
Napoleon. 

In  tljat  power   of  skillful  and   audacious 
combination  in   the   immediate  presence  of 
the  enemy,  which  above  and  beyond  every 
other  trait  is  highest  and  most  essential  in  a 
general,  he  approached  the  greatest.  His  mind 
was  always  clearest  in  emergencies.    He  never  I 
forgot  in  the  turmoil  of  the  fight  to  consider  j 
every  possibility ;  to  watch   and  guard  and ; 
work  and  plan,  while  in  the  thickest  melee. 
He  was  once  describing  to  me  the  battle  of 
Cedar  Creek,  and  told  how  at  a  certain  junct-  9 
ure,  when  the  tide  had  set  in  favor  of  victory,  | 
Custer  came  riding  up  and  kissed  him  on  the  j 
field.    "And   so,"   said   Sheridan,    "he  lostj 
time ;  he  lost  time."   There  could  hardly  be  I 
a  better  illustration  of  his  self-control,  of  the  j 
steadiness  of  his  intention,  of  his  appreciation 
of  every  necessity  of  the  moment.   He  loved  j 
Custer,  and  understood  the  enthusiasm  which  \ 
prompted  the  boyish  general  to  embrace  his  I 
chief  on  the  instant  of  victory ;  but  "  he  lost  j 
time." 

Among  other  smaller,  though  far  from  un-l 
important,  traits  may  be  mentioned  his  won-jl 
derful  knowledge  of  what  the  enemy  was  do-1 
ing.  Livy  says  of  Hannibal :  "  Nothing  which!! 
was  going  on  among  the  enemy  escaped  him  J 
the  deserters  revealing  many  things,  and  hel 
himself  examining  by  his  scouts."  The  words! 
apply  exactly  to  Sheridan.  His  scouts  wereil 
famous  throughout  the  army,  and  his  informaJ 
tion  was  exact.  It  was  always  relied  upon  by  I 
Grant  as  absolute,  and  it  never  misled  him.  I 

Grant  and  Sheridan  indeed  always  con- 1 
curred.  It  is  true  that  Sheridan  was  disinclinecjB 
to  stay  with  Grant  at  the  West  or  to  come  witt  1 
him  to  the  East ;  but  that  was  before  he  perjl 
sonally  knew  his  chief, — before  he  thought  thaw 
Grant  had  that  intimate  acquaintance  witbl 
his  qualities  which  Sheridan  doubtless  felt  thaw 
they  deserved, — before  their  natures  wefll 
brought  into  absolute  contact.  Their  friend™ 
ship  was  first  military,  and  afterward  peril 
sonal.  It  continued  after  the  war.  Grant  sen-l 
Sheridan  at  once  to  the  Rio  Grande  wheiB 
the  rebellion  was  over,  because  he  consideretB 
the  Mexican  enterprise  of  the  second  Napo  I 
Icon  only  a  part  of  the  struggle,  and  in  thijl 
conviction  Sheridan  fully  shared.  So,  alscl 
although  Sheridan  was  no  politician,  he  wal 
in  complete  sympathy  with  the  policy  of  reB 
construction  adopted  by  Congress,  and  hifl 
course  at  New  Orleans  was  entirely  in  haiw 
mony  with  the  views  of  Grant.  When  Ant| 
drew  Johnson  removed  him,  Grant  protests  c 
and  the  career  of  Sheridan  in  Louisiana  wa 
one  circumstance  in  the  chain  which  led  t  I 
the  impeachment  of  Johnson  and  the  n:^ 


A    SHADOW.  511 

election  of  Grant.    At   the   last  Republican  cried :    "  Never   mind,  my   man,  there's  no 

convention  at  Chicago  Sheridan  was  present  harm  done  " ;  and  the  soldier  went  on  with  a 

as  a  spectator ;  and  when  he  received  a  single  bullet  in  his  brain,  till  he  dropped  dead  on 

vote  for  President,  he  stepped  to  the  front  the  field. 

and  begged  to  transfer  it  to  his  "best  friend,  His  career  since  the  war  has  always  been 
General  Grant."  conspicuous  for  courage,  sagacity,  and  ability. 
His  influence  over  his  men  was  supreme.  His  management  of  the  Indians  was  singular- 
He  knew  just  what  his  troops  could  do  and  ly  successful,  and  his  course  after  the  Chicago 
would  do,  and  when.  He  led  them  frequently  fire  gained  the  applause  of  the  country. 
lin  person,  and  they  never  failed  to  follow.  His  accession  to  the  position  of  general-in- 
I  Every  one  remembers  the  famous  instance  at  chief  is  perhaps  the  last  great  military  event 
JGedar  Creek,  where  he  changed  the  whole  proceeding  from  or  connected  with  the  war; 
course  of  battle  by  his  single  presence.  But  for  Sheridan  is,  in  the  direct  line  of  succession, 
he  possessed  the  same  power  with  individuals  the  youngest  of  the  three  great  generals  who 
as  with  masses.  At  the  battle  of  Five  Forks  came  out  foremost,  not  only  in  rank,  but,  be- 
ta soldier,  wounded  under  his  eyes,  stum-  yond  all  question,  in  the  estimation  of  their 
bled  and  was  falling  to  the  rear,  but  Sheridan  countrymen,  their  enemies,  and  the  world. 

Adam  Badeau. 


A   SHADOW. 

MY  Lady  paces  up  the  broad  oak  stair; 
Men  smile  to  see  her  face  so  soft  and  fair. 
"  Look  up  !     She's  worth  a  glance !  "  does  one  declare ; 
"My  Lady  there." 

Tender  and  fine,  from  'neath  the  cloud  of  lace 
Crowning  her  hair,  gleams  forth  her  clear-cut  face, 
Its  eyes  alight,  upon  its  lips  the  grace 
Of  smiles  so  rare 

And  gay,  that  those  who  pass  her  feel  their  light 
Warm  their  own  smiles  until  they  grow  more  bright. 
"She  looks  her  best,"  they  say  —  "her  best  —  to-night, 
My  Lady  there." 

The  music  pulses  in  the  rooms  below; 
Outside,  the  moon  falls  on  the  soft,  deep  snow; 
Inside,  the  dancers*  rhythm  seems  to  flow 
Through  all  the  air. 

My  Lady  paces  up  the  broad  oak  stair, 
The  smile  still  on  her  lips  so  red,  so  rare. 
"  Look  up !  "  she  hears,  "  and  smile  then  an  you  dare, 
My  Lady  there!" 

The  music  pulses  in  the  room  below, 
The  dancers  to  its  pulsing  come  and  go; 
Out  from  her  face  is  blanched  all  light  and  glow  — 
//  fronts  her  there ! 

"I  am  thy  Grief!  I  am  thy  Grief!"  it  cries, 
"  The  Grief  that  darkens  for  thee  all  thy  skies, 
That  blights  thy  bright  life  for  thee  as  it    flies ! 
And  dost  thou  dare 

"To  smile  and  wear  thy  mask  and  play  thy  part 
As  though  thy  white  breast  held  no  broken  heart, — 
As  though  it  bled  not  'neath  my  stab's  fierce  smart  ? 
When  did  /  spare  ? 

"  I  am  thy  passionate  grief,  thy  bitter  pain. 
Turn  on  the  world  thy  light,  sweet,  cold  disdain, 
But  not  on-  me !     Here  stand  I  —  here  again ! 
Thy  fierce  Despair!" 


Si2  A   SHADOW. 

She  smiles  —  her  smile  more  sad,  but  not  less  sweet 
(She  hears  the  music  swell  and  throb  and  beat). 
"  I  know  thee !  "  she  says  gently.     "  Strong  and  fleet, 
Thou  dost  not  spare ! 

"  Lead  me,  and  I  will  follow  to  the  last ; 
Or  follow  me  —  until  the  light  be  past. 
May  I  not  pray  this  from  a  friend  so  fast  ? 
'Tis  all  my  prayer. 

"Once  in  the  darkness,  lying  at  thy  feet, 
With  lips  to  bitter  dust,  as  it  is  meet, 
Before  thine  eyes  my  breast  shall  bleed  and  beat, 
Throbbing  and  bare. 

"  But  here,  leave  me  my  mask,  my  smile,  my  play ; 
Thou  art  my  friend  by  night,  my  shame  by  day  ; 
With  fiercer  pang  for  all  thou  grant'st  I  pay, — 
I  speak  thee  fair !  " 


"  Pass  on !  "  the  Shadow  answers.     "  Wear  thy  mask  ; 
Thus  do  I  grant  the  boon  that  thou  dost  ask. 
To  wear  it  be  thy  weary,  bitter  task, 
Thy  ceaseless  care." 

Onward  my  Lady  passes — all  the  light 
Aglow  and  trembling  in  her  jewels  bright. 
"  She  looks  her  best,"  'tis  said,  "  her  best  to-night, 
My  -Lady  there." 

The  music  throbs  and  surges  soft  and  low; 

Amid  the  dancers  threads  she  to  and  fro, 

And,  following  close  and  dark  and  sure  and  slow, 

Her  Grief  is  there! 
***** 
My  Lady  lies  upon  her  dying  bed, — 
"  So  bright  and  fair !  "  her  friends  have,  weeping,  said 
"With  all  youth's  flowers  upon  her  golden  head 

Crowning  her  hair !  " 

My  Lady  meets  dark  Death  with  patient  grace; 
There  is  a  little  smile  upon  her  face, — 
Within  her  eyes  of  fear  or  pain  no  trace, 
No  touch  of  care. 

Before  her  gaze  pass  shadows  moving  slow. 
"  And  you  are  Youth,"  she  says,  "  but  you  may  go ! 
And  you  are  Life— and  Hope.     Pass  by  also, 
Though  you  were  fair! 

"  But  you,  dark  Shadow,  standing  at  my  feet, 
Leave  me  not  lonely  now;  it  is  not  meet; 
Though  you  were  bitter,  you  were  true  and  sweet. 
Nearer  —  not  there  ! 

"  Clasp  close  my  hand  —  lay  head  upon  my  breast; 
My  Grief  and  I  —  we  bore  the  bitter  test ! 
Let  thy  sad  lips  upon  my  sad  ones  rest, 
And  this  too  share! 

"  I  loved  you  better  than  my  joys,"  she  said, 
"  Better  than  all  my  summer  skies !  "  she  said ; 
And,  with  her  sad  smile  on  her  lips,  lay  dead  — 
My  Lady  there. 


Frances  Hodgson  Burne* 


MERINOS   IN    AMERICA. 


THE  writer  of  a  recently  printed  book 
concerning  Americans  of  royal  descent,  and 
all  such  Americans  as  come  near  to  being  so 
graciously  favored,  has  neglected  to  mention 
certain  Americans  who  are  descended  from 
the  pets  of  the  proudest  kings  and  nobles  of 
the  Old  World.  For  there  is  such  a  family 
here, —  one  so  large  that  it  greatly  outnumbers 
all  American  descendants  of  European  royal 
lines,  excepting  perhaps  those  of  the  green 
isle,  almost  as  prolific  of  kings  as  of  demo- 
crats. They  carry  their  finely  clothed  blue- 
blooded  bodies  on  four  legs,  for  they  are 
the  famous  American  Merino  sheep. 

The  Merino  sheep  originated  in  Spain, 
probably  two  thousand  years  ago,  from  a 
cross  of  African  rams  with  the  native  ewes, 
and  in  course  of  time  became  established  as 
a  distinct  breed,  with  such  marked  character- 


istics as  to  differentiate  them  from  all  other 
breeds  in  the  world. 

Different  provinces  had  their  different  strains 
of  Merinos,  which  were  like  strawberries  in 
that,  though  all  were  good,  some  were  better 
than  others.  There  were  also  two  great  divi- 
sions—  the  Transhumantes  or  traveling  flocks, 
and  the  Estantes  or  stationary  flocks.  The 
Transhumantes  were  considered  the  best,  as 
they  had  a  right  to  be ;  for  their  owners  were 
kings,  nobles,  and  rich  priests,  and  they  had 
the  pick  of  the  fatness  of  the  whole  land,  being 
pastured  on  the  southern  plains  in  winter,  and 
in  the  spring  and  summer  on  the  then  fresher 
herbage  of  the  mountains  to  the  northward, 
from  which  they  returned  in  the  fall.  For  the 
accommodation  of  these  four  or  five  millions 
during  their  migrations,  cultivators  of  the 
intervening  land  were  obliged  to  leave  a  road, 


:- 


IN    AN     OLD     PASTURE. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 48. 


5J4 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


not  less  than  ninety  yards  wide,  as  well  as 
commons  for  the  feeding  of  these  flocks — a 
grievous  burden  to  the  husbandman,  and  for 
which  there  was  little  or  no  redress.  A  French 
writer  says :  "  It  was  seldom  that  proprietors 
of  land  made  demands  when  they  sustained 
damage,  thinking  it  better  to  suffer  than  to  con- 


the  life  of  their  guardians  are  referred  to  the 
interesting  essay  on  Sheep,  by  Robert  R. 
Livingston,  printed  by  order  of  the  Legislature 
of  New  York  in  1810. 

Of  the  traveling  sheep  were  the  strains 
known  as  Escurials,  Guadalupes,  Paulars,  In- 
fantados,  Negrettis,  and  others,  all  esteemed 


A    DROVE    OF     RAMS. 


test,  when  they  were  assured  that  the  expense 
would  greatly  exceed  any  compensation  they 
might  recover."  A  Spanish  writer  complains 
in  a  memoir  addressed  to  his  king,  that  "  the 
corps  of  junadines  (the  proprietors  of  flocks) 
enjoy  an  enormous  power,  and  have  not  only 
engrossed  all  the  pastures  of  the  kingdom, 
but  have  made  cultivators  abandon  their  most 
fertile  lands;  thus  they  have  banished  the 
estantes,  ruined  agriculture,  and  depopulated 
the  country."  The  transhumantes  were  in 
flocks  of  ten  thousand,  cared  for  by  fifty  shep- 
herds, each  with  a  dog,  and  under  the  direc- 
tion of  a  chief.  Those  who  wish  to  learn 
more  of  the  management  of  these  flocks  and 


for  various  qualities,  and  some  of  whose  names 
have  become  familiar  to  American  ears.  The 
stationary  flocks  appear  to  have  passed  away, 
or  at  least  to  have  gained  no  renown. 

The  Spanish  sheep  reached  their  highest; 
excellence  about  the  beginning  of  this  century; 
but  during  the  Peninsular  war  the  best  flocks 
were  destroyed  or  neglected,  and  the  race  sc 
deteriorated  that  in  1851  a  Vermont  breedei 
of  Merinos,  who  went  to  Spain  on  purpose  ic 
see  the  sheep  of  that  country,  wrote  that  ht 
did  not  see  a  sheep  there  for  which  he  won  c 
pay  freight  to  America,  and  did  not  believt 
they  had  any  of  pure  blood  !  But  Merinos  <>!• 
pure  blood  had  been  brought  into  France  r 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


5*5 


PASSING     FLOCKS     ON    A     DUSTY    ROAD. 


the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 

here  carefully  and  judiciously  bred,  and  as  care- 

ully  but  injudiciously  bred  in  Saxony,  where 

everything  was  sacrificed  to  fineness  of  fleece. 

Less  than  one  hundred  years  ago  the  sheep 

f  the  United  States  were  the  descendants  of 

jhe  English  breeds,  mixed  and  intermixed  till 

Ihey  had  lost  the  distinctive  characteristics 

l)f  their  long-wooled,  well-fleshed  ancestors, 

Uid  were  known  as  "  natives  "  (a  name  they 

kere  as  much  entitled  to  as  their  owners), 

•eing  born  here  of  parents  who  had  not  slept 

r  grazed  under  other  skies.    For  many  gener- 

tions  having  little  care,  their  best  shelter  in 

dnter  being  the  stacks  their  poor  fodder  was 

pssed   from,  and  their  fare  in  summer  the 

pant  grass  among  the  stumps  of  the  clear- 

iigs  and  the  shaded  herbage  of  the  woods, 

{y  the  survival  of  the  fittest  they  came  to  be 

I  hardy   race,  almost  as  wild  as  deer,  and 

j.most  as  well  fitted  to  withstand  the  rigors 

f  our  climate  and  to  elude  capture  by  wild 

feasts  or  their   rightful  owners.    Indeed,  so 

;uch  had  they  recovered  the  habits  of  their 

•motest  ancestors,  that  to  get  up  the  settler's 

)ck  for  washing  or  shearing,  or  the  draft  of 

(number  for  slaughter  or  sale,  was  at  least  a 

jilf-day's  task,  if  not  one  uncertain  of  fulfill- 

lent.    All    the   farm    hands,  and    often    the 

omen  and  children  of  the  household,  were 

•ustered  for  these  herdings,  and  likely  enough 


the  neighbors  had  to  be  called  in  to  help. 
The  flocks  were  generally  small,  and  the 
coarse,  thin,  short  wool  was  mostly  worked 
upon  the  now  bygone  hand-cards,  spinning- 
wheels,  and  hand-looms  for  home  use.  As  the 
clearings  widened,  the  flocks  of  sheep  grew 
larger,  and  wool-growing  for  market  became 
an  industry  of  some  importance.  The  char- 
acter of  the  animals  and  the  quality  of  their 
fleeces  remained  almost  unchanged  until  this 
century  was  a  half  score  years  old,  when  the 
Merinos  had  become  established  here,  and 
the  effect  of  their  cross  with  the  natives 
began  to  be  manifest. 

Perhaps  mention  should  be  made  here  of 
the  Smith's  Island  sheep,  of  unknown  origin, 
but  peculiar  to  the  island  from  which  they 
took  their  name,  which  lies  off  the  coast  of 
Virginia,  and  belonged,  about  1810,  to  Mr. 
Custis,  Washington's  stepson,  who  wrote  a 
pamphlet  concerning  them,  in  which  he 
says :  "  Their  wool  is  a  great  deal  longer 
than  the  Spanish,  in  quality  vastly  superior ; 
the  size  and  figure  of  the  animal  admit  of 
no  comparison,  being  highly  in  favor  of  the 
Smith's  Island." 

Livingston  does  not  indorse  these  claims,  but 
says  of  the  wool :  "  It  is,  soft,  white,  and  silky, 
but  neither  so  fine  nor  so  soft  as  the  Merino 
wool."  If  this  breed  is  not  extinct,  it  never 
gained  much  renown,  nor  noticeably  spread 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 

beyond  its  island  borders.  I  think  Randall  eight  and  a  half  pounds  of  brook-washed 
does  not  mention  it  in  his  "  Practical  Shep-  wool,  the  heaviest  fleece  borne  by  any  of  the 
herd."  There  were  also  the  Otter  sheep,  said  early  imported  Merinos  of  which  I  have  seen 

any  account." 

What  was  then  considered  fine  form  would 
take    that    place    with    our   modern 


MERINO     LAMBS. 


to  have 
originated 
on  some  isl- 
and on  our 
eastern  coast, 
and  whose  dis- 
tinguishing peculiarity  was 
such  extreme  shortness  of 
legs  that  Livingston  says 
they  could  not  run  or  jump, 
and  they  even  walked  with 
some  difficulty.  And  there 
were  the  Arlington  sheep,  derived  from  stock 
imported  by  Washington,  the  male  a  Persian 
ram,  the  mothers  Bakewell  ewes.  They  seem 
to  have  been  a  valuable  breed  of  long-wooled 
sheep,  but  are  now  unknown. 

The  first  importation  of  Merino  sheep  on 
record  is  that  of  William  Foster,  of  Boston, 
who  in  1793  brought  over  three  from  Spain 
and  gave  them  to  a  friend,  who  had  them 
killed  for  mutton,  and,  if  the  sheep  were  fat, 
I  doubt  not  found  it  good,  and  wished  there 
was  more  of  it.  In  1 80 1  four  ram  lambs  were 
sent  to  the  United  States  by  two  French  gen- 
tlemen. The  only  one  that  survived  the 
passage  was  owned  for  several  years  in  New 
York,  and  afterward  founded  some  excellent 
grade  flocks  in  Delaware.  Randall  says  of 
him :  "  He  was  of  fine  form,  weighed  one 
hundred  and  thirty-eight  pounds,  and  yielded 


breeders,  and  the  then  remarkable  weight  of 
wool  was  not  more  than  a  quarter  that  of  the 
fleece  of  many  of  the  present  Americans  of 
the  race ;  these  last,  however,  not  brook- 
washed  nor  even  rain-washed.  The  next  year 
Mr.  Livingston,  our  minister  to  France,  sent 
home  two  pairs  of  Merinos  from  the  Govern- 
ment flock  of  Chalons,  and  afterward  a  ram 
from  the  Rambouillet  flocks. 

A  table  given  by  Livingston  in  1810  is 
interesting  in  showing  the  effect  of  the  first 
cross  on  the  common  or  native  sheep.  The 
average  weight  of  the  fleeces  of  a  flock  of 
these  was  three  pounds  ten  ounces ;  that  of 
the  half-bred  Merino  offspring,  five  pounds 
one  ounce.  Similar  results  came  of  the  larger 
importation,  in  the  same  year,  by  Colonel 
Humphreys,  our  minister  to  Spain,  of  twenty- 
one  rains  and  seventy  ewes,  selected  from  the 
Infantado  family.  In  1809  and  1810  Mr. 
Jarvis,  American  consul  at  Lisbon,  bought 
nearly  four  thousand  sheep  of  the  confiscated 
flocks  of  Spanish  nobles,  all  of  wrhich  were 
shipped  to  different  ports  in  the  United  States, 
and  in  those  years,  and  the  one  following,  from 
three  thousand  to  five  thousand  Spanish  Meri- 
nos were  imported  by  other  persons.  In  1809 
and  1810  half-blood  merino  wool  was  sok 
for  seventy-five  cents  and  full  blood  for  tvic 
dollars  a  pound,  and  during  the  war  of  i8js 
the  latter  sold  for  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  i 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


51? 


Dound.  Naturally,  a  Merino  fever  was  en- 
gendered, and  imported  and  American-born 
•ams  of  the  breed  were  sold  for  enormous 
Drices,  some  of  Livingston's  ram  lambs  for 
}ne  thousand  dollars  each.  But  such  a  sud- 
ien  downfall  followed  the  Peace  of  Ghent 
hat,  before  the  end  of  the  year  1815,  full- 
hooded  sheep  were  sold  for  one  dollar  each. 
Till  1824  the  price  of  wool  continued  so 
ow  that,  during  the  intervening  years,  nearly 
ill  the  full-blood  Merino  flocks  were  broken 
jip  or  carelessly  bred.  Then  the  enactment  of 


almost  all  owners  of  Spanish  sheep  crossed 
them  with  the  Saxon,  to  the  serious  injury  of 
their  flocks.  They  held  the  foremost  place  in 
America  among  fine  -wooled  sheep  for  fifteen 
or  twenty  years,  and  then  went  out  of  favor, 
and  have  now  quite  disappeared,  I  believe. 

The  Spanish  Merino  now  came  to  the  front 
again,  and  of  them  the  descendants  of  the 
Jarvis  and  Humphreys  importation  were  most 
highly  esteemed.  As  has  been  mentioned, 
the  flocks  of  Spain  had  sadly  deteriorated, 
and  the  American  sheep  derived  from  them 


HEAD  OF  MERINO  RAM  BEFORE  AND  AFTER  SHEARING. 


ji  tariff  favoring  the  production  of  fine  wool 
Revived  the  prostrate  industry,  and  unfortu- 
liately  brought  about  the  introduction  of  the 
miserable  Saxon  Merinos,  large  numbers  of 
which  were  now  imported.  In  the  breeding 
P f  these,  everything  having  been  sacrificed  to 
Ineness  of  wool,  the  result  was  a  small,  puny 
(jiimal,  bearing  two,  possibly  three,  pounds 
?f  very  fine,  short  wool.  Such  was  the  craze 
jbr  these  unworthy  favorites  of  the  hour  that 


in  their  best  days  far  surpassed  them,  if  not 
their  own  progenitors. 

Wool-growing  became  the  leading  industry 
of  the  Green  Mountain  State.  Almost  every 
Vermont  farmer  was  a  shepherd,  and  had 
his  half  hundred  or  hundreds  or  thousands 
of  grade  sheep  or  full  bloods  dotting  the 
ferny  pastures  of  the  hill  country  or  the 
broad  levels  of  the  Champlain  valley,  rank 
with  English  grasses.  From  old  Fort  Dum- 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


mer  to  the  Canada  line  one  could  hardly  get 
beyond  the  sound  of  the  sheep's  bleat  unless 


great   preparation    was   made    within    house 
and  barn.    The  best  the  farm  afforded  must 


he  took  to  the  great  woods,  and  even  there  be  provided  for  the  furnishing  of  the  table ; 

he  was  likely  enough  to  hear  the  intermittent  for    the    shearers    were    not    ordinary    farm 

jingle  of  a  sheep-bell  chiming  with  the  songs  laborers,    but   mostly   farmers    and    farmers' i 

of  the  hermit  and  wood  thrushes,  or  to  meet  sons,  and  as  well  to  do  as  their  employer, 


SHEEP-SHEARING. 


a  flock  driven  clattering  over  the  pebbles 
of  a  mountain  road;  for  a  mid- wood  settler 
had  his  little  herd  of  sheep,  to  which  he  gave 
in  summer  the  freedom  of  the  woods,  and 
which  took — alas  for  the  owner's  crops — the 
freedom  of  the  meadow  and  grain  patches, 
and  were  sheltered  from  the  chill  of  winter 
nights  in  a  frame  barn  bigger  than  their 
master's  log-house. 

In  June,  when  the  May-yeaned  lambs 
were  skipping  in  the  sunshine  that  had 
warmed  the  pools  and  streams  till  the  bull- 
frogs had  their  voices  in  tune,  the  sheep  were 
gathered  from  the  pastures  and  driven  over 
the  dusty  roads  to  the  pens  beside  the  pools 
on  the  tapped  mill-flumes  and  washed  amid  a 
pother  of  rushing  waters,  shouts  of  laughter 
of  men  and  boys,  and  discordant,  plaintive 
bleats  of  parted  ewes  and  lambs. 

A  fortnight  or  so  later  came  the  great  event 
of  the  shepherd's  year,  the  shearing,  for  which 


who  was  likely  enough  to  shear,  in  his  turn 
for   them.   Whoever  possessed   the  skill 
shearing  a  sheep  thought  it  not  beneath  hii 
to  ply  his  well-paid  handicraft  in  all  the  count 
round.  For  these  the  fatted  calf  was  killed 
the  green  peas  and  strawberries  were  pick( 
The  barn  floor  and  its  overhanging  scaffok 
were  carefully  swept,  the  stables  were  litter 
with  clean  straw,  the  wool-bench  was  set  upj 
and  the  reel  full  of  twine  was  made  ready 
its  place.    Those  were  merry  days  in  the 
gray  barns  that  were  not  too  fine  to  have  swz 
lows'  holes  in  their  gables,  moss  on  their 
gles,  and  a  fringe   of  hemp,  mayweed, 
smartweed  about  their  jagged  underpinnii 
There  was  jesting  and  the  telling  of  merry 
from  morning  till  night,  and  bursts  of  laugh 
that  scared  the  swallows  out  of  the  cobwebl 
roof-peak  and  the  sitting  hen  from  her  n 
in  the  left-over  hay-mow.    Neighbors  callec 
get  a  taste  of  the  fun  and  the  cider,  to  see  h 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


5*9 


SHOWING    RAMS. 


t*  flock  "evridged,"  and  to  engage  hands 
f'  their  own  shearing.  At  nooning,  after  the 
jmd  dinner,  while  the  older  men  napped  on 
<ti  floor,  wool-bench,  or  scaffold,  with  their 
lids  pillowed  on  soft  places,  the  young  fel- 
Ivs  had  trials  of  strength  at  "  pulling  stick  " 
q  lifting  "  stiff  legs."  The  skillful  wool-tyer 
f\|s  rarer  than  the  skillful  shearer,  and  in 
>rjich  demand  in  his  own  and  neighboring 
tlvnships.  He  tied  the  fleeces  quickly  and 
cnpactly,  showing  the  best  on  the  outside, 
It  with  no  clod  of  dirty  locks  in  the  middle ; 
f<  in  those  days  wool  had  its  place  and  dirt 
it:  place,  but  the  fleece  was  not  their  com- 
.irtn  place.  The  catcher  was  a  humble  but 
n:  unimportant  member  of  the  force.  He 
n|.st  be  alert  and  with  a  sheep  ready  for  each 
sj:arer  as  wanted,  and  was  never  to  take  up 
aj;heep  by  the  wool,  but  with  his  left  arm 
uiierneath,  just  behind  the  fore  legs,  and  his 
•rjit  hand  grasping  a  hind  leg.  And  there 
^5  the  boy  to  pick  up  locks,  discarding  the 
d|:y  ones,  which  were  swept  outdoors.  One's 
tyk  aches  as  he  remembers  this  unpleasant 
i  %•  of  his  boyhood,  when  he  was  scoffed  by 
sljarers  and  scolded  by  the  wool-tyer,  and 
o:.:n  had  the  added  labor  of  carrying  the 
:Wpl  to  its  storage.  Fourteen  fleeces  tied  up 
UH  blanket  was  the  load,  which,  if  they  had 
b<;n  of  nowadays  weight,  would  have  bur- 


dened  a  strong  man ;  but  a  five-pound  fleece 
was  a  heavy  one  then.  I  have  never  been 
present  at  one  of  the  modern  public  shear- 
ings, which  come  before  the  swallows  do,  while 
winter  is  still  skirmishing  with  spring,  and  are 
celebrated  in  the  local  papers;  but  I  doubt 
if  they  are  such  hearty  and  enjoyable  seasons 
as  the  old-fashioned  shearings  were. 

The  wool-buyers  scoured  the  country  at  or 
after  shearing  time,  and  drove  their  bargains 
with  the  farmers.  The  small  lots  of  wool  were 
hauled  in  bulk  to  some  central  point  of  ship- 
ment, while  the  larger  clips  were  sacked  on 
the  grower's  premises.  The  sack  was  sus- 
pended through  a  hole  of  its  own  diameter  in 
an  upper  floor  and  a  few  fleeces  were  thrown  in, 
when  the  packer  lowered  himself  into  it  and 
placed  and  trod  the  wool  as  it  was  passed  to 
him  till  he  had  trod  his  way  to  the  top.  Then 
the  sacks  were  lowered,  sewed,  weighed, 
marked,  and  went  their  way  to  market. 

The  "  tag-locks "  and  pulled  wool  were 
mostly  worked  up  in  the  neighboring  small 
factories  into  stocking-yarn,  flannel,  and  blank- 
ets for  the  farmer's  use,  and  into  the  then 
somewhat  famous  "  Vermont  gray,"  which 
was  the  common  cold-weather  outer  clothing 
of  New  England  male  farm  folk.  Readers 
of  Thoreau  will  remember  that  he  mentions  it 
more  than  once,  and  thought  it  good  enough 


520 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


FRIGHTENED 


wear  for  him.    The 

Yankee   farmer  wore   it 

"  to  mill  an'  to  meeting''  and  the 

young  men  of  forty  years  ago  were 

not    ashamed    to    appear    in  such 

sheep's  clothing  at  the  paring-bee  or  the  ball. 

Vermont,  become  so  famous  as  a  wool-pro- 
ducing State  that  English  cutlers  stamped  their 
best  shears  "  True  Vermonters,"  presently 
became  more  famous  as  the  nursery  of  im- 
provement of  the  Merino  breed,  to  which 
object  several  intelligent  breeders  devoted 
their  efforts.  By  selection  of  the  best  of  the 
animals  obtainable,  the  form  of  the  sheep  was 
made  more  robust,  the  size  increased,  and 
with  it  the  length  and  thickness  of  all  parts 
of  the  fleece,  so  that  the  wool  on  a  sheep's 
belly  was  nearly  as  long  as  that  on  the  sides. 

French  Merinos,  so  much  changed,  since 
the  importations  by  Livingston,  from  the 
fashion  of  their  Spanish  ancestors  that  they 
had  become  a  distinct  family,  were  intro- 
duced, and  had  their  admirers,  as  had  the  Si- 
lesian  Merinos.  These  modern  French  sheep 
were  larger  and  coarser  than  the  original 
Spaniards;  the  Silesians,  smaller  than  the 
French,  but  handsomer  and  hardier. 

As  naturally  as  in  former  times,  a  "  Merino 
fever  "  again  began  to  rage  ;  fabulous  prices 
were  paid  for  sheep,  and  men  mortgaged  their 
farms  to  become  possessors  of  a  score  of  full 
bloods.  There  was  no  registry  of  flocks,  and 


IMPLEMENTS. 


jockeys  sold  grade  sheep,  numbered,  lamp- 
blacked,  and  oiled  up  to  the  desired  black- 
ness and  greasiness,  for  full  bloods  at  prices 


ten-fold  be-    ' 

yond     their  >*?*^%v 

real  worth.  Grow- 
ers ran  to  the  oppo- 
site  extreme   from  that  to   which  they  \x 
gone  during   the   Saxon   craze,  and  now  ; 
sacrificed  everything  to  weight  of  fleece  th' 
Vermont  wool    fell   into   the   evil    repute  « 
being  filthy  stuff,  more  grease  and  dirt  thr 
honest  fiber.    The  tide  ebbed  again  to  lowe 
water-mark;  again  the  inheritors  of  the  bh 
blood  of  the  Paulars  and  Infantados  went 
the  shambles  at  the  prices  paid  for  the  meant 
plebeian  natives,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  shee 
farming  of  Vermont  had  got  its  death-blow 

Even  so  had  the  farming  of  sheep  for  woe 
for  in  the  great  West  a  vast  region  had  be; 
opened  wherein  sheep  could  be  kept  at  su<!i 
a  fraction  of  the  cost  entailed  in  winter-bi 
dened  New  England  that  there  was  nothing  1 
the  Yankee  wool- grower  but  to  give  up  thel< 
ing  fight.    So  most  shepherds  turned  dairymt 

But,  gifted  with  a  wise  foresight,  a  f< 
owners  of  fine  flocks  kept  them  and  brtj 
them  as  carefully  as  ever,  and  in  the  fulln* 
of  time  were  richly  rewarded.  After  awl 
it  became  evident  that  the  flocks  of  the 
could  only  be  kept  up  to  the  desired  stanc 
by  frequent  infusions  of  the  eastern  blocj 
and  so  it  has  come  about  that  sheep-breed;  J 
in  Vermont  is  a  greater,  stronger-founded,  ai 
more  prosperous  industry  than  ever  be:ro 
Each  year  more  and  more  buyers  come  It  l 
Texas,  California,  Colorado,  and  Austn.l; 
and  on  many  an  unpretending  Vermont  fi:;» 
after  examination  of  points  and  pedigree, of* 
more  carefully  'kept  than  their  owner's,  * 


MERINOS  IN  AMERICA. 


horn-coroneted  dons  of  the  fold  change  mas- 
ters at  prices  rivaling  those  of  blood  horses. 

The  care  given  these  high-bred,  fine- 
wooled  sheep  is  a  wonderful  contrast  to  the 
little  received  by  flocks  in  the  times  when 
wool-growing  was  the  chief  object  of  our 
sheep  farmers ;  when,  though  sheep  had  good 
and  abundant  food,  and  fairly  comfortable 
shelter  from  cold  and  storm,  they  had  noth- 
ing more.  The  lambs  were  dropped  in  May 
after  the  ewes  were  turned  out  to  grass,  and 


sheltered  from  even  soft  summer  rains,  that 
their  raiment  may  suffer  no  loss  of  color. 
The  lambs  are  brought  forth  when  spring  has 
nothing  in  Vermont  of  that  season  but  the 
name,  and  are  fed  with  cow's  milk,  or  put 
to  nurse  with  coarse-wooled  foster-mothers, 
more  bountiful  milkers  than  Merinos,  and 
have  a  man  to  care  for  them  night  and  day. 
The  old-time  rams  tilted  it  out  on  the  field  of 
honor,  to  the  sore  bruising  of  heads  and  bat- 
tering of  helmets,  and  sometimes  loss  of  life. 


FRIGHTENED     SHEEP. 


(were  not  looked  after  oftener  than  once  a 
[day  in  fine  weather,  and  got  only  their  moth- 
er's milk,  if  the  ewe  was  a  good  milker  and 
was  fond  enough  of  her  ungainly  yeanling  to 
3\vn  it  and  give  it  such  care  as  sheep  give 
their  young.  Now  the  dons  and  donas  of 
blue  blood  have  better  quarters  in  winter 
than  many  a  poor  mortal,  in  barns  so  warm 
hat  water  will  not  freeze  in  them,  and  are 
fed  grain  and  roots  as  well  as  hay,  and  are 
VOL.  XXVII  —49. 


But  now  rams  of  a  warlike  turn  are  hooded 
like  falcons,  that  they  may  do  no  harm  to  each 
other  and  their  peaceable  comrades.  A  blow 
might  cost  their  owner  a  thousand  dollars. 

The  successful  sheep-breeder  is  up  to  his 
knees  in  clover,  but  the  eastern  wool-grower 
is  on  barren  ground.  A  friend  who  lives  in 
the  heart  of  the  Vermont  sheep-breeding 
region  writes  me :  "  Ordinary  rams  sell  for 
from  $10  to  $25  a  head;  ordinary  ewes  for 


522 


HOW  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


$20.  The  highest  real  price  any  one  has 
known  a  ram  to  sell  for  within  two  years, 
$1100;  the  same  for  ewes,  $300.  The  wool 
of  these  sheep  sells  for  twenty  cents  a  pound. 
The  wool  itself  does  not  pay  for  growing  in 
the  way  in  which  these  sheep  are  reared  and 
cared  for.  The  wool  is  a  secondary  object ; 
the  bodies  are  what  they  are  bred  for.  *  *  * 
In  the  way  sheep  are  kept  on  the  large 
ranches  south-west  and  west,  the  sheep  so 
soon  deteriorate  that  they  are  obliged  to  have 
thorough-bred  rams  to  keep  up  their  flocks. 
This  is  particularly  the  case  in  warm  climates. 
Nature  gets  rid  of  the  superfluous  clothing  as 
soon  as  possible." 


It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  portraits 
of  the  best  Merinos  of  eighty  years  ago  with 
the  improved  American  Merinos  of  the  pres- 
ent day,  and  see  what  a  change  has  been 
wrought  in  the  race  without  change  of  blood. 
It  is  not  unlikely  that  to  the  uneducated  eye 
the  more  natural  and  picturesque  sheep  of 
the  old  time  would  seem  more  comely  than 
the  bewrinkled,  enfolded  and  aproned  product 
of  the  many  years  of  careful  breeding.  As  a 
thing  of  beauty  the  modern  Merino  ram  can 
hardly  be  called  a  success,  but  there  are  mill- 
ions in  this  knight  of  the  Golden  Fleece. 

Rowland  E.  Robinson. 


HOW   EDWIN    DROOD   WAS   ILLUSTRATED. 

CHARLES  DICKENS'S  first  intention  when  worked  for  many  years  in  such  desultory 
he  projected  "  Edwin  Drood  "  was  to  intrust  manner  as  his  delicate  health  permitted,  with 
the  illustrations  to  his  son-in-law,  who  had  both  pen  and  pencil.  It  was  with  the  pen- 


AN     OPIUM     DEN. 


HO W  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


523 


cil  that  Dickens  considered  Charles  Col- 
lins's  best  success  might  be  made.    His 
literary  work,  mostly  confined  to  fugitive 
pieces,  but  not  yet  altogether  forgotten, 
was  generally  distinguished  by  humor  of 
a  charming  quality,  but  rather  obviously 
caught  from  the   quieter  manner  of  his 
father-in-law.     "  A    Cruise    on   Wheels," 
which  was  the  story  of  a  tete-a-tete  drive 
through  France,  took  its  little  place  as  a 
prominent  example  of  that  chatty  litera- 
ture, with  its  mitigated  good  spirits  and 
its  gentle  ironies,  which  was  less  rife  in 
that  day  than  it  has  since  become.  For 
"The  Eye  Witness"  we  must  generally 
seek  in  the  old  volumes  of  "  All  the  Year 
Round,"  where  its  discursive  banter  sug- 
gests a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  peculiar  to 
light  essayists,  and  that  ambling  mental 
gait  and   pace  which  tire  neither  writer 
nor  reader.  Though  Dickens  had  no  lively 
faith  in  Charles  Collins's  ultimate  distinc- 
tion in  letters,  he  had  great  faith,  as  has 
been  said,  in  his  artistic  future ;    and  it 
|  was,  no  doubt,  with  the  aim  of  encour- 
aging that  art  of  designing,  which  seemed 
in  some   danger   of  being   set  aside   or 
neglected,  that    Dickens   chose   to   give 
his  last  book  to  the  illustrative  interpre- 
tation of  his  son-in-law.    Charles  Collins, 
however,  got  no  further  than  the  cover 
— copies    of  which    are  now  probably  rare, 
as  most  readers  had  the  separate  parts  of 
the    novel  bound  up  after  its  progress  was 
cut  short.    The  artist's  health  failed  so   de- 
cidedly that  the  enterprise  which  was  intended 
as  the  beginning  of  a  revival  of  his  work  in 
design    was,  perforce,  suddenly    abandoned. 
Before  the  appearance  of  the  first  number, 
;  Dickens  found  himself  without  an  illustrator. 
!  It  must  be  taken  as  a  sign  of  the  mobility  of 
his  mind  that  he  went  in  search  of  a  young 
artist  to  interpret  the  work  of  his  own  elder 
j  years.    And  his  old  book  was  in  a  sense  his 
!  youngest ;  he  had  changed  with  the  times, 
j  and  had,  moreover,  bridged  across  in  his  life 
!  and  career   a   period  of  great  alteration  in 
|  English  men  and  manners.    Being  essentially 
j  modern,  Dickens  was  bound  to  be  developed 
and  modified  by  his  times — to  be  as  modern 
I  in  1870  as  he  had  been  in  1840,  for  his  vital- 
jity  never  failed;  and  he  could  not  be  fitly 
j  illustrated  by  work  which  reverted  to  former 
[  ways  of  thought  and  observation.  In  his  search 
i  for  an  artist  he  was  aided  by  Mr.  Millais  and 
i  Mr.  Frith,  and  these  painters  united  in  em- 
phatic approval  of  the  final  choice. 

Mr.  Luke  Fildes  was  at  that  time  a  man 
of  twenty-five,  who  had  struggled,  through 
:  sheer  force  of  vocation,  out  of  the  nafrow 
;  limitations  of  provincial  conditions  in  the  par- 


STUDIES    FOR    JASPER  S    HEAD. 

ticularly  provincial  province  of  Lancashire. 
He  had  no  artistic  ancestry,  and  it  is  not 
easy  to  understand  how  his  art  found  him 
out ;  but,  as  a  young  boy,  he  attended  a  local 
school  with  the  hope  of  achieving  a  moderate 
distinction,  in  time,  as  a  designer  of  carpets 
and  tea-cups.  The  love  of  nature  drew  him 
to  other  aspirations,  and  at  the  age  of  nine- 
teen he  entered  on  his  course  of  study  at 
South  Kensington,  passing  afterward  into  the 
Royal  Academy  schools.  Then  began  his 
career  as  an  artist  in  black  and  white,  for  as 
yet  he  had  not  touched  oil-color;  but,  though 
he  found  plenty  of  employment,  he  was  by 
no  means  famous  when  Charles  Dickens  en- 
gaged him  to  draw  for  "  Edwin  Drood." 

Mr.  Fildes's  first  fame  synchronized  with  the 
original  appearance  of  the  "  Graphic,"  on  the 
front  page  of  which  appeared  the  "  Casuals." 
The  idea  had  not  been  inspired  by  any  word 
of  Dickens's  ;  it  was  not  until  five  years  later, 
when  the  author  had  passed  away,  and  when 
his  illustrator  had  become  an  oil-painter,  that 
Mr.  John  Forster  gave  to  Mr.  Fildes  that 
sentence  which  accompanied  the  great  pict- 
ure of  the  "  Casuals,"  in  1874 :  "  Dumb,  wet, 
silent  horrors.  Sphinxes  set  up  against  that 
dead  wall,  and  none  likely  to  be  at  the  pains 
of  solving  them  until  the  general  overthrow." 
The  words  had  been  written  by  Dickens  in  a 


524 


HOW  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


letter  descriptive  of  his  night  rambles  in  Lon- 
don, and  the  dreary  scene  of  outcasts  and 
wanderers  waiting  outside  the  work-house  for 
their  one  night's  lodging  had  impressed  the 
minds  of  both  author  and  artist,  without  com- 
munication between  them;  and  no  wonder 
that  the  subject  suggested  obstinate  question- 
ings to  the  one  and  a  thoughtful  and  mem- 
orable picture  to  the  other.  During  the  years 
which  elapsed  between  the  appearance  of  the 


commonly  to  be  found  in  a  painter  of  senti- 
ment. His  manner  was,  of  course,  very  unlike 
that  which  interpenetrated  Charles  Dickens's 
earlier  books;  the  insistent  caricature — the 
art  of  high  spirits — had  passed  out  of  date;  it 
belongs  to  its  time,  and  cannot  alter  in  in- 
trinsic value  as  a  part  of  that  time ;  but  repeti- 
tion is  impossible  in  any  art  which  is  still— 
like  the  art  of  line — in  a  state  of  vitality. 
While  derivation  is,  of  course,  essential  to  the 


JASPER  S     SW( 


"  Casuals "  in  black  and  white  and  that  of 
the  "  Casuals  "  in  oils,  Mr.  Fildes  had  won 
his  entrance  to  the  Academy  Exhibition  by  a 
figure  subject  called  "  Fair,  Quiet,  and  Sweet 
Rest,"  showing  a  group  of  lotus-eating  jeunesse 
of  the  last  century  in  their  boat  among  the 
water-lilies  and  the  swans  of  the  Thames. 
Of  his  subsequent  pictures,  "  The  Widower  " 
and  "The  Penitent "  have  shown  his  powers 
of  observation  and  of  pathos  at  their  best. 

But  to  return  to  "  Edwin  Drood."  At 
twenty-five  few  men  have  begun  to  develop 
their  capacity  for  humor;  and  though  Mr. 
Fildes  was  ready  to  be  impressed  by  his 
author's  tragedy,  he  doubted  greatly  whether 
he  could  interpret  such  comedy  as  might  ap- 
pear in  the  book.  He  did  himself  the  injus- 
tice— peculiar  to  his  time  of  life — of  think- 
ing that  he  had  no  humor  in  him.  But  the 
designer  of  Sapsea  and  of  Durdles  must  as- 
suredly be  credited  with  a  quality  of  fun,  and 
with  a  capacity  for  the  finer  burlesque,  not 


very  life  of  all  arts,  reversion  may  be  held  to 
be  distinctive  of  those  which  have  passed  out 
of  the  state  of  production  into  that  of  criticism; 
and,  therefore,  reversion  belongs  properly,  inj 
our  time,  to  architecture  and  to  a  certain  kind  < 
of  poetry.  These  do  not  derive,  but  revert. 

Charles  Dickens  wrote  to  Mr.  Fildes,  in  the  j 
January  of  1870 : 

"  I  beg  to  thank  you  for  the  highly  meritorious  and 
interesting  specimens  of  your  art  that  you  have  had 
the  kindness  to  send  me.  I  return  them  herewith,) 
after  having  examined  them  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  i 
1  am  naturally  curious  to  see  your  drawing  from 
'  David  Copperfield,'  in  order  that  I  may  compare  it 
with  my  own  idea.  In  the  mean  while,  I  can  honestly 
assure  you  that  I  entertain  the  greatest  admiration 
for  your  remarkable  powers." 

But  the  drawing  in  question  contained  no 
female  figure,  and  Charles  Dickens  told 
artist  that  the  forthcoming  story  was  adorned 
by  two  pretty  heroines.    A  specimen  of  Mi. 
Fildes's  power  of  rendering  beauty  was  UKR 
fore  required;  and  this  being  most  satisfactorily 


HOW  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


525 


roved,  the  work  went  for- 
jrard.    Mr.  Fildes  read  his 
uthor,    month    by    month, 
nth  an  intensity  of  attention 
hich  no  incident  escaped, 
hd  with  an  alertness  of  in- 
flligence  which  missed  no 
pint  of  character.  The  text 
"u  Edwin  Drood  "  was  sup-  • 
,emented    by    those    vivti 
>cc  descriptions  with  which 
iharles  Dickens  was  wont 
impress  his  meaning  and 
tention,  to   its  very  com- 
eteness,  upon  his  hearer. 
e   himself    was    surprised    at   the   way   in 
lich   his    mind    found    itself    mirrored    in 
1  tat     of    his    artist,    both    as    regards    the 
iporial   exactness  of  inanimate   things  and 
lie  appreciation  of  individual  human  char- 
ger.   The  two  kinds  of  exactitude  are  dis- 
t.ct    enough,    but    Mr.    Fildes    compassed 
mm  both.    With  regard  to  the  first,  he  has 
4ured    me    that  he   drew  the   opium-room 
Ira  description,  but  that  the  author  recog- 
led  it  as  the  very  portrait  of  the  place.    In 
t;  more   valuable   exactitude   to   character, 
•  success  was  such  that  Charles  Dickens  ex- 
Mimed  delightedly  that  the  figures  drawn  for 
••"fdwin   Drood "  were  like  photographs   of 
\   characters.    Mr.   Fildes  was  evidently  as 
•eptive    as    Dickens  was   impressive;    and 
v.o  was  ever  so  impressive  as  he  ?  His  power 


DURDLES.       (A     STUDY     FROM    LIFE.) 

of  carrying  artistic  conviction  was  so  great 
that  we  wonder,  as  we  read  him  and  read  of 
him,  at  his  ever  having  consented  to  abdi- 
cate such  a  force  for  the  sake  of  triviality  or 
violence.  He  was  able  to  convince  a  thou- 
sand people  by  his  gesture,  a  world  by  his 
pen ;  and  he  convinced  his  artist  so  stren- 
uously that  author  and  draughtsman  con- 
ceived the  self-same  thing.  Vividly  as  Dick- 
ens saw  the  creatures  of  his  brain,  he  saw 
them  no  otherwise  than  as  they  lived  by  this 
quick  and  sympathetic  pencil.  Over  the  type 
of  Jasper  there  was  some  consultation.  Mr. 
Fildes  made  three  shots,  and  one  of  them 
proved  to  be  a  palpable  hit.  But  as  to  the 
story  itself  and  the  mystery,  no  confidences 
were  made  by  Dickens.  The  often  repeated 
assertion  that  he  told  to  no  one  his  intentions 


S26 


HOW  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


as  to  the  intrigue  is  true  in  so  far  as  he  vol- 
unteered no  such  telling.  But  a  part  of  the 
mystery  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  surprised 
out  of  him  by  Mr.  Fildes's  keenness  and  care 
in  taking  up  a  suggestion.  It  happened  in  the 
following  way :  The  artist  had  taken  special 
note  of  a  change  in  the  description  of  Jas- 
per's dress.  Not  only  did  the  fact  that  Jasper 
wore  in  the  last  scenes  a  large  black  silk  scarf, 


dered  body  in  the  cathedral  tower,  must  have 
been  obvious  enough  to  every  careful  reader. 
The  central  crime  of  the  book  (and  no  fic- 
titious wickedness  was  ever  more  fraught  with 
powerful  and  penetrating  horror  than  is  this 
one)  can  never  have  been  intended  by  the 
author  to  be  a  mystery;  the  secret  that 
Charles  Dickens  intended  to  keep,  and  kept 
in  effect,  was  the  manner  of  the  discovery.  He 


ROCHESTER    CATHEDRAL. 


muffling  therewith  his  throat  and  keeping  his 
beautiful  voice  from  cold,  appear  duly  in  the 
drawing,  but  Dickens  saw  that  the  thing  had 
been  drawn  with  a  kind  of  emphasis.  Mr. 
Fildes  confessed  that  he  had  divined  its  sig- 
nificance, whereupon  Dickens  was  somewhat 
troubled  with  the  misgiving  that  he  was  tell- 
ing his  story  too  fast.  The  scarf  was,  in  fact, 
the  instrument  of  murder.  After  fostering  the 
notes  of  the  even-song  anthem,  and  hanging 
lightly  about  the  throat  of  the  murderer  as  he 
talked  with  his  victim,  it  strangled  the  young 
breath  of  Edwin  Drood  on  the  night  of  the 
great  gale.  Charles  Dickens  was  probably 
wrong,  however,  in  supposing  that  too  marked 
a  point  would  be  made  of  this  by  the  reader ; 
the  dreadful  use  to  which  the  thing  was  to  be 
put  has  probably  been  guessed  by  few.  It 
was,  of  course,  otherwise  with  the  clew  of  the 
ring  given  by  Grewgious  to  Edwin.  That 
this  one  indestructible  piece  of  gold  was  upon 
the  young  man's  person,  unknown  to  the  mur- 
derer, who  had  withdrawn  the  watch  and  the 
pin,  and  that  it  was  to  remain  and  bear  wit- 
ness after  quicklime  had  destroyed  the  mur- 


is  a  keen  reader  who  has  ever  found  out  wl 
and  what  was  Mr.  Datchery,  and  of  this  M- 
Fildes  knows  no  more  than  does  the  pul 
Some  commentators,  more  enterprising 
attentive,  hazarded  the  conjecture  that 
strange    figure   was    a    disguise     of    J£d 
Drood    himself,    who    had    escaped     d( 
and  was  on  the  track  of  his  would-be 
stroyer.    This  idea  was  childish,   and 
have  been  corrected  by  an  ordinarily  cai 
reading  of  the  book.    But  finding  that 
Fildes  knew   a  great  deal,  Charles  Dick< 
went   on   to    make   the  principal    reveh 
which  concerned  the  central  figure ;  he 
his  illustrator  that  Jasper  was  to  be  brouj 
to  justice  in  the  end  of  the  story.    A  dra\ 
of  this  originally  and  most  strongly  conceh 
criminal   locked  up  in  the   condemned 
(which  was  to  have  been  studied  at  Roc 
ester)  was  then  planned  between  the  two 
one  of  the  final  subjects.    By  means  of 
design,  the  "  condemned  cells  "  of  two  geiu 
ations  of  artists  —  Fagin's,  as  conceived 
George    Cruikshank,   and   Jasper's,    as   c< 
ceived  by  Luke  Fildes — would  have  be 


HOW  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


THE    NUNS      HOUSE. 


ought  into  interesting  comparison.  As 
the  pretty  love-stories  of  the  book,  their 
ventor  had  implied  their  issues  in  their  be-  • 
nnings,  the  only  fate  left  doubtful  being 
at  of  the  brave  and  unfortunate  Neville 
mdless,  whose  Little  Rosebud  is  clearly  for 
e  sailor.  A  painful  book  in  its  complete- 
ss  "  Edwin  Drood  "  would  certainly  have 
en ;  the  poor  young  hero  is  real  enough  — 
Deit  by  no  means  one  of  the  most  vital  char- 
ters—  and  likable  enough  for  his  horrible 
dng-off  to  affect  the  reader  with  something 
tore  than  a  common  fictional  sensation.  The 
pst  solid  in  construction  of  all  Charles 
J.ckens's  stories  it  would  undoubtedly  have 
pved ;  and,  as  a  character-study,  at  once  in- 
tifce  and  restrained,  and  rich  in  humor,  al- 
tiugh  it  is  in  a  humorous  character,  that  of 
tt  Billikin,  that  the  only  signs  given  in  "  Ed- 
MI  Drood  "  of  failure  and  effort  are  apparent; 
^iile  the  book  promised  to  be  free  from  that 
Itermined  but  doubtful  pathos  which,  to  the 
Ddern  feeling,  invests  the  Little  Nell  and  the 
ful  Dombey  of  the  old  days  with  something 
c  artistic  insincerity.  False  in  intention  we 
i'v  uld  not  pronounce  these  and  their  like  to 
t  but  there  must  be  a  growing  conviction 
it  they  are  false  in  art. 
3f  Mr.  Fildes's  work  for  Charles  Dickens's 
pbk,  our  own  opinion  is  that  it  is  the  best 
jjstrative  interpretation  which  has  ever  been 
njde  of  the  author,  albeit  old  and  fine  repu- 
lons  belong  to  the  former  associations  of 
a!sts'  names  with  the  great  series  of  the 


Dickens  novels.  In  addition  to  all  those  quali- 
ties of  appreciation,  apprehension,  and  intel- 
ligence, which  must  distinguish  all  really 
worthy  work  done— as  is  the  work  of  an 
illustrator — in  admiration  of  another  mind, 
and  which  Mr.  Fildes's  designs  possess  so  fully, 
these  illustrations  have  a  merit  which  present 
judgment  is  less  prepared  to  dispense  with 
than  was  the  opinion  of  our  fathers'  time — 
that  of  serious  and  sound  draughtsmanship. 

In  the  several  accounts  which  have  been 
written  of  Charles  Dickens's  last  days,  it  is 
noted  that  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was 
expecting  the  visit  of  his  new  illustrator,  with 
whom  he  intended  to  ramble  about  the  town 
of  Rochester,  so  that  the  eyes  in  which  he 
trusted  so  much  might  see  what  his  own  had 
in  view  as  the  setting  of  the  scenes  of  "  Ed- 
win Drood."  But  Mr.  Fildes  had  already 
made  drawings  in  Rochester.  The  street  and 
the  cathedral  were,  of  course,  studied  on  the 
spot.  The  "  Nuns'  House"  was  a  real  house, 
and  was  carefully  sketched  from  reality ;  but 
that  drawing  was  not  preserved,  and  the  ac- 
companying wood-cut  is  from  a  photograph. 
The  study  of  Durdles  is  the  original  and 
happy  idea  for  the  best  and  most  characteris- 
tic figure  among  the  illustrations.  The  manner 
in  which  the  man  stands,  the  construction  and 
expression  of  his  limbs,  and  the  action  of  his 
hand,  are  all  passages  of  truth  as  subtle  and 
restrained  as  they  are  vivid.  When  Charles 
Dickens  went  to  see  the  Marionetti  in  Rome, 
he  seized  with  delight  the  fine  and  intelligent 


5*8 


HOW  EDWIN  DROOD    WAS  ILLUSTRATED. 


A    STREET    IX     ROCHESTER. 


ment  of  unconsciousness  ex- 
pressed by  the  two  prostrate 
figures  —  that  of  Jasper  in  his 
despair    at    finding    that    his 
murder   had    been    done    for 
nothing,  and  that  of  the  opi- 
um-smoking    woman.       The 
drawing    of  the  empty  chair 
in,   the    Gadshill   library  was 
afterward  introduced  by  Mr. 
Fildes  into  his  general  study 
of  the  room  published  in  thei 
"  Graphic."  The  present  writ-l 
er   may  be  permitted   a  per-J 
sonal    reminiscence    in    con-i 
nection  with  the  little  bronze! 
figure   (a    French    grotesque)) 
with  dogs  under  its  arms,  andf 
dogs'  heads  appearing  out  ofl 
merit  of  that  curious  performance  when  he    the  pockets,  which  appears  in  the  drawing., 
wrote :    "  So   delicate  are    the  hands  of  the    It  had  kept  that  place  on  the  writing  table 
people   who  move  them  that  every  puppet    ever  since  Dickens,  when  walking  with  thd] 
was  an  Italian  and  did  exactly  what  an  Ital-    writer's    father,    had    been    taken    with    on 
ian  does.    If  he  pointed  at  any  object,  if  he    of  his   fits    of  inextinguishable   laughter  a 
laughed  or  if  he  cried,  he  did  it  as  never    seeing  it  in  a  shop.   That  evening  the  littl 
Englishman  did  it  since  Britain  first  at  Heav-    bronze  was  sent  by  the  shopkeeper  to  Dick 
en's  command  arose,"  etc.   In  an  equally  na-    ens's  hotel  (this  was,  we  believe,  in  Liverpoo 
tional  way  does  Durdles  slouch;  the  attitude    or  Manchester),  and  the  gift  was  so  appr 
and  habit  of  his  knees   and  the  manner  in    ciated  that,    as   has  been   said,   it  was   on 
which  he  holds  his  dinner,  the  slovenliness  -of  the  objects  on  his  work-table  until  hedi 
and  lack  of  precision  and  neatness  of  move-    The  companion  of  his  walk  bought  a  dupli 
ment  and  intention,  strike  us  as  things  impos-    cate,  which  he  also  kept  during  his  life; 
sible  to   any  but  an    English   Durdles,   and    thus  the  fantasy  of  the  modeler,  who  mad 
exquisitely   understood  to   be    such    by   the    the  little  figure  as  a  caricature,  it  is  said,  o 
draughtsman.  This  completeness  shows  itself    himself,  has  given  to  more  than  one  househol 
in  another  way  in  the  weight  and  abandon-    a  much-prized  remembrance. 

Alice  Meynell. 


DICKENS  S     CHAIR. 


[Begun  in  the  November  number.] 


DR.    SEVIER.* 

BY    GEORGE    W.    CABLE, 
Author  of  "  Old  Creole  Days,"  "  The  Grandissimes,"  "  Madame  Delphine,"  etc. 


XVIII. 
HOW    HE    DID    IT. 

RISTOFALO  and  Richling  had  hardly  sep- 
arated, when  it  occurred  to  the  latter  that  the 
Italian  had  first  touched  him  from  behind. 
Had  Ristofalo  recognized  him  with  his  back 
turned,  or  had  he  seen  him  earlier  and  fol- 
lowed him  ?  The  facts  were  these :  About 
ian  hour  before  the  time  when  Richling 
omitted  to  apply  for  employment  in  the  ill- 
Ism  elling  store  in  Tchoupitoulas  street,  Mr. 
Raphael  Ristofalo  halted  in  front  of  the  same 
place  —  which  appeared  small  and  slovenly 
jamong  its  more  pretentious  neighbors — and 
(stepped  just  inside  the  door  to  where  stood  a 
single  barrel  of  apples — a  fruit  only  the  earli- 
|est  varieties  of  which  were  beginning  to  appear 
fen  market.  These  were  very  small,  round, 
land  smooth,  and,  with  a  rather  wan  blush, 
confessed  to  more  than  one  of  the  senses 
ithat  they  had  seen  better  days.  He  began  to 
pick  them  up  and  throw  them  down — one, 
two,  three,  four,  seven,  ten;  about  half  of 
them  were  entirely  sound. 
"  How  many  barrel'  like  this  ?  " 
"  No  got-a  no  more ;  dass  all,"  said  the 
jdealer.  He  was  a  Sicilian.  "  Lame  duck," 
he  added.  "  Oal  de  rest  gone." 
I  "  How  much  ?  "  asked  Ristofalo,  still  hand- 
ing the  fruit. 

The  Sicilian  came  to  the  'barrel,  looked  in, 
md  said,  with  a  gesture  of  indifference  : 
«'M  — doll'  an'  'alf." 

Ristofalo  offered  to  take  them  at  a  dollar 
if  he  might  wash  and  sort  them  under  the 
lealer's  hydrant,  which  could  be  heard  run- 
ping  in  the  back  yard.  The  offer  would  have 
)een  rejected  with  rude  scorn  but  for  one 
hing :  it  was  spoken  in  Italian.  The  man 
.ooked  at  him  with  pleased  surprise,  and  made 
he  concession.  The  porter  of  the  store,  in  a 
ed  worsted  cap,  had  drawn  near.  Ristofalo 
•jade  him  roll  the  barrel  on  its  chine  to  the 
iear  and  stand  it  by  the  hydrant. 

"  I  will  come  back  pretty  soon,"  he  said, 
a  Italian,  and  went  away. 
!  By  and  by  he  returned,  bringing  with  him 
wo  swarthy,  heavy-set,  little  Sicilian  lads, 
iach  with  his  inevitable  basket  and  some 
jlean  rags.  A  smile  and  gesture  to  the  store- 
eeper,  a  word  to  the  boys,  and  in  a  moment 


the  barrel  was  upturned,  and  the  pair  were 
washing,  wiping,  and  sorting  the  sound  and 
unsound  apples  at  the  hydrant. 

Ristofalo  stood  a  moment  in  the  entrance 
of  the  store.  The  question  now  was  where 
to  get  a  dollar.  Richling  passed,  looked  in, 
seemed  to  hesitate,  went  on,  turned,  and 
'passed  again,  the  other  way.  Ristofalo  saw 
him  all  the  time  and  recognized  him  at  once, 
but  appeared  not  to  observe  him. 

"  He  will  do,"  thought  the  Italian.—"  Be 
back  few  minute',"  he  said,  glancing  behind 
him. 

"  Or-r  righ',"  said  the  store-keeper,  with  a 
hand-wave  of  good-natured  confidence.  He 
recognized  Mr.  Raphael  Ristofalo's  species. 

The  Italian  walked  up  across  Poydras 
street,  saw  Richling  stop  and  look  at  the 
machinery,  approached,  and  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

On  parting  with  him  he  did  not  return  to 
the  store  where  he  had  left  the  apples. 
He  walked  up  Tchoupitoulas  street  about  a 
mile,  and  where  St.  Thomas  street  branches 
acutely  from  it,  in  a  squalid  district  full  of  the 
poorest  Irish,  stopped  at  a  dirty  fruit-stand  and 
spoke  in  Spanish  to  its  Catalan  proprietor.  Half, 
an  hour  later  twenty-five  cents  had  changed 
hands,  the  Catalan's  fruit  shelves  were  bright 
with  small  pyramids — sound  side  foremost 
—  of  Ristofalo's  second  grade  of  apples, 
the  Sicilian  had  Richling's  dollar,  and  the 
Italian  was  gone  with  his  boys  and  his  better 
grade  of  fruit.  Also,  a  grocer  had  sold  some 
sugar,  and  a  druggist  a  little  paper  of  some 
harmless  confectioner's  dye. 

Down  behind  the  French  market,  in  a 
short,  obscure  street  that  runs  from  Ursulines 
to  Barracks  street,  and  is  named  in  honor  of 
Albert  Gallatin,  are  some  old  buildings  of 
three  or  four  stories'  height,  rented,  in  John 
Richling's  day,  to  a  class  of  persons  who  got 
their  livelihood  by  subletting  the  rooms  and 
parts  of  rooms  to  the  wretchedest  poor  of 
New  Orleans  —  organ-grinders,  chimney- 
sweeps, professional  beggars,  street  musicians, 
lemon-peddlers,  rag-pickers,  with  all  the  yet 
dirtier  herd  that  live  by  hook  and  crook  in 
the  streets  or  under  the  wharves;  a  room 
with  a  bed  and  stove,  a  room  without,  a  half- 
room  with  or  without  ditto,  a  quarter-room 
with  or  without  a  blanket  or  quilt,  and  with 


VOL.  XXVII.— 50. 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  George  W.  Cable.    All  rights  reserved. 


53° 


DR.    SEVIER. 


only  a  chalk-mark  on  the  floor  instead  of  a 
partition.  Into  one  of  these  went  Mr.  Ra- 
phael Ristofalo,  the  two  boys,  and  the  ap- 
ples. Whose  assistance  or  indulgence,  if  any, 
he  secured  in  there  is  not  recorded;  but 
when,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  Italian  issued 
thence  —  the  boys,  meanwhile,  had  been 
coming  and  going —  an  unusual  luxury  had 
been  offered  the  roustabouts  and  idlers  of  the 
steamboat  landings,  and  many  had  bought 
and  eaten  freely  of  the  very  small,  round, 
shiny,  sugary,  and  artificially  crimson  roasted 
apples,  with  neatly  whittled  white-pine  stems 
to  poise  them  on  as  they  were  lifted  to  the 
consumer's  watering  teeth.  When,  the  next 
morning,  Richling  laughed  at  the  story,  the 
Italian  drew  out  two  dollars  and  a  half,  and 
began  to  take  from  it  a  dollar. 

"  But  you  have  last  night's  lodging  and  so 
forth  yet  to  pay  for." 

"  No.  Made  friends  with  Sicilian  lugger- 
man.  Slept  in  his  lugger."  He  showed  his 
brow  and  cheeks  speckled  with  mosquito 
bites.  "  Ate  little  hard-tack  and  coffee  with 
him  this  morning.  Don't  want  much."  He 
offered  the  dollar  with  a  quarter  added.  Rich- 
ling  declined  the  bonus. 

"  But  why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  couldn't  do  it,"  laughed  Rich- 
ling,  "  that's  all." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Italian,  "  lend  me  that 
dollar  one  day  more,  I  return  you  dollar 
and  half  in  its  place  to-morrow." 

The  lender  had  to  laugh  again.  "  You 
can't  find  an  odd  barrel  of  damaged  apples 
every  day." 

"  No.  No  apples  to-day.  But  there's  regi- 
ment soldiers  at  lower  landing;  whole  steam- 
boat load;  going  to  sail  this  aft'noon  to  Florida. 
They'll  eat  whole  barrel  hard-boil'  eggs."  — 
And  they  did.  When  they  sailed,  the  Ital- 
ian's pocket  was  stuffed  with  small  silver. 

Richling  received  his  dollar  and  fifty  cents. 
As  he  did  so,  "I  would  give,  if  I  had  it,  a 
hundred  dollars  for  half  your  art,"  he  said, 
laughing  unevenly.  He  was  beaten,  surpassed, 
humbled.  Still  he  said,  "  Come,  don't  you 
want  this  again?  You  needn't  pay  me  for 
the  use  of  it." 

But  the  Italian  refused.  He  had  outgrown 
his  patron.  A  week  afterward  Richling  saw 
him  at  the  Picayune  Tier  superintending  the 
unloading  of  a  small  schooner-load  of  bananas. 
He  had  bought  the  cargo,  and  was  reselling 
to  small  fruiterers. 

"  Make  fifty  dollars  to-day,"  said  the  Italian, 
marking  his  tally-board  with  a  piece  of  chalk. 

Richling  clapped  him  joyfully  on  the  shoul- 
der, but  turned  around  with  inward  distress 
and  hurried  away.  He  had  not  found  work. 

Events  followed  of  which  we  have  already 


taken  knowledge.    Mary,  we  have  seen,  f< 
sick  and  was  taken  to  hospital. 

"  I  shall  go  mad !  "  Richling  would  moan  i 
with  his  disheveled  brows  between  his  hands,  j 
and  then  start  to  his  feet  exclaiming,  "  I  must-' 
not!  I  must  not!  I  must  keep  my  senses !"  Andj 
so  to  the  commercial  regions  or  to  the  hospital. 

Dr.  Sevier,  as  we  know,  left  word  that 
Richling  should  call  and  see  him ;  but  when 
he  called,  a  servant — very  curtly,  it  seemed  to 
him — said  the  Doctor  was  not  well  and  didn't 
want  to  see  anybody.  This  was  enough  for  a 
young  man  who  hadn't  his  senses.  The  more  he 
needed  a  helping  hand,  the  more  unreasonably 
shy  he  became  of  those  who  might  help  him. 

"  Will  nobody  come  and  find  us  ?  "  Yet 
he  would  not  cry  "  Whoop  " ;  and  how  then 
was  anybody  to  come  ? 

Mary  returned  to  the  house  again  (ah! 
what  joys  there  are  in  the  vale  of  tribulation  !) 
and  grew  strong  —  stronger,  she  averred, 
than  ever  she  had  been. 

"  And  now  you'll  not  be  cast  down,  wifa 
you  ?  "  she  said,  sliding  into  her  husband's  lap. 
She  was  in  an  uncommonly  playful  mood. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  John.  "  Every  dog  ha$ 
his  day.  I'll  come  to  the  top.  You'll  see." 

"  Don't  I  know  that  ? "  she  responded 
"  Look  here,  now,"  she  exclaimed,  starting 
to  her  feet  and  facing  him,  "/'//  recommenc 
you  to  anybody.  Fve  got  confidence  in  you ! r 
Richling  thought  she  had  never  looked  quite1 
so  pretty  as  at  that  moment.  He  leaped  frorr 
his  chair  with  a  laughing  ejaculation,  caugh 
and  swung  her  an  instant  from  her  feet,  ani 
landed  her  again  before  she  could  cry  out) 
If,  in  retort,  she  smote  him  so  sturdily  thai 
she  had  to  retreat  backward  to  rearrange  hes 
shaken  coil  of  hair,  it  need  not  go  down  oi 
the  record;  such  things  will  happen.  Til 
scuffle  and  suppressed  laughter  were  detected 
even  in  Mrs.  Riley's  room. 

"Ah ! "  sighed  the  widow  to  herself,  "  wasn'i 
it  Kate  Riley  that  used  to  get  the  sweet,  hain 
knocks  !  "  Her  grief  was  mellowing. 

Richling  went  out  on  the  old  search,  whicl 
the  advancing  summer  made  more  nearlj 
futile  each  day  than  the  day  before. 

Stop.   What  sound  was  that  ? 

"Richling!  Richling!" 

Richling,  walking  in  a  commercial  streei 
turned.  A  member  of  the  firm  that  had  las 
employed  him  beckoned  him  to  halt. 

"  What  are  you  doing  now,  Richling  ?    Sti 
acting    deputy  -  assistant     city  -surveyor 
tern  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  see  here !  why  haven't   you  bee 
in  the  store  to  see  us  lately  ?    Did  I  seem 
little  preoccupied  the  last  time  you  called  J 

"I"  —  Richling   dropped    his    eyes   w:t 


DR.    SEVIER. 


531 


I  an  embarrassed  smile  —  "  I  was  afraid  I  was 
I  in  the  way  —  or  should  be." 

Well,  and  suppose  you  were  ?  A  man 
[that's  looking  for  work  must  put  himself  in 
the  way.  But  come  with  me.  I  think  I  may 
[be  able  to  give  you  a  lift." 

"  How's  that  ?  "  asked  Richling  as  they 
Istarted  off  abreast. 

There's  a  house  around  the  corner  here 
jthat  will  give  you  some  work — temporary 
[anyhow,  and  may  be  permanent." 

So  Richling  was  at  work  again,  hidden 
(away  from  Dr.  Sevier  between  journal  and 
ledger.  His  employers  asked  for  references. 
Lichling  looked  dismayed  for  a  moment,  then 
>aid,  "  I'll  bring  somebody  to  recommend 
ic,"  went  away,  and  came  back  with  Mary. 
"  All  the  recommendation  I've  got,"  said 
le,  with  timid  elation.  There  was  a  laugh  all 
round. 

Well,  madam,  if  you  say  he's  all  right,  we 
lon't  doubt  he  is  !  " 

XIX. 
ANOTHER    PATIENT. 

"  DOCTAH  SEVEEAH,"  said  Narcisse,  sud- 
enly,  as  he  finished  sticking  with  great  fervor 
he  postage-stamps  on  some  letters  the  Doc- 
or  had  written,  and  having  studied  with  much 
are  the  phraseology  of  what  he  had  to  say 
nd  screwed  up  his  courage  to  the  pitch  of 
tterance,  "  I  saw  yo'  notiz  on  the  noozpapeh 
his  mornin'." 

The  unresponding  Doctor  closed  his  eyes 
unutterable  weariness  of  the  innocent 
oung  gentleman's  prepared  speeches. 

li  Yesseh.  'Tis  a  beaucheouz  notiz.  I  fine 
jhat  w'itten  with  the  gweatez  ac«/'acy  of  die- 
ion,  in  fact.  I  made  a  twanslation  of  that  faw 

y  hant.  Thaz  a  thing  I  am  fon'  of,  twanslation. 
dunno  'o  w  'tis,  Doctah,"  he  continued,  prepar- 

g  to  go  out — "  I  dunno  'ow  'tis,  but  I  thing, 
ou  goin'  to  fine  that  Mistoo  Ttchlin'  ad  the 

'.  I  dunno 'ow 'tis.   Well,  I'm  go  in' ad  the — " 

The  Doctor  looked  up  fiercely. 

"  Bank,"  said  Narcisse,  getting  near  the 
oor. 

"  All  right !  "  grumbled  the  Doctor,  more 

litely. 

"  Yesseh;  befo'  I  go  ad  the  poss-office." 

A  great  many  other  persons  had  seen  the 

vertisement.    There     were    many    among 

em   who  wondered  if  Mr.  John  Richling 

>uld  be  such  a  fool  as  to  fall  into  that  trap, 
""ere  were  others,  some  of  them  women, 
!  who  wondered  how  it  was  that  nobody 

vertised  for  information  concerning  them, 

d  who  wished,  yes,  "  wished  to  God,^  that 
m*ch  a  one,  or  such  a  one,  who  had  had  his 

oney-bags  locked  up  long   enough,  would 


die,  and  then  you'd  see  who'd  be  advertised 
for.  Some  idlers  looked  in  vain  into  the  city 
directory,  to  see  if  Mr.  John  Richling  were 
mentioned  there.  But  Richling  himself  did 
not  see  the  paper.  His  employers,  or  some 
fellow-clerk,  might  have  pointed  it  out  to  him, 
but — we  shall  see  in  a  moment. 

Time  passed.  It  always  does.  At  length, 
one  morning,  as  Dr.  Sevier  lay  on  his  office 
lounge,  fatigued  after  his  attentions  to  callers 
and  much  enervated  by  the  prolonged  sum- 
mer heat,  there  entered  a  small  female  form 
closely  veiled.  He  rose  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"  Good  morning,  Doctor,"  said  a  voice, 
hurriedly,  behind  the  veil.  "  Doctor,"  it  con- 
tinued, choking, —  "  Doctor " 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Richling  !  " 

He  sprang  and  gave  her  a  chair.  She  sank 
into  it. 

"Doctor, — oh,  Doctor!  John  is  in  the 
Charity  Hospital!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief 
and  sobbed  aloud.  The  Doctor  was  silent  a 
moment,  and  then  asked : 

"  What's  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Chills." 

It  seemed  as  though  she  must  break  down 
again,  but  the  Doctor  stopped  her  savagely. 

"  Well,  my  dear  madam,  don't  cry  !  Come, 
now,  you're  making  too  much  of  a  small 
matter.  Why,  what  are  chills  ?  We'll  break 
them  in  forty-eight  hours.  He'll  have  the 
best  of  care.  You  needn't  cry  !  Certainly  this 
isn't  as  bad  as  when  you  were  there." 

She  was  still,  but  shook  her  head.  She 
couldn't  agree  to  that. 

"  Doctor,  will  you  attend  him  ?  " 

"  Mine  is  a  female  ward." 

"  I  know ;  but " 

"Oh — if  you  wish  it — certainly;  of  course 
I  will.  But  now,  where  have  you  moved,  Mrs. 

Richling  ?  I  sent "  He  looked  up  over 

his  desk  toward  that  of  N  :rcisse. 

The  Creole  had  been  neither  deaf  nor  idle. 
Hospital?  Then  those  children  in  Prieur 
street  had  told  him  right.  He  softly  changed 
his  coat  and  shoes.  As  the  physician  looked 
over  the  top  of  the  desk  Narcisse's  silent  form, 
just  here  at  the  left,  but  out  of  the  range  of 
vision,  passed  through  the  door  and  went  down- 
stairs with  the  noiselessness  of  a  moonbeam. 

Mary  explained  the  location  and  arrange- 
ment of  her  residence. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  that's  the  way  your 
clerk  must  have  overlooked  us.  We  live  be- 
hind— down  the  alley- way." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  madam,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, "  you  are  here  now,  and  before  you  go  I 
want  to "  He  drew  out  his  pocket-book. 

There  was  a  quick  gesture  of  remonstrance 
and  look  of  pleading. 


532 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"  No,  no,  Doctor ;  please  don't !  please 
don't!  Give  my  poor  husband  one  more 
chance  —  don't  make  me  take  that.  I  don't 
refuse  it  for  pride's  sake  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  replied ; 
"  why  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  For  his  sake,  Doctor.  I  know  just  as 
well  what  he'd  say — we've  no  right  to  take 
it  anyhow.  We  don't  know  when  we  could 
pay  it  back."  Her  head  sank.  She  wiped  a 
tear  from  her  hand. 

"  Why,  I  don't  care  if  you  never  pay  it 
back !  "  The  Doctor  reddened  angrily. 

Mary  raised  her  veil. 

"  Doctor," — a  smile  played  on  her  lips, — 
"  I  want  to  say  one  thing."  She  was  a  little 
care-worn  and  grief- worn ;  and  yet,  Narcisse, 
you  should  have  seen  her ;  you  would  not 
have  slipped  out. 

"  Say  on,  madam,"  responded  the  Doctor. 

"  If  we  have  to  ask  anybody,  Doctor,  it 
will  be  you.  John  had  another  situation,  but 
lost  it  by  his  chills.  He'll  get  another.  I'm 
sure  he  will."  A  long,  broken  sigh  caught 
her  unawares.  Dr.  Sevier  thrust  his  pocket- 
book  back  into  its  place,  compressing  his  lips 
and  giving  his  head  an  unpersuaded  jerk. 
And  yet,  was  she  not  right,  according  to  all 
his  preaching  ?  He  asked  himself  that.  "Why 
didn't  your  husband  come  to  see  me,  as  I 
requested  him  to  do,  Mrs.  Richling  ?  " 

She  explained  John's  being  turned  away 
from  the  door  during  the  Doctor's  illness. 
"  But  anyhow,  Doctor,  John  has  always  been 
a  little  afraid  of  you." 

The  Doctor's  face  did  not  respond  to  her 
smile. 

"  Why,  you  are  not,"  he  said. 

"  No."  Her  eyes  sparkled,  but  their  softer 
light  quickly  returned.  She  smiled  and  said  : 

"  I  will  ask  a  favor  of  you  now,  Doctor." 

They  had  risen,  and  she  stood  leaning 
sidewise  against  his  low  desk  and  looking  up 
into  his  face. 

"  Can  you  get  me  some  sewing?  John  says 
I  may  take  some." 

The  Doctor  was  about  to  order  two  dozen 
shirts  instanter,  but  common  sense  checked 
him,  and  he  only  said : 

"  I  will.  I  will  find  you  some.  And  I  shall 
see  your  husband  within  an  hour.  Good-bye." 
She  reached  the  door.  "  God  bless  you,"  he 
added. 

"  What,  sir  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  back. 

But  the  Doctor  was  reading. 

xx. 

ALICE. 

A  LITTLE  medicine  skillfully  prescribed,  the 
proper  nourishment,  two  or  three  days'  con- 


finement in  bed,  and  the  Doctor  said,  as  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  Richling's  couch : 

"  No,  you'd  better  stay  where  you  are  to- 
day; but  to-morrow,  if  the  weather  is  good, 
you  may  sit  up." 

Then  Richling,  with  the  unreasonableness 
of  a  convalescent,  wanted  to  know  why  h 
couldn't  just  as  well  go  home.    But  the  Doc 
tor  said  again,  no. 

"  Don't  be  impatient ;    you'll  have  to  go 
anyhow  before  I  would  prefer  to  send  you.  I 
would  be  invaluable  to  you  to  pass  your  en 
tire  convalescence  here,  and  go  home  only 
when  you  are  completely  recovered.     But 
can't  arrange  it  very  well.    The  Charity  Hos 
pital  is  for  sick  people." 

"And  where  is  the  place  for  convales 
cents?" 

"  There  is  none,"  replied  the  physician. 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  go  to  it,  myself,"  said 
Richling,  lolling  pleasantly  on  his  pillow ;  "  al 
I  should  ask  is  strength  to  get  home,  and  Fc 
be  off." 

The  Doctor  looked  another  way. 

"  The  sick  are  not  the  wise,"  he  said,  ab 
stractedly.    "  However,  in  your  case,  I  shouk 
let  you  go  to  your  wife  as  soon  as  you  safel; 
could."   At  that  he  fell  into  so  long  a  reverie 
that  Richling  studied  every  line  of  his  face 
again  and  again. 

A  very  pleasant  thought  was  in  the  conva 
lescent's  mind  the  while.  The  last  three  dayi 
had  made  it  plain  to  him  that  the  Doctor  wa 
not  only  his  friend,  but  was  willing  that  Rich 
ling  should  be  his. 

At  length  the  physician  spoke. 

"  Mary  is  wonderfully  like  Alice,  Richling.' 

"Yes?"  responded  Richling,  rather  tim 
idly.  And  the  Doctor  continued : 

"  The  same  age,  the  same  stature,  the  same 
features.   Alice  was  a  shade  paler  in  her  style 
of  beauty,  just  a  shade.  Her  hair  was  darker, 
but  otherwise  her  whole  effect  was  a  trifle 
quieter,  even,  than  Mary's.    She  was  beauti 
ful — outside  and  in.    Like  Mary,  she  had  a 
certain  richness  of  character —  but  of  a  differ 
ent  sort.    I  suppose  I  would  not  notice  the 
difference  if  they  were  not   so  much  alike 
She  didn't  stay  with  me  long." 

"  Is  she  —  buried  here  ?  "  asked  Richling 
hardly  knowing  how  to  break  the  silence  tha 
fell,  and  yet  lead  the  speaker  on. 

"  No.  In  Virginia."  The  Doctor  was  quie 
a  moment,  and  then  resumed : 

"  I  looked  at  your  wife  when  she  was  las 
in  my  office,  Richling ;  she  had  a  little  timi<j 
beseeching  light  in  her  eyes  that  is  not  usua 
with  her — and  a  moisture,  too;  and— 
seemecl  to  me  as  though  Alice  had  come  bac 
For  my  wife  lived  by  my  moods.  Her  sj " 
rose  or  fell  just  as  my  whim,  conscious  or 


DR.    SEVIER. 


533 


conscious,  gave  out  light  or  took  on  shadow." 
The  Doctor  was  still  again,  and  Richling  only 
indicated  his  wish  to  hear  more  by  shifting 
himself  on  his  elbow. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Richling,  when  the 
girl  you  had  been  bowing  down  to  and  wor- 
shiping, all  at  once,  in  a  single  wedding  day, 
was  transformed  into  your  adorer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  responded  the  convalescent, 
with  beaming  face.  "  Wasn't  it  wonderful  ?  I 
couldn't  credit  my  senses.  But  how  did  you 
was  it  the  same " 

"  It's  the  same,  Richling,  with  every  man 
who  has  really  secured  a  woman's  heart  with 
I  her  hand.  It  was  very  strange  and  sweet  to 
me.  Alice  would  have  been  a  spoiled  child  if 
her  parents  could  have  spoiled  her;  and  when 
I  was  courting  her  she  was  the  veriest  little 
empress  that  ever  walked  over  a  man." 

"  I  can  hardly  imagine,"  said  Richling, 
with  subdued  amusement,  looking  at  the  long, 
slender  form  before  him.  The  Doctor  smiled 
very  sweetly. 

"  Yes."  Then,  after  another  meditative 
pause:  "But  from  the  moment  I  became 
her  husband  she  lived  in  continual  trepida- 
tion. She  so  magnified  me  in  her  timid  fancy 
that  she  was  always  looking  tremulously  to 
me  to  see  what  should  be  her  feeling.  She 
even  couldn't  help  being  afraid  of  me.  I  hate 
for  any  one  to  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  Do  you,  Doctor?  "  said  Richling,  with 
surprise  and  evident  introspection. 

"  Yes." 

Richling  felt  his  own  fear  changing  to  love. 

"  When  I  married,"  continued  Dr.  Sevier, 
)"  I  had  thought  Alice  was  one  that  would  go 
iwith  me  hand  in  hand  through  life,  dividing 
its  cares  and  doubling  its  joys,  as  they  say  ;  I 
[guiding  her  and  she  guiding  me.  But  if  I  had 
•let  her,  she  would  have  fallen  into  me  as  a 
planet  might  fall  into  the  sun.  I  didn't  want 
to  be  the  sun  to  her.  I  didn't  want  her  to 
shine  only  when  I  shone  on  her,  and  be  dark 
when  I  was  dark.  No  man  ought  to  want  such 
|a  thing.  Yet  she  made  life  a  delight  to  me ; 
ionly  she  wanted  that  development  which 
ja  better  training,  or  even  a  harder  training, 
;might  have  given  her;  that  subserving  of  the 
•emotions  to  the" — he  waved  his  hand  —  "I 
can't  philosophize  about  her.  We  loved  one 
another  with  our  might,  and  she's  in  heaven." 

Richling  felt  an  inward  start.  The  Doctor 
'interrupted  his  intended  speech. 

"  Our  short  experience  together,  Richling, 
jis  the  one  great  light  place  in  my  life ;  and  to 
me.  to-day,  sere  as  I  am,  the  sweet  —  the  sweet- 
jest  sound  —  on  God's  green  earth  " —  the  cor- 
iners  of  his  mouth  quivered — "  is  the  name  of 
'Alice.  Take  care  of  Mary,  Richling;  she's  a 
priceless  treasure.  Don't  leave  the  making  and 


sustaining  of  the  home  sunshine  all  to  her,  any 
more  than  you'd  like  her  to  leave  it  all  to  you." 

"  I'll  not,  Doctor;  I'll  not."  Richling  pressed 
the  Doctor's  hand  fervently ;  but  the  Doctor 
drew  it  away  with  a  certain  energy  and  rose, 
saying  : 

"  Yes,  you  can  sit  up  to-morrow." 

The  day  that  Richling  went  back  to  his 
malarious  home  in  Prieur  street,  Dr.  Sevier 
happened  to  meet  him  just  beyond  the  hospital 
gate.  Richling  waved  his  hand.  -  He  looked 
weak  and  tremulous.  "  Homeward  bound," 
he  said,  gayly. 

The  physician  reached  forward  in  his  car- 
riage and  bade  his  driver  stop.  "  Well,  be 
careful  of  yourself;  I'm  coming  to  see  you  in 
a  day  or  two." 

XXI. 

THE    SUN    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

DR.  SEVIER  was  daily  overtasked.  His  cam- 
paigns against  the  evils  of  our  disordered  flesh 
had  even  kept  him  from  what  his  fellow-citi- 
zens thought  was  only  his  share  of  attention 
to  public  affairs. 

"  Why,"  he  cried  to  a  committee  that  came 
soliciting  his  cooperation,  "  here's  one  little 
unprofessional  call  that  I've  been  trying  every 
'day  for  two  weeks  to  make — and  ought  to 
have  made — and  must  make;  and  I  haven't 
got  a  step  toward  it  yet.  Oh,  no,  gentlemen." 
He  waved  their  request  away. 

He  was  very  tired.  The  afternoon  was 
growing  late.  He  dismissed  his  jaded  horse 
toward  home,  walked  down  to  Canal  street, 
and  took  that  yellow  Bayou  Road  omnibus 
whose  big  blue  star  painted  on  its  corpulent 
side  showed  that  quadroons,  etc.,  were  allowed 
a  share  of  its  accommodation,  and  went  rum- 
bling and  tumbling  over  the  cobble-stones  of 
the  French  quarter. 

By  and  by  he  got  out,  walked  a  little  way 
southward  in  the  hot,  luminous  shade  of  low- 
roofed  tenement  cottages  that  closed  their 
window-shutters  noiselessly,  in  sensitive-plant 
fashion,  at  his  slow,  meditative  approach,  and 
slightly  and  as  noiselessly  reopened  them  be- 
hind him,  showing  a  pair  of  wary  eyes  within. 
Presently  he  recognized  just  ahead  of  him, 
standing  out  on  the  sidewalk,  the  little  house 
that  had  been  described  to  him  by  Mary. 

In  a  door-way  that  opened  upon  two  low 
wooden  sidewalk  steps  stood  Mrs.  Riley,  clad 
in  a  crisp  black-and-white  calico,  a  heavy,  fat 
babe  poised  easily  in  one  arm.  The  Doctor 
turned  directly  toward  the  narrow  alley,  merely 
touching  his  hat  to  her  as  he  pushed  its  small 
green  door  inward,  and  disappeared,  while  she 
lifted  her  chin  at  the  silent  liberty  and  dropped 
her  eyelids. 


534 


DR.    SEVIER. 


Dr.  Sevier  went  down  the  cramped,  ill- 
paved  passage  very  slowly  and  softly.  Regard- 
ing himself  objectively,  he  would  have  said 
the  deep  shade  of  his  thoughts  was  due  partly, 
at  least,  to  his  fatigue.  But  that  would  hardly 
have  accounted  for  a  certain  faint  glow  of  in- 
dignation that  came  into  them.  In  truth,  he 
began  distinctly  to  resent  this  state  of  affairs 
in  the  life  of  John  and  Mary  Richling.  An 
ill-defined  anger  beat  about  in  his  brain  in 
search  of  some  tangible  shortcoming  of  theirs 
upon  which  to  thrust  the  blame  of  their  help- 
lessness. "  Criminal  helplessness,"  he  called 
it,  mutteringly.  He  tried  to  define  the  idea  — 
or  the  idea  tried  to  define  itself — that  they  had 
somehow  been  recreant  to  their  social  caste  by 
getting  down  into  the  condition  and  estate  of 
what  one  may  call  the  alien  poor.  Carondelet 
street  had  in  some  way  specially  vexed  him  to- 
day, and  now  here  was  this.  It  was  bad  enough, 
he  thought,  for  men  to  slip  into  riches  through 
dark  back  windows ;  but  here  was  a  brace  of 
youngsters  who  had  glided  into  poverty,  and 
taken  a  place  to  which  they  had  no  right  to 
stoop.  Treachery — that  was  the  name  for  it. 
And  now  he  must  be  expected, —  the  Doctor 
quite  forgot  that  nobody  had  asked  him  to  do  it, 
— he  must  be  expected  to  come  fishing  them  out 
of  their  hole,  like  a  rag-picker  at  a  trash  barrel. 

—  "  Bringing  me  into  this  wretched  alley!  " 
he  silently  thought.  His  foot  slipped  on  a 
mossy  brick.  Oh,  no  doubt  they  thought 
they  were  punishing  some  negligent  friend 
or  friends  by  letting  themselves  down  into 
this  sort  of  thing.  Never  mind!  He  recalled 
the  tender,  confiding,  friendly  way  in  which 
he  had  talked  to  John,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  his  hospital  bed.  He  wished,  now,  he  had 
every  word  back  he  had  uttered.  They  might 
hide  away  to  the  full  content  of  their  poverty- 
pride.  Poverty-pride;  he  had  invented  the 
term ;  it  was  the  opposite  pole  to  purse-pride 
—  and  just  as  mean,  —  no,  meaner. — 
There !  Must  he  yet  slip  down  ?  He  muttered 
an  angry  word.  Well,  well !  this  was  making 
himself  a  little  the  cheapest  he  had  ever  let 
himself  be  made.  And  probably  this  was  what 
they  wanted!  Misery's  revenge.  Umhum! 
They  sit  down  in  sour  darkness,  eh !  and  make 
relief  seek  them.  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time 
he  had  caught  the  poor  taking  savage  com- 
fort in  the  blush  which  their  poverty  was  sup- 
posed to  bring  to  the  cheek  of  better-kept 
kinsfolk.  True,  he  didn't  know  this  was  the 
case  with  the  Richlings.  But  wasn't  it  ?  Wasn't 
it  ?  And  have  they  a  dog  that  will  presently 
hurl  himself  down  this  alley  at  one's  legs  ?  He 
hopes  so !  He  would  so  like  to  kick  him  clean 
over  the  twelve-foot  close  plank  fence  that 
crowded  his  right  shoulder.  Nevermind!  His 
anger  became  solemn. 


The  alley  opened  into  a  small,  narrow  yard, 
paved  with  ashes  from  the  gas-works.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  yard  a  rough  shed  spanned  its 
breadth,  and  a  woman  was  there  busily  bend- 
ing over  a  row  of  wash-tubs. 

The  Doctor  knocked  on  a  door  near  at 
hand,  then  waited  a  moment,  and,  getting  no 
response,  turned  away  toward  the  shed  and 
the  deep,  wet,  burring  sound  of  a  wash-board. 
The  woman  bending  over  it  did  not  hear 
his  footfall.  Presently  he  stopped.  She  had 
just  straightened  up,  lifting  a  piece  of  the 
washing  to  the  height  of  her  head,  and  letting 
it  down  with  a  swash  and  slap  upon  the  board. 
It  was  a  woman's  garment,  but  certainly  not 
hers.  For  she  was  small  and  slight.  Her  hair 
was  hidden  under  a  towel.  Her  skirts  were 
shortened  to  a  pair  of  dainty  ankles  by  an 
extra  under-fold  at  the  neat,  round  waist.  Her 
feet  were  thrust  into  a  pair  of  sabots.  She 
paused  a  moment  in  her  work,  and,  lifting 
with  both  smoothly-rounded  arms,  bared 
nearly  to  the  shoulder,  a  large  apron  from  her 
waist,  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her  fore- 
head. It  was  Mary. 

The  red  blood  came  up  into  the  Doctor's 
pale,    thin   face.    This   was    too    outrageous.} 
This  was  insult!    He  stirred  as  if  to  move 
forward.    He  would  confront  her.    Yes,  just, 
as   she   was.    He   would   speak.    He   would! 
speak  bluntly.    He  would  chide  sternly.    He 
had  the  right.    The  only  friend  in  the  world 
from  whom  she  had  not  escaped  beyond  reach 
— he  would  speak  the  friendly,  angry  word 

that  would  stop  this  shocking 

But,  truly,  deeply  incensed  as  he  was  and 
felt  it  his  right  to  be,  hurt,  wrung,  exasper- 
ated he  did  not  advance.  She  had  reached 
down  and  taken  from  the  wash-bench  the 
lump  of  yellow  soap  that  lay  there,  and  was 
soaping  the  garment  on  the  board  before  her, 
turning  it  this  way  and  that.  As  she  did  this  she 
began,  all  to  herself  and  for  her  own  ear,  softly, 
with  unconscious  richness  and  tenderness  of 
voice,  to  sing.  And  what  was  her  song  ? 

"Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt?" 

Down   drooped   the   listener's   head, 
member  ?  Ah,  memory  !    The  old,  heart-i 
ing  memory  !    Sweet  Alice ! 

The  song  caught  up  the  tender  name 

"  Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown  ?  " 
Yes,  yes ;  so  brown  —  so  brown ! 

"  She  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  si 
And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown." 

Ah !  but  the  frown  is  gone !    There  \i 
look  of  supplication  now.    Sing  no  more  ! 
sing  no  more  !  Yes,  surely,  she  will  stop  th< 

No.  The  voice  rises  gently  — just  a  little-- 
into  the  higher  key,  soft  and  clear  as  the  not< 


DR.    SEVIER. 


535 


of  a  distant  bird,  and  all  unaware  of  a  listener. 
Oh  !  in  mercy's  name 

"  In  the  old  church-yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone, 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  granite  so  gray, 

And  sweet  Alice  lies  under  the  stone." 

The  little  toiling  figure  bent  once  more 
across  the  wash-board  and  began  to  rub.  He 
turned,  the  first  dew  of  many  a  long  year 
welling  from  each  eye,  and  stole  away,  out 
of  the  little  yard  and  down  the  dark,,  slippery 
alley,  to  the  street. 

Mrs.  Riley  still  stood  on  the  door-sill,  hold- 
ing the  child. 

"  Good  evening,  madam." 

"  Sur,  to  you."    She  bowed  with  dignity. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Richling  in  ?  " 

There  was  a  shadow  of  triumph  in  her 
faint  smile. 

"  She  is." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her." 

Mrs.  Riley  hoisted  her  chin.  "  I  dunno 
if  she's  a-seein'  comp'ny  to-day."  The  voice 
was  amiably  important.  "  Wont  ye  walk  in  ? 
Take  a  seat  and  sit  down,  sur,  and  I'll  go 
and  infarm  the  laydie." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  but  con- 
tinued to  stand.  Mrs.  Riley  started  and  stop- 
ped again. 

"  Ye  forgot  to  give  me  yer  kyaird,  sur." 
She  drew  her  chin  in  again,  austerely. 

"  Just  say  Dr.  Sevier." 

"  Certainly,  sur;  yes,  that'll  be  sufnciend. 
And  dispinse  with  the  kyaird."  She  went 
majestically. 

The  Doctor,  left  alone,  cast  his  uninterested 
glance  around  the  smart  little  bare-floored 
parlor,  upon  its  new,  jig-sawed,  gray  hair- 
cloth furniture,  and  up  upon  a  picture  of  the 
Pope.  When  Mrs.  Riley  in  a  moment  re- 
turned, he  stood  looking  out  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Richling  consints  to  see  ye,  sur. 
She'll  be  in  turreckly.  Take  a  seat  and  sit 
down."  She  readjusted  the  infant  on  her  arm, 
and  lifted  and  swung  a  hair-cloth  arm-chair 
toward  him  without  visible  exertion.  "  There's 
no  use  o'  having  chayers  if  ye  don't  sit  on 
um,"  she  added  affably. 

The  Doctor  sat  down,  and  Mrs.  Riley  oc- 
cupied the  exact  center  of  the  small,  wide- 
eared,  brittle-looking  sofa,  where  she  filled  in 
the  silent  moments  that  followed  by  pulling 
down  the  skirts  of  the  infant's  apparel,  op- 
pressed with  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a 
conversation  and  with  the  want  of  subject 
matter.  The  child  stared  at  the  Doctor,  and 
suddenly  plunged  toward  him  with  a  loud 
and  very  watery  coo. 

"  Ah-h !  "  said  Mrs.  Riley,  in  ostentatious 
rebuke.  "  Mike !  "  she  cried,  laughingly,  as 


the  action  was  repeated.    "  Ye  rowdy,  air  ye 
go-un  to  fight  the  gentleman  ?  " 

She  laughed  sincerely,  and  the  Doctor 
could  but  notice  how  neat  and  good-looking 
she  was.  He  condescended  to  crook  his  fin- 
ger at  the  babe.  This  seemed  to  exasperate 
the  so-called  rowdy.  He  planted  his  pink 
feet  on  his  mother's  thigh  and  gave  a  mighty 
lunge  and  whoop. 

"  He's  go-un  to  be  a  wicked  bruiser,"  said 
proud  Mrs.  Riley.  "He" — the  pronoun 
stood,  this  time,  for  her  husband — "  he  never 
sah  the  child.  He  was  kilt  with  an  explosion 
before  the  child  was  barn." 

She  held  the  infant  on  her  strong  arm  as 
he  struggled  to  throw  himself,  with  wide- 
stretched  jaws,  upon  her  bosom ;  and  might 
have  been  devoured  by  the  wicked  bruiser 
had  not  his  attention  been  diverted  by  the 
entrance  of  Mary,  who  came  in  at  last,  all  in 
fragrant  white,  with  apologies  for  keeping  the 
Doctor  waiting. 

He  looked  down  into  her  uplifted  eyes. 
What  a  riddle  is  woman!  Had  he  not  just 
seen  this  one  in  sabots  ?  Did  she  not  cer- 
tainly know,  through  Mrs.  Riley,  that  he 
must  have  seen  her  so  ?  Were  not  her  skirts 
but  just  now  hitched  up  with  an  under-tuck, 
and  fastened  with  a  string  ?  Had  she  not 
just  laid  off,  in  hot  haste,  a  suds-bespattered 
apron  and  the  garments  of  toil  beneath  it  ? 
Had  not  a  towel  been  but  now  unbound  from 
the  hair  shining  here  under  his  glance  in  lux- 
uriant brown  coils  ?  This  brightness  of  eye 
that  seemed  all  exhilaration,  was  it  not  trepi- 
dation instead  ?  And  this  rosiness,  so  like 
redundant  vigor,  was  it  not  the  flush  of  her' 
hot  task  ?  He  fancied  he  saw — in  truth  he 
may  have  seen  —  a  defiance  in  the  eyes  as  he 
glanced  upon,  and  tardily  dropped,  the  little 
water-soaked  hand  with  a  bow. 

Mary  turned  to  present  Mrs.  Riley,  who 
bowed  and  said,  trying  to  hold  herself  with 
majesty  while  Mike  drew  her  head  into  his 
mouth  :  "  Sur,"  then  turned  with  great  cere- 
mony to  Mary,  and  adding,  "  I'll  withdrah," 
withdrew  with  the  head  and  step  of  a  duchess. 

"  How  is  your  husband,  madam  ?  " 

"John? — is  not  well  at  all,  Doctor;  though 
he  would  say  he  was,  if  he  were  here.  He 
doesn't  shake  off  his  chills.  He  is  out,  though, 
looking  for  work.  He'd  go  as  long  as  he 
could  stand." 

She  smiled ;  she  almost  laughed ;  but  half 
an  eye  could  see  it  was  only  to  avoid  the 
other  thing. 

"  Where  does  he  go  ?  " 

"  Everywhere !  "  She  laughed  this  time 
audibly. 

"  If  he  went  everywhere  I  should  see  him," 
said  Dr.  Sevier. 


536 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"  Ah !  naturally,"  responded  Mary,  play- 
fully. "  But  he  does  go  wherever  he  thinks 
there's  work  to  be  found.  He  doesn't  wander 
clear  out  among  the  plantations,  of  course, 
where  everybody  has  slaves  and  there's  no 
work  but  slaves'  work.  And  he  says  it's  use- 
less to  think  of  a  clerkship  this  time  of  year. 
It  must  be,  isn't  it  ?  " 

The  Doctor  made  no  answer. 

There  was  a  footstep  in  the  alley. 

"  He's  coming  now,"  said  Mary ;  "  that's 
he.  He  must  have  got  work  to-day.  He  has 
an  acquaintance,  an  Italian,  who  promised  to 
have  something  for  him  to  do  very  soon. 
Doctor, — "  she  began  to  put  together  the 
split  fractions  of  a  palm-leaf  fan,  smiling  dif- 
fidently at  it  the  while, — "  I  can't  see  how  it 
is  any  discredit  to  a  man  not  to  have  a  knack 
for  making  money  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  peculiar  look  of  radiant  in- 
quiry. 

"  It  is  not,  madam." 

Mary  laughed  for  joy.  The  light  of  her 
face  seemed  to  spread  clear  into  her  locks. 

"  Well,  I  knew  you'd  say  so  !  John  blames 
himself — he  can  make  money,  you  know, 
Doctor,  but  he  blames  himself  because  he 
hasn't  that  natural  gift  for  it  that  Mr.  Ristof- 
alo  has.  Why,  Mr.  Ristofalo  is  simply  won- 
derful." She  smiled  upon  her  fan  in  amused 
reminiscence.  "  John  is  always  wishing  he 
had  his  gift." 

"  My  dear  madam,  don't  covet  it !  At 
least  don't  exchange  it  for  anything  else." 

The  Doctor  was  still  in  this  mood  of  dis- 
approbation when  John  entered.  The  radi- 
*ancy  of  the  young  husband's  greeting  hid  for 
a  moment,  but  only  so  long,  the  marks  of  ill- 
ness and  adversity.  Mary  followed  him  with 
her  smiling  eyes  as  the  two  men  shook  hands, 
and  John  drew  a  chair  near  to  her  and  sat  down 
with  a  sigh  of  mingled  pleasure  and  fatigue. 

She  told  him  of  whom  she  and  their  visitor 
had  just  been  speaking. 

"  Raphael  Ristofalo  !  "  said  John,  kindling 
afresh.  "  Yes ;  I've  been  with  him  all  day. 
It  humiliates  me  to  think  of  him." 

Dr.  Sevier  responded  quietly : 

"  You've  no  right  to  let  it  humiliate  you,  sir." 

Mary  turned  to  John  with  dancing  eyes, 
but  he  passed  the  utterance  as  a  mere  com- 
pliment, and  said  through  his  smiles  : 

"  Just  see  how  it  is  to-day.  I  have  been 
overseeing  the  unloading  of  a  little  schooner 
from  Ruatan  island,  loaded  with  bananas, 
cocoa-nuts,  and  pine-apples.  I've  made  two 
dollars — he  has  made  a  hundred." 

Richling  went  on  eagerly  to  tell  about  the 
plain,  lusterless  man  whose  one  homely  gift 
had  fascinated  him.  The  Doctor  was  enter- 
tained. The  narrator  sparkled  and  glowed  as 


he  told  of  Ristofalo's  appearance,  and  repro- 
duced his  speeches  and  manner. 

"  Tell  about  the  apples  and  eggs,"  said  the 
delighted  Mary. 

He  did  so,  sitting  on  the  front  edge  of  his 
chair  seat,  and  sprawling  his  legs  now  in  front 
and  now  behind  him  as  he  swung  now  around 
to  his  wife  and  now  to  the  Doctor.  Mary 
laughed  softly  at  every  period,  and  watched 
the  Doctor  to  see  his  slight  smile  at  each  de- 
tail of  the  story.  Richling  enjoyed  telling  it; 
He  had  worked;  his  earnings  were  in  his 
pocket ;  gladness  was  easy. 

"  Why,  I'm  learning  more  from  Raphael 
Ristofalo  than  I  ever  learned  from  my  school- 
masters; I'm  learning  the  art  of  livelihood." 

He  ran  on  from  Ristofalo  to  the  men 
among  whom  he  had  been  mingling  all  day. 
He  mimicked  the  strange,  long  swing  of  their 
Sicilian  speech;  told  of  their  swarthy  faces 
and  black  beards ;  their  rich  instinct  for  color 
in  costume ;  their  fierce  conversation  and  vio- 
lent gestures  ;  the  energy  of  their  movements 
when  they  worked,  and  the  profoundness  of 
their  repose  when  they  rested;  the  pictur- 
esqueness  and  grotesqueness  of  the  negroes,, 
too:  the  huge,  flat,  round  baskets  of  fruit 
which  the  black  men  carried  on  their  heads,, 
and  which  the  Sicilians  bore  on  their  shoulders 
or  the  nape  of  the  neck.  The  "  captain  "  of 
the  schooner  was  a  central  figure. 

"  Doctor,"  asked  Richling,  suddenly,  "  do- 
you  know  anything  about  the  island  of  Co- 
zumel  ?  " 

"  Aha !  "  thought  Mary.  So  there  was  some- 
thing besides  the  day's  earnings  that  elated 
him. 

She  had  suspected  it.  She  looked  at  her 
husband  with  an  expression  of  the  most  alert 
pleasure.  The  Doctor  noticed  it. 

"  No,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Richling's  ques- 
tion. 

"  It  stands  out  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  off 
the  coast  of  Yucatan,"  began  Richling. 

"  Yes,  I  know  that." 

"  Well,  Mary,  I've  almost  promised  the 
schooner  captain  that  we'll  go  there.  He  wants 
to  get  up  a  colony." 

Mary  started. 

"Why,  John!"  She  betrayed  a  look  of 
dismay,  glanced  at  their  visitor,  tried  to  say 
"  Have  you  ?  "  approvingly,  and  blushed. 

The  Doctor  made  no  kind  of  response. 

"  Now,  don't  conclude,"  said  John  to  Maryr 
coloring  too,  but  smiling.  He  turned  to  the 
physician.  "  It's  a  wonderful  spot,  Doctor." 

But  the  Doctor  was  still  silent,  and  Ri< 
ling  turned. 

"  Just  to  think,  Mary,  of  a  place  wh< 
you  can  raise  all  the  products  of  two  zone 
where  health  is  almost  perfect;  where 


DR.    SEVIER, 


537 


yellow  fever  has  never  been;  and  where 
there  is  such  beauty  as  can  be  only  in  the 
tropics  and  a  tropical  sea.  Why,  Doctor,  I 
can't  understand  why  Europeans  or  Ameri- 
cans haven't  settled  it  long  ago." 

"  I  suppose  we  can  find  out  before  we  go, 
can't  we  ?  "  said  Mary,  looking  timorously 
back  and  forth  between  John  and  the  Doctor. 

"  The  reason  is,"  replied  John,  "  it's  so 
little  known.  Just  one  island  away  out  by 
itself.  Three  crops  of  fruit  a  year.  One  acre 
planted  in  bananas  feeds  fifty  men.  -All  the 
capital  a  man  need  have  is  an  axe  to  cut  down 
the  finest  cabinet  and  dye-woods  in  the  world. 
The  thermometer  never  goes  above  ninety 
nor  below  forty.  You  can  hire  all  the  labor 
you  want  at  a  few  cents  a  day." 

Mary's  diligent  eye  detected  a  cloud  on 
the  Doctor's  face.  But  John,  though  nettled, 
pushed  on  the  more  rapidly. 

"  A  man  can  make — easily! — a  thousand 
dollars  the  first  year,  and  live  on  two  hundred 
and  fifty.  It's  the  place  for  a  poor  man." 

He  looked  a  little  defiant. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mary,  "  I  know  you 
wouldn't  come  to  an  opinion" — she  smiled 
with  the  same  restless  glance  — "  until  you  had 
jmade  all  the  inquiries  necessary.  It  mu  — 
must — it  must  be  a  delightful  place,  Doctor." 

Her  eyes  shone  blue  as  the  sky. 

"  I  wouldn't  send  a  convict  to  such  a 
I  place,"  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

Richling  flamed  up. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  began  to  say  with 
j  visible  restraint  and  a  faint,  ugly  twist  of  the 
jhead — "  don't  you  think  it's  a  better  place  for 
|a  poor  man  than  a  great,  heartless  town  ?  " 

"This  isn't  aheartless  town,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"He  doesn't  mean  it  as  you  do,  Doctor," 
[interposed  Mary,  with  alarm.  "  John,  you 
ought  to  explain." 

"  Than  a  great  town,"  said  Richling, 
"  where  a  man  of  honest  intentions  and  real 
desire  to  live  and  be  useful  and  independent 
•—who  wants  to  earn  his  daily  bread  at  any 
honorable  cost,  and  who  can't  do  it  because 
the  town  doesn't  want  his  services,  and  will 

not  have  them — can  go "  He  ceased, 

with  his  sentence  all  tangled. 

"  No  !  "  the  Doctor  was  saying  meanwhile. 
r'No!  No!  No!" 

"  Here  I  go,  day  after  day,"  persisted  Rich- 
ing,  extending  his  arm  and  pointing  indefi- 
'litely  through  the  window 

"  No,  no,  you  don't,  John,"  cried  Mary,  with 
in  effort  at  gayety;  "you  don't  go  by  the 
vinclow,  John ;  you  go  by  the  door."  She 
)ulled  his  arm  down  tenderly. 

"  I  go  by  the  alley,"  said  John.  Silence  fol- 
owed.  The  young  pair  contrived  to  force  a  lit- 
le  laugh,  and  John  made  an  apologetic  move. 


"  Doctor,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of 
pleasantry,  "  the  whole  town's  asleep !  sound 
asleep,  like  a  negro  in  the  sunshine !  There 
isn't  work  for  one  man  in  fifty  !  "  He  ended 
tremulously.  Mary  looked  at  him  with  dropped 
face  but  lifted  eyes,  handling  the  fan,  whose 
rent  she  had  made  worse. 

"Richling,  my  friend," — the  Doctor  had 
never  used  that  term  before, — "  what  does 
your  Italian  money-maker  say  to  the  idea  ?  " 

Richling  gave  an  Italian  shrug  and  his  own 
pained  laugh. 

"  Exactly !  Why,  Mr.  Richling,  you're  on 
an  island  now  —  an  island  in  mid-ocean.  Both 
of  you !  "  He  waved  his  hands  toward  the 
two  without  lifting  his  head  from  the  back  of 
the  easy-chair,  where  he  had  dropped  it. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Mean  ?  Isn't  my  meaning  plain  enough  ? 
I  mean  you're  too  independent.  Youknowvery 
well,  Richling,  that  you've  started  out  in  life 
with  some  fanciful  feud  against  the  '  world.' 
What  it  is  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  sure  it's  not  the 
sort  that  religion  requires.  You've  told  this  world 
— you  remember  you  said  it  to  me  once — that 
if  it  will  go  one  road  you'll  go  another.  You've 
forgotten  that,  mean  and  stupid  and  bad  as  your 
fellow-creatures  are,  they're  your  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  that  they  have  claims  on  you  as  such, 
and  that  you  have  claims  on  them  as  such. 

Cozumel!  You're  there  now!  Has  a 

friend  no  rights?  I  don't  know  your  immediate 
relatives,  and  I  say  nothing  about  them " 

John  gave  a  slight  start,  and  Mary  looked 
at  him  suddenly. 

"  But  here  am  1,"  continued  the  speaker.  "  Is 
it  just  to  me  for  you  to  hide  away  here  in  want 
that  forces  you  and  your  wife — I  beg  your  par- 
don, madam — into  mortifying  occupations 
when  one  word  to  me — a  trivial  obligation 
not  worthy  to  be  called  an  obligation,  con- 
tracted with  me — would  remove  that  necessity 
and  tide  you  over  the  emergency  of  the  hour?" 

Richling  was  already  answering,  not  by 
words  only,  but  by  his  confident  smile  : 

"  Yes,  sir — yes,  it  is  just ;  ask  Mary." 

"  Yes,  Doctor,"  interposed  the  wife.  "  We 
went  over " 

"  We  went  over  it  together,"  said  John. 
"  We  weighed  it  well.  It  is  just  —  not  to  ask 
aid  as  long  as  there's  hope  without  it." 

The  Doctor  responded  with  the  quiet  air  of 
one  who  is  sure  of  his  position  : 

"  Yes,  I  see.  But,  of  course — I  know  with- 
out asking  —  you  left  the  question  of  health 
out  of  your  reckoning.  Now,  Richling,  put 
the  whole  world,  if  you  choose,  in  a  selfish 
attitude " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Richling  and  his  wife.  "  Ah, 
no  !  "  But  the  Doctor  persisted. 

"  —  A  purely  selfish  attitude.    Wouldn't  it, 


538 


DR.    SEVJER. 


nevertheless,  rather  help  a  well  man  or  woman 
than  a  sick  one  ?  Wouldn't  it  pay  better  ?  " 

"Yes,  but " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  But  you're  tak- 
ing the  most  desperate  risks  against  health 
and  life."  He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
jerked  in  his  legs,  and  threw  out  his  long,  white 
hands.  "  You're  committing  slow  suicide." 

"  Doctor," began  Mary;  but  her  husband 
had  the  floor. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  can  you  put  yourself 
in  our  place  ?  Wouldn't  you  rather  die  than 
beg  ?  Wouldn't  you  ?  " 

The  Doctor  rose  to  his  feet  as  straight  as  a 
lance. 

"  It  isn't  what  you'd  rather,  sir !  You 
haven't  your  choice !  You  haven't  your  choice 
at  all,  sir !  When  God  gets  ready  for  you  to 
die,  he'll  let  you  know,  sir !  And  you've  no 
right  to  trifle  with  his  mercy  in  the  mean- 
while. I'm  not  a  man  to  teach  men  to  whine 
after  each  other  for  aid ;  but  every  principle 
has  its  limitations,  Mr.  Richling.  You  say 
you  went  over  the  whole  subject.  Yes;  well, 
didn't  you  strike  the  fact  that  suicide  is  an  af- 
front to  civilization  and  humanity  ?  " 

"  Why,  Doctor !  "  cried  the  other  two,  ris- 
ing also.  "  We're  not  going  to  commit  suicide." 

"  No,"  retorted  he,  "  you're  not.  That's 
what  1  came  here  to  tell  you.  I'm  here  to 
prevent  it." 

"  Doctor,"  exclaimed  Mary,  the  big  tears 
standing  in  her  eyes,  and  the  Doctor  melting 
before  them  like  wax,  "  it's  not  so  bad  as  it 
looks.  I  wash  —  some  —  because  it  pays  so 
much  better  than  sewing.  I  find  I'm  stronger 
than  any  one  would  believe.  I'm  stronger  than 
I  ever  was  before  in  my  life.  I  am,  indeed. 
I  don't  wash  mucli.  And  it's  only  for  the  pres- 
ent. We'll  all  be  laughing  at  this,  some  time, 
together."  She  began  a  small  part  of  the  laugh 
then  and  there. 

"  You'll  do  it  no  more,"  the  Doctor  re- 
plied. He  drew  out  his  pocket-book.  "  Mr. 
Richling,  will  you  please  send  me  through 
the  mail,  or  bring  me,  your  note  for  fifty  dol- 
lars,—  at  your  leisure,  you  know, —  payable 
on  demand  ?  "  He  rummaged  an  instant  in 
the  pocket-book,  and  extended  his  hand  with 
a  folded  bank-note  between  his  thumb  and 
finger.  Bui  Richling  compressed  his  lips  and 
shook  his  head,  and  the  two  men  stood  si- 
lently confronting  each  other.  Mary  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  husband's  shoulder  and  leaned 
against  him,  with  her  eyes  on  the  Doctor's  face. 

"Come,  Richling,"  the  Doctor  smiled; 
"  your  friend  Ristofalo  did  not  treat  you  in 
this  way." 

"  I  never  treated  Ristofalo  so,"  replied  Rich- 
ling,  with  a  smile  tinged  with  bitterness.  It 
was  against  himself  that  he  felt  bitter ;  but 


the  Doctor  took  it  differently,  and  Richling, 
seeing  this,  hurried  to  correct  the  impression. 
"  I  mean  I  lent  him  no  such  amount  as  that." 

"  It  was  just  one  fiftieth  of  that,"  said  Mary. 

"  But  you  gave  liberally,  without  upbraid- 
ing," said  the  Doctor. 

"  Oh,  no,  Doctor,  no !  "  exclaimed  she,  lift- 
ing the  hand  that  lay  on  her  husband's  near 
shoulder  and  reaching  it  over  to  the  farther 
one.  "  Oh  !  a  thousand  times  no.  John  never 
meant  that.  Did  you,  John  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  ?  "  said  John.  "  No."  Yet 
there  was  confession  in  his  look.  He  had  not 
meant  it,  but  he  had  felt  it. 

Dr.  Sevier  sat  down,  motioned  them  into 
their  seats,  drew  the  arm-chair  close  to  theirs. 
Then  he  spoke.  He  spoke  long,  and  as  he 
had  not  spoken  anywhere  but  at  the  bedside 
scarce  ever  in  his  life  before.  The  young  hus- 
band and  wife  forgot  that  he  had  ever  said  a 
grating  word.  A  soft  love-warmth  began  to 
fill  them  through  and  through.  They  seemed 
to  listen  to  the  gentle  voice  of  an  older  and 
wiser  brother.  A  hand  of  Mary  sank  uncon- 
sciously upon  a  hand  of  John.  They  smiled, 
and  assented,  and  smiled,  and  assented,  and 
Mary's  eyes  brimmed  up  with  tears,  and  John 
could  hardly  keep  his  down.  The  Doctor 
made  the  whole  case  so  plain  and  his  prop- 
ositions so  irresistibly  logical  that  the  pair 
looked  from  his  eyes  to  each  other's  and 
laughed.  "  Cozumel ! "  They  did  not  utter 
the  name ;  they  only  thought  of  it,  both  at 
one  moment.  It  never  passed  their  lips  again. 
Their  visitor  brought  them  to  an  arrangement. 
The  fifty  dollars  were  to  be  placed  to  John's 
credit  on  the  books  kept  by  Narcisse,  as  a 
deposit  from  Richling,  and  to  be  drawn  against 
by  him  in  such  littles  as  necessity  might  de- 
mand. It  was  to  be  "secured"  —  they  all 
three  smiled  at  that  word  —  by  Richling's 
note  payable  on  demand.  The  Doctor  left  a 
prescription  for  the  refractory  chills. 

As  he  crossed  Canal  street,  walking  in  slow1 
meditation  homeward  at  the  hour  of  dusk,  a 
tall  man  standing  against  a  wall,  tin  cup  in 
hand, — a  full-fledged  mendicant  of  the  steam- 
boiler  explosion,  tin-proclamation  type, — ' 
asked  his  alms.  He  passed  by,  but  faltered 
stopped,  let  his  hand  down  into  his  pocket 
and  looked  around  to  see  if  his  pernicious 
example  was  observed.  None  saw  him.  He 
felt — he  saw  himself — a  driveling  sentiment- 
alist. But  weak,  and  dazed,  sore  woundec 
of  the  archers,  he  turned  and  dropped  '<. 
dime  into  the  beggar's  cup. 


RICHLING  was  too  restless  with  the 
relief  to  sit  or  stand.    He  trumped  up  an 
rand  around  the  corner,  and  hardly  got  bad 
before  he  contrived  another.    He  went  out 


joy» 

an  ei 
bad 

-I 


DR.    SEVIER. 


539 


the  bakery  for  some  crackers — fresh  baked 
— for  Mary;  listened  to  a  long  story  across 
the  baker's  counter ;  and  when  he  got  back  to 
his  door  found  he  had  left  the  crackers  at  the 
bakery.  He  went  back  for  them  and  returned, 
the  blood  about  his  heart  still  running  and 
leaping  and  praising  God. 

"  The  sun  at  midnight ! "  he  exclaimed,  knit- 
ting Mary's  hands  in  his.  "  You're  very  tired. 
Go  to  bed.  Me?  I  can't  yet.  I'm  too  restless." 

He  spent  more  than  an  hour  chatting  with 
Mrs.  Riley,  and  had  never  found  her  so 
"nice"  a  person  before;  so  easy  comes  human 
fellowship  when  we  have  had  a  stroke  of  fort- 
une. When  he  went  again  to  his  room,  there 
was  Mary  kneeling  by  the  bedside  with  her 
head  slipped  under  the  snowy  mosquito  net, 
all  in  fine  linen  white  as  the  moonlight, 
frilled  and  broidered,  a  remnant  of  her  wed- 
ding glory  gleaming  through  the  long,  heavy 
wefts  of  her  unbound  hair. 

"  Why,  Mary " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Mary  ?  "  he  said  again,  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  head. 

The  head  was  slowly  lifted.  She  smiled  an 
infant's  smile  and  dropped  her  cheek  again 
upon  the  bedside.  She  had  fallen  asleep  at 
the  foot  of  the  Throne. 

At  that  same  hour,  in  an  upper  chamber 
of  a  large,  distant  house,  there  knelt  another 
form,  with  bared,  bowed  head,  but  in  the 
garb  in  which  it  had  come  in  from  the  street. 
Praying  ?  This  white  thing  overtaken  by 

sleep  here  was  not  more  silent.  Yet yes, 

praying.  But,  all  the  while,  the  prayer  kept 
running  to  a  little  tune,  and  the  words  re- 
peating themselves  again  and  again — "  Oh, 
don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice  —  with  hair 
so  brown  —  so  brown  —  so  brown  ?  Sweet 
Alice,  with  hair  so  brown  !  "  And  God  bent 
His  ear  and  listened. 

XXII. 
BORROWER   TURNED    LENDER. 

IT  was  only  a  day  or  two  later  that  the 
Richlings,  one  afternoon,  having  been  out 
for  a  sunset  walk,  were  just  reaching  Mrs. 
Riley's  door-step  again,  when  they  were  aware 
of  a  young  man  approaching  from  the  oppo- 
site direction  with  the  intention  of  accosting 
them.  They  brought  their  conversation  to  a 
murmurous  close. 

For  it  was  not  what  a  mere  acquaintance 
could  have  joined  them  in,  albeit  its  subject 
was  the  old  one  of  meat  and  raiment.  Their 
talk  had  been  light  enough  on  their  starting 
put,  notwithstanding  John  had  earned  noth- 
ing that  day.  But  it  had  toned  down,  or  we, 
might  say,  up  to  a  sober,  though  not  a  som- 


ber, quality.  John  had  in  some  way  evolved 
the  assertion  that  even  the  life  of  the  body 
alone  is  much  more  than  food  and  clothing 
and  shelter;  so  much  more,  that  only  a  divine 
provision  can  sustain  it;  so  much  more,  that 
the  fact  is,  when  it  fails,  it  generally  fails  with 
meat  and  raiment  within  easy  reach. 

Mary  devoured  his  words.  His  spiritual 
vision  had  been  a  little  clouded  of  late,  and 

now,  to  see  it  clear She  closed  her  eyes 

for  bliss. 

"  Why,  John,"  she  said,  "  you  make  it 
plainer  than  any  preacher  I  ever  heard." 

This,  very  naturally,  silenced  John.  And 
Mary,  hoping  to  start  him  again,  said : 

"  Heaven  provides.  And  yet  I'm  sure  you're 
right  in  seeking  our  food  and  raiment  ?  "  She 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Yes ;  like  the  fowls,  the  provision  is  made 
for  us  through  us.  The  mistake  is  in  making 
those  things  the  end  of  our  search." 

"  Why,  certainly  !  "  exclaimed  Mary,  softly. 
She  took  fresh  hold  in  her  husband's  arm ; 
the  young  man  was  drawing  near. 

"  It's  Narcisse !  "  murmured  John.  The 
Creole  pressed  suddenly  forward  with  a  joy- 
ous smile,  seized  Richling's  hand,  and,  lifting 
his  hat  to  Mary  as  John  presented  him,  brought 
his  heels  together  and  bowed  from  the  hips. 

"  I  wuz  juz  coming  at  yo'  'ouse,  Mistoo 
'Itchlin'.  Yesseh.  I  was  juz  sitting  in  my 
'oom  afteh  dinneh,  envelop'  in  my  'obe 
de  chambre,  when  all  at  once  I  says  to  my- 
seff,  '  Faw  distwaction  I  will  go  and  see 
Mistoo  'Itchlin' ! '  " 

"  Will  you  walk  in  ?  "  said  the  pair. 

Mrs.  Riley,  standing  in  the  door  of  her  par- 
lor, made  way  by  descending  to  the  sidewalk. 
Her  calico  was  white,  with  a  small  purple 
figure,  and  was  highly  starched  and  beauti- 
fully ironed.  Purple  ribbons  were  at  her  waist 
and  throat.  As  she  reached  the  ground,  Mary 
introduced  Narcisse.  She  smiled  winningly, 
and  when  she  said,  with  a  courtesy  :  "  Proud 
to  know  ye,  sur,"  Narcisse  was  struck  with 
the  sweetness  of  her  tone.  But  she  swept 
away  with  a  dramatic  tread. 

"  Will  you  walk  in  ?  "  Mary  repeated ;  and 
Narcisse  responded : 

"  If  you  will  pummit  me  yo'  attention  a  few 
moment'."  He  bowed  again  and  made  way 
for  Mary  to  precede  him. 

"  Mistoo  Ttchlin',"  he  continued,  going  in, 
"  in  fact  you  don't  give  Misses  Ttchlin'  my 
last  name  with  absolute  co-ectness." 

"  Did  I  not  ?  Why,  I  hope  you'll  par- 
don  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  of  it.  I  don'  feel  lak  a  pus- 
son  is  my  frien'  whilst  they  don't  call  me 
Nahcisse."  He  directed  his  remark  particu- 
larly to  Mary. 


540 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"  Indeed  ?•"  responded  she.    "  But,  at  the 

same  time,  Mr.  Richling  would  have " 

She  had  turned  to  John,  who  sat  waiting  to 
catch  her  eye  with  such  intense  amusement 
betrayed  in  his  own  that  she  saved  herself 
from  laughter  and  disgrace  only  by  instant 
silence. 

"  Yesseh,"  said  Narcisse  to  Richling,  "  'tis 
the  tooth." 

He  cast  his  eye  around  upon  the  prevail- 
ing hair-cloth  and  varnish. 

u  Misses  Ttchlin',  I  muz  tell  you  I  like 
yo'  tas'e  in  that  pawlah." 

"  It's  Mrs.  Riley's  taste,"  said  Mary. 

"Tis  a  beaucheouz  tas'e,"  insisted  the 
Creole,  contemplatively,  gazing  at  the  Pope's 
vestments  tricked  out  with  blue,  scarlet,  and  gilt 
spangles.  "  Well,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  since  some 
time  I've  been  stipulating  me  to  do  myseff 
that  honoh,  seh,  to  come  at  yo'  'ouse ;  well, 
ad  the  end  I  am  yeh.  I  think  you  fine  yo'- 
seff  not  ve'y  well  those  days.  Is  that  nod  the 
case,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  well  enough."  Richling  ended 
with  a  laugh,  somewhat  explosively.  Mary 
looked  at  him  with  forced  gravity  as  he  sup- 
pressed it.  He  had  to  draw  his  nose  slowly 
through  his  thumb  and  two  fingers  before  he 
could  quite  command  himself.  Mary  relieved 
him  by  responding : 

"  No,  Mr.  Richling  hasn't  been  well  for 
some  time." 

Narcisse  responded  triumphantly  : 

"  It  stwuck  me  —  so  soon  I  pe'ceive  you 
—  that  you  'ave  the  ai'  of  a  valedictudina'y. 
Thass  a  ve'y  fawtunate  that  you  ah  'esiding 
in  a  'ealthsome  pawt  of  the  city,  in  fact." 

Both   John    and    Mary  laughed    and   de 
murred. 

"  You  don't  think  ?  "  asked  the  smiling  vis- 
itor. "  Me,  I  dunno, —  I  fine  one  thing.  If 
a  man  don't  die  fum  one  thing,  yet,  still,  he'll 
die  fum  something.  I  'ave  study  that  out, 
Mistoo,  'Itchlin'.  « To  be,  aw  to  not  be,  thaz 
the  queztion,'  in  fact.  I  don't  ca'e  if  you  live 
one  place  aw  if  you  live  anotheh  place,  'tis 
all  the  same  —  you've  got  to  pay  to  live !  " 

The  Richlings  laughed  again,  and  would 
have  been  glad  to  laugh  more ;  but  each,  with- 
out knowing  it  of  the  other,  was  reflecting 
with  some  mortification  upon  the  fact  that, 
had  they  been  talking  French,  Narcisse  would 
have  bitten  his  tongue  off  before  any  of  his 
laughter  should  have  been  at  their  expense. 

"  Indeed  you  have  got  to  pay  to  live,"  said 
John,  stepping  to  the  window  and  drawing 
up  its  painted  paper  shade.  "  Yes,  and  — —  " 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Mary,  with  gentle  disap- 
probation. She  met  her  husband's  eye  with  a 
smile  of  protest.  "  John,"  she  said,  "  Mr. —  " 
she  couldn't  think  of  the  name. 


"  Nawcisse,"  said  the  Creole. 

"Will  think,"  she  continued,  her  amuse- 
ment climbing  into  her  eyes  in  spite  of  her, 
"  you're  in  earnest." 

"  Well,  I  am,  partly.  Narcisse  knows  as 
well  as  we  do  that  there  are  two  sides  to 
the  question."  He  resumed  his  seat.  "  I 
reckon " 

"  Yes,"  said  Narcisse,  "  and  what  you  muz 
look  out  faw,  'tis  to  git  on  the  soff  side." 

They  all  laughed. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  Richling,  "  the 
world  takes  us  as  we  come,  '  sight-unseen/ 
Some  of  us  pay  expenses,  some  don't." 

"  Ah !  "  rejoined  Narcisse,  looking  up  at 
the  whitewashed  ceiling,  "  those  egspenze' !  " 
He  raised  his  hand  and  dropped  it.  "\Jine 
it  so  diffycur  to  defeat  those  egspenze' !  In 
fact,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  such  ah  the  state  of  my 
financial  emba'assment  that  I  do  not  go  out 
at  all.  I  stay  in,  in  fact.  I  stay  at  my  'ouse 
— to  light'  those  egspenze'!  " 

They  were  all  agreed  that  expenses  could 
be  lightened  thus. 

"  And  by  making  believe  you  don't  want 
things,"  said  Mary. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Narcisse, "  I  nevvah  kin 
do  that !  "  and  Richling  gave  a  laugh  that 
was  not  without  sympathy.  "  But  I  muz  tell 
you,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  I  am  aztonizh  at 

An  instant  apprehension  seized  John  and 
Mary.  They  knew  their  ill-concealed  amuse- 
ment would  betray  them,  and  *now  they  were 
to  be  called  to  account.  But  no. 

"  Yesseh,"  continued  Narcisse,  "  you  'ave 
the  gweatez  o'casion  to  be  the  subjec'  of  con- 
gwatulation,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  to 'ave  thepoweh 
to  #<rcum'late  money  in  those  hawd  time'  like 
the  pwesen' ! " 

The  Richlings  cried  out  with  relief  and 
amused  surprise. 

"  Why,  you  couldn't  make  a  greater  mis- 
take." 

"  Mistaken !  Hah !  W'en  I  ged  that  memo- 
'andum  f'om  Dr.  Seveeah  to  paz  that  fifty 
dollah  at  yo'  cwedit,  it  burz  f'om  me,  that 
egs^fowzation  !  *  Acchilly  !  'ow  that  Mistoo 
Ttchlin'  deserve  the  'espect  to  save  a  lill 
quantity  of  money  like  that ! ' ' 

The  laughter  of  John  and  Mary  did  not 
impede  his  rhapsody,  nor  their  protestations 
shake  his  convictions. 

"  Why,"  said  Richling,  lolling  back,  "  the 
Doctor  has  simply  omitted  to  have  you  make 
the  entry  of " 

But  he  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  the 
Doctor's  accounts.    However,  Narcisse  w: 
not  listening. 

"  You'  compel'  to  be  witch  some  day,  M« 
too  Ttchlin',  ad  that  wate  of  p'ogwess;  I 
convince  of  that.  I  can  deteg  thatindis/z/tal 


DR.    SEVIER. 


54i 


in  yo'  physio'nomie.  Me  —  I  can't  save  a 
cent !  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  you  would  be  aztonizh 
to  know  'ow  bad  I  want  some  money;  in  fact, 
exceb  that  I  am  too  pwoud  to  dizclose  you 
that  state  of  my  condition !  " 

He  paused  and  looked  from  John  to  Mary, 
and  from  Mary  to  John  again. 

"  Why,  I'll  declare,"  said  Richling,  sin- 
cerely, dropping  forward  with  his  chin  on  his 
hand,  "  I'm  sorry  to  hear " 

But  Narcisse  interrupted. 

"  Diffyculty  with  me  —  I  am  not  willing  to 
baw'." 

Mary  drew  a  long  breath  and  glanced  at  her 
husband.  He  changed  his  attitude  and,  look- 
ing upon  the  floor,  said :  "  Yes,  yes."  He 
slowly  marked  the  bare  floor  with  the  edge 
of  his  shoe  sole.  "  And  yet  there  are  times 
when  duty  actually " 

"I    believe    you,    Mistoo  'Itchlin',"    said 

Narcisse,  quickly,  forestalling  Mary's  attempt 

to   speak.    "  Ah,  Mistoo  'Itchlin' !  if  I   had 

baw'd  money  ligue  the  huncle  of  my  hant !  " 

He  waved  his  hand  to  the  ceiling  and  looked 

up  through  that  obstruction,  as  it  were,  to  the 

witnessing  sky.    "  But  I  hade  that — to  baw'! 

I  tell  you  'ow  'tis  with  me,  Mistoo  'Itchlin' ; 

I  nevvah  would  consen*  to  baw'  money  on'y 

i  if  I  pay  a  big  inte'es'  on  it.    An'  I'm  compel' 

I  to  tell  you  one  thing,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  in  fact : 

I  nevvah   would  leave  money  with  Doctah 

I  Seveeah  to  invez  faw  me — no." 

Richling  gave  a  little  start,  and  cast  his 
eyes  an  instant  toward  his  wife.  She  spoke. 

"  We'd  rather  you  wouldn't  say  that  to  us, 

I  Mister  "  There  was  a  commanding 

I  smile  at  one  corner  of  her  lips.  "  You  don't 
i  know  what  a  friend " 

Narcisse  had  already  apologized  by  two  or 
I  three  gestures  to  each  of  his  hearers. 

"Misses   'Itchlin'— Mistoo  'Itchlin',"— he 

shook   his    head   and    smiled   skeptically, — 

"you  think  you  kin  admiah  Doctah  Seveeah 

mo'  than  me  ?    Tis  uzeless  to  attempt.    '  With 

jail  'is  fault'  I  love  'im  still.' " 

Richling  and  his  wife  both  spoke  at  once. 

"  But  John  and  I,"  exclaimed  Mary,  elec- 
trically, "  love  him,  faults  and  all !  " 

She  looked  from  husband  to  visitor,  and 
[from  visitor  to  husband,  and  laughed  and 
'laughed,  pushing  her  small  feet  back  and 
\ forth  alternately  and  softly  clapping  her 
jhands.  Narcisse  felt  her  in  the  center  of  his 
•heart.  He  laughed.  John  laughed. 

"  What  I  mean,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',"  resumed 
Narcisse,  preferring  to  avoid  Mary's  aroused 
eyt', — "  what  I  mean — Doctah  Seveeah  don't 
un'stan'  that  kine  of  business  co'ectly.  Still, 
•ad  the  same  time,  if  I  was  you,  I  know  I 
would  'ate  faw  my  money  not  to  be  makin' 
me  some  inte'es'.  I  tell  you  what  I  do  with 


you,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  in  fact :  I  kin  baw  that 
fifty  dollah  f'om  you  myseff." 

Richling  repressed  a  smile.  "  Thank  you. 
But  I  don't  care  to  invest  it." 

"  Pay  you  ten  pe'  cent,  a  month." 

"  But  we  can't  spare  it,"  said  Richling, 
smiling  toward  Mary.  "  We  may  need  part 
of  it  ourselves." 

"I  tell  you,  'eally,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  I  nevveh 
baw  money ;  but  it  juz  'appen  I  kin  use  that 
juz  at  the  pwesent." 

"  Why,  John,"  said  Mary,  "  I  think  you 
might  as  well  say  plainly  that  the  money  is 
borrowed  money." 

"  That's  what  it  is,"  responded  Richling, 
and  rose  to  spread  the  street-door  wider  open, 
for  the  daylight  was  fading. 

"  Well,  I  'ope  you'll  egscuse  that  libbetty," 
said  Narcisse,  rising  a  little  more  tardily,  and 
slower.  "  I  muz  baw  fawty  dollah  —  some 
place.  Give  you  good  secu'ty  —  give  you  my 
note,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  in  fact ;  muz  baw  fawty 

—  aw  thutty-five." 

"  Why,  I'm  very  sorry,"  responded  Richling, 
really  ashamed  that  he  could  not  hold  his  face 
straight.  "  I  hope  you  understand " 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  'tis  baw'd  money.  If  you 
had  a  necessity  faw  it,  you  would  use  it.  If  a 
fwend  'ave  a  necessity — 'tis  anotheh  thing 

—  you  don'  feel  that  libbetty  —  you  ah  'ight 

—  I  honoh  you " 

"  I  don't  feel  the  same  liberty." 

"  Mistoo  Ttchlin',"  said  Narcisse,  with  no- 
ble generosity,  throwing  himself  a  half  step 
forward,  "  if  it  was  yoze  you'd  baw  it  to  me 
in  a  minnit !  "  He  smiled  with  benign  delight. 
"Well,  madame, — I  bid  you  good  evening, 
Misses  Ttchlin'.  The  bes'  of  fwen's  muz 
paw,  you  know."  He  turned  again  to  Rich- 
ling  with  a  face  all  beauty  and  a  form  all 
grace.  "  I  was  juz  sitting  —  mistfully  —  all 
at  once  I  says  to  myseff,  *  Faw  distwaction 
I'll  go  an'  see  Mistoo  Ttchlin'.'  I  don't  know 
'ow  I  juz  appen' ! — Well,  au'  'evo?,  Mistoo 
Ttchlin'." 

Richling  followed  him  out  upon  the  door- 
step. There  Narcisse  intimated  that  even 
twenty  dollars  for  a  few  days  would  supply  a 
stern  want.  And  when  Richling  was  compelled 
again  to  refuse,  Narcisse  solicited  his  com- 
pany as  far  as  the  next  corner.  There  the 
Creole  covered  him  with  shame  by  forcing 
him  to  refuse  the  loan  of  ten  dollars  —  and 
then  of  five. 

It  was  a  full  hour  before  Richling  rejoined 
his  wife.  Mrs.  Riley  had  stepped  off  to  some 
neighbor's  door  with  Mike  on  her  arm.  Mary 
was  on  the  sidewalk. 

"  John,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with 
a  long,  anxious  look. 

"What?" 


542 


A   FIRST  LOVE-LETTER. 


"  He  didn't  take  the  only  dollar  of  your 
own  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Mary,  what  could  I  do  ?  It  seemed  a 
crime  to  give  and  a  crime  not  to  give.  He 
cried  like  a  child;  said  it  was  all  a  sham 
about  his  dinner  and  his  '  robe  de  chambre?  An 
aunt,  two  little  cousins,  an  aged  uncle  at  home 
—  and  not  a  cent  in  the  house  !  What  could  I 
do  ?  He  says  he'll  return  it  in  three  days." 

"  And  "  —  Mary  laughed  distressfully  — 
"you  believed  him!"  She  looked  at  him 


with  an  air  of  tender,  painful  admiration,  half 
way  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry. 

"  Come,  sit  down,"  he  said,  sinking  upon 
the  little  wooden  buttress  at  one  side  of  the 
door-step. 

Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  She  shook  her 
head. 

"  Let's  go  inside."  And  in  there  she  told 
him,  sincerely,  "  No,  no,  no ;  she  didn't  think 
he  had  done  wrong" — when  he  knew  he 
had. 


(To  be  continued.) 


A   FIRST   LOVE-LETTER. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR    OF    "  GUERNDALE. 


IT  was  a  warm  day  in  the  bush.  There  was 
no  wind;  and  the  atmosphere  was  in  succes- 
sive layers,  superposed,  shimmering  with  the 
heat.  The  canvas-topped  carts  of  the  detach- 
ment were  clumped  together  in  a  circle.  On 
three  sides  the  level,  gray-green  plain,  broken 
in  its  sandy  sameness  only  by  an  occasional 
clump  of  sage-bush  or  of  prickly  pear,  stretched 
as  far  as  one  could  see.  On  the  fourth  side 
was  a  low,  apparently  insignificant,  but  wholly 
impenetrable  African  thicket  of  indefinite  ex- 
tent. Trackless,  tangled,  arid,  it  was  fit  only 
to  be  the  lurking-place  of  tigers  and  snakes,  or 
Zulus.  How  much  of  a  lurking-place  it  might 
be  for  the  latter  was  a  present  and  interesting 
question.  Most  of  the  company  in  the  little 
camp  were  thinking  of  it.  Captain  Philip 
Haughton,  in  his  private  and  particular  tent, 
had  ceased  thinking  about  it. 

There  are  many  rapid  transitions  in  modern 
life  —  changes  of  scene  and  decor — but  prob- 
ably even  Americans  know  few  extremes  more 
startling  than  Piccadilly  and  Zululand.  As 
much  as  the  Captain's  somewhat  inactive 
mind  was  occupied  with  anything,  it  was 
busied  with  this  reflection.  It  did  not  par- 
ticularly surprise,  much  less  excite  him,  this 
change.  The  young  stoic  of  Belgravia  prob- 
ably takes  —  he  certainly  affects  to  take  — 
about  the  same  interest  in  such  changes  that 
he  does  in  those  of  scenery  in  a  theater ;  they 
are  sometimes  amusing,  but  more  likely  to  be 
bores.  However,  there  was  uncommonly  little 
affectation  in  Captain  Phil's  case.  He  had  no 
reason  whatever  to  regret  leaving  Piccadilly. 
It  was  after  the  season ;  and  at  such  times 
St.  James's  street  was  a  desert  hardly  more 
frequented,  and  infinitely  less  amusing,  than 
South  Africa.  The  only  people  you  saw  at 
the  clubs  were  men  you  would  avoid,  even  in 


South  Africa.  The  regular  round  of  country 
visits  had  begun ;  but  as  there  was  only  one 
person  whom  Haughton  particularly  desired 
to  meet,  and  she  was,  at  the  same  time,  one 
whom  it  was  very  important  he  should  not 
meet, —  in  brief,  he  did  not  much  regret  the 
loss  of  his  various  weeks  in  the  shires.  As  for 
shooting,  the  partridges  were  mostly  drowned, 
and  black  game  scarce,  he  was  told.  And  the 
Zulus  were  perhaps  a  more  exciting  and  better 
preserved  black  game  than  either.  "  By  Jove, 
I  should  think  so,"  he  thought,  lazily,  in  ap- 
plause of  his  own  epigram.  "  Battues  are 
nothing  to  it."  The  Captain  was  always  ready 
to  laugh  atlittle  or  nothing.  And  he  now  smiled 
again,  sweetly,  as  he  reflected  more  precisely 
upon  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself. 
He  was  sitting  upon  a  shawl,  which  he  had 
doubled  upon  the  sand.  The  shawl  was  in 
front  of  a  tent ;  and  the  tent  was  in  a  sort  of 
arena,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  white-covered 
carts,  their  rear  and  open  ends  facing  inside — 
some  of  them  still  filled  with  stores,  others 
serving  as  temporary  shelter.  Close  outside, 
and  around  them  all,  was  a  rampart  of  wattled 
underbrush.  Between  each  two  was  a  prac- 
ticable loophole,  through  which  was  thrust  a 
rifle ;  beside  each  rifle  rested  the  owner,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  a  short  clay  pipe.  Outside, 
at  a  distance  of  a  few  hundred  yards,  was  a 
circlet  of  pacing  sentries,  who  marched  as  if 
they  were  trying  to  pretend  it  was  all  an  un- 
usually warm  review  in  the  Park,  knowing 
their  commanding  officer  liked  style,  in  Soi 
Africa  or  elsewhere.  They  were  fond  of  tht 
commanding  officer.  Inside  again,  at 
shady  end  of  the  arena  (while  there  w 
shady  end),  a  number  of  long-horned,  gai 
cattle  were  picketed;  near  them,  the  few 
maining  horses  of  the  command. 


A   FIRST  LOVE-LETTER. 


545 


Behind  the  Captain,  in  the  interior  of  the 
tent,  stood  the  Captain's  servant,  engaged  in 
polishing  the  tops  of  the  Captain's  boots. 
This  he  did  with  much  attention  and  solici- 
tude. He  knew,  with  all  the  rest  of  the  little 
command  —  with  the  corporals,  the  lieuten- 
ants, the  buglers,  and  almost  the  poor,  jaded 
horses  themselves  —  that  the  Captain  and  his 
company  were  in  a  nasty  mess.  And  in  com- 
mon with  the  rest  of  them,  he  sometimes 
took  the  liberty  of  wondering  how  they  were 
to  get  out  of  it ;  that  is,  supposing  that  they 
were  to  get  out  of  it. 

Captain  Haughton,  however,  had  got  away 
beyond  that  question.  It  was  an  idle  habit  of 
I  his  to  give  up  problems  too  difficult  for  im- 
1  mediate  solution.  Besides,  his  orders  left  him 
[positively  no  option.  He  was  to  repair  to  a 
[certain  position,  and  hold  it  until  the  main 
body  tame  up,  keeping  the  Zulus  in  check.  It 
had  been  supposed  that  the  Zulus  to  be  kept 
in  check  numbered  only  a  thousand  or  so ; 
but  the  orders  applied  equally  well  to  the 
checking  of  any  amount  of  them.  As  his 
servant  gave  the  last  careful  rub  to  the  upper 
trim  of  his  boots,  the  Captain  was,  in  fact, 
(thinking  not  at  all  of  the  Zulus,  but  of  the 
last  ball  he  had  gone  to  in  London.  He  re- 
|membered  particularly  the  heat  of  the  conserv- 
jatory.  The  very  scents  and  dead  sweetness 
lof  the  place  seemed  to  be  still  in  his  nostrils. 
[He  could  see  it  now :  the  black  coats  and 
white  shoulders;  the  gleam  of  diamonds 
jagainst  the  shiny  background  of  green  leaves, 
r  Like  the  eyes  of  snakes  in  a  Zulu  thicket," 
•thought  the  Captain;  "only  not  so  frank  in 
'their  malice,"  he  added,  gloomily.  Haughton 
was  a  heavy,  straightforward  fellow  by  nat- 
jure;  and  perhaps  his  attempts  at  cynicism 
(were  clumsy. 

It  was  hotter  than  ever,  and  there  was  a 
irowsy  noise  of  insects  in  the  air.  The 
Captain's  servant  came  forward,  just  then, 
vvith  the  Captain's  boots.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  looked  at  his  master,  the  boots 
In  one  hand.  He  was  uneasy  ;  he  had  rarely 
keen  Captain  Philip  so  quiet. 
I  "  Any  orders,  sir  ?  "  touching  his  hat. 

"No — or,  stop, — yes,"  said  the  Captain. 
I'  Ask  private  Fairlie  to  come  to  me." 

Saying  which,  the  Captain  leaned  back  as 
f  overcome  with  the  exertion  of  speaking, 
Irew  an  embroidered  tobacco-pouch  from  his 
)qcket,  and  rolled  a  cigarette.  As  he  looked 
it  the  tobacco-pouch,  he  became  conscious 
)f  a  tingling  sensation  in  the  bridge  of  his 
lose,  which,  having  been  veiy  much  sun- 
burned, had  begun  to  peel.  This  tobacco- 
)ouch  bore  the  initials  A.  M. — P.  H.,  and  was 
i  favorite  trinket  of  his.  Out  of  it,  it  had  been 
us  custom  (being  always  a  lazy  man)  to  tease 


his  fair  friends  into  rolling  cigarettes  with 
their  own  white  fingers. 

"  I  am  a  damned  fool,"  he  remarked,  with 
more  emphasis  than  the  occasion  seemed  to 
require.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that  his  sun- 
burned nose  should  tingle.  Lighting  his  cig- 
arette, he  puffed  a  moment  vigorously ;  but 
it  was  badly  made,  and  the  tobacco  soon  es- 
caped from  a  seam  at  the  side.  Before  he  had 
time  to  roll  another,  a  stout,  blue-eyed  coun- 
tryman in  the  garb  of  a  soldier  stood  before 
him ;  and  the  Captain  became  aware  that 
private  Fairlie  had  saluted  him,  and  was  look- 
ing at  him  with  an  expression  of  unmistakable 
aifection  in  his  simple  countenance. 

"  Private  Fairlie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  honor,"  said  Fairlie,  with  an- 
other salute. 

"  You  are  the  man  whose  horse  was  shot 
under  him,  and  who  rode  behind  me  into 
camp  from  the  skirmish  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Oh,  your  honor "  began  Fairlie,  with 

yet  another  salute ;  but  this  attempt  at  mil- 
itary discipline  did  not  conceal  a  most  un- 
doubted blubber. 

"  There,  there !  "  said  the  Captain,  "  enough 
of  that.  You  were  nearly  senseless  when  I 
picked  you  up,  and  you  said  something  about 
Kate.  If  I  mistake  not,  that  name,  which  I 
take  to  be  feminine,  was  several  times  re- 
peated during  our  ride.  Now  you  will  over- 
look my  curiosity,  but  I  should  really  like 
very  much  to  know  :  Who  is  Kate  ?  " 

"  Kate,  your  honor  ?  Why,  Kate — Kate  ? 
I  don't  mind  telling  your  honor — she  — 
your  honor  knows,  she  lives  near  father's 
farm  —  and  she  said  as  how  she'd  —  least- 
wise, she  wouldn't  the?i,  your  honor  —  but 
she  said  as  how  she'd  have  me  if  so  be  as 
I  comes  back  from  the  wars  alive ;  and  you 
see,  your  honor,  when  I  got  under  that  there 
horse,  sir,  it  come  kind  of  natural  to  think  of 
her,  and " 

"  Private  Fairlie,  you're  a  fool." 

"  Yes,  your  honor." 

The  conversation  ended,  as  it  had  begun, 
with  a  salute.  The  Captain  rubbed  his  nose 
with  his  handkerchief,  which  caused  the  upper 
part  of  that  organ  to  tingle  as  before.  Fairlie 
having  no  handkerchief,  scraped  the  sand  with 
the  inner  edge  of  his  right  boot.  The  heat 
was  really  terrific,  and  both  men  were  daz- 
zled with'  the  glare  of  the  white  tent.  There 
was  a  smell  of  dust  and  horses ;  the  camp  was 
so  still  that  the  cattle  could  be  heard  striking 
the  earth  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  arena. 
The  Captain  rose  and  looked  through  the  end 
of  his  tent  between  two  of  the  carts.  There 
was  a  double  force  of  sentries  on  duty,  and 
they  were  intently  watching  the  low  edge  of 
bush  that  rimmed  the  plain.  There  was  noth- 


544 


A   FIRST  LOVE-LETTER. 


ing  to  show  that  the  bush  was  occupied.  He 
returned  to  Fairlie. 

"  Private  Fairlie,  do  you  suppose  Kate 
would  care  if  you  lost  your  precious  skin  ?  " 
The  Captain  spoke  gruffly.  Fairlie  stared  at 
him  stupidly.  At  first  he  seemed  disposed  to 
tears  again.  Finally  he  grinned. 

"  Private  Fairlie,"  said  the  Captain,  more 
quietly,  "  I  wish  you  to  carry  some  dispatches 
back  to  Colonel  Haddon  at  the  general  head- 
quarters. You  will  take  my  horse,  and  start 
at  dusk.  He  will  carry  you  over  the  sixty 
miles  before  dawn.  Of  course,  you  must  es- 
cape unseen.  There  is  no  moon,  and  you 
must  be  within  call  of  the  sentries  at  head- 
quarters before  daybreak.  You  will  deliver 
the  dispatches  to  Colonel  Haddon  himself.  It 
is  a  chance  if  you  get  there  with  the  dis- 
patches; but  if  you  do,  there  will  be  among 
them  a  letter  asking  for  a  furlough  for  your- 
self. When  you  have  got  it,  you  will  return  to 
England,  and  take  a  letter  I  shall  give  you  to 
the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  Mind, 
you  must  insist  on  putting  it  into  her  own 
hands."  Fairlie  saluted.  "  When  you  have 
done  this,  you  will  go  back  to  Derbyshire,  and 
I  strongly  advise  you  .to  stay  there.  I  will 
give  you  money  to  purchase  your  discharge. 
You  understand  ?  " 

Private  Fairlie  was  a  stupid  man;  but, 
after  some  moments'  hesitation,  he  replied, 
huskily  :  "  Yes,  your  honor." 

"  Good,  my  man.    You  can  go." 

Fairlie  touched  his  hat  mechanically,  and 
turned  away.  He  had  hardly  got  beyond  the 
door  of  the  tent  when  he  turned,  rushed 
back,  grasped  the  Captain's  hand,  and  then, 
with  a  "  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  strode  off  to  his 
mess.  Meantime  the  Captain,  it  being  an 
hour  before  sunset,  closed  the  curtain  of  his 
tent  and  wrote  two  letters.  The  first  was 
brief,  and  has  been  printed  in  army  reports 
and  in  the  newspapers  as  the  last  authentic 
report  from  his  command : 

"CAMP  DERBYSHIRE,  May  20,  1879. 
"  SIR  :  I  have  the  honor  to  report  a  large  force  of 
Zulus  in  the  front,  estimated  at  over  four  thousand.  It 
will  be  impossible  for  us  to  sustain  a  general  attack. 
It  therefore  seems  advisable  that  we  should  be  reen- 
forced  at  the  earliest  possible  date,  or  the  position  we 
now  hold  reoccupied  with  much  greater  force.  I  have 
the  honor  to  be, 

"  Your  most  obedient  servant, 

PHILIP  HAUGHTON,  Captain. 
"Lieut.-Col.  Haddon,  C.  B."  • 

The  second  was  longer,  and  has  never  been 
printed : 

"  To  Miss  ALICE  MANNERS, 

Axe-edge  Moor,    Derbyshire,  England.* 
"  I  love  you,  Alice,  and  have  always  loved  you.    I 
have  sometimes  thought  you  knew  it.     If  you  did  not 
know  it,  I  write  to  tell  you ;  if  you  did,  to  forgive  you. 


"O  my  darling!  you  will  pardon  my  telling  you 
this  now,  will  you  not  ?     You  have  given  me  no  right 
to  send  you  a  love-letter,  dearest ;  but  this  is  one ;  yet 
do  not  be  angry  until  you  have  read  it  all.    Let  me 
think,  now,  that  perhaps  you  love  me  now,  and  now 
only;  and  that  I  would  kiss  you  if  you  were  here.     ' 
My  love — darling,  do  not  throw  the  letter  down.    I     : 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  loved  you  —  how  much,  you 
will  never  know ;  but  you  might  have  learned  from 
others   that  I   loved  you,  and  I  wanted    to  tell   you     , 
myself  before  I  died. 

"  I  am  here  at  an  outpost  in  Africa,  with  half  a  com- 
pany. The  orders  are  to  hold  our  camp  at  all  hazard, 
and  we  shall  certainly  be  attacked  before  dawn.  If  I 
thought  there  was  any  hope  of  our  escaping,  I  should 
not  write  to  you  thus ;  but  you  will  pardon  me,  dear, 
for  we  cannot  retreat,  and  there  is  no  chance  of  de- 
fense or  reenforcement.  Indeed  there  is  not. 

"  My  men  all  know  it,  too ;  but  they  are  very  quiet.  •, 
They  are  brave  fellows,  and  I  think  they  like  me.  jj 
Perhaps  it  is  wrong  in  me  to  send  one  of  them  away  ' 
to  carry  this  letter  to  you;  but  he  is  a  Derbyshire  I 
man,  and  was  crying  to-day  over  his  sweetheart,  and  J 
I  could  not  help  it.  I  wanted  him  to  get  home  to  her ;  jj 
and  one  less  to  be  killed  here  makes  little  difftrence.  | 
I  should  like  you  to  help  him  a  little  when  he  gets  to 
England. 

"  I  hope  that  you  are  very  happy.  You  must  forgive 
me  for  telling  you.  You  will  not  think  it  wrong  for 
me  to  write  so now  ? 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Alice. 

"PHILIP  HAUGHTON." 


It  was  some  months  after  the  date  of  this 
letter  that  the  guests  at  Carysbridge  Hall,  in 
Derbyshire,  were  awaiting  dinner.  It  is  a 
nuisance,  waiting  for  dinner ;  particularly  'i 
when  you  are  standing  before  the  fire,  as  was 
Major  Brandyball,  and  supporting  a  portly 
person  in  patent-leather  pumps  a  trifle  small. 
Dinner  was  a  formal  affair  at  Carysbridge. 
There  were  many  guests  for  the  pheasant 
shooting  and  Sir  John  was  entertaining 
largely  in  honor  of  his  young  wife.  But  a 
man  had  come  just  before  dinner,  and  had 
insisted  on  seeing  Lady  Gary  personally ;  and 
she  had  now  been  gone  nearly  half  an  hour. 

"  I  wonder  who  it  can  be  ? "  said  the 
Countess  Dowager  to  Brandyball.  The  Count- 
ess Dowager  liked  to  know  everything;  that 
is,  everything  about  her  friends.  "  The  serv- 
ant said  the  man  seemed  to  be  a  soldier." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Major,  "  I  think  Lady 
Cary  used  to  have  some  friends  in  the  army 
—  \vhen  she  was  Miss  Manners." 

Further  conversation  was  checked  by  Lady 
Gary's  return.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman, 
Sir  John's  wife ;  and  she  never  looked  better 
than  on  that  night.  The  Major  noticed 
she  held  a  letter  crumpled  in  one  hand; 
her  haste  had  given  her  a  heightened  o 
She  must  have  been  gone  over  half  an  hoi 

"  Forgive  me  for  keeping  you  all  so  lonj 
she  said,  with  her  sweet  smile.  "  Lord  Arthi 
will  you  take  the   Countess  Dowager  in 
dinner  ?" 

J.  S.,  of  Dak. 


THE    CRUISE    OF   THE    "ALICE    MAY." 


VERY  one  has  heard  of  the  Gulf  of  St.  Law- 
rence, but  few  are  aware  of  the  variety  and 
beauty  of  the  attractions  it  offers  to  the  tour- 
ist and  the  artist.  Even  to  such  as  have  given 
it  some  thought  it  generally  appears  to  be  a 
region  of  mists,  snow,  and  storms,  and  more 
or  less  enveloped  in  hyperborean  glooms.  But 
recently  sportsmen  and  yacht  sailors  have 
begun  to  visit  the  western  shores  of  the  gulf, 
and  a  suspicion  is  dawning  on  the  mind  of 
the  summer  rambler  that  this  part  of  the  world 
has  been  maligned,  and  that  during  the  sum- 
mer solstice  it  offers  a  variety  of  attractions 
up  to  this  time  all  but  unknown. 

Anxious  to  see  for  ourselves  the  truth  of 
the  matter,  and  to  view  some  of  these  points 
of  interest  before  the  tide  of  summer  travel 
had  worn  away  the  novelty,  we  prepared  a 
cruise  round  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence  and  the  adjacent  waters. 

The  point  of  departure  was  Charlottetown,  Prince  Edward 
Island.  Through  the  kindness  of  a  friend  residing  there,  a  suitable 
schooner  was  chartered.  But  when  the  day  for  taking  possession 
arrived,  the  schooner  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance.  Here,  at  the 
very  outset,  we  encountered  one  of  the  most  common  annoyances 
which  a  punctual  man  and  a  Yankee  is  forced  to  endure  in  the 
maritime  provinces.  Punctuality  or  appreciation  of  the  value  of 
time  is  scarcely  understood  there.  Without  delay,  we  threw  out 
scouts  in  every  direction  to  report  on  the  matter  of  available 
Ichooners.  Long  search  was  attended  by  many  pleasant  incidents.  It  gave  us  an  oppor- 
[unity  to  see  much  of  this  charming  island,  and  to  enjoy  the  genial  hospitality  of  its 
people,  especially  the  kind  folk  of  Charlottetown.  This  is  a  quiet  but  attractive  place  of 
jome  ten  thousand  inhabitants.  On  the  outskirts,  especially  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
ijovernor's  mansion,  there  is  much  beauty  in  the  residences,  which  are  surrounded  by 
jhrubbery  and  situated  by  the  water-side. 
I  Tuesdays  and  Fridays  are  the  days  when  Charlottetown  shows  the  most  evidence  of 


OFF     PASPEBIAC. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 51. 


546 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


BEACH     AT    TRACADIE. 


activity  and  commercial  prosperity.  The  mar- 
ket-house occupies  a  prominent  place  in  the 
square  where  the  Government  buildings  are 
situated.  On  these  days  it  is  crowded  by  both 


Dunk,  the-  Hunter, 
and  the  Morell  riv- 
ers, abound  with 
fine  salmon  and 
trout  fishing,  and 
the  long  reaches 
of  sand  along  the 
easterly  shore  are 
frequented  by  snipe, 
plover,  and  duck. 
Everywhere  a  pas- 
toral peace  per- 
vades the  farms  on 
the  edge  of  the  for-  j 
ests.  Fine  droves 
of  horses  enliven 
the  fields,  and  re-  ' 

mind  one  of  Thessaly,  the  land  of  fleet-footed  | 
steeds. 

It  is  not  singular  that  these  attractions  have  i 
begun  to  draw  the  attention  of  summer  tour- 
ists, who  find  comfortable  accommodations 
at  the  farm-houses  or  at  the  hotels  erected  at 
such  charming  resorts  as  Rustico  and  Traca-i( 
die.    Houses  may  also  be  rented  by  the  season 
on  very  moderate  terms.    It  is  to  the  influx 
of  such  visitors,  with  pockets  popularly  sup-j 
posed  to  be  lined  with  gold,  that  the  island 
may  reasonably  look  for  a  return  of  some  of  itSj 
vanished  prosperity.    The  facilities  for  observ- 
ing the  scenery  of  Prince  Edward  Island  arei 


the  city  and  country  folk,  the  latter  including    greatly   aided  by   a   narrow-gauge    railroad. 


a  few  Indians.  An  active  barter  in  provisions 
takes  place  between  the  townspeople  and  the 
farmers,  while  that  part  of  the  city  bears  the 
appearance  of  a  gala  day. 


which  is  always  sure  to  be  used,  as  the  Domin- 
ion agreed  to  keep  it  going  when  the  islanc 
entered  into  the  confederation;  but  no  on* 
expects  it  ever  to  pay  its  expenses.  The 


Two  causes  have  recently  produced  great  lobster-canning  business,  which  has  also  as- 
commercial  depression  on  the  island.  These  sumed  great  dimensions  in  Prince  Edwarc 
are  the  failure  of  the  Prince  Edward  Island  Island,  might  likewise  be  considered  a  power. 
Bank, through  the — what  shall  we  call  it? — of  ful  means  of  driving  the  wolf  from  the  door 
the  directors,  and  the  decline  in  ship-building, 
which,  until  the  primeval  forests  had  been  cut 
down,  was  a  great  source  of  revenue  to  the 
island.  The  failure  of  the  fisheries  and  the  ab- 
sence of  American  fishermen  from  the  Gulf, 
partly  caused  by  the  short-sighted  policy  of 
the  Dominion  Government,  have  also  affected 
the  prosperity  of  this  province.  In  summer 
time  Prince  Edward  Island  enjoys  a  delight- 
ful temperature :  the  mercury  ranges  for  three 
months  from  sixty  to  seventy-six  degrees, 


if  but   the   uncertain   crustaceans   could 
depended  upon.    But  they  take  no  interest) 
whatever   in    the   designs  of  capitalists   am 
fishermen  to  ship  them  to  the  markets  of  th« 
world   in   elegantly  labeled   tin   cases,  and 
declining  to  cooperate  in  these  schemes  wheii 
the  season  comes  around,  may  take  a  notio^ 
to  forsake  their  haunts  for  parts  unknowr 
Then  the  canning  factory  is  closed,  and  th 
fisherman's  dory  lies  bleaching  on  the  shor-, 
while   he    anxiously  smokes    his    pipe   an 
talks  of  emigrating  to  the  United  States, 


sixty  to 

rarely  varying  from  those  figures.    The    air 

is  dry  and  free  from  fogs,  and,  as  the  wind    ligning  the  day  when  the  island  entered  th 
invariably  comes  off  the  sea,  the  island   is    Dominion.   In   default  of  any  better  caus 
exceedingly   healthful.    The    advantages    for    the  people  generally  agree  in  tracing  their  M 
summer  visitors  are  increased  by  the  abun- 
dance of  fresh  meat  and  other  provisions,  the 
cheapness  of  living,  and  the  loveliness  of  the 
drives  in  every  direction  over  a  country  that 
is  gently  undulating,  verdurous,  and  always 
in  sight  of  the  sea.    The  rivers,  notably  the 


to   this   union;    but  the   sequence  is  by  n 
means  self-evident. 

Gazing  over  these  pleasant  landscapes  an* 
breathing  the  soft  southern  breeze,  it  is  dirl 
cult  to  realize  that  for  many  months  il" 
island  is  not  only  covered  with  snow  1- 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


547 


an  enormous  depth,  but  also  well-nigh  shut 
out  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  a  tremen- 
dous barrier  of  ice.  From  January  until  May, 
at  least,  Northumberland  Strait  is  frozen  over. 
The  mails  are  carried  across  at  the  narrowest 
part,  near  Cape  Tormentine,  or  Jourimain, 
a  distance  of  nine  miles.  The  carriers  drag 
a  boat  over  the  hummocks  of  ice  which  is 
provided  with  runners  like  a  double  keel. 
When  they  come  to  open  water  they  cross  in 


solitude  and  hazard.  In  the  spring  of  1882 
the  Northern  Light  was  three  weeks  making 
this  brief  passage,  fast  locked  in  the  ice-packs. 
Sometimes  she  was  carried  close  to  the  shore, 
but  no  one  could  bring  aid  to  the  starving 
passengers,  owing  to  the  threatening  condition 
of  the  ice.  It  was  only  after  burning  all  the 
woodwork  in  the  cabin  for  fuel,  and  being 
reduced  to  the  last  biscuit,  that  the  worn-out 
and  hopeless  passengers  reached  the  destined 


THE    MAIL-BOAT    AT    PRINCE     EDWARD     ISLAND. 


I  the  boat.  It  is  a  dangerous  and  arduous  jour- 
|  ney,  and  few  undertake  it  besides  the  hardy 
mail-carriers.  For  two  or  three  winters  past 
the  passage  has  been  made  sometimes  by  the 
steamer  Northern  Light,  constructed  especially 
for  this  service.  She  has  a  frame  of  enormous 
strength,  somewhat  of  a  wedge  form,  with  a 
|  solid  shoe  of  iron  at  the  bow ;  everything 
;  about  her  was  planned  to  enable  her  to 
I  crush  her  way  through  the  ice,  which  is  often 
ifrom  two  to  four  feet  thick.  Her  course 
jis  from  Pictou  to  Georgetown,  a  distance  of 
Isome  eighty  miles,  although  she  often  has  to 
!go  over  two  or  three  times  that  distance  to 
jreach  her  port.  In  all  the  annals  bf  steam 
'navigation  there  is  no  such  packet  service  re- 
corded as  this  of  the  Northern  Light.  Some- 
times the  ice  is  so  dense  that  she  can  make 
|no  headway,  but  is  jammed  fast  for  days  and 
|weeks,  or  carried  to  and  fro  by  the  combined 
ifury  of  ice  and  storms.  The  passenger  who 
starts  in  her  for  Prince  Edward  Island  in 
(March  has  before  him  the  horrors  of  polar 


port.  Think  of  a  civilized  and  enlightened 
people,  in  this  age,  shut  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  world  by  such  a  frightful  siege  of  ice  and 
tempest  and  snow !  Nor  is  this  an  occasional 
thing.  As  regularly  as  the  winter  comes 
around,  the  islanders  look  forward  to  this 
long  hibernation  and  isolation.  Were  it  not 
for  this  drawback,  the  island  might  be  a  par- 
adise. During  the  long  winter  the  people 
contrive  to  exist  with  some  comfort,  and  find 
compensations  for  their  solitude.  Sleigh-rides 
and  skating  are  followed  with  much  zest,  and 
there  is  a  good  deal 
of  merriment  and 
festivity. 

Charlottetown  is, 
of  course,  the  cen- 
ter of  life  in  Prince 
Edward  Island,  but 
the  social  distinc- 
tions are  drawn  with 
considerable  and, 
perhaps,  unneces- 


MIDSHIP    FRAME    OF    THE 
"NORTHERN   LIGHT." 


548 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


sary  emphasis.  Lying  as  it  does  on  an  arm 
of  the  sea  which  extends  east  and  west 
some  forty  miles  like  a  river,  this  city  enjoys 
fine  facilities  for  aquatic  sports,  while  the 
drives  in  the  neighborhood  are,  during  the 


Catholic.  There  are,  however,  many  Protest- 
ant Scotch  mingled  with  the  others,  and,  with 
the  exception  of  the  annually  recurring  public 
school  question,  they  appear  to  live  together 
very  peaceably. 


THE    STEAMER     "NORTHERN     LIGHT"     CROSSING     FROM    THE    MAINLAND    TO    THE    ISLAND. 


summer,  very  agreeable.  Everything  here 
is,  however,  on  a  reduced  scale,  except  the 
land  and  water,  and  the  ideas  of  the  coun- 
try people  are  on  a  level  with  their  environ- 
ment. They  tell  a  good  story  of  a  country 
lout  who  had  never  seen  any  larger  place 
than  Souris,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  isl- 
and, not  even  Charlottetown.  Souris  has 
about  two  thousand  inhabitants.  One  of 
his  companions  made  a  trip  to  New  York, 
and  on  his  return  expatiated  on  the  vast- 
ness  of  that  great  city.  "  And  now,  and  is 't 
as  large  as  Souris,  then  ?  "  inquired  the  for- 
mer, incredulously. 

Money  goes  far  here,  because  it  is  scarce, 
and  time  and  provisions,  the  chief  commod- 
ities, are  cheap.  The  people  are  mostly  of 
Scotch  descent.  The  remnants  of  a  tribe  of 
Micmacs,  civilized  almost  out  of  existence, 
still  occupy  a  reservation  on  Indian  Island, 
in  Richmond  Bay,  and  sell  baskets  and  bead- 
work  at  the  weekly  market.  Descendants  of 
the  original  Acadian  French  yet  farm  the 
lands  about  Rustico  and  Ingonish.  They  have 
a  convent  at  the  latter  place.  By  far  the  most 
numerous  people  on  Prince  Edward  Island 
are  the  Highland  Scotch,  They  came  here 
originally  from  the  Hebrides,  driven  from 
home,  it  is  said,  by  the  religious  oppression 
of  the  lairds.  They  have  increased  and  mul- 
tiplied, and,  with  the  addition  of  the  French 
habitans,  nearly  half  the  population  is  Roman 


The  Scotch  have  a  Caledonian  Club  a 
Charlottetown,  and  once  a  year  there  is  a 
great  gathering  of  the  clans,  with  a  corre 
sponding  display  of  plaids.  The  same  clan 
names  reappear  so  constantly  that,  in  orde 
to  avoid  confusion,  curious  sobriquets  are 
often  attached  to  a  person's  name;  as,  fo 
example,  a  certain  McDonald  is  called  Re( 
Angus  McDonald,  to  distinguish  him  from 
White  Angus  McDonald.  One  of  the  mos 
prominent  families  of  Prince  Edward  Islam 
is  that  of  James  Yeo,  who  accumulated  a  ver 
large  fortune  in  ship-building.  His  sons  are 
members  of  the  Dominion  Parliament.  He 
came  from  England  as  a  cabin-boy,  and  the 
rough  school  in  which  he  was  bred  always 
marked  his  character.  Many  curious  stories 
about  him  are  current.  When  annoyed  by  any 
family  jar,  he  would  secrete  himself  in.  the 
cuddy  of  an  old  schooner  with  a  keg  of  rum 
and  remain  there  until  it  was  exhausted.  He 
once  lost  a  brig,  and  three  of  the  crew  also 
perished;  when  alluding  to  the  misfortune 
he  exclaimed,  "  Poor  things !  two  souls  and 
an  Irishman !  " 

Prince  Edward  Island  was  first  discoverec 
by  Cabot,  who  called  it    St.  John's    Ish 
which  name  it  retained  till    1800;    and 
French  still  call  it  Isle  St.  Jean.    Vei 
took  possession  of  it  for  France  in  1523,  ai 
the  French  at  once  established  a  number 
fishing  stations  there.  But  the  island  was  a 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE   ALICE   MAY. 


549 


A     FISH-BOY. 


to 


England  by  the  treaty  of  Fontainebleau,  title  of  lords  of  hundreds.    They  w.ere  to  owe 

[and  Lord  Egmont  was  appointed  to  draw  up  allegiance  to  him  as  lord  paramount.     The 

a  form  of  colonial  government.  Assuming  that  baronies  were  in  turn  to  be  subdivided  into 

the  Micmac  Indians  were  ferocious  savages,  manors.    Fairs  were  to  occur  four  times  yearly 

instead  of  the  inoffensive  beings  they  proved  in  each  barony,  and  markets  twice   weekly. 


to  be,  he  laid  out  an  absurd  plan  to  divide  the 
2,000,000  acres  at  his  disposal  into  fifty  parts, 
called  baronies,  of  which  forty  were  to  be 
granted  to  as  many  colonists,  bearing  the 


Feudal  castles  were  to  be  built  likewise  to 
protect  the  colonists  in  a  place  of  which  it  was 
said,  "  The  settler  can  scarce  straggle  from 
his  habitation  five  hundred  yards,  even  in 


55° 


THE   CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


OUR    COOK. 


times  of  peace, 
without  risk 
of  being  inter- 
cepted, scalp- 
ed, and  mur- 
dered." 

This  was  in- 
deed a  narrow 
escape  from  a 
preposterous 
attempt  to  im- 
port to  the 
New  World  an 
exploded  system  of  the  past.  But,  although 
Lord  Egmont's  plan  was  finally  rejected,  a 
scarcely  less  objectionable  one  was  adopted, 
by  whose  provisions  the  island  was  divided 
into  sixty-one  lots.  One  of  these  went  to  the 
Crown,  and  the  others  were  sold  in  one  day 
to  the  highest  bidders.  It  is  only  recently, 
and  after  a  long  struggle,  that  Prince  Ed- 
ward Island  has  become  independent  of  this 
system. 

While  picking  up  these  notes  by  the  way,  we 
were  pursuing  our  indefatigable  search  for  a 
schooner,  as  the  season  was  well  advanced,  and 
the  time  to  cruise  in  those  waters  is  before  the 
September  equinoctial.  At  last  we  heard  of  a 
desirable  craft  at  Miminegash,  an  obscure 
port  but  little  known  to  fame.  A  bargain  was 
closed  after  much  chaffering  with  the  owner,  an 
owre  canny  Scot,  and  the  vessel  was  brought 
around  to  Charlottetown  to  be  manned  and 
provisioned.  The  Alice  May,  of  Miminegash, 
was  fifty-nine  feet  long  and  sixteen  feet  wide, 
and  with  a  full  set  of  ballast  drew  seven  feet 
aft.  She  registered  fifty-six  tons,  and,  be- 
ing intended  for  a  freighter,  had  a  flat  floor 
and  could  hardly  be  called  a  clipper.  But 
she  was  very  strong  and  reasonably  safe.  Be- 


for  four  men.  This  also  served  for 
a  galley,  after  the  manner  of  small 
coasters.  We  therefore  turned  the 
hold  into  a  cabin,  and  a  very  com- 
fortable and  spacious  place  it  proved 
to  be.  By  fixing  two  bulkheads  of 
deal  fore  and  aft,  we  obtained  a 
"  saloon  "  eighteen  feet  long  by  six- 
teen feet  wide,  exactly  amidships. 
A  small  trunk  or  booby-hatch  with 
a  slide  was  arranged  over  the  main 
hatch  for  a  companion-way.  Plain 
bunks  were  fixed  to  each  side,  ample 
as"  a  divan,  thus  serving  alternately 
for  berth,  sofa,  or  lounge,  as  circum- 
stances might  suggest.  Our  table  was  at  the 
after  end,  and  a  cylindrical  stove,  which  is  in- 
dispensable for  a  cruiser  in  those  waters,  even 
in  midsummer,  was  at  the  opposite  end.  Un- 
der the  bunks  were  lockers  for  our  stores.  Nu- 
merous cleats,  nails,  and  shelves  were  soon 
festooned  with  coats,  caps,  sou'westers,  storm- 
boots,  spy-glasses,  charts,  fowling-pieces,  wa- 
ter-jugs, pipes,  fishing-rods,  and  the  indispen- 
sable looking-glass  and  barometer.  There  was 
no  paint  anywhere  except  such  as  we  daubed  in 
artistic  dabs  during  the  cruise,  with  the  palette 
knife  when  cleaning  a  palette.  But  the  gen- 
eral effect  was  not  by  any  means  unattractive. 
It  certainly  suggested  comfort,  and  prepara- 
tion for  any  emergency  that  might  occur. 

Our  crew  consisted  of  a  captain,  a  mate, 
and  one  man  before  the  mast.  It  was  thought 
this  would  be  sufficient  with  the  cook,  who 
might  bear  a  hand  on  occasion ;  and  we  were 
able,  in  case  of  need,  to  stand  a  watch  in  bad 
weather  ourselves.  These  coasters  generally 
get  along  with  one  man  on  deck  in  good 
weather  to  steer  and  to  keep  a  lookout.  Some- 
times even  he  falls  asleep  at  the  wheel,  and 
everything  is  left  to  chance.  It  is  a  happy- 
go-lucky  way,  which  works  very  well  until 
something  happens.  A  majority  of  the  acci- 
dents to  coasting  vessels  from  collision  or 
squalls  are  the  result  of  gross  laziness  or  cul- 
pable carelessness. 

Captain  Welch  had  in  his  day  been  master 
of  square-rigged  vessels,  but,  being  now  well 
along  in  years,  was  forced  to  put  up  with 
fore-and-afters.  It  requires  a  special  expe- 
rience to  sail  a  schooler  well ;  but  still  the 
sailing  of  a  square-rigged  vessel  is  more  com- 
plicated, and*  is,  at  any  rate,  considered  a 
grade  higher  in  seamanship.  The  captain's 
white  beard,  the  far-off  look  in  his  wrinkled 


ing  heavily  sparred  for  a  coaster,  and  carrying    eyes,  the  poetic  speech  in  which  he  indulged, 
sail  well,  she   was  properly  fitted  to  grapple 
with  the  variable  weather  we  expected  to  en- 
counter. 

The  Alice  May  had  no  forecastle  for  the 
crew,  but  only  a  small  cuddy  aft,  with  bunks 


and  his  nervous  temperament,  easily  elat 
or  depressed,  would  far  more  easily  ha\ 
made  him  pass  for  a  Celtic  bard  than 
old  man  of  the  sea.  John,  the  mate,  was 
Frenchman,  short,  quick,  and  of  mercuii 


THE    CRUISE    OF   THE   ALICE   MAY. 


551 


disposition.  Bill,  who  in  his  single  person 
represented  the  crew,  was  every  inch  a  sailor, 
large,  lithe,  powerful,  and  efficient  i'f  well 
commanded;  he  had  the  real  seaman's  grip  that 
would  enable  him  to  hang  on  to  a  foot-rope 


waves  have  rendered  as  sensitive  as  the  needle 
of  a  compass.  He  must  also  understand  how 
to  make  eatable  bread,  and  take  his  duff  out 
of  the  kettle  on  Sunday  as  light  as  cotton  and 
as  delicate  as  sponge-cake.  Besides  this,  he 


AMATEUR     COOKING. 


with  his  eyelids,  and  the  nonchalant  reckless- 
ness or  stupid  dare-deviltry  which  made  him 
careless  of  dangers  with  which  he  was  familiar, 
while  cowardly  in  the  presence  of  new  forms 
of  peril.  Fond  he  was,  too,  of  his  grog,  and  of 
handling  his  knife  when  half  seas  over,  and 
was  never  without  the  everlasting  quid  press- 
ing out  his  cheek  like  a  walnut  in  a  squirrel's 
mouth.  In  a  *word,  Bill  was  a  representative 
blue-water  sailor. 

It  is  needless  to  go  into  the  details  of  the 
provisions  stored  in  the  schooner  for  a  cruise 
of  two  months.  Everything  was  ready,  the 
rigging  overhauled,  the  last  nail  pounded  in ; 
the  winds  were  favorable;  and  yet  \ve  were 
detained  at  Charlottetown  day  after  day,  un- 
able to  sail.  It  was  a  cook  that  we  waited 
for :  what  was  the  use  of  having  provisions, 
fuel,  or  galley,  without  a  cook  ?  A  sea  cook  is 
a  peculiar  character,  requiring  a  special  train- 
ing. He  must  know  how  to  prepare  a  sea 
hash  out  of  salt  horse  flavored  with  onions, 
incrusted  with  the  variegated  browns  of  pol- 
ished mahogany,  and  savory  enough  to  create 
»n  appetite  in  a  stomach  that  the  tossing 


must  know  how  to  economize  in  the  use  of 
water  and  provisions ;  and,  more  difficult  yet, 
he  must  contrive  to  keep  the  crew  satisfied 
with  the  mess  he  cooks  for  them,  while  at  the 
same  time  he  looks  out  sharply  for  the  inter- 
ests of  his  employer  and  the  captain.  He 
must  also  be  proof  against  the  worst  weather, 
and  undeviatingly  punctual  to  the  hours  of 
meals.  It  goes  without  saying  that  it  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  find  such  a  paragon  in  the  gal- 
ley ;  but  when  he  is  there,  he  is,  next  to  the 
captain,  by  far  the  most  important  character  on 
board.  We  had  made  up  our  minds  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  a  cook  in  Charlotte- 
town  combining  such  exalted  qualifications, 
who  would  be  willing  to  go  for  such  a  brief 
cruise,  and  were  prepared  to  take  up  almost 
any  one  that  offered.  But  we  were  not  pre- 
pared to  meet  such  a  gang  of  shiftless,  shuf- 
fling, vacillating,  prevaricating,  self-compla- 
cent, exorbitant,  and  utterly  good-for-nothing 
varlets  as  those  who  applied  for  the  position,  or 
whom  we  discovered  after  chasing  through  the 
lanes,  sailors'  boarding-houses,  and  purlieus 
of  Charlottetown.  Over  and  over  again  we 


S52 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


thought  we  had  engaged  a  man ;  but  when 
the  time  came  to  sail,  he  was  not  to  be  found. 


came  to  anchor,  and  went  on  shore  to  learn 
if  there  was  any  telegram  regarding  a  cook. 


At  last,  out  of  all  patience  with  the  whole    To  our  intense  relief,  we  learned  that  we  should 
business,  we  telegraphed  to  a  friend  in  St.    find  one  at  Point  du  Chene  waiting  for  us. 


BURNING     REFUSE     FROM     THE    LUMBER     MILLS. 


John,  New  Brunswick,  to  send  us  a  cook,  and 
that  we  would  pick  him  up  at  Point  du 
Chene.  No  reply  had  arrived  to  the  telegram 
when  we  sailed,  and  thus  we  started  without 
a  cook,  in  a  sort  of  vain  hope  of  stumbling 
across  one  at  some  port. 

A  group  of  our  good  friends  at  Charlotte- 
town  came  down  to  the  wharf  to  give  us  a 
send-off.  Healths  were  exchanged,  the  can- 
vas was  spread,  and  we  shoved  off.  As  the 
little  vessel  gathered  way  before  the  southerly 
breeze,  they  gave  a  parting  hurrah,  and  we 
returned  the  salute  by  emptying  our  revolvers 
and  dipping  the  red  colors  and  jack  of  old 
England,  which  flew  at  the  mast-head. 

With  light  and  variable  winds,  we  reached 
Surnmerside  the  next  afternoon.  There  we 


Here  we  also  made  some  of  those  final  pur- 
chases of  stores  which  are  likely  to  be  for- 
gotten on  starting.  Then  we  hurried  on  board 
and  made  sail.  There  was  really  but  little  to 
detain  us  at  Surnmerside.  It  is  a  new  place, 
which  sprang  up  mushroom-like,  and  soon 
threatened  with  its  bustling  prosperity  to 
overtop  every  other  port  in  the  island.  But 
its  growth  stopped  before  it  could  become 
beautified  by  the  slow  growth  of  verdure,  and 
it  is  now  a  mere  naked  cluster  of  warehouses 
and  uninteresting,  cheaply  constructed  dwell- 
ings. But  it  is  situated  on  Bedecque  Bay, 
lovely  estuary  into  which  empties  the  Dui 
River,  whose  waters  are  the  delight  of  tl 
disciples  of  the  gentle  craft.  Midway  in  tl 
bay  lies  Park  Island.  Some  years  ago  a  caj 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


553 


THE     CRUISE     OF     THE     "ALICE     MAY." 


italist  of  Summerside  conceived  the  idea  of 
making  this  island  a  summer  resort.  He  pur- 
chased it,  and  in  its  center  built  a  commo- 
dious hotel,  the  largest  in  Prince  Edward 
Island.  Charming  walks  and  drives  were  cut 
through  the  groves,  bathing-houses  were  put 
up  on  the  beach,  and  numerous  other  attrac- 
tions were  offered  to  guests.  A  small  steamer 
:  was  bought  expressly  to  carry  them  over,  and 
I  it  seemed  as  if  the  place  ought  to  bring  a  profit 
jto  the  enterprising  proprietor  who  had  such 
'  confidence  in  the  charms  of  his  native  isle. 
[But  he  sunk  all  his  fortune  in  this  ill-starred 
Enterprise,  and  his  anxieties  brought  him  to 
;an  early  grave.  The  hotel,  standing  on  the 
telet,  empty  and  deserted,  adds  a  tinge  of 
(dreariness  to  an  otherwise  pleasing  picture. 

As  we  ran  up  the  strait  that  evening,  we 

(had  an  exciting  race  with  a  schooner  bound 

the  same  way,  having  a  number  of  boisterous 

workmen  on  board  going  to  the  mines.    She 

VOL.  XXVII.— 52. 


was  close  alongside,  and  as  we  gained  on  her 
and  were  passing,  she  luffed  up,  being  able  to 
shave  the  wind  a  little  closer  than  the  Alice 
May,  and  tried  to  run  us  down.  We  escaped 
a  collision  by  putting  the  helm  down  quickly. 
Then  keeping  away,  we  passed  her  as  a  strong 
puff  gave  us  increased  headway;  and  as  we 
left  them  astern,  they  gave  a  wild  mocking 
peal  of  laughter  that  had  in  it  a  touch-  of 
deviltry  as  it  rang  over  the  sea.  It  blew  fresh 
that  night,  with  squalls,  and  we  took  in  the 
kites.  We  found  the  schooner  stiff  and  able 
to  carry  sail  hard.  That  night,  as  the  previous 
night,  we  stood  our  watch  on  deck.  But  this 
was  interesting,  compared  with  the  responsi- 
bility of  preparing  meals.  There  were  four  of 
us  in  the  main  saloon,  as  we  styled  it,  or 
three  besides  the  writer  of  this  log.  The 
junior  member  of  the  party,  a  youth  of  sixteen, 
was  nicknamed  the  Infant.  Pendennis,  the 
tallest  of  the  party,  went  by  the  affectionate 


554 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


sobriquet  of  the  Cherub,  probably  because 
of  the  remoteness  of  the  resemblance.  Then 
there  was  my  companion  Burns,  who  was 
already  familiar  with  sea  life.  We  took  turns 
in  preparing  the  meals,  one  of  the  crew  being 
delegated  to  light  the  fire.  We  found  it  con- 
venient to  cultivate  a  taste  for  ham  and  eggs 
or  plain  boiled  eggs,  little  art  being  required 
to  cook  them.  The  cook  for  the  time  being 
was  expected  to  get  his  wages  in  chaff,  of 


finished  her.  We  got  out  the  boat,  carried  an 
anchor  well  out  to  starboard,  and  bowsed  on 
it  for  two  hours  with  no  result.  Meantime,  the 
wind  had  shifted  into  nor'-west  and  was  blow- 
ing a  perfect  screecher.  By  keeping  canvas 
up,  the  vessel  was  finally  pressed  well  over 
on  her  side,  tending  to  move  the  keel  and 
float  her,  and  at  length  she  suddenly  started. 
Then  it  was,  "  Heave  away,  boys ;  be  smart, 
now !  "  in  order  that  she  might  not  overrun 


MILLSTONE    QUARRIES 


which  he  received  an  unlimited  amount  from 
the  others.  Fortunately,  we  all  knew  how  to 
brew  a  good  cup  of  tea,  not  so  easy  an  ac- 
complishment as  some  might  imagine. 

It  began  to  blow  hard  after  midnight,  from 
the  south-west.  The  morning  broke  with  a  very 
wild  offing  and  the  promise  of  a  stormy  day. 
But  we  were  near  to  Point  du  Ch^ne,  the  line 
of  the  long,  low  shore  blending  with  the  scurry- 
ing scud  and  a  yeast  of  white  caps  flashing 
angrily  in  the  fierce  rays  that  shot  through  a 
rift  in  the  clouds.  Lying  well  over  to  the 
blasts,  the  Alice  May  beat  up  toward  the  land, 
and  there  was  every  prospect  of  soon  reaching 
a  snug  anchorage,  when  with  a  violent  shock 
she  struck  on  a  shoal.  The  first  thought  that 
flashed  on  us  was,  Can  it  be  that  the  cruise  is 
going  to  end  just  as  it  begins  ?  But  the  emerg- 
ency called  for  instant  action  rather  than  for 
deliberation.  The  tide  had  yet  a  foot  to  rise, 
and  we  must  float  her  then  or  perhaps  never, 
because  she  lay  in  a  very  exposed  position,  and 
a  shift  of  the  wind  to  south-east  would  have 


the  anchor  as  she  slued  into  deep  water  and 
began  to  gather  way  like  a  bird  released 
from  its  cage. 

We  now  ran  up  and  anchored  at  Point  du 
Chene,  and  went  ashore  to  get  the  cook.  But 
no  cook  was  there.  We  learned  that  he  had 
arrived,  but,  not  finding  us,  had  unwisely  gone 
on  in  the  boat  the  previous  day  to  Charlotte- 
town,  and  could  not  return  until  Monday. 
Disappointment  is  a  feeble  word  to  express 
our  chagrin.  Point  du  Ch£ne,  with  its  neigh- 
bor Shediac,  offers  few  attractions  to  the  tour- 
ist. It  is  merely  the  terminus  of  the  railroad, 
where  the  steam-boat  plying  to  Prince  Ed- 
ward Island  comes  during  the  summer.  But 
we  procured  some  fresh  meat,  took  in  a  little 
more  ballast  to  counteract  a  list  to  starboard, 
and  shipped  another  hand,  who  proved  to  be 
Tom,  the  son  of  Captain  Welch,  who  was  triers 
in  a  schooner.  We  were  now  able  to  have  two} 
men  in  a  watch,  which  relieved  us  from  th^ 
necessity  of  passing  the  night  on  deck.  Mon- 
day morning  we  rowed  in  the  boat  up  th^ 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


555 


^  WB»  lyg 


OUR    FIRST    FISH. 


river  to  Shediac,  a  delightful  sail.  There  we 
found  the  tide  so  low  we  could  not  come  within 
a  hundred  yards  of  the  beach,  even  with  our 
sixteen-foot  yawl.  Seeing  our  predicament,  a 
crowd  of  bare-legged  urchins,  about  the  age 
and  shape  of  cupids,  floated  a  miniature  punt 
off  to  us ;  then,  seizing  the  painter  with  great 
glee  and  noisy  splashing,  they  towed  us  one 
by  one  to  the  shore.  The  air  rang  with  peals 
jOf  laughter  from  the  by-standers;  and  it  was 
I  indeed  a  merry  sight,  and  comical  also,  for 
(the  punt  was  in  constant  danger  of  spilling 
lout  its  occupant. 

At  one  o'clock  we  were  all  on  the  lookout 
ifor  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  from  Summer- 


side.  The  burning  question  of  the  hour  was 
to  cook  or  not  to  cook.  Would  the  cook  be 
on  board  ?  Was  he  white,  black,  or  yellow, 
and  would  he  know  his  business  if  he  actu- 
ally came  ?  The  excitement  grew  as  the  hour 
approached.  The  steamer  hove  in  sight; 
she  ranged  up  to  the  pier;  the  passengers 
stepped  ashore,  and  after  a  brief  interval  our 
boat  was  seen  coming  off  with  a  third  man  in 
the  stern  sheets.  It  must  be  the  cook.  As 
he  drew  nearer,  his  sable  complexion  not 
only  settled  the  question,  but  also  added  a 
strong  probability,  amounting  almost  to  cer- 
tainty, that  he  was  a  good  cook.  Our  surmises 
proved  to  be  correct  in  just  one  minute  after 


556 


THE   CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


OUR     CREW     AT    SUPPER. 


he  stepped  on  deck.  It  had  already  struck 
eight  bells. 

"  Have  you  had  your  dinner  yet,  sir  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

"  No ;  we  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

"All  right,  sir;  you  shall  have  dinner  right 
away." 

Stepping  into  the  galley  in  a  trice,  he  strip- 
ped off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  in 
half  an  hour  we  sat  ylown  to  the  best  meal 
that  had  ever  been  seen  on  board  the  Alice 
May  since  she  left  the  stocks.  From  that  day 
to  the  hour  we  landed  again  in  Charlottetown, 
Henry  Richards  proved  himself  a  capital 
cook,  provided  with  no  end  of  inventive 
culinary  resources;  he  was  indefatigable  in 
the  discharge  of  his  duties,  sober  and  faithful 
to  the  interests  of  his  employers.  Happy  the 
ship  that  sails  with  such  a  cook,  and  happy 
the  diners  who  batten  on  his  beefsteak  and 
onions,  hash,  roly-poly,  and  tea. 

At  sea,  action  and  reflection  go  hand  in 
hand.  One  minute  after  he  boarded  us  Henry 
was  getting  dinner,  and  three  minutes  later 
the  crew  manned  the  windlass,  hove  the  an- 
chor short,  made  sail,  and  we  put  to  sea!  We 
had  a  staving  breeze  from  south-east  and  by 
south,  and  bowled  away  merrily  for  Mira- 
michi.  After  night-fall  the  sky  became  very 
dark,  and  it  blew  heavily.  We  flew  before  sea 
and  wind,  and  made  the  Escumenac  light  in 
the  middle  watch,  but  could  not  run  in  with 


such  weather  without  a  pilot.  We  hove  to 
with  a  tremendous  sea  running,  the  darkness 
aflame  with  flashing  phosphorus,  and  the  little 
schooner  pitching  her  jib-boom  under  and 
knocking  passengers  and  furniture  about  the 
cabin  without  ceremony.  It  does  not  take 
long  to  raise  a  high,  wall-like  swell  in  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  owing  to  the  shoal 
water.  The  lights  of  other  vessels  in  our 
neighborhood,  bobbing  like  will-o'-the-wisps  in 
the  gloom,  and,  like  us,  waiting  for  dawn, 
suggested  a  sharp  lookout.  At  intervals  the 
long,  melancholy  cry*  of  the  loons  floated  . 
down  the  wind  like  the  wail  of  lost  spirits, — a 
sign  of  east  wind,  in  the  opinion  of  some; 
which  led  Captain  Welch  to  observe  the  next 
morning :  "  The  loons  was  a-crying  for  the 
east  wind  all  night." 

A  dapper  little  pilot  schooner  left  a  pilot 
with  us  at  daylight,  and  we  ran  across  the 
bar,  where  a  vessel  was  lost  with  all  on  board 
a  year  or  two  ago  in  a  gale.  It  was  a  long  \ 
but  delightful  beat  up  the  Miramichi  River 
that  day.  After  leaving  the  broad  entrance, 
we  found  the  river  winding,  and  closed  in 
with  lovely  overhanging  cliffs,  crested  with 
verdure  which  festooned  the  caves  that  honey-  ( 
comb  the  rocks.  Picturesque  farms  on 
slopes,  surrounded  by  natural  groves  of  pii 
and  spruce,  and  fishermen's  huts  and  boat 
under  the  cliffs,  gave  life  to  what  is  really  ar 
enchanting  stream. 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


557 


Thirty  miles  from  the  sea,  we  at  last  an- 
chored at  Chatham,  the  wind  blowing  in  vio- 
lent squalls,  which  terminated  in  a  tremen- 
dous thunder-storm,  attended  by  terrific 
gloom.  When  the  clouds  cleared  away,  the 
glow  of  the  setting  sun  illumined  the  wet  roofs 
and  shipping  of  this  bustling  little  place  with 
wonderful  splendor.  Chatham,  as  well  as 
Newcastle,  two  miles  farther  up  on  the  oppo- 
site bank,  was  once  a  great  ship-building  port. 
This  business  has  left  it ;  but  a  great  lumber 
|  trade  has  sprung  up  instead,  which  brings 
profit  to  the  neighborhood,  while  it  is  rapidly 
stripping  the  noble  primeval  woods  of  New 
Brunswick.  Upward  of  three  hundred  square- 
rigged  vessels  arrive  there  during  the  summer 
for  lumber,  chiefly  for  the  foreign  market. 
The  appearance  of  the  town  is  therefore  very 
animated,  with  its  rafts  of  logs,  its  stagings 
and  saw- mills,  and  wharves  lined  with  large 
vessels  two  or  three  abreast.  In  1881  the 
feet  of  lumber  brought  down  the  south-west 
boom  of  the  Miramichi  reached  140,000,000. 
At  night-time,  the  river  front  of  the  town  is 
lurid  with  the  vivid  flames  of  refuse  wood 
burning  in  brick-lined  furnaces  along  the 
river.  Another  large  business  here  is  the 
salmon  fishery.  Chatham  is  on  the  railroad, 
and  the  fish,  packed  in  ice,  are  sent  directly 
to  the  United  States.  Six  car-loads  have  been 
forwarded  from  this  place  alone  in  one  day. 
The  time  for  catching  the  fish  is  from  May 
ist  to  August  1 5th.  Every  farmer  by  the 
river  spreads  his  own  nets  in  the  water  op- 
posite his  land,  and  owns  a  dug-out  to  land 
the  fish.  During  the  winter  large  numbers  of 
!  smelts  and  bass  are  also  caught  through  the 
j  ice,  and  sent  by  rail  to  our  markets. 

July  1 2th  we  filled  our  water-casks,  and,  in 

•  company  with  a  fleet  of  Swedish  and  Nor- 
,  wegian  lumber-laden  barks,  started  down  the 

river.   The  beauty  of  the  shores  induced  us 

to  land  where  a  gang  of  laborers  was  engaged 

;  in  cutting  out  mill-stones,  which  are  an  im- 

•  portant  source  of  profit  at  Miramichi.    They 
|  were  at  work  in    a  romantic   spot  under  a 

cliff,  and  the  click  of  their  mallets  rang  mu- 
!  sically  with  the  plashing  of  the  dashing  cur- 
irent.    A  little   farther   on,   our   boat   glided 
;  into  a  fairy -like  cove.    A  farmer  was  just  re- 
turning from  his  nets  with  some  very  fine 
!  salmon.    If  we  were  like  some  fishermen,  we 
|  might  say  we  caught  salmon  ourselves  on  this 
river.    But  truth  compels   the  more  prosaic 
statement  that  all  the  salmon  we  caught  on 
;the  Miramichi  we  bought  from  this  farmer. 
|  He  asked  us  to  climb  the  cliff  to  his  house, 
which   we   found   superbly  situated    on   the 
brow  of  a  noble  lawn,  terminating  at  the  river 
in   a  precipice.    The    chubby,   flaxen-haired 
; children,  bareheaded   and  barefooted,  gath- 
VOL.  XXVII.— 53. 


ered  round  to  stare  at  us,  with  their  hands 
uneasily  clasped  behind  them,  as  we  sat  in  the 
"  best  room."  The  venerable  grandmother 
brought  us  a  large  jug  full  of  fresh  milk  in  her 
shaking  hand.  While  drinking  it,  we  could 
see  the  upper  sails  of  the  lumber  fleet  above 
the  cliff  as  they  glided  close  by  the  land.  It 
reminded  me  of  many  a  similar  and  familiar 
scene  on  the  Bosphorus.  I  could  not  but 
marvel  that  some  of  our  people  in  search  of 
summer  resorts,  who  are  willing  to  go  to  the 
River  St.  Lawrence,  do  not  build  or  hire 
houses  for  the  summer  on  this  charming  spot, 
the  air  being  delightful,  the  scenery  excep- 
tionally attractive,  salmon  and  trout  abundant, 
and  the  cost  of  living  moderate.  "  It  would 
do  us  a  great  deal  of  good,  sir,  if  some  of 
your  folks  in  the  States  who  have  money 
would  but  come  here  and  buy  our  lands  and 
provisions,"  remarked  the  old  grandmother, 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  gray  eyes,  as  we  bid  her 
good-bye. 

With  a  leading  wind,  we  sailed  down  the 
tortuous  channel  of  the  Miramichi  and  crossed 
the  bar,  with  a  rosy  light  of  evening  flushing 
the  sails  of  the  lumber  fleet.  One  of  them 
we  left  behind.  She  grounded  in  the  channel 
at  high  water,  and  probably  had  to  throw  over 
part  of  her  cargo.  We  headed  now  for  the 
Bay  of  Chaleurs.  The  weather  being  fine,  the 
crew  began  this  evening  the  habit  of  taking 
their  meals  on  deck,  which  they  did  after  this 
whenever  the  weather  permitted.  It  was  an 
interesting  sight  to  watch  them  clustered 
around  the  dishes,  which  were  placed  on  the 
after  part  of  the  trunk.  The  captain  had 
a  separate  seat  at  the  head  of  this  unique 
table,  where  he  presided  with  patriarchal  dig- 
nity, entertaining  the  crew  with  yarns  from 
his  own  varied  experience.  There  is  not  much 
attempt  at  discipline  on  these  down-east 
coasters,  but  the  crew  are  controlled  by  a  sort 
of  family  arrangement.  The  captain  gives  the 
orders  in  an  easy  fashion,  and  the  men  some- 
times give  suggestions  regarding  the  working 
of  the  ship  which  would  procure  them  a 
broken  head  if  attempted  on  a  square-rigged 
vessel.  Captain  Welch  and  the  mate  had  an 
animated  and  by  no  means  amiable  discussion 
one  day  regarding  the  course  to  be  followed, 
without  any  other  result  than  a  continuous 
muttering  on  both  sides,  until  eight  bells 
called  all  hands  to  supper.  The  south-west 
wind  prevails  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence 
during  the  summer  time.  This  is  favorable  to 
yachts  cruising  northward,  but  must  be  taken 
into  calculation  when  they  shape  a  course  for 
home.  This  wind  is  generally  quite  steady, 
freshening  up  at  night ;  but  sometimes  it  in- 
creases to  a  gale,  followed  by  a  strong  west- 
erly wind  for  a  day  or  two.  But  no  depend- 


558 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


ence  whatever  can  be  placed  upon  the  Gulf 
weather  after  the  last  of  August.  Favored  by 
this  southerly  wind,  we  flew  northward  all 
night,  and  the  tight  little  schooner  put  in  her 
"  best  licks,"  as  her  speed  was  tested  better 
with  a  free  wind.  The  wake  was  a  mass  of 
gleaming'foam  interwoven  with  magical  green, 
white,  and  red  sparkles  that  seemed  to  come 
up  like  stars  from  the  black,  mysterious  depths 
below.  The  galaxy,  or  "  milkmaid's  path  "  as 
sailors  call  it,  and  the  northern  lights  gleamed 
at  the  opposite  poles.  It  fell  calm  before  break- 
fast, and  we  caught  a  number  of  cod.  The  low 
shore  of  New  Brunswick  was  on  the  port  beam, 
and  numerous  fishing  boats  were  out.  As  we 
passed  near  one  of  them  laden  with  lobsters, 
we  hailed  her  crew  in  French,  and  threw  them 
ten  cents  fixed  in  the  split  end  of  a  stick.  In 
return  they  hurled  a  shower  of  lobsters  on 
board,  which  came  so  fast  on  deck  that  we 
were  forced  to  duck  our  heads  below  the  rail 
to  avoid  being  hit  by  the  ugly  monsters.  We 
thus  obtained  many  more  lobsters  than  we 
could  possibly  eat.  Never  have  I  seen  lob- 
sters cheaper  or  fresher  than  these. 

At  noon  of  July  i2th,  we  passed  the  oc- 
tagonal light-house  on  the  low,  sandy  point 
at  the  northern  end  of  Shipegan  Island,  and 
were  fairly  in  the  Bay  of  Chaleurs.  Twenty 
miles  across  loomed  the  lofty  northern  shores 
of  the  bay,  beautiful  ranges  of  mountains 
with  jagged  peaks  melting  dreamily  into  the 
thunderous  clouds  brooding  ominously  in  the 
north.  The  southern  shores  of  the  bay  are 
much  lower  and  less  interesting,  and  offer  only 
one  safe  harbor,  Bathurst;  and  that  is  ex- 
posed to  northerly  gales.  Caraquette  is  only 
good  for  light-draught  fishing  craft.  The  glass 
was  now  falling,  and  the  baffling  winds  indi- 
cated a  blow  by  night-time.  The  Bay  of 
Chaleurs  is  ninety  miles  long,  and  is  a  dan- 
gerous sheet  of  water  in  easterly  winds.  But 
it  is  free  from  shoals,  and  has  a  good  bottom 
exceptingnear  the  southern  entrance,  and  there 
is  good  holding  ground  everywhere  near  to  the 
northern  coast.  The  famous  Restigouche  Riv- 
er, coming  from  the  gorges  of  Gaspe  county, 
empties  into  the  bay  at  its  western  end,  near 
Dalhousie.  A  number  of  other  streams,  such 
as  the  Chariot,  the  Bass,  and  Tete  a  Gauche, 
also  find  an  outlet  here.  They  abound  in  fine 
trout  and  salmon — a  fact  which  renders  this 
region  important  for  sportsmen,  who  are  al- 
ready beginning  to  flock  thither  during  the 
summer.  The  bay  has  also  been  a  noted  resort 
of  American  fishermen  on  account  of  its 
mackerel.  But  the  fish  are  now  scarce,  which, 
together  with  the  restrictions  of  the  treaty 
laws,  has  drawn  away  the  American  fishing 
schooners  which  once  resorted  to  these  waters 
by  hundreds.  Owing  to  its  size,  it  has  been  a 


disputed  question  between  the  two  govern- 
ments whether  the  Bay  of  Chaleurs  should 
be  considered  a  bay  or  part  of  the  open  sea — 
a  matter  of  importance  in  the  sea  fisheries. 
The  bay  was  discovered  by  Jacques  Carrier, 
who  probably  suffered  from  the  heat  there, 
judging  from  the  name  he  gave  it.  It  was 
the  scene  of  the  defeat  of  a  French  fleet  by 
the  English  in  1760. 

The  weather  became  very  thick  after  sunset, 
with  a  strong  easterly  breeze.  We  kept  a  good 
lookout,  and  had  a  narrow  escape  from  col- 
lision with  a  French  schooner.  As  they  swept 
by  they  hailed  us  in  French,  and  our  mate 
flung  a  few  choice  French  epithets  in  return. 
At  midnight  the  wind  shifted  into  the  nor'-west 
and  blew  a  fresh  gale,  with  a  nasty  sea.  The 
Alice  May  beat  up  against  it  nobly.  It  was 
now  a  clear  starlight,  and  it  was  exciting  to 
see  the  little  vessel  bending  over  to  her  scup- 
pers in  the  gray  sea  and  flinging  sheets  of  spray 
over  her  cat-heads. 

A  magnificent  dawn  succeeded  this  variable 
night,  and  as  the  sun  burst  above  the  sea,  it  re- 
vealed a  truly  remarkable  scene.  A  slope  of 
extraordinary  regularity,  as  if  it  had  been 
smoothed  with  a  roller,  was  discovered  extend- 
ing some  fifteen  miles  along  the  sea,  where  it 
terminated  in  an  unbroken  line  of  red  cliffs 
from  forty  to  one  hundred  feet  high.  This  fine 
slope  was  covered  with  a  carpet  of  a  vivid 
emerald  hue.  At  the  base  of  the  red,  cavern- 
hollowed  cliffs  rolled  the  sea,  deep-purple 
and  blue.  This  slope  was  outlined  against 
a  distant  range  of  violet-tinted  mountains 
limned  against  an  opalescent  sky.  It  was 
indeed  a  noble  and  exhilarating  prospect* 
But  it  was  rendered  yet  more  remarkable 
by  a  line  of  houses  extending  for  nearly  six 
miles  along  the  crest  of  the  slope.  The  rising 
sun  smote  full  on  these  dwellings,  and,  at  the 
distance  we  were  from  them,  they  looked  like 
the  tents  of  an  army  encamped  there ;  and, 
indeed,  I  thought  at  first  it  might  be  the  camp 
of  militia  taking  their  summer  exercises.  But 
when  the  sun  struck  the  windows  of  these 
houses,  they  flashed  like  stars  over  the  sea  or 
like  beaten  gold. 

As  we  drew  nearer  to  the  land,  we  made 
out  a  long,  low  point,  covered  with  white 
buildings  and  terminating  in  a  light-house, 
the  effect  being  that  of  a  sea-walled  town 
in  the  Mediterranean.  Then  we  knew  that 
we  were  off  the  French  town  of  Paspe- 
biac.  It  had  all  the  rapture  of  a  surprise  fo 
us,  because  never  before  that  morning  had 
heard  of  the  place.  It  really  seemed  as  if 
might  be  an  exhalation  from  the  sea,  a  visr 
of  the  morning,  doomed  to  fade  away  as  tl 
sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens.  But 
keen  gusts  off  the  land,  singing  through 


THE  HERMITAGE. 


559 


rigging  of  our  bending  barkie,  soon  brought 
us  so  near  there  was  no  longer  any  room  to 
doubt  that  we  had  hit  upon  an  important  and 
beautiful  town.  We  anchored  off  the  spit,  but 
soon  slipped  around  to  the  other  side,  where 
we  again  anchored  in  a  roadstead  protected 
from  easterly  winds,  and  reasonably  safe  in 
summer  from  winds  blowing  in  other  quarters. 
With  our  usual  expedition,  we  immediately 
had  the  boat  put  into  the  water  and  went  on 
shore.  The  light-house  and  an  old  wreck 
bleaching  near  to  it  on  the  sandy  beach 
first  impressed  us  as  being  artistically  avail- 
able, as  the  genial  editor  would  say  regarding 
a  manuscript  upon  which  he  is  disposed  to 
bestow  the  smile  of  acceptance.  Having 
sketched  these  objects,  we  adjourned  to  the 
Lion  Inn  to  dine.  This  quaint  little  hostel  is 
on  the  point,  with  water  close  on  either  hand. 
A  one-time  much  gilded  lion,  but  now  some- 
what rusty,  wagged  his  tufted  tail  ferociously 
over  the  door,  and  a  green  settle  on  either 
side  invited  the  guest  to  an  out-of-door  seat 
overlooking  the  bay.  The  buxom  landlady 
was  a  fair-complexioned,  tidy,  blue-eyed  dame 
from  the  isle  of  Jersey.  Wearing  a  huge  sun- 
bonnet,  she  was  feeding  her  chickens  in  the 
road  as  we  approached.  She  served  us  a  sim- 
ple but  savory  repast  in  a  cozy,  low-roofed 
dining-room  resembling  a  ship's  cabin ;  through 
the  open  windows  the  sea-breeze  wafted  the 
roar  of  the  sea,  and  we  could  look  on  the  blue 
of  the  ocean  fading  away  to  distant  lands. 


MAP    OF    THE    TRIP    FROM     CHARLOTTETOWN    TO     PASPEBIAC. 

Everything  was  delightfully  unexpected  and 
charming.  Sea  life  is  made  up  of  such  con- 
trasts. But  a  few  hours  before,  we  were  grop- 
ing in  fog,  grappling  with  a  storm  and  short- 
ening sail ;  and  now  we  were  enjoying  this 
peaceful  hour  in  a  tranquil  haven. 


(To  be  continued.) 


S.  G.  W.  Benjamin. 


A  SONG  OF    LOVE. 


HEY,  rose,  just  born 
Twin  to  a  thorn; 
Was't  so  with  you,  oh  Love  and    Scorn  ? 


Sweet  eyes  that  smiled, 
Now  wet  and  wild ; 
O  Eye  and  Tear, —  mother  and  child. 


Well :  Love  and  Pain 
Be  kinsfolk  twain ; 
Yet  would,  oh,  would    I  could  love  again  \ 


Sidney  Lanier. 


THE    HERMITAGE.* 

THE  present  Gallery  of  the  Hermitage  at  it  almost  kills  them  as  well :  you  cannot  help 

St.  Petersburg  was  built  by  Nicholas  to  show  looking  away  from  the  works  to  the  walls.  It 

his  taste  for  all  the  arts ;  it  did  not  exactly  is  too  splendid  — -  simple  Greek  in  form,  but 

do  that,  but  it  certainly  showed  his  taste  for  in  substance  a  heap  of  piled  riches  in  marbles 

architecture.    It  not  only  houses  his  paintings,  and   precious   stones,  in   gilding    and  inlaid 


new  series 


|  *  [The  present  sketch  of  the  art  treasures  of  the  famous  Hermitage  has  been  suggested  by 
;  of  photographs  of  a  high  order,  published  by  Braun,  of  Paris.  The  frontispiece  engraving  of  a  head  from 
one  of  the  Hermitage  Rembrandts  will  give  our  readers  some  idea  of  the  excellence  of  this  great  collection  of 
\  paintings. — ED.] 


56° 


THE  HERMITAGE. 


woods.  It  requires  a  considerable  effort  of 
concentration  to  keep  your  eyes  on  the  pict- 
ures ;  and,  now  and  then,  the  stranger,  espe- 
cially, is  tried  altogether  beyond  his  strength 
by  the  wealth  of  ornament  in  porphyry  and 
lapis  lazuli,  or  by  some  monumental  vase  in 
malachite.  The  work  of  mental  dissipation 
begins  with  a  huge  double  flight  of  marble 
stairs  running  from  the  great  hall  and  over- 
powering in  its  majestic  beauty.  We  have 
had  nothing  like  it,  even  in  fancy,  since  Martin 
painted  the  stairways  of  Babylon.  There  is 
one  incidental  merit  in  the  structure :  it  will 
not  burn ;  all  that  is  not  marble  or  stone,  with 
the  exception  of  the  inlaid  floors,  is  of  iron. 
It  was  designed  by  Klenze,  a  German  archi- 
tect, and  it  is  on  the  site  of  a  small  gallery 
which  the  Empress  Catherine  set  up  as  a  re- 
treat next  door  to  the  Winter  Palace.  There 
is  still  a  covered  passage  between  the  two 
buildings.  Catherine  wanted  to  get  away  from 
the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  court,  and  she  took 
some  of  her  pictures  with  her  to  help  furnish 
the  place.  From  this  sprang  the  present  Gallery 
of  the  Hermitage.  Other  rulers  bought  more 
pictures,  often  buying  them  by  entire  galleries, 
after  the  fashion  set  by  Peter  the  Great  in  his 
wholesale  introduction  of  civilization  into  his 
empire.  There  was  no  time  to  lose,  if  Russia 
was  to  be  placed  on  a  level  with  other  na- 
tions in  arts  as  well  as  in  arms.  In  1779  the 
imperial  buyers  came  in  for  rich  paintings  by 
the  dispersal  of  the  incomparable  Walpole 
collection,  which,  if  it  had  been  kept  at  home, 
would  have  made  England  to-day  absolutely 
the  richest  country  in  the  world  in  the  master- 
pieces of  painting.  To  this  acquisition  the 
Czars  added,  later  on,  a  Spanish  collection 
bought  of  an  Amsterdam  banker  for  ,£8,700; 
then  the  gems  of  the  Malmaison  collection, 
formed  by  the  Empress  Josephine, — thirty 
eight  pictures  for  one  hundred  and  eighty- 
eight  thousand  dollars, —  and  again,  thirty 
pictures  from  the  collection  of  Queen  Hor- 
tense.  The  death  of  William  II.  of  Holland 
gave  the  imperial  collectors  another  oppor- 
tunity of  which  they  were  not  slow  to  take 
advantage.  William  II.  was  a  sort  of  mono- 
maniac of  taste:  he  lived  iii*  a  poor  palace 
himself,  but  he  had  a  magnificent  one  built 
for  his  pictures,  and  watched  it  slowly  rising 
day  by  day  and  year  by  year  while  adding 
to  his  treasures.  At  length  it  was  finished 
and  stocked;  and,  when  this  operation  was 
fairly  completed,  William  II.  died,  and  his 
successor  sold  off  his  artistic  effects.  On  this 
occasion  England  was  one  of  the  largest  buy- 
ers, in  tardy  redemption  of  the  Walpole  loss.* 

*  The  "Immaculate  Conception,"  by  Murillo,  from 
this  collection  is  now  in  New  York  in  the  possession 
of  the  family  of  the  late  William  H.  Aspinwall. 


In  theory  these  pictures  at  the  Hermitage 
still  form  the  Gallery  of  the  Czar;  in  fact 
they  are,  to  some  extent,  the  gallery  of  the 
nation.  The  other  imperial  palaces  are  fairly 
well  stocked,  but  the  sixteen  or  seventeen 
hundred  canvases  in  the  Hermitage  form  the 
pick  of  the  imperial  collections. 

Nicholas  showed  his  usual  thoroughness 
in  everything  connected  with  this  pet  work. 
When  his  new  palace  of  art  was  finished,  he 
sent  for  the  well-known  Dr.  Waagen  of  Berlin, 
the  first  historic  art  critic  of  his  time,  to  put 
it  in  order,  and,  in  consequence,  no  gallery 
in  the  world  is  more  systematically  arranged. 
Dr.  Waagen  had  to  contend  with  one  great 
difficulty ;  the  architect  had  thought  first  of 
the  palace,  and  only  in  the  second  place  of  the 
pictures;  the  rooms  are  not  all  well  lighted, 
and  most  of  them  are  far  too  lofty  for  conven- 
ient display.  It  is  the  commpn  complaint  of 
visitors  that  you  cannot  escape  from  a  tour  of 
the  Hermitage  without  a  stiff  neck  and  sore 
eyes,  due  to  the  straining  for  a  sight  of  the 
many  paintings  far  above  the  line.  In  all  else 
Dr.  Waagen  worked  entirely  on  his  own  condi- 
tions ;  he  arranged  the  works  by  schools  and 
subdivisions  of  schools;  and  you  have  only 
to  take  them  in  his  order  to  have  something 
like  a  fair  history  of  the  development  of  art. 
There  is  the  Italian  school  in  its  epoch  of 
formation,  then  in  its  perfection  of  strength 
and  beauty  in  the  Florentine  painters.  Fol- 
lowing these  you  have  the  Lombard  school,  the 
Florentine  decline,  the  Venetian  school,  with 
the  second  great  epoch  when  the  Eclectics 
brought  about  a  renaissance  of  the  art,  and 
next  the  final  decay.  In  the  Spanish  schools, 
Valencia,  Seville,  and  Madrid  are  richly 
represented;  in  the  German,  Flemish  and 
Dutch,  there  is  another  orderly  exposition 
of  growth,  maturity,  and  decline.  Eight  pict- 
ures constitute  the  only  exhibition  of  the 
English  school  known  to  exist  on  the  Conti- 
nent. The  French  school,  following  a  classi- 
fication just  as  applicable  to  the  French  lit- 
erature as  to  the  French  art  of  to-day,  is  in 
two  sections  —  the  Idealists,  from  Poussin 
to  Mignard  and  Le  Brun,  and  the  Realists, 
from  Clouet,  Lancret,  and  Watteau,  to  Vernet. 
There  is  even  a  Russian  school,  a  mark  of 
high  imperial  favor  considering  how  little 
Russian  prophets  in  either  art  or  literature 
used  to  be  honored  in  their  own  country; 
but  this,  with  the  exception  of  the  English, 
is  the  smallest  of  the  whole  collection.  There 
are  nearly  a  thousand  Flemish,  Dutch,  and 
German  paintings,  more  than  three  hundi 
Italian,  and  over  a  hundred  Spanish,  alm< 
every  one  a  master-piece.  The  Spanish 
Flemish  collections  are  among  the  finest 
the  world ;  and  the  gallery  would  be  woi 


THE  HERMITAGE. 


a  pilgrimage  for  its  forty-one  Rembrandts 
alone,  to  say  nothing  of  the  twenty  Murillos, 
and  the  innumerable  pictures  by  Wouvermans, 
Rubens,  Ruysdaels,  Snyders,  and  the  like.  The 
thirty -four  Vandykes  should  not  be  forgotten ; 
the  grandest  of  them,  the  Charles  I.,  booted 
and  cuirassed  for  the  field,  with  one  hand  on 
his  baton  of  command,  and  the  other  on  his 
sword,  was  painted  for  the  sum  of  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  dollars  in  the  currency 
of  to-day!  A  picture  of  Queen  Henrietta 
Maria  forms  a  pendant  to  this  work. 

It  is  difficult  to  select  examples  for  notice 
where  all  deserve  the  closest  attention.  In 
the  Italian  series  there  is  a  "  Descent  from  the 
Cross,"  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  which  must 
be  named  whatever  others  are  left  out ;  so  too 
must  the  "  Perseus  and  Andromeda  "  of  Tin- 
toretto, and,  if  only  as  a  curiosity,  the  same 
painter's  sketch  copy  of  his  immense  "  Resur- 
rection" at  Venice.  Then  there  is  a  superb 
Ludovico  Caracci,  the  "  Entombment  of 
Christ,"  and  a  "  Death  of  Christ,"  by  Paul 
Veronese.  Most  of  the  Rubenses  and  Van- 
dykes are  the  spoils  of  the  Walpole  gallery ; 
and  among  the  Vandykes  are  portraits  of 
the  Wartons,  of  Lord  Danby,  Sir  Thomas 
Challoner,  and  many  other  English  worthies 
of  the  time,  with  a  copy,  by  the  artist's  own 
hand,  of  the  famous  Pembroke  family  at  Wil- 
ton. It  would  be  all  the  better  for  the  pict- 
ures if  certain  "  candelabra  and  vases  in 
violet  jasper  of  Siberia"  were  taken  out  of  this 
room.  Murillo's  incomparable  "  Dream  of 
Jacob  "  is  hard  by.  An  "  Assumption "  of 
immense  interest,  as  being  evidently  but  an- 
other idea  for  the  work  at  Madrid,  gives  you  a 
glimpse  of  Murillo's  method ;  but  I  hesitate 
to  theorize  about  it,  as  I  have  nothing  on  my 
notes  to  show  which  is  the  earlier  work. 
Velasquez  has  a  whole  series  of  portraits,  in- 
cluding the  Minister  Olivares  and  Innocent 
X.  The  nine  frescoes  of  Raphael  in  another 
room  were  on  the  walls  of  a  Roman  villa  less 
than  thirty  years  ago,  and  with  them  is  one 
of  Raffaelle's  favorite  works,  a  "  Rape  of 
Helen,"  that  might  be  traced  in  its  growth, 
from  the  first  moment  of  invention  to  the  last, 
with  the  help  of  the  original  sketches  that 
Oxford  and  Chatsworth  still  possess.  The 
"  St.  George  and  Dragon  "  was  painted  by 
order  of  the  Duke  of  Urbino  as  a  present  to 
Henry  VII.  in  return  for  the  Garter.  It  formed 
part  of  the  collection  of  Charles  I.;  and  when 
it  came  to  Russia  it  hung  for  a  long  time 
in  the  Winter  Palace  as  a  holy  image,  a  con- 
tinual reproach  to  Russian  sacred  art.  Among 
the  Titians  are  a  "  Mary  Magdalene  "  and  a 
"  Danae,"  the  last  a  copy  by  the  master's  own 
hand  from  a  work  at  Naples. 

Paul  Potter's  "  Farm "  is  one  of  the  glories 


of  the  Hermitage.  It  is  an  attempt  to  put  a 
chapter  of  the  history  of  human  institutions 
into  a  picture  frame.  Farm  life  is  there  in 
full  and  perfect  representation,  or  very  nearly 
so ;  you  have  sheep,  goats,  oxen,  pigs,  cows 
at  the  milking,  cows  at  the  pasturage,  a  woman 
stitching,  a  man  frightening  a  dog  who  is 
frightening  the  baby,  yet  all  in  a  wonderful 
harmony,  and  with  a  suggestion  of  perfect 
repose.  Here  and  there  are  signs  of  weari- 
ness in  the  painter ;  one  of  the  cows,  accord- 
ing to  a  critic,  is  a  direct  crib  from  another 
Paul  Potter  at  the  Hague.  The  sewing- woman, 
if  adroitly  cut  out  of  the  canvas,  would  make 
a  Peter  de  Hooghe.  The  most  considerable 
English  work  is  a  Reynolds,  the  "  Infant 
Hercules  Strangling  the  Serpents."  This  was 
painted  for  Catherine,  and  it  was  a  delicate 
allegory  of  the  courtier-artist.  Young  Her- 
cules is  young  Russia ;  the  serpents  are  the 
difficulties  that  stood  in  her  way.  With  this 
work  Reynolds  sent  his  two  volumes  of  "  Dis- 
courses." Catherine,  in  acknowledgment,  or- 
dered her  ambassador -at  St.  James's  to  call 
upon  the  painter : 

"  The  two  productions  equally  reveal  an  elevated 
genius.  I  beg  of  you  to  hand  to  Sir  Joshua,  with  my 
thanks,  the  snuff-box  I  send  in  recognition  of  the 
great  pleasure  I  have  derived  from  his  '  Discourses ' 
—  perhaps  the  best  work  hitherto  written  on  the  sub- 
ject. My  portrait  on  the  lid  of  the  box  has  been 
done  at  the  Hermitage,  where  we  are  now  paying 
considerable  attention  to  work  of  this  kind.  I  hope 
you  will  be  able  to  give  me  news  of  the  grand  picture 
which  I  mentioned  in  another  letter. 

(Signed)  "CATHERINE." 

The  grand  picture  in  question  is  supposed 
to  be  a  "  Continence  of  Scipio,"  now  in  the 
collection,  but  in  an  unfinished  state.  Scipio's 
arms  and  the  hands  of  another  figure  are  yet 
to  be,  at  least,  in  their  full  perfection  of  rich 
color,  as  in  other  parts  of  the  work. 

But  how  describe  the  Rembrandts  ?  To 
begin  with,  there  are  a  good  half  dozen  por- 
traits of  the  very  first  order,  though  one  of 
them  which  you  feel  sure  must  deserve  to  be 
in  this  category  is  wretchedly  hung.  The 
portrait  of  an  old  woman  is  worth  whole 
chapters  of  writing  on  the  nature  of  true 
finish  in  art.  The  hand  has  never  been  better 
painted  than  in  this  work.  As  for  the  "  Bene- 
dicite,"  a  peasant  man  and  woman  saying 
grace  before  meat,  we  must  pass  over  whole 
centuries  of  painting  to  our  own  time,  to 
Millet  and  perhaps  to  Israels,  before  we 
come  to  anything  approaching  it  for  beauty 
of  feeling.  It  is  one  of  the  great  pictorial 
poems  of  the  life  of  the  poor.  Did  Rembrandt 
definitely  anticipate  the  mind  of  our  age  on 
this  subject,  or  was  he  merely  true  to  all 
possible  sentiment  by  being  simply  true  to 


S62 


THE  PHCEBE-BIRD. 


this  fact  in  art  ?  Probably :  from  what  we 
know  of  him,  there  is  little  to  encourage  the 
belief  that  this  noble  thing  was  in  any  sense 
a  tendency  picture;  he  only  saw  the  beauty 
as  beauty — that  dim  interior,  with  its  deep 
shadows  and  its  mere  accidents  of  light,  and 
the  figures  of  the  praying  pair  half  effaced  in 
the  gloom.  His  finest  "  Holy  Family,"  and  he 
painted  many  of  them,  is  without  question  in 
this  gallery.  Mary,  reading  in  the  chimney 
corner  of  such  a  roorn  as  may  be  imagined, 
turns  to  lift  the  cover  of  the  cradle  for  a 
peep  at  her  sleeping  child;  Joseph  is  at  work; 
and  six  angels,  whose  presence  might  be  dis- 
pensed with,  are  in  the  air.  Blot  out  the 
angels,  and  it  is  of  incomparable  simplicity 
and  force.  In  the  "  Descent  from  the  Cross  " 
there  is  the  same  perfection  of  tender  human 
interest,  and  the  heads  of  the  Christ  and 
Mary  are  painted  as  few  heads  have  been 
painted  since.  Then  there  are  more  portraits, 
— half  of  them  mere  portraits  of  a  gentleman, 
in  respect  of  their  present  want  of  a  name.  In 
one,  adepts  in  such  matters  point  out  to  you 
a  curious  example  of  work  with  the  brush- 
handle  instead  of  the  brush.  "  Peter  Denies 
his  Lord  "  is  a  powerful  night  scene :  the  glare 
of  a  lantern  held  by  the  servant  thrown  full 
upon  the  disciple,  and  nearly  all  the  rest  — 
the  wondering,  or  indifferent,  or  angry  figures, 
and  the  tippling  men-at-arms — in  shadow. 

For  a  foreigner  the  Hermitage  is  essen- 
tially a  collection  of  pictures ;  for  native  stu- 
dents it  is  much  more  —  a  museum  of  antiqui- 


ties, a  museum  of  sovereigns.  There  is  a  whole 
Peter  the  Great  gallery  filled  with  the  hero's 
swords  and  walking-sticks,  his  lathes  and 
turning  tools,,  the  models  of  his  ships,  the 
engravings  of  his  battles  and  triumphs  done 
to  order  by  Dutchmen  of  the  time,  and  cor- 
rected in  proof  for  the  minutest  detail  of  the 
uniform  of  a  regiment  or  the  fall  of  a  pennon. 
Add  to  this,  a  museum  of  precious  stones, 
perfectly  appointed,  and  the  largest  in  the 
world,  a  great  numismatic  collection, —  every- 
thing, in  fact,  a  national  museum  should 
have.  The  picture  galleries  have  had  less  ef- 
fect than  might  be  supposed  on  Russian  art, 
probably  because  they  have  never  been  easily 
accessible  to  the  Russian  masses.  The  con- 
ditions of  admission  still  resemble  those 
of  a  private  gallery.  You  do  not  often  meet 
the  Russian  peasant  there  or  the  Russian 
workman  —  for  one  reason,  perhaps,  because 
he  might  be  afraid  of  the  inlaid  floors.  The 
sacred  art  of  the  country  is  still  irredeemably 
conventional ;  and  the  fact  that  it  should  be 
so,  in  face  of  all  these  specimens  of  the 
sacred  art  of  Italy,  is  really  one  of  the  minor 
mysteries  of  the  Greek  faith.  The  German 
and  French  schools  seem  to  have  had  most 
influence  on  the  secular  art ;  half  the  Russian 
artists  work  from  Munich  as  a  center,  and  the 
other  half  from  Paris.  The  very  latest,  with 
Vereschagin  at  their  head,  are  inexorable 
Realists,  but  with  a  realism  that  affects  the 
facts  of  the  social  and  political  life  of  the  day 
far  more  than  the  mere  facts  of  nature. 

Richard  Whiteing. 


THE  PHCEBE-BIRD. 

YES,  I  was  wrong  about  the  phoebe-bird. 

Two  songs  it  has,  and  both  of  them  I've  heard : 

I  did  not  know  those  strains  of  joy  and  sorrow 

Came  from  one  throat,  or  that  each  note  could  borrow 

Strength  from  the  other,  making  one  more  brave 

And  one  as  sad  as  rain-drops  on  a  grave. 

But  thus  it  is.    Two  songs  have  men  and  maidens  : 
One  is  for  hey-day,  one  is  sorrow's  cadence. 
Our  voices  vary  with  the  changing  seasons 
Of  life's  long  year,  for  deep  and  natural  reasons. 

Therefore  despair  not.    Think  not  you  have  altered, 
If,  at  some  time,  the  gayer  note  has  faltered. 
We  are  as  God  has  made  us.    Gladness,  pain, 
Delight,  and  death,  and  moods  of  bliss  or  bane, 
With  love,  and  hate,  or  good,  and  evil  —  all, 
At  separate  times,  in  separate  accents  call ; 
Yet  'tis  the  same  heart-throb  within  the  breast 
That  gives  an  impulse  to  our  worst  and  best. 
I  doubt  not  when  our  earthly  cries  are  ended, 
The  Listener  finds  them  in  one  music  blended. 


George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


THE  BUTCHERS'  ROW. 


WE  wandered  down  the    Butchers'  Row 

In  old  Limoges,  the  fair; 
My  love  was  dressed  like  may   or  snow 

Under  her  ruddy  hair; 
It  happed  to  be  St.  Maura's  fete, 

And  all  the  bells  rang  out, 
And  through  the  ruinous  English  gate 

There  streamed  a  merry  rout. 


The  butchers'  shops  were  black  as  night, 

The  flags  were  blue  and  red ; 
My  love  walked  on  in  laughing  white, 

And  a  merry  word  she  said; 
And  down  the  Row  to  the  river-shore 

She  passed,  so  pure  and  gay, 
The  people  took  her  for  St.  Maure, 

And  crossed  themselves  to  pray. 

Edmund  W.   Gosse. 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SHAKSPERE'S   "LEAR."* 


THERE  is  a  certain  tremor  of  the  mind  that 
always  overcomes  me  when  I  resolve  to  write 
of  the  noblest  creations  in  dramatic  literature, 
and  of  the  interpretations  given  by  me  to  the 
work  of  that  acute  and  profound  diviner  of 
the  human  heart — William  Shakspere. 

I  am  aware  that  no  new  thoughts  are  to 
be  found  in  all  that  I  have  written  concern- 
ing my  rendering  of  "  Hamlet,"  "  Macbeth," 
and  "  Othello " ;  indeed,  after  nearly  three 
hundred  years  of  analysis  and  discussion,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say  anything  new  about 
Shakspere.  But,  if  my  thoughts  have  lacked 
originality,  at  least  they  have  been  frankly 
expressed.  That  they  will  fall  and  die  and 
leave  no  trace  behind  is  absolutely  certain. 
The  field  a  thousand  have  sown  before  me 
already  bears  a  fruitful  harvest;  and  my  poor 
grain  of  mustard  seed  can  but  spring  up  un- 
noticed there,  to  count  for  nothing. 

My  own  inclination  would  lead  me  to  be 
known  only  as  an  interpreter  of  the  stage ; 
but  circumstances  have  driven  me,  almost 
obliged  me,  to  write,  and  I  have  written; 
but  I  write  more  to  please  my  friends  than 
to  please  myself,  more  in  a  compliant  humor 
than  in  a  vain  one.  With  this  statement, 
made  in  self-defense  to  dull  a  little  the  keen 
edge  of  criticism,  I  can  now  throw  myself 
into  the  dangerous  current  with  a  stouter 
heart,  trusting  for  some  generous  hand  to 
encourage  the  untrained  swimmer  who  vent- 
ures, it  may  be,  far  beyond  his  depth. 

As  all  the  world  may  easily  ascertain,  a 
Gallic  chronicle  relates  that  Lear,  the  son  of 
Bladud,  reigned  for  sixty  years,  and  died 
about  the  year  800  B.  c.  Lear  is  said  also 
to  have  founded  the  city  known  to-day  as 
Leicester.  It  is  therefore  with  some  bewilder- 


ment that  we  find  the  poet  linking  to  a  period 
so  remote  names  of  countries  and  of  persons, 
degrees  of  rank,  modes  of  punishment,  man- 
ners and  customs  of  far  later  origin.  The 
titles  lord  and  duke,  prince  and  king,  the 
feudal  castle  and  the  chase,  the  rule  of  knight- 
hood, and  the  law  of  arms  combine  to  give 
the  play  a  mediaeval  atmosphere,  and  it  would 
seem  to  be  erroneous  to  attempt  in  repre- 
sentation the  coloring  of  an  earlier  age. 

Shakspere's  genius  is  "  liberal  as  the  air"; 
to  him,  if  to  no  other,  allowance  must  be 
made  when  his  flight  leads  on  from  one  an- 
achronism to  another,  disregarding  details; 
especially  in  this  tragedy,  where  the  lesson 
conveyed  is  clearly  one  with  which  historical 
accuracy  has  nothing  whatever  to  do. 

"  Lear  "is  a  study  of  ingratitude.  As 
"  Hamlet "  deals  with  the  power  of  thought 
over  action,  "  Othello  "  with  that  of  malignity 
over  a  noble  mind,  "  Macbeth  "  with  the  sins 
of  boundless  ambition,  so  the  purpose  of 
"  Lear  "is  to  show  how  far  the  force  of  hu- 
man ingratitude  may  go. 

There  comes  before  us  the  figure  of  an 
"old,  kind  king,"  oppressed  with  cares  of 
state,  at  the  solemn  moment  when  he  divides 
his  kingdom  into  three  parts  to  confer  upon 
each  daughter  a  dower  suited  to  her  rank,  re- 
taining for  himself  only  his  royal  name  and 
its  "  additions."  This  act,  that  has  been  often 
deemed  a  proof  of  mental  alienation,  seems 
to  me  rather  the  outgrowth  of  a  generous 
heart  and  a  natural  trust  in  filial  love.  If  it 
be  set  down  as  irrational,  the  baseness  of  the 
elder  daughters  is  thereby  palliated,  since 
the  thwarting  of  an  insane  will  carries  no  in- 
justice with  it.  But  what  element  of  insanity 
enters  into  the  old  king's  purpose  ?  In  our 


*  See   "  Impressions   of  Some  of   Shakspere's   Characters "   (Hamlet,  Macbeth,  and   Othello),  by  Signer 
Salvini,  in  THE  CENTURY  for  November,  1881. 


564 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  SHAKSPERE'S  "LEAR." 


day,  unhappily,  it  might  give  rise  to  censure, 
since  the  liberal,  perhaps  too  liberal,  educa- 
tion of  our  children  tends  to  lessen  the  regard 
and  respect  paid  by  them  to  their  parents; 
but  in  a  time  of  rigid  discipline,  when  paren- 
tal will  was  held  to  be  Heaven's  will,  and 
when  filial  affection  was  assumed  to  be  akin 
to  that  due  the  Creator,  it  is  inconceivable 
that  the  mind  of  a  father  —  above  all,  a  royal 
father  —  could  tolerate  one  thought  of  ingrat- 
itude and  of  open  resistance  to  his  judgment. 
And  this  judgment  of  the  octogenarian  king 
has  no  unreason  in  it.  He  but  yields  his  bur- 
den up  to  "  younger  strengths  " ;  the  honor 
stays  with  him.  His  one  condition,  the  reser- 
vation of  a  hundred  knights  to  be  sustained 
by  his  successors,  is  not  extravagant ;  and  the 
exchange  of  grave  pursuits  for  the  pleasures  of 
the  chase  and  the  playful  satire  of  his  fool 
seems  to  me  no  more  than  his  due*.  I  shall  be 
asked :  If  the  king  is  rational,  how  are  we  to 
justify  his  resolve  to  disinherit  Cordelia  solely 
because  her  love  cannot  find  expression  in 
the  glib,  flattering  phrase  of  her  sisters  ?  In 
my  opinion,  the  formal  education  of  the  time 
is  still  his  ample  justification.  Lear,  challeng- 
ing his  daughters'  love  in  presence  of  the 
court,  knew  but  the  answer  he  had  heard  a 
thousand  times  repeated  through  real  affec- 
tion, through  submission,  or  through  a  sense 
of  duty.  Cordelia,  truer  than  her  sisters  and 
about  to  be  betrothed,  replies,  with  the  sense 
of  "  a  divided  duty,"  that  she  loves  her  father 
as  nature  bids  her,  according  to  her  bond, — 
terms  directly  opposite  to  those  that  Lear 
awaited  from  his  favorite  child.  From  her, 
more  than  from  the  others,  he  longed  for 
demonstrative  warmth,  for  a  word  that  should 
express  infinity  of  love.  Hence  the  bitterness 
of  a  lost  illusion ;  hence  the  shame  at  an  open 
injury  to  his  feelings ;  hence,  finally,  the  reac- 
tion of  a  spirit,  proud,  impetuous,  autocratic, 
violent,  knowing  no  bounds  when  moved  to 
anger.  Therefore,  let  us  call  him  inconsider- 
ate and  choleric,  but  in  no  degree  demented. 
As  I  have  already  noted,  Lear's  age  is 
"  fourscore  and  upward  " ;  viewed  from  a 
modern  point  of  view  he  might  therefore  be 
judged  a  man  broken  with  the  weight  of 
years.  I  would  compare  him  rather  to  some 
historic  oak,  shorn  of  its  leaves  by  the  fury 
of  wind  and  storm,  but  with  limbs  and  trunk 
still  vigorous,  unshaken.  And  here  I  may 
quote  to  the  purpose  from  a  well-known  New 
York  journal,  "  II  Progresso  Italo-Ameri- 
cano  " : 

"  We  should  consider  that,  in  the  time  of  Lear,  old 
men  were  stronger  and  more  robust  than  in  our  day; 
that,  instead  of  sipping  their  coffee  at  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing, they  rose  with  the  sun  to  make  a  substantial  re- 
past off  huge  slices  of  beef  and  mutton.  We  must  re- 


member that  the  early  Saxons,  living,  as  it  were,  in 
the  saddle  and  in  constant  muscular  exertion,  pre- 
served their  health  and  strength  even  to  the  greatest 
age. 

"  Why  is  King  Lear  to  be  made  senile,  when  he 
still  delights  in  the  chase  and  calls  for  his  horse,  as 
the  tragedy  obliges  him  to  do  ?  And  how  is  a  weak, 
tottering  man  to  undergo  all  the  violent  scenes,  all  the 
mental  excitements  of  the  drama  ?  Would  Shakspere 
have  given  his  protagonist  line  after  line  of  anger,  of 
grief,  of  fury,  and  of  imprecation,  if  he  conceived  him 
to  be  bowed  and  broken  ?  A  man  of  eighty,  were  he 
not  robust  to  the  last  degree,  drawing  near  the  verge 
of  madness,  as  does  Lear  in  the  first  act,  would  surely 
fall  dead  in  a  fit  before  reaching  the  final  scene.  No 
prolonged  conflict  of  the  emotions  would  be  needed 
to  dispatch  him." 

In  support  of  my  opinion,  which  is  shared 
by  the  Italian  critic,  let  me  now  cite  certain 
expressions  that  are  Shakspere's  own.  At  the 
opening  of  Act  III.,  that  is,  after  the  great 
scene  where  Goneril  and  Regan  turn  Lear 
out  upon  the  heath  to  "run  unbonneted," 
without  food,  without  shelter  from  the  raging 
of  the  storm,  to  Kent's  question,  "Where's  the 
king  ?  "  the  Gentleman  replies  : 

"  Contending  with  the  fretful  elements  : 
Bids  the  wind  blow  the  earth  into  the  sea, 
Or  swell  the  curled  waters  'bove  the  main, 
That  things  might  change  or  cease." 

And  in  Act  IV.,  scene  4,  Cordelia  says  to 
the  Physician : 

"Why,  he  was  met  even  now 
As  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea." 

While  Lear  himself,  when  he  is  surprised  by 
Cordelia's  messenger,  and  fears  to  be  made 
prisoner,  exclaims : 

"  I  will  die  bravely,  like  a  smug  bridegroom  : 
.    there's  life  in  it." 


And  this,  after  wild  scenes  of  wrath  with 
his  ungrateful  daughters,  after  combating  and 
mocking  the  utmost  fury  of  the  tempest,  and 
after  undergoing  the  greatest  physical  priva- 
tion !  Surely,  thus  to  contend  "  with  the  fret- 
ful element,"  to  be  "  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea," 
and  to  "die  bravely,  like  a  bridegroom,"  a 
man's  sinews  must  be  strong  and  active  even 
at  "  fourscore  and  upward." 

But  let  us  now  regard  him  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view,  considered  merely  as  a  person 
age  of  the  stage.    If  he  is  to  be  discovered  t 
the  audience  as  a  puny  little  dotard,  paralyti 
asthmatic  and  infirm,  senile  and  feeble  at  hi 
first  entrance,  what  room  is  left  for  contrast  ? 
He  has  far  more  claim  to  sympathy  as  a  m 
who,  happy  at  the  outset,  feels  keenly  th 
bitterness  of  misfortune,  than  as  one  who, 
ured  to  suffering,  only  undergoes  it  in  ne 
forms.   The  first  commands  respect  becau 


! 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  SHAKSPERE'S  "LEAR." 


565 


he  battles  courageously  with  the  unforeseen 
calamities  of  life;  the  second,  powerless  to 
resist  them,  is  a  pitiable  object,  and  can  but 
arouse  a  wish  for  quick-coming  death  to  put 
him  out  of  pain.  Finally,  the  first  is  interest- 
ing and  pathetic;  the  second,  tedious  and 
painful ;  and  this  latter  effect  must  inevitably 
be  produced  upon  the  spectator  (as  numerous 
examples  prove)  by  those  representations  of 
the  part  that  follow  the  beaten  track,  and  are 
based  upon  the  pernicious  system  of  imitation; 
imitation  all  too  recent,  since  what  we  are 
told  of  the  great  American  artist,  Edwin 
Forrest,  proves  that  this  invention  of  a  weak 
and  doting  Lear  was  assuredly  not  his, — not 
his,  whose  ringing  tones  and  thrilling  gest- 
ures, whose  majestic  presence  and  heroic  con- 
ceptions won  for  him  a  name  that  is  deserv- 
edly remembered  and  honored. 

To  my  thinking,  the  audience  should  be 
made  to  understand  first  how  Lear,  even  in 
his  generosity,  is  always  the  royal  autocrat, 
noble,  august,  irascible,  and  violent  in  the 
i  first  act ;  in  the  second,  how,  feeling  bitterly 
I  the  ingratitude  that  has  doubled  upon  itself, 
i  he  becomes  more  a  father  than  a  king;  and, 
j finally,  in  the  third  act,  how,  worn  with  troub- 
lles  of  the  body,  he  forgets  for  a  season  those 
of  the  mind,  and,  more  than  father,  more 
jthan  king,  stands  forth  a  man  reacting  upon 
rebellious  nature. 

These  three  phases  of  Lear's  character 
are  precisely  those  that  save  the  part  from 
monotony,  and  that  make  it  interesting,  I 
repeat,  and  not  distressing.  Hence,  another 
jneed  of  representing  him  hale  and  vigor- 
jous  in  the  first  instance,  next  disquieted 
jand  sympathetic,  thereafter  affecting  and  en- 
feebled. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  all  the 
difficult  problems  of  the  player's  art  are  con- 
tained in  these  three  acts.  I  do  not  mean 
difficulties  of  conception,  but  of  execution.  A 
well-known  canon  of  the  stage  prescribes  a 
gradual  growth  of  effect,  in  accordance  with 
[the  development  of  the  action,  that  the  catas- 
trophe, or  issue,  if  that  be  the  better  word, 
may  prove  impressive,  telling,  strong.  Every 
•actor  should  spare  himself  at  first,  and  re- 
serve his  natural  resources  to  that  end.  In 
"  King  Lear  "it  is  impossible  to  follow  this 
law  without  some  sacrifice  of  truth ;  the  very 
reverse  of  it  is  needed.  Instead  of  working 
Dut  a  result  by  an  increase  of  power,  the  ef- 
fect must  be  made  to  grow  as  the  power  de- 
creases,—  must,  I  say,  if  we  are  to  preserve 
the  true  conception;  for  Lear's  strength, 
;hough  apparent  at  first,  should  yield  some- 
what in  the  second  act  to  the  stress  of  his 
emotions,  and  still  more  to  the  nervous  ex- 
citement in  which  he  supports  and  defies  the 


storm ;  and  to  this  condition  the  mental  dis- 
order of  the  fourth  act  succeeds. 

Some  actors  choose  to  make  Lear  an  im- 
becile :  this  is  a  mistake ;  others  would  have 
him  a  demoniac,  but  this  also  is  a  misconcep- 
tion. To  me  it  seems  that  his  mind  is  warped 
by  a  sense  of  ingratitude  in  nature ;  and  that 
this  feeling  grows  upon  him  with  the  perse- 
cution of  the  warring  elements,  till,  at  the 
degradation  of  man  revealed  in  Edgar's  coun- 
terfeiting, it  becomes  all-absorbing.  And, 
indeed,  all  those  scenes  of  malediction,  of  met- 
aphor, and  of  self-dissection,  with  their  pro- 
found conclusions,  their  scraps  of  wisdom  and 
philosophy,  do  but  turn  upon  this  very  con- 
centration of  thought,  that  has  for  its  root 
ingratitude.  Were  it  not  so,  the  mere  sight 
of  Cordelia  would  not  so  speedily  bring  back 
his  reason.  An  imbecile  is  far  more  difficult 
to  cure  than  a  madman  ;  and  a  madman  can- 
not be  restored  by  so  simple  a  remedy.  His 
unsoundness  is  but  that  of  a  monomaniac,  who 
recovers  his  normal  health  when  Cordelia's  ten- 
derness soothes  the  troubled  spirit  and  sup- 
plies the  healing  balm  of  reverent,  filial  love. 

Beyond  this  point,  little  remains  to  note  of 
Lear  except  in  the  final  scene,  sublimely  im- 
agined to  suggest  the  last  glimmer  of  a  dying 
flame. 

The  great  difficulty,  then,  lies  in  discover- 
ing how  to  heighten  the  effect  according  to 
the  laws  of  art,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  de- 
cline in  physical  power. 

Every  audience  has  its  intelligent  propor- 
tion to  note  and  appreciate  the  artist  who, 
with  the  scheme  of  his  part  determined,  re- 
gardless of  vulgar  effect,  is  content  to  follow 
where  truth  leads ;  but  the  actor  in  his  skill 
must  also  strive  to  interest  the  mass  of  his 
public  and  to  maintain  ascendancy  over  all, 
still  walking  in  truth's  level  field.  And  how 
shall  this  be  done  ?  I  think  it  impossible 
to  explain ;  it  is  a  question  of  judgment,  and 
that  cannot  be  prescribed.  The  course  to  be 
pursued  may  be  pointed  out,  but  he  who 
would  win  the  goal  without  stumbling  must 
commend  himself  to  his  own  inspiration. 

And  for  this  inspiration  I  forced  myself  to 
wait  five  years,  perhaps  to  no  purpose ;  for  it 
is  by  no  means  certain  that  I  have  been  able 
to  make  an  audience  comprehend  my  own 
conception.  I  will  not  deny  that  the  time  is 
too  long;  that,  if  the  study  of  every  difficult 
character  were  to  consume  so  vast  an  inter- 
val, the  artist's  round  of  parts  would  prove 
circumscribed  indeed.  But  I  was  confronted 
with  this  difficulty  at  the  very  outset  of  my 
labor,  and  the  more  I  labored  the  mightier  it 
became,  till  it  seemed  so  nearly  insurmount- 
able that  I  could  but  resign  myself  to  await 
the  moment  when  all  my  energies  and  all 


566  DANTE. 

my  senses  should  combine  in  definite  shape. 
Every  conscientious  actor  will  concur  in  my 
opinion  that  all  moments  are  not  apt  for  the 
choice  of  colors  wherewith  to  reproduce  the 
finished  picture  of  the  author's  imagination. 
And  how  many  of  us  are  often  obliged  to 
play  a  part  with  a  sense  of  disability  to  reveal 
its  hidden  beauties !  As  a  sunset  may  supply 
the  painter  with  a  tint  undreamed  of  for  his 
landscape,  so  a  woman's  glance  may  teach  us 
some  new  way  to  express  affection ;  a  visit  to 
the  mad-house,  some  strange  phase  of  mental 
alienation ;  a  shipwreck  brings  us  its  peculiar 
forms  of  anguish,  an  earthquake  its  varied  as- 
pects of  horror  and  despair ;  and  all  must  be 
noted,  pondered,  anatomized,  appropriated 
with  a  keen  discrimination.  To  do  this,  time 
is  needed ;  with  time,  experience  ;  and  with  ex- 
perience, genius  !  But  I  perceive  that  I  have 
strayed  a  little  from  my  subject,  and  I  turn 
back  for  one  moment  more  into  the  direct 
road. 

If  I  persist  in   my  opinion  that  Lear  at 


first  must  be  vigorous  in  his  old  age,  I  do  not 
therefore  admit  that  at  the  end  he  must  so 
retain  his  vigor  as  to  bear  lightly  in  his  arms 
the  dead  body  of  Cordelia  after  the  prevailing 
fashion.  May  my  brother  actors  forgive  me 
for  asking  how  such  Herculean  strength  is 
conceivable  in  a  man  broken  by  a  host  of 
misfortunes,  drawn  near  to  giving  up  his 
soul  to  God  ?  The  critics,  too,  should  recog- 
nize this  inaccuracy,  rating,  as  they  do,  their 
protagonist  decrepit  at  his  first  entrance.  To 
me  it  seems  that,  never  permitting  others  to 
touch  his  beloved  burden,  Lear  should  stagger 
under  its  weight,  without  disguising  the  effort 
it  occasions ;  this,  as  I  cannot  help  believing, 
is  not  only  truer  to  nature,  but  also  more  in- 
teresting and  more  effective.  * 

And  now  I  leave  this  generous,  noble,  and 
unhappy  king  in  peace,  bidding  farewell  to 
my  readers  with  the  wish  that  Lear  may  rise 
again  to  life  by  the  animating  breath  of  some 
actor  of  greater  power  than  mine,  to  make 
him  pathetic  and  admirable. 

Tommaso  Salvini. 


DANTE. 


THE    POET   ILLUSTRATED    OUT   OF   THE    POEM. 


IT  is  a  grave  if  not  a  formidable  undertaking 
to  treat  of  that  soldier,  statesman,  philosopher, 
above  all  poet,  whom  successive  generations 
reverence  under  the  musical  name  of  Dante 
Alighieri.  Fifty-six  years  sufficed  him  to  live 
his  life  and  work  his  work :  centuries  have 
not  sufficed  to  exhaust  the  rich  and  abstruse 
intellectual  treasure  which  the  world  inherits 
from  him.  Still,  acute  thinkers  abide  at  vari- 
ance as  to  his  ultimate  meaning ;  and  still  able 
writers  record  the  impressions  of  wonder, 
sympathy,  awe,  admiration,  which — however 
wide  and  manifold  his  recondite  meanings 
may  be — he  leaves  even  on  simple  hearts  so 
long  as  these  can  respond  to  what  is  lovely  or 
is  terrible.  "Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanta  desio  " 
("  How  many  sweet  thoughts,  how  much 
desire  "),  has  he  not  bequeathed  to  us  ! 

If  formidable  for  others,  it  is  not  least  for- 


midable for  one  of  my  name,  for  me,  to  enter 
the  Dantesque  field  and  say  my  little  say  on 
the  Man  and  on  the  Poem ;  for  others  of 
my  name  have  been  before  me  in  the  same 
field,  and  have  wrought  permanent  and  worthy 
work  in  attestation  of  their  diligence.  My 
father,  Gabriele  Rossetti,  in  his  "  Comento 
Analitico  sull'  Inferno  di  Dante"  ("Analytical 
Commentary  upon  Dante's  Hell  "),  has  left  to 
tyros  a  clew  and  to  fellow-experts  a  theory. 
My  sister,  Maria  Francesca  Rossetti,  has  in 
her  "Shadow  of  Dante"  eloquently  expounded 
the  Divina  Commedia  as  a  discourse  of  most 
elevated  Christian  .faith  and  morals.  My 
brother  Dante  has  translated  with  a  rare 
felicity  the  "Vita  Nuova"  ("  New  Life")  and 
other  minor  (poetical)  works  of  his  great 
namesake.  My  brother  William  has,  with  a 
strenuous  endeavor  to  achieve  close  verbal 


DANTE. 


567 


accuracy,  rendered  the  Inferno  into  English 
blank  verse.  I,  who  cannot  lay  claim  to  their 
learning,  must  approach  my  subject  under 
cover  of  "Mi  valga  .  .  .  il grande  amore  " 
("  May  my  great  love  avail  me  "),  leaving  to 
them  the  more  confident  plea,  "Mi  valga  il 
lungo  studio  "  ("  May  my  long  study  avail  me"). 
It  is  not  out  of  disrespect  to  Mr.  Longfel- 
low's blank-verse  translation  of  the  Divina 
Commedia,  a  translation  too  secure  of  public 
favor  to  need  my  commendation,  that  I  pro- 
pose to  make  my  extracts  (of  any  impor- 
tance) not  from  •  his  version,  but  from  Mr. 
Cayley's.  The  latter,  by  adhering  to  the  terza 
rima  (ternary  rhyme)  of  the  original  poem, 
has  gone  far  toward  satisfying  an  ear  rendered 
fastidious  by  Dante's  own  harmony  of  words; 
with  a  master  hand  he  conveys  to  us  the 
sense  amid  echoes  of  the  familiar  sound.  My 
first  quotation  (Paradise,  canto  i),  consisting 
of  an  invocation  of  the  Spirit  of  Poetry,  befits 
both  Dante  and  his  translator,  while,  as  it  were, 
|  striking  one  dominant  note  of  our  study : 

"  O  good  Apollo,  for  this  last  emprise 
Render  me  such  a  vessel  of  thy  might 

As  to  the  longed-for  laurel  may  suffice. 

Till  now  hath  sped  me  one  Parnassian  height, 
But  on  my  last  arena  now,  beneath 

The  double  safeguard,  I  must  needs  alight. 

Do  thou  into  my  bosom  come,  and  breathe, 
As  when  thou  drewest  Marsyas  of  old 

Out  of  his  body's  perishable  sheath." 

Dante  or  Durante  Alighieri,  Allighieri,  or 
Aldighieri — for  in  all  these  forms  the  names 
are  recorded — was  born  a  noble  citizen  of 
Florence  on  the  8th  of  May,  1265,  the  sun  be- 
ing then  in  the  sign  of  Gemini,  an  auspicious 
<  sign  according  to  popular   opinion   of  that 
!  day.    And  a  meaning   has   been   found  for 
I  "Alighieri"  apposite  to  him  who  so  eminently 
!  bore  the  name :  it   has  been  turned  (by  a 
process  I  attempt  not  to  analyze)  into  Aligero 
(winged),  when  at   once  we  recognize  how 
suitable  it  is  to  the  master  spirit  that  fathomed 
I  Hell  and  ascended  through  Purgatory  to  the 
;  heights  of  Heaven.    Nor  need  "  Dante,  Du- 
rante," remain  without  an  appropriate  gloss. 
Dante  (giving)  befits  one  who  has  enriched 
the  after  ages ;  Durante  (enduring)  suits  no 
less  that  much-enduring  man  who   (writing 
after  the  event)  puts  an  apparent  prophecy 
of  his  own  banishment  into  the  mouth  of  one 
of  the  personages  of  his  poem  (Paradise,  17) : 

"  Thou  shalt  leave  all  things,  which   thou  long  ago 
Hast  loved  most  dearly,  and  I've  herein  said 

What  dart  is  soonest  shot  from  exile's  bow. 

Thou  shalt  experience  how  another's  bread 
Is  salt  upon  our  palate,  and  what  bale 

Tis  up  and  down  another's  stairs  to  tread." 

Boccaccio  in  his  "  Life  of  Dante "  traces 
back  his  hero's  family  to  a  certain  Eliseo  of 
the  noble  Roman  house  of  Frangipani,  who, 


toward  the  date  of  the  rebuilding  of  Florence 
by  the  Emperor  Charlemagne,  settled  in  that 
city.  In  course  of  time  the  descendants  of 
Eliseo,  dropping  their  original  cognomen,  re- 
named themselves  as  Elisei.  Prominent  among 
them  in  the  days  of  the  Emperor  Conrad  III. 
arose  Cacciaguida,  knight  and  crusader,  who 
married  a  lady  of  the  Aldighieri  of  Ferrara, 
or  perhaps  of  Parma;  her  birthplace  seems  un- 
certain. This  lady  bestowed  her  patronymic 
on  one  of  her  sons,  Dante's  ancestor  in  the 
direct  line ;  and  he  becoming  a  man  of  note, 
his  descendants  adopted  his  name  as  their 
own  surname ;  thus  permanently  distinguish- 
ing as  Alighieri  their  branch  of  the  house  of 
the  Elisei. 

On  his  pilgrimage  through  Paradise,  Dante 
encounters  in  the  fifth  heaven,  that  of  tb2 
planet  Mars,  the  spirit  of  his  venerable  fore- 
father Cacciaguida,  who  discourses  with  him 
at  considerable  length,  and  after  describing 
the  happy  thrift  and  simplicity  of  Florence  in 
his  own  day — in  Dante's  day  become  a  hot- 
bed of  luxury  and  extravagance — briefly 
narrates  some  circumstances  of  his  birth  and 
after  life  (Paradise,  15) : 

"To  a  civic  life  thou  seest  how  goodly,  how 
Reposeful,  fellow-citizens  how  leal, 

How  sweet  a  homestead  Mary,  with  loud  vow 

Solicited,  gave  me,  and  of  Christ  the  seal 
I  took  within  your  ancient  Baptistere, 

As  Cacciaguida  for  His  Commonweal. 

The  camp  of  Emperor  Conrad  then  I  sought, 
And  by  him  was  I  girded  for  his  knight, 

So  well  I  pleased  him,  for  I  bravely  wrought. 

I  followed  him,  yon  wicked  faith  to  fight, 

Whose  votaries  by  your  Shepherd's  fault  despoil 

Your  jurisdiction  of  its  native  right. 

By  this  unholy  people  from  the  coil 

Of  the  false  world  obtained  I  my  release 

(Ah,  World,  whose  love  doth  many  a  spirit  soil), 

And  entered  out  of  Martyrdom  this  Peace." 

If,  as  we  have  seen,  mutation  of  name  and 
residence  characterizes  that  dignified  stock 
from  which  Dante  sprang,  no  less  conspicu- 
ously did  mutability  of  faction  and  fortune, 
and  a  bandying  of  names,  now  one  in  the 
ascendant  and  now  another,  characterize  that 
beautiful  Florence  which  called  him  son.  Her 
citizens  were  divided  into  Guelphs  and  Ghi- 
bellines :  these  names,  in  their  primitive  form, 
having  been  the  battle-cries  on  a  far-off  field 
where,  more  than  a  century  before  Dante's 
birth,  a  crown  was  lost  and  won  between  two 
contending  princes.  The  crown  in  dispute 
was  the  imperial  crown  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire  :  the  aristocratic  party  of  Imperialists 
attached  to  the  victorious  Conrad  of  Hohen- 
staufen  became  known  as  Ghibellines,  the 
overthrown  opposition  as  Guelphs.  And  as 
the  standing  opponent  of  the  Empire  was  the 
Popedom,  the  Papalist  party  in  Italy,  equally 


568 


DANTE. 


definable  as  National  or  as  Democratic,  was 
styled  Guelph. 

Here  already  were  sufficient  grounds  for 
strife.  Yet,  as  if  insufficient,  private  rancor 
heaped  fuel  and  explosives  on  the  public 
flame.  First,  a  feud  between  the  Florentine 
families  of  Buondelmonte  and  Amideo  wid- 
ened and  confirmed  the  political  breach ;  sec- 
ondly, a  brawl  among  the  children  of  one 
Florentine  citizen  by  two  successive  wives 
split  the  Guelph  party  into  subdivisions  dis- 
tinguished respectively  as  Black  and  White. 

Nor  were  words  and  names,  orations  and 
counter  orations,  the  chief  political  weapons 
of  those  days.  Sword  and  fire,  confiscation 
and  banishment,  made  and  left  their  mark  on 
either  side,  in  accordance  with  the  ever-shift- 
ing preponderance  of  this  or  that  faction. 
The  elder  Alighieri,  a  lawyer  by  profession, 
a  Guelph  by  party,  was  along  with  his  party 
living  in  exile  at  the  time  of  his  son  Dante's 
birth;  but  in  the  year  1267  the  Guelphs  re- 
turned to  Florence,  and  the  banished  man 
rejoined  his  family. 

Let  us  with  that  absence  and  that  reunion 
connect  such  thoughts  of  home-longing  and 
(in  a  figure)  of  home  contentment  as  breathe 
in  the  folio  wing  lines  (Purgatory,  8;  Paradise, 
23): 

"It  was  that  hour  which  thaws  the  heart  and  sends 
The  voyagers'  affection  home,  when  they 

Since  morn  have  said  Adieu  to  darling  friends ; 

And  smites  the  new-made  pilgrim  on  his  way 
With  love,  if  he  a  distant  bell  should  hear, 

That  seems  a-mourning  for   the  dying  day." 

"  As  when  the  bird  among  the  boughs  beloved, 

Keeping  beside  her  darlings'  nest  her  seat, 
By  night,  when  things  are  from   the  view  removed, 
That  sooner   she  the  dear  ones'  looks  may  meet, 

And  that  by  which  she  feeds  them  to  purvey, 
Counting  for  them  her  anxious  labor  sweet, 
Forestalls  the  hours  upon  the  unsheltered  spray, 

And  waits  the  sun  with  burning  eagerness, 
Poring  with  fixed  eye  for  the  peep  of  day." 

Not  long  did  the  elder  Alighieri  survive 
this  renewal  of  happiness.  Yet  our  hopes  fol- 
low him  out  of  sight  into  the  veiled  and  better 
land,  there  to  behold  him  awaiting  the  resti- 
tution of  all  things,  even  as  Dante,  in  his 
Divine  Comedy,  represents  a  congregation 
of  elect  souls  as  yearning  after  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  body  (Paradise,  14). 

Despite  so  irreparable  a  loss,  the  young 
Dante  received,  under  his  widowed  mother's 
protection,  a  refined  and  liberal  education. 
His  taste  was  for  study  rather  than  for  amuse- 
ment, and  to  such  a  taste,  allied  to  persever- 
ance and  wedded  to  a  preeminent  intellect, 
the  treasures  of  knowledge  lay  open  and  ac- 
cessible. His  mother's  circusmtances,  though 
not  opulent,  were  easy.  Thus  she  was  able 


to  intrust  her  son's  education  10  Brunette 
Latini,  a  notary  by  profession,  by  occasional 
office  an  ambassador  of  the  Florentine  Re- 
public, an  attractive  man  of  the  world ;  more- 
over, a  scholar  and  a  poet.  Between  him 
and  his  pupil  a  tender  affection  grew  up,  as 
Dante  himself  assures  us  (Hell,  15)  when  he 
encounters  his  master's  shade. 

Dante  also  studied  at  the  universities  of 
Padua  and  Bologna,  and  in  mature  life  aug- 
mented his  stores  of  knowledge  in  learned 
and  polite  Paris.  According  to  an  uncertain 
tradition,  he  visited  England,  and  in  partic- 
ular Oxford. 

In  a  period  of  broils,  heart-burnings,  rival- 
ries, Dante  was  not  the  man  to  observe  a  tepid 
neutrality.  He  bore  arms  on  the  field  of  Cam- 
paldino  and  at  the  siege  of  Caprona,  and 
on  one  or  both  occasions  with  credit  to  him- 
self and  to  his  cause.  The  battle  of  Campal- 
dino  was  followed  by  a  storm  —  the  stirring 
up  of  which  storm  is  attributed  to  diabolical 
agency  by  the  shade  of  Buonconte,  a  noble 
Ghibelline  who  fell  on  the  losing  side,  and 
who  accosts  Dante  in  the  Ante-Purgatory 
(Purgatory,  5). 

Yet,  though  a  soldier,  Dante  was  not  pri- 
marily a  soldier ;  rather,  it  may  be,  a  states- 
man, a  ruler,  a  legislator. 

From  the  highest  civil  dignity,  however, 
that  of  the  Priorato,  or  chief  magistracy  of 
Florence,  Dante  found  himself  excluded  by 
a  circumstance  which  at  once  dignified  his 
social  position  and  threatened  to  impede  his 
public  career.  Giano  della  Bella,  Prior  of 
Florence  in  1292,  had  ordained  that  such  fam- 
ilies as  counted  a  cavaliere  (knight)  among 
their  ancestry  should  be  reckoned  noble, 
while  for  that  very  reason  they  should  lose 
certain  civic  privileges.  Thus  Cacciaguida 
the  Crusader,  by  ennobling  his  descendants, 
cut  them  off  from  sundry  more  substantial 
honors.  To  rehabilitate  him,  as  we  may  sup- 
pose, for  public  office,  Dante's  name  is  found 
inscribed  amongthe  Medici  e  Speziali  (Leeches 
and  Druggists),  their  "  art  "  standing  sixth  in 
the  list  of  principal  arts ;  and  documents  still 
extant  in  the  archives  of  Florence  show  that 
he  did  actually  take  part  in  the  councils  of 
several  years,  commencing  with  the  year  1295. 

On  June  i5th,  1300,  Dante,  supported  by 
five  less  noted  colleagues,  was  created  Prior. 
The  Black  and  White  broils  were  at  this 
time  raging  with  such  virulence  that  the  Pa- 
pal Legate,  Cardinal  Matteo  d'Acquasparta, 
sent  to  Florence  for  purposes  of  pacification, 
failed  in  his  mission,  finally  (though  at  a  pe- 
riod considerably  later)  laying  the  rebellious 
city  under  an  interdict.  In  such  troubloi 
times  Dante  assumed  the  command ;  nor  w; 
he  one  to  rule  with  a  tremulous  hand. 


fc~ 
>us 

i 


him  and  his  colleagues  was  enacted  a  law 
which  banished  chiefs  and  adherents  of  both 
parties  into  separate  exile ;  to  Corso  Donati, 
Dante's  brother-in-law,  with  his  "  Blacks,"  a 
spot  in  the  Tuscan  mountains  was  assigned 
for  residence  ;  the  Whites,  among  whom  was 
Dante's  dearest  friend,  Guido  Cavalcanti, 
were  dispatched  into  the  baneful  Maremma. 

They  went,  but  they  returned;  and  di- 
vided as  they  went,  so  they  returned,  the 
Blacks  keen  for  vengeance.  This  faction  now 
denounced  the  Whites  as  Ghibellines,  anti- 
papalists,  foes  of  France;  and,  invoking 
foreign  aid,  induced  Charles  of  Valois,  then 
on  his  road  to  Rome,  to  countenance  their 
machinations.  Dante,  his  tenure  of  office  as 
Prior  being  expired,  was  hereupon  sent  by  his 
successors,  as  one  of  four  ambassadors,  on 
a  counter  embassy  to  the  Roman  court.  Like 
the  turbulent  factions  he  had  helped  to  ban- 
ish, he  also  went ;  but,  unlike  them,  he  re- 
turned no  more. 

Charles  of  Valois  occupied  the  oltr'  Arno 
(beyond  the  river  Arno).  Corso  Donati  raised 
the  Black  standard,  and,  by  the  help  of  the 
French  prince,  gained  a  crushing  victory. 
Fire  and  sword  devastated  Florence;  one 
PodestA  (magistrate  or  mayor)  was  expelled, 
another  appointed;  a  multitude  of  Whites 
were  exiled  and  doomed  to  beggary.  Well 
might  Dante  choose  Fortune  for  his  theme 
(Hell,  7)  : 

"  This  Fortune  whom  thou  namest :  What  is  she  ? 

He,  whose  high  wisdom  all  beside  transcends, 

Has  made  the  spheres,  appointing  one  that  might 
Rule  over  them,  whence  every  part  extends 
!  To  each,  in  tenor  uniform,  its  light ; 

So  to  the  glories  of  the  world  He  did 
One  common  regent  and  conductress  plight,* 
i  Who  might  from  time  to  time,  from  seed  to  seed, 

And  place  to  place,  their  empty  riches  shake, 
Beyond  forestalling  by  your  wit  and  heed. 
She  doth  one  people  raise,  and  one  doth  make 

To  languish,  by  the  allotment  of  her  hand, 

!  Which  is  concealed,  as  by  the  sward  the  snake. 

Your  wisdom  can  against  her  make  no  stand ; 

She  judges  and  foresees,  and  aye  pursues 
i  Her  sway,  like  every  god  in  his  command. 
r  Her  revolutions  have  no  pause  nor  truce; 
Her  swiftness  from  necessity  is  wrung; 
;  So  many  be  they  who  for  change  have  use. 
;  And  she  it  is  who  should  on  cross  be  hung, 
As  many  tell,  who  blame  her  much  amiss, 
j  Where   they    should   praise,  with   foul    and   wicked 

tongue. 
!  But  she  is  happy,   hearing  naught  of  this, 

Among  the  glad  first-born  of  God  attending 
To  turn  her  sphere  about,  and  bide  in  bliss." 

Dante   was    fined,    was  banished  for  two 

years  from  'Tuscany,  was   permanently    ex- 

I  eluded  from  office.  This  in  January,  1302.  In 

I  the  following  March  he  was  condemned  to 

*  I  have  ventured  to  replace  a  rhyme. 


DANTE.  569 

fagot  and  stake  should  he  ever  again  set 
foot  in  Florence.  Yet  in  1316  this  sentence 
was  conditionally  reversed.  The  state  of 
Florence  published  an  amnesty,  whereby,  on 
payment  of  a  fine  and  performance  of  public 
penance,  Dante,  among  others,  would  be  free 
to  return.  Such  an  alternative,  however,  only 
served  to  double-bar  the  gates  of  his  city  for- 
ever against  him.  Hearken  to  the  thunder  of 
his  indignation  at  the  humiliating  overture :  * 

"  Is  this,  then,  the  glorious  fashion  of  Dante  Ali- 
ghieri's  recall  to  his  country,  after  suffering  exile  for 
well-nigh  three  lusters  ?  Is  this  the  due  recompense 
of  his  innocence  manifest  to  all  ?  This  the  fruit  of  his 
abundant  sweat  and  toil  endured  in  study  ?  Far  from 
the  man  of  philosophy's  household  this  baseness 
proper  to  a  heart  of  mire,  that  he  ...  should  en- 
dure, as  a  prisoner,  to  be  put  to  ransom !  Far  from  the 
proclaimer  of  justice  that  he,  offended  and  insulted, 
to  his  offenders,  as  to  those  who  have  deserved  well 
of  him,  should  pay  tribute !  This,  father,  is  not  the 
way  to  return  to  my  country ;  but  if,  by  you  or  by 
another,  there  can  be  found  another  way  that  shall 
not  derogate  from  Dante's  fame  and  honor,  readily 
will  I  thereto  betake  myself.  But,  if  by  no  honorable 
way  can  entrance  be  found  into  Florence,  there  will  I 
never  enter.  What  ?  Can  I  not  from  any  corner  of  the 
earth  behold  the  sun  and  the  stars  ?  Can  I  not,  under 
every  climate  of  heaven,  meditate  the  all-sweet  truths, 
except  I  first  make  myself  a  man  of  no  glory,  but 
rather  of  ignominy,  in  the  face  of  the  people  and  city 
of  Florence  ?  " 

That  Florence  which  could  neither  break 
nor  bend  the  spirit  of  her  mighty  son  had, 
meanwhile,  wrought  in  him  a  far  different 
transformation.  Under  sentence  of  banish- 
ment, confiscation  of  goods,  contingent  death, 
Dante  the  Guelph  had  changed  into  Dante 
the  Ghibelline :  the  Papal  temporal  power 
became  the  object  of  his  outspoken  abhor- 
rence, the  Imperial  sway,  of  his  devoted  ad- 
vocacy. A  passage  (abridged)  from  Dante's 
prose  treatise,  "  De  Monarchia,"  sets  before  us 
his  theory  of  world-government : 

"  Only  Man  among  beings  holds  mid  place  between 
things  corruptible  and  things  incorruptible.  Therefore 
that  unspeakable  Providence  proposed  to  man  two 
ends  :  the  one  the  beatitude  of  this  life,  which  consists 
in  the  operations  of  his  own  virtue ;  the  other  the  beati- 
tude of  eternal  life,  which  consists  in  the  fruition  of 
the  Divine  Countenance.  To  these  two  beatitudes  by 
divers  means  must  we  come.  Wherefore  by  man  was 
needed  a  double  directive  according  to  the  double  end; 
that  is,  of  the  Supreme  Pontiff,  who,  according  to  Reve- 
lation, should  lead  mankind  to  eternal  life ;  and  of  the 
Emperor,  who,  according  to  philosophic  teachings, 
should  direct  mankind  to  temporal  felicity.  And 
whereas  to  this  port  none  or  few,  and  those  with  over- 
much difficulty,  could  attain,  unless  mankind,  the 
waves  of  enticing  cupidity  being  quieted,  should  repose 
free  in  the  tranquillity  of  peace ;  this  is  the  aim  to  be 
mainly  kept  in  view  by  the  Guardian  of  the  Globe, 

*  I  need  not  even  wish  to  excel  my  sister's  transla- 
tion of  this  passage,  which  I  extract,  word  for  word, 
from  "A  Shadow  of  Dante."  The  original  occurs  in 
a  private  letter  from  Dante  to  a  religions. 


57° 


DANTE. 


who  is  named  Roman  Prince,  to  wit,  that  in  the  gar- 
den-plot of  mortals  freely  with  peace  men  may  live."  * 

The  Whites,  exiled  while  Guelphs,  sought 
to  regain  their  citizenship  under  Ghibelline 
auspices.  In  1304  they  attempted  to  re- 
enter  Florence  by  force  of  arms,  and  failed. 
Years  later  their  hopes  revived  under  the 
Emperor  Henry  of  Luxemburg,  but  received 
in  his  sudden  death  their  own  death-blow. 

In  fact,  though  not  at  once  in  appearance, 
Dante's  efficient  public  life  was  well-nigh 
ended  when  Florence  cast  him  out.  Yet  not 
so,  if  we  look  beyond  his  active  services  and 
the  brief  span  of  his  mortal  day.  For,  taught 
by  bitter  experience  in  what  scales  to  weigh 
this  world  and  the  things  of  this  world,  he 
bequeathed  to  future  generations  the  undying 
voice  of  his  wisdom, — a  wisdom  distilled  in 
eloquence,  modulated  to  music,  sublimed  by 
imagination,  or  rather  subliming  that  imag- 
ination which  is  its  congruous  vehicle  and 
companion. 

Disowned  by  his  mother  city,  Dante  thence- 
forward found  a  precarious  refuge  here  or 
there,  chiefly  in  the  petty  courts  of  Ghibelline 
potentates.  Thus  he  sojourned  with  Count 
Guido  Salvatico  in  the  Casentino,  with 
Uguccione  della  Faggiuola  in  the  mountains 
of  Urbino;  afterward  under  the  protection 
of  Moroello  della  Spina  in  the  Lunigiana,  to 
whom  the  Purgatory  is  said  to  have  been 
dedicated,  and  to  whose  hereditary  and  per- 
sonal hospitality  the  following  lines,  addressed 
to  the  shade  of  his  father  Conrad,  refer 
(Purgatory,  8) : 

"  The  fame,  which  nobly  of  your  house  doth  tell, 
Proclaimeth  hamlet,  and  proclaimeth  peer, 

That  those  who  have  not  been  there  note  her  well. 

And  as  I  would  arrive  aloft,  I  swear, 
Your  honorable  house  tlv.  adorning  prize 

Of  arms  or  largess  doth  not  cease  to  bear. 

A  privilege  in  their  kind  or  custom  lies." 

As  foremost  among  Dante's  friendly  hosts 
may  perhaps  be  reckoned  Can  Grande  della 
Scala,  Lord  of  Verona.  Yet  from  Can 
Grande's  court  he  was  driven  (as  the  story 
goes)  by  an  insult  from  a  privileged  buffoon. 
Nevertheless,  we  find  the  praises  of  this  emi- 
nent noble,  preceded  by  those  of  an  elder 
head  of  the  same  house,  put  into  the  mouth 
of  Cacciaguida,  and  thereby  perpetuated 
(Paradise,  17). 

Ravenna  became  the  exiled  poet's  final 
refuge,  Guido  da  Polenta  his  last  and  gener- 
ous earthly  protector.  For  him  Dante  under- 
took a  mission  to  Venice;  and  this  failing, 
he  seems  to  have  lost  heart.  His  homeward 
journey  lay  through  the  malarious  lagoons  : 
no  marvel  is  it  that  he  contracted  a  fever, 
and  at  length  found  a  sure  resting-place  in 

*  Maria  F.  Rossetti. 


Ravenna,  where  he  died  on  the  i4th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1321,  and  where  he  was  buried. 

Looking  back  for  a  moment  to  that  crisis 
in  Dante's  life  as  a  patriot,  when  from  a 
Guelph  he  became  a  Ghibelline,  —  that  is  (as 
at  the  first  glance  might  appear),  when,  from 
having  been  champion  of  an  Italian  Italy, 
free  and  sole  mother  and  mistress  of  her  own 
free  children,  he  became,  whether  from  per- 
sonal disgust  or  sheer  despair  or  from  what- 
ever other  motive,  as  ardent  a  champion  of 
that  Imperial  power  which  aspired  to  rule 
over  her, — we  may  feel  disposed  to  wonder 
at  the  transformation,  perhaps  to  condemn 
the  citizen.  Not  so,  I  would  plead,  until  we 
have  studied  in  his  writings  and  have  pon- 
dered over  his  own  lofty  view  and  exposition 
of  a  world- wide  political  theory;  until  we 
have  striven  to  realize  how  the  Italy  before 
his  eyes  had  in  part  become  a  field  of  mutual 
destruction,  and  therefore  of  self-destruction;  j 
until  by  virtue  of  reverent,  compassionate 
sympathy  we  have  hungered  with  him  on  the  : 
bitter  bread  of  exile,  and  have  trodden  the 
wearisome,  dusty  roads  of  his  wandering 
banishment.  At  its  best  our  judgment  may  be 
erroneous ;  only  let  us  not  suffer  it  to  settle  ( 
down  into  stagnant  and  contented  shallow- 
ness.  By  the  mouth  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  ! 
Dante  himself  cautions  us  against  rash  judg- 
ment, and  elsewhere,  by  one  multitudinous, 
harmonious  utterance  of  unnumbered  glorified 
souls  combined  into  the  semblance  of  an 
eagle,  sets  forth  the  impartiality  of  God's 
final,  irreversible  sentence  (Paradise,  13-19):  J| 

"  And  let  not  folk  in  judging  trust  their  wit 
Too  fast,  as  one  who  counteth  up  the  corn 

In  's  field  before  the  sun  has  ripened  it; 

For  I  have  all  through  winter  seen  a  thorn 
Appearing  poisonless  and  obdurate, 

Which  then  the  rose  upon  the  sprig  hath  borne : 

And  I  have  seen  a  ship,  that  swift  and  straight 
Has  run  upon  the  mid-sea  all  her  race, 

And  perished,  entering  at  the  harbor  gate. 

.     .     .     As  the  stork  in  circles  flies 

Above  that  nest  wherein  she  feeds  her  young, 
And  as  those  fed  attend  her  with  their  eyes, 
So  moved  (and  so  mine  eyes  upon  him  clung) 

That  figure  blest,  whose  movement  of  each  plume 
Was  on  such  numbers  of  free  counsels  hung. 
Circling  he  chanted,  '  As  to  thee,  by  whom 

They  are  not  understood,  my  notes  be,  so 
To  mortals  is  God's  everlasting  doom.' 
Then  went  on  one  and  every  flaming  glow 

Of  God's  own  spirit,  in  that  sign  enmailed, 
Which  made  to  Roman  arms  the  World  bend  low. 
'  This  kingdom,'  he  began,  *  was  never  scaled 

By  mortal  that  had  not  believed  in  Christ, 
Before,  or  after,  He  on  Cross  was  nailed. 
But  look,  there's  many  calleth  Christ^  O  Christ, 

That  shall,  for  meeting  Him  in  judgment,  wan 
Much  more  than  such  a  one  as  knew  not  Chris'" 
The  ^Ethiop  shall  judge,  and  cry,  A  vaunt 

Such  Christians,  when  those  congregations  t 
Part,  one  for  Wealth  eterne,  and  one  for  Want.' 


DANTE. 


Hitherto  we  have  contemplated  Dante 
mounted,  as  it  were,  on  a  public  pedestal. 
We  have  recalled  his  career  mainly  according 
to  that  aspect  under  which  it  forms  a  portion 
of  the  history  of  his  age  and  nation.  The  man 
among  men,  the  leader  or  the  victim  of  his 
fellow-countrymen,  has  engrossed  our  atten- 
tion. 

But  thus  we  have  beheld  only  half  a  Dante. 
We  have  not  looked,  or  even  attempted  to 
look,  into  that  heart  of  fire  which  burned  first 
and  last  for  one  beloved  object.  For,  what- 
ever view  we  take  of  Beatrice,  unless  indeed 
we  are  prepared  wholly  to  set  aside  the  poet's 
own  evidence  concerning  himself,  either  she 
literally,  or  else  that  occult  something  which 
her  name  was  employed  at  once  to  express 
and  to  veil,  must  apparently  have  gone  far  to 
mold  her  lover ;  to  make  him  what  he  was, 
to  withhold  him  from  becoming  such  as  he 
became  not. 

On    Dante's  own  showing  (in  his  "  Vita 

Nuova  "  and  elsewhere),  this  object,  fruitlessly 

i  beloved    on    earth,   but   to   be   attained    to 

|  and  enjoyed  in  the  heavenly  communion  of 

;  saints,  was  Beatrice,  daughter  of  Folco  Por- 

I  tinari,  beautiful,  gracious,  replete  with  virtue, 

i  courteous,  and  humble.    Not,  it  may  be,  that 

when  first  they  met  she  shone,  even  in  far- 

i  thest-seeing  poetic  eyes,  with  her  full  luster ; 

I  for  at  that  first  meeting  they  were  both  but 

children  of  nine  years  old,  he  somewhat  the 

elder.  She  at  her  father's  house,  he  brought 

thither  by  his  own  father  on  a  holiday  occasion 

— thus  they  met  whom  love  was  to  unite  by 

I  an  indissoluble,  because  by  a  spiritual,  bond. 

;  For  no  courtship,  as  it  would  seem,  ensued. 

i  Not  a  hint  remains  that  Beatrice  even  guessed 

,  her  boy-friend's  secret.    He  sought  her  com- 

ipany,  and  felt  the  ennobling  influence  of  her 

[presence — so  noble  an  influence  that  love  (he 

i  avers)  ruled  him  not  contrary  to  the  dictates 

of  reason.    With  equal  emphasis   Boccaccio 

dwells  on  the  intact  purity  of  both  lover  and 

beloved  in  this  absorbing  passion ;  for  absorb- 

jing  it  was.  on  Dante's  side,  whether  or  not  it 

was  returned. 

And  we  may  well  hope  that  it  was  neither 
returned  nor  so  much  as  surmised  by  its  ob- 
ject ;  for,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  Beatrice  Por- 
tinari  became  the  wife  of  Simon  de'  Bardi. 
'Of  Dante's  consequent  grief  we  find  no  dis- 
;tinct  mention,  although  one  passage  in  the 
"  Vita  Nuova  "  may  refer  to  it.  Of  his  bitter 
grief  when,  in  the  year  1290,  at  the  still  youth- 
ful age  of  twenty-four,  she  died,  he  has  left 
|us  an  ample  record. 

It  is  narrated,  but  I  know  not  whether  on 
trustworthy  authority,  that,  in  this  period  of 
bereavement,  Dante  donned  the  Franciscan 
:habit  as  a  novice  in  the  monastery  of  San 


Benedetto  in  Alpe  among  the  Apennines, 
and  some  writers  of  the  same  order  have  laid 
claim  to  him  as  wearing  their  affiliating  cord 
and  dying  in  their  habit.  However  this  may 
have  been,  tonsure  and  cowl  were  not  for 
him,  as  an  early  day  declared. 

Boccaccio  thus  describes  Dante  in  his  des- 
olation : 

"  He  was,  indeed,  through  tear-shed,  and  through 
the  affliction  felt  within  his  heart,  and  through  his 
neglect  of  all  outward  personal  care,  become  well-nigh 
a  savage  creature  to  behold :  lean,  bearded,  and  almost 
wholly  transformed  from  his  previous  self,  insomuch 
that  his  aspect,  not  in  his  friends  only,  but  no  less  in 
such  others  as  beheld  him,  by  its  own  virtue  wrought 
compassion;  he  withal,  this  tearful  life  subsisting, 
seldom  suffering  himself  to  be  seen  by  any  but  friends. 
This  compassion,  and  apprehension  of  worse  to  come, 
set  his  kindred  on  the  alert  for  his  solace.  They,  mark- 
ing the  tears  abated  and  the  consuming  sighs  accord- 
ing some  truce  to  the  wearied  bosom,  with  long-lost 
consolations  set  themselves  to  reconsole  the  uncon- 
soled  one,  who,  although  up  to  that  hour  he  had 
obstinately  stopped  his  ears  against  e,very  one,  began 
not  merely  somewhat  to  open  them,  but  willingly  to 
entertain  comforting  suggestions.  Which  thing  his 
kindred  beholding,  to  the  end  that  they  might  not  only 
altogether  withdraw  him  from  anguish,  but  might  lead 
him  into  joy,  they  proposed  among  themselves  to  be- 
stow upon  him  a  wife ;  that,  even  as  the  lost  lady  had 
caused  his  grief,  so  the  newly  acquired  one  might  be- 
come to  him  source  of  gladness.  And,  having  found 
a  maiden  of  creditable  condition,  with  such  reasons  as 
appeared  to  them  most  influential,  they  declared  to 
him  their  intention.  Whereupon,  after  long  conflict, 
without  further  waste  of  time,  to  words  succeeded 
effects,  and  he  was  married." 

This  marriage,  contracted  about  a  year 
after  the  death  of  Beatrice,  proved  more  or 
less  unhappy ;  so  we  deem  on  indirect  evi- 
dence. Gemma  Donati,  sister  of  that  Corso 
Donati  who  subsequently,  at  the  head  of 
the  Black  faction,  overran  Florence  with  fire 
and  sword, —  Gemma  Donati  was  the  chosen 
bride,  the  accepted  wife.  Seven  children  she 
bore  to  her  husband,  surely  a  dear  and  bind- 
ing link  between  them ;  yet,  from  the  moment 
of  his  exile,  he  and  she  met  no  more.  When, 
he  being  already  and,  as  the  event  proved, 
finally  absent,  his  Florentine  house  was  burnt, 
she  saved  his  manuscripts,  which  were  after- 
ward restored  to  his  own  keeping.  This  sug- 
gests, though  it  does  not  prove,  affection  on 
her  side.  But  while  some,  if  not  all,  of  his 
children  rejoined  him  after  a  time,  his  wife 
never.  Perhaps  no  living  woman  of  mere  flesh 
and  blood  could  have  sufficed  to  supersede 
that  Beatrice  whom  Dante  terms  "  this  young- 
est angel "  long  before  death  had  (as  we  trust) 
exalted  her  to  the  society  of  all  her  blessed 
fellows,  whether  elect  angels  or  beatified  spir- 
its. If  so,  Gemma  is  truly  to  be  pitied  in  her 
comparatively  thankless  and  loveless  lot;  nev- 
ertheless, such  hope  remained  to  her  as,  of 
old,  Leah  may  have  cherished  when  altogether 


572 


DANTE. 


eclipsed  by  Rachel, — such  hope  as  removes 
from  earth  to  heaven.  Nor  could  Dante  him- 
self have  denied  her  that  hope,  for  thus  he 
writes  (Purgatory,  27) : 

.   .    .    "Sleep  over  me 

Came,  even  sleep,  which  oftentimes  doth  know 
The  tidings  of  events  before  they  be. 

My  dreams  did,  young  and  beautiful,  present 

A  lady  to  me,  that  by  lawny  lands 
Was  gathering  flowers,  and  singing  as  she  went : 
'  Now  know  ye,  whosoe'er  my  name  demands, 

That  I  am  Leah,  that  about  me  ply, 
To  make  myself  a  chaplet,  my  fair  hands ; 
That  I  may  in  the  mirror  please  mine  eye 

I  deck  me ;  but  my  sister  Rachel,  she 
Is  ne'er  uncharmed,  and  sits  all  day  thereby. 
She  hath  as  lief  her  goodly  eyes  to   see, 

As  I  have  with  my  hands   to  deck  me  here ; 
So  study  pleaseth  her,  and  labor  me.'  " 

Yet  it  seems  hard  to  accept  as  full  and  final 
such  an  explanation,  because  Dante,  on  his  own 
showing,  lapsed  from  pure,  unbroken  faith  to 
his  first  love  into  unworthy  pleasure.  Hear 
how,  even  amid  the  peace  and  bliss  of  the 
Terrestrial  Paradise,  Beatrice,  with  veiled 
countenance  and  stinging  words,  addresses 
him,  "Guardami  ben  /  ben  son,  ben  son  Be- 
atrice" ("Look  on  me  well;  yes,  I  am  Be- 
atrice"), and,  despite  his  overwhelming  shame, 
resumes  the  thread  of  her  discourse  by  speak- 
ing no  longer  to,  but  at  him  (Purgatory,  30) : 

"  Some  while  at  heart  my  presence  kept  him  sound ; 

My  girlish  eyes  to  his  observance  lending, 
I  led  him  with  me  on  the  right  way  bound. 
When,  of  my  second  age  the  steps  ascending, 

I  bore  my  life  into  another  sphere, 
Then  stole  he  from  me,  after  others  bending. 
When  I  arose  from  flesh  to  spirit  clear, 

When  beauty,  worthiness  upon   me  grew, 
I  -was  to  him  less  pleasing  and  less  dear. 
He  set  his  feet  upon  a  path  untrue, 

Chasing  fallacious  images  of  weal, 
Whose   promise  never  doth  result  pursue. 
It  helpt  me  nought,  to  make  him  my  appeal 

In  sleep,  through  inspirations  that  I  won, 
Or  otherwise;  so  little  did  he  feel. 
So  far  he  fell  adown,  that  now  not  one 

Device  for  his  redemption  could  bestead, 
Except  by  showing  him  the  souls  undone." 

It  is  of  course  possible  that  the  one  woman 
whom  Dante  could  not  —  or,  rather,  would 
not  —  love  was  that  only  woman  who  had 
an  indefeasible  claim  upon  his  heart.  What- 
ever the  explanation  may  be,  it  remains  for 
the  present  hidden.  Time  has  not  shown; 
eternity,  if  not  time,  will  show  it.  Meanwhile 
let  us,  by  good  wishes,  commend  him,  after 
the  prolonged  disappointment  of  life,  to  that 
satisfying  peace  whereunto  he  consigns  Boe- 
thius — a  philosopher  whose  writings  had 
aforetime  cheered  him  under  depression,  and 
whose  spirit  he  places  in  the  sun  among  the 


lovers  of  true  wisdom,  where  his  fellow-sage,  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas,  thus  sums  up  his  history 
(Paradise,  10) : 

"  Now,  if  the  eye-beam  of  thy  mind  proceed 
From  light  to  light,  the  follower  of  my  praise, 

To  know  the  eighth  already  thou  wilt  need. 

There,  blessed  from  beholding  all  good,  stays 
That  soul  untarnished  who  the  treacherous  lease, 

If  well  perused,  of  worldly  joys  displays. 

That  body,  whence  her  violent  decease 
She  made,  Cieldauro  covers,  and  she  ran 

From  pangs  and  exile  into  th'  endless  peace." 

If  the  master  Boethius  was  wise,  wise  also 
must  we  account  Dante  the  disciple.  Some 
students  speak  of  hidden  lore  underlying  the 
letter  of  our  poet's  writings  :  in  Beatrice  they 
think  to  discern  an  impersonation  rather  than 
a  woman,  in  the  Divine  Comedy  a  meaning 
political  rather  than  dogmatic, —  or,  if  in  any 
sense  dogmatic,  yet  not  such  as  appears  on 
the  surface.  So  obscure  a  field  of  investiga- 
tion is  not  for  me  or  for  my  readers ;  at  least,  j 
not  for  them  through  any  help  of  mine :  to 
me  it  is  and  it  must  remain  dim  and  unex- 
plored, even  as  that  "  selva  oscura "  (dark 
wood)  with  which  the  Cantica  of  the  Hell  , 
opens. 

What  then,  according  to  the  obvious  sig- 
nification, is  in  few  words  the  subject  or  plot 
of  the  Divine  Comedy  ? 

Dante,  astray  in  a  gloomy  wood  and  beset 
by  wild  beasts,  is  rescued  by  the  shade  of 
Virgil,  who,  at  the  request  of  Beatrice,  already 
an  inhabitant  of  heaven,  has  left  his  proper 
abode  in  a  painless  region  of  hell,  for  the 
purpose  of  guiding  Dante  first  of  all  through 
the  nether-world  of  lost  souls,  that,  by  their 
irremediable  ruin,  he  may  learn  to  flee  from 
evil  as  from  the  face  of  a  serpent,  retrieving 
his  errors  and  amending  his  ways.  Over  Hefl 
gate  an  awful  inscription  is  placed  (Hell,  3) : 

"  Through  me  you  pass  into  the  city  of  woe ; 

Through  me  you  pass  eternal  woes  to  prove  j 
Through  me  among  the  blasted  race  you  go. 
'Twas  Justice  did  my  most  high  Author  move, 

And  I  have  been  the  work  of  Power  divine, 
Of  supreme  Wisdom,  and  of  primal  Love. 
No  creature  has  an  elder  date  than  mine, 

Unless  eternal,  and  I  have  no  end. 
O  you  that  enter  me,  all  hope  resign." 

Immediately  beyond  this  gate  swarms  a 
throng  of  despicable  souls,  refuse  even  in  hell, 
mere  self-seekers;  the  "spued-out,  lukewarm" 
ones,  so  to  say.  These  left  behind,  and  the 
river  Styx  passed  over,  a  painless,  hopeh 
region  is  entered, — the  permanent  home  of 
Virgil,  with  all  other  virtuous  heathens  wh " 
lived  and  died  before  our  Lord  Christ  was 
born :  painless,  because  their  lives  were  good; 
hopeless,  because  they  lacked  faith.  Beyon< 


DANTE. 


573 


this  point  of  our  pilgrims'  journey  peace,  even    anguish  should  befall  him  on  the    death  of 
hopeless   peace,  finds   no   place.    A   furious,    Beatrice  ("  Vita  Nuova ") : 


whirling  storm  is  the  first  torment  they  en- 
counter. Thenceforward,  from  agony  to  agony 
they  plunge  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  abyss 
of  Hell,  meeting  sinner  after  sinner  whose 
ghastly  story  is  told  at  more  or  less  length, 
until  they  reach  the  visible,  abhorrent  presence 
of  Lucifer,  who  from  "  perfect  in  beauty''  has 
by  rebellion  become  absolute  in  hideous 
horror. 

Mid- Lucifer  occupies  the  earth's  center  of 
gravity.  Virgil,  with  Dante  clinging  to  him, 
clambers  down  the  upper  half  of  Lucifer  and 
climbs  up  the  lower  half,  whereby  the  twain 
find  themselves  emerging  from  the  depth  of 
Hell  upon  the  Mountain  of  Purgatory. 

This  Purgatory  is  the  domain  of  pain  and 
hope, — finite  pain,  assured  hope.  Again  a 
number  of  episodes  charm  us  while  we  track 
the  pilgrims  along  the  steep  ascent,  until,  on 
the  summit,  they  reach  the  Terrestrial  Para- 
dise ;  and  here,  the  shade  of  Beatrice  assum- 
ing in  her  own  person  the  guidance  of  her 
lover,  Virgil  vanishes. 

Under  the  guardianship  of  Beatrice,  Dante 
mounts  through  eight  successive  Heavens  to 
that  ninth  which  includes  within  itself  all 
blessedness.  In  each  of  them  he  encounters 
jubilant  souls-  grown  loquacious  by  impulse 
of  charity,  delighting  to  share  with  him  their 
edifying  experiences,  to  resolve  his  doubts, 
to  lighten  his  darkness.  All  culminates  in  an 
unutterable  revelation  of  God  made  Man  and 
the  All- Holy  Trinity  in  Unity. 


.     .     .     "In  myself  I  said,  with  sick  recoil: 
'Yea,  to  my  lady  too  this  Death  must  come.' 

Then  saw  I  many  broken  hinted  sights 

In  the  uncertain  state  I  stepp'd  into. 

Meseem'd  to  be  I  know  not  in  what  place, 
Where   ladies  through    the    street,   like    mournful 
lights, 

Ran  with  loose  hair,  and  eyes  that  frighten'd  you 
By  their  own  terror,  and  a  pale  amaze : 
The  while,  little  by  little,  as  I  thought, 
The  sun  ceased,  and  the  stars  began  to  gather, 

And  each  wept  at  the  other ; 

And  birds  dropp'd  in  mid-flight  out  of  the  sky ; 

And  earth  shook  suddenly  ; 

And  I  was  'ware  of  one,  hoarse  and  tired  out, 
Who    ask'd    of  me  :    '  Hast   thou    not    heard    it 

said  ?     .     .     . 
Thy  lady-,  she  that  was  so  fair,  is  dead.' 

"Then  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  as  the  tears  came, 

I  saw  the  angels,  like  a  rain  of  manna, 
In  -a  long  flight  flying  back  heavenward ; 
Having  a  little  cloud  in  front  of  them, 

After  the  which  they  went  and  said,  ',Hosanna ' ; 

And  if  they  had  said  more,  you  should  have  heard. 

Then  Love  said,  '  Now  shall  all  things  be  made 

clear  : 
Come  and  behold  our  lady  where  she  lies.' 

"These  'wildering   phantasies 
Then  carried  me  to  see  my  lady  dead. 
Even  as  I  there  was  led, 
Her  ladies  with  a  veil  were  covering  her; 
And  with  her  was  such  very  humbleness 
That  she  appeared  to  say,  'I  am  at  peace.'" 

(D.  G.  Rossetti.) 


Such  readers  as  would  fully  enter  into  the 

.  mind  of  Dante — as  fully,  that  is,  as  ordinary 

Lhief  among  Dante  s  works,  and  in  itself  intelligences  can  hope  to  explore  the  extraor- 

complete,  the  Divine  Comedy  yet  requires  an  dmary  — must  not  limit  themselves  to  the  Di- 

mtroduction  if  we  would  fully  understand  its  vine  Comedy  and  «  Vita  Nuova,"  but  must 

starting-point.    Our  poet's    earlier  work,  the  stud    also  the  «  Convito  "  (Banquet),  a  phil- 

"Vita   Nuova,    composed  of  alternate  prose  osophical  work,  besides  minor  poems  epistles, 

and  verse,  supplies  that  introduction.   There  and  Latin  compositions.  On  the  threshold  of 

we  read  an   elaborate   continuous  exposition  guch  studi      j  bid  them  good.bye  in  Our  great 

of  his  love  for    Beatrice,   interspersed   with  author's  own  words : 
ever-renewed  tribute  of  praise  from  his  lowli- 
ness to   her   loftiness  ;    interspersed,  tOO,  with  "  Se  Dio  ti  lasci,  lettor,  prender  frutto 
curiosities  of  structure  and  perhaps  of  style         /     Dl  tua  lezione-" 

which  some  may  deem  pedantic.    In  the  fol-         (Ma7  God  vouchsafe  thee,  reader,  to  cull  fruit 
lowing  passage  Dante  relates  how,  by  means 
of  a  dream,  he  experienced  beforehand  what  Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


VOL.  XXVfL— 54. 


THE  nobly  descriptive  poem  of  Thomas 
W.  Parsons  is  a  fit  introduction  to  what  we 
have  to  say  of  the  portraits  of  Dante,  and  no 
apology  is  needed  for  giving  it  entire.  These 
lines  were  prefixed  to  Dr.  Parsons's  translation 
of  seventeen  cantos  of  the  Inferno,  published 
in  1865,  on  the  occasion  of  the  six  hundredth 
birthday  of  Dante :  * 

"ON   A  BUST  OF   DANTE. 

"  BY  THOMAS   WILLIAM    PARSONS. 

"  See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song! 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 


Perpetual  care  and  scorn  abide  — 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng, 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

"  Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 
No  dream  his  life  was,  but  a  fight ; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 
A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 
Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 
In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

"The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thii 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 


*  Boston  :  printed  by  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


THE   PORTRAITS   OF  DANTE. 


575 


Unsullied  still  though  still  severe, 
Which  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

"  Not  wholly   such  his  haggard  look, 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he,  strayed, 
With  no  companion  but  his  book, 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 
The  convent's  charity  was  rest. 

"  Peace  dwells  not  here  —  this  rugged  face 
Reveals  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, — 
The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 
The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 
The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

"War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ;        0 
Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

"  O  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ! 
That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now. 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow : 
His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 
The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind." 

Dante  Alighieri  died  A.  D.  1321.  In  1884 
there  are  few  more  familiar  or  more  easily 
recognized  faces  than  his,  and  yet  of  the 
almost  innumerable  so-called  portraits  of  him 
that  now  exist  there  are  but  two  that  can  be 
called  authentic — the  two  from  which  all  the 
others  must  have  been  derived.  To  the  first 
of  these,  which  was  painted  by  Giotto,  the 
verses  of  Dr.  Parsons  do  not  apply,  for  it  was 
made  before  the  struggle  with  life's  exigencies 
had  begun;  the  beautiful  features  show  the 
triumphant  security  of  youth,  and  of  a  youth 
endowed  with  singular  powers. 

"The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 

The  love  of  love." 

But  the  hate  of  hat,e,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
had  not  as  yet  been  awakened. 

Giotto  was  the  greatest  painter  of  his  time, 
and  the  intimate  friend  of  Dante.  This  por- 
trait is  in  fresco  on  the  walls  of  the  chapel  in 
the  palace  of  the  Podesta  of  Florence,  now 
called  the  Bargello.  It  was  a  grand  religious 
picture.  The  figure  of  Christ  in  the  upper 
part  was  supported  by  saints  and  angels,  and 
below  were  kings  and  great  people  of  the  city 
of  Florence,  among  whom  Dante  stood  with 


a  pomegranate  in  his  hand,  the  face  in  profile ; 
and  the  features,  as  yet  unchanged  by  time 
and  suffering,  by  care  and  contention,  are 
noble  and  gracious.  This  picture  has  a 
strange  history.  Painted  by  the  first  artist 
of  that  time,  on  the  chapel  wall  in  one  of  the 
chief  public  palaces  of  the  city  of  Florence, 
it  ought  to  have  been  safe  from  destruction. 
In  Vasari's  "  Life  of  Giotto,"  published  in 
1550,  is  this  account  of  the  picture : 

"  Giotto  became  so  good  an  imitator  of  nature,  that 
he  altogether  discarded  the  stiff  Greek  manner,  and 
revived  the  modern  and  good  art  of  painting,  intro- 
ducing exact  drawing  from  nature  and  living  persons, 
which,  for  more  than  two  hundred  years,  had  not 
been  practiced,  or  if,  indeed  any  one  had  tried  it,  he  had 
not  succeeded  very  happily,  nor  anything  like  so  well 
as  Giotto.  And  he  portrayed,  among  other  person s,as 
may  even  now  be  seen  in  the  chapel  of  the  palace  of  the 
Podesta,  in  Florence,  Dante  Alighieri,  his  contem- 
porary and  greatest  friend,  who  was  not  less  famous  as 
a  poet  than  Giotto  as  a  painter  in  those  days." 

This  picture  is  supposed  to  have  been  paint- 
ed when  Dante  was  about  twenty  years  old ; 
and  according  to  the  above  extract  from  Va- 
sari,  it  was  still  to  be  seen  in  1550.  Professor 
Charles  Eliot  Norton,  in  his  work  on  the 
original  portraits  of  Dante  (Cambridge,  1865), 
gives  this  account  of  the  loss  of  the  picture : 

"  One  might  have  supposed  that  such  a  picture  as 
this  would  have  been  among  the  most  carefully  pro- 
tected and  jealously  prized  treasures  of  Florence.  But 
such  was  not  the  case.  The  shameful  neglect  of  many 
of  the  best  and  most  interesting  works  of  the  earlier 
period  of  art,  which  accompanied  and  was  one  of  the 
symptoms  of  the  moral  and  political  decline  of  Italy 
during  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  ex- 
tended to  this  as  to  other  of  the  noblest  paintings  of 
Giotto.  Florence,  in-  losing  consciousness  of  present 
worth,  lost  care  for  the  memorials  of  her  past  honor, 
dignity,  and  distinction.  The  palace  of  the  Podesta, 
no  longer  needed  for  the  dwelling  of  the  chief  magis- 
trate of  a  free  city,  was  turned  into  a  jail  for  common 
criminals,  and  what  had  once  been  its  beautiful  and 
sacred  chapel  was  occupied  as  a  larder  or  store-room. 
The  walls,  adorned  with  paintings  more  precious 
than  gold,  were  covered  with  whitewash,  and  the 
fresco  of  Giotto  was  swept  over  by  the  brush  of  the 
plasterer.  It  was  not  only  thus  hidden  from  the  sight 
of  those  unworthy  indeed  to  behold  it,  but  it  almost 
disappeared  from  memory  also,  and  from  the  time  of 
Vasari  down  to  that  of  Moreni,  a  Florentine  antiquary 
in  the  early  part  of  the  present  century,  hardly  a  men- 
tion of  it  occurs.  In  a  note  found  among  his  papers, 
Moreni  laments  that  he  had  spent  two  years  of  his 
life  in  unavailing  efforts  to  recover  the  portrait  of 
Dante  and  the  other  portions  of  the  fresco  of  Giotto 
in  the  Bargello,  mentioned  by  Vasari ;  that  others 
before  him  had  made  a  like  effort,  and  had  failed  in 
like  manner ;  and  that  he  hoped  that  better  times  would 
come,  in  which  this  painting,  of  such  historic  and  ar- 
tistic interest,  would  again  be  sought  for  and  at  length 
recovered.  Stimulated  by  these  words,  three  gentle- 
men, one  an  American,  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Wilde, 
one  an  Englishman,  Mr.  Seymour  Kirkup,  and  one  an 
Italian,  Signor  G.  Aubrey  Bezzi,  all  scholars  devoted 
to  the  study  of  Dante,  undertook  new  researches  in 
1840;  and  after  many  hindrances  on  the  part  of  the 


576 


THE   PORTRAITS   OF  DANTE. 


government,  which  were  at  length  successfully  over- 
come, the  work  of  removing  the  crust  of  plaster  from 
the  walls  of  the  ancient  chapel  was  intrusted  to  the 
Florentine  painter  Marini.  This  new  and  well-di- 
rected search  did  not  fail.  After  some  months'  labor 


THE    DEATH-MASK. 

THE  other  authentic  portrait  is  the  well- 
known   "  Death-Mask."    I   call   it   authentic 


the  fresco  was  found,  almost  uninjured,    under    the     because,   although    its    history    is   obscure,    it 


11 


BRONZE     BUST    OK     DANTE,    IN     THE     MUSEUM     OF    NAPLES. 


whitewash  that  had  protected  while  concealing  it,  and 
at  length  the  likeness  of  Dante  was  uncovered. 

"  '  But,'  says  Mr.  Kirkup,  in  a  letter  published  in 
the  "  Spectator  "  (London,  May  nth,  1850), '  the  eye 
of  the  beautiful  profile  was  wanting.  There  was  a  hole 
an  inch  deep,  or  an  inch  and  a  half.  Marini  said  it 
was  a  nail.  It  did  seem  precisely  the  damage  of  a  nail 
drawn  out.  Afterward  .  .  .  Marini  filled  the  hole 
and  made  a  new  eye,  too  little,  and  ill  designed ;  and 
then  he  retouched  the  whole  face  and  glothes,  to  the 
great  damage  of  the  expression  and  character.  The 
likeness  of  the  face,  and  the  three  colors  in  which 
Dante  was  dressed,  the  same  with  those  of  Beatrice, 
those  of  .young  Italy,  white,  green,  and  red,  stand  no 
more ;  the  green  is  turned  to  chocolate  color ;  more- 
over, the  form  of  the  cap  is  lost  and  confounded. 

"  '  I  desired  to  make  a  drawing;  ...  it  was  denied 
to  me.  .  .  .  But  I  obtained  the  means  to  be  shut 
up  in  the  prison  for  a  morning,  and  not  only  did  I 
make  a  drawing  but  a  tracing  also,  and  with  the  two 
I  then  made  a  facsimile,  sufficiently  careful.  Luckily, 
it  was  before  the  rifacimentoS 

"  This  facsimile  afterward  passed  into  the  hands  of 
Lord  Vernon,  well  known  for  his  interest  in  all 
Dantesque  studies,  and  by  his  permission  it  has  been 
admirably  reproduced  in  chromo-lithography,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Arundel  Society.  The  reproduction 
is  entirely  satisfactory  as  a  representation  of  the  au- 
thentic portrait  of  the  youthful  Dante,  in  the  state  in 
which  it  was  when  Mr.  Kirkup  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
gain  admission  to  it."  * 

*C.  E.  Norton,  "Original  Portraits  of  Dante." 


carries  authenticity  in  its  face.  The  portrait 
by  Giotto  gives  us  the  poet  in  his  youth,  and 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  all  the  later  por- 
traits are  taken  from  the  mask.  The  solemnly 
grave  warrior  head  we  see  in  the  bronze  bust 
at  Naples,  and  the  three  heads  by  Raphael 
(one  in  the  fresco  of  the  Disputa  in  the  Stanze 
of  the  Vatican,  one  in  the  Parnassus  in  the 
same  room,  and  one  in  the  School  of  Athens) 
are  all  of  this  graver  and  grander  type.  So 
also  in  a  drawing  by  Raphael,  probably  a 
study  for  one  of  these,  in  the  collection  at 
Vienna.  Raphael  used  the  traditional  feat- 
ures, but  expressed  them  in  grandiose  poetic 
forms,  and  these  again  have  been  used  as 
master  types  for  succeeding  portraits.  These 
two  portraits — the  first  being  Mr.  Kirkup's 
precious  rescue  from  the  destructive  restorer, 
which  gives  the  pure  and  beautiful  outlines 
of  youth,  the  second  being  the  wonderfully 
expressive  death-mask  which  has  brought 
down  to  us  not  only  the  dead  features  of  the 
poet  but  the  expression  stamped  upon  thei 
in  that  supreme  hour  when,  before  abandon- 
ing the  clay,  the  spirit  takes  entire  possessioi 
of  it — express  the  history  of  a  life,  and  brinj 


HEAD    OF    DANTE. 

FROM  THE   "DISPUTA"  OF  RAPHAEL,  IN  THE  VATICAN. 


578 


THE  PORTRAITS   OF  DANTE. 


this  distracted,  this  stormy  and  suffering  pil- 
grimage together  into  a  coherent  and  most 
impressive  whole. 

The  history  of  the  mask  I  will  give  in  Mr. 
Norton's  words : 

"  There  exists  also  a  mask  concerning  which  there 
is  a  tradition  that  it  was  taken  from  the  face  of  the 
dead  poet,  and  which,  if  its  genuineness  could  be  es- 
tablished, would  not  be  of  inferior  interest  to  the 
early  portrait.  But  there  is  no  trustworthy  historic 
testimony  concerning  it,  and  its  authority  as  a  like- 
ness depends  on  the  evidence  of  truth  which  its  own 
character  affords.  On  the  very  threshold  of  the  in- 
quiry we  are  met  with  the  doubt  whether  the  art  of 
taking  casts  was  practiced  at  the  time  of  Dante's  death. 
In  his  life  of  Andrea  del  Verocchio,  Vasari  says  that 
this  art  began  to  come  into  use  in  his  time,  that  is, 
about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century  ;  and  Bottari 
refers  to  the  likeness  of  Brunelleschi,  who  died  in 
1446,  which  was  taken  in  this  manner,  and  was  pre- 
served in  the  office  of  the  works  of  the  cathedral  at 
Florence.  It  is  not  impossible  that  so  simple  an  art 
may  have  been  sometimes  practiced  at  an  earlier 
period ;  and  if  so,  there  is  no  inherent  improbability 
in  the  supposition  that  Guide  Novello,  the  friend  and 
protector  of  Dante  at  Ravenna,  may,  at  the  time  of 
the  poet's  death,  have  had  a  mask  taken  to  serve  as  a 
model  for  the  head  of  a  statue  intended  to  form  part 
of  the  monument  which  he  proposed  to  erect  in  honor 
of  Dante.  And  it  may  further  be  supposed  that,  this 
design  failing,  owing  to  the  fall  of  Guido  from  power 
before  its  accomplishment,  the  mask  may  have  beisn 
preserved  at  Ravenna,  till  we  first  catch  a  trace  of  it 
nearly  three  centuries  later.  There  is  in  the  Maglia- 
becchian  library  at  Florence  an  autograph  manuscript 
by  Giovanni  Cinelli,  a'  Florentine  antiquary  who  died 
in  1706,  entitled  'La  Toscana  letterata,  ovvero  Istoria 
degli  Scrittori  Fiorentini,'  which  contains  a  life  of 
Dante.  In  the  course  of  the  biography,  Cinelli  states 
that  the  Archbishop  of  Ravenna  caused  the  head  of 
the  poet,  which  had  adorned  his  sepulcher,  to  be  taken 
therefrom,  and  that  it  came  into  the  possession  of  the 
famous  sculptor  Gian  Bologna,  who  left  it  at  his  death, 
in  1606,  to  his  pupil  Pietro  Tacca.  One  day  Tacca 
showed  it  with  other  curiosities  to  the  Duchess  Sforza, 
who,  having  wrapped  it  in  a  scarf  of  green  cloth,  car- 
ried it  away,  and  God  knows  into  whose  hands  the 
precious  object  has  fallen,  or  where  it  is  to  be  found. 
.  .  .  On  account  of  its  singular  beauty,  it  had  often 
been  drawn  by  the  scholars  of  Tacca.  It  lias  been 
supposed  that  this  head  was  the  original  mask  from 
which  the  casts  now  existing  were  derived. 

"  Mr.  Seymour  Kirkup,  in  a  note  on  this  passage 
from  Cinelli,  says  that  '  there  are  three  masks  of 
Dante  at  Florence,  all  of  which  have  been  judged  by 
the  first  Roman  and  Florentine  sculptors  to  have  been 
taken  from  life  (that  is,  from  the  face  after  death), — 
the  slight  differences  noticeable  between  them  being 
such  as  might  occur  in  casts  made  from  the  original 
mask.'  One  of  these  casts  was  given  to  Mr.  Kirkup 
by  the  sculptor  Bartolini,  another  belonged  to  the  late 
sculptor  Professor  Ricci,  and  the  third  is  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  Marchese  Torrigiani.  .  .  . 

"  In  the  absence  of  historical  evidence  in  regard  to 
this  mask,  some  support  is  given  to  the  belief  in  its 
genuineness  by  the  fact  that  it  appears  to  be  the  type 
of  the  greater  number  of  the  portraits  of  Dante  exe- 
cuted from  the  fourteenth  to  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  was  adopted  by  Raphael  as  the  original  from 
which  he  drew  the  likeness  which  has  done  most  to 
make  the  features  of  the  poet  familiar  to  the  world. 
The  character  of  the  mask  itself,  however,  affords  the 
only  really  satisfactory  ground  for  confidence  in  the 
truth  of  the  tradition  concerning  it.  It  was  plainly 


taken  as  a  cast  from  a  face  after  death.  It  has  none 
of  the  characteristics  which  a  fictitious  and  imaginative 
representation  of  the  sort  would  be  likely  to  present. 
It  bears  no  trace  of  being  a  work  of  skillful  and  decep- 
tive art.  The  difference  in  the  fall  of  the  two  half- 
closed  eyelids,  the  difference  between  the  sides  of  the 
face,  the  slight  deflection  in  the  line  of  the  nose,  the 
droop  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  and  other  delicate, 
but  none  the  less  convincing  indications,  combine  to 
show  that  it  was  in  all  probability  taken  directly  from 
nature.  The  countenance,  moreover,  and  expression 
are  worthy  of  Dante  ;  no  ideal  forms  could  so  answer 
to  the  face  of  him  who  had  led  a  life  apart  from  the 
world  in  which  he  dwelt,  and  had  been  conducted  by 
love  and  faith  along  hard,  painful,  and  solitary  ways 
to  behold 

"  '  L'alto  trionfo  del  regno  verace.' 

"  The  mask  conforms  entirely  to  the  description  by 
Boccaccio  of  the  poet's  countenance,  save  that  it  i<- 
beardless,  and  this  difference  is  to  be  accounted  for  bj 
the  fact  that,  to  obtain  the  cast,  the  beard  must  have 
been  removed. 

"  The  face  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  upon  whichl 
human  eyes  ever  looked,  for  it  exhibits  in  its  expres 
sion  the  conflict  between  the  strong  nature  of  the  mar 
and  the  hard  dealings  of  fortune  —  between  the  idea  o 
his  life  and  its  practical  experience.  Strength  is  th< 
most  striking  attribute  of  the  countenance,  displayec 
alike  in  the  broad  forehead,  the  masculine  nose,  th< 
firm  lips,  the  heavy  jaw,  and  wide  chin  ;  and  thi 
strength,  resulting  from  the  main  forms  of  the  features 
is  enforced  by  the  strength  of  the  lines  of  expression 
The  look  ie  grave  and  stern,  almost  to  grimness  j 
there  is  a  scornful  lift  to  the  eyebrow,  and  a  contrac 
tion  of  the  forehead  as  from  painful  thought ;  but,  obj 
scured  under  this  look,  yet  not  lost,  are  the  marks  o 
tenderness,  refinement,  and  self-mastery,  which,  i 
combination  with  the  more  obvious  characteristics 
give  to  the  countenance  of  the  dead  poet  an  ineffabl 
dignity  and  melancholy.  There  is  neither  weaknes 
nor  failure  here.  It  is  the  image  of  the  strong  fortres 
of  a  strong  soul,  '  buttressed  by  conscience  and  iir 
pregnable  will,'  battered  by  the  blows  of  enemies  will 
out  and  within,  bearing  upon  its  walls  the  dints  c 
many  a  siege,  but  standing  firm  and  unshaken  again.' 
all  attacks  until  the  warfare  was  at  an  end. 

"  The  intrinsic  evidence  for  the  truth  of  this  likenes 
from  its  correspondence,  not  only  with  the  descriptio 
of  the  poet,  but  with  the  imagination  that  we  form  c 
him  from  his  life  and  works,  is  strongly  confirmed  I 
a  comparison  of  the  mask  with  the  portrait  by  Giott(. 
So  far  as  I  am  aware,  this  comparison  has  not  hit!    ! 
erto  been  made  in  a  manner  to  exhibit  effectively  trj  I 
resemblance  between  the  two.    A  direct  comparisCjI 
between  the  painting  and  the  mask,  owing  to  the  difl 
culty  of  reducing  the  forms  of  the  latter  to  a  plain  su 
face  of  light  and  shade,  is  unsatisfactory.    But  by  tal 
ing  a  photograph  from  the  mask  in  the  same  position  ; 
that  in  which  the  face  is  painted  by  Giotto,  and  placir 
it   alongside  of  the   facsimile    from    the   painting, 
very  remarkable  similarity  becomes  at  once  apparen 
.    .    .    The   differences    are  only  such  as   must  exi 
between  the  portrait  of  a  man  in  the  freshness  of 
happy  youth  and  the  portrait  of  him  in  his  age,  afi 
much  experience  and  many  trials.    Dante  was  fifty-s 
years  old  at  the  time  of  his  death,  when  the  mask  w, 
taken ;   the  portrait  by  Giotto  represents  him  as  n 
much  past  twenty.   There  is   an  interval  of  at  lea 
thirty  years  between  the  two.    And  what  years  t  x 
had  been  for  him  ! 

"The  interest  of  this  comparison  lies  not  only  in  ti 
mutual  support  which  the  portraits  afford  each  otl  t 
in  the  assurance  each  gives  that  the  other  is  genirr 
but  also  in  their  joint,  illustration  of  the  life  and  cl  r. 
acter  of  Dante.  As  Giotto  painted  him,  he  is  the  lev 


"' 


THE   PORTRAITS    OF  DANTE. 


579 


of  Beatrice,  the  gay  companion  of  princes,  the  friend 
of  poets,  and  himself  already  the  most  famous  writer 
:>f  love  verses  in  Italy.  There  is  an  almost  feminine 
softness  in  the  lines  of  the  face,  with  a  sweet  and  seri- 
ous tenderness  well  befitting  the  lover  and  the  author 
f  the  sonnets  and  canzoni  which  were,  in  a  few  years, 
[to  be  gathered  into  the  incomparable  record  of  his 
hew  life.  It  is  the  face  of  Dante  in  the  May  time  of 
youthful  hope,  in  that  serene  season  of  promise  and 
joy  which  was  so  soon  to  reach  its  foreordained  close 


Dr.  Theodor  Paur,in  his  paper  on  the  Dante 
portraits  in  the  "  Jahrbuch  der  Deutschen 
Dante  Gesellschaft"  (Leipzig,  F.  A.  Brockhaus, 
1869),  speaks  of  a  fourth  death-mask  said  to 
have  been  found  in  Ravenna  more  recently 
by  L.  C.  Perucchi  of  Florence.  It  is  a  profile 
raised  in  rilievo  on  a  marble  slab,  and  is 
spoken  of  as  now  in  Rome  at  San  Pietro  in 


GIOTTO  S     PORTRAIT    OF    DANTE,    FROM    TRACING    BY    SEYMOUR     KIRKUP,    ESQ.       (BY    PERMISSION     OF    ARUNDEL    SOCIETY.) 


Vincoli. 

f.rf,t 

lirSt 


Perucchi    asserts    that    this    is    the 

nnp       A     frrmrknWp    rn    the 
one-     «    frontispiece    to    the 


(injury  of  age. 

as  to  the  " 


' '  That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  [it] 
jWhen  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  d< 


n  the  death  of  her  who  had  made  life  new  and  beau- 
:iful  to  him,  and  to  the  love  and  honor  of  whom  he 
dedicated  his  soul  and  gave  all  his  future  years.  It  is 
^he  same  face  with  that  of  the  mask,  but  the  one  is  the  same  volume  is  a  profile  likeness  of  Dante, 
face  of  a  youth  «  with  all  triumphant  splendor  on  his  engraved  from  a  portrait  in  the  Munich  col- 
E^^!^r^*  ™™b"5e5!?  1^*  therdust  *nd  lection,  said  to  be  by  Masaccio.  The  cast  of 

the  features  is  not  very  unlike  that  of  Giotto's 
portrait ;  that  is  to  say,  in  the  way  in  which 
the  face  is  put  together,  which  more  than 
identity  of  feature  makes  likeness.  In  this  vi- 
tal point  the  many  portraits  vary ;  and  if  we 
take  the  Giotto  portrait  and  the  death-mask, 
which  are  alike  in  this  respect,  we  have  a 
standard  which  will  exclude  many  of  the 
portraits  of  Dante  which  are  supposed  to  be 
of  some  authority.  A  greater  difference  be- 
tween these  two  and  most  of  the  others  that 
I  have  seen  is  the  difference  in  expression. 
In  both  of  these  is  to  be  seen  a  calm  serenity 


behold 
o  hang 


pare  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang.' 

"  The  face  of  the  youth  is  grave  as  with  the  shadow 
of  distant  sorrow;  the  face  of  the  man  is  solemn,  as 
.of  one  who  had  gone 

'"Per  tutti  i  cerchi  del  dolente  regno.' 

"  The  one  is  the  young  poet  of  Florence,  the  other 
|the  supreme  poet  of  the  world, — 


"  '  che  al  divino  dall'  umano 
All'  eterno  del  tempo  era  venuto.'" 


which  marks  the  strong  man,  the  man  strong 
in  all  his  intellectual  faculties,  in  his   clear 


THE  PORTRAITS  OF  DANTE. 


PROFILE    OK     DANTE,    IN     RELIEF,    ON     THE     MAUSOLEUM     AT     RAVENNA. 


moral  sense,  and  his  unvarying  strength  of 
will,  which  sustains  all  the  higher  powers  in 
their  work.  The  Masaccio  portrait  seems 
weak,  though  not  varying  much  from  the 
original  type.  This  may  be  through  fault  of 
the  engraver. 

There  is  an  interesting  portrait  in  Rome, 
an  old  painting  in  oils,  owned  by  Mr.  Mor- 
ris Moore,  which  appears  to  have  been  copied 
by  a  skillful  artist  from  the  work  of  Giotto. 
It  has  the  same  facial-  angle,  the  same  beau- 
tiful profile,  the  same  serene,  composed  ex- 
pression of  a  harmonious  and  happy  exist- 
ence before  the  peace  was  broken.  Mr. 
Moore  believes  this  to  be  a  copy  by  Raph- 
ael. It  has  a  'laurel  crown  above  the  cap, 
wanting  in  the  Giotto,  and  the  vest  has  three 
peculiarly  shaped  buttons,  in  this  point  also 
differing  from  the  Giotto  portrait,  but  resem- 
bling the  Dresden  bust.* 

Professor  Theodor  Paur,  in  his  learned 
paper  on  the  portraits  of  Dante,  enumerates 
many  of  earlier  date  than  the  present  century. 
As,  however,  they  may  be  traced  to  the  two 
sources  already  indicated,  we  will  not  here 
give  their  catalogue.  One  of  these  was  a  me- 

*  The  pedigree  Mr.  Moore  gives  of  this  portrait  is 
that  it  was  painted  for  Cardinal  Bembo,  arid  is  of  the 
period  of  the  Entombment  in  the  Borghese  gallery. 
From  the  Bembo  family  it  passed  into  another  great 
Venetian  patrician  family,  that  of  Gradenigo,  and 
from  this  into  the  family  of  the  Counts  Capodilista 
of  Padua.  It  came  into  Morris  Moore's  possession 
in  1857. 


dallion  owned  by  Goethe,  which  he  believed 
to  have  been  made  during  the  poet's  life-time. 
The  description  of  Dante's  person  in  Boc- ' 
caccio's  life  is  interesting : 

"  Our  poet  was  of  middle  stature,  and  had  a  long 
face  and  aquiline  nose ;  jaws  prominent,  and  the  un- 
der lip  projecting  so  that  it  was  as  much  advanced  as 
the  upper  ;  shoulders  somewhat  bent,  and  the  eyes 
rather  large  than  small ;  complexion  dark,  hair  and 
beard  thick,  crisp,  and  black,  and  his  countenance  al- 
ways sad  and  thoughtful.  For  this  reason  it  happened, 
one  day  in  Verona,  the  fame  of  his  work  being  already 
spread  everywhere,  and  his  person  known  to  many 
men  and  women,  that,  in  passing  before  a  door  where 
several  women  were  sitting,  one  of  them,  speaking 
softly,  but  not  so  that  it  was  not  audible  to  himself 
and  to  those  who  were  with  him,  said  to  the  other 
women,  *  Behold  the  man  who  goes  into  the  Inferno, 
and  returns  when  he  pleases,  and  brings  news  of  those 
who  are  down  there!'  To  which  one  of  the  others 
answered,  simply,  'Truly  it  must  be  so.  See  how 
brown  he  is,  and  how  his  beard  is  scorched,  through 
the  heat  and  smoke!'  It  is  said  that  Dante,  seeing' 
that  she  spoke  in  good  faith,  passed  on,  smiling.  He 
was  always  decently  dressed,  and  in  clothing  suited  to 
his  years.  His  bearing  was  grave  and  gentle,  and, 
whether  at  home  or  in  public,  wonderfully  composed 
and  courteous.  He  was  temperate  in  eating  and  drink- 
ing, was  greatly  inclined  to  solitude,  and,  though 
eloquent  in  speech,  he  rarely  spoke  unless  when 
addressed." 

At  the  end  of  a  manuscript  of  the  Divina 
Commedia  of  the  fourteenth  century  are  two 
short  poems  in  honor  of  Dante,  The  first j 
speaks  of  his  glory  and  misfortunes,  the 
ond  gives  his  physical  portrait,  which  is 
strict  conformity  with  that  traced  by 


A    SONG   OF  HOPE. 


caccio  in  his  life  of  the  poet,  so  much  so  that  it 
is,  in  nearly  the  same  words,  arranged  in  verse. 
It  has  been  observed  that,  although  the  ver- 
bal descriptions  of  his  person  all  give  him  a 
beard,  only  one  of  the  portraits  does  so — an 
old  one,  painted  in  the  fourteenth  century. 
This  is  mentioned  by  Dante's  biographer 
Misserini  in  1832.  Giotto's  portrait  has  no 
beard,  perhaps  because  the  younger  men  of 
that  day  wore  none ;  the  death-mask  has  no 
beard,  perhaps  because  it  was  removed  before 
taking  the  cast. 

I  have  not  mentioned  the  basso-rilievo  at 
Ravenna,  which  every  traveler  sees,  or  tries 
to  see.  The  light  in  that  little  building  is  so 
imperfect  that,  looking  through  the  grated 
door,  one  but  just  sees  that  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  kind  there.  A  cast  of  this  head 
shows  something  more,  and,  though  it  is  crude 
in  treatment,  both  likeness  and  expression  are 


there.    Of  this  work  the  sculptor  William  W. 
Story  says,  in  a  letter  to  the  writer : 

"  The  photograph  of  the  basso-rilievo  in  the  tomb 
of  Dante  at  Ravenna,  representing  the  poet  himself, 
is  interesting,  and,  though  a  little  weak,  has  a  good 
deal  of  expression  and  feeling.  There  is  no  special 
authority  for  it  as  a  likeness  other  than  what  it  draws 
from  material  still  at  command  of  any  artist.  It  was 
executed  by  Pietro  Lombardi  in  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  the  same  artist  who  designed  the 
tomb  itself.  The  photograph  only  represents  a  part 
of  the  figure  existing  in  the  basso-rilievo,  which  is  a 
half  figure  leaning  his  arm  on  a  reading  stand,  on 
which  is  an  open  book,  at  which  the  poet  is  looking. 
The  likeness  was  undoubtedly  made  up  by  the  artist 
from  the  pictures  and  mask  of  Dante  then  existing." 

Of  the  Naples  bust  in  bronze  Mr.  Story  says  : 

"  It  is  not  only  very  fine  in  itself  and  carefully  ex- 
ecuted, but  was  probably  made  in  the  fourteenth  cent- 
ury, and  possibly  may  be  an  authentic  portrait  from 
life.  Of  all  the  likenesses  of  Dante,  this  is  the  best 
and  most  characteristic.  I  mean  I  think  so." 

Sarah  Freeman   Clarke. 


A   SONG   OF   HOPE. 

THE  morning  breaks,  the  storm  is  past.     Behold ! 

Along  the  west  the  lift  grows  bright;  the  sea 
Leaps  sparkling  blue  to  catch  the  sunshine's  gold, 

And  swift  before  the  breeze  the  vapors  flee. 

Light  cloud-flocks  white  that  troop  in  joyful  iiaste 
Up  and  across  the  pure  and  tender  sky; 

Light  laughing  waves  that  dimple  all  the  waste, 
And  break  about  the  rocks  and  hurry  by  ! 

Flying  of  sails  and  clouds,  and  tumult  sweet, 

And  tossing  buoys,  and  warm  wild  wind  that  blows 

The  scarlet  pennon,  rushing  on  to  greet 

Thy  lovely  cheek  and  heighten  its  soft  rose  ! 

Beloved,  beloved  !   is  there  no  morning  breeze 
To  clear  our  sky  and  chase  our  clouds  away, 

Like  this  great  air  that  sweeps  the  freshening  seas, 
And  wakes  the  old  sad  world  to  glad  new  day? 

Sweeter  than  morning,  stronger  than  the  gale, 
Deeper  than  ocean,  warmer  than  the  sun, 

My  love  shall  climb,  shall  claim  thee,  shall  prevail 
Against  eternal  darkness,  dearest  one ! 


Celia  Thaxter. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 55. 


THE    CONVICT   LEASE   SYSTEM    IN    THE    SOUTHERN    STATES. 


A    MODEL    PRISON. 

HERE  and  there  in  the  United  States  a 
penal  institution  may  be  found  that  fairly 
earns  the  pride  with  which  it  is  pointed  out 
by  the  surrounding  community.  In  the  whole 
country  there  may  be  four  or  five  such.  The 
visitor  to  them  admires  the  fitness  of  their 
architecture. 

"  Yes,"  the  warden  replies ;  "  this  is  not  a 
house  of  pleasure,  and  so  we  have  not  made 
it  pretty.  It  is  not  an  abode  of  crime,  and  so 
we  have  not  made  it  ugly.  It  is  not  a  place 
where  men  seek  justice,  and  therefore  we  have 
not  made  it  grandiose  and  majestic.  But  it 
is  the  house  of  chastisement, — of  chasten- 
ing punishment, — and  so  it  is  made  solemn, 
severe,  and  calm." 

The  visitor  praises  the  grave  and  silent 
decency  of  all  the  internal  appointments. 

"  Yes,"  responds  the  warden ;  "  the  peace 
and  dignity  of  the  State  are  here  asserting 
themselves  over  the  person  of  the  prisoner  who 
has  violated  them ;  there  is  no  more  room  here 
for  merriment  or  confusion  than  for  strife." 

The  visitor  extols  the  perfection  of  the 
sanitary  arrangements. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  warden;  "  when  the  criminal 
was  free  and  his  life  at  his  own  disposal,  he 
took  no  such  care  of  it  as  this.  He  probably 
lived  a  sort  of  daily  suicide.  If  he  shortened 
his  days,  the  State  was,  presumably,  not  to 
blame.  But  if  we  by  malice  or  neglect  shorten 
his  days  here,  where  he  is  our  captive,  we 
bring  upon  the  State  both  blame  and  shame. 
For  his  life  is  in  our  custody^  just  as  the  cloth- 
ing is  with  which  he  came  here;  the  State, 
through  its  courts,  has  distinctly  declined  to 
tamper  with  it,  and  holds  it  subj  ect  to  be  returned 
to  his  own  keeping,  at  the  expiration  of  his 
confinement,  in  as  good  order  as  that  in  which 
it  was  received,  the  inevitable  wear  and  tear 
of  time  alone  excepted.  Can  a  State  maintain 
its  peace  and  dignity  as  it  should,  that  com- 
mits breaches  of  trust  inside  its  very  prisons?" 

The  visitor  remarks  that  a  wise  benevo- 
lence is  necessary  even  toward  bad  men. 

"  But,"  says  the  other,  "  it  is  not  merely  be- 
nevolence to  bad  men  that  puts  in  these  elab- 
orate sanitary  appliances ;  it  is  the  necessity 
of  upholding  the  integrity  and  honor  of  the 
State  " 

The  visitor  shows  his  surprise  at  the 
absence  of  all  the  traditional  appliances  for 
the  correction  of  the  refractory.  "  Yet  be  cer- 


tain," is  the  rejoinder,  "  a  discipline,  sure, 
prompt,  and  effectual  meets  every  infraction 
of  rules.  How  else  could  we  have  this  perfec- 
tion of  order  ?  But  it  is  a  discipline  whose 
punishments  are  free  from  brutalizing  ten- 
dencies, increasing  dispassionately  as  the  cul- 
prit's passions  increase,  and  relenting  only 
when  he  has  repented."  * 

The  visitor  is  impressed  with  the  educative 
value  of  the  labor  performed  by  the  inmates. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  warden ;  "  send  a  man  out 
from  here  with  knowledge  of  a  trade,  and  may 
be  he  will  come  back,  but  the  chances  are  he 
will  not.  Send  him  away  without  a  trade,  , 
and  may  be  he  will  not  come  back,  but  the 
chances  are  he  will.  So,  for  society's  sake, — 
in  the  community's  interest  and  for  its  safety, 
—  these  men  are  taught  certain  trades  that 
they  cannot  turn  to  bad  account.  We  do  not 
teach  burglars  locksmithing." 

Yet  the  visitor  takes  a  momentary  alarm. 

"  You  put  the  housebreaker  and  the  robber, 
the  sneak-thief  and  the  pickpocket  into  open  ; 
competition  with  honest  men  in  the  commu- 
nity around  them." 

"  Exactly,"  responds  the  other;  "  trying  to 
live  without  competing  in  the  fields  of  pro- 
ductive labor  is  just  the  essence  of  the  crimes 
for  which  they  were  sent  here.  We  make  a    j 
short  end  of  that." 

The  visitor  looks  with  pleased  interest  at  the 
statistical  records  of  the  clerk's  office. 

"  We  could  not  call  our  duty  done  without 
these,"  is  the  warden's  response.  "  These  are 
the  keys  to  the  study  of  the  cause  and  preven- 
tion of  crime.  By  these  we  weigh  our  own 
results.  By  these  we  uncover  not  only  the  con- 
vict and  his  crime,  but  society's  and  the  State's 
own  sins  of  omission  and  commission,  whose 
fruits  are  these  crimes  and  these  criminals." 

"  After  all,"  at  length  the  visitor  says,  "  tell 
me  one  thing  more.  Here  where  a  prisoner  is  ' 
safe  from  fire  and  plague  and  oppression  and 
temptation  and  evil  companionship,  and  is 
taught  thrift  and  skill,  and  has  only  to  submit 
to  justice  and  obey  right  rules,  where  is  his 
punishment  ?  How  is  this  punishment  at  all  ? " 

*  "  Good  order  and  discipline  have  been  maintained 
during  the  past  year.  There  has  not  been  one  case 
of  insubordination  or  gross  violation  of  any  of  the 
rules  of  the  prison  government;  not  one  case  that  re- 
quired punishment,  either  for  the  purpose  of  maintain- 
ing discipline  or  as  penalty  for  an  offense  committed!:) 
an  individual  prisoner."  —  "Annual  Report  of  the  In 
specters  of  the  State  Penitentiary,  Eastern  D' 
Pennsylvania,  1882,"  p.  89. 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     583 


And  the  warden  makes  answer  with  question 
for  question :  "  Had  you  a  deformed  foot,  and 
an  iron  mold  were  made  to  close  around 
it  and  press  it  into  symmetrical  shape  and 
hold  it  so,  would  you  ask  where  is  the  agony? 
The  punishment  here  is  the  punishment  of  a 
deformed  nature  forced  into  superficial  sym- 
metry. It  is  the  punishment  that  captivity  is 
to  unrestraint;  that  subordination  and  en- 
forced self-control  are  to  ungoverned  pas- 
sion and  inordinate  vanity  and  pride ;  that 
routine  is  to  the  love  of  idle  adventure ;  that 
decorum  is  to  the  love  of  orgies ;  that  tem- 
perance is  to  the  love  of  drink ;  that  loneliness 
is  to  the  social  and  domestic  impulses;  that  soli- 
tude and  self-communion  are  to  remorse.  It 
is  all  the  losses  and  restraints  of  banishment, 
without  one  of  its  liberties.  Nothing  tempers 
it  but  the  repentance  and  reform  which  it 
induces,  and  these  temper  it  just  in  degree  as 
they  are  genuine  and  thorough." 

"And  your  actual  results  ?  "  asks  the  visitor. 

"  Of  those  who  come  here  for  their  first 
offense,  a  majority  return  to  honest  life." 

"  You  have  a  model  prison." 

"  No,"  says  the  warden,  "  not  yet." 

i 

THE    THEORY    OF    SELF-SUPPORT. 

Now,  the  number  of  such  prisons  in  Amer- 
|ica,  we  say,  may  be  counted  on  the  fingers 
iof  one  hand.  Communities  rarely  allow  the 
prison  its  rightful  place  among  their  invest- 
ments of  public  money  for  the  improvement 
I  of  public  morals  and  public  safety.  Its  outlays 
are  begrudged  because  they  do  not  yield 
cash  incomes  equal  to  their  cash  expenses. 
Legislatures,  public  schools,  courts  of  justice, 
and  departments  of  police  are  paid  for  by  the 
I  people  in  the  belief  that  they  will  and  must 
be  made  to  yield  conditions  and  results  neces- 
sary to  be  obtained,  for  whose  absence  no 
saving  of  public  wealth  can  atone,  and  that 
[ultimately,  though  indirectly,  even  on  their 
'pecuniary  side,  they  are  emphatically  profit- 
able. But  when  it  is  asked  by  what  course  of 
reasoning  the  prison  is  left  out  of  this  count, 
there  is  heard  only,  as  one  may  say,  a  motion 
to  adjourn.  Society  is  not  ready  for  the 
question. 

The  error  is  a  sad  one,  and  is  deeply  rooted. 
And  yet  it  is  a  glaring  one.  A  glance  at 
the  subject  is  enough  to  show'  that  unless  the 
money  laid  out  in  prisons  is  devoted  to  some 
snd  far  better  than  the  mere  getting  it  back 
again,  then  legislatures,  public  schools,  courts, 
jand  police  all  are  shortened  in  their  results, 
ind  a  corresponding  part  of  their  expenses  is 
rightly  chargeable  to  the  mismanaged  prison. 
The  prison  is  an  inseparable  part  of  the  system; 
,md  the  idea  that  the  prison  must  first  of  all  pay 


back  dollar  for  dollar,  if  logically  pushed  on 
through  the  system,  would  close  public  schools, 
adjourn  courts  of  justice,  dissolve  legislatures, 
and  disband  police.  For  not  one  of  these 
could  exist  on  a  "  self-supporting  "  basis, 

Oftener,  probably,  than  from  any  other  one 
source,  this  mistake  springs  from  the  indolent 
assumption  that  the  call  to  make  prisons  what 
they  ought  to  be  is  merely  an  appeal  to  pub- 
lic benevolence.  It  was  so,  in  their  earlier 
turn,  with  public  hospitals  and  public  schools; 
and  the  effect  was  similar.  For  only  here  and 
there,  if  at  all,  did  they  find  their  best  effi- 
ciency or  a  true  public  support,  until  society 
rose  to  the  noble  modesty  that  recognized 
them  not  as  public  charities,  but  as  public 
interests.  The  management  of  a  State's  con- 
victs is  a  public  interest  that  still  waits  for  the 
same  sort  of  recognition  and  treatment.  In 
many  directions  this  has  been  partly  con- 
ceded ;  but  there  are  few,  if  any,  other  State 
executives  who  would  undertake  to  echo  the 
lately  uttered  words  of  that  one  who  said : 

"  In  neither  of  the  penitentiaries  of  this  State  has 
there  ever  been  an  attempt  yet  made  to  administer 
them  on  the  vulgar,  wicked,  unworthy  consideration 
of  making  them  self-sustaining.  In  neither  of  them 
has  it  been  forgotten  that  even  the  convict  is  a  human 
being,  and  that  his  body  and  soul  are  not  so  the  prop- 
erty of  the  State  that  both  may  be  crushed  out  in  the 
effort  to  reimburse  the  State  the  cost  of  his  scanty 
food,  and,  at  the  end  of  his  term,  what  then  is  left  of 
him  be  dismissed,  an  enemy  of  human  society." 

The  two  dissimilar  motives  here  implied 
govern  the  management  of  most  American 
prisons.  In  a  few  the  foremost  effort  is  to 
make  them  yield,  by  a  generous,  judicious 
control,  every  result  worth,  to  society's  best 
interests,  the  money  paid  for  it ;  that  is,  to 
treat  them  as  a  public  interest.  In  a  much 
larger  number  it  is  to  seek  such,  and  only 
such,  good  results  as  may  be  got  without  an 
appreciable  excess  of  expense  over  income; 
that  is,  to  treat  them  as  appeals  —  and  un- 
worthy appeals  —  to  the  public  charity.  One 
motive  demands  first  of  all  the  largest  results, 
the  other  the  smallest  net  expense.  They  give 
rise  to  two  systems  of  management,  each  of 
which,  in  practice,  has  its  merits  and  draw- 
backs, and  is  more  or  less  effectively  carried 
out,  according  to  the  hands  and  minds  under 
which  it  falls.  These  are  known  as  the  Public 
Accounts  System  and  the  Contract  System. 
Each  has  its  advocates  among  students  of  pris- 
on science,  and  it  is  not  the  province  of  this 
paper  further  to  press  the  contrast  between 
them.  It  is  truly  the  country's  misfortune  that 
in  several  States  there  is  a  third  system  in 
operation,  a  knowledge  of  whose  real  work- 
ings can  fill  the  mind  of  any  good  citizen 
only  with  astonishment  and  indignant  mortifi- 
cation. 


584      THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


By  either  of  the  two  systems  already  named, 
the  prison  remains  in  charge  of  State  officials, 
the  criminals  are  kept  continually  within  the 
prison  walls,  and  the  prison  discipline  rests  in- 
tact. All  the  appliances  for  labor — the  work- 
shops, tools,  engines,  and  machinery — are 
provided  by  the  State,  and  the  convicts  labor 
daily,  prosecuting  various  industries,  in  the 
Public  Accounts  System  under  their  official 
overseers,  and  in  the  Contract  System  under 
private  contractors.  In  degrees  of  more  or  less 
excellence,  these  industrial  operations,  whether 
under  official  directors  or  contractors,  are  care- 
fully harmonized  with  those  features  of  the 
prison  management  that  look  to  the  secure 
detention,  the  health,  the  discipline,  and  the 
moral  reformation  of  the  prisoner,  the  execu- 
tion of  the  law's  sentence  upon  him  in  its 
closest  and  furthest  intent,  and,  if  possible, 
his  return  to  the  outer  world,  when  he  must 
be  returned,  a  more  valuable  and  less  danger- 
ous man,  impressed  with  the  justice  of  his 
punishment,  and  yet  a  warning  to  evil-doers. 
It  is  the  absence  of  several  of  these  features, 
and  sometimes  of  all,  that  makes  the  wide 
difference  between  these  methods  on  the  one 
hand  and  the  mode  of  prison  management 
known  as  the  Lease  System  on  the  other. 

EVIL    PRINCIPLES    OF    THE    LEASE    SYSTEM. 

ITS  features  vary  in  different  regions.  In 
some,  the  State  retains  the  penitentiary  in 
charge  of  its  officers,  and  leases  out  the  con- 
victs in  gangs  of  scores  or  hundreds  to  per- 
sons who  use  them  anywhere  within  the  State 
boundaries  in  the  execution  of  private  enter- 
prises or  public  or  semi-public  works.  In  a 
few  cases  the  penitentiary  itself,  its  appliances 
and  its  inmates,  all  and  entire,  are  leased, 
sometimes  annually  or  biennially,  sometimes 
for  five  and  sometimes  for  ten  or  even  twenty 
years,  and  the  convicts  worked  within  or  with- 
out the  prison  walls,  and  near  to  or  distant  from 
them,  as  various  circumstances  may  regulate, 
being  transferred  from  place  to  place  in  com- 
panies under  military  or  semi-military  guard, 
and  quartered  in  camps  or  herded  in  stockades 
convenient  to  their  fields  of  labor.  In  two  or 
three  States  the  Government's  abandonment 
of  its  trust  is  still  more  nearly  complete,  the 
terms  of  the  lease  going  so  far  as  to  assign  to 
the  lessees  the  entire  custody  and  discipline 
of  the  convicts,  and  even  their  medical  and 
surgical  care.  But  a  clause  common  to  all 
these  prison  leases  is  that  which  allows  a  por- 
tion, at  least,  and  sometimes  all  of  the  prisoners 
to  be  worked  in  parts  of  the  State  remote  from 
the  prison.  The  fitness  of  some  lessees  to 
hold  such  a  trust  may  be  estimated  from  the 
spirit  of  the  following  letters : 


"  OFFICE  OF  LESSEE  ARKANSAS  STATE  PENITENTIARY, 

"  LITTLE  ROCK,  ARKANSAS,  January  12,  1882. 
"  DEAR  SIR  :  Your  postal  of  request  to  hand  ;  sorry 
to  say  cannot  send  you  report,  as  there  are  none  given. 
The  business  of  the  Arkansas  State  Penitentiary  is  of 
a  private  nature,  and  no  report  is  made  to  the  public. 
Any  private  information  relative  to  the  men  will  be 
furnished  upon  application  for  same. 
"  Very  respectfully, 

"ZEB.  WARD,  Lessee. 
"Z.  J." 

"  OFFICE  OF  LESSEE  ARKANSAS  STATE  PENITENTIARY. 
"  LITTLE  ROCK,  ARKANSAS,  July  2,  1882. 

"DEAR  SIR:  Yours  of date  to  hand  and  fully 

noted.  Your  inquiries,  if  answered,  would  require 
much  time  and  labor.  I  am  sole  lessee,  and  work  all 
the  convicts,  and  of  course  the  business  of  the  prison 
is  my  private  business.  My  book-keeper  is  kept  quite 
busy  with  my  business,  and  no  time  to  make  out  all 
the  queries  you  ask  for.  Similar  information  is  given 
to  the  Legislature  once  in  two  years. 

"  Respectfully, 

"ZEB.  WARD." 

The  wonder  is  that  such  a  scheme  should 
not,  upon  its  face,  be  instantly  rejected  by 
any  but  the  most  sordid  and  short-sighted 
minds.  It  is  difficult  to  call  its  propositions 
less  than  an  insult  to  the  intelligence  and 
humanity  of  any  enlightened  community.  It 
was  a  Governor  of  Kentucky  who,  in  1873, 
justly  said  to  his  State  Legislature  :  "  I  can- 
not but  regard  the  present  system  under 
which  the  State  penitentiary  is  leased  and 
managed  as  a  reproach  to  the  commonwealth. 
.  .  .  It  is  the  system,  not  the  officer  acting 
under  it,  with  which  I  find. fault."* 

This  system  springs  primarily  from  the  idea 
that  the  possession  of  a  convict's  person  is  an 
opportunity  for  the  State  to  make  money; 
that  the  amount  to  be  made  is  whatever 
can  be  wrung  from  him ;  that  for  the  officers 
of  the  State  to  waive  this  opportunity  is  to 
impose  upon  the  clemency  of  a  tax-paying 
public ;  and  that,  without  regard  to  moral  or 
mortal  consequences,  the  penitentiary  whose 
annual  report  shows  the  largest  cash  balance 
paid  into  the  State's  treasury  is  the  best  peni- 
tentiary. The  mitigations  that  arise  in  its 
practice  through  the  humane  or  semi-humane 
sentiments  of  keepers  and  guards,  and  through 
the  meagerest  of  legislation,  are  few,  scanty, 
and  rare ;  and  in  the  main  the  notion  is  clearly 
set  forth  and  followed  that  a  convict,  whether 
pilferer  or  murderer,  man,  woman,  or  child,  has 
almost  no  human  right  that  the  State  is  bound 
to  be  at  any  expense  to  protect. 

It  hardly  need  be  said  that  the  system  is 
not  in  operation  by  reason  of  any  malicious 
public  intention.  On  the  part  of  lessees  there 
is  a  most  unadmirable  spirit  of  enterprise. 
On  the  part  of  State  officials  there  is  a  very 
natural  eagerness  to  report  themselves  as  put- 

*  Quoted  in  "  Transactions  of  the  National 
Congress,  St.  Louis,  1874,"  p.  325. 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     585 


\  ting  'money  into  the  treasury,  and  a  low  esti- 
mate of  public  sentiment   and    intelligence. 
In  the  people  at  large  there  is  little  more  than 
a  listless  oblivion,  that  may  be  reprehensible, 
but  is  not  intentional,  unless  they  are  to  be 
judged  by  the  acts  of  their  elected  legislators, 
a  rule  by  which  few  communities  would  stand 
unaccused.    At  any  rate,  to  fall  into  the  error 
is  easy.    Outlays  for  the  maintenance  of  po- 
lice and  courts  are  followed  with  a  jealous  eye. 
Expense  and  danger  keep  the  public  on  the 
alert.  Since  neither  police  nor  courts  can  pay 
back  in  money,  they  must  pay  back  in  pro- 
tection and  in  justice.    The  accused  of  crime 
must  be  arrested,  the  innocent  acquitted  and 
exonerated,  and  the  guilty  sentenced  to  the 
penalties  of  the  laws  they  have  violated.  But 
just  here  the  careless  mind  slips  into  the  mis- 
take that  the  end  is  reached ;  that  to  punish 
crime  is  to  deter  crime;  that  when  broken 
laws  are  avenged  that  is  the  end;  that  it  is 
enough  to  have  the  culprit  in  limbo,  if  only 
he  is  made  to  suffer  and  not  to  cost.     Hence 
the  public  resolve,  expressed  and  enforced 
through  legislators  and  executive  officers,  to 
;    spend  no  more  money  on  the  criminal  than 
will  promptly  come  back  in  cash — nay,  worse, 
to  make  him  pay  in  advance ;  and  hence,  too, 
i    a  total  disregard  of  all  other  results  for  good 
j    or  bad  that  may  be  issuing  from  the  prison 
walls.    Thus  it  follows  that  that  arm  of  the 
public  service  by  whose  workings  a  large  part 
of  all  the  immens'e  labor  and  expenses  of  po- 
|    lice  and  courts  must  become  either  profitable 
I    or  unprofitable  is  handed  over  to  the  system 
which,  whatever  else  of  profound  mischief  its 
annual  tables  may  betray  or  conceal,  will  show 
|    the  smartest  results  on  the  cash-book.    And 
i    thus  we  see,  annually  or  biennially,  the  gov- 
'    ernors  of  some  of  our  States  -congratulating 
:    their  legislatures  upon  the  fact  that,  by  farming 
out  into  private  hands  whose  single  motive  is 
;    money  the  most  delicate  and  difficult  task  in 
|    the  whole  public  service,  that  task  is  changed 
from  an  outlay  that  might  have  been  made 
j    nobly  advantageous  into  a  shameful  and  dis- 
:    astrous  source  of  revenue. 

IN    TENNESSEE THE    SYSTEM    AT    ITS    BEST. 

IF,  now,  we  are  to  begin  a  scrutiny  of  this 

'    evil,  we  shall   do  well  to  regard  it  first  as  it 

i   presents   itself  in    its  least  offensive  aspect. 

To  do  this,  we  turn  to  the  State  prison,  or 

prisons,  of  Tennessee.     The  State  holds  in 

,    confinement  about  one  thousand  three  hun- 

i   dred  convicts.    The  penitentiary  is  at  Nash- 

I   ville,  the  capital.  On  the  5th  of  December,  1881, 

1   its  workshops  were  accidentally  destroyed  by 

fire,  and  those  which  have  taken  their  place 

i   are,  if  we  may  accept  the  warden's  judgment, 


the  finest  south  of  the  Ohio  River.*  An 
advertisement  from  the  Secretary  of  State,  in 
a  New  Orleans  paper  of  June  14,  1883,  in- 
vites bids  for  a  six  years'  lease  of  the  "  Pen- 
itentiary of  Tennessee  and  the  labor  of  the 
convicts,  together  with  the  building,  quarry- 
grounds,  fixtures,  machinery,  tools,  engines, 
patterns,  etc.,  belonging  to  the  State."  It  is 
there  asserted  that  the  penitentiary  has  been 
conducted  on  this  plan  already  for  a  number 
of  years.  The  State's  official  prison  inspect- 
ors remark,  in  their  report  of  December  30, 
1882:  "The  Lease  System,  during  our  term 
of  office,  has  worked  harmoniously  and 
without  the  least  scandal  or  cause  for  inter- 
ference on  the  part  of  the  inspectors.  Rentals 
have  been  promptly  paid,  and  the  prisoners 
worked  in  accordance  with  law  and  most 
humanely  treated.  ...  To  our  minds  there 
can  be  no  valid  objection  raised  to  the  Lease 
System,  under  proper  restrictions,  especially 
if  as  well  conducted  as  for  the  past  few 
years."  They  add  the  one  reason  for  this 
conviction,  but  for  which,  certainly,  there 
would  be  none:  "  A  fixed  revenue  is  assured 
to  the  State  every  year  under  the  lease  plan, 
as  against  an  annual  outlay  under  State  man- 
agement." The  advertisement  shows  one 
feature  in  the  system  in  Tennessee  which 
marks  it  as  superior  to  its  application  in  most 
other  States  that  practice  it :  the  lessees  em- 
ploy such  convicts  as  are  retained  "in  the 
prison  building  at  Nashville  (many  of  whom 
are  skilled  laborers  and  of  long-term  sentence) 
in  manufacturing  wagons,  iron  hollow-ware, 
furniture,  etc."  The  terms  of  the  lease  are  re- 
quired to  be  "  not  less  than  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  per  annum,  payable  quar- 
terly, clear  of  all  expenses  to  the  State  on  any 
account  except  the  salaries  of  the  superinten- 
dent, warden,  assistant-warden,  surgeon,  and 
chaplain,  which  are  to  be  paid  by  the  State." 
Here,  then,  is  the  Lease  System  at  its  best. 
Let  us  now  glance  in  upon  it  for  a  moment 
through  its  own  testimony,  as  found  in  the 
official  report  of  its  operations  during  the  two 
years  ending  December  i,  1882.  At  the  close 
of  that  term  the  State  held  in  custody  1,336 
convicts.  Of  these,  685  were  at  work  in  the 
penitentiary,  28  were  employed  in  a  railway 
tunnel,  34  were  at  work  on  a  farm,  89  on 
another  farm,  30  in  a  coal-mine,  145  in 
another  coal-mine,  and  325  in  still  another. 
In  short,  nearly  half  the  convicts  are  scat- 
tered about  in  "branch  prisons,"  and  the 
facts  that  can  be  gathered  concerning  them 
are  only  such  as  are  given  or  implied  in 

*  Unfortunately  for  this  pardonable  boast,  the 
boundary  given  cuts  off  all  State  prisons  that  exclude 
the  lease  management,  except  one  small  institution  in 
West  Virginia. 


586     THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


the  most  meager  allusions.  It  appears  that 
they  are  worked  in  gangs  surrounded  by 
armed  guards,  and  the  largest  company,  at 
least, —  the  three  hundred  and  twenty-five, — 
quartered  in  a  mere  stockade.  As  the  eye 
runs  down  the  table  of  deaths,  it  finds  oppo- 
site the  names,  among  other  mortal  causes, 
the  following :  Found  dead.  Killed.  Drowned. 
Not  given.  Blank.  Blank.  Blank.  Killed. 
Blank.  Shot.  Killed.  Blank.  Blank.  Killed. 
Killed.  Blank.  Blank.  Blank.  Killed.  Blank. 
Blank.*  The  warden  of  the  penitentiary  states 
that,  "in  sending  convicts  to  the  branch 
prisons,  especial  care  is  taken  to  prevent  the 
sending  of  any  but  able-bodied  men  " ;  and 
that  "  it  has  also  been  the  custom  to  return  the 
invalid  and  afflicted  convicts  from  the  branch 
prisons  to  this  prison  " —  the  penitentiary.  Yet 
the  report  shows  heavy  rates  of  mortality  at 
these  branch  prisons,  resulting  largely  from 
such  lingering  complaints  as  dropsy,  scrofula, 
etc.,  and  more  numerously  by  consumption 
than  by  any  one  thing  else  except  violence : 
rates  of  mortality  startlingly  large  compared 
with  the  usual  rates  of  well-ordered  prisons, 
and  low  only  in  comparison  with  those  of  other 
prisons  worked  under  the  hands  of  lessees. 

The  annual  reports  (taken  as  they  could 
be  procured,  one  for  1880,  three  for  1881, 
and  one  for  1882)  of  five  of  the  largest  pris- 
ons in  the  United  .States  show  that,  from  the 
aggregate  population  of  those  prisons,  num- 
bering 5300  convicts,  there  escaped  during 
twelve  months  but  one  prisoner.  In  all  the 
State  prisons  of  the  country  not  kept  by  the 
Lease  System,  with  a  population,  at  dates  of 
reports,  of  18,400,  there  escaped  in  one  year 
only  63.  But  in  the  one  year  ending  Decem- 
ber i,  1 88 1,  there  escaped,  from  an  average 
population  of  about  630  convicts  at  these 
Tennessee  "  branch  prisons,"  49  prisoners. 
Or,  rather,  there  were  49  escapes ;  for  some 
convicts  escaped  and  were  recaptured  more 
than  once  or  twice.  The  following  year  they 
numbered  50.  If  the  tables  in  the  report  were 
correct, — it  will  be  shown  they  are  not, — we 
should  know  that  the  recaptures  in  the  two 
years  were  about  forty  ;  but  that  which  is  not 
known  is,  what  public  and  private  expense  in 
depredations  on  the  one  hand  and  the  main- 
tenance of  police  on  the  other  these  ninety- 
nine  escaped  robbers,  burglars,  house-burners, 
horse-thieves,  and  swindlers,  and  these  forty 
recaptures,  have  caused  and  are  still  causing. 
The  superintendent  of  prisons,  making  excep- 
tion, it  is  true,  of  one  small  establishment  of 

*  One  might  hope  these  blanks  were  but  omissions  of 
ditto  marks,  although  such  marks  are  not  lacking  where 
required  in  other  parts  of  the  table ;  but  the  charitable 
assumption  fails  when  it  would  require  us  to  supply  them 
under  "  Sunstroke  "  and  opposite  the  date  of  December. 


less  than  a  hundred  population,  whence  over* 
a  third  of  these  escapes  were  made,  says  the 
deputy  wardens  in  charge  "  deserve  credit  for 
the  manner  in  which  they  have  carried  out 
his  instructions."  Such  is  one  feature  of  the 
Lease  System  under  an  exceptionally  good 
administration  of  it.  What  a  condition  it  had 
but  lately  come  out  of  may  be  inferred  from 
three  lines  found  in  the  warden's  report  of 
the  Texas  penitentiary  in  1880  :  "  I  noticed 
in  a  recent  Tennessee  report  that,  from  an 
average  force  of  less  than  600  convicts,  there 
were  257  escapes  in  two  years." 

The  convict  quarters  in  the  main  prison,  at 
Nashville,  are  three  separate  stone  wings,  in 
each  of  which  the  cells  rise  one  above  another 
in  four  tiers.  The  total  number  of  cells  is  352. 
They  are  of  three  sizes.  According  to  mod- 
ern sanitary  knowledge,  a  sleeping-room 
should  never  contain  less  than  800  cubic  feet 
of  air  to  each  occupant ;  but,  of  these  cells, 
120  contain,  each,  only  309  cubic  feet  of 
space;  another  120  contain,  each,  but  175 
feet;  the  remaining  112  contain  but  162  feet 
each ;  and  nearly  every  one  of  these  cells  has 
two  inmates.  Thus  a  majority  of  the  inmates 
are  allowed  an  air  space  at  night  less  than  the 
cubic  contents  of  a  good-sized  grave.  The 
physician  of  the  penitentiary  reports  that  the 
air  breathed  in  these  cells  is  "  almost  insup- 
portable." He  says  of  the  entire  establish- 
ment, "  No  amount  of  remodeling  or  tinker- 
ing can  make  it  comfortable  or  healthy."  The 
hospital  he  and  others  report  as  badly  con- 
structed and  too  small.  "  There  is  no  place 
for  dressing  the  dead  except  in  the  presence 
of  all  the  sick  in  the  hospital,  or  in  the  wing 
in  the  presence  of  more  than  two  hundred 
convicts."  Other  details  are  too  revolting  for 
popular  reading. 

The  female  department  of  the  prison  "  over- 
looks the  prison  yard  in  plain  view  and  hear- 
ing of  the  male  convicts."  "  No  woman," 
says  the  warden,  "  should  be  sentenced  to  the 
Tennessee  penitentiary  until  the  State  makes 
better  provision  for  their  care."  "  Had  I  the 
pardoning  power,  I  would  reprieve  every 
woman  now  in  the  penitentiary  and  those 
who  may  be  sentenced,  until  the  State  can  or 
will  provide  a  place  to  keep  them,  in  keeping 
with  the  age  in  which  we  live."  The  chaplain 
reports  these  women  as  having  "  abandoned 
all  hope  and  given  up  to  utter  despair,  their 
conversation  obscene  and  filthy,  and  their 
conduct  controlled  by  their  unrestrained 
passions."  He  indicates  that  he  has  aban- 
doned all  spiritual  and  moral  effort  among 
them;  but,  it  is  to  be  regretted,  does  not  state 
by  what  right  he  has  done  so. 

The  discipline  of  this  main  prison,  as  of  th  i 
"branches,"  seems  to  be  only  such  as  pro- 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     587 


vides  for  efficiency  in  labor  and  against  in- 
surrection and  escape.  The  warden's  report 
intimates  that  modes  of  punishment  of  refrac- 
tory prisoners  are  left  "  to  the  discretion  of 
wardens  and  inspectors."  "  When  the  labor 
is  hired  out,"  he  says,  "  the  lessee  demands 
punishment  that  will  not  cause  him  to  lose 
the  labor  of  the  man."  Thus  he  lays  his  finger 
upon  the  fact  that  the  very  nature  of  the  Lease 
System  tends  to  banish  all  the  most  salutary 
forms  of  correction,  from  the  prison  manage- 
ment. "  Under  the  present  laws  and  cus- 
toms," says  this  warden,  "  the  Tennessee 
penitentiary  is  a  school  of  crime  instead  of 
being  a  reformatory  institution.  .  .  .  There 
are  now  about  fifty  boys  in  the  penitentiary 
under  eighteen  years  of  age.  .  .  .  Nine- 
tenths  of  them  leave  prison  much  worse  than 
when  they  came.  .  .  .  They  are  thrown 
into  the  midst  of  hundreds  of  the  worst  crimi- 
nals the  State  affords,  sleeping  in  the  same 
cell  with  them  at  night,  and  working  at  the 
same  bench  or  machine  in  the  day.  .  .  . 
The  young  and  the  old,  the  comparatively 
good  and  the  vilest  and  most  depraved,  are 
thrown  promiscuously  together."  * 

Even  that  superficial  discipline  which  ob- 
tains in  the  prison,  addressed  merely  against 
physical  insubordination,  is  loose,  crude,  and 
morally   bad.     The   freedom   of  intercourse 
among  the  convicts  is  something  preposter- 
ous.  The  State  is  actually  put  into  the  posi- 
I    tion  of  bringing  together  its  murderers,  thieves, 
house-breakers,  highwaymen,  and  abandoned 
|    women,  and  making  each  acquainted  with  all 
I    the  rest,  to  the  number  of  about  five  hundred 
j    a  year.    In  an  intelligently  conducted  prison, 
!    each  convict  carries  his  food  to  his  cell  and 
,    eats  it  there  alone ;  but  in  this  one  the  warden 
|    recommends  that  a  dining-room  be  fitted  up 
i    for   1200  persons.    Convicts  are  given  duties 
connected  with  the  prison  management;  they 
are  "door-keepers,"  and  "wing-tenders,"  and 
;    "  roll- callers."    In  one  year  the  number  of  es- 
•    capes  from  within  its  walls,  not  counting  those 
|    made  during  the  fire,  was  more  than  half  as 
;    great  as  the  total  of  escapes  for  an  equal  length 
of  time  from  the  State  prisons  of  all  New  Eng- 
i   land,  with  New  York,  New  Jersey,  Pennsyl- 
i    vania,  Maryland,  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois, 
where  there  were  over  12,000  convicts.    One 
!   woman  escaped  twice,  and  another  one  three 
i   times,  both  within  the  same  ninety  days. 

The  incapable  simplicity  of  the  prison's  dis- 
ciplinarians is  pointedly  shown  again  in  a  list 

*  The  roll  of  the  Mississippi  penitentiary   shows, 

i    December,  1881,  in   a   total   number  one-third   less, 

J    seventy  boys  to  have  been  received  into  the  prison 

under  eighteen  years  of  age,  some  of  them  being  but 

twelve  and  thirteen,  sentenced  for  life  and  terms  in 

i    their  probabilities  equivalent  to  a  life  sentence. 


of  no  less  than  101  convicts  recommended 
for  executive  clemency,  some  for  having 
helped  to  put  out  the  fire  in  December,  1881, 
some  for  holding  mutineers  in  check  on  the 
same  occasion,  and  some  for  running  and  tell- 
ing on  certain  fellow-convicts  who  were  pre- 
paring to  escape  in  disguise.  Reformatory 
discipline  can  hardly  be  imagined  as  reaching 
a  lower  degree  of  imbecility. 

The  chaplain's  report  is  a  bundle  of  crude 
generalities,  marked  by  a  serene  ignorance  of 
the  badness  of  affairs,  and  by  a  total  absence 
of  any  tabulated  or  other  form  of  accurate  or 
useful  observation.  Some  spelling,  some  read- 
ing, regular  Sabbath  service,  Sunday-school, 
—  all  is  recounted  in  indefinite  quantities, 
except  the  33  admissions  into  the  "  prison 
church."  No  feature  is  lacking  of  that  well- 
meant  but  melancholy  farce  which  religious 
prison  work  always  must  be,  when  performed 
without  regard  to  the  unique  conditions  of 
life  to  which  it  is  addressed.  During  the  win- 
ter of  i88i-'82,  the  chaplain  preached  some- 
times to  the  convicts  at  Ensley's  farm,  where 
"  they  seemed  to  enjoy  the  services  very  much  "; 
and  this  is  all  he  has  to  say  of  the  place  where 
men  were  being  "  found  dead,"  and  "  killed," 

and  "drowned,"  and  " "-ed.    Nor  was  his 

silence  a  mistaken  discreetness ;  for  he  writes : 

"The  objects  sought  by  imprisoning  offenders  being 
the  security  of  society  and  the  punishment  and  reform- 
ation of  the  guilty,  I  am  glad  to  say  that  these  objects 
are  certainly  in  a  large  measure  being  accomplished 
in  many  cases  in  the  management  of  our  State  Prison." 

Having  thus  claimed  a  proprietary  share  in 
this  rotten  institution,  he  wisely  concludes 
with  an  expression  of  timid  uncertainty  as  to 
how  many  of  his  "prison  church"  membership 
will  finally  reach  "the  haven  of  eternal  repose." 
But  are  these  bad  conditions  necessarily 
chargeable  to  the  Lease  System  ?  No,  and 
yes.  They  have  been  dwelt  upon  to  show 
with  what  a  state  of  affairs  the  system  will 
content  itself,  its  inspectors,  the  State  legis- 
lators, and  the  community  at  large.  It  has 
nothing  in  it  to  produce  a  knowledge  of  and 
desire  for  a  correct  and  honorable  and  truly 
profitable  prison  management.  Its  interests 
make  directly  against  both  individual  and 
institutional  reform.  The  plea  of  self-support 
on  which  it  rests,  the  price  it  pays  for  its  priv- 
ileges, whether  corruptly  intended  or  not,  are 
a  bribe  to  officials  and  to  public  alike  to 
close  the  ear  against  all  suggestion  of  better 
things.  For  example,  see  the  report  of  the 
two  inspectors  of  the  Tennessee  prisons.  Ex- 
cepting a  letter  from  another  hand,  quoted  by 
them,  their  whole  biennial  report  is  less  than 
one  hundred  lines.  A  little  over  half  tells  of 
the  fire  and  the  new  workshops.  A  little  less 
than  half  is  given  to  the  praise  of  the  Lease 


588      2 HE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


System,  upon  the  lonely  merit  of  cash  returns, 
and  to  a  recommendation  for  its  continuance. 
For  the  rest,  they  content  themselves  with 
pointing  the  Legislature  to  the  reports  of  the 
superintendent,  warden,  physician,  and  chap- 
lain of  the  penitentiary,  whom,  they  say,  "  we 
indorse  most  heartily  as  attentive  to  their  re- 
spective duties,  and  alive  to  every  require- 
ment of  the  law  [which  the  warden  reports 
as  painfully  barren  of  requirements]  and  the 
dictates  of  humanity  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duty."  However  true  this  may  be  of  the 
executive  officers,  it  is  certainly  not  true  of 
the  inspectors  themselves.  They  do  not  cer- 
tify to  the  correctness  of  a  single  roll  or  tab- 
ulated statement,  or  imply  that  they  have 
examined  any  one  of  them.  They  do  not 
present  a  statistical  figure  of  their  own,  or 
recommend  the  taking  of  a  single  record 
among  all  the  valuable  registries  that  should 
be  made,  but  are  not,  because  the  facts  they 
would  indicate  are  either  absent  or  despised. 
Indeed,  their  silence  is  in  a  certain  sense  ob- 
ligatory; for  the  omitted  records,  if  taken, 
would  condemn  the  system  they  praise,  and 
the  meager  records  that  are  given  swarm  with 
errors.  It  would  have  been  hard  for  the  in- 
spectors to  say  anything  worse  for  themselves 
than  that  they  had  examined  the  reports.  The 
physician's  is  an  almost  unqualified  denunci- 
ation of  the  whole  establishment;  the  su- 
perintendent's is  three-quarters  of  a  page 
of  generalities  and  official  compliments ; 
and  the  warden's  tabulated  statements  con- 
fusedly contradict  each  other.  Even  the 
numerical  counts  are  incorrect.  One  convict, 
distinctly  named  and  described,  appears  in 
the  list  of  escapes  but  once,  and  among  the 
recaptures  three  times.  One,  reported  escaped 
twice,  is  not  once  mentioned  among  the  re- 
captures. Four  convicts  (one  of  them  serving 
a  nineteen  years'  sentence)  reported  among 
the  recaptures  are  not  on  the  prison  roll,  nor 
are  they  reported  as  pardoned,  discharged, 
transferred,  died,  blanked,  or  in  any  other 
way  disposed  of.  A  convict,  Zach.  Boyd  by 
name,  under  life  sentence,  expected  soon  to 
die  of  dropsy  and  recommended  by  the  ward- 
en for  executive  clemency,  is  enrolled  neither 
among  the  dead  nor  the  living.  The  inference 
is  irresistible  that  the  prison's  officers  do  not 
know  how  many  convicts  they  have  or  should 
have.  In  the  list  of  "  Commutations,"  names 
occur  repeatedly  that  are  not  in  any  list 
of  inmates  on  hand  or  removed  or  released. 
Several  convicts  are  reported  as  white  men 
when  they  escaped  and  as  colored  when  re- 
captured, and  one  or  two  pass  through  two 
such  transformations.  All  search  by  the  pres- 
ent writer  for  occasion  to  lay  these  errors 
upon  the  printer  has  proved  unavailing.  The 


fault  is  in  the  prisons  themselves  and  the  sys- 
tem on  which  they  are  managed.  Such  a  con- 
dition of  accounts  might  be  excused  in  the 
rosters  of  a  retreating  army  ;  but  it  is  not  to  be 
believed,  while  there  is  room  for  doubt,  that 
the  people  of  an  American  State  will  knowingly 
accept  such  stupid  and  wicked  trifling  with 
their  State's  good  name  and  the  safety  of  society, 
or  even  such  a  ghastly  burlesque  of  net  revenue. 

IN    NORTH    CAROLINA. 

YET  when  we  pass  across  the  boundaries 
of  Tennessee  and  enter  any  adjoining  State, 
excepting  only  Missouri,  we  find  the  same 
system  in  operation,  operating  viciously,  and 
often  more  viciously  than  in  Tennessee. 
North  Carolina,  during  the  two  years  ending 
October  31,  1880,  held  in  custody  an  average 
of  1090  convicts.  The  penitentiary  proper 
and  its  interior  industries  were  being  con- 
trolled under  public  account.  Shoemaking, 
brickmaking,  tailoring,  blacksmithing,  etc., 
the  officers  report,  were  either  already  profita- 
ble or  could  be  made  so,  and  their  detailed 
accounts  of  receipts  and  expenditures  seem 
to  verify  their  assertions.  The  statistics  of  the 
prison  are  given,  not  minutely  or  very  com- 
prehensively, but  intelligently  as  far  as  they  go, 
and  are  valuable. 

So  much  sunshine  of  right  endeavor  an  un- 
usually restrained  Lease  System  lets  in :  the 
Lease  System  itself  exists  only  without  the 
walls.  Only  able-bodied  convicts  may  be 
farmed  out.  But  just  at  this  point  the  notion 
bred  from  a  total  misconception  of  the  true 
profits  to  be  sought  —  the  notion  that  a  penal 
establishment  must  live  upon  its  income — 
begins  to  show  its  fruit.  "  Every  enterprise 
that  the  board  of  directors,"  says  its  presi- 
dent, "  have  been  able  to  devise  for  using  the 
laboi'  that  was  compelled  to  remain  in  the 
prison  has  been  either  summarily  crushed  in 
its  incipiency  or  seriously  crippled  in  its 
progress  by  the  fact  that  we  had  not  the 
means  to  carry  them  to  a  successful  issue. 
Attempted  economy,  we  believe,  has  proven 
a  waste,  and  .  .  .  the  State  has  suffered  by 
a  niggardly  use  of  its  resources.  The  [perma- 
nent] buildings,  too,  have  been  carried  too 
far  to  be  now  torn  down,  and  less  costly  ones 
erected  in  their  stead.  They  must,  therefore, 
at  some  time,  be  completed ;  and  so  long  as 
they  are  permitted  to  remain  in  their  present 
unfinished  condition,  they  are  subject  to  dam 
age,  from  exposure  to  weather,  that  will  ofte 
necessitate  work  to  be  redone  that  woul 
have  been  saved  had  they  been  steadil 
pressed  to  completion.  There  would,  too,  b 
incalculable  economy  in  the  police  of  th 
prison,  if  the  convenient  and  compact  buik 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     589 


ing  in  progress  of  erection  could  speedily  take 
the  place  of  the  scattered  and  imperfect 
wooden  structures  now  in  use;  and  the  suffer- 
ing endured  by  the  convicts  in  extreme  cold 
weather,  which  is  no  part  of  their  sentence, 
but  has  been  unavoidable  under  the  circum- 
stances, would  cease  to  be  a  source  of  anxiety 
to  the  board  of  directors  and  a  reflection 
upon  the  power  whose  duty  it  is  to  relieve 
it." 

The  warden  reports  these  temporary  build- 
ings as  devoid  of  all  means  for  warming  them, 
badly  ventilated,  and  entirely  unfitted  for  use. 
A  part,  at  least,  of  the  inmates  were,  it  seems, 
congregated  in  a  stockade,  which  was  "  liable 
to  tumble  at  any  time."  The  prison  physician 
pronounced  these  temporary  quarters  "  the 
fruitful  cause  of  many  deaths."  The  popula- 
tion within  this  penitentiary  was  generally 
about  three  hundred.  About  eight  hundred, 
therefore,  were  scattered  about  in  companies 
under  lessees,  and  in  the  two  years  1879-80 
were  at  different  times  at  work  on  six  different 
railways  and  one  wagon  road.  What  their 
experiences  were  at  these  places  can  be  gath- 
ered, by  one  at  a  distance,  only  from  one  or 
two  incidental  remarks  dropped  by  the  prison 
officers  in  their  reports  and  from  the  tabu- 
lated records  of  the  convict  movement.  There 
i  is  no  hospital  record  given  concerning  them, 
nor  any  physician's  account  of  their  sickness. 
When  they  drop  off  they  are  simply  scored 
as  dead.  The  warden  says  of  them  that  many 
had  "  taken  their  regular  shifts  for  several 
years  in  the  Swannanoa  and  other  tunnels 
I  on  the  Western  North  Carolina  Railroad, 
and  were  finally  returned  to  the  prison  with 
i  shattered  constitutions  and  their  physical 
I  strength  entirely  gone,  so  that,  with  the 
\  most  skillful  medical  treatment  and  the  best 
j  nursing,  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  re- 
cuperate." 

But  such  remarks  convey  but  a  faint  idea 
I  of  the  dreadful  lot  of  these  unfortunate  creat- 
I  ures.  The  prison  physician,  apologizing  for 
|  the  high  death-rate  within  the  walls,  instances 
;  twenty-one  deaths  of  men  "who  had  been 
»  returned  from  the  railroads  completely  broken 
!  down  and  hopelessly  diseased."  And  when 
!  these  deaths  are  left  out  of  the  count,  the  num- 
ber of  deaths  inside  the  walls,  not  attributable 
'  to  outside  hardships,  amounted,  in  1880,  to 
|  just  the  number  of  those  in  the  prisons  of 
Auburn  and  Sing-Sing  in  a  population  eight 
times  as  large.  Ten-elevenths  of  the  deaths 
;  for  1879  arjd  1880  were  from  lingering  dis- 
I  eases,  principally  consumption.  Yet,  year  in 
|  and  year  out,  the  good  citizens  of  Raleigh 
1  were  visiting  the  place  weekly,  teaching 
;  Sunday-school,  preaching  the  gospel,  and 
!  staring  these  facts  in  the  face. 


Now,  what  was  the  death-rate  among  the 
convicts  working  at  railroad  construction? 
The  average  number  of  prisoners  so  engaged 
in  1879  and  1880  was  776.  The  deaths, 
including  the  21  sent  back  to  die  in  prison, 
were  178,  an  annual  death-rate  of  nearly 
eleven  and  a  half  per  cent.,  and  therefore 
greater  than  the  year's  death-rate  in  New 
Orleans  in  1853,  the  year  of  the  Great  Epi- 
demic. But  the  dark  fact  that  eclipses  every- 
thing else  is  that  not  a  word  is  given  to  ac- 
count for  the  deaths  of  158  of  these  men, 
except  that  n  were  shot  down  in  trying  to 
escape  from  this  heartless  butchery. 

In  the  light  of  these  conditions,  the  ward- 
en's expressed  pleasure  in  the  gradual  de- 
crease in  prison  population  since  1877  ^n 
North  Carolina  seems  rather  ill  grounded  and 
not  likely  to  last.  It  is  certainly  amazing  that 
men  of  the  sincerest  good  intentions  can  live 
in  full  knowledge  of  such  affairs,  or,  at  least, 
within  easy  reach  of  the  knowledge,  and  not 
put  forth  their  protest  against  the  system 
that  fosters  and  perpetuates  it.  The  North 
Carolina  prison,  it  may  be  repeated,  is  man- 
aged, within  its  walls,  on  the  public  account; 
but  it  is  the  Public  Account  System  suffocated 
under  the  Lease  System  and  stabbed  by  the 
glittering  policy  of  self-support.  In  1880 
alone  the  Lease  System,  pure  and  simple,  set 
free  upon  the  people  of  North  Carolina, 
from  its  railroad  gangs,  123  escaped  crim- 
inals. The  prison  added  1 2  more.  The  recapt- 
ures numbered  42.  Ninety-three  remained 
at  large ;  just  5  more  than  the  total  escapes 
for  an  equal  period  in  every  State  prison  of 
every  State  in  this  country,  excepting  the 
other  eleven  managed  in  whole  or  part  upon 
the  Lease  System.  The  moral  effect  of  such  a 
prison  life  on  men  herded  in  stockades  may 
be  left  to  the  imagination ;  but  one  other  fact 
must  be  noted.  In  the  two  years  1879-80 
there  were  turned  into  this  penitentiary  at 
Raleigh  234  youths  under  twenty  years  of 
age,  not  one  of  whom  was  under  sentence  for 
less  than  twelve  months. 

It  only  remains  to  be  asked,  For  what 
enormous  money  consideration  did  the  State 
set  its  seal  upon  this  hideous  mistake  ?  The 
statement  would  be  incredible  were  it  at- 
tempted to  give  other  than  a  literal  quotation. 
"  Therefore  it  will  be  seen,"  says  the  warden 
at  the  bottom  of  his  resume  of  accounts,  "  that 
the  convicts  have  earned  $678.78  more  than 
the  prison  department  has  cost  for  the  two 
years  ending  October  31,  1880." 

IN    KENTUCKY. 

IN  Kentucky  the  management  of  the  State 
prison  seems  to  be  in  a  stage  of  transition. 


590     THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


Facts  that  need  no  mention  here*  make  allu- 
sion to  it  a  particularly  delicate  task.  Yet 
the  writer  may  not  assume  that  any  one  would 
desire  that  the  truth  be  left  unsaid.  Upon  the 
candor  and  generosity  not  only  of  Kentuck- 
ians,  but  of  all  the  communities  whose  prisons 
come  under  this  review,  must  the  writer  throw 
himself,  trusting  to  find  his  words  received  in 
the  same  spirit  of  simple  good  citizenship  in 
which  they  are  offered. 

After  long  experience  with  the  Lease  Sys- 
tem, there  was  passed  in  May,  1880,  an  "Act 
to  provide  for  the  government,  management, 
and  discipline  of  the  Kentucky  penitentiary," 
by  which  the  prison  passed  back  from  other 
hands  into  those  of  the  State's  appointed  offi- 
cers. The  Lease  System  was  not  discarded ;  but 
certain  very  decided  modifications  were  made 
in  it,  leaning  toward  the  Contract  System.  The 
report  made  by  the  prison  officers  and  board, 
eighteen  months  later,  bears  a  general  air  of  the 
sad  confusion  that  commonly  belongs,  to  a  late 
and  partial  extrication  from  disaster.  It  affords 
a  retrospective  view  of  the  old  system  extreme- 
ly unflattering ;  but  it  also  gives  evidence  that 
certain  State  officers,  conspicuously  the  Gov- 
ernor, were  making  an  earnest  and  sagacious 
effort  to  reform  the  entire  penal  system  of 
their  commonwealth.  Yet  it  seems  plain  again 
that  they  are  not  a  little  handicapped  by  that 
false  popular  idea  of  the  prison's  place  in  the 
State's  governmental  economy,  upon  which 
the  Lease  System  thrives  while  the  convict 
falls  into  moral  and  physical  ruin  and  society's 
real  interests  are  sold  for  old  rags.  It  may  be 
assumed  that  there  is  a  reserved  determina- 
tion on  the  part  of  those  who  have  taken  the 
matter  in  hand,  to  raise  the  work  of  reform 
to  the  plane  it  should  occupy  as  soon  as  the 
general  sentiment  can  be  brought  to  require 
it ;  but,  meantime,  the  State's  penal  system 
has  risen,  from  something  worse,  only  to  the 
level  of  the  system  in  North  Carolina. 

The  officers  whom  the  State,  pursuant  to 
its  scheme  of  renovation,  placed  in  charge, 
put  that  scheme  into  practice,  to  use  their 
own  words,  "  whenever  the  costs  of  doing  so 
involved  only  a  small  outlay."  The  building 
that  contains  the  prisoners'  cells,  found  "  in- 
fested with  all  kinds  of  vermin  known  to 
institutions  of  the  kind,"  with  bad  ventilation 
and  rat-eaten  floors,  was  purged,  by  convict 
labor,  with  coal-oil,  fire,  whitewash,  and  tar. 
The  grounds  around  the  women's  quarters, 
"  low  and  marshy,  covered  with  water,  in 
rainy  weather,  ankle-deep  for  days,"  were 
filled  up.  "  Long  rows  of  shanties  or  sheds, 
.  .  .  unsightly  and  inflammable  in  the  ex- 

*At  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  the  convention 
before  which  this  paper  was  read  was  then  enjoying 
the  hospitality  of  the  State. 


treme,"  long  used  in  the  hackling  of  hemp, 
were  torn  away.  The  hospital  and  chapel 
were  cleaned  and  kept  clean.  Religious  serv- 
ices were  regularly  afforded  by  an  official 
chaplain  and  at  intervals  by  a  Catholic  priest, 
and  Sabbath  instruction  gradually  took  shape 
with  (let  it  be  said  to  their  praise)  members 
of  the  Governor's  own  family  in  charge.  The 
diminutive  and  dilapidated  library  was  put  into 
shape  and  new  books  were  added.  But  from 
here  on,  the  friends  of  the  prison  could  only 
pray  for  aid  and  relief.  The  principal  indus- 
try continued  to  be,  as  it  had  been  for  many 
years,  working  in  hemp,  under  circumstances 
that  made  it  a  distressing  and  unhealthful 
hardship.  On  the  ist  of  last  January,  350 
men  were  working  in  that  department  with- 
out ventilation  or  bath,  and,  says  the  warden, 
"  the  dust  so  dense  that  it  is  frequently  impos- 
sible to  recognize  a  man  twenty  feet  distant." 
"  It  is  certainly  an  act  only  of  common  hu- 
manity that  the  evil  created  should  be  coun- 
teracted by  good  and  ample  bathing  facilities." 
In  the  hospital,  as  a  fit  adjunct  to  the  hemp 
department,  there  were,  in  1881, 144  cases  of 
inflamed  eyes  and  202  of  acute  bronchitis. 
The  kitchen  was  not  adapted  to  the  proper 
cooking  of  the  prisoners'  food,  and  the  hos- 
pital's response  was  616  cases  of  acute  disease 
of  the  bowels  and  101  of  impoverishment  of 
the  blood.  There  was  an  entire  absence  of 
an  intelligent  trained  reformatory  treatment, 
in  accordance  with  a  knowledge  of  criminal 
character,  recognition  of  the  criminals'  un- 
forfeited  rights,  and  proper  prison  discipline. 
In  this  shape  stood  matters  at  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1882,  as  viewed  from  without 
The  inside  history  can  only  be  conjectured; 
but  we  get  one  glimpse  of  the  convict's  sen- 
timent toward  his  choking,  blinding,  life- 
shortening  daily  task  in  the  fact  that,  within 
the  eighteen  months  of  the  new  regime,  five 
men  purposely  mutilated  their  hands  so  as  to 
compel  the  amputation  of  fingers,  and  two 
others  cut  off,  each,  a  hand  at  the  wrist. 
What  the  fortunes  of  the  convicts  leased  out 
upon  railroad  construction  were  and  are,  we 
are  given  no  clew  by  which  to  tell ;  the  report 
contains  no  returns  from  them,  and  we  have 
only  the  same  general  assurance  that  all  is 
well  that  is  given  as  to  those  in  Tennessee  and 
North  Carolina. 


SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

ANOTHER  view  of  the  Lease  System  under 
limitations  is  afforded  in  the  "  Annual  Report 
of  the  Board  of  Directors  of  the  South  Car- 
olina Penitentiary  for  the  fiscal  year  ending 
October  31,  1881."  The  prison  is  not 
under  a  full  corps  of  State  officers,  but, 
the  North  Carolina  prison,  it  is  condu 


ding 
only 

£ 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     591 


on  public  account,  the  convicts  only  being 
leased,  and  of  these  only  such  as  are  sent  be- 
yond the  prison's  walls.  Yet  the  overwhelm- 
ing consideration  of  self-support  makes  the 
spirit  of  the  Lease  System  dominant  over  all. 
The  reformatory  features  are  crude,  feeble, 
and  purely  accidental.  The  records  are  mea- 
ger. The  discipline  is  of  that  poor  sort  which 
is  vaguely  reported  as  "  administered  only 
when  necessary,"  addressed  simply  to  the 
prisoner's  safe  custody  and  the  performance 
of  his  tasks.  The  escapes,  from  an  average 
population  of  632,  were  36;  the  recaptures, 
21.  Most  likely,  to  the  popular  eye,  the  num- 
bers are  not  startling ;  but,  if  we  look  around 
to  compare  them  with  the  record  of  some 
properly  ordered  prison  of  the  same  popula- 
tion, we  see  the  warden  of  the  Maryland 
penitentiary,  under  contract  management, 
admitting  with  full  explanation  and  apology 
the  escape  of  one  prisoner,  the  first  in  ten 
years.  The  number  of  escapes  reported  from 
the  South  Carolina  prison  would  have  been 
forty,  had  not  four  escaped  convicts  been 
"  found  drowned  "  within  two  or  three  days 
after  their  escape.  A  report  with  which  such 
numbers  will  compare  favorably  can  be  found 
only  by  turning  to  other  leased  prison  forces. 
One  reason  why  it  may  there  be  found  is  that, 
in  South  Carolina,  almost  alone,  a  penalty 
attaches  to  the  lessees  for  each  escape. 
"  There  is  now  due  the  State,"  says  the  re- 
port, "  in  penalties  for  the  escape  of  convicts 
under  contract  [meaning  leased  convicts] 
about  $25,000."  In  the  chaplain's  report,  as 
in  all  chaplains'  reports  under  the  Lease  Sys- 
tem, and  probably  in  many  under  better  sys- 
tems, is  seen  the  familiar  conjunction  of  pious 
intention  with  a  strange  oversight  of  the  in- 
adaptability, to  the  incarcerated  criminal,  of 
the  ordinary  technical  methods  of  religion  in 
society.  What  response  can  there  be  but  a 
weary  smile  to  the  complacent  announcement 
that  in  this  prison  "  there  are  now  about  one 
hundred  men  and  women  who  can  repeat  the 
Ten  Commandments,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  the 
Apostles'  Creed,  and  the  whole  of  Capers' 
Catechism."  But  the  humor  fades  out  when  it 
is  added,  "We  have  also  a  Sunday-school, 
regularly  conducted  by  intelligent  convicts." 
"  I  regard  the  State  Penitentiary,  as  designed 
by  its  originators,  as  a  great  reformatory 
school,  and  I  am  happy  to  believe,  from  per- 
sonal observation,  .  .  .  that  this  prime  lead- 
ing object  is  ...  being  faithfully  carried 
out."  So  writes  this  evidently  sincere  and 
zealous  divine,  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that 
the  very  foundation  principles  of  reformatory 
treatment  were  absent,  and  that  constantly  a 
larger  number  of  convicts  were  kept  beyond 
his  reach  than  were  left  for  him  to  preach  to. 


One  of  the  peculiar  temptations  which  the 
Lease  System  holds  out  to  the  communities  em- 
ploying it,  as  such  communities  are  represented 
in  the  jury-box,  needs  a  moment's  careful  no- 
tice. The  States  where  this  system  is  in  vogue 
are  now,  and  have  been  for  some  years,  en- 
joying a  new  and  great  development  of  their 
natural  resources  and  of  other  industries  than 
that  colossal  agricultural  system  that  once 
monopolized  their  attention.  There  is,  there- 
fore, a  vigorous  demand  for  the  opening  and 
completion  of  extensive  public  works, —  mines, 
railways,  turnpikes,  levees,  and  the  like, — 
and  for  ways  and  means  for  getting  them  done 
as  quickly  and  cheaply  as  possible.  Now,  it 
is  with  these  potent  conditions  in  force  that 
the  Lease  System  presents  itself  as  the  lowest 
bidder,  and  holds  forth  the  seductive  specta- 
cle of  these  great  works,  which  everybody  wants 
and  no  one  wants  to  pay  for,  growing  apace 
by  convict  labor  that  seems  to  cost  nothing. 
What  is  the  consequence  ?  We  might  almost 
assert  beforehand  that  the  popular  sentiment 
and  verdict  would  hustle  the  misbehaving, 
with  shocking  alacrity,  into  the  State's  prison 
under  extravagant  sentences  or  for  trivial  of- 
fenses, and  sell  their  labor  to  the  highest  bid- 
der who  will  use  them  in  the  construction  of 
public  works.  The  temptation  gathers  addi- 
tional force  through  the  popular  ignorance  of 
the  condition  and  results  of  these  peniten- 
tiaries, and  the  natural  assumption  that  they 
are  not  so  grossly  mismanaged  but  that  the 
convict  will  survive  his  sentence,  and  the 
fierce  discipline  of  the  convict  camp  "  teach 
him  to  behave  himself." 

But  there  is  no  need  to  reason  from  cause 
to  effect  only.  The  testimony  of  the  prisons 
themselves  is  before  us,  either  to  upset  or  else 
to  establish  these  conjectures.  A  single  glance 
at  almost  any  of  their  reports  startles  the  eye 
with  the  undue  length  of  sentences  and  the 
infliction  of  penalties  for  mere  misdemeanors 
that  are  proper  only  to  crimes  and  felonies. 
In  the  Georgia  penitentiary,  in  1880,  in  a  to- 
tal of  nearly  1200  convicts,  only  22  prisoners 
were  serving  as  low  a  term  as  one  year,  only 
52  others  as  low  a  term  as  two  years,  only 
76  others  as  low  a  term  as  three  years ;  while 
those  who  were  under  sentences  of  ten  years 
and  over  numbered  538,  although  ten  years, 
as  the  rolls  show,  is  the  utmost  length  of  time 
that  a  convict  can  be  expected  to  remain 
alive  in  a  Georgia  penitentiary.  Six  men 
were  under  sentence  for  simple  assault  and 
battery, — mere  fisticuffing, —  one  of  two  years, 
two  of  five  years,  one  of  six  years,  one  of 
seven,  and  one  of  eight.  For  larceny,  three 
men  were  serving  under  sentence  of  twenty 
years ;  five  were  sentenced  each  fifteen  years ; 
one,  fourteen  years ;  six,  twelve  years ;  thirty- 


592     THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


five,  ten  years;  and  one  hundred  and  sev- 
enty-two, from  one  year  up  to  nine  years. 
In  other  words,  a  large  majority  of  all  these 
had,  for  simple  stealing,  without  breaking  in 
or  violence,  been  virtually*  condemned  to  be 
worked  and  misused  to  death.  One  man  was 
under  a  twenty  years'  sentence  for  "hog- 
stealing."  Twelve  men  were  sentenced  to  the 
South  Carolina  penitentiary,  in  1881,  on  no 
other  finding  but  a  misdemeanor  commonly 
atoned  for  by  a  fine  of  a  few  dollars,  and 
which  thousands  of  the  State's  inhabitants 
are  constantly  committing  with  impunity  — 
the  carrying  of  concealed  weapons.  Fifteen 
others  were  sentenced  for  mere  assault  and 
assault  and  battery.  It  is  to  be  inferred  —  for 
we  are  left  to  our  inferences  —  that  such  sen- 
tences were  very  short ;  but  it  is  inferable, 
too,  that  they  worked  the  customary  loss  of 
citizenship  for  life.  In  Louisiana,  a  few  days 
before  the  writing  of  this  paper,  a  man  was  sen- 
tenced to  the  penitentiary  for  twelve  months 
for  stealing  five  dollars'  worth  of  gunny-sacks. 

IN    GEORGIA. 

THE  convict  force  of  Georgia,  already  more 
than  once  alluded  to,  presents  the  Lease  Sys- 
tem under  some  other  peculiarly  vicious  as- 
pects. For  example,  the  State  is  bound  by, 
and  is  now  in  the  fourth  year  of,  a  twenty 
years'  lease.  The  convicts,  on  October  20, 
1880,  were  1185  or  1186  in  number  (the  vari- 
ous exhibits  of  the  biennial  report  differ  widely 
in  some  of  their  statements).  They  were  con- 
signed to  three  penitentiaries  in  three  differ- 
ent counties,  each  of  which  had  "  several 
branch  camps."  Thus  they  were  scattered 
about  in  eleven  camps  over  at  least  seven 
counties.  The  assurance  of  the  "  principal 
keeper  "  is  that  in  all  these  camps  they  are 
humanely  treated.  Every  "  permanent  camp  " 
has  a  hospital,  a  physician,  and  a  chaplain. 
But  there  are  other  camps  that  have  none. 
Reports  from  other  officials  and  from  special 
committees  of  citizens  repeat  the  principal 
keeper's  assurance  in  the  same  general  terms. 
And  yet  all  these  utterances  unconsciously 
admit  facts  that  betray  the  total  unfitness  of 
the  management  for  the  ends  it  ought  to  have 
in  view  and  its  gross  inhumanity.  From  the 
"  General  Notice  to  Lessees  "  the  following  is 
taken,  with  no  liberties  except  to  italicize : 

"  In  all  cases  of  severe  illness  the  shackles 
must  be  promptly  removed."  "  The  convicts 
shall  be  turned  off  of  the  chain  on  the  Sab- 
bath and  allowed  to  recreate  in  and  about  the 
stockade."  Elsewhere  the  principal  keeper  says, 
"  When  a  convict  is  sick,  the  chains  are  to  be 
taken  off  of  him."  As  to  the  discipline,  he  re- 
ports 35  escapes  (7  burglars,  3  house-burners, 9 


murderers  and  would-be  murderers,  i  forger,  3 
robbers,  7  thieves,  and  others  whose  crimes  are 
best  unmentioned),  with  no  recaptures;  and  •' 
the  surgeon  reports  nine  men  killed,  three  of  i 
them  by  fellow  convicts.  "  You  will  observe  \ 
the  death-rate  to  have  greatly  decreased 
in  the  last  two  years,"  says  the  principal 
keeper ;  but  the  death-rate,  when  observed, 
was  found  to  have  decreased  only  to  about 
twice  the  rate  of  properly  planned  and  man- 
aged establishments  of  the  kind.  This,  he  re- 
ports, is  one-half  what  it  had  been.  His  tab- 
ulated statements  relating  to  the  convicts,  \ 
though  lamentably  scanty,  reveal  an  amount 
of  confusion  behind  them  that  is  hard  to 
credit.  One  table,  purporting  to  show  the 
whole  n  86  convicts  in  confinement,  classified 
by  the  crimes  under  which  they  were  sen- 
tenced, has  not  a  single  correct  number  in  it, 
and  is  an  entire  hundred  short  in  its  true 
total.  The  numbers,  moreover,  are  so  far  out 
of  the  way  that  they  cannot  possibly  be  the 
true  exhibit  of  some  other  date  substituted  in 
error.  They  report  184  under  sentence  for 
burglary,  whereas  the  roll  shows  467,  and  they 
entirely  omit  25  serving  sentence  for  forgery, 
and  23  for  robbery. 

THE    PARDONING   POWER. 

WE  have  already  noticed,  in  the  prison  and 
convict  camps  of  this  State,  the  feature  of 
cruel  sentences.  Let  us  look  at  another ;  to 
wit,  lavish  pardons.  It  is  but  typical  of  the 
prisons  under  the  Lease  System,  wherever  i 
that  is  found  in  unrestrained  operation.  Here  < 
may  be  seen  a  group  of  penal  institutions,  the 
worst  in  the  country  by  every  evidence  of 
their  own  setting  forth :  cruel,  brutalizing, 
deadly;  chaining,  flogging,  shooting,  drown- 
ing, killing  by  exhaustion  and  exposure, 
holding  the  criminal  out  to  the  public  gaze, 
publishing  him  to  the  world  by  name  and 
description  in  its  reports  when  he  goes  in, 
every  alternate  year  while  he  stays  in,  and 
when  he  dies  or  goes  out ;  putting  under  foot 
every  method  of  reform  worthy  of  prison  , 
science,  mocking  such  intelligent  sense  of 
justice  and  mercy  as  he  may  have,  and  do- 
ing everything  that  can  be  done  to  make  i 
his  heart  and  conscience  harder  than  the 
granite  of  his  prison  walls.'  Yet  these  prisons 
are  sending  forth  from  their  gates  a  larger 
percentage  of  their  populations,  pardoned, 
than  issues  in  like  manner  from  all  the  prisons 
of  the  country  managed  on  intelligent  reforma- 
tory systems.  Nor  can  the  fault  be  coi  ~ 
dently  imputed,  as  is  often  hastily  done, 
political  design  or  mere  pliability  in 
governors.  The  horrors  of  the  convict  cam] 
best  known  to  the  executive,  the  absence 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     593 


a  discipline  calculated  to  show  who  is  worthy 
of  clemency,  the  activity  of  outside  friends 
usurping  this  delicate  office,  are  potent  causes ; 
and  the  best  extenuation  that  can  be  offered 
is  that  a  large  proportion  of  these  pardons  are 
granted  not  because  the  prisoner  has  become 
so  good,  but  because  the  prison  is  so  bad. 

• 

IN    TEXAS. 

THIS  is  conspicuously  the  case  in  Texas. 
In  the  two  years  ending  October  31,  1880, 
the  Governor  pardoned  one  hundred  State 
convicts  from  the  Huntsville  (Texas)  peniten- 
tiary. Over  one-fourth  were  children  from  ten  to 
sixteen  years  oj c  age,  and  nearly  another  fourth, 
says  the  superintendent, "  were  hopelessly  dis- 
eased, blind,  crippled,  or  demented,  .  .  .  sim- 
ple objects  of  pity,  the  sight  of  whom  would 
have  excited  commiseration  in  hearts  of  stone." 

For  some  years  past  Texas  has  had  in 
custody  about  two  thousand  convicts  at  once. 
They  are  under  the  Lease  System,  some  of 
whose  features,  at  least,  give  dissatisfaction 
to  the  State's  prison  directors  and  to  its  Legis- 
lature. The  working  of  convicts  remote  from 
the  prison,  though  practiced,  is  condemned, 
and  the  effort  is  being  made  to  bring  the 
management  into  conformity  with  a  statute 
that  requires  as  many  of  the  convicts  as  can 
be  to  be  employed  within  the  penitentiary 
walls.  Two  different  reports  of  the  directors, 
covering  a  period  of  four  years,  impress  their 
reader  as  the  utterances  of  men  of  the  best  dis- 
position, sincerely  desiring  to  promote  human- 
ity and  the  public  good,  but  handicapped,  if  not 
themselves  in  some  degree  misled;  by  the  error 
of  making  self-support  the  foremost  considera- 
tion in  all  their  estimates  of  prison  methods. 
"To  provide  for  their  employment,  so  that  they 
will  cease  to  be  a  burden  upon  the  tax-payers 
of  the  country"  would  be  counted  a  strange 
proposition  to  apply  to  courts,  schools,  or 
police,  yet  is  assumed  by  them,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  to  be  applicable  to  prison  popula- 
tions, and  so  becomes  the  barrier  from  which 
they  recoil,  and  which  they  have  allowed  to 
throw  them  back  into  the  mire  of  the  lease 
i  system.  "  This  problem,"  they  say,  "  has 
.long  engaged  the  attention  of  philanthropists 
!  and  statesmen."  But  they  mistake.  The  real 
;  problem  that  has  engaged  such  is,  How  to 
i  procure  the  most  honorable  and  valuable 
results,  and  to  pay  for  them  whatever  is  nec- 
essary and  no  more.  It  was,  unfortunately, 
under  the  shadow  of  these  mistakes  that  the 
!  Texas  board  went  so  far  as  to  "  consider 
|  very  seriously  as  to  whether  it  should  not 
'adopt  the  Public  Account  or  the  Contract 
System,"  only  to  reject  the  one  and  to  fail  to 
•  get  bids  on  the  other.  As  a  result  the  State 


stands  to-day  bound,  for  fourteen  years  to 
come,  by  the  Lease  System,  the  worst  prison 
system  in  Christendom,  a  system  that  cannot 
be  reconciled  with  the  public  honor,  dignity, 
or  welfare.  The  board  intimates  plainly  that 
this  Lease  System  is  not  its  choice,  or  at  least 
would  not  be  but  for  the  nightmare  of  self- 
support.  As  it  is,  they  strive  to  make  the 
best  of  a  bad  matter.  How  bad  it  has  been 
and  is,  a  few  facts  will  show. 

It  is  said  of  the  Huntsville  penitentiary, 
Texas  (an  additional  one  has  just  been  built 
at  Rusk),  that  it  was  built  "  on  the  old  plan, 
looking  altogether  to  security,  and  without 
any  regard  to  proper  ventilation  or  the  health 
or  comfort  of  the  inmates,  .  .  .  the  cell 
buildings  ...  to  a  considerable  extent  cut 
off  from  light  and  air,  and  in  constant  danger 
of  destruction  from  fire."  The  prison  board 
erected  a  new  cell  building  to  take  its  place, 
in  which  each  cell  has  a  cubic  content  of 
384  feet,  and,  says  the  board,  "  can  comforta- 
bly accommodate  two  men."  This  gives  each 
occupant  an  air  space  one-quarter  of  the 
minimum  necessary  to  health.  Yet  this  was 
a  great  improvement.  It  may  be  mentioned 
in  passing,  as  an  incident  very  common  un- 
der the  Lease  System,  that  about  the  same 
time  a  lot  of  machinery,  the  property  of  the 
State,  valued  on  the  inventory  of  one  lessee 
after  another  at  $11,600,  was  sold  for  $681, 
and  the  proceeds  laid  out  in  fifty-one  breech- 
loading,  double-barreled  shot-guns.  The  fol- 
lowing is  from  the  superintendent's  biennial 
report  of  October  31,  1880 :  "  The  most  usual 
mode  of  punishment  practiced  at  outside 
camps  is  by  stocks.  .  .  .  Most  of  the  ser- 
geants, in  order  to  make  it  effective,  have 
lifted  the  convicts  on  the  ball  of  the  foot,  or 
tiptoe,  .  .  .  jeopardizing  not  only  health, 
but  life.  The  [present]  lessees  .  .  .  abol- 
ished the  use  of  stocks  at  their  wood  camps, 
and  I  rejoice  that  you  [the  directors]  have 
determined  to  abolish  them  altogether.  On 
many  of  the  farms  sergeants  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  ...  whipping,  as  well  as  per- 
mitting their  guards  to  do  so,  without  first 
obtaining  an  order  from  the  board  of  direct- 
ors, as  required  by  law."  Of  illegal  punish- 
ments he  says  :  "  We  have,  been  compelled 
to  discharge  sergeants  and  a  great  number  of 
guards  on  account  of  it.  .  .  .  I  am  satis- 
fied that  many  escapes  have  been  caused 
by  illegal  punishments  and  by  cursing  and 
threats."  The  spirit  of  this  officer's  report 
does  him  honor  throughout. 

One  can  turn  again  only  to  leased  prisons 
elsewhere,  to  find  numbers  with  which  to  com- 
pare the  ghastly  mortality  of  some  of  these 
Texas  convict  camps.  Men  in  large  numbers, 
"  who  have  contracted  in  the  miserable  jails 


594      THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 

of  the  State  incurable  diseases,  or  whose  sys- 
tems have  been  impregnated  with  diseases 
from  having  led  lives  of  debauchery  and  dis- 
sipation, are  put  to  the  hardest  manual  labor 
and  .  .  .  soon  break  down  in  health." 
"Sick  convicts  are  crowded  into  the  same 
building  containing  well  convicts,  and  cannot 
have  proper  nursing  and  quiet,  even  if  they 
have  good  medical  attention."  "  Frequently 
sergeants,  believing  that  convicts  are  trying 
to  play  off,  have  kept  them  at  work  when,  in 
fact,  they  were  seriously  ill,  ...  or  have 
tried  to  physic  them  themselves."  On  railroad 
construction  the  average  annual  rate  of  mor- 
tality, for  1879  and  1880,  was  47  to  the  thou- 
sand, three  times  the  usual  death-rate  of  prop- 
erly managed  American  prisons ;  at  plantation 
labor  it  was  49  ;  at  the  iron- works  it  was  54 ; 
and  at  the  wood-cutting  camps  more  than  half 
the  entire  average  population  died  within  the 
two  years.  So  much  as  to  the  rate.  The  total 
number 'of  deaths  in  the  period  was  2  56,  of  which 
only  60  occurred  in  the  prison  hospital,  the 
rest  in  the  camps.  Nor  was  any  considerable 
fraction  of  them  by  contagious  diseases.  They 
were  from  congestions  of  the  brain,  the  stom- 
ach, and  the  bowels;  from  scurvy,  dropsy, 
nervous  fever,  malaria,  chronic  diarrhoea, 
general  debility,  pneumonia.  Thirty- five  died 
of  gun-shot  wounds,  five  of  "  wounds  mis- 
cellaneous" Of  three,  the  cause  of  death  was 
"  not  stated."  Three  were  drowned,  four 
were  sunstruck,  two  committed  suicide,  and 
two  were  killed  by  the  explosion  of  a  boiler. 
And  all  was  reported  without  a  word  of  apol- 
ogy or  explanation.  The  whole  thirty-five 
who  were  shot  to  death  were  shot  in  attempt- 
ing to  escape  "  from  forces  at  work  outside 
the  prison  walls."  "  In  nearly  all  these  cases 
the  verdict  of  a  coroner's  jury  has  stated  that 
the  guard  acted  in  discharge  of  his  duty." 
As  to  the  remainder,  we  know  not  what  the 
verdicts  were,  or  whether  there  were  any; 
nor  do  we  know  how  many  vain  attempts  were 
made  to  escape ;  but  we  know  that,  over  and 
above  the  deaths,  there  were  treated  in  the  pris- 
on hospital — where  so  few  of  the  outside  sick 
ever  arrived — fifteen  others  with  gunshot 
wounds  and  fifty-two  with  "  wounds  miscel- 
laneous." 

We  know,  too,  by  the  record,  that  four 
men  did  escape  from  within  the  prison  walls, 
and  three  hundred  and  sixty-two  from  the 
gangs  outside.  In  the  interest  of  the  Texas 
taxpayer,  from  whom  the  Lease  System  is  sup- 
posed to  lift  an  intolerable  burden,  as  well  as 
for  society  at  large,  it  would  be  well  to  know 
what  were  the  favorite  crimes  of  these  three 
hundred  and  sixty-six  escaped  felons  (since 
unreformed  criminals  generally  repeat  the 
same  crimes  again  and  again),  what  moral 


and  material  mischief  one  hundred  and  twenty 
three  of  them  did  before  they  were  recapt- 
ured, and  what  the  record  will  be  of  the  two 
hundred  and  forty-three  remaining  at  large 
when  the  terms  they  should  have  served  have 
expired.  These  facts  are  not  given;  we  get 
only,  as  it  were,  a  faint  whiff  of  the  mischief 
in  the  iten>of  $6,900  expended  in  apprehend- 
ing one  hundred  of  them. 

And  yet  this  is  the  operation  of  the  Lease 
System  under  a  Governor  who  was  giving  the 
State  prison  and  its  inmates  a  far  more  ration- 
al, humane,  and  diligent  attention  than  is 
generally  accorded  them  by  State  executives, 
albeit  such  officers  are  not  as  negligent  in  this 
direction  as  they  are  generally  supposed  to 
be ;  under  a  warden,  too,  who,  if  we  read 
rightly  between  the  lines  of  his  report,  is  a 
faithful  and  wise  overseer;  and  even  under 
lessees  whom  this  warden  commends  as 
"kind  and  humane  gentlemen."  We  have 
both  the  warden's  and  directors'  word  for  it, 
that  this  disciplinary  and  sanitary  treatment  of 
the  convicts  was  "  a  very  decided  improve- 
ment" on  what  it  had  been.  The  question 
remains,  What  may  the  system  do  where  it  is 
a  State's  misfortune  to  have  a  preoccupied 
Governor  and  unscrupulous  prison  lessees  ?  It 
is  a  positive  comfort  to  know  that  for  two  years 
more,  at  least,  the  same  officials  and  lessees 
remained  in  charge,  that  a  second  prison  was 
added  to  the  old  one  and  a  third  projected, 
and  that  the  total  mortality  was  reduced  by 
the  abolition  of  the  wood-cutting  camps. 

But  it  is  far  otherwise  to  know  by  the 
report  for  1881—82  that  the  Lease  System  con- 
tinues; that  the  death-rate  is  still  enormous, 
and  has  increased  in  the  prison  and  in  most 
of  the  camps ;  that  the  number  of  men  com- 
mitted to  hospital  with  gunshot  and  "mis- 
cellaneous" wounds  was  fifty-two;  that  in  the 
mortality  lists  are  three  suicides,  six  sun- 
strokes, and  thirty-six  victims  of  the  breech- 
loading  double-barreled  shot-guns ;  that  there 
passed  through  hospital  fifty-one  cases  of 
scurvy;  and  that  there  were  three  hundred 
and  ninety-seven  escapes  and  but  seventy-four 
recaptures. 

It  may  be  enough  attention  has  already 
been  given  to  chaplains'  reports  in  these  so- 
called  penitentiaries,  but  the  one  for  the 
Texas  prison  compels  at  least  a  glance.  It 
makes  sixteen  lines  of  letter-press.  White  men's 
prayer-meeting  on  Sunday  at  one  hour,  colored 
men's  at  another,  general  Sunday-school  at 
another,  preaching  at  another.  These  services 
are  believed  to  have  been  fruitful  of  good ; 
is  hoped  "that  some  will  leave  the  pi 
reformed  men  " ;  but  there  is  not  the  recoi 
of  one  positive  result,  or  a  single  observati< 
registered  looking  to  the  discovery  of  a  resul 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     595 

strong  prisons  for  the  safe-keeping  and  com- 
fort of  the  convicts  "  ;  that  these  prisons  had 
"  generally  been  neatly  kept,"  and  that  they 
themselves  had  "  required  much  attention  to 
be  given  to  the  sanitary  regulation  of  them." 
They  admitted  the  fact  of  considerable  sick- 
ness at  one  or  two  places,  but  stated  that 
two  of  the  inspectors  had  visited  the  convicts 
employed  there  and  "found  the  sick  in  a 
comfortable  hospital,  with  medical  attendance, 
nurses,  and  everything  needed  for  their  com- 
fort." They  reported  their  diligent  attention 
to  all  their  official  duties,  and  stated,  as  from 
their  own  knowledge,  that  during  the  two 
years  then  closing  the  convicts  had  "  gener- 
ally been  well  clothed  and  fed,  and  kindly 
and  humanely  treated;  and  that  corporal 
punishment  had  only  been  inflicted  in  extreme 
cases."  They  closed  with  the  following  re- 
markable statement  :  "  Notwithstanding  our 
report  shows  a  decrease  of  one  hundred  and 
fourteen  convicts,  .  .  .  yet  we  think  .  .  . 
the  future  of  this  institution  is  brighter  than 
its  past."  There  had  been  paid  into  the  State 
treasury  forty-eight  thousand  dollars,  and  the 
managers  in  general  were  elated.  But  a  change 
in  the  prison's  administration  added  a  differ- 
ent chapter,  and  in  1882  a  new  warden  wrote  : 

"  I  found  the  convicts  confined  at  fourteen  different 
prisons  controlled  by  as  many  persons  or  companies, 
and  situated  at  as  many  different  places.  .  .  .  They 
[the  prisons]  were  as  filthy,  as  a  rule,  as  dirt  could  make 
them,  and  both  prisons  and  prisoners  were  infested 
with  vermin.  .  .  .  Convicts  were  excessively  and, 
in  some  instances,  cruelly  punished.  .  .  .  They 
\vere  poorly  clothed  and  fed.  .  .  .  The  sick  were 
neglected,  insomuch  that  no  hospital  had  been  pro- 
vided, they  being  confined  in  the  cells  with  the  well 
convicts.  .  .  .  The  prisons  have  no  adequate  water 
supply,  and  I  verily  believe  there  were  men  in  them 
who  had  not  washed  their  faces  in  twelve  months. 
.  .  .  I  found  the  men  so  much  intimidated  that  it 
was  next  to  impossible  to  get  from  them  anything 
touching  their  treatment.  .  .  .  Our  system  is  a  bet- 
ter training  school  for  criminals  than  any  of  the  dens 
of  iniquity  that  exist  in  our  large  cities.  ...  To 
say  there  are  any  reformatory  measures  used  at  our 
prisons,  or  that  any  regard  is  had  to  kindred  subjects, 
is  to  state  a  falsehood.  The  system  is  a  disgrace  to  the 
State,  a  reproach  to  the  civilization  and  Christian  sen- 
timent of  the  age,  and  ought  to  be  speedily  abandoned.  " 


I    either  intellectual,   moral,  or  religious,  con- 
j    cerning  hundreds  of  men  whose  even  partial 
reformation  would  be  worth  to  the  State — if 
it  must  be  reduced  to  money  value — tens  of 
thousands  of  dollars.    Two  lines  of  the  report 
are  certainly  unique  :  "  We  endeavor  to  enlist 
all  the  men  in  this  service  [the  Sunday-school] 
we  can,  and  try  to  suppress  all  differences  of 
opinion  which  are  calculated  to  engender  strife." 
A  single  ten  thousand  dollars  is  the  State's 
I   annual  share  in  what  are  called  the  profits  of 
this  system  of  convict  control.  Were  the  con- 
victs managed  under  the  Public  Account  Sys- 
tem at  an  annual  loss  of  a  like  amount  (which 
need  not  be),  making  a  difference  of  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  and  were  the  burden  lifted 
from  the  mass  of  the  one  million  six  hundred 
|  thousand  inhabitants  of  Texas  and  thrown 
entirely  upon  the  shoulders  of  one  hundred 
thousand  tax-payers,  it  would  be  just  one  dime 
a  year  to  each  shoulder.  But  it  would  save  the 
depredations  of  nearly  two  hundred  escaped 
convicts  per  year,  whatever  they  might  be ; 
I  such  reprisals  as  about  four  hundred  others, 
annually  liberated  and  turned  loose  upon  so- 
J  ciety,  may  undertake  as  an  offset  for  the  foul 
I  treatment  they  have  undergone  in  the  name 
|  of  justice,   and    the    attendant   increase   in 
the   expenses  of  police;    and   the  expenses 
I  of  new  trials  and  convictions  for  the  same 
old  crimes  committed  over  again  by  many  who 
I  might  have  been  in  whole  or  in  some  degree 
i  reformed,  but  instead  were  only  made  worse. 
And  two  things  more  it  would  save — the  honor 
|  of  the  State  and  the  integrity  of  the  laws  and 
i  of  the  courts.    For  one  thing,  however,  the 
I  people  of  Texas  are  to  be  congratulated :  that 
i  they  have  public  servants   ready  —  let   the 
:  people  but  give  the  word — to  abjure  the  Lease 
System  with  all  its  horrid  shams  and  humili- 
ating outrages,  and  establish  in  its  place  a 
system   of   management  that   shall  be  first 
honorable  and  morally  profitable,  and  then 
as  inexpensive  as  may  be. 

IN   ALABAMA. 

SOMETHING  like  the  same  feeling  was  dis- 
i  played  by  the  Governor  and  some  others  in 
the  State  of  Alabama  in  1882.  In  the  matter 
1  of  its  penitentiary  and  convict  camps,  it  is  not 
!  necessary  to  weary  the  eye  again  with  figures. 
|  Between  the  dates  of  the  last  two  biennial 
;  reports  (1880  and  1882)  a  change  of  admin- 
istration took  place  in  the  prison  management , 
affording,  by  a  comparison  of  the  two  reports, 
i  a  revelation  that  should  have  resulted  in  the 
I  instant  abolition  of  the  Lease  plan  at  any  cost, 
i  Under  date  of  October,  1880,  the  penitentiary 
inspectors   reported    to    the    Governor   that 
;  the    contractors    (lessees)    had     "  provided 


Almost  the  only  gleams  of  light  in  these 
dark  pictures  are  these  condemnations  of  the 
system  by  those  whose  official  duties  require 
them  to  accommodate  themselves  to  it,  but 
whose  humanity,  whose  reason,  and  whose 
perception  of  the  public's  true  interest  com- 
pel them  to  denounce  it.  This  is  again  point- 
edly the  case  in  Virginia.  There  the  State 
prison  has  been  for  a  long  time  managed  on 
Public  Account;  but  the  management  was  only 
a  mismanagement  and  a  neglect  ;  and  when 
this  came  to  be  known,  those  in  authority,  in- 
stead of  trying  to  correct  the  needless  abuses 


596     THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


of  a  good  system,  rejected  the  system  itself 
and  adopted  the  contract  system.  The  report 
of  the  prison  board  for  the  year  ending  Sep- 
tember 30,  1 88 1,  indicates  that  the  change 
was  made  mainly,  and  probably  only,  on  pe- 
cuniary considerations,  and  there  seems  to  be 
reason  to  fear  that  this  narrow  view  is  carry- 
ing sentiment  downward  toward  the  Lease 
System  itself.  The  board  reports  itself 
"  pleased  to  discover,  for  the  first  time,  that 
the  general  agent  has  reached  the  conclusion 
that  the  <  best  way  to  make  it  [the  prison] 
self-sustaining  would  be  to  lease  the  convict 
labor.'  "  At  the  date  of  this  report  the  mis- 
chievous doctrine  had  already  made  its  way 
through  the  Legislature  and  into  the  convict 
management ;  and  the  prison  becoming  over- 
crowded, a  large  company  of  prisoners  were 
leased  to  certain  railroad  companies,  beyond 
the  control  of  the  penitentiary  superintendent. 
A  glance  at  the  surgeon's  report  shows  one 
of  the  results  of  this  movement.  In  the  pop- 
ulation within  the  prison,  averaging  about 
600,  the  death-rate  was  i^  per  cent.;  while 
among  the  260  convicts  on  the  Richmond 
and  Alleghany  Railroad  it  was  nearly  8^4 
per  cent.,  even  after  leaving  out  of  the  count 
certain  accidental  deaths  that  legitimately  be- 
long to  the  perils  of  the  work  and  really 
should  be  included  in  the  count.  Including 
them,  the  rate  wouldbe  1 1  per  cent.  The  super- 
intendent does  not  withhold  his  condemna- 
tion :  "  The  system  of  leasing,"  he  says,  "  as 
is  clearly  shown  by  the  statistics  of  the  few 
governments,  State  and  foreign,  where  it  pre- 
vails, is  barbarous  in  the  extreme,  and  should 
be  discountenanced.  The  dictates  of  human- 
ity, if  no  other  consideration  prevailed,  should 
be  sufficient  to  silence  any  effort  to  establish 
this  system  of  prison  management  in  Virginia." 

IN    ARKANSAS,  MISSISSIPPI,  AND    LOUISIANA 

THE    SYSTEM    AT    ITS    WORST. 

EVEN  where  the  system  enjoys  the  great- 
est favor  from  the  State  governments  whose 
responsibilities  in  the  matter  it  pretends  to 
assume,  it  is  rare  that  there  is  not  some  one 
who  revolts  and  utters  against  it  his  all  too  lit- 
tle heeded  denunciation.  Such  voices  are  not 
altogether  unheard  even  in  Arkansas,  Missis- 
sippi, and  Louisiana,  where  undoubtedly  the 
lessees  are  more  slackly  held  to  account,  as 
they  more  completely  usurp  the  State's  rela- 
tion to  its  convicts  than  elsewhere.  It  is  here 
may  be  found  a  wheel  within  this  wheel ;  to 
wit,  the  practice  of  sub-leasing.  So  complete  in 
these  regions  is  the  abandonment,  by  the  State, 
of  all  the  duties  it  owes  to  its  criminal  system, 
that  in  two  instances,  Arkansas  and  Louisi- 
ana, it  does  not  so  much  as  print  a  report, 


and  the  present  writer  is  indebted  entirely  to 
the  courtesy  of  the  governors  of  these  two 
States  for  letters  and  manuscript  tables  impart- 
ing the  information  which  enables  him  to 
write.  "The  State,"  says  the  clerk  of  the 
Louisiana  penitentiary,  "  has  no  expense  ex- 
cept keeping  the  building  in  repair."  "  The 
State,"  writes  the  Governor's  secretary  in 
Arkansas,  "  is  at  no  expense  whatever."  In 
Mississippi,  the  terms  of  the  present  lease 
make  no  mention  whatever  of  any  moral,  re- 
ligious, or  educational  privilege,  or  duty.  "  All 
convicts  sentenced  for  a  period  of  ten  years 
or  less,  said  lessees  may  work  outside  the 
penitentiary,  but  within  the  limits  of  the  State 
of  Mississippi,  in  building  railroads,  levees,  or 
in  any  private  labor  or  employment"  One  of 
the  effects  of  such  a  rule  is  that  a  convict 
condemned  to  thirty  or  forty  years'  service, 
being  kept  within  the  walls,  has  fully  three 
chances  to  one  of  outliving  the  convict  who 
is  sentenced  to  eight  or  ten  years'  service, 
and  who  must,  therefore,  work  outside.  Yet 
it  is  not  intended  to  imply  that  the  long-term 
convict  inside  the  prison  is  likely  to  serve  out 
his  sentence.  While  among  a  majority  of  com- 
mitments on  shorter  periods,  men,  women, 
and  children  are  frequently  sentenced  for 
terms  of  15,  20,  30, 40,  and  sometimes  even  of 
50  years,  a  prisoner  can  rarely  be  found  to  have 
survived  ten  years  of  this  brutal  slavery  either 
in  the  prison  or  in  the  convict  camp.  In  Ala- 
bama, in  1880,  there  were  but  three  who  had 
been  in  confinement  eight  years,  and  one 
nine ;  while  not  one  had  lived  out  ten 
years'  imprisonment.  In  Mississippi,  Decem- 
ber i,  1 88 1,  among  77  convicts  then  on  the  roll 
under  10  years'  sentence,  17  under  sentence  of 
between  10  and  20,  and  23  under  sentences  of 
between  20  and  50  years,  none  had  served  n 
years,  only  2  had  served  10,  and  only  3  others 
had  served  9  years.*  There  were  25  distinct 
outside  gangs,  and  their  average  annual  rate 
of  mortality  for  that  and  the  previous  year  was 
over  8  per  cent. 

During  the  same  term,  142  convicts  escaped; 
which  is  to  say  that,  for  every  four  law-break- 
ers put  into  the  penitentiary,  one  got  away ; 
and  against  the  whole  number  so  escaping 
there  were  but  25  recaptures.  The  same  pro- 
portion of  commitments  and  escapes  is  true  of 
the  Arkansas  prison  for  the  year  ending  the 
3<Dth  of  last  April.  In  Louisiana  the  proportion 
is  smaller,  but  far  from  small.  A  surer  escape  in 
Louisiana  was  to  die ;  and  in  1881  14  per  cent 
perished.  The  means  are  wanting  to  show  wh£ 
part  of  this  mortality  belongs  to  the  penite 

*  From  the  nature  of  the  tabulated  roll,  the  tir 
served  by  those  under  life  sentences  could  not  be 
puted  ;  but  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  it  would 
terially  change  the  result,  were  it  known. 


THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     597 


tiary  at  Baton  Rouge  and  what  to  the  camps 
outside;  but  if  anything  may  be  inferred  from 
the  mortal  results  of  the  Lease  System  in 
other  States,  the  year's  death-rate  of  the  con- 
vict camps  of  Louisiana  must  exceed  that  of 
any  pestilence  that  ever  fell  upon  Europe  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  And  as  far  as  popular 
rumor  goes,  it  confirms  this  assumption  on 
every  hand.  Every  mention  of  these  camps  is 
followed  by  the  execrations  of  a  scandalized 
community,  whose  ear  is  every  now  and  then 
shocked  afresh  with  some  new  whisper  of 
their  frightful  barbarities.  It  is  not  for  the 
present  writer  to  assert,  that  every  other  com- 
munity where  the  leasing  of  convicts  prevails 
is  moved  to  indignation  by  the  same  sense 
of  outrage  and  disgrace;  yet  it  certainly 
would  be  but  a  charitable  assumption  to  be- 
lieve that  the  day  is  not  remote  when,  in 
every  such  region,  the  sentiment  of  the  peo- 
ple will  write,  over  the  gates  of  the  convict 
stockades  and  over  the  doors  of  the  lessees' 
sumptuous  homes,  one  word :  Aceldama  — 
the  field  of  blood. 

CONCLUSIONS. 

THERE  never  was  a  worse  falsification  of 
accounts  than  that  which  persuades  a  commu- 
nity that  the  system  of  leasing  out  its  convicts  is 
profitable.  Out  of  its  own  mouth — by  the  tes- 
timony of  its  own  official  reports —  what  have 
we  not  proved  against  it  ?  We  have  shown  : 

1.  That,  by  the  very  ends  for  which  it  ex- 
ists, it  makes  a  proper  management  of  prisons 
impossible,  and  lays  the  hand  of  arrest  upon 
reformatory  discipline. 

2.  That  it  contents  itself,  the  State,  and  the 
public  mind,  with  prisons  that  are  in  every 

i  way  a  disgrace  to  civilization. 

3.  That  in  practice  it  is  brutally  cruel. 

4.  That  it  hardens,  debases,  and  corrupts 
the  criminal,  committed  to  it  by  the  law  in 
order  that,  if  possible,  he  may  be  reformed 
and  reclaimed  to  virtue  and  society. 

5.  That  it  fixes  and  enforces  the  suicidal 
and  inhuman  error,  that  the  community  must 
not  be  put  to  any  expense  for  the  reduction 
iof  crime  or  the  reformation  of  criminals. 

6.  That  it  inflicts  a  different  sentence  upon 
!every    culprit   that   comes   into   its   clutches 
'from  that  which  the  law  and  the  court  has 
pronounced.    So  that  there  is  not  to-day  a 
single  penitentiary  convict,  from  the  Potomac 
around  to  the  Rio -Grande,  who  is  receiving 
the  sentence  really  contemplated  by  the  law 
'under  which  he  stands  condemned. 

7.  That  it  kills  like  a  pestilence,  teaches 
the  people  to  be  cruel,  sets  up  a  false  system 

)f  clemency,  and  seduces  the  State  into  the 
committal  of  murder  for  money. 
VOL.  XXVII.— 56. 


8.  That  in  two  years  it  permitted  eleven 
hundred  prisoners  to  escape. 

Which  of  these  is  its  profitable  feature  ? 
Will  some  one  raise  the  plea  of  necessity  ? 
The  necessity  is  exactly  the  reverse.  It  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  society's  interests  and 
honor  that  what  the  lease  in  its  very  nature 
forbids  should  be  sought;  and  that  what  it 
by  nature  seeks  should  be  forbidden. 

EXCUSES    FOR   THE    SYSTEM. 

THERE  are  two  or  three  excuses  often  made 
for  this  system,  even  by  those  who  look  upon  it 
with  disfavor  and  protestations,  and  by  some 
who  are  presumably  familiar  with  the  facts  con- 
cerning convict  management  in  other  States 
and  other  countries.  But  these  pleas  are 
based  upon  singularly  unfounded  assumptions. 
One  is  that  the  States  using  the  Lease  Sys- 
tem, in  whole  or  part,  have  not  those  large 
prison  populations  which  are  thought  to  be 
necessary  to  the  successful  operation  of  other 
systems.  In  point  of  fact,  much  the  largest 
population  belonging  to  any  one  prison  in  the 
United  States,  in  1880,  was  in  Texas,  under 
the  Lease  System.  The  fourth  in  numbers 
is  that  of  Tennessee,  also  leased.  That  of 
Georgia,  leased,  is  more  than  twice  that  of 
Maryland,  managed  on  the  Contract  System. 
The  smallest  State  prison  population  in  the 
United  States,  that  of  Rhode  Island,  number- 
ing, at  the  close  of  last  year,  only  eighty-one 
convicts,  showed  a  loss  that^  year,  on  the 
Contract  System,  of  only  eleven  dollars. 
Missouri  manages  a  convict  population  of  the 
same  size  as  that  of  Georgia,  and  boasts  a 
cash  profit,  on  the  Contract  System.  Indeed 
the  State  prisons  under  the  Lease.  System  are, 
almost  without  exception,  populous  prisons, 
the  average  population  among  the  whole 
twelve  so  governed  being  920,  while  that  of 
the  thirty-three  that  exclude  the  system  is 
but  560. 

Another  unfounded  assumption  is  that  the 
prisons  working  under  the  Contract  or  the 
Public  Account  System  receive  their  inmates 
largely  from  the  ranks  of  men  skilled  in  trade. 
The  truth  is,  the  strongest  argument  in  favor 
of  teaching  trades  in  prison  lies  in  the  fact 
that  men  with  trades  keep  out  of  prison,  or 
appear  there  only  in  decided  minorities,  in 
any  community ;  and  prisons  everywhere  re- 
ceive especially  but  few  acquainted  with  the 
two  or  three  or  five  or  six  skilled  industries 
that  happen  to  be  carried  on  within  their 
walls.  It  is  assumed,  again,  that  the  great 
majority  of  the  inmates  of  our  leased  prisons 
are  not  only  without  mechanical  training,  but 
without  mechanical  aptitude.  Yet,  in  fact, 
there  is  quite  enough  skilled  work  taught  to 


598     THE  CONVICT  LEASE  SYSTEM  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES. 


just  this  class  in  just  these  prisons  to  make 
void  the  argument.  Within  the  walls  of  the 
Virginia  State  penitentiary  in  September,  1881, 
under  the  Contract  System,  tobacco,  shoes, 
barrels,  and  clothing  were  being  made  with  a 
force  of  which  three-fifths  were  black  men. 
The  whole  force  of  the  Maryland  prison  is 
engaged,  within  its  walls,  under  contractors, 
in  marble-cutting  and  the  manufacture  of 
shoes,  stoves  and  hollow  iron-ware,  and  in 
November,  1881,  consisted  of  five  blacks  to 
every  three  whites,  and  of  the  entire  number 
not  one  in  ten  was  previously  acquainted 
with  any  handicraft  that  could  be  of  any 
service  to  him  in  any  of  these  occupations. 

Moreover,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no 
leased  prison  that  does  not  constantly  receive 
a  sufficient  number  of  skilled  convicts,  both 
white  and  black,  to  constitute  a  good  teaching 
force  for  the  training  of  the  unskilled.  The 
Texas  penitentiary,  in  1880,  had  on  its  rolls 
39  workers  in  wood,  20  in  leather,  50  in 
metals  and  machinery,  20  in  stone  and  brick, 
7  engravers  and  printers,  and  n  painters. 

The  leased  prisons,  as  it  happens,  have  one 
decided  advantage  in  this  regard;  the  high 
average  term  of  sentences  affords  an  unusual 
opportunity  for  training  the  convicts  to  skilled 
labor,  and  making  the  best  use,  both  pecuniary 
and  reformatory,  of  their  occupations.  The 
South  Carolina  penitentiary  is  probably  an 
exception ;  and  yet  it  is  in  this  prison  that  the 
manufacture  of  shoes,  say  its  officers,  might 
easily  be  carried  on  with  cash  profit.  In  the 
Georgia  penitentiary,  in  1880,  there  were  87 
sentenced  for  life;  104  for  terms  above  ten 
years  and  less  than  twenty;  101  for  twenty 
years  ;  10  for  higher  terms  up  to  forty  years, 
and  only  22  for  as  low  a  term  as  one  year, — 
in*  a  total  of  1185  inmates.  In  the  Texas 
State  prison,  in  October,  1882,  with  a  popu- 
lation of  2378,  only  two  were  under  sentences 
of  less  than  two  years'  length.*  To  increase 
the  advantage,  the  long  sentences  fall  with 
special  frequency  upon  the  class  that  is  as- 
sumed to  require  an  undue  length  of  training. 
In  the  Georgia  convict  force  just  noted,  for 
instance,  only  15  were  whites  among  the  215 
under  sentences  above  ten  years. 

But  why  need  we  linger  to  show  that  there 
is  ample  opportunity  in  these  prisons  to  teach 
the  inmates  trades,  if  only  the  system  were 
such  as  to  permit  it  ?  The  choice  of  a  better 
system  does  not  rest  upon  this.  In  the  Con- 
tract and  Public  Account  prisons,  it  is  not  at 
all  the  universal  practice  to  make  the  un- 
skilled convict  acquainted  with  a  trade.  This 
is  done  only  in  a  few  prisons.  Generally, — 

*  Some  idea  of  the  ferocity  of  these  sentences  may 
be  got  from  the  fact  that  509  of  these  Texas  convicts 
were  under  twenty  years  of  age. 


much  too  generally, —  he  is  set  to  some  simple 
task,  some  minute  fraction  of  the  work  of 
manufacturing  some  article,  a  task  that  he 
learns  to  do  at  most  in  a  few  days,  becomes 
skillful  in  within  a  few  weeks,  and  continues 
to  do  unceasingly  from  the  beginning  of  his 
imprisonment  to  the  day  of  his  discharge. 
He  works  a  lever  or  pedal  that  drives  pegs 
into  a  shoe;  or  he  turns  down  or  up  the 
rims  of  hats,  or  varnishes  the  heels  of  innu- 
merable boots,  or  turns  a  small  wheel  that 
bottoms  countless  tin  cans.  He  is  employed 
according  to  his  physical  strength  and  his 
intelligence.  It  is  no  small  misfortune  to  so- 
ciety that  such  industries  leave  the  convict 
at  last  without  a  trade ;  but,  comparing  them 
with  the  tasks  of  the  lessees'-  camps,  it  may 
be  said  they  do  not  murder  him,  nor  torture 
him,  but  are  to  those  tasks  what  light  is  to 
darkness. 

After  all,  these  objections  to  the  abandon- 
ment of  the  Lease  System,  even  if  they  were 
otherwise  well  grounded,  would  fail  at  last 
when  it  comes  to  be  seen  that  the  system  ] 
does  not  make  good  even  its  one  poor  pro- 
fession ;  it  does  not,  even  pecuniarily,  "  pay." 
In  flush  times  it  hands  in  a  few  thousands, — 
sometimes  even  a  few  ten-thousands, —  annu- 
ally, into  the  State  treasury.  But  its  history  i 
is  a  long  record  of  discoveries  and  rediscov- 
eries on  the  part  of  the  State  that  she  has  ; 
been  the  losing  party  in  a  game  of  confidence,  I 
with  nobody  to  blame  but  herself.  How  much 
has  thus  been  lost  morally,  baffles  estimation ; 
suffice  it  to  say,  enough  ungodly  gains  have 
gone  into  the  hands  of  lessees  to  have  put 
every  leased  prison  in  the  country  upon  a  firm 
basis  under  Public  Account.  Every  system  is 
liable  to  mismanagement,  but  there  are  sys- 
tems under  which  mismanagement  is  without 
excuse  and  may  be  impeached  and  punished. 
The  Lease  System  is  itself  the  most  atrocious 
mismanagement.  It  is  in  its  very  nature  dis- 
honorable to  the  community  that  knowingly 
tolerates  it,  and  in  its  practical  workings 
needs  only  to  be  known  to  be  abhorred  and 
cast  out.  It  exists  to-day,  in  the  twelve 
American  commonwealths  where  it  is  found, 
because  the  people  do  not  know  what  they 
are  tolerating. 

But  is  there  any  need  for  them  longer  to 
be  unaware  of  it?  There  is  none.  Nor  is 
there  any  need  that  the  system  should  con- 
tinue. We  have  heard  one,  who  could  give  no 
other  excuse,  urge  the  unfavorableness  of  the 
Southern  climate  to  prison  confinement.  BIT; 
what  have  the  reports  of  prisons  in  this  cli- 
mate shown  us  ?  That  the  mortality  outside, 
among  the  prisoners  selected  (as  is  pretended, 
at  least)  for  their  health  and  strength,  is  twice 
and  thrice  and  sometimes  four  and  five  time; 


KEATS. 


599 


as  great  as  among  the  feebler  sort  left  within 
the  walls.  True,  some  of  the  leases  still  have 
many  years  to  run.  What  of  it  ?  Shall  it  be 
supinely  taken  for  granted  that  there  is  no 
honorable  way  out  of  these  brutal  and  wicked 
compacts  ?  There  is  no  honorable  way  to  re- 
main under  them.  There  are  many  just  ways 
to  be  rid  of  them. 

Let  the  terms  of  these  leases  themselves 
condemn  their  holders.  There  is  no  reasona- 
ble doubt  that,  in  many  States,  the  lessees  will 
be  found  to  have  committed  acts  distinctly 
forfeiting  their  rights  under  these  instruments. 
Moreover,  with  all  their  looseness,  these  leases 
carry  conditions  which,  if  construed  as  common 
humanity  and  the  honor  of  the  State  demand, 
will  make  the  leases  intolerable  to  men  whose 
profits  are  coined  from  the  flesh  and  blood  of 
human  beings.  It  is  safe  to  say  there  is  not  a 
lessee  in  the  twelve  convict-leasing  States  who, 


were  he  but  held  to  account  for  the  excesses  in 
his  death-roll  beyond  those  of  prisons  elsewhere 
in  enlightened  countries,  would  not  throw  up 
his  unclean  hands  in  a  moment  and  surrender 
to  decency,  honesty,  humanity,  and  the  public 
welfare.  But  we  waste  words.  No  -holder  of 
these  compacts  need  be  driven  to  close  quar- 
ters in  order  that,  by  new  constraints,  they 
may  be  made  to  become  void.  They  are  void 
already.  For,  by  self-evidence,  the  very  prin- 
ciples upon  which  they  are  founded  are  contra 
bonos  mores  ;  and  though  fifty  legislatures  had 
decreed  it,  not  one  such  covenant  can  show 
cause  why  the  seal  of  the  commonwealth  and. 
the  signatures  of  her  officers  should  not  be- 
torn  from  it,  and  one  of  the  most  solemn  of 
all  public  trusts  returned  to  those  official1 
hands  that,  before  God,  the  world,  and  the. 
State,  have  no  right  to  part  with  it. 

George   W.  Cable. 


KEATS. 


ON  the  slope  of  a  "  peak  in  Darien,"  in  the 
shadow  of  the  very  Bridge  where  stood  the 
Spaniard, 

"  •    •    •    when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific,  and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild   surmise," 

|  my  fellow-traveler  captured  a   superb   blue 
I  moth,  of  a  species  so  rare  and  so  difficult  to 
j  secure  that  the  natives  sell  one  at  the  price 
i  of  a  day's  labor.   We  took  the  beautiful  creat- 
!  ure  with  us   on   our    transit,  and    delicately 
i  leashed  it  that  night  to  the  jalousies  of  our 
;  veranda  on  the  plaza  of  the  city  of  Panama. 
!  There,  far  within  the  old  town,  a  mate  was 
fluttering    around   it   at   sunrise, —  to    me   a 
i  miracle,  yet  one  predicted  by  my  friend  the 
naturalist.    It  is  just  as  safe  to  predict  that 
|  young  poets  will  chance  upon  one  another, 
\  among  millions ;    "  there's   a   special    provi- 
;dence"  in   their  conjunction  and  forgather- 
ing, instinct  and  circumstance  join  hands  to 
bring  this  about.    The  name  of  Keats  is  set 
within  a  circlet  of  other  names, —  those  of 
Clarke,  Reynolds,  Hunt,  Charles  Brown,  the 
artists  Hay  don  and  Severn, —  each  of  which 
is  brighter  for  the  fact  that  its   owner  gave 
something  of  his  love  and  help  to  the  poet 
whose  name  outshines  them  all.    The  name 
1  itself,  at  first  derided  as  uncouth,  has  become 
i  a  portion  of  the  loveliness  which  once   he 
i  made  more  lovely;  it  belongs  to  an  ideal  now 
;so  consecrate  that  all  who  watched  with  him, 
;if  but  for  an  hour,  have  some  part  of  our  af- 


fections. Among  these,  if  last  not  least,  Sev- 
ern, who  shut  out  his  own  fair  prospects, 
relieved  a  comrade's  agony  and  want,  ac- 
companied him  along  the  edge  of  a  river  that 
each  must  cross  alone,  until,  as  sings  the 
idyllist,  the  eddy  seized  him,  and  Daphnis 
went  the  way  of  the  stream. 

Cowden  Clarke,  Keats's  earliest  companion 
in  letters,  son  of  his  head-master  at  the  En- 
field  school,  first  put  Spenser  into  his  hands. 
At  the  vital  moment,  when  the  young  poet 
had  begun  to  plume  his  wings,  Clarke  also 
made  him  known  to  Leigh  Hunt,  of  all  men 
in  England  the  one  it  behooved  him  to  meet. 
Hunt,  whose  charming  taste  was  almost  gen- 
ius, had  become  —  and  largely  through  his 
influence  upon  associates  —  the  promoter  of  a 
renaissance ;  he  went  to  the  Italian  treasure- 
house,  where  Chaucer  and  Shakspere  had 
been  before  him,  and  also,  like  them,  dis- 
dained not  our  natural  English  tongue  and 
the  delight  of  English  landscape  —  the  green- 
est idyl  upon  earth.  In  many  ways,  since 
fortunate  guidance  will  save  even  genius 
years  of  groping,  he  shortened  the  course  by 
which  Keats  found  the  one  thing  needful,  the 
key  to  his  proper  song.  When  the  youth  set- 
tled down  for  a  real  effort,  he  went  off  by 
himself,  as  we  know,  wrote  "  Endymion,"  and 
outdid  his  monitor  in  lush  and  swooning 
verse.  But  it  was  always  Hunt  who  un- 
erringly praised  the  finest,  the  most  original 
phrases  of  one  greater  than  himself,  and  took 
joy  in  assuring  him  of  his  birthright. 


6oo 


KEATS. 


Shelley,  too,  Keats  met  at  this  time, —  the 
peer  who  was  to  sing  his  dirge  and  paean. 
Meanwhile,  his  own  heroic  instinct,  the  pre- 
science of  a  muse  "  that  with  no  middle  flight 
intends  to  soar,"  was  shown  by  his  recogni- 
tion of  the  greatest  masters  as  he  found  them, 
—  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Chapman,  Shakspere, 
Milton, — and  his  serious  study  of  few  besides. 
One  must  have  exemplars  and  preceptors ;  let 
these  be  of  the  best.  Neophytes  often  are 
drawn  to  the  imitators  of  imitators,  the  catch- 
penny favorites  of  the  hour,  and  this  to  their 
own  belittlement.  The  blind  still  lead  the 
Mnd.  Give  an  aspirant  the  range  of  English 
song,  see  the  masters  that  attract  him,  and  it 
is  not  hard  to  cast  his  horoscope. 

Pity  is  akin  to  love,  when  not  too  self- 
conscious  of  good  fortune  and  the  wisdom 
that  leads  thereto.  Keats  died  so  young,  and 
so  piteously,  that  some  writers,  to  whom  his 
work  has  yielded  profit  and  delight,  naively 
regard  him  from  the  superior  person's  crit- 
ical or  moral  point  of  view.  Lowell,  however, 
pays  honor  to  the  "  strong  sense  "  underlying 
his  sensibility.  When  Mr.  Lowell  said  that 
"  the  faults  of  Keats's  poetry  are  obvious 
enough,"  he  plainly  had  in  mind  the  faults  of 
the  youth's  early  work, —  extravagances  from 
which  he  freed  himself  by  covering  them  in 
that  sculptured  monument,  "  Endymion,"  with 
divine  garlands  and  countless  things  of  worth 
that  beguile  us  once  and  again  to  revisit  their 
tomb.  Nor  can  we  take  him  to  task  for  care- 
less rhymes  thrown  off  in  his  correspond- 
ence. Of  their  kind,  what  juvenile  letters  are 
better,  and  who  would  not  like  to  receive  the 
letters  of  such  a  poet  at  play  ?  Keats  is  the 
one  metrical  artist,  in  his  finer  productions, 
quite  without  fault,  wearing  by  right,  not 
courtesy,  the  epithet  of  Andrea  del  Sarto. 
Rich  and  various  as  are  the  masterpieces  of 
the  language,  I  make  bold  to  name  one  of 
our  shorter  English  lyrics  that  still  seems  to 
me,  as  it  seemed  to  me  ten  years  ago,  the 
nearest  to  perfection,  the  one  I  would  sur- 
render last  of  all.  What  should  this  be  save 
the  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,"  so  faultless  in 
its  varied  unity  and  in  the  cardinal  qualities 
of  language,  melody,  and  tone  ?  A  strain 
that  has  a  dying  fall ;  music  wedded  to  ethe- 
real passion,  to  the  yearning  that  floods  all 
nature,  while 

"...  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain." 


Then  what  pictures,  echoes,  immortal  im- 
agery and  phrase !  Can  a  word  or  passage 
be  changed  without  an  injury,  and  by  whom  ? 
The  "  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  "  is  a  more  ob- 
jective poem,  molded  like  the  cold  Pastoral 


it  celebrates,  radiant  with  the  antique  light 
and  joy.  Could  Beauty  speak,  even  thus 
might  she  declare  herself.  We  term  Keats  a 
Grecian,  and  assuredly  the  English  lad  cre- 
ated, in  latest-born  and  loveliest  semblance, 
the  entire  breed  of  "  Olympus'  faded  hie- 
rarchy." But  what  of  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Ag- 
nes "  ?  Is  it  not  the  purest  mediaeval  structure 
in  our  verse  — a  romance-poem  more  faultless, 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  than  larger 
models  of  earlier  or  later  date  ?  In  propor- 
tion, color,  exquisite  detail,  it  is  comparable 
to  spme  Gothic  hall  or  chapel  of  the  best 
period ;  and  just  as  surely  "  Isabella  "  is  Flor- 
entine, and  equally  without  flaw.  These  po- 
ems are  none  the  less  charged  with  high 
imaginings,  Keats  being  one  of  the  few  whose 
imagination  is  not  lessened  by  technical  su- 
premacy. The  sonnet  on  Chapman's  Homer 
was,  in  this  respect,  a  foretaste  of  the  large 
utterance  to  which  he  afterward  attained. 
"  Hyperion,"  with  its  Titanic  opening  and 
Doric  grandeur  of  tone  inviolate  from  first 
to  last,  was  a  work  which  the  author,  with 
half  his  power  still  in  reserve,  left  unfinished, 
in  the  loftiest  spirit  of  self-criticism,  avowing 
that  it  had  too  many  Miltonic  inversions. 
The  word  "  faults  "  is,  in  truth,  the  last  to  use 
concerning  Keats.  His  limitation  was  one  of 
horizon,  not  of  blemish  within  its  bounds. 

As  regards  verbal  expression,  a  close  test 
of  original  power,  he  certainly  outranks  any 
poet  since  Shakspere.  Others  are  poets  and 
something  more,  or  less, —  reformers,  men  of 
the  world,  or,  like  Korner  and  Chenier,  aglow 
for  heroic  action.  Keats  had  but  one  ambi- 
tion ;  he  was  all  poet,  and  I  think  he  would 
have  remained  so.  However  possible  the 
grotesque  changes  contrived  for  Byron  and 
Burns  in  Hawthorne's  fantastic  draft  of  "  P's 
Correspondence,"  the  romancer  felt  that 
Keats  would  never  become  transformed,  and 
pictured  him  as  still  true  to  the  ideal.  Shel- 
ley worshiped  Goodness  and  Truth  in  the 
Beauty  to  which  he  vowed  that  he  would 
dedicate  his  powers.  Of  Keats,  one  may  say 
that  his  genius  was  Beauty's  other  self.  In 
"  Wuthering  Heights,"  Catharine  Earnshaw 
avows:  "I  am  Heathcliff!  He's  always,  al- 
ways in  my  mind  :  not  as  a  pleasure,  any 
more  than  I  am  always  a  pleasure  to  myself, 
but  as  my  own  being."  And  Keats  was 
Beauty,  with  the  affinity  and  passion  of  soul 
for  soul.  - 

It  is  hard  to  hold  him  to  account  for 
early  death   from   inherited   phthisis, 
vated  by  bleeding  at  the  hands  of  an  ol< 
time  surgeon,  or   for  the   publication,  a 
sixty  years,  of  his  turbid  love-letters  to 
Brawne,  —  letters  in  which,  though  probal 
the  recipient  flattered  herself  otherwise,  the 


THE    LIFE-MASK    OF    JOHN    KEATS. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 57. 


6O2 


KEATS. 


is  less  of  the  real  Keats  than  in  the  most 
trivial  verse  he  ever  wrote.  If  you  would 
know  an  artist's  true  self,  you  must  discover 
it  through  his  art.  It  was  deplorable  that 
these  poor  letters  should  be  brought  to  light; 
let  us  at  least  give  them  no  more  than  their 
true  proportion  in  our  measure  of  the  writer's 
strength  and  weakness.  Mr.  Arnold  is  war- 
ranted in  contempt  for  those  who  enjoy  the 
one  letter  that  he  quotes,  and  who  profess 
to  consider  it  a  "beautiful  and  characteris- 
tic production."  It  reveals,  as  he  asserts, 
"  complete  enervation,"  and  I  own  that  for  the 
moment  Keats  appears  to  be  "  passion's  slave." 
Nevertheless,  why  yield  one  jot  or  tittle  to 
the  implication  that  the  old  taunt  of  Black- 
wood's  is  sustained  by  this  letter  of  a  "  sur- 
geon's apprentice,"  —  that  anything  "under- 
bred and  ignoble  "  can  be  postulated  from 
even  the  entire  series  of  these  spasmodic 
epistles?  A  theory  that  such  a  youth  as 
Keats  was  "  ill  brought  up  "  cannot  be  thus 
deduced;  the  reverse,  all  things  considered, 
seems  to  have  been  the  case.  Furthermore, 
it  may  be  that  the  evolution  of  a  poet  ad- 
vances quite  as  surely  through  experience 
of  the.  average  man's  folly  and  emotion  as 
through  a  class  training  in  reticence,  dignity, 
and  self-restraint.  In  the  first  glow  of  ambi- 
tion Keats  inscribed  "  Endymion "  to  the 
memory  of  Chatterton,  and  gladly  would 
have  equaled  that  sleepless  soul  in  fate,  so 
were  he  equal  to  him  in  renown.  Afterward, 
in  his  first  experience  of  passion,  he  yielded 
to  morbid  sentiment,  self-abandonment,  the 
frenzy  of  a  passing  hour.  It  is  not  out  of 
nature  that  genius,  in  these  early  crises,  should 
be  pitifully  sensitive  or  take  stage-strides. 
The  training  that  would  forestall  this  might, 
like  Aylmer's  process,  too  well  remove  a 
birth-mark.  We  can  spare,  now  and  then,  a 
gray  head  on  green  shoulders,  if  thereby  we 
gain  a  poet.  Keats  was  a  sturdy,  gallant  boy 
at  school,  —  as  a  man,  free  from  vices  patri- 
cian or  plebeian,  and  a  gentleman  in  motive 
and  bearing.  No  unusual  precocity  of  char- 
acter goes  with  the  artistic  temperament.  It 
is  observed  of  born  musicians,  who  in  child- 
hood have  mastered  instrument  and  counter- 
point, and  of  other  phenomenal  geniuses, 
that  they  are  not  old  beyond  their  years,  nor 
less  simple  and  frolicsome  than  their  play- 
mates. But  the  heyday  in  the  blood  has 
always  been  as  critical  to  poets  as  the  "  sin- 
ister conjunction  "  was  to  the  youth  of  the 
Arabian  tale.  Shakspere,  Milton,  Burns,  Shel- 
ley, Byron,  were  not  specifically  apostles  of 
common  sense  in  their  love-affairs,  but  their 
own  experience  scarcely  lowered  the  tone  or 
weakened  the  vigor  of  their  poetry.  Keats's 
ideality  was  disturbed  by  the  passion  which 


came  upon  him  suddenly  and  late ;  he  clung 
to  its  object  with  fiercer  longing  and  anguish 
as  he  felt  both  her  and  life  itself  slipping 
away  from  his  hold.  Everything  is  extreme 
in  the  emotion  of  a  poet.  Mr.  Arnold  does 
justice  to  his  probity  and  forbearance,  to  his 
trust  in  the  canons  of  art  and  rigid  self-meas- 
urement by  an  exacting  standard ;  he  surely 
must  see,  on  reflection,  that  such  a  man's 
slavery  fo  passion  would  be  a  short-lived 
episode.  Before  Keats  could  rise  again  to 
higher  things,  his  doom  confronted  him.  His 
spirit  flew  hither  and  thither,  by  many  paths : 
across  each,  as  in  Tourgueneff 's  prose-poem, 
yawned  the  open  grave,  and  behind  him  the 
witch  Fate  pressed  ever  more  closely.  He 
had  prayed  "  for  ten  years  "  in  which  he  might 
overwhelm  himself  in  poesy.  He  was  granted 
a  scant  five,  and  made  transcendent  use  of 
them.  Had  he  lived,  who  can  doubt  that  he 
would  have  become  mature  in  character  as 
he  was  already  in  the  practice  of  his  art  ? 
It  is  to  be  noted,  as  regards  form,  that  one  of 
Shelley's  most  consummate  productions  was 
inspired  by  the  works  and  death  of  Keats. 
I  doubt  not  that  Keats's  sensuous  and  match- , 
less  verse  would  have  taken  on,  in  time,  more 
of  the  elusive  spirituality  for  which  we  go  to 
Shelley.  As  it  was,  he  and  Wordsworth  were 
the  complements  of  each  other  with  their 
respective  gifts,  and  made  the  way  clear  for 
Tennyson  and  his  successors.  Impressed  by 
the  supreme  art  and  fresh  imagination  of  the 
author  of  "  Hyperion,"'not  a  few  are  disposed 
to  award  him  a  place  on  the  topmost  dais 
where  but  two  English  poets  await  his  com- 
ing, —  if  not  entitled  there  to  an  equal  seat, 
at  least  with  the  right  to  stand  beside  the 
thrones  as  lineal  inheritor,  the  first-born  prince 
of  the  blood.  His  poetry  has  been  studied 
with  delight  in  this  western  world  for  the 
last  half- century.  One  page  of  it  is  worth 
the  whole  product  of  the  "  aesthetic  "  dilet- 
tants  who  most  recently  have  undertaken  to 
direct  us,  as  if  by  privilege  of  discovery,  to 
the  fountain-head  of  modern  song.  But 

"  The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass." 

This  prophesying  in  the  name  of  an  ac- 
knowledged leader  is  old  as  the  Christian  era. 
And  even  the  pagan  Moschus,  from  whom, 
and  from  Bion,  Shelley  took  the  conception 
of  his  starry  threnody,  declares  of  a  dead 
poet  and  certain  live  and  unwelcome  cele- 
brants : 

"Verily  thou  all  silent  wilt  be  covered  in  eartf 
while  it  has  pleased  the  Nymphs  that  the  frog  sh 
always  sing.    Him,  though,  I  would  not  envy,  for 
chants  no  beauteous  strain." 

Edmund  C.  Stedman. 


KEATS. 


603 


THE  GRAVES  OF  KEATS  AND  SEVERN, 


[IN  May,  1879,  Joseph  Severn,  the  artist,  was  still  living  in  the  city  where  fifty-eight  years  before  he  had 
closed  the  eyes  of  the  dying  Keats.  He  occupied  rooms  in  the  heart  of  Rome,  in  that  building  against  the  side 
of  which  is  piled  up  the  florid  sculpture  of  the  famous  fountain  of  Trevi.  It  was  here  that  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting,  more  than  once,  the  then  aged  friend  of  Keats,  and  of  seeing  some  of  the  relics  he  still  cherished 
of  the  poet.  Among  these  was  the  original  drawing  made  by  Severn  himself  of  Keats  in  his  last  illness  (see 
THE  CENTURY  for  June,  1883),  also  a  plaster  cast  of  the  life-mask  of  Keats,  which  was  believed  by  Severn  to 
have  been  made  by  Haydon,  the  painter.  The  life-mask  (an  engraving  of  which  is  herewith  given  from  a  cast 
now  in  this  country)  is  the  most  interesting,  as  it  is  the  most  real  and  accurate  portrait  of  the  poet  in  existence. 
It  is,  of  course,  much  more  agreeable  than  a  death-mask  would  have  been ;  for  it  not  only  escapes  the  haggardness 
of  death,  but  there  is  even,  so  it  seems  to  us,  a  suggestion  of  humorous  patience  in  the  expression  of  the  mouth. 
The  eyes  being  necessarily  closed,  it  is  the  mouth  that  is  especially  to  be  observed  in  the  mask ;  here 
will  be  found  a  sensitiveness,  a  sweetness,  and  a  hint  of  eloquence  that  one  would  look  for  in  any  true  portrait 
of  Keats.  In  this  mask  one  has  the  authentic  form  and  shape  —  the  very  stamp  of  the  poet's  visage.  It  may 
be  added  that  the  mask  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  one  of  Keats's  relatives  now  living  in  America,  and 
that  it  especially  recalls  the  features  of  his  niece,  Mrs.  Emma  Keats  Speed,  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  who  died 
in  the  month  of  September,  1883.  At  one  of  our  visits,  Mr.  Severn  maintained  that  Keats's  eyes  were  hazel, 
and  he  insisted  upon  this  recollection,  though  it  was  contrary  to  that  of  some  others  of  Keats's  friends.  He  spoke 
of  the  drawing  of  Keats  now  in  the  Kensington  Museum,  and  said  that  he  made  it  one  day  when  Shelley  was 
present,  and  " Shelley  liked  it  very  much."  Mr.  Severn,  in  referring  to  Washington  Allston,  said  that  he 
brought  Keats's  poetry  to  his  attention,  and  to  that  of  seven  or  eight  of  his  friends,  though  Allston  was  the 
only  one  among  them  who  appreciated  it. 

Since  the  date  given  above  (May,  1879),  Trelawney  has  been  laid  in  the  grave,  beside  that  which  contains 
the  heart  —  "cor  cordium"  —  of  his  friend  Shelley,  and  Severn  has  been  entombed  in  the  neighboring  in- 
closure  by  the  side  of  Keats.  Though  apparently  in  good  health  at  the  time  of  our  visits,  and  humorously 
boastful  of  the  many  years  that  his  physician  still  promised  him,  Severn  died  within  a  few  months  —  namely, 
August  3,  1879.  There  they  all  lie  now,  with  others  of  their  countrymen  and  countrywomen,  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  Aurelian  wall  of  Rome,  and  of  that  pyramid  of  Caius  Cesti'us  which  is  to-day  rather  the  monument 
of  the  two  exiled  English  poets  than  of  the  ancient  and  well-nigh  forgotten  tribune  for  whose  tomb  it  was  built. 
It  is  pleasant  to  record  (we  believe  for  the  first  time)  that  among  those  who  bore  the  expenses  of  the  carved 
stone  erected  to  the  memory  of  Severn  (and  the  other  necessary  costs  of  the  entombment)  were  several  of  our 
American  poets,  from  among  whom  two  —  Longfellow  and  Holland — have  since  followed  into  "the  silent 
land."  The  engraving  here  presented  of  the  companion  graves  of  Keats  and  his  friend  is  from  a  water-color 
drawing  by  one  of  the  sons  of  Severn  —  namely,  Mr.  Walter  Severn,  of  London. 

As  we  go  to  press,  an  American  edition  of  "The  Letters  and  Poems  of  Keats"  is  about  to  appear,  in 
three  volumes  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Company,  publishers),  under  the  editorship  of  Mr.  John  Gilmer  Speed,  a 
grandson  of  George,  the  brother  of  the  poet.  Besides  the  poems,  including  a  sonnet  not  before  published, 
and  besides  the  letters  already  published,  are  given  the  letters  written  by  John  to  George  Keats,  in  America, 
none  of  which,  it  seems,  have  been  hitherto  printed  complete  and  unaltered,  and  many  of  which  "  now  appear 
in  print  for  the  first  time."  Among  the  illustrations  are  reproductions  in  color  of  original  paintings  by  Severn 
of  the  three  brothers,  John,  George,  and  Tom.  Mr.  Speed's  introductions  and  notes  throw  new  light  on  the 
history  of  the  entire  family. — EDITOR  CENTURY.] 


SNOW-BORN. 

ORIGINAL    ENGRAVING    BY    ELBRIDGE    KINGSLEY. 


SNOW-BORN. 

WITH  Autumn's  latest  breath  there  came  a  chill 
Of  brooding  sadness,  as  o'er  pleasures  dead ; 
And  through  the  sunless  day,  with  silent  tread, 

There  seemed  to  pass,  o'er  vale  and  wooded  hill. 

The  footsteps  of  some  messenger  of  ill. 

Through  forest  ways  with  rustling  leaves  o'erspread, 
The  pine-boughs  whispered  low  of  bodings  dread, 

And  all  the  air  a  mystery  seemed  to  fill. 

But  in  the  shadows  of  enfolding  night, 

From  out  the  bosom  of  the  frosty  air, 

Fell  a  baptismal  robe  of  beauty  rare ; 

And  when,  at  kiss  of  dawn,  awoke  the  earth, 

Each  leaf  and  pine-bough,  clad  in  vesture  white, 
Told  of  the  peaceful  hour  of  Winter's  birth. 


Henry  R.  Howland. 


LOVE   SONGS. 


LOVE   'S    EVER   AT    LOVE'S    SIDE. 

i 

LOVE,  you  are  in  the  hills, 
And  I  am  by  the  sea; 
But,  ah,  I  know  my  loved  one  thrills 
With  touch  of  love  and  me! 
No  need  to  tell  her  why — 
Where  she  is,  there  am  I. 
Whether 
Together 
Or  apart, 
I  fold  you,  Love, 
I  hold  you,  Love, 

Hard  to  my  heart. 

Love  !  Love  !     Its  tears  and  smiles 
Wing  wide  as  sun  and  rain; 
It  reckons  not  the  hours  or  miles 
Tor  gift  of  joy  or  pain : 
Love,  you  can  have  no  thought 
My  heart  shall  answer  not. 
Whether 
Together 
Or  apart, 
I  fold  you,  Love, 
I  hold  you,  Love, 

Hard  to  my  heart. 

Love,  you  are  far  away, 

But  naught  my  heart  shall  care; 

This  place  or  that,  go  you  or  stay, 

Where  you  are — I  am  there: 

In  spite  of  time  or  tide, 

Love  's  ever  at  love's  side. 

Whether 

Together 

Or  apart, 
VOL.  XXVII.— 58. 


I  fold  you,  Love, 
I  hold  you,  Love, 

Hard  to  my  heart. 


EDEN.       . 

EASTWARD  love's  garden  lay, 
In  Eden,  long  agone; 
Eastward,  lo,  it  lies  to-day, 
Before  the  gates  of  dawn. 

It  rests  as  still  and  fair 
As  the  first  lovers  found  it'; 
And  the  flowers  are  blooming  there, 
The  waters  running  round  it; 

The  crystal  fountains  fill, 
The  golden  glories  play,   . 
And  the  silver  dews  distill, 
As  on  love's  natal  day. 

0  Eden,  Eden  bower  — 
Love's  flower  is  still  in  bloom ; 
Sweets  of  love's  undying  flower 
The  bower  of  love  perfume ! 

Eden!  —  I  know  it  well, 
And  thither  lies  my  way ; 
On  my  soul  I  feel  its  spell, 

1  see  its  splendors  play. 

Lo,  one  awaits  me  there, 
Wondrous  as  Adam  knew; 
Face  and  form  as  strangely  fair, 
And  throbbing  heart  as  true. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


AN   AVERAGE    MAN.* 


BY    ROBERT    GRANT, 
Author  of  "  The  Little  Tin  Gods  on  Wheels,"  "  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl,"  etc. 


REMINGTON  and  Stoughton  found  it  very 
difficult  to  avoid  burning  the  candle  at  both 
ends ;  for,  with  all  the  excitement  of  society, 
their  days  down-town  were  by  no  means  idle. 
Even  in  the  way  of  law  they  managed  to  pick 
up  a  little  business.  An  aunt  of  Remington's, 
for  instance,  had  employed  him  to  obtain  a 
divorce  for  one  of  her  deserving  poor,  who 
was  in  straits ;  and  he  had  so  far  acquired  the 
interest — the  sentimental,  not  the  metallic 
article  —  of  a  money-lender,  whose  office  ad- 
joined his  own,  as  to  induce  Shylock  to  in- 
trust him  with  a  small  collection  suit.  This 
Remington  had  won, — but  rather,  as  he  be- 
lieved, from  the  fact  that  the  justice  selected 
to  hear  the  cause  was  a  personal  friend  of 
his  client  than  from  the  merits  of  the  case.  In 
like  manner  Stoughton  managed  to  obtain 
an  occasional  fee  toward  the  defraying  of  his 
office  rent. 

Remington  was  spending  his  clientless 
moments  in  the  preparation  of  a  treatise  on 
Railroad  Law,  in  which  he  fancied  himself 
much  interested.  He  had  felt  it  necessary  to 
find  a  substitute  for  kicking  his  heels  in  his 
office.  Besides,  it  had  always  been  an  inten- 
tion of  his  to  write  a  book  of  some  kind ; 
and  a  successful  publication  in  the  line  of  his 
profession  would  be  likely  to  give  him  a  start. 
The  subject  was  engrossing,  he  found,  and 
he  pegged  away  at  it  with  a  good  deal 
of  enthusiasm.  The  necessity  of  research  in 
connection  therewith  obliged  him  to  be  ab- 
sent from  his  office  at  times,  and  Stoughton, 
who  was  apt  to  call  round  to  get  his  friend  to 
lunch,  would  often  find  the  door  embellished 
with  a  bit  of  card-board  inscribed :  "  At  the 
Law  Association, —  back  at  1.30."  Stoughton 
was  wont  to  laugh  at  this  studying  law  in 
cold  blood,  as  he  called  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  put,  '  At  the  Supreme 
Court,'  Arthur  ?  It  would  look  a  great  deal 
better." 

"  Yes,  but  nobody  would  believe  it." 

"  What  if  they  didn't !  They'd  admire  your 
enterprise.  I  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  I've 
come  to  the  conclusion  you  and  I  are  too 
devilish  conscientious.  We  don't  advertise 
ourselves  enough.  There's  a  Hoosier,  now,  in 


my  entry  who  doesn't  know  quarter  the  law 
I  do,  and  yet  he  has  four  times  my  profes- 
sional income.  I  asked  him  one  day  how  he 
got  his  practice,  and  he  told  me  he  began  by 
begging  it.  He  lived  in  a  boarding-house, 
and  interested  the  lodgers  in  his  briefless  con- 
dition. Fancy  going  about  asking  people  to 
give  you  law  business!  Well,  it  probably 
never  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  any  ob- 
jection to  it.  I  suppose  it's  our  misfortune 
that  we  see  things  differently." 

Stoughton  had  himself  been  acting  to  a 
certain  extent  on  his  own  theory.  As  has 
been  said,  this  text-book  writing  did  not 
appeal  to  him.  He  had  had  enough  of  mere 
study,  he  felt,  for  the  present,  and  was  ambi- 
tious to  try  his  hand  in  practical  fields.  A 
good  law-book  would  not  help  him  on  very 
fast  toward  either  fame  or  fortune.  He  still 
kept  up,  to  be  sure,  his  old  voracious  habit 
of  reading,  but  it  rarely  took  the  direction  of 
legal  inquiry.  In  one  of  the  bottom  drawers 
of  his  desk  a  supply  of  the  latest  publications 
in  the  line  of  philosophy,  poetry,  and  fiction 
was  to  be  found.  His  new  interest,  however, 
was  politics,  which  he  conceived  might  help 
him  toward  an  introduction  to  the  litigious 
portion  of  the  community.  His  own  acquaint- 
ance he  had  discovered  to  be  exasperatingly 
pacific;  or,  if  they  ever  did  get  into  the 
meshes  of  the  law,  the  interests  involved 
were  apt  to  be  of  the  kind  that  require  the 
services  of  eminent  counsel.  Those  young 
lawyers  seemed  to  flourish  who  had  gained 
the  confidence  of  the  small  tradespeople  and 
mechanics.  Such  folks  were  always  getting 
into  difficulties. 

Accordingly,  he  had  begun  to  attend  the 
caucuses  in  his  ward  and  hobnob  with  some 
of  the  local  politicians.  He  was  aware  that 
his  manners  were  against  him,  so  to  speak, 
and  that  he  wore  too  good  clothes  to  attract 
the  favor  of  those  who  handled  the  wires; 
but  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  become 
discouraged.  He  had  always  been  able  at 
college  to  tell  a  story  with  effect,  and  his 
songs  were  still  referred  to  by  present  under- 
graduates (he  had  been  told)  as  something 
out  of  the  common.  A  little  sociability  on 
his  part,  he  felt  sure,  would  win  over  those 
who  looked  at  him  askance.  He  had 


Copyright,  1883,  by  Robert  Grant. 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


607 


course,  decided  views  regarding  the  necessity 
of  improving  political  methods,  but  it  would 
be  judicious  not  to  offend  the  managers  at 
the  outset.  He  tried,  therefore,  to  be  cordial 
with  such  of  his  fellow-citizens  as  he  encoun- 
tered at  these  gatherings,  and  to  avoid  any- 
thing that  might  suggest  to  them  invidious 
distinctions.  He  even  studied  their  methods 
in  the  way  of  etiquette,  and,  in  pursuance 
thereof,  invariably  removed  his  glove  before 
shaking  hands — which  was  considered  a 
badge  of  breeding  in  municipal  circles. 

On  one  occasion  he  made  a  speech  which 
had  the  effect  of  turning  the  scale  in  a  close 
contest  for  candidates  for  the  Assembly.  It 
happened  that  Finchley  the  broker,  who  was 
of  the  same  political  faith,  spoke  upon  the 
opposite  side,  and  was  so  much  surprised  at 
such  an  ebullition  of  intelligence  on  the  part 
of  one  whom  he  had  set  down  as  "  a  gilded 
flat  "  that  he  greeted  Stoughton  with  distinct 
cordiality  on  their  next  meeting,  and  gave 
;him  a  valuable  point  on  the  stock  market. 
jFinchley  was  himself  an  aspirant  for  political 
jpreferment;  and  his  bustling,  business-like 
[demeanor  stood  him  in  good  stead.  The 
knowing  heads  pronounced  him  likely  to  go 
jto  the  Legislature  in  a  year  or  two. 

It  was  the  habit  of  Remington  and  Stough- 
jton  to  drop  in  at  the  broker's  after  luncheon. 
That  had  become  quite  as  much  a  part  of  the 
programme  of   the   day  as   the  meal  itself. 
liVho  that  is  familiar  with  the  purlieus  of  Wall 
street  has  not  been  struck  with  the  change 
that  has  come  over  the  appearance  and  meth- 
ods of  that  great  money  center  within  the  past 
ew  years?    Wide-spreading,  massive  build- 
ngs,  towering  with  roof  ornament,  the  utter- 
aost  parts  of  which — thanks  to  that  modern 
ivention,  the  elevator — are  available,  dwarf 
he  unpretentious  structures  of  yore.   An  air 
f  exceeding  prosperity  pervades  the  throng 
liat  pours  at  noontide  along  the  pavement 
oward  the  restaurants, — a  throng  denser  than 
ver,  and  scarcely  more  at  leisure  than  former- 
r,  but  better  groomed.  The  traditional  gaunt 
hysiognomy  is  less  frequently  observable.    In 
s  stead,  the  eye  falls  on  well-built,  scrupu- 
msly  dressed  men,  strongly  allied,  save  for 
freer  bearing,  to  the  upper-class   English- 
man,— on  faces  foreign  in  type,  suggestive 
'f  the  German,  the  Hebrew,  and  of  a  blend- 
\gof  the  two, —  suggestive,  in  fact,  of  every 
iriety  of  nationality. 

But,  despite  its  motley  composition,  there 
,  little  of  the  Old  World  in  the  temper  of  this 
rowd.  With  the  change  of  soil,  they  seem 
»  have  imbibed  the  peculiar  restlessness  that 
arks  the  American  character.  The  feverish 
sh  and  hurry  of  our  ancestors  is  still  observ- 
)le.  One  takes,  to  be  sure,  after  the  conti- 


nental fashion,  his  coffee  upon  rising,  and 
eats  substantially  at  midday ;  but  who,  pray, 
lingers  more  leisurely  over  the  repast  because 
of  its  greater  profusion  ?  The  long  counter, 
with  its  row  of  high  stools,  favorite  resort 
of  gastronomic  minute-men;  the  dense  array 
of  little  tables,  among  which  waiters  bustle 
with  scurrying  slap-dash;  the  resonance  of 
laughter,  the  clatter  of  crockery,  and  tramp 
of  feet,  falling  on  an  atmosphere  where  the 
oyster-bed  and  brewery  compete  in  full-fla- 
vored rivalry, —  who  is  not  familiar  with  the 
economics  of  a  down-town  restaurant  ? 

In  most  of  these  resorts  —  which  are,  how- 
ever, with  all  their  turbulence,  luxuriously 
furnished  —  a  stock  recorder,  technically 
known  as  the  ticker,  a  veritable  symbol  of 
Black  Care  at  the  horseman's  back,  plays  its 
spasmodic  tune  in  some  conspicuous  recess 
adjacent  to  the  stream  of  life  that  comes  and 
goes.  It  is,  indeed,  a  monument  well  adapted 
to  mark  the  temper  of  the  age.  Now  and 
again  some  customer  steps  aside  to  pass  the 
tape  over  his  hand  with  a  quick,  jerky  move- 
ment, but  the  mass  move  by  without  swerv- 
ing. Nor,  forsooth,  is  its  presence  needful  to 
suggest  to  the  lunching  public  the  existence 
of  a  short  cut  to  fortune.  What  is  the  use  of 
examining  the  list  where  every  one  can  see 
you,  when  J.  C.  Withington  &  Co.  are  just 
around  the  corner  ?  The  grave  attorney,  who 
passes  this  modern  guillotine  without  a  wink 
of  the  eyelid,  has  already  posted  himself  re- 
garding the  quotations  of  the  day,  believr 
ing  doubt  as  to  the  state  of  one's  margin 
to  be  a  poor  table  companion ;  and  the  two 
clerks  who  trot  by  so  blithely  arm  in  arm,  as 
if  their  worry  was  but  second-hand, —  their 
master's  business, —  are  on  the  way  to  the 
broker's. 

Remington  and  Stoughton  had  each,  as 
has  been  stated,  some  four  or  five  thousand 
dollars ;  which  is  a  sum  ill  suited  to  the  pur- 
chase of  high-priced  or,  as  the  envious  style 
them,  gilt-edged  securities.  One  can  buy  out- 
right but  a  very  small  interest  in  safe  railroad 
properties  with  that  amount  of  cash,  and  the 
return  on  the  investment  is  correspondingly 
inadequate.  Moreover,  a  man  who  purchases 
twenty,  or  even  fifty,  shares  of  stock,  and 
pays  for  them,  makes  but  a  paltry  profit  in 
case  of  a  rise  of  ten  dollars  in  the  market 
price,  compared  with  him  who  carries  a 
couple  of  hundred  on  a  twenty  per  cent. 
margin.  All  this  argues  strongly  in  favor  of 
the  theory  that  wild-cat,  and  hence  cheap, 
properties  are  the  consolation  of  the  impe- 
cunious who  visit  Wall  street.  Not  only  can 
one  get  two  or  three  times  as  much  stock 
with  the  same  amount  of  money,  but  the 
chances  for  improvement  are  infinitely 


6o8 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN, 


greater ;  and  if  you  buy  on  a  margin,  you 
can  carry  enough  such  stuff  to  make  you 
comfortable  for  life  in  case  things  turn  out  as 
well  as  you  expect.  Of  course,  there  are 
risks, — what  is  not  attended  with  risk  in 
this  world  ?  —  and  you  may  come  to  grief; 
that  is,  to  quote  the  parlance  of  the  street, 
be  sold  out.  But,  after  all,  it  is  nobody's  affair 
if  you  are.  The  margin  is  your  own ;  and 
so,  vulgarly  speaking,  is  the  funeral.  The 
broker  will  look  after  himself;  trust  him  for 
that.  There  is  no  need  troubling  one's  head 
on  that  score. 

One  cannot,  it  must  be  confessed,  support 
this  buying  what  one  has  not  the  means  to 
pay  for  (despite  all  absence  of  concern  re- 
garding your  broker)  on  any  theory  of  ethics. 
But  then,  reasoned  Stoughton,  it  is  the  cus- 
tom of  the  country,  and  is  getting  to  be  the 
way  of  the  world.  In  short,  everybody  does 
it;  and  as  we  grow  older,  we  become  much 
more  content  to  travel  in  the  same  boat  with 
everybody  else.  There  is  safety  in  numbers ; 
and,  moreover,  we  have  the  reflection  to  con- 
sole us,  in  case  we  go  to  pieces  in  the  proc- 
ess, that  it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred 
years  hence.  That  is  the  left  bower  of  our 
philosophy ;  and  the  right  bower  is  the  unde- 
niable need  of  growing  rich.  It  is  a  question 
of  chances  simply,  and  we  are  ready  to  take 
the  risk.  The  steady  humdrum  road  will 
probably  lead  us  to  competency  in  the  end, 
if  we  live  long  enough;  but  we  want  the 
money  now.  He  was  young,  and  could  enjoy 
to-day.  Thirty  years  hence  would  find  him 
nearly  bed-ridden.  He  was  prepared  to  take 
the  risks. 

And  then,  too,  after  all,  will  one  come  to 
grief?  Statistics  show,  it  is  said,  that  ninety- 
nine  out  of  every  hundred  men  who  frequent 
brokers'  shops  are  ruined.  Granted,  perhaps ; 
but  who  is  to  guarantee  that  we  are  not  to  be 
the  hundredth  man  ?  Other  fellows  are  rash 
and  short-sighted,  ignorant  and  unreasoning. 
They  buy  at  fancy  prices,  and  without  care- 
ful investigation.  It  is  playing  with  fire,  of 
course;  but  if  one  is  prudent,  and  goes  into 
the  thing  systematically,  there  is  no  reason 
why  one  should  not' make  a  handsome  thing 
out  of  it  in  a  quiet  way.  Study  up  values, 
and  post  yourself  on  the  actual  condition  of 
properties,  and  you  have  the  key  to  the  situa- 
tion in  the  hollow  of  your  hand. 

Such  is  a  coarse  presentation  of  the  reasoning 
that  induced  Woodbury  Stoughton  to  sell  out 
the  disgustingly  safe  bonds  in  which  his  pit- 
tance, was  invested,  and  locate,  as  the  news- 
papers delight  to  say,  the  proceeds  elsewhere. 
The  rumor  reached  him  that  Olney  and  Sage- 
ville  —  a  Southern  railroad,  which,  like  the 
decayed  gentry  of  that  cotton  clime,  had 


known  better  days — was  about  to  advance. 
He  had  the  point  from  an  insider  (at  least, 
his  informant  declared  himself  to  be  one); 
and  a  shrewd  knowledge  of  whom  to  trust 
was  one  of  the  characteristics  upon  which 
Stoughton  prided  himself.  He  acted  at  once, 
and,  buying  at  eighty-five,  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  within  three  days  his  purchase 
rise  fifteen  per  cent.  Finchley,  through  whom 
he  had  dealt,  suggested  the  advisability  of 
realizing  such  a  handsome  profit;  but  the 
young  speculator  thought  otherwise.  "  It  will 
sell  at  one  hundred  and  fifty.  I  am  advised 
to  cling  on  to  it,"  he  remarked  knowingly. 
This  had  been  just  after  the  speech  at  the 
caucus,  and  Finchley  felt  therefore  less  dis- 
posed to  criticise  his  customer.  The  result 
proved  the  soundness  of  Stoughton's  judg- 
ment, as  the  latter  expressed  it  to  Remington. 
He  sold  out,  at  the  end  of  ten  days,  at  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five.  "  Not  bad  for  a 
flier"  he  remarked,  with  elation.  And  indeed 
it  was  not.  He  had  bought  two  hundred 
shares,  and  put  up  his  original  four  thousand 
dollars  as  a  margin.  His'  property  had  ex- 
actly trebled  itself.  Previous  to  this  he  had 
already  made  a  few  hundreds  by  his  ventures 
in  Northern  Pacific  and  one  or  two  other 
stocks.  But  then  he  had  bought  outright,  and 
hence  been  able  to  hold  only  a  few  shares  at 
a  time.  This  other  sort  of  thing  was  much 
more  satisfactory,  and  just  as  safe  if  one  only 
used  judgment. 

Remington,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been 
less  fortunate.    He  had  held  off  entirely  for 
some    time,   merely   sufficing    himself   with 
changing   his   bonds   for   an   eight-per-cent. 
stock  that  was  almost  as  unprofitably  sound 
Speculation  was  one  of  those  methods  thai 
stuck   in    his   ethical   crop.     He  had   beer 
brought   up  with   the  idea  that  it  was  no' 
quite  reputable,  and  altogether  unsafe.    Bu 
then,  to  be  sure,  every  one  did  speculate  now 
adays;    and  what  Stoughton  said  was  tru< 
enough,  in  a  sense.   The  money  was  his  own 
and  if  he  was  shrewd  enough  to  see  a  way  o 
increasing  it  at  a  little   risk,  why  shouldn' 
he  ?   All  business  was  attended  with  more  o 
less  risk,  and  it  was  the  man  who  had  th 
longest  head  who  usually  came  out  at  th 
top   of  the  heap.    As  to  buying  what  yo- 
couldn't  pay  for,  and  selling  what  you  hadn; 
got,  that  kind  of  thing  was  not  confined 
stocks.   It  existed  in  all  departments  of 
—  in  grain,  cotton,  and  the  various  raw 
terials ;  in  fact,  it  was  the  principle  of  mo 
modern  business.  And  so  Remington  had,  b 
degrees,  got  into  the  habit  of  takingy?z>w  al;< 
It  was  an  easy  way  of  making  money,  and  i 
expenses  were  undoubtedly  increasing.   I;i 
Olney  and  Sagevilles  are  not   to  be  foui 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


609 


every  day ;  or,  if  one  is  fortunate  enough  to 
run  across  one,  there  is  apt  to  be  a  corre- 
sponding drop  in  something  else  on  the  list 
which  you  hold.  Remington's  stocks  hadn't 
gone  up  for  a  cent,  to  adopt  a  bit  of  financial 
slang.  He  had  experienced  hard  luck,  too, 
inasmuch  as  he  had  seen  several  ventures 
which  he  had  tipped  out,  after  holding  them 
for  a  month  without  profit,  jump  up  five 
points  the  day  after.  "  You  get  scared  too 
easily ;  you  don't  sit  on  things  long  enough," 
Stoughton  would  say,  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
noisseur. "A  man  can't  expect  to  make  a 
fortune  in  a  minute.  Now,  for  instance,  I 
bought  yesterday  a  thousand  shares  in  a 
Nevada  silver  mine — the  Morning  Star — 
that  I  shall  very  likely  have  to  hold  for  a 
year.  I  got  in  at  bottom  prices,  and  I  am 
going  to  sit  on  it.  You  haven't  done  badly 
as  a  whole.  You're  ahead  on  the  entire  racket 
for  the  year.  What's  the  use  in  souring  on 
your  luck  ?  If  you  only  persevere  and  use 
judgment,  you'll  come  out  all  right." 

Thus,  life  down  town  was  interesting  enough. 
From  one  end  of  the  week  to  the  other  there 
was  very  little  chance  for  rest;  and  when 
Sunday  came, — well,  on  Sunday  most  fellows 
slept  pretty  late.  Remington  did,  however, 
usually  manage  to  get  to  church  about  every 
other  Sabbath.  It  was  his  intention  to  go 
always;  but  the  arms  of  Morpheus  are  tena- 
cious, when  one  has  an  opportunity  of  making 
up  arrears.  Still,  Miss  Crosby  worshiped  at 
the  same  sanctuary. 

Sunday  is  not  really  much  more  of  a  day 
of  rest  in  New  York  than  any  of  the  other 
six.  Every  one  blessed  with  female  acquaint- 
ances has  occasionally  to  visit  them;  and 
frequenters  of  balls  and  dinner  parties  must 
call  on  their  benefactors  if  they  wish  to  be 
counted  in  next  time.  At  least,  Mrs.  Fielding 
made  it  an  invariable  rule  never  to  ask  any 
one  inside  her  house  who  had  not  acknowl- 
edged in  person  a  previous  invitation.  She, 
to  be  sure,  could  afford  to  be  select ;  and  the 
same  action  on  the  part  of  a  less  admired 
hostess  might  have  produced  derision  rather 
than  consternation.  But  even  the  most  lax 
and  barefaced  of  youthful  spirits  are  apt  to 
bewail  their  negligence  regarding  visits.  We 
would  call  if  we  only  had  time,  they  all  cry; 
we  never  get  up  town  in  time.  But  then  there 
is  Sunday ;  and  the  truly  conscientious  young 
man  reads  the  commandment :  "  Six  days  thou 
shalt  labor  and  do  all  that  thou  hast  to  do, 
and  the  seventh  day  thou  shalt  call"  Even 
Stoughton,  who  habitually  cut  church  and 
spent  his  forenoon  propped  on  the  pillows, 
amid  the  penates  of  his  own  chamber,  with 
the  Sunday  papers,  always  shaved  himself  in 
time  to  make  one  or  two  visits  before  dinner. 


One  Sunday  afternoon,  about  three  weeks 
after  the  Idlewilds'  ball,  Woodbury  Stoughton 
dropped  in  upon  Miss  Crosby.  He  had  inti- 
mated to  her  at  a  party  a  few  nights  before 
that  he  would  try  to  do  so. 

Those  who  knew  Dorothy  well,  and  were 
familiar  with  the  brilliant  career  and  marriage 
of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Maclane,  had,  prior  to  her 
debut,  shaken  their  heads  a  little  in  private. 
She  was  bookish  and  quiet.  She  had  ever 
evinced  so  much  taste  for  more  tranquil  pleas- 
ures, that  there  might  be  a  question  as  to 
whether  she  would  become  enthusiastic  over 
society;  and  to  be  successful  in  the  gay 
world,  one  must  be  enthusiastic.  She  was,  of 
course,  very  pretty  and  lady-like  and  sweet  to 
look  at.  But  would  she  say  anything, —  would 
she  talk  ?  Were  not  her  quiet  ways  likely  to 
obscure  her  real  cleverness,  and  deter  prudent 
men  from  running  the  risk  of  stranding  them- 
selves for  the  evening  by  conversing  with  her  ? 
Balls  are  not  or  ought  not  to  be  charitable 
institutions ;  and  girls  who  draw  into  their 
shells  are  apt  to  have  a  dull  time.  A  few  even- 
ings of  neglect  are  quite  as  sufficient  to  sour 
the  feminine  milk  of  human  kindness  as  a 
thunder-storm  the  ordinary  lactic  fluid ;  and 
was  not  Dorothy  just  the  sort  of  young  per- 
son to  set  down  society  as  hollow,  because 
nobody  asked  her  for  the  german  ? 

Our  nearest  and  dearest,  however,  prove 
sometimes  quite  mistaken  in  their  predictions. 
What  a  miss  of  eighteen  will  develop  into  be- 
fore the  close  of  her  first  winter  is  beyond 
the  calculation  of  parents.  Mrs.  Crosby,  to 
be  sure,  had  expended  every  penny  that  her 
income  would  allow  to  have  her  daughter 
well  dressed ;  but  exquisite  clothes  never  yet 
made  a  girl  a  belle.  Dorothy's  air  of  good 
breeding  and  eloquent  face  had  drawn  to  the 
small  parlor  in  Washington  Square,  where  she 
was  wont  to  provide  five  o'clock  tea,  a  goodly 
array  of  admirers  ere  many  weeks  of  the  win- 
ter had  slipped  away.  Men  liked  to  talk  to 
her,  for  she  was  always  so  sympathetic,  and 
ready  to  show  interest  in  what  concerned 
them.  She  was  quick  to  catch  the  meaning 
of  their  various  theories  and  pet  ideas ;  and 
new  lines  of  speculation  were  apt  to  call  forth 
from  her  eyes  that  expression  of  intensity 
which  was  flattering  to  the  speaker.  She  was 
a  good  deal  of  a  belle ;  or  rather,  she  would 
have  been  a  tearing  success  had  it  not  been 
currently  known  that  she  was  comparatively 
portionless.  As  it  was,  she  received  much 
attention  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way;  and  the 
sight  of  occasional  superb  bouquets  in  her 
hand  at  parties,  or  cut  flowers  on  the  parlor 
table,  filled  with  uneasiness  the  hearts  of  such 
of  her  admirers  as  could  not  afford  these 
expensive  tokens  of  devotion. 


6io 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


"  No,  thank  you ;  tea  always  spoils  my 
appetite  for  dinner,"  said  Stoughton,  in  re- 
sponse to  her  proffered  hospitality;  and  he 
watched  Miss  Crosby  pour  out  a  cup  for  her- 
self with  a  graceful,  undulatory  movement  of 
the  arm,  and  her  head  on  one  side  as  if  she 
were  pondering  the  virtuous  wisdom  of  his 
remark.  She  had,  of  course,  no  suspicion  of 
the  cocktail  he  would  order  some  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  later.  She  was  fascina- 
ting,— no  doubt  about  that.  She  would  make 
a  charming  wife  for  a  man.  But  what  was 
the  use  of  upsetting  himself  by  thinking  on 
impossible  things?  He  couldn't  afford  to 
marry  the  girl.  He  had  come  here  to  have  a 
quiet  chat.  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  talk  to 
her,  for  she  always  comprehended  him  so 
easily. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Stoughton,  you  have  brought 
with  you  the  verses  you  spoke  about  the  other 
evening  at  Mrs.  Lawton's." 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  them  somewhere  about  me, 
I  believe.  They're  only  servile  plagiarism, 
anyway,"  he  said,  fumbling  in  his  tail  pocket. 
"  Ah,  yes ;  here  they  are." 

As  he  proceeded  to  unfold  the  manuscript, 
Dorothy  leaned  back  in  the  big  arm-chair 
and  clasped  her  hands  on  her  lap,  prepared  to 
listen.  "  What  fun  it  must  be  to  be  able  to 
write ! " 

Stoughton  gave  a  little  prefatory  cough. 

"I'd  love  thee,  sweet,  forever, 

If  I  were  not  the  child  of  fate ; 
No  power  our  days  should  sever, 

Could  I  but  burst  the  gate 
Which  keeps  our  lips  apart  — 
Keeps  thy  heart  from  my  heart. 

"  But  destiny,  unbending 

And  ruthless  as  the  sea, 
Cries  :  Though  love  have  no  ending, 

To  love  is  not  for  thee  ! 
And  I " 

Just  then  the  portiere  was  drawn  aside  to 
admit  a  visitor.  It  proved  to  be  Mr.  Ramsay 
Whiting,  whose  attentions  to  Dorothy  had 
become  conspicuous  of  late. 

"Trlard  lines,"  murmured  Stoughton,  under 
his  breath;  which  expression,  however,  was 
intended  to  be  typical  of  his  luck,  not  of  the 
verses. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  interrupted  anything," 
said  Whiting,  conscious  of  the  pause  which 
followed  his  reception  by  Miss  Dorothy. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  naively ;  "  Mr. 
Stoughton  was  just  reading  some  poetry  he 
had  written.  Perhaps  he  wont  mind  going 
on,  now." 

"  Do.  Don't  mind  me,  really,"  exclaimed 
the  new-comer  urgently,  but  with  a  slight 
grin.  Stoughton  begged  to  be  excused.  The 


verses  were  nothing,  he  said,  but  a  condensa- 
tion of  a  little  philosophical  discussion  he 
and  Miss  Crosby  had  entered  upon  the  other 
evening.  The  idea  of  reading  them  before 
Ramsay  Whiting,  who,  good  fellow  as  he  was, 
had  probably  never  opened  a  book  of  poetry 
of  his  own  accord  in  his  life,  struck  him  as 
immensely  humorous,  and  he  returned  the 
other's  grin  with  interest.  Whiting  was  going 
to  devote  himself  to  farming.  He  had  some 
fine  lands  in  the  interior  of  the  State,  and  his 
large  fortune  would  allow  him  to  sow  without 
reaping  for  many  years  to  come.  He  had  set 
to  work,  however,  most  industriously,  and  the 
world  were  agreed  that  Dorothy  would  be 
just  the  wife  for  him. 

"That  black  bull  is  dead,"  he  observed 
confidentially,  when  Stoughton  had  taken  his 
departure. 

Dorothy  sometimes  got  tired  of  agriculture 
as  a  topic  of  conversation ;  but  Mr.  Whiting 
was  so  kind  and  amiable  that  she  managed 
in  the  end  to  excuse  his  lack  of  brilliancy. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  response  to  her  ex- 
pressions of  sympathy,  "  I  would  rather  have 
lost  any  of  the  others.  But,  by  the  way,  Miss 
Crosby,  I  told  Hines  to  send  down  that  bay 
mare  I  spoke  to  you  about.  She  would  just 
suit  you,  I'm  sure,  and  I  shall  be  delighted 
if  you  will  ride  her." 

The  eager  manner  of  the  young  man  made 
Dorothy  blush  a  little.  "  You  are  very  kind," 
she  said,  "  but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  ride  this  spring.  What  with  society  and  my 
German  and  music  lessons,  I  have  all  to  do  I 
can  possibly  find  time  for.  Oh,  how  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Remington  ?  "  She  rose  to  greet  her 
friend. 

Despite  the  graciousness  of  his  welcome, 
Remington  was  very  formal  in  his  behavior. 
Ramsay  Whiting  had  been  there  lately  when- 
ever he  called.  There  were  roses  on  the  piano, 
and  she  wore  some  in  her  corsage  also. 
Whiting  is  rich,  he  thought,  and  she  is  going 
to  marry  him  for  his  money.  That's  the  way 
with  girls  nowadays — they  are  all  so  mer- 
cenary. He  had  supposed  this  one  to  be  an 
exception. 

He  sat  indenting  the  carpet  with  his  cane, 
and  saying  but  very  little.  For  the  sake  of 
politeness  he  laughed  in  a  sickly  fashion  when 
anything  amusing  was  said  by  the  others,  who 
were  now  talking  briskly.  Dorothy  seem* 
quite  excited  and  interested.  Apparently,  si 
paid  no  attention  to  Remington's  morosene 
When  he  arose  to  go,  as  he  did  soon  um 
the  influence  of  his  mood,  she  bade  him  goo 
bye  all  smiles  and  quite  indifferently. 

Ramsay  Whiting's  attentions  had  gi 
great  satisfaction  to  Mrs.  Crosby,  who,  as 
often  announced  to  her  daughter,  had  h 


2 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


611 


nothing  but  pleasant  things  regarding  him. 
He  had  good  manners,  and  was  irreproach- 
able in  his  habits ;  so  every  one  said.    "  He 
isn't  very  bright,  mamma,"  remarked  Dorothy 
I   that  evening.    Mr.  Whiting  had  staid  nearly 
I   an  hour,  and  had  not  been  especially  edifying, 
I  as  Pauline  Lawton  would  have  said. 

"  I  sometimes  think,  my  dear,"  replied  her 
parent,  after  a  pause,  "  that  you  have  too  ro- 
mantic ideas  on  some  matters.  I  sympathize, 
of  course,  with  your  general  views ;  but  you 
must  not  forget,  Dorothy,  that,  after  all,  life 
is  practical.  You  cannot  expect  to  find  per- 
fection in  this  world." 

"  No,  mamma,  I   don't  see  many  signs  of 

it,"  said  the  daughter,  a  little  wickedly.   They 

were  both  busy  with   their  work.    Dorothy 

had  in  hand  a  large  piece  of  canvas,  on  which 

she  was  embroidering  flowers  in  floss.    She 

glanced  up  for  an  instant  stealthily  at  her 

mother,  the  click  of  whose  large  wooden  nee- 

i  dies  was  the  only  sound  in  the  little  parlor  for 

i  some  minutes. 

"  Why  is  not  Mr.  Ramsay  Whiting,  Dor- 
|  othy,  as  attractive  as  Mr.  Stoughton  or  Mr. 
j  Remington  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  he  wasn't,  mamma." 
"  No,  my   dear ;  but  I  have  noticed  that 
I  you  seem  to  have  a  partiality^for  young  men 
j  who  are  without  prospects.    You  must  not 
misunderstand  me,  Dorothy.    I   do  not  wish 
to  say  anything  against  your  friends,  or  to 
imake  mercenary  suggestions.    I  believe  them 
both  to  be  most  excellent  young  men;    but 
they  are  neither  of  them  likely  to  be  in  a  po- 
sition to  be  married  for  a  long  time  to  come." 
"They  are  getting  on  very  well  in  their 
practice." 

"I  dare  say,  dear;  but  it  takes  a  large  in- 
come nowadays  to  go  to  housekeeping  with." 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  go  to  house- 
keeping with  any  one.  In  the  first  place,  no- 
jbody  has  asked  me;  and  in  the  next,  I 
wouldn't  have  them  if  they  did,"  said  Dor- 
pthy  emphatically.  "  I  don't  see  why  you're 
m  such  a  hurry  to  marry  me  off,  mamma." 

"  When  your  father  and  I  started  life  to- 
gether," said  Mrs.  Crosby, — who,  lost  in  a  re- 
iection  on  matrimonial  wherewithals,  scarcely 
Deeded  her  daughter's  remark, —  "  we  had  only 
iifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year.  We  kept  only 
pne  servant,  and  put  out  the  washing.  I 
'ion't  see  how  we  lived  exactly,  but  we  man- 
iged  to  get  along."  She  shook  her  head 
nournfully  in  the  fullness  of  her  reminiscence, 
ior  those  had  been  happy  years  she  was  re- 
falling.  "  Girls  to-day  are  not  content  unless 
jhey  have  everything  their  fathers  and  moth- 
rs  left  off  with." 

Dorothy  made  no  reply.    She  was  used  to 
iaese   discussions  with   her   mother,  one  of 


whose  hobbies  was  the  matrimonial  question. 
"  Mamma  will  never  be  quite  happy  until  she 
has  me  off  her  mind,"  Dorothy  was  wont  to 
remark.  With  all  their  affection  for  each 
other, —  and  they  were  extremely  devoted,  in 
a  way , —  Mrs.  Crosby  had  not  been  able  to 
establish  that  relation  with  her  daughter 
which  springs  from  a  complete  sympathy  of 
tastes  and  ideas.  They  were  much  together, 
and  Dorothy  would  have  done  anything  in 
the  world  to  please  her  parent;  but  somehow 
or  other  she  had  ceased  to  make  of  her  a 
confidante, — to  share  with  her  the  puzzling 
reflections  that  occur  to  every  thoughtful  girl. 
Why  this  was  so,  Dorothy  scarcely  knew  her- 
self. It  had  come  about  by  degrees,  as  do 
all  such  partial  estrangements,  and  was  a  fre- 
quent source  of  unhappiness  to  both.  Mrs. 
Crosby  complained  in  sour  moments  of  being 
lonely,  and  at  such  times  openly  grudged  the 
intimacy  that  Dorothy  enjoyed  with  Pauline 
Lawton,  a  younger  sister  of  the  vivacious 
Florence.  The  daughter  was  apt  to  remain 
silent  under  such  accusation.  She  recognized 
the  truth  of  the  statements.  She  did  tell  Pau- 
line everything,  and  concealed  her  intimate 
self  from  her  mother.  Still,  how  was  it  to  be 
remedied?  That  was  the  important  point; 
and  here  it  was  that  Dorothy  realized,  as  it 
were,  a  certain  hopelessness.  "  Mamma  does 
not  understand  me,"  she  would  say  to  herself, 
as  she  lay  recumbent  on  the  outside  of  her 
bed,  where  she  was  apt  to  throw  herself  for 
reverie  at  night  before  undressing.  "  She  does 
not  care  for  the  things  that  I  do.  My  ideas 
do  not  interest  her.  We  are  different." 

Mrs.  Crosby  was  a  plump,  easy-going  wo- 
man, between  forty-five  and  fifty.  She  had 
retained  much  of  the  vivacity  and  quickness 
of  wit  which  had  marked  her  as  a  girl,  as  well 
as  that  peculiarly  cordial  manner  which  makes 
many  Baltimoreans  so  charming.  She  wore 
habitually  the  air  of  a  belle,  as  if  wishing  the 
world  to  believe  that,  though  unlikely  seriously 
to  consider  a  second  marriage,  she  was  still 
able  to  control  her  destiny  in  this  respect.  She 
now  rarely  went  into  society  on  her  own 
account;  but  her  little  parlor  was  a  favorite 
resort  for  some  of  the  cleverest  men  in  town, 
— men  who,  like  the  hostess  herself,  were  in 
the  prime  of  middle  life.  She  delighted  to 
see  people,  and  always  had  enough  to  say, — 
a  circumstance  which  rather  tended  to  put 
poor  Dorothy,  who  had  little  of  the  maternal 
sprightliness  before  company,  in  the  shade. 
Mrs.  Crosby  was  every  inch  a  lady,  and  bore 
the  privations  of  a  very  moderate  income 
with  a  perfect  dignity.  She  had  never  wholly 
laid  aside  the  mourning  put  on  for  her  hus- 
band fifteen  years  ago.  Black  silk  was  be- 
coming to  her;  but,  apart  from  that,  she  es- 


6l2 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


chewed  gay  colors  out  of  sentiment.  She  spent 
much  of  her  leisure  in  reading  clever  French 
novels. 

Under  the  pressure  of  that  propensity  to 
analyze  their  parents  which  is  a  characteristic 
of  American  girls,  Dorothy  had  often  puzzled 
her  mind  as  to  what  her  mother  had  been 
like  at  her  age.  The  romantic  story  of  her 
parents'  runaway  match  was  of  course  familiar 
to  her,  and  had  shed,  so  to  speak,  a  wake  of 
poesy  over  her  youth.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  mamma  had  seemed  to  her  the 
very  embodiment  of  genuine  romance;  but 
that  was  long  ago.  The  change  in  the  daugh- 
ter's feelings  had,  as  has  been  said,  taken 
place  gradually ;  but  a  sense  of  reluctant  criti- 
cism had  grown  up  in  its  stead  within  her 
heart.  Her  mother  seemed  to  her,  now,  so 
indifferent  to  ideal  considerations,  so  matter- 
of-fact,  if  not  worldly,  in  her  estimates !  If  she 
did  not  laugh  at  things  which  were  sacred  to 
Dorothy,  she  took  no  interest  in  them,  or 
spoke  of  them  as  of  secondary  importance. 
It  was  perhaps,  after  all,  not  so  much  what 
Mrs.  Crosby  said  as  what  she  did  not  say 
that  troubled  the  girl.  It  was  the  apparent 
diversity  in  their  respective  plans  of  life  that 
oppressed  poor  Dorothy.  Would  she  herself 
be  like  that  some  day  ?  Was  mamma  once  as 
much  in  earnest  and  as  full  of  aspirations  as 
she  ?  How  often  would  she  ponder  these  ques- 
tions, and  the  train  of  thought  which  they  set 
in  motion,  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber ! 

She  was,  indeed,  in  earnest, — sweet,  seri- 
ous-faced Dorothy ;  and,  hand  in  hand  with 
her  idealism,  she  had  nourished  a  clear  and 
penetrating  intelligence, —  an  intelligence  that, 
moreover,  was  analytic  in  its  processes.  With 
all  her  susceptibility  to  sentimental  consider- 
ations, she  was  preeminently  a  seeker  after 
truth.  Her  mind  was  a  tribunal  where  she 
criticised  her  every  action  with  rigid  impar- 
tiality. She  liked  to  sift  things  to  the  bottom 
and  to  flood  them  with  light.  Speculation 
and  inquiry  interested  her,  and  she  was  ever 
alive  to  there  being  two  sides  to  most  ques- 
tions. Her  attitude  was  almost  judicial,  so 
deliberate  did  she  strive  to  be  in  her  judg- 
ments. She  possessed  a  strong  humorous  per- 
ception (although,  in  common  with  all  women, 
unable  to  appreciate  a  jest  at  her  own  expense) 
and  a  fund  of  irony,  which  she  did  not  hesitate 
to  employ  against  herself. 

This  habit  of  unflinching  introspection  was 
one  of  Dorothy's  chief  characteristics.  In- 
herent in  her  disposition,  which  strongly 
resembled  that  of  her  father,  it  had  been  fos- 
tered by,  or  rather  it  had  fostered  itself  upon, 
the  excellent  school  training  she  had  received. 
To  be  sure,  it  had  had  the  effect  of  making 
her,  during  the  last  year  or  two  prior  to  her 


debut,  reserved  and  conscious,  perhaps  a  lit- 
tle morbid.  But  she  had  acquired  thereby  a 
potent  grasp  over  herself.  Her  shyness  and 
self-absorption  at  that  period  had  been  a 
source  of  uneasiness  to  her  mother,  who  had 
looked  for  a  repetition  of  Mrs.  Maclane's 
vivacity.  Brimful  as  she  was  with  feeling, 
Dorothy  had  been  deficient  in  demonstra- 
tiveness;  in  fact,  she  was  never  superabun- 
dant in  animal  spirits.  Mrs.  Crosby,  having, 
after  diagnosis,  made  up  her  mind  that  her 
daughter  was  over-sentimental,  had  been 
prompted  to  present  to  Dorothy,  with  a 
greater  force  than  she  would  have  done 
otherwise,  the  desirability  of  being  more  like 
other  people, — of  being  practical.  Not  even 
after  the  ugly  duckling  had  lessened  the  ma- 
ternal solicitude  by  force  of  a  charming  trans- 
formation, did  Mrs.  Crosby  see  any  reason  to 
alter  her  opinion.  She  thought  she  understood 
the  girl  completely,  and  flattered  herself  that 
her  hints  and  nagging,  as  the  victim  called  it,  had 
done  much  to  effect  the  evolution  in  question. 

Dorothy  had  brought  away  from  school 
beliefs  that  were  simple  and  innocent.  The 
scheme  of  ethics  upon  which  her  conscien- 
tiousness had  expended  itself  was  of  a  com- 
paratively primitive  order.  The  world,  she 
had  come  to  consider,  was  a  place  where 
men  and  women  had  been  put  to  fit  them  for 
existence  in  a  future  state.  To  be  unselfish, 
and  eager  to  do  all  the  good  one  could, 
seemed  to  her  the  most  natural  thing  possible. 
Why  men  committed  crimes,  why  they  were 
sinful,  or  even  idle,  was  quite  incomprehensi- 
ble to  her.  There  was  so  much  to  do  in  life, 
and  the  time  was  so  short  in  which  to  do  it. 
Christ  had  died  to  save  men  from  their  sins ; 
and  were  they  not  willing  to  live  righteously 
for  his  sake  ?  She  would  do  so  at  least ;  she 
would  prove  herself  worthy,  so  far  as  mortal 
was  able,  of  the  great  atonement. 

What  she  was  going  to  do  had  not  been 
precisely  clear  to  her;  but  the  doubt  had 
never  entered  her  mind  but  that  the  path 
would  be  evident  enough.  It  might  be  beset 
with  temptations ;  but  were  not  faith  and 
conscience  proof  against  the  subtlest  snares  ? 
The  way  for  men  was  simpler,  perhaps ;  but 
woman's  missions,  if  more  humble,  were  none 
the  less  of  service. 

Side  by  side  in  her  breast  with  these  pure 
aspirations  had  nestled  delightful  hopes  and 
imaginings  regarding  the  social  world  where 
she  was  shortly  to  figure.  She  had  grown  to 
look  forward  to  a  brilliant  career  in  society 
as  a  natural  phase  in  a  woman's  destiny.  Th  *  j 
thought  that  she  was  only  one  of  a  small  min- 
ority of  the  earth's  inhabitants  who  spent  their 
youth  in  such  a  manner  did  not  occur  to  her ; 
or  if  it  did,  she  dwelt  upon  her  good  fortune , 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


613 


and  contrasted  it  pityingly  with  the  general 
misery.  The  doubts  and  wonderings  as  to 
whether  she  should  enjoy  herself, —  the  vague 
but  blissful  dreams  of  conquests  and  adven- 
tures, of  ideal  admirers  whose  very  suggestion 
caused  her  to  blush  in  the  dark, — had  become 
her  constant  and  absorbing  companions.  The 
thought  of  doing  otherwise  than  those  among 
whom  she  had  been  brought  up  never  pre- 
sented itself  to  her.  To  come  out  was  a  part 
of  the  ordinary  sequence  of  a  maiden's  days. 

So  from  guileless  girlhood  she  had  glided 
into  real  life ;  and  the  first  experience  of  the 
same  had  been  even  sweeter  than  anticipa- 
tion, —  sweeter  and  yet  different.  The  visions 
and  fancies  had  scarcely  fulfilled  themselves 
in  the  ways  she  had  imagined;  but  the  en- 
trancement  of  reality  was  an  intoxicating  sub- 
stitute. The  admiration  of  men  of  flesh  and 
blood  flattered  her,  even  while  she  wondered 
at  its  diversity  from  what  she  had  pictured  in 
her  maiden  musings.  She  had  been  capti- 
vated by  the  delightful  experience  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  her  own  powers,  by  the  ex- 
quisite novelty  of  being  sought  and  courted. 
With  open,  yet  dazzled  eyes,  as  in  a  delicious 
trance,  she  had  let  herself  be  swept  along  by 
the  current  of  this  strange,  new  existence. 

But  of  late  a  sense  of  awakening  had  come 
over  her, — not  an  abrupt  and  disagreeable 
experience,  but,  as  it  were,  a  slackening  of 
the  cord's  tension,  a  gentle  restoration  to 
consciousness.  The  proportions  of  things 
were  assuming  more  of  a  normal  condition, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  some  chain  of  con- 
nection between  the  new  life  and  the  old. 
And  yet,  though  painless,  this  coming  back 
to  reality  was  far  from  a  return  to  the  former 
status.  In  the  past  few  months  she  appeared 
to  have  lived  years,  and,  like  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  in  the  fable,  had  awaked  to  find  her- 
self the  same,  and  yet  different.  The  mirror 
of  fancy  upon  which  she  had  breathed  as  a 
child,  and  traced  with  facile  finger  concep- 
tions beautiful  and  fantastic  as  frost-work,  had 
been  wiped  clean  by  the  unfaltering  hand  of 
experience,  and  to-day  she  saw  therein  but 
the  reflection  of  her  own  fair  face.  Puzzled 
and  bewildered,  uncertain  and  dismayed,  she 
was  confronting  life's  reality,  and  bending  on 
its  mystery  the  strength  of  her  keen,  honest 
intelligence  and  pure  heart. 

She  lay  on  the  outside  of  her  bed  that 
night,  after  the  conversation  with  her  mother, 
her  head  resting  upon  her  clasped  hands, 
thinking.  Her  mental  glance  sped,  with  the 
swiftness  common  to  woman,  wide  over  the 
field  of  human  speculation,  touching  with 
thirsty  inquiry  on  the  dearest  interests  of 
mortality.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  What  was 
the  purpose  of  it  all  ?  What  relation  was 


there  between  the  strange  yearnings  with 
which  she  thrilled  at  times  and  the  bustling 
world  that  roared  about  her  on  every  side  ? 
She,  too,  was  one  of  the  dwellers  upon  earth, 
and  she  must  play  her  part  in  the  struggle 
of  life.  Her  part  —  what  was  her  part?  As 
she  pondered,  a  vivid  sense  of  the  incongruity 
between  the  simple  faiths  of  her  childhood 
and  the  actual  sphere  of  her  activity  came 
over  her.  Whisperings  of  such  a  kind  had 
been  heard  by  her  often  of  late,  and  they 
would  not  be  put  aside,  as  she  in  the  pleni- 
tude of  her  happiness  perhaps  would  fain  have 
put  them  aside.  What  was  she  living  for?  What 
was  she  trying  to  become — seeking  to  be  ? 

She  thought  of  her  daily  life — of  the  balls 
and  thousand  and  one  gayeties  she  enjoyed 
so  keenly,  of  the  constant  round  of  pleasure 
and  excitement.  She  delighted  in  them.  Oh, 
yes ;  they  gave  her  so  much  happiness.  But 
what  was  it  all  leading  to  ?  What  was  the 
sense  of  it  all  ?  Was  this  the  part  she  was 
put  upon  earth  to  play  ?  What  did  she  do 
in  the  course  of  the  week  that  was  useful — 
that  helped  to  smooth  the  axle  of  the  great 
world  to  which  she  belonged  ?  She  took  a  few 
lessons  in  music;  she  made  an  occasional  fly- 
ing visit  to  a  sick  friend ;  she  tore  from  street  to 
street  to  pay  formal  society  calls ;  she  went  to 
lunch  luxuriously  with  a  bevy  of  girls ;  and  at 
night  she  sallied  forth  to  dinner  and  the  ger- 
man.  There  was  the  programme.  On  Sundays 
she  went  to  church,  and,  kneeling,  vowed  at 
the  altar  of  the  true  Lord  to  live  "  a  godly,  right- 
eous, and  sober  life."  How  grim  a  mockery, 
and  how  cruel  a  satire  !  Her  thin  lip  curled 
with  the  biting  consciousness  of  the  irony. 

Ah,  yes!  But  what,  was  she  to  do?  Life 
was  real.  Life  was  practical.  She  had  come 
to  be  what  she  was,  and  had  been  placed 
where  she  was,  without  her  own  agency  or 
control.  If  she  were  to  change  her  habits, 
and  renounce  all  these  pleasant  things,  what 
should  she  do  ?  Society,  after  all,  must  exist, 
and  calls  must  be  made.  Girls  must  be  intro- 
duced to  the  world,  and  how  except  through 
the  medium  of  entertainments  ?  The  ways 
were  doubtless  exaggerated,  the  methods 
mistaken ;  but  what  was  she  to  do  if  she  did 
not  accept  them  ?  People  always  considered 
her  romantic,  and  even  peculiar.  Her  mother 
until  lately  had  looked  upon  her  as  somehow 
deficient,  and  now  that  she  was  enjoying  the 
triumph  of  success,  was  she  to  renounce  it  all  ? 
Ah,  no  !  But  still,  was  this  the  purpose  of  life  ? 
Was  there  no  better  aim  or  ambition  than  this  ? 

With  the  fatality  of  her  situation  staring 
her  in  the  face  like  a  huge  wall  of  granite, 
— or  rather,  like  a  dense  mist,  into  which 
her  aspirations  plunged  and  lost  themselves, 
—  Dorothy,  forced  back  to  earth,  turned 


614 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE   OF  ORLEANS. 


her  reflections  by  degrees  elsewhere.  To- 
gether with  these  earnest,  serious  question- 
ings, she  was  aware  of  a  sense  of  dreamy 
pleasure  that  hovered  about  her  and  asso- 
ciated itself  with  this  new  life.  What  was 
it  ?  What  did  it  mean  ?  Wherefore  did  all 
this  admiration  and  attention  excite  her  so 
greatly  ?  It  was  marvelously  agreeable.  But 
what  was  the  sense  of  it  ?  Where  would 
it  end  ?  It  did  excite  her ;  ah,  yes,  it  did 
excite  her.  And  why  ?  She  closed  her  men- 
tal eyes  and  lulled  herself  for  a  moment 
in  this  sweet  but  unfamiliar  consciousness. 
Then — slowly,  and  with  the  frightened  side- 
way  glance  of  the  miser  who  goes  to  unearth 
his  hoarded  treasure,  the  existence  of  which 
he  would,  if  questioned,  indignantly  deny — 
she  opens  her  eyes  to  gaze  upon  a  face  that 
has  glided  half  unbidden  into  her  vision. 


Turning  her  head  first,  as  it  were,  to  make 
sure  that  no  one  is  looking,  she  darts  a  stealthy, 
frightened  glance  at  her  secret.  Breathless 
and  timid,  she  examines  it  with  furtive  scrutiny, 
as  if  she  feared  lest  such  inspection  were  not 
quite  right,  or  some  hidden  peril  attended  her 
curiosity.  Her  heart  beats  mutinously,  and, 
terrified  at  last  by  its  very  fascination,  she 
shuts  her  eyes  again,  to  banish  the  intruder. 
She  has  seen  nothing, —  oh,  no  !  she  has  seen 
nothing.  Even  to  herself  she  whispers,  "  I 
have  seen  nothing  ";  and  she  clasps  her  hands 
in  the  joy  of  her  deliverance ;  or  is  it  the  un- 
uttered,  unacknowledged  consciousness  of  her 
discovery  ?  This  is  certain,  at  any  rate,  that  Mr. 
Arthur  Remington's  visiting-card — the  one 
that  accompanied  the  bouquet  he  sent  Miss 
Dorothy  Crosby  for  the  Idlewilds'  ball — lies 
concealed  in  a  secret  corner  of  her  writing-desk. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE    PRINCES    OF   THE    HOUSE    OF    ORLEANS. 


IN  the  tomb  of  the  Comte  de  Chambord 
lies  the  last  of  the  direct  line  of  Louis  XIV. 
possessing  any  claim  to  the  throne  of  France; 
he  descended  from  the  eldest  son  of  the 
Grand  Dauphin,  who  was  son  of  Louis  XIV. 
The  second  son  of  the  Grand  Dauphin  be- 
came King  of  Spain  as  Philip  V.,  and  from 
him  descended  the  families  known  respectively 
as  the  Spanish  Bourbons,  the  Bourbons  of 
Parma,  and  the  Bourbons  of  the  Two  Sicilies ; 
but,  by  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht,  Philip  formally 
renounced  for  himself  and  his  descendants 
all  claims  upon  the  throne  of  France. 

Upon  the  extinction  of  the  elder  branch  of 
the  French  Bourbons — direct  descendants  of 
Louis  XIV. — the  younger  branch,  descended 
from  the  only  brother  of  the  Great  King,  has 
taken  its  place,  and  fallen  heir  to  whatever 
rights  or  claims  it  may  have  possessed.  That 
younger  branch  is  known  as  the  house  of 
Orleans ;  it  springs  from  Philip,  Due  d'Or- 
leans,  second  son  of  Louis  XIII.,  and  only 
brother  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  its  head  is  Louis- 
Philippe-Albert,  Comte  de  Paris.  This  title 
was  borne  by  Robert  the  Strong,  the  stock 
whence  the  family  of  Capet  sprang,  and  also 
by  his  son  Eudes,  the  first  king  of  that 
Capetian  race  to  which  belongs  the  house 
of  Bourbon,  now  represented  in  France  by 
the  house  of  Orleans. 

From  the  time  ol  the  divergence  of  the  two 
branches  of  the  royal  house,  their  respective 
members  have  shown  marked  differences  of 
character  and  natural  endowments.  After 


Louis  XIV.,  no  head  of  the  elder  branch 
manifested  any  marked  strength  of  intellect, 
or  active  force  of  character  for  good  ends ; 
wedded  to  the  theory  of  Divine  Right, 
hedged  in  by  and  holding1  fast  to  the  tradi- 
tions, etiquette,  and  formality  of  the  past, 
excluded  from  all  contact  with  the  people, 
they  were  incapable  of  understanding  the  im- 
mense changes  occurring  around  them  in  the 
present,  and  bequeathed  to  their  successors  a 
future  made  infinitely  more  difficult  and  dan- 
gerous by  their  own  lack  of  energy,  wisdom, 
and  foresight. 

With  the  house  of  Orleans  it  has  been  very 
different.  Its  princes  have  always  shown 
positive  traits  of  character,  and  the  last  three 
generations,  at  least,  have  in  no  case  perverted 
to  bad  uses  the  qualities  with  which  they 
were  endowed.  All  have  been  men  of  intel- 
lect, and  have  shown  great  fondness  for  learn- 
ing, a  high  degree  of  cultivation,  and  a  desire 
to  encourage  and  protect  men  of  science  and 
letters.  Whenever  occasion  offered  they 
proved  themselves  good  and  brave  soldiers, 
capable  of  exercising  high  commands;  and 
whenever  authority  passed  into  their  hands 
they  displayed  the  qualities  of  wise  and  patri- 
otic rulers. 

Take  as  one  example  the  famous  Regent, 
known  to  many  only  as  a  man  abandoned  to 
luxury  and  debauchery.    In  his  early  youth 
he  showed  such  military  talentc  as  to  exci 
the  jealousy  of  his  uncle,  Louis  XIV.    With 
held   from    the    army   for    many   years,   h 


to 

n 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE   OF  ORLEANS. 


615 


devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  the  natural 
sciences.  Created  Regent  upon  the  death  of 
Louis  XIV.,  he  displayed  many  high  qualities 
as  a  ruler,  and  during  the  eight  years  of  his 
wise  control  the  country  rapidly  recovered 
from  the  terrible  exhaustion  caused  by  the 
long  wars  of  the  Great  King. 

The  Orleans  Princes  have  always  been  on 
the  liberal  side,  have  mingled  freely  with  men, 
have  not  been  blind  to  the  signs  of  the  times, 
and  are  honest  advocates  of  the  system  of 
constitutional  monarchy.  In  replacing  the 
extinct  elder  branch,  it  is  impossible  that 
they  should  adopt  its  peculiar  principles  and 
doctrines;  they  can  never  become  advo- 
cates of  the  divine  right  of  kings  to  govern 
as  they  please,  but  must  remain  true  to 
the  traditions  of  their  family.  That  is  to 
say,  they  recognize  the  right  of  the  French 
people  to  determine  their  own  form  of  gov- 
ernment, and  will  honestly  do  their  full  duty 
as  citizens  under  the  government  so  organized, 
be  it  republic  or  monarchy.  But  they  regard 
a  constitutional  monarchy  as  best  suited  to 
their  country;  and,  should  the  people  ever 
decide  to  replace  the  Republic  by  such  a  form 
of  government,  they  stand  ready  to  accept 
the  responsibility  and  perform  their  share  of 
the  work  as  honest  men  and  true  patriots. 
Should  this  change  ever  be  made,  it  will 
be  found  that  France  is  still  in  essence  a  re- 
public, with  a  permanent  executive,  guided 
by  more  conservative  counsels,  and  pursuing 
a  more  stable  policy  in  regard  to  internal  and 
external  affairs. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  dwell  upon  the  reign 
and  character  of  Louis  Philippe  beyond  the 
extent  necessary  to  indicate  his  influence 
upon  the  surviving  members  of  his  family. 
He  used  the  full  power  of  his  position  and 
abilities  to  increase  the  prosperity  of  France, 
to  reestablish  order,  and,  as  far  as  possible, 
preserve  peace  at  home  and  abroad;  he  re- 
organized and  vastly  increased  the  effi- 
ciency of  both  army  and  navy.  Finding  on 
his  hands  the  war  of  Algeria,  he  prosecuted 
it  with  vigor  to  a  successful  termination  ;  he 
gave  every  encouragement  to  the  arts,  litera- 
ture, and  industrial  pursuits;  under  him,  public 
works  received  a  great  impulse,  and  liberal 
legislation  was  widely  extended.  Faithful  to 
the  constitution  until  age  began  to  impair  his 
faculties,  he  yet,  toward  the  close  of  his  reign, 
seriously  injured  his  position  by  a  strong  ten- 
dency to  substitute  his  own  will  for  that  of  his 
ministers,  and  committed  grave  mistakes  in 
foreign  and  domestic  policy  which  brought 
|  about  the  Revolution  of  1848.  At  first  de- 
1  termined  to  employ  strong  measures  to  pre- 
;  serve  his  throne,  he  suddenly  gave  way  and 
i  abdicated  rather  than  sully  the  soil  of  France 


with  blood  shed  in  civil  war;  for  it  would  be 
illogical  and  uncharitable  to  attribute  to  less 
worthy  motives  the  conduct  of  the  man  who 
distinguished  himself  most  highly  at  Quevrain 
and  Valmy,  and — a  lieutenant- general  at  nine- 
teen— rallied  the  broken  column  of  Dumouriez 
by  his  personal  exertions,  and  at  its  head  carried 
the  intrenchments  of  Jemappes,  thus  convert- 
ing disaster  into  the  victory  which  secured 
the  triumph  of  his  country.  Departing  from 
the  old  traditions  of  the  divinity  which 
"  doth  hedge  a  king,"  he  gained  for  himself 
the  title  of  the  "  Bourgeois  King  "  by  his  ac- 
cessibility and  the  simplicity  of  his  family  life. 
A  devoted  husband  and  father,  he  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  education  of  his  children  all 
the  efforts  of  his  good  sense  and  the  results  of 
the  experience  gained  in  his  checkered  career 
as  a  prince  whose  early  life  was  passed  amid 
the  excitement  of  war  and  the  most  violent  of 
revolutions,  then  in  exile,  wandering  not  only 
through  Europe  but  among  the  wilds  of  our 
own  country  as  well,  and  at  last  upon  a  throne. 

Louis  Philippe  inspired  his  children  with  the 
highest  sentiments  of  patriotism,  gave  them 
an  eminently  practical  education,  afforded 
them  early  in  life  the  opportunity  of  gaining 
experience  of  affairs  and  of  sharing  the  toils 
and  dangers  of  war  with  their  fellow-country- 
men. The  result  was  that  such  a  man  as  Sir 
Robert  Peel  could  truly  speak  of  Louis  Phil- 
ippe as  a  Frenchman  all  of  whose  sons  were 
brave  and  all  his  daughters  virtuous.  The  sons 
of  Louis  Philippe  were,  in  the  order  of  age, 
the  Due  d'Orleans,  the  Due  de  Nemours,  the 
Prince  de  Joinville,  the  Due  d'Aumale,  and 
the  Due  de  Montpensier ;  his  daughters  were 
the  Princesse  Louise,  married  to  King  Leo- 
pold of  Belgium,  the  Princesse  Marie,  married 
to  Prince  Alexander  of  Wurtemberg,  and  the 
Princesse  Clementine,  married  to  Prince  Au- 
gust of  Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. 

Ferdinand,  Due  d'Orleans,  was  born  at 
Palermo  in  1810.  When  the  revolution  of 
1830  broke  out,  he  was  colonel  of  a  regiment 
of  hussars.  He  took  a  prominent  part  in 
the  Antwerp  siege  of  1832,  commanding  the 
advanced  guard.  In  1835  he  was  ordered  to 
Algeria,  and  bore  an  active  personal  part  in 
the  campaign  of  that  year.  In  1836  he  organ- 
ized the  Chasseurs  de  Vincennes,  now  known 
as  the  Chasseurs-a-pied, — picked  battalions 
of  light  and  active  riflemen,  who  have  often 
since  more  than  justified  their  organization. 
He  afterward  served  much  in  Africa,  and 
always  with  distinction.  He  was  killed  in 
1842,  by  being  thrown  from  his  carriage.  He 
was  immensely  popular,  and  his  death  was 
regarded  as  a  national  loss;  for  he  possessed 
all  the  qualities  of  mind  and  person  which 
were  calculated  to  endear  him  to  the  people, 


6i6 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE    OF  ORLEANS. 


and  all  felt  that  the  nation  had  lost  in  him  one 
who  would  have  made  an  excellent  ruler. 

In  1837  he  married  the  Princess  Helene 
of  Mecklenburg-Schwerin,  a  Lutheran.  She 
was  in  every  respect  a  superior  woman,  unit- 
ing practical  common  sense  with  a  brilliant  in- 
tellect and  a  poetic  temperament.  Although 
she  was  very  young  when  she  left  her  native 
place,  her  memory  is  still  cherished  there 
with  the  tenderest  affection.  During  the  long 
years  after  her  husband's  death,  she  gave 
herself  to  the  care  of  her  children  with  a  de- 
votion and  good  sense  which  produced  the 
happiest  results.  She  had  two  sons,  the 
Comte  de  Paris  and  the  Due  de  Chartres. 
The  Count  is  now  forty-five  years  of  age,  and 
was  nearly  ten  when  the  revolution  occurred 
which  deprived  his  family  of  the  throne  and 
drove  them  into  exile. 

Many  who  read  these  pages  will  remember 
the  impression  pmade  upon  them  at  the  time 
by  the  story  of  the  young  and  widowed  mother 
who,  on  the  24th  of  February,  1848,  with  her 
two  children,  in  vain  sought  refuge  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies ;  driven  thence  by  the 
mob,  she  with  her  elder  child  escaped  with 
no  little  difficulty  to  Bligny,  where,  on  the 
second  day,  they  were  joined  by  the  younger 
boy,  who  had  been  rescued  by  a  friend. 
Within  a  few  days  they  crossed  the  frontier 
to  Belgium,  whence  they  repaired  to  Eisenach, 
remaining  there  until  the  summer  of  1849, 
when  they  rejoined  the  rest  of  the  family  at 
Claremont,  not  far  from  London.  Here  the 
King  died,  and  around  this  place  the  family 
clustered  until  the  death  of  Queen  Amelie,  in 
1866. 

One  of  the  most  pleasant  pictures  of  home 
life  imaginable  was  that  at  Claremont  during 
the  last  years  of  Queen  Ame"lie.  Her  children 
gathered  around  her,  and,  wanderers  as  they 
were,  always  returned  to  her  side.  Having 
lost  the  country  they  loved  so  well,  they 
seemed  to  find  their  compensation  in  the 
tender  care  and  affection  they  lavished  on 
this  gentle  lady,  who,  while  preserving  her 
royal  dignity,  never  allowed  those  around  her 
to  forget  that  she  was  at  the  same  time  a  lov- 
ing and  most  lovable  woman.  Under  the  super- 
vision of  their  mother  and  uncles,  and  with 
the  ablest  instructors,  the  two  children  of  the 
Duchesse  d'Orleans  here  passed  their  boy- 
hood, and  received  an  education  which  never 
lost  sight  of  the  former  position  of  their  family 
and  the  possibility  of  their  return  to  France, 
clothed  with  the  responsibilities  of  power. 
Both  body  and  mind  were  highly  cultivated. 

Early  in  life  the  differences  in  their  dispo- 
sitions manifested  themselves :  the  elder  calm, 
reflective,  and  self-poised,  the  younger  im- 
petuous and  full  of  fire;  the  one  gradually 


developing  the  qualities  of  a  statesman  and 
ruler,  the  other  those  of  a  soldier;  both  of 
excellent  ability,  each  in  his  own  direction. 
So  far  back  as  the  time  when  they  first 
crossed  the  channel  from  Germany  to  Clare- 
mont, their  mother  wrote  in  regard  to  their 
bearing  under  the  horrors  of  sea-sickness: 
"  One  suffered  in  patience,  thinking  only  of 
those  who  took  care  of  him ;  the  other,  ex- 
hibited an  ill-suppressed  fury  against  an  ill- 
ness whose  inexorable  power  he  was  unwilling 
to  accept." 

Later  in  life,  those  who  saw  them  in  battle 
observed  the  same  characteristics.  One  of 
their  comrades  during  our  war  speaks  of  the 
Count  as  "  a  gentleman,  in  our  sense  of  the 
word,  imbued  with  the  true  sense  of  duty, 
with  whom  the  motto, '  Noblesse  oblige]  meant 
something  more  than  words.  At  the  battle  of 
Gaines's  Mill,  where  I  saw  him  under  fire,  he 
carried  himself  with  perfect  self-possession, 
and  displayed  courage  of  such  an  unassuming 
character  that  I  remember  being  much  im- 
pressed by  his  bearing.  It  was  that  of  an 
earnest,  gallant,  God-fearing  man,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  trial."  The  young  Duke  was  in  those 
days  a  dashing  sabreur,  seeking  danger  for 
danger's  sake,  and  never  quite  so  happy  as 
when  under  fire. 

Until  their  mother's  death,  in  1858,  the 
young  Princes  remained  at  Claremont,  occa- 
sionally traveling  in  Germany,  where  the 
elder,  especially,  spent  much  time. 

In  the  fall  of  1858  the  Count  traveled  in 
Spain,  while  his  brother  served  in  Italy;  and 
in  the  following  year  the  brothers  traveled  in 
the  East,  visiting  Egypt,  Mt.  Sinai,  the  Holy 
Land,  Syria,  Constantinople,  and  Greece. 
They  happened  to  be  in  Syria  at  the  time  of 
the  Mt.  Lebanon  massacres,  and  in  1865  the 
Count  published  a  work  on  that  subject,  un- 
der the  title  of  "  Damascus  and  the  Lebanon." 

In  August,  1 86 1,  the  two  brothers,  accom- 
panied by  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  sailed  for 
New  York.  Toward  the  close  of  September 
they  arrived  in  Washington,  and  the,  young 
Princes  at  once  received  authority  from  the 
President  to  enter  the  army  as  aides-de-camp, 
being  permitted  to  serve  without  taking  the 
oath  of  allegiance,  and  without  pay;  it  was 
also  understood  that  they  should  be  permitted 
to  leave  the  service  should  family  or  political 
exigencies  require  it.  They  were  borne 
the  army  register  as  Louis  Philippe  d'Orl( 
and  Robert  d'Orleans,  additional  aid< 
camp  in  the  regular  army,  with  the  rank 
captain,  and  were  assigned  to  the  staff  of  the 
Major-General  commanding  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac.  The  Prince  de  Joinville  acceptc 
no  rank,  and  simply  accompanied  head-qu£ 
ers,  on  the  invitation  of  the  general  commj 


f  the 

i 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE   OF  ORLEANS. 


617 


ing,  as  an  amateur  and  friend.  The  position 
held  by  these  "young  gentlemen"  —  as  the 
Prince  de  Joinville  always  designated  them — 
was  not  free  from  difficulties.  Princes  who 
might  at  any  time  be  called  upon  to  assume 
their  places  in  the  government  of  a  great  na- 
tion, yet  serving  in  the  army  of  a  republic 
whose  cause  was  not  regarded  with  very 
friendly  eyes  by  the  existing  government  of 
their  own  country,  they  had  many  contra- 
dictions to  reconcile,  many  embarrassments  to 
overcome.  Connected  by  family  ties  with  so 
many  of  the  royal  families  of  Europe,  always 
received  by  them  as  of  royal  rank,  the  elder 
regarded  by  so  many  in  France  as  the  rightful 
heir  to  the  throne,  they  could  never  lose  sight 
of  the  dignity  of  their  position,  while  it  was  at 
the  same  time  necessary  for  them  to  perform 
their  duties  in  a  subordinate  grade,  and  to  win 
the  confidence  and  friendship  of  their  new 
comrades,  who  were  sure  to  weigh  men  by 
their  personal  qualities  and  abilities,  not  by 
their  social  position  across  the  Atlantic.  Their 
task  was  accomplished  with  complete  success, 
for  they  gained  the  full  confidence,  respect, 
and  regard  of  their  commander  and  their  com- 
rades. From  the  moment  they  entered  the 
service,  they  were  called  upon  to  perform 
precisely  the  same  duties  and  in  precisely  the 
same  manner  as  their  companions  on  the 
personal  staff  of  their  commander. 

In  the  dull  routine  of  office  work,  in  the 
intelligent  analysis  of  reports  in  regard  to 
the  number  and  position  of  the  enemy,  in  the 
labor  of  organizing  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
in  long  and  fatiguing  rides  with  their  general, 
whether  through  the  widely  extended  camps 
around  Washington,  or  from  column  to  col- 
umn in  the  field,  in  accompanying  advanced 
guards  and  cavalry  detachments,  in  carrying 
orders  by  day  and  night  in  storm  and  rain, 
in  the  performance  of  their  duties  on  great 
battle-fields,  they  were  excelled  by  none  in 
the  alacrity,  tact,  courage,  and  intelligence 
with  which  their  work  was  done.  Far  from 
evincing  any  desire  to  avoid  irksome,  fatigu- 
ing, or  dangerous  duty,  they  always  sought 
it,  and  were  never  so  happy  as  when  some 
such  work  devolved  upon  them,  and  never 
failed  to  display  the  high  qualities  of  a  race 
of  soldiers. 

Their  conduct  was  characterized  by  an  in- 
nate love  for  a  soldier's  life,  by  an  intense 
desire  to  perfect  themselves  in  the  profession 
of  arms  by  actual  experience  of  war  on  a 
large  scale,  and  by  unswerving  devotion  to 
duty.  Not  only  this,  their  heads  and  hearts 
were  with  us  in  our  hour  of  trial,  and  I  be- 
lieve that,  next  to  their  own  France,  they  most 
love  this  country,  for  which  they  so  freely  and 
so  often  exposed  their  lives  on  the  field  of  battle. 


Soon  after  the  beginning  of  the  peninsular 
campaign,  the  Princes  were  strongly  urged 
by  their  friends  at  home  to  return  at  once  to 
England,  partly  to  receive  the  large  numbers 
of  their  adherents  expected  to  attend  the 
Exhibition  of  1862,  and  partly  because  the 
French  expedition  to  Mexico  had  greatly 
strained  the  relations  between  this  country 
and  France.  They  persisted  in  remaining 
with  the  army  until  the  close  of  the  Seven 
Days,  and  left  only  when  assured  that  the  im- 
mediate resumption  of  the  attack  on  Rich- 
mond was  improbable.  Had  the  prompt  receipt 
of  reinforcements  rendered  a  new  advance 
practicable,  it  is  certain  that  no  considerations 
would  have  withdrawn  them  from  the  field 
until  the  completion  of  the  operations  against 
Richrnond.  Although  warmly  attached  to 
them  and  very  unwilling  to  lose  their  services, 
their  commander  fully  recognized  the  impera- 
tive nature  of  the  reasons  for  their  departure, 
and  entirely  acquiesced  in  the  propriety  of 
their  prompt  return  to  Europe. 

In  a  letter  accompanying  his  formal  resig- 
nation, the  Count  wrote : 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  inclose  my  resignation  in  the 
form  you  indicated.  You  know  the  imperious  circum- 
stances which  recall  my  brother  and  myself  to  Europe. 
It  is  with  deep  emotion  that  we  separate  ourselves 
from  an  army  whose  destinies  we  have  so  long  shared, 
and  in  whose  ranks  we  have  met  with  so  cordial  a  re- 
ception. We  are  happy  that  we  could  at  least  delay 
our  departure  long  enough  to  be  present  with  you 
at  the  great  events  of  the  last  few  days.  ..." 

The  Due  de  Chartres  wrote : 

"  It  is  with  the  greatest  sentiment  of  regret  and  sor- 
row that  I  feel  myself  obliged  to  tender  you  my  resigna- 
tion. .  .  .  You  know,  General,  all  the  numerous  and 
important  reasons  which  call  us  back  to  Europe,  and  I 
hope  you  do  not  doubt  that,  if  it  had  been  possible,  I 
should  have  remained  with  you  longer.  .  .  .  It  is 
a  sad  feeling  for  a  soldier  to  quit  his  general  and  his 
fellow  officers  when  they  are  still  face  to  face  with  the 
enemy,  but  I  feel  perfectly  confident  that  every  day 
new  successes  will  enlarge  the  glory  of  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac  and  the  reputation  of  its  commander.  I 
am  glad  that,  although  I  was  sick,  I  remained  some 
days  more  with  you,  and  was  able  to  witness  all  the 
important  events  of  last  week.  I  must  also  say  that, 
leaving  the  army  when  the  difficult  movement  of 
changing  its  basis  of  operation  is  finished,  makes  me 
feel  much  more  safe  as  to  the  result  of  the  campaign, 
and  I  feel  perfectly  confident  that,  if  proper  means  are 
furnished  to  you,  General,  I  will  soon  hear  of  your 
entering  Richmond.  ..." 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  presence  of 
the  Prince  de  Joinville  with  his  nephews ;  he 
remained  with  them  until  their  departure. 
The  Prince  also  brought  with  him  to  this 
country  his  son,  the  Due  de  Penthievre, 
whom  he  placed  at  the  Naval  Academy,  then 
located  at  Newport.  The  young  Duke  passed 
through  the  school  with  much  credit,  and,  en- 
tering our  navy,  acquired  the  rank  of  lieu- 
tenant before  he  left  it. 


6i8 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE   OF  ORLEANS. 


From  their  return  to  Europe  until  the 
Franco-German  War  of  1870,  the  young 
Princes  occupied  themselves  with  travel  and 
literary  pursuits.  Soon  after  the  termination 
of  our  war,  the  Comte  de  Paris  undertook 
the  difficult  task  of  writing  an  elaborate  his- 
tory of  that  remarkable  contest.  He  brought 
to  the  work  an  amount  of  literary  skill,  im- 
partiality, good  judgment,  and  patient  labor 
which  have,  in  the  opinion  of  many  compe- 
tent judges,  placed  it  at  the  head  of  the  his- 
tories of  the  Civil  War.  In  the  collection  of 
data  he  has  spared  neither  labor  nor  ex- 
pense. The  arrangement  of  material,  the 
opinions  expressed,  the  literary  composition 
are  all  his  own,  and  it  is,  in  the  strictest  sense 
of  the  words,  his  own  work,  and  not  that  of 
another  over  his  name.  The  first  volume  ap- 
peared in  1874 ;  the  sixth,  which  has  appeared 
during  the  current  year,  includes  Gettysburg 
and  Mine  Run,  While  preparing  for  this  im- 
portant work,  he  engaged  in  other  literary 
labors  of  an  entirely  different  nature. 

On  his  return  from  this  country  he  found 
the  "  cotton  famine  "  at  its  height,  and  soon 
went  to  Manchester,  where  he  carefully  stud- 
ied the  vast  system  organized  in  aid  of  the 
suffering  population  of  Lancashire.  For  the 
purpose  of  giving  the  information  necessary 
to  organize  a  similar  system  in  France,  he 
wrote  an  article  entitled  "  Christmas  Week  in 
Lancashire."  As  the  Imperial  Government 
would  not  permit  the  publication  in  France 
of  any  article  over  the  name  of  an  Orleans 
Prince,  the  article  was  published  in  the 
"  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  February  i, 
1863,  over  the  name  of  "Eugene  Forcade." 

His  interest  being  aroused  by  this  prelim- 
inary study  of  the  condition  of  the  working 
classes,  he  pursued  the  subject  with  great 
ardor,  and  in  1869  published  an  extended 
work  on  "  The  Trades- Unions  in  England." 
This  book  met  with  great  success,  and  is 
remarkable  for  the  abundance  and  accuracy 
of  the  information  which  it  contains,  the  wis- 
dom of  its  conclusions,  and  the  candor,  liber- 
ality, and  elevation  of  its  sentiments.  The 
concluding  chapter  on  "  The  Future  of  Trades- 
Unions  and  Political  Liberty  "  is  really  a  sum- 
mary of  the  writer's  views  on  one  of  the  most 
important  functions  of  government.  He  ad- 
vocates the  broadest  political  liberty,  an  en- 
tirely free  press,  and  the  unlimited  right  to 
form  associations,  to  meet  and  to  discuss  all 
political,  social,  and  economical  questions,  in 
the  clear  light  of  open  day,  as  the  best  and 
only  means  of  preventing  those  outbursts  of 
popular  passion  which,  fostered  by  repression 
and  the  natural  tendency  to  seek  refuge  in 
secret  societies,  have  so  often  proved  fatal 
in  Europe.  He  thinks  that  it  is  only  by  free 


discussion  that  extreme  views  can  be  cor- 
rected and  sound  conclusions  reached.  This 
chapter —  and  in  fact  the  entire  work  —  will 
amply  repay  perusal  on  the  part  of  any  one 
interested  in  that  great  question  of  the  present 
and  future,  the  relations  of  capital  and  labor. 
In  this  book  he  also  takes  the  ground  that 
it  would  be  right  to  apply,  wherever  possible, 
the  system  of  participation  in  profits. 

In  1867  he  published  in  the  "Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  "  an  article  on  "  The  New  Ger- 
many," and  in  1870  one  on  "  The  Spirit  of 
Conquest  in  1870."  In  these  he  clearly  ex- 
plained the  then  condition  of  Germany — a 
state  of  transition  from  a  disunited  group  of 
large  and  small  states,  with  differing  laws, 
interests,  and  systems  of  government,  into 
one  vast  concentrated  empire.  He  argues 
that,  having  become  a  great  military  power, 
Germany  must  necessarily  become  also  a 
great  naval  and  colonial  power,  and  that,  to 
satisfy  this  new  ambition  and  give  scope  to 
the  mercantile  aptitude  of  its  people,  it  must 
eventually  seek  to  gain  control  of  Holland. 

In  1868  he  published  an  article  on  "The 
State  Church  and  the  Free  Church  in  Ireland." 

In  1864  the  Count  married  his  cousin,  the 
Princesse  Isabelle,  daughter  of  the  Due  de 
Montpensier  and  of  the  Princesse  Marie,  sister 
of  Queen  Isabella  II.  of  Spain.  This  marriage 
has  been  in  every  respect  a  most  happy  one, 
for  the  Countess  possesses  a  very  high  order 
of  intelligence,  and  all  the  qualities  necessary 
to  insure  the  happiness  of  her  husband  and 
children,  whether  in  private  life  or  on  the 
throne.  They  have  four  children,  the  Prin- 
cesse Amelie,born  in  1865, the  Due  d'Orleans, 
born  in  1869,  the  Princesse  Helene,  in  1871, 
and  the  Princesse  Isabelle,  in  1878. 

When  the  disasters  of  the  war  of  1870  be- 
gan, the  Count,  like  the  other  members  of  his 
family,  sought  permission  to  enter  the  French 
army;  being  flatly  refused,  he  had  no  alter- 
native but  to  wait,  as  patiently  as  he  could, 
the  termination  of  the  war.  At  last,  in  1871, 
the  National  Assembly  revoked  the  decree  of 
exile,  and  the  Orleans  family  were  permitted 
to  return  to  their  country.  In  a  letter  from 
Twickenham,  dated  March,  1871,  the  Count 
writes:  "The  curse  of  civil  war  has  been 
added  to  our  other  misfortunes,  .  .  .  but  all 
honest  men  are  decided  to  uphold  the  author- 
ity of  the  government  established  by  univers 
suffrage.  .  .  .  But  we  all  ardently  hope 
the  law  of  exile  will  soon  be  abolished,  and 
shall  then  return  quietly  to  our  native  count 
there  to  serve  her  according  to  our  means, 
the  country  herself  may  think  best.  I  really 
not  know  what  our  best  friends  could  wish  for 
beyond  that.  What  the  future  government 
France  will  be  is  still  a  very  obscure  questio 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE    OF  ORLEANS. 


619 


We  have  to  fear  two  dangers :  Anarchy  and 
Caesarism.  Whatever  government  will  pre- 
serve us  from  them  will  be  the  one  we  should 
take  and  keep,  be  it  Republic  or  Monarchy." 
Not  long  after  their  return  from  exile,  the 
confiscation  of  the  Orleans  property  was  re- 
voked and  they  reentered  upon  its  possession. 
The  original  confiscation  was  an  act  of  spo- 
liation, and  a  violation  of  the  rights  of  private 
property. 

Since  1871,  the  Comte  de  Paris  has  resided 
in  France,  often  traveling  on  the  Continent. 
For  some  years  his  residence  has  been  the 
Chateau  d'Eu,  on  the  coast  of  Normandy,  a 
few  miles  east  of  Dieppe.  The  present  chateau 
was  erected  in  1578,  by  Henry  of  Guise  —  le 
Balafre —  on  the  site  of  an  older  castle  in 
which  Harold  of  England  visited  William 
the  Conqueror.  It  was  enlarged  and  im- 
proved by  Louis  Philippe,  who  received 
Queen  Victoria  here  in  1843.  When  the 
Comte  de  Paris  recovered  possession,  the 
chateau  and  its  grounds  were  in  a  state  of 
dilapidation,  for  they  had  been  completely 
neglected  under  the  Empire.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  three  or  four  rooms,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  restore  the  whole  interior.  All  the 
pictures  and  furniture  have  been  brought 
back  from  England,  and  the  long  suites  of 
galleries  and  apartments  are  once  more  hung 
|  with  pictures  and  the  portraits  of  the  Guises 
and  other  historical  characters,  and  decorated 
with  fine  old  furniture,  beautiful  porcelain, 
and  innumerable  objects  of  art.  The  superb 
suite  of  rooms  called  the  royal  apartments  is 
now  hung  with  hundreds  of  Hispano-Moor- 
ish  plaques,  producing  a  very  brilliant  effect. 
|  The  kitchens  have  been  rebuilt,  and  are 
I  models  of  modern  convenience ;  an  artesian 
,  well  has  been  completed,  an  ice  factory  estab- 
'  lished.  The  grounds  have  been  largely  extended 
;  and  laid  out  with  all  the  resources  of  landscape 
!  gardening, —  presenting  every  variety  of  effect, 
;from  the  somber  grove  of  ancient  beeches, 
historical  from  their  association  with  le  Balafre, 
and  the  heavy  masses  of  trees  shading  the  long 
line  of  the  more  elevated  terraces,  to  the  shrub- 
bery, the  brilliant  masses  of  flowers,  the  little 
lakes  and  canals  irrigating  the  rich  greensward 
of  the  low  ground  bordering  the  Bresle.  The 
stables  at  the  chateau,  the  adjacent  farms, — 
all  in  perfect  condition, — with  their  kennels, 
model  stables  for  hunters,  farming  animals  and 
cows,  barns  and  sheds,  accommodation  for 
farm  hands,  are  worth  study  as  examples  of 
the  most  advanced  improvement.  All  that 
money,  taste,  and  skill  can  accomplish  has 
been  done,  under  the  Count's  direction,  to 
make  this  one  of  the  most  pleasant  and  com- 
fortable homes  in  Europe. 
Adjoining  the  estate,  and  belonging  to  it, 


there  is  a  forest,  many  miles  in  extent,  abound- 
ing in  wild  boar,  which  are  hunted  every  au- 
tumn. The  grounds  of  the  chateau  extend  to 
the  sea,  close  to  the  little  watering-place  of 
Treport.  Nothing  could  be  more  attractive 
than  the  home  life  in  this  chateau,  where,  sur- 
rounded by  every  comfort  and  by  everything 
that  can  gratify  the  most  cultivated  taste,  the 
utmost  simplicity  prevails  in  a  family  united  by 
affection  and  mutual  respect.  The  Countess, 
full  of  activity  and  kindness,  not  content  with 
the  cares  inseparable  from  such  an  establish- 
ment, finds  ample  time  to  devote  herself  to 
the  well-being  of  her  poorer  neighbors.  The 
family  have  the  love  and  respect  of  all  around 
them,  and  as  they  pass  along  the  roads  all 
the  people  of  the  country — even  the  stanch 
republicans  —  halt  as  they  meet,  and,  with 
a  cordial  smile  of  pleasure,  salute  "  Mon- 
seigneur"  or  "Madame." 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  whenever  the 
Orleans  family  are  thrown  in  personal  con- 
tact with  Frenchmen,  of  whatever  political 
bias,  they  seem  to  gain  their  respect  and  kind 
feeling,  and  are  always  received  with  the  so- 
cial deference  due  the  former  position  of  their 
family  in  the  state.  Their  bearing  is  certainly 
admirable;  for,  while  never  encouraging  orper- 
mitting  familiarity,  there  is  in  their  manner  to 
the  world  in  general  a  simple  dignity  and  self- 
respect,with  no  touch  of  superciliousness,  which 
permits  them  to  exercise  their  natural  cordial- 
ity without  danger  of  being  misunderstood. 

The  Comte  de  Paris  holds  the  commission 
of  a  lieutenant-colonel  of  infantry  in  the  terri- 
torial army,  and  conscientiously  performs  the 
duties  of  his  rank. 

THE  Due  de  Chartres  is  essentially  a  sol- 
dier ;  his  bearing,  his  tastes,  the  character  of 
his  mind,  all  indicate  that  he  was  intended 
by  nature  for  the  profession  of  arms.  In 
1858  he  entered  the  special  military  school  at 
Turin,  and  when  the  Austrian  war  of  the  fol- 
lowing year  broke  out,  he  was  appointed  sub- 
lieutenant in  the  cavalry  regiment  of  Nice. 
On  this  occasion  King  Victor  Emmanuel  de- 
sired him  to  select  a  saddle-horse  from  the 
royal  stables,  and  it  is  characteristic  of  the 
Duke  that  he  chose  an  animal  of  pure  white, 
which  rendered  his  rider  a  most  conspicuous 
mark  for  the  enemy.  His  regiment  bore  its 
full  share  in  the  combats  and  battles  of  the 
campaign,  and  he  won  his  way,  step  by  step, 
to  the  grade  of  captain.  After  fighting  by  the 
side  of  the  French  troops,  he  gained  the  re- 
gard of  his  own  countrymen  as  well  as  that  of 
his  Italian  comrades,  and  such  men  as  Cial- 
dini  and  Fanti  spoke  of  him  as  an  officer  who, 
instead  of  seeking  a  sinecure  position  under 
the  pretense  of  witnessing  great  operations, 


620 


THE  PRINCES   OP  THE  HOUSE    OF  ORLEANS. 


studied  war  in  his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  gal- 
lantly did  his  duty  under  fire. 

Leaving  the  Italian  service  at  the  close  of 
the  war,  he  came  to  this  country  and  entered 
our  army,  as  has  already  been,  related.  Like 
his  brother,  he  traveled  much  and  engaged  in 
literary  pursuits.  In  1869,  under  the  title  of 
"A  Visit  to  some  Battle-fields  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Rhine,"  he  published  an  excellent  resume 
of  several  noted  campaigns  in  that  region. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  same  year  ap- 
peared "  The  Campaigns  of  the  Army  of  Africa, 
from  1835  to  1839,  by  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
published  by  his  sons."  For  this  the  Comte  de 
Paris  prepared  the  preface,  and  the  Due  de 
Chartres  an  introduction  which  in  concise 
terms  gave  an  admirable  history  of  the  events 
prior  to  1835,  when  his  father's  narrative  took 
up  the  thread  of  the  story. 

Immediately  after  the  battle  of  Sedan,  the 
Duke  accompanied  his  uncles  de  Joinville 
and  d'Aumale  to  Paris,  where  they  in  vain 
renewed  their  application  to  be  permitted  to 
serve  in  one  of  the  French  armies;  failing  in  the 
effort,  they  were  obliged  to  return  to  England. 
On  the  25th  of  September  de  Joinville  and 
de  Chartres  quietly  disappeared  from  their 
homes,  and  a  few  days  afterward  a  young 
man  offered  himself  for  enlistment  as  a  private 
soldier  in  a  battalion  of  Mobiles  at  Rouen; 
but  being  required  to  establish  his  identity, 
he  departed.  On  the  same  day  one  Robert 
le  Fort,  recently  arrived  from  America,  was 
accepted  as  a  captain  of  National  Guards  on 
the  staff  of  the  officer  commanding  the  Na- 
tional Guards  of  the  department.  This  le 
Fort  was  the  Due  de  Chartres,  and  his  iden- 
tity was  confided  to  his  commanding  officer 
—  a  devoted  friend  of  the  family  —  only  after 
the  failure  to  enlist  as  a  private  soldier.  He 
was  at  first  assigned  to  the  command  of  a 
small  detachment  of  volunteer  cavalry — "  les 
£claireurs  de  la  Seine-Inferieure"  With  them 
he  performed  such  active  and  gallant  service 
that  his  commanding  general — Briant — ob- 
tained for  him  the  commission  of  chef  d'esca- 
dron  in  the  General  Staff  corps  of  the  regular 
army.  While  at  Cherbourg  his  general  was 
greatly  inconvenienced  by  the  total  lack  of 
maps  of  the  country,  whereupon  de  Chartres 
offered  to  obtain  them  if  given  thirty-six  hours' 
leave  of  absence.  This  being  granted  by 
the  general,  who  had  no  suspicion  as  to  the 
real  name  of  his  staff  officer,  he  crossed  the 
Channel,  went  to  his  home  near  London,  and 
returned  within  the  specified  time  with  a  full 
collection  of  the  General  Staff  maps.  The 
secret  of  his  identity  was  so  well  guarded  that, 
in  a  spirit  of  well-meant  kindness,  the  Prus- 
sian royal  family  caused  inquiries  to  be  made 
of  the  Due  d'Aumale  as  to  the  name  under 


which  he  served,  so  that,  if  he  were  taken 
prisoner,  awkward  mistakes  might  be  avoided. 
To  this  the  Due  d'Aumale  replied :  "  Chartres 
is  where  he  ought  to  be."  If  you  take  him  pris- 
oner, shoot  him,  hang  him,  burn  him,  if  you 
choose.  He  is  doing  his  duty,  and  we  will 
not  reveal  the  name  under  which  he  conceals 
himself  to  perform  it." 

Upon  the  signature  of  the  preliminaries  of 
peace,  the  supplementary  corps  were  dis- 
banded, and  de  Chartres  returned  to  Eng- 
land. When  the  insurrection  of  the  Com- 
mune broke  out  he  went  to  France  and  of- 
fered his  services  to  the  Government,  but 
was  not  received,  because  the  great  numbers 
of  officers  just  returned  from  captivity  in 
Germany  were  regarded  as  possessing  a  prior 
claim  to  employment.  But,  impelled  by  his 
adventurous  spirit,  he  entered  Paris,  and  was 
present  at  the  bloody  disturbance  in  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix  on  the  22d  of  March,  narrowly 
escaping  the  danger  of  falling  into  the  hands 
of  the  Commune.  About  this  time  he  was 
recommended  by  General  Chanzy  as  a  Chev- 
alier of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  under  the  name 
of  le  Fort;  which  honor  was,  however,  will- 
ingly awarded  him  under  his  true  name. 

Shortly  afterward,  subject  to  the  ratifica- 
tion of  the  Assembly,  he  was  assigned  to  the 
Third  regiment  of  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  and 
commanded  the  three  squadrons  acting  with 
the  column  of  General  Saussier,  marching  on 
Batna  and  against  Bou-Mezrog.  Here,  as 
usual,  he  distinguished  himself. 

After  two  campaigns  in  the  Sahara,  in 
1872  and  1873,  he  was  finally  confirmed  in 
his  rank  as  chef  d'escadron  by  the  "  Com- 
mission des  Grades."  In  1875  he  was  pro- 
moted to  a  lieutenant-colonelcy  in  the  Eighth 
Dragoons,  and  in  1878  to  the  colonelcy  of  the 
Twelfth  Chasseurs.  He  was  recommended 
by  his  superiors  for  the  rank  of  general  of 
brigade,  and  was  regarded  as  one  of  the 
very  best  colonels  of  cavalry  in  the  army, 
having  brought  his  regiment  to  the  finest 
condition.  On  the  23d  of  February,  1883, 
during  the  excitement  caused  by  the  ill- 
advised  proclamation  of  Prince  Napoleon,  he , 
was  dismissed  from  his  command  in  the  most 
brutal  manner. 

Immediately  after  his  removal,  which  he 
bore  with  great  dignity  and  propriety,  he 
undertook  a  journey  through  the  Crimea, 
Persia,  Astrakhan,  and  the  Russian  cities,  from 
which  he  has  just  returned. 

In  1863  he  married  his  cousin,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Prince  de  Joinville ;  they  have  twc. 
sons  and  two  daughters. 

THE  Due  de  Nemours  is  of  a  retiring  dis 
position,  but  is  regarded  by  those  who 


knov 


THE   PRINCES   OF   THE  HOUSE    OF  ORLEANS. 


621 


him  well  as  a  man  of  excellent  judgment  and'a 
sound  adviser.    In  his  youth  he  bore  an  active 
part  in  the  siege  of  Antwerp  and  in  the  Alge- 
rian  war,  where  he   acquitted   himself  with 
much  credit.    It  is  no  doubt  due  to  his  quiet 
temperament  that  he  has  been  less  conspicu- 
ous than  his  brothers.    He  bears  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  portraits  of  Henri  IV.    He 
I    married  a  Princess  of  Saxe-Coburg,  who  died 
I    in    1857,  leaving  four  children.    The  eldest 
j    son,   the   Comte   d'Eu,  married   the   Crown 
Princess  of  Brazil,  heiress  to  the  throne,  and 
commanded  the  allied   armies    in    the  final 
operations  against  Lopez  in  Paraguay. 

The  second  son,  the  Due  d'Alengon,  is  a 
captain  of  artillery  in  the  French  army,  and 
married  a  Bavarian  princess. 
I 

THE  Prince  de  Joinville  was  educated  as  a 
sailor.  He  first  went  to  sea  at  the  early  age 
of  thirteen,  and,  passing  the  greater  part  of 
I  his  time  on  active  service,  worked  his  way 
;  up  through  the  various  grades,  until  in  1838 
I  he  commanded  the  corvette  Creole  in  the  at- 
I  tack  on  Vera  Cruz.  Here  he  not  only  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  handling  his  ship  dur- 
ing the  bombardment  of  San  Juan  d'Ulloa, 
but  when  the  columns  of  attack  were  landed 
he  forced  the  gates  of  Vera  Cruz  at  the  head 
of  his  sailors,  and,  after  a  sharp  contest  in  the 
houses,  took  General  Arista  prisoner  with  his 
own  hands.  For  his  service  he  was  made  a  post 
captain  and  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 
In  1840  he  was  assigned  to  the  command 
of  the  frigate  La  Belle  Poule,  and  charged 
with  the  removal  of  the  remains  of  Napoleon 
from  St.  Helena  to  France.  After  this  he 
cruised  on  our  coast,  visiting  Philadelphia 
and  Boston,  and  thence  to  the  coasts  of  Africa 
and  Brazil,  where,  in  1843,  he  married  the 
•Princess  Frangoise  of  Brazil,  sister  of  the 
i  present  Emperor.  In  the  same  year  he  was 
;made  a  rear-admiral,  and  thereafter  took  an 
j  active  part  in  the  labors  of  the  Board  of  Ad- 
jmiralty.  In  1845,  in  command  of  the  squadron 
lof  evolutions,  he  cruised  on  the  Morocco 
coast,  bombarded  Tangier,  and  carried  Mo- 
;gador  by  assault.  In  this  attack  he  landed 
;with  his  sailors  and,  with  a  riding-whip  in  his 
jhand,  led  the  men  in  the  assault. 

For  his  conduct  here  he  was  made  a  vice- 
|admiral. 

When  the  revolution  of  1848  took  place,  he 
was  in  Algeria  with  the  Due  d'Aumale,  and, 
although  he  had  foreseen  and  deplored  the 
errors  which  induced  this  crisis,  quietly  gave 
pp  his  command.  From  that  period  until  his 
visit  to  this  country  in  1861,  he  spent  much 
pC  his  time  in  travel. 

When  he  accompanied  his  n-ephews  through 
:he  peninsular  campaign  of  the  Army  of  the 
VOL.  XXVII.— 59. 


Potomac,  he  manifested  the  greatest  interest 
in  all  that  occurred ;  his  observations  were 
accurate,  and  his  opinions  always  of  weight. 
His  amiability  and  accomplishments  endeared 
him  to  those  who  enjoyed  his  friendship 
and  his  intellectual  ability,  extensive  infor- 
mation,, and  sound  judgment  gained  their 
respect.  Always  in  citizen's  dress,  he  wore 
a  large  felt  hat  which  attracted  the  admira- 
tion of  the  men,  who  knew  and  liked  him, 
but  who  would  inquire  occasionally  for  the 
name  of  his  hatter,  and  not  infrequently 
designated  him  as  "  the  man  with  the  big  hat." 
His  excessive  deafness  sometimes  exposed 
him  unconsciously  to  fire,  and  when  his  horse 
comprehended  the  state  of  affairs  the  Prince 
would  quietly  jog  along  out  of  the  fire  with  a 
quiet,  pleasant  smile,  which  showed  that  he 
moved  more  out  of  regard  for  the  horse  than 
himself.  But  whenever  there  was  any  occa- 
sion for  remaining  exposed,  the  horse  was 
obliged  to  sacrifice  his  own  preferences  for 
those  of  his  rider. 

He  possesses  remarkable  power  with  the 
pencil  and  brush, — is  a  true  artist, — and  con- 
stantly employed  this  power  during  the  cam- 
paign, so  that  his  sketch-book  made  a  com- 
plete and  interesting  history  of  the  serious 
and  ludicrous  events  of  the  war. 

He  is  a  forcible  writer  as  well,  and,  among 
other  things,  has  published  remarkable  articles 
on  the  Mediterranean  Squadron,  the  Chinese 
Question,  the  Steam  Marine  in  Continental 
Wars,  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  the  Navy  in 
France,  and  the  United  States  in  1865,  "  An- 
other Word  about  Sadowa,"  etc. 

When  the  war  of  1870  broke  out,  he  made 
every  possible  endeavor  to  obtain  permission 
to  serve  his  country  under  his  own  or  an  as- 
sumed name.  Foiled  in  every  effort,  he  wan- 
dered about  the  Army  of  the  Loire,  as  the 
American  Colonel  Lutherod,  and  whenever 
occasion  offered  took  part  as  an  artilleryman, 
as  a  rifleman,  as  an  attendant  on  the  wounded, 
—  giving  good  advice  to  inferior  officers,  and 
becoming  at  last  well  known  to  the  men,  and 
always  welcomed  as  "  the  man  with  the  big 
hat."  At  length  he  was  arrested  and  sent 
out  of  the  country  by  order  of  Gambetta. 
It  was  a  most  affecting  story,  this  of  an 
exiled  prince,  wandering  heart-broken  among 
the  wrecks  of  his  country's  armies,  seeking  in 
vain  permission  to  serve  her,  and  gaining  such 
comfort  as  he  could  in  risking  his  life  in  aid 
of  those  who.  more  fortunate  than  himself, 
were  permitted  to  discharge  openly  the  debt 
of  patriotism.  After  the  termination  of  the 
war  he  was  elected  to  the  Assembly,  and  re- 
stored to  his  grade  of  vice-admiral.  He  has 
not  received  any  command  since  his  restora- 
tion, and  has  very  recently  been  placed  on 


622 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE    OF  ORLEANS. 


the  retired  list,  on  the  completion  of  his  sixty- 
fifth  year.  It  is  a  misfortune  for  France  that 
she  has  so  long  been  deprived  of  the  services 
of  so  thorough  a  sailor  and  so  able  a  man. 

MOST  highly  favored  in  the  gifts  of  nature 
and  of  fortune,  the  Due  d'Aumale  has  been 
perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  Orleans 
Princes.  An  accomplished  and  successful 
soldier  in  early  youth,  a  finished  scholar  and 
spirited  writer,  with  a  fine  person  and  fas- 
cinating manner,  he,  as  heir  of  his  relative, 
the  last  Due  de  Bourbon  and  Prince  de 
Conde,  is  possessed  of  great  wealth  and 
vast  estates.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a 
finer  type  of  the  best  specimens  of  the  old 
French  noblemen,  accomplished  gentlemen, 
and  gallant  soldiers.  After  his  long  years 
of  exile  he  is  still  a  true  Frenchman  o(  the 
best  type ;  he  is  still,  with  the  added  dignity 
of  years,  the  same  man  who,  when  a  youth, 
ordered  his  regiment  to  "  present  arms " 
when  passing  by  the  Clos  Vougeot,  where  is 
produced  the  royal  wine,  so  well  known 
throughout  the  world,  and  who,  upon  meeting 
the  ambassador  of  Napoleon  III.  at  Naples, 
in  response  to  the  inquiry  as  to  whether  his 
health  remained  good  in  exile,  quickly  said, 
"  Excellent,  I  thank  you.  Fortunately  that 
cannot  be  confiscated." 

Educated  like  his  brothers,  the  Duke  entered 
the  army  at  seventeen,  and  became  a  captain 
in  the  Fourth  regiment  of  the  line  in  1839.  In 
1840  he  accompanied  his  brother,  the  Due 
d'Orleans,  in  Africa  as  an  aide-de-camp;  was 
first  under  fire  at  Afrouar,  was  present  at  the 
combat  of  the  Mouzaia  defile,  and  returned  to 
France  in  1841,  ill.  In  1842  he.  returned  to 
Africa  as  a  major-general,  and  until  1843  com- 
manded the  subdivision  of  Medeah.  During 
this  period  he  conducted  the  brilliant  expe- 
dition in  which  he  captured  the  "  smalah  "  of 
Abd-el-Kader,  containing  his  family,  stand- 
ards, flocks,  and  herds,  his  treasure  and  all  his 
correspondence,  besides  thirty-six  hundred 
prisoners,  thus  virtually  terminating  the  contest 
with  the  Emir.  Now,  promoted  to  be  a  lieuten- 
ant-general, he  received  command  of  the  prov- 
ince of  Constantine,  and  commanded  in  other 
expeditions,  in  which  he  uniformly  displayed 
marked  ability  and  daring.  In  1847  he  be- 
came Governor- General  of  Algeria,  and,  al- 
though only  twenty-six  years  old,  acquitted 
himself  of  the  difficult  duties  of  the  position 
with  the  highest  credit.  Upon  the  abdica- 
tion of  his  father  he  still  held  the  position  of 
Governor-General,  and,  resisting  the  temp- 
tation to  avail  himself  of  his  popularity  with 
the  army,  quietly  acquiesced  in  the  revolution, 
turned  over  his  command  to  General  Chan- 
garnier,  and  went  into  exile.  In  England  his 


large  fortune  enabled  him  to  live  in  princely 
style,  and  to  surround  himself  with  the  objects 
of  art  and  the  superb  library  so  congenial  to 
his  tastes. 

Like  his  brothers,  he  traveled  much,  and 
when  at  his  home  at  Orleans  House  occupied 
himself  with  literature  and  with  hunting.  In 
1870  he  also  used  every  effort  to  reenter  the 
service,but  like  the  others  failed.  After  the  war 
he  was  elected  to  the  Assembly,  and  was  soon 
restored  to  his  grade  as  general  of  division. 
He  presided  over  the  court  martial  which 
tried  Marshal  Bazaine,  and  acquitted  himself 
of  that  delicate  task  with  the  utmost  dignity 
and  ability.  After  that  time  he  was  assigned 
to  the  command  of  the  Seventh  army  corps, 
at  Besangon,  and  proved  that  the  long  years 
of  exile  had  not  impaired  his  military  instincts 
and  aptitudes,  for  he  promptly  brought  his 
corps  to  a  very  high  condition  of  discipline  and 
efficiency.  In  1874  he  was  removed  from  the 
command  and  placed  on  the  list  of  those 
"waiting  orders  ";  in  1883  he  was  placed  on 
half  pay.  Some  years  ago  he  was  elected  one 
of  the  forty  members  of  the  French  Academy. 
Among  his  writings  are  articles  on  the  Zou- 
aves and  the  Chasseurs-a-pied,  the  Captivity 
of  King  John,  the  Siege  of  Alesia,  the  His- 
tory of  the  Princes  of  the  House  of  Conde, 
and  the  famous  "  Letter  on  the  History  of 
France,"  which  created  such  an  excitement 
under  the  Empire. 

In  1845  he  married  the  daughter  of  the 
Prince  of  Salerno,  by  whom  he  had  two  sons, 
the  Prince  de  Conde  and  the  Due  de  Guise. 
The  mother  died  before  the  revocation  of  the 
law  of  exile,  and  the  sons  have  followed  her, 
so  that  the  Duke  is  a  widower  and  childless. 
His  usual  residence  is  the  chateau  of  Chan- 
tilly,  about  twenty- five  miles  from  Paris.  This 
favorite  seat  of  the  great  Conde  was  some- 
what enlarged  and  rebuilt  by  his  grandson,  and 
partly  destroyed  by  a  mob  during  the  great 
Revolution.  The  Due  d'Aumale  has  rebuilt 
it  upon  the  old  foundation,  and  has  collected 
there  the  gems  from  his  various  chateaux.  The 
gallery  of  chefs-d'oeuvre,  with  its  old  stained 
glass,  the  relics  of  the  great  Conde,  the  pict-' 
ures  of  his  battles  painted  under  his  own 
directions,  the  superb  specimens  of  old  furni- 
ture and  porcelain,  the  room  decorated  by 
the  hand  of  Boucher,  the  magnificent  dining- 
hall,  and  the  unsurpassed  library,  form  a  whole 
of  the  highest  interest. 

THE  Due  de  Montpensier,  youngest  of  the 
sons  of  Louis  Philippe,  entered  the  army  :r 
1842,  at  eighteen,  as  a  lieutenant  of  artillery 
In  1844  and  1845  he  served  under  the  order; 
of  General  Bugeaud  and  the  Due  d'AumaJe 
taking  an  active  and  distinguished  part  i 


;„„ 


THE  PRINCES   OF  THE  HOUSE   OF  ORLEANS. 


623 


severe  fighting  of  these  campaigns.  In  1846 
he  was  assigned  to  the  command  of  the  artil- 
lery school  of  practice  at  Vincennes,  and 
continued  in  the  exercise  of  those  functions 
until  the  downfall  of  the  monarchy.  He  mar- 
ried the  sister  of  Queen  Isabella  of  Spain, 
and  took  up  his  residence  in  that  country. 
Through  the  various  changes  and  revolu- 
tions that  have  taken  place  in  Spain,  his  posi- 
tion has  been  one  of  great  delicacy ;  but  by  his 
great  tact,  intelligence,  and  firmness,  he  has  re- 
tained the  respect  and  good  will  of  all  parties. 
His  marriage  has  been  a  most  happy  one, 
save  in  the  loss  of  his  daughter  Mercedes, 
the  young  queen  of  Alfonso,  whose  sad 
and  premature  death,  in  the  flower  of  youth 
and  happiness,  excited  the  sympathy  of  the 
world.  His  eldest  daughter  is  the  Countess 
de  Paris. 

WHERE  so  many  elements  enter  into  the 
solution  of  a  problem,  and  especially  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  unexpected  is  so  likely  to  hap- 
pen, it  is  impossible  to  foretell  the  exact  form 
of  the  future  government  of  France.  The  stu- 
dent of  French  history  who  understands  the 
character  of  the  French  people  in  the  past 
and  present  can,  however,  safely  venture  to 
predict  this  much  at  least :  that,  whatever  may 
be  the  temporary  result  of  any  great  crisis  in 
the  domestic  or  foreign  affairs  of  France,  the 
enduring  establishment  of  either  despotism  or 
anarchy  is  impossible,  and  that  its  permanent 
government  in  future  must  be,  in  its  funda- 
mental nature,  republican, — that  is  to  say, 
established  and  constantly  controlled  by  the 
people,  conducted  in  their  interests,  and  in 
accord  with  their  will.  It  is  less  easy  to  foresee 
whether  this  government  of  the  future  will  re- 
main in  name  a  republic,  whose  chief  execu- 
tive officer  is  elected  for  a  term  of  years ;  or 
whether  that  chief  executive  will  eventually  be 


chosen  for  life ;  or  whether  France  will  return 
to  a  constitutional  monarchy,  hedged  in  and 
guarded  as  a  real  republic  by  the  force  of  that 
public  opinion  which,  in  modern  times,  has 
become  omnipotent  in  all  Christian  nations 
which  have  attained  a  certain  degree  of  civili- 
zation, intelligence,  and  personal  freedom. 
Whatever  the  future  may  bring  forth  in  this  re- 
spect, it  is  fortunate  for  France  that  her  most 
conspicuous  family  is  made  up  of  men  who 
love  their  country  above  all  things,  who  are 
animated  by  the  purest  motives  of  patriotism, 
who,  whether  in  exile  or  at  home,  have  proved 
that  they  are  not  drones,  but  energetic  men 
of  active  lives,  liberal  in  their  political  views, 
in  full  sympathy  with  the  people  and  their 
needs,  and  in  entire  accord  with  the  pro- 
gressive spirit  of  the  age ;  men  who  "  are 
decided  to  uphold  the  authority  of  the 
government  established  by  universal  suf- 
frage ";  who,  when  in  exile,  only  desired  "  to 
return  quietly  to  our  country,  to  serve  her 
according  to  our  means,  as  the  country  her- 
self may  think  best";  who,  during  the  twelve 
years  that  have  elapsed  since  then,  have  fully 
proved  their  sincerity  by  serving  the  Republic 
honestly,  ably,  and  faithfully,  in  whatever 
positions  they  were  placed,  as  private  citizens 
or  holding  civil  or  military  offices;  and  who 
have  abstained  from  all  intrigue  against  the 
Republic,  and,  when  most  cavalierly  and 
harshly  deprived  of  their  offices,  submitted 
quietly  and  with  dignity  to  an  insult  not  justi- 
fied by  any  act  or  word  of  their  own. 

Every  true  friend  of  the  French  Republic 
may  hope  that  it  will  feel  so  secure  and 
strong  as  at  least  to  trust  men  who  have  given 
no  just  cause  for  suspicion,  and  whose  talents, 
experience,  and  devotion  to  their  country 
enable  them  to  render  great  services,  whether 
in  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  ordinary  times,  or 
in  some  hour  of  great  tribulation. 

George  B.  McClellan. 


SUMMER  HOURS. 

HOURS  aimless-drifting,  as  the  milk-weed's  down 
In  seeming,  still  a  seed  of  joy'  ye  bear 
That  steals  into  the  soul,  when  unaware, 

And  springs  up  Memory  in  the  stony  town. 


Helen  Gray  Cone. 


TOPICS   OF   THE   TIME. 


The  Uses  and  Abuses  of  Trades-Unions. 

"TRADES-UNIONS  are  regarded,  not  unjustly,  by 
most  workmen  as  the  most  effectual  agency  they  can 
use  to  resist  unjust  exactions.  If  there  never  had  been 
unjust  employers,  there  would  be  no  domineering 
trades-unions.  The  political  economy  which  teaches 
that  cheap  production  is  always  a  great  good,  that  no 
man  is  bound  to  consider  his  workmen's  needs,  that 
every  man  must  look  after  himself,  is  largely  re- 
sponsible for  the  growing  indifference  on  the  part  of 
employees  to  the  interests  of  their  employers." 

So  writes  an  intelligent  and  successful  manufacturer 
in  this  city.  The  tone  of  his  testimony  is  somewhat 
less  severe  than  that  which  we  sometimes  hear  from 
those  who  take  the  side  of  capital  in  its  controversy 
with  labor.  He  is  able  to  se*e  the  workman's  side  of 
the  question  as  well  as  the  master's.  He  is  not  alone. 
The  number  of  those  who  stand  with-  him  is  not  so 
large  as  it  ought  to  be ;  but  there  is  an  increasing 
class  of  employers  who  decline  to  adopt  the  maxims 
of  political  economy  quoted  by  him,  and  who  are 
learning  to  put  themselves  in  the  places  of  their  work- 
men. Such  employers  have  ceased  to  use  the  sweep- 
ing terms  of  condemnation  which  were  formerly  ap- 
plied, almost  universally,  to  trades-unions,  and  have 
learned  to  speak  of  them  with  some  discrimination. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  argue  concerning  the  methods 
frequently  employed  by  trades-unions.  Whenever 
they  resort  to  violence  or  intimidation  they  put  them- 
selves beyond  the  pale  of  good  neighborhood.  If  the 
police  cannot  cope  with  such  banditti,  let  the  military 
be  summoned,  with  grape-shot  and  bayonets  ;  if  they 
will  not  yield  to  milder  arguments,  let  them  be  re- 
lentlessly put  down.  No  man  is  under  compulsion  to 
join  a  trades-union,  and  no  man  in  this  free  country, 
who  obeys  the  laws  and  provides  for  himself  and  his 
own,  must  be  forced  by  his  neighbors  to  work  when 
he  does  not  like  to  work,  or  to  desist  from  working 
when  it  pleases  him  to  work.  If  labor  is  not  free,  to 
this  extent,  in  this  country,  it  is  high  time  that  we  have 
another  revolution  to  set  it  free.  Whatever  points  the 
trades-unions  can  carry  by  fair  argument,  or  by  moral 
forces,  they  are  entitled  to ;  whenever  they  attempt  to 
carry  their  points  by  the  use  of  force  or  fear,  they  are 
outlaws,  and  should  be  suppressed  in  the  sternest 
fashion. 

It  is  also  true  that  these  societies  often  behave  them- 
selves as  if  they  had  been  organized  for  the  discour- 
agement of  industry.  Their  apparent  object  is  to  secure 
the  largest  amount  of  wages  for  the  smallest  amount 
of  work;  and  a  society  of  which  this  is  the  main 
purpose  is  a  doubtful  factor  in  the  commonwealth. 

When  the  trades -unions  forbid  men  to  work  beyond 
a  certain  rate  of  speed,  as  they  have  sometimes  done, 
and  forbid  the  employing  of  apprentices,  and  ordain 
that  the  least  efficient  labor  shall  be  paid  as  much  as 
the  most  efficient,  they  are  simply  setting  the  inter- 
ests of  the  members  of  their  own  particular  group 
against  the  interests  of  society  in  general, —  and  the 


interests  of  the  least  worthy  among  themselves  above 
the  interests  of  the  most  worthy  ;  they  are  attempting 
to  grasp  for  themselves  advantages  which  they  have 
no  right  to  monopolize,  and  to  distribute  these  advan- 
tages among  themselves  in  such  a  way  as  to  discourage 
industry  and  skill ;  they  are  acting,  in  short,  in  a  man- 
ner extremely  unsocial  and  injurious,  and  they  cannot 
expect  the  countenance  of  intelligent  and  patriotic 
persons.  The  best  that  can  be  said  about  these  prac- 
tices of  the  trades-unions  is  that  the  wages  system,  as 
based  on  unmitigated  competition,  is  a  system  of  war- 
fare, and  that  everything  is  fair  in  war.  On  no  other 
assumption  can  such  practices  be  justified. 

These  violent  and  selfish  methods  form  no  necessary 
part,  however,  of  the  life  of  a  trades-union ;  and  al- 
though they  are  still  in  use,  there  is  a  decided  ten- 
dency to  abandon  them,  and  to  rely  on  peaceful  meas- 
ures. Attempts  to  coerce  non-union  men  are  made 
much  less  frequently  than  formerly.  The  trades- 
unions  are  beginning  to  see  a  little  more  clearly  what 
purposes  are  legitimate  and  what  methods  are  ex- 
pedient, and  in  working  out  this  problem  they  are 
entitled  to  the  sympathy  and  the  aid  of  all  intelligent 
employers.  Unqualified  denunciation  of  such  com- 
binations of  workmen  indicates  not  only  unfairness 
but  ignorance.  There  are  no  respectable  writers  on 
political  economy  of  the  present  day  who  do  not  dis- 
tinctly say  that  such  associations  of  workingmen  are, 
under  the  present  system,  not  only  permissible,  but 
indispensable.  So  long  as  the  wage-system  of  indus- 
try continues .  without  modification,  and  the  rate  of 
wages  is  determined  by  sheer  competition,  it  will  be 
necessary  for  workingmen  to  combine  in  order  to 
protect  themselves.  Capitalists  combin-  in  great  com- 
panies and  corporations,  and  the  companies  and  cor- 
porations combine  in  associations  that  represent  mill- 
ions of  money ;  such  combinations  are  authorized  and 
protected  by  law.  The  laborers  have  the  same  right  to 
combine  for  the  protection  of  their  interests,  and  they 
ought  to  be  encouraged  by  public  opinion  and  author- 
ized by  law  to  do  so. 

Professor  Sumner  of  Yale  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
thorough-going  Ricardian  economist  in  this  country, 
and  his  theories  of  the  workingman's  rights  and  claims 
are  certainly  not  over-sympathetic.  Yet  he  insists,  in 
his  latest  volume,  that  "  trades-unions  are  right  and 
useful,  and  perhaps  necessary,"  and  he  goes  on  to  give 
strong  reasons  for  this  assertion.  "They  may  do 
much,"  he  says,  "  by  way  of  true  economic  means  to 
raise  wages.  They  are  useful  to  spread  information, 
to  maintain  esprit  de  corps,  to  elevate  the  public  opin- 
ion of  the  class.  .  .  .  Especially  trades-unions  ought 
to  be  perfected  so  as  to  undertake  a  great  range  of  im- 
portant duties,  for  which  we  now  rely  on  Governmen1 
inspection,  which  never  gives  us  what  we  need.  The 
safety  of  workmen  from  machinery,  the  ventilatior 
and  sanitary  arrangements  required  by  factories,  th< 
special  precautions  of  certain  processes,  the  hours  of 
labor  of  women  and  children,  the  schooling 


,g  of  chil 


TOPICS   OF  THE   TIME. 


625 


dren,  the  limits  of  age  for  employed  children,  Sunday- 
work,  hours  of  labor, —  these,  and  other  like  matters, 
ought  to  be  controlled  by  the  men  themselves  through 
their  organizations.  The  laborers  about  whom  we  are 
talking  are  free  men  in  a  free  state.  If  they  want  to 
be  protected,  they  must  protect  themselves.  They  ought 
to  protect  their  own  women  and  children.  Their  own 
class  opinion  ought  to  secure  the  education  of  the 
children  of  their  class.  If  an  individual  workman  is 
not  bold  enough  to  protest  against  a  wrong  to  laborers, 
the  agent  of  a  trades-union  might  with  propriety  do  it 
on  behalf  of  the  body  of  workmen."  Here  is  surely  a 
clear  recognition  of  the  right  of  workingmen  to  form 
such  associations,  and  a  broad  basis  for  their  operation. 
Whatever  they  can  do,  by  consultation,  by  discussion, 
by  united  action,  without  resorting  to  force  or  fear,  to 
increase  the  rate  or  prevent  the  reduction  of  wages,  or 
to  promote  their  own  welfare  in  any  such  ways  as 
Professor  Sumner  has  indicated,  they  not  only  may 
do,  but  are  bound  to  do.  The  same  enlightened  pub- 
lic sentiment  which  denounces  the  abuses  of  the 
trades-unions  should  emphasize  their  uses. 

The  late  Congress  of  the  Unions  at  Paris  seems  to 
have  been  temperate  in  its  action.  An  international 
convention  for  shortening  the  hours  of  women's  and 
children's  work  was  proposed  and  agreed  to,  and  the 
following  minute  was  adopted  : 

"  The  identity  of  the  interests  of  the  working  classes 
in  different  countries  renders  international  legislation 
in  labor  questions  necessary.  This  legislation  will  be 
the  outcome  of  class  organization,  and,  above  all 
things,  tend  to  abrogate  laws  against  trade  combina- 
tions. It  should,  in  the  first  instance,  apply  to  the 
weakest  and  oppressed,  to  those  least  capable  of  pro- 
tecting themselves,  as  women  and  children.  Further 
progress  should  result  from  the  development  of  the 
working  classes." 

The  debates  at  the  Congress  are  largely  the  utter- 
ances of  moderate  and  fair-minded  men,  who  have  no 
revolutionary  propositions  to  make,  and  who  are  cher- 
ishing  no   unreasonable   expectations.     Undoubtedly 
I  the  affairs  of  the  local  unions  are  often  managed  by 
i  men  of  a  different  temper ;  but  the  presence  of  a  wiser 
element  in  their  councils  should  be  recognized  and 
encouraged. 

What  has  been  said  involves  the   rightfulness   of 

strikes,  when  these  are  not  accompanied  by  violence 

or  intimidation.    It  is  doubtful  whether   the  rate  of 

(  wages   is    ever    materially   improved   by   striking  — 

I  whether  the  advance  gained  would  not,  in  most  cases, 

.  have  come  in  due  season  without  the  strike,  and  with- 

\  out  the  serious  loss  which  the  strike  occasions  to  work- 

i  men  as  well  as  masters.    Nevertheless,  this  power  of 

united  action  belongs  to    workmen,  and   should  be 

frankly  conceded  to  them ;  it  is   only  to  be  desired 

that  they  should  learn  to  use  it  intelligently  and  ef- 

jfectively,  in  such  a  manner  as  not   to   inflict  undue 

injury  upon  themselves  and  their  employers. 

It  should  be  added  that  this  discussion  all  proceeds 
upon  the  basis  of  the  wage-system.  So  long  as  this 
.system  is  maintained  in  its  strictness,  the  consider- 
'ations  here  urged  will  be  valid.  But  there  is 
lanother  system  to  which  this  reasoning  would  not 
'apply  —  a  system  of  federation  between  workmen 
and  employers  ;  a  system  in  which  private  property 
would  be  fully  recognized,  and  in  which  the  captains 
VOL.  XXVI I. —60. 


of  industry  would  reap  the  full  reward  of  their  organ- 
izing power,  but  in  which  the  workmen  should  have, 
in  addition  to  their  wages,  a  stipulated  share  in  the 
profits  of  production,  and  thus  be  consciously  and 
actually,  as  well  as  theoretically,  identified  with  their 
employers  in  their  interests.  It  is  not  likely  that  the 
labor  question  will  ever  be  settled  until  some  such 
method  as  this  is  in  vogue.  Its  adoption  would  not 
render  trades-unions  superfluous ;  they  would  still 
have  a  legitimate  work  to  do ;  but  it  would  change 
their  character,  and  correct  their  worst  abuses. 


Modern  Catholicism. 

THE  recent  celebrations  of  Luther's  four-hundredth 
birthday  have  borne  good  fruit.  They  have  given  a 
distinct  impulse  to  historical  study ;  and  the  results 
of  this  study,  as  spread  before  the  people  in  elaborate 
addresses  and  in  the  public  prints,  have  contributed 
not  a  little  to  popular  education.  The  people  who 
read  are  largely  slaves  to  the  record  of  petty  passing 
events  and  the  novel ;  whatever  delivers  them,  though 
it  be  but  for  a  brief  space,  from  this  bondage,  and 
leads  them  out  into  the  wide  realm  of  history,  is  a 
salutary  influence.  Moreover,  the  tendency  of  the 
present  time  to  seek  out  the  causes  of  the  things  that 
appear  has  led  to  a  more  careful  exploration  of  the 
ages  preceding  the  Reformation.  It  was  the  popular 
notion  that  the  Reformation  had  its  birth  in  the 
brain  of  Luther :  the  more  profound  and  philosophical 
of  the  recent  discussions  have  made  it  plain  to  multi- 
tudes that  many  political  and  intellectual  causes  had 
been  long  conspiring  to  bring  on  the  crisis  of  which 
he  was  the  hero.  This  fact  is  familiar  enough,  of 
course,  to  students ;  but  the  great  majority  of  the 
people,  even  of  those  who  have  been  educated  in  the 
common  schools,  have  but  dim  notions  of  the  opera- 
tion of  those  secular  causes  whose  results  are  har- 
vested in  the  great  epochs  of  history :  in  their  hero- 
worship  they  are  apt  to  ascribe  the  uprisings  and 
overturnings  of  nations  to  the  men  whose  names  are 
connected  with  them.  Thus  they  get  the  impression 
that  great  reformations  can  be  produced  at  any  time 
to  order ;.  and  they  are  impatient  of  the  delays  which 
always  attend  the  working  out  of  important  problems 
in  church  and  state.  Wherever  the  work  of  Luther  has 
been  adequately  treated,  much  light  must  have  been 
thrown  upon  this  whole  subject ;  and  we  may  hope  that 
a  few  of  the  more  rational  of  the  modern  reformers 
will  learn  from  it  an  important  practical  lesson. 

But  the  most  significant  feature  of  these  celebrations 
is  the  reasonably  good  temper  with  which,  in  the 
main,  they  have  been  conducted,  —  the  comparative 
mildness  of  the  odium  theologicum  which  they  must 
needs  arouse.  The  old  battle  between  Papist  and 
Protestant  has  been  fought  over  again  by  some  of  the 
more  strenuous  partisans  on  either  side;  and  there 
have  been  those  who  have  sought  to  make  this  anni- 
versary an  occasion  for  widening  the  breach  between 
the  two  wings  of  the  Western  Church.  But  these 
have  not  been  the  only  voices ;  many  of  the  discus- 
sions have  been  characterized  on  each  side  by  justice 
and  moderation.  It  is  known  by  most  of  the  eulogists 
of  Luther  that  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  this 
day  and  of  this  country  is  a  very  different  Church 


626 


TOPICS   OF  THE   TIME. 


from  that  out  of  which  Luther  went ;  that  Leo  XIII.  is 
a  far  more  exemplary  and  devout  person  than  Leo  X. 
and  the  popes  who  immediately  preceded  him  ;  that, 
in  short,  a  constant  reformation  in  discipline,  if  not  in 
doctrine,  has  been  going  on  within  the  Church  against 
whose  errors  and  abuses  Luther  recorded  his  protest. 
Doubtless,  there  is  still  much  that  needs  to  be  re 
formed ;  to  this  every  intelligent  Roman  Catholic  will 
consent;  but  the  moral  condition  of  both  the  clergy 
and  the  laity  of  the  Roman  obedience  is  far  better  now 
than  it  was  four  hundred  years  ago.  To  what  extent 
this  improvement  has  been  due  to  the  counter-irritant 
of  Protestant  criticism  and  example,  to  what  extent 
it  has  resulted  from  the  increase  of  general  intelli- 
gence, and  how  much  of  it  must  be  traced  to  the  vital 
and  remedial  forces  that  are  inherent  in  the  organism 
itself,  it  would  not  be  possible  to  determine.  It  is 
enough  to  recognize,  with  gratitude,  the  truth  that  the 
religious  reformation  of  the  last  four  centuries  has 
not  been  confined  to  the  churches  of  the  Reformers. 

Some  of  the  orators,  while  fully  justifying  the  Re- 
formation, and  giving  to  Luther  and  those  who  wrought 
with  him  the  honor  due  to  them,  have  been  sanguine 
enough  to  express  the  hope  of  a  reunion  in  the  future 
between  the  Roman  Catholic  and  the  Protestant 
bodies.  Such  a  hope  might  have  seemed  altogether 
visionary  twenty-five  years  ago;  but  it  cannot  now 
be  deemed  irrational  to  entertain  it.  As  the  conflict 
with  Materialism  and  Agnosticism  has  been  waxing 
hotter  and  hotter,  it  must  have  become  evident  to 
intelligent  Protestants  that  they  have  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  theologians  a  strong  body  of  allies  with  whom 
they  ought  to  maintain  friendly  relations.  It  is  not 
Protestantism,  nor  the  Papacy,  nor  Calvinism,  nor 
Trinitarianism,  nor  any  other  secondary  Christian 
dogma  that  is  now  on  trial ;  it  is  the  main  question 
whether  there  is  any  such  thing  as  religion  —  whether 
there  is  a  conscious  God,  and  a  life  beyond  the  grave, 
and  a  free  will,  and  a  moral  law.  Upon  these  issues 
Protestants  and  Roman  Catholics  stand  together ;  and 
their  agreement,  so  far  as  it  goes,  ought  to  be  recog- 
nized and  emphasized. 

In  certain  matters  of  discipline,  vitally  affecting  the 
life  of  the  family  and  of  society,  Protestant  teachers 
gratefully  acknowledge  that  the  Roman-  Catholic 
Church  takes  high  ground.  The  Roman  Catholic  doc- 
trine and  practice  respecting  divorce  are  much  closer 
to  the  law  of  the  New  Testament  than  those  of  the  Pro- 
testant churches  have  been ;  and  there  is  an  earnest 
effort  at  the  present  time  to  bring  the  practice  of  the 
Protestant  churches  a  little  nearer  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  standard.  In  contending  against  the  foes 
that  destroy  the  family,  Protestants  and  Catholics  can 
stand  together. 

It  is  thus  evident  that  there  is  much  common  ground 
for  the  two  great  divisions  of  the  Western  Church; 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  anniversary  which  has 
just  been  celebrated  will  have  the  effect  of  bringing 
the  more  moderate  men  of  both  sides  into  closer  sym- 
pathy. Signs  of  this  ironical  temper  are  not  wanting 
in  recent  literature.  Two  of  the  most  successful  books 
of  the  past  season,  "  But  Yet  a  Woman  "  and  "  The 
"  Story  of  Ida,"  exhibit  a  hearty  recognition  on  the 
part  of  Protestants  of  the  strength  and  loveliness  of 
the  Christian  character  as  developed  under  the  teach- 
ings of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Mr.  Hardy  has 


not  been  accused  of  exaggeration  in  his  pictures  of 
the  old  priest  and  the  two  noble  women  of  his  story  : 
he  has  painted  what  he  has  seen ;  but  his  work  gives 
evidence  that  a  born  Puritan  is  able  to  treat  sympathet- 
ically the  religious  life  of  those  in  whom,  not  many 
generations  since,  no  Puritan  could  have  found  a  trace 
of  good  without  incurring  the  suspicion  of  apostasy. 
As  for  "  The  Story  of  Ida,"  its  transparent  realism  is 
irresistible.  The  grimmest  Protestant  will  gladly  ac- 
knowledge this  young  girl's  saintliness,  and  will  be 
grateful  to  Heaven  for  the  faith  that  inspired  and 
glorified  her  life. 

In  spite  of  all  these  practical  and  sentimental  agree- 
ments, there  are  still  vast  differences  between  the 
Roman  Church  and  the  Reformers,  —  differences  that 
reasoning  cannot  extenuate,  and  that  good  nature 
cannot  set  aside.  There  never  can  be  unity  between 
these  separated  churches  until  great  changes  take 
place  in  the  beliefs  of  those  who  compose  them.  Is 
there  any  prospect  of  such  changes  ?  So  far  as  the 
Protestant  bodies  are  concerned,  there  is  nothing  in 
their  principles  to  hinder  them  from  making  any 
changes  which  increasing  light  may  require ;  and  it  is 
certain  that  the  tendency  among  most  of  them  is  to 
minimize  mere  philosophical  and  ritual  distinctions, 
and  to  put  the  emphasis  upon  those  elements  of  char- 
acter about  which  there  can  be  no  controversy.  But 
what  can  be  said  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  ?  Is 
not  that,  by  its  very  constitution  and  all  its  traditions, 
irreformable  on  the  intellectual  side?  Such  may  be 
the  opinion  of  bigoted  Papists  and  of  bigoted  Protest- 
ants ;  but  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  will  not  successfully  resist  the  light  of  science 
and  the  genial  influences  of  this  new  day.  It  has  felt 
these  influences  already ;  it  is  sure  to  feel  them  more 
and  more.  To  realize  how  sensitive  is  Catholicity  to 
its  surroundings,  one  has  only  to  compare  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  churches  in  the  United  States  with  that 
of  the  churches  on  the  Continent  of  Europe,  or  even 
with  those  of  the  French  part  of  Canada.  Many  of 
the  Roman  Catholics  in  this  country  have  the  Bible 
in  their  hands ;  it  is  not  denied  them,  and  there  is 
light  by  which  to  read  it.  That  mighty  angel,  the 
Zeitgeist,  is  abroad,  and  the  rustle  of  his  pinions  is 
heard,  now  and  then,  under  the  arches  of  cathedrals 
and  in  the  palaces  of  bishops.  The  growing  intelli- 
gence of  the  people  will  make  loud  demands  for  re- 
forms within  the  church.  When  the  time  is  fully  ripe 
for  such  reforms,  the  dogma  of  infallibility,  as  Dr. 
Dorner  has  suggested,  may  prove  the  engine  with 
which  to  set  them  in  motion.  It  was  monarchy  in  the 
middle  ages  that  brought  in  liberty  on  the  Continent 
of  Europe.  The  power  of  the  king  was  strengthened, 
and  he  made  common  cause  with  the  people  against 
their  feudal  lords.  The  same  thing  may  happen  in 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Some  future  pontiff  of 
a  liberal  spirit  and  a  courageous  temper,  hearing  the 
cry  of  the  people  for  some  lightening  of  their  load  of 
dogmas  and  ceremonies,  and  knowing  that  the  time  is 
at  hand,  may  rise  up  and  wield  that  supreme  and  un- 
questionable power  which  the  Vatican  Council  has 
conferred  upon  him,  in  the  reformation  of  many  abuses, 
and  in  the  great  enlargement  of  the  liberties  of  '' 
Roman  Catholic  people.  Such  a  movement,  \vl 
is  once  begun,  is  not  likely  to  be  arrested ;  it  ma) 
long  delayed,  but  its  hour  will  come. 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


627 


The  Proposed  Library  Building   in  "Washington. 

ALTHOUGH  the  question  of  securing  better  accom- 
modation for  the  Library  of  Congress  has  long  been  a 
burning  one  in  Washington,  it  has  not  received  as 
much  attention  from  the  outside  press  or  from  the 
people  at  large  as  is  warranted  by  its  great  national 
importance.  Few  who  have  not  personally  inspected 
the  present  library  can  imagine  the  deplorable  condi- 
tion of  the  collection  ;  few  who  have  not  read  the  re- 
ports of  the  librarian  can  conceive  how  rapid  has  been 
its  recent  growth  or  how  inevitably  this  will  increase 
in  the  near  future;  and  still  fewer,  probably,  know 
what  steps  have  thus  far  been  taken  toward  the  erec- 
tion of  a  new  structure. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  1874  the  library  contained 
274,157  volumes  and  some  50,000  pamphlets ;  while 
at  the  close  of  1882  the  aggregate  was  no  less  than 
480,076  volumes  and  160,000  pamphlets.  All  this  im- 
mense and  so  rapidly  growing  mass  of  literature  is 
now  housed  in  a  way  which  prevents  its  proper  use 
and  endangers  its  very  existence.  Long  years  ago 
the  shelves  were  filled;  supplementary  ones — neces- 
sarily of  wood — have  been  introduced  wherever  pos- 
sible ;  and  books  are  piled  in  great  heaps  all  over  the 
floor,  allowing  scarce  space  for  the  library  attendants  to 
move  from  point  to  point.  The  Toner  collection  of 
27,000  volumes,  a  donation  of  the  past  year,  is  lodged 
in  the  crypts  under  the  Rotunda.  Every  other  unoc- 
cupied chamber  in  the  Capitol  has  been  pressed  into 
service,  and  the  very  valuable  files  of  domestic  and  for- 
eign newspapers  are  stored  in  a  garret  partly  of  wooden 
construction.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  accommoda- 
tion left  for  readers  is  ridiculously  meager,  and  that 
there  is  not  a  place  where  a  Member  of  Congress  can 
work  in  even  comparative  quiet  and  privacy.  A  few  more 
years  and  the  librarians  will  be  buried  alive,  and  it 
will  be  physically  impossible  to  introduce  another  vol- 
ume. To  this  prospect  must  be  added  the  unavoid- 
j  able  and  ever-growing  risk  from  a  fire,  which  would 
be  surely  fatal  if  once  started  in  these  crowded  rooms. 
It  has  actually  been  asked  more  than  once  why, 
j  under  these  circumstances,  are  additions  made  to  the 
collection  ?  Such  a  question  hardly  merits  a  serious 
answer;  but  a  sufficient  one  is  furnished  by  the  mere 
fact  that  here  —  alone  in  all  the  world  —  the  functions 
;0f  a  copyright  bureau  are  combined  with  those  of  the 
jlibrary  proper.  From  this  one  source  came,  in  1882, 
'22,000  additional  numbers  into  the  collection.  Of 
[course  there  can  be  no  pretense  of  affording  proper 
accommodation  for  the  copyright  clerks,  or  proper 
storage  for  the  specimen  volumes  furnished  under  the 
aw.  The  fire  which  may  occur  in  spite  of  the  great 
>vatchfulness  of  the  attendants  would  not  only  be  a 
tmblic  calamity,  but  a  great  private  injury  to  multitudes 
pf  authors  and  publishers.  Every  man  who  pays  for 
he  copyrighting  of  a  book  or  print  has  therefore  a 
'•pecial  right  to  demand  that  Congress  shall  provide 
i  place  in  which  the  records  of  the  transaction 
;nay  be  preserved  in  a  suitable  manner. 

U^f  course  none  of  these  facts  are  new  to  our  legis- 
rs.  It  is  many  years  since  the  necessity  of  further 
jccommodation  for  the  library  was  demonstrated,  and 
1.0  fewer  than  nine  years  since  active  agitation  has  been 
nder  way  for  its  attainment.  The  first  proposal  was 
3  enlarge  the  Capitol  itself  by  means  of  a  projecting 


wing.  This  was  seen,  however,  by  every  architect 
who  was  consulted  and  by  every  person  who  realized 
the  rate  of  growth  of  the  collection,  to  be  a  plan 
that  would  not  only  ruin  the  appearance  of  the  Capitol, 
but  afford  only  a  temporary,  makeshift  shelter  for  the 
books.  "  But,"  many  a  Member  of  Congress  has  been 
selfish  enough  to  say,  "it  is  the  Library  of  Congress, 
and  as  such  must  not  be  removed  from  under  our  roof. 
Better  have  it  improperly  housed  here  than  properly  in 
any  other  place."  Such  a  theory  is  to  the  last  degree 
mistaken.  To  say  that  Congress  needs  for  constant 
reference  all  these  half-million  volumes  of  miscellane- 
ous literature  is  palpably  absurd.  If  the  bulk  of  them 
were  removed  to  another  spot,  the  present  rooms 
would  give  ample  fire-proof  accommodation  to  a  li- 
brary of  some  50,000  or  60,000  volumes,  which  would 
be  more  than  sufficient  for  the  needs  of  our  legisla- 
tors, and  more  than  are  to-day  included  in  the  library 
of  the  English  Parliament —  which,  nevertheless,  does 
not  seem  to  pine  to  have  the  British  Museum  collec- 
tion brought  in  under  its  roof.  It  is  time,  indeed,  that 
this  sort  of  opposition  at  least  should  give  way  to  the 
absolute  and  crying  needs  of  a  library  which  is  national 
in  fact,  if  Congressional  in  name. 

Nearly  ten  years  ago  a  public  competition  was 
opened  to  obtain  designs  for  a  new  library.  Many 
architects  responded,  though  few  whose  names  would 
now  be  cited  as  among  those  of  our  better  artists. 
The  prize  —  there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  actual 
work  —  was  awarded  to  a  local  practitioner.  The 
lt  Joint  Committee  on  Additional  Accommodation  for 
the  Library  of  Congress  "  long  afterward  authorized 
three  architects  —  among  them  the  former  prize-win- 
ner —  to  prepare  competitive  designs  once  more,  and 
this  gentleman  again  won  the  suffrages  of  the  judges, 
—  not  in  an  unqualifed  way,  however ;  for  he  has  since 
been  requested  or  allowed  to  alter  and  correct  his 
essays  and  to  draw  new  ones  in  several  different  styles, 
until  no  fewer  than  nine  or  ten  now  hang  on  the  walls 
of  the  committee  room.  Two  years  ago  a  bill  to 
secure  an  appropriation  to  buy  ground  east  of  the 
Capitol,  and  to  begin  work  according  to  the  premiated 
design,  passed  the  Senate,  but  was  postponed  in  the 
House.  Last  session — February,  1883  —  a  similar 
bill  was  defeated  in  the  House  by  a  majority  of  eleven 
votes.  Shortly  after,  an  amended  bill  providing  for 
the  construction  of  a  library  building,  in  sections  and 
limited  to  cost  two  million  dollars,  upon  some  "  gov- 
ernment reservation  "  to  be  selected  by  a  commission 
composed  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  the  Architect 
of  the  Capitol,  and  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  received 
a  majority  of  fifty-eight  votes  in  the  House,  but  failed 
to  pass  because  of  the  necessity  for  a  two-thirds  vote. 

The  failure  of  the  first  bill  was  undoubtedly  ow- 
ing to  the  site  named  therein.  This  site,  which  lies  east 
of  the  Capitol,  just  beyond  its  own  grounds,  is  not  a 
government  reservation,  but  would  need  to  be  ac- 
quired by  purchase.  Immediately  there  arose  the 
dreaded  cry  of  jobbery,  and  Congress  shrank  before 
it.  Yet  it  seems  as  though  this  were  the  best  possible 
site,  since  it  is  near  the  Capitol,  and  yet  far  enough 
away  —  remembering  that  there  are  rapidly  growing 
groups  of  large  trees  between  —  to  obviate  the  necessity 
of  adopting  a  style  of  architecture  absolutely  identical 
with  that  of  the  Capitol  itself.  The  only  other  available 
site  is  on  Government  ground  south  of  the  Treasury 


628 


TOPICS   OF  THE   TIME. 


building  and  bet  ween  it  and  the  Washington  Monument. 
This,  however,  offers  a  less  fortunate  opportunity  for 
architectural  treatment,  since  it  is  partly  surrounded 
by  buildings  which  are  mean  and  yet  are  likely  to 
be  permanent,  and  since  it  lies  lower  than  the  level  of 
the  approaching  streets.  A  site  formerly  recommended 
for  the  purpose  —  on  Judiciary  Square  —  has  now 
been  appropriated  for  the  new  Pension  offices,  and 
few  indorse  the  suggestion  that  more  of  the  too-con- 
tracted public  ground  lying  between  the  Capitol 
and  the  Potomac  should  be  built  over  for  any  purpose. 
Surely  the  people  would  not  grudge  the  necessary 
expenditure  to  secure  the  best  possible  site  for  their 
national  library,  and  any  Member  of  Congress  who 
will  say  this  in  the  present  session  should  receive  the 
thanks  of  the  public  and  the  support  of  his  colleagues. 

Thus  the  matter  rested  at  the  close  of  the  last  ses- 
sion. The  committee  in  charge  lapsed  with  the  disso- 
lution of  Congress,  and  a  new  committee  has  now  been 
appointed,  which  may  either  indorse  the  old  plans 
and  measures,  or  advocate  new  ones,  and  must  then 
in  either  case  appeal  again  to  House  and  Senate. 

Much  as  one  regrets  on  general  principles  the  fail- 
ure of  former  efforts,  it  is  yet  impossible  not  to  hope 
that  the  new  committee  will  not  feel  itself  bound  in 
any  way  by  the  action  of  its  predecessor,  but  will  start 
quite  afresh  from  the  beginning.  It  is  true  that  some 
little  time  will  be  lost  by  this  method  of  procedure, 
and  that  time  is  of  vital  importance,  since  the  present 
condition  of  the  library  is  a  national  disgrace,  and 
may  result  in  a  national  misfortune.  But  it  would  be 
a  misfortune  and  a  disgrace  were  we  to  be  given  a 
building  inferior  to  the  best  that  might  be  obtained, — 
were  one  more  to  be  added  to  the  long  list  of  archi- 
tectural monstrosities,  put  up  under  governmental 
control,  which  deform  our  cities  and  corrupt  the  public 
taste.  Ten  years  ago  it  would  have  been  possible  to 
secure  a  respectable,  dignified,  and  scholarly  building. 
To-day  it  would  easily  be  possible  to  secure  much 
more  than  this.  We  have  now  not  one  architect,  but 
several,  able  to  erect  a  structure  upon  which  we  could 
look  with  contentment  and  with  pride.  But  it  is  well 
within  the  bounds  of  truth  and  charity  to  state  that  none 
of  the  designs  of  the  architect  who  has  thus  far  been 
most  successful  in  competition  come  within  this  cate- 
gory. Pressing  as  is  our  need  of  a  new  library,  we 
might  better  wait  for  a  long  time  yet  than  afflict  pos- 
terity by  the  execution  of  either  of  his  essays.  It  is 
not  a  mere  matter  of  "  taste  "  which  is  involved  in 
this  decision.  It  is  many  matters  vifact  which  are  not 
readily  perceptible,  apparently,  to  untrained  eyes  (since 
they  were  not  perceived  by  the  various  committees), 
but  which  could  be  thoroughly  demonstrated  to  any 
mind  whatever,  were  the  drawings  at  hand  for  illus- 
tration. The  first  proposed  elevation  shows  a  so-called 
Gothic  structure,  impossible  to  describe  according  to 
any  recognized  type  or  formula.  Not  that  one  would 
deny  freedom  to  the  modern  builder,  whatever  the 
style  he  chooses,  or  the  liberty  to  recombine  his  ele- 
ments and  innovate  upon  the  grammar  of  his  prede- 
cessors. Architecture  is,  if  anything,  a  living  art,  and 
may  grow  as  does  a  living  language,  often  weld- 
ing together  elements  from  various  tongues.  But  it  is 
not  growth,  it  is  not  liberty  or  originality,  to  plan  an 
immense  front  without  any  expression  of  the  building's 
purpose  or  internal  structure,  without  proper  distri- 


bution of  masses  or  consideration  of  proportions,  and 
then  to  cover  it  from  top  to  bottom  with  a  wilderness 
of  applied  details  drawn  from  many  times  and  quar- 
ters, without  relation  to  the  building  they  cover,  the 
places  they  hold,  or  the  functions  they  might  reason- 
ably be  expected  to  fulfill,  and  utterly  inharmonious 
with  one  another.  Many  of  the  details  of  this  drawing 
could  hardly  be  executed  in  their  given  places  unless 
made  of  wood;  none  of  them  serve  to  strengthen  or 
adorn  the  building,  but  all  of  them  to  deform,  if  not  to 
drag  it  down. 

Another  design  shows  the  same  general  outline 
with  "  Renaissance  detail."  One  instance  may  serve 
to  show  the  author's  capabilities  in  this  direction. 
The  upper  range  of  windows  is  of  a  type  commonly 
found  in  early  Italian  Renaissance  dwellings,  round- 
arched,  and  divided  into  two  round  lights,  with  a  circle 
in  the  space  above  these — the  design  being,  of  course, 
a  reminiscence  of  Gothic  tracery.  Such  a  window  is 
quite  complete  in  itself;  but  here  the  designer,  in  his 
mad  desire  for  "  ornament,"  has  placed  above  each  a 
straight  cornice  with  a  triangular  pediment,  having  no 
connection  with  the  forms  below ;  and  to  show  that  it 
has  no  use,  even  as  a  protection  from  the  weather,  it 
may  be  added  that  immediately  over  it  projects  the 
heavy  cornice  of  the  building. 

The  design  which  received  the  latest  indorsement  of 
the  committee  is  a  simpler  Renaissance  essay,  less  ob- 
jectionable by  reason  of  being  less  ambitious,  but  not 
really  more  excellent.  Any  visitor  to  Washington  may 
examine  these  designs  for  himself,  or  may  look  at  the 
new  part  of  the  Georgetown  college  for  an  example 
of  what  their  author  can  produce.  It  would  be,  we 
repeat,  nothing  less  than  a  public  misfortune  should 
the  erection  of  the  great  new  library  be  a  sister  work. 

But  since  better  architecture  is  surely  to  be  had,  how 
should  the  committee  go  about  the  task  of  securing  it? 
The  first  and  most  essential  thing  is  that  they  should 
abandon  the  idea  of  sitting  as  expert  judges  in  an  ar- 
tistic matter.  In  no  other  province  does  the  average 
layman  hold  himself  capable  of  testing  and  directing 
professional  work ;  but  in  the  art  of  building  it  is  the 
unfortunate  custom  for  such  capability  to  be  claimed. 
If  it  is  desirable  that  the  library  building  should 
be  a  good  work  of  art,  then  no  lay  committee 
appointed  on  purely  political  grounds  should  attempt 
to  guide  its  erection.  If  it  is  not  desirable  and  neces- 
sary, then  let  all  pretense  in  this  direction  be  frankly 
given  up.  Let  us  have  a  plain  brick  warehouse,  in 
which  our  books  can  be  safely  stored  until  such  time 
as  we  realize  more  clearly  our  needs,  and  the  way  in 
which  they  should  be  satisfied. 

The  first  thing  to  be  secured,  of  course,  is  a  good 
plan.  For  this,  the  advice  of  competent  librarians  is 
absolutely  necessary.  A  committee  of  such  might  be 
chosen,  and  some  design  agreed  upon  as  to  general 
features  and  requirements  only ;  for  if  the  architect  is 
in  the  least  competent,  he  will  be  able  so  to  modify  it 
—  in  consultation,  if  desired,  with  them  —  that  their 
ends  will  be  better  served  than  by  their  own  im 
tions.  For  the  selection  of  this  competent  archit 
there  is  more  than  one  way  open.  The  plan 
usually  adopted  at  the  present  day,  in  England  as 
as  here,  is  to  invite  certain  artists  to  join  in  a 
tition,  each,  whether  successful  or  not,  to  be  retm 
ated  by  a  sum  which  will  pay  him  for  his  time  am 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


629 


trouble.  A  simpler,  more  economical,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  sensible  and  dignified  plan  would  be  to 
choose  an  architect  out  and  out.  Surely  a  man's 
ability  may  be  as  easily  judged  from  structures  he  has 
already  erected  as  from  architectural  drawings,  espe- 
cially as  these  may  be  among  the  most  hieroglyphic, 
untrustworthy,  and  misleading  of  earthly  things. 
Whichever  course  is  decided  upon  —  whether  that  of 
competitive  or  of  immediate  choice  —  the  Congres- 
sional committee  should  not  trust  in  its  own  wisdom. 
Its  proper  work  would  be  to  designate  a  disinterested 
and  well  qualified  judge  or  judges  whose  decision 
should  be  final  and  untrammeled.  It  would  not  be 
difficult  to  find  men  amply  competent  for  this  task, 
—  men  (like  Professor  Ware  of  Columbia  College,  for 
example)  who  are  educated  architects  and  accomplished 
critics,  able  to  understand  both  the  artistic  and  the 
material  requirements  of  the  problem,  but  who,  not 
being  concerned  with  the  actual  practice  of  their  pro- 
fession, would  be  above  all  suspicion  of  prejudice  or 
self-seeking.  Indeed,  Congress  has  such  a  man  close 
beside  it  in  the  person  of  the  Capitol  architect.  He 
has  his  hands  so  full  of  his  own  work,  is  so  averse 
to  personally  directing  this  project,  and  is,  moreover, 
so  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  necessities  of 
the  case  and  the  course  of  former  agitation,  that  no 
better  acting  representative  of  the  Congressional  com- 
mittee could  be  chosen.  By  thus  putting  the  artistic 
part  of  the  matter  out  of  its  own  hands,  the  committee 
would  not  accuse  itself  of  ignorance.  It  would  clearly 
show,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  had  a  wise  appreciation 
of  the  dignity  and  difficulty  of  the  problem,  a  wise 
judgment  as  to  how  it  should  be  met,  and  a  wise  wish 
I  to  shift  from  its  own  shoulders  upon  those  better  fitted 
j  to  bear  them  the  burdens  of  public  criticism  and  pos- 
sible professional  jealousy. 

It  may  be  added  that,  with  regard  to  the  selection 
of  a  site,  no  commission  could  be  better  qualified  than 
the  one  we  have  above  named  as  already  once  selected 
[for  this  purpose. 

On  the  Reading  of  Dante. 

WE  doubt  if  there  is  any  name  in  literature  at  the 
same  time  so  familiar  and  so  unknown  to  those  who 
<speak  English  as  that  of  Dante.  It  is  an  evidence, 
jindeed,  of  Dante's  unique  power,  that  his  character, 
;in  its  sterner  aspects  at  least,  has  impressed  itself 
jso  strongly  upon  the  imaginations  of  men  that  his 
[name,  even  where  his  writings  remain  unread,  stands 
as  a  type  of  deep  and  awful  insight.  Even  those 
who  have  not  read  a  sonnet  of  the  "Vita  Nuova"  or 
a  single  canto  of  the  so-called  Divine  Comedy,  know 
that  this  is  the  mortal  who,  in  a  certain  real  sense,  has 
seen  Hell.  As  a  mere  word,  even  as  a  typical  and  ex- 
pressive word,  Dante  is  constantly  before  our  eyes ;  and 
yet  there  are  comparatively  few  who  have  read,  even 
Sn  translation,  anything  but  extracts  from  the  world- 
Famed  trilogy.  As  a  rule  the  "general  reader,"  if 
Curiosity  leads  him  that  far,  seldom  gets  beyond  the 
'Inferno."  This  is  true  in  America  at  least,  notwith- 
standing that  American  scholarship  has  long  been 
especially  occupied  in  translating,  or  otherwise  eluci- 
lating,  the  life  and  works  of  the  great  Florentine,  — as 
s  attested  especially  by  the  writings  of  Parsons,  Nor- 
:on,  Lowell,  and  Longfellow.  And  now,  another  de- 


voted student  of  Dante,  Miss  Sarah  Freeman  Clarke,  is 
about  to  make  public  (in  the  pages  of  THE  CENTURY) 
the  results  of  many  pilgrimages  undertaken  with  a 
view  to  identifying  the  places  and  objects  visited  by 
the  poet  in  his  wanderings.  By  way  of  preface  to  these 
chapters,  a  study  of  Dante  by  Miss  Rossetti  and  a 
paper  by  Miss  Clarke  on  the  portraits  of  the  poet  are 
printed  in  this  number. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  an  exaggerated 
idea  of  the  obscurity  of  the  poem  should  lead  so 
many  who  are  well  fitted  for  its  enjoyment  to  neglect 
the  leading  work  with  which  Dante's  name  is  asso- 
ciated. It  is  true,  however,  that  as  culture  extends  a 
knowledge  of  Dante  grows  among  us  in  a  rapidly 
increasing  ratio,  owing  partly  to  the  interest  reawak- 
ened by  the  Rossettis,  and  also  to  the  labors  of  Amer- 
ican scholars  already  alluded  to.  A  good  work  is 
being  done,  moreover,  by  the  Dante  Society.  Read- 
ers are  learning  not  to  stop  with  the  first  book  of  the 
Comedy,  but  to  continue  through  the  "  Purgatorio  " 
and  the  "  Paradise  "  to  the  proper  ending.  In  no  other 
way,  of  course,  can  the  full  beauty  and  compass  of  this 
extraordinary  conception  be  comprehended.  Certain 
of  the  former  writers  on  Dante  are  partly  to  be 
blamed  for  the  slight  thrown  upon  the  second  and 
third  books  of  the  trilogy — a  slight  strangely  un- 
deserved. For  the  "Inferno  "  (though  not  without  a  cer- 
tain completeness  in  itself)  is,  of  course,  but  a  prelusive 
part  of  the  spiritual  journey  described  in  the  trilogy. 
The  climax  of  the  wonderful  story  is  not  reached  in 
this  portion  of  the  poem — or  rather,  neither  of  the  two 
climaxes,  for  there  are  two.  In  the  "  Inferno  "  and  in 
the  "  Purgatorio  "  Beatrice  hovers  unseen  over  the  as- 
piring soul  of  her  still  earthly  lover.  As  we  read  the 
"  Purgatorio,"  we  ask  ourselves,  can  even  Dante  fulfill 
the  expectations  he  himself  has  raised,  when  it  comes 
to  the  actual  meeting  with  Beatrice?  But  this  he 
does  in  this  second  division  of  the  poem,  while  to 
the  third  is  reserved  the  still  more  difficult  task  of 
preserving  the  dramatic  interest  and  bringing  it  to 
a  second  and  higher  culmination  in  the  concluding 
vision.  In  describing  Beatrice  and  glorifying  her, 
how  he  marshals  all  history,  all  philosophy,  and  all 
theology!  But  the  story  rises  ever  upward,  as  it 
should,  from  Hell,  through  Purgatory,  to  Heaven, 
growing  more  and  more  ethereal,  exalted,  mysterious, 
till  the  final  apocalyptic  page  is  reached,  and  the  poet 
comes  at  last  to  the  central  "  abyss  of  radiance  "  : 

"O  Light  Eterne,  sole  in  thyself  that  dwellest, 
Sole  knowest  thyself,  an|J,  known  unto  thyselt 
And  knowing,  lovest  and  smilest  on  thyself!  " 

We  cannot  conclude  this  "  advertisement  for  readers" 
of  Dante  better  than  by  quoting  the  following  from 
Dean  Church  :  "  The  '  Divina  Commedia '  is  one  of  the 
landmarks  of  history.  More  than  a  magnificent  poem, 
more  than  the  beginning  of  a  language  and  the  open- 
ing of  a  national  literature,  more  than  the  inspirer  of 
art  and  the  glory  of  a  great  people,  it  is  one  of  those 
rare  and  solemn  monuments  of  the  mind's  power 
which  measure  and  test  what -it  can  reach  to,  which 
rise  up  ineffaceably  and  forever  as  time  goes  on. 
*  *  *  It  is  the  first  Christian  poem ;  and  it  opens 
European  literature,  as  the  '  Iliad '  did  that  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  And,  like  the  '  Iliad,'  it  has  never  become 
out  of  date ;  it  accompanies  with  undiminished  fresh- 
ness the  literature  which  it  began." 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


The  Silver  Dollar :  Is  it  Honest  ?  and,  if  Honest,  is  it 
Expedient  ? 

BY  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  we,  the 
people,  have  wisely  surrendered  to  Congress  the 
power  to  coin  money  and  regulate  its  value.  We  hold 
the  fallacy  lurking  in  the  meaning  of  this  word 
"  value  "  responsible  in  a  great  measure  for  the  criti- 
cisms issuing  from  many  trustworthy  and  honorable 
sources  against  the  honesty  of  our  national  legislation 
in  remonetizing  the  old  silver  dollar.  In  1873  our 
nation  was  enormously  burdened  with  debts,  which 
were  solemnly  pledged  to  be  paid  in  coin,  and  it  be- 
came a  question  of  vital  importance  to  select  the  metal 
of  which  the  coin  should  be  made. 

The  silver  as  well  as  the  gold  dollar  was  then,  as 
now,  a  full,  unlimited  debt-paying  coin  of  the  country. 
As  for  more  than  twenty  years  preceding  this  time  it 
required  on  an  average  over  one  hundred  and  three 
cents  of  gold  to  buy  enough  silver  to  make  a  dollar, 
it  was  thought  to  be  a  happy,  economical  stroke  of 
policy  to  cease  coining  silver  as  full  legal-tender 
money,  and  use  gold  alone,  as  it  was  the  cheaper 
metal.  In  1878  this  rash  financial  mistake  was  recti- 
fied, and  the  silver  dollar  was  again  ordered  to  be 
coined.  In  the  meantime  the  legislation  of  our  coun- 
try and  of  Germany  against  silver  was  one  of  the 
most  potent  causes  in  decreasing  the  demand  for  this 
metal,  and  consequently  decreasing  its  intrinsic  value, 
so  that  we  find  ourselves  coining  silver  dollars  out  of 
a  quantity  of  silver  that  we  buy  for  about  eighty-six 
cents  in  gold.  Hence  this  dollar  has  received  the 
libelous  nickname  of  the  "  dishonest  "  or  "  clipped 
dollar,"  when  it  is  well  known  that  the  quantity  of 
pure  silver  contained  in  it  has  never  varied  since  the 
first  organization  of  our  mints.  It  is  equally  well 
known  that  our  Government  in  1834  removed  over 
six  and  a  quarter  per  cent,  of  pure  gold  from  the  gold 
dollar.  Whoever  contends  for  the  perfect  honesty  of 
this  silver  dollar  strives  for  the  honor  of  his  nation  just 
as  effectually  as  if  fighting  her  battles  in  a  just  cause 
at  sea  or  on  land. 

When  this  word  "value"  is  used  in  relation  to 
money,  no  discussion  can^  be  precise  unless  qualified, 
either  mentally  or  in  words,  by  something  to  show  its 
real  meaning,  and  thus  avoid  being  misled  by  one  of 
the  most  seductive  of  word-fallacies.  Money  has  at 
least  three  distinct  kinds  of  value — debt-paying,  in- 
trinsic, and  purchasing.  The  legal  debt-paying  value 
of  money  is  a  question  of  statute  law,  and  is  regulated 
only  by  this  law.  Its  intrinsic  value  is  a  question  of 
supply  and  demand,  and  is  regulated  only  by  this 
rigid  economic  law.  Its  purchasing  or  exchangeable 
value  is  a  question  of  prices,  and  is  regulated  by  the 
will  of  the  people  without  regard  to  statute  law.  Thus, 
the  silver  dollar  now  worth  intrinsically  so  much  less 
than  gold  has  a  home  debt-paying  value  equal  to  gold, 
and  will  purchase  the  same  quantity  of  commodities 
or  services  from  our  people. 

One  of  the  most  strongly  marked  characteristics  of 


our  marvelous  age  is  the  growth  and  magnitude  of 
our  private  and  public  debts.  Hence,  this  debt-paying 
quality  of  money  is  a  question  of  commanding  impor- 
tance, and  must  not  be  seriously  interfered  with,  unless 
in  a  great  emergency.  Congress  has  full  power  to 
fix  permanently  this  debt-paying  quality  of  money  by 
maintaining  the  material,  weight,  and  fineness  of  the 
coin.  Whenever  it  changes  these  elements,  existing 
contracts  are  violated.  A  legal  debt  is  simply  a  contract 
or  promise  to  pay  at  some  future  day  a  certain,  defi- 
nite quantity  of  the  commodities,  gold  and  silver,  coined 
into  full  legal-tender  money ;  or,  if  the  promise  is  fairly 
settled  by  paper,  it  becomes  a  title  to  real  money  or 
its  equivalent.  We  admit,  however,  that  Congress 
has  enacted  that  greenbacks  are  full  legal-tender 
money,  and  that  our  Supreme  Court  has  •  confirmed 
the  law,  and  our  people  have  indorsed  these  actions ; 
yet  this  triple  confirmation  does  not  logically  bridge 
over  the  immense  chasm  between  real  money  and  this 
fictitious  paper  representative.  The  civilization  of  the 
world  would  be  paralyzed  without  the  use  of  paper 
money  in  some  of  its  various  forms,  and  hence  it  is 
of  inestimable  utility ;  but  we  should  never  for  a  mo- 
ment forget  that  it  is  not  real  mon^r. 

Gold  and  silver  money  is  our  measure  of  the  ex- 
changeable values  of  all  other  commodities.  While 
this  is  true,  let  us  examine  if  by  any  possibility  the 
intrinsic  value  of  either  gold  or  silver  in  comparison 
with  each  other,  or  with  the  various  exchangeable 
commodities  in  use  in  common  life,  can  be  maintained 
at  a  fixed  point.  All  political  economists  without 
hesitation  answer,  No.  The  intrinsic  value  of  coins, 
it  matters  not  of  what  they  are  made,  cannot  remain 
fixed,  but  is  continually  varying  from  day  to  day,  and 
from  century  to  century.  The  supply  and'  demand 
of  the  metals  out  of  which  they  are  coined,  which  are 
always  variable,  regulate  this  kind  of  value. 

The  assertion  that  the  intrinsic  value  of  gold  re- 
mains comparatively  fixed  is  almost  as  absurd  in  the 
science  of  finance  as  the  Rev.  John  Jasper's  astronom- 
ical assertion,  that  the  earth  remains  fixed  in  posi- 
tion and  that  "the  sun  do  move."  Yet  on  this  false 
theory  how  many  of  the  arguments  against  the  use  of 
silver  depend.  As  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  have 
any  standard  of  intrinsic  value  that  will  remain  un- 
varying, shall  we  abandon  the  attempt  to  have  one 
as  steady  in  this  quality  as  possible  ?  The  united 
wisdom  of  the  commercial  world  for  ages  has  given 
us  this  double  standard  of  gold  and  silver  as  the  most 
fit  materials  for  money.  We  admit  that  this  measure 
is  a  constantly  varying  one,  but  it  is  far  more  steady 
in  this  quality  than  either  metal  alone  could  be. 
Statisticians  of  the  greatest  reliability  give  us  these 
two  important  facts,  bearing  on  this  case  :  Scarcely 
one-tenth  of  the  people  of  the  world  now  use  gold  as 
their  sole  legal  standard,  and  about  forty-six  per  cent. 
of  the  real  money  in  use  in  the  world  is  silver.  Is  it 
not  then  an  immense  stretch  of  the  imagination  to 
that  gold  is  "  the  money  of  the  world  "  ? 

Should  the  world  abandon  the  use  of  silver  as  a 


:: 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


631 


legal-tender  money  metal,  does  it  require  the  mental 
caliber  of  a  Newton  to  see  that  the  demand  for  gold 
would  be  so  great  as  enormously  to  increase  its  in- 
trinsic value  ?  It  would  approximately  double  all  of 
our  debts  and  decrease  by  nearly  one-half  the  prices 
of  all  exchangeable  commodities.  It  would  cause  a 
complete  financial  crash  and  revolution  throughout 
the  entire  commercial  world. 

The  demand  for  either  metal  for  coinage  increases 
its  utility,  and  hence  its  intrinsic  value ;  and  if  the  civil- 
ized world  would  wisely  make  their  principal  demand 
for  the  cheaper  metal  (whichever  that  might  happen 
to  be)  for  coining  full  legal-tender  money,  the  constant 
tendency  would  be  to  equalize  the  two  metals  at  their 
old  ratio  in  intrinsic  value.  The  effect  would  be  very 
marked  should  Germany  alone  change  her  unwise 
legislation  of  1871  against  silver,  and  should  England 
again  fully  remonetize  silver,  as  so  earnestly  advised 
by  many  of  her  most  able  financiers.  This  alternate 
use  of  these  two  precious  metals  is  one  of  the  most 
active  forces  in  giving  us  money  of  comparatively 
great  stability  in  this  most  essential  quality  of  "  in- 
trinsic value." 

It  is  a  common  but  very  captivating  delusion  to 
speak  of  a  gold  yard-stick,  or  of  a  silver  yard-stick, 
when  referring  to  coins  as  "measures  of  values." 
Nature  has  given  us  unvarying  laws  to  test  our  "  stand- 
ards of  weights  and  measures."  Statute  law  may  en- 
act that  the  yard  shall  be  reduced  to  one-third  of  its 
length,  but  this  will  not  make  the  real  height  of  a 
man  who  was  two  yards  tall  a  single  hair's  breadth 
greater.  We  have  no  such  unvarying  natural  laws 
to  test  the  intrinsic  value  of  our  money  standards. 
We  can  maintain  the  weight  of  the  coins  by  accurate 
balances,  their  fineness  by  chemical  analysis,  their  ap- 
pearance by  careful  coinage,  and  their  debt-paying  value 
by  statute  law,  but  here  we  must  stop. 

The  use  of  the  phrase  "  standard  of  value,"  referring 
to  the  intrinsic  value,  is  a  mischievous  delusion  un- 
less we  conceive  of  a  standard  as  being  elastic.  The 
phrase  "agent  of  valuation,'5  rather  than  "standard 
of  value,"  will  give  a  correct  idea  of  this  function 
of  money. 

By  the  adoption  of  the  simple  common-sense  ex-' 
pedient,  of  leaving  the  coinage  of  silver  entirely  under 

>vernment  control,  restricting  it  within  reasonable 

aits,  and  of  buying  all  of  the  metal  needed  at  its 
cet  price,  we  have  avoided  the  calamity  of  being 

irrun  with  the  silver  of  the  world.     Notwithstand- 
our  immense  silver  coinage,  we  have  not  met  with 
bankruptcy  and  ruin  which  it  was  foretold  would 
;sult  from  this  one  cause  alone ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 

ir  national  credit  was  never  better  than  at  present. 

Coin  is  specially  fitted  for  vault  service,  not  for  the 
cet ;  and  bankruptcy  will  not  likely  disturb  us  sim- 
because  our  vaults  are  filled  with  real  money  and 

ir  pockets  with  its  well-secured  paper  representa. 
tives. 

John  A.  Grier. 


COMMENT. 

THERE  is  a  difficulty  in  the  way  of  answering  or 
imenting  upon  Mr.  Grier's  article  —  the  difficulty 
knowing  what  he  is  driving  at.  There  is  noth- 
so  discouraging  as  attempting  to  answer  a  writer 


who  has  no  clear  idea  of  what  he  wants  to  prove,  and 
who  skips  with  bird-like  freedom  and  unconcern  from 
one  branch  of  his  subject  to  another,  disdaining  any 
continuous  line  of  thought.  For  want  of  any  other 
fulcrum  to  begin  work  upon,  let  us  take  the  caption 
of  his  article. 

"  The  Silver  Dollar  —  is  it  honest  ?  "  This  query  is 
of  a  piece  with  the  general  slipperiness  and  uncer- 
tainty of  Mr.  Grier's  argument,  because  it  may  be  an- 
swered in  two  or  three  different  ways.  If  it  is  meant 
to  ask  whether  the  silver  dollar  really  weighs  four 
hundred  and  twelve  and  a  half  grains,  nine-tenths  fine, 
as  the  law  requires,  it  is  undoubtedly  honest.  If  the 
question  is  whether  the  silver  dollar  is  worth  as  much 
as  any  other  American  dollar,  standing  on  its  own 
merits,  everybody  knows  that  it  is  not,  and  that,  so 
far,  it  is  a  fraud.  Bear  in  mind  that  the  silver  dollar 
purports  to  stand  on  its  own  merits  and  calls  itself  a 
dollar,  differing  in  this  respect  from  the  greenback 
dollar,  which  makes  no  such  pretensions,  but  calls  itself 
a  promise  to  pay  a  dollar.  "But,"  says  one,  "even 
if  the  silver  dollar,  standing  by  itself,  is  not  worth  as 
much  as  some  other  American  dollars,  it  nevertheless 
passes  for  as  much."  So  does  a  counterfeit  dollar  un- 
til people  find  it  out.  The  silver  dollar  and  the  coun- 
terfeit dollar  are  dishonest  and  misleading  in  this,  that 
both  pretend  to  be  the  equivalents,  as  metal,  of  the 
property  they  exchange  for.  The  silver  dollar  is  at 
par  with  gold  up  to  the  present  time  because  the  Gov- 
ernment redeems  it  at  the  custom  house,  the  tax  of- 
fice, and  the  land  office.  The  Government  has  never 
said  that  it  would  give  a  gold  dollar  for  a  silver  one  at 
the  Treasury,  but  its  action,  for  the  time  being,  has 
the  same  effect,  since  otherwise  its  collections  of  taxes 
and  duties  would  be  made  in  gold  —  exclusively.  Sil- 
ver has  thus  received  a  factitious  outside  support  over 
and  above  its  metallic  value,  and  it  is  this  support 
which,  for  the  time  being,  veils  its  dishonesty.  The 
dishonesty  consists  in  the  very  fact  of  passing  for  more 
than  it  is  worth  —  as  metal.  Whether  we  consider 
twenty-five  and  eight-tenths  grains  of  standard  gold, 
or  four  hundred  and  twelve  and  a  half  grains  of 
standard  silver,  the  more  fit  and  proper  unit  of  value, 
all  must  agree  that  if  the  latter  passes  for  as  much  as  the 
former  it  passes  for  more  than  it  is  worth,  and  that  its 
extra  value  must  be  borrowed  from  some  extrinsic  and 
foreign  source,  which  may  or  may  not  always  continue 
to  lend  it  the  necessary  support.  This  proposition  has 
all  the  force  and  certainty  of  mathematics. 

If,  however,  Mr.  Grier  intends  to  ask  whether  the 
reintroduction  of  the  silver  dollar  into  our  coinage 
after  its  value  had  fallen  below  the  legal  ratio  of  six- 
teen to  one  was  an  honest  act, —  if  this  is  the  purport 
of  the  query  which  stands  in  the  caption,  its  perti- 
nence at  this  time  is  not  perceived.  The  question  was 
debated  in  the  forums  of  law  and  morals,  at  great 
length  and  with  great  heat,  more  than  five  years  ago. 
The  vote  taken  in  Congress  upon  it  never  convinced 
anybody,  and  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  go  over  the 
heads  of  the  discourse  now.  What  the  Government 
did  at  that  time  was  simply  to  assert  its  right  to  pay 
its  own  debts  in  silver  dollars  of  four  hundred  and 
twelve  and  a  half  grains,  nine-tenths  fine,  which  it 
could  produce  at  ten  per  cent,  less  than  gold  dollars. 
It  did  not  authorize  private  persons  to  pay  their  debts 
in  the  same  way,  because  it  held  in  its  own  hands  the 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


right  to  manufacture  silver  dollars,  and  refused  to  sell 
them  to  the  public  for  anything  less  than  the  price  of 
gold  dollars.  Having  asserted  its  own  right  in  the 
premises,  it  has  never  yet  exercised  it.  It  continues  to 
pay  its  debts  in  gold  or  gold  value.  Whenever  it  shall 
exercise  the  right  to  pay  its  bonds,  interest,  pensions, 
and  current  obligations  at  anything  less  than  gold 
value,  the  question  of  honesty  will  come  up  afresh. 
At  the  present  time  it  is  not  important.  The  only 
other  right  which  the  Government  assumed  in  the  silver 
act  was  to  take  two  million  dollars  per  month  from  the 
tax- payers  to-  pay  for  silver  bullion  to  be  stamped  with 
the  figure  of  a  spread  eagle,  and  laid  back  in  the  earth 
from  whence  it  came.  Although  the  question  of  hon- 
esty is  not  of  immediate  importance,  the  $24,000,000 
per  annum  of  public  money  spent  upon  silversmithing 
is  of  real  consequence  to  those  who  foot  the  bills. 

Is  the  silver  dollar  expedient  ?  This  again  depends 
upon  another  question — viz.,  how  many  silver  dollars 
are  meant  ?  One  silver  dollar  would  be  expedient  as 
a  matter  of  curiosity.  A  few  millions  would  be  expe- 
dient for  small  payments,  although  the  superiority  of 
-whole  ones  over  halves  for  this  purpose  is  not  appar- 
ent. Fifty  or  sixty  millions  would  be  expedient  if  all 
notes  smaller  than  five  dollars  were  withdrawn,  and 
the  gold  quarter  eagle  stricken  from  the  coinage. 
Finally,  it  appears  that  under  our  very  cramped 
and  rigid  national  banking  law  and  the  operation  of 
rapid  debt  paying  and  bond  cancellation,  room  has 
been  discovered  for  the  circulation  and  use  of  ninety- 
nine  millions  of  silver  certificates  —  these  being  the 
only  form  of  paper  currency  which  could  be  ob- 
tained in  haste  in  any  desired  quantity,  of  denomi- 
nations as  low  as  ten  dollars.  No  virtue  need  be 
attributed  to  silver  for  all  this,  since  it  is  gold, 
or  gold  value,  which  is  invariably  deposited  at  the 
Treasury  in  exchange  for  silver  certificates.  An  equal 
number  of  new  greenbacks  would  have  circulated  as 
readily,  there  being  a  real  demand  for  them  arising 
from  the  country's  growth.  An  equal  number  of  new 
national  bank  notes  would  have  been  provided,  if  bonds 
had  been  plentiful  and  the  price  not  too  high.  It  hap- 
pened shortly  after  the  silver  certificates  were  author- 
ized that  a  great  development  of  agricultural  and 
mining  industry  took  place  in  the  West  and  South- 
west, and  a  heavy  stream  of  immigration  set  in  from 
foreign  countries.  This  Western  development  called 
for  a  new  supply  of  paper  currency,  and  the  silver 
certificates  were  the  only  available  source.  They  were 
taken  out  for  want  of  anything  better.  They  are  not 
legal  tender  except  at  the  custom  house  and  the  tax 
office,  but  being  received  there  they  answer  the  pur- 
poses of  currency.  Copper  or  iron  certificates  under 
like  conditions  would  answer  as  well. 

Taking  things  as  they  are,  however,  and  pursuing 
the  inquiry  how  many  silver  dollars  are  expedient,  we 
may  admit  that  of  the  whole  amount  coined  up  to  this 
time,  viz.  $158,000,000,  all  except  $39,000,000  are  in 
use  somehow  either  as  coin  or  as  certificates  :  $39,000- 
ooo  remain  in  the  Treasury,  an  altogether  dead  invest- 
ment, representing  at  3  per  cent.  $1,170,000  of  annual 
interest  lost  to  the  tax-payers ;  and  this  stock  is  in- 
creasing at  the  rate  of  $2,000,000  per  month.  It  is 
open  to  us  to  show  that  the  services  rendered  by  the 
silver  dollars  and  the  silver  certificates  might  be  much 
more  advantageously  secured  in  other  ways,  but  for 


the  sake  of  argument  we  will  assume  that  about 
119,000,000  of  such  dollars  are  expedient.  The  only 
question  open  to  intelligent  discussion  is,  whether  it  is 
expedient  to  go  on  manufacturing  a  particular  coin 
after  the  limit  of  its  circulation,  either  in  its  original 
or  its  representative  character,  has  been  reached  and 
passed.  Upon  this  question  Mr.  Grier  throws  no 
light.  He  does  not  seem  even  to  apprehend  it. 

Never  before  in  the  world's  history  has  any  gov- 
ernment charged  itself  with  the  duty  of  making  metal- 
lic money,  either  gold  or  silver,  beyond  the  needs  of 
itself  or  its  people.  The  United  States  alone  furnish 
this  example  of  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess.  The 
solecism,  it  is  well  known,  came  about  in  the  way  of 
a  compromise  between  two  sections  or  factions  of  the 
"  friends  of  silver  "  in  Congress,  one  of  which  desired 
unlimited  coinage,  while  the  other  desired  limited 
coinage.  It  would  be  nearer  the  truth  to  say  that  one 
side  desired  to  give  everybody  the  privilege  of  scaling 
his  debts  ten  per  cent.,  while  the  other  side  desired  to 
confine  it  to  the  Government.  The  result  of  the  com- 
promise was  a  limitation  of  the  monthly  coinage,  but 
no  limitation  of  the  total.  The  arrangement  was  based 
upon  no  principles  of  finance.  It  was  a  mere  "  back 
fire  "  started  against  the  Bland  bill.  It  had  the  effect 
of  stopping  Mr.  Eland's  fife,  but  is  itself  still  burning. 
What  it  may  destroy  hereafter  is  a  matter  of  conject- 
ure, but  it  is  certainly  consuming  two  million  dollars 
per  month  of  the  public  taxes,  and  serving  no  pur- 
pose except  to  steady  the  price  of  silver  for  mine  own- 
ers in  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  still  more  for  the 
treasury  and  trade  of  British  India,  for  which  service 
we  have  as  yet  received  no  thanks. 

The  question,  "  Is  the  silver  dollar  expedient  ?  " 
has  no  significance  except  as  an  inquiry  whether  the 
continued  coinage  of  two  millions  per  month,  after  all 
demands  for  silver  dollars  have  been  more  than  satis- 
fied, is  expedient.  It  must,  of  course,  be  answered  in 
the  negative. 

Horace  White. 

Artistic  Help  in   Divine  Service. 

IT  was  thought  to  be  of  sufficient  interest  to  the 
public  to  be  stated  in  the  reports  of  the  meeting  of 
the  American  Board  at  Detroit,  last  autumn,  that  at 
the  beginning  of  the  first  service  the  hymn,  "  Joy  to 
the  world,  the  Lord  is  come,"  was  sung  "as  usual." 
Of  course,  most  of  us  understand  that  the  tune  always 
employed  is  "  Antioch."  It  is  worth  the  inquiry,  as  a 
curious  little  speculation,  whether  the  third  verse  was 
produced  with  the  reduplication  of  those  expressive 
syllables  "  Far  as,"  according  to  the  music  require- 
ment, "  Far  as  the  curse  is  found,  Far  as  the  curse 
is  found,  Far  a-as — Far  a-a-as  the  curse  is  found"; 
and  also  whether  the  fourth  verse  is  still  loaded  with 
the  singular  division  which  makes  the  people  say : 
"  And  wonders  of  His  love,  And  wonders  of  His  love, 
And  wo-on  —  And  wo-o-en-ders  of  His  love."  That  is 
the  way  it  used  to  be  in  Monthly  Concert. 

It  is  difficult  to  conduct  a  sober  discussion  on  the 
special  point  to  which  I  have  long  been  wanting 
draw  attention,  as  one  of  the  singing  multitude,  withe 
seeming  to  be  in  fun  instead  of  in  dead  earnest, 
simple  statement  of  our  embarrassment  makes 
laugh.    Now  above  is  the  example :    I  want  to 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


633 


modestly  that  even  the  authority  of  Lowell  Mason  is 
not  enough  to  fasten  on  the  churches  such  an  awkward- 
ness as  this,  which  is  plain  the  moment  it  is  mentioned ; 
though  it  looks  like  a  joke  to  show  it  up.  Lately  the 
attempt  has  been  made  to  slur  over  the  whole  strain, 
and  that  is  certainly  an  improvement.  But  one  must 
be  pardoned  if  in  candor  he  asks  whether  a  hymn  shall 
be  travestied  forever  in  order  to  carry  out  what  a  com- 
poser calls  his  "  musical  thought." 

Such  a  question  is  far-reaching  in  principle.  Which 
is  it  that  singing  is  to  follow,  the  words  or  the  tune  ? 
What  is  the  real  purpose  of  the  American  Board,  or 
of  any  one  pf  our  churches,  in  the  act  of  singing  in 
divine  services  ?  Is  it  to  render  a  "  musical  thought  " 
adequately,  or  to  give  a  poetic  sentiment  fitting  ex- 
pression ?  Take  another  case :  Once  when  I  was 
preaching  in  a  church  beside  the  Hudson  River,  in 
May,  the  busiest  month  of  the  fishing  season,  I 
gave  out  the  hymn,  "Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul."  The 
leader  set  it  to  a  tune  which,  for  the  sake  of  some  man's 
"  musical  thought,"  repeated  half  of  the  final  line. 
When  I  heard  the  first  verse,  I  shrank  with  consterna- 
tion in  frightful  prospect  of  the  second;  for  the  move- 
ment ran  thus :  "  Oh,  receive  —  Oh,  receive  —  Oh, 
receive  my  soul  at  last."  That  did  no  harm,  it  was 
simply  unnecessary.  But  the  next  was  awful.  When  I 
repeat  it,  it  will  be  supposed  a  joke,  although  I  am 
writing  in  sad  earnest  of  a  fact  which  almost  destroyed 
my  service  :  "  Cover  my  defenseless  head — With  the 
shad — with  the  shad — with  the  shad-ow  of  thy 
wing."  The  whole  congregation  stirred  with  irre- 
pressible laughter.  Must  we  all  be  forced  to  stand 
this? 

Somebody  will  have  to,  give  in,  and  it  is  dangerous 

for  a  modern  clergyman  to  criticise  his  choir.    A  good 

man  in  New  Jersey  last  year  came  very  near  losing 

ihis  charge  for  saying  that  he  did  not  agree  with  his 

quartette  in  their  adoration  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which 

they  had  been  singing  just  for  the  sake  of  a  piece  of 

music.    Frequently  the  worship  is  fashioned  in  order 

to  admit  of  what  are  deemed  artistic  effects.    Once  in 

'the  city  of  Boston  I  had  taken  my  place  to  begin ; 

;there  had  been  presented  to  me  a  printed  programme 

|as  I  reached  the  vestry,  the  whole  of  which  was  filled 

fin  except  the  place  for  the  closing  hymn  :  it  was  issued 

jby  the  choir  as  they  had  arranged  it.    While  the  organ 

was  playing,  up  the  pulpit  stairs  came  a  stranger; 

Staking  his  seat  by  me  on  the  sofa,  he  announced  that 

(he  was  the  leader  of  the  music,  "basso. "    He  purposed 

to  sing  for  the  anthem  that  morning  a  solo  from  "  The 

Creation,"  and  he  desired  me  to  read  as  the  lesson  the 

nrst  chapter   of  Genesis,  as  "  the   most  appropriate 

ntroduction."     I    meekly   replied    that   if    this    was 

Customary   in   that   congregation,   I   had   nothing   to 

;ay.     So  I  agreed  to  read  the  chapter,  but  I  added 

.hat  I  trusted  it  would  not  be  considered  an  innova- 

ion  if  I  should  put  in  afterward  a  few  verses  from  the 

N"e\v  Testament   which    I   had  selected.    He  bowed 

issent  gravely  as  he  left  the  desk.     But  when  the  mo- 

nent  arrived  for  the  genesis  of  my  perturbation  to 

)egin,  once  more  I  was  favored  with  a  visit,  this  time 

Tom  the  sexton,  who  only  came  to  hand  me  a  piece 

i)f  a  fly-leaf  from  a  music-book,  on  which  was  written 

Jhe  gracious  information  that  the  leader  of  the  choir, 

'  basso,"   had   concluded  not  to  sing  the  solo,  and 

might  feel  at  liberty  to  read  what  I  pleased.    How 


much  of  that  sort  of  artistic  help  is  an  educated  minis- 
ter, of  a  religious  turn  of  mind,  expected  to  endure  ? 

It  is  of  no  interest  to  me  to  make  issue  with  such 
willful  vanity  and  outrageous  conceit  as  this  manifests; 
the  man  apparently  assuming  that  the  order  of  wor- 
ship was  to  be  constructed  or  modified  to  bring  his 
voice  into  a  proper  orchestral  setting.  My  troubles  have 
come  oftener  from  such  sources  as  that  intimated  in  the 
outset,  than  from  the  mere  carelessness  which  grows 
out  of  a  misconception.  One  of  the  older  philosophers 
has  said,  "  Incongruity  is  the  soul  of  wit."  This  sug- 
gests a  reason  why  we  are  not  heard  in  stating  our 
grievances  ;  the  cases  have  so  much  of  incongruity  in 
them,  that  our  complaint  is  laughed  out  of  court.  We 
are  supposed  to  be  telling  witty  stories,  when  we  are 
trying  desperately  to  put  an  end  to  the  dreadful  in- 
congruities in  the  divine  service  which  destroy  the 
worship  we  seek  to  conduct. 

I  wish  to  make  this  distinct  point,  and  I  never  was 
more  anxiously  sober  in  argument  in  my  life  :  I  think 
that  our  choirs  choose  their  "  opening  pieces  "  and 
their  anthems  with  a  view  to  the  musical  necessity 
of  the  voices  or  the  day  or  the  position,  as  they  see  it, 
and  with  no  proper  regard  to  the  needs  or  wishes  of 
those  who  have  come  to  worship  God.  I  do  not  assert 
that  all  do  it,  nor  that  any  do  it  always  ;  but  I  insist 
that  this  is  the  rule,  and  anything  else  is  the  exception. 

Years  ago,  when  I  sought  to  hold  our  first  Thanks- 
giving service  in  the  Paris  Chapel,  it  may  readily  be 
conceived  by  every  New  England  heart  how  I  was 
thrilled  with  eagerness  of  anticipation.  My  enthusi- 
asm swept  the  people  swiftly  on  with  me.  The  leader 
wished  me  a  hundred  congratulations ;  he  was  full  of 
joy  ;  oh,  he  would  give  me  such  a  grand  anthem  ;  but 
would  I  only  let  him  put  it  in  the  place  of  the  second 
hymn  just  before  the  sermon,  after  the  congregation 
should  all  have  come  in  and  become  still  ?  I  suffered 
it ;  and  that  was  not  all  I  suffered  either.  When  the 
time  came,  the  piece  rolled  out,  "  Bow  down  thine 
ear,  O  Lord."  Ah  me  !  you  should  have  heard  that 
splendid  bass  voice  saying,  "  Thy  will,  O  God,  be 
done  —  thy-ee  will,  O  God,  be  done  !  "  Thus,  there  in 
the  strange  land,  we  hung  our  harps  on  the  willows 
that  Thanksgiving  day ;  we  had  to  send  our  cheerful 
gratitude  aloft  in  the  subdued  strains  of  the  most 
plaintive  submission  imaginable,  for  the  entire  choir 
were  vying  with  each  other  in  a  chase  to  say  best 
and  most :  "  Thy-ee  will,  O  God,  be  done  !  " 

These  things  are  among  the  commonest  of  all  mis- 
takes which  try  our  patience.  We  started  once  last 
year  upon  an  anniversary  celebration  ;  we  planned  to 
awake  ourselves  with  a  song.  The  pulpit  shone  with 
flowers  ;  the  Sunday-schools  were  trained  in  ;  the  air 
quivered  with  sweet  bright  sunshine,  hearts  were 
alive,  and  memories  full  of  exhilaration.  The  choir 
opened  with  a  set  piece,  slow  and  hushed  in  tone,  to 
which  were  adapted  the  words  which  they  whirled 
over  and  over  as  they  pushed  on  before  them  the  in- 
volutions of  an  intricate  fugue  :  "  I  will  both  lay  me 
down  in  peace,  and  sleep ;  for  thou,  Lord,  only  makest 
me  dwell  in  safety."  I  am  not  willing  to  call  that  ar- 
tistic ;  I  consider  it  nothing  more  than  provoking ;  it 
was  inartistic  inappropriateness.  The  piece  was 
chosen,  I  presume,  because  the  music  pleased  some- 
body ;  no  possible  reference  to  the  use  to  which  it 
was  to  be  put  could  have  been  had.  I  cannot  argue 


634 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


about  an  awkward  destruction  of  the  service  like  that ; 
there  was  no  sense  in  such  a  song  then.  If  singers 
cannot  see  the  point  when  the  picture  is  before  them, 
logic  is  useless  —  as  useless  as  Simon  Peter  found  it 
on  the  day  of  Pentecost,  after  he  had  told  the. multi- 
tude that  men  did  not  usually  get  drunken  before  the 
third  hour  of  the  day.  We  do  not  want  our  congrega- 
tions to  lay  themselves  down  in  peace  and  sleep  in 
the  morning  of  an  anniversary  day. 

Then  there  is  a  most  unphilosophical  way  of  divid- 
ing up  the  verses  in  hymns  which  are  personal  and 
experimental.  It  is  as  much  as  congregations  can  do 
to  sing  such  things  at  all  with  four  parts  in  the  music; 
but  traditional  use  helps  us  a  little.  The  moment, 
however,  that  the  attempt  is  made  to  present  them  in 
the  so-called  "  artistic  "  form  of  distribution  among 
the  performers,  a  challenge  is  forced,  and  we  have  to 
accept  the  office  of  critical  estimate  thrust  upon  us 
unawares.  When  a  choir  in  effect  says,  "See  how  we 
will  do  it,"  we  try  to  see.  For  example,  it  is  not  dra- 
matic, nor  artistic,  nor  philosophical,  to  divide  the 
hymn,  "Lead,  kindly  light,"  so  that  a  bass  voice  of  a 
man  should  say,  "  The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from 
home,  Lead  thou  me  on "  ;  and  then  an  alto  voice 
should  say  with  a  woman's  register  of  pathos,  "  I  was 
not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou  shouldst  lead  me 
on."  For  that  inevitably  suggests  two  of  them  in 
trouble,  and  the  illusion  is  destroyed;  we  have  no 
distinct  conception  of  a  soul  struggling  with  an  indi- 
vidual experience ;  if  we  have  any  conception  at  all, 
it  is  of  a  quartette  of  souls  comparing  experiences  in 
different  octaves. 

Let  me  show  what  I  mean  exactly :  some  things  are 
not  perfectly  clear  unless  they  become  melodramatic 
and  exaggerated.  Once  in  Brooklyn  our  tenor  began 
thus,  "  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul " ;  then  the  alto  said, 
"  Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly  " ;  then  the  soprano  said, 
"  While  the  billows  near  me  roll  "  ;  and  the  next  line 
slid  off  on  the  bass,  who  added,  "  And  the  tempest 
still  is  high."  So  the  organ  proceeded  to  conduct  the 
tempest  to  a  successful  issue  with  tremendous  stops, 
which  shook  the  glass  overhead  in  the  windows.  Now, 
what  a  common  man  would  like  to  know  is,  how  many 
vocalists  at  a  time  were  engaged  in  that  prayer.  This 
sending  an  individual  experience  all  around  the  choir 
to  supply  singers  with  words  for  "  musical  thoughts  " 
is  of  no  sort  of  edification  to  churches  —  of  no  sort  of 
comfort  to  preachers. 

It  is  not  quite  fair  to  assert  that  outsiders  do  not 
know  the  difficulties  which  composers  and  leaders 
and  managers  of  music-people  have  to  contend  with. 
But  let  me  say,  modestly,  that  for  one  I  have  been 
told  with  great  pathos,  and  that  more  than  once,  dur- 
ing the  past  twenty  years.  The  conductor  of  our  choir, 
the  one  we  had  long  ago,  said  frankly,  on  the  sad  oc- 
casion when  I  had  what  New  England  people  call  a 
"  to-do  "  with  him  for  cause,  that,  after  a  most  exten- 
sive experience  in  leading,  he  had  found  it  impossible 
to  keep  the  peace  in  his  gallery  unless  he  would  ap- 
portion the  solos  carefully  among  the  performers  from 
Sabbath  to  Sabbath,  so  that  each  should  have  a  chance ; 
hence,  he  often  chose  for  the  sake  of  a  voice,  or  two 
voices,  a  composition  the  rendering  of  which  would 
bring  down  praise  from  "  the  house." 

Now,  just  for  a  moment,  I  should  like  to  quote 
from  "  Aurora  Leigh  "  : 


"  The  artist's  part  is  both  to  be  and  do, 
Transfixing  with  a  special,  central  power 
The  flat  experience  of  the  common  man, 
And  turning  outward,  with  a  sudden  wrench, 
Half  agony,  half  ecstasy,  the  thing 
He  feels  the  inmost." 

After  this  fine  burst  of  enthusiasm,  Mrs.  Browning 
explains  and  guards  her  meaning : 

"  Art's  a  service,  mark  ! 

A  silver  key  is  given  to  thy  clasp ; 

And  thou  shalt  stand  unwearied,  night  and  day, 

And  fix  it  in  the  hard,  slow-turning  wards, 

And  open,  so,  that  intermediate  door 

Betwixt  the  different  planes  of  sensuous  form 

And  form  insensuous,  that  inferior  men 

May  learn  to  feel  on  still  through  these  to  those, 

And  bless  thy  ministration." 

Is  art  a  "  service  "  ?  Does  the  exercise  of  it  in 
divine  worship  partake  of  the  spirit  of  the  inspired 
counsel,  "  Whosoever  will  be  chief  among  you,  let 
him  be  your  servant "?  This  thrusting  forward  of  a 
personality  of  display  does  not  look  like  it.  Once 
our  alto  asked  me,  as  I  was  entering  the  pulpit, 
whether  I  had  any  objections  to  changing  the  closing 
hymn,  for  she  was  expecting  some  friends  that  even- 
ing, and  they  could  not  come  till  late,  and  she  wantec 
to  sing  a  solo.  And  once,  at  a  week-day  funeral,  oui 
tenor  crowded  me  even  to  my  embarrassment  with  s 
request  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  precede  th< 
arrival  of  the  train  of  mourners  with  a  vocal  pica 
in  the  gallery,  for  he  had  just  heard  that  two  member.' 
of  the  music-committee  of  another  congregation  wouk 
be  present,  and  he  wished  them  to  hear  him,  as  hi-i 
desired  to  secure  the  place  of  conductor  there. 

"Art's   a  service,   mark!  "    But  does  it  take  tfo 
place  of  the  rest  of  the  service  also  ?    This  entire  dis; 
cussion  turns  at  once  upon  the  answer  to  the  questioi  ] 
whether  the  choir,  the  organ,  the  tune-book,  and  th< 
blower  are  for  the  sake  of  helping  God's  people  wor  i 
ship  Him,  or  whether  the  public  assemblies  of  Chris 
tians  are  for  the  sake  of  an  artistic  regalement  o 
listeners,  the  personal  exhibition  of  musicians,  or  th 
advertisement  of  professional  soloists  who  are  com 
peting  for  a  salary. 

In  our  travels,  some  of  us  have  seen  the  old  organ 
in  a  remote  village  of  Germany  on  the  case  of  whic, 
are  carved  in  the  ruggedness  of  Teutonic  character 
three  mottoes  :  if  they  could  be  rendered  from  thei 
terse  poetry  into  English  they  would  do  valiant  serai 
ice  in  our  times  for  all  the  singers  and  players  tcl 
gether.     Across  the  top  of  the  key-board  is  tifl 
"  Thou  playest  here  not  for  thyself,  thou  playest  fo  1 
the  congregation ;  so  the  playing  should  elevate  th  -i 
heart,  should  be  simple,  earnest,  and  pure."   Acros 
above  the   right-hand  row   of  scops   is   this:    "Th' 
organ-tone  must  ever  be  adapted  to  the  subject  of  th 
song;  it  is  for  thee,  therefore,  to  read  the  hymn  er 
tirely  through  so  as  to  catch  its  true  spirit."   Acros 
above  the  left-hand  stops  is  this  :     "  In  order  that  th 
playing  shall  not  bring  the  singing  into  confusion, 
is  becoming  that  thou  listen  sometimes,  and  as  tho 
hearest  thou  wilt  be  likelier  to  play  as  God's  peopl,  j 
sing." 

Charles  S.  Robinson, 

Fielding. 

WITHIN  the  past  few  months,  a  bust  of  Fieldii 
been  placed  in  the  vestibule  of  the  shire  hall  at 
ton,  Somersetshire.  Both  Old  and  New  Engh 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


635 


be  said  to  have  united  in  paying  this  tribute  to  the 
great  novelist ;  for  the  speech  at  the  unveiling  of  the 
bust  was  made  by  the  American  Minister.  No  one 
needs  to  be  assured  that  the  address  on  the  occasion 
was  fitting  and  felicitous.  Some  surprise,  however, 
has  been  excited  by  the  view  then  and  there  ex- 
pressed of  the  character  of  Fielding;  for,  whether  cor- 
tect  or  incorrect,  it  does  not  seem  altogether  to  accord 
kvith  either  the  contemporary  or  the  traditional  reputa- 
tion of  the  man.  Yet  any  false  impression  conveyed  by 
tt,  if  such  there  were,  was  probably  not  owing  to  the 
ifact  that  what  was  said  was  untrue,  but  to  the  entirely 
iiifferent  fact  that  all  that  may  be  true  was  not  said.  Let 
is  not,  however,  scan  too  critically  anything  that 
homes  from  a  quarter  in  which  silence  has  never  been 
a  virtue.  American  literature  has  made  to  American 
diplomacy  a  gift  it  can  little  afford,  when  the  published 
tvork  of  Lowell  for  six  years  would  hardly  fill  six  pages, 
j  It  is  sufficiently  appropriate  that  a  recognition  in 
his  way  of  the  Somersetshire  novelist  should  be  made 
n  his  native  county.  But  the  real  monument  which 
ielding's  memory  most  needs  is  one  that  does  not 
sk  for  the  chisel  of  any  sculptor  or  the  voice  of  any 
>rator.  It  is,  moreover,  a  memorial  which  it  would 
icither  be  difficult  to  raise  nor  pecuniarily  unprofit- 
jible.  That  memorial  is  a  complete  edition  of  his  writ- 
ngs.  Though  one  hundred  and  thirty  years  have 
;one  by  since  his  death,  this  act  of  justice  to  his  rep- 
tation  has  never  yet  been  performed.  Apparently,  it 
as  never  once  been  contemplated.  A  portion  of  his 
vork  —  and,  in  a  certain  way,  of  work  especially  char- 
cteristic  —  is  practically  inaccessible  to  the  immense 
najority  of  English-speaking  men.  We  are  the  losers 
>y  this  neglect  more  than  he.  '  The  mystery  that  en- 
•elops  much  of  Fielding's  career  can  never  be  cleared 
way,  the  estimate  of  his  character  and  conduct  can 
icver  be  satisfactorily  fixed,  until  everything  he  wrote 
las  been  put  into  the  hands  of  independent  investiga- 
ors  pursuing  separate  lines  of  study.  Equally  essen- 
ialis  such  a  collection  to  our  knowledge  of  the  literary, 
he  social,  and  even  the  political  history  of  his  time. 

Fielding's  collected  works  were  first  published  in 
j  762.  To  them  was  prefixed  an  essay  on  his  life  and 
j;enius  by  Arthur  Murphy  —  an  essay  more  remark- 
Ible  for  what  it  did  not  contain  than  for  what  it  did, 
|nd  distinguished  in  particular  for  the  lofty  scorn  it  ex- 
messed  of  what  it  called  the  "  cruelty  of  narrative  " 
racticed  by  certain  biographers  who  had  no  higher 
bject  than  to  pander  to  a  depraved  taste,  seeking 
icrely  for  information.  Murphy's  collection,  or  rather 
election,  remained  for  nearly  a  century  the  one  gen- 
rally  adopted.  Roscoe,  however,  added  some  pieces 
ever  before  reprinted,  and  a  still  larger  number  of 
ieces  of  this  class  were  included  in  the  ten-volume 
dition  of  Fielding's  works  which  was  published  in 
871,  and  especially  in  the  supplementary  volume 
rhich  appeared  in  1872.  To  this  collection  the  pon- 
erous  edition  de  luxe  of  1882  added  a  little.  But  it 
eems  as  yet  never  to  have  occurred  either  to  publish- 
irs  or  editors  that  it  was  worth  while  to  have  all  of 
"ielding's  works  reprinted.  In  one  or  two  cases,  this 
as  been  due  more  to  ignorance  than  to  design.  It  is 
retty  certain,  indeed,  that  some  of  the  novelist's  mis- 
ellaneous  writings  have  escaped  the  attention  of  most, 
\  not  of  all,  bibliographers  and  biographers.  Refer- 
jnce,  for  instance,  is  often  made  to,  and  quotations 


have  sometimes  been  taken  from,  the  unsigned  preface 
which  he  prefixed  to  his  sister's  "  Familiar  Letters 
between  the  Principal  Characters  in  David  Simple," 
published  in  April,  1 747.  But  it  is  certainly  not  gen- 
erally known  —  I  am  not  sure  even  that  it  has  ever 
been  observed  —  that  five  of  these  letters,  extending 
from  page  294  to  page  352  of  the  second  volume,  were 
the  work  of  Fielding  himself,  and  not  of  his  sister. 
Their  style  would  betray  their  authorship,  even  were 
this  not  directly  asserted.  The  first  of  these  five,  it 
may  be  remarked,  has  a  certain  special  interest  on 
account  of  its  criticism  of  the  stage  during  the  season 
of  1 746  -1 747,  and  its  allusion  to  a  certain  actor,  mean- 
ing Garrick,  as  one  "  who  never  had,  nor,  I  believe, 
ever  will  have,  an  equal." 

Without  mentioning  other  pieces  of  Fielding's 
which  have  never  been  reprinted,  there  is  one  class 
of  his  writings  that  has  been  treated,  not  so  much 
with  neglect  as  with  unaccountable  caprice.  These 
are  his  contributions  to  the  periodicals  with  which 
he  was  connected.  Fielding,  during  his  career,  was 
the  editor  of  four  papers,  "  The  Champion,"  "  The 
True  Patriot,"  "  The  Jacobite  Journal,"  and  "The  Cov- 
ent  Garden  Journal."  He  was  a  warm  partisan,  he 
gave  little  quarter  to  his  opponents,  and  he  certainly 
received  none  from  them.  His  attacks,  however, 
were  mainly  directed  against  their  intellectual  flabbi- 
ness  and  political  misconduct ;  theirs  were  directed 
against  his  morals  and  personal  character.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  they  aimed  at  his  vulnerable  part,  as  he  as- 
suredly did  at  theirs.  But  these  papers  are  not  merely 
political ;  they  are  also  full  of  references  to  the  social 
and  literary  history  of  the  times.  Still,  they  have 
never  been  reprinted  save  in  part.  The  meager  selec- 
tion made  by  Murphy,  with  little  taste  and  less  judg- 
ment, has  until  very  recently  been  slavishly  followed. 
The  latest  edition,  though  it  has  added  something,  is 
still  far  from  complete;  and  this,  too,  when  pieces 
much  inferior  in  interest  and  importance  have  been 
carefully  reprinted.  It  is  perfectly  safe  to  say  that  a 
complete  set  of  the  four  journals  above  mentioned 
cannot  be  found  in  all  the  public  and  private  libraries 
of  the  United  States  put  together.  It  is  even  doubtful 
if  there  exists  in  this  country  a  complete  set  of  a  single 
one  of  them.  The  essays  from  "  The  Champion " 
were,  it  is  true,  reprinted  in  two  volumes  in  June, 
1741,  and  subsequently  republished  in  1766.  But 
these  did  not  embrace  anything  written  after  June, 
1740,  and  Fielding  himself  assures  us  that  it  was  in 
June,  1741,  that  he  ceased  writing  for  that  paper.  In 
this  respect,  students  of  the  period  are  doubtless  far 
better  off  in  Great  Britain  than  in  the  United  States. 
Yet  it  is  a  significant  fact  that,  even  there,  Lawrence, 
in  his  "  Life  of  Fielding," —  a  laborious  though  not 
altogether  successful  work, —  confessed  'that  he  had 
never  been  lucky  enough  to  meet  with  an  original 
copy  of  "The  Jacobite  Journal."  No  genuine  investi- 
gator would  ever  be  satisfied  with  a  selection  from 
these  essays  :  he  wants  them,  for  he  needs  them  all. 
Moreover,  little  respect  can  be  paid  to  the  judgment 
which  made  the  selection  originally.  Of  the  thirty- 
three  numbers  of  "The  True  Patriot,"  Murphy 
published  only  ten.  One  of  those  that  he  did  not 
publish  was  the  twenty-eighth  number,  which  appeared 
May  13,  1746,  and  was  entitled  "  An  Address  from  a 
Footman  in  a  Great  Family  to  his  Brethren  of  the 


636 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


Cloth  on  the  Execution  of  Matthew  Henderson," — 
Henderson  being  a  footman  executed  the  preceding 
month  for  the  murder  of  his  mistress  under  peculiarly 
aggravating  circumstances.  In  all  of  Fielding's  writ- 
ings, hardly  a  finer  specimen  can  be  found  of  the  irony 
in  which  he  excelled  than  in  this  essay,  which  will  be 
sought  for  in  vain  in  editions  of  his  so-called  complete 
works.  This  meagerness  of  selection  is  even  worse  in 
the  case  of  "The  Jacobite  Journal,"  which  was  pub- 
lished weekly  from  December  5,  1747,  to  November  5, 
1 748.  Of  the  fifty  numbers  belonging  to  it,  two  only 
can  be  found  in  any  of  the  editions  of  Fielding's  works. 
It  is  certainly  full  time  that  everything  produced 
by  the  first  great  English  novelist  should  be  gathered 
together  and  put  where  every  man  who  wishes  it  can 
find  it.  A  critical  edition  of  Fielding's  writings,  in 
which  every  change  of  text  made  by  the  author  dur- 
ing his  life-time  should  be  noted,  would  be  nothing 
more  than  a  just  recognition  of  his  claims  as  a  classic. 
This  may  be  too  much  to  expect.  But  there  is  surely 
no  reason,  either  literary  or  pecuniary,  why  we  should 
be  deprived  of  the  possession  of  his  complete  works. 

T.  R.  Lounsbury. 

Trades-Unions. 

I  HAVE  read  with  much  interest  the  several  chap- 
ters of  "The  Bread -Winners,"  as  also  the  correspond- 
ence in  "  Open  Letters  "  of  the  October  magazine. 

While  I  make  no  pretensions  to  an  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  the  methods  advocated  and  pursued  by  trades- 
unions,  yet  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  the  trades-union- 
ists have  been  misrepresented  by  the  author  of  "The 
Bread -Winners." 

The  late  unsuccessful  strike  of  the  telegraph  oper- 
ators was  an  ineffectual  protest  of  underpaid  labor 
against  a  gigantic  and  heartless  corporation.  So  far 
from  its  being  started  by  a  "  few  conspirators  whose 
vanity  and  arrogance  blinded  them  to  the  plainest  con- 
siderations of  common  sense,"  it  was  a  national  move- 
ment, advocated  by  nine-tenths  of  the  operators,  and 
had  the  sympathy  of  the  vast  majority  of  the  American 
people,  and  which  was  deplorable  only  in  its  fruitless- 
ness. 

The  members  of  trades-unions  do  not  surrender 
their  individuality,  nor  do  they  follow  blindly  the  dic- 
tates of  their  leaders.  They  are  principally  intelligent 
and  honorable  citizens.  Of  course,  it  will  be  admitted 
by  all  that  there  is  more  or  less  destruction  of  prop- 
erty, etc.,  in  most  strikes.  But  the  respectable  should 
not  be  held  accountable  for  the  ill  deeds  of  the  rascals ; 
the  many  should  not  be  judged  by  the  few.  Labor,  of 
course,  has  a  perfect  right  to  demand  the  highest  price  it 
can  get,  and  so  long  as  it  leaves  unmolested  the  pi^op- 
erty  of  others,  it  is  entitled  to  the  respect  of  the  people. 

Railroads,  telegraph  companies,  and  the  like,  as  a 
general  thing,  pay  immense  dividends,  the  funds  for 
which  come  out  of  the  pockets  of  the  people.  The 
corporations  force  labor  down  to  the  barest  minimum 
on  which  it  can  subsist,  and  when  the  laborers,  like 
Oliver  Twist,  ask  for  more,  the  cry  is  raised  that  the 
security  of  society  is  threatened ;  and  as  in  the  novel, 
the  request  for  more  is  denied,  and  the  workingmen 
are  put  upon  a  bread -and- water  diet  for  their  impu- 
dence. There  is,  I  am  happy  to  say,  a  growing  senti- 
ment in  favor  of  the  Government's  taking  control  of 


the  railroads  and  telegraph  wires.  This  done,  trans- 
portation and  telegraphing  will  be  immeasurably 
cheapened,  and  labor  in  these  departments  will  receive 
its  full  and  natural  reward. 

The  author  of  "  The  Bread-Winners  "  should  bear 
in  mind  that  "  In  union  is  strength  "  is  as  good  a  ' 
motto  for  laborers  as  for  legislators.  Men  linked 
together  for  a  common  object,  advising  and  counseling 
among  themselves  and  accepting  the  views  of  a  major- 
ity of  their  number,  can  always  be  more  certain  of 
success  than  if  every  one  followed  a  policy  of  his  own. 
Collectively,  the  workingmen  can  accomplish  wonders ; 
individually,  they  can  do  nothing. 

J.  H.  Loo  mis. 

Petrography  and  the  Microscope. 

I  TAKE  pleasure  in  responding  to  your  request  for  a 
brief  description  of  one  of  the  youngest  of  the  sciences 
— petrography,  or  lithology,  a  science  the  delicacy 
and  elegance  of  which,  as  well  as  its  great  economic 
importance,  entitle  it  to  rank  with  its  sister  science, 
spectroscopy,  as  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  age.  The 
study  is  still  in  its  infancy,  being  little  more  than 
twenty  years  old,  and  but  few  popular  accounts 
of  it  have  yet  been  written.  The  tool  of  the  petrog- 
rapher  is  the  polarizing  microscope,  and  his  field  of 
work  the  investigation  of  the  intimate  interior  struct- 
ure of  rocks.  The  folk-lore  tales  have  become  true : 
we  have  magicians  now  who  can  look  through  the 
solid  rock  and  tell  you  what  lies  hidden  in  its  heart. 
Extremes  meet  in  the  new  science;  the  rich  pencil- 
ings  of  the  spectroscope  tell  the  atomic  story  of  a 
star  millions  of  miles  away,  and  the  translucence  of  the 
rock-shaving,  as  seen  under  the  microscope,  invites 
the  eye  to  witness  the  solidifications  and  crystalliza- 
tions that  befell  a  million  years  ago. 

To  see  what  a  vast  new  field  of  investigation  is 
opened  up,  consider  the  old  methods  of  identifying 
the  mineral  components  of  fine-grained  and  minutely 
crystalline  rocks.  These  methods  were  two,  the 
hand  lens  and  chemical  analysis,  both  rude  and  im- 
perfect in  the  case  of  most  rocks.  To  offer  a  chemical 
analysis  of  certain  aggregations  of  minute  minerals, 
and  call  it  a  complete  account  of  the  specimen,  would 
be  very  much  like  trying  to  get  an  idea  of  St.  Mark's  in 
Venice  from  its  ruins  —  reconstructing  in  the  mind 
the  infinite  complexity  of  its  patterns  of  colored  mar- 
bles out  of  the  heaps  of  dust  and  debris  into  which 
they  had  been  shattered.  For  many  rocks,  differing 
widely  in  minute  structure  and  mineral  composition, 
yield  identical  results  under  mere  chemical  analysis,  and 
there  are  numerous  little  interchanges  in  the  compo- 
sition and  molecular  arrangement  of  rock-aggregates 
which  chemistry  could  never  discover.  There  are 
building-stones  which  undergo  disintegration  when 
they  should  not,  and  there  are  rocks  which  ought  to 
contain  metalliferous  lodes,  but  do  not.  Micro-lith- 
ology  ought  in  time  to  solve  these  puzzles,  and  un- 
doubtedly will  do  so.  An  instance  of  its  practical 
application  has  come  under  my  notice,  i.  e.,  a  micro- 
scopical study,  by  Dr.  M.  E.  Wadsworth  of  Harvard 
College,  of  the  iron  ore,  or  peridotite,  of  Iron  Mire 
Hill,  Cumberland,  Rhode  Island,  in  which  the  metal-, 
lurgical  problems  presented  to  the  iron-master  by  i 
ore  are  for  the  first  time  practically  solved. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  an  untechnical  explanatic 


metal-, 

= 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


637 


:he  methods  of  the  science ;  but  a  general  idea  may 
DC  given  of  the  working  of  the  instrument  and  of  the 
preparation  of  the  rock-slices. 

A  polarizing  microscope  consists  of  an  ordinary  com- 
aound  microscope,  in  which  two  Nicol's  prisms  of  Ice- 
and  spar  are  placed  at  a  certain  distance  apart.  One 
:>f  these  prisms  polarizes  the  light,  and  the  other  shows 
fou  that  it  is  polarized.  Theoretically,  common  light 
s  looked  upon  as  vibrations  of  the  particles  of  atten- 
uated matter,  called  ether,  with  which  all  space  is 
supposed  to  be  filled.  While  the  motion  is  propagated 
directly  forward  in  straight  lines,  the  particles  of  the 
sther  are  supposed  to  vibrate  in  every  direction  at 
right  angles  to  the  propagated  motion.  Now,  if  in 
my  way  these  vibrations  can  be  forced  to  confine 
.hemselves  to  one  direction  only,  the  light  thus  modi- 
ied  is  said  to  be  polarized.  To  make  the  meaning 
Nearer,  let  the  reader  imagine  a  cord  tightly  drawn 
Between  two  points,  one  of  which  shall  represent  the 
source  of  light  and  the  other  the  eye.  Let  that  cord 
DC  struck  at  the  first  end,  the  motion  will  be  carried 
brward  to  the  other,  but  the  particles  of  the  cord  will 
of  themselves  only  vibrate  from  side  to  side.  Now 
.inagine  that  the  cord  has  been  so  struck  that  it  shall 
oscillate  outward  in  every  direction  about  its  former 
blace  of  rest,  as  water  does  about  the  point  where 

stone  falls  on  it,  and  it  will  yield  us  an  imperfect 
dea  of  the  vibrations  of  common  light.  Now  imagine 
his  cord  struck  so  that  it  will  vibrate  from  side  to  side 
nly,  and  we  have  the  vibrations  as  in  polarized  light. 

When  a  ray  of  common  light  enters,  in  certain  direc- 
ions,  a  crystal  of  carbonate  of  lime  (Iceland  spar), 
t  is  separated  into  two  parts,  and  in  both  of  these 
>arts  the  light  is  polarized;  but  when  they  leave  the 
rystal  they  unite  again,  forming  common  light.  If, 
hen,  by  any  means,  we  can  get  rid  of  one  of  the  por- 
ions  into  which  the  light-ray  has  been  divided  during 
he  passage  through  the  crystal,  the  other  portion  on 
ts  exit  will  remain  polarized. 

|  Nicol  found  that  by  cleaving  a  crystal  of  Iceland 
!par  into  proper  shape,  then  sawing  it  diagonally 
ihrough  its  longest  direction  and  cementing  the  parts 
logether  again  by  Canada  (fir)  balsam,  the  balsam 
brevented  one  of  the  two  portions  of  the  light  from 
bassing  through  the  crystal,  but  did  not  interfere  with 
'he  other  portion.  These  calcite  prisms,  known  from 
leir  inventor  as  Nicols,  usually  have  at  the  end  a 
tiombic  outline ;  and  when  the  shorter  diagonals  of 
ic  two  prisms  are  parallel,  the  field  of  the  micro- 
cope  is  illumined ;  but  when  the  diagonals  are  crossed 
It  right  angles,  the  field  is  dark.  When  minerals  or 
glassy  substances  are  placed  between  the  crossed 
Nicols,  they  act  differently  upon  it,  according  to  the 
system  in  which  they  crystallize.  Glasses  and  minerals 
Belonging  to  the  cubic  (isometric)  systems,  like  com- 
jion  salt,  do  not  affect  the  light  at  all ;  but  those  be- 
pnging  to  the  other  crystallographic  systems  present 
'lore  or  less  beautiful  and  brilliant  colors,  showing 

ftentimes  the  most  surprising  contrasts  and  effects, 
uch  as  no  art  can  imitate. 

j  Interpose  a  strip  of  porphyritic  pitchstone  between 
ne  Nicols:  the  matrix,  or  mass,  of  the  pitchstone 
[self  is  glassy,  and  therefore  remains  dai-k,  but  the 
tildspar  or  mica  crystals  imbedded  in  it  instantly  gleam 
tut  in  the  most  brilliant  colors  in  the  polarized  light. 


In  practical  work,  the  lithologist  uses  his  micro- 
scope, sometimes  without  any  Nicol,  sometimes  with 
one  only,  and  then  again  with  both,  according  to 
the  problem  he  has  before  him. 

Besides  the  Nicols,  there  are  other  appliances 
used,  like  quartz,  calcite,  gypsum,  and  mica  plates, 
specially  constructed  thermometers  for  measuring 
the  expansion  by  heat  of  the  liquids  and  gases  in- 
closed in  the  crystals,  etc.,  which  the  limits  of  this 
article  prevent  our  describing.  Petrography,  as  at 
present  studied,  enables  one  to  ascertain  the  origin 
of  a  rock,  the  various  vicissitudes  its  component  parts 
have  undergone,  their  relations  to  one  another, —  in 
short,  it  gives  a  more  or  less  complete  history  of  the 
rock,  while  it  throws  a  flood  of  light  upon  points 
previously  obscure.  It  gives  information  regarding 
the  decay  of  building-stones,  and  points  out  the  in- 
jurious materials  therein.  It  determines  the  minerals 
in  the  rocks,  and,  however  minute  they  may  be,  yields 
them  up  to  chemical  analysis.  It  enables  one  to  read 
the  history  of  those  celestial  visitants,  the  meteorites, 
as  plainly  as  the  spectroscope  does  the  stars. 

The  rock-sections  are  prepared  by  first  striking  off 
a  thin  flake  of  the  rock  as  big  as  the  thumb-nail,  and 
then  grinding  this  flake  down  on  a  wheel  with  crushed 
corundum  and  emery  till  it  is  so  thin  as  to  be  trans- 
parent, or  at  least  translucent, —  so  thin,  in  fact,  that 
a  couple  of  turns  more  would  entirely  remove  it  from 
the  little  glass  slide  to  which  it  is  attached.  When 
necessary,  the  slices  are  cut  on  the  treadle  machine  by 
means  of  a  soft  iron  disk  charged  with  diamond  dust. 
After  being  attached  by  its  smooth  side  to  the  glass  slide 
(Canada  balsam  being  used  to  cement  it),  the  section 
is  then  made  still  thinner  by  grinding  down  the  other 
side ;  next,  another  glass  is  cemented  to  that  other 
side,  and  a  number  is  scratched  on  the  glass  with  a 
diamond,  a  paper  label  being  usually  added  for  con- 
venience of  reference.  All  the  processes  are  extremely 
delicate  and  elaborate. 

The  most  eminent  students  of  petrography  are 
found  in  Germany.  Rosenbusch,  Zirkel,  Cohen,  and 
Von  Lasaulx  are  among  the  great  names  there.  The 
first-named  seems  just  now  to  stand  forth  most  prom- 
inent. Zirkel  came  over  to  this  country  in  1876  by 
invitation  of  the  United  States  Geological  Survey,  and 
accomplished  the  first  extensive  micro-lithological  work 
done  in  America.  He  examined  twenty-five  hun- 
dred thin  sections,  and  the  results  of  his  labors  are 
embodied  in  his  report  on  "  Microscopic  Petrography," 
containing  twelve  beautiful  colored  plates.  The  late 
Dr.  George  W.  Hawes  of  the  National  Museum,  and 
Dr.  M.  E.  Wadsworth,  now  professor  of  petrography  in 
the  Agassiz  Museum  at  Harvard,  were  among  the  first 
American  workers  in  the  new  science — the  latter  hav- 
ing taught  the  first  advanced  course  in  modern  petrog- 
raphy ever  given  in  this  country.  Harvard  is  the  only 
American  college  employing  a  professor  of  petrography 
exclusively,  and  the  present  chair  is  maintained  by  the 
generosity  of  Professor  J.  D.  Whitney,  the  geologist. 
There  are  already  over  two  thousand  mounted  rock- 
sections  in  the  lithological  collection  at  Harvard.  The 
only  text-book  of  lithology  in  English  written  in  the 
modern  system  is  the  inaccurate  one  of  Frank  Rutley. 

Wm.  Sloane  Kennedy. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


Valentine  to  an  Anonymous  Miss. 
BALLADE. 

GOLDEN  locks  in  cunning  curl ; 

Eyes  like  jewels  set  in  rings ; 
Teeth,  a  row  of  polished  pearl ; 

Lips,  two  rosy  blossomings  : 

Spryly  to  my  side  he  springs. 
Pray,  who  is  this  fairy  fine  ? 

At  my  feet  he  coyly  flings  — 
"  Will  you  be  my  Valentine  ?  " 

Ah,  my  brain  is  in  a  whirl, 

Thinking  on  such  dainty  things! 
'Tis  young  Cupid;   see  him  furl 

At  his  back  two  tiny  wings ! 

Just  between,  a  quiver  swings ; 
Dipt  in  love's  delicious  wine, 

To  each  dart  the  flavor  clings  — 
"  Will  you  be  my  Valentine  ?  " 

Watching,  I  will  see  him  hurl 
Recklessly  these  sugared  stings ; 

Shaped  like  lips  of  some  sweet  girl 
Is  the  bow  his  shoulder  slings  — 
Silken  hair  twined  for  the  strings. 

Snap !  —  What  ails  this  heart  of  mine, 
Clamoring  with  questionings?  — 

"Will  you  be  my  Valentine?" 


ENVOY. 

Muse,  unto  the  maid  who  sings 
For  my  ears  this  teasing  line, 

This  reply  the  echo  brings  : 
"  Will  you  be  my  Valentine  ?  " 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


Valentine  to  a   Man  of  Worth. 

FAIR  Sir  !  to  you  my  maiden  intuitions  — 
Shy  but  sincere  —  ingenuously  incline, 
And  if  I  find  you  answer  the  conditions, 
I'll  take  your  bid  and  be  your  Valentine. 

I  know  your  worth  —  that  is,  your  general  merit ; 
But,  when  your  mourned  and  wealthy  father  died, 
Pray  tell  a  simple  girl,  did  you  inherit 
His  virtues   only  —  or  —  a  bit  beside? 

Yes,  I  admire  your  lofty  reputation, 
Dear  to  my  artless  spirit  as  my  own ; 
But  tell  me  this — to  still  my  trepidation  — 
Are  you  an  owner  in  Bell  Telephone  ? 

Your  learning,  too,  has  bound  my  heart  in  fetters  — 
For  you  are  wise,  if  street  report  be   true ; 
I,  too,  a  childish  fancy  have  for  letters  — 
I  hope  you're  solid   on  "  C.,  B.,  &  Q." 

Your  noble  presence — "dignified   and  stately" — 
With  inexperienced  ardor  I  adore; 
But  those  Villard  stocks  !   Have  you  tried  'em  lately  ? 
And  were  you  long  or  short  on  that  Lake  Shore  ? 


So,  gentle  Sir,  if  you  aright  but  read  me, 
And  will  with  all  your  Bonds  and  Stocks  be  mineij 
Then  into  Mutual  Union  you  shall  lead  me, 
And  I  will  be  — 

Your  booming  VALENTINE.    I 


The  Indicator 
OF  THE   GOLD   AND   STOCK  TELEGRAPH   COMPANY. 

A  SONG,  a  psalm,  an  upward  note, 
A  rapid,  joyous  click!  click!  click! 

And  click!  click!  click! 
As  animated,  full,  and  quick, 
As  any  trill  from  thrush's  throat, 
And  up  the  bubbles  rise  and  float. 

What  song  is  this  the  siren  sings, 

That  charms  the  fishes  in  the  sea? 
That  from  the  fragrant  meadow  brings 

The  lambs  that  gambol  friskily? 
A  tuneless  song,  but  oh,  how  strong 
To  gather  hearers  short  and  long, 
And  fill  the  sails  of  yonder  boat, 
And  make  the  bubbles  rise  and  float ! 

The  tide  is  rising,  get  on  board ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  fair; 
The  crew  are  all  of  one  accord, 
To  sail  a  glittering  land  toward. 
Come,  faithful  souls,  and  get  on  board! 

The  dapper  crew,  so  debonair, 
Are  very  sure,  extremely  sure, 
The  pleasant  weather  will  endure. 

Oh,  what  a  ship !    Her  silken  sails 

Are  swept  along  by  perfumed  gales ; 

Her  merry  crew,  the  long  day  through, 
Make  much  ado,  and  dance  and  sing; 

For  on  a  little  way  before 

There  lies  a  golden,  glittering  shore. 
Clap  hands,  and  make  the  welkin  ring, 
Ye  merry  crew,  carouse  and  sing ! 

But  saw  ye  not,  oh  blind,  blind,  blind, 

The  wolfish  faces  left  behind? 

A  change  of  tone  !  a  click  ! —  click  ! —  click  ! 
Slow-dropping  like  a  death-watch  tick; 
A  dismal,  gloomy  click! — click! — click! 

Whereat  the  radiant   atmosphere 
Assumes  a  livid,  sickly  hue, 
And  droops  in  ragged  fringes  blue ; 
A  tone  that  scares  the  lambs  at  play, 
And  sends  them  scurrying  far  away 
To  safety  on  the  upland  lea, 
And  frights  the  fishes   in  the  sea; 

Then  sullen  waves  their  fronts  uprear, 
And  bubbles  break  and  disappear. 

Ah,  where  the  ship  that  sailed  away 
For  golden  shores,  with  streamers  gay, 
And  merry  crew  that  surely  knew 
That  summer  skies  were  always  blue  ? 
Ah,  waves  that  roll,  and  winds  that  moan! 
And  broken  spars  that  creak  and  groan  ! 
And  drowning  men,  on  billows  high, 
Who  turn  white  faces  to  the  sky ! 

David  L. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


639 


Dat   Fretful   Tilda   Strong. 


The   Sequel. 


GOOD  mornin',  Missis  Strong;  I  hope  you'se  well, 
f'ank  you  ;     I  will  drap  in  an'  set  awhile. 
Bebenty  year  is  putty  ole,  my  chile, 
kn'  dough  de  heart  is  young,  de  years  will  tell. 

/"our  life  is  hard  ?   I  guess  no  harder 'n  mine, 
vou'se  berry  poor  ?    But,  chile,  you  has  your  healf. 
Don'  scold  de  Lord  becose  you  aint  got  wealf, 
|v'en  out  ob  ten  good  tings  he  gibs   you  nine. 

Now,  Missis  Strong,  I  wants  to  ax  you  dis ; 
ess  len'  an  ear,  an'  let  a  ole  man  talk ; 
li'se  lived  so  long  dat  I  know  cheese  from  chalk, 
kn'  hev  advice  to  gib  you  mussent  miss. 

Lres !  put  de  dishes  down,  an'  take  a  cheer ; 
Bettin's  better'n  standin'  w'en  you  kin ; 
dang  up  de  towel  on  de  wooden  pin, 
For  I've  got  sumfin  dat  you  orter  hear. 

here !  don'  be  offish ;  I'se  a  frien',  you  know ; 
Don'  look  so  cross  :   I  doesn't  mean  to  scold ; 
I  wants  to  ax,  if  I  may  be  so  bold, 
•CV'at  earfly  use  dere  is  in  frettin'  so. 

t's  nuff  sight  easier  for  to  slip  along 
iVidout  dis  peevish  an'  dis  snarlin'  way ; 
i^n'  life  don'  go  no  smoover  day  by  day 
For  findin'  fault,  now  does  it,  Tilda  Strong? 

fbu  can't  untangle  snarls  by  gittin'  riled ; 
)e  more  you  yanks  de  fread,  de  wuss  it  is ; 
jiut  coax  de  tangle,  fust  dat  fread,  den  dis, 
|Ln'  soon  de  t'ing  is  done,  an'  nothin's  spiled. 

(call  your  'tendon  to  de  porkipine 

pat  little  Peter  killed  de  odder  day; 
'tte's  hangin'  outen  yander,  an'  I  say 
I  pat  he  can  preach  a  sermon  better'n  mine. 

rbu  stroke  dat  feller  from  de  head  to  tail; 
Tou  don'  git  pricked,  an'  yet  de  quills  is  dere; 
lie  seem  so  soft  as  dough  dose  quills  was  hair, 
^n'  bleedin'  fingers  don'  set  up  no  wail. 

!ut  now,  jess  fetch  your  han'  de  odder  way, 
01'  stroke  de  little  beast  from  tail  to  nose; 
pere!  don'  git  riled,  becose  it  only  shows 
rou  tinks  I  mean  a  good  deal  more'n  I  say. 

POW,  Missis  Strong,  dat  porkipine  is  life, 

01'  life  is  'bout  as  full  of  quills  as  he ; 

Stroke  up,  an'  t'ings  is  wrong  as  wrong  can  be ; 

Itroke  down,  an'  you'se  a  cheerful,  happy  wife. 

fou  kin  broil  bacon  like  a  city  cook; 
lou  wash  an'  iron  as  no  Chinee  can; 
.  In'  w'en  you  has  a  possum  in  de  pan, 
>le  Pete  look  proud  as  any  king  could  look. 

;ut,  Tilda  Strong,  you  frets  more'n  you'se  aware; 
ou  spects  dat  eberyting  go  wrong  end  fust; 
!>at  odders  git  de  best,  an'  you  de  wust, 
|.s  dough  de  Lord  had  'prived  you  ob  your  share. 

'on'  worry  cos  you  hasn't  all  you  wish ; 
hearty  laugh  is  better  dan  a  groan; 
n'  if  you  hab  enough  to  eat,  don'    moan 
lecose  you  eats  it  from  a  broken  dish. 


/ell,  bless  you,  chile  !    No,  no,  I  mussent  stay ; 
(11  jess  drap  home  agin  wicl  dis  remark  : 
/'en  tings  aint  right,  an'  eberyting  look  dark, 
ry !  stroke  dat  porkipine  de  odder  way. 


Rev,  Plato  Johnson. 


(Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  author  of  "Nancy  —  An  Idyl 
of  the  Kitchen."  *) 

OH  lovers,  who  fancy  that  if  you  are  rich  in 

The  love  of  a  damsel  who  knows  how  to   sew, 
Who  passes  her  mornings  at  work   in  the  kitchen, 

Your  cake's  in  no  danger  of  turning  out  dough, 
Come  listen  awhile,  as  in  mournfulest  verses 

A  sufferer  tells  what  you  all  ought  to   know, 
And  here  for  your  benefit  bravely  rehearses 

How  his  cake,  alas !  proved  the  heaviest  dough. 

My  Prudence,  although  not  possessed  of  a  nickel, 

Was  raised  by  a  notable  mother ;  and   so 
There  was  nothing  she    could   not   preserve  or  else 
pickle, 

And  her  heart  seemed  as  light  as  was  always  her 

dough. 
How  often  by  chance,  or    by  warm  invitation, 

I  dropped  in  to  tea,  only  lovers  will  know; 
And  though  of  my  coming  she'd  no  intimation, 

She'd  always  fresh  biscuits  of  well-kneaded  dough. 

"  Ah,  here,"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  the  girl  for  my  money: 

It's  not  a  great  deal,  but  how  far  it  will  go 
With  a  wife  who  makes  bread  that  is  sweeter  than 
honey, 

And  who  isn't  too  grand,  the  dear  thing,  to  knead 

dough." 
With  a  prospect  like  this,  I'd  no  reason  to  tarry; 

She  owned  that  she'd  loved  me  "  a  long  time  ago," 
And  when  I  suggested  that  straightway  we  marry, 

She  rose  to  the  plan  like  her  own  lovely  dough. 

And  what  is  the  sequel?   My  home  is   perfection, 

No  doubt  you  will  think.     Oh,  how  much  you  all 

know  ! 
My  wife  is  fatigued  with  a  daily  inspection, 

And  firmly  declines  the  least  contact  with  dough ! 
My  little  appeals  to  her  conscience  are  slighted ; 

She's  deep  in  a  novel  when  not  on  the  go, 
And  asks,  with  a  smile,  if  I'm  quite  so  benighted 

As  to  think  her  fit  only  for  kneading  my  dough ! 

To  a  slight  explanation  she  once  condescended : 

Her  life  was  a  burden,  she  hated  work  so; 
And   she   thought,  when  she    married,  her    troubles 
were  ended, 

And  vowed  never  more  to  lay  finger  to  dough. 
With  satins  and  laces  I'm  forced  to  adorn  her ; 

She  yawns  over  Ruskin,  says  Irving  is  "  slow " ; 
We  deal  with  the  baker  who  lives  round  the  corner, 

Although  he  puts  alum,  I'm  sure,  in  his  dough  ! 

I  offer,  in  meekness,  a  single  suggestion. 

A  marriage  may  last  fifty  years,  as  we  know; 
Things    beside   heavy  bread   sometimes    cause   indi- 
gestion : 

Don't  marry  a  girl  just  because  she  kneads  dough. 

Margaret  Vandegrift. 

Aphorisms   from  the   Quarters. 

DE  blackin'-bresh  don't  half-sole  de   busted  shoe. 

Little  flakes  make  de  deepes'  snow. 

De  lame  horse  can't  tell  when  de  road  good. 

De  fros'  dat  kills  your  crap  sometimes  thins  out 
your  frien's. 

Red  is  de  wrong  culler  for  a  patch. 

Knot  in  de  plank  will  show  froo  de  whitewash. 

A  short  yard-stick  is  a  po'  thing  to  fight  de  deb- 
bul  wid. 

Dirt  show  de  quickes'  on  de  cleanes'  cotton. 

James  A.  Macon. 
*  THE  CENTURY  for  December. 


640 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


The  Wooing  O't. 

A  LAWYER  once,  unlike  most  of  his  class 
A  modest  man,  fell  dead  in  love.    A  lass 
He  worshiped  quite,  but  still  his  secret  kept 
Till  up  the  scale  his  cautious    courage  crept, 
And,  well  assured  no  one  his  purpose  knew, 
He  started  out  with  this  sole  aim  in  view  — 
To  wit,  to  woo. 

His  way  led  through  a  wood,  the  shadows  fell, 
His  waning  courage  shadowy  grew  as  well, 
Until  he  asked  himself,  disheartened  quite, 
"  Why  am  I  here  at  this  time  of  the  night  ?  " 
An  answer  from  a  tree-top  loud  and  clear, 
In  legal  language  couched,  fell  on  his  ear  — 
"  To  wit !    to  woo !  " 

He  fled  in  fear,  although  he  no  one  saw; 
For  fear,  like  many  a  lawyer,  knows  no  law. 
The  bird  of  wisdom  perching  overhead 
Slow  flapped  his  wings,  winked  warily,  and  said: 
"  Why  should  this  be  ?    Such  haste  I  never  knew. 
He  sure  an  unwise  purpose  had  in  view  — 
To  wit !    to  woo  !  " 

ENVOY. 

Take  well  to  heart  this  text  drawn  from  the  wood : 
Your  modest  wooer  never  comes  to  good. 
Though  all  the  world  your  secret  clearly  knows, 
And  through  unheard-of  shades  your  pathway  goes, 
Let  not  your  courage  fail  whate'er  you  do ; 
Your  wit  keep  always  clearest  when  you  woo. 

William  Howard  Carpenter. 


Leisure  Lines 

FROM   A   POET   TO   HIS   FRIENDS. 

[MR.  AUSTIN  DOBSON  has  the  pleasant  habit  of  writing  kindly 
verses  in  the  books  he  gives  his  friends.  We  have  been  permitted 
to  collect  five  of  these  little  poems.  Four  of  them  were  written  in 
copies  of  "  Old  World  Idylls"  (substantially  identical  with  the 
American  edition  of  "Vignettes  in  Rhyme"),  and  the  fifth  was 
prefixed  to  a  copy  of  Mr.  Dobson's  monograph  on  Fielding.] 

FOR   H.    C.    B. 

WITNESS  my  hand  (and  seal  thereto), 
All  ye  who  wrong,  by  word  or  sign, 
This  unprotected  Muse  of  mine : 

I  wish  you  —  something  else  to  do. 

May  all  your  bills  at  once  be  due! 

May  she,  whose  grace  you  seek,  decline ! 
Witness  my  hand ! 

But  you,  acute,  accomplished,  true, 
And  candid,  who  in  every  line 
Perceive  a  spark  (or  sparks)  divine, 

Be  blessed!    There's  luck  in  store  for  you. 
Witness  my  hand ! 


FOR  . 

OLD  friends  are  best !   And  so  to  you 

Again  I  send,  in  closer  throng, 

No  unfamiliar  shapes  of  song, 
But  those  that  once  you  liked  and  knew. 

You  surely  will  not  do  them  wrong, 
For  are  you  not  an  old  friend  too  ? 
Old  friends  are  best. 

Old  books,  old  wine,  and  Nankin  blue, 
All  things,  in  short,  to  which  belong 
The  charm,  the  grace  that  Time  makes  strong, 

All  these  I  prize,  but  (entre-nous) 
Old  friends  are  best! 


TO   L.    H. 

THERE  is  no  "  mighty  purpose  "  in  this  Book. 

Of  that  I  warn  you  at  the  opening  page, 
Lest,  haply,  'twixt  the  leaves  you  careless  look,. 

And,  finding  nothing  to  reform  the  age, 

Fall  with  the  rhyme  and  rhymer  in  a  rage. 
Let  others  prate  of  problems  and  of  powers; 
I  bring  but  problems  born  of  idle  hours, 

That,  striving  only  after  Art  and  Ease, 
Have  scarcely  more  of  moral  than  the  flowers,. 

And  little  else  of  mission  than  to  please. 

FOR  j.  B.  M. 

IN  vain  to-day  I  scrape  and  blot : 
The  nimble  words,  the  phrases  neat, 
Decline  to  mingle  and  to  meet; 

My  skill  is  all  foregone,  forgot. 

He  will  not  canter,  walk,  or  trot, 
My  Pegasus.     I  spur,  I  beat 
In  vain  to-day! 

And  yet  'twere  sure  the  saddest  lot 
That  I  should  fail   to  have  complete 
One  poor  (the  rhyme  suggests)  "  conceit "  T 

Alas !  'tis  all  too  clear  I'm  not 
In  vein  to-day. 

TO  E.  c.  s. 

PLEASANT  to  get  one's  book  from  press 
After  a  month  (or  more  or  less) 
In  something  like  a  decent  dress ; 
And  pleasant,  too,   to  sit  and  guess 
Whether  the  world  will  ban  or  bless 
Out  of  its  Great  High  Mightiness ; 
But  pleasantest  —  I  must  confess  — 
To  post  it  off  to  E.  C.  S. 

Austin  Dobson. 
A   Sonnet   by   Browning. 

MR.  RAWDON  BROWN,  an  Englishman  of  culture 
well  known  to  visitors  in  Venice,  died  in  that  city  in 
the  summer  of  1883.  He  went  to  Venice  for  a  short 
visit,  with  a  definite  object  in  view,  and  ended  by 
staying  forty  years.  An  incident  of  his  death  is  re- 
corded in  the  following  sonnet,  which  is  here  printed 
by  Mr.  Browning's  permission,  and  that  of  the  lady 
at  whose  request  it  was  written. 


'Tutti  ga 


so  gusti  e  mi  go  i  mii."  * 

(Venetian  saying.) 


SIGHED  Rawdon  Brown  :  "  Yes,  I'm  departing,  Toni : 
I  needs  must,  just  this  once  before  I  die, 
Revisit  England :  Anglus  Brown  am  I, 
Although  my  heart's  Venetian.    Yes,  old  crony — 

Venice  and  London  —  London's  Death  the  Bony 
Compared  with  Life  —  that's  Venice!  what  a  sky, 
A  sea,  this  morning!     One  last  look!     Good-bye, 
C&  Pesaro!   no  lion — I'm  a  coney 

To  weep!     I'm  dazzled;   'tis  that  sun  I  view 
Rippling    the  . .  the  .  .  Cospetto,  Toni !     Down 
With  carpet-bag  and  off  with  valise-straps ! 

"  Bella    Venezia,  non  ti  lascio  piii  /  " 
Nor  did  Brown  ever  leave  her;  well,  perhs 
Browning,    next    week,    may    find   himself 
Brown ! 

Robert  Brownit, 
Nov.  28,  '83. 

*  "Everybody  follows  his  taste,  and  I  follow  mine.' 


VON    MOLTKE. 


THE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  XXVII. 


MARCH,  1884. 


No. 


THE    NEW   WASHINGTON. 


WITHIN  the  past  ten  years  Washington  has 
ased  to  be  a  village.     Whether  it  has  yet 
ecome    a   city  depends    on  "  the  point   of 
ew."     It  has  no  elevated  railroads,  no  pal- 
;e  hotels,  no  mammoth  elevators,  no  great 
mimercial  establishments;  it  has  no  opera 
id  but  indifferent  theaters,  and  for  a  park 
borrows  the  grounds  of  the  old  soldiers  of 
e  army.    In  short,  it  has  none  of  those  evi- 
ences  of  commercial  prosperity  which  are 
oudly  shown  to  the  traveler  in  every  thriv- 
g  town,  all  the  way  from  New  York  to  San 
ancisco.     On  the  other  hand,  it  has  large 
ublic  buildings  and  monuments  and  numer- 
us   statues;    it   has  a  mild  climate,    clean, 
ell-paved  streets,  and  no  "local  politics";  its 
lief  inhabitants  are  those  persons  who  guide 
e  action  and  control  the  interests  of  fifty 
illions  of  people — so  far  as  they  are  guided 
controlled   at   all   in   a  nation  which  so 
rgely  governs  itself.     Washington  is  thus  a 
ace  quite  out  of  the  ordinary  run ;.  whether 
y   or     no,    it    is    certainly    unlike    other 
ties.    Its  origin  and   inception  were  novel 
d  unusual  in  character.    Other  cities  have 
riginated   in    the   necessities  of  trade,  and 
ave  grown  in  proportion  as  that  trade  in- 
•eased.     Washington,  on  the  contrary,  was 
ade  to  order  on  a  map ;  and  so  far  from  ex- 
nding  its  limits  as  its  population  increased. 
s  population  has  not  yet  grown  up  to  the 
nits    which    were    originally   laid    out.     It 
und  its  origin  in  the  rivalry  existing  among 
ie  various  States  after  the   Revolution,  all 
sing  jealous    of  the    increased  importance 
hich  would  result  to  any  one  of  them  from 
laying  the  federal  city  established  within  its 
nits.     This   feeling    was   increased  by  the 
mortifying  spectacle  which  occurred  at  Phila- 
slphia,  in  1783,  when  Congress  was  insulted 
its  own  halls  and  driven  across  the  river  by 


a  handful  of  mutineers  from  the  army, — the 
State  and  local  authorities  being  either  power- 
less or  unwilling  to  protect  them  from  injury. 
Many  of  the  members  of  that  Congress  were 
delegates  to  the  Constitutional  Convention 
four  years  later,  and  the  recollection  of  this 
indignity  was  so  fresh  in  their  minds  that  they 
determined  that  Congress  should  itself  make 
the  laws  for  the  place  where  it  met.  The  re- 
sult was  the  well-known  clause  in  Section  8 
of  Article  I.  of  the  Constitution,  which  con- 
ferred on  Congress  the  power  "  to  exercise 
exclusive  legislation  in  all  cases  whatsoever  " 
over  such  district  as  might  be  ceded  by  the 
States  and  accepted  by  Congress  as  the  seat 
of  government.  The  selection  of  such  a  dis- 
trict was  one  of  the  very  first  questions  which 
arose  in  Congress.  As  soon  as  laws  had  been 
passed  organizing  the  various  departments 
of  the  government  and  putting  the  new  ma- 
chinery in  motion,  the  question  of  the  location 
of  the  government  came  up,  and  it  gave  rise 
to  long  and  acrimonious  debate.  Not  only 
was  it  claimed  by  the  large  cities,  like  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  but  each  of  the  mid- 
dle States,  from  New  York  to  Virginia,  inclu- 
sive, was  ready  with  a  piece  of  territory  on 
which  to  found  an  entirely  new  city.  It  was 
finally  settled  by  a  curious  compromise  —  the 
first  recorded  instance  of  "  log-rolling  " — in 
this  manner.  Hamilton  was  then  (1790)  en- 
gaged in  his  projects  for  funding  the  debt,  all 
of  which  had  passed  except  the  final  one  as- 
suming the  debts  of  the  States.  This  was  a 
popular  measure  in  the  North,  but  somewhat 
unpopular  among  the  Virginians.  He  needed 
some  votes  from  the  South  in  order  to  carry 
the  measure  through.  Jefferson  had  then  but 
lately  returned  from  France,  and,  as  he 
claimed,  was  not  very  familiar  with  the  fund- 
ing projects,  which  he  subsequently  opposed 


[Copyright,  1884,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved.] 


644 


THE  NEW  WASHINGTON. 


so  violently.  He  was,  however,  greatly  in- 
terested in  locating  the  new  capital  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  Virginia.  Hamilton  was  a  foreigner 
by  birth,  accidentally  settled  in  New  York  by 
reason  of  his  marriage,  but  quite  devoid  of 
any  feeling  of  local  or  State  pride.  He  cared 
nothing  for  the  location  of  the  capital,  but 
was  anxious  concerning  his  financial  projects, 
which  he  considered  of  vital  importance.  It 
was  therefore  arranged — at  a  dinner-party — 
between  himself  and  Jefferson,  that  the  latter 
should  persuade  the  Virginia  delegation  to 
vote  for  assumption,  while  Hamilton  was  to 
induce  the  New  York  delegation  to  yield 
their  preferences  concerning  the  capital.  The 
two  measures  were  thus  carried,  one  on  the 
1 6th  of  July  and  the  other  on  the  4th  of  Au- 


lots  were  to  be  sold  and  the  money  applied 
to  opening  and  improving  the  streets  and 
erecting  the  public  buildings.  With  these 
commissioners  there  was  associated,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  plans  and  surveys,  a  cer- 
tain French  engineer  named  L'Enfant,  who 
had  served  under  Washington's  notice  during 
the  Revolution.  His  plans  were  as  compre- 
hensive and  far-reaching  in  their  way  as  was 
the  Constitution  itself.  He  planned  for  cent- 
uries, and  for  a  population  of  half  a  million 
of  people. 

The  plan  was  simple  in  its  general  outline, 
though  its  details  were  very  elaborate.  Three 
principal  points  were  selected  for  the  legis- 
lative, executive,  and  judicial  buildings 
respectively;  from  two  of  these  points  ave- 


THE  STATE,  WAR,  AND  NAVY  DEPARTMENTS. 


gust,  1790.  The  former  prescribed  that  the 
permanent  seat  of  government  should  be  in 
the  district  ceded  by  Maryland  and  Virginia 
on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  and  that  the 
Government  should  be  moved  there  in  the 
year  1800.  President  Washington  had  re- 
mained neutral  during  the  discussion,  but  he 
was- much  pleased  at 'the  selection  made;  and 
he  gave  his  personal  attention  to  the  matter 
with  unflagging  interest  throughout  his  ad- 
ministration, and,  indeed,  to  the  day  of  his 
death.  Commissioners  were  at  once  ap- 
pointed to  acquire  the  land,  which  was  ob- 
tained on  the  most  liberal  terms,  the  owners 
giving  to  the  United  States  the  fee  of  all 
ground  necessary  for  streets  and  public  build- 
ings, and  one-half  of  all  the  building  lots  in 
addition;  with  the  understanding  that  these 


nues  radiated  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel 
affording  short  lines  of  communication  to  al 
parts  of  the  city  and  forming  numberless 
little  parks  at  their  intersections ;  a  rectilineal 
system  of  streets  was  added,  running  nortl( 
and  south  and  east  and  west,  the  first  bein£ 
designated  by  numerals  and  the  second  by 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  The  avenues  wen 
named  after  the  States  of  the  Union,  witl 
much  care  and  discrimination  in  guarding 
their  respective  susceptibilities  by  giving  t( 
those  which  were  intended  to  be  most  irn 
portant  the  names  of  the  principal  States 
Everything  was  on  a  scale  of  large  proper 
tions,  the  avenues  being  grand  boulevards  > 
one  hundred  and  fifty  to  one  hundred  ai  < 
sixty  feet  in  width,  and  even  unimportn  i 
streets  being  ninety  or  one  hundred  feet 


THE  NEW  WASHINGTON. 


645 


of   streets    and 

open  squares,  which  in  most  cities  is  about 
one-fourth,  was  thus  laid  out  in  this  capital 
city  at  more  than  one-half  of  the  whole  sur- 
face. It  was  to  be  the  capital  of  a  mighty 
nation,  and  no  one  was  to  be  pinched  for 
space  in  it. 

The  plan  was  thus  drawn   on  paper,  and 
nothing  remained  but  to  fill  up  the  uninhabited 
fields  through  which  the   imaginary  streets 
ran.    This  was  not  so  easy.  The  Government 
1  came  there  in   1800,  and  great  expectations 
!  were   formed,    but    they  were   not   realized. 
For  more  than  half  a  century  the  place  re- 
mained a  straggling  Southern  village,  giving 
rise  to  much  ridicule  as  a  "  city  of  magnifi- 
cent distances."    The  diaries  and  chronicles 
of  the  first  third  of  the  century  give  curious 
I  accounts   of  the   uncomfortable  and   dreary 
|  life  in  such  an  uninviting  place;  it  was  par- 
j  ticularly  amusing  to  the  members  of  the  diplo- 
|  matic  corps,  and  the  contrast  to  London  and 
i  Paris  and  Vienna  must  certainly  have  been 
!  very  great.    It  was   originally  intended  that 
s  the  city  should  grow  to  the  eastward  on  the 
broad,  high  plateau  beyond  the  Capitol,  and 
that  the  President's  house  and  other  execu- 
tive buildings  should  form  a  sort  of  suburb 
I  like  Versailles.    But  the  lots  on  Capitol  Hill 
were  all  bought  up  by  speculators,  and  held 
|  at  such  high  prices  that  people  were  forced 
to  turn  in  the  other  direction,  and  the  city 
thus  took  a  course  which  it  has  never  been 
possible  to  reverse.    Its  growth,  however,  was 


extremely  slow.  The  commercial  advantages 
which  were  expected  to  result  from  the  navi- 
gation on  the  Potomac  and  the  transportation 
routes  to  the  westward  proved  to  be  delusive. 
Commerce  went  to  other  cities.  It  was  a  city 
of  office-holders  simply,  and  at  first  these 
were  not  numerous.  Gaunt  rows  of  "six 
buildings  "  and  "seven  buildings  "  were  erect- 
ed here  and  there,  principally  as  boarding- 
houses  to  accommodate  the  members  of  Con- 
gress and  those  who  had  business  with  them 
during  the  winter.  But  no  one  came  there  who 
did  not  have  urgent  business,  nor  did  any  one 
stay  longer  than  was  necessary.  Its  character 
changed  but  little  down  to  the  period  of  the 
war,  and  at  that  time  —  sixty  years  after  it 
had  been  founded,  and  when  the  country  had 
grown  to  contain  thirty-two  millions  of  peo- 
ple—  it  had  attained  a  population  of  only 
sixty  thousand  inhabitants,  who  were  scat- 
tered over  a  territory  of  several  miles ;  its 
streets  were  so  filthy  and  ill-kept  that  they 
were  a  by-word  of  contempt ;  none  of  its 
citizens  were  rich,  and  there  were  no  hand- 
some dwellings  or  other  indications  of  private" 
wealth;  it  had  the  usual  government  of  a 
The  proportion  mayor  and  council,  which  had  neither  the 
means  nor  the  disposition  to  beautify  the 


STATUE  OF  GENERAL 
GEORGE  H.  THOMAS, 
BY.  J.  Q.  A.  WARD. 


THE     TREASURY     DEPARTMENT— FIFTEENTH     STREET     FRONT. 


646 


THE  NE  W   WASHING  TON. 


POST-OFFICE     DEPARTMENT. 


city ;  the  General  Government  had  neglected 
its  godchild,  and  while  it  spent  lavishly  for 
its  own  public  buildings,  it  paid  little  or  noth- 
ing to  improve  the  general  appearance  of  the 
city. 

With  the  resumption  of  prosperity  in  the 
period  following  the  war,  the  place  first  began 
to  change  ;  the  business  of  the  Government 
had  greatly  multiplied,  and  the  number  of 
its  public  servants  had  correspondingly  in- 
creased ;  the  population  of  the  city  had  nearly 
doubled  between  1860  and  1870,  and  among 
the  new-comers  were  many  energetic  North- 
ern men.  It  began  to  be  realized  that  it  was  a 


THE     OLD     CARROLL     MANSION     ON     CAPITOL     HILL. 


disgrace  to  have  such  a  city  for  a  capital,  and 
that  the  General  Government  and  the  citizens 
must  all  unite  in  efforts  to  improve  it.  The 
result  was  the  formation,  in  1871,  of  a  terri- 
torial government,  with  a  Governor  and  Leg- 
islature and  a  Board  of  Public  Works.  The 
master-spirit  of  this  government  was  Alexan- 
der Shepherd,  a  native  of  the  city,  who,  though 
still  young,  had  raised  himself  by  his  energy 
and  talents  from  the  apprenticeship  of  a 
manual  trade  to  a  position  of  means  and  im- 
portance in  the  community.  The  results  of 
his  government  are  too  recent  and  too  well 
known  to  call  for  fresh  comment.  Vast  plans 
were  again  matured,  found- 
ed, as  in  the  past  century, 
not  on  the  actual  necessities 
of  the  moment,  but  on  the 
requirements  of  a  generation 
hence.  Costly  improvements 
were  undertaken  and  prose- 
cuted far  beyond  the  limits 
of  habitation.  Miles  upon 
miles  of  expensive  pavements 
and  other  works  were  laid 
across  swamps  and  streams, 
and  through  waste  places 
where  nothing  but  fra 
shanties  and  government  s 
bles  of  the  war  period 
as  yet  penetrated.  In  1 
than  three  years  Shephe 
plunged  the  city  into  a  debt 
which,  for  the  numbers  a 
wealth  of  the  population, 
no  rival  in  all  the  world. 


icui 

t 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


647 


PLAN    OF    THE    CITY    OF    WASHINGTON. 


.  A.  Executive  Mansion.  B.  State,  War,  and  Navy  Department  Building.  C.  Treasury.  D.  Patent  Office.  E.  Post-office  Department.  F.  Wash- 
ington Monument  G  Bureau  of  Engraving  and  Printing.  H.  Department  of  Agriculture.  I.  Smithsonian  Institution.  K.  National  Museum.  L. 
Market.  M.  Congressional  Cemetery.  N.  Washington  observatory.  O.  Analostan  Island. 


648 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


personal  dishonesty  has  ever  been  proved  mained  wholly  with  Congress,  which  also 
against  him,  but  the  recklessness  and  extrava-  assumed  one-half  of  all  the  annual  expenses, 
gance  in  the  expenditures  were  extraordinary,  including  interest  on  the  debt.  The  taxes  were 
The  streets  were  torn  up  in  every  direction  to  be  covered  into  the  United  States  Treas- 
on a  "  comprehensive  plan"  of  improvements,  ury  and  form  one-half  the  revenue,  the  other 
which  was  estimated  at  six  millions  of  dollars  half  being  provided  by  the  General  Govern- 
and  cost  twenty ;  the  rights  of  property-own-  ment ;  and  the  entire  revenue  was  to  be  dis- 
ers  were  disregarded,  and  they  were  assessed  bursed  on  specific  appropriations  by  Congress, 
for  "  improvements  "  when  their  property  the  accounts  being  passed  upon  by  the  ac- 
was  ruined.  The  result  was  a  crash  in  1874,  counting  officers  of  the  Treasury.  This  system 


"ABOVE  THE  GRADE." 


when  Congress  abolished  at  one  stroke  the 
territorial  government  and  everything  con- 
nected with  it,  and  appointed  three  Commis- 
sioners, in  the  nature  of  receivers,  to  take 
charge  of  the  municipal  affairs  and  straighten 
them  out.  These  Commissioners  remained  in 
office  for  four  years.  The  work  of  reconstruct- 
ing the  city  had  been  so  thoroughly  begun 
that  there  was  no  option  but  to  complete  it. 
This  was  cautiously  and  carefully  done,  and  the 
net  result  was  stated  to  be  a  debt  of  twenty- 
three  millions,  resting  on  a  community  whose 
entire  property  was  valued  at  less  than  eighty 
millions.  Congress  then  determined  to  exer- 
cise directly,  instead  of  delegating,  its  consti- 
tutional power  of  legislative  control  over  the 
Federal  district;  and  in  1878  it  framed  an 
act  to  provide  "  a  permanent  form  of  gov- 
ernment for  the  District  of  Columbia."  This 
act  provided  for  three  Commissioners,  ap- 
pointed by  the  President  and  Senate,  who 
were  to  exercise  all  the  executive  functions 
necessary  for  the  city,  and  who  were  to  ap- 
point and  remove,  and  be  responsible  for,  their 
own  subordinates.  The  legislative  power  re- 


is  still  in  force,  and  after  nearly  six  years'  trial 
it  is,  in  the  main,  quite  satisfactory  to  all  con- 
cerned. It  would  appear  at  first  to  be  funda- 
mentally opposed  to  the  spirit  of  American  in- 
stitutions, for  the  people  have  no  direct  voice 
in  the  choice  of  their  public  officers.  But  while 
this  is  true  as  far  as  the  citizens  of  Washington 
are  concerned,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
the  Federal  city  is  the  creature  and  protege 
of  the  Federal  Government,  and  that  the  in- 
terests of  that  Government  are  overwhelmingly 
great  in  comparison  with  the  interests  of  the 
citizens.  It  is  the  seat  of  government,  and 
the  fact  that  persons  reside  there  who  are  not 
connected  with  the  Government  is  a  mere 
incident.  As  a  fact,  a  large  portion  of  the 
population  retain  a  residence  elsewhere,  and 
there  is  only  an  inconsiderable  minority 
which  is  not  directly  or  indirectly  dependent 
on  the  Government.  Were  its  official  char- 
acter to  be  lost,  Washington  would  sink  into 
utter  insignificance.  The  city  thus  exists  for 
the  people  of  the  whole  country,  and 
people  govern  it  through  their  elected 
sentatives  in  Congress. 


dsts  for 
and  the 

« 


THE  NEW    WASHINGTON. 


MASSACHUSETTS     AVENUE,    NEAR     DUPONT     CIRCLE. 

The    change   wrought  in   the   appearance  system  of  "  park- 

f  the  city  by  the  Shepherd  government  and  ing  "  thus  became 

:s  successors  was  fundamental  and  revolu-  the  rule,    and    not   the    exception.     At   the 

onary.    It   might   have    been    done   more  same  time,  the  city  was  torn  up  from  one 

leaply,  but  it  was  better  to  have  it  done  end  to   the  other,  and    regraded,  filling  up 

xtravagantly   than  not   at   all.    Possibly,  it  here    and    cutting   down    there,  without  re- 

ever  could  have  been  done   at  all  but  by  gard    to    the    existing   positions    of   houses. 

3me  man  of  Shepherd's  intolerant  energy,  Many   were   banked   up   to   their  windows, 

hich   sacrificed    individual    rights    for   the  others  were  left  high  in  the  air;  but  the  gen- 

iture  benefit  of  the  whole  community.     Had  eral  result  was  a  system  of  streets  with  such 

been  attempted  prudently  and  cautiously,  gradual  slopes  that  there  is  hardly  a  place 

icse  individual  rights  would  have  defeated  where  an  ordinary  carriage  cannot  proceed 

lie  whole  scheme,  for  the  community  was  not  at  a  trot. 

[ealthy   enough   to    compensate    the   injury        The   roadways   being   narrowed   and   the 

pne  to  them.  streets  graded,  the  next  step  was  the  plant- 

|  Fortunately,  during  all  the  years  that  the  ing  of  trees,  forming  miles  on  miles  of  shade, 

ace  had  remained  a  wretched  village,  its  This  was  systematically  done,  the  trees  being 

andiose  plan  had   never   been  intrenched  carefully  selected  by  experts,  certain  varieties 

:>on  in  any  way ;  and  when  the  work  of  de-  for  certain   streets,  planted  with  great  care, 

ilopment  was  taken  in  hand  in  earnest,  it  and  protected  by  boxing.    They  have  been 

as  at  once  manifest  what  immense  possi-  wonderfully  successful,  fully  ninety-five  per 

lities  the  plan  contained.    The  great  boule-  cent,    having   thriven.      The    quick-growing 

irds,  or  avenues,  were  three  times  as  wide  maples  and   poplars  were   principally    used, 

\  was  necessary  for  purposes  of  communica-  but  there  are  large  numbers  of  elms,  lindens, 

)n ;  it  was  determined  to  use  a  portion  of  box  elders,  and  buttonwoods,  besides  other 

em    only  for   a  roadway,  another   portion  varieties,  amounting  to  more  than    twenty, 

r  foot-walks,  and  to    devote   fully  half  of  One  feature  of  the  tree-planting  project  was 

e  street    to  lawns  in  front  of  the  houses,  a  continuous   drive   of  several   miles   under 

ic  idea  was  not  novel,  for  it  had  been  car-  lindens  ;  a  part  of  this  extends  for  over  three 

^d  out  to  a  limited  extent  in  many  cities  miles  on  Massachusetts  Avenue,  where  there 

c]  Europe  and  America,  where,  on    a   few  are  four  rows  of  the  lindens,  two  on  each 

^eets,  the  houses  are  built  well  back  from  side   of  the  road-way,  already  of  sufficient 

te  front  line  of  the   lot;  but,  as  a  general  size   to   unite  with  their  summer   foliage  in 

rte,  city  real  estate  is  too  valuable  to  allow  an  arch  over  the  sidewalk.    In  this  matter 

sph  a  luxury.    In  Washington,  however,  the  of  trees,  Washington  is  unrivaled  among  all 

sjeets  were  wide  enough  to  permit  this  with-  the   cities   of  the    world.    Other  cities  have 

Qt  sacrificing  any  private  property,  and  the  trees  in  their  parks  and  here  and  there  on 
'  VOL.  XXVII.— 62. 


650 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


THOMAS    CIRCLE. 


a  few  streets,  but  nowhere  else  has  it  been 
attempted  to  plant  trees  systematically  and 
thoroughly  on  every  street,  except  those  de- 
voted exclusively  to  business  purposes.  No- 
where else  are  there  one  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  of  shaded  streets.  The  effect  of  this 
planting  is  not  yet  fully  developed,  the  elms 
and  other  slow-growing  varieties  being  still 
quite  small ;  but  the  quick-growing  maples 
and  poplars  are  now  seven  and  eight  inches 
in  diameter  and  forty  feet  high.  The  view  in 
the  spring  and  early  summer  of  the  streets 
thus  shaded,  and  flanked  by  lines  of  lawn  or 
terrace  or  flower-garden,  is  novel  and  beauti- 
ful. Its  beauty  is  increased  by  the  flowers 
and  vegetation  of  great  numbers  of  little  tri- 
angular spaces,  which  have  been  formed  by 
the  intersection  of  the  avenues  with  the 
streets,  and  which  have  all  been  tastefully 
laid  out,  according  to  their  size,  either  as 
simple  lawns  or  flower-beds,  or  as  parks,  with 
walks,  fountains,  etc. 

As  the  trees  were  the  most  successful  and 
the  most  inexpensive  of  all  the  works  of  the 
Shepherd  government,  so  were  the  pave- 
ments the  most  costly  and  the  most  unsuc- 
cessful. They  were  principally  of  wood,  and 
they  went  to  pieces  very  quickly,  leaving  the 
streets  for  some  time  almost  impassable. 
Year  by  year  the  wood  has  been  replaced 
with  asphalt,  which  now  covers  a  length  of 
fifty  miles,  and  is  a  great  luxury  for  all  who 


use  the  streets,  whether  with  cushioned  car- 
riage or  heavy  express  wagon.  By  far  the 
greater  part  of  the  streets  used  for  residences 
are  covered  with  these  asphalt  pavements 
which  are  somewhat  similar  to  those  in  Paris' 
but  cover  an  extent  three  times  as  great. 

It  was  but  a  short  time  after  the  city  hac 
been  thus  remodeled,  when  the  natural  resuli 
came  in  a  new  class  of  houses.    And  hen 
again  the  French  engineer's  plan  was  founc 
to  be  full  of  possibilities  which  hitherto  hac 
not  been  thought  of.    In  a  city  laid  out  lik< 
New  York  and  most  other  cities,  in  monot 
onous  parallelograms,  all  the  lots  are  of  th( 
same  pattern.    What  can  an  architect  do  witl 
the  unvarying  25  x  100  feet  ?    He  may  doubl< 
it,  and  make  it  50x100,  and  he  may  expem 
vast  sums  upon  it,  but  it  is  still  the  same^ 
The  streets  of  Washington,  however,  with  it: 
various  intersecting  avenues,  afforded  build 
ing  lots  of  every  conceivable  variety  of  shape 
and  the  architects  were  not  slow  to  cover  then 
with  every  conceivable  variety  of  houses,— 
square  houses  and  round  houses,  houses  witl 
no  two  walls  parallel,  with  fantastic  roofs  am 
towers  and  buttresses  and  bay  windows  an< 
nameless   projections.     Some  of  them  wer<( 
good  and  some  bad,  but  hardly  any  two  wer< 
alike.  Even  after  making  all  deductions  for  tii 
mistakes  and  failures,  the  result  of  this  varict 
is  certainly  pleasing.    The  two  miles  of  Fi;t 
Avenue  in  New  York  between  Washi*1***1 


THE  NEW  WASHINGTON. 


Square  and  the  Central  Park  present  an  im- 
posing manifestation  of  wealth  ;  one  may  visit 
many  cities  without  finding  its  equal.  But  in 
he  whole  length — excepting  a  few  recent 
structures  —  there  is  not  a  house  which  has 
my  individuality.  So  similar  are  they  that 
hey  might  all  have  been  made  on  a  machine, 
ind  one  cannot  but  be  oppressed  by  the  in- 
erminable  monotony  of  the  long  vista  of 
jrown-stone  walls  on  either  side,  with  gray- 
tone  flags  underfoot,  and  very  little  sky  over- 
icad,  and  no  trace  of  vegetation  of  any  kind, 
[n  Washington  there  is  no  such  wealth — and 
10  such  monotony.  As  the  eye  wanders  along 


handsome  avenues.  Everywhere  there  are 
superb  residences  looking  out  upon  fields  of 
red  clay  and  weeds,  and  flanked  on  either 
side  by  such  shanties  as  perch  on  the  rocks 
in  the  upper  part  of  New  York.  This  in- 
congruity reaches  its  height  on  the  princi- 
pal street  of  the  town,  Pennsylvania  Ave- 
nue, which  is  of  unrivaled  width,  beautifully 
paved  both  for  vehicles  and  pedestrians, 
flanked  at  either  end  by  the  magnificent 
Capitol  and  Treasury  buildings,  and  pos- 
sessed of  every  requisite  for  a  famous  boule- 
vard —  except  buildings.  There  are,  perhaps, 
a  dozen  large  structures  in  its  length  of  more 


PENNSYLVANIA    AVENUE. 


ne  street,  it  constantly  finds  some  new  shape, 
pme  odd  design,  some  strange  combination 
;i  color.  Many  of  these  alleged  "  Queen 
Lnne  "  houses,  with  their  rooms  cut  up  into 
11  sorts  of  angles,  are  reputed  to  be  most  un- 
pmfortable  places  to  live  in ;  but  they  serve 
p  admirable  purpose  in  street  decoration. 
•/ith  streets,  however,  laid  out  for  more  than 
puble  the  actual  population,  one  has  a  wide 
nge  in  which  to  choose  a  lot.  This  option 
as  been  freely  availed  of,  and  there  are,  con- 
quently,  three  vacant  lots  to  one  which  is 
.lilt  upon.  The  new  buildings  have  clustered 
3out  the  Scott  Square  and  Dupont  Circle, 
the  other  little  squares  and  circles,  form- 
jg  small  settlements,  separated  from  each 
ther  by  long  distances  of  vacant  fields,  un- 
roken  except  by  the  asphalt  roads  and  the 
pes  of  trees.  This  scattering  of  the  new 
uilding  forces  has  given  a  very  incongruous 
;id  ludicrous  appearance  to  some  of  the  most 


than  a  mile,  which  tower  high  in  the  air,  and 
are  suited  to  the  character  of  the  thoroughfare. 
All  the  rest  are  dilapidated  and  wretched 
little  houses  of  ancient  date,  which  look 
singularly  out  of  sympathy  with  their  sur- 
roundings. 

This  is  naturally  to  be  expected  in  a  place 
which  was  first  planned,  and  subsequently 
improved,  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  moment.  It  grows  in  spots, 
which,  like  the  settlements  in  the  Far  West, 
form  each  a  little  center  of  development,  radi- 
ating and  extending  toward  its  neighbor,  until 
finally  they  will  all  join  and  form  a  civilized 
whole.  When  this  process  is  completed  in 
Washington,  it  will  be,  among  cities,  the 
wonder  of  the  world. 

Such  is  the  outward  appearance  of  the 
Federal  city.  What  sort  of  people  live  in  it  ? 
It  has  no  commerce,  no  great  merchants,  no 
powerful  corporations,  none  of  the  classes 


6S2 


THE  NEW  WASHINGTON. 


LONG    BRIDGE. 


which  form  the  controlling  elements  in  other 
cities.  Its  one  hundred  and  eighty  thousand 
inhabitants  are,  roughly  speaking,  the  families 
of  office-holders,  or  of  persons  who  supply 
office-holders  with  food,  clothing,  shelter,  and 
the  other  necessaries  of  life.  It  is  hard  to 
realize  to  what  extent  the  Federal  business 
has  grown.  The  official  register  contains  the 
names  of  nearly  fifteen  thousand  persons, 
beginning  with  President  and  ending  with 
"  cuspadorians,"  who  serve  the  United  States 
in  the  city  of  Washington.  Perhaps  one- 
half  of  these  are  clerks  and  writers,  busy 
in  settling  accounts  and  claims;  nearly  one- 
fourth  are  employed  in  mammoth  establish- 
ments like  the  Printing  Office  and  Bureau  of 
Engraving  and  Printing.  Others  are  engaged 
in  the  various  scientific  departments  under 
Government  control.  Finally,  a  number, 
small  in  amount  but  large  in  importance, 
comprise  the  prominent  men  in  public  life — 
the  Senators  and  Representatives  in  Con- 
gress, the  great  lawyers  on  the  Supreme 
Bench,  the  members  of  the  Cabinet  and 
chief  bureau  officers,  the  most  prominent 
officers  of  the  army  and  navy,  the  represent- 
atives of  foreign  governments.  These  form 
the  ruling  element  in  what  is  called  "  society  " 
in  its  restricted  sense.  But  they  do  not  form 
the  whole  of  it.  Every  year  Washington  be- 
comes more  and  more  a  winter  residence  for 


persons  of  leisure  and  moderate  means. 
Its  mild  climate,  its  quiet  streets,  free 
from  the  hurried  bustle  and  noise  of 
a  commercial  center,  and  the  charac- 
ter  of  its   society,  prove  more  and 
more  attractive  to  certain  classes.  The 
merchant  who  has  acquired  a  fortune 
in  the  fierce  struggles  of  trade  goes 
there  to  build   himself  a  house  and 
quietly  enjoy  with  his  family  the  re-., 
suits  of  his  labors  in  a  place  where 
there  is  no  business  talk.    The  retired 
army  or  navy  officer  finds  nowhere 
else  so  many  friends  or  so  much  consideration. 
— in  fact  nowhere  else  can  he  live  on  his  pa) 
with  any  comfort.    The  man  of  science  goes 
there  because  he  can  find   nowhere  else  sc 
many  men  engaged  in  his  own  specialty,  nc 
matter  whether  it  be  in  the  domain  of  physi- 
cal or  biological  investigation,  and  nowhere, 
else  can  he  prosecute  his  studies  to  such  ad-* 
vantage.    The  man  of  letters  finds  there  mord 
than  one  distinguished  author,  and  a  librarj* 
which  has  no  equal  on  this  continent.    Other 
cities  have  probably  more  scientific  and  liter 
ary  men,  but  they  are  relatively  insignifican 
among   the  vast    numbers  engaged  in  com 
mercial  pursuits.  They  form  their  little  socie 
ties  apart,  and  are  almost  unnoticed  in  tht 
great  current  of  affairs ;  but  in  Washingtor 
they  form   an  important  part   of  the  whole 
Finally,  during  the  winter  all  the  world  am 
his  wife    goes    there  for   a  visit — some  fo 
sight-seeing,  to  see  what  Congress  and  publi< 
men  are  like ;  some  because  it  is  the  fashioi 
to  go  to  Washington  in  winter  as  to  Newpor 
in  summer;  some  because  they  have  cases  t< 
argue  in  the  Supreme  Court;  some  becaus- 
they  have  their  little  measures  to  look  afle 
in  Congress.    The  society  is  thus  ever  chang 
ing  and  kaleidoscopic;    it   is  perforce  comi 
pletely  revolutionized  every  four  years,  am 
partly  so  every  second  year,  while  every 
ter  brings  its  fresh  supply  of  mere  temj 


LJ  ' 

„ 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


653 


residents.  The  "  old-resident "  element  which, 
in  the  days  of  Southern  supremacy  before  the 
war,  ruled  Washington  society,  is  becoming 
every  year  more  and  more  in  a  minority, 
buried  out  of  sight  in  the  avalanche  of  North- 
ern wealth  and  numbers.  It  is  this  thoroughly 
cosmopolitan  character  which  gives  to  Wash- 
ington society  its  characteristic  feature.  It  is 
the  common  meeting-ground  of  people  of  dif- 
ferent tastes  and  different  habits,  represent- 
ing communities  and  ideas  as  wide  apart  as 


and,  although  they  figure  in  the  police  court 
more  numerously  than  the  whites  in  propor- 
tion to  their  numbers,  yet  the  offenses  are 
nearly  all  trivial,  most  of  them  being  petty 
larceny  and  sneak-thieving.  Crimes  of  any 
magnitude  are  extremely  rare  among  them, 
and  they  are  not  inferior  to  the  whites  in 
morality  or  in  freedom  from  the  lower  vices. 
They  know  their  legal  rights,  and  are  quick 
to  enforce  them  if  imposed  upon,  but  if 
treated  fairly  they  seldom  give  trouble.  They 


OUTSIDE    THE     MARKET. 


i  the  poles,  but  truly  representing  them,  and 
\  all  men  of  mark  in  their  own  localities,  even 
|  though  their  importance  dwindles  when  ex- 
!  posed  to  a  national  glare. 

Not  the  least  interesting  among  the  features 
1  of  Washington  is  the   opportunity  which  it 
!  affords  to  study  the  results  of  emancipation. 
!  These  results  can  there  be  seen  at  their  best, 
as  in  South   Carolina  and   Mississippi  they 
appear  at  their  worst.    The  war  brought  into 
Washington  a  large  influx  of  negroes,  prin- 
cipally refugees,  who  came  tramping  over  the 
Long    Bridge   after   each    successive   battle, 
hoping  to  find  the  promised  land  after  they 
had  crossed    the   Potomac.    Their   numbers 
are  given  in  the  last  census  at  sixty  thousand, 
or  one-third  of  the  whole  population.    They 
are  as  a  rule  industrious,  sober,  and  orderly ; 


find  employment  as  laborers  in  the  various 
public  and  private  works,  as  household  serv- 
ants (for  which  they  are  admirably  adapted), 
as  hucksters  and  purveyors  for  the  markets. 
Others  have  improved  their  condition,  and 
have  learned  trades  as  masons,  carpenters, 
blacksmiths,  etc.  Many  are  sufficiently  edu- 
cated to  carry  on  a  small  business  or  become 
messengers  and  clerks  in  the  departments, 
and  a  few  have  held  offices  of  importance, 
and  have  discharged  the  duties  of  them  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  gain  the  respect  and 
esteem  of  all  with  whom  they  are  brought  in 
contact.  Unlike  the  plantation  negroes  of 
the  South,  they  are  provident  and  economi- 
cal, accumulate  their  savings,  purchase  com- 
fortable homes  for  themselves,  build  expensive 
churches,  and  conduct  a  great  number  of 


THE  NEW  WASHINGTON. 


cooperative  and  benevolent  societies  with 
marked  success.  Even  the  poorer  laborers 
are  not  without  food  and  lodging,  for  which 
they  are  ready  to  work  hard  and  long,  and 
professional  beggary  is  almost  unknown 
among  them.  Good  schools  are  provided 
for  their  children  and  filled  with  thousands 
of  pupils.  Those  who  have  the  means  attach 
great  importance  to  their  dress,  and  although 
fond  of  gaudy  colors,  they  are  usually  neat 
in  their  appearance. 

Altogether,  the  negroes,  as  seen  in  Wash- 
ington, form  a  very  useful  and  unobjection- 
able portion  of  the  community,  incomparably 
superior  in  every  respect  to  the  low  foreign 
element  which  forms  the  dregs  of  Atlantic 
cities.  When  one  sees  the  intelligence  and 
prosperity  of  those  who  have  been  educated, 
and  the  industry  and  good  order  which  char- 
acterize the  uneducated  laboring  class,  it 
instills  new  hope  for  the  future  of  their  race. 
The  dark  past  of  the  ante-bellum  period, 
when  slaves  were  herded  in  pens  on  the 
grounds  now  used  as  a  botanical  garden 
at  the  foot  of  the  Capitol,  and  when  the 
voice  of  the  auctioneer,  as  he  sold  them, 
could  almost  be  heard  in  the  halls  of  Con- 
gress— these  days  seem  to  be  separated  from 
the  bright  present  by  centuries  rather  than 
years. 

The  society  of  Washington  has  of  late  years 
been  the  subject  of  much  discussion  and  not  a 
few  novels.  It  was  cleverly  satirized  three  years 
since  by  the  author  of  "  Democracy."  His 
book  was  hardly  noticed  in  his  own  country, 
save  by  a  few  who  imagined  that  they  iden- 
tified the  originals  of  the  types  so  baldly  pre- 
sented, and  were  amused  to  see  the  faults  of 
their  acquaintances  thus  made  sport  of.  But 
in  due  time  the  book  traveled  to  England, 
and  was  there  gravely  considered  as  an  ana- 
lytical thesis  upon  the  results  of  a  century  of 
self-government.  The  "Quarterly  Review" 
moralized  at  great  length  upon  the  remark- 
able spectacle  thus  presented  of  a  mighty 
people  rushing  to  self-destruction  for  lack  of 
a  ruling  class.  People  at  home  then  began  to 
inquire  for  a  book  which  excited  such  pro- 
found interest  abroad,  and  the  demand  was 
met  by  a  cheap  edition,  which  all  the  world 
has  now  read. 

The  society  represented  in  this  book  cen- 
ters around  a  widow  of  an  "  assured  position 
in  society,"  who,  having  traveled  everywhere 
and  exhausted  everything,  comes  to  Wash- 
ington in  search  of  a  new  sensation ;  to  whom 
court  is  paid  by  two  men  intended  to  form 
an  antithesis — one  a  Senator  from  the  West, 
distinguished  as  a  leader  in  his  party  and 
a  Presidential  candidate,  and  the  other  a 
Southern  gentleman  ruined  in  fortune  by 


the  war  and  now  practicing  his  profession 
as  a  lawyer.  Incidentally,  there  is  a  Presi- 
dent who  is  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of 
the  Senator,  a  cynical  diplomat,  a  historian 
who  clamors  for  a  foreign  mission,  a  young 
miss  of  startling  freedom  of  manner,  and  a 
host  of  constituents  who  throng  the  gaunt 
lodgings  of  the  Senator,  spitting  tobacco  juice 
on  his  floor  and  pressing  their  :'  claims " 
for  office.  The  slender  thread  of  the  story 
hangs  upon  the  rivalry  of  the  two  suitors 
for  the  heroine's  affections,  and  the  climax 
is  reached  after  the  Southern  gentleman  is 
disposed  of  by  sending  him  off  to  Mexico 
as  counsel  for  some  sort  of  claims  commis- 
sion, and  the  Senator  is  about  to  win  his 
suit — when  the  heroine  discovers  that  he 
had  formerly  sold  his  vote  in  Congress  on  a 
bill  for  a  steamboat  subsidy.  He  tries  to  ex- 
plain this,  while  admitting  the  fact,  by  saying 
that  he  used  the  money  solely  for  political 
purposes  in  the  crisis  of  an  election  on  the 
result  of  which  he  believed  the  safety  of  the 
country  to  depend.  But  she  scorns  his  soph- 
istries and  flies  a  place  where  no  one  is  free 
from  corruption. 

The  story  is  full  of  hits  which,  though 
local  in  their  character,  are  cleverly  made,  and 
it  is  altogether  an  amusing  little  satire;  yet 
no  one  but  a  ponderous  reviewer  would  ever 
find  in  it  any  adequate  justification  for  its 
comprehensive  title  of  "  Democracy." 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  certain  measures 
in  Congress  have  been  tainted  with  corrup- 
tion ;  the  Credit  Mobilier  and  other  investiga- 
tions have  distinctly  proved  it.  But  neither  can 
any  one  deny  that  cupidity  is  the  ruling  vice  in 
the  nature  of  most  men  the  world  over;  nor 
that  in  a  place  where  the  public  business  of 
fifty  millions  of  people  is  planned,  enacted, 
and  conducted,  there  should  be  manifold 
opportunities  for  dishonesty  of  every  shade, 
from  open  bribery  to  the  most  remote  in- 
direct benefit.  But  in  spite  of  cupidity,  human 
nature  is  not  wholly  bad ;  and  in  spite  of  its 
temptations,  Washington  society  is  not  wholly, 
nor  even  principally  or  mainly,  corrupt.  There 
are  professional  lobbyists  who  go  there  in 
numbers  every  winter ;  their  doings  and  their 
methods,  with  their  restaurant  dinners,  their 
hotel  life,  their  intrigues,  and  their  secret 
conferences,  can  be  traced  by  the  aid  of  a 
detective  reporter;  and  the  spectacle  is  by 
turns  exciting  and  repulsive,  instructive  and 
indecent.  But  the  lobbyist  and  his  compan- 
ions are  no  more  to  be  found  in  good  society 
than  the  social  outcast  among  decent  people. 
The  most  that  is  known  about  the  lobby  and 
corrupt  bills  is  derived  from  the  principal 
newspapers,  and  one  may  live  in  Washington 
for  years  and  never  meet  a  live  lobbyist.  It 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


655 


is  highly  probable  that  the  amount  of  legis-  ton  are  the  prominent  men  of  the  country  at 
lative  dishonesty  is  at  least  not  greater  in  large,  and  their  morals  and  their  character, 
Washington  than  in  London  or  Paris.  The  their  honesty  and  dishonesty,  are  a  faithful 
difference  lies  in  the  amount  of  publicity  reflection  of  the  tone  of  public  sentiment  in 
given  to  it  in  America,  and  to  the  public  regard  to  morality  throughout  the  country, 
craving  for  that  sort  of  news  which  stimulates  Those  who  believe  that  the  people  in  general 
the  supply  of  it,  to  an  extent  far  exceeding  are  corrupt  will  believe  the  same  of  their  repre- 
what  is  warranted  by  mere  truth.  sentatives ;  and  those  who  believe  that  the 
Nevertheless,  the  lobby  and  corruption  are  prevailing  sentiment  in  America  and  else- 
legitimate  subjects  for  satire.  But  the  satire  where  throughout  the  world  is  in  favor  of 


ENTRANCE  TO  NAVY  YARD. 


i  must  not  be  accepted  as  a  well-proportioned 
!  picture.     If  one  should  write  a  book  and  call 
it  "  Commerce,"  in  which  the  principal  char- 
acter should  be  a  notorious  stock-jobber  who 
amassed  a  great  fortune  by  assiduously  circu- 
lating lies  which  affected  the  value  of  the 
property  he  bought  and  sold,  and  in  which 
the  other  characters  should  be  a  chief  mu- 
nicipal officer  and  a  judge  who  were  mere 
hirelings  of  the  stock  operator,  a  minister  of 
i  the  Gospel  who  was  a  gross  libertine,  a  mer- 
|  chant  who  made  false  returns  of  his  income 
;  and  false  invoices  of  his  goods,  and  a  host 
!  of  idle  young  men  who  scorned  the  trades  in 
i  which  their  fathers  gained  the  fortunes  they 
|  were  spending,  and  whose  principal  occupa- 
tion was  to  assemble  every  night  in  a  club  to 
talk  scandal  and  play  cards — who  would  ac- 
cept it  as  a  faithful  picture  of  New  York  so- 
ciety ?    and  what  would   be  thought  of  the 
foreign  philosopher  who  should  gravely  dis- 
course upon  it  as  showing  the  inevitable  re- 
sults of  engaging  in  commercial  enterprises  ? 
The  prominent  men  of  society  in  Washing- 


honesty  will  find  the  same  sentiment  in  pub- 
lic men. 

Leaving  aside  the  question  of  political  mo- 
rality, few  people  who  have  passed  a  winter 
in  Washington  will  deny  the  charm  of  its  so- 
ciety. Acknowledging  all  its  faults,  its  crude- 
ness  —  narrowness,  perhaps  —  and  its  lack  of 
form,  it  must  yet:  be  acknowledged  that  it  dif- 
fers from  all  other  American  society  in  the 
fact  that  it  is  not  founded  on  wealth.  It  is 
the  only  society  which  is  really  republican, 
though  it  has  little  resemblance  to  the  "  re- 
publican court "  of  the  first  administration, — 
the  only  one  in  America  which  has  a  well- 
defined  basis.  And  that  basis  is  public  sta- 
tion, temporarily  conferred,  whether  directly 
or  indirectly,  by  the  expressed  wishes  of  fel- 
low-men. The  holding  of  such  public  station 
necessarily  implies  intelligence,  and  thus  it  is 
intelligence,  as  distinguished  from  lineage  or 
wealth,  which  is  the  fundamental  basis  in 
Washington  society.  Such  a  society  does  not 
feel  obliged  to  adopt  certain  customs  because 
it  is  reported  at  second  hand  that  they  are 


656 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


good  form  in  London.    Its  opinions  are  ro- 
bustly independent,  its  information  is  exten- 


President,  where  the  doors  are  thrown  open 
that    every  person    in    the    street  may  enter 


sive,  and  its  subjects  of  conversation  are  many  them  in  a  crush,  and  stand  in  a  slowly  mov- 

and  varied.  ing  procession  for  two  hours,  in  order  that  dur- 

It  is  not  to  be  imagined  that  such  a  society  ing  half  a  minute  of  that  time  the  President 

is  well  denned,  or  that  its  rules  are  clearly  es-  may  be  seen  and  his  arm  may  be  wrenched. 


STREET    SCENE    NEAR    NAVY    YARD. 


tablished — though  it  is  true  that  the 
quette  of  Social  Life  in  Washington 
been  most  elaborately  formulated  in  a  little 
pamphlet,  of  which  a  fresh  edition  is  perenni- 
ally produced,  and  which  is  said  to  sell  in 
great  numbers.  It  is,  undoubtedly,  open  to 
the  criticism  of  being  raw,  to  the  same  extent 
— but  no  more — that  society  in  London  is 
subservient  and  snobbish,  and  in  New  York 
illiterate  and  commercial.  Nothing  can  be 
more  ridiculous  than  the  public  levees  of  the 


Eti-    But  this  is  not  peculiar  to  Washington  alom 
has    Such  "  public  receptions  "  are  inflicted  upon 
presidents    in    all    cities    which    they   visit. 
Hardly  less  incongruous  are  the  Wednesday 
afternoon  receptions  of  the  wives  of  Cabii 
officers,  when   their  doors    are    also  throi 
open  and  hundreds  of  strangers  tramp  throuj 
their  parlors  "  to  pay  their   respects."     Tl 
wives  of  Judges  arid  Senators   and    Repi 
sentatives  have  to  endure  the  same  thing 
other  afternoons  of  the  week.     It  has  coi 


THE  NEW   WASHINGTON. 


657 


persons,  at  these  different  houses.  It  would  be 
absurd  to  say  that  these  affairs  are  the  equals  in 
brilliancy  of  the  salons  of  the  famous  French 
women  of  the  last  century,  but  they  are  of 
that  type,  and  will  gradually  approach  that 
ideal.  A  considerable  minority — often  a 
majority — of  the  company  is  composed  of 
distinguished  men  and  brilliant  women  ;  and 
it  is  the  constant  reunion  of  such  people  at 
dinners  and  small  evening  parties  which  makes 
up  the  most  agreeable  part  of  Washington 
society. 

What,  then,  to  sum  up,  are  the  attractions 
of  Washington  ?  It  has  a  climate  which  is 
mild  in  winter  and  unrivaled  in  spring  and 
autumn.  It  is  a  cleanly  and  convenient  place 
to  live  in.  It  has  many  things  to  interest 
the  curious.  At  the  Capitol  one  may  see 
in  the  Senate  the  most  orderly  and  dignified 
legislative  body  in  the  world ;  in  the  House 
one  may  watch  a  debate  of  such  turmoil 
and  confusion  that  it  seems  an  unintelli- 
gible Babel;  in  the  Supreme  Court  one  may 
hear  the  most  profound  legal  argument,  and 
study  the  proceedings  of  a  court  which  has 
to  be  considered  as  part  of  the  price  of  public  no  equal  in  the  extent  of  its  jurisdiction  and 
station.  But,  no  matter  what  office  a  man  powers.  Going  up  the  avenue,  there  will  be 
may  hold,  no  one  may  come  to  his  dinner  seen  at  the  White  House*  a  building  rich  with 


ST.    JOHN  S     CHURCH. 


table  without  an  invitation.  And  it  is  in  din- 
ners that  Washington  society  excels.  Diplo- 
mats and  travelers  from  every  part  of  the 
world ;  men  distinguished  in  political  life,  on 
the  bench,  and  in  war ;  men  of  science  and 
men  of  letters;  women  of  intelligence  and 
culture,  with  the  native  grace  and  beauty  for 


memories  of  everything  that  is  prominent  in 
American  history  for  the  past  seventy  years, 
and  in  it  the  curious  spectacle  of  a  man  per- 
forming the  chief  executive  business  of  the 
nation  in  a  small  office  where  there  is  less 
ceremony  than  is  usual  with  the  president  of 
a  bank.  On  either  side  of  this  building  is  a 


which  American  women  are  justly  celebrated  vast  aggregation  of  granite  containing  each 
—  there  is  no  such  wealth  of  choice  in  any  many    hundreds  of  rooms   filled   with   busy 
[other  American  city,  and  there  are 
|no  other  dinner-parties  so  entertain- 
ing as  those  of  Washington. 

Of  great  balls  there  are  not  many. 
Few  people  have  the  means,  and  still 
fewer  have  the  disposition,  to  incur 
[the  expense  and  domestic  nuisance 
bf  a  ball  at  home.  But  those  who 
ithink  that  society  exists  only  for  danc- 
f  ng  have  ample  opportunities  for  their 
amusement  in  the  constant  number 
bf  balls  given  by  the  different  ger- 
man  clubs  in  public  halls. 
i  Of  evening  parties,  where  there  is 
'occasionally  dancing,  but  which  can 
aardly  be  dignified  as  balls,  there  is 
p  incessant  round  night  by  night, 
from  Christmas  to  Ash  Wednesday. 
There  are  perhaps  two  score  of  houses 
jvvhere  people  are  at  home  one  or  two 
bvenings  in  every  month.  As  the 
Society  is  still  so  small  that  there  is 
out  one  set  in  it,  one  meets  every- 
body, i.  e.,  some  four  or  five  hundred 
VOL.  XXVII.— 63. 


THE    TREASURY    DEPARTMENT. 


658 


THE   NEW   WASHINGTON. 


clerks.  In  the  one  which  is  devoted  to  the  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  a  new  brick  build- 
State,  War,  and  Navy  Departments,  there  ing  on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  under  the 
can  be  seen  the  original  draft  of  the  De-  shadow  of  the  now  nearly  completed  Wash- 
claration  of  Independence,  much  corres-  ington  monument,  one  may  see  this  paper 
pondence  of  Washington  and  others  dur-  money  and  bonds  and  stamps  in  every  stage 


GENERAL    LEE'S    HOUSE,    ARLINGTON. 


ing  the  Revolution,  and  the  original  draft 
of  every  law  which  has  been  passed  and 
every  treaty  which  has  been  made  since  the 
foundation  of  the  Government.  On  the  walls 
of  one  of  the  rooms  are  the  photographs 
of  the  successive  Secretaries  of  State,  and 
their  faces  are  worthy  of  study.  Beginning 
with  Jefferson,  Randolph,  Pickering,  afid 
Marshall,  the  collection  goes  on  with  Madi- 
son, Monroe,  Adams,  Clay,  Webster,  Calhoun, 
Everett,  Marcy,  and  Cass,  and  ends  with 
Seward,  Fish,  Evarts,  and  Elaine.  Few  offices 
can  show  such  a  famous  list  of  occupants. 

Crossing  over  to  the  other  great  pile  of 
granite,  one  comes  into  an  atmosphere  of 
money  and  the  evidences  of  wealth  which 
probably  no  other  building  contains.  Here 
are  between  two  and  three  thousand  people, 
men  and  women,  busy  with  figuring  and 
settling  accounts.  In  the  vaults  there  are 
a  hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  hard  cash ; 
this  is  not  shown  to  visitors,  but  must  be 
accepted  on  the  faith  of  the  monthly  Treasury 
statement.  But  in  the  safes  of  the  National 
Bank  division  there  are  over  three  hundred 
millions  of  dollars  in  bonds,  deposited  there 
to  cover  the  circulation  of  the  banks.  They 
are  piled  up  in  brown  paper  parcels,  and 
visitors  who  are  properly  accredited  some- 
times amuse  themselves  by  holding  five  mill- 
ions or  more  in  one  hand.  Going  down 


of  its  manufacture  —  the  making  of  the  paper, 
the  mixing  of  the  inks,  the  engraving  of  the 
plates,  the  printing,  numbering,  cutting,  and 
counting.  It  is  like  any  other  four-story  fac- 
tory, yet  even  to  the  most  philosophical  mind 
there  is  a  certain  interest  in  the  wholesale 
manufacture  of  money  —  or  its  representa- 
tive. 

Just  across  the  street  from  this  building,  in 
the  midst  of  a  park  most  elaborately  laid  out, 
is  the  Department  of  Agriculture,  where  the 
theoretical  farmer  can  learn  all  the  processes 
of  the  latest  experiments  in  agriculture,  from 
the  culture  of  expensive  tea  to  the  improve- 
ment of  the  common  potato.  In  the  continu- 
ation of  the  same  park  are  seen  two  large 
buildings,  side  by  side :  one  a  graceful  Gothic 
structure  of  dark  sandstone,  and  the  other  a 
modern  heap  of  red,  blue,  and  yellow  bricks. 
One  is  the  Smithsonian  Institution  and  the 
other  the  National  Museum.  The  latter  build- 
ing covers  five  acres  under  one  roof,  and  is 
the  best  stocked  museum  in  this  country, 
though  it  is  yet  far  behind  its  foreign  rivals. 

And  so  the  sightseer  can  go  on,  inspecting 
Washington's  old  clothes  and  camp  chest, 
surrounded  by  countless  models  of  machines 
at  the  Patent  Office  ;  penetrating  the  myster- 
ies of  weather  predictions  at  the  Signal  Office  ; 
looking  at  pictures  in  the  Corcoran  Gallery ; 
examining  skeletons  at  the  Army  MedicU 


THE  NEW    WASHINGTON. 


659 


SOLDIERS     GRAVES,    ARLINGTON. 


Museum ;  driving  out  northward  to  the  Sol- 
diers' Home  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the 
city  from  the  hills  which  form  its  northern 
boundary;  and  finally,  riding  across  the 
Potomac  to  Arlington  to  see  the  beautiful 
home  which  Lee  left  after  so  long  and  pain- 
ful a  struggle  between  his  duty  to  his  country 
and  to  his  State,  where  now  his  majestic  oaks 
look  down  on  long  lines  of  white  headstones, 
covering  those  who  laid  down  their  lives  in 
the  great  war  with  no  reward  save  that 

"  On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  snowy  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards  with  solemn  round 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead." 

To  such  sightseeing  there  is  no  limit,  so  long 
|  as  curiosity  and  physical  strength  remain  un- 
abated. But  after  all  it  is  the  people  which 
form  the  chief  attraction  of  any  place.  And 
Washington  is  the  place  of  all  others  to  study 
America  and  the  Americans.  It  has  no  local 
types  of  its  own ;  it  is  simply  cosmopolitan 
and  representative  of  every  type,  from  Michi- 
gan to  Texas,  and  from  Maine  to  California. 


Here  these  types  meet  every  year  in  closer 
fellowship,  every  year  broadened  by  mutual 
intercourse  and  a  better  knowledge  of  each 
other's  characteristics,  and  ever  more  and 
more  mindful  of  the  great  destiny  which 
binds  them  all  together  into  one  mighty 
whole.  Here  one  may  gain  faith  to  believe 
—  what  is  usually  disputed — that  America 
has  an  individuality  of  its  own,  not  Anglo- 
Saxon,  but  distinctly  American,  as  different 
from  that  of  England  as  France  from  Italy ; 
to  perceive  the  slow  but  incessant  process 
by  which  this  individuality  is  losing  its  angu- 
larities and  its  dissimilarities  and  becoming 
shapely  and  homogeneous ;  to  realize  that 
the  New  World,  having  risen  to  might  and 
power,  is  ceasing  to  consider 

"  This  Western  giant  coarse, 
Scorning  refinements  which  he  lacks  himself," 

as  its  highest  type,  and  is  gradually  evolving 
a  society  of  its  own,  not  founded  on  caste  or 
wealth,  yet  not  lacking  in  grace  or  refine- 
ment. It  is  different  from  other  society,  and 
is  well  worth  study. 


HENRY   IRVING. 


HENRY    IRVING    AS    "HAMLET."        (ENGRAVED    BY   J.    H.    E.    WHITNEY,    FROM    THE    STATUE    BY    E.    ONSLOW    FORD.) 


THE  object  of  this  article  is  twofold :  to 
discover  the  position  to  which  Mr.  Henry 
Irving  is  entitled  among  his  contemporaries 
on  the  English-speaking  stage,  and  to  ex- 
amine the  qualifications,  natural  or  acquired, 
which  have  enabled  him  to  attain  that 
position.  The  task  is  more  difficult  than  it 
would  be  in  the  case  of  almost  any  other 
living  actor  of  eminence,  on  account  of  the 


peculiar  circumstances  attending  Mr.  Irving'? 
career :  his  sudden  elevation  to  the  topmosl 
heights  of  popularity  by  his  own  countrymen 
the  extraordinary  diversity  of  critical  opinior 
concerning  him,  and  the  prejudices  natural!) 
arising  therefrom;  his  disregard  of  physical 
limitations  in  his  selection  of  characters,  the 
wide  range  of  his  work,  and  the  strange  con- 
fusion of  the  old  and  new  styles  of  actirs 


tCUl  f 


HENRY  IRVING. 


661 


which,  in  conjunction  with  innumerable  man- 
nerisms of  his  own,  constitutes  his  present 
method.  The  only  way  to  reach  an  honest 
verdict  is  to  dismiss  from  consideration  all 
that  has  been  written  about  him  in  the  way 
of  praise  or  detraction,  and  to  treat  him  as  an 
artist  unknown  here  before  that  memorable 
evening  when  he  made  his  first  bow  before 
an  American  audience  in  the  character  of 
Mathias. 

In  this  first  performance,  it  was  most  inter- 
esting to  observe  how  the  personal  fascination 
of  the  man  —  that  subtle  attribute  commonly 
called  magnetism — gradually  asserted  its 
power  over  his  hearers^  compelling  their 
attention  and  controlling  their  sympathies, 
in  spite  of  their  disposition  to  be  critical. 
There  were  few  persons  in  that  great  assem- 
i  blage,  which  was  largely  representative  of  the 
taste  and  culture  of  the  metropolis,  who  had 
not  heard  of  those  extravagances  of  speech 
and  gesture  which  have  been  the  occasion  of 
so  much  bitter  denunciation,  and  who  were 
not  eager  to  detect  them.  Little  knowledge 
or  discrimination  was  needed.  The  actor  had 
not  been  upon  the  stage  five  minutes  before 
he  had  justified  many  of  the  accusations  of  his 
most  vehement  assailants.  When  Mathias, 
after  divesting  himself  of  hat  and  cloak, 
strode  across  the  stage,  with  lounging  gait  and 
heaving  shoulders,  and  hailed  the  village 
gossips  at  the  supper-table  with  a  series  of 
dislocated  syllables,  each  shot  from  the  throat 
like  balls  from  a  vocal  catapult,  the  specta- 
tors sat  in  blank  amazement,  as  if  uncertain 
whether  some  monstrous  joke  had  not  been 
jplayed  upon  them,  and  Mr.  Irving  was  not 
Jan  actor  of  burlesque,  mimicking  the  heroes 
of  the  Old  Bowery.  Had  a  census  of  opinion 
[been  taken  in  the  middle  of  this  act,  the  ver- 
^lict  would  have  been  that  the  foremost  player 
jof  the  English  stage  was  an  insolent  pretender, 
offering  as  the  most  precious  outgrowths  of 
jmodern  art  the  mouthings,  stridings,  and 
igrimacings  of  a  century  ago.  But  this  im- 
pression was  as  fleeting  as  it  was  false.  In 
levery  player  who  has  won  public  distinction 
there  is  some  marked,  if  often  indefinable, 
quality  which  exercises  its  influence  upon 
the  audience,  independent  of  the  histrionic 
methods  employed.  It  soon  became  apparent 
chat  there  was  in  Mr.  Irving's  work  some- 
thing far  more  potent  than  audacious  extrav- 
jigance  and  eccentricity.  As  the  action  of 
;:he  play  proceeded,  evidences  of  resolute  pur- 
pose and  elaborate  design  began  to  reveal 
jhemselves.  As  the  eye  became  accustomed 
jO  the  excessive  gesture  and  the  ear  to  the 
furious  mode  of  delivery,  it  was  possible  to 
liscern  beside  the  coarser  outlines  the  delicate 
;oloring  of  the  true  artist,  and  to  appreciate 
VOL.  XXVII.— 64. 


the  laborious  skill  with  which  the  progress 
of  the  struggle  between  conscience  and  will 
was  portrayed.  Here  plainly  was  a  man  of 
subtle  thought  and  keen  perception,  who  had 
carefully  traced  the  whole  process  by  which 
a  man  of  strong  will  and  brain  might  be  har- 
ried by  the  hidden  torture  of  remorse  and 
dread  to  despair  and  death,  and  who  had 
carefully  studied  the  physical  symptoms  by 
which  the  gradual  advance  of  the  mental 
malady  ought  to  be  portrayed.  From  the 
moment  when,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  he 
was  confronted  with  the  apparition  of  the 
murdered  Jew,  and  fell  prostrate,  with  a  half- 
suppressed  shriek  of  agony,  infinitely  more 
expressive  than  any  louder  cry,  he  riveted 
the  attention  of  his  hearers,  and  his  success 
was  thereafter  only  a  question  of  degree. 
The  results  of  constant  and  intelligent  study, 
aided  by  a  keen  comprehension  of  the  full 
scope  of  the  character,  were  manifested  in  a 
hundred  different  ways  in  the  second  act. 
The  growing  physical  exhaustion,  the  hag- 
gard, weary  face,  the  quick  suspicion  of  the 
restless  eye,  the  nervous  petulance  in  the 
scene  with  the  wife  and  daughter,  the  whole 
treatment  of  the  episode  of  the  counting  of 
the  dowry,  the  miserly  weighing  of  the  sus- 
pected piece,  and  the  horrified  recognition  of 
the  coin  which  came  from  the  fatal  belt ;  the 
rigid  watchfulness  with  which  he  listened  to 
Christian's  theory  regarding  the  disposition 
of.  the  Jew's  dead  body,  and  the  hysterical 
burst  of  laughter  with  which  he  declared  that 
he  too  kept  a  limekiln  in  those  old  days; 
his  feverish  anxiety  during  the  ceremony  of 
signing  the  marriage  contract,  and  the  frantic 
outbursts  of  hilarity  with  which  he  sought  to 
drown  the  fancied  sound  of  sleigh-bells  in  his 
ears  during  the  betrothal  dance, — demon- 
strated beyond  all  doubt  his  possession  of  a 
rich  imagination,  true  dramatic  instinct,  and 
thorough  mastery  of  stage  resource.  The  most 
notable  feature  of  the  impersonation  up  to 
this  point  was  the  extreme  skill  by  which  the 
rapid  approach  of  Mathias  to  a  condition 
akin  to  absolute  mania  was  indicated.  There 
was  apparently,  whether  intended  or  not,  a 
suggestion  of  positive  insanity  in  the  moment- 
ary and  desperate  assumption  of  recklessness 
in  the  murderer's  solitary  dance  in  his  barred 
bedroom  as  he  listened  to  the  music  of  the 
revelers  without.  This  assumption  of  what 
may  be  called  a  species  of  horrible  nervous 
exaltation,  conveying  as  it  did  an  .impression 
of  almost  insupportable  strain,  was  a  fitting 
prelude  to  the  vivid  terrors  of  the  dream 
scene  which  followed/and  which  brought  the 
impersonation  to  a  most  striking,  pitiful,  and 
imaginative  climax.  There  has  been  small 
divergence  of  opinion  touching  the  actor's 


662 


HENRY  IRVING. 


interpretation  of  this  episode.  It  was  a  veri- 
table picture  of  despairing  guilt  at  bay.  His 
breathless  protestations  and  contradictions ; 
his  incessant  cry  for  Christian  /  his  demand 
for  proofs,  and  his  petrifaction  of  fear  when 
confronted  with  the  bloody  robe;  his  terror 
of  the  mesmerist,  and  his  desperate  resistance 
to  the  mysterious  fluid  which  was  to  rob  him 
of  his  one  defense ;  his  mechanical  recital  of 
the  preliminaries  to  the  murder;  his  startling 
pantomime  of  the  manner  of  the  deed  itself; 
the  bold  and  picturesque  attitude  depicting 
the  horror  of  the  murderer  at  the  glare  of  the 
dead  man's  eye,  and  the  realism  of  the  actual 
death,  with  the  suggestion  of  the  strangling 
noose, —  were  all  triumphs  of  execution,  and 
dispelled  all  doubt  as  to  the  genuine  power 
of  the  performer. 

The  limits  of  this  review  will  not  permit 
detailed  consideration  of  the  various  points 
of  excellence  in  each  of  Mr.  Irving's  per- 
formances; but  the  play  of  "The  Bells  "  is  so 
intimately  connected  with  his  fame,  and,  as 
is  now  proved,  furnishes  so  satisfactory  a  test 
of  his  artistic  resources,  that  it  is  worth  while 
to  examine  this  representation  with  some 
minuteness.  The  chief  emotions  involved  in 
the  character  of  Mathias  are  remorse,  sus- 
picion, dread,  greed,  and  cunning,  all  curi- 
ously blended  with  a  capacity  for  warm 
family  affection.  The  nature  of  it  is  compli- 
cated, but  the  portrayal  of  the  different 
elements  composing  it,  as  will  be  seen  upon 
reflection,  does  not  call  for  the  manifestation 
of  genuine  passion.  In  other  words,  the 
character  has  in  it  no  attribute  that  is  either 
great  or  noble,  and  is  not,  therefore,  capable 
of  great  or  noble  treatment.  Its  phases,  either 
individually  or  collectively,  can  be  interpreted 
by  means  distinctly  mechanical,  without  the 
aid  of  inspiration.  If,  indeed,  the  part  was 
raised  by  the  glow  of  genius  above  the  level 
of  ordinary  humanity,  it  would  cease  to  be 
Mathias.  It  is  the  humanity  of  Mr.  Irving's 
impersonation — apart,  of  course,  from  his 
inhuman  mannerisms — which  gives  it  its  true 
significance  and  value.  There  are  few,  if 
any,  really  broad  strokes  in  the  portrait.  There 
are  rigid  angularities  which  only  mar  the 
beauty  of  the  outline,  but  none  of  those  bold 
masses  of  color  which  the  painter  of  the 
highest  type  dashes  in,  as  if  by  instinct.  The 
effect  is  created  by  innumerable  devices 
wrought  with  the  utmost  premeditation,  al- 
though the  execution  is  so  neat,  firm,  and 
free  that  it  has  much  of  the  effect  of  spon- 
taneity. These  devices  represent  the  sum 
of  artistic  attainment.  They  signify  a  vast 
amount  of  physiognomical  research,  a  control 
of  the  facial  muscles  which  could  only  be 
acquired  by  patient  practice,  an  artistic  per- 


ception of  the  picturesque  in  pose,  and  a 
knowledge  of  the  principles  of  gesture  as 
dogmatically  taught  by  Delsarte;  but  they  do 
not  necessarily  indicate  the  existence  in  the 
player  of  any  faculty  greater  than  a  compre- 
hensive intelligence.  When  a  dramatic  crisis 
is  ennobled  and  illumined  by  the  fire  of  genius, 
the  observer  is  too  greatly  moved  by  the 
effect  to  be  able  to  analyze  the  means  by 
which  it  is  created.  Can  any  one  ponder  on 
the  mechanism  employed  by  Salvini  in  that 
piteous  death-scene  in  "  La  Morte  Civile  "?• 
There  the  sense  of  acting  is  entirely  lost,  and 
the  spectators  sit  in  motionless  awe,  even 
after  the  curtain  has  fallen,  as  if  in  the  pres- 
ence of  actual  dissolution.  In  the  Mathias 
of  Mr.  Irving  there  is  no  such  supreme 
moment.  The  illusion  is  never  quite  com- 
plete, and  the  attention  of  the  spectators  is- 
sustained,  not  by  engrossing  interest  in  the 
fate  of  the  mimic  personage,  but  by  admira- 
tion of  the  executive  skill  displayed  by  the 
performer. 

The  selection  of  Charles  I.  as  the  second 
character  in  the  series  of  his  performances 
was  clever  policy,  the  contrast  to  Mathias 
being  so  extreme  as  to  raise  the  presumption 
of  the  rarest  versatility.  And  Mr.  Irving  is- 
undoubtedly  a  most  versatile  actor,  in  spite  of 
the  mannerisms  common  to  all  his  assump- 
tions, although  in  this  particular  instance  the 
test  was  by  no  means  so  severe  as  at  first 
sight  it  seemed  to  be.  It  may  be  granted 
at  once  that  there  is  no  similarity  between 
the  two  characters,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true 
that  the  actor  possessing  the  qualifications 
necessary  to  a  successful  embodiment  of  the 
first  would  find  little  difficulty  in  playing  the 
second.  To  put  the  case  in  a  different  way, 
the  emotions  of  Charles  are  far  less  varied 
and  far  less  acute  than  those  of  Mathias,  and 
are  far  less  exacting  in  the  demands  upon  the 
actor's  powers  of  intellectual  conception. 
Neither  part  rises  to  the  altitude  of  true 
passion,  to  say  nothing  of  tragic  intensity. 
The  chief  characteristics  of  Charles  are  gra- 
cious dignity,  a  courtly  mien,  aristocratic  re- 
pose, an  air  of  gentle  melancholy,  and  the 
tenderness  of  a  loving,  indolent,  but  frank 
and  noble  nature.  It  is  the  king  of  the  play,, 
not  of  history,  who  is  to  be  considered.  There 
were  beautiful  little  touches  of  paternal  ten- 
derness in  Mathias,  and  Mr.  Irving's  treat- 
ment of  the  family  scenes  at  Hampton  Court 
was  charming  in  its  careless  grace  and  un- 
affected tenderness,  although  he  effectually 
shattered  the  illusion  at  one  time  by  his 
vicious  eccentricities  of  elocution  in  reciting 
the  story  of  Lear.  The  whole  episode  w£S 
managed  with  the  finest  sense  of  pictorid 
effect.  Every  detail  of  pose,  of  gesture 


II 


HENRY  IRVING. 


663 


color  and  grouping,  had  been  most  zealously 
studied,  and  the  eye  was  constantly  de- 
lighted by  some  striking  change  in  the  living 
picture.  The  work  of  the  actor,  in  short,  was 
subordinate  to  that  of  the  artist.  As  the  play 
proceeded,  however,  some  of  the  most  deli- 
cate expedients  of  the  accomplished  actor 
were  used  with  admirable  skill.  In  the  scene 
with  Ireton  and  Cromwell,  for  example,  the 
variety  and  significance  of  Mr.  Irving's  facial 
expression  were  uncommonly  fine,  the  more 
so  because  the  actual  movement  of  the 
features  was  the  slightest  possible.  Given  a 
mobile  face  like  that  of  Herr  Schultze,  and 
an  actor  of  average  ability  may  create  vivid 
effects  by  means  of  grimace,  but  it  is  only  the 
genuine  artist  who  can  express  the  workings 
I  of  the  brain  by  methods  almost  as  delicate  as 
the  processes  of  thought  itself.  The  slightest 
exaggeration,  either  of  gesture  or  expression, 
iwould  have  robbed  the  impersonation  of  its 
Imost  artistic  quality — a  serene  and  lofty 
composure  at  a  dangerous  crisis,  which  was 
^essentially  royal.  The  disdain  expressed  in 
the  question  "  Who  is  this  rude  gentleman  ?  " 
was  superb,  and  there  was  genuine  majesty 
in  his  delivery  of  the  line,  "  Uncover  in  the 
presence  of  your  king";  but  the  effect  in  both 
nstances  was  clearly  due  to  art  rather  than 
Inspiration,  and  could  be  wrought  without 
;iny  natural  dramatic  power.  Where  dramatic 
3ower  was  really  needed,  where  Charles  re- 
urns  defeated  from  the  field  of  battle  to  the 
queen's  tent,  he  failed  completely  for  the 
irst  and  only  time  in  the  play,  his  manner 
)eing  theatrical  and  artificial  to  a  degree. 
The  situation  is  almost  tragic,  or  might  be 
nade  so  by  an  actor  of  real  emotional  fervor ; 
nit  Mr.  Irving  struck  no  sympathetic  chord. 
There  was  no  ring  of  honest  feeling  in  his 

!oice,  no  suggestion  of  heartfelt  impulse  in 
is  gesture,  which  was  conventional,  stilted, 
..nd  unimpressive.  Here  was  an  opportunity 
pr  bold  and  imaginative  treatment  of  a  noble 
fieme, — the  portrayal  of  a  regal  nature  in  the 
Irst  shock  of  crushing  calamity, — and  his  act- 
ig  was  devoid  alike  offeree  and  of  imagina- 
on.  At  such  a  crisis,  the  mere  cleverness  of 
ic  player  could  not  atone  for  the  absence 
f  genius.  It  recalled  to  memory  the  candle 
f  Colonel  Sellers  which  collapsed  when  it  was 
sked  to  do  duty  for  a  fire.  Fortunately,  this 
fas  the  one  point  in  the  play  which  required 
n  exhibition  of  passion.  Thereafter  the 
:ory  is  purely  pathetic,  and  the  pathos, 
loreover,  is  of  a  kind  which  depends  upon 
sources  easily  within  Mr.  Irving's  control. 
ihus  far  he  had  shown  himself  much  stronger 
i  the  suggestion  than  the  manifestation  of 
notion,  in  intellectual  appreciation  than  in 
hysical  delineation ;  and  after  the  surrender 


of  the  king,  the  tone  of  the  play  is  one  of 
repressed  and  dignified  suffering.  The  natural 
refinement  of  Mr.  Irving  stands  him  in  good 
stead  in  these  closing  scenes.  The  rebuke  to 
the  traitor  Moray,  a  really  fine  bit  of  blank 
verse,  was  delivered  with  a  dignity  and  pathos 
worthy  of  the  highest  praise,  and  the  "repose" 
of  the  actor  was  a  triumph  of  training.  This 
was  the  loftiest  achievement  of  the  perform- 
ance, because  the  effect  was  wrought  by 
himself  alone.  In  the  last  act,  in  the  final 
farewell  to  his  wife  and  children,  the  circum- 
stances and  the  assistance  lent  by  other  play- 
ers contributed  greatly  to  the  establishment  of 
an  illusion,  and  the  absorbing  interest  of  the 
situation  devised  by  the  author  could  scarcely 
have  failed  to  stir  the  profoundest  sympathies 
of  the  audience,  even  if  the  interpretation 
had  been  far  less  picturesque  and  touching 
than  it  was. 

In  "  Louis  XI.,"  which  was  the  play  se- 
lected to  follow  "Charles  I.,"  Mr.  Irving 
won  the  greatest  personal  success  of  his  en- 
gagement, and  justly,  for  a  more  brilliant 
example  of  elaborate  and  harmonious  mech- 
anism has  rarely  if  ever  been  witnessed  upon 
the  stage.  The  personal  appearance  of  the  act- 
or as  the  decrepit  old  monarch  was  a  triumph 
of  the  dresser's  art  as  well  as  of  artistic  imag- 
ination. The  deathly  pallor  of  the  face,  with 
its  sinister  lines;  the  savage  mouth,  with  its 
one  or  two  wolfish  fangs ;  the  hollow  cheeks, 
surmounted  by  the  gleaming  eyes,  whose 
natural  size  and  brilliancy  had  been  increased 
by  every  known  trick  of  shading ;  the  fragile 
body  on  the  bent  and  trembling  legs, — pre- 
sented a  picture  of  horrible  fascination.  It 
was  as  if  a  corpse,  already  touched  by  the 
corruption  of  the  tomb,  had  been  for  one 
brief  hour  galvanized  into  life.  The  concep- 
tion was  exaggerated  to  the  verge  of  gro- 
tesqueness,  but  the  thrilling  effect  of  it  was 
indisputable ;  and,  after  all,  a  little  exaggera- 
tion in  the  depiction  of  a  character  bearing 
few  traces  of  ordinary  humanity  is  not  a 
grievous  fault.  As  has  been  already  pointed 
out,  Mr.  Irving's  sense  of  the  picturesque  is 
very  keen,  and  it  is  plain  that  he  intended 
this  impersonation  for  the  eye  and  the  fancy 
more  than  for  the  judgment.  If  tested  by  the 
rules  of  probability  or  consistency,  it  would 
be  seen  to  be  radically  false  and  incoherent. 
Innocence  herself  could  never  be  cozened 
by  so  palpable  a  hypocrite  as  this,  and  it  is 
preposterous  to  suppose  that  so  groveling  a 
coward  could  by  any  chance  become  a  ruler 
of  men.  In  the  veritable  Louis  there  were, 
in  spite  of  his  hideous  vices  and  despicable 
weaknesses,  certain  elements  of  greatness  which 
in  this  portrayal  are  never  even  dimly  sug- 
gested. The  actor  has  simply  out-Heroded 


664 


HENRY  IRVING. 


Herod  by  bringing  into  the  strongest  relief 
the  theatrical  side  of  the  character  so  vividly 
sketched  by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  For  the  histor- 
ical personage  he  cares  nothing,  for  the  the- 
atrical everything.  It  is  worthy  of  remark 
that  this  impersonation  has  been  pronounced 
a  masterpiece  by  most  of  the  actors  of  note 
who  witnessed  it.  Now  actors,  as  a  rule,  are 
not  good  critics,  inasmuch  as  their  profes- 
sional habit  leads  them  to  study  the  mechan- 
ical rather  than  the  imaginative  or  creative 
powers  of  the  performer.  They  are  apt  to 
estimate  a  work,  not  by  the  soul  which  ani- 
mates it,  but  by  the  executive  detail  which 
gives  it  a  good  surface  finish.  When  the 
"  business  "  is  minute  and  neat,  the  grouping 
varied  and  effective,  the  exits  and  entrances 
picturesque,  and  the  meaning  of  every  line 
illustrated  by  a  great  wealth  of  intricate 
gesture,  their  ideal  of  dramatic  expression 
is  satisfied.  Inspiration  is  a  quality  with 
which  few  of  them  have  any  intimate  dealings; 
and  when  they  happen  to  encounter  it,  they 
are  likely  to  regard  it  with  a  feeling  akin  to 
contempt,  if  it  does  not  happen  to  be  in 
accord  with  that  bane  of  the  modern  stage — 
tradition.  Of  mechanism,  however,  pure  and 
simple,  they  are  necessarily  excellent  judges, 
and  their  verdict  in  this  respect  on  Mr.  Irv- 
ing's  Louis  is  of  positive  value.  It  is,  moreover, 
in  accord  with  that  of  critical  amateur  ob- 
servers. The  cleverness  of  the  whole  perform- 
ance is  extraordinary,  and  the  effect  of  it  is  all 
the  greater,  because  the  very  exaggeration  of 
the  outlines  in  the  picture  drawn  conceals 
effectually  the  mannerisms  which  mar  all  the 
rest  of  Mr.  Irving's  impersonations.  It  would 
be  difficult,  however,  for  the  most  ardent  ad- 
mirer of  the  actor  to  mention  a  point  where 
absolute  greatness  is  displayed.  There  is  no 
opportunity,  of  course,  for  pathos,  and  there 
is  assuredly  no  manifestation  of  passion.  The 
exhibition  of  craven  fear,  in  the  interview  with 
Nemours^  is  perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to 
it,  but  there  is  no  effect  in  this  which  could 
not  be  wrought  by  theatrical  device.  The 
great  merits  of  the  performance  lie  in  the 
wonderful  manner  in  which  the  fanciful  and 
grotesque  ideal  is  sustained,  and  the  skill  with 
which  the  weaknesses  of  the  actor  are  con- 
verted into  excellences.  There  is  not  an 
instant  which  does  not  afford  its  evidence 
of  deliberate  calculation  and  assiduous  re- 
hearsal, and  there  are  little  bits  of  masterful 
treatment  here  and  there  which  will  long 
live  in  the  memory.  Among  them  may  be 
noted  the  picture  of  the  king  warming  his 
wizened  and  wicked  old  carcass  by  the  fire 
in  his  bed-chamber,  mumbling  excuses  to  his 
leaden  saints  for  the  one  little  sin  more  which 
he  hoped  to  commit  on  the  morrow;  the 


scene  with  the  peasants,  with  its  ghastly  sug- 
gestions, and  the  final  death  episode,  the  hor- 
rifying effect  of  which  was  due  not  only  to 
the  rare  skill  of  the  acting,  but  to  the  startling 
contrast  between  the  wasted,  bloodless  body 
and  the  splendor,  in  texture  and  color,  of  its 
habiliments.  The  portraiture  throughout  was 
a  marvel  of  detail,  most  cunningly  devised 
and  most  beautifully  executed.  It  failed  only, 
as  the  preceding  impersonations  had  failed, 
at  the  crises  where  the  glow  of  true  passion 
was  essential  to  vitality.  Emotion  was  indi- 
cated with  unerring  certainty  and  with  infinite 
variety  of  resource,  but  it  was  never  fully 
expressed.  The  obvious  deductions  to  be 
drawn  from  the  performance  were  that  Mr. 
Irving  excels  in  eccentric  acting,  that  he  is 
deficient  in  physical  strength,  and  that  he  can 
depict  the  workings  of  the  brain  with  much 
more  certainty  than  the  emotions  of  the 
heart. 

The  correctness  of  this  judgment  was 
strongly  confirmed  by  his  performance  of 
Shy  lock,  which,  for  an  actor  of  his  reputation, 
was  absolutely  bad,  although  it  had,  it  is 
almost  unnecessary  to  say,  many  admirable 
points.  It  is  needless  to  consider  it  at  length. 
In  appearance  it  was  a  most  attractive  figure, 
dignified,  intellectual,  and  thoroughly  Oriental. 
But  the  promise  to  the  eye  was  not  fulfilled 
to  the  other  senses.  The  most  fatal  objection 
to  the  impersonation  is  its  inconsistency,  a 
fault  which  Mr.  Irving  is  generally  most  care- 
ful to  avoid.  In  the  earlier  scenes,  in  fact  all 
through  the  play  up  to  the  trial  scene,  Shy  lock 
is  presented  in  his  most  forbidding  colors. 
Those  elements  in  his  character  which  involve 
the  pride  of  race  and  religion  and  the  love 
of  family  are  mainly  disregarded,  and  the 
grosser  attributes  of  sordid  greed,  supple 
servility,  and  malignant  hate  are  brought  into 
the  boldest  relief.  Without  entering  into  any 
discussion  as  to  whether  or  not  this  view  is 
the  right  one,  it  is  clear  that  when  it  is  once 
adopted  it  ought  to  be  persisted  in  to  the  end, 
whereas  Mr.  Irving's  Shy  lock  at  the  crisis  of 
the  play  undergoes  a  complete  transformation. 
It  may  be  willingly  conceded  that  his  inter- 
pretation of  the  last  half  of  the  trial  scene  is 
most  picturesque,  dignified,  and  pathetic,  but 
it  is  wholly  irreconcilable  with  what  has  gone 
before,  and  therefore  false.  The  technical 
execution  from  the  moment  of  the  Jew's  over- 
throw is  very  fine.  Here,  as  always,  the  fin- 
est qualities  of  the  actor  are  displayed  in  re- 
pose. The  forlornness  of  a  misery  so  deep  £  s 
to  be  proof  against  all  further  trial  could 
scarcely  be  more  touchingly  rendered,  while 
the  manner  of  the  final  exit  would  have  been 
masterly  if  it  had  not  been  so  incongruou ;. 
Previous  to  this  there  had  been  little  to  prais*.'.  j 


HENRY  IRVING. 


665 


Apart  from  the  question  of  conception,  Mr. 
Irving's  performance  lacked  force.  There 
was  not  one  single  note  of  true  passion,  or 
one  touch  of  genuine  pathos,  while  the  lines 
were  often  made  almost  unintelligible  by  the 
vilest  of  elocutionary  tricks.  His  gesture,  too, 
was  excessive  and  not  always  significant,  and 
in  other  ways  his  performance  was  distinctly 
below  the  standard  which  his  previous 
achievements  had  established. 

Mr.  Irving's  next  appearance  was  in  the 
double  characters  of  Lesurques  and  Dubosc, 
in  Charles  Reade's  melodrama,  "The  Lyons 
Mail."  The  descent  from  Shakspere  was  some- 
what abrupt  and  long,  but  the  piece  afforded 
him  abundant  opportunity  for  the  display  of 
some  of  his  most  noteworthy  characteristics, 
especially  his  power  of  supplying  natural  de- 
ficiencies by  the  resources  of  artifice.  The  dis- 
tinction between  the  two  men,  so  much  alike 
and  so  much  unlike,  was  boldly  drawn  and 
ably  maintained ;  but  the  true  significance  of 
his  acting,  as  in  several  previous  cases,  was 
in  its  suggestiveness  more  than  in  its  accom- 
plishment. Lesurques  was  a  comparatively  easy 
task.  It  called  for  no  serious  outburst  of 
emotion,  and  the  actor  had  already  proved 
his  capacity  of  representing  patient  and  ten- 
der fortitude  under  unjust  suffering  in  the 
|  part  of  Charles  /.  He  used  the  same  meth- 
ods with  complete  success  in  Lesurques,  the 
less  complicated  character.  It  was  in  the 
second  act,  where  Lesurques  is  charged  with 
the  murder,  that  he  did  his  best  work.  His 
gradual  change  from  a  mood  of  amused  in- 
credulity to  puzzled  apprehension,  and  finally 
to  indignant  protestation,  was  uncommonly 
clever,  and  afforded  one  of  many  proofs  that 
I  he  can  act  with  the  utmost  simplicity  when 
he  pleases.  In  Dubosc  he  was  less  happy, 
although  this  assumption  bore  far  more  con- 
vincing testimony  to  the  scope  of  his  resources 
as  an  actor.  The  ideal  which  he  had  pictured 
in  his  mind  was  admirable,  but  his  equip- 
jment  was  too  limited  to  reproduce  it  in  fact. 
(To  melodrama  of  this  kind  certain  physical 
jqualifications  are  indispensable.  Mr.  Irving 
jhas  not  the  thews  or  the  bulk  of  a  typical 
jbravo.  His  very  voice  is  a  symptom  of  phys- 
ical weakness,  and  his  features  are  cast  in  too 
jdelicate  a  mold  to  signify  a  nature  of  bloody, 
'brutal  violence.  He  knows  this,  and,  with 
(the  instinct  of  the  true  artist,  seeks  to  hide 
these  irreparable  defects  by  stirring  the  im- 
agination of  his  audience.  His  Dubosc  is  a 
pygmy  in  avoirdupois,  but  he  has  the  swagger 
of  a  Hercules.  To  conceal  the  weakness  of 
the  voice,  he  speaks  in  the  husky,  liquorish 
Monotone  of  the  sot,  and  for  animal  ferocity 
he  substitutes  dogged,  sodden  callousness. 
All  this  is  very  clever,  even  brilliant ;  but  the 


extreme  ingenuity  of  the  expedients  which 
he  employs  more  or  less  defeats  its  object, 
and  inevitably,  because  the  device  somehow 
becomes  an  attribute  of  the  assumed  char- 
acter, and  imparts  to  it  a  certain  intellectual 
elevation  which  is  foreign  to  it.  All  these 
expedients,  moreover,  fail  at  the  supreme  mo- 
ment when  Dubosc,  in  a  brandy-born  delirium, 
watches  from  his  garret  the  preliminaries  of 
the  execution  of  his  victim.  No  mere  atti- 
tudinizing, or  staggering  about  the  stage,  or 
demolition  of  a  "  property  "  chair,  or  origi- 
nality of  attitude,  in  lying  prone  on  his  belly 
on  the  floor  and  kicking  his  heels  in  the  air, 
could  compensate  for  the  absence  of  that 
ferocious  passion  and  muscular  strength 
which  give  plausibility  to  the  conception. 
This  is  the  one  scene  in  the  play  which  pro- 
vides a  test  of  melodramatic  power,  and  it 
would  be  ridiculous  to  pretend  that  Mr.  Irv- 
ing passed  the  ordeal  successfully.  He  prof- 
fered the  shadow  for  the  substance;  and  it  is 
probable  that  the  majority  in  an  audience  of 
average  mental  capacity  might  be  beguiled 
by  the  extraordinary  adroitness  of  his  simula- 
tion into  believing  that  they  had  witnessed 
the  real  thing.  They  would  not  cherish  the 
delusion  long  if  they  could  see  this  scene  in- 
terpreted by  an  actor  of  real  melodramatic 
energy.  Who,  for  instance,  would  dare 
assert  that  Mr.  Irving,  in  such  a  character, 
could  endure  comparison  with  E.  L.  Daven- 
port, J.  W.  Wallackj  or  Charles  Fechter  ? 

The  two  other  parts  in  which  Mr.  Irving 
appeared  in  New  York  were  Doricourt,  in 
"  The  Belle's  Stratagem,"  and  Richard  III. 
They  may  be  dismissed  with  very  few  words, 
not  because  they  were  uninteresting,  but  be- 
cause they  added  nothing  to  the  previous 
knowledge  of  the  actor's  abilities.  The  Rich- 
ard was  a  fragment,  exhibited  in  one  act  only, 
and  that  the  first.  It  would  therefore  be  pre- 
sumptuous and  unjust  to  speak  confidently 
of  it ;  but  from  the  specimen  given,  it  would 
appear  that  the  conception  lies  about  mid- 
way between  the  old-fashioned  Gloster,  em- 
balmed on  this  stage  by  John  McCullough, 
and  the  cynical  tyrant  of  Mr.  Booth.  It  seems 
to  combine  a  large  part  of  the  staginess  of 
the  one  with  the  intellectual  elaboration  of 
the  other.  That  it  possesses  tragic  force  is 
not  likely.  The  Doricourt  is  chiefly  valuable 
on  account  of  its  furnishing  one  more  proof 
of  Mr.  Irving's  mastery  of  all  stage  accom- 
plishments. He  has  acquired  all  the  tradi- 
tionary methods  of  the  old  English  comedy, 
and  reproduces  them  with  that  air  of  courtly 
and  measured  elegance  which  the  younger 
actors  of  to-day  strive  in  vain  to  imitate,  and 
which  was  the  stamp  of  the  fine  gentleman 
a  century  or  two  ago.  In  other  respects,  the 


666 


HENRY  IRVING, 


impersonation  lacked  sparkle  and  volatility, 
savoring  too  much  of  the  tragedian  in  dis- 
guise; but  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  there 
is  probably  no  other  living  tragic  actor  who 
could  play  it  half  as  well. 

From  Mathias  to  Doricourt  is  a  wide 
range;  but  none  of  the  characters  thus  far 
considered  are  of  the  highest  dramatic  rank, 
with  the  exception  of  Richard,  which  was  not 
played  in  its  entirety.  Nor  in  Mr.  Irving's 
performance  of  them  was  there  anything  to 
encourage  the  hope  that  he  could  give  ade- 
quate expression  to  the  great  characters  of 
tragedy.  It  is  generally  understood  that  he 
wished  to  make  his  first  appearance  here  as 
Hamlet ;  but  it  is  fortunate  that  this  experi- 
ment was  not  tried,  as  his  engagement  would 
in  that  case  have  begun  with  a  severe  shock 
to  his  reputation.  As  it  was,  he  had  estab- 
lished his  claim  Co  admiration  when  he  es- 
sayed the  part  of  the  melancholy  Dane  in 
Philadelphia,  and  had  partly  disarmed  criti- 
cism by  demonstrating  the  extent  and  limita- 
tions of  his  abilities.  It  is  not  easy  to  under- 
stand why  this  impersonation  should  have 
excited  so  fierce  a  storm  of  controversy  in 
England,  for  there  is  not  room  for  much  dif- 
ference of  opinion  about  it.  It  exhibits  all 
the  virtues  and  weaknesses  which  would  nat- 
urally be  expected  by  all  observers  of  Mr. 
Irving's  acting,  and  would  only  create  aston- 
ishment in  persons  unacquainted  with  the 
eccentricities  and  affectations  of  his  style. 
These  vices,  grievous  blots  as  they  are  at  all 
times,  become  almost  unbearable  in  Shak- 
sperian  tragedy,  and  could  nowhere  be  more 
offensive  or  anomalous  than  in  Hamlet. 
There  is  not,  moreover,  sufficient  originality 
in  the  conception,  except  in  the  matter  of 
minute  details,  to  atone  for  the  frequent  vio- 
lation of  elementary  principles.  In  this,  as 
in  every  other  part  undertaken  by  him,  he 
labors  to  increase  the  pictorial  effect  to  the 
utmost,  and  the  over-elaboration  of  artifice  in 
the  illustration  of  particular  scenes  often  re- 
sults in  mental  confusion.  It  would  puzzle 
an  expert  in  insanity  to  determine  positively 
whether  Mr.  Irving's  Hamlet  is  actually  mad 
or  not.  Generally  he  is  a  natural  personage 
enough;  at  times,  his  madness  is  clearly 
feigned;  at  others,  as  at  one  point  in  the 
interview  with  Ophelia  and  during  parts  of 
the  play  scene,  it  is,  to  all  appearance,  real. 
The  question  is  not  of  particular  importance, 
for  the  entire  absence  of  tragic  passion  ef- 
fectually relegates  the  performance  to  the 
second  class.  In  the  great  scenes  of  the 
play — in  the  meeting  with  the  Ghost,  in  the 
closet  scene  with  the  Queen,  in  the  challenge 
to  Laertes,  and  in  the  death  scene — there  was 
not  a  gleam  of  tragic  fire ;  and  it  is  scarcely 


too  much  to  say  that  the  tragic  side  of  Ham- 
lefs  character  received  no  representation  at 
all.  The  action  was  spirited,  picturesque,  dra- 
matic, and  incessant,  and  would  have  been 
most  eloquent  and  impressive  to  an  audience 
of  the  deaf  and  dumb;  but  in  the  delivery 
of  the  lines  there  was  no  thrill  of  passionate 
emotion.  In  other  words,  the  actor  was  in- 
capable of  executing  the  design  which  his 
intellect  had  elaborated.  In  the  quieter  con- 
versational passages  of  the  play  he  was 
entirely  successful.  Here  his  fertility  in  all 
expedients  of  gesture  and  expression  stood 
him  in  good  stead.  His  scenes  with  Horatio 
and  Marcellus,  with  Rosencrantz  and  Guild- 
enstern,  with  Polonius,  and  with  the  Players, 
were  almost  wholly  admirable,  and  were 
acted  with  a  naturalness  and  simplicity  which 
made  his  extravagances  at  other  times  all  the 
more  noticeable.  His  treatment  of  the  scene 
with  the  Grave-diggers  was  perfect,  the  spirit 
being  one  of  gentle  and  philosophic  melan- 
choly, lightened  by  a  tinge  of  amusement. 
The  impression  gained  from  the  impersona- 
tion as  a  whole  was  one  of  elaborate  study, 
rather  than  subtlety.  Most  careful  thought 
had  been  expended,  evidently,  upon  the  pos- 
sible significance  of  lines  and  words,  and 
upon  the  invention  of  illustrative  business. 
An  instance  of  this  minute  care  was  furnished 
in  the  case  of  the  First  Player,  who  had  been 
instructed  apparently  to  wave  his  arm  in  a 
particular  manner,  to  enable  Hamlet  to  make 
a  clever  point  later  on,  when  instructing  him 
not  to  "  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand, 
thus."  Again,  in  the  beginning  of  the  play 
scene,  Hamlet  possesses  himself  of  Ophelia's 
fan  and  retains  it  to  the  end,  for  the  sake  of 
giving  pertinency  to  the  words,  "  A  very, 
very  peacock."  Other  similar  examples  might 
be  quoted,  but  these  suffice  to  show  the  ex- 
traordinary care  which  the  English  actor 
bestows  upon  what  less  conscientious  men 
would  call  insignificant  details.  It  is  by  this 
patient  forethought  that  he  maintains  the 
interest  in  his  performances.  Even  so  hack- 
neyed a  play  as  "  Hamlet"  is,  under  his  man- 
agement, transformed  into  something  like  a 
novelty. 

It  is  this  thought  which  is  the  key  to  the 
secret  of  his  success.  The  stepping-stones  to 
his  triumph  have  been  experience,  study, 
taste,  and  resolution;  to  which  qualities  m 
be  added  a  strange  degree  of  personal  f; 
cination.  In  analyzing  his  different  perf< 
ances  in  this  country,  the  intention  has 
to  judge  him  in  the  most  kind  and  lib 
manner,  but  the  result  cannot  be  held 
justify  the  claim  of  greatness  which  his  frie 
make  for  his  acting.  It  is  plain  now, 
only  that  he  cannot  be  included  in  the 


HENRY  IRVING. 


667 


rank  of  living  tragedians,  but  that  he  has 
scarcely  any  right  to  the  name  of  tragedian 
at  all,  beyond  the  fact  that  he  appears  in 
tragic  parts.  Nature  has  opposed  an  insu- 
perable bar  to  his  progress  in  this  direction 
by  withholding  almost  every  attribute  neces- 
sary to  tragic  expression.  His  frame  is  slight, 
his  voice  is  weak  in  volume  and  restricted 
in  compass,  and  his  features,  although  they 
are  most  refined,  intelligent,  and  mobile,  are 
cast  in  too  delicate  a  mold  to  give  full  ex- 
pression to  the  higher  passions.  Garrick  and 
Edmund  Kean  were  small  men,  to  be  sure, 
but  their  voices  were  of  great  flexibility  and 
power,  and  both  were  filled  with  the  might 
of  genius.  Of  this  most  precious  gift  Mr. 
Irving  has  shown  no  trace  here.  His  most 
fervent  admirers  declare  that  he  has  it;  but  if 
so,  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  his  failure  to 
manifest  it  during  the  twenty  years  of  con- 
stant acting  which  preceded  his  first  success- 
ful engagement.  Genius  is  not  likely  to 
remain  hidden  under  a  bushel  or  anywhere 
else,  when  it  has  every  chance  to  declare 
itself.  It  may  be  a  paradox,  but  it  is  never- 
theless probable  that  Mr.  Irving  would  never 
have  attained  his  present  undisputed  pre- 
eminence in  England  had  he  possessed  the 
genius  which  his  worshipers  are  so  ready  to 
accord  him ;  for,  in  that  case,  it  is  extremely 
unlikely  that  he  would  ever  have  acquired  the 
fullness  of  culture  which  distinguishes  him 
and  has  enabled  him  to  win  fame  in  a  two- 
fold capacity  His  career  would  not  be  half 
so  interesting,  instructive,  and  honorable  as 
it  is,  were  it  not  for  the  courage  and  resolu- 
tion with  which  he  has  faced  and  overcome 
all  obstacles.  Throughout  all  the  best  years 
of  early  manhood,  he  acted  in  the  provincial 
theaters  in  every  variety  of  play  known  to  the 
stage.  It  is  a  curious  reflection  that,  not  very 
.ny  years  ago,  the  present  accepted  repre- 
tative  of  Hamlet,  Lear,  and  Macbeth  was 
nly  known  in  London  as  a  player  of  eccen- 
tric light  comedy  and  farce,  who  delighted  by 
his  grotesque  portrayal  of  such  characters  as 
Jeremy  D tiddler  &&&  Alfred  Jingle.  All  through 
these  humble,  laborious,  and  unremunerative 
days  he  was  gradually  acquiring  that  mastery 
of  stage  technique  in  which  he  probably  has 
no  superior.  There  is  nothing  unnatural  in 
the  supposition  that  he  may  have  contracted 
some  of  his  most  curious  mannerisms  in  those 
old  days  when  he  moved  his  audiences  to  up- 
roarious laughter  by  the  agility  of  his  contor- 
tions and  his  representation  of  comic  starva- 
tion. This  sort  of  work  could  never  have 
been  congenial  to  so  ambitious  and  intelli- 
gent a  man,  but  he  performed  it  with  all  the 
earnestness  and  care  which  he  now  expends 
upon  his  masterpieces  of  stage  production. 


Almost  everything  that  he  undertook  was 
marked  by  originality  and  purpose.  His  execu- 
tion was  always  bold,  prompt,  and  precise,  as 
if  each  mechanical  detail  had  been  carefully 
arranged  beforehand,  and  nothing  was  left  to 
chance  or  the  inspiration  of  the  moment. 
This  mechanical  precision  is  one  of  the  most 
noteworthy  features  of  his  acting  now,  and  is 
carried  to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  detect  any  difference 
between  two  or  more  of  his  performances  of 
the  same  part.  Premeditation  of  this  kind  is 
an  infallible  safeguard  against  slovenly  per- 
formances, but  also  tends  to  act  as  a  clog  to 
inspiration,  and  may  possibly  have  had  a  bad 
effect  in  Mr.  Irving's  own  case.  Whether  or 
not  his  persistence  in  certain  ungainly  gest- 
ures during  this  early  period  of  his  career, 
when  he  dealt  largely  in  burlesque  exaggera- 
tion, is  the  cause  of  the  curious  mannerisms 
which  are  such  terrible  disfigurements  now,  is 
a  question  which  it  would  be  interesting  to 
settle.  It  is  scarcely  credible  that  any  intel- 
ligent actor,  especially  with  that  keen  artistic 
sense  which  Mr.  Irving  possesses,  would  ever 
deliberately  adopt  them  as  appropriate  to 
every  stage  character.  Charity,  therefore,  de- 
mands that  his  sins,  in  the  way  of  walk  and 
gesture,  should  be  ascribed  to  unconscious 
habit.  For  his  unaccountable  system  of  elo- 
cution some  other  explanation  must  be  in- 
vented. That  it  is  not  physical  misfortune  is 
happily  demonstrated  by  the  crisp  and  simple 
method  of  delivery  which  he  employs  when  he 
chooses.  Whatever  his  theory  may  be,  it  is  a 
bad  one.  Nothing  could  be  much  more  dis- 
tressing to  the  ear  than  the  gasping  ejection  of 
syllable  by  syllable  in  a  dolorous  monotone, 
which  he  tries  to  pass  current  for  honest  elo- 
cution, but  which  is  fatal  to  rhythm,  melody, 
and  often  to  sense  itself.  But,  after  all,  this  is 
only  one  of  the  contradictions  in  which  Mr. 
Irving's  work  abounds.  His  scholarly  taste 
does  not  prevent  him  from  violating  the  laws 
of  proportion;  he  is  a  master  of  gesture, 
and  yet  descends  to  mere  contortion ;  he  is 
capable  of  creating  the  finest  effects  by  the 
strength  of  artistic  repose,  and  yet  sometimes 
ruins  a  noble  scene  by  inexcusable  restlessness. 
What  is  the  charm  which  enabled  this  man, 
without  genius  and  with  all  these  faults,  to 
outstrip  all  competitors?  The  puzzle  is  not 
insoluble.  He  first  attracted  public  attention 
as  Digby  Grant,  in  "The  Two  Roses,"  by  the 
originality  and  audacity  of  the  conception 
and  the  brilliancy  of  his  execution.  This 
triumph  made  him  the  talk  of  the  town  and 
emboldened  him  and  his  manager  to  venture 
a  step  further  and  try  Mathias.  The  success 
of  this  was  immediate  and  splendid,  and  Mr. 
Irving,  after  twenty  years  of  neglect,  rose  to 


668 


HENRY  IRVING. 


a  pinnacle  of  fame.  Presently  he  essayed  an- 
other character,  and  the  critics  began  to  talk 
of  mannerisms.  The  critics  were  right,  but  the 
battle  was  won.  The  mannerisms  counted  for 
little  in  "  The  Two  Roses"  or  in  "The  Bells," 
and  Mr.  Irving,  having  reaped  fame  and  fortune 
almost  at  a  stroke,  turned  manager  and  began  to 
reveal  the  extent  of  his  abilities.  The  persons 
who  abused  him  most  went  the  oftenest  to  see 
him.  His  audacity  excited  sympathy,  his  sin- 
cerity and  self-confidence  compelled  respectful 
attention,  and  the  greatness  of  his  technical 
skill  challenged  admiration.  His  enemies 
meanwhile  increased  his  popularity  by  vehe- 
ment abuse  and  insistence  upon  his  faults; 
whereupon  his  friends,  unwilling  to  admit 
and  unable  to  defend  them,  decreed  that  his 
artistic  vices  were  virtues  and  his  whole  sys- 
tem the  product  of  genius.  While  the  battle 
raged,  Mr.  Irving  steadily  pursued  his  course 
and  began  to  show  the  fruits  of  his  long  and 
arduous  apprenticeship.  His  stage  soon  be- 
came noted  for  the  beauty  and  completeness  of 
its  appointments.  Years  before,  he  had  been 
an  admirer  of  that  sterling  actor  and  accom- 
plished artist,  Samuel  Phelps,  who  for  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  made  the  lowly 
Sadler's  Wells  famous  as  the  home  of  the 
legitimate  drama.  What  Phelps,  without  in- 
fluence, had  accomplished  in  the  East,  Mr. 
Irving,  already  a  favorite  of  fortune,  resolved 
to  do  in  the  West.  He  had  learned  that  the 
whole  is  greater  than  the  part,  and  that  if 
one  good  actor  can  bring  prosperity  to  a 
theater,  twenty  good  actors  are  likely  to  bring 
still  more.  He  collected  the  best  company 
in  London,  and  became  his  own  stage-man- 
ager. His  varied  experience  was  applied  to 
every  detail.  Where  his  knowledge  failed,  he 
applied  to  the  best  available  authority.  Fa- 
mous archaeologists,  antiquaries,  royal  aca- 
demicians were  sought  out,  that  every  detail 
of  scenery  and  properties  might  be  correct. 
Where  there  was  a  good  precedent,  he  copied 
it ;  where  there  was  none,  he  set  the  example. 
The  critics  still  assailed  his  mannerisms  and 
weaknesses,  and  most  justly,  but  his  reputa- 
tion as  an  actor  was  no  longer  his  one  bul- 
wark. As  actor  and  manager,  he  had  achieved 
a  position  never  occupied  before  by  any  the- 
atrical personage ;  and  in  raising  himself  from 
obscurity  to  fame,  he  had  elevated  the  art 
and  the  profession  to  which  he  had  faithfully 
devoted  the  energies  of  his  life. 

When  it  is  said,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Irving 
is  not  a  tragedian,  as  he  assuredly  is  not,  that 
he  failed  in  the  only  pure  melodrama  which 
he  produced  in  this  city,  and  that  his  proper 
sphere  is  eccentric  comedy  and  character-act- 
ing generally,  so  long  as  no  display  of  genuine 
passion  is  involved,  there  is  no  intimation 


that  he  is  occupying  a  position  on  false  pre- 
tenses. He  is,  on  the  contrary,  most  justly 
entitled  to  the  honors  conferred  upon  him 
and  to  the  gratitude  of  all  lovers  of  the  stage. 
It  is  said  that  he  has  profited  by  the  labors 
of  others;  that  he  reproduces  effects  created 
long  ago;  that  he  has  stolen  lightning  from 
Macready,  thunder  from  Phelps,  and  other 
munitions  elsewhere.  It  may  be  so,  probably 
is;  and  the  only  comment  necessary  on  the 
subject  is,  that  the  sooner  American  managers 
indulge  in  larceny  of  the  same  description,  the 
better.  They  will  be  comforted,  perhaps,  by 
the  assurance  that  Mr.  Irving's  system  is  a 
cheap  one  in  the  end.  Judicious  expenditure 
will  generally  insure  profitable  returns.  But 
liberal  management  means  a  good  deal  more 
than  the  mere  spending  of  money.  Taste  and 
knowledge  are  more  potent  even  than  the 
check-book.  Within  the  last  ten  or  fifteen 
years  there  have  been  a  dozen  productions  or 
revivals  in  this  city  which  cost  more  money 
than  any  of  Mr.  Irving's  representations,  but 
when  or  where  have  there  been  such  vital 
and  fascinating  stage  pictures  as  he  has  given 
us  ?  Where,  within  the  last  ten  years  at  least, 
has  any  Shaksperian  play  been  produced  with 
a  cast  in  which  it  would  be  hypercritical  to 
pick  a  flaw,  except  in  the  case  of  the  chief 
actor  ?  When  has  a  legitimate  actor  in  New 
York  been  surrounded  by  supernumeraries 
who  behaved  like  sentient  and  intelligent 
human  beings  ?  When  was  it  that  a  legiti- 
mate play  was  presented  in  which  every  detail 
of  scenery,  external  or  interior,  every  bit  of 
property,  every  costume  was  absolutely  cor- 
rect ?  The  scenery  which  Mr.  Irving  used 
here  was  old ;  after  months  of  service  in  Lon- 
don, it  had  been  shipped  across  the  Atlantic, 
and  was  erected  on  a  stage  which  it  did  not 
fit;  and  yet,  in  tone  of  color,  in  fidelity  to 
fact,  in  quality  of  drawing,  etc.,  it  excelled 
anything  of  the  kind  seen  here  in  recent  days. 
The  pictures  in  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice," 
with  their  wealth  of  color,  wonderful  move- 
ment, and  general  verisimilitude,  were  reve- 
lations in  the  arts  of  stage  decoration  and 
management.  The  scene  at  Hampton  Court, 
in  "Charles  I.,"  was  photographic  in  its  accu- 
racy, as  were  the  interiors  at  Whitehall.  The 
interiors  of  "  Louis  XI."  were  marvels  of  taste 
and  correctness;  and  the  night  scene  in  th| 
first  act,  with  its  massive  towers  standing  o 
in  relief  against  one  broad  band  of  light  in 
dark  and  stormy  sky,  was  extraordinarily 
fective.  The  solidity  of  the  masonry  in 
first  act  of  "Hamlet,"  the  weird  landscap 
with  its  expanse  of  rock  and  sea,  which  forms 
a  background  for  the  Ghost,  and  many  ot. 
instances  of  exquisite  artistic  taste,  might 
cited. 


THE  IDEAL.  669 

A  reference  to  these  matters  is  indispensa-  ing's  abilities  as  an  actor,  the  greater  the  re- 
ble  in  any  review  which  professes  to  estimate  buke  to  American  managers.  He  has  proved 
the  true  position  and  influence  of  Henry  Irv-  beyond  dispute  that  fine  plays  will  be  popu- 
ing.  He  is  a  reformer  of  the  stage  and  an  lar  if  they  are  properly  represented.  If  they 
educator;  and  were  his  faults  as  an  actor  ten  cannot  be  made  popular  in  New  York,  it  is 
times  more  flagrant  than  they  are,  his  advent  either  because  New  York  has  no  actors  equal 
here  would  be  a  fact  of  the  highest  impor-  to  Mr.  Irving  and  his  company,  or  no  men 
tance.  It  will  undoubtedly  affect  the  whole  capable  of  scholarly,  tasteful,  and  liberal  man- 
tone  of  reputable  and  capable  criticism,  for  it  agement.  There  is  the  dilemma ;  the  choice 
has  set  a  standard  which  cannot  be  ignored,  of  horns  is  free* 
The  more  bitter  the  assaults  upon  Mr.  Irv- 

J.  Ranken  Towse. 


THE    IDEAL. 

"Das  Dort  ist  niemals  hier." 
(The  There  is  never  here. ) 

Schiller. 

O  DREAM  of  Beauty  ever  hovering  round  me — 
Now  almost  mine,  now  far  and  far  away; 

My  longing  when  the  slumber-chain  has  bound  me, 
My  day's  intenser  day ! 

So  near — so  far!  now  close  beside  me  glistens 

The  white  robe,  and  the  breath  has  warmed  my  brow; 

And  now — it  sweeps  the  immeasurable  distance, 
The  deserts  part  us  now. 

The  organ  song,  that  through  the  aisle  rejoices, 
The  star-isled  midnight,  shoreless  sea  serene, 

Are  forms  that  clothe  the  Formless  —  are  the  voices, 
The  whispers  of  the  Unseen. 

The  mid-noon  sunbeam,  flooding  earth  with  splendor, 
Is  but  a  veil  that  shrouds  light  more  intense; 

And  wordless  feeling,  thrills  of  rapture  tender, 
They  spring  to  being — whence? 

O  beauty  infinite!  the  sparks  are  shaken 

From  off  thy  vesture  of  celestial  fire; 
They  fall,  they  kindle  in  the  soul,  they  waken 

The  unquenchable  desire — 

The  yearning,  and  the  restlessness  that  lonely 
Seeks  through  Creation  for  thy  face  alone, 

And  in  material  loveliness  sees  only 
Thy  shadow  downward  thrown. 

The  finite  to  the  infinite  aspireth, 

The  unbounded  ever  stretcheth  on  before; 

The  spirit's  white  wing  pauseth  not  nor  tireth, 
Nor  draweth  near  the  shore. 

Constantina  E.  Brooks. 


THE    NEXT   PRESIDENCY. 


IT  is  a  remarkable  fact,  and  probably  this 
is  the  first  time  it  has  occurred  in  our  his- 
tory, that,  within  a  few  months  of  the  meet- 
ing of  the  nominating  conventions  of  the 
two  great  political  parties  which  divide  the 
suffrages  of  the  country  between  them,  the 
only  interesting  feature  of  the  political  situa- 
tion is  the  general  indifference  which  pre- 
vails in  all  sections  and  among  all  classes, 
both  as  to  the  platforms  and  the  candidates 
which  will  be  presented  in  the  struggle  for 
the  next  Presidency  of  the  United  States. 

All  thoughtful  observers  of  our  politics 
have  noticed  for  some  years  past  a  gradual 
but  steady  increase  in  political  apathy,  and 
many  explanations  of  it  have  been  offered. 
Some  have  lamented  the  decay  of  statesman- 
ship and  the  absence  from  the  scenes  of 
political  strife  of  great  political  leaders  who 
gathered  to  themselves  the  confidence  and 
the  admiration  of  the  parties  which  followed 
them;  while  others  have  given  undue  im- 
portance to  the  fact  that  we  are  living  in  an 
era  of  peace,  after  the  exhaustion  of  a  great 
war,  and  when  the  statesmen  who  dealt  with 
the  problems  presented  by  the  war  have  so 
recently  passed  away  that,  possibly,  others 
competent  to  deal  with  existing  problems  have 
not  yet  taken  their  place. 

Upon  reflection,  the  truth,  however,  will  be 
found  to  be  that  the  average  American  citizen 
cares  very  little  about  politics  at  present,  be- 
cause the  government  under  which  he  lives 
touches  his  life  very  rarely,  and  only  at  points 
of  very  little  importance  to  him.  From  his 
rising  up  until  his  lying  down,  the  vast  aggre- 
gate of  his  interests  and  his  activities  are 
entirely  beyond  its  scope,  and  there  is 
hardly  any  serious  interest  of  his  life  which 
is  affected  by  it.  He  selects  and  pursues 
the  occupation  of  his  own  choice.  He  wor- 
ships in  the  church  of  his  own  choice.  He 
educates  his  children  in  schools  and  ac- 
cording to  standards  chosen  by  himself.  No 
compulsory  service  is  demanded  of  him  in 
his  youth,  and  no  burdensome  taxes  oppress 
him  in  his  old  age.  The  newspapers,  as  free 
as  air,  bring  to  him  such  news,  and  such 
comments  thereon,  as  the  proprietors  suppose 
he  desires  to  read;  and,  so  long  as  he  be- 
haves himself  fairly  well,  he  is  assured  that 
his  freedom  to  say  what  he  likes  and  to  do 
what  he  likes  will  not  be  abridged.  Even  the 
great  inequalities  of  fortune,  which  often  seem 
to  him  to  be  both  unjust  and  unsafe,  and 


which  are  likely  to  appeal  to  the  evil  passions 
of  the  less  fortunate,  he  knows  are  due  either 
to  the  possession  of  less  scrupulousness  or 
more  energy  and  capacity  by  their  possessors, 
or  to  some  of  these  qualities  favored  by 
causes  beyond  the  domain  of  law.  Indeed, 
the  average  American  citizen  is  at  present 
without  a  serious  political  grievance  or  a 
serious  political  sentiment  of  any  kind,  and 
he  believes  that  his  rights  will  be  equally  re- 
spected, and  the  interests  of  the  country  per- 
haps equally  protected,  whether  one  political 
party  or  the  other  controls  the  Government. 
He  therefore  concerns  himself,  if  a  man  of 
business,  about  business ;  if  a  man  of  religion, 
about  religion ;  if  a  man  of  letters,  about 
letters ;  if  a  man  of  art,  about  art ;  if  a  man 
of  leisure,  about  his  leisure ;  and  he  does  not 
feel  called  upon  to  concern  himself  about 
politics  at  all,  except  possibly  to  the  extent 
of  voting  the  ticket  of  his  party. 

Of  course,  such  a  state  of  feeling  can  exist 
only  in  a  time  of  peace,  and  when  no  great  j 
and  exciting  question  is  agitating  the  public 
mind ;  but  that  is  the  present,  and  is  likely 
to  be  for  a  considerable  period  the  future 
condition  of  this  country,  and  it  must  be  ex- 
pected, therefore,  that  the  great  mass  of  our 
citizens  will  not  take  any  very  active  interest 
in  the  conduct  of  politics  or  in  the  strifes  of 
parties.  This  condition  of  things  is  no  doubt 
very  undesirable,  for  it  certainly  tends  to 
leave  the  management  of  our  politics  in  the 
hands  of  persons  who  make  it  a  profession, 
and  expect  therefore,  directly  or  indirectly, 
to  make  a  livelihood  and  perhaps  a  fortune 
by  it.  Indeed,  very  much  of  what  is  known 
as  "machine  politics"  is  due  to  this  politi- 
cal apathy,  which  is  in  turn  reproduced  and 
strengthened  by  such  politics. 

A  great  city  presents  the  best  illustration  • 
of  this  truth.  One  finds  there  large  numbers 
of  active  and  competent  men  of  business 
who,  if  they  possessed  adequate  public  spirit, 
could  and,  if  they  believed  there  was  an 
adequate  business  necessity,  doubtless  would 
administer  the  affairs  of  their  municipali- 
ty with  the  same  directness,  economy,  and 
fidelity  with  which  they  conduct  their  own 
business  affairs.  Unfortunately,  many  of  them 
do  not  possess  any  public  spirit  worth  a 
sidering,  and,  as  a  matter  of  business,  tl 
know  that  their  share  of  the  amount  take 
from  the  municipal  treasury,  in  the  varic 
forms  of  abstraction  in  which  the  professioi 


THE  NEXT  PRESIDENCY. 


671 


politicians  of  our  large  cities  have  become 
such  adepts,  is  insignificant  when  compared 
with  their  annual  income,  and  that  they  can 
make  more  money  by  attending  to  their  busi- 
ness and  disregarding  politics  than  they  can 
save  by  giving  a  portion  of  their  time  to  the 
government  of  the  city  in  which  they  live.  As 
a  natural  consequence,  the  professional  politi- 
cians soon  come  to  understand  the  power  thus 
given  to  them,  and  they  begin  their  career  by 
assaults  upon  the  municipal  treasury. 

When,  however,  they  have  succeeded  in 
perfecting  their  system  of  municipal  politics, 
it  soon  becomes  an  almost  resistless  tyranny 
to  which  many  aspirants  for  places,  honorable 
and  humble,  surrender  their  convictions  and 
their  honor;  for  the  same  organization  which 
controls  the  city  wards  extends  itself  over  the 
Legislative  and  Congressional  districts,  and 
the  successful  candidates  for  Legislative  or 
Congressional  honors,  as  well  as  for  municipal 
offices,  are  the  servants  of  the  same  men,  for 
they  are  the  men  who  are  found  to  have  con- 
trol of  all  the  nominating  conventions. 

The  same  power,  "  as  if  increase  of  appe- 
tite had  grown  by  what  it  fed  on,"  soon  aspires 
to  name  also  many  of  the  delegates  to  the 
State  and  national  conventions  of  the  party. 
Perhaps  the  scene  of  the  most  effective 
activity  of  machine  politics  is  in  these  con- 
ventions, for  there  the  compact  and  dis- 
ciplined delegations  from  the  cities,  under 
their  astute  leaders,  are  often  able  to  exert 
a  controlling  influence.  The  delegates  from 
the  rural  districts  compare  with  them  as 
militia  compare  with  regular  troops.  It  must 
be  remembered  also  that  the  ambitious  poli- 
ticians throughout  the  State,  looking  forward 
to  the  office  of  Governor  or  Senator,  or  a 
place  in  the  cabinet,  or  to  some  State  office  of 
less  distinction  but  greater  emolument,  natu- 
rally desire  to  stand  well  with  persons  having 
it  in  their  power,  perhaps,  to  make  or  mar 
their  future.  Seekers  after  office  throughout 
the  State  are  generally  found  to  be  stanch 
supporters  of  the  city  politicians,  and  do  not 
hesitate  when  occasion  offers  to  flatter  them 
as  steadfast  and  noble-hearted  defenders  of 
*'  the  grand  old  party."  All  this  tends  inevi- 
tably to  consolidate  their  power  and  to  widen 
•the  circle  of  their  baleful  influence ;  and  it 
happens,  therefore,  that  there  are  active  and 
influential  members  of  such  conventions  whom 
their  fellow-delegates,  who  know  them  at  all, 
know  perfectly  well  ought  to  be  "  in  durance 
vile."  It  is  true  that  a  good  many  of  them  get 
there  sooner  or  later,  but  they  are  generally 
the  smaller  offenders.  While  State  conventions 
were  permitted  to  select  delegates  to  national 
conventions,  and  to  instruct  them  how  to  vote, 
it  was  apparent  that  a  vast  and  far-reaching 


power  was  vested  in  a  few  city  politicians. 
Even  when  such  authority  is  denied  to  State 
conventions,  their  right  to  select  and  instruct 
the  delegates  at  large,  when  added  to  the 
natural  desire  of  each  State  delegation  to  act 
with  as  much  harmony  as  possible,  so  as  to 
secure  to  itself  the  greatest  possible  weight  in 
the  deliberations  and  result  of  the  convention, 
gives  to  a  few  men  controlling  the  politics  of 
large  cities  a  very  great  power  in  shaping  the 
nominations  for  the  Presidency  itself. 

It  would  be  amusing  if  it  were  not  sad  to 
reflect  that  by  a  kind  of  irony  of  fate  these 
evil  results,  upon  the  stage  of  State  and  na- 
tional politics,  are  largely  due  to  the  blindness 
which  prevents  our  seeing  that  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  affairs  of  a  municipality  is 
wholly  a  question  of  business,  and  has  no 
proper  relation  whatever  to  partisan  politics. 
The  city  of  Philadelphia,  for  instance,  possesses 
scarcely  a  single  function  which  can  properly 
be  called  political.  There  is  scarcely  a  penny 
of  her  vast  revenues  which  can  be  expended  for 
any  object,  or  in  the  discharge  of  any  duty, 
which  can  properly  be  called  political.  To 
gather  water  into  reservoirs  and  distribute  it,  to 
manufacture  gas  and  sell  it,  to  pave  and  repair 
highways,  to  extinguish  fires,  to  provide  watch- 
men to  prevent  as  far  as  possible  the  commis- 
sion of  crime,  to  furnish  schools  for  the  educa- 
tion of  children,  to  provide  homes  and  food  for 
the  helpless  poor  :  these  are  fair  examples  of 
the  functions  of  a  municipality.  Is  there  one 
of  them  as  to  which  there  is  the  slightest  pro- 
priety in  dividing  ourselves  into  Republicans 
and  Democrats  ?  Nobody  seriously  pretends 
there  is,  and  the  only  consequence  of  con- 
tinuing partisan  strife  in  municipal  affairs  is 
to  maintain  in  their  power  the  machine  poli- 
ticians who  divide  the  plunder  of  the  city 
among  themselves  and  their  dependents,  and 
thus  gradually  secure  for  themselves  great 
weight  in  State  and  national  politics  also. 
One  of  our  most  urgent  political  needs  to-day 
is  the  absolute  divorce  of  questions  of  munic- 
ipal administration  from  questions  of  partisan 
politics.  And  when  the  citizens  of  our  cities, 
without  regard  to  party,  take  the  manage- 
ment of  their  municipal  affairs  into  their  own 
hands  and  treat  them  as  matters  of  business, 
a  brighter  day  will  begin  to  dawn  for  our  pub- 
lic life  and  our  public  men,  and  possibly  not 
until  then,  so  interwoven  and  interdependent 
are  the  grosser  evils  of  our  public  life  and 
our  habit  of  treating  the  municipal  offices  of 
great  cities  as  the  spoils  of  partisan  politics. 

It  would  be  no  doubt  a  very  instructive 
lesson,  if  some  person  having  the  requisite 
patience  would  show  how,  just  in  proportion 
as  the  general  interest  in  political  questions 
and  struggles  diminished  when  the  civil  war 


672 


THE  NEXT  PRESIDENCY. 


was  over  and  the  safety  of  the  Government 
was  assured,  the  growth  of  the  machine  in 
politics  steadily  progressed  from  day  to  day. 
As  good  citizens,  having  no  interest  in  public 
affairs  but  the  welfare  of  the  country,  grad- 
ually relinquished  active  participation  in  them, 
a  class  of  professional  politicians  slowly  in 
each  city  emerged  from  their  obscurity,  and, 
securing  the  drinking  saloons  of  their  respect- 
ive wards  as  their  base  of  operations,  grew 
day  by  day  in  audacity  and  in  power.  Their 
growth  was  mainly  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
great  mass  of  their  fellow-citizens  were  blind 
partisans,  satisfied  to  repeat  party  cries  long 
after  they  had  ceased  to  have  any  real  mean- 
ing, proud  to  follow  party  standards  long 
after  they  had  ceased  to  represent  the  same 
principles,  and  not  ashamed  to  boast  of  their 
partisan  fealty  when  they  knew  it  was  being 
used  by  unworthy  men  to  enrich  themselves 
at  the  public  expense.  The  partisan  fealty  of 
the  Democrats  of  New  York  survived  the  un- 
paralleled crimes  of  the  Tweed  ring  in  the  city 
and  the  infamy  of  the  Canal  ring  in  the  State. 
It  is  true  that  many  Democrats  rose  in  insur- 
rection against  both  these  bands  of  organized 
plunderers;  and  whatever  else  maybe  said  of 
Mr.  Tilden,  it  is  to  his  lasting  credit  that  he  was 
courageous  enough  and  capable  enough  to  do 
better  work  in  the  overthrow  and  punishment 
of  such  men  than  has  been  permitted  possibly 
to  any  other  American  citizen;  but  it  is  also  true 
that  the  partisan  fealty  of  the  Democrats  of 
New  York  in  general  survived  these  severe  trials 
of  their  faith,  and  they  still  permit  Mr.  Kelly  to 
decide  not  only  how  the  revenues  of  their  me- 
tropolis shall  be  administered,  but  also  to  select 
the  persons  who  shall  administer  them.  It  is 
even  alleged  that  he  is  able  to  barter  the  vote 
of  the  State  of  New  York  to  his  political  oppo- 
nents, whenever  it  is  necessary  to  do  so  in 
order  to  retain  his  hold  upon  the  city. 

The  partisan  fealty  of  the  Republicans  of 
Pennsylvania  has  withstood  tests  as  severe. 
They  have  allowed  their  State  and  municipal 
treasuries  to  be  the  plaything  of  machine 
politicians,  and  to  be  prostituted  time  out  of 
mind  to  their  personal  advantage.  They  have 
allowed  their  metropolis  to  be  the  prey  of  men 
who  in  themselves  or  in  their  chosen  subordi- 
nates have  exhausted  almost  the  entire  cal- 
endar of  crime,  while  they  masqueraded  in  the 
name  of  the  Republican  party  and  protested 
that  their  crimes  were  necessary  to  its  preser- 
vation. They  have  stuffed  ballot-boxes.  They 
have  forged  election  returns.  They  have 
stolen  the  taxes.  They  have  stolen  the  water 
rates.  They  have  stolen  the  receipts  for  gas. 
They  have  stolen  the  moneys  appropriated 
to  the  repair  of  the  highways.  They  have 
even  descended  to  steal  the  moneys  appro- 


priated to  the  relief  of  the  insane  poor.  And 
they  have  done  all  this  in  the  name  of  the 
party  whose  first  great  historical  achievement 
was  the  election  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  a  name 
which  has  become  a  synonym,  wherever  the 
English  language  is  spoken,  for  plain,  down- 
right honesty.  These  accusations  are  not 
rhetorical  expressions.  They  are  in  substance 
extracts  from  the  indictments  and  recorded 
judgments  of  courts  of  criminal  jurisdiction, 
where  the  accused  parties  were  tried  by 
juries  of  their  countrymen  and  were  entitled 
to  every  presumption  in  their  favor,  and  where 
they  could  only  be  convicted  when  no  rea- 
sonable doubt  could  exist  of  their  guilt. 

Politicians,  whether  in  city  or  country,  are 
therefore  abundantly  justified  in  their  belief, 
and  they  are  safe  in  acting  upon  it,  that  the 
vast  majority  of  the  voters  of  each  party  will 
continue  to  vote  the  ticket  labeled  with  the 
old  name  without  very  much  regard  to  any 
other  consideration;  and  when  to  this  gen- 
eral party  fealty  of  the  great  mass  of  voters  is 
added  a  general  apathy  on  political  subjects, 
the  political  situation  is  undoubtedly  grave ; 
for  the  nomination  of  candidates  to  all  places 
of  profit  or  of  honor,  including  the  Presidency 
of  the  United  States,  is  relegated  to  a  consid- 
erable extent  to  men  who  follow  the  business 
of  politics  for  plunder  or  for  office.  What  kind 
of  candidates  such  men  are  likely  to  consider 
it  will  be  to  their  interest  to  present  this  year 
becomes,  therefore,  a  very  important  question. 

As  to  the  platforms,  it  is  likely  both  parties 
will  substantially  agree  in  their  enunciation 
of  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  their  princi- 
ples, with  only  such  changes  of  phraseology 
as  may  give  an  appearance  of  difference  to 
them.  They  would  seem  to  be  invited  to 
this  course  by  the  lack  of  any  important  prin- 
ciple of  governmental  action  upon  which  they 
radically  and  honestly  differ.  The  war  is  over, 
and  nobody  but  now  and  then  an  editor  in 
need  of  a  flaming  leader  thinks  of  abusing  the 
South  as  a  section,  or  of  insisting  that  the  civ- 
il government  of  great  industrial  States,  such 
as  the  Southern  States  are  rapidly  becoming, 
could  be  wisely  intrusted  to  the  least  intelli- 
gent of  their  people.  It  is  not  likely,  there- 
fore, that  the  Republican  convention  will 
declare  strongly  against  the  South.  They  will, 
of  course,  throw  a  tub  to  the  whale  in  that 
respect  in  some  general  phrases;  but  th( 
will  have  no  vitality  in  them,  and  the  chi 
man  of  the  committee,  when  he  reads  th< 
will  do  so  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

Even  the  repudiation  of  the  debt  of  Virf 
ia  will  not  be  commended,  because  Mahone- 
ism,  failing  in   everything   else,  has  at 
succeeded  in  compelling  its  opponents  to 
cept  its  policy  in  that  respect,  and  to  appro> 


jiic- 

• 


THE  NEXT  PRESIDENCY. 


673 


repudiation  now  would  be  to  approve  the  posi- 
tion of  both  the  Democrats  and  the  Readjust- 
ers.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Republicans 
who  assisted  to  secure  this  result  are  satisfied 
with  it ;  certainly,  those  of  us  who  protested 
against  this  dishonesty  from  the  beginning 
are  glad  they  made  their  protest. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Democratic  con- 
vention is  in  no  danger  now  of  denying  that 
we  are  a  nation,  or  of  refusing  to  the  National 
Government  any  of  the  powers  or  attributes 
inherent  in  a  great  sovereignty.  If  they  differ 
from  the  Republican  convention  in  any  degree 
upon  that  question  this  year,  it  will  only  be 
whether  the  word  Nation  should  be  spelled  with 
a  capital  letter  or  not;  and  that  is  a  difference 
upon  which  angry  passions  cannot  be  aroused. 

As  to  the  tariff,  in  view  of  the  surprising 
support  Mr.  Carlisle  received  from  the  North- 
west and  of  the  doubts  which  are  now  known 
to  exist  as  to  the  policy  of  a  high  protective 
tariff  in  some  of  the  Stalwart  Republican  States 
of  that  section,  it  is  not  improbable  that  the 
difference  in  the  platforms  of  the  two  parties 
upon  that  subject  may,  in  the  end,  be  reduced 
to  a  declaration  by  the  Republican  conven- 
tion in  favor  of  a  protective  tariff  with  in- 
cidental revenue,  and  to  a  declaration  by  the 
Democratic  convention  in  favor  of  a  revenue 
tariff  with  incidental  protection.  If  these 
identical  phrases  should  jiot  be  used,  other 
phrases  equally  ambiguous  and  elastic  doubt- 
less will ;  and  care  will  be  taken  that  it  shall 
not  be  difficult  for  the  Democrats  of  Pennsyl- 
vania to  continue  to  be  good  Democrats,  or 
for  the  Republicans  of  Iowa  to  continue  to 
be  good  Republicans.  Persons  who  suppose 
that  the  two  parties  will  take  positions  of 
absolute  antagonism  on  this  subject  are  likely 
to  suffer  a  severe  disappointment.  When  the 
smoke  clears  away,  it  is  not  probable  any- 
body will  be  found  clamoring  for  less  pro- 
tection to  our  industries  than  will  represent 
the  actual  difference  in  wages  here  and 
abroad,  and  nobody  will  be  vigorously  de- 
manding any  duty  on  raw  materials  if  the 
duty  has  to  be  deducted  from  the  wages  of 
American  labor.  It  would  not  be  at  all  sur- 
prising if  both  platforms  and  the  letters  of 
acceptance  of  both  candidates  were  found 
substantially  in  accord  with  the  views  pre- 
sented in  the  letter  of  Mr.  Hewitt,  recently 
published.  Indeed,  that  eminent  and  able 
statesman  offers  in  himself  the  example  of 
a  happy  compromise  :  as  a  leading  manufact- 
urer, he  needs  the  fact  of  protection  to  Ameri- 
can labor,  and  as  a  leading  Democrat,  he 
needs  the  cry  of  revenue  reform ;  and  he 
takes  excellent  care  to  retain  both. 

The  currency  question  is  now  practically  out 
i  of  politics.  We  shall  not  be  humiliated  again 


by  the  melancholy  announcement  to  which  we 
were  treated  for  so  many  years  by  shining 
lights  of  both  parties,  at  first  as  to  our  duty 
to  pay  the  national  debt  in  paper  promises,  to 
pay  it  only  when  it  suited  our  convenience,  and 
then  only  in  other  paper  promises,  and  after- 
ward as  to  our  duty  to  pay  it  in  silver  coin 
of  considerable  less  value  than  our  promise. 
No  trace  of  such  dishonor  will  be  discover- 
able in  the  platform  of  either  party  this  year. 
By  common  consent  we  have  recurred  to  the 
simple,  plain  rule  of  regarding  a  dollar  as 
meaning  neither  more  nor  less,  but  precisely 
what  our  laws  declared  it  to  be  when  we 
used  it  in  our  bonds  and  in  our  notes — a 
certain  number  of  grains  of  gold  of  a  certain 
fineness.  It  is  mortifying  but  instructive  to 
remember  how  much  Congressional  and  plat- 
form eloquence  would  have  been  saved  if  our 
politicians  had  done  the  people  the  justice 
to  believe  that,  sooner  or 'later,  their  sturdy 
good  sense  and  honesty  would  bring  them  to 
that  very  obvious  standard  of  duty  in  measur- 
ing the  obligations  they  had  assumed. 

It  is  very  likely  that  both  parties  will  pro- 
nounce very  vigorously  in  favor  of  civil  serv- 
ice reform.  Some  of  those  who  witnessed  it 
still  remember  with  shame  the  applause  with 
which  the  last  Republican  national  conven- 
tion greeted  a  delegate  who  denounced  it  as 
a  humbug,  and  declared  that  the  object  near- 
est the  heart  of  the  convention  was  the  con- 
tinued division  of  the  public  offices  as  spoils 
of  war,  according  to  the  will  of  the  bosses  in 
their  several  grades.  This  year  the  conven- 
tion will  be  more  circumspect.  It  will  "point 
with  pride  "  to  the  law  recently  enacted  by  Con- 
gress and  approved  by  the  President,  but  it  will 
forget  to  state  that  it  was  only  so  enacted  and 
affirmed  after  the  party  and  the  President  had 
suffered  such  a  disastrous  and  humiliating  re- 
buke by  the  people  that  the  advent  of  the 
Democratic  party  to  power  seemed  assured. 

The  Democratic  convention  will  probably 
add  a  touch  of  humor  to  its  treatment  of  the 
subject.  It  will  give  us  a  ringing  declaration 
in  favor  of  a  radical  and  thorough  reform, 
but  it  will  insist  that  the  first  step  in  such  a 
reform  is  "  to  turn  the  rascals  out."  It  will 
forget  to  add  that  its  definition  of  a  rascal 
would  be  found  to  be  any  Republican  hold- 
ing an  office.  And  if  brought  to  book  for 
trifling  with  a  grave  subject,  the  Democrats 
will  assert  that  we  set  them  the  excellent 
example,  that  we  delayed  the  reform  for 
fifteen  years  and  until  we  believed  we  were 
about  to  be  turned  out,  and  that  then  we 
had  recourse  to  it  only  to  retain  our  hold 
upon  the  offices.  And  then  they  may  proceed 
to  ask  some  awkward  questions,  as,  for  in- 
stance, why  General  Burt  was  dismissed  from 


674 


THE  NEXT  PRESIDENCY. 


the  Naval  Office  at  New  York,  in  view  of  his 
long  and  invaluable  services  to  the  cause; 
what  member  of  the  present  cabinet  has  ever 
spoken  a  word  in  its  favor;  why  Commissioner 
Evans  w«.s  allowed  to  dismiss  competent 
officials  from  the  Internal  Revenue  service 
to  make  way  for  men  like  Horton,  "  recom- 
mended by  Governor  Butler  " ;  why  the  offices 
of  Virginia  were  turned  over  to  Senator 
Mahone ;  and  why  the  organ  of  the  Adminis- 
tration, owned  by  the  friends  of  the  President 
and  edited  by  his  Assistant  Postmaster-Gen- 
eral, has  never  ceased  to  indulge  in  sneers  at 
the  reform,  and  continues  to  publish  adver- 
tisements offering  to  purchase  influence  in 
appointments  to  office.  And  Democratic 
orators  will  probably  not  forget  to  mention 
the  recent  action  of  the  Republican  Senate. 
The  gentlemen  elected  are  doubtless  excel- 
lent and  capable  officers,  but  the  changes 
were  made  on  partisan  grounds  only ;  and 
the  proscription  extended  even  to  the  chap- 
lain, as  if  the  prayers  of  a  Christian  minister 
were  likely  to  be  better  or  worse  by  reason 
of  the  political  party  to  which  he  happened 
to  belong.  The  mischief  of  such  an  action  is 
double.  It  encourages  the  belief  that  Repub- 
lican protestations  in  favor  of  civil  service 
reform  are  insincere,  and  it  makes  a  precedent 
sure  to  be  fruitful  of  evil. 

It  is  not  improbable,  therefore,  that  the 
voter  who  does  not  acknowledge  a  blind 
partisan  fealty  which  forbids  his  looking  fur- 
ther than  the  name  by  which  his  ticket  is' 
labeled  may  have  to  decide  his  vote  by  a 
consideration  of  the  past  careers  of  the  re- 
spective candidates.  He  will  know,  whether 
he  finds  it  in  any  platform  or  not,  that  the 
Presidency  of  the  United  States  is,  in  the 
hands  of  a  strong,  capable,  and  aggressively 
honest  man,  an  office  of  very  great  oppor- 
tunities, and  therefore  of  very  grave  responsi- 
bilities ;  and  if  he  has  made  himself  conversant 
with  the  recent  history  of  his  country  and 
the  tendencies  of  its  public  life,  he  will  also 
know  that  there  is  at  this  time  great  and  noble 
work  awaiting  a  President  able  and  willing  to 
do  it.  It  goes  without  saying  that  he  must 
be  absolutely  untrammeled  when  he  takes  his 
solemn  oath  to  defend  the  constitution  and  to 
execute  the  laws.  He  must  not  have  sought 
the  nomination,  nor  must  he  have  shown  after 
his  nomination  what  President  Woolsey  so 
aptly  called  "  a  most  uncommon  anxiety  "  for 
his  election,  for  he  must  be  without  friends  to 
reward,  and  without  enemies  to  punish.  In  the 
present  state  of  affairs  at  Washington,  he  must 
not  only  be  an  honest  man,  but  he  must  be 
a  cause  of  honesty  in  others.  He  must  really 
hate  every  form  of  thievery,  and  must  be  able 
to  dedicate  himself  to  the  solemn  work  of 


reforming  not  only  the  administrative  service 
of  the  National  Government,  but  the  very 
atmosphere  itself  of  the  national  capital. 

Four  years  of  administration  of  the  Na- 
tional Government  by  such  a  man  would 
transform  the  public  life  of  America.  He 
would  recognize  the  just  limitations  of  true 
civil  service  reform,  and  know  that  all  po- 
litical officers  in  the  Executive  Department, 
all  such  officers  representing  in  any  degree  the 
political  action  of 'the  Government,  ought  to 
be  in  harmony  with  it,  and  that  his  Cabinet— 
his  official  household — ought  to  be  composed 
of  men  possessed  of  his  entire  political  and  per- 
sonal confidence, and  in  earnest  sympathy  with 
him  in  the  work  he  proposed  to  accomplish. 

His  Secretary  of  State  would  take  care  not 
to  vex  foreign  nations  with  requests  which  he 
knew  ought  not  to  be  granted,  and  which,  if 
made  to  us  under  precisely  similar  circum- 
stances, would  be  indignantly  repelled ;  but 
while  avoiding  such  requests,  he  would  keep 
vigilant  watch  over  the  rights  of  every  Amer- 
ican citizen  in  the  world,  and  maintain  not 
only  the  dignity  and  honor,  but  the  interests 
of  the  country,  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe. 
Our  foreign  missions  would  be  regarded  as 
political  offices,  but  they  would  be  filled  so  as 
to  reflect  only  credit  upon  the  country ;  while 
our  consuls  would  be  regarded  as  commercial 
officers  only,  and  be  selected  not  because  of  ' 
their  friendship  with  politicians,  or  with  the 
President  himself,  but  because  of  their  knowl- 
edge of  the  people  with  whom  they  were  to 
live,  and  of  their  ability  to  advance  the  inter- 
ests of  American  commerce. 

His  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  would  be 
able  to  devote  all  his  time  to  the  great  fiscal 
problems  which  concern  that  department, 
and  would  not  be  obliged  to  waste  it  upon 
Senators  and  Congressmen,  or  deputations  of 
local  political  magnates,  in  listening  to  their 
appeals  for  the  appointment  of  a  pensioner 
upon  the  Treasury.  In  giving  to  his  subordi- 
nates the  assurance  of  a  permanent  tenure 
while  they  discharged  their  duties  effectively, 
he  would  inspire  them  with  new  zeal  for  the 
public  service,  and  secure  a  larger  measure 
of  fidelity  to  the  interests  committed  to  their 
charge. 

His  Secretary  of  War  would  be  able  to  secure 
punishment  for  the  men  who  are  now  in  su( 
numbers  tarnishing  the  fair  name  of  their  nol 
service,  and  thus  bring  the  army  back  to  its 
lier  and  better  state,  when  conduct  becomi 
an  officer  and  a  gentleman  was  not  supposed 
include  what,  in  the  language  of  the  capital, 
by  a  delicate  euphemism  called  "  duplicatk 
of  accounts,"  but  elsewhere  is  called  swindling 

His  Secretary  of  the  Navy  would  cleans 
that  department  of  its  rottenness  in  contra< 


THE  NEXT  PRESIDENCY. 


675 


I  and  in  navy  yards  as  well  as  in  ships,  and  the 
|  country  would  gladly  accord  him  whatever 
moneys  were  necessary  to  place  the  American 
navy  upon  a  footing  creditable  alike  to  the 
gallant  and  illustrious  service  it  represents 
and  the  great  country  whose  flag  it  carries  in 
the  waters  of  the  world. 

His  Secretary  of  the  Interior  would  so  ad- 
minister that  vast  department  as  to  cleanse  it 
of  the  agents  of  the  Indian  ring,  the  Pension 
ring,  and  the  Land  ring :  and  it  would  then  be 
possible  only  for  honest  contractors  to  furnish 
the  Indian  supplies,  honest  agents  to  repre- 
sent claimants  for  pension,  and  honest  settlers 
to  obtain  titles  to  public  lands.  Congress 
would  then  possibly  no  longer  hesitate  to  vote 
the  money  necessary  for  the  proper  treatment 
of  the  Indians,  as  the  wards  of  a  rich,  civilized, 
and  Christian  nation. 

His  Postmaster-general  would  place  the 
entire  postal  service  upon  a  basis  of  absolute 
honesty  and  economy.  Defaulting  postmasters 
would  not  only  be  dismissed,  but  punished  ; 
and  men  convicted  by  the  country  of  robbing 
the  department  would  not  be  allowed  to  secure 
new  contracts  while  they  were  being  prose- 
cuted for  fraud  in  old  ones. 

His   Attorney-general   would  be   able   to 
secure  the  selection  of  judges,  marshals,  and 
commissioners  upon  the  ground  of  their  fit- 
ness by  character  and  ability  to  represent  the 
administration  of  justice  in  their  several  com- 
munities; and  the  country  would  no  longer 
be  scandalized  by  the  prosecution  of  unworthy 
officials  who  ought  never  to  have  been  ap- 
pointed to  the  places  they  have  dishonored. 
Of  course,  it  is  not  intended  to  suggest  that 
many  of  the  incumbents  of  these  offices  have 
not  illustrated  the  qualities  mentioned,  but 
j  only  that  such  a  President,  surrounded  by  such 
a  Cabinet,  would  be  able  to  do  more  to  purify 
and  elevate  the  public  service  in  a  term  of 
four  years  than  can  possibly  be  done  in  any 
]  other  way  in  the  life-time  of  a  generation. 
!  The  corrupt  and  corrupting  lobby  which  now 
j  infests  Congress  and  the  departments  would 
'  recognize  in  such  an  administration  an  enemy 
which  would  only  be  satisfied  with  its  imme- 
;  diate  dissolution  and  dispersion.  Its  members 
would  recognize  that  their  calling  and  occu- 
.  pation  were  gone,  and  that  any  attempt  to 
,  pursue  them  further  would  not  only  be  accom- 
j  panied  by  slight  prospect  of  gain,  but  also  by 
[  great  probability  of  punishment.    Then,  too, 
the  mere  advent  of  such  an  administration 
would  stop  very  much  of  the  plundering  pos- 
jsibly  now   going  on.    If  any  officer  of  the 
Signal  Service,  misled  by  Howgate's  example, 
were  tempted  to  obtain  the   public  moneys 
by  forgery,  he  would  know  that  such  an  ad- 
ministration   intended  to   reclaim    Howgate 


and  restore  him  to  the  jail  from  which  he 
was  released  without  even  the  mockery  of  a 
trial.  If  anybody  contemplated  breaking  into 
the  Treasury  and  stealing  bundles  of  notes,  he 
would  be  deterred  by  the  knowledge  that  such 
an  administration  would  not  enter  into  a  com- 
promise with  him,  whereby  he  should  be  al- 
lowed to  depart  in  peace  with  a  portion  of 
his  plunder.  If  a  conspiracy  were  in  process 
of  formation  to  rob  the  Government  by  fraud- 
ulent proposals,  fraudulent  bonds,  and  false 
pretenses  of  services  rendered,  the  conspirators 
would  know  that  such  an  administration  would 
be  a  unit  in  their  prosecution,  and  not  divided; 
so  that,  if  one  cabinet  minister  was  exerting 
all  his  energy  and  ability  in  prosecuting  them, 
everybody  would  feel  sure  that  no  other  cabi- 
net minister  was  exerting  himself  to  shield 
any  of  them  from  prosecution.  The  detectives 
of  the  national  capital  would  agree  to  re- 
sume the  work  of  detecting  crime  in  order 
that  the  criminals  might  be  punished,  in- 
stead of  devoting  themselves,  as  they  have 
done  for  a  considerable  time  past,  to  arran- 
ging with  the  criminals  that  their  crimes 
should  not  be  detected,  upon  condition  that 
they  divided  their  booty ;  for  the  detectives 
would  understand  that  such  an  adminis- 
tration would  pursue  them  even  more  re- 
lentlessly than  the  professional  criminals. 
And  still  another  inestimable  benefit  would 
be  the  relief  of  the  clerks  in  Washington, 
of  both  sexes,  from  any  danger  of  a  recur- 
rence of  the  abject  dependency  upon  their 
patrons  which  they  have  felt  so  long,  and 
which  has  gone  so  far  to  demoralize  their 
lives.  The  historian  of  this  country  will  find 
it  difficult  to  induce  his  readers  to  believe 
that  it  was  until  a  year  ago,  and  may  be 
again  next  year,  a  part  of  the  recognized 
system  of  things  that  not  only  men,  but 
women  also,  should  be  dependent  for  their 
appointment  to  clerical  offices  and  their  re- 
tention in  them  upon  senators  and  repre- 
sentatives in  Congress ;  that,  no  matter  how 
honestly  and  faithfully  they  performed  their 
service,  the  privilege  of  continuing  to  earn  their 
bread  by  doing  so  depended  upon  the  good 
pleasure  of  the  man  who  had  secured  their 
appointment.  In  other  words,  each  senator 
and  member  was  offered  the  privilege  of  pen- 
sioning men  or  women  upon  the  National 
Treasury ;  and  in  many  cases  the  men  to 
whom  this  privilege  was  offered,  and  the 
women  upon  whom  appointments  were  con- 
ferred, were  living  away  from  the  restraints 
and  the  protections  of  home.  Such  an  ad- 
ministration as  has  been  mentioned  would 
find  no  difficulty,  in  a  very  brief  time,  in  plac- 
ing the  subordinate  civil  service  of  the  coun- 
try upon  a  basis  at  once  consistent  with  the 


6y6 


THE  NEXT  PRESIDENCY. 


best  interest  of  the  service  itself  and  with  the 
highest  self-respect  of  every  man  and  woman 
engaged  in  it,  no  matter  whether  the  recent 
law  remains  or  is  repealed,  for  it  would  need 
no  laws  but  such  as  have  long  existed  and 
its  own  resolute  purpose  to  do  its  plain  duty 
without  fear  or  favor.  The  law  recently  passed 
was  only  needed  to  prevent  a  President  from 
doing  wrong ;  it  was  not  needed  to  enable 
him  to  do  right. 

The  city  which  is  honored  by  bearing  the 
name  of  the  father  of  his  country  would  then 
soon  cease  to  be  the  paradise  of  lobbyists 
great  or  small,  of  conspirators  in  office  or  out, 
of  adventurers  of  the  one  sex  or  the  other,  of 
prosecutors  who  do  not  prosecute,  of  jury- 
men who  follow  the  profession  of  acquitting 
the  guilty  and  thrive  by  it,  of  tradesmen  who 
grow  rich  by  corrupting  the  purchasing  agents 
of  the  departments  and  are  respected  for  it,  of 
seekers  after  contracts  and  subsidies  who  seem 
to  think  even  more  meanly  of  the  men  they 
purchase  than  of  themselves,  and  of  all  kindred 
spirits  who  have  combined  to  call  good  evil 
and  evil  good,  until  honesty  walks  the  streets 
ashamed  and  robbery  is  blatant  and  bold. 

It  is,  of  course,  difficult  to  disc9ver  how 
many  voters  in  the  United  States  are  now 
willing  to  try  to  secure  a  President  of  the  char- 
acter which  has  been  indicated ;  but  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  there  is  a  considerable  number  of 
them,  and  that  they  will  not  be  imposed  upon 
either  by  ambiguous  expressions  in  platforms 
or  by  death-bed  repentance  in  candidates.  It 
may  be  assumed  that  no  man  will  be  nomi- 
nated for  the  Presidency  who  has  not  been 
for  a  considerable  time  in  the  view  of  his  fel- 
low-citizens. They  will  accordingly  judge  him 
not  by  what  he  says  or  does  in  expectation  of 
his  candidacy,  but  by  the  general  course  and 
tenor  of  his  public  life.  They  will  not  expect 
him  to  agree  with  them  in  all  things,  but  they 
will  insist  quite  strenuously  that  the  general 
drift  and  purpose  of  his  career  shall  have  been 
in  accordance  with  the  highest  standards  of 
public  honesty  and  purity.  As  the  time  for  the 
national  conventions  grows  nearer,  the  influen- 
tial politicians  of  each  party  will  become  more 
and  more  sensible  of  the  wisdom  of  yielding  to  a 
considerable  extent  to  this  demand  of  the  in- 
dependent voter.  They  know  that  party  ties  sit 
now  much  more  loosely  than  ever  before,  and 
that  the  next  contest  is  likely  to  be  very  close, 
— so  close  that  even  a  small  handful  of  brave 
and  independent  men  in  a  single  State  may 
be  able  to  decide  it.  They  will  therefore  make 
considerable  sacrifices  of  their  own  preferences 
in  order  to  give  their  party  the  best  chance 
of  success  at  the  polls.  It  is  not  at  all  likely 
that  any  candidate  will  be  nominated  on 


partisan  grounds  only,  or  because  he  is  a  reli- 
able, steadfast  party  man ;  and  it  is  much  less 
likely  that  any  man  will  be  nominated  by  either 
party  whose  political  career  on  its  moral  side 
has  ever  been  the  subject  of  serious  criticism, 
or  whose  political  methods  and  standards 
have  been  objectionable  to  any  considerable 
section  of  his  party.  Then,  too,  the  Demo- 
cratic party  will  be  sure  to  avoid  nominating 
any  man  who  can  be  shown  to  have  been  in 
active  sympathy  with  the  rebellion ;  and  the 
Republican  party  will  be  equally  sure  to  avoid 
nominating  any  man  whose  candidacy  would 
re-open,  on  the  one  side  or  the  other,  the  con- 
troversy which  was  waged  so  fiercely  against 
President  Garfield,  which  resulted  so  fatally 
to  him,  and  which  did  not  cease  when  he  was 
in  his  grave.  That  controversy  and  the  awful 
tragedy  which  followed  it  are  still  painfully 
remembered  by  very  many  Republican  voters 
in  other  States  besides  Ohio,  and  any  nomi- 
nation made  in  contempt  of  the  opinions  en- 
tertained upon  that  subject  would  be  equiva- 
lent to  a  surrender  before  the  battle  began. 

The  only  real  danger  lies  in  the  possibility 
of  each  party  presenting  a  candidate  who  has 
never  been  bad  enough  to  provoke  active 
hostility,  and  never  good  enough  to  offend  ' 
"  the  baser  sort  "  of  his  own  party,  and  who,  i 
if  elected,  would  form  an  administration  of 
discordant  elements  and  "unrelated  parts," 
going  possibly  to  the  bench  for  one  cabinet 
minister  and  to  the  lobby  for  another,  and 
selecting  the  rest  at  haphazard,  or  for  reasons 
of  locality,  or  because  they  were  out  of  a 
place,  or  because  they  desired  to  show  the 
country  they  were  "not  so  black  as  they  were 
painted,"  or  for  some  such  reason. 

Until  such  a  misfortune  actually  happens, 
however,  we  will  hope  that  one  party  or  the 
other,  if  not  both,  will  offer  a  candidate  whose 
politics  are  positive,  not  negative,  and  who  is 
really  fit  to  be  the  President  of  fifty  millions 
of  free  men ;  a  man  and  not  a  name  only,  a 
statesman  and  not  a  politician  only,  of  great- 
ness of  mind,  an  ardent  lover  of  his  country 
and  her  free  institutions,  resolute  to  defend 
the  right  and  assail  the  wrong,  and  without  • 
spot  or  stain  in  his  connection  with  politics, 
or  suspicion  of  any  such  thing.  Each  party 
possesses  many  men  answering  these  require- 
ments, and  it  is  very  likely  that  one  party  or 
the  other  will  ask  the  suffrages  of  the  people  for 
such  a  man.  Possibly  the  good  fortune  awaits 
us  of  witnessing  a  contest  for  the  Presidency 
in  which  both  candidates  will  be  strong,  pure, 
brave  men,  willing  and  able  to  do  the  good 
work  which  is  waiting  to  be  done,  and  which 
only  such  a  President  can  do. 

Wayne  Mac  Veagh. 


OLD    PUBLIC    BUILDINGS   IN    AMERICA. 


ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH,  NEW  YORK,  FROM  CHURCH  STREET. 


As  "  Old  New  York  and  its  Houses  "  * 
proved  to  be  a  subject  hardly  less  interesting 
|to  the  readers  of  the  article  so  entitled  than  it 
•was  to  the  writer,  he  is  led,  not  unnaturally, 
to  the  consideration  of  a  kindred  theme,  the 

*  See  THE  CENTURY  for  October,  1883. 
VOL.  XXVII.— 65. 


public  buildings  of  colonial  and  immediately 
post-colonial  times — led  thereto,  as  before, 
by  the  sight  of  tempting  sketches  of  such 
subjects.  There  may  be  some  pleasure  in 
this  direction,  and  certainly  there  will  be 
some  profit,  if  we  consider  the  style  of  the 


678 


OLD   PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


buildings  in  which  the  grandfathers  and  the 
great-grandfathers  of  those  living  Americans, 
whose  Americanism  did  not  begin  within  the 
last  half  century,  worshiped  and  legislated. 
The  existing  representatives  of  these  struct- 
ures are  unhappily  very  few;  for  in  most  cases 
they  have  been  ruthlessly  destroyed,  with 
blindness  to  their  beauty  and  indifference  to 
their  associations ;  yet  often,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, because  there  seemed  no  practicable 
way  of  preserving  them.  Enough,  however, 
remain  to  tell  us  what  manner  of  men  they 
were  who  did  our  public  building  in  this  pe- 
riod—  so  little  thought  of  and  so  little  known. 

The  rows  of  unhomelike  and  even  un- 
houselike  dwelling-places  which  are  generally 
spoken  of  as  "  brown-stone  fronts  " —  phrase 
unlovely,  and  therefore  most  fitting  —  may 
properly  be  regarded  as  manifestations  and 
embodiments  of  the  spirit  of  our  domestic 
architecture  in  the  second  and  third  quarters 
of  the  present  century.  In  them  the  fatuous 
frivolity  and  obtrusive  vulgarity  of  that  period 
found  complete  expression.  As  geologists 
designate  the  various  stages  of  the  earth's 
formation  as  the  Eozoic  and  the  Paleozoic, 
and  the  Eocene  and  Pliocene  periods,  and  the 
like,  so  we  may  well  designate  the  stage  of 
house-building  through  which  we  have  lately 
passed — and  from  which  we  are  slowly  emerg- 
ing, but  with  struggles  and  lingering  throes 
of  adhesion — as  the  brown-stone  period  of 
American  architecture.  How  firmly  imbedded 
we  have  been  in  this  stratum  of  old  red  sand- 
stone, thin  laminae  of  which  seem  to  have 
cropped  up  out  of  our  soil,  through  our  very 
souls,  as  veneering  to  our  "  stylish "  domi- 
ciles, may  be  inferred  from  a  two-part  story, 
as  dual  as  a  pair  of  trousers,  which  reached 
me  through  two  architects. 

A  certain  very  costly  mansion  in  one  of  the 
principal  avenues  of  New  York  was  designed 
by  its  architect  to  be  built  of  a  light-colored, 
grayish  stone;  but  the  client,  although  he 
accepted  the  design,  rebelled  against  the  pro- 
posed material,  and  insisted  on  having  his 
house  in  brown  stone,  "like  other  people." 
Then  another  projector  of  a  "  palatial  man- 
sion," a  dweller  in  California,  but  a  native  of 
New  York,  astonished  his  architect  by  declar- 
ing that  his  house  must  also  be  built  of  brown 
stone,  although  the  country  around  him 
abounds  in  stone  more  beautiful  and  in  every 
way  better  for  building, —  assigning  as  his 
reason  that  he  "  wanted  to  have  a  brown- 
stone  house  like  Mr. 's,  on Avenue, 

in  New  York,"  —  the  elaborate  structure  be- 
fore mentioned;  wherefore,  poor  building 
material  for  a  house  in  San  Francisco  was 
transported  from  New  York.  This  disposition 
to  copy  New  York  has  been  deplorably  in- 


jurious to  the  architectural  as  well  as  to  the 
moral  aspect  of  the  whole  country.  No 
sooner  is  the  "  Interocean  City "  of  some 
farthest  Western  frontier  of  civilization  out  of 
the  log-cabin  period,  than  it  has  at  once  a 
Broadway,  a  Fifth  Avenue,  and  an  Academy 
of  Music ;  and  in  the  two  former  parallel  pas- 
sages through  its  desolation,  where  "  saloons  " 
and  "  dry  "  goods  stores  —  the  wet  dispensa- 
ries outnumbering  the  dry  in  the  proportion 
of  three  to  one — alternate  with  stump-dotted 
clearings,  its  ambitious  citizens  begin  to  erect 
shapeless,  roofless  houses,  with  heavy  sham 
cornices  of  the  regulation  New  York  model, 
which,  brown  stone  being  unattainable,  they 
paint  as  nearly  as  possible  brown-stone  color; 
the  object  in  view  being  not  convenience, 
nor  comfort,  nor  beauty,  nor  fitness,  but 
"  style,"  in  cheap  imitation  of  the  style  of 
New  York  —  rich  New  York,  big  New  York, 
ever  richer  and  ever  bigger  New  York ;  and 
when  at  last  a  house  is  built  with  its  front  of 
veritable  brown  stone,  it  is  looked  upon  with 
a  feeling  as  nearly  approaching  veneration 
as  the  Interoceanites  are  capable  of,  and  is 
hailed  as  a  blessed  harbinger  of  coming  met- 
ropolitan splendor. 

The  place  which  the  brown-stone-front 
house  fills  in  the  history  of  our  domestic 
architecture,  is  filled  in  that  of  our  public 
architecture  by  a  sort  of  building  of  which 
the  Post  Office  and  the  new  City  Hall  of 
New  York  are  perfected  types  and  oppressive 
examples.  The  very  presence  of  the  Post 
Office  on  its  present  site  is  an  insult  to  good 
taste  and  a  defiance  of  common  sense.  It 
may  safely  be  said  that  in  no  other  country, 
hardly  in  any  other  city  in  the  civilized  world, 
would  such  a  fine  open  place  as  the  old  City 
Hall  Park,  being  the  property  of  the  city 
and  almost  coeval  with  it,  have  been  de- 
stroyed. Some  modification  of  its  former 
condition  was  made  necessary  by  the  increase 
of  population  and  of  traffic.  But  the  indica- 
tions pointed  very  plainly  to  a  change  the 
very  reverse  of  that  which  has  been  made. 
That  triangular  piece  of  ground  which  has 
become  the  center  of  the  business  part  of  the 
city  was  of  no  account  as  a  "  park."  It  was 
much  too  small  for  such  a  name,  or  for  any 
use  indicated  by  the  name.  Many  years  ago 
it  had  fulfilled  its  function  as  a  place  of  rec- 
reation, of  lounging,  or  of  intramural  verd- 
ure. But  as  an  open  plaza  it  would  have  been 
respectable,  and  could  have  been  made  ad- 
mirable. In  size  it  would  have  equaled  many 
such  ornaments  and  breathing-places  in  the 
capitals  of  Europe.  Its  position  at  the  junc- 
tion of  the  two  great  thoroughfares  of  the 
city,  and  the  fact  that  it  contained  the  builc- 
ing  which  was  at  once  the  City  Hall  and 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


679 


handsomest 
not  the  only 
the  city,  unit- 
tions  to  plead 
of  its  original 
and  unencum- 
railings,  its 
|  its  trees  also, 
The  Register's 
sightly  brown- 


public  structure,  if 
handsome  one,  in 
ed  with  old  associa- 
for  the  preservation 
expanse,  unreduced 
bered,  although  its 
grass,  and  perhaps 
should  be  removed. 
Office,  and  an  un- 
stone  structure  be- 


ST.  JOHN'S,  NEW  YORK. 


jhind  it,  should  have  been  taken  away,  and  the 
'accommodation  needed  for  the  city  court- 
rooms and  bureaus  provided  by  the  extension 
of  the  City  Hall  at  right  angles  about  an  in- 
closed court.  The  result,  if  the  style  of  the  old 
building  had  been  conformed  to  and  harmoni- 
ously developed  in  a  structure  of  larger  pro- 
portions, might  have  been  a  public  building  of 
'admirable  beauty  and  of  ample  size  for  all  re- 
quirements, so  situated  as  to  be  at  once  conve- 
nient to  business  and  an  imposing  object  when 
viewed  from  any  quarter.  Such  a  building 
icould  hardly  be  better  placed.  And  this  was 
[the  modification  of  the  old  Park  and  the  Hall 
which  a  few  public-spirited  citizens,  of  culti- 
vated tastes,  projected  some  twenty  years  and 
more  ago.  But  then  came  the  Civil  War,  and 


the  old  Park  was  filled  with  wooden  barracks ; 
and  when  at  last  the  time  happily  came  for 
these  to  be  pulled  down,  the  spirits  of  greed 
and  corruption  had  taken  possession  of  New 
York,  and  of  all  the  imitation  New  Yorks  in 
the  country;  and  nothing,  public  or  private, 
under  our  skies  was  looked  upon  but  as  a 
means  of  getting  money  by  fair  means  or  by 
foul.  Therefore  it  was  that,  a  new  post  office 
being  required,  the  site  of  it,  by  selfish,  rogu- 
ish intrigues,  the  history  of  which  remains 
unwritten,  was  cut  ruthlessly  out  of  this  fair 
little  expanse  of  earth  and  air,  in  which  every 
citizen  of  New  York  had  an  interest,  and 
which  might  have  been  made  for  the  future, 
as  it  had  been  in  the  past,  a  sightly,  health- 
ful, honored  ornament  and  landmark  of  the 
city.  Bright  open  space  and  pleasing  urban 
vistas  gave  place  to  gloomy  restriction;  the 
old  Park  was  destroyed  forever;  and  traffic 
was  increased  and  concentrated  upon  a  point 
which  should  have  been  relieved.  And  this 
was  done  simply  and  solely  that  some  men 
might  get  money,  and  that  others  might  save 
money.  That  like  motives  directed  the  plan- 
ning and  building  of  the  New  City 'Hall,  it  is 
needless  to  say.  It  stands  a  fitting  monu- 
ment of  the  political  and  social  condition 
of  which  a  Tweed  is  the  natural,  if  not  the 
inevitable,  product ;  a  sign  and  a  token  to 

all  peoples  and  all  generations  that,  in 

-  the  course  of  less  than  half  a  century, 
New  York  attained  a  pitch  of  combined  vul- 
garity and  corruption  unequaled  in  the  records 
of  municipal  history. 

The  old  City  Hall  in  New  York,  handsome 
as  it  is  with  a  handsomeness  of  the  kind  that 
we  call  elegant,  does  not  quite  do  justice  to 
the  design  of  its  architect.  That  design  sought 
to  give  the  building  a  becoming  dignity.  This 
was  attained  in  part  by  its  elevation  upon  a 
paved  plateau.  I  suspect  that  few  people, 
except  those  who  frequent  this  building,  know 
that  it  does  not  stand  upon  the  level  of  the 
surrounding  land,  and  that  to  reach  the  plane 
from  which  its  entrance  stairs  ascend  there 
is  a  rise  of  two  steps  to  a  large  semicircular 
plateau  paved  with  square  stones,  which  have 
not  been  disturbed  for  three  quarters  of  a 
century.  Injustice  to  the  architect,  Mr.  John 
McComb,  it  should  be  said  that  the  city  cor- 
poration obliged  him  to  modify  his  original 
plan  by  reducing  its  ground-plan  proportions 
in  certain  directions.  The  lines  and  propor- 
tions of  the  detail  were  preserved.  The  de- 
sign is  of  a  character  which  lends  itself  to 
such  modification  with  a  facility  hardly  pos- 
sible in  other  styles ;  yet  the  loss  was  mate- 
rial, although  not  destructive,  for  it  probably 
made  just  the  difference  between  respecta- 
ble elegance  and  imposing  dignity,  in  which 


68o 


OLD   PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


OLD     STATE     HOUSE,    BOSTON. 


elegance  would  not  have  been  lacking.  The 
reason  of  this  change  was,  of  course,  economy 
of  material  and  of  work, — simply  of  cost. 
The  same  motive  caused  the  north  side,  or 
rear,  of  the  building  to  be  built  of  sandstone, 
although  the  front  and  sides  are  of  white 
marble.  When  the  Hall  was  built,  in  1803, 
so  small  and  so  comparatively  unimportant 
was  that  part  of  the  city  on  the  north  of  "  the 
Park  "  (as  it  was  called)  that  sandstone  was 
supposed  to  be  good  enough  for  what  would 
be  little  seen.  Briefly,  then,  when  New  York 
was  so  small  that  its  business  and  its  dwell- 


ing parts  together,  did  not  extend  much 
above  Chambers  street,  its  citizens  erected 
the  handsomest  public  building  that  to  this 
day  is  to  be  found  within  its  new  immensity, 
and  one  of  the  finest  to  be  found  in  the 
country.  * 

The   cheap    sandstone  of  the   north   side 
provoked   more   animadversion    thirty  years 

*  The  plans  of  the  Hall,  and  a  commonplace  bock 
or  diary  written  by  the  architect  during  its  erectio  i, 
still  exist;  and  we  hope  at  an  early  day  to  present 
to  our  readers  selections,  with  comments  by  a  me 
of  bis  family. — EDITOR. 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


681 


ago  than  now,  because  then  it  was  more  ob- 
served than  it  is  now  by  city  people  and  by 
sight-seeing  strangers.  When  New  York  had 
marched  solidly  up  beyond  Bleecker  street, 
and  was  stretching  on  to  Union  Square,  the 
pride  of  the  prosperous  up-town  Gothamites 
found  one  of  its  vents  in  sneers  at  the  blind- 
ness of  the  fathers  of  the  city,  who  thought 
that  sandstone  was  good  enough  for  "up- 
town." This  well-known  feeling  led  to  a 


'ored  social  evolution,  entered  one  Saturday 
afternoon  two  serious  gentlemen,  white  of  face 
and  unexceptionable  in  appearance,  who  an- 
nounced themselves  as  emissaries  of  the 
Common  Council,  which  had  resolved  that 
New  York  should  no  longer  be  disgraced  by 
a  City  Hall  white  on  three  sides  and  brown 
on  the  fourth,  and  that  therefore  the  fourth 
side  should  be  whitewashed.  Would  he 
undertake  this  important  job,  in  earnest  of 


1 


WM 


THE     BOSTON     STATE     HOUSE. 


laughable  practical  joke  on  the  part  of  two 
wags.  At  that  time  whitewashing  was  as 
much  practiced  in  houses  as  it  has  been  since 
in  politics ;  and  the  trade  was  almost  exclu- 
sively in  the  hands  of  the  colored  inhabitants 
of  the  city,  who  were  of  much  simpler  minds, 
although  hardly  of  less  exuberant  manners, 
than  their  brethren,  or  -rather  their  children, 
of  the  present  day.  At  that  time  the  negro- 
minstrel  was  not  a  black-faced  singer  of  senti- 
mental songs  and  propounder  of  satirical 
conundrums,  but  a  man  (Dan  Rice)  who 
sang  and  jumped  Jim  Crow,  alternating  this 
chanson  de  geste  with  "  Clar  de  Kitchen " 
and  other  genuine  plantation  songs.  To  a 
boss  negro  whitewasher,  in  this  stage  of  col- 


which  a  deposit  of  five  or  ten  dollars  was 
tendered  ?  Indeed  he  could  and  would,  and 
he  not  only  jumped  at  the  prospective  profit, 
but  rose  some  hundred  feet  or  more  in  his 
own  estimation.  Sunday  was  passed  in  prep- 
aration for  the  great  undertaking ;  and  early 
on  Monday  morning  an  array  of  sable  labor- 
ers, armed  with  pails  and  brushes  and  lad- 
ders, appeared,  and  the  great  work  (typical 
of  an  inward  moral  necessity  soon  to  be  de- 
veloped) was  begun.  It  did  not  continue 
long,  although  long  enough  to  attract  an  ad- 
miring and  jeering  crowd ;  and  it  was  with 
some  difficulty  that  the  eager  and  simple- 
minded  sable  artist  was  convinced  that  his 
services  were  not  required  by  the  city,  and 


682 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


that  the  money  which  he  had  already  re- 
ceived (probably  quite  enough  to  secure  him 
against  loss)  was  all  that  he  was  likely  to  get 
by  his  contract. 

Close  by  the  City  Hall  stands  another 
building  of  the  same  period,  but  somewhat 
older,  and  of  equal  architectural  merit, —  St. 
Paul's,  one  of  the  finest  Wren  churches  now 
existing,  if  not  the  very  finest.  In  all  my 
walks  about  London  and  through  other  cities 
in  England,  I  saw  not  one  at  all  equal  to  it. 
The  spire  is  remarkable  for  its  lightness,  its 
fine  gradation,  and  its  happy  combination 
of  elements  which  are  in  themselves  so  little 
suited  to  spire  treatment  that  the  eye  protests 
against  them,  even  while  it  admires  the  tri- 
umph of  the  constructor  over  his  reluctant 
materials.  The  spire  of  St.  John's  Church, 
which  stands  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
square  now  covered  and  oppressed  by  "  Com- 
modore "  Vanderbilt's  big  freight  depot,  is 
little  inferior  to  it ;  but  St.  Paul's  springs 
more  lightly  from  its  tower,  and  rises  to  its 
vanishing  point  with  a  gradual  grace  which 
St.  John's  does  not  attain.  The  Broadway 
end  of  St.  Paul's  is  hardly  less  admirable. 
Its  pediment  and  lofty  Ionic  columns  are 
beautifully  proportioned,  and  are  worthy  of 
far  more  attention  than  they  receive,  except 
from  well  educated  architects,  who  show 
little  reserve  in  their  admiration  of  this  build- 
ing and  of  its  neighbor,  the  old  City  Hall. 
It  is  true  also  that  in  construction  these 
churches,  and  other  buildings  in  this  country 
of  that  period,  are  much  superior  to  those 
in  England  of  the  same  date.  This  I  say 
upon  the  advice  of  competent  professional 
men ;  for  I  pretend  to  approach  architecture 
only  as  a  dilettante  and  on  its  aesthetic  side. 

The  interior  of  the  churches,  of  which  St. 
Paul's  and  St.  John's  are  the  best  existing 
types,  were  not  without  a  certain  kind  and 
degree  of  beauty.  They  were,  indeed,  not 
truly  ecclesiastical  in  spirit.  They  lacked  en- 
tirely the  sublimity  and  the  mystery  which 
the  architecture  strangely  called  Gothic  ex- 
presses with  such  natural  facility.  For  them 
no  soaring  nave  and  dimly  lighted  clear- 
story. But  they  were  better  than  most  of  the 
little  sham  Gothic  tabernacles  which  succeeded 
them.  They  were  genuine;  good  of  their 
kind;  well  suited  to  their  purpose.  In  them 
respectability  and  decorum  were  so  happily 
expressed  that  they  were  raised  with  an  em- 
bodied grace.  If  people  must  assemble  in 
large  bodies  to  worship  in  pews,  and  take 
part  in  a  ceremonial  of  which  the  most  im- 
portant part  is  the  listening  to  a  sermon,  it 
is  difficult  to  see  how  it  could  be  more 
conveniently,  comfortably,  and  appropriately 
done  than  in  one  of  these  old  Wren  parish 


churches.  The  chancel  ends  of  these  churches, 
in  which  both  the  pulpit  and  the  reading- 
desk  were  usually  placed,  were  in  some  cases 
dignified  by  rich  drapery,  the  fitness  of  which  to 
a  Protestant  house  of  worship  is,  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  greater  than  that  of  the  chromatic 
mural  decorations  by  which  it  has  been  suc- 
ceeded in  the  imitation  Gothic  city  churches 
of  to-day.  Some  of  them  were  lighted  by 
rows  of  chandeliers  entirely  of  cut  glass, 
splendid  with  pendent  prisms;  and  when 
these  churches  were  lit  up  for  service  at 
night  the  combined  effect  of  the  interior  and 
the  mass  of  worshipers  on  the  floor  and  in 
the  galleries  (for  churches  were  then  apt  to 
be  thronged)  was  imposing  and  thoroughly 
expressive  of  the  Protestant  and  modern 
spirit  of  the  service.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether  in  going  back  to  the  mediaeval  style 
we  have  not  made  a  vain  attempt  to  defy 
congruity.  Good  examples  of  such  interiors 
are  those  of  King's  Chapel,  Boston,  to  which 
I  shall  again  refer,  and  Christ  Church  in  the 
same  city — the  latter  however  being,  I  be- 
lieve, much  more  modern. 

The  style  of  architecture,  however,  in 
which  Wren  attained  his  eminence,  although 
it  is  not  without  a  happy  fitness  to  small 
Protestant  town-churches  (for  in  the  country 
its  mien  of  artificial  urbanity  seems  strangely 
foreign  and  impertinently  obtrusive),  falls 
very  short  of  the  higher  needs  of  ecclesiastical 
architecture  upon  a  larger  scale.  What  is 
admirable  in  the  small  is  not  admirable  in  the 
large :  a  magnifier  discovers  defects  and  em- 
phasizes deformities ;  we  tolerate  in  a  statu- 
ette what  would  be  intolerable  in  a  statue;  and 
that  which  is  well  suited  to  a  parish  church  like 
St.  Paul's  in  New  York  only  attracts  attention 
to  its  own  deformity  in  a  cathedral  church  like 
St.  Paul's  in  London.  The  Wren  style,  not  a 
natural  growth,  not  a  development  like  the 
Grecian,  the  Gothic,  the  Byzantine,  or  the 
Moorish  styles,  but  a  composite  fabrication, 
an  outcome  of  the  school  of  Palladio,  is  wholly 
lacking  in  religious  expression.  It  has  not  a 
single  element  of  ecclesiasticism.  Moreover, 
it  is  without  any  individuality  of  its  own,  and 
expresses  nothing  but  the  spirit  of  conven- 
tional respectability  and  a  kind  of  solid, 
decent  convenience.  Such  a  style  in  a  great 
cathedral  church,  in  which  utility  and  con- 
venience are  not  the*  needs  to  be  suppli< 
but  the  function  of  which  is  to  unite  the 
fluences  of  awe  and  mystery  and  beauty, 
wholly  out  of  keeping.  Wren's  style  has 
elevation,  no  charm,  and  only  an  inferk 
middle-class  sort  of  dignity. 

The    London   "  Builder,"  in    commentn 
upon    "  England   Without   and  Within " 
terms  which  certainly  should  satisfy  the  crai 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


683 


ing  vanity  of  any  author,  finds  yet  one  griev- 
ous  fault  in  that  heartily  written  book  —  its 
expression  of  a  very  positive  non-admiration 
of  St.  Paul's  (London)  and  of  the  modern 
part  of  Hampton  Court  Palace.  "  Where," 


but  would  point  its  irreverent  ringer  at  a 
more  celebrated  building,  which  the  eminent 
architect  of  St.  Paul's,  in  designing  it,  had  in 
mind,  and  upon  which,  in  some  respects,  he 
improved.  It  would  even  venture  to  say  of 


CHURCH    AT    WILMINGTON,    DELAWARE. 


it  asks,  "  is  Mr.  Grant  White's  reverence  ?  " 
And  subsequently  a  contributor  to  the  same 
publication  points  out  that  this  irreverent 
writer,  in  finding  fault  with  Wren's  work,  is 
condemning  some  of  the  most  important 
buildings  in  his  own  country.  Well;  and 
what  of  that  ?  Criticism  which  asks  not  what 
a  thing  is,  but  where  it  is  or  whose  it  is,  and 
which  fails  to  emulate  charity  in  beginning  at 
home,  is  little  to  be  trusted.  And  as  to  rever- 
ence for  Christopher  Wren  ;  as  reasonably  ask 
for  reverence  for  the  wren  without  Sir  and  with- 
out Christopher  !  Nevertheless,  Wren  com- 
mands respect  as  a  man  of  great  knowledge, 
of  great  skill,  of  notable  mastery,  within  cer- 
tain limits,  of  the  resources  of  his  art,  and, 
chiefly,  as  a  great  constructor.  But  he  was  an 
architect  without  a  spark  of  creative  genius, 
without  a  touch  of  poetic  feeling,  without  a 
sense  of  the  higher  beauty.  He  was  the  great- 
est of  architectural  manufacturers.  Moreover, 
this  criticism  does  not  stop  at  St.  Paul's, 


St.  Peter's  at  Rome  that,  magnificent  in 
many  respects  as  it  is,  as  a  cathedral  church 
it  is  a  magnificent  mistake.  The  impressive- 
ness  of  St.  Peter's  is  in  its  vastness  and  its 
splendor ;  but  the  gorgeous  hemisphere  of  its 
mighty  dome  is  wholly  void  of  religious  feel- 
ing. Buonarotti  stole  the  dome  of  Bramante, 
and  by  the  herculean  force  of  his  brawny 
genius  he  heaved  the  Parthenon  into  the  air, 
and  its  vast  Olympian  curve  dominates  not 
only  the  city  but  the  surrounding  country,  as 
if  the  soul  of  Caesar  had  passed  on  through 
the  centuries  to  find  at  once  a  monument 
and  an  expression  in  visible  form  and  sub- 
stance. But  that  expression  is  purely  material, 
mundane,  heathen.  Within,  too,  this  is  even 
more  manifest  than  without.  He  who  gazes 
upward  into  that  colossal  concave  feels  no 
elevation  of  soul,  no  humility  of  heart,  no 
hushed  awe,  no  mystery,  no  aspiration ;  only 
the  wonder  which  always  accompanies  the 
consciousness  of  a  vast  inclosed  space,  with 


684 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


a  vague   admiration  of  the  forms  and   the  bodies  and  the  details  of  both  these  great 

decoration  which   themselves   lose  by  their  basilicas  have  little  which  commands  intelli- 

remoteness.     For   in  this  respect  Wren  im-  gent  admiration — any  admiration  except  that 

proved  upon  his  model.    His  double  dome,  cheap  sort  which  is  easily  provoked  by  big- 

by  which  he    gained   inner  beauty  without  ness,  bombast,  and  blazonry. 


* 

.;-•    /.:>:f^  ^s^r 


EGLISE  DE  NOTRE  DAME  DE   BONSECOURS,  MONTREAL. 

losing  external  grandeur,  was  a  triumph  of        There  are  no  such  domes  as  these  in 

his  great  constructive  talent.     But  both  St.  United  States.    The  nearest  approach  to  the 

Peter's  and  St.  Paul's  are  chiefly  domes,  and  is  that  huge  mechanical  hollow  which  fit 

in   St.  Peter's,  except  the  dome,  not   much  crowns  the  Capitol  at  Washington.    But  tl 

of  what  we   see   is  Michael   Angelo's :    the  State  House  at  Boston  furnishes,  on  a  mu( 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


685 


OLD    SOUTH    CHURCH,    BOSTON. 


smaller  scale,  a 
sphered  dignity 
architectural  form 


far  better  example  of  the 
with  which  this  pompous 
can  rule  a  region  of  sur- 
rounding  country.  The  dome  of  the  Boston 
State  House  is  the  reverenced  sign  and  token, 
seen  from  afar,  of  the  only  true  capital  city  — 
that  is,  a  seat  and  center  of  government,  of 
society,  of  literature,  of  art,  of  commerce  —  in 
all  "  America."  It  is  indeed  a  mere  protrusion 
VOL.  XXVII.—  66. 


heavenward  of  the  hub  of  the  universe  ;  the 
globed  and  gilded  tip  of  that  axis  around 
which  all  that  is  best  in  our  Western  world 
revolves,  ever  has  revolved,  and  it  seems  ever 
will  revolve,  scecula  sceculorum.  Here  this 
style  of  architecture  has  its  fit  and  becoming 
place.  The  Boston  State  House  is  not  a  won- 
derful  nor  a  very  beautiful  building;  but  it  is 
worthy  of  admiration  for  its  expression  of  dig- 


686 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


the  object  even  of  a  Pla- 
tonic attachment. 

Of  like  lovableness, 
and  of  even  greater 
charm,  is  the  little  old 
stone  church  at  Wil- 
mington, in  Delaware, 
with  its  great  welcom- 
ing side  porch,  its  trun- 
cated gable,  and  its  open 
belfry,  in  which  a  dainty 
decency  and  fitness  at- 
tain to  prettiness  and 
almost  to  beauty.  A 
railway  deforms  its 
neighborhood,  and  the 
engine  roars  and  shrieks 
within  the  sound  of  the 
preacher's  voice,  just  as 
another  does  in  Lon- 
don ( South wark),  past 
that  beautiful  relic  of 
the  old  priory  of  St. 
Mary  Overy,  which 
is  now  St.  Saviour's 
Church,  where  is  the 
tomb  of  John  Gower, 
Chaucer's  contempora- 
ry, with  his  effigy  ly- 
ing, stone-canopied,  in 
many-colored  state,  and 
where,  too,  Fletch- 
er and  Massinger  and 
Shakspere's  brother  Ed- 
mund were  laid  to  final 
rest.  Even  this  parish 
church,  made  out  of  a 
mere  transept  of  the  pri- 
ory, was  venerably  old 
longbefore  the  Wilming- 
nity,  decorum,  and  eminent  respectability,  ton  church  was  built ;  but  there  is  a  spirit 
Far  be  the  time  when  it  shall  be  displaced ;  but  common  to  the  two,  so  remote  from  each 
I  confess  that  I  myself  could  spare  it  more  other  in  time  and  distance, — an  expression  of 
willinglythanlcoulditsoldpredecessor.Com-  stability,  of  religious  feeling,  of  sober,  still 
pare  the  two,  and  see  in  the  elder — smaller,  decorum,  which  is  wholly  at  variance  with 
less  costly,  more  provincial,  if  you  will — a  the  presence  and  the  action  of  the  "rapid 
character  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  its  transit "  machinery  that  now  disturbs  their 
grander,  gilt-domed,  hill-crowning  successor,  solemn  vicinage. 

You  could  imagine  the  new  State  House  Somewhat  like  this  Wilmington  church,  but 
designed  according  to  a  formula  at  any  time,  quainter,  daintier,  primmer,  is  the  little  Eglise 
by  almost  any  clever,  thoroughly  educated  de  Notre  Dame  de  Bonsecours,  which,  with 
architect ;  the  old  one  seems  to  be  the  natural  bare,  sharp  gable,  surmounted,  but  not  miti- 
product  of  a  period.  We  need  not  to  be  told  gated,  by  its  double  open  belfry,  cleaves  the 
that  Holmes's  "  Last  Leaf"  must  have  flut-  air  at  the  end  of  Bonsecours  street  in  Mon- 
tered  gayly  about  it  in  the  spring  of  his  life,  treal — a  genuine  bit  of  unpretending  work, 
and  probably  drooped  near  it  in  the  autumn,  Its  modest  door-way  is  really  beautiful;  anc 
to  be  borne  past  it,  withered  and  lifeless,  to  seen  through  its  vista  of  sound,  respecta 
mingle  with  earth  from  which  it  had  sprung,  home-looking  houses,  it  has  the  air  of 
If  I  should  live  long  in  the  neighborhood  of  demure,  sweet-natured  old  rustic  spins^ 
that  old  State  House,  I  should  come  to  love  conscious  of  worth,  but  also  not  very  ch 
it  dearly.  I  cannot  imagine  the  new  one  as  fully  conscious  of  a  lack  of  grace  and  elega 


CHRIST    CHURCH,    BOSTON. 


OLD  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  IN  AMERICA. 


687 


Eminent  among  the  very  few  of  our  old 
sacred  edifices  which  have  not  been  (like  the 

I  whooping  aborigines  —  the  real  "Americans" 
— who  once  roamed  over  their  sites)  improved 
off  the  face  of  the  earth,  are  the  King's  Chapel 

I  and  the  famous  "  Old  South  Church,"  in 
Boston.  The  former — a  stone  structure  rich 
in  the  soft  and  somber  harmonies  of  hue 
which  are  found  only  upon  the  palette  of  Old 
Time,  that  prince  ofcolorists — is  elegant,  and, 


in  peril  ?  It  would  seem  that  its  days  are 
numbered.  But  there  should  be  mourning  in 
Boston  when  the  "  Old  South "  is  taken 
away ;  and  I  verily  believe  that  some  genuine 
tears  will  be  secretly  shed  on  that  sad 
occasion.  It  is  the  perfect  model  of  a  New 
England  "  meeting-house,"  of  the  highest 
style  in  the  olden  time.  Bare  of  the  beauty 
of  architectural  detail,  it  delights  the  eye  by 
its  fine  symmetrical  proportion;  and  its  oc- 


II,].'    :  ,    /.,         ,    • 


KING  S    CHAPEL,    BOSTON. 


although  small  even  for  a  city  parish  church, 
has  true  dignity.  Standing  in  its  well  popu- 
lated church-yard,  an  historical  link  between 
jthe  orthodoxy  of  the  last  century  and  the 
jfree  thought  which  the  close  of  that  century 
j  first  awoke  in  the  general  mind,  it  is  perhaps 
i  the  most  interesting,  as  it  is  certainly  one  of 
| the  most  pleasing,  of  our  few  ecclesiastical 
'  monuments.  It  should  never  be  removed,  and 
it  probably  never  will  be  ;  for  it  is  in  Boston, 
where  there  is  still  some  capacity  of  love, 
some  remnant  of  reverence,  for  what  may  be 
lovable  and  reverend,  except  money  and  the 
:  signs  of  money.* 

And  yet  is  not  the  life  of  the  "  Old  South  " 

*  King's  Chapel  was  built  for  Church  of  England 

E^    >testant  Episcopal)  service ;  but  its  congregation 
ually  drifted  into  Socinianism,  and  modified  their 
mon    Prayer  Book  into  what   is   known   as    the 
'  King's  Chapel  Liturgy.     This    pretty  church   is    the 
!  cradle  of  Unitarianism  in  the  United  States. 


tagonal  spire,  springing  from  an  airy,  eight- 
arched  loggia,  is  one  of  the  finest  of  its  kind, 
not  only  in  this  country,  but  in  the  world. 
Nothing  more  light  and  elegant  and  graceful 
can  be  found,  unless  in  the  finest  Gothic 
work.  Not  a  "  Wren  "  spire  (indeed  an  archi- 
tect would  scout  the  notion),  it  yet  suggests 
Wren  to  the  unprofessional  eye;  but  I  have 
never  seen  a  spire  of  Sir  Christopher's  which 
equaled  it  in  grace  and  lightness.  A  peculiar 
interest  attaches  to  it  because  it  is  of  home 
growth.  It  is  not  a  copy  nor  an  imitation  of 
anything  else.  It  is  the  conception  of  a 
Yankee  architect — the  outgrowth  and  devel- 
opment of  the  steeple-belfry  of  the  rural  New 
England  meeting-house.  New  England  may 
well  be  proud  of  it.  Needless  to  tell  here  of 
the  connection  of  this  church  with  Boston's 
part  in  the  struggle,  at  first  for  freedom  and 
at  last  for  independence,  more  than  a  century 
ago.  No  one  building  in  the  country  so 


688 


SONG. 


unites  religious  and  patriotic  associations. 
Its  removal  would  not  be  a  sin  (for  it  may  be- 
come a  necessity),  but  it  would  be  a  grievous 
misfortune  that  would  be  felt  by  every  son  of 
the  scattered  New  England  stock  between 
the  world's  two  great  oceans. 

The  interiors  of  these  old  meeting-houses, 
the  very  best  of  them,  it  must  be  admitted, 
are  devoid  of  all  semblance  of  beauty.  In 
them  the  hard,  utilitarian,  unsentimental  spirit 
of  the  old  New  England  life  and  the  old  New 
England  Puritanism  was  fully  expressed;  but 
intuitively,  and  without  purpose.  There  no 
charm  of  color,  there  no  grace  of  form,  there 
no  monuments  of  departed  notability  were 
allowed  to  divert  the  eye  and  mind  from  re- 
ligious business.  They  were  bare,  galleried 
halls,  in  which  mass  meetings  were  held  for 
worship.  In  our  day  many  of  them  have  been 
modified,  softened,  and  enriched,  and  most  of 
them,  indeed,  have  given  place  to  structures 
the  comfort  of  which  would  have  offended  the 
ascetic  souls  of  the  "  Fathers,"  not  less  than 
their  pleasing  forms  and  colors  would,  or  the 
profane  "  box  o'  whistles "  which  has  taken 
the  place  of  the  bleating  pitch-pipe  of  the  old 
chorister.  Better,  indeed,  that  they  should  be 
taken  down  with  solemn  and  reverent  hands, 
and  become  mere  memories,  like  old  St. 
George's  in  Beekman  street,  New  York,  than 
that  they  should  have  the  fate  of  two  famous 
churches  in  the  same  city,  Orville  Dewey's 
Unitarian  chapel  and  the  Murray  street 
church,  known  to  our  grandfathers  as  "  Dr. 


Mason's,"  in  which  that  celebrated  divine, 
whose  fame  reached  Europe,  thundered  the 
denunciations  of  Calvinistic  theology  when 
New  York  was  a  "  Sabbath  "-  keeping  town, 
in  which  chains  were  stretched  across  the 
streets  on  each  side  of  every  considerable 
church,  in  order  that  no  passing  vehicle 
might  disturb  either  the  devotions  or  the  slum- 
bers of  the  worshipers.  Both  these  somewhat 
famous  churches  have  become  theaters  of  the 
"  variety  show "  sort.  The  Dewey  Theater 
stands  (with  a  new  brick  fagade  hiding  its 
massive  stone  masonry)  on  its  old  site  in 
Broadway,  opposite  Waverley  Place.  Dr. 
Mason's  church  was  taken  down  carefully 
and  carried  up-town,  where  it  was  rebuilt  so 
carefully,  stone  by  stone,  in  Eighth  street, 
opposite  Lafayette  Place,  that  it  seemed  to 
have  been  transported  upon  Aladdin's  carpet. 
Abandoned  by  its  congregation,  it  passed  into 
the  hands  of  the  Roman  Catholics.  Aban- 
doned in  turn  by  them,  it  became  the  property 
of  Mr.  A.  T.  Stewart,  who  used  it  as  a  factory 
of  upholstery.  Now  it  is  a  theater,  in  which 
all  the  young  rapscallions  of  the  upper  Bowery 
region  who  can  compass  fifteen  cents  see 
male  jugglers  and  female  jigglers,  and  listen  to 
dramatized  penny  dreadfuls  and  dime  novels. 
Its  history  is  characteristic  of  the  city  of 
which  it  was  once  one  of  the  respected  land- 
marks— a  center  whence  radiated  truth  and 
purity,  and  of  which  it  is  now  one  of  the 
pestilent  nurseries  of  vulgarity. 

Richard  Grant   White. 


SONG. 


THE  sunset  light  is  on  the  sail, 

The  water  all  aglow, 
And  on  the  billows  up  and  down 

The  boat  rocks  to  and  fro. 
The  birds  float  upward  to  the  sky, — 
Oh,  how  I   long  for  wings  to  fly ! 


The  boat  has  wings, —  the  birds  have  wings, 

But  none  remain  for  me; 
But  wings  of  kind  and  loving  thought 

And  wings  of  memory. 
On  these  I  come,  and  still  repeat, 
I  love,  I  love,  I  love  you,  sweet. 

Mary  L.  Ritter. 


COUNT   VON    MOLTKE. 


THE  ancient  Hindoo  idea  of  the  world 
represents  it  as  resting  upon  three  mighty 
elephants.  In  like  manner  the  German  Em- 
pire appears  to  rest  upon  the  shoulders  of 
three  mighty  men;  and  seeing  that  they  are 
old  as  well  as  mighty,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
wonder  what  will  become  of  the  edifice  they 
have  artificially  reared  and  upheld  when  Nat- 
ure shall  demand  her  dues  and  remove  them. 
Of  this  trio, — the  Emperor,  Bismarck,  and 
Moltke, — we  feel  tempted,  when  we  name  the 
last,  to  echo  the  words  of  David,  when  speak- 
ing of  his  generals :  "  Was  he  not  the  most 
honorable  of  the  three  ?  "  "  The  Great  Taci- 
turn," as  he  is  familiarly  called  in  Germany, 
is  an  attractive  figure ;  and  though,  owing  to 
his  excessive  modesty  and  his  dislike  of  all 
noisy  notoriety,  Bismarck  seems  to  over- 
shadow him,  it  is  doubtful  whether  Germany 
would  have  existed  for  Bismarck  to  rule,  if 
Moltke  had  not  welded  her  together  by  force 
of  arms.  In  any  case,  the  one  is  as  great  as 
the  other,  while  Moltke's  is  by  far  the  more 
refined  and  attractive  personality. 

It  is  no  mere  coincidence  that  the  words 
of  David  have  sprung  to  my  pen.  In  reading 
the  history  of  Prussia,  and  that  of  Germany 
since  she  has  become  Prussianized,  the  mind 
almost  inevitably  recurs  to  ancient  Biblical 
history — there  is  so  great  an  analogy.  Here, 
too,  we  encounter  as  firm  a  faith  in  a  God 
of  battles  as  among  the  Israelites.  Emperor, 
generals,  ministers,  subordinates — all  echo  the 
language  of  Israel  in  asserting  loudly  that  the 
Lord  fights  only  for  them,  is  only  concerned 
about  them,  that  they  are  his  chosen  people. 
Their  motto  is,  "  Gott  mit  uns."  Only  if  read 
j  in  the  spirit  of  the  Old  Testament  can  a  for- 
jeigner  comprehend  the  spirit  that  animates 
(modern  Germany.  But  while  Israel  was  a 
theocracy,  Germany  is  rather  a  stratocracy, 
I  if  I  may  coin  such  a  word.  Neither  in  Amer- 
!ica  or  England — countries  that  are  rapidly 
;  outgrowing  the  love  of  war  for  war's  own 
sake,  in  which  respectively  an  Emerson  and 
a  Herbert  Spencer  have  preached  that  this 
sentiment  is  one  allied  to  barbarous  times — is 
lit  possible  fully  to  conceive  that,  at  our  very 
doors,  in  this  later  nineteenth  century,  there 
exists  a  people  strangely  like  the  ancient 
Israelites — educated,  yet  combative,  advanced 
in  many  directions  of  thought,  yet  left  far  be- 
hind in  one  of  the  most  essentially  .civilizing. 
.In  Germany  the  army  is  the  darling  of  the 
'nation.  The  people  will  suffer  any  privations, 
VOL.  XXVII.— 67. 


make  any  sacrifices,  for  its  sake,  not  knowing 
or  not  caring  that  this  military  spirit  depresses 
their  culture,  prevents  them  from  cultivating 
to  their  fullest  extent  the  arts  of  peace,  and 
keeps  their  manners  rude  and  boorish.  A 
military  atmosphere  has  of  late  yearg  pervaded 
all  things  in  Germany.  Military  rigor  is  en- 
forced already  in  the  school-room,  and  the 
unquestioning  spirit  of  military  obedience 
bids  fair  to  quench  all  individuality  of  char- 
acter. All  this  must  be  borne  in  mind,  if  we 
would  comprehend  the  deification  by  Ger- 
mans of  their  military  heroes.  No  wonder 
that  above  all  others  Count  Moltke  is  wor- 
shiped, for  to  him  in  great  part  are  due  the 
efficient  state  of  the  army  and  its  late  splendid 
victories. 

The  career  of  this  great  military  genius  is 
probably  unique  in  one  respect.  There  is, 
perhaps,  in  all  history  no  other  man  who  rose 
so  high  and  yet  had  attained  his  sixty-sixth 
year  without  attracting  the  notice  of  the 
world.  It  was  not  till  after  Sadowa  that  the 
name  of  this  silent,  retiring  officer  became 
familiar  as  a  household  word  over  the  entire 
globe. 

Count  Moltke's  life  has  not  been  an  event- 
ful one.  It  has  been  spent  more  in  thought 
than  in  action.  When  asked  to  supply  some 
details  of  his  history,  he  said :  "  You  are  very 
much  mistaken  in  coming  to  me,  if  you  think 
my  life  will  furnish  any  of  those  brilliant  de- 
scriptions dear  to  poets  and  the  general  pub- 
lic. My  life  is  so  poor  in  episodes  that  it 
would  be  considered  quite  tedious,  and  I  do 
not  see  how  my  biography  should  contain 
anything  but  dates."  Moltke  here  underrates 
the  natural  curiosity  felt  by  all  the  world  in 
a  man  who  has  distinguished  himself,  but  he 
is  right  when  he  speaks  of  his  life  as  poor  in 
episodes.  Outwardly  his  career  until  he  had 
nearly  reached  the  appointed  span  of  men's 
years  is  tranquil  enough ;  and  since  to  be 
silent  is  one  of  Moltke's  marked  peculiarities, 
he  has  not  even  furnished  ana  for  the  anec- 
dote monger.  "The  man  that  holds  his 
tongue  in  seven  languages," — so  the  people 
call  him,  referring  to  his  taciturnity  and  his 
linguistic  powers.  Perhaps,  like  the  Scotch,  he 
holds  that  "  it's  canny  to  say  nowt."  But 
one  thing  is  certain  :  when  Moltke  speaks, 
whether  by  word  of  mouth  or  of  cannon,  he 
speaks  to  some  purpose;  with  force,  clearness, 
and  directness.  His  speeches  in  the  German 
Reichstag  are  models  of  their  kind. 


690 


COUNT   VON  MOLTKE. 


This  man,  whose  life  forms  a  page  of  no 
small  import  in  the  history  of  Germany,  was, 
like  General  Bliicher,  of  Mecklenburg  birth 
and  origin.  The  Moltkes  are  an  old  aristo- 
cratic Mecklenburg  family,  who  were  closely 
allied  with  their  neighbor,  Denmark;  indeed, 
they  are  more  Danish  than  German.  Molt- 
ke's  father  had  married  a  wealthy  Hamburg 
lady,  and  was  living  on  his  estates,  having 
retired  at  her  wish  from  the  army ;  for  from 
all  time  the  Moltkes  had  been  a  military  fam- 
ily, and  there  was  never  a  question  as  to  the 
sons'  careers.  On  October  26,  1800,  was 
born  at  Parchim,  in  the  house  of  his  uncle 
Helmuth,  where  his  parents  were  then  visit- 
ing, Carl  Bernhardt  Helmuth  von  Moltke. 
Born  with  the  century,  all  the  great  historical 
dates  of  the  century  mark  events  in  his  own 
history.  At  his  birth  Napoleon's  star  was  in 
the  ascendant ;  in  his  childhood  Bonaparte  be- 
gan to  rule  the  whole  Continent  with  his  iron 
hand ;  and  it  was  partly  on  this  account  that 
for  some  years  the  Moltke  family  led  an  un- 
stable life,  now  residing  in  one  spot,  now  in 
another.  In  1803  they  settled  for  awhile  in 
the  quaint  old  Hansa  town  of  Liibeck.  "  My 
earliest  recollections,"  says  Moltke,  "  are 
connected  with  that  old  city  and  its  gates 
and  towers,  and  I  recognized  our  house  in 
the  *  Schrangen '  after  many  long  years,  in 
spite  of  its  altered  surroundings."  It  was 
here  that  he  became  early  acquainted  with 
Germany's  hereditary  foe.  In  1806  the 
French  stormed  the  town,  into  which  Bliicher 
had  retreated.  They  sacked  and  plundered 
it,  and  treated  the  inhabitants  with  much 
barbarity.  The  Moltke  house  suffered  much, 
and  the  incident  made  a  lasting  impression 
upon  the  boy.  From  this  moment  misfort- 
unes thickened  about  the  family.  Their 
country  house  was  burnt  down  just  as  the 
harvest  had  been  gathered  in.  The  Ham- 
burg grandfather,  from  whom  they  had  ex- 
pectations, died,  leaving  nominally  a  large 
fortune,  but  one  so  heavily  weighted  with 
legacies  that  when  the  whole  was  realized,  in 
those  troublous  times,  owing  to  the  heavy 
and  unforeseen  losses  entailed  by  the  war,  it 
proved  that  the  Moltkes  were  seriously  out 
of  pocket,  and  it  became  needful  to  retrench. 
In  1811  Helmuth  and  his  elder  brother, 
Fritz,  were  placed  for  two  years  under  the 
care  of  an  able  and  kindly  tutor,  Pastor 
Knickbein,  who  held  a  living  at  Hohenfelde, 
near  Horst.  These  two  quiet  years  in  the 
country  are  counted  by  Moltke  among  the 
happiest  of  his  life.  He  was  a  favorite  with 
the  pastor,  who  early  recognized  his  rare  gen- 
ius and  believed  in  him  long  before  all  oth- 
ers. "  My  dear  master  and  friend,  to  whom 
I  owe  so  much," — so  Moltke  spoke  of  him 


in  after  life.  The  favorite  pastime  of  the  two 
brothers  was  playing  at  war,  and  a  character- 
istic anecdote  has  happily  been  preserved  of 
this  time.  The  two  brothers  loved  to  gather 
together  the  peasant  boys  and  place  them- 
selves at  their  head  as  commanders  of  rival 
armies.  On  one  occasion,  when  Helmuth 
was  heading  the  weaker  section,  his  troops 
were  put  to  flight  and  some  taken  prisoners. 
His  brother  called  on  him  to  surrender.  He 
would  not.  "  All  is  not  lost,"  he  said ;  and, 
quickly  rallying  his  men,  he  marched  them 
straight  to  a  pond  in  the  pastor's  garden,  and 
bade  them  hurry  on  to  a  little  island,  accessi- 
ble only  by  a  draw-bridge  made  of  a  single 
plank.  The  embryo  field-marshal  then  turned 
on  the  enemy  with  a  few  of  his  strongest  men 
and  kept  him  at  bay,  while  the  rest  of  his  for- 
ces made  their  way  into  this  island  fortress. 
When  all  had  entered,  Moltke  himself  being 
the  last,  the  draw-bridge  was  raised  and  the 
victory  complete.  This  island  in  the  pond 
had  been  made  by  Moltke  with  great  labor 
out  of  materials  collected  from  all  directions;  ; 
he  had  borne  in  view  its  possible  utility  in 
their  mimic  warfare.  It  so  happened  that 
his  father  and  the  pastor  beheld  this  scene,  \ 
which  delighted  the  Freiherr  and  confirmed 
him  in  his  belief  that  Helmuth  would  make 
an  able  soldier  yet,  the  tutor  having  asserted 
that  he  "was  more  of  a  bookworm,  and  having 
urged  the  father  to  permit  his  son  to  embrace 
a  studious  career.  This  island,  christened 
after  his  favorite  pupil,  was  planted  and  cared 
for  by  Pastor  Knickbein ;  and  though  he  is 
long  gathered  to  his  fathers,  it  exists  to  this 
day  in  the  grounds  of  the  village  parson,  still 
cherished,  visited  by  strangers  and  pointed  , 
out  with  pride  by  the  villagers. 

The  years  that  followed  those  at  Hohen- 
felde were  not  happy  ones  for  Moltke,  and  it 
is  probable  that  he  then  first  contracted  that 
habit  of  excessive  taciturnity  that  has  earned 
for  him  his  nickname.  The  family  affairs 
had  gone  from  bad  to  worse.  Economy  was 
imperative.  Freiherr  von  Moltke  moved  his 
two  sons  to  Copenhagen,  that  they  might  at- 
tend the  school  for  cadets.  As  there  was  no 
vacancy  for  them  at  first  in  the  school-house, 
they  were  boarded  with  a  General  Lorenz, 
an  easy-going  bachelor,  who  took  little  heed 
of  them,  but  left  them  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  his  virago  of  a  housekeeper,  from  whose 
violent  temper  the  two  boys  suffered  much. 
Helmuth,  in  especial,  had  a  sensitive  nati 
and  the  change  from  the  love  and  care 
Hohenfelde  to  the  lovelessness  and  loneliness 
here  told  on  him.  Nor  did  matters  menc. 
greatly  when  ultimately  they  were  rerno^ 
to  the  academy,  where  they  received  b( 
lodging,  and  an  allowance  of  fifty  thu 


menc. 

5! 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


691 


each.  At  General  Lorenz's  it  had  been  an 
existence  of  perpetual  bickering ;  here  it  was 
the  soulless  monotony  of  barrack  life.  To 
this  day  Moltke  cannot  speak  without  a  shud- 
der of  those  joyless  years.  "  Our  boyhood  in 
a  foreign  city,  without  relations  or  friends, 
was  truly  miserable.  The  discipline  was 
strict,  even  severe;  and  now,  when  my  judg- 
ment of  it  is  quite  impartial,  I  must  say  that 
it  was  too  strict,  too  severe.  The  only  good 
this  treatment  did  us  was  that  we  were  early 
obliged  to  accustom  ourselves  to  privations 
of  every  kind."  It  must  be  borne  in  mind, 
too,  that  Danish  was  an  unfamiliar  language, 
and  that  in  this  speech  all  their  studies  were 
conducted.  This  obstacle,  however,  weighed 
little  with  Helmuth;  after  six  years,  a  much 
shorter  time  than  the  usual  curriculum,  he 
passed  first  class  in  his  officer's  examination. 
He  had  particularly  distinguished  himself  in 
all  the  literary  and  scientific  branches  of  mili- 
tary study.  This  was  in  1818.  He  was  now 
ripe  for  his  lieutenancy;  but  before  getting 
this  he  had,  according  to  a  rule  of  the  school, 
to  fill  for  one  year  the  post  of  court  page,  this 
being  deemed  a  mode  of  acknowledgment  for 
the  free  education  accorded  by  the  state.  A 
school-fellow  thus  describes  Moltke  at  this 
period :  "  He  was  a  slender  young  fellow, 
with  fair  hair  and  good-humored  blue  eyes, 
with  a  quiet  courtesy  of  manner,  an  open  and 
genial  countenance,  clouded  at  times  by  an 
expression  of  deep  melancholy.  There  was 
no  difficulty,  however  great,  which  his  in- 
|  domitable  industry  and  firm  will  did  not  over- 
come. His  comrades  had  a  great  respect  for 
him;  but  though  he  knew  this,  he  never 
abused  it  in  the  smallest  degree.  In  social 
intercourse  he  could  be  talkative  and  com- 
municative; on  duty  or  at  work  he  was 
sternly  reserved.  An  untiring  devotion  to 
his  duty  and  an  almost  unexampled  consci- 
entiousness distinguished  him." 

In  1819  Helmuth  von  Moltke  was  ap- 
pointed lieutenant  in  a  Danish  regiment  sta- 
tioned at  Rendsburg.  His  father,  who  had 
Teentered  the  service,  owing  to  his  losses, 
had  already  attained  in  Denmark  the  rank  of 
lieutenant-general.  But  he  had  a  large  family 
and  small  pay,  and  could  not  assist  his  son, 
who  was  forced  to  live  upon  the  scanty  pit- 
tance of  a  Danish  officer.  Nor  were  his  pros- 
ipects  more  brilliant  than  his  pay.  When  by 
the  peace  of  1815  the  powers  obliged  Den- 
mark to  cede  Norway  to  Sweden,  Denmark 
saw  herself  obliged  to  reduce  her  army  ;  but 
las  she  retained  her  large  staff  of  officers, 
|chances  of  promotion  were  slender  for  the 
younger  ones.  Moltke,  who  felt  in  him  the 
strivings  of  genius,  longed  for  a  wider  sphere, 
a  larger  army.  Very  naturally  his  thoughts 


turned  to  Prussia,  which  had  so  distinguished 
herself  in  the  War  of  Liberation;  and,  un- 
daunted by  the  knowledge  that  if  he  entered 
that  army  his  four  years  of  service  in  Den- 
mark would  count  as  nothing,  that  he  would 
have  to  begin  afresh  and  undergo  the  Prus- 
sian examinations,  to  the  regret  of  his  com- 
manding officer  he  tendered  his  resignation 
and  left  the  Danish  army.  From  this  time  for- 
ward Moltke  was  to  live  almost  entirely  alone. 
At  Berlin,  whither  he  turned  his  steps,  armed 
with  high  testimonials,  he  passed  the  needful 
entrance  examination  for  the  army,  and  passed 
it  so  brilliantly  that  he  was  at  once  gazetted 
as  second  lieutenant  in  the  Eighth  infantry 
regiment,  then  stationed  at  Frankfort-on- 
the-Oder.  The  regiment  is  one  that  boasts 
noble  traditions,  yet  to-day  its  officers  are 
prouder  of  nothing  than  that  the  great 
Moltke  once  served  in  its  ranks.  At  that 
time,  however,  he  was  unknown.  Still,  his 
superiors  soon  noticed  him,  because  of  his 
serious  application  to  his  work  and  the  rare 
ability  he  displayed  in  its  execution.  After  a 
year  with  his  regiment,  Moltke  returned  to 
Berlin  and  remained  there  till  1826,  studying 
closely  at  the  great  military  academy.  He 
studied  not  only  the  art  of  war,  but  its  his- 
tory, also  mathematics,  physics,  geography, 
everything  that  bore,  however  indirectly, 
upon  the  one  theme  that  was  the  passion  of 
his  life.  Already,  then,  his  peculiarly  scientific 
method  of  regarding  and  conducting  warfare 
evinced  itself :  a  method  so  far  removed  from 
—  so  much  more  intellectual,  if  we  may  so  call 
it,  than  —  the  mere  butchery  of  earlier  times. 
Hard  work,  privations  of  all  kinds,  marked 
those  years  at  Berlin.  Moltke  did  not  lead 
the  gay,  careless  lieutenant  existence.  He 
was  poor,  and  he  was  eager  for  knowledge. 
His  scanty  pay  hardly  sufficed  for  his  liveli- 
hood, much  less  to  defray  the  cost  of  les- 
sons. Still  he  contrived,  by  means  of  pinch- 
ing and  self-denial,  to  save  enough  to  enable 
him  to  take  private  lessons  in  foreign  lan- 
guages—  an  essential  in  his  eyes  to  a  sol- 
dier's career,  and  one  he  has  encouraged 
since  he  has  had  the  control  of  the  German 
army. 

Speaking  of  this  period,  Moltke  says : 

"  The  first  part  of  my  career  was  destitute  of  the 
joys  of  life.  I  entered  the  Kriegs-Schule  at  Berlin  at 
a  time  when  my  parents  had  lost  almost  the  whole  of 
their  property,  owing  to  war  and  a  series  of  misfort- 
unes. Not  one  penny  could  they  allow  me,  and  it  is 
scarcely  possible  to  imagine  how  I  had  to  economize. 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  this,  I  contrived  to  save  enough  to 
get  instruction  in  foreign  languages.  But  truly,  the 
lot  of  a  poor  lieutenant  is  not  an  enviable  one." 

In  1827  Moltke  rejoined  his  regiment  at 
Frankfort-on-the-Oder,  and  how  highly  his 


! 


692 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


superiors  thought  of  him  may  be  gathered 
from  the  fact  that  he  was  appointed  to  the 
direction  of  the  military  school  there,  a  school 
that  had  fallen  into  disorderly  ways.  He 
entered  upon  his  post  with  such  courage  and 
energy  that  in  a  year  the  school  was  well 
conducted  and  well  regulated.  Moltke's  con- 
duct of  this  by  no  means  easy  task  earned 
him  high  commendation.  No  longer  needed 
there,  he  was  attached  to  the  topographical 
department  of  the  General  Staff,  then  engaged 
on  a  survey  of  Silesia.  General  von  Muffling 
was  at  the  head  of  this  department,  and  to  this 
kindly  and  able  man  Moltke  loves  to  acknowl- 
edge his  obligations.  Under  him,  Moltke  stud- 
ied practical  arid  theoretical  tactics,  a  branch 
of  knowledge  in  which  it  is  demanded  that  all 
members  of  the  German  General  Staff  should 
be  proficient. 

"  The  examinations  in  tactical  exercises," 
says  Moltke,  "  used  to  excite  us  younger 
officers  greatly.  We  knew  that  not  only  a 
correct,  but  a  terse  and  precise  solution  was 
required  from  us.  It  was  demanded  that  we 
should  imitate  the  concise  and  logical  style 
of  our  chief." 

It  was  upon  the  language  of  this  chief  that 
Moltke  modeled  his  own  pithy,  laconic  style, 
which  rightly  commands  admiration.  Never 
a  word  too  little,  never  a  word  too  much: 
what  could  be  more  desirable  for  military  dis- 
patches and  commands?  That  Moltke,  while 
always  being  direct  and  simple,  can  still  ex- 
pand, be  copious  and  discursive  in  private 
intercourse, — to  that  his  letters  to  his  friends 
bear  testimony. 

For  three  years  Moltke  served  on  the 
staff,  his  powers  of  combination  and  organ- 
ization developing  under  the  scientific  and 
exact  nature  of  his  studies.  In  1833,  he  was 
formally  enrolled  in  it,  a  distinction  that  is 
only  accorded  to  men  that  are  decidedly 
above  the  average.  He  also  received  his 
captaincy.  It  was  then  that  Moltke  first  paid 
attention  to  the  yearnings  that  had  long 
agitated  him  to  enlarge  his  knowledge  of  the 
world.  His  youth  and  early  manhood  had 
been  spent  in  hard  struggles  and  severe  ap- 
plication; holidays  had  been  unknown.  He 
now  longed  for  one,  but  he  wished  that  it 
should  also  combine  profit  with  pleasure ;  and 
hence,  while  his  desires  turned  toward  classic 
Greece  and  romantic  Italy,  they  also  turned 
to  Turkey,  then  as  now  the  center  of  all 
European  complications,  the  crux  of  all 
diplomatists.  He  wanted  to  see  with  his  own 
eyes  the  country  whence  any  day  a  war  in- 
volving Europe  might  arise.  In  1835  Moltke 
therefore  applied  for  a  so-called  royal  leave  of 
absence  which  would  permit  him  to  be  away 
some  months.  He  little  dreamed  it  would 


be  years  before  he  again  set  foot  upon  his 
native  soil. 

It  was  to  Turkey  that  Moltke  first  wended 
his  way.  The  journey  thither  was  at  that 
time  one  of  no  inconsiderable  difficulty,  dif- 
ficulties graphically  described  by  Moltke  in 
his  letters  home.  Indeed,  with  no  period  of 
Moltke's  life  is  the  world  so  fully  acquainted 
as  with  that  of  his  Turkish  sojourn.  He  ad- 
dressed long  letters  about  it  to  his  sister,  the 
only  member  of  his  family  with  whom  he 
remained  in  constant  intercourse.  This  sister, 
who  had  married  an  English  widower,  Mr. 
John  Burt,  was  settled  with  her  husband  in 
Holstein.  To  her  were  written  at  every  spare 
moment  detailed  accounts  of  his  experiences, 
the  only  mode  of  expansion  and  expression 
the  silent  man  found  or  needed  in  a  strange 
land.  These  letters  have  since  been  published, 
and  ought  to  be  translated  into  English. 
They  are  delightful  reading,  for  their  graphic 
power,  their  vivid  coloring,  the  wide  and 
general  knowledge  and  sympathy  they  dis- 
play, as  well  as  for  the  side-lights  they  throw 
upon  their  author.  Moltke's  visit  to  Turkey 
was  in  the  reign  of  Mahmoud  the  Second, 
the  Sultan  who  seriously  desired  to  restore 
the  Sick  Man  to  health,  and  who  broke  his 
heart  in  the  vain  endeavor.  When  he  learnt  of 
Moltke's  presence,  he  requested  the  Prussian 
Government  to  lend  him  this  officer  for 
awhile,  that  he  might  have  his  aid  in  recon- 
structing his  army  on  the  Prussian  model. 
Moltke's  proposed  holiday  resolved  itself  into 
very  hard  work,  for  he  could  not  learn  Ori- 
ental apathy  and  lethargy.  He  drew  up  a 
scheme  of  military  reform ;  he  planned 
bridges,  fortifications,  and  water-works;  he 
made  topographical  surveys  of  the  country ; 
on  horseback,  on  foot,  by  cart,  boat,  raft,  and 
carriage,  he  explored  the  whole  empire,  which 
he  pronounced  lovely,  but  neglected  beyond 
all  conception.  The  more  he  grew  acquainted 
with  Turkish  affairs,  the  less  hopeful  he  was 
of  their  reformation.  "  The  kingdom  is  rot- 
ten," he  exclaimed,  and  he  regarded  this  rot- 
tenness as  even  more  likely  to  cause  Europe 
trouble  than  the  conquest  of  the  country  by 
a  foreign  power.  Turkey,  he  said,  had  fallen 
under  a  ban,  and  this  ban  is  the  Koran,  which 
teaches  so  warped  a  doctrine  that  its  laws 
and  decrees  must  of  necessity  oppose  all 
social  progress.  Moltke  did  all  that  a  single 
man  could  do  to  carry  out  the  high  trust  the 
Sultan  had  reposed  in  him ;  but  what  could 
one  man  do  against  Eastern  indolence,  indif- 
ference, and  dishonesty  ?  He  was  about  to 
demand  his  leave,  when  there  broke  out  th« 
conflict  between  Turkey  and  Mehemet  / 
the  Egyptian  Viceroy.  The  Sultan  d( 
Moltke  to  join  the  troops  that  were  pla< 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


693 


on  the  frontier  of  Asia  Minor  under  Hafiz 
Pasha,  that  this  general  might  profit  by  his 
advice.  The  story  of  this  campaign,  as  told 
by  Moltke  with  some  caustic  humor  and 
much  descriptive  force,  is  highly  interesting. 
It  is  perhaps  almost  needless  to  say  that  the 
Turkish  commander  would  not  listen  to  Molt- 
ke's  counsels,  and  consequently  met  with  a 
disastrous  defeat,  that  would  have  been  yet 
more  disgraceful  and  calamitous  but  for  Molt- 
ke's  coolness  and  judicious  conduct  of  the 
retreat.  And  yet,  though  he  could  not  bring 
.  himself  to  obey  him,  Hafiz  Pasha  really  felt 

i    high  esteem  for  Moltke's  knowledge  and  en- 

|    ergy.    Once,  when  reviewing  his  artillery  that 

I  had  anything  but  distinguished  itself,  he  said 
to  them,  "  There  was  a  time  when  our  artillery 
was  considered  the  finest  in  the  world,  and 
now  we  can  scarcely  execute  the  simplest 

I  manoeuvre.  We  have  daily  to  thank  the  Padi- 
shah for  having  provided  us  with  an  officer 
who  has  our  interests  more  at  heart  than 

|   even  we  ourselves,  and  who  works  whilst  we 

!  are  sleeping." 

After  this  defeat  Moltke  returned  to  Con- 
stantinople to  explain  the  disaster  to  the 
Sultan,  and  once  more  to  request  that  he 
might  return  home.  He  crossed  from  Asia 
in  an  Austrian  steamer.  Writing  to  his  sister, 
he  said :  "  With  our  foot  once  on  the  Aus- 
trian steamer,  we  exchanged  Asiatic  barbarism 
for  European  civilization.  The  first  thing  we 
asked  for  at  Samsoun,  on  the  Black  Sea,  was 
potatoes,  which  we  had  not  tasted  for  eight- 
een months,  and  then  for  some  champagne, 
wherewith  to  drink  our  king's  health,  here  on 
the  waters  of  the  Black  Sea.  In  our  tattered 
Turkish  dress,  and  with  haggard  faces  and 

s  long  beards  and  our  Turkish  servants,  they 
scarcely  allowed  us  to  go  into  the  cabin  until 
we  had  spoken  to  the  captain  in  French. 
You  can't  think  how  comfortable  everything 
seemed  there,  with  chairs  and  tables  and  a 
looking-glass,  books,  knives  and  forks, — all 

;  luxuries  of  which  we  had  almost  forgotten 

|  the  use." 

Moltke  was  chafing  at  the  Turkish  inac- 

;  tion    and  restlessness;  he   was  proficient  in 

1  Turkish  ;  he  knew  the  country  far  better  than 

the  Turks  themselves ;  there  was  nothing  to 

retain  him  longer  in  the  East.    The  Sultan, 

too,  under  whom  he  had  served,  was   dead, 

for  Mahmoud  had  expired  six  weeks  before 

Moltke  again  entered  the  Golden  Horn.     He 

had  died  a  victim  to  the  failure  of  his   life's 

j  aim.    His  young  and  incompetent  successor 

I  readily  granted  the  demission  Moltke  craved, 

j  and  in  September,  1839,  he  once  more  turned 

!  his  face  homeward. 

Without  much  delay  Moltke  resumed  his 
j  post  on  the  General  Staff,  his  energies  quick- 


ened, his  intellect  sharpened  by  his  travel. 
The  four  years  in  the  East  had  been  of  great 
value  to  his  development :  they  had  taught 
him  independence  of  action,  quickness  of  per- 
ception, promptness  and  precision  in  forming 
a  correct  estimate  of  the  strategic  advantages 
of  a  position.  He  has  ever  delighted  to 
recall  his  Turkish  experiences,  and  to  say 
that  he  was  the  first  European  who  pene- 
trated to  the  Mesopotamian  desert,  and  that 
his  immediate  predecessor  in  observing  the 
Euphrates,  where  it  forces  its  way  through 
the  Kurdish  mountains,  had  been  Xenophon. 
In  this  statement,  however,  Moltke  is  mis- 
taken, for  it  would  appear  that  General 
Chesney  visited  both  the  Kurdish  gorges  and 
the  Mesopotamian  desert  some  few  years 
before  him.  It  seems  strange  that  Moltke 
should  not  have  known  this,  or  should  not 
have  seen  General  Chesney's  work,  which 
contains  a  map  of  the  route  of  Xenophon  for 
comparison  with  his  own.  After  Moltke's 
return  he  published  anonymously  an  account 
of  the  Turkish  campaign,  also  maps  of  Con- 
stantinople, the  Bosphorus,  and  Asia  Minor. 

In  1841  Moltke  perceived  that  the  exer- 
tions and  privations  he  had  undergone  had 
given  a  shock  to  his  nervous  system.  He 
once  more  applied  for  leave  of  absence,  and 
visited  Heligoland  and  his  sister  in  Holstein. 
The  German  writer  Adolf  Stahr,  who  met 
Moltke  at  the  watering-place  there,  describes 
him  at  the  time :  "  In  figure  he  was  tall  and 
spare,  his  face  gaunt  and  weather-beaten, 
with  clear-cut  features,  the  taciturn  earnest- 
ness of  his  thin-lipped,  compressed  mouth  in 
nowise  corresponding  with  the  vivacity  and 
occasional  sly  humor  which  we  meet  with  in 
the  clear  and  fluent  pages  of  his  book.  At 
that  time  he  was  only  forty  years  old,  though, 
from  his  appearance,  one  would  have  taken 
him  for  close  upon  fifty.  What  was  specially 
noticeable  about  him  was  the  simplicity  and 
naturalness  of  his  whole  person,  his  reserved 
demeanor  appearing  only  to  spring  from  a 
mind  of  innate  reticence."  Indeed,  nothing 
is  more  remarkable  about  Moltke  than  that 
he  has  at  all  times  been  free  from  that  super- 
cilious, arrogant  manner  that  has  made  the 
Prussian  officer  an  object  of  dislike  and  a  by- 
word to  all  Europe. 

Stahr  was  not  the  only  person  whom 
Moltke  charmed  at  this  time.  His  letters  to 
his  sister  had  been  eagerly  read  by  the  whole 
household,  and  none  had  read  them  with 
more  eagerness  than  Frau  von  Burt's  step- 
daughter, who  had  been  a  mere  child  when 
Moltke  went  away.  She  was  prepared  to  like 
their  writer;  how  well  she  liked  him  and  he 
her  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  they 
soon  became  engaged,  and  were  married  in 


694 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


1842,  shortly  after  Moltke  had  been  gazetted 
major.  As  the  Turkish  voyage  was  the 
romantic  episode  in  Moltke's  life,  so  his 
marriage  was  the  poetic.  It  was  a  union  of 
rare  happiness,  concord,  and  sympathy,  de- 
spite disparity  of  years  and  nationality,  for 
Frau  von  Moltke,  it  must  be  remembered, 
was  an  Englishwoman.  After  his  marriage 
Moltke  continued  to  labor  ardently,  but  un- 
obtrusively, at  his  post  until,  in  1845,  he 
was  appointed  adjutant  to  Prince  Henry  of 
Prussia,  then  living  in  Rome.  The  position 
being  a  mere  sinecure,  Moltke  had  much  time 
on  his  hands ;  but,  since  to  be  idle  was  impos- 
sible to  him,  he  employed  his  spare  hours  in 
making  the  peaceful  conquest  of  a  desert 
hitherto  unexplored  from  a  scientific  point 
of  view.  Accompanied  by  his  wife,  an  in- 
trepid horsewoman,  Moltke  daily  rode  out  at 
early  dawn  to  the  Roman  Campagna,  armed 
with  theodolites  and  other  instruments  of 
exact  measurement,  and  thus  drew  up  the 
first  map  of  the  Roman  environs  that  had 
been  based  on  actual  survey  and  made  with 
instruments  of  mensuration.  He  had  intended 
to  accompany  the  map  with  an  itinerary,  of 
which  five  historical  sketches  remain  in  a  frag- 
mentary form.  What  there  is  of  them  is  inter- 
esting, displaying  Moltke's  accurate  classical 
knowledge,  his  acquaintance  with  geology 
and  physics,  his  power  of  picturesque  and 
graphic  expression.  His  descriptions  are  as 
sharply  defined,  as  definite,  as  the  choicest 
etchings;  with  a  few  touches  he  delineates  the 
landscape.  Even  when  technical,  he  is  never 
dry.  Among  other  matters,  he  wrote  urging 
the  repopulation  of  the  Campagna  by  agri- 
cultural laborers.  That  his  work  remained  a 
fragment  was  owing  to  the  circumstance  that 
Prince  Henry  died  in  the  summer  of  1846. 
Moltke,  however,  remained  in  Rome  just 
long  enough  to  hear  the  exultant  cries  of 
"  Evviva  Pio  Nono !  "  that  greeted  the  newly 
elected  Pope,  in  whose  liberal  promises  the 
Romans  had  yet  faith.  Then  he  hastened 
to  Berlin  to  acquaint  the  King  with  his 
uncle's  death.  He  was  appointed  to  return 
to  Rome  and  superintend  the  removal  of  the 
body  to  Prussia.  On  his  return,  he  notes :  "  I 
saw  how  rapidly  the  enthusiasm  had  subsided 
as  soon  as  the  new  Pope  had  convinced  him- 
self that  he  would  have  to  halt  upon  the 
liberal  path  which  he  had  chosen."  The 
corpse  was  taken  by  sea  to  Hamburg.  Moltke 
landed  at  Gibraltar  and  pursued  his  journey 
by  land,  taking  this  opportunity  of  gaining  a 
general  idea  of  Spain.  His  letters  thence 
testify  to  his  power  of  turning  every  moment 
of  his  life  to  account,  and  of  rapidly  master- 
ing the  characteristics  of  a  country  and  its 
inhabitants. 


Once  more  in  Prussia,  Moltke  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  staff  of  the  Eighth  army 
corps,  then  at  Coblentz;  and  in  1848  he  be- 
came chief  of  the  staff  of  the  Fourth  army 
corps,  then  at  Magdeburg,  which  post  he 
held  seven  years.  Advancing  by  degrees,  he 
became  lieutenant-colonel  in  1850,  and  full 
colonel  in  1851.  Ini855his  staff  duties  were 
interrupted  for  a  time  by  his  appointment  as 
equerry  to  the  Crown  Prince,  whom  he  ac- 
companied in  this  capacity  in  journeys  to 
England,  France,  and  Russia.  He  thus  made 
acquaintance  with  the  principal  European 
capitals  and  their  chief  dignitaries.  In  a  series 
of  clever,  picturesque  letters  written  to  his 
wife,  he  sketches  his  surroundings;  and  min- 
gled with  much  caustic  humor  there  is  much 
shrewd  wisdom,  much  accurate  observation. 
In  1856  he  went  with  the  Prince  to  Russia 
to  be  present  at  the  coronation  of  Czar 
Alexander.  His  letters  from  Russia,  of  which 
an  English  translation  is  extant,  reveal  his 
ideas  of  the  national  character  of  the  Russians. 
They  show,  too,  as  usual,  his  talent  of  turn- 
ing all  opportunities  to  account.  He  made 
some  valuable  military  notes,  studied  the 
Russian  fortifications,  the  Russian  army,  and 
gauged  their  efficiency.  The  outcome  of  his 
remarks  is  that  Russia  has  a  great  future  be- 
fore her,  but  that  this  future  cannot  be  real- 
ized until  her  officials  become  more  honest. 
"  Honesty  among  Russian  officials,"  he  writes, 
"  can  only  be  brought  about  by  many  years 
of  iron  severity."  A  few  weeks  after  his  re- 
turn, Moltke  went  with  the  Crown  Prince  to 
Scotland,  and  in  1858  he  again  accompanied 
him,  to  be  present  at  his  marriage  with  the 
Princess  Royal  of  England  ;  1861  was  to  see 
him  again  in  London,  at  the  funeral  of  Prince 
Albert.  His  English  letters  have  unfortu- 
nately not  been  made  accessible;  hence  we  do 
not  know  what  Moltke  thought  of  the  native 
land  of  his  wife,  nor  how  he  was  impressed 
with  the  atmosphere  and  institutions  of  a  free 
country.  In  the  French  letters  written  in 
1856,  when  the  Empire  was  at  the  pinnacle 
of  its  glory,  Moltke  once  more  evinces  acute , 
penetration ;  he  was  not  wholly  blinded  by 
the  glitter  and  glamour  of  the  gay  Tuileries 
Court.  For  the  Emperor  he  conceived  a 
genuine  respect,  which  was  not  abated  even 
after  the  Sedan  disaster,  which  Moltke  lays 
to  the  charge  of  the  French  people  rather 
than  to  that  of  their  monarch.  While  enter- 
taining him,  Napoleon  little  knew  or  guessed 
that  in  the  person  of  this  taciturn,  unobtrusive 
officer  he  was  welcoming  the  man  who  at  no 
distant  date  should  pull  his  gay  throne  dowr 
into  the  dust. 

Returned  to  Berlin,  Moltke  once  more 
sumed  his  staff  duties,  and  continued  to 


U.O1  V  *•*          , 

it  no   i 

r 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


his  life  of  modest  obscurity.  It  was  in  the 
following  year  that  an  important  change  in 
Prussian  affairs  called  him  to  the  front.  The 
King's  at-last-acknowledged  dementia  made 
it  needful  that  his  brother  should  become  Re- 
gent. This  change  meant  that  less  attention 
would  be  paid  to  art  and  letters,  and  more  to 
the  army,  for  Prince  William  was  then  and 
ever  nothing  more  than  a  soldier.  The  mili- 
tary force  was  at  once  to  be  strengthened  and 
enlarged,  and  at  General  von  Manteuffel's 
suggestion  Moltke  was  appointed  chief  of  the 
general  staff.  Manteuffel  had  long  observed 
the  diligent,  intelligent,  quiet  officer,  and  felt 
assured  that  Moltke  was  fitted  for  this  high 
post. 

He  was  not  to  find  himself  mistaken. 
Moltke  entered  into  his  new  duties  with  heart 
and  soul,  and  among  other  matters  he  drew 
up  a  plan  of  a  general  system  of  defense  for 
the  German  coast.  As  the  Germanic  Diet  was 
then  still  determining  the  affairs  of  the  various 
states,  the  plan  had  to  be  submitted  to  its 
approval.  After  three  years'  hesitation  and 
foolish  objections  the  Diet  rejected  it,  though 
Moltke  and  other  efficient  military  men  had 
shown  how  urgently  it  was  required.  This 
done,  Moltke  and  his  master,  recognizing 
that  nothing  was  to  be  looked  for  from 
Austrian  and  Hanoverian  indifference  and 
the  mutual  jealousies  of  all  the  little  states, 
resolved  to  concentrate  their  efforts  and  their 
attention  upon  themselves,  and  to  reorganize, 
strengthen,  and  improve  that  which  was 
under  their  own  control,  the  Prussian  army. 
These  efforts  were  supported  by  Von  Roon, 
the  Minister  of  War;  and  while  he  and 
Moltke  were  thus  quietly,  unobtrusively,  but 
surely  laying  the  foundation  of  Germany's 
military  power  that  should  one  day  unite  her 
by  force  of  arms,  another  man,  who  had  also 
learned  to  despise  the  sluggish  action  of  the 
Diet,  was  scheming  how,  diplomatically,  to 
bring  about  the  same  results.  This  man  was 
Bismarck,  who,  long  Prussian  representative 
at  the  Diet,  was  at  this  moment  living  quietly 
as  Ambassador  at  St.  Petersburg.  No  wonder 
these  three  men,  when  they  became  ac- 
quainted, became  sworn  friends  and  allies. 
Bismarck,  recalled  by  King  William  on  his 
accession  to  the  throne  and  appointed 
Prime  Minister,  in  his  favorite  autocratic 
manner  soon  made  an  end  of  the  opposition 
the  military  reorganization  scheme  had  met 
with  in  the  Prussian  Parliament.  When  Par- 
liament refused  to  vote  the  supplies  for  this 
purpose,  Bismarck  dissolved  the  Parliament 
and  governed  without  it;  and  as  he  was  up- 
held by  his  sovereign,  and  as  parliamentary 
institutions  in  Germany  are  feeble,  he  of 
course  carried  the  day.  Moltke  was,  there- 


fore, able  to  work  on  unhindered.  The  minor 
points  concerning  the  army  he  left  largely 
to  the  King,  who  loved  to  occupy  himself 
with  the  petty  details  of  military  millinery. 
Moltke  concentrated  his  own  energies  upon 
the  more  intelligent  section  and  upon  the  staff, 
which  he  gradually  worked  to  that  pitch  of 
excellence  that  has  made  it  the  wonder  and 
the  admiration  of  Europe.  As  yet,  however, 
no  one,  not  even  the  King  or  Bismarck,  knew 
that  Moltke  was  not  only  a  great  organizer, 
but  the  greatest  of  strategists.  They  were 
soon  to  know  it,  however.  Scarcely  was  the 
reorganization  of  the  army  completed,  when 
storms  loomed  over  Prussia,  successively  from 
the  north,  south,  and  west.  The  first  to  break 
out  was  that  which  came  from  Denmark  in 
1864.  The  feud  between  the  Diet  and  Den- 
mark concerning  the  Schleswig-Holstein 
Duchies,  long  continued,  now  broke  into 
open  rupture;  and,  to  the  amazement  of 
Europe,  Austria  and  Prussia  for  a  time  sus- 
pended their  bickerings  and  joined  issue 
against  the  common  foe.  Moltke  went  with 
the  Prussian  army  as  chief  of  the  staff,  and 
now  for  the  first  time  displayed  his  marvelous 
coolness  and  foresight.  He  was  convinced 
from  the  outset  that  the  most  rapid  and  effect- 
ive method  to  coerce  the  Danish  Govern- 
ment was  to  take  possession  of  Fiinen  and 
Alsen,  the  two  islands  lying  opposite  North 
Schleswig.  The  Austrians  were  not  inclined 
to  second  him;  but  Moltke  felt  convinced  of 
the  justice  and  efficacy  of  his  plan,  and  he 
forthwith  ordered  the  Prussians  to  put  it  into 
execution.  Alsen  was  secured,  and  Fiinen, 
too,  would  have  been  seized  in  a  like  way, 
had  not  the  Danes,  overwhelmed  by  •  this 
coup  de  main,  sued  for  the  armistice  that 
proved  the  first  step  to  the  subsequent  peace. 
The  plan  upon  which  this  campaign  had 
been  formed  was  like  in  essentials  to  that  on 
which  Moltke  had  beaten  his  brother  in  the 
pastor's  garden  at  Hohenfelde, —  a  curious 
coincidence  enough,  as  also  that  Moltke's 
first  strategical  honors  had  been  won  in  a 
campaign  against  the  country  in  which  he 
had  learned  his  first  military  lessons.  It  was 
a  plan  as  wonderfully  conceived  as  it  was 
calmly,  effectually  executed.  To  be  slow, 
cautious,  careful  in  planning,  bold,  daring, 
even  seemingly  reckless  in  execution,  is 
Moltke's  method  of  action,  true  to  his  self- 
chosen  motto,  "  Erst  wagen,  dann  wagen  " 
(First  weigh,  then  venture).  From  this  time 
forward  the  army  looked  with  confidence  to 
the  chief  of  the  staff.  The  country,  however, 
still  did  not  know  him ;  but  the  time  of 
his  universal  recognition  was  approaching. 
Scarcely  was  the  war  ended  when  Austrian 
and  Prussian  bickerings  were  resumed,  the 


696 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


victors  adding  squabbles  over  the  war  spoils 
to  their  other  points  of  contention.  In  1866 
there  broke  out  that  war  between  Prussia  and 
Austria  that  proved  of  such  vast  import  to 
both  countries,  giving  to  the  former  the 
ascendancy  in  German  affairs,  and  forcing 
the  latter  to  abandon  the  proud  position  she 
had  held  for  centuries.  The  events  of  this 
seven  weeks'  war  are  too  fresh  in  all  memories 
to  need  recapitulation  here.  It  was  the  crown- 
ing success  of  Sadowa  (or  Koniggratz,  as  the 
Germans  prefer  to  call  it)  that  brought  to 
the  light  of  day  all  Moltke's  genius ;  to  him 
it  was  due  that  the  war  was  so  short  and  so 
entirely  successful  for  Prussia.  The  difficul- 
ties with  which  he  had  to  cope  were  enor- 
mous :  ignorance  of  the  enemy's  exact  where- 
abouts and  strength;  ignorance  as  to  the 
exact  position  of  his  own  troops,  that  had 
been  divided  into  three  armies.  Calculating 
for  all  possibilities,  all  emergencies,  Moltke 
saw  at  a  glance  how  his  troops  should  be 
distributed,  how  concentrated.  His  clear  in- 
tellect not  only  apprehended  everything 
needful,  but  he  had  also  the  power  of  mak- 
ing others  see  with  his  eyes  and  believe  in  the 
probability  of  his  conjectures,  the  justice  of 
his  conclusions.  As  chief  of  the  staff,  Moltke 
never  led  the  troops  to  battle;  he  had  to 
arrange  how  and  where  these  troops  should 
march ;  he  is  the  brain  of  the  machine  of 
which  the  commanders  are  the  arms.  His 
plans  are  formed,  his  orders  issued  often,  far 
from  the  scene  of  action.  Thus  Sadowa  par- 
took of  the  character  of  an  impromptu.  At 
the  last  moment  there  came  to  head-quarters 
dispatches  that  altered  the  whole  state  of  the 
case.  Moltke  was  not  flurried ;  he  did  not 
hesitate;  he  had  long  been  ready  with 
schemes  to  meet  all  emergencies.  Late  on 
the  night  of  July  the  second,  in  his  tent,  be- 
fore a  table  strewn  with  maps,  on  which  were 
placed  colored  pins  indicating  the  different 
armies,  Moltke  played  as  on  a  chess-board 
the  game  of  war  before  his  King,  explaining 
why  he  desired  to  issue  certain  orders.  The 
King  gave  the  requisite  sanction,  and  Moltke 
then  sent  to  the  leaders  of  the  armies  his 
pregnant  directions, —  directions  that  display 
liis  peculiar  qualities,  and  are  half  the  secret 
of  the  Prussian  successes.  For  Moltke  issues 
no  hard-and-fast  orders,  such  as  lead  to  dis- 
asters like  that  of  the  charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade.  He  outlines  his  scheme ;  he  holds  it 
the  secret  of  good  strategy  that  the  will  of  one 
man  should  direct  the  whole,  that  there  should 
"be  no  clashing  views  of  action ;  but  to  the 
discretion  of  those  in  command  he  leaves  the 
nature  of  the  execution,  rightly  comprehend- 
ing that  something  must  be  left  to  the  man 
who  is  in  action,  to  the  changeful  exigencies 


of  the  moment.  The  Prussian  generals  are 
therefore  no  mere  wire-drawn  puppets,  as 
many  imagine.  Each  must  think  and  act  for 
himself,  and  is  responsible  for  his  actions. 
When  all  the  orders  were  issued,  long  past 
midnight,  Moltke  retired  quietly  to  rest.  At 
five  he  was  up  again,  superintending  every- 
thing with  an  iron  calmness.  He  knew  that 
it  was  a  hazardous  game  that  was  about  to 
be  played,  but  he  felt  so  certain  that  he  had 
calculated  all  chances  and  mischances  that 
no  doubts  tormented  him.  The  whole  day 
was  spent  by  him  on  horseback,  watching  at 
different  points  the  movements  of  the  army. 
At  the  mos.t  critical  hour  he  was  calmly 
smoking  a  cigar.  When  the  news  of  victory 
reached  him,  he  was  neither  elated  nor  aston- 
ished, but  at  once  issued  dispatches  directing 
how  it  should  best  be  followed  up.  To  strike 
before  he  could  be  struck  was  Moltke's  meth- 
od, and  that  he  always  knew  how  and  when 
to  act  is  the  secret  of  his  genius.  Concerning 
this  war,  he  tells  us  in  his  own  modest  words : 
"  Two  points  only  were  decisive  in  the  at- 
tainment of  our  object,  together  with  God's 
help  and  the  bravery  of  our  men.  These 
were  the  primary  distribution  of  our  forces 
upon  the  different  theaters  of  war,  and  their 
concentration  upon  the  field  of  battle.  Aus- 
tria, fully  prepared  as  she  was,  was  manifestly 
our  most  formidable  opponent.  If  she  were 
crushed,  the  bond  which  held  Prussia's  other 
enemies  together  would  be  burst  asunder; 
for,  though  banded  together  by  their  enmity 
to  us,  they  were  without  any  natural  unity 
between  themselves.  The  only  course  to  suc- 
cess was  a  bold  one — namely,  to  move  our 
whole  nine  corps  simultaneously  toward  the 
center  of  the  Austrian  monarchy."  "  I  have 
but  done  my  duty,"  was  his  reply  to  the 
praises  and  congratulations  that  came  to  him 
from  all  sides.  It  was  a  real  annoyance  to 
him,  on  his  return  to  Berlin,  to  find  that  his 
name  was  in  every  mouth,  his  praises  sung 
in  all  quarters.  In  the  course  of  a  speech 
relative  to  the  campaign,  he  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  publicly  :  "  I  have  a  hatred 
of  all  fulsome  praise;  it  quite  unsettles  me 
for  the  whole  day.  Ay,  the  Bohemian  cam- 
paign is  a  great  and  deathless  page  in  the 
world's  history, — an  event,  the  importance  of 
which  it  is  impossible  now  to  fathom.  In  this 
campaign  I  but  did  my  duty ;  my  comr 
did  theirs  too.  God's  omnipotence  led 
our  banner  to  victory.  He  alone  lent  stren 
to  our  army,  vigilance  to  our  generals,  s 
cess  to  my  plans.  And  thus,  when  I  list 
to  all  the  exaggerated  flattery  which  t 
public  see  fit  to  bestow  upon  me,  I  can  o: 
think  how  it  would  have  been  if  this  victo 
this  triumph,  had  not  been  ours.  Would 


COUNT   VON  MOLTKE. 


this  self-same  praise  have  changed  to  indis- 
criminate censure,  to  senseless  blame  ?  " 

Pursuing  the  subject,  he  said  of  Benedek, 
the  Austrian  general :  "  Alas  !  a  vanquished 
commander !  Oh,  if  outsiders  had  but  the 
faintest  notion  what  that  may  mean !  The 
Austrian  head-quarters  on  the  night  of  Kon- 
iggratz — I  cannot  bear  even  to  think  of  it! 
A  general,  too,  so  deserving,  so  brave,  and 
so  cautious." 

Still  Moltke,  though  he  disclaimed  all  ex- 
cessive laudation,  was  not  indifferent  to  his 
successes.  Soon  after  his  return  from  the  seat 
of  war,  he  said :  "  How  beautiful  it  is  that 
God  should  have  thus  lit  up  the  evening  of  a 
man's  life  as  he  has  done  that  of  our  sover- 
eign and  many  of  his  generals !  I,  too,  am 
now  sixty-six  years  old,  and  for  my  duties  in 
this  state  of  life  I  have  had  such  splendid 
reward  as  can  fall  to  the  lot  of  few.  We  have 
conducted  a  war  of  immeasurable  importance 
to  Prussia,  to  Germany,  to  the  world.  God's 
mercy  has  crowned  our  honest  endeavors 
with  the  glories  of  victory ;  and  we  elders  in 
this  campaign,  in  spite  of  the  rough  battles 
of  our  earlier  years,  may  yet  boast  ourselves 
to  be  seemingly  still  the  darlings  of  fortune." 
In  public  acknowledgment  of  his  services, 
the  Prussian  Landtag  voted  him  a  gratuity 
of  thirty  thousand  pounds,  and  with  this  he 
purchased  an  estate  in  Silesia  that  has  become 
his  Tusculum. 

Some  outwardly  quiet  years  followed, 
though  those  that  were  behind  the  scenes 
knew  full  well  that  the  relations  between 
France  and  Prussia  were  strained  and  that 
an  ultimate  outbreak  was  inevitable.  Moltke, 
therefore,  worked  quietly  at  a  plan  for  a 
French  campaign,  making  himself  acquainted 
with  all  the  needful  minutiae  and  being  care- 
ful to  see  that  the  army  was  kept  in  its  high 
state  of  efficiency.  He  knew  that  king  and 
country  put  supreme  trust  in  his  strategy,  and 
that  he  should  be  looked  to  when  the  polit- 
ical horizon  had  once  more  darkened  with 
the  clouds  of  war.  Before  this  storm  broke, 
there  fell  upon  Moltke  the  great  sorrow  of 
his  life.  His  dearly  loved  wife,  his  constant 
companion,  his  friend,  his  helpmate,  was  taken 
from  him  on  Christmas  Eve,  1868,  leaving 
him  childless  and  alone.  It  was  fortunate 
for  him  that  the  political  cloud  grew  darker 
and  darker,  that  he  was  forced  to  work  and 
could  not  wholly  abandon  himself  to  his 
grief.  In  order  that  he  might  not  be  quite 
alone,  the  King  of  Prussia  by  a  graceful  and 
i  thoughtful  action  appointed  as  Moltke's  ad- 
I  jutant  his  only  and  dearly  loved  nephew, 
i  the  son  of  Frau  von  Burt,  his  sister.  Thus 
Moltke  secured  a  constant  companion;  and 
:  when,  soon  after,  his  sister  was  widowed  and 


697 

came  to  keep  house  for  him,  he  once  more 
had  a  home  circle  —  a  matter  of  inestimable 
value  to  one  of  the  most  retiring  and  domes- 
tic of  men. 

The  storm  from  the  West  finally  broke  quite 
suddenly  upon  Europe,  not  prepared  for  the 
foolhardiness  of  the  French,  in  rushing  into 
war  before  they  were  ready.  Moltke,  however, 
had  long  been  ready.  The  news  was  brought  to 
him  at  Kreisau  late  one  night;  he  had  already 
gone  to  bed.  "  Very  well,"  he  said  to  the  mes- 
senger; "  the  third  portfolio  on  the  left,"  and 
went  to  sleep  again  till  morning.  From  that 
hour  till  the  end  of  the  campaign  he  was  in- 
cessantly active.  Once  asked  at  Versailles 
whether,  at  his  advanced  age,  he  did  not  feel 
the  effects  of  all  the  privations  and  hardships, 
he  quietly  answered,  "  I  should  if  I  were 
old."  War  is  his  element.  We  have  it  on 
Bismarck's  authority  that  the  mere  prospect 
of  war  makes  Moltke  look  ten  years  younger, 
while  the  reality  takes  from  him  twenty  years 
of  life. 

The  Franco-German  war  proved  the  crown- 
ing evidence  of  Moltke's  marvelous  gifts  of 
combination  and  foresight.  An  event  like 
that  of  Sedan,  when  a  whole  army  was  made 
to  surrender  to  the  enemy,  has  no  parallel  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  The  nearest  analogy 
is  the  brilliant  successes  of  General  Grant 
at  Fort  Donelson  and  Vicksburg ;  but,  not- 
withstanding that  there  is  considerable  like- 
ness, Sedan  was  the  more  remarkable  opera- 
tion. Moltke's  powers  were  now  revealed  to 
all  Europe,  and  all  Europe  united  to  laud 
them.  But  that  his  art  cannot  be  taught — 
that  a  tactician,  like  a  poet,  "nascitur  nonftt" 
—  is  Moltke's  firm  persuasion.  Strategy,  as  he 
conceives,  is  not  so  much  a  science  that  can 
be  learned  as  an  inborn  genius  which  enables 
its  possessor  to  form  plans  bearing  upon  a 
certain  situation,  which,  though  it  may  alter 
hourly,  may  not  interfere  with  those  plans, 
nor  with  the  calmness  and  decision  which 
must  regulate  their  execution.  In  all  Moltke's 
campaigns  it  would  almost  appear  as  if  he 
must  have  foreseen  the  plans  of  the  enemy, 
so  surely  did  he  counteract  them. 

On  his  return  from  France,  all  Germany 
vied  in  showering  honors  upon  him.  The 
Emperor  created  him  Count  and  General 
Field- Marshal;  the  chief  cities  bestowed  on 
him  their  honorary  citizenship;  his  statues 
and  busts  were  multiplied.  But  as  little  as  he 
had  cared  before  for  praise,  so  little  did  he  care 
for  it  now,  and  he  shrank  as  far  as  possible 
from  all  public  and  private  demonstrations. 

The  following  little  anecdote  is  highly 
characteristic  of  Moltke's  simple  tastes  as 
well  as  of  his  decision.  The  regiment  in 
which  he  had  served  on  entering  the  Prus- 


698 


COUNT  VON  MOLTKE. 


sian  service  had  just  erected  new  barracks  at 
Frankfort-on-the-Oder,  and  were  going  to 
open  the  building  with  some  ceremony.  In 
honor  of  the  event,  they  were  anxious  that 
their  oldest  surviving  as  well  as  most  distin- 
guished officer  should  grace  the  occasion  with 
his  presence.  Moltke  assented  to  their  wishes, 
but  stipulated  that  he  should  be  in  no  wise 
distinguished  above  the  other  officers,  and 
very  specially  begged  that  there  might  be 
no  public  reception  at  the  railway  station. 
The  officers  agreed;  but  when  the  moment 
came,  they  could  not  bear  the  thought  that 
the  general  should  not  at  least  have  some 
extra  conveniences.  Frankfort-on-the-Odef 
boasts  few  carriages.  A  rich  burgher,  however, 
is  possessed  of  one,  and  on  him  a  deputation 
of  officers  waited,  begging  the  loan,  which  was 
readily  accorded.  At  the  appointed  hour, 
therefore,  an  officer  appeared  at  the  railway 
station  with  this  carriage,  of  which  he  asked 
Moltke  to  avail  himself.  To  his  dismay,  and 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  bystanders,  Moltke 
simply  thanked  him,  but  declined,  and,  beck- 
oning to  a  modest  cab  that  stood  close  by,  he 
entered  it  together  with  his  nephew  and  drove 
off. 

Moltke's  life  is  passed  in  busy  regularity; 
for,  notwithstanding  his  advanced  age,  he 
does  not  abate  his  labors  in  the  least.  His 
time  is  divided  between  Berlin  and  his  home 
at  Kreisau.  At  Berlin  he  occupies  a  wing  of 
the  General  Staff  building,  a  fine  roomy  dwell- 
ing that  looks  out  upon  the  monument  com- 
memorating the  three  wars  whose  extraordi- 
nary successes  were  mainly  due  to  Moltke. 
His  time  is  marked  out  with  military  exacti- 
tude, never  broken  except  when  he  attends 
the  sittings  of  the  Reichstag,  which  is  only 
on  occasion  of  a  military  debate.  Moltke  is 
a  stanch  conservative,  but  not  an  ardent 
politician.  That  department  of  the  German 
Empire  he  leaves  with  absolute  confidence  in 
the  hands  of  his  colleague,  Bismarck. 

Winter  and  summer,  Moltke  enters  his  study 
at  the  stroke  of  seven  A.  M.  Here  he  drinks  his 
morning  coffee,  smokes  a  cigar,  and  writes  un- 
til the  stroke  of  nine,  when  his  business  letters 
are  brought  to  him,  which  he  reads  and  dis- 
patches. He  then  exchanges  his  dressing- 
gown  for  his  uniform,  and  is  ready  at  eleven 
to  receive  his  adjutants,  to  hear  their  reports, 
and  issue  his  orders.  While  at  work  he  par- 
takes of  a  simple  lunch,  and  when  his  adju- 
tants are  gone  resumes  his  writing  until  the 
stroke  of  two,  when  the  work  is  pushed  aside. 
He  then  receives  the  higher  officers  of  the 
staff  and  listens  to  their  reports.  This  ended, 
which  may  be  longer  or  shorter  according  to 
circumstances,  Moltke  goes  for  a  walk.  It  is 
no  infrequent  thing  to  encounter  him  in  the 


busy  streets  of  Berlin,  peeping  into  the  shop 
windows  which  appear  to  have  an  attraction 
for  him.  At  four  he  takes  a  frugal  dinner  in 
company  with  his  family,  and  the  hour  of 
dinner  is  for  them  the  happiest  of  the  day. 
Then  the  taciturn  man  becomes  loquacious, 
and  delights  his  hearers  with  his  charming, 
cheerful  talk.  From  five  to  seven  he  again 
devotes  himself  to  writing;  from  seven  to 
eight  the  newspapers  are  perused.  At  eight 
he  once  more  rejoins  his  family  at  the  tea- 
table,  after  which  follows  a  game  of  whist,  in 
which  the  great  strategist  is  naturally  a  profi- 
cient. The  game  over,  the  evening  is  gener- 
ally ended  with  music,  to  which  Moltke  is 
devoted.  At  eleven  he  retires  to  rest. 

At  Kreisau  he  allows  himself  a  little  more 
leisure.  He  is  attached  to  his  little  farm,  and 
spends  the  early  morning  hours  superintend- 
ing his  laborers.  The  garden,  too,  receives 
the  benefit  of  his  personal  attention;  and, 
above  all,  his  nursery  of  young  trees,  which 
he  musters  as  strictly,  tends  as  carefully,  as 
though  they  were  a  regiment  of  recruits. 
With  his  own  hand  he  prunes  weakly  or  dead 
branches.  In  matters  great  or  small  the 
Field-Marshal  hates  all  that  is  incompetent, 
unfitted  to  its  task  and  purpose.  As  long  as 
his  wife  lived,  she  generally  accompanied  him 
on  these  expeditions,  and  it  is  her  memory 
that  attracts  him  to  Kreisau.  For  it  is  on  an 
eminence  in  his  park  that  Moltke  has  erected, 
after  his  own  designs,  a  modest  chapel,  in 
which  reposes  the  body  of  her  he  loved  above 
all  things  in  the  world.  The  exterior  is  red 
brick  bound  with  sandstone ;  the  interior  is 
lined  with  black  and  white  marble.  In  front 
of  the  altar  stands  the  simple  yellow  coffin,  at 
all  times  covered  with  wreaths  ;  while  in  the 
apse  is  a  fine  sculptured  figure  of  the  Saviour, 
his  hands  spread  out  in  benediction.  Above 
Him  are  inscribed  the  words  of  Saint  Paul : 
"  Love  is  the  fulfillment  of  the  law."  The  key 
of  this  chapel  Moltke  always  carries  about 
him.  When  at  Kreisau,  his  first  and  last  walk 
in  the  day  is  up  the  gentle  eminence  to  com- 
mune with  his  own  heart  and  his  dead  wife. 
Often  and  often,  when  business  retains  him 
too  long  away  from  his  country  home,  he 
will  pay  it  a  rapid  visit,  merely  going  to  the 
chapel,  and  returning  after  a  few  hours'  stay. 

Outwardly  stern  though  he  seems,  Moltke 
has  a  warm  and  tender  heart.  Of  this,  alone, 
his  undying  affection  for  his  wife  is  a  proof, 
while  innumerable  stories  of  unobtrusive, 
thoughtful  acts  of  kindness  to  friends  and 
perfect  strangers  still  further  testify  to  h:s 
amiable  disposition.  Strange  that  a  man  with 
so  gentle  a  spirit,  so  loving  a  nature,  should 
be  utterly  devoted  to  a  profession  so  cruel 
and  ferocious,  regarding  it  not  merely 


LJUl  ,J 

-• 


THE    VOYAGER. 


699 


sad  temporary  necessity  until  mankind  shall 
have  further  advanced  out  of  the  barbarous 
state,  but  as  a  divine  and  divinely  appointed 
institution.  "  War,"  he  wrote  to  the  Swiss 
jurist  Bluntschli,  who  had  pleaded  in  favor 
of  gentler  measures,  "  war  is  an  element  in 
the  God-ordained  order  of  the  world;"  and 
he  added  that,  though  he  could  sympathize 
with  efforts  to  alleviate  its  horrors,  he  re- 
garded it  as  an  unthinkable  proposition 
even  to  contemplate  its  possible  suppression. 
Moltke  thus  gave  his  adhesion  to  the  senti- 
ment expressed  by  another  gentle  spirit, 
Wordsworth,  "  Carnage  is  God's  daughter." 

"Caute  et  candide"  is  the  ancient  motto 
of  the  Moltke  family,  and  one  to  which 
their  youngest  descendant  has  remained  faith- 
ful. It  is  a  fine  life  to  look  back  upon, — 
that  of  this  veteran  soldier  who  has  never 
swerved  from  the  service  to  which  he  has 
devoted  his  life  and  energies  with  a  self- 
sacrifice  and  fidelity  as  rare  as  it  is  admirable. 
The  outer  aspect  of  the  man  is  true  to  his 
character.  His  spare,  tall,  upright  figure, 
which  the  burden  of  fourscore  years  has  not 
bent,  seems  born  to  command.  His  features 
convey  the  impression  of  being  cast  in  bronze; 
and  since  his  face  is  beardless,  every  line  and 
wrinkle  is  distinctly  to  be  seen.  The  iron 
firmness  of  his  will  is  written  in  deep  lines 


upon  his  face.  Of  his  heart  the  evidence  can 
only  be  found  in  his  eyes,  that  look  out  upon 
the  world  with  an  expression  of  deepest 
melancholy.  It  is  a  singularly  immovable 
face ;  even  when  he  speaks,  it  does  not  alter, 
brighten,  or  darken.  His  mode  of  speaking, 
too,  is  slightly  colorless  and  monotonous;  but 
when  he  does  break  his  habitual  silence,  all 
ears  wait  upon  his  words,  for  these  Moltke 
never  wastes. 

Moltke  is  the  ideal  impersonation  of  a 
German  officer,  in  his  rectitude,  his  unques- 
tioning devotion  to  his  sovereign,  his  narrow- 
visioned  patriotism,  his  want  of  imagination, 
his  self-negation,  his  stern,  unbending,  un- 
elastic  devotion  to  his  profession  and  the 
duties  it  entails;  a  man  who,  taken  as  a 
whole,  is  rather  the  representative  of  an 
elder  day,  when  life  was  more  circumscribed, 
the  intercourse  of  humanity  more  inimical, 
before  that  advance  had  been  made  toward 
a  fulfillment  of  the  angelic  greeting,  "  Peace 
on  earth,  good  will  to  men,"  toward  which 
we  fondly  hope  mankind  is  tending.  But, 
judged  from  the  elder  platform,  he  is  a  splen- 
did figure.  Of  him,  when  Nature  shall  claim 
her  dues,  Germany  may  well  say,  in  the 
words  of  Hamlet, 

"  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again." 


THE  VOYAGER. 


DOWN  stormy  seas  our  straining  bark 
By  whistling  gales  is  onward  blown; 
The  tackle  shrills,  the  timbers  groan, 
The  rack  is  wild  and  dark. 

No  land  we  sight,  no  bark  we  see, 
The  ice  makes  in  the  forward  shrouds. 
The  blast  that  curls  the  scudding  clouds 
!    Is  cold  as  cold  can  be. 

Sometimes  the  moon  is  red  as  blood; 
*    Sometimes  the  air  is  white  with  snow; 

Yet  care  we  not,  but  on  we  go 
!   Across  the  hissing  flood. 

The  swift  flaws  darken  on  the  lee, 
The  salt  sea-spray  is  flung  behind, 
The  canvas  bellies  in  the  wind, 
1  The  north  wind  whistles  free. 


And  sometimes,  on  still  southern  seas, 
We  feel  the  freshening  of  the  gale, 
That  leaves  behind  our  path  a  trail 
Like  swarming,  silver  bees. 

The  bell  sounds  in  the  quiet  night; 
Through  driving  clouds  the  full  moon  plows; 
The  shadow  of  our  plunging  bows 
Doth  split  the  wan  moonlight. 

Yet  still  we  sail  and  sail  and  sail 
Through  many  circles  of  the  sun ; 
Sometimes  into  the  dawn  we  run, 
Sometimes  through  twilights  pale. 

And  though  the  wild  wet  waste  is  round, 
We  cannot  sail  for  evermore; 
There  is  no  sea  without  a  shore, 
Some  port  will  yet  be  found. 


L.  Frank  Tooker. 


THE   SUPPRESSION    OF   PAUPERISM. 


IT  has  been  for  some  time  apparent  that 
the  people  of  this  country  were  not  to  be 
exempted  from  the  social  evils  that  have  so 
long  plagued  their  European  ancestors.  The 
breadth  of  fertile  acres  that  fell  to  us,  a  her- 
itage unequaled  in  history,  has  not  availed, 
in  spite  of  all  our  boasting,  to  maintain 
plenty  in  the  homes  of  our  citizens.  It  has 
not  availed  that  we  entered  upon  it  at  an 
era  when  liberty  of  thought  and  liberty  of 
action  were,  for  the  first  time,  coming  to  be 
recognized  as  the  inalienable  rights  of  man- 
kind, or  that  we  have  developed  it  in  the 
light  of  all  the  amazing  discoveries  of  mod- 
ern science.  All  our  wealth  of  advantages 
and  opportunities  has  not  averted  the  fate 
that  is  common  to  nations  as  well  as  indi- 
viduals. To  the  most  richly  endowed  of 
mortals,  that  sobering  moment  some  time 
comes  when  the  first  wrinkle  or  the  first  gray 
lock  awakens  the  consciousness  that  youth 
is  not  perennial;  and,  though  a  community 
may  not  die,  it  cannot  escape  the  infirmities 
of  increasing  years. 

That  happy  equality  of  condition  for 
which  our  people  were  once  distinguished 
is  gone.  The  independent,  self-respecting 
citizen  is  fast  giving  place  to  the  truculent 
yet  slavish  employee.  The  rich  are  separated 
from  the  poor  by  higher  barriers  than  in 
many  an  ancient  aristocracy,  while  the  kindly 
bonds  of  mutual  obligation  and  respect,  the 
redeeming  feature  of  that  form  of  society, 
have  here  no  existence.  There  are  more 
rich  than  of  old;  but  there  are  infinitely 
more  poor.  Not  that  the  material  condition 
of  the  common  people  is  now  much  worse 
than  formerly,  for  this  is  not  true.  But  the 
immense  additions  to  the  wealth  of  the  na- 
tion have  been  so  ill-distributed  that  the  poor 
man  of  to-day  is  probably  no  better  fed,  not 
so  well  clothed,  and  little  better  housed 
than  the  poor  man  of  twenty-five  years  since, 
and  the  number  of  poor  to  be  cared  for  by 
charity  has  frightfully  increased.  There  are 
no  statistics  of  pauperism  for  the  country 
at  large  that  are  of  value, — statistics  when 
incomplete  being  greatly  given  to  misleading 
those  who  put  their  trust  in  them.  But  we 
know  that  the  expenditure  for  the  relief  of 
the  poor  is  now  far  greater  than  formerly. 
From  1850  to  1880  the  population  of  the 
city  of  New  York  increased  134  per  cent., 
while  the  payments  for  charitable  purposes 
increased  539  per  cent.  These  payments  do 


not  now  fall  much  short  of  three  million 
dollars  per  annum.  We  cannot  tell  definitely 
how  much  is  expended  by  private  charitable 
societies,  but  it  is  probably  about  four  million 
dollars,  rather  more  than  less.  This  does  not 
include  the  charities  connected  with  the  in- 
dividual religious  organizations,  of  which  there 
are  some  five  hundred  in  the  city.  It  is  a 
moderate  estimate  to  put  the  churches  and 
private  individuals  down  as  contributing  at 
least  one  million  dollars  annually  to  the  poor, 
making  a  total  of  eight  million  dollars. 
Roughly  speaking,  the  expenditure  in  London 
is  perhaps  six  times  this  amount  for  a  popu- 
lation nearly  four  times  as  great.  At  the 
rate  at  which  we  are  advancing,  the  New 
World  promises  to  beat  the  Old  in  pauper- 
ism as  well  as  in  other  things. 

If  we  distrust  the  evidence  of  these  figures, 
we  shall  not  fare  better  with  certain  others. 
There  are  more  than  two  hundred  charitable 
societies,  exclusive  of  branches,  church  so- 
cieties, and  public  institutions,  now  in  opera- 
tion in  the  city  of  New  York.  In  1850  only 
forty-five  of  these  were  in  existence,  and  their 
expenditure  was  less  in  an  even  greater  pro- 
portion. It  would  seem  as  if  there  were 
hardly  so  many  human  needs  as  would  afford 
scope  for  all  these  organizations.  There  are 
societies  for  the  relief  of  the  poor  of  the 
different  nations  that  have  contributed  to  our 
population.  There  are  societies  for  the  differ- 
ent sexes  and  ages  and  for  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men.  There  are  societies  for  the 
relief  of  sickness  in  general  and  of  the  dif- 
ferent sicknesses  in  particular.  There  are  so- 
cieties for  the  comfortable  ushering  of  the 
pauper  into  the  world;  for  his  aid  during 
early  youth ;  for  his  education  in  certain  ru- 
diments of  learning,  and  for  the  prevention  of 
his  education  in  certain  other  rudiments  of 
learning  whereto  he  is  prone ;  for  his  assist- 
ance in  transferring  his  superfluous  presence 
to  other  regions ;  for  supplying  him  with  med- 
ical advice,  medicine,  and  food  in  his  own 
abode  or  in  special  hospitals  provided  for  his 
use ;  for  his  maintenance  at  the  public  expense 
when  he  cannot  make  shift  for  himself;  for 
the  supervision  of  this  maintenance,  and  for 
the  supervision  of  these  supervisors ;  for  keep- 
ing him  out  of  prison ;  for  looking  after  him 
while  in  prison  and  when  he  emerges;  and, 
finally,  for  his  assistance  in  decently  leaving 
world  which  seems  never  to  have  wanted 
to  have  done  as  little  as  it  could  for  him 


* 7 

ing  a 

s 


THE   SUPPRESSION  OF  PAUPERISM. 


701 


the  greatest  possible  expense,  and  to  have 
gotten  back  from  him  in  service  and  grati- 
tude perhaps  even  less  than  it  deserved. 

This  immense  body  of  charitable  institu- 
tions is  certainly  an  impressive  monument  of 
the  generosity  of  our  people,  but  it  is  also, 
unfortunately,  a  proof  of  the  vast  growth  of 
the  evils  with  which  these  societies  contend. 
It  is  even  maintained,  by  some  persons  well 
qualified  to  judge,  that  the  labors  of  these 
societies  in  relief  of  suffering  have  actually 
ended  in  increasing  its  amount.  One  of  the 
wisest  and  noblest  of  the  workers  for  the  up- 
lifting of  the  London  poor  grimly  remarks : 
"  Our  object,  /.  <?.,  my  rector  and  self  and 
some  others,  is  to  put  a  stop  as  much  as  pos- 
sible to  all  benevolence";  and  those  who 
have  had  the  widest  experience  seem  gen- 
erally the  most  inclined  to  adopt  this  view. 
To  understand  the  reason  for  this  opinion,  it 
is  necessary  to  consider  the  manner  in  which 
charitable  enterprises  are  carried  on.  The 
general  aim  being  to  better  the  condition  of 
the  poor,  we  may  say  that  all  benevolent  la- 
bor is  directed  either  to  the  relief  of  suffer- 
ing or  to  the  removal  of  the  causes  of  suffering. 
The  relief  of  suffering  is  simple,  intelligible, 
and  naturally  delightful  to  every  one.  To  feed 
the  hungry  and  heal  the  sick  are  the  first  im- 
pulses of  the  heart ;  but  to  ascertain  the  rea- 
sons for  the  hunger  and  sickness,  and  to  form 
and  carry  out  plans  for  their  prevention — 
these  are  difficult  and  tedious  labors,  the 
mention  of  which  is  generally  enough  to 
check  the  benevolent  impulses  at  the  very 
outset.  The  heart  is  here,  as  always,  the  mo- 
tive power,  but  the  demands  upon  the  judg- 
ment and  the  patience  are  too  severe  for  such 
charities  to  be  popular.  Hence  the  immediate 
relief  of  suffering,  although  merely  palliative 
in  its  effects,  has  always  constituted  by  far 
the  largest  part  of  all  benevolent  work,  and 
has  in  fact  monopolized  the  name  of  charity. 

Among  those  charities  that  are  devoted  to 
relief  rather  than  prevention  there  is  still  an  im- 
portant distinction  to  be  observed.  There  are 
two  great  sources  of  suffering — accident  and 
misconduct.  That  is  to  say,  we  can  generally 
find  some  one  who  is  to  blame  for  the  suffer- 
ing, or  we  cannot.  Either  the  individual  suf- 
ferer, or  some  one  connected  with  him  by 
family  ties,  has  brought  about  the  suffering  by 
improvidence,  vice,  or  other  misconduct ;  or 
the  suffering  could  not  have  been  prevented 
by  ordinary  human  virtue  or  forethought. 

Benevolent  people,  acting  under  the  desire 
to  give  immediate  relief  to  suffering,  have  not 
been  much  disposed  to  ponder  upon  this  dis- 
tinction. The  result  has  been  sufficiently  de- 
plorable. The  distribution  of  charitable  relief, 
without  regard  to  the  origin  of  suffering,  has 


had  about  as  satisfactory  results  as  would 
follow  from  administering  the  same  antidote 
in  all  cases  of  poisoning.  The  Elizabethan 
poor-law  was  designed  to  relieve  the  poor, 
and  came  near  pauperizing  the  English  na- 
tion. Yet  no  profound  reflection  is  needed  to 
discover  that  the  effects  of  relieving  suffering 
caused  by  accident  may  be,  and  must  be, 
greatly  different  from  those  of  relieving  suffer- 
ing caused  by  choice.  It  is  obvious  enough 
that,  besides  the  immediate  relief,  there  are  re- 
mote effects  upon  the  individual  relieved  and 
upon  the  community  that  knows  of  his  relief. 
When  suffering  is  the  result  of  accident,  we 
may  say  with  reasonable  certainty  that  to  re- 
lieve it  will  not  tend  to  increase  it.  Men  do 
not  habitually  expose  themselves  to  accident 
or  loss,  more  than  they  otherwise  would,  be- 
cause they  know  that  their  sufferings  may  be 
lessened  by  charity.  It  is  true  that  such 
charity  may  have  some  remote  effect  in  en- 
couraging improvidence ;  a  man  may  not  be 
at  the  same  pains  to  save  money  for  life  in- 
surance if  he  believes  that  his  family  will  be 
cared  for  by  charity  in  the  case  of  his  acci- 
dental death ;  but  we  cannot  say  that  public 
opinion  really  considers  a  laborer  improvident 
who  does  not  invest  in  life  insurance.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  plain  that  relief  of  this  kind 
can  have  no  effect  in  removing  the  causes  of 
suffering.  Accidents  are  not  prevented  by  the 
existence  of  ambulances,  and  hospitals,  and 
orphan  asylums. 

But,  when  we  undertake  to  relieve  suffering 
caused  by  misconduct,  it  is  evident  that  a 
fundamental  and,  doubtless,  beneficent  pro- 
vision of  nature  is  interfered  with.  When  we 
suffer  in  consequence  of  our  own  willful  acts, 
the  natural  effect  is  to  deter  us  from  repeating 
those  acts.  When  this  suffering  is  relieved 
by  others,  the  natural  effect  is  to  encourage 
us  to  repeat  those  acts.  The  mass  of  mankind 
will  repent  of  their  sins,  whether  of  omission 
or  commission,  only  under  the  influence  of 
actual  present  pain — either  felt  by  them- 
selves or  most  clearly  set  before  their  eyes. 
Take  away  this  pain,  and  they  will  go  on  sin- 
ning and  to  sin  until  the  day  of  judgment. 
Moreover,  all  those  who  are  tempted  to  sin, 
observing  that  if  they  yield  they  shall  not 
surely  die,  feel  their  power  of  resistance  thereby 
greatly  weakened.  The  testimony  is  conclu- 
sive in  repeated  cases  that,  where  relief  has 
been  most  generously  bestowed,  there  has 
been  a  permanent  increase  of  vice  and  pov- 
erty. As  a  London  missionary  said,  after  a 
winter  when  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  had 
been  unusually  severe  and  alms  -  giving  corre- 
spondingly profuse,  every  gift  of  a  shilling 
ticket  had  done  four  pennyworth  of  good  and 
eight  pennyworth  of  harm.  The  fourpence 


702 


THE   SUPPRESSION  OF  PAUPERISM. 


represented  the  food  that  went  into  the  stom- 
achs of  the  wretched  population ;  the  eight- 
pence,  the .  premium  given  to  their  wasteful 
and  improvident  habits. 

It  is  sometimes  hastily  said  that  it  is  the 
truest  benevolence  to  leave  people  to  suffer 
the  consequences  of  their  own  misbehavior. 
Granting  this,  the  real  difficulty  of  the  prob- 
lem is  untouched.  Altogether,  the  most  har- 
rowing perplexities  occur  when  we  consider 
cases  of  suffering  caused,  not  by  the  miscon- 
duct of  the  individual  sufferer,  but  by  that  of 
those  with  whom  he  is  connected  by  family 
ties.  The  most  profound  social  questions  are 
here  involved  and  presented  in  the  most  dis- 
tressing concrete  forms.  The  appeals  to  com- 
passion are  sometimes  so  irresistibly  touching, 
that  it  is  not  surprising  if  clear  views  on  these 
subjects  are  not  prevalent.  The  calm  calcu- 
lations of  reason  as  to  what  may  result  in  the 
remote  future  have  little  chance  of  being  list- 
ened to  when  the  ears  are  rilled  with  the 
wails  of  sick  women  and  starving  children. 
Nevertheless,  experience  sternly  teaches  that 
even  here  the  hasty  yielding  to  sympathetic 
impulses  only  multiplies  suffering.  What  is 
more  repulsive  to  contemplate  than  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage  ?  Life  cannot  seem  worth 
living  when  the  future  offers  only  long  years 
of  quarrel,  neglect,  and  disgust.  But  to  en- 
able those  who  are  dissatisfied  with  the  result 
of  their  contract  to  dissolve  it  at  will,  is  to 
loosen  the  bonds  of  society.  It  means  the 
destruction  of  the  family, — the  institution, 
above  all  others,  upon  which  the  happiness 
of  mankind  depends. 

But  what  is  to  be  done  when  we  find  a  wife 
suffering  from  the  idleness  or  improvidence 
of  her  husband  ?  If  her  sufferings  are  relieved 
by  charity,  the  result  is,  almost  certainly,  to 
encourage  the  husband  to  continue  in  his  bad 
habits.  Not  only  this,  but  other  husbands  in 
like  circumstances  are  encouraged  to  believe 
that  charity  will  relieve  them  from  the  difficul- 
ties in  which  they  have  involved  themselves. 
Even  more  must  be  added,  for  those  who  are 
contemplating  matrimony  without  any  assured 
income  will  be  encouraged  to  carry  out  their 
intentions.  Difficult  and  painful  as  such  cases 
are  to  deal  with,  they  are  far  less  so  than 
those  where  children  are  involved.  Marriage 
is  not  contracted  until  the  parties  have  reached 
what  are  called  years  of  discretion.  They 
may  be  presumed  to  have  contemplated 
the  natural  results  of  their  deliberate  action. 
But  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  in  its  most 
extreme  form,  never  went  so  far  as  to  main- 
tain that  infants  were  consciously  present  in 
the  deliberations  of  Adam  and  Eve,  and  com- 
mon sense  instinctively  refuses  to  hold  human 
beings  responsible  for  what  they  never  had 


anything  to  do  with.  Nevertheless,  it  is  un- 
deniably true  that,  if  charity  undertakes  to  do 
the  work  for  children  that  the  vice  and  im- 
providence of  their  parents  have  left  undone, 
parents  will  furnish  charity  with  more  work 
of  that  kind  than  it  can  attend  to.  Such  re- 
lief is  not  only  an  encouragement  to  reckless 
marrying,  but,  what  is  still  more  deplorable, 
to  illicit  unions.  The  enormous  mischief 
wrought  by  the  great  foundling  institutions 
of  Paris  and  Vienna  has  long  been  notorious. 
The  inhabitants  of  New  York  City  are  re- 
quired by  law  to  support  similar  institutions, 
and  to  extend  their  influence  as  widely  as 
possible  by  paying  a  certain  sum  for  every 
infant  and  every  mother  to  which  those  insti- 
tutions may  afford  shelter ! 

There  is  probably  no  charity  more  widely- 
known  or  more  generally  beloved  than  that 
conducted  among  the  poor  children  of  New 
York.  It  has  so  recommended  itself  that  it 
receives  donations  from  all  parts  of  the  coun- 
try. It  has  undoubtedly  saved  thousands  of 
children  from  death,  and  tens  of  thousands 
from  degradation.  It  has  removed  vast  num- 
bers from  conditions  which  would,  in  all  prob- 
ability, have  converted  them  into  criminals, 
and  distributed  them  throughout  the  land  so 
that  they  are  subjected  to  wholesome  and  re- 
formatory influences.  It  has  given  a  modicum 
of  education  to  those  who  would  otherwise 
have  had  none,  and  has  at  least  alleviated  an 
enormous  amount  of  misery  that  it  could  not 
wholly  remove.  It  seems  reasonable  to  give 
credit  to  the  statements  of  its  agents,  that  those 
children  who  have  been  removed  from  the 
city  have  almost  without  exception  done  well. 
It  is  therefore  open  to  no  strictures,  so  far  as 
its  influence  upon  these  recipients  of  its  bounty 
is  concerned.  Nor  can  it  be  doubted  that 
its  influence  upon  the  children  that  have  re- 
ceived its  aid  and  have  remained  in  the  city 
has  been  highly  beneficial. 

Yet,  what  is  the  significance  of  a  fact  like 
this  ?  In  a  single  room  in  a  cellar,  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  almost  destitute  of  furniture, 
destitute  even  of  bed-clothing,  there  lived 
last  winter  a  family  of  seven — father,  mother, 
and  five  little  children.  Poor  as  they  were, 
they  had  shared  their  wretched  shelter  with  a 
family  still  poorer  than  themselves,  although 
they  had  no  food  to  share  with  them.  The 
children,  being  without  shoes  and  almost  wit 
out  clothing,  were,  of  course,  unable  to  att 
the  public  schools ;  and  when  an  indi 
school  was  suggested  the  mother  approv< 
saying  that  she  herself  had  attended 
before  her  marriage.  Obviously,  the 
could  not  care  for  five  children.  They  w< 
not  vicious  nor  lazy.  They  were  honest,  w( 
meaning,  ignorant  people,  who  were  glad 


THE   SUPPRESSION  OF  PAUPERISM. 


703 


work  when  they  had  a  chance,  but  who  could 
find  no  work  to  do.  The  man  was  a  common 
laborer,  earning  a  dollar  and  thirty-five  cents 
a  day  during  that  part  of  the  year  only  when 
outdoor  labor  is  not  interfered  with  by  frost. 
He  had  been  without  work  for  four  months. 
The  average  income  of  the  family,  including 
what  the  mother  could  earn  by  occasional 
washing  or  scrubbing,  was  probably  not  a  dol- 
lar a  day.  The  rent  of  their  cellar  was  seven 
dollars  a  month,  so  that  the  daily  allowance 
to  each  member  of  the  family  for  food,  fuel, 
clothing,  furniture,  etc.,  was  about  ten  cents. 
The  father  was  advised  to  answer  an  adver- 
tisement calling  for  men  to  clean  old  brick. 
He  was  too  late.  The  men  previously  em- 
ployed in  this  work  had  struck  for  an  advance 
upon  the  dollar  and  a  half  that  they  had  been 
receiving.  Their  places  had  been  immediately 
filled  by  Italians  at  a  dollar  a  day. 

There  is  nothing  peculiar  about  this  case.  It 
differs  happily  from  many  others  in  that  it  is 
not  complicated  with  sickness.  But  it  suggests 
the  query  whether  this  society  that  cared  for  the 
mother  twenty  years  ago  and  that  is  now  to  care 
for  her  five  children,  will  not  stagger  under  the 
burden  when  these  children's  children  in  their 
turn  need  relief.  Thirty  years  ago  the  popu- 
lation of  New  York  was  about  five-twelfths 
what  it  is  now ;  that  is,  since  that  time  it  has 
somewhat  more  than  doubled.  The  number 
of  poor  children  sent  out  of  the  city  in  1854 
was  about  eight  hundred.  Last  year  it  was 
four  thousand.  The  expense  of  caring  for 
poor  children  in  1854  was  about  $10,000. 
Last  year  it  was  $236,000.  What  will  these 
figures  be  thirty  years  hence  ?  Noble  as  the 
aim  of  the  society  is,  honorable  as  its  manage- 
ment has  been,  and  fruitful  as  are  its  labors, 
i  the  evils  with  which  it  deals  have  a  capacity 
of  increase  greater  than  any  palliative  agen- 
cies. The  supply  of  friendless  children  will 
:keep  pace  with  the  demand.  As  parents  find 
jthat  others  will  care  for  their  children  if  they 
!do  not,  the  sense  of  parental  responsibility, 
| already  deplorably  weakened,  will  still  further 
diminish,  and  with  it  there  will  disappear  all 
'those  qualities  that  lift  man  above  the  brutes. 
!The  godless,  soulless,  reckless,  hopeless  life 
of  the  Parisian  canaille  is  fast  becoming  the 
(life  of  the  populace  of  New  York. 

As  matters  stand  now,  we  are  met  with  a 
(horrible  dilemma.  Either  we  may  harden  our 
hearts  to  the  cries  of  innocent  children,  home- 
less and  starving — at  which  humanity  revolts ; 
or  we  may  relieve  their  suffering,  well  know- 
ling  that  present  relief  but  increases  the  future 
evil — whereat  reason  rebels.  But  there  is  no 
heed  that  matters  should  stand  as  they  now 
stand.  It  is  entirely  practicable  to  administer 
;30  much  relief  as  mercy  demands,  and  at  the 


same  time  to  let  suffering  have  its  wholesome 
effect.  As  to  confirmed  wrong-doers,  their  suf- 
ferings are  their  own  choice,  and  it  is  vain 
for  charity  to  interfere.  As  to  wrong-doers 
who  may  be  capable  of  reformation,  a  noble 
work  may  be  done,  but  not  by  charitable 
corporations.  The  saving  influence  must 
come  straight  from  a  human  heart.  Soul 
must  speak  with  soul,  the  watchful  guidance 
of  friendship  must  be  ever  at  hand,  or  relief 
will  surely  bring  more  harm  than  good.  As 
to  those  whose  suffering  is  caused  by  the  mis- 
conduct of  others,  they  must  indeed  be  re- 
lieved ;  but  at  the  same  time  the  misconduct 
that  has  caused  them  to  suffer  must  be  sternly 
punished.  What  maudlin  charity  is  this  that 
encourages  parents  to  drop  their  helpless  off- 
spring into  the  cradle  of  a  foundling  asylum, 
to  be  cared  for  at  the  public  expense  !  What 
imbecile  legislation  that  compels  the  public 
to  pay  for  the  farming  out  of  the  care  of  these 
wretched  infants !  It  is  impossible  to  conceive 
a  system  more  depraved  than  that  which 
practically  offers  to  parents  who  will  desert 
their  children  a  bounty  of  ten  dollars  a  month, 
provided  they  again  assume  their  care.  Yet 
such  is  the  system  that  now  prevails  in  New 
York.  A  single  institution,  founded  scarcely 
a  dozen  years  ago,  now  draws  from  the  pub- 
lic treasury  about  $240,000  per  annum,  has 
under  its  care  about  2500  infants,  and  annually 
receives  about  three  per  cent,  of  all  the  chil- 
dren born  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

It  seems  the  plainest  dictate  of  common 
sense  that  parents  who  would  desert  their 
offspring  should  have  their  way  made  hard 
and  not  easy.  If  they  are  reduced  to  poverty 
by  causes  beyond  their  control,  they  should 
be  encouraged  and  assisted  to  maintain  their 
homes.  If  they  are  able  to  support  their 
children,  and  will  not,  they  should  be  com- 
pelled to  set  apart  such  portion  of  their  wages 
as  will  suffice  for  such  support  in  the  various 
children's  homes,  under  penalties  severe 
enough  to  insure  obedience.  If  they  are  so 
improvident,  so  vicious,  so  dead  to  parental 
affection,  that  they  will  not  work  for  those 
whom  nature  has  made  dependent  on  them, 
if  they  will  not  display  so  much  feeling  of 
responsibility  as  the  humblest  of  the  brutes 
show  to  their  young,  they  should  be  punished 
as  criminals,  that  their  example  may  be  a 
warning  to  all  that  stand  in  need  of  such 
teaching. 

Without  such  restraining  measures,  most  of 
our  existing  charities  have  a  future  entirely 
without  hope.  Their  labor  is  as  vain  as  that 
of  working  the  pumps  of  a  leaky  ship.  The 
vessel  may  be  kept  for  a  time  afloat,  but  the 
leak  is  widened  by  the  very  efforts  to  undo 
its  effects;  the  water  is  pumped  back  to  its 


704 


THE   SUPPRESSION  OF  PAUPERISM. 


source,  and  the  crew  are  worn  out  with  their 
Danaidean  task.  The  alarming  nature  of  our 
situation  has  happily  aroused  the  intelligence 
of  the  charitably  disposed  to  the  need  of 
action,  and  considerable  attention  has  re- 
cently been  directed  to  preventive  work.  The 
names  of  the  more  recently  organized  soci- 
eties themselves  indicate  the  change,  their 
general  aim  being  to  keep  people  from  falling 
into  a  condition  where  they  will  need  relief. 
It  is  too  soon  as  yet  to  expect  any  consider- 
able unanimity  as  to  the  methods  to  be  em- 
ployed, or  even  any  very  distinct  views  as  to 
the  true  purpose  of  these  efforts.  Neverthe- 
less, it  may  not  be  unprofitable  to  state  some 
of  those  conditions,  upon  compliance  with 
which  success  depends. 

The  great  need  of  our  modern  civilization 
— at  least  in  those  communities  where  a  mili- 
tary organization  is  unnecessary — is  to  main- 
tain the  highest  possible  standard  of  living 
among  those  citizens  who  are  supported  by 
their  daily  toil.  To  bring  about  this  end,  in- 
fluences of  two  distinct  kinds  .must  be  em- 
ployed. On  the  one  hand,  people  are  to  be 
taught  to  do  as  well  as  possible  with  what 
they  get ;  on  the  other,  it  is  to  be  provided 
that  they  get  as  much  as  possible.  Into  this 
great  field  of  future  labor  we  can  do  little 
more  than  glance;  but  if,  as  we  maintain,  the 
State  should  punish  parents  for  not  bringing 
up  their  children  to  habits  of  industry,  it 
should  certainly  do  its  best  to  deprive  them 
of  excuse  for  their  negligence.  Free  education 
has  not  a  pauperizing  tendency.  The  knowl- 
edge that  children  will  be  educated  at  the 
public  expense  has  an  entirely  different  effect 
from  the  knowledge  that  they  will  be  sup- 
ported at  the  public  expense — at  least,  when 
parents  are  compelled  to  support  their  chil- 
dren while  they  are  receiving  education. 
There  is  no  encouragement  to  either  idleness 
or  vice  in  such  a  system.  But  the  education 
given  in  our  primary  schools  is  merely  rudi- 
mentary, while  that  of  the  higher  schools  is 
to  a  great  extent  of  value  to  the  pupils  only 
as  fitting  them  to  teach  what  they  have  been 
taught.  It  may  seem  a  startling  proposition, 
but  it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  if,  instead  of 
spending  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  annu- 
ally in  the  indirect  encouragement  of  illicit 
unions,  the  city  of  New  York  should  spend 
the  same  sum  in  giving  instruction  in  working 
in  wood  and  metal,  in  cooking,  in  dress-mak- 
ing, in  drawing,  even  in  washing  and  sewing, 
much  more  suffering  would  be  prevented  than 
is  now  relieved.  But  so  long  as  a  majority  of 
our  citizens  are  of  the  opinion  that  a  found- 
ling asylum  is  a  more  beneficent  establishment 
than  the  Cooper  Institute,  there  will  be  no 
surplus  revenue  to  devote  to  such  purposes. 


Under  this  head  must  be  classed  those  en- 
terprises, now  rapidly  growing  in  number, 
that  are  directed  to  the  improvement  of  the 
homes  of  the  poor,  and  to  the  removal  of  the 
causes  of  vice  and  improvidence.  The  result- 
ing legislation  has  unquestionably  had  an 
immense  effect  in  improving  the  condition 
of  the  tenement-houses  of  New  York  and  in 
checking  the  spread  of  disease.  There  are 
not  wanting  those  who  regard  with  apprehen- 
sion the  effect  of  the  paternal  legislation  by 
which  these  changes  have  been  brought  about, 
as  tending  to  undermine  the  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence, which  under  our  form  of  govern- 
ment it  is  so  important  to  maintain  among 
the  poor.  However  it  may  be  in  the  future, 
the  immediate  result  has  been  to  better  the 
conditions  of  living. 

As  to  the  second  of  these  great  ends,  the 
maintenance  of  a  liberal  reward  for  labor, 
there  is  one  difficulty  so  formidable  as  to 
dwarf  all  others.  We  shall  therefore  not 
dwell  upon  the  fact,  which  has  been  proved 
in  London  and  is  susceptible  of  proof  else- 
where, that  a  liberal  distribution  of  alms  has, 
in  addition  to  the  effects  already  mentioned, 
two  others  that  are  seldom  thought  of.  One 
is  to  lower  the  rate  of  wages,  the  other — 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing — to  raise 
rents.  Wheresoever  the  carcass  is,  there  will 
the  eagles  be  gathered  together.  Where  the 
soup-kitchen  is  established,  there  the  poor  will 
swarm,  underbidding  one  another  for  work 
and  outbidding  one  another  for  shelter.  The 
remedy  is  here  so  obvious  that  there  is  noth- 
ing discouraging  in  the  situation. 

But  there  is  an  evil,  vast  and  far-reaching 
in  its  effects,  that  defies  all  charitable  labors, 
and  nullifies  every  effort  for  the  elevation  of 
the  poor.  If,  with  infinite  pains,  the  lowest 
stratum  of  society  be  raised  somewhat,  a  vacu- 
um is  created  into  which  all  Europe  stands 
ready  to  pour  her  degraded  population.  If, 
by  miracles  of  legislative  wisdom  and  prod- 
igies of  charitable  zeal,  our  present  poor 
should  have  their  self-respect  so  far  devel- 
oped as  to  scorn  the  vile  living  that  may  be 
had  out  of  the  refuse  of  the  rich,  and  for  a 
season  the  ash-barrels  and  garbage-pots  of 
New  York  should  stand  in  peace,  straightway 
a  new  brood  of  harpies  would  scent  their  food 
and  fly  to  these  shores  to  renew  the  disgust- 
ing feast.  The  poor  that  we  have  with  us  may 
be  uplifted,  but  we  cannot  uplift  the  poor  of 
the  world.  Whosoever  lifts  upon  that  which, 
exceeds  his  lifting  power  by  but  a  pounc. 
weight  moves  it  not  at  all,  only  converti 
his  energy  into  useless  and  uncomfort 
heat.  In  the  end  nothing  has  been  gain< 
rather1,-  ground  has  been  lost,  for  the  avc 
condition  of  the  poor  is  lowered.  In 


BYRON  AT  THE   CELL    OF  TASSO. 


7°5 


society,  the  rate  of  wages  depends  finally  upon 
the  standard  of  living  set  for  themselves  by 
the  common  laborers.  Bring  in  upon  them  a 
host  of  strangers  used  to  lower  wages  and 
poorer  fare,  and  an  influence  is  at  once  set  at 
work  to  reduce  the  prevailing  rate  of  wages 
and  therewith  the  standard  of  living. 

It  may  be  fortunate  that  a  considerable 
feeling  has  been  expressed — perhaps,  too, 
really  exists — upon  this  subject  of  the  com- 
petition of  foreign  with  American  labor.  Cer- 
tain of  the  community  have  demanded  pro- 
tection to  our  laborers  and  got  what  passes 
for  such.  Whether  laborers  can  be  protected, 
—  that  is,  whether  their  high  wages  can  be 
maintained  by  duties  upon  imported  goods, — 
is  a  question  which  it  is  needless  here  to  ask  or 
answer.  But  that  their  wages  can  be  reduced 
by  importing  foreign  laborers  is  not  to  be 
denied,  while  importations  of  this  kind  are 
made  for  this  avowed  purpose  and  with  this 
actual  result.  It  should  seem  that  those  who 
sincerely  desire  to  secure  to  American  labor 
a  generous  reward  would  heartily  support 
measures  to  check  both  the  immigration  of 
paupers  and  the  importation  of  debased  and 
ignorant  laborers,  while  those  whose  sincerity 
may  be  questioned  could  not  consistently  op- 
pose such  measures. 

What  is  needed  is  a  provision  of  the  follow- 
ing character :  Every  person  not  a  citizen  en- 
tering the  United  States  should  be  required 
to  produce  a  certificate  of  deposit  in  his  own 
name,  or  exhibit  funds  owned  by  him,  to  the 
amount  of  at  least  one  hundred  dollars,  suit- 
able arrangements  being  made  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  families  by  their  head,  and  for 
the  exception  of  first-class  passengers  and 
temporary  visitors.  It  would  be  a  harsh  meas- 
ure to  impose  a  tax  upon  immigrants,  as  it 
would  be  necessarily  collected  at  a  time  when 
its  payment  would  be  most  onerous  to  them. 
But  if  a  foreigner  wishes  to  become  a  citizen 
of  this  country,  it  is  not  only  a  mercy  to  him, 
but  an  act  of  justice  to  ourselves,  to  require 
1  him  to  come  provided,  either  by  his  own  ex- 


ertions or  through  the  aid  of  friends,  with 
such  a  capital  as  wiL7  enable  him  to  make  ad- 
vantageous shift  for  himself,  and  render  it 
improbable  that  he  will  become  a  charge  upon 
the  community.  IE  this  way  we  should  draw 
to  ourselves  only  such  thrifty  and  provident 
material  as  good  citizens  can  be  made  of,  for 
the  amount  named  would  seldom  be  saved 
without  the  exercise  of  some  virtue.  The  com- 
petition of  such  laborers  need  not  be  dreaded, 
for  the  standard  of  comfort  implied  by  the 
possession  of  such  a  capital  is  not  a  low  one. 
The  degraded,  the  beggars,  the  incapables, 
would  be  excluded ;  and  those  foreign  com- 
munities that  have  shrewdly  reasoned  that  it 
costs  them  less  to  pay  the  passage  of  their 
paupers  to  our  shores  than  to  support  them 
at  home  would  find  their  calculations  seri- 
ously disturbed. 

This  is  not  a  matter  in  which .  the  city  or 
the  State  of  New  York  is  alone  interested,  al- 
though they  are  primarily  liable  for  the  sup- 
port and  assistance  of  five  or  six  thousand 
wretched  wanderers  every  year.  New  York 
is  the  great  organ  of  distribution,  not  only  of 
merchandise,  but  of  men.  Whatever  improves 
the  quality  of  either  is  a  very  direct  benefit  to 
the  vast  interior  of  our  country.  But,  unless 
something  can  be  done  in  the  direction  sug- 
gested, the  burden  upon  the  charitable  peo- 
ple of  that  city  will  become  greater  than  they 
can  bear.  The  rates  of  ocean  passage  will 
never  be  higher  and  are  likely  to  be  lower. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  supply  of  foreign  poor. 
It  is  not  lessened  by  any  draughts  that  can 
be  made  upon  it.  New  sources  are  contin- 
ually opening, —  Italy,  Bohemia,  Poland,  Rus- 
sia, have  recently  been  added, —  and  in  these 
countries  there  is  a  wealth  of  poverty  that 
is  perennial.  Population  presses  hard  on  its 
bounds,  and  any  relief  from  emigration  is 
quickly  followed  by  a  corresponding  increase. 
It  is  not  a  hopeless  task,  considering  the 
charity  and  intelligence  of  our  people,  to  pro- 
vide for  our  own  poor.  It  is  otherwise  if  we 
have  to  deal  with  the  paupers  of  the  world. 
D.  McG.  Means. 


BYRON   AT   THE    CELL    OF    TASSO, 

ST.  ANNA'S  HOSPITAL,  FERRARA. 

THOSE  tears  become  thee,  Byron!    Wandering  free 
As  wind  and  sunlight  over  Italy, 
O'er  every  land  of  beauty  and  renown, 
Yet  stamping  oft  a  satyr's  hoof-mark  down; 
How  could'st  thou  view  the  cell  where,  undefiled, 
Impassioned,  pined  the  sun-god's  elder  child, 
And  not  weep  for  lone  Tasso  ?    Woe  for   thee, 
In  seeming  freedom,  heavier  chained  than  he ! 

Mary  Stacy   Withington. 
VOL.  XXVTL— 68. 


AN   AVERAGE    MAN.* 


BY    ROBERT    GRANT, 
Author  of  "  The  Little  Tin  Gods  on  Wheels,"  "  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl,"  etc. 


VII. 


LENT  had  come,  and  the  back  of  the  win- 
ter and  the  winter's  gayety  were  broken  to- 
gether. There  was  no  visible  alteration  in 
the  external  aspect  of  the  great  city ;  but  in 
certain  hearts  were  to  be  found  signs  of  a  pro- 
found veneration  for  the  season,  evidenced  by  a 
careful  discrimination  between  dining  out  and 
going  to  the  german, —  or,  indeed,  dining  out 
where  the  number  of  the  guests  was  six  and 
where  it  was  twelve.  "  I  draw  the  line  on 
talking-parties,"  said  Miss  Lawton.  "  I  go  to 
them,  Mr.  Remington,  and  don't  see  any 
harm.  Do  you  ?  "  Now,  on  the  principle  of 
the  young  lady  who  gave  up  butter  during  the 
holy  period,  because  sacrifice  did  not  count 
unless  you  renounced  something  you  really 
liked,  Miss  Lawton  was  way  off,  as  the  saying 
is ;  for  talking-parties  were  decidedly  her  ele- 
ment, and  especially  as  Mrs.  Fielding  set  a 
very  high  standard  in  this  respect.  The  latter 
lady  did  not  go  out  anywhere.  She  put  her 
foot  down  so  firmly  as  even  to  feel  obliged  to 
give  up  dining  with  her  own  sister.  The  only 
diversion  she  permitted  herself  was  the  five- 
o'clock  tea  she  had  spread  for  such  of  her 
friends  as  were  inclined  to  drop  in. 

This  lull  in  general  gayety  was,  theoretically, 
much  of  a  boon  to  Remington  and  Stoughton, 
who  were  both  beginning  to  wince  somewhat 
under  the  strain  of  such  a  busy  existence. 
Now  they  would  have  plenty  of  time  to  read  in 
the  evenings ;  and  visions  of  a  comfortable 
easy-chair  close  to  the  blazing  hearth  arose 
before  them.  They  were  each  a  little  in- 
clined to  moralize  on  the  waste  of  time  that 
parties  really  were,  and  to  vow  they  should 
cut  all  that  sort  of  thing  another  winter.  Din- 
ners were,  after  all,  the  most  satisfactory  form 
of  entertainment.  One  could  talk  to  the  right 
person  without  interruption.  Of  course,  the 
right  person  was  here  a  decidedly  necessary 
premise  to  enjoyment;  but,  then,  a  discerning 
hostess  was  apt  to  arrange  her  guests  with  a 
deference  to  social  whispers.  They  were  be- 
ginning to  be  rather  frequently  invited  to 
quiet  little  affairs  of  this  sort.  A  winter  had 
tended  to  develop  them  amazingly  in  the  line 
of  conversational  powers  and  ease  of  man- 


ner. Stoughton's  natural  power  of  attraction 
was  made  more  prominent  through  a  greater 
fluency  and  a  certain  audacity  of  speech.  Peo- 
ple described  him  as  a  handsome  creature. 
He  had  gained  some  flesh,  too, — just  enough 
to  fill  out  without  impairing  his  figure.  Rem- 
ington also  had  made  much  progress  in  the 
way  of  becoming  a  favorite.  He  no  longer 
was  obliged  in  society  to  have  recourse  to  the 
acting  of  Neilson,  or  the  status  quo  of  winter 
sports,  to  fill  up  a  hiatus  in  conversation. 

The   hoped-for  repose  of  Lent  was  little 
short  of  a  delusion,  as  Remington,  at  least, 
shortly  found.    His  cherished  schemes  for  im- 
proving himself,  and  doing  some  solid  work    i 
in  the  evenings,  proved  terribly  abortive.   The 
time  slipped  away  about  as  fast  as  ever,  and   i 
he  felt  none  the  less  driven.    Unlike  Stough- 
ton, he  did  not  seem  to  flourish  on  the  racket,   ; 
as  he  styled  it,  that  he  had  been  pursuing,   j 
He  was  conscious  of  a  tired,  strained  sensa- 
tion.   It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  could  never 
quite  catch  up  with  himself.    He  looked  thin, 
and  as  though  he  drew  on  his  vitality  un- 
sparingly. 

He  went  to  a  doctor  and  consulted  him 
regarding  his  condition.  "  You  are  a  bundle 
of  nerves,"  responded  the  physician,  as  a  sum- 
mary of  the  situation ;  and  he  proceeded  to 
deliver  Arthur  a  sensible  homily  on  the  ad- 
vantages of  moderation,  illustrating  his  theme 
by  examples  taken  from  mechanics.  A  small 
engine,  he  said,  could  not  do  the  work  of 
one  that  was  ninety  horse-power.  There  was 
nothing  the  matter,  if  Arthur  would  only  take 
care  of  himself.  His  cough  was  simply  symp- 
tomatic. Did  he  smoke  ?  Cigarettes  ?  Well, 
he  had  better  cut  himself  off  for  awhile. 
Medicine  ?  No ;  there  was  no  need  of  med- 
icine. Still,  perhaps  influenced  by  the  young 
man's  glum  look  at  this  announcement,  he 
gave  him  a  tonic,  to  be  imbibed  before  every 
meal,  which  comforted  Arthur's  mind  some- 
what. 

"  You  think  too  much.  You  take  life  too 
seriously,"  said  Stoughton,  who  noticed  his 
friend's  brow.  And,  indeed,  Remington  did 
spend  a  good  deal  of  time  in  puzzling 
all  sorts  of  matters  connected  with  the  pi 
lem  of  living.  First  of  all,  Miss  Crosby  hac. 


Copyright,  1883,  by  Robert  Grant. 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


707 


come  to  be  the  central  figure  of  his  thoughts. 
He  was  in  love  with  her,  and  the  prospect  of 
his  being  in  a  position  where  he  would  be  jus- 
tified in  asking  her  to  marry  him  seemed  very 
remote.  As  to  what  her  feelings  toward  him 
might  be,  he  was  quite  at  sea.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  Ramsay  Whiting  was  extremely  de- 
voted to  her.  He  frequently  found  Stoughton, 
too,  beside  the  little  tea-table  when  he  went 
to  call.  Stoughton's  way  of  saying  things 
appeared  to  fascinate  her.  She  frequently 
I  spoke  of  his  cleverness  to  Remington.  But 
|  then,  Stoughton  was  said  to  be  as  good  as 
engaged  to  Isabel  Idlewild. 

There  had  come  a  lull  in  the  law  busi- 
i  ness  also.  Sundry  bills  for  flowers  and  other 
I  little  extravagances  began  to  pour  in  about 
this  time,  and  Remington  found  hard  work 
in  meeting  them.  The  income  from  his  pit- 
tance of  a  property,  even  including  a  small 
profit  from  his  speculations,  was  lamentably 
small.  What  made  it  more  irksome  to  have 
to  be  so  economical  was  the  success  of  Stough- 
ton, who  even  drove  a  Tilbury  on  the  pro- 
ceeds of  his  winter's  dabbling  in  the  stock 
market.  The  latter  confided  to  Remington 
that  he  had  cleared  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
which  he  intended  to  salt  down.  "  If  you  had 
only  followed  my  advice,"  he  said  to  his 
riend,  "  you  might  have  done  just  as  well. 
I  gave  you  points  enough." 

This  was  perfectly  true,  but  the  difficulty 
was  Remington  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
:o  take   the    necessary   risks.     Despite   the 
ppecious  argument  that  the  money  was  his 
own,  he  could  not  help  feeling  it  was  wrong 
:o  speculate.    To  be  sure,  the  force  of  that 
ivord  "  wrong  "  was  a  little  hard  to  determine 
nowadays.    Wrong   toward   whom  ?    It   cer- 
'ainly  did  seem  as  if  only  those  who  were 
imlucky  lost  caste  by  speculation.    All  about 
aim  were  instances  of  men  who  had  made 
arge  fortunes  in  a  very  short  period. 
i  There  was  Eugene  Finchley,  for  example, 
it  was  said  that  he  and  his  partners  had  real- 
ped  an  enormous  profit  by  floating  the  bonds 
•f  a  new  Western  railroad.    That  was   not 
peculation  exactly.  It  was  presumably  merely 
;i  the  line  of  their  regular  business,  for  they 
-ere   bankers.    But   the  result  of  the  thing 
ras  the   same.    It   was  the   making  a  vast 
am  in  a  comparatively  short  space  of  time 
mt  attracted  him.    It  seemed  so  desirable 
)  be  well  off.    He  heard  it  often  said  that  it 
as  impossible  to  be  prominent  in  New  York 
jnless  one  had  half  a  million. 
I  But  though  all  this  made  Remington  de- 
)ondent  at  times,  he  stuck  pretty  steadfastly 
>  his  principles  and  ideals,  at  least  theoret- 
ally.    He  knew  well  enough  that  there  were 
"tter  things  than  mere  money-  getting,  and 


when  he  acted  on  a  contrary  basis  he  felt 
uncomfortable.  He  was  put  into  the  world  to 
do  useful  work,  and  it  was  not  very  difficult  to 
see  that  in  many  ways  his  life  was  far  from 
what  it  ought  to  be.  However  uncertain  he 
might  be  as  to  precise  articles  of  faith,  he 
was  sure  that  he  was  responsible  to  some 
higher  power  for  his  actions.  He  wanted  to 
contribute  his  share  to  the  labor  of  the  world. 

And  so,  despite  occasional  spells  of  idle- 
ness and  discouragement,  he  did  some  hard 
work  on  the  Treatise  on  Railroad  Law  during 
the  spring  and  summer.  He  spent  most  of 
the  hot  weather  in  the  city,  running  down  for 
an  occasional  Sunday  with  his  family,  who 
were  at  the  sea-side.  He  took  a  vacation  of 
three  weeks  in  August,  which  he  spent  at 
Newport,  for  Miss  Crosby  was  there.  He 
found  as  much  going  on  in  the  way  of  gayety 
as  in  winter,  and  rather  against  his  will  ac- 
cepted invitations  for  dinners  and  dances. 
Woodbury  Stoughton  had  been  there  all  sum- 
mer, and  looked  the  picture  of  handsome 
health  in  his  white  flannel  suit.  His  face  was 
tanned  a  becoming  brown.  He  was  one  of 
the  leading  spirits  of  the  place  and  a  crack 
tennis-player.  He  meant  to  go  in  for  polo 
another  year,  so  he  told  Remington,  whom  he 
looked  up  at  the  hotel  soon  after  his  arrival. 

"  You  ought  to  have  let  me  know  you  were 
coming,  and  I'd  have  engaged  you  a  room 
at  my  house.  I  could  have  got  you  one 
three  days  ago,  but  they're  all  taken  now. 
Ramsay  Whiting  and  I  have  first-rate  lodg- 
ings together.  You  ought  to  have  come  down 
before,  my  dear  fellow,  instead  of  stewing 
in  town.  You  look  as  white  as  a  ghost." 

The  three  weeks  slipped  away  fast  enough, 
but  Remington  did  not  return  to  New  York 
in  an  altogether  equable  frame  of  mind.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  see  nearly  so  much  of 
Miss  Crosby  as  he  hoped.  She  was  overbur- 
dened with  engagements,  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  walk  on  the  cliffs  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  his  interviews  with  her  were  very 
fragmentary.  He  met  her  at  a  dance  or  two, 
and  played  tennis  in  the  same  party,  but  he 
found  himself  put  in  the  background  by, the 
other  young  men,  with  whom  she  seemed  to 
have  more  in  common,  for  he  was  necessarily 
ignorant  of  the  current  jokes  and  chitchat. 

The  Sunday  walk,  however,  was  very  de- 
lightful. They  strolled  along  the  path  that 
skirts  the  green  lawns  overlooking  the  sea, 
and,  climbing  down,  sat  upon  the  rocks.  Miss 
Crosby  inquired  about  the  progress  of  his 
Treatise,  the  existence  of  which  she  was 
aware  of.  He  philosophized  a  little,  they 
discussed  several  books,  and  stayed  gazing 
at  the  sunset  until  it  was  necessary  to  hurry 
to  reach  home  before  dark. 


708 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


Miss  Idlewild  was  much  admired  this  sum- 
mer. She  drove  a  pair  of  agile,  graceful  ponies, 
and  she  took  Remington  out  in  her  phaeton 
one  afternoon,  two  days  after  his  walk  with 
Miss  Crosby.  She  looked  lovely  in  her  dark- 
blue  close-fitting  suit,  with  a  billy-cock  hat, 
and  with  a  bunch  of  pansies  at  her  throat. 
Remington  felt  quite  proud  to  be  at  the  side 
of  the  young  beauty.  People  still  said  Stough- 
ton  was  going  to  marry  her.  Then,  too,  Finch- 
ley  was  at  the  hotel.  He  had  been  there  three 
or  four  days.  Town  was  hot,  he  said,  and 
business  dull.  Remington  had  sat  up  with 
him  smoking,  the  night  before,  talking  about 
business.  There  would  be  a  crash  some  of 
these  days,  Finchley  said.  Stocks  were  selling 
for  all  they  were  worth. 

Remington  found  it  rather  difficult  to  con- 
verse with  Isabel  if  he  left  the  field  of  badin- 
age. She  evidently  enjoyed  compliments,  while 
protesting  against  them.  They  got  on  famously 
when  they  talked  sheer  nonsense ;  but  if  he 
ventured  to  introduce  more  serious  topics 
she  became  embarrassed  and  silent.  She  was 
an  excellent  whip  and  took  a  keen  interest  in 
her  ponies,  which  were  a  birthday  gift  from 
her  father. 

She  had  turned  Dandy's  and  Dewdrop's 
heads  homeward.  The  sun  had  just  set  and 
the  western  horizon  was  streaked  with  deep 
violet  hues,  suggesting  the  near  advent  of 
autumn.  Remington  was  ruminating  under 
the  influence  of  the  evening  light,  and,  a 
somewhat  ungracious  proceeding,  it  must  be 
confessed,  looking  his  gift  horse  in  the  face ; 
for  he  said  to  himself  that,  in  spite  of  all  her 
money,  Miss  Idlewild  would  be  no  wife  for 
him.  He  liked  her  very  much ;  but  his  idea 
of  marriage  was  that  a  woman  should  be 
a  companion  to  her  husband.  It  must  be  a 
fine  thing,  though,  to  have  a  million,  he  re- 
flected, as  a  criticism  on  this  conclusion. 

"  Aint  it  lovely !  "  exclaimed  Isabel.  lt  Just 
look  at  that  cloud." 

"  It  looks  like  a  dragon  with  four  heads. 
See,  one  of  them  is  dropping  off  now.  Do 
you  remember  the  verses  of " 

IJe  stopped  short  for  an  instant  and  made 
a  little  swallow.  Miss  Idlewild  laughed.  She 
turned  toward  him : 

"  Are  you  stopping  because  you  forgot 
yourself  and  thought  you  were  talking  to 
some  one  else  ?  Please  continue,  and  imagine 
I  am  literary.  I  really  think  I  should  like 
poetry  if  some  one  would  educate  me.  Go 
on,  Dewdrop,"  and  she  gave  a  little  touch  of 
the  lash  to  the  off  pony. 

Remington  laughed  nervously.  "  I  forgot 
the  lines.  I  thought  I  saw  a  ghost  in  the 
hedgerow,  and  it  frightened  me  so  they  have 
slipped  my  memory." 


There  was  more  truth  than  fiction  in  this 
speech,  for  as  the  phaeton  passed  one  of  the 
side  streets  that  intersect  Bellevue  Avenue, 
his  eye  had  recognized  Dorothy  Crosby  and 
Woodbury  Stoughton  sauntering  together. 
The  twilight  had  thrown  them  into  perfect 
relief. 

"  A  ghost?  What  fun!  "  cried  Isabel,  un- 
aware of  his  meaning. 

"  Yes;  a  ghost  that  boded  no  good  either 
to  you  or  to  me." 

The  girl  laughed  and  looked  again  at  her 
companion. 

"  How  queer  you  are  to-night !  Your  tone 
then  was  positively  sepulchral.  What  did  it 
look  like?" 

"  Miss  Idlewild,  let  us  elope,"  he  said,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  sprightliness,  as  of  one  who 
sweeps  away  the  fumes  before  his  eyes. 

"  Certainly.    Let  it  be  this  very  evening." 

They  both  laughed  gleefully,  and  an  instant 
later  the  noise  of  the  wheels  upon  the  gravel 
path  told  them  that  their  drive  was  at  an  end. 

Remington  returned  to  the  hotel  in  a  state 
of  excitement,  which  he  was  conscious  would 
soon  settle  into  gloom.  On  the  veranda  he 
encountered  Finchley,  who  carried  an  over- 
coat across  his  arm. 

"What!  Are  you  going  back  to-night? 
Hold  on  until  to-morrow,  and  I'll  go  with 
you." 

"  I  can't.  There's  been  a  bad  break  in  the 
market.  It  has  come  even  sooner  than  I  ex- 
pected. Scioto  Valley  has  dropped  ten  points 
since  yesterday." 

"  Pheugh ! " 

At  the  moment,  Stoughton  came  up  swing- 
ing his  cane.  He  appeared  very  good-humored, 
and  remarked  that  the  pair  looked  grave  as 
owls. 

"  What's  the  good  word  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Look  here,  Stoughton."  Finchley  put 
his  hand  through  the  other's  arm  and  walked 
him  aside. 

"  The  devil !  "  Remington  heard  his  friend 
ejaculate. 

"  You  know,  I  told  you  not  to  buy  at  those 
prices,"  said  the  broker,  and  he  waved  his' 
hand  at  the  driver  of  the  omnibus.    "  I'm  off." 

Stoughton  stood  whipping  his  cane  against 
the  leg  of  his  trowsers. 

"  This  is  a  nice  thing  to  have  happen  at 
the  height  of  the  season." 

"Are  you  stuck  badly  ?"  asked  Remington. 

"  It  isn't  as  deep  as  a  well  nor  as  wide  as 
a  church  door,  but  it's  enough,"  he  growled. 
"I  was  a  fool,  as  Finchley  says.  It's  only 
two  thousand,"  he  added  presently, 
bought  a  couple  of  hundred  Scioto  Valley  foi 
a  turn  last  week,  and  it  has  gone  the  wror 
way." 


e  wror  2 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


709 


"  Tough  luck."  Remington  did  not  feel 
quite  so  sympathetic  as  if  the  afternoon's  epi- 
sode had  not  been  in  his  mind.  Besides,  he 
had  a  little  Scioto  Valley  himself.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  going  wrong. 

They  both  returned  to  New  York  on  the 
following  day.  The  break  in  the  market  was 
only  temporary.  Even  Scioto  Valley  recov- 
ered a  large  portion  of  its  decline.  But  Rem- 
ington tipped  his  out  at  nearly  the  lowest 
point  it  touched.  Pie  was  afraid  to  hold  any 
longer,  for  it  might  go  all  to  pieces,  his  broker 
said.  He  did  not  like  to  run  the  risk  of  falling 
into  debt.  This  loss  made  a  sad  hole  in  his 
capital.  Two  thousand  dollars  was  all  he  had 
left.  He  made  the  resolution,  however,  that 
he  would  never  buy  stocks  on  a  margin  again. 
He  would  trust  to  his  profession  for  his  income 
in  future. 

"  I  pulled  through  that  racket  pretty  well," 
said  Stoughton,  a  month  later.  "  I  sold  my 
Scioto  Valley  to-day,  and  my  whole  loss  is 
only  four  hundred,  including  interest.  I'm 
going  to  the  caucus  to-night.  Come  ahead. 
There's  likely  to  be  some  sport." 

"  I  was  intending  to  go,"  answered  Rem- 
ington. "  Ramsay  Whiting  was  in  my  office 
this  morning.  He  said  the  Independents 
were  going  to  make  every  effort  to  prevent 
the  election  of  Collamore  delegates." 

"  Hm !  They'll  find  it  no  easy  matter. 
Corny  French  is  a  pretty  hard  customer  to 
deal  with.  The  trouble  with  Ramsay  Whit- 
ing is  that  he's  so  impractical.  There's  no 
use  in  going  into  politics  with  kid  gloves  on, 
I've  made  up  my  mind.  You've  got  to  fight 
the  beggars  with  their  own  weapons." 

Woodbury  Stoughton  had  flattered  himself 
that  in  going  into  politics  his  motives  were 
disinterested ;  that  is  to  say,  he  believed  any 
ambition  he  might  feel  for  personal  distinction 
to  be  quite  subsidiary  to  his  desire  to  promote 
the  cause  of  reform  in  public  life.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  intervention  of  the  better 
classes  was  necessary  to  repress  the  corruption 
and  debasement  of  tone  which  threatened  to 
honeycomb  our  system  of  government.  He 
was  going  to  devote  his  energies  to  advoca- 
ting pure  methods  and  blocking  the  wheels 
of  machine  rule.  For  the  pursuance  of  this 
object  he  was  desirous  to  hold  office,  but  he 
would  never  .make  use  of  any  but  the  most 
unexceptionable  and  straightforward  meas- 
ures to  advance  his  own  interests. 

It  was  in  this  spirit  he  had  at  first  at- 
tended the  primaries  in  his  ward.  The  germ 
of  the  evil  was  said  to  lie  here.  Let  good 
citizens  take  pains  to  be  present  at  these  meet- 
ings, and  the  monster  could  be  strangled  in  the 
cradle. 

His   hopes   had    been,   however,   a  little 


dashed  and  his  vanity  somewhat  wounded  by 
his  first  experiences.  The  sense  of  helpless- 
.ness  a  novice  realizes  at  an  ordinary  ward- 
room gathering  is  almost  pathetic.  The 
clock-work  regularity  with  which  everything 
is  done  suggests  the  neat,  exquisite  movement 
of  a  machine  which  receives  at  one  end  a 
commodity  in  the  staple  and  reproduces  it 
at  the  other  in  the  textile.  His  presence 
seemed  absolutely  futile.  He  might  just  as 
well  have  staid  at  home.  A  small  clique  of 
men,  whose  names  were  completely  unfamil- 
iar to  him,  appeared  to  run  everything  to 
suit  themselves ;  while  the  mass  of  the  con- 
stituents, as  they  were  styled  from  the  plat- 
form, lounged  and  smoked  in  gaping  indif- 
ference. Occasionally,  some  disappointed 
aspirant,  whose  name  had  been  omitted  from 
the  printed  ticket  supplied  by  the  committee, 
would  denounce  the  cut-and-dried  condition 
of  affairs,  only  to  be  rolled  and  trampled  in 
the  dust  by  a  wheel  as  inexorable  as  Tar- 
quinia's.  Every  few  years  the  so-called  re- 
spectable element  of  the  district — roused  by 
a  scandal  of  more  than  ordinary  proportions, 
or  whipped  into  line  through  the  persis- 
tency of  some  would-be  candidate  for  pre- 
ferment— turned  out  in  force  and  filled  the 
ward-room  to  overflowing.  Then  there  were 
speeches  made  and  resolutions  passed,  and 
read  by  a  chairman  of  blameless  character, 
calling  for  the  systematic  cooperation  of  the 
voters  against  the  wire-pulling  of  the  politi- 
cians, while  the  gentry  in  question,  already 
foreseeing  the  calm  certain  to  follow  this  out- 
burst of  enthusiasm,  suffered  the  movement 
to  have  its  head,  and  even  added  their  own 
testimony  to  the  worthiness  of  the  cause. 

As  is  commonly  the  case,  the  ingredients 
that  went  to  make  up  the  constituency  to 
which  Stoughton  belonged  were  various.  In 
the  first  place,  there  were  the  well-to-do  and 
educated,  who  were  many  of  them  vastly 
indifferent  to  their  rights  of  suffrage.  At 
their  antipodes  were  the  poor  and  ignorant 
folk,  who  possessed  little  else  but  their  votes 
upon  which  to  raise  money.  Between  them 
lay  that  great  middle  class,  to  whom  orators 
delight  to  appeal  as  the  bone  and  sinew  of 
the  American  people, —  the  class  whose  stand- 
ards must,  under  republican  institutions,  de- 
termine largely  the  standards  of  the  nation. 
This  last  element  held  the  balance  of  polit- 
ical power,  and,  while  deprecating  anything 
that  could  be  construed  into  out-and-out 
dishonesty,  was  disposed  to  pardon  much 
to  a  smart  man.  In  other  words,  they  were 
not  thin-skinned.  When  matters  became  no- 
torious,— which  is  another  way  of  saying 
"when  they  began  to  lose  money," — they 
arose  in  their  might  and  made  a  clean  sweep 


7io 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


of  the  slate ;  but  for  the  most  part  they  took 
things  easily,  and  believed  in  supporting  at 
the  polls  men  who  would  never  feel  ashamed 
of  them.  Finally,  there  were  the  politicians 
pure  and  simple ;  which,  if  we  take  the  words 
in  the  literal  sense,  was  about  the  last  term 
that  could  properly  be  applied  to  them. 

"  We  shall  never  get  pure  government  in 
this  country,"  Ramsay  Whiting  observed  to 
Stoughton  at  one  of  their  Civil  Service  gath- 
erings, "  until  the  moral  tone  of  the  average 
voter  is  raised.  When  the  masses  begin  to 
understand  why  it  is  not  respectable  for  an 
office-holder  to  use  his  place  to  supply  his 
friends  with  comfortable  berths,  we  shall  see 
an  improvement.  As  it  is,  they  no  more  look 
for  squeamishness  in  such  matters  than  they 
•expect  to  get  full  weight  at  a  country  gro- 
cery. In  regard  to  cracking  a  bank  or  em- 
bezzling trust-funds,  the  popular  sentiment 
is  generally  sound;  but  short  of  these,  it  is 
not  inclined  to  judge  a  ready  speaker  too 
harshly."  The  only  thing  to  be  done,  he 
went  on  to  say,  was  one's  self  to  fight  the 
evil,  and  trust  to  time  to  leaven  the  lump. 
Every  little  helped. 

By  degrees  Stoughton  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  leading  politicians  in  his 
ward ;  and  it  had  surprised  him  to  find  what 
a  decent  lot  they  were,  compared  to  his  ex- 
pectations. To  be  sure,  his  preconceived 
ideas  on  the  subject  had  pictured  the  genus 
in  question  as  a  kind  of  human  vulture, — a 
groggy,  seedy  individual,  who,  when  he  was 
not  plundering  the  public  till,  haunted  pot- 
houses and  kindred  resorts.  However  apt 
this  diagnosis  may  have  been  regarding  the 
lower  strata  of  the  profession,  it  certainly  did 
great  injustice  both  to  the  Honorable  Corne- 
lius French  and  Mr.  Alderman  Dunn. 

To-night  was  to  be  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant primaries  of  the  year.  A  Republican 
candidate  for  the  Assembly  was  to  be  nomi- 
nated, although  nomination  in  this  district 
was  not  always  equivalent  to  an  election. 
Delegates  were  to  be  selected  also  for  the 
convention  shortly  to  meet  to  choose  a  Uni- 
ted States  Representative.  The  Honorable 
Hugh  Collamore,  who  had  already  served 
two  terms  in  the  State  Senate,  was  anxious 
for  the  office,  and  his  nomination  would  have 
been  regarded  as  a  certainty,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  opposition  of  the  Civil  Service  wing 
of  the  party.  This  reform  element  had  en- 
deavored, though  unsuccessfully,  to  defeat 
Collamore  at  the  polls  last  year;  but  the  at- 
tempt had  rendered  the  contest  so  close  that 
the  managers  were  putting  their  heads  to- 
gether to  try  and  patch  up  matters.  If  the 
Reformers  were  to  go  over  to  the  Democrats, 
it  would  be  a  serious  affair.  They  must  be 


humored  in  some  way,  or,  better  still,  set  at 
variance  among  themselves. 

Ramsay  Whiting  was  one  of  the  leading 
members  of  the  Civil  Service  Reform  Club. 
His  labors  in  this  direction  rivaled  even  his 
devotion  to  his  farm.  He  was  the  ruling 
spirit  of  the  organization  in  his  own  district. 
Remington  and  Stoughton  had  signed  the 
constitution  and  enrolled  themselves  as  aid- 
ers in  the  good  cause  almost  immediately 
after  coming  to  New  York.  Stoughton  had 
been,  the  previous  autumn,  among  the  bit- 
terest opponents  of  Collamore's  nomination. 
But  when  it  had  come  to  election  day,  and 
it  was  evident  that  there  was  no  chance  for 
Mr.  William  Webster,  the  Reform  candidate, 
Stoughton  showed  his  common  sense,  as  he 
said,  and  worked  for  Collamore  against  the 
regular  Democrat,  who  was,  likewise,  an  ar- 
rant politician. 

"  It's  a  choice  of  evils,  but  Collamore's  the 
better  man,"  was  his  remark  to  those  who 
inquired  as  to  the  merits  of  the  candidates. 
"  There's  no  use  in  voting  for  Webster ;  he's 
got  no  chance,  and  it  will  be  merely  a  waste 
of  your  ballot." 

Whiting   had   endeavored  to   remonstrate 
with  Stoughton.    The  independent  candidate 
was  an  unexceptionable  nomination,  he  said,    ; 
and  respectable   people,  by  scratching   Mr.    ' 
Collamore's  name,  could  teach  the  party  a 
valuable  lesson.     Next  year,  they  would  not 
be  in  such  a  hurry  to  put  up  a  second-rate 
man. 

"  But  don't  you  see,  my  dear  fellow,  it 
wont  do  any  good  to  vote  for  Webster?" 
protested  Stoughton,  with  some  irritation. 
"  You  can't  possibly  elect  him,  and  the  result 
will  be  merely  that  that  beggar  Holmes  will 
get  in.  He's  worse  than  six  Collamores,  and 
is  a  Democrat  to  boot.  You're  cutting  the 
throat  of  your  own  party." 

"  Exactly,  if  you  choose  to  put  it  that  way. 
I  don't  consider  myself  bound  by  any  party 
ties  to  vote  for  an  inferior  candidate ; "  and 
Whiting  turned  on  his  heel. 

Collamore,  meeting  Stoughton  in  the  street 
a  few  days  later,  had  greeted  him  cordially. 
Without  thanking  the  young  man  in  express 
terms,  he  declared  himself  greatly  indebted  for 
the  efforts  of  the  friends  to  whom  he  owed 
his  election.  Stoughton  felt  considerably  flat- 
tered, and  went  on  to  say  how  glad  he  was 
that  the  Democratic  candidate  had  been 
beaten.  "  Well,  sir,"  answered  the  politic 
with  an  air  of  disgust  that  was  not  with< 
pity,  "  it's  not  becoming  perhaps  in  me  to 
it,  but  he's  a  poor  lot.  I  would  sooner 
off  this  right  hand" — and  here  he  shook 
fat  fingers  within  an  inch  of  the  other's  nc 
in  virtuous  indignation — "  than  resort  to 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


711 


tricks  which  that  Holmes  practiced  to  try  .to 
get  an  election.  Why,  sir,  the  fellow's  hire- 
lings violate  the  sanctity  of  the  home  in  their 
attempts  to  buy  votes.  It  was  disgusting,  sim- 
ply disgusting !  "  and  the  speaker  looked  as  if 
the  purchase  of  a  freeman's  suffrage  was  some- 
thing against  which  his  very  nature  rebelled. 

"And  who  is  talked  of  for  the  Assembly 
next  fall  ?  "  inquired  Stoughton,  presently. 

Mr.  Collamore  was  not  sure  that  any  names 
had  been  prominently  mentioned  in  that  con- 
nection. Young  Finchley  was  a  rising  man, 
and  was  likely  to  be  returned  from  one  of 
the  city  districts.  "  Wouldn't  vou  like  to  go 
yourself,  Mr.  Stoughton  ?  " 

Stoughton  was  not  sure  that  he  would  not. 
"If  the  party  would  like  to  have  me  serve, 
I  shall  be  verv  glad  of  the  nomination,"  he 
continued. 

"Well,  we'll  see,— we'll  see  if  it  can't  be 
managed,"  said  the  politician,  thoughtfully. 

The  latter  had  referred  to  the  subject  on 
several  occasions  since,  and  Stoughton  had 
come  to  regard  himself  in  the  light  of  a  pos- 
sible candidate.  He  had  already  made  sure  of 
the  support  of  the  Reformers.  At  a  meeting 
of  the  executive  committee  of  the  club  held 
a  week  ago  it  had  been  agreed  to  run  him 
for  Assemblyman,  and  Talboys  De  Witt,  an 
intelligent  young  banker,  for  Congress  on 
one  ticket,  and  to  oppose  the  Collamore 
candidacy. 

Two  days  before  the  present  caucus,  secret 
overtures  had  been  made  to  Stoughton  to  the 
effect  that  a  compromise  was  desirable.  The 
political  element  would  assure  Stoughton  the 
nomination  for  the  Assembly,  if  his  friends 
would  vote  for  Collamore  delegates.  There 
was  no  chance  for  both  the  Civil  Serv- 
ice men,  and  by  a  refusal  to  settle  matters 
amicably  the  chances  were  much  in  favor  of 
neither  of  them  getting  the  nomination.  This 
argument  of  the  envoy  sent  on  behalf  of  the 
other  side  was  represented  as  worthy  of  con- 
sideration by  Stoughton  to  Ramsay  Whiting, 
to  whom,  without  revealing  that  he  had  been 
approached,  he  suggested  the  possible  advan- 
tage of  some  such  move.  But  the  young  Re- 
former was  steadfast  in  his  determination  to 
avoid  bargaining  with  the  enemy.  If  the  con- 
sequence was  defeat,  at  least  they  could  say 
they  had  been  faithful  to  their  principles. 
Stoughton  had  shaken  his  head  incredulously. 
His  reply  to  the  messenger  of  the  other  fac- 
tion was  that  perhaps  something  might  be 
done  on  the  night  itself. 

Remington  and  Stoughton  entered  the 
ward-room  together,  which  was  crowded 
with  men  standing  in  little  knots,  smoking. 
There  were  a  number  at  the  door  armed  with 
printed  tickets  which  bore  various  headings, 


such  as  "  Regular  Republican  Nominations," 
"  Straight  Republican  ticket,"  and  the  like. 

"  Holloa !  "  said  Remington,  glancing  over 
one  of  the  ballots,  "they've  got  your  dele- 
gates on  the  Collamore  ticket,  Wood." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  replied  Stoughton. 

They  walked  forward  to  the  middle  of  the 
room.  "  Ah  !  Mr.  Stoughton,  how  d'  y'  do  ?  " 
said  one  of  the  ward  politicians,  a  tall  indi- 
vidual, with  a  sonorous  voice,  the  distin- 
guishing points  of  whose  dress  were  a  long, 
black  frock-coat  and  a  black  whisp  tie.  "  Mr. 
French,"  he  continued,  turning  to  a  portly 
man  with  a  round,  red,  sphinx-like  face,  and 
glittering  pig's  eyes,  "  I  want  to  introduce  to 
you  a  young  friend  of  mine,  one  of  the  new 
men  of  the  party.  Mr.  Stoughton — Honor- 
able Cornelius  French." 

".I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  the 
great  man,  taking  the  neophyte's  hand  in  his, 
while  he  scrutinized  his  face  with  a  keen 
glance.  "  I  thought  I  was  acquainted  with 
all  the  rising  political  talent." 

"  I  belong  to  the  youngsters,"  said  Stough- 
ton, with  a  laugh. 

"So  do  I,  sir;  so  do  I,"  protested  Mr. 
French,  with  a  mock  gesture  of  deprecation. 
"  I  am  not  to  be  classed  with  the  antiquities 
yet." 

"  Mr.  Stoughton  is  the  young  man  of  whom 
I  was  speaking  to  you  the  other  day,"  the 
henchman  went  on  to  observe.  "  As  I  was 
just  saying  to  these  gentlemen,"  and  he 
turned  toward  the  group,  "  we  are  determined 
to  send  clean  men  to  the  Assembly  next  time." 

"  Quite  right,  sir;  quite  right.  The  country 
demands  that  the  public  servants  should  be 
worthy  of  their  trust."  Mr.  French  gravely 
passed  a  blue  silk  handkerchief  over  his 
smooth  chin. 

Corny  French,  as  he  was  styled  in  political 
circles,  was  a  remarkable  character.  He  was 
primarily  a  self-made  man ;  which,  in  his  case, 
was  largely  associated  with  the  fact  that  he 
had  always  looked  out  for  himself  before 
everything  and  everybody  else, —  even  includ- 
ing the  grand  old  party  to  which  he  belonged, 
and  of  which  he  was  one  of  the  main-stays. 
He  was  one  of  the  powers  behind  the  political 
throne,  one  of  those  personages  who,  like  the 
manipulator  of  a  puppet-show,  handle  the 
wires  invisible  to  the  ordinary  eye.  Originally 
a  journalist,  he  had  obtained  office  under  the 
New  York  City  Government,  as  the  reward 
of  a  spicy  advocacy  of  a  successful  candidate. 
Thence  he  had  eaten  his  way  deep  into  the 
municipality.  Few  in  public  life  had  been 
brought  so  intimately  into  contact  —  or  rather 
into  contract — with  the  civil  needs,  in  the 
line  of  lamps,  sewers,  and  pavements,  as  him- 
self. He  was  an  alderman  for  a  number  of 


712 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


years,  and  later  figured  as  a  legislator  in  both 
branches  at  Albany.  He  could  have  been 
sent  to  Congress  at  any  time  had  he  so  de- 
sired ;  but  it  suited  his  ambition  better  to  say 
who  should  not  go  than  to  go  himself.  Polit- 
ical manipulation  was  the  dearest  interest  of 
his  life.  There  was  to-day  no  cleverer  party 
manager  in  the  country  than  the  Honorable 
Cornelius  French.  He  had  literally  grown 
gray  in  the  service ;  and  there  was  many  a 
politician  who  was  indebted  for  his  subse- 
quent notoriety  to  the  favor  shown  him  at 
the  start  by  this  modern  Warwick.  From  the 
enormous  circulation  of  his  newspaper  he  had 
realized  a  handsome  fortune,  and  he  lived  in 
luxury.  His  private  tastes  and  accomplish- 
ments indicated  a  mind  of  no  mean  order. 
He  was  an  omnivorous  consumer  of  books, 
and  could  read  with  pleasure,  it  was  said, 
six  different  languages.  His  library  was 
among  the  choicest  of  the  city.  He  was  said 
to  be  an  intimate  student  of  the  English 
poets.  He  had  never  been  accused  of  per- 
sonal pilfering  of  the  public  money. 

Just  then  Ramsay  Whiting  came  up  and 
drew  Remington  aside. 

"  See  here,  what  does  Stoughton  mean  by 
letting  his  delegates  appear  on  the  opposition 
ticket  ?  It  was  agreed  that  he  and  De  Witt 
should  run  together." 

"  So  I  thought.    You'd  better  ask  him." 

But  Stoughton  had  slipped  away,  and  pres- 
ently there  went  a  whisper  round  the  room  to 
vote  the  split  ticket.  Despite  the  efforts  of 
Whiting,  who  button-holed  Reform  men,  and 
urged  the  importance  of  avoiding  compro- 
mise, the  general  sentiment  seemed  to  be  con- 
fused. Somebody  had  started  the  watch-word 
that,  by  meeting  the  politicians  half-way,  more 
would  be  gained  for  the  cause  than  by  suf- 
fering total  defeat. 

"  I  say,  Stoughton,  you  ought  to  get  up 
and  decline  to  run,  except  on  the  same  ticket 
with  De  Witt,"  said  Remington,  seeking  out 
his  friend.  It  was  plain  to  him  that  Stoughton 
had  made  some  bargain  with  the  enemy. 

"  It  isn't  my  fault  that  they've  put  my 
delegates  on  their  ticket.  If  I  should  do  that, 
neither  De  Witt  nor  I  would  have  a  ghost  of 
a  chance." 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  vote  against  you, 
then." 

"  All  right.   Just  as  you  please." 

The  politician  in  the  frock-coat,  who  was 
the  Honorable  Hugh  Collamore's  chief  fugle- 
man, was  standing  near  by  with  Finchley. 

"  It  will  be  a  walk-over.  They've  swallowed 
that  bait  pretty  solid." 

"  Yes,  and  don't  let  on,"  Finchley  whis- 
pered behind  his  hand ;  "  but  I've  got  the 
whole  kit  of  their  ballots,  except  about  twenty, 


wrapped  up  in  my  ulster.  One  of  the  daisies 
put  them  behind  the  bench  for  safe  keeping, 
and  I*  cabbaged  them." 

It  was  plain  sailing  after  this.  In  the  midst 
of  the  noise  and  chatter,  one  of  the  Ward 
Committee  knocked  the  meeting  to  order, 
and  called  for  nominations  for  a  chairman. 
A  big  fellow,  with  a  voice  like  a  Bashan  bull, 
got  up,  and,  after  looking  around  him  as  much 
as  to  say  that  he  would  wipe  up  the  floor 
with  any  one  who  should  gainsay  him,  pro- 
ceeded to  make  a  motion  that  Mr.  Alderman 
Dunn  act  as  the  chairman  of  this  meeting. 

Remington,  who  was  in  a  state  of  much 
excitement,  started  to  his  feet  and  nominated 
the  Honorable  William  Webster.  The  meeting 
was  desired  to  express  its  choice  by  a  show 
of  hands.  The  vote  stood  :  Dunn,  97;  Web- 
ster, 85.  Stoughton,  who  had  voted  for  Web- 
ster, arose  and  urged  that  Mr.  Dunn's  nom- 
ination be  made  unanimous. 

Mr.  Dunn,  while  in  a  sitting  posture,  had 
the  effect  of  being  without  a  neck.  His  square, 
heavy-jawed  countenance,  smooth-shaven 
and  furrowed  with  seams,  appeared  to  rest 
directly  upon  his  broad  shoulders  after  the 
manner  of  a  snow  image  fashioned  by  boys. 
He  had  an  expansive  smile,  and  a  confiden- 
tial, caressing  manner,  which  was  intended 
to  be  very  ingenuous, — as  if  to  imply  that 
whatever  secrets  one  might  intrust  to  him 
would  go  no  further.  His  person  was  ordi- 
narily redolent  of  jockey-club, — a  peculiarity 
which  was  easily  accounted  for,  however. 
Mr.  Dunn  was  in  every-day  life  a  dealer  in 
horses,  and  it  having  been  intimated  to  him 
that  the  flavor  of  the  stables  was  disagreeable 
to  his  associates,  he  had  endeavored  to  ob- 
viate the  difficulty  by  the  use  of  scent.  The 
choice  of  jockey-club  was  only  an  accident ; 
so  he  explained  to  Stoughton,  who  came  upon 
him  one  day  in  the  municipal  dressing-room, 
sprinkling  himself  from  a  small  bottle.  It 
might  just  as  well  have  been  patchouly  or 
any  other  perfume;  he  had  not  intended  to 
pun  upon  his  occupation.  And  then  he  had 
laughed  hoarsely,  and  rubbed  the  young  man 
with  his  elbow,  which  was  his  way  of  sug- 
gesting that  he  had  said  a  good  thing.  He 
was  an  alderman  at  present,  and  reputed  to 
be  one  of  the  shrewdest  workers  in  the  party. 

He  now  ascended  the  rostrum,  and  two 
secretaries,   one   from    each    faction,    havii 
been  chosen,  he  declared  the  meeting  org£ 
ized  for  business.   There  was  some  little  coi 
fusion  among  the  Reformers,  owing  to  the  mi 
laying  of  their  ballots.    Some  one  called  for 
committee  to  nominate  delegates,  and  an  at 
tempt  was  made  to  have  distinct  ballots  for 
delegates  to  the  congressional  and  assembly- 
man conventions;   but   both  these  motioi 


i 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


having  been  defeated,  a  vote  was  taken  for 
both  together.  The  result  was  announced  by 
the  chairman. 

He  declared  elected  the  list  of  Collamore 
delegates,  who  had  received  121  votes  to  61 
for  their  opponents,  and  likewise  the  delegates 
in  favor  of  Woodbury  Stoughton  for  Assem- 
blyman, whose  majority  was  even  larger  ow- 
ing to  his  support  from  both  factions.  Upon 
the  announcement  of  the  result  a  loud  shout 
went  up,  coupled  with  cries  for  a  speech  from 
the  would-be  Congressman,  who  at  last  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  escorted  to  the  platform. 
He  was  a  ponderous-looking  man,  with 
coarse  red  hair  and  beard,  and  a  hawk's  eye 
and  nose.  He  was  arrayed  in  black  broad- 
cloth. From  his  showy  watch-chain  hung  a 
Masonic  emblem,  and  a  large  diamond  pin 
spluttered  in  his  shirt-bosom. 

After  a  short  preface  of  thanks  "for  the 
honor  conferred,"  he  proceeded  to  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns  in  saying  that  he  had  rea- 
son to  believe  that  there  were  some  who  had 
come  to  the  meeting  for  the  purpose  of  sow- 
ing dissension  in  the  ranks  of  the  Republican 
party.  He  looked  around  the  room,  as  he 
i  spoke,  with  an  air  of  righteous  indignation, 
amid  cries  of  "  That's  so,"  "  Give  it  to  'em, 
Hugh,"  "  We'll  teach  'em  what  reform 
means ! "  The  air  was  blue  with  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  the  worst  element  evidently  felt 
the  inspiration  of  success. 

"  Gentlemen,"  the  speaker  continued,  stim- 
|  ulated  by  the  last  interjection,  "  I  have  heard 
the  word  reform  fall  from  the  lips  of  some  one 
in  this  assembly.    Reform !    Thank  God,  gen- 
!  tlemen," — and  here  he  banged  with  his  fist 
\  upon  the  desk, — "  thank  God,  I  can  stand 
;  up  proudly  in  this  place  and  say  that,  if  there 
!  is  one  thing  I  believe  in,  and  have  striven  for 
i  during  the  whole  course  of  my  political  ca- 
reer, it  is  reform.    Reform,  gentlemen,  reform, 
the   sacred  beacon  and  watch-word  of  our 
party,  the  golden  hope  of  the  political  future 
and  of  the  present, —  aye,  gentlemen,  of  the 

|  present " 

"  How  about  that  Spuyten  Duyvil  Bridge 
job  ?  "  piped  a  voice  at  the  back  of  the  room. 
The  eyes  of  everybody  were  turned  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  had  em-mated,  and 
seemed  to  center  on  Ramsay  Whiting,  who 
was  standing  near  the  door  with  folded  arms 
and  a  disdainful  smile  on  his  face.  His  ulster 
was  drawn  up  about  his  ears,  and  he  had 
been  apparently  on  the  point  of  taking  his 
departure.  There  were  loud  cries  of  "Who 
iwas  it  spoke?"  "Put  him  out!"  and  the 
(like.  The  remark  had  not  come  from  Whiting, 
but  the  crowd  chose  to  consider  him  respon- 
sible for  it ;  or,  at  least,  the  Honorable  Hugh 
did, —  for,  as  he  resumed  his  harangue,  his  fin- 

; 


ger  was  pointed  unmistakably  in  his  direction. 
"  Some  gentleman  has  made  a  remark,"  said 
he,  and,  as  he  paused  dramatically,  the  whole 
company  turned  toward  the  young  man.  "  Some 
gentleman  has  taken  it  upon  himself  to  make  a 
remark  which  reflects  upon  my  conduct  as  a 
public  servant,  and  which  calls  in  question 
my  fidelity  to  the  trusts  that  this  constit- 
ooency  has  placed  in  my  hands.  I  might, 
upon  such  an  occasion  as  this,  fitly  decline  to 
notice  language  so  unparliamentary ;  but  it 
has  been  my  boast,  gentlemen  of  the  Re- 
publican party,  since  first  I  assumed  the  sa- 
cred garb  of  office,  that  I  have  been  ever 
ready  to  submit  my  behavior  to  the  light  of 
scrutiny, —  aye,  gentlemen,  to  the  scorching 
blaze  of  noon.  The  allusion  that  the  honor- 
able gentleman  has  seen  fit  to  make  is  Cim- 
brian  in  its  darkness,  gentlemen,  Cimbrian." 

The  orator  paused  to  give  due  effect  to 
what  he  considered,  doubtless,  an  apt  and 
correct  classical  allusion. 

"  Let  him  stand  forth  and  proclaim  himself!" 

There  were  loud  cries  of  "  He  dar'sn't ! " 
"  What's  his  name  ?  "  and  the  like. 

"  Let  him  no  longer  seek  a  cowardly  shelter 
behind  the  rampart  of  the  anonymous.  I  care 
not  who  he  is,  whether  he  be  a  lowly  son  of 
toil  or  one  who  haunts  the  gilded  halls  of  aris- 
tocracy,"—  and  here  he  stopped  and  shook 
his  fat  finger  menacingly  at  Whiting, — "  I 
proclaim  him  from  this  platform  a  base  and 
perjured  liar." 

Whiting  made  no  reply ;  he  simply  looked 
amused.  And  the  Honorable  Hugh,  having, 
so  to  speak,  placed  himself  on  record,  was 
evidently  satisfied,  for,  after  looking  around 
for  a  moment,  as  if  in  search  of  some  one  to 
take  up  his  gage,  he  went  on  to  say,  in  a 
pathetic  tone :  "  Perhaps,  gentlemen,  I  may 
have  been  in  error  to  consume  your  valuable 
time  with  matters  of  private  moment.  But " 
—  and  here  he  struck  his  chest  with  his  fist  — 
"  no  one,  my  fellow-citizens,  from  the  poor 
but  free-born  tiller  of  the  fields  to  the  hon- 
ored magistrate  upon  the  bench,  can  afford 
to  allow  the  foul  breath  of  slander  to  sully 
the  snowy  bosom  of  his  reputation ;  his  repu- 
tation, gentlemen,  which,  in  the  words  of  the 
immortal  bard,  outweighs  the  miser's  gold." 

He  sat  down,  overcome  by  his  feelings,  amid 
vociferous  applause,  and  the  meeting  was 
speedily  adjourned.  Stoughton  went  off  with 
a  number  of  jovial  spirits  to  celebrate  the  oc- 
casion. He  saw  fit  first,  however,  to  invite 
Remington  and  Whiting,  who  were  standing 
together,  to  join  him. 

"  Arthur,."  said  Stoughton,  "  let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  Mr.  Alderman  Dunn." 

The  Alderman  said  a  few  words  to  the 
young  men.  He  addressed  Whiting  with  a 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


show  of  deference.  "  We  feel,  Mr.  Whiting, 
that  the  efforts  of  your  association  in  the  in- 
terests of  good  government  should  be  recog- 
nized. Mr.  Stoughton's  name  will  add  strength 
to  the  ticket.  The  people  will  see  that  the  so- 
called  politicians  " —  and  here  he  smiled  with 
the  air  of  one  who,  though  unjustly  accused, 
is  still  patient — "are  not  wholly  regardless 
of  the  public  interests.  I  regret  that  you  will 
not  join  us  in  a  little  something.  Good-even- 
ing, gentlemen." 

Whiting,  on  the  way  home,  was  severe  in 
his  criticisms  upon  Stoughton's  conduct.  If 
men  of  his  stamp  did  not  take  a  high  stand 
in  such  matters,  what  could  one  expect  of  the 
uneducated  ?  He  declared  that,  after  what  had 
happened,  he  could  not  vote  for  Stoughton. 
"  I  consider  even  that  Finchley  a  less  dan- 
gerous man,  for  I  believe  he  acts  up  to  his 
lights,  and  Stoughton  doesn't;  I'm  terribly 
disappointed  in  him.  It  was  perfectly  evident 
to-night  that  he  slaughtered  Talboys  to  save 
himself." 

Remington  was  unable  to  say  a  word  in  his 
friend's  defense.  He  felt  that  the  latter  had 
behaved  badly.  He  had  unquestionably  sac- 
rificed principle  to  his  own  private  ambition. 
The  young  men  shook  hands  cordially  at 
parting.  They  had  come,  of  late,  to  feel  a 
mutual  liking,  notwithstanding  their  devotion 
to  the  same  woman. 

VIII. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  summer  day,  late  in 
August.  The  fog,  that  for  a  week  past  had 
enveloped  Bar  Harbor  like  a  shroud,  had 
rolled  away,  and  the  atmosphere,  appropriate 
to  a  cloudless  sky  at  this  season,  was  tem- 
pered by  a  breeze  fresh  from  the  ocean. 

One  approaching  this  picturesque  resort — 
more  familiarly,  though  erroneously,  described 
as  Mount  Desert — cannot  fail  to  be  deeply 
impressed  by  the  bold  rugged  beauty  of  an 
immense  pile  of  cliff  known  as  Great  Head, 
which  lifts  its  broad  flat  surface  to  an  unusual 
height  above  the  level  of  the  waters  and  juts 
seaward  from  amid  the  lesser  crags  that  line 
the  iron  coast,  a  huge  sentinel. 

Many  hundred  miles  to  the  north,  where 
the  waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence  River  mingle 
with  the  Atlantic,  stands  another  mammoth  of 
the  geological  world,  the  Perce  Rock.  The 
incessant  action  of  the  wind  and  waves  has 
divided  the  latter  from  the  main-land,  and  fur- 
ther eaten  into  its  solid  center  an  arched  path- 
way, through  which  small  skiffs  can  pass  with 
safety  when  the  sea  is  tranquil ;  but  though 
its  core  is  threatened,  the  superb  crag  towers 
proudly  and,  like  its  more  familiar  rival,  raises 
to  the  cold  heavens  a  broad  expanse,  where 


myriads  of  sea-birds  find  a  resting-place 
secure  from  the  invasion  of  man.  Naught 
disturbs  these  feathered  creatures  save  when 
an  occasional  steamer — the  sole  link  uniting 
the  inhabitants  of  the  isolated  gulf-ports, 
Perce*,  Paspebiac,  and  the  beautiful  Gaspe, 
with  the  outer  world — rests  for  a  little  by  the 
rock-bound  village,  and  fires  a  gun  athwart 
the  startled  twilight.  Then  in  an  instant,  as 
by  a  touch  of  magic,  the  vast  rock — which 
but  just  now,  erect  amid  the  waters  and 
outlined  against  the  evening  sky,  inspired 
the  gazer  by  its  silent  majestic  beauty— 
wakes  to  life.  Countless  flocks  of  gulls  and 
cormorants,  disturbed  by  the  unaccustomed 
din,  start  from  their  aeries  with  hoarse  stri- 
dent cries,  and  hover  on  wide-extended  wing 
above  the  sea-girt  pile.  A  small  number, 
startled  into  more  decided  action,  describe 
a  short  ponderous  flight  oceanward  or  sail 
solemnly  along  the  shores,  and  for  a  few  min- 
utes the  air  teems  with  the  feathered  tribe ; 
but  as  the  sounds  die  away  among  the  ancient 
hills,  the  birds  settle  once  more  on  the  famil- 
iar resting-place. 

Although  the  geological  formation  is  difc 
ferent,  the  boldness  and  wild,  silent  grandeur 
of  Great  Head  awaken  emotions  kindred  to 
those  which  the  sight  of  the  Perce  Rock  in- 
spires. Little  by  little,  as  the  steamer  steals 
up  the  coast,  the  features  of  the  giant  crag 
define  themselves,  and  the  wondrous  colors 
of  the  rugged  stone  are  revealed  to  the  ad- 
miring eye.  Civilization  seems  far  remote. 
Nature,  pure  and  simple,  untrammeled,  un- 
restrained, holds  free  court  amid  her  silent 
worshipers. 

The  steamer  passes  ciose  to  the  headland, 
but  the  traveler,  while  still  afar  off,  is  puzzled 
as  to  the  identity  of  sundry  objects,  at  first 
mere  speck^,  which  become  visible  at  fre- 
quent intervals  along  the  level  and  down  the 
face  of  the  rocks.  So  motionless  do  these 
appear,  that  only  on  a  near  approach  is  it 
apparent  that  this  citadel  of  nature  is  pos- 
sessed by  living  creatures.  By  degrees  it 
dawns  upon  the  astonished  senses  that  every 
sheltering  ledge,  every  nook  and  comfortable 
recess, — from  the  broad  top  to  the  base-line 
far  beneath,  rough  with  barnacles  and  slippery 
with  weed,  where  the  salt  wave  licks  the  feet 
of  the  unwary, — harbors  a  pair  of  human 
beings  engrossed  in  the  delights  of  intimate 
communion.  With  apparently  nothing  to  in- 
terrupt their  unfettered  confidences,  with  the 
sky  and  ocean  and  grand  old  rocks  as  sole 
witnesses  of  what  each  may  say  to  the  other, 
is  it  strange  that  the  shrill  notes  of  the  whistle 
breaking  on  the  ear  convey  the  first  warni 
that  they  are  no  longer  unobserved,  and  t" 
earth  claims  them  once  more  ?  Then,  as 


= 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


7*5 


vessel  steams  abreast  of  the  vast  promontory, 
from  every  airy  niche  along  the  shore,  from 
every  ledge  that  slopes  toward  the  sea,  and 
from  behind  bowlders  that  guard  the  entrance 
to  fascinating  caves,  handkerchiefs,  hats,  and 
gay  sun-umbrellas  wave  back  a  joyous  an- 
swering welcome,  and  eager  eyes  are  strained 
upon  the  faces  of  the  new-comers.  But  the 
swift  course  of  the  steamer  leaves  them  but 
little  time  in  which  to  satisfy  their  curiosity. 
For  a  few  short  minutes  query  and  comment 
absorb  those  upon  the  shore  and  those  upon 
the  sea.  Then,  as  the  vessel  lapses  into 
distance,  the  young  people  sink  back  upon 
the  rocks  and  resume  the  thread  of  inter- 
rupted discourse. 

No  man,  it  is  believed,  has  ever  quite 
gauged  the  cleverness  of  woman.  Every  now 
and  then  we  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have 
come  to  the  end  of  her  resources,  and  hold 
her,  figuratively  speaking,  in  the  hollow  of 
our  hand,  when  all  of  a  sudden  some  new 
little  device  peeps  out,  as  shyly  as  a  violet 
from  a  hedge-row,  to  show  us  the  folly  of  our 
pretension.  It  was  always  with  a  certain  air 
of  exultation,  as  of  a  consciousness  of  security 
from  pursuit,  that  the  hard-worked  male  of 
our  great  cities  had  fled  to  the  trout  streams 
and  deer  woods  to  spend  his  pitiful  fortnight's 
vacation.  His  plea  that  the  discomforts  of 
the  primeval  forest  are  beyond  the  endurance 
of  the  gentler  sex  always  seemed  unanswer- 
able. Yet,  mark  the  sequel !  Woman,  with 
a  docility  that  should  have  awakened  suspi- 
cion, appeared  to  accept  the  situation;  but  in 
secret  she  diligently  cast  about  for  an  argu- 
ment, until  she  had  installed  herself  in  an  isle 
where  all  those  health-giving  properties  for 
which,  her  mate  was  clamorous  were  to  be 
found  in  abundance,  and  the  annoyances  of 
an  outlandish  existence  merely  such  as  added 
a  zest  and  piquancy  to  the  circumstances. 
Here,  assuming  the  garb  of  Diana  the  Hunt- 
ress, she  showed  herself  prepared  to  woo  the 
delights  of  nature  and  the  unconventional. 
History  repeats  itself.  We  are  all  familiar  with 
the  fate  of  the  too  fond  Samson,  whose  flowing 
locks  grew  less  under  the  scissors  of  the  artful 
Philistine.  To-day,  in  many  a  sylvan  grove 
and  by  the  rock-bound  sea,  the  hair  of  our 
strong  men,  closely  clipped  for  the  needs 
of  summer,  grows  long  again  in  the  laps  of 
maidens  far  cleverer  than  she. 

Among  those  the  current  of  whose  thought 
was  broken  in  upon  by  the  approach  of  the 
steam-boat  on  this  particular  morning  were 
|  Arthur  Remington  and  Miss  Dorothy  Crosby, 
|  who,  having  walked  thither  from  the  village 
i  after  breakfast, —  a  pleasant  tramp, —  had 
now  for  several  hours  been  ensconced  in  a 
;  pleasant  nook.  Remington  wore  a  little  round 


cap,  a  sack-coat  over  his  tennis  shirt,  and  knick- 
erbockers. Her  dress  was  of  dark -blue  flan- 
nel, the  looseness  of  which  was  confined  by  a 
broadish  leathern  belt.  About  her  neck  she 
wore  a  white  muslin  scarf,  nonchalantly  tied, 
and  the  masses  of  her  hair  were  surmounted 
by  a  wide-brimmed  straw  hat,  perched  on  the 
back  of  the  head,  and  bound  with  the  same 
variety  of  muslin.  Seated  close  to  the  water's 
edge,  she  was  leaning  back  comfortably  against 
the  solid  wall  of  rock,  while  Remington  lay 
stretched  out  beside  her  on  the  sloping  ledge. 
They  were  talking  earnestly ;  and,  as  the  in- 
terest deepened,  he  picked,  with  increasing 
nervous  energy,  with  the  point  of  Miss  Cros- 
by's red  sun-umbrella,  at  the  barnacles  that 
grew  upon  the  rocks  around  him. 

Another  winter  had  slipped  away  without 
witnessing  any  material  change  in  the  cir- 
cumstances of  Remington.  He  had  dug  away 
at  the  law,  and  been  rewarded  by  some  little 
business, —  nothing  very  important  or  lucra- 
tive, but  sufficient  to  keep  discouragement, 
which  is  quite  as  gaunt  a  wolf  as  hunger, 
from  the  door.  His  book  on  Railroads  had 
been  favorably  received  by  the  legal  com- 
munity, even  if  the  profit  accruing  to  the 
author  had  not  been  considerable.  He  had 
been  almost  as  frequent  a  patron  of  gayeties  as 
the  winter  before,  but  nothing  had  come  of 
this  party-going  beyond  a  deeper  conviction 
than  ever  of  his  love  for  Dorothy  Crosby, 
who  was  still  unmarried,  though  a  favorite. 
The  attentions  of  Ramsay  Whiting  were  un- 
remitting, and  people  who  had  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do  wondered  whether  she  would  take 
the  unexceptionable  young  millionaire  or  that 
handsome  Woodbury  Stoughton,  with  whom 
she  was  seen  sometimes  tripping  the  cross 
streets.  Woodbury  Stoughton  was  in  the  Leg- 
islature, and  doing  very  well,  every  one  said. 

Remington  had  run  down  to  Bar  Harbor 
to  spend  the  three  weeks  of  vacation  that  he 
had  allowed  himself,  leaving  his  office  in  the 
charge  of  a  small  boy,  with  directions  to  say, 
if  any  one  called  in  the  meanwhile,  that  he 
would  be  back  by  the  i5th  of  August.  New 
York,  even  varied  by  an  occasional  afternoon 
at  Coney  Island  or  Sunday  on  a  yacht,-  was 
extremely  hot  and  dull,  and  really  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  to  detain  him  at  home. 
Woodbury  Stoughton  had  gone  to  Newport 
again.  Rumor  still  found  material  in  his  in- 
timacy with  Miss  Idlewild. 

Miss  Crosby  was  at  Bar  Harbor.  She  had 
gone  down  there  the  first  week  in  July;  and 
Remington  had  cause  to  believe  that  Ram- 
say Whiting's  yacht  had  started  recently 
in  the  same  direction.  He  mechanically 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  newspaper. 
There  would  be  a  steamer  from  Boston  to- 


7i6 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


morrow  evening.  He  could  catch  it  if  he 
chose.  He  looked  at  his  watch  reflectively. 
"  John,"  he  exclaimed,  with  decision. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  am  going  away  to-night,  and  may  not  be 
back  for  three  weeks.  If  Mr.  Phillips — that 
bald  man  with  the  sandy  whiskers — comes  in 
while  I'm  gone,  his  papers  are  on  my  desk." 

On  the  way  to  his  destination  he  had 
made  several  acquaintances, —  notably  a  Miss 
Plumber,  from  Philadelphia,  who  sat  out  with 
him  in  the  moonlight  and  discoursed  on  the 
affectation  of  persons  who  spelt  her  family 
name  with  an  ;;z,  instead  of  a  b.  Wasn't  it  ab- 
surd ?  She  was  not  in  the  least  ashamed  herself 
because  her  ancestors  might  have  been  plumb- 
ers centuries  ago.  Remington  had  sat  puffing 
his  cigarette,  and  was  very  quiet.  After  Miss 
Plumber  had  gone  to  bed, —  or  had  retired, 
as  Miss  Johnson,  a  spinster,  who  was  chap- 
eroning the  young  lady  in  question,  called  it, 
—  he  had  walked  the  deck  for  some  time  in  a 
pensive  mood,  now  and  again  pausing  to  gaze 
out  over  the  stern,  beneath  which  the  churn- 
ing waters  of  the  wake  lay  silver- white  in  the 
moonshine.  His  thoughts  were  reminiscent, 
and  he  sought  to  analyze  the  experiences  of 
the  past  six  months.  As  always,  the  influence 
of  the  beautiful  in  nature  affected  him  strongly. 
He  turned  his  face  up  to  the  quiet  skies  as 
though  he  would  fain  pierce  the  riddle  that 
balks  the  scrutiny  of  all.  Hopes  and  strong 
resolutions  for  the  future  filled  his  breast;  and, 
free  for  an  instant  from  the  pressure  of  mate- 
rial considerations,  he  let  his  fancy  have  full 
reign.  His  episode  with  Isabel  Idlewildcame 
back  to  him  as  an  indifferent  memory.  His 
spirit  seemed  to  soar,  and  reached  itself  out 
in  an  unqualified  ecstasy  toward  her  whom 
he  hoped  to  see  upon  the  morrow. 

Remington  was  already  tolerably  familiar 
with  the  place  and  its  customs.  A  new-comer 
to  Bar  Harbor  is  apt  at  first  blush  to  be  rather 
flattered  by  the  numerous  attentions  show- 
ered upon  him.  Urgent  solicitations  to  join 
picnics  and  the  various  expeditions  which 
form  a  frame-work  for  romance  greet  him 
upon  every  side.  He  finds  himself  speedily 
initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  closely 
packed  buckboard  and  the  sailing  party,  pict- 
uresque with  wraps,  and,  haply,  a  guitar.  He 
is  greatly  in  demand,  and  his  name  is  ever  on 
the  lips  of  would-be  entertainers.  All  this  is 
pleasing  to  the  novice ;  but  as  in  the  natural 
course  of  events  he  comes  to  make,  among 
the  young  ladies  whose  acquaintance  he  has 
formed,  those  distinctions  which  render  the 
presence  of  a  third  party  invidious,  he  ordi- 
narily develops  into  an  ardent  disciple  of 
the  school  who  share  the  opinion  that  two 
in  the  woods  are  happier  than  three  on  a 


buckboard ;  for,  let  the  uninitiated  learn, 
each  seat  of  this  recognized  vehicle  of  the 
neighborhood  is  fashioned  to  hold  a  triple 
freight.  Then,  by  degrees,  it  grows  obvi- 
ous even  to  himself  that  for  the  sake  of  se- 
questered walks  and  talks  with  the  beloved 
she,  he  is  ready  unblushingly  to  bluff,  with 
the  plea  of  a  previous  engagement,  the  hard- 
iest and  most  persistent  of  picnic  organizers. 

At  the  time  of  this  expedition  to  Great 
Head,  Remington  had  been  to  Bar  Harbor 
about  a  month.  He  had  overstaid  his  pre- 
scribed time  by  nearly  a  week.  During  this 
period  he  had  managed  to  see  a  good  deal 
of  Miss  Crosby.  His  lot,  however,  or  rather 
his  state  of  mind,  had  not  been  completely 
blissful ;  for  Ramsay  Whiting's  yacht  and  the 
poetizing  tendencies  of  a  Mr.  Lattimer,  who 
had  also  turned  up  here,  were  formidable  dis- 
tractions to  his  innamorata.  Lattimer,  in  es- 
pecial, had  interfered  with  his  plans.  The 
young  writer  had  lately  produced  a  new  vol- 
ume of  verses;  and  what  woman  is  proof 
against  the  attraction  of  having  a  poet  all  to 
herself  ?  Canoeing  by  moonlight  with  a  bard 
looks  a  great  deal  better  than  making  the 
same  trip  with  a  layman.  These  water  trips 
and  other  cast-iron  expeditions  (the  term 
cast-iron  symbolizing  their  complete  exemp- 
tion from  interruption)  were  a  favorite  method 
of  procedure  with  Remington,  and  it  was 
galling  to  find  a  rival  who  had  such  unusual 
resources  at  command  plowing  with  his 
heifer.  He  was  handicapped  from  the  start, 
he  mournfully  reflected.  Sometimes,  in  des- 
peration, he  would  affect  for  a  day  or  two 
the  society  of  the  aforesaid  Miss  Plumber, 
who  sang  "  Over  the  Garden  Wall "  and  other 
ditties  to  a  banjo  with  charming  chirpiness. 
She  was  an  audacious  little  person,  and  in- 
formed him  one  evening,  as  they  were  float- 
ing under  the  harvest-moon  at  the  respective 
ends  of  a  canoe,  that  she  preferred  playing 
first  banjo  to  second  fiddle.  Remington  pre- 
tended not  to  understand  the  jest,  but  he  took 
care  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  not  to  let 
his  eyes  wander  so  much  in  the  direction  of 
another  skiff  that  lay  to  leeward. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  managed  to  be  pretty 
assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  Miss  Crosby. 
He  had  become  vastly  more  intimate  with 
her  in  the  course  of  their  wanderings  over  the 
island,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
confided  to  her  his  uttermost  self.  What  she 
did  not  know  about  him  was,  as  he  would 
have  phrased  it,  not  worth  knowing.  To- 
gether they  had  probed  the  most  interesting 
problems  of  human  experience  and  destin 
and  wandered  at  will  over  the  delightful  fi 
of  speculation.  But  time,  which  latterly  " 
seemed  to  the  young  man  as  naught,  n 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


717 


stood  frowning  in  his  role  of  task-master.  It 
was  necessary  for  Remington  to  leave  upon 
the  morrow.  This  was  to  be  his  last  interview 
with  Miss  Dorothy  Crosby;  and,  in  truth, 
at  the  moment  of  their  interruption,  he  had 
been  bewailing  the  harshness  of  his  fate  in 
I  this  particular. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  moodily,  as  the 
steamer  lapsed  into  distance,  "  such  is  life. 
Just  as  one  is  beginning  to  be  thoroughly 
contented,  '  comes  the  blind  fury  with  the 
abhorred  shears.'  But  there's  no  use  in  com- 
plaining. I  must  go." 

"I  wish  you  could  stay,"  said  the  girl.  "We 
really  have  had  a  very  pleasant  time  these  past 
j    few  weeks  in  our  rambles,  or  rather  scrambles, 
I   together,  haven't  we  ?   Whatever  people  say, 
there's  no  place  like  Mount  Desert  for  getting 
to  know  one's  fellow-creatures, —  for  seeing 
them  in  a  pleasant  way.    In  New  York  it  al- 
ways seems  to  me,  somehow  or  other,  as  if  I 
never  get  a  moment's  time  to  myself.   We 
live  in  a  perpetual  whirl  from  morning  to 
I   night;  and  as  for  seeing  anything  of  one's 
friends,  it's  completely  out  of  the  question. 
Every  one  there  keeps  on  the  go  until  she 
,1  is  ready  to  drop." 

"  That's  what  we  all  do  in  America,"  re- 
plied Remington.     "  We  live  on  our  nerves 
I  through  the  winter,  and  when   it  thaws  we 
|  pine  and  peak  with  the  snow-piles."    He  was 
thinking  of  his  own  debilitated  condition  the 
preceding   spring.     In   fact,  he   felt   by  no 
means  rested  now.    He  had  kept  up  the  pace 
pretty  well  since  he  had  been  down  at  Bar 
I   Harbor.     "  Do  you  know,  comfortable  as  we 
|  both  look  stretched  out  here,  I  suppose  that 
I  really  it  is  all  wrong.     This  luxury  of  limp- 
ness, this  yearning  for  flannel-shirted  Platon- 
ism,  what  are  they  but  protests  of  overtaxed 
nature?     We  overdo,  and  so  in  our  leisure 
j  moments  we   shrink  from   upright   attitudes 
and  conventional  costumes." 

Miss  Crosby  was  leaning  lazily  back,  so 
|  that  her  head  rested  against  the  base  of  the 
|  cliff.  Her  arms  were  folded,  and  she  was 
!  looking  out  over  the  sea.  '"  A  good  many  of 
us  certainly  do  have  the  air  of  convalescents. 
(  Why,"  she  continued  after  a  pause,  "  do  you 
i  say  Platonism  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I    don't  know  exactly.     Perhaps  I 

!  was  ambitious  to  be  a  little  epigrammatic.    I 

|  imagine,"  he  continued,  making  a  ferocious 

dab  with  the  tip  of  the  sun-umbrella  at  an 

obstinate  barnacle,  "  what  I  meant  was  that, 

,  when  one  feels  debilitated  and  in  a  state  of 

|  collapse,  there  is  a  tendency  to  grope  after 

|  sympathy,  just  as  one  .takes  a  tonic." 

"  That  is,  three  times  a  day,  before  or  after 
;  meals,  according  to  circumstances,"  said  Dor- 
othy, with  a  laugh. 


"  Precisely.  This  getting  to  know  each 
other  all  to  pieces,  as  we  do  down  here,  is, 
so  to  speak,  a  sanitary  precaution.  It  props 
one  up.  It  acts  as  a  stimulant.  Our  systems 
have  become  so  dependent  upon  excitement 
that  if  we  renounced  it  altogether  we  should 
die,  like  the  opium-eater  suddenly  deprived  of 
his  drug."  He  paused  a  moment.  "And  when 
the  medicine  has  fulfilled  its  purpose  you 
throw  away  the  bottle,"  he  said,  with  a  tone 
that,  though  jocular,  had  a  certain  bitterness. 

The  girl,  however,  seemed  not  to  notice 
the  sudden  introduction  of  the  second  per- 
son. "  I  am  afraid  that  is  what  sometimes 
takes  place.  Don't  you  think,  M-r.  Reming- 
ton," she  asked,  "  the  generation  of  to-day  is 
dreadfully  disposed  to  be  contented,  provided 
only  it  can  amuse  itself?  It  sometimes 
seems  as  if  we,  who  have  all  the  advantages 
of  life, —  at  least  the  girls, — are  brought  up 
to  go  through  the  world  reaching  out  our 
hands  after  happiness,  just  as  a  reckless  per- 
son wanders  through  an  orchard  breaking 
off  apple-blossoms  simply  because  they  smell 
sweet." 

"  Only,  for  apple-blossoms,  read  hearts." 

"  Hearts,  and  a  great  many  other  things, 
Mr.  Remington,"  she  replied,  with  a  blush. 
"  It  isn't  hearts  alone.  It's  anything  that 
caters  to  our  yearning  for  excitement,  that 
charms  our  love  of  the  beautiful,  or  the  luxu- 
rious, or  the  clever.  Do  you  know,  I  believe 
that  unrefined  people  are  secretly  more  dis- 
turbing to  my  equanimity  than  bad  people,  . 
and  ugliness  at  times  affects  me  to  a  degree 
that  makes  me  ashamed.  Somehow,  I  seem 
to  myself  to  be  gliding  down  the  river  of  life 
in  a  golden  barge, —  with  lilies  in  my  hair, 
and  my  senses  steeped  with  music  and  the 
aroma  of  flowers  and  all  that  is  soft  and  de- 
licious. I  often  think  that  all  I  live  for  is 
sensations.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  say  one 
doesn't  care  for  people,  but  it  comes  over 
me  occasionally  that  I  am  heartless,  or  rather 
that  I  care  for  most  human  beings  in  the 
same  way  as  I  do  for  poems  and  symphonies 
and  statuary;  they  appeal  to  my  aesthetic 
sense, — in  short,  they  cause  me  an  emotion. 
While  I  am  in  theirvpresence  I  am  fond  of 
them :  if  I  cease  to  be  with  them  they  pass 
out  of  my  mind." 

As  she  spoke  she  gazed  out  to  sea  over  the 
expanse  of  tranquil  water,  with  the  expression 
of  intensity  usual  with  her  when  absorbed. 
Remington  looked  up  at  her  stealthily.  He 
was  endeavoring,  as  men  are  so  apt  to  do  in 
discussing  the  subjective  with  the  other  sex, 
to  discover  some  allusion  to  himself  in  her 
words. 

"  I  should  say  you  have  a  great  deal  of 
feeling,"  he  protested  earnestly. 


7i8 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


Her  glance  still  strayed  dreamily  ocean- 
ward.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  as  with  the 
stimulus  of  interesting  emotions.  She  clasped 
her  hands  together  in  her  lap  and  sighed 
gently. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  Miss  Crosby  ?  " 

"  Did  I  sigh  ?  "  Her  cheek  flushed  slightly, 
and  she  turned  her  eloquent  eyes  full  upon 
him.  "  I  don't  know  exactly  why  I  did  sigh, 
Mr.  Remington."  The  color  in  her  face 
deepened,  as  if  either  the  ardor  of  the  young 
man's  glance  had  suddenly  suggested  to  her 
the  vicinity  of  peril,  or  she  were  mortified  at 
the  degree  to  which  she  had  been  led  into 
uttering  her  secret  thoughts.  At  any  rate, 
she  roused  herself  from  her  position  and  stood 
erect  upon  the  ledge  of  rock.  The  breeze 
gently  stirred  some  loosened  bunches  of  her 
hair  and  the  streamers  of  her  jaunty  hat.  She 
shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"  How  calm  the  sea  is  to-day !  Oh,  look, 
there  is  another  yacht!  It  isn't  unlike  the 
Culprit." 

That  was  the  name  of  Ramsay  Whiting's 
sloop,  and  the  reminder  was  scarcely  pleasing 
to  her  lover,  who  still  dallied  in  his  recum- 
bent attitude.  His  thoughts  were  coursing 
curiously.  To  one  genuinely  excited,  the 
outline  and  proportions  of  things  often  pre- 
sent themselves  to  the  mind  with  a  distinct- 
ness analogous  to  that  with  which  we  behold 
material  objects  at  sunset.  There  is  a  clear- 
ness in  the  brain  at  such  times  that  resembles 
the  crepuscular  atmosphere.  Impassioned  as 
Remington  was  by  his  sudden  determination 
to  declare  his  love  to  Dorothy, — for  he  had, 
on  leaving  the  hotel  that  morning,  only  a 
haunting  suspicion  of  a  design  to  take  any 
such  step, — he  was  still  conscious  of  himself 
as  an  individual ;  that  is  to  say,  he  could  not 
help  thinking  of  the  language  and  attitude 
most  befitting  an  avowal  of  this  kind.  With 
all  his  trepidation,  he  had  leisure  to  recognize 
the  absence  of  a  spontaneity  and  suppleness 
he  had  supposed  germane  to  proposals  of 
marriage,  and  to  deduce  therefrom  grim  and 
caustic  reflections  regarding  the  methods  of 
his  ancestors.  He  was,  in  truth,  the  victim 
of  their  philosophy  of  repression.  His  power 
of  feeling  intensely  had  been  so  far  abridged 
and  adulterated  that  he  was  unable  to  escape 
self-scrutiny  in  his  most  ardent  moments. 
Determined  as  he  was  in  his  mind  to  ask  Miss 
Crosby  to  become  his  wife,  why  should  the 
arguments  in  favor  of  and  against  his  action 
appear  as  distinct  to  his  consciousness  as 
Banquo's  ghost  to  the  guilty  Macbeth  ? 

"And  so  you  are  going  back  to-morrow  to 
the  law  and  liberty,"  said  Dorothy,  and  she 
smiled  with  the  satisfaction  of  one  who  is 
pleased  at  finding  a  half  truth  in  her  alliter- 


ative and  somewhat  random  speech.  She  re- 
sumed her  seat,  as  if  glad,  now  that  she  was 
on  her  guard,  to  return  in  a  measure  to  their 
former  ground.  "  It  must  be  rather  nice  to 
be  a  man,"  she  continued,  reflectively  ;  "  you 
all  have  such  opportunities."  She  delayed  a 
moment,  and,  picking  up  a  pebble,  tossed  it 
from  her  hand  and  watched  it  bound  from 
rock  to  rock  into  the  sea  beneath.  "  It's  a 
strange  world.  I  wonder  if  things  puzzle  men 
as  much  as  they  do  girls.  We  seem,  somehow, 
to  skip  through  existence  just  like  that  stone, 
and  our  influence  in  life  is  about  as  wide  as 
its  paltry  ripple."  She  leaned  back,  and,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  behind  her  head,  bent  her  gaze 
on  space  from  under  her  hat. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  rather  romantic  ideas  on 
the  subject,"  he  answered,  with  eyes  cast 
down,  and  tapping  gently  on  the  ledge  with 
the  sun-umbrella.  "  Do  you  know,  Miss 
Crosby,"  he  continued,  in  a  low  tone,  '*  I 
think  the  men  in  this  country  are  brought  up 
to  have  a  peculiar  reverence  for  women.  We 
look  up  to  them  somehow  as  higher  and  purer 
beings  than  we  are.  I  believe  a  truly  noble 
woman  is  the  divinest  thing  in  creation,  and 
that  she  can  raise  the  man  who  loves  her, 
and  whom  she  loves,  up  to  those  shining  stars 
whose  ministrant  she  is.  That  is  her  power; 
that  is  her  mission."  Remington  spoke  ear- 
nestly. Conscious  as  he  was  of  his  words,  he 
believed  them  with  all  his  heart.  "  I've  been 
rather  an  aimless  fellow,  I  know;  I  don't 
suppose  I  amount  to  a  great  deal ;  but  I've 
always  clung  to  a  faith  in  something  ideal  re- 
garding love."  He  paused  nervously.  "  Miss 
Crosby,  I  —  I  love  you.  Are  you  willing  to 
become  my  wife  ?  " 

He  wanted  to  call  her  Dorothy,  but  he  felt 
instinctively  that  he  had  no  right  to  do  so. 
His  moral  and  mental  faculties  were  both 
under  his  control. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Remington  !  " 

There  was  a  deathly  silence.  Miss  Crosby 
sat  with  her  eyes  on  her  lap, —  the  type,  as  it 
were,  of  hushed,  demure  contrition. 

"  I  know,"  he  exclaimed,  in  jerky  sentences, 
"  it's  very  premature.  Of  course,  I've  no  right 
to  say  anything  of  the  kind  on  so  short  an 
acquaintance.  But  I  couldn't  help  it,  Miss 
Crosby ;  indeed,  I  couldn't.  These  past  few 
weeks  have  been  the  happiest  of  my  life.  ] 
meant  to  go  away  without  letting  you  know 
anything,  but  somehow  or  other  the  wordf 
escaped  in  spite  of  me. 

"  I'm  perfectly  aware,"  he  went  on  presently, 
as  the  girl  still  remained  motionless,  save  for 
a  few  sighs  and  slow  shakings  of  the  head, 
"  it's  impossible  you  can  care  for  me.  I'm  a 
friend, — as  you  said  the  other  day,  when 
were  at  Duck  Brook, — and  the  idea  of  a 


: 


THE   CRUISE   OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


other  relation  has  very  likely  never  entered 
your  mind.    But  I  do  love  you  so  much  !  " 

And  he  leaned  forward  beseechingly,  with 
a  sudden  impetuosity. 

"  I  thought  of  you  merely  as  a  friend,"  she 
j    murmured.    "  Oh,  I'm  dreadfully  sorry,  Mr. 
Remington.    We  were  such  good  friends." 

"  Is  it  impossible,  Miss  Crosby  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  so.    Oh,  yes,  quite, — it's 
impossible." 

Remington  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  for  several  moments  no  word  was  spoken. 
She  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  I  think  I  must  be  starting  for  home,  Mr. 
Remington.  It  is  getting  late." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  one  question,"  said 
Remington,  with  a  dry,  relentless  accent: 


•it's  quite 


"  Is  there  any  one  else  that  you  care  for  ?  I 
mean,  is  there  no  chance  for  me  because  you 
like  somebody  else  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  quietly.  "  There  is 
nobody  else  that  I  care  for,  I  think." 

Their  walk  to  the  village  was  silent  and 
embarrassed.  They  halted  at  the  steps  of  her 
hotel. 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  say  good-by  now, 
Miss  Crosby.  We  sail  early  to-morrow  "  he 
said,  a  little  stiffly. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Remington.  I  thought  we 
were  going  to  be  such  friends.  But  you  will 
come  and  see  me  in  New  York,  wont  you  ?  " 
and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  will  try  to  do  so,  Miss  Crosby.  Good- 
by." 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   ALICE 


SECOND     PAPER. 


AT  the  close  of  the  preceding  paper  we  were 
about  entering  upon  an  inspection  of  Pasp 
biac.    As  the  name  indicates,  this  was  6*     '  uL 
all,  an    Indian   ^1  lenient-  of  the 

Gaspcsian  tribe.  The  terminal  ac  is  indica- 
tive of  place,  like  the  affixes  eck  or  ecque  and 
adie  employed  by  the  Micmacs.  The  French 
came  next,  followed  by  the  Normans  of  the 
Channel  Islands.  It  is  to  these  that  this  strag- 
gling, thriving  town  of  three  thousand  people 
owes  its  present  existence  and  success.  We 
had  never  heard  of  the  place  before,  and  yet 
here  it  has  existed  for  centuries,  a  center  of 
business  and  a  wonder  of  beauty,  on  the  sup- 
posed bleak  shores  of  the  Bay  of  Chaleurs. 
We  found  the  key-note  of  the  whole  matter 
immediately  on  landing.  One  hundred  and 
forty  years  ago  some  capitalists  of  St.  Helier's 
came  over  from  Jersey  and  established  a 
depot  for  cod-fishing  on  the  inner  shore  of 
the  point  of  Paspebiac,  where  boats  could 
land  with  safety  in  ordinary  weather.  Since 
then,  empires  have  arisen  and  fallen,  our  own 
great  republic  has  come  into  existence  and  has 
grown  to  its  present  dimensions,  and  still  the 
firm  of  Robin  &  Co.  carries  on  its  business 
with  the  vitality  of  youth,  and  with  steadi- 
ness of  purpose  and  entire  unconcern  re- 
garding the  rest  of  the  world  and  its  affairs. 
Not  only  does  the  original  family  of  Robin 
maintain  itself  at  Paspebiac  to  this  day, 
but  it  has .  thirteen  other  establishments  as 
complete  as  this  one  at  various  points  in 
the  maritime  provinces,  all  conducted  with 


ne  system  and  discipline.  We  saw 
of  these  depots  at  other  ports  dur- 
ing our  cruise,  and  can  therefore  say  that 
the  one  at  Paspebiac  is  typical  of  the  whole. 
A  lofty  fence  with  gates  incloses  the  estab- 
lishment. Within  are  immense  buildings  for 
storing  the  fish  and  store-houses  for  all  the 
materials  that  go  to  the  building  and  victual- 
ing of  ships,  besides  smithies  and  carpenters' 
shops,  a  large  kitchen  and  eating-hall,  a  tele- 
graph office,  and  the  houses  of  the  overseer 
and  chief  employees.  On  the  harbor  side  are 
extensive  wharves,  landings,  cranes,  and  the 
like,  built  of  solid  masonry  and  iron.  There 
is  nothing  flimsy  about  the  materials  and  con- 
struction of  any  object  about  the  place.  The 
extraordinary  neatness  of  everything  is  like 
that  of  a  Dutch  house.  There  is  not  even 
the  odor  of  stale  fish,  or  of  any  fish  at  all. 
The  workmen  wear  a  uniform, — consisting  of 
white  trowsers  and  blue  blouse  and  cap, — 
and  thereby  strengthen  the  first  thought  that 
occurs  on  seeing  the  place,  that  it  must  be  an 
arsenal.  This  impression  is  reenforced  by  the 
cannon  ranged  on  the  quay,  and  by  the  fierce 
figure  of  a  Scotch  Highlander  brandishing 
his  claymore  from  the  gable  of  the  central 
building,  which  was  once  the  figure-head  of 
one  of  the  company's  ships.  The  discipline  of 
a  man-of-war  is  also  strictly  preserved  here. 
The  employees  enter  in  boyhood  and  work 
their  way  up.  Here  it  is,  in  this  yard,  that 
the  firm  builds  the  fleet  which  it  employs 
to  carry  the  fish  to  the  markets  of  Europe 


j 


720 


THE   CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


and  South  America.  No  finer  fish  leave  the 
shores  of  North  America  for  the  feeding  of 
good  Roman  Catholics  on  fast  days.  Few  peo- 
ple have  reflected  on  the  fact  that  one  of  the 
most  important  occupations  followed  by  men 
is  almost  wholly  dependent  on  the  religious 
beliefs  of  one  sect.  The  small  amount  of  salt 
cod  eaten  by  Protestants  is  not  worth  men- 
tioning compared  with  the  amount  absorbed 
by  Roman  Catholics.  Besides  their  ships  for 
foreign  transportation.,  the  Robins  also  have 
a  large  number  of  schooners  and  boats  di- 
rectly engaged  in  catching  the  fish.  Most  of 
the  fishermen  in  their  employ  are  poor,  and, 
as  they  are  paid  in  kind,  they  are  largely  in  the 
power  of  this  great  monopoly.  As  one  result, 
it  is  very  difficult  to  purchase  land  at  Paspe- 
biac,  because  a  large  part  of  the  freeholds 
there  are  mortgaged  to  Robin  &  Co.  on  ac- 
<~ount  of  advances  made  to  the  fishermen. 

Adjoining  the  establishment  of  Robin  & 
Co.  is  a  similar  but  less  extensive  fish  depot, 
belonging  to  the  firm  of  Le  Boutillier,  who 
are  also  a  Jersey  company,  transacting  their 
affairs  in  the  Dominion  by  means  of  experi- 
enced factors.  The  original  founder  of  the 
house  was  trained  by  Robin  &  Co.,  and,  hav- 
ing a  difference  with  them,  started  a  rival 
house,  which  is  conducted  with  similar  sys- 
tem and  owns  three  or  four  stations.  The 
gradual  dying  out  of  the  Le  Boutillier  family 
indicates,  however,  the  approaching  extinc- 
tion of  this  firm.  To  an  American  familiar 
with  the  fishing  business  of  Gloucester,  Mass- 
achusetts, who  imagines  that  the  enterprise  of 
that  thriving  port  has  contrived  to  absorb  a 
monopoly  of  the  cod-fisheries  of  the  world, 
there  is  something  rather  mortifying  in  consid- 
ering for  the  first  time  such  an  establishment 
as  the  one  I  have  described ;  for  it  shows  that 
we  have  yet  a  few  things  to  learn  in  regard  to 
making  a  business  at  once  prosperous  and  per- 
manent. I  met  a  man  once  in  England  who 
was  traveling  for  a  tobacco  house  that  was  es- 
tablished in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
was  still  engaged  in  making  money.  After  all, 
there  is  a  majesty  and  dignity  in  the  grand 
fact  of  permanency  that  is  worth  striving  for, 
in  a  world  and  an  age  that  is  ever  shifting. 
We  like  to  dream  sometimes  that  not  "  virtue 
alone  outlives  the  Pyramids." 

After  having  been  shown  about  the  estab- 
lishment of  Robin  &  Co.,  we  turned  our  atten- 
tion to  other  matters  of  interest  at  Paspebiac, 
and  found  that  it  abounds  in  natural  -attrac- 
tions. The  sandy  point  is  really  an  island  at 
high  water,  and  a  substantial  bridge  connects 
it  with  the  main-land.  Near  to  the  bridge  are 
the  residences  occupied  by  the  members  of 
the  two  fishing  firms,  when  at  Paspebiac,  or 
by  their  agents.  The  Robin  mansion  is  near 


the  foot  of  the  slope,  completely  surrounded 
by  a  lovely  grove  agreeably  intersected  with 
winding  paths.  The  Le  Boutillier  house,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  on  the  brow  of  the  rich 
brown  cliff,  superbly  situated,  and  command- 
ing an  tmtlook  over  the  Bay  of  Chaleurs.    It 
is  approached  from  the  road  through  a  double 
avenue  of  noble  willows,  which  were  imported, 
we  were  informed,  from  Jersey.   There  is  not 
a  private  residence  in  the  Dominion  which 
occupies   a  finer    site    for   a   summer   villa. 
From   the  bridge,   the   road  rises   abruptly 
until  it  reaches  the  crest  of  the  slope.    There 
it  meets  a  post  road, or  street,  running  along 
that  height  for  twenty  miles  toward  Dalhousie. 
It  is  along  this  road  that  the  town  of  Paspe- 
biac, occupied  by  French  habitants,  is  laid 
out  in  an  extended  street,  which  continues 
until  it  reaches  the  charming  semi-aristocratic 
hamlet  of  New  Carlisle,  which  is  occupied  by 
Scotch   people,  and  is  the  seat  of  a  court- 
house, a  jail,  and  the  residence  of  the  judge, 
We  decided  that  we  could  get  over  mord 
ground  that  afternoon   by  means  of  a  caw 
raige  than  on  foot.    But  the  only  vehicle  tail 
be  found  was   a  ramshackle  open  carry-aM 
belonging  to  the  postmaster, — a  jolly,  viva* 
cious  little  Frenchman,  whose  excellent  EngJN 
lish  speech  was  yet  curiously  characterize^ 
by  yn.  accent.   The  horse  was  a  fit  subjecB 
for  the  attention  of  Henrv  >Vrdi  and  the  caij 
riage  was   su  'ancient  and   diiapicicuiu   thai  I 
the  spring  broke  down  and  the  floor  spM 
with   the  weight  of  five  healthy   men.    But 
we  had  a  delightful  ride  to  New  Carlisle,  foffll 
all  that.   The  afternoon  was  so  fine  that  iM 
seemed  to  have  an  invigorating  effect  on  the  ] 
piety  of  the  local  clergy.   We  met  the  Pres- 
byterian minister,  the  Episcopal  vicar,  and  the  \ 
cure,  all  engaged  in  making  pastoral  visits.  I 
The  first  was  in  a  buggy  accompanied  bW 
his  wife.   The  other  gentlemen,  in  spotless  j 
garb,  trudged  along  the  highway,  alone  and  j 
on  foot,  after  apostolic  fashion.    The  physi-  { 
cian  was  also  making  his  rounds  on  a  buck- 
board.  On  our  return,  the  postmaster  invited  !j 
us  into  his  humble  cottage,  which  was  typical  J 
of  all  the  houses  at  Paspebiac.    His  best  room  \ 
was  decorated  with  cheap  images  and  prints   ' 
of  the  Virgin.   The  office  was  in  a  small  ad- 
joining apartment.   When  a  letter  was  to  be 
mailed,  it  was  taken  at  the  door  by  some 
one  of  the  family.   We  noticed  here,  as  well 
as  in  almost  every  other  house  in  the  town, 
and,  in  fact,  throughout  that  region,  that  the 
windows   were   always   kept    tightly  closed, 
even  at  midday  with  the  mercury  at  seventy- 
five   t<*  eighty-five   degrees.     Consequently, 
the  air  inside  is  stuffy  and  oppressive. 

For  those  who  may  like  to  visit  Paspebi; 
it  may  be  well  to  add  that  it  can  be  rea( 


.biac, 

a 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


by  the  stage-coach  from  Dalhousie,  which 
makes  the  distance  of  eighty-two  miles  thrice 
a  week;  time,  twenty-two  hours.  Better  still, 
there  is  a  steamer  from  Dalhousie  semi- 
weekly,  which  touched  there  in  its  trip  around 
the  Bay  of  Chaleurs.  As  we  were  passing 
along  the  road  at  four  o'clock,  the  village 
school  broke  up  and  the  children  bounded 
forth  full  of  glee,  the  boys  separating  into  one 
group  and  the  girls  into  another.  But  it  was 


721 

the  peasants  of  France.  It  is  curious  how  the 
peasant  classes  change  their  step  with  age,  the 
light  tripping  of  the  young  maiden  turning 
into  a  long,  ungainly  stride.  The  piquant  bru- 
nettes, still  in  the  morning  of  life,  also  collect- 
ed thither  in  clusters,  toileted  in  their  best, 
and  giggling  and  blushing  with  zest  when 
some  handsome  young  fisherman  went  by,* 
throwing  a  sentimental  glance  in  their  direc- 
tion, or  venturing  some  sally  of  rustic  wit. 


FISHERMEN    AT     PASPEBIAC. 


beautiful  to  see  them  come  to  a  sudden  stop 
when  they  met  us,  the  boys  in  a  row  on  one 
side  of  the  road  and  the  girls  on  the  other. 
Then,  with  the  utmost  respect,  the  former 
bowed,  while  the  latter  demurely  courtesied. 
Having  accomplished  this  feat,  they  all  ran 
off  again  in  a  delightful  manner.  After  all, 
we  can  learn  a  little  from  the  Latins,  without 
being  untrue  to  our  Anglo-Saxon  convictions. 
The  following  day  being  Saturday,  we  had 
a  capital  opportunity  to  see  the  habitants  of 
Paspebiac  in  their  best  attire,  for  that  is  their 
market  day.  This  really  means,  in  that  place, 
that  on  that  day  the  two  fishing  firms  make 
advances  of  goods  to  the  families  of  the 
fishermen  they  employ.  The  women  came  in 
groups,  the  matrons  garrulous  with  gossip  as 
they  straggled  down  the  road  with  the  heavy 
[swinging  gait  which  they  have  inherited  from 
VOL.  XXVII.— 69. 


Many  came  in  rude  carts,  drawn  by  oxen  or 
mares  followed  by  their  colts.  Across  the 
bridge  or  fording  the  inlet,  these  simple  folk 
came  in  a  steady  stream  until  toward  noon. 
It  was,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  bit  of  France, 
for  these  French  habitants  change  far  less 
from  the  original  type  than  the  English 
settlers.  Later  in  the  day  there  was  a  general 
movement  to  the  other  end  of  the  point, 
where  the  fish-market  was  held  on  the  beach. 
Dogs,  swine,  geese,  fowls,  men,  women, 
children,  carts  and  oxen  were  here  gathered 
indiscriminately  on  the  sand  by  the  surf,  in  a 
promiscuous  and  chattering  crowd  around 
the  stands,  where  fresh  fish  were  being  cleaned 
for  sale.  A  merry  sensation  was  produced 
when  a  boisterous  youth  dashed  by  at  a  tear- 
ing gallop  on  horseback,  shouting  Yankee 
Doodle  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  This  was 


722 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


THE     BEACH     AT     PASPEBIAC. 


A    VIEW    OF    THE    BAY. 


intended  as  a  salvo  for  us,  the  first  American 
tourists,  possibly,  who  had  ever  been  to 
Paspebiac.  A  gentleman  connected  with  the 
custom-house,  which  is  a  wee  bit  of  a  hut, 
officiates  as  United  States  consular  agent, 
and  was  very  polite  to  us.  But  it  is  a  question 
whether  his  annual  fees  amount  to  enough  to 
pay  for  the  matches  for  lighting  his  pipe. 

Some  of  our  party  were  enthusiastic  an- 
glers, and  the  afternoon  was  therefore  devoted 
to  a  long  and  heated  walk  to  a  trout  brook, 
where  those  sportive  fish  were  reported  to  be 
actually  pining  to  be  caught.  The  rods  and 
flies  were  of  the  best  quality,  and  they  were 
wielded  by  fishermen  of  skill  and  experience. 


The  net  results  of  the  trip  amounted,  how- 
ever, to  only  half  a  dozen  five-inch  trout. 
We  were  told  that,  in  a  lake  beyond,  the 
trout  were  so  numerous  there  was  hardly 
room  for  them  to  swim  without  scraping  the 
scales  off  their  backs  as  they  jostled  each 
other.  But  the  enthusiasm  of  our  fishermen 
being  now  at  its  ebb,  we  returned  to  the 
schooner  and  ordered  the  captain  to  make 
sail. 

If  the  wind  had  been  favorable,  we  should 
have  continued  up  to  the  head  of  the  Bay  of 
Chaleurs.  But  it  was  a  long  beat  with  the 
stiff  north-west  wind  that  was  blowing  at  the 
time,  and  other  and  more  distant  scenes  for- 


A     FISH     ESTABLISHMENT    AT     PASPEBIAC. 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY.  723 

bade  us  to  linger  here.    Therefore  we  put  the  holder  with  awe.    The   sea  in   the   distance 

helm  up  and  ran  to  the  eastward.    The  wind  appeared  suddenly  to  roll  up  with  a  high,  an- 

was   fresh,  and    the    schooner  was   stagger-  gry  surge,  advancing  rapidly  toward  us  as  if 

ing  under  the  pressure  of  her  kites,  and  re-  it  would  overwhelm  the  vessel,  and  naturally 

quired    delicate    steering.     Rapidly  we  flew  suggesting  that  a  very  strong  wind  was  coming. 


past  the  beautiful  northern 
shore  of  the  bay,  the  jagged 
peaks  assuming  the  loveli- 
est of  tints  in  the  light  of  the 
sun,  now  nearing  the  west. 
But  our  race  was  sudden- 
ly checked.  I  was  looking 
through  the  glass  at  a  schoon- 
er two  miles  away,  when  I 
saw  that  she  was  sailing  with 
a  different  wind.  Hardly  had 
I  time  to  sing  out  to  the 
captain,  "  The  wind's  com- 
ing out  ahead ! "  than  our  vessel  was  taken  sharp 
aback.  Everything  was  at  once  in  confusion. 
"  Let  go  the  guy  tackle  !  "  "  Take  in  the 
stay-sail !  "  "  Haul  aft  the  main-sheet !  "  were 
orders  quickly  given,  and  in  another  minute 
the  Alice  May  was  heeling  well  over,  and 
pitching  in  a  head- sea.  Now  occurred  a  series 
of  magnificent  marine  effects.  Brief  squalls 
of  wind  and  rain  followed  in  quick  succes- 
sion ;  the  cliffs  and  the  sea  were  alternately 
black  with  brooding  gloom  or  gleaming  with 
blinding  bursts  of  sunlight ;  rainbows  hung 
on  the  skirts  of  the  clouds  in  the  offing,  and 
the  driving  masses  of  cumuli  were  warmed 
by  glorious  hues.  Then  succeeded  a  sight 
not  uncommon  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence, 
but  which,  wherever  seen,  inspires  the  be- 


FISHING-HOUSES    AT    CAPE     GASPE. 

But  it  advanced  no  farther,  always  preserving 
the  same  appearance,  as  if  held  back  by  some 
mysterious  agency;  and  we  now  perceived 
that  it  was  a  form  of  mirage,  probably  reflect- 
ing the  surf  breaking  on  a  distant  shore.  The 
turbulence  of  the  elements  subsided  almost 
as  soon  as  it  had  arisen,  and  then  we  had' 
barely  enough  wind  to  waft  us  to  Port  Daniel. 
The  anchorage  here  being  very  exposed,  we 
did  not  remain  there,  but  only  "  looked  in," 
as  sailors  say.  This  is  a  fishing  village,  situ- 
ated around  a  deep  cove,  which  lies  at  the 
foot  of  one  of  the  highest  and  most  abrupt 
peaks  on  the  bay.  The  church  occupies  a 
hillock  at  the  bottom  of  the  cove,  and  the 
houses  are  beautifully  situated  on  precipitous 
slopes  and  ledges. 


724 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


Light  and  baffling  airs  now  followed,  and 
we  spent  the  greater  part  of  Sunday  off  Cape 
Despair.  There  was  a  most  exasperating 
glassy  swell,  which  tumbled  the  vessel  about 
unmercifully.  It  is  said  that  this  swell  very 
rarely  goes  down  at  this  part  of  the  Gulf.  In 
the  morning  Captain  Welsh  sat  at  the  wheel 
reading  his  prayer-book  while  steering.  He 
was  in  one  of  his  communicative  moods,  and 
spun  yarn  for  some  time.  He  expressed  the 
emphatic  opinion  that  "  tobacco  is  good  for 
some  folks."  He  was  sure  it  had  been  a 
benefit  to  him  in  the  long  night  watches  and 
the  life  struggle  with  storms.  All  day  long, 
the  grandly  bold,  abrupt  precipices  of  Mt.  St. 


evidently  a  corruption  of  the  former  word.  A 
number  of  large  fishing  stations  are  here,  and 
the  fleet  of  fishing  boats  was  now  seen  shoot- 
ing out  from  the  coves  after  the  cod  which 
abound  in  this  bay.  These  boats  are  large, 
and  are  manned  by  two  men ;  they  are  rigged 
with  three  spritsails  and  a  jib,  which  gives 
them  the  jauntiest  look  of  all  the  fishing  boats 
on  the  coast  of  America.  This  matter  of  the  rig 
and  build  of  fishing  boats  is  very  curious.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  the  character  of  a  certain 
beach  or  of  the  prevailing  weather  may  in  a 
given  locality  affect  the  shape  of  the  boat ;  but 
why  there  should  be  such  differences  in  rig  is 
incomprehensible.  The  fishing  boats  of  every 
port  we  visited  had  their  peculiar  rig  and 
sails.  We  can  understand  how  whim  may 
incline  this  or  that  man  to  prefer  one  rig 
to  another;  but  why  all  the  boats  of  one 
port  should  uniformly  have  one  rig,  while  in 
the  very  port  adjoining  all  the  boats  have 
entirely  another  rig,  is  a  matter  which  is  not 
easily  explained. 

As  the  wind  died  away,  we  anchored  near 
the  southern  side  of  Gaspe  Bay  to  avoid 
drifting.  Water-fowl  abounded.  In  endless 


HEAD     OF    AN     OLD     PILOT. 


Anne  at  Perce  towered  before  us  like  a  mighty 
fortress,  guarding  the  double  entrance  to  the 
Bay  of  Chaleurs  and  the  River  St.  Lawrence. 
At  its  foot  is  the  lofty  island  of  Bonaventure, 
around  which  we  passed  with  a  light  air  on 
the  night  of  July  17.  At  sunrise  we  were 
close  to  the  tremendous  rock  of  Perce,  and 
could  see  the  long,  low  outline  of  Anticosti 
in  the  north  like  a  gray  wall.  In  the  opinion 
of  our  captain,  the  heavy  swell  made  it  inex- 
pedient to  anchor  at  Perce,  which  is  very  ex- 
posed. We  kept  on  across  Mai  Bay,  past  a 
low,  flat  islet  which  the  French  call  Plateau, 
and  the  English  fishermen  Plato,  which  is 


UP    GASP6    BAY. 

flocks  the  ducks  fly  at  morning  to  the  fen- 
lands  at  the  head  of  the  bay,  and  return  at 
night  to  roost  amid  the  rocks  of  Perce.  We 
went  on  shore  and  succeeded  in  bagging  a 
few  ducks  and  sea-pigeons  under  the  cliffs; 
after  which  we  climbed  up  the  heights  to  a 
farm-house  and  procured  some  milk.  The 
people  could  not  speak  English.  The  babies 
and  the  sucking  pigs  were  tumbling  over 
each  other  under  the  table  in  affectionat 
embrace.  Outside  was  the  oven,  a  chan 
teristic  feature  of  domestic  civilization 
Gaspe  County.  It  is  built  thus :  A  flat  sh 
of  limestone  is  laid  on  four  posts,  and  a  doi 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE   MAY. 


725 


PERC6    ROCK. 


of  clay  is  built  over  it.  This  in  turn  is  pro- 
tected from  the  rains  by  a  thatched  roof. 
These  rustics  were  specimen  bricks  of  the 
people  who  live  around  the  bay.  The  popu- 
lation of  this  part  of  Canada  is  confined 
wholly  to  the  coast.  Civilization  ceases  a 
mile  or  two  inland,  and  the  bear,  the  cari- 
bou, and  the  panther  still  roam  through  the 
primeval  woods  which  cover  the  mountain 
ranges  of  the  interior.  The  aborigines  of 


this  region  were  the  Gaspesian  Indians,  who 
now  appear  to  be  entirely  extinct. 

A  breeze  springing  up  toward  noon,  we  stood 
across  the  bay  to  Cape  Gaspe,  a  noble  gray 
headland  three  hundred  feet  high,  which  from 
one  point  looks  like  the  front  of  a  Gothic  cathe- 
dral. By  keeping  past  it  a  short  distance,  we 
entered  the  River  St.  Lawrence  and  saw  Cape 
Rozier,  a  tremendous  precipice  soaring  seven, 
hundred  feet  vertically.  Cape  Gaspe  takes  the 


726 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE   MAY. 


AN     OLD    OVEN. 


full  brunt  of  all  the  gales  of  the  St.  Lawrence, 
and  has  been  the  scene  of  many  wild  and  ap- 
palling wrecks.  Some  years  ago,  on  a 
stormy  night,  the  tide  being  unusually  high, 
a  vessel  was  swept  against  the  cliff,  and,  of 
course,  entirely  destroyed.  The  event  never 
would  have  been  known  if  the  bowsprit  had 
not  been  discovered  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock,  far 
above  the  usual  level  of  the  sea,  together 
with  remains  of  the  bodies  of  the  crew.  After 
this  we  stood  up  the  bay,  along  the  northern 
shore.  For  several  miles  the  cliffs  are  seamed 
with  deep  fissures,  as  if  the  beach  had  been 
partitioned  off  by  walls  into  retired  marine 
alcoves  with  soft,  sandy  floors,  where  the 
mermaids  could  perform  their  toilets  in  seclu- 
sion. But,  generally,  these  recesses  are  occu- 
pied by  curious  and  often  highly  picturesque 
fish-drying  houses,  built  over  the  water  on 
extensive  stagings.  An  extraordinary  acci- 
dent occurred  here  thirty  years  ago.  A  ship 
bound  up  to  Quebec  grounded  off  these  cliffs 
in  a  fog.  The  wind  was  light,  but  there  was 
a  high  swell,  which  made  it  dangerous  to 
land.  Fifteen  gentlemen,  however,  conclud- 
ed to  go  on  shore,  and  with  the  boat's  crew 
got  into  the  boat  before  it  was  lowered.  One 
of  the  poles  broke,  and  they  were  all  precipi- 
tated into  the  water.  The  tide  drew  them 
under  the  ship,  and  they  were  all  drowned 
before  the  very  eyes  of  their  wives  and  chil- 
,dren.  Some  weeks  after,  a  fisherman  caught 
a  cod  in  whose  maw  was  a  man's  finger,  with 


the  diamond  ring  yet  glittering  on  the 
severed  joint. 

Here  we  landed  to  sketch  the  fish- 
houses.  The  shores  were  very  precipi- 
tous, and  it  required  some  circumspec- 
tion to  climb  up  where  the  houses  of  the 
country  folk  are  perched.  We  had  some 
difficulty  on  returning  to  the  schooner,  as 
the  wind  had  risen,  creating  a  high  sea 
rolling  in  from  the  Gulf,  and  the  schooner 
was  handled  in  such  a  clumsy  manner  that 
the  boat  was  in  serious  danger  of  being  run 
down.  Our  crew  were  not  accustomed  to  this 
sort  of  service.  There  was  yet  time  to  reach 
Gaspe  before  dark  if  the  strong  breeze  held, 
which  was  sweeping  us  up  the  bay.  Near  Port 
Douglas,  where  General  Wolfe  anchored  his 
fleet  on  his  way  to  Quebec,  the  scenery  began 
to  develop  extraordinary  beauty.  Nothing  of 
the  sort  has  so  impressed  me  except  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Lake  George.  The  shores  were 
gradually  closing  in,  and  on  either  hand  and 
ahead  of  us  were  mountains  descending  to 
the  sea,  draped  in  the  dark- green  mantle  of  the 
densest  woods.  Here  and  there  a  little  church 
might  be  seen  perched  on  a  height.  At  last 
we  reached  the  light-ship,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes we  would  have  been  clear  of  the  bar  and 
heading  directly  into  Gaspe  Basin.  "Are  you 
sure  you  are  heading  right,  captain  ?  Aren't  you 
keeping  too  near  inside  ?  "  we  said  to  the  cap- 
tain. "  Oh,  no ;  there's  plenty  of  water ;  I  guess 
we  are  going  all  right,"  he  replied.  At  that  in- 
stant the  schooner  struck  on  the  bar,  and  ran 
her  bow  up  on  the  sand,  with  a  dull  grating 
sound  that  made  us  sufficiently  disgusted.  A 
ship  is  only  good  afloat.  A  ship  on  shore  is  like 
an  eagle  with  a  broken  pinion.  We  were  in  for  it 
this  time,  there  was  too  much  reason  to  believe, 
for  it  was  about  high  water,  and  the  breeze 
was  making  a  chop  on  the  bar.  Two  circum- 
stances were  in  our  favor:  the  night  promis~J 
to  be  fine,  and  Captain  Asca,  the  light-ho 
keeper,  who  now  came  on  board,  was  an 


THE    CRUISE    OF   THE   ALICE   MAY. 


727 


perienced  skipper,  and  was  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  the  bay.  Every  effort  to  haul 
the  schooner  off  the  shoal  proving  of  no  avail, 
we  should  have  been  obliged  to  heave  out 
her  ballast  if  the  next  tide  had  not  promised 
to  be  unusually  high,  the  change  of  the 
moon  being  at  hand.  Since  nothing  more 
could  be  done  until  the  next  tide,  we  there- 
fore accepted  Captain  Asca's  invitation  to  go 
to  his  house.  The  hour  and  the  scene  were  so 


filling  the  entrance  of  a  ravine,  where  a 
mountain  stream  dashed  down  near  a  bar, 
over  which  we  rowed  across  the  rolling  foam. 
The  new  moon  hung  in  the  west,  and  the 
deep  glow  of  twilight  yet  throbbed  over  the 
mountains,  as  we  climbed  a  winding,  wooded 
path  to  Captain  Asca's  house.  His  pet  par- 
rot had  come  down  to  meet  him,  and  was 
waiting  on  the  stile  for  his  master,  on  whose 
shoulder  it  alighted,  while  the  dog,  with  a 


CURING    FISH     AT    PERC& 


enchanting  that  we  were  quite  compensated 
j  for   the  inauspicious    circumstances  that  de- 
tained us  there. 

Captain   Asca  was   a   fine  specimen  of  a 

i  Scotchman ;  tall  and  large-limbed ;  his  tawny, 

i  flowing  beard  was  tinged  with  the  snow  of 

I  sixty  winters,  but  his  keen  steel-gray  eye  had 

;in  it  the  fire   of  youth,  and  his  voice  rang 

across   the    ship    with    the   firmness    of  one 

born  to  command.   And  yet  his  life  had  been 

[passed  in  coasters  and  fishermen.     Both  of 

'his   grandfathers    were   in   the   army   which 

stormed  Quebec  under  Wolfe.    His   relation 

i  to  the  light-ship  was  an  anomaly  in  the  history 

I  of  harbor  lighting,  for  he  both  built  the  vessel 

and  owned  it,  besides  keeping  it  for  a  meager 

allowance  granted  by  the  Dominion.    A  cu- 

irious  way,  this,  for  a  government  to  light  a 

j  harbor  by  private    enterprise  !    His    father's 

grist-mill  was    on    the   seaside,  romantically 


bark  of  welcome  for  his  master  and  a  sus- 
picious sniff  for  us,  bounded  down  the  slope 
to  meet  us.  We  were  cordially  invited  to 
enter  the  house,  and  were  pleased  to  see  an 
immense  fire-place  across  one-third  of  the 
kitchen  wall ;  but  we  preferred  to  sit  on  the 
door-step,  where  the  light-keeper's  daughter 
brought  us  a  pitcher  of  fresh  milk.  Behind  the 
house  the  dark  woods  arose,  clothed  with 
shadows ;  before  us  and  at  our  feet  lay  Gaspe 
Bay  and  our  little  schooner;  beyond — north, 
east,  and  south — were  Gaspe,  the  Dartmouth 
River,  and  the  mountains  fading  into  night.  A 
great  quiet  reigned  over  all  the  landscape.  Its 
tranquillity  and  beauty  were  ideal.  We  felt 
like  saying,  "  Why  should  we  longer  roam  ?  " 
But  fate  and  the  ship  called  us  away.  In 
the  middle  watch  the  tide  happily  floated  the 
schooner,  and  under  the  pilotage  of  Captain 
Asca,  who  left  the  light-ship  in  charge  of  an 


THE   CRUISE   OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


RETURNING    FROM    CHURCH. 

assistant,  we  glided  into  the  harbor  of  Gaspe, 
called  the  Basin,  as  it  is  so  snug  and  shel- 
tered. Gaspe  is  built  on  the  sloping  sides  of 
the  Basin.  It  has  eight  hundred  inhabitants, 
a  mayor,  and  a  United  States  consul.  The 
houses  are  embowered  in  shrubbery,  and  the 


bringing  tourists  there, 
for  at  present  it  has  only 
a  semi-weekly  steamer 
and  a  daily  stage-coach. 
The    winters    are   long 
and  the  snows  deep,  and 
the  people,  of  both  sex- 
es, go  to  church  on  snow- 
shoes,  which  they  leave 
stacked  up  in  the  porch 
during  the  services.  But 
the  summer  is  temper- 
ate, while  the  scenery, 
the  fishing,  and  the  mod- 
erate cost  of  living  com- 
bine to  make  Gaspe  a  place  of 
unusual  attraction.     I  am  thoroughly 
assured  that   no  one  would  be   disap- 
pointed   who    should    make   it   a   summer 
resort.    The  fisheries  of  Gaspe  are  chiefly  in 
the  hands  of  the  Le  Boutilliers,  who  have  the 
finest  residence  there.   The  fish  are  chiefly 
exported  to  Brazil.   They  are  not  packed  in 
tierces,  but  in  tubs,  to  suit  the  mode  of  trans- 
portation in  South   America.    Two  of  these 
tubs  make  a  mule  load. 

The  good  people  of  Gaspe  are  greatly  moved 
to   devise  some  scheme  to  restore  their  de- 
parted  prosperity.    They  are  agreed   in  the 
opinion  that  a  railroad  would  do  it,  and  the 
matter  comes  up  before  each  political  elec- 
tion. Theodolites,  chains,  spirit-levels,  pick- 
axes, surveyors,  and  laborers  appear,  and 
the  candidate  is  profuse  in  his  enthusi- 
=,     asm  for  the  railroad.  After  the  election 
is  over,  the  question  is  laid  on  the  shelf, 
and  the  enthusiasm  is  bottled  up  and 
kept  to  help  the  candidate  into  office 
another  year.    Human  nature  is  pretty 
much  the  same,  the  world  over. 

Our  consul,  Mr.  Holt,  was  very  courteous 
toward  us,  and  exerted  himself  to  entertain 
us.  We  decided  to  spend  a  day  in  trout- 
fishing,  for  which  the  neighborhood  is  noted, 
and  all  the  consular  influence  was  brought  to 


little  town  is  really  very  attractive.    All.  busi-    bear  to  procure  a  suitable  vehicle  to  carry  us 

to  the  fishing  stream  six  miles  distant.     But 
horses  and  carriages  seemed  to  be  the  scarcest 


ness  has  left  it,  and  it  is  now  in  a  state  of 
somnolescence.  But,  like  places  which  have 
had  a  period  of  pros- 
perity, it  retains  a  cer- 
tain aristocratic  air,  and 
the  society  is  agreeable 
and  refined.  The  peo- 
ple are  largely  descend- 
ed from  loyalists  of  the 
Revolution.  The  place 
is  three  days'  ride  from 
the  nearest  railway  sta- 
tion. A  railway  would 
doubtless  greatly  add 
to  its  prosperity  by 


-  p^Hpli 

PERC£  ROCK.     (DRAWN  BY  THOM/ 


THE   CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


729 


articles  in  Gaspe  County.  We  had  about 
given  up  expectation  of  finding  a  convey- 
ance, but  were  still  discussing  the  question  in 
the  shady  street,  when  a  wood-cart  came  by. 
Our  party  presented  a  truly  backwoods 
aspect  as  we  rode  through  the  streets  of 
Gaspe  down  to  the  ferry,  coiled  up  on  the 
floor  of  this  rude  vehicle.  The  St.  John's,  to 
which  we  were  bound,  lies  on  the  side  of 
Gaspe  Basin  opposite  the  town,  and  the  cart 
had  to  be  taken  over  in  the  ferry-boat.  The 
grasping  owner  of  the  Gaspe  ferry-boat 
line  had  not  only  contrived  to  obtain  a 
monopoly  of  the  business,  but  had  also 
managed  to  get  all  the  stock  into  his  own 
hands.  Judging  from  the  leakiness  of  the 
boat,  the  stock  seemed  to  have  been  pretty 
well  "  watered."  The  propelling  power  of 
this  crazy  flat-boat  was  represented  by  a  lad 
of  thirteen  and  a  mere  shaver  of  seven  or 
eight  summers.  But  they  managed  to  get  us 
over  without  accident,  which  was  more  than 
I  anticipated.  The  monopolist  aforemen- 
tioned had  grown  so  wealthy  off  the  business 
that  he  had  built  himself  a  house,  which 
commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  river.  In 
order  to  save  ground-rent  or  taxes  in  a  country 
which  is  now  so  densely  populated  that  there 
is  probably  one  inhabitant  to  every  ten  square 
miles,  he  had  built  his  mansion  on  a  raft  an- 
chored by  the  shore.  The  house  was  twelve 
feet  square,  and  was  divided  into  two  ample 
apartments.  There,  in  quiet,  unmolested,  and 
luxurious  seclusion,  this  aquatic  Croesus  was 
seen  smoking  his  clay  pipe  in  his  own  door, 
while  his  faithful  wife  and  daughter  cooked 
his  meals,  and  his  boys  raked  in  the  dividends 
for  him  by  rowing  the  ferry-boat. 

We  had  a  warm  ride  of  two  hours  through 
;the  spruce  forests  on  a  mountainous  road. 
The  air  was  redolent  of  the  fragrance  of  the 
gum  exuding  from  the  trees.  I  could  not 
avoid  noticing  how  much  more  rare  singing- 
birds  were  in  these  forests  than  in  New  Eng- 
land. But  the  mountain  glens  abounded, 
•we  were  told,  with  game.  An  English  sports- 
nan  killed  forty-eight  caribou  in  these  wilds 
•luring  one  season. 

The    St.   John's    is    one    of   three   rivers 

emptying   into  Gaspe  Bay.    The  others  are 

he  York,  which  empties  into  Gaspe  Basin, 

ind  the   Dartmouth,  which  finds  an  outlet 

I*  It    the   head    of   the   bay.     Each    of   these 

jivers  has  a  romantic  beauty  of  its  own,  and 

-,  (ll  are  said  to  abound  in  trout  and  salmon. 

These  reports  are   given  for  what  they  are 

torth.     My  own   belief  in    the   trout-yield- 

pg  properties  of  a  stream  depends  upon  act- 

jal  and  personal  observation.     I  have  found 

pat  so  enormous  is  the  capacity  for  exag- 

eration  of  the  so-called  "  trout-liar,"  that   I 

VOL.  XXVII.— 70. 


would  sooner  believe  a  horse  jockey  or  the 
captain  of  a  yacht.  I  therefore  decline  to 
assume  responsibility  for  any  of  the  rumors 
I  may  quote  regarding  fresh-water  fishing  in 
the  Dominion. 

At  midday  our  expedition  at  last  stood  on 
the  banks  of  the  St.  John's,  and  gazed  with 
exultation  upon  its  rushing  current.  The 
stream  is  a  hundred  yards  wide  at  that  point. 
There  were  woods  on  each  bank,  which  echoed 


lie      64      Wist    from 
\C.Rbzier 


63      Greenwich.       62" 


rQuUvE- B  E 


MAP    OF    THE     CRUISE     (PASPEBIAC    TO    THE    MAGDALEN    ISLES). 

back  the  musical  carillon  of  the  rapids.  We 
found  a  boat-keeper's  lodge  there  and  a  num- 
ber of  canoes.  The  canoes  used  now  by  the 
sportsmen  in  that  region  are  shaped  exactly 
like  the  typical  Indian  birch-bark  canoe;  they 
are  not  made  of  bark,  however,  but  of  thin 
cedar  planking,  on  a  light  frame  of  oak  or 
ash.  Two  of  the  party  went  down  the  stream 
in  a  canoe  with  the  guides,  whom  we  found 
living  in  the  lodge,  while  Burns  and  I  whip- 
ped the  stream  from  the  banks.  After  a 
protracted  trial,  neither  attempt  was  at- 
tended with  such  success  as  to  kindle  the 
enthusiasm  of  which  we  were  capable  under 
favorable  circumstances.  The  guides  assured 
us,  however,  that  farther  up  the  stream  there 
was  no  end  of  large  trout.  This  assurance 
failed  to  make  the  impression  it  might  have 
done  if  we  had  been  at  liberty  to  cast  a 
fly  in  that  part  of  the  river.  But  it  was 
leased  to  a  number  of  Boston  gentlemen, 
and  not  'even  the  proprietor  of  the  adjoining 
banks  could  fish  there  without  being  liable 
for  trespass.  It  may  be  seriously  doubted 
whether  so  much  money  goes  into  the  Do- 
minion, annually,  by  the  leasing  of  the  streams 
as  if  all  tourists  were  allowed  to  fish  any- 
where during  the  season.  Each  tourist  and 
sportsman  brings  money  into  the  country, 
which  is,  indeed,  sadly  in  need  of  it.  Now, 
I  maintain  that  the  large  number  of  sports- 
men who  would  come  there  during  a  season 
if  allowed  to  fish  without  restriction,  would 
bring  more  money  into  the  country  than  the 
revenue  now  derived  from  leasing  the  streams 


73° 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


to  a  few  dozen  gentlemen.  Of  course,  this 
view  of  the  question  must  be  to  a  degree 
hypothetical.  But  there  can  be  no  question 
that  it  is  a  monstrous  usurpation  of  the  rights 
of  property  for  a  government  to  usurp  the 
power  to  lease  away  the  riparian  rights  of  an 
owner  to  the  half  of  a  non-navigable  stream 
that  runs  by  or  through  his  own  lands. 

We  found  compensation  for  our  poor  luck 
with  the  rod  in  the  ravenous  appetite  with 
which  we  returned  to  the  good  supper  await- 
ing us  on  the  schooner.  The  weather  being 
fine,  we  decided  to  move,  and  ordered  the 
captain  to  make  sail  and  drop  down  the  bay 
toward  Perce,  when  the  land  breeze  arose 
with  the  turn  of  the  tide.  Being  becalmed  off 
Point  Epitre,  we  anchored  to  avoid  being 
drawn  ashore  by  the  swell.  The  time  was  well 
spent  in  visiting  the  extensive  fishing  estab- 
lishments, one  of  which  belongs  to  a  clergy- 
man. The  following  night  a  breeze  sprang 
up,  but  it  was  accompanied  by  a  dense  fog. 
The  fates  seemed  to  be  opposed  to  our  visit- 
ing Perce.  But  we  had  taken  Captain  Asca 
with  us  as  pilot,  until  we  should  leave  Gaspe 
Bay,  and  felt  confident  that^  his  familiarity 
with  those  shores  would  getv  us  safely  to 
Perce".  He  was  certainly  feeling  his  way  by 
the  aid  of  some  sixth  sense,  for  at  sunrise  it 
was  impossible  to  imagine  that  we  were  near 
land  except  from  the  vast,  unbrokep  proces- 
sion of  water-fowl  trending  nortH-west  to 
their  feeding  grounds  at  the  head  of  Gaspe" 
Bay.  But,  firmly  grasping  the  wheel,  and 
gazing  with  eagle  eye  into  the  fog,  Captain 
Asca  kept  the  schooner  going,  until  we  could 
hear  the  dull  boom  of  surf  tumbling  into  the 
caves  of  the  cliffs.  There  is  sometimes  about 
the  effects  of  nature  an  apparent  sensational- 
ism which  would  be  highly  censured  if  at- 
tempted by  any  reputable  artist ;  but  she  car- 
ries it  off  so  well  that  we  accept  it  and  readily 
admit  that  she  does  it  in  a  way  that  "  defies 
competition."  We  had  a  striking  example  of 
this  fact  on  this  very  morning.  For  just  as 
the  pilot  said,  "  I  guess  we  are  getting  in 
pretty  handy  to  it ;  we'll  take  a  cast  of  the 
lead,"  the  fog  parted  as  if  by  magic,  rolling 
away  on  either  hand  like  a  curtain,  and  where, 
one  instant,  nothing  was  to  be  seen,  the  next 
a  superb  spectacle  lay  revealed  before  us. 
The  village  of  Perce  lay  not  half  a  mile  dis- 
tant, reposing  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  over- 
hanging precipices  of  Mount  St.  Anne,  whose 
base  terminated  at  the  shore  in  mighty,  pre- 
cipitous, sea-beaten  cliffs;  while  on  the  other 
side  soared  the  tremendous  bulk  of  the  fam- 
ous Perce  Rock,  dun  and  terrible  against  the 
morning  sun,  presenting  altogether  the  most 
varied  and  effective  view  on  the  Atlantic 
coast  of  North  America. 


"  Let  go  the  anchor,"  cried  the  pilot  at 
once,  and  down  rattled  the  cable,  in  fifteen 
fathoms.  At  last  we  had  arrived  at  Perce. 

There  is  no  harbor  there.  The  mount- 
ain range  of  Gaspe  County  terminates  with 
Mount  St.  Anne,  which  makes  to  a  point, 
rounded  off  by  a  low  cliff.  Directly  off  this 
point,  and  detached  from  it  at  high  water,  is 
the  rock.  Ships  can  make  a  lee  of  it  in  good 
weather,  dodging  from  one  side  to  the  other 
according  to  the  changes  of  the  wind;  but 
it  is  not  long  enough  to  make  a/^ee  in  severe 
weather,  and  the  sea  rolls  around  it.  A  ship 
lying  there,  which  it  would  only  do  in  summer, 
must  therefore  watch  carefully  every  shift  of 
the  wind. 

Perce"    is   a  shire  town.    The   houses  are 
cheap  wooden  structures,  but  the  appearance 
of  the  place  from  the  water  is  foreign.    It  is 
shut  in  by  the  mountains  on  the  land  side. 
The  large  Roman  Catholic  church  occupies  an 
eminence  in  the  center  of  the  town ;  and  the 
court-house  is  also  a  prominent  object.  Mount 
St.  Anne  is  peculiarly  shaped.  A  steep,  densely 
wooded  slope  rises  from  the  town  to  a  height 
of  nearly  one  thousand  feet,  and  terminates  in 
a  perpendicular  cliff  richly  hued  with  iron  tints, 
which  crowns  it  like  a  Roman  fortress  and  < 
soars  to  a  height  of  fourteen  hundred  feet.  > 
Perce  Rock  derives  its  name,  as  any  one  fa-  | 
miliar  with  the  French  language  would  at  once 
perceive,  from  the  immense  arch  which  pierces 
it  near  the  eastern  end.  There  was  yet  another 
arch  thirty  years  ago;  but  it  fell  in  during  an  j 
earthquake,  and  left  one  side  of  it  a  separate 
rock.     A   columnar  rock    called   the    "  Old 
Woman,"  off  Cape  'Gaspe,  was  overthrown  i 
by  the  same  convulsion.     Before  this  event   i 
it  was  possible  to  reach  the  summit  of  Perc£ 
Rock,  but  at  present  it  must  be  considered   ; 
inaccessible.    One   or  two  daring   fishermen   : 
have  succeeded  in  performing  the  feat ;  but  j 
several  have  been  killed  in  the  attempt,  and   j 
to  try  to  scale  it  is  now  forbidden.    There  is   i 
a  legend  that  the  rock  is  haunted  by  a  spirit, 
who  may  be  seen  on  stormy  nights  hovering    i 
over  the  summit.    Of  this  I  do  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  speak  with   certainty,  not  having 
seen  this  water-wraith  myself.    Perhaps  it  was 
to   counteract    the   unceasing    influence    of 
this  mysterious  being  that  an  immense  iron 
cross  was  erected  on  the  point  immediately 
adjoining  the  rock.    But  whatever  the  facts   \ 
regarding  its  supernatural  denizens,  this  can 
be   affirmed  with    certainty — the  summit   is 
peopled  by  an  innumerable  and  loquaciois   4 
colony  of  sea-birds.     Their  clanging  never   < 
ceases   until   dark,   and   may   be   heard   for 
miles  and  miles,  blending  with  the  roar  cf 
the   tireless   surf.     Perce    Rock   is   about  aj 
furlong   in   length  and   three   hundred 


THE    CRUISE    OF  THE  ALICE  MAY. 


73* 


twenty  feet  high.  The  abruptness  of  its  shape 
makes  it  seem  much  more  lofty.  The  rock  is 
sublime  in  shadow — a  dark  and  tremendous 
bulk.  But  it  is  gloriously  beautiful  in  the 
sunlight.  The  former  conveys  an  effect  of 
grandeur,  the  latter  brings  out  the  variety  and 
brilliance  of  the  coloring.  It  abounds  in  fer- 
ruginous tints.  Golden-yellow,  copper-reds, 
ochres,  leaden  and  roseate  grays  are  either 
distinct  or  deliciously  blended  in  a  grand 
mosaic  on  this  marvelous  wall,  where  Nature 
has  shown  what  she  dares  in  the  way  of 
color.  On  a  clear  afternoon,  when  the  sky 
and  sea  are  a  deep,  dreamy  purple  and  azure, 
the  beauty  of  Perce  Rock  baffles  description. 
A  foil  or  background  to  the  picture  is  the 
isle  of  Bonaventure,  a  mile  distant.  The 
afternoon  light  bathes  its  bold  outline  with 
the  most  ethereal  roseate  grays,  which  affect 
the  soul  like  the  strains  of  tender  song.  The 
time  is  coming  when  Perce  will  be  painted 
and  sung  and  celebrated  like  the  already 
famed  resorts  of  the  Old  World. 

While  we  were  at  Perce  we  climbed  up 
to  the  summit  of  Mount  St.  Anne.  It  is  a 
long  afternoon  walk;  but  there  is  nothing 
difficult  about  it  until  within  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  of  the  top,  when  it  becomes 
very  steep.  The  prospect  is  one  of  great 
extent  and  of  e/ichanting  loveliness.  On  one 
side  one  gazes  down  on  Perce  and  the  Gulf 
of  St.  Lawrence,  and  on  the  other  he  looks 
down  the  gorges  of  the  Canadian  mountains, 
which  fade  away  in  unexplored  solitude  into 
the  distant  west. 

The  fisheries  at  Perce  give  to  it  the  ani- 
mation of  human  life.  But,  excepting  for 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  fleet  of  boats  going 
out  and  returning,  I  should  greatly  prefer 
the  whole  business  at  another  place ;  for  the 
smell  of  the  decaying  fish  on  the  north  beach 
is  not  an  inspiring  odor,  although  it  is  a 
curious  and  interesting  sight  when  the  boats 
come  home  to  watch  the  women  and  children 
flocking  to  the  beach  and  helping  the  sterner 
sex  to  clean  the  cod.  The  women  some- 
times protect  their  skirts  when  cleaning  fish 
by  getting  into  empty  barrels !  The  occasion 
is  also  one  of  mirth  and  sly  sparking;  we 
detected  our  crew  engaged  in  this  profitless 
pursuit  when  they  were  sent  ashore  to  fill 
I  the  water-casks.  A  sailor  is  never  quite  so 
i  comical  as  when  he  is  making  love  to  a  girl 
on  shore.  There  is  a  massive  bluntness  to 
;his  speech,  a  self-confident  diffidence  in  his 
I  manner  which  is  exceedingly  funny.  Giving 
1  another  turn  to  the  quid  in  his  cheek,  and 
| cocking  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  to 
'gain  an  appearance  of  nonchalance,  Bill 
;sidled  up  toward  a  tittering  girl  who,  with 
jknife  in  hand,  was  splitting  fresh  cod,  and  could 


not  get  away  from  him  at  once,  because  she 
was  buried  up  to  her  armpits  in  a  fish-barrel. 
Before  long  they  had  struck  up  a  brisk  con- 
fabulation. Finally,  Bill  lifted  the  girl  out  of 
her  cage,  and  helped  to  carry  home  her  bas- 
ket of  fish.  The  south  beach  of  Perce  is  more 
neat,  and  far  less  inodorous.  Robin  &  Co. 
have  one  of  their  fine  establishments  there ; 
and  to  say  that,  is  equivalent  to  giving  the 
synonym  of  neatness.  Their  drying-yard  is 
spread  with  pebbles  brought  from  the  shores 
of  Jersey,  which  are  preferable  to  a  bed  of 
sand,  as  it  allows  the  air  to  steal  under  the 
fish,  and  hastens  the  process  of  drying.  When 
the  fish  are  brought  in  they  are  thrown 
into  pens,  one  for  each  boat.  Thus  the  re- 
spective quantity  belonging  to  eachi?  easily 
ascertained.  When  the  fish  are  sifted,  they 
are  carefully  laid  in  separate  rows ;  and  after 
they  have  been  dried  on  the  stages  or  lathe 
platforms,  they  are  piled  in  neat  stacks,  pro- 
tected by  birch  bark.  One  cannot  fully  realize 
what  an  extensive  and  laborious  occupation 
the  cod-fisheries  are,  and  how  large  is  the 
number  of  men  and  the  amount  of  capital 
employed  in  them,  until  he  has  cruised  over 
the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence.  Robin  &  Co.  also 
have  an  establishment  at  Bonaventure  Island. 

The  sweetest  hour  at  Perce  is  when  the 
sun  has  just  set,  and  the  tips  of  the  ruddy- 
cliffs  are  yet  warmed  by  its  glow.  The 
hyaline  swell  languidly  kisses  the  shore ;  the 
new  moon  hangs  in  the  west  *•  the  shadows 
creep  like  a  mantle  over  St.  Anne's  velvet- 
like  slopes,  and  cast  a  veil  over  the  town ; 
the  toll  of  the  angelus  from  the  church  tower 
floats  musically  over  the  sea,  and  the  lights 
quiver  on  the  ocean's  tranquil  bosom.  Easily 
could  we  have  lingered  at  this  delightful  spot 
for  months,  but  the  wind  shifted  so  as  to 
place  us  on  the  weather  side  of  the  Rock, 
bringing  with  it  a  dangerous  swell.  A  dark 
cloud,  brooding  intensely  over  Hdtint  St. 
Anne  at  midnight,  also  suggested  a  possible 
squall,  a  thing  to  be  carefully  avoided  at 
Perce,  where  the  flaws  from  the  mountain 
are  sudden  and  violent.  The  watch  was 
called,  and  we  made  sail  and  put  to  sea. 

Hitherto  our  cruising  had  been  along  the 
western  coast  of  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 
But  now,  with  a  fresh  north-west  breeze,  we 
headed  east  by  south  for  the  Magdalen 
Islands,  which  lie  nearly  in  the  center  of 
the  Gulf,  about  two  hundred  miles  from 
Perce.  At  daybreak  we  were  out  of  sight  of 
land,  and  the  wind  fell  almost  to  a  calm. 
We  were  now  out  of  the  track  of  vessels,  and 
saw  none.  But  there  were  plenty  of  whales 
sporting  clumsily  about  us.  Toward  night 
we  sighted  a  water-logged  wreck  at  a  great 
distance.  We  were  at  supper  when  it  was 


732 


IN  PRIMEVAL    WOOD. 


discovered.  On  learning  of  it  when  we 
went  on  deck,  we  at  once  ordered  the 
helm  to  be  put  down,  and  turned  back  in 
hope  of  reaching  the  wreck  before  the  long 
twilight  should  conceal  it  from  view.  But  the 
wind  was  so  light  we  made  little  progress. 
There  were  no  evidences  of  life  about  the 
wreck,  which  was  probably  a  schooner;  only 
the  stump  of  the  foremast  remained  above 
the  deck.  The  hulk  lay  very  deep  in  the 
water,  and  wallowed  in  the  languid  swell  as 
if  liable  to  go  down  at  any  moment.  There  is 
something  indescribably  melancholy  about 
an  abandoned  wreck  at  sea.  We  kept  up  the 
slow  chase  for  several  hours,  in  the  bare  hope 
that,  if  any  one  was  yet  lingering  on  board, 
we  might  rescue  him.  But  we  lost  sight  of 
the  wreck  before  we  could  reach  it ;  probably 
it  sunk.  Soon  after,  the  moon  went  down, 
and  a  mysterious  starry  gloaming  settled  over 
the  sea.  The  night  was  superb.  Never  were 
the  stars  more  brilliant,  or  the  silvery  clouds 
of  the  Galaxy  more  sublime  in  the  southern 
heavens.  Above  a  dark  bank  of  cloud  in 
the  north,  the  northern  lights  flashed  like  a 
greenish  fire.  The  eerie  chattering  of  Mother 
Gary's  chickens  in  our  wake  was  all  the 
sound  that  blended  with  the  ripple  of  the 
water  as  the  schooner  fanned  along  with  a 
light  air  in  her  serge-like  sails.  At  midnight 
a  soughing  wind  from  the  south  piped  up  in 
the  shrouds.  Deeming  it  useless  to  grope 
longer  for  the  wreck,  and  anxious  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  fair  wind,  we  headed  once 
more  on  our  course.  At  dawn  the  Alice  May 
was  tumbling  headlong  over  the  heavy  seas, 
staggering  under  a  press  of  sail,  and  taking 
in  torrents  of  water  through  her  lee  ports  and 
scuppers.  Every  one  was  on  the  lookout  for 


land,  alow  and  aloft.  As  the  sun  burst  over 
the  sea,  a  faint  hazy  line  was  discerned,  loom- 
ing above  the  horizon.  It  proved  to  be  Dead- 
man's  Island,  the  most  westerly  of  the  group 
for  which  we  were  heading.  It  is  indeed  a 
singular  rock,  about  a  mile  long.  Not  a 
herb,  nor  a  bush,  nor  a  blade  of  grass  is  to  be 
seen  on  its  rocky  sides,  which  rise  to  a  sharp, 
razor-like  ridge  in  the  center.  Seen  from  its 
side,  the  island  bears  a  vivid  resemblance  to 
a  giant  body  laid  on  its  back  and  covered 
by  a  sheet,  and  is  a  fit  subject  to  inspire  the 
wild  fancies  of  superstitious  mariners.  Toward 
noon  we  slacked  off  the  main-sheet,  and  ran 
for  the  narrow  passage  over  the  bar  which 
makes  between  Amherst  and  Entry  islands. 
We  kept  the  lead  going  constantly,  and,  as 
Captain  Welsh  was  not  familiar  with  the 
channel,  we  did  not  feel  at  all  easy  when  we 
saw  the  rollers  taking  a  pale  green  tint,  while 
the  lead  announced  only  two  fathoms  under 
our  keel.  It  was  a  narrow  squeak  we  had ; 
the  schooner  was  lifted  over  the  shoalest  part 
on  the  top  of  a  sea,  or  she  would  have  struck 
heavily  and  bilged !  The  truth  was  that  we 
were  a  little  out  of  our  course.  But  once 
past  that  point,  the  water  deepened  rapidly, 
although  it  is  never  more  thaji  a  few  fathoms 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Magdalen  Islands. 
We  would  advise  no  ship,  unaccompanied  by 
a  pilot,  to  try  this  passage  without  a  leading 
wind  and  clear  weather.  It  is  better  to  go 
around  Entry  Island,  even  although  that 
would  involve  two  or  three  hours  more  of 
sailing.  This  advice  is  the  more  pertinent, 
because  the  sand  from  the  dunes  of  Sandy 
Hook,  the  extreme  end  of  Amherst  Island, 
is  gradually  filling  up  the  channel/ 


(To  be  continued.) 


S.  G.  W.  Benjamin. 


IN    PRIMEVAL   WOOD. 

THIS  deep,  primeval  wood — how  still! 
Lo,  silence  here  makes  all  his  own; 
Veiled  shapes,  with  hands  upon  their  lips, 
Stand  round  about  his  darkened  throne. 

The  patient  pleading  of  the  trees — 
How  deep  it  shames  the  soul's  despair ! 
In  supplication  moveless,  mute, 
They  keep  their  attitude  of  prayer. 


John    Vance 


HOW    LOVE    LOOKED    FOR    HELL. 


To  HEAL  his  heart  of  long-time  pain  "  For  lakes  of  pain,  yon  pleasant  plain 

One  day  Prince  Love  for  to  travel  was  fain  Of  woods  and  grass  and  yellow  grain 

With  Ministers  Mind  and  Sense.  Doth  ravish  the  soul  and  sense : 

"  Now  what  to  thee  most  strange  may  be  ?  "  And  never  a  sigh  beneath  the  sky, 

Quoth  Mind  and  Sense.    "  All  things  above,  And  folk  that  smile  and  gaze  above  " — 


One  curious  thing  I  first  would  see — 
Hell,"  quoth  Love. 


"  But  saw'st  thou  here,  with  thine  own  eye, 
Hell?"  quoth  Love. 


Then  Mind  rode  in  and  Sense  rode  out: 
They  searched  the  ways  of  man  about. 

First  frightfully  groaneth  Sense. 
'Tis  here,  'tis  here,"  and  spurreth  in  fear 
To  the  top  of  the  hill  that  hangeth  above 
And  plucketh  the  Prince  :  "  Come,  come,  'tis 
here"— 

"  Where  ?  "  quoth  Love 

"  Not  far,  not  far,"  said  shivering  Sense, 
As  they  rode  on ;  "A  short  way  hence, — 

But  seventy  paces  hence  : 
Look,  King,  dost  see  where  suddenly 
This  road  doth  dip  from  the  height  above  ? 
Cold  blew  a  moldy  wind  by  me  " 
("Cold?"  quoth  Love) 

"  As  I  rode  down,  and  the  River  was  black, 
And  yon-side  lo  !  an  endless  wrack 

And  rabble  of  souls  "  (sighed  Sense) 
"Their    eyes    upturned    and    begged    and 

burned 

In  brimstone  lakes,  and  a  Hand  above 
Beat  back  the  hands  that  upward  yearned  " — 
"  Nay!  "  quoth  Love  — 

"  Yea,  yea,  sweet  Prince ;  thyself  shalt  see, 
'Wilt  thou  but  down  this  slope  with  me; 

'Tis  palpable,"  whispered  Sense. 
At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  living  rill 
; Shone,  and  the  lilies  shone  white  above; 
"  But  now   'twas  black,    'twas    a   river,  this 
rill," 

("Black?"  quoth  Love) 


"  I  saw  true  hell  with  mine  own  eye, 
True  hell,  or  light  hath  told  a  lie, 
True,  verily,"  quoth  stout  Sense. 
Then    Love  rode   round   and   searched  the 

ground, 

The  caves  below,  the  hills  above; 
"  But  I  cannot  find  where  thou  hast  found 
Hell,"  quoth  Love. 


There,  while  they  stood  in  a  green  wood 
And  marveled  still  on  111  and  Good, 

Came  suddenly  Minister  Mind. 
"In  the  heart  of  sin  doth  hell  begin : 
,'Tis  not  below,  'tis  not  above, 
It  lieth  within,  it  lieth  within:" 
("Where?"  quoth  Love) 


"  I  saw  a  man  sit  by  a  corse ; 
Heirs  in  the  murderer's  breast:  remorse! 
Thus  clamored  his  mind  to  his  mind : 
'  Not  fleshly  dole  is  the  sinner's  goal, 
Hell's  not  below,  nor  yet  above, 
'Tis  fixed  in  the  ever-damned  soul ' " — 
"Fixed?"  quoth  Love  — 


"  Fixed :  follow  me,  would'st  thou  but  see 
He  weepeth  under  yon  willow  tree, 

Fast  chained  to  his  corse,"  quoth  Mind. 
Full  soon  they  passed,  for  they  rode  fast, 
Where  the  piteous  willow  bent  above. 
"  Now  shall  I  see  at  last,  at  last, 
Hell,"  quoth  Love. 


:'Ay,  black,  but  lo!  the  lilies  grow, 
And  yon-side  where  was  woe,  was  woe, — 
Where  the  rabble  of  souls,"  cried  Sense, 
l"  Did  shrivel  and  turn  and  beg  and  burn, 
Thrust  back  in  the  brimstone  from  above  — 
Is  banked  of  violet,  rose,  and  fern : " 
"How?"  quoth  Love: 


There,  when  they  came,  Mind  suffered  shame: 
"  These  be  the  same  and  not  the  same," 

A-wondering  whispered  Mind. 
Lo,  face  by  face  two  spirits  pace 
Where  the  blissful  willow  waves  above : 
One  saith :  "  Do  me  a  friendly  grace  " — 
("  Grace  !  "  quoth  Love) 


734  NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 

"  Read  me  two  Dreams  that  linger  long,  "  In  dreams,  again,  I  plucked  a  flower 

Dim  as  returns  of  old-time  song  That  clung  with  pain  and  stung  with  power  — 

That  flicker  about  the  mind.  Yea,  nettled  me,  body  and  mind." 

I  dreamed  (how  deep  in  mortal  sleep!)  "  'Twas  the  nettle  of  sin,  'twas  medicine; 

I  struck  thee  dead,  then  stood  above,  No  need  nor  seed  of  it  here  Above; 

With  tears  that  none  but  dreamers  weep  " ;  In  dreams  of  hate  true  loves  begin." 
"  Dreams,"  quoth  Love :  "  True,"  quoth  Love. 

"  Now  strange,"  quoth  Sense,  and  "  Strange,"  quoth  Mind, 
"  We  saw  it,  and  yet  'tis  hard  to  find, — 

But  we  saw  it,"  quoth  Sense  and  Mind. 
Stretched  on  the  ground,  beautiful- crowned 
Of  the  piteous  willow  that  wreathed  above, 
— "  But  I  cannot  find  where  ye  have  found 
Hell,"  quoth  Love. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


NOTES   ON   THE   EXILE   OF   DANTE.* 

FROM  HIS  SENTENCE  OF  BANISHMENT  WHILE  IN  ROME,  1302, TO  HIS  DEATH  IN  RAVENNA,  1321. 

To  THE  lovers  of  Italy  and  Italian  literature  It  is  well  known  that  sentence  of  exile  was 

more  about  Dante  can  never  be  unwelcome,  passed  upon  Dante  at  the  very  time  when  he 

There  has  been  a  gradual  accumulation  of  was  acting  as  embassador,  in  the  service  of  j 

evidence  concerning  the   course  and  chron-  Florence,  to  Pope  Boniface  VIII.,  in  Rome.  \ 

ology  of  his  wanderings  in  exile,  ever  since  That  pope  was  himself  in  league  with  the 

Boccaccio  gave  to  the  world  the  first  biogra-  enemies  of  Dante  in  Florence,  and  detained 

phy  of  this  great  poet,  who  died  early  in  the  him  in  Rome  on  various  pretexts   till  their 

fourteenth  century.    Villani  and  other  histo-  treacherous  purpose  could  be  accomplished, 

rians  add  something  to  this  knowledge.   Tra-  Learning  in   Rome   that  something  of  this 

dition  has  preserved  a  record  of  his  presence  kind  was  preparing  against  him,  he  with  some 

in  many  places  not  mentioned  by  the  histo-  difficulty  detached  himself  from  the    Papal 

rians,  and  the  verses  of  the  poet  show  a  wide  court,   and,   proceeding   to   Siena,  he  there 

acquaintance  with  his  own  and  foreign  coun-  learned  that  sentence  of  exile  had  been  passed 

tries.    The  name  of  Dante  is  known  and  his  against  him  in  company  with  a  crowd  of  in- 

memory  loved  and  honored  throughout  Italy,  ferior  persons,  and  that  he  was  promised  a 

even    by   the   ignorant.    In   this   nineteenth  cruel  death  by  fire  should  he  return  to  his 

century,  Italy  is  so  much  like  what  it  was  in  home  without  permission.   This  occurred  in 

the  fourteenth,  that  it  is  not  difficult  to  find  1302,  and  Dante  never  again  saw  Florence 

the  course  of  Dante's  wanderings   and  the  during  the  remaining  nineteeen  years  of  his 

places  where  he  rested.   The  castles  where  sad  life.    Born  in  1265,  he  was  at  the  date  of 

he  visited  his  political  friends  are  still  to  be  his  exile  thirty-seven  years  of  age. 

found,  some  in  ruins,  one,  at  least,  inhabited.  Dante   had   been  dead  about  fifty  years 

The  cities  of  Italy  maintain  very  much  the  when  Boccaccio  recorded,  in  a  short  biog- 

relative  importance  that  they  held  in  the  time  raphy,  such  fragments  of  his  personal  history 

of  Dante.   There  are  convents,  castles,  town-  as  could  then  be  collected.    Troya  says  that 

halls,    and  houses    bearing    marble    tablets  Boccaccio's  father  was  in  Paris  when  Dante 

that  record  his  visit   to  the  place  on  some  was  there,  and  suggests  that  probably  some 

public  errand  as  embassador  from  Florence  particulars  of  the  poet's  history  came  to  the 

before  his  exile,  or  show  that  here  he  met  his  son  through  the  father's  acquaintance  with 

friends  in  council,  or  that  there  he  found  a  him.    Other  information  has  been  gathered 

friendly  refuge  and  a  temporary  rest  from  his  from  the  writings  of  Villani,  Dino  Campagni. 

weary  and  lonely  travels.  and  other   historians   of  those  times.    Later 

*  THESE  notes  with  pen  and  pencil  were  made  to  commemorate  a  pilgrimage  of  the  author  to  the  citie?, 
convents,  and  castles  that  gave  Dante  refuge  in  exile,  and  to  some  other  places  known  to  have  been  visited  by  ' 
the  poet,  or  that  are  mentioned  in  his  verses.    The  order  of  his  wanderings  has  been  kept  as  nearly  as  possi 
ble,  but  the  notes  are  necessarily  incomplete. —  S.  F.  C. 

The  illustrations  are  nearly  all  from  Miss  Clarke's  drawings,  which  have  been  redrawn  for  engravi 
by  Mr.  Harry  Fenn. — ED. 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


735 


scholars   have   carefully  collated  these  pas- 

I  sages,  and    much   critical  writing  has   been 

j  expended    in    proving   or    disproving    their 

truth ;  and  it  is  not  probable  that  much  more 

'I  will  be  known  on  this  point  than  is  known 

already.    Don  Carlo  Troya,  in  his  "  Veltro 

allegorico  di  Dante,"  published  in  Florence 

in  1826,  brings  together  much  of  this  desired 

1  information;    and    Fraticelli,    Dante's    latest 

I  biographer,   gives  the  mature  result  of  the 

!  researches  of  Dantean  scholars  on  the  course 

j  and  events  of  his  exile. 

Dante  was  a  great  traveler — not,  indeed, 
j  like  Christopher  Columbus  or  Marco  Polo ; 
I  but,  though  he  neither  circumnavigated  the 
globe,  nor  discovered  a  continent  he  visited 
I  all  parts  of  Italy;  he  penetrated  the  passes  of 
I  the  Tyrol ;  he  passed  along  the  border  of  the 
Mediterranean  Sea  from  Spezia  to  Nice,  and 
|  thence  to  Paris.    Returning,  he  came,  it  is 
I  believed,  by  way  of  Milan.    In  Tuscany  he 
I  visited  the  Casentino,  where  in  his  youth  he 
!  had  fought  in  the  battle  of  Campaldino  as  a 
I  soldier  of  Florence.    Again  in  the  north  of 
1  Italy,  he  visited  Can  Grande  at  Verona,  and 
|  thence   went   to    Ravenna,  where   he   died. 
These  journeys  were  probably  made  on  foot. 
To-day  a  circular  ticket  takes  one  through 
the  peninsula  with  little  expense  of  time  or 
i  money,  and  perhaps  with  even  less  advantage. 
j  Not  such  were  the  travels  of  Dante.    In  his 
!  day  there  were  no  carriages  and  no  public 
i  conveyances ;  all  journeys   were   performed 
I  either  on  foot  or  on  horseback.    Dante  was 
equally   poor   and   proud,   and,    though   he 
speaks  of  himself  as  being  during  his  exile  a 
1  beggar,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  accepted  any- 
i  thing  but  the  necessaries  of  life,  even  from 
|  those  friends   who   delighted  to   serve  him. 
i  He  might  figuratively  call  himself  a  beggar, 
|  because  he  received  those  absolute  necessaries, 
j  food  and  shelter,  as  gifts;  but  it  was  not  in 
j  pity,  but  in  honor,  that  they,  were  accorded  to 
I  him.    While  still  a  chief  citizen  of  Florence, 
rich  in  esteem  and  love  there,  as  elsewhere, 
he  was  many  times  sent  as  embassador  to 
I  other  cities  and  powers,  and  then,  no  doubt, 
i  he  traveled  on  horseback  and  with  attendants. 
i  But  when  he  had,  by  his  banishment,  been 
[deprived  of  all  personal  possessions,  it  is  un- 
j  likely  that  his  proud  spirit  would  allow  him 
jto  travel  at  the  expense  of  his  friends.    There 
iis  also  much   evidence  of  these  lonely  walks 
in  the  "  Divina  Commedia,"  which  is  enriched 
with  so  many  passages  where  the  coolness 
and  tranquillity  of  nature  break   in   as   re- 
lief upon   the  horrors  and  severities   of  the 
terrible  under-world.    The  "  Paradiso  "  is  full 
of  distance  and  atmosphere,  as  well  as  of  light, 
(tenderness,   happiness,    and   beauty.    Every- 
jwhere  in  the  poem  is  seen  familiarity  with 


Nature  in  all  her  moods  and  forms,  with  sun- 
rises and  storms,  with  starry  nights  and  shin- 
ing days,  with  her  mountains,  her  skies,  seas, 
shores,  valleys,  forests,  and  rocky  solitudes. 
In  the  course  of  these  pages  I  shall  have  oc- 
casion to  quote  many  passages  in  illustration 
of  what  I  am  now  saying. 

According  to  Fraticelli,  Dante  must  have 
passed  the  first  three  years  of  his  exile  in  or 
near  Tuscany.  This  is  opposed  to  the  belief, 
founded  on  some  verses  in  the  "Paradiso," 
that  he  first  visited  Verona  as  the  guest  of 
the  Scaligeri.  These  verses  are  : 

"  Thine  earliest  refuge  and  thine  earliest  inn 
Shall  be  the   mighty  Lombard's  courtesy, 
Who  on  the  ladder  bears  the  holy  bird." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "Par.,"  xvii.  71. 

The  great  Lombard  here  spoken  of  is  sup- 
posed to  be  Can  Grande,  but  it  was  his 
brother  Bartolommeo  who  was  chief  in  1303, 
and  it  was  in  1317  that  Dante  was  visiting 
Can  Grande  in  Verona.  To  remove  this  dif- 
ficulty, Fraticelli  suggests  that  Dante  must 
have  meant  that  this  refuge  was  first  in  its 
great  kindness,  and  not  in  the  order  of  time. 
He  says  \\\&\.primo  in  this  place  signifies  prin- 
cipal or  greatest,  as  we  say  of  Dante  that  he 
is  the  primo  poeta  del  mondo,  the  first  of  po- 
ets,— not  the  earliest,  but  the  first  in  the  char- 
acter of  his  poetry.  Bruni  says  that  Dante 
passed  from  Rome  to  Siena,  from  Siena  to 
Gargonza,  and  thence  to  Arezzo,  where,  be- 
tween hope  and  despair,  he  remained  till 
1304.  If  this  be  so,  he  cannot  have  made 
Verona  his  first  refuge. 

ROME. 

DANTE  was  in  Rome  as  embassador  from 
Florence  to  Pope  Boniface  VIII.  in  1302,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  intrigues  against  him 
were  perfected,  and  that  sentence  procured 
which  made  him  a  perpetual  exile.  What  ob- 
ject in  this  most  wonderful  of  cities  shall  we 
select  as  illustrative  of  the  visit  of  the  great- 
est Italian  poet  ?  Three  things  in  Rome  he 
speaks  of:  the  church  of  St.  John  Lateran, 
the  bridge  of  St.  Peter,  which  is  now  the 
bridge  of  St.  Angelo,  and  the  Pine  Cone  of 
the  Vatican.  The  first  is  slightly  alluded  to, 
"  Inferno,"  xxviii.,  verse  86,  where,  in  speaking 
of  a  war  between  the  Pope  and  the  Colonnas, 
it  is  called  the  War  of  the  Lateran.  Again, 
in  the  "  Paradiso,"  the  bridge  of  St.  Peter 
is  spoken  of  as  bearing  the  multitudes  which 
thronged  it  on  the  occasion  of  the  jubilee  at 
the  completion  of  the  thirteenth  century.  This 
bridge  is  much  changed  since  that  time,  and 
as  the  Pigna  or  Pine  Cone  remains  as  it  was 
when  Dante  saw  and  used  it  as  an  illustra- 
tion, though  it  was  then  in  another  place,  I 


736 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


have  chosen  it  for  my  first  sketch.  This  great 
pine  cone  is  of  bronze,  and  at  first  adorned 
the  crown  of  Hadrian's  tomb.  Later  it  was 
placed  in  front  of  the  old  church  of  St.  Peter, 
where  it  stood  in  Dante's  time,  and  is  now  seen 
in  the  vast  niche  of  Bramante,  in  the  Vatican 
Gardens,  where  it  is  flanked  by  two  bronze  pea- 
cocks. It  is  mentioned  in  the  following  lines 
describing  the  giant  Nimrod in  the  "  Inferno": 

"  His  face  appeared  to  me  as  long  and  large 
As  is  at  Rome  the  pine  cone  of  St.  Peter's, 
And  in  proportion  were  the  other  bones." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "  Inf.,"  xxxi.    58. 

Dante,  having  imagined  this  wonderful  gi- 
ant, now  gives  circumstantial  evidence.  As 
the  pine  cone  measures  eleven  feet  in  length, 
the  giant,  whose  face  is  as  long  and  as  large, 
must  be  about  seventy  feet  high,  or  even  more, 
were  he  a  well-proportioned  giant. 

It  is  to  be  noticed  that,  in  the  great  poem, 
none  of  the  wonderful  monuments  of  ancient 
Rome  are  mentioned.  The  Coliseum,  the 
aqueducts,  the  baths,  the  temples,  the  palaces 
of  imperial  Rome,  Dante  never  speaks  of.  It 
is  as  if  he  had  never  seen  them,  and  yet,  eyes 
were  never  used  to  better  purpose  than  the 
eyes  of  Dante.  It  would  seem  that  these 
grand  desolations  must  have  appealed  with 
especial  force  to  this  somber  and  poetic  spirit, 
and  that  the  sight  of  them  would  have  borne 
fruit  in  his  verses.  It  is  true  that  much  of 
what  is  now  seen  of  these  grand  remains  was 
in  the  fourteenth  century  still  buried  in  the 
earth,  but  the  Coliseum  and  the  aqueducts 
can  never  have  been  hidden. 

It  is  believed  that  Dante  twice  visited 
Naples  as  embassador,  and  yet  he  never  men- 
tions Vesuvius.  Yet  who,  that  has  walked 
at  night  on  that  mountain  during  an  eruption, 
and  has  passed  over  the  black  lava  fields 
lighted  with  flashes  from  subterranean  fires, 
has  seen  the  moon  and  stars  blotted  with  mass- 
es of  black  smoke,  and  noticed  the  thronging, 
shadowy  forms  circling  in  these  weird  places, 
but  must  have  perceived  that  here  was  pre- 
sented the  whole  scenery  of  the  "  Inferno." 

The  Basilica  of  St.  John  Lateran  was  be- 
gun by  Constantine,  who,  it  is  said,  labored 
at  the  foundations  with  his  own  hands.  It 
was  consecrated  324  A.  D.,  in  896  was  over- 
thrown by  an  earthquake,  and  rebuilt  904, 
and  at  that  time  consecrated  to  John  the 
Baptist.  This  second  basilica,  to  which  Dante 
alludes,  was  almost  entirely  destroyed  by  fire 
in  1308.  It  was  rebuilt  and  again  burned  in 
1360,  and  remained  four  years  in  ruins.  It 
was  restored  the  third  time  in  1364,  and  the 
oldest  remaining  part  that  we  see  now  is  the 
transept  which  opens  on  the  piazza  and  looks 
north.  It  is  more  picturesque  on  that  side 


than  on  that  of  the  facade,  and  more  eccle-  '; 
siastical  with  its  two  pointed  towers.    It  has 
gravity,  antiquity,  and  dignity  in  its  aspect;  ' 
and  when  in  the  long  summer  afternoons  the  ( 
sun  shines  in  at  the  north-western  arches  on  \ 
the  transept's  end,  and  breaks  up  the  numerous 
openings  into  light  and  shade,  the  old  struct- 
ure is  brought  to  life  and  much  beautified. 

SIENA. 

RETURNING  from  Rome  to  Florence,  as  he 
believed,  Dante  paused  at  Siena,  and  there 
he  first  learned   the   full   particulars   of  the  j 
calamity  that  had  befallen  him.    Up  to  that 
period  Dante  was  of  the  Guelf  or  Papal  party  ; 
but  the  Guelfs  themselves  were  divided  into  - 
Bianchi  and  Neri,  and  it  was  to  that  division  } 
of  the  Guelf  party  called  Bianchi  that  he  be- 
longed.   These  factions  were  full  of  bitterness  < 
against  each  other,  and  it  was  to  his  enemies  !i 
the  Neri  that  Dante  owed  his  banishment.  ] 
The  Bianchi  were  nearer  in  their  wishes  and 
their  policy  to  the  Ghibellines,  and  about  this 
period,  from  the  pressure  of  circumstances,  I 
became  nearly  identified  with   them.    Thus,  j: 
it  was  not  so  much  that  Dante  changed  his  ! 
party,  as  that  he  changed  with  his  party.    It  ' 
must  have  been  here  that  his  mind  was  pre-  j 
paring  itself  for  the  change.   At  Siena  we  find  j 
the  old  Palazzo  Tolomeo  in  extremely  good 
condition.  I  have  learned  that  it  continues  at  jj 
this  time  to  be  inhabited  by  a  member  of  the  !' 
Pia  family.    The  well-known  story  of  Pia  di 
Tolomeo  is  alluded  to  in  the  "  Purgatory  ": 

"After  the  second  followed  the  third  spirit, 
Do  thou  remember  me  who  am  la  Pia; 

Siena  made  me,  unmade  me  Maremma; 

He  knoweth  it,  who  had  encircled  first, 
Espousing  me,  my  finger  with  his  gem." 

Longfellow  Tr.     «  Purg.,"  v.  133. 

The  door  of  this  old  palace  is  drawn  as  it 
stands  now  in  the  Piazza  Tolomeo,  and  near  I 
it  the  pillar  on  which  is  seen  the  wolf  of  the  | 
Capitol  nursing  Romulus  and  Remus.    This 
group  is  more  frequently  seen  at  Siena  than 
even  at  Rome.    Dante  speaks  of  the  Campo, 
the  grand  square : 

"'Where  he  in  greatest  splendor  lived,'  said  he, 

'  Freely  upon  the  Campo  of  Siena, 

All  shame  being  laid  aside,  he  placed  himself,'  " 

"Purg.,"  xi.  133  — 

alluding  to  Provenzano  Salvani,  who,  when 
his  friend  was  taken  prisoner  by  Charles  of 
Anjou,  King  of  Sicily,  and  was  condemned  to 
lose  his  head  unless  redeemed  by  an  enor- 
mous ransom,  went  into  the  Campo  di  Siena, 
and  sat  there  begging  in  his  friend's  cause  till 
the  necessary  sum  was  raised.  This  humility 
and  generosity  saved  him  in  purgatory  much 
of  the  suffering  deserved  for  his  sins. 


NOTES    ON   THE   EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


737 


Siena  is  again  alluded  to  in  the  "  Inferno  " : 

"  And  to  the  Poet  said  I,  '  Now  was  ever 

So  vain  a  people  as  the  Sienese  ? 

Not,  for  a  certainty,  the  French  by  far.'" 

Longfellow  Tr.     "Inf.,"  xxix.  121. 

The  story  of  Pia  di  Tolomeb  is  this :  Her 

i  husband,  thinking  he  had  reason  to  suspect 

I  her  fidelity,  took  her  from  this  palace  in  Siena, 

which  was  their  home,  and  conveyed  her  to 

his  castle  in  the  Maremma  with  the  deliberate 

i  purpose  of  destroying  her  life  by  the  malaria. 

And  in  this  he  was  successful. 

GARGONZA 1302-3. 

WE  now  come  to  Gargonza,  which  is  about 
'half  way  between  Siena  and  Arezzo.  Dante 
[nust  have  gone  there  on  leaving  Siena,  as  it 
ts  well  known  that  he  met  a  number  of  Ghi- 
pelline  leaders  in  that  place.  Finding  it  more 
convenient  to  reach  it  from  Arezzo,  I  there 
:ook  a  little  carriage  one  fine  day  in  Septem- 
>er  to  drive  the  twenty- four  miles.  Distances 
ire  not  carefully  measured  in  Italy,  and  this 
Irive  was,  I  think,  less  than  the  number  of 
piles  named.  The  way  led  along  the  Val  di 
"hiana,  a  plain  that  in  the  time  of  Dante  was 
)estilential,  being  rendered  swampy  from  the 
>verflow  of  the  Chiana.  This  he  mentions  thus : 

"What  pain  would  be,  if  from  the  hospitals 
Of  Val  di  Chiana,  'twixt  July  and  September, 
I  And  of  Maremma  and  Sardinia, 
All  the  diseases  in  one  moat  were  gathered. 
Such  was  it  here." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "Inf.,"  xxix.  47. 


PART    OF    THE    CHURCH    OF    ST.    JOHN   LATERAN,    ROME. 

VOL.  XXVIL— 71. 


THE    PINE    CONE    OF    THE    VATICAN. 

The  whole  valley  is  now  a  healthy  and  fer- 
tile district,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  multitudes 
of  gay,  happy-looking  people,  and  the  abun- 
dant harvest  of  maize  spread  upon  the  house- 
tops and  hung  in  festooned  bunches  on  the 
walls  to  dry  in  the  sun,  and  the  same  grain 
hung  in  the  olive  trees,  thus  making  a  bizarre 
arrangement  of  color,  the  strong  yellow  of  the 
corn  shining  among  the  silvery  grays  of  the 
olive.  The  vines  well  loaded  with  healthy- 
looking  fruit,  vegetable  gardens  in  good  con- 
dition, and  other  signs  of  rural  prosperity,  all 
speak  of  the  present  happy  condition  of  things 
in  this  valley. 

After  crossing  these  pleasant  plains  we  be- 
gin to  ascend  the  hills  that  lie  between  Siena 
and  Arezzo,  on  the  heights  of  which  is  situ- 
ated the  Castle  of  Gargonza.  At  Monte  San 
Savino  we  take  another  horse  in  front,  and 
after  a  few  miles  of  ascent  reach  the  top  of 
the  hill,  where,  on  the  right  side  of  the  road,  a 
few  straggling  cypress  trees  indicate  the  place 
of  an  old  gate-way.  A  wild  road  among  the 
trees  soon  brings  us  to  a  turn,  from  which  we 
see  at  a  short  distance  below  the  old  tower 
of  Gargonza.  This  is  no  ruin,  and  to  it  is 
joined  a  piece  of  the  old  castle  wall.  Some 
small  houses  cluster  about  these  remains  of 
the  mediaeval  castle,  in  one  of  which  my 
driver  tells  me  is  living  the  proprietor  of  the 
tower,  making  his  villeggiatura.  As  I  find 
myself  here  well  situated  for  making  my 
sketch,  I  unpack  my  easel,  and,  selecting  a 
convenient  point,  am  soon  at  work. 

The  driver  goes  on  to  a  neighboring  farm- 
house, where  he  can  rest  and  feed  his  horse. 
He  is  directed  to  go  to  the  tower  and  ask  if 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


it  can  be  seen;  also,  if  there  are  any  indica- 
tions of  Dante's  visit  to  the  place.  Soon  ap- 
pears a  liveried  servant  bearing  a  courteous 
note  from  the  Marchese  and  Marchesa  Corsi- 
Salviati,  inviting  me  to  join  them  at  their 
dejeuner. 

This  is  a  kindly  and  unexpected  hospitality, 
as  they  know  nothing  of  me  but  that  I  am  an 
artist,  and  think  I  may  be  in  need  of  refresh- 
ment. I  am  obliged,  unwillingly,  to  refuse 


TOWER     CHAMBER     AT 
GARGONZA. 


this  kind  invitation, 
as  the  sun  will  not 
stand  still,and  I  must 
finish  the  sketch  be- 
fore going  to  look  at  the  tower.  After  having 
worked  about  two  hours  I  find  I  can  do  no 
more,  since  the  light  has  so  much  changed. 
Descending  the  hill,  the  path  turns  and  leads 
up  to  the  tower.  The  driver  guides  me,  and 
at  the  door  of  a  house  the  Marchese  receives 
me  with  much  courtesy,  and  he  and  the  Mar- 
chesa make  me  kindly  welcome.  After  learn- 
ing what  he  can  tell  me  of  the  history  of  the 
castle,  some  items  of  which  he  writes  out  for 
me,  I  am  conducted  into  the  old  tower,  and 
into  the  very  chamber  in  which,  according  to 
family  tradition,  Dante  lived  some  months. 
I  looked  with  the  deepest  interest  on  this  lit- 
tle stone  chamber,  as  here  he  passed  through 
the  great  crisis  of  his  life,  and  from  a  Guelf 


became  a  Ghibelline.  As  the  tower  is  of 
stone,  and  in  good  preservation,  it  is  really 
very  much  what  it  must  have  been  at  the 
time  when  its  walls  witnessed  the  struggles 
of  this  great  soul  with  fate.  Fraticelli  says : 

"  While  Dante,  seeing  how  inefficacious  was  his  em- 
bassy  to  Pope  Bonifacio,  remained  in  Rome,  uncertain 
how  he  ought  to  act,  he  received  news  of  the  ruin  of 
his  country,  and  a  little  later  of  his  own  misfortunes. 
Freeing  himself,  then,  from  the  Pontifical  court,  and 
cursing  in  his  heart  its  duplicity  and  perfidy,  he  hast- 
ened into  Tuscany  and  arrived  at  Siena,  where  he 
heard  the  particulars  of  these  melancholy  facts.  He 
well  saw,  and  all  the  other  banished  men  saw,  that 
there  was  no  mode  of  reducing  their  adversaries  to; 
milder  measures ;  wherefore  they  took  counsel  to  unite  < 
themselves  together,  and  their  first  reunion  was  ati 
Gargonza,  a  castle  of  the  Ubertini  family,  standing 
half  way  between  Siena  and  Arezzo,  and  here  they 
decided  to  act  with  the  Ghibellines  of  Tuscany  and  of 
Romagna,  and  to  establish  their  head-quarters  ati 
Arezzo.  The  change  of  Dante  from  the  Bianchi  of 
the  Guelfs  to  the  party  of  the  Ghibellines  dates  only 
from  this  time  —  that  is,  from  February  or  March  of 
1302;  and  whoever  has  said  differently  has  not  well 
studied  these  historical  facts,  their  causes  and  their 
consequences.  In  Arezzo,  then,  they  assembled,  and 
here  organized  their  forces,  taking  for  their  captain 
Count  Alessandro  da  Romena,  and  naming  twelve 
councilors  to  stand  by  him ;  one  of  these  wasJ 
Dante." 

Thus  it  appears  that  the  decision  to  join] 
the  Ghibellines  must  have  been  reached  ati 
Gargonza.    The  tradition  of  the  place  is  that] 
Dante   passed   some   months   in    this   stoi 
chamber,  and  that  he  wrote  some  part  of  tl 
"  Inferno  "  here.  The  room  occupies  the  whol 
body  of  the  tower ;  it  is  entered  by  a  ladd( 
from  below  through  a  trap  in  the  floor,  an< 
the  same  sort  of  passage  leads  to  the  root 
above,  and  another  ladder  to  the  roof.    Th( 
are    two    small    windows ;    one    is    tall   an< 
reaches  nearly  to  the  floor,  the  other  smal 
and   high   and   is   reached   by   a   few   st 
worked  in  the  thickness   of  the  wall, 
ladder  stair- way,  the  Marchese  assured 
was  the  same  that  had  always  been  used ;  th< 
same  arrangement  is  seen  in  Galileo's  towt 
near  Florence.    Villani  says  :  "  The  Castle  oil 
Gargonza  is  celebrated  for  the  congress,  irf 
1304,  of  the  Ghibellines  of  Florence  and  o!.; 
Arezzo,  among  whom  was  found  the  exile<|] 
poet,  Dante  Alighieri." 

I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  whc 
high  battlements  seemed  still  to  wall  me  in 
but  the  view  across  the  Val  di  Chiana  to  tl 
hills  where  Arezzo  stands  is  full  of  airy  sui 
shine,  is  Italian  and  intoxicating.    In  oth< 
countries  one  may  look  on  a  wide  and  beai 
tiful  view  with  a  certain  coolness ;  one  crit 
cises  its  features  and  finds  it  better  or  poore 
than  other  views ;  but  in  Italy,  though  it 
but  a  level  plain,  the  transparent  curtain 
the  air,  traversed  by  threads  of  golden  li 
makes  an  enchanted  veil  in  which  the  sp< 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


739 


tor  is  caught  and  held  as  in 
a  net.  He  cannot  criticise 
or  compare;  he  can  only 
yield  to  the  magic  spell. 

Returning  to  Arezzo,  the 
road  passes  Pieve  al  Intop- 
po,  the  site  of  a  battle  be- 
tween Guelfs  and  Ghibel- 
lines. 

SAN    GEMIGNANO 1299. 

NEAR  Siena  is  San  Ge- 
mignano,  an  old  town  on  a 
hill,  and  so  full  of  towers 
that  from  a  distance  it  seems 
composed  of  them,  and  to 
be  a  fortress.  In  the  middle 
ages  every  city  had  many 
towers  erected  by  the  great 
chieftains,  whose  families 
took  refuge  in  such  high  and  safe  places  dur- 
ing the  wars  that  were  incessantly  raging 
between  these  jealous  neighbors.  They  also 
served  for  a  point  of  attack.  A  walled  city 
kept  off  enemies  from  other  cities  and  powers, 
but  within  its  shelter  almost  every  man  of  im- 
portance was  the  enemy  of  his  neighbor,  and 
fighting  without  end  was  the  consequence. 
If  Romeo  fancied  Juliet,  the  lives  of  both  fam- 
ilies were  put  in  danger ;  or  if  a  drunken  brawl 
occurred  among  the  followers,  and  any  vio- 
lence was  done,  war  was  declared  immedi- 
ately, and  the  ensuing  fights  often  involved 
|whole  neighborhoods,  and  a  tumult  of  vio- 
lence would  fill  the  great  city.  Vendetta  was 
fdeclared  and  peace  forever  driven  away.  In 
jthe  town-hall  of  this  place  is  a  tablet  recording 
(the  historical  fact  that  Dante  came  here  as 
iembassador  from  the  Florentines,  to  make 
Ian  alliance  with  the  San  Gemignanese.  This 
pld  town  is  full  of  picturesque  treasures,  and 
jhas  charming  views  from  its  gates  and  from 
|the  tops  of  its  towers. 

MONTE    REGGIONE. 

THIS   little    town    is   indeed    a   crown    of 

towers.     ("  Monte  Reggione  di  torre  si  co- 

•ona." — "  Inf.,"  cant,  xxxi.,  ver.  41.)  About 

[twenty  houses  are  inclosed  within  a  circular 

[wall  which  has  towers  at  short  intervals.    It 

Is,  in  fact,  a  fortress.    The  gates  now  stand 

i>pen,  the  walls  are  crumbled,  the  towers  fast 

Hosing  their  shape,  but  the  houses  within  are 

jnhabited.    It  is  a  miniature  town,  a  happy 

ipclosure,  and  a  pleasant  and  fruitful  resort 

!  pr  a  sketcher.    When  I  visited  the  place  in 

company   with  a   friend,  who  gave   me  the 

iielightful  drive  from  Siena,  it  was  a  gray  soft 

(lay  when  all  was  in  harmony  with  the  venera- 


ble  time-stained  ruin; 
a  day  without  pecul- 
iar splendors,  yet  one 
of  those  on  which 
memory  sets  a  seal 
that  it  may  be  never 
forgotten. 

CASENTINO 

1303-1311. 

WE  come  now  to 
the  Casentin^o,  which 
is  rich  in  traces  of 
Dante.  This  valley 

lies  east  of  Florence,  and  is  inclosed  by  the 
three  mountains  on  which  are  seated  the  con- 
vents of  Vallombrosa,  Camaldoli,  and  Alver- 
nia.  It  is  a  favorite  performance  of  the  faithful 
to  visit  these  three  important  sanctuaries.  The 
valley  is  a  little  world  within  itself.  It  is  from 
twenty  to  thirty  miles  across,  and  contains 
within  its  mountain  boundaries  hills,  rivers, 
cities,  castles,  and  convents,  besides  farms  and 
villages.  It  was  on  a  delightful  day  in  June 
when  a  party  of  friends  prepared  to  explore 
the  Casentino,  and  to  find  the  castles  visited 
by  Dante.  We  took  the  railway  to  Pontas- 
sieve,  which  is  about  ten  miles  from  Florence, 
and  at  that  place  engaged  a  carriage  for  the 
next  four  or  five  days.  We  drove  first  to 
Pelago,  where  we  were  to  take  horses  for 
Vallombrosa,  at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and 
there  pass  the  first  night.  It  was  arranged 
that  our  carriage  should  meet  us  the  next 
morning  at  Consuma  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain.  At  Pelago  occurred  an  instance 
of  faithlessness  to  a  well-understood  contract, 
such  as  one  seldom  meets  in  Italy.  The  peo- 
ple will  overcharge  you  with  the  greatest 


740 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


MONTE    REGGIONE. 


readiness;  but  when  they  have  made  a  con- 
tract, written  or  unwritten,  they  are  usually 
faithful  to  it.  To-day,  we  had  a  new  experi- 
ence. The  padrona  at  the  little  locanda  at 
Pelago  furnishes  horses  and  guides  for  the 
mountain  of  Vallombrosa.  We  engaged  two 

horses  and  two  guides  for  L and  myself, 

the  third  of  our  party,  Mr.  C ,  preferring 

to  walk.  The  padrona,  supported  by  Fran- 
ceschino,  who,  I  suppose,  was  her  son,  now 
said  that  we  must  take  a  third  man  to  carry 
our  bags  and  shawls.  We  knew  the  night  at 
Vallombrosa  would  be  cold,  and  had  there- 
fore taken  many  wraps;  but  though  the  lug- 
gage was  considerable,  I  thought  the  two 
men  could  easily  carry  it;  and  as  we  could 


also  take  something  on  our 
horses,  the  third  man  appeared 
unnecessary.    But  the  padrona  in- 
sisted, saying  the  road  was  so  bad 
that  it  would  require  all  the  atten- 
tion of  the  two  men  to  guide  the 
horses.    So  we  agreed  to  the  third 
man  and  started,  Franceschino  proving 

.     to  be  that  third.    Mr.  C had  walked 

on  before  while  we  were  getting  mount- 
ed, and  was  already  out  of  sight.    The  day 
was  delightful,  and  the  horses  stepped  out 
'  bravely.   After  we  had  made  about  a  mile, 
and  had  not  yet  begun  the  ascent,  Frances- 
chino stopped  the  horses,  and,  coming  to 
me,  said : 

"  Bon  voyage,  madame,"  the  Italians  who 
consider   themselves   superior   preferring  to 
speak  French  to  strangers. 
"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  " 
"  To  Florence,  madame." 
"  How  is  that,  when  you  have  engaged  to 
go  with  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  this  traitor,  "  there  is  no  need 
of  a  third  man  to  go  up  the  mountain." 

"  But  your  padrona  insisted  that  we  should 
take  you  on  account  of  the  badness  of  the 
road." 

"  Pardon,  madame,  the  road  is  excellent. 
The  horses  would  take  you  up  without  guides; 
they  know  the  road  perfectly." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I ;  "  then,  of  course,  I  do 
not  pay  for  three  men." 

"  Oh,  yes,   madame,  you  will  fulfill 
contract." 

"  What !  and  you  tell  me  that  you  are  g 
to  break  yours." 

"  You     understand,    madame,    that 


NOTES  •  ON  THE   EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


74i 


agreed  to  pay  the  padrona  so  much,  and  she 
will  expect  you  to  send  her  that  sum." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  if  you  do  not  go,  I"  do  not 
pay  you." 

I  could  not  understand  such  barefaced 
assurance.  Finding  I  would  not  yield,  Fran- 
ceschino  said  he  would  take  his  horses  back, 

and   approaching   L ,  said :    "  Please    to 

dismount,  mademoiselle." 

L looked  at  me,  and  I  said  :  "  Yes,  he 

may  take  his  horses,  and  we  will  walk  up  the 
mountain." 

So  we  dismounted,  to  the  surprise  of  Fran- 
ceschino,  who,  when  he  realized  the  situation, 
said  to  the  men,  "  Put  down  the  roba"  They 
laid  the  bags  and  shawls  on  the  road,  and 
led  away  the  horses. 

Now,  here  we  were  left,  in  a  glorious  sea 
of  afternoon  sunshine,  but  with  a  heavy 
weight  of  luggage  to  carry  up  the  mountain. 
I  thought  we  could  walk  up  very  well,  but  to 
carry  such  a  burden  was  impossible.  I  called 
a  man  at  work  in  the  field,  and  told  him  I 
would  pay  him  if  he  would  take  our  bags  and 
go  up  the  mountain  with  us.  He  replied  that 
he  could  not  leave  his  work.  I  noticed  that 
the  cavalcade,  having  reached  the  angle  of 
the  road  on  the  way  back  to  Pelago,  was  con- 
cealed by  a  house,  and  that  it  remained  con- 
cealed a  suspiciously  long  time.  I  thought  I 
understood  the  policy  of  Franceschino.  I 

took  out  my  books  and  began  a  sketch.  L 

laughed  and  I  laughed,  hoping  it  would  end 
in  laughter,  of  which  I  did  not  feel  quite 
sure.  Soon  Franceschino  re-appeared,  saun- 
tering leisurely,  and  smoking  a  cigar.  As  he 
approached,  I  said : 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  H 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  my  friend  who  is 
jworking  in  the  field  yonder." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  borrowing  the 
{Englishman's  weapon,  "  that  I  am  going  to 
England  and  shall  tell  Mr.  Murray  what  sort 
of  people  you  at  Pelago  are,  so  that  foreign- 
ers may  not  trust  you  ?  " 
I  "  I  am  well  known  to  foreigners,"  said  he, 
with  a  grand  air,  "  and  I  do  not  care  what 
you  say  to  Mr.  Murray." 
!  After  this  he  spoke  to  the  man  in  the  field, 
md  then  returned  to  the  place  where  he  had 
eft  the  horses.  Immediately  the  procession 
fe-appeared  and  approached  us.  Franceschino 

ed  his  horse  to  L and  begged  her  to 

nount,  as  who  should  say,  "  Let  there  be  an 
?nd  of  this  fooling." 

i  My  man  brought  my  horse,  and  I  too 
nounted;  the  men  gathered  up  our  effects, 
pranceschino  again  wished  us  bon  voyage, 
ind  without  further  words  we  went  on.  I  had 
ielt  sure  that  he  would  not  wish  to  lose  the 
lire  of  the  horses  and  men,  and  so  our  war, 


like  many  greater  wars,  ended,  leaving  things 
just  as  they  were  before  it  began.  Franceschino 
had  his  way  in  leaving  us,  and  I  had  my  way 
in  not  paying  him. 

Presently  we  saw  Mr.  C returning  in 

great  haste  to  find  us.  Greatly  alarmed  at 
our  non-appearance,  he  feared  we  had  met 
with  brigands,  or  had  fallen  from  our  horses. 
We  had  lost  more  time  than  we  could  well 
spare,  and  now  pushed  on  briskly.  The  road 
proved  perfectly  good.  We  mounted  and 
mounted  till  we  came  to  a  forest,  or  rather  a 
plantation  of  fir-trees.  In  their  native  forests 
firs  are  grand  and  beautiful,  and  in  a  shrub- 
bery, mixed  with  other  trees  and  well  grown, 
they  have  beauty ;  but  there  is  a  hopeless  look 
about  a  plantation  of  firs  that  is  fatiguing. 
The  air  grew  colder,  wild  hawks  flew  scream- 
ing above  our  heads.  It  seemed  as  if  we  had 
left  Italy,  for  warmth  and  beauty  had  both 
passed  away.  Only  when  through  the  firs  we 
gained  a  glimpse  of  the  world  below  and  of 
the  valley  of  the  Arno  could  we  keep  up  our 
spirits.  That  beguiling  line  of  Milton — 

"  Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa  " — 

had  prepared  us  for  delightful  deciduous  for- 
ests in  all  their  glory,  and  a  perfectly  straight 
paved  road  through  the  fir  woods  was  a  dis- 
appointment, and,  as  yet,  there  was  no  con- 
vent in  sight.  The  sun  was  near  its  setting, 
the  wind  howling.  At  last,  something  like  a 
church  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  avenue. 
When  we  reached  the  gate  of  the  convent  it 
was  nearly  dark,  or  appeared  so.  Still,  after 
ordering  our  supper  from  a  host  who  lived 
outside  the  convent,  we  decided  to  climb  to 
the  Paradisino,  a  small  edifice  on  the  top  of 
the  rocks  behind  the  church  and  convent;  and 
as  some  rays  of  the  setting  sun  still  illumi- 
nated it,  we  were  encouraged  to  go  up  to  see 
the  view.  Truly,  it  was  immense  and  superb ; 
and  when  we  had  arrived  on  its  terrace,  the 
sun  again  rose  for  us  and  lighted  up  a  won- 
derful world  below.  As  twilight  darkened 
the  scene,  we  descended,  were  shown  the 
great  chambers,  and  were  desired  to  choose 
for  ourselves  which  we  would  have.  This 
convent  is  disestablished,  but  the  guest-cham- 
bers still  do  service,  and  some  of  the  brothers 
remain  to  take  care  of  the  conventual  build- 
ings. In  the  morning  we  visited  the  church, 
and  then  took  the  other  road  down  the  moun- 
tain. This  road  wound  agreeably  through 
chestnut  woods,  and  brought  us  to  Consuma. 
It  was  here  that  we  found  our  carriage  and 
dismissed  our  guides.  They  had  been  very 
civil,  and  we  gladly  gave  them  a  little  more 
than  was  promised,  and  charged  them  to  keep 
it  for  themselves.  We  were  now  in  a  new 


742 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF.  DANTE. 


stage  of  our  journey.  Consuma  is  so  called  to 
commemorate  the  fact  of  a  man's  haying  been 
burned  there  in  punishment  for  coining.  This 
again  brings  us  into  the  train  of  Dantesque 
associations,  for  this  was  Adam  of  Brescia,  met 
by  Dante  in  the  "  Inferno,"  and  who  says  to  him : 

"  There  is  Romena,  where  I  counterfeited 
The  currency  imprinted  with  the  Baptist, 
For  which  I  left  my  body  burned  above. 

But  if  I  here  could  see  the  tristful  soul 
Of  Guido,  or  Alessandro,  or  their  brother, 
For  Branda's  fount  I  would  not  give   the  sight." 
Longfellow  Tr.     "Inf.,"  xxx.  71. 

These  lords  of  Romena,  whose  tool  this 
poor  fellow  was,  were  Dante's  friends,  and 
had  their  castle  in  this  neighborhood.  The 
little  way-side  fountain  called  Fonte  Branda 
is  also  near  at  hand.  Until  lately  it  was  sup- 
posed that  Master  Adam  alluded  to  the  great 
Fonte  Branda  at  Siena,  but  later  scholars 
have  decided  that  he  would  more  naturally 
be  thinking  of  the  Fonte  Branda  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Romena. 

I  must  also  quote  what  Ampere  says  about 
these  lines,  which  refer  to  the  waters  of  Ca- 
sentino  : 

"The  rivulets  that  from  the  verdant  hills 
Of  Cassentin  descend  down  into  Arno, 
Making  their  channels  to  be  cold  and  moist." 
Longfellow  Tr.     "Inf.,"  xxx.  64. 

"  In  these  untranslatable  verses  there  is  a  feeling  of 
humid  freshness,  which  almost  makes  one  shudder.  I 
owe  it  to  truth  to  say  that  the  Casentin  was  a  great 
deal  less  fresh  and  less  verdant  in  reality  than  in  the 
poetry  of  Dante,  and  that  in  the  midst  of  the  aridity 
that  surrounded  me,  this  poetry  by  its  very  perfection 
made  one  feel  something  of  the  punishment  of  Master 
Adam . "  A  nip  ere,  Voyage  Dan  tesque. 

Consuma  is  a  wretched  hamlet,  though 
seen  from  the  hill  above  it  is  not  unpictyr- 
esque.  An  American  wonders  how  it  could 
remain  more  than  five  hundred  years  the 
same  poor  little  place,  neither  improving  nor 
disappearing ;  so  unlike  our  own  villages, 
which  in  the  newer  settlements  if  they  can- 
not grow  are  abandoned,  and  if  they  do 
grow  become  cities  in  a  very  short  time.  All 
things  in  this  valley  of  the  Casentino,  should 
it  continue  without  railroads,  may  remain  as 
they  are  another  five  hundred  years.  No- 
where can  there  be  a  more  peaceful  seclusion. 

On  the  road  leading  to  Bibbiena,  where 
we  propose  to  pass  the  night,  we  come  in 
sight  of  a  majestic  cliff,  abruptly  rising  from 
the  plain,  with  a  city  and  a  castle  on  its  top. 
This  is  Poppi,  and  is  one  of  the  places  visited 
by  Dante  after  his  return  from  Paris.  Here 
he  was  a  guest  of  the  Contessa  Battifolli  in 
the  castle.  Poppi  is  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Arno.  We  did  not  stop  to  climb  to  this  cas- 
tle, for  the  day  was  hot  and  the  way  was 
steep.  It  was  left  for  a  later  visit,  when  I  ob- 


tained a  drawing  of  the  castle  court,  ex- 
tremely mediaeval  and  picturesque.  It  is  said 
to  have  been  the  model  of  the  Bargello  at 
Florence.  At  the  foot  of  this  hill  is  the  plain 
where  once  raged  the  battle  of  Campaldino. 
It  now  grows  wheat,  mulberry  trees,  and 
grapes.  Having  passed  Poppi,  the  mountains 
drew  nearer,  and  one  blue  peak  showed 
something  that  looked  like  a  dark  forest 
among  the  light  tints  about  its  head.  This 
proved  to  be  Alvernia,  which  is  to  be  visited 
to-morrow.  We  reached  Bibbiena  a  little  be- 
fore sunset,  and  found  a  comfortable  inn. 
We  engaged  horses  and  guides  to  take  us  to 
Alvernia  the  next  day,  and  sunk  to  sleep  in 
our  rustling  beds  of  gran-turco  leaves,  better 
known  in  my  country  as  corn  shucks. 

The  next  morning  we  started  early,  for  it 
is  a  good  day's  work  to  visit  Alvernia.  We 
soon  crossed  the  Corsalone  torrent,  as  every 
swift  and  intermittent  river  is  called  in  Italy. 
There  had  been  a  bridge,  now  broken ;  the 
river  was  broad  and  full  of  rocks,  and  we  , 
had  to  cross  by  wading  our  horses.  But  this 
inconvenience  was  repaid  by  the  new  and 
more  picturesque  view  we  had  of  the  river 
and  the  mountains  seen  from  its  bed.  Soon 
we  began  the  ascent  and  struck  a  path  lead- 
ing up  to  the  convent,  still  hidden  from  us 
by  the  mountain  shoulders.  The  lower  part  of 
the  road  is  a  long  ridge  scattered  with  bowl- 
ders of  large  size  and  strange  forms.  Deep 
twisted  cavities  in  these  rocks  tell  of  water 
and  pebbles  at  work,  churning  holes  perhaps 
during  thousands  of  long-past  years.  It  was 
noon  when  we  reached  the  convent,  the  last 
part  of  the  road  being  too  steep  for  the  horses. 
There  we  came  up  a  little  stair-way  to  a 
spacious  terrace  on  which  the  buildings  stand. 
This  convent  has  been  spared,  owing  to  some 
protection  it  holds  from  the  municipality  of  \ 
Florence.  The  Franciscan  friars  are  brown-  i 
robed,  barefooted,  with  each  a  cord  about 
the  waist.  Here  was  the  earliest  foundation 
of  St.  Francis,  unless  we  count  the  tiny  con-  ( 
vent  near  Assisi,  called  the  Carcere  di  San 
Francesco.  The  place  is  properly  called  Al- 
vernia or  winter,  from  its  perpetual  cold.; 
Even  on  this  June  day  we  perceived  an  icy 
quality  in  the  air.  Here  are  wonderful  rocks 
and  caves, — rocks  which  by  some  earthquake  i 
shock  have  fallen  across  other  rocks  and  so 
made  caves.  The  friars  tell  us  that  these ! 
rocks  were  rent  when  Jesus  Christ  was  cru- 
cified. One  cave  ^overhung  with  a  great  rock 
which  had  apparently  no  support,  they  told ; 
us,  was  the  favorite  resort  of  St.  Francis,  who 
chose  to  lie  in  it  as  an  exercise  of  faith' 
They  show  the  little  chapel,  hewn  out  of  the 
rock,  where  he  received  the  stigmata.  The 
spot  where  he  was  kneeling  at  the  momert 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


743 


is  covered  with  an  iron  grate.  We 
are  now  three  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet  above  the  sea. 
Above  the  convent  buildings  rises 
more  forest,  and  through  this  de- 
lightful wilderness  we  climb  perpet- 
ually, till  at  the  top  they  tell  us  that 
we  are  now  one  thousand  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  above  the  con- 
vent itself.  A  young  friar  went  with 
us  up  the  forest-path.  He  was  a  gay 
creature,  full  of  cheerfulness  and 
laughter.  There  seemed  no  morti- 
fication about  him.  Dante  speaks 
of  this  mountain  : 

"  On  the  rude  rock  'twixt  Tiber  and  the 

Arno, 

From  Christ  did  he  receive  the  final  seal 
Which  during  two  whole  years  his  mem- 
bers bore." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "  Par.,"  xi.  106. 

These  hospitable  monks  gave  us 
a  fast-day  dinner  which  seemed  to 
us  to  want  nothing.  It  was  served 
with  exquisite  neatness — the  knives 
j  bright  and  sharp  as  daggers,  as  if 
they  had  been  scoured  hundreds  of  years  and 
kept  most  carefully.  For  this  dinner  of  soup 
!  made  of  fish  and  vegetables,  pickled  tunny 
fish,  an  omelette,  good  bread  and  cheese,  and 
excellent  coffee,  they  refused  payment,  and 
only  accepted  what  we  offered  when  we  begged 
them  to  keep  it  for  the  use  of  the  convent. 

Again    at    Bibbiena,  where  we   spent  the 
night.    Next  day  we  crossed  the  Arno,  left 
(  Poppi  behind,  and  came  upon  the  battle-field 
!  of  Campaldino,  where  Dante,  then  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  fought  in  the  Florentine 
;  cavalry,  and  led  a  charge.    A  letter  remains 
in  which  he  describes  the  battle,  and  his  fears 
lest  his  side  should  be  defeated.    And  now  I 
wish  some  brave  sculptor  would  take  a  hint 
jfrom    this    bit    of    history,    and    make    an 
effigy  of  this  solemn,  this  terrible  poet,  not 
.like  an  old  woman,  in  robes  and  lappets,  but 
as   in  his  youth  he  fought  at  the  battle  of 
!  Campaldino.    Make  him,  O  sculptor, 

"  Helmed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled." 

He  would  seem  more  at  home  than  in  the 
better  known  costume.  I  have  been  told 
jthat  those  white,  three-cornered  lappets  were 
worn  to  protect  the  face  and  ears  from  the 
rubbing  of  the  helmet.  And  why  were  they 
not  laid  aside  with  the  helmet,  instead  of 
being  worn  when  helmets  were  no  longer  in 
question  ?  Flaxman  has  imparted  such  dig- 
nity to  the  robe  and  lappets  that  it  now 
[appears  to  be  a  law  of  representation  that 
IDante  should  be  allowed  no  other  dress ;  but 


COURT     OF     POPPI    CASTLE. 


rebellion  against  this  law  is  worth  trying.  I 
made  a  sketch  of  the  battle-field,  with  Poppi 
in  the  background.  After  this  we  began  to 
inquire  for  Fonte  Branda.  Our  driver  knew 
nothing  of  such  a  place,  but  the  first  peasant 
we  met  guided  us  to  it.  It  is  a  little  way-side 
fountain,  flowing  within  a  recess  in  the  wall 
of  brick-work,  and  from  that  reservoir  trickles 
a  tiny  thread  of  water  into  a  stone  basin 
where  cattle  may  drink.  This  fountain  is  not 
much  changed  since  the  time  of  Dante. 
About  half  a  mile  on  the  same  road  comes  a 
little  town  where  Landino,  Dante's  first  com- 
mentator, was  born  and  died.  His  remains 
are  mummified,  and  are  shown  on  festa  days 
as  those  of  a  saint.  Next  we  passed  the  castle 
of  Romena,  where  the  poet  visited  his  friend 
Count  Alessandro  da  Romena.  It  is  now  a 
picturesque  ruin.  A  few  miles  further  is  the 
Castle  of  Porciano,  which  he  also  visited, 
and  from  which  is  dated  an  important  let- 
ter, thus,  "  Scritta  in  Toscana  sotto  le  fonte 
d'Arno,  16  Avrile,  1311,"  and  addressed  to 
the  Florentines.  This  letter  is  full  of  political 
fury  because  the  Florentines  resist  the  Em- 
peror. This  fixes  a  date,  and  shows  that  his 
second  visit  to  the  Casentino  was  after  his 
return  from  Paris.  The  2Qth  of  June,  the  same 
year,  the  Emperor  Henry  was  crowned  in 
Rome,  in  the  Basilica  of  St.  John  Lateran. 

PERUGIA — 1303. 

DANTE'S   visit    to    Perugia   was    probably 
made  when  he  was  so  near  to  it.    Perugia 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OE  DANTE. 


744 

is  alluded  to  in  the  verses  where  Assisi  is 
spoken  of: 

"  Between  Tupino  and  the  stream  that  falls 
Down  from  the  hill  elect  of  blessed  Ubald, 
A  fertile  slope  of  lofty  mountain  hangs 

From  which  Perugia  feels  the  cold  and  heat 
Through   Porta  Sole." 

Longfellaiv  Tr.     "Par.,"  xi.  43. 

The  drawing  that  I  made  at  Perugia  is 
of  something  so  old  that  Dante  must  have 
seen  it.  It  is  called  the  Augusta  Gate,  as 
Augustus  on  taking  Perugia,  after  failing  in 


FONTE     BRANDA. 


the  attempt  to  burn  the  gate,  had  his  name 
inscribed  upon  it,  "Augusta  Perusia" 

This  has  been  considered  an  Etruscan 
work,  but  the  later  archaeologists  deny  this 
early  origin,  and  point  out  in  the  tower  and 
supporting  stones  of  the  arch  certain  frag- 
ments of  Etruscan  inscriptions  which  are  put 
in,  not  horizontally,  as  if  meant  to  be  read, 
but  diagonally  or  perpendicularly,  as  if  the 
builders  had  made  use  of  old  Etruscan  stones, 
without  regard  to  the  inscriptions.  But  the 
design  is  more  Etruscan  than  Roman,  the 
grand  and  massive  arch  being  surmounted 


by  a  row  of  blank  disks  such  as  one  sees  on 
Etruscan  tombs,  and  which  seem  to  hint  at 
the  mysteries  of  that  occult  and  inscrutable 
religion  or  literature. 

Ampere,  in  his  "Voyage  Dantesque,"  says: 

"  Having  been  twice  at  Perugia,  I  have  experienced 
the  double  effect  of  Monte  Ubaldo,  which  the  poet 
says  makes  the  city  feel  the  cold  and  heat — 

'Onde  Perugia  sente  freddo  e  caldo' 

("Par.,"xi.  46); 

that  is,  which  by  turns  reflects  upon  it  the  rays  of 
the  sun  and  sends  it  icy  winds.  I  have  but  too  well 
verified  the  justice  of  Dante's  observation,  particularly 
as  regards  the  cold  temperature  which  Perugia,  when 
it  is  not  burning  hot,  owes  to  Monte  Ubaldo.  I  ar- 
rived in  front  of  this  city  on  a  brilliant  autumnal 
night,  and  had  time  to  comment  at  leisure  on  the  winds 
of  the  Ubaldo,  as  I  slowly  climbed  the  winding  road 
which  leads  to  the  gates  of  the  city,  fortified  by  a  Pope." 

The  views  from  every  part  of  Perugia  are 
most   enchanting.    A   sea   of    mountains   of 
trembling   azure   rolls  below  on   every  side, 
except  on  the  east,  where  vast  plains  stretch 
away  toward  the  still  more  distant  and  vapor 
mountains  of  Umbria.    It  is  a  heavenly  lane 
scape.    Perugia  has  many  quite  visible  Etrus 
can  remains.    A  curious  architectural  custom 
of  that  old  people  is  perpetuated'  by  thei 
successors  in  some  of  the  houses  in  the  north 
ern  and  oldest  part  of  the  town.    In  many 
houses  a  narrow  door  is  still  to  b 
seen  beside  the  principal  house  door 
This  narrow  door  was  built  to  carry 
out  the  dead,  as  it  was  believed  tha 
to  pass  the  corpse  through  the  doo 
used  by   the   living   would   bring  i 
luck.    In  some  cases  the  narrow  doo 
is  still  open,  but  more  frequently  it  i 
walled  up,  though  plainly  visible  as  i 
a  blind  arch  in  the  wall,  and  alway 
close  to  the  principal  house  door. 

ASSIST. 

THAT  Dante  visited  his  friend  Giotto 
while  he  was  engaged  in  painting  th 
church  of  St.  Francis  at  Assisi  is  con 
ceded.    He  alludes  in  the  "  Paradise 

quite  distinctly  to  the  fresco  of  the  marriag 

of  St.  Francis  with  poverty : 

"  For  he  in  youth  his  father's  wrath  incurred 
For  certain  Dame,  to  whom,  as  unto  death, 
The  gate  of  pleasure  no  one  doth  unlock; 

And  was  before  his  spiritual  court 
Et  coram  patre  unto  her  united  ; 
Then  day  by  day  more  fervently  he  loved  her. 

She,  reft  of  her  first  husband,   scorned,  obscure, 
One  thpusand  and  one  hundred  years  and 

Waited  without  a  suitor  till  he  came." 

Longfellviv  Tr.     "Par.,"xi. 

The   fresco   represents   a  woman   in 
and  standing  with  bare  feet  among  thorns,  i 


her. 
ire, 

I 


NOTES   ON   THE   EXILE    OF  DANTE, 

he  act  of  being  inar- 
itjd  to  St.  Francis, 
vho  looks  very  com- 
ortable  in  his  brown 
lood  and  robes.  This 
["resco  has  been  well 
preserved,  but  it  is 
bnly  between  two 
and  four  p.  M.  that 
imything  of  the  paint- 
Ings  can  be  seen  in 
::hat  dark,  under- 
ground church.  At 
::hat  time  the  sun 
btreams  in  at  certain 

mall  windows  and  fills  the  cave-like  church 
jvith   light  enough  to  make  the  frescoes 
(risible.     In   a  day  without  sunshine,  of 
ourse,  nothing   can  be  seen.    The  vast 
loisters  or  galleries  of  the  convent  are 
nost    interesting.     The    views    over   the 
jreat  plains  of  Umbria  to  the  mountains  are 
like  an  enchanted  ocean.  One  can  easily  fancy 
bante  and  Giotto  walking  there  together  and    talking 

__  __ .  ^.  _____    _^  of      St. 

Francis. 

§Assisi 
_„_______       ig  a  very 

charm-  :-        ^ 
ing   old 


CASTLE     OF     ROMENA. 


AUGUSTA    GATE. 

VOL.  XXVII.— 72. 


town, 

very 
quiet , 
full  of 

mediaeval  architecture,  showing  very  little  that 
is  modern,  and  streets  unusually  clean.  The 
families,  as  in  all  the  Italian  towns,  pass  the 
summer  afternoons  in  the  street ;  the  women 
spinning  with  the  distaff  or  sewing,  babies 
sprawling  and  rolling  on  the  paveftient,  boys 
and  girls  playing,  all  evidencing  a  tranquil 
and  happy  existence.  Santa  Chiara  is  here 
the  other  great  saint,  and  her  mummy  is  pre- 
served in  her  church,  and  shown  to  the  faith- 
ful and  also  to  the  curious. 

A  long  and  difficult  path  leads  up  and 
around  the  mountain,  and  brings  one  to  a 
tiny  convent  called  Carcere  di  San  Francesco. 
Here  are  shown  recesses  in  the  rock  where 
the  saint  imprisoned  himself,  so  narrow  that, 
being  within,  he  could  not  turn  himself.  A 
bridge  across  the  ravine  leads  to  the  wood 
where,  by  some  rude  steps,  one  descends  to  a 
very  picturesque  grotto  in  which  the  saint  is 
said  to  have  passed  much  time  in  prayer. 
Returning  through  the  little  convent,  we 
stopped  in  the  tiny  court-yard  and  drank  of 
the  cool  pure  water  of  St.  Francis's  well.  A 
white  dove  washed  himself  fluttering  in  a 
stone  basin;  a  fresco  of  the  Annunciation  glim- 
mered under  the  little  arcade  ;  the  tiny  con- 


746 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


vent  bell  hung  in  the  narrow  arched  entrance, 
black  against  the  shining  trees  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ravine ;  all  was  cool  and  silent. 
One  can,  for  the  moment,  envy  the  peace  of 
the  conventual  life  in  these  green  retreats ; 
no  busy  bustling  days,  no  care  but  to  follow 
the  routine  prescribed,  no  responsibility  but 
that  of  obedience,  and,  it  cannot  be  denied, 
much  stagnation.  Though  courteous  and 
hospitable,  these  monks  can  seldom  answer 
the  simplest  question  about  their  own  order. 
Questions  are  not  considered  by  their  minds; 
routine  occupies  the  time  or  kills  it,  and  that 
is  sufficient. 

Returning  to  Assisi,  we  took  our  last  look 
at  the  lower  church  of  St.  Francis.  As  the 
upper  church  rests  upon  this,  its  weight  is 
sustained  upon  low  Gothic  arches  which  are 
distributed  throughout  the  interior,  and  de- 
termine its  architecture.  When  the  great 
doors  are  open  at  noon,  the  church  is  filled 
with  reflected  light  which,  echoing  through 
these  arched  spaces  and  searching  their  re- 
ceding depths,  produces  the  loveliest  effects, 
the  mosaics  and  frescoes  enriching  every 
space  and  border  with  a  soft  glimmer  of  color. 

BOLOGNA. 

THE  Torre  di  Garisenda  at  Bologna,  men- 
tioned by  Dante,  and  used  by  him  as  an  il- 
lustration in  describing  the  giant  Antaeus,  still 
inclines  as  when  he  looked  up  at  its  dangerous 
tilting,  so  many  years  ago. 

"As  seems  the  Carisenda,  to  behold 

Beneath  the  leaning  side,  when  goes  a  cloud 
Above  it,  so  that  opposite  it  hangs  ; 

Such  did  Antaeus  seem  to  me,  who  stood 
Watching  to  see  him  stoop,  and  then  it  was 
I  could  have  wished  to  go  some  other  way. 

But  lightly  in  the  abyss,  which  swallows  up 
Judas  with  Lucifer,  he  put  us  down ; 
Nor,  thus  bowed  downward,  made  he  there  delay, 

But,  as  a  mast  does  in  a  ship,  uprose." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "  Inf.,"  xxxi.  136. 

It  is  believed  that  Dante  in  his  youth  stud- 
ied at  the  University  of  Bologna.  Fraticelli 
thinks  there  is  no  evidence  of  this,  but  that 
he  went  there  during  his  exile. 

GARGNANO VERONA. 

NEAR  Verona  is  the  villa  at  Gargnano,  a 
possession  which  Dante  acquired  while  at  the 
court  of  Can  Grande.  This  place  is  about 
twelve  miles  distant  from  Verona.  It  must 
have  been  at  the  time  of  his  second  residence 
at  Verona  that  Dante  became  possessed  of 
this  retreat,  to  which,  no  doubt,  he  was  glad 
to  escape  from  the  noisy  court,  and  where  he 
must  have  written  many  of  his  verses.  The 
place  is  still  in  possession  of  his  descendants. 
The  granddaughter  of  Dante  was  the  Con- 


tessa  Sarego,  and  the  villa  is  still  owned  a 
inhabited  by  the  Sarego  family.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ant drive  from  Verona  to  the  villa,  first  pass- 
ing along  the  banks  of  the  Adige,  and  then 
turning  off  among  the  hills,  the  road  becom- 
ing more  and  more  secluded.  Stopping  at 
the  iron  gate  of  a  modern-looking  villa,  our 
driver  informed  us  that  this  was  the  Villa 
Sarego.  We  inquired  if  it  could  be  seen,  and 
were  invited  to  enter.  Coming  to  the  door 
of  the  house,  a  modern  structure,  a  servant 
met  us  and  said  that  the  Contessa  being  ill 
could  not  receive  us,  but  made  us  welcome 
to  look  about  the  place.  He  took  us  first 
into  a  ground-floor  saloon  to  show  us  whatj 
he  called  " /  cocchi  antichi"  These  he  showed 
us,  hanging  from  the  beams  in  the  ceiling; 
They  were  simply  the  frames  and  ribs  on 
two  small  coaches,  without  wheels.  TheJ 
were  painted  in  black  and  gold.  These,  thd 
servant  told  us,  had  been  the  property  of  thJ 
first  Contessa  Sarego,  who  was  the  grand-! 
daughter  of  Dante.  After  we  had  stared  re-j 
spectfully  at  these  relics  he  asked  us  to  ga 
into  the  garden  and  see  a  " sasso"  Suppos t 
ing  that  we  were  about  to  see  a  stone  tha' 
Dante  loved  to  sit  upon,  we  gladly  followed 
him,  and,  when  we  were  presented  to  thJ 
stone,  found  it  to  be  a  monument  inscribec; 
with  verses  addressed  to  Dante  by  the  poel 
Monti.  There  were  also  three  young  laurel! 
in  front  of  the  stone,  and  these  were  planted 
by  the  three  poets,  Monti,  Pindamonte,  and 
Da  Lorenzo,  on  the  occasion  of  the  sexcenjl 
tennial  celebration  of  the  birth  of  Dante.  ThJ 
garden  was  a  pleasant,  shaded  place,  no 
filled  with  fruit  and  flowers,  but  with  ile: 
trees.  From  an  opening  in  the  trees  coulcJ 
be  seen,  on  a  neighboring  hill,  an  old  Romail 
tower.  Since  Dante  must  often  have  looked! 
at  it,  I  chose  it  for  my  sketch.  While  I  wa 
drawing,  a  young  gentleman  came  into  th«. 
garden,  and,  advancing  with  a  courteoujl 
gesture,  asked  if  he  could  do  anything  foi 
us.  My  niece,  to  whom  he  addressed  himjl 
self,  told  him  what  I  was  doing,  and  then  hi 
came  to  me  and  asked  if  I  wanted  anything! 
I  said  to  him,  **  Is  it  true  that  this  place  ijj 
in  possession  of  the  descendants  of  Dante  ?  i 
"  Si,  signora"  replied  he,  "  ed  io  mi  chiam^m 
Dante"  Surprised,  I  asked  him  to  explain  ; 
this,  and  he  told  me  that  his  ancestress,  th 
Contessa  Sarego,  left  this  little  place  by  wij 
to  belong  always  to  the  eldest  son  of  th« 
Sarego  family,  with  request  that  he  should 
take  the  name  of  Dante.  He  then  presented 
me  with  his  card,  on  which  was  engraved 

"  Dante  di  Sarego  Alighicri" 

"  Then  the  place  really  belonged  to  Dan 
first  ?  "     "  Oh,  yes,"  he    said,  "  a*nd  th 


1 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


747 


)RRE    DI     GARISENDA. 


proved  by  the  title- 
feed."  All  this  was 
rery  interesting  to 
ne,  and  so  were 

[ther  things  that  he  told  me.  Among  other 
necdotes  was  this  one.  His  family  being  in- 
ked to  be  present  at  the  sexcentennial  cel- 
bration  at  Ravenna,  his  uncle,  a  physician, 
as  chosen  as  one  of  the  Royal  Commission- 
jrs  appointed  to  examine  the  newly  found  skel- 
jton  of  Dante,  and  to  decide  on  its  genuine- 
less.  These  gentlemen  having  decided  that 
ae  skeleton  was  that  of  a  man  of  the  same  age 
pd  size  as  is  recorded  of  Dante,  and  that 
lie  skull  answered  to  the  same  description  in 
P  proportions,  the  sepulcher  was  opened 
pd  found  to  be  empty,  excepting  that  some 
halanges  of  the  fingers,  wanting  in  the 
bwly  found  skeleton,  were  lying  in  the  place 
ihere  the  bones  should  have  been.  These 
ere  found  to  complete  the  skeleton,  and  it 
las  replaced  in  the  sepulcher,  and  closed 
icurely.  There  was  also  some  dust  found 
ting  with  the  small  bones,  and  this  gentle- 
Ian,  as  one  of  the  poet's  family,  thought  he 
light  gather  a  little  of  this  precious  dust  in 
•paper,  and  preserve  it  as  a  relic.  He  did 
-,  but  the  same  evening  many  persons  came 
'•out  the  house  where  the  commissioners 
pe  lodged,  saying  that  they  had  learned 
fet  a  portion  of  the  remains  had  been  re- 
ipved,  and  that  such  a  thing  could  not  be 
Emitted.  The  uncle  explained  that  it  was 
nt  a  trifle  of  the  dust  of  his  honored  relative 


that  he  had  ventured  to  appropriate,  and 
showed  it  to  the  assembled  crowd;  but  they 
would  not  be  satisfied  till  he  had  replaced  it 
with  the  skeleton.  Such  jealousy  still  exists 
in  the  city  of  Ravenna  concerning  the  pos- 
session of  the  poet's  remains.  The  whole 
story  of  the  discovery  of  this  skeleton  will  be 
given  in  the  chapter  on  Ravenna. 

Having  finished  my  sketch  of  the  Roman 
tower,  we  prepared  to  take  leave  of  our 
young  host.  While  doing  so,  the  old  gardener 
appeared,  bearing  bouquets  of  hot-house  flow- 
ers for  the  ladies,  which  we  received  from  the 
hands  of  the  young  Dante,  with  his  kind 
wishes  that  we  might  come  again  and  see  his 
mother;  but  we  could  not  at  this  time  hope 
to  do  so,  as  we  were  leaving  Verona  the  next 
day.  It  was  while  making  a  second  visit  to 
Verona  that  I  obtained  a  sketch  of  the  old 
staircase  in  the  court-yard  of  one  of  the 
Scaligeri  palaces,  which  is  now  a  prison. 
The  stairs  are  of  rose-colored  Verona  marble, 
with  traces  of  twisted  columns  and  marble 
canopy.  In  the  hall  above,  to  which  they 
lead,  there  is  a  richly  carved  door,  which 
might  have  been  the  entrance  to  a  grand  re- 
ception-room;  and  Dante,  jostled  by  the 
crowd  of  rude  courtiers  on  the  stairs,  might 
here  have  produced  the  sad,  immortal  lines, 

"Tu  proverai  si  come  sa  di  sale 
Lo  pane  altrui,  e  com'  e  duro  calle 
Lo  scendere  e  'l.salir  per  1'  altrui  scale." 
"  Par.,"  xvii.  58. 

"  Thou  shalt  have  proof  how  savoreth  of  salt 
The  bread  of  others,  and  how  hard  a  road 
The  going  down  and  up  another's  stairs." 

Longfellow. 

It  was  at  Verona,  in  the  church  of  Santa 
Elena,  that  Dante,  at  the  request  of  Can 
Grande,  gave  a  lecture  to  the  clero  Veronese, 
a  philosophic  thesis  on  water  and  earth. 

ROVEREDO SLOVINO    DI    MARCO 1303. 

THAT  striking  passage  in  the  "  Inferno," 
where  the  land-slide  of  Roveredo  called  the 
Slovino  di  Marco  is  described,  shows  that 
Dante  had  seen  it  himself,  and  that  it  im- 
pressed his  imagination  deeply : 

"  Such  as  that  ruin  is,  which  in  the  flank 
Smote,  on  this  side  of  Trent,  the  Adige, 
Either  by  earthquake  or  by  failing  stay. 

For,  from  the  mountain's  top  from  which  it  moved, 
Unto  the  plain,  the  cliff  is  shattered  so, 
Some  path  'twould  give  to  him  who  was   above; 

Even  such  was  the  descent  of  that  ravine." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "  Inf.,"  xii.  4. 

Dante  may  have  made  his  excursion  into 
the  Italian  Tyrol  during  his  first  visit  to  Ve- 
rona. So  Troya  believes,  and  I  will  place 
this  illustration  next  in  order. 


748 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


The  place  is  strange,  wild,  and  desolate 
now,  as  on  the  day  when  Dante  looked  upon 
it.  The'  railway  of  the  Brenner  Pass  runs 
close  beside  it,  so  that  something  of  its 
strangeness  may  be  seen  by  the  traveler  from 
the  train.  The  scientific  study  of  geology 
being  unknown  in  1303,  such  a  guess  as 
Dante  made  at  the  cause  of  this  to  him  un- 
intelligible stretch  of  scattered  stones  was 
all  that  was  possible  in  that  early  time.  I 
was  fortunate  in  meeting  the  geological 
professor  in  the  Institute  at  Roveredo,  a  na- 
tive of  the  place.  He  kindly  went  over  the 


flint-stones  found  in  the  glacier  track.  They 
are  cone-shaped,  three-sided,  worked  to  a 
point  at  one  end,  the  angles  rounded,  and 
the  whole  very  smooth.  They  are  sometimes 
found  six  inches  long,  and  one  of  the  three 
sides  is  always  a  little  more  flattened  than  the 
others.  It  is  supposed  that  they  have  been 
worn  to  this  shape  by  attrition  and  the  long- 
continued  grinding  force  and  weight  of  the 
glacier,  and  that  the  flattened  side,  being  the 
lowest,  had  more  abrasion  to  endure.  I 
might  also  here  take  exception  to  what  Mr. 
Ruskin  says  of  Dante  being  "  notably  a  bad 


ground  with  me,  and  pointed  out  the  course 
of  the  land-slide  or  fall  of  rocks  from  the 
sides  of  the  valley,  when  the  strata  were  un- 
dermined by  some  flood.  He  also  showed 
me  the  stones  of  an  old  moraine,  which  are 
confused  and  masked  by  the  stones  of  the 
land-slide.  This  shows  that  the  phrase  Dante 
uses  of  the  scarce  or  scarico  of  stones,  signify- 
ing an  unloading,  is  precise.  Mr.  Ruskin 
thinks  it  not  an  elevated  or  enthusiastic  ex- 
pression, and  especially  objects  to  the  word 
scarco ;  but  if  Dante  had  witnessed  the 
course  of  the  great  prehistoric  glacier  when 
it  passed  that  valley,  dropping  the  bowlders 
of  its  moraine  as  it  slowly  melted,  and  moved 
on  still  more  slowly,  he  could  not  have  cho- 
sen a  better  word  to  describe  its  action.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  great  unloading  of  stones. 
Also,  when  he  hazards  the  guess,  "  o  per  sos- 
tegno  manco"  or  by  deficient  prop,  he  is  not 
less  happy  in  his  interpretation  of  appear- 
ances, since  a  part  of  this  strange  chaos  comes 
from  that  very  cause.  Professor  Cobelli, 
who  has  made  a  life  study  of  this  phenome- 
non, showed  me  also  the  triquetri,  or  long 


climber,"  and  that  "he  was  fond  of  sittin. 
in  the  sun,  looking  at  his  fair  Baptistery,  Oi 
walking  in  a  dignified  manner  on  flat  pavd 
ments,  in  a  long  robe,  and  it  put  him  sen 
ously  out  of  his  way  when  he  has  to  take  t 
his  hands  and  knees  or  look  to  his  feet.: 
When  Mr.  Ruskin  so  speaks,  he  has  not  cor 
sidered  Dante's  long  journeys  in  wild  place 
mostly  if  not  entirely  made  on  foot,  when  h 
traversed  Italy  from  Rome  to  Siena,  Perugi; 
Assisi,  Bologna,  Verona,  Venice,  into  the  Tv: 
rol  to  Roveredo,  again  back  to  the  Gulf  c'l 
Spezia,  along  the  Cornice  road  througjj 
France  to  Paris,  then  to  Milan,  to  the  Caseii 
tino  in  Tuscany,  to  Gubbio,  to  Avellai| 
which  lies  among  the  steepest  mountains  ( 
Umbria,  and  where  from  Catria,  the  gia 


: 


NOTES   ON  THE   EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


749 


'iff 


the  Apennines,  you  can 
behold  the  Adriatic  Sea  on 
the  one  hand,  and  the  Medi- 
terranean on  the  other;  to  Ur- 
bino  and  to  the  castle  of  Fag- 
giuola,  near  San  Leo ;  again  to 
Mantua  and  Verona;  to  Duino,  on  the 
sea  near   Trieste;   into   the   Austrian 
Tyrol  to  Tolmino  and  the  castle  of 
Pagano  della  Torre ;  to  Rimini  and  Ra- 
venna, where  his  wanderings  ended.    On 
many  hundreds  of  miles  of  these  journeys 
no  flat  pavement  was  to  be  found,  the 
roads  naturally  being  rough  before  any 
but  cart  roads  had  been  made,  and  we 
may  safely  believe  that  the  long  trailing 
robes  with  which  painters  love  to  invest 
Dante  were  not  worn  by  him  as  a  trav- 
eling dress.    The  castle  of  Lizzana  is 
near  this  spot,  and  is   mentioned  by 
the  guide-books  as  a  castle  visited  by 
Dante.     I   asked  the  landlord  of  the 
hotel   to    call   a  carriage,  and   said   I 
wished  to  be  taken  to  the  castle  of  Lizzana.  He 
replied  that  he  knew  no  such  place,  and  that 
it  could  not  be  at  or  near  Roveredo.  While  I 
was   explaining  to  him  my  reasons  for  believ-    had  been  sitting  half  asleep  near  by  roused 
ing  that  it  must  be  in  that  vicinity,  a  man  who    himself  and  said  :   "  The  castle  of  Lizzana ! 


-SjWKW^V^ 


"<i~;    '        -•--•-  ' 


STAIR-WAY    AT    VERONA. 


75° 


NOTES   ON   THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


why,  don't  you  know  it  ?  That  is  the  old 
castle  where  Dante  passed  a  night !  "  This, 
then,  was  the  local  tradition.  The  man  was 
a  common  man,  ignorant,  but  knowing  the 
traditions  of  his  native  place,  and  this  point 
of  circumstance  —  the  one  night — delighted 
me.  This  tradition  had  been  preserved  ever 
since  Dante  passed  a  night  with  his  friend, 
the  lord  of  this  castle,  when  no  doubt  he 
strolled  out  in  the  morning  to  look  at  the 
wonderful  slovino  which  lies  under  the  castle 
cliff,  and  stretches  miles  along  the  valley. 
The  sole  remains  of  the  castle  are  a  pile  of 
stones  and  rubbish,  which,  with  a  bit  of  wall, 
show  where  the  tower  once  stood. 

URBINO—  1304. 

ONE  of  the  castles  where  Dante  was  enter- 
tained was  that  of  la  Faggiuola,  the  lord  of 
which  was  his  friend  Ugguccione.  I  was 
glad  to  visit  Urbino,  the  birth-place  of 
Raphael.  From  here  I  hoped  to  reach  the 
castle,  which  is  said  to  be  five  leagues  west 
from  Urbino,  and  half-way  between  Mace- 
rata  and  San  Leo,  near  the  source  of  the 
river  Conca.  This  direction  was  sufficiently 
clear,  but  inquiries  at  Urbino  produced  the 
information  that  the  mountain-road  in  that 
direction  was  considered  impassable  on  ac- 
count of  recent  floods.  I  was  advised  to  try 
the  road  from  Rimini,  and  thus  was  induced 
to  postpone  the  excursion.  A  few  days  were 
pleasantly  passed  in  the  old  town  of  Urbino, 
which  is  high  on  the  mountains,  the  road 
being  a  continual  ascent  from  the  coast.  The 
air  is  excellent,  the  views  superb,  and  the 
place  full  of  historical  memories.  The  house 
of  Raphael  has,  largely  by  Mr.  Morris 
Moore's  exertions,  been  purchased  and  made 
the  foundation  of  a  museum  and  school  of 
art.  At  present  it  is  adorned  with  engravings 
and  photographs  from  the  great  works  of  the 
master.  It  is  well  that  this  beginning  is  made, 
as  the  house  will  now  be  securely  held  to  the 
memory  of  Raphael  and  the  service  of  the 
fine  arts.  The  street  in  which  this  house 
stands  goes  steeply  up  the  hill  to  the  ter- 
race of  the  old  fortress.  From  this  espla- 
nade we  overlook  the  city  on  the  east,  and 
looking  westward  we  see  five  ranges  of 
Apennines,  separated  from  each  other  by  the 
golden  haze  of  afternoon  sunshine,  and  I 
pleased  myself  with  the  thought  that  Dante 
must  have  observed  the  same  effect.  I  give  a 
sketch  of  one  of  the  steep,  crowded  streets, 
with  the  palace  in  the  background. 

In  the  "Inferno"  Dante  meets  Guido  di 
Montefeltro,  who  inquires  of  him  whether, 
when  he  left  that  sweet  Latin  land,  he  left 
peace  or  war  behind  him. 


:  If  thou  art  newly  fallen  to  breathe  the  air 

Of  this  blind  world,  from  Latium's  pleasant  land, 
Whence  all  the  burden  of  my  sins  I  bear, 
Tell  me  if  now  Romagna's  tribes  remain 
At  peace  or  war ;  for  I  was  of  the  hills, 
Betwixt  Urbino  and  the  mountain  chain 
Whence  Tiber  first  unlocks  his  infant  rills." 

T.  W.  Parsons  Tr.     "  Inf.,"  xxvii.  25. 


PADUA 1306. 

AT  Padua  exists  one  of  the  most  precious 
of  all  the  trecento  monuments.  This  is  the 
Arena  Chapel.  The  place,  as  its  name  indi- 
cates, was  a  Roman  theater.  In  1303  Enrico 
Scrovigno,  to  whom  it  belonged,  built  within 
its  precincts  the  chapel  commonly  called 
Santa  Maria  dell'  Arena.  It  is  not  known 
whether  it  was  intended  for  a  domestic 
chapel,  or  for  the  use  of  the  order  of  the 
Cavalieri  di  Santa  Maria.  Scrovigno  em- 
ployed Giotto,  then  in  his  youth,  working  at 
Padua,  to  build  and  decorate  it.  The  chapel 
consists  of  a  single  aisle  with  a  tribune  at 
its  end.  The  few  architectural  lines  are  of 
the  simplest  Gothic.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  hall, 
lined  with  pictures  of  the  life  of  the  Vir- 
gin. The  chapel  is  concealed  in  a  garden 
crowded  with  vines  and  vegetables,  and  is 
delightfully  withdrawn  from  the  streets.  A 
pomegranate  tree  was  by  its  door  in  full 
flower.  These  works  are  a  most  interesting 
study,  but  to  describe  them  all  would  be  too 
long.  When  I  first  visited  this  chapel  in 
1850,  I  was  especially  struck  with  the  figure 
of  the  angel  of  the  Resurrection ;  and  return- 
ing after  many  years,  the  same  figure  seems 
the  most  beautiful  of  all. 

When  we  remember  that  Giotto  and  Dante 
passed  many  hours  together  in  this  chapel, 
we  do  not  require  much  power  of  imagination 
to  repeople  the  place.  I  spent  some  time 
here  alone,  trying  to  copy  the  beautiful  angel, 
but  the  light  was  insufficient,  and  the  picture 
too  high  on  the  wall  for  me.  I  even  procured 
a  permission  to  put  up  a  scaffold,  meaning 
to  spend  some  days  there  in  copying ;  but  the 
weather  changed,  the  chapel  became  too 
dark  for  work,  and  as  the  rain  continued,  I 
gave  up  my  plan. 

There  is  a  record  of  Dante's  presence  in 
Padua,  being  his  name  as  witness  to  a  con- 
tract drawn  in  the  house  of  Donna  Amata 
Papafava.  This  document  is  preserved  by 
the  Marchese  Papafava. 

RIMINI  — 1307. 

FROM  Urbino  I  passed  to  Rimini,  a  fe 
hours  by  diligence.     The  road  is  a  desce 
till  it  reaches  the   sea.     I  was  prepared 
find  in  Rimini  the  most  antique,  the  mole 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE   OF  DANTE. 


IN    URBINO. 


jest,  most  deserted,  ivy-grown  city  that  Italy 
'could  show — and  never  was  I  more  mistaken. 
II  had  hoped  to  find  some  castle  or  palace 
i  where  I  could  be  assured  that  the  sad  Fran- 
icesca  had  lived,  and  where  the  bitter,  bloody 
tragedy  of  her  fate  was  acted.  Inquiring  at 
once  for  the  house  of  Francesca,  I  was  shown 
a  row  of  new  houses  in  the  busiest  part  of  the 
.city,  and  told  that  the  house  of  Francesca 


had  once  stood  there  !  Near  by  is  the  cathe- 
dral devoted  to  the  memory  of  Sigismund 
Malatesta  and  his  wife  Isotta,  whose  ciphers 
are  united  with  the  rose  and  elephant  in  a 
frieze  border  which  surrounds  the  church.  I 
took  a  little  carriage  and  desired  the  driver 
to  take  me  to  the  oldest  part  of  the  city,  hop- 
ing to  find  something  of  the  trecento  date; 
but  the  driver  thought  best  to  take  me  to  the 


752 


VISIONS. 


MALATESTA    FORTRESS. 


Casino,  by  the  sea,  and  thus  showed  me 
the  Rimini  that  I  desired  to  find,  replaced 
by  a  noisy  resort  for  summer  visitors, —  gay 


music  and  bathing-houses,  and  everywhere 
the  vulgar  efflorescence  that  belongs  to  such 
places.  I  despaired  of  finding  anything  of 
old  Rimini  till  I  came  to  the  fortress,  which 
is,  no  doubt,  partly  at  least  of  the  old  time. 
It  is  now  a  soldiers'  barrack,  and  new  roofs 
have  been  added  to  the  old  towers  to  make 
them  habitable;  but  certain  parts  of  the 
structure  have  the  look  of  past  ages  hanging 
about  them  and  the  colors  of  sunset  and  twi- 
light, and  the  open  country  beyond,  gave 
dignity  to  the  modernized  pile.  Though  I 
could  not  find  the  house  of  Francesca,  I  must 
give  a  few  of  the  immortal  lines  in  which  she 
tells  the  sad  story  to  Dante  : 

"The  land  where  I  was  born  sits  by  the  sea, 
Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 
With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 
Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  that  was  ta'en 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 

Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please  so  stroni 
That,  as  thou  seest,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  ended." 
Lord  Byron  Tr.     "Inf.,"  v.  97. 


(Concluded  in  our  next.) 


VISIONS. 


LATELY  I  drew  my  little  skiff 

To  the  edge  of  a  lovely  ocean  isle, 

And  over  the  tall  and  wind-swept  cliff, 
A  wanderer,  climbed  and  strayed  awhile. 

Hither  and  thither  I  turned  amid 

The  gray,  old  groves  of  beech  and  birch, 

Saw  where  the  brood  of  the  partridge  hid, 
And  startled  the  gray  owl  from  his  perch. 

Deeper,  anon,  in  my  vagrant  mood, 
I  sought  the  elder  and  alder  brush, 

And  followed  the  rivulet  where  it  wooed, 
In  its  pretty  manner,   the  reed  and  rush. 

The  small  birds  flitting  from  top  to  top, 
Bowed  the  heads  of  the  rushes  low. 

'Mid  knotted  hemlocks,  drop  by  drop, 
I  saw  the  amber  distilling  slow. 


Into  a  thicket  dark  I  bent, 

Chasing  the  rivulet  as  it  wound, 

With  little  to  mark  the  way  it  went, 
Save  under  the  ferns  its  own  sweet  sound 

There,  of  a  sudden,  betwixt  the  boughs, 
Out  in  the  open,  full  and  clear, 

I  saw,  as  it  stood  with  lifted  brows, 
Half  turned  to  listen,  an  antlered  deer. 

It  gazed  with  its  great  brown  girlish  eyes, 
Till  in  the  thicket  they  fell  on  me ; 

Then,  with  a  look  of  wild  surprise, 

It  tossed  its  antlers  and  turned  to  flee. 

So  have  I  followed  a  thousand  ways, 
In  cities,  some  pleasing,  idle  din, 

And  then  for  a  moment  felt  the  gaze 
Of  one  I  would  give  the  world  to  win. 


Only  a  moment  —  a  look  askance, 
The  far-off  gleam  of  a  beautiful  face, 

No  more  than  a  maiden's  one  coy  glance  — 
And  then  forever  an  empty  place. 


James  Herbert  Morse. 


[Begun  in  the  November  number.  ] 


DR.    SEVIER.* 

BY   GEORGE   W.    CABLE, 
Author  of  "  Old  Creole  Days,"  "  The  Grandissimes,"  "  Madame  Delphine,"  etc. 


XXIII. 


WEAR   AND   TEAR. 


THE  arrangement  for  Dr.  Sevier  to  place 
I  the  loan  of  fifty  dollars  on  his  own  books  at 
I  Richling's  credit  naturally  brought  Narcisse 
into  relation  with  it. 

It  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight.  From 
the  moment  the  record  of  Richling's  "little 
[quantity "  slid  from  the  pen  to  the  page, 
|  Narcisse  had  felt  himself  betrothed  to  it  by 
i  destiny,  and  hourly  supplicated  the  awful 
;fates  to  frown  not  upon  the  amorous  hopes 
tof  him  unaugmented.  Richling  descended 
upon  him  once  or  twice  and  tore  away  from 
his  embrace  small  fractions  of  the  coveted 
(treasure,  choosing,  through  a  diffidence  which 
|he  mistook  for  a  sort  of  virtue,  the  time  of 
Iday  when  he  would  not  see  Dr.  Sevier ;  and 
jat  the  third  visitation  took  the  entire  golden 
jfleece  away  with  him  rather  than  encounter 
again  the  always  more  or  less  successful 
(courtship  of  the  scorner  of  loans. 

A  faithful  suitor,  however,  was  not  thus 
easily  shaken  off.  He  became  a  frequent  vis- 
itor at  the  Richlings',  where  he  never  men- 
tioned money;  that  part  was  left  to  moments 
Df  accidental  meeting  with  Richling  in  the 
street,  which  suddenly  began  to  occur  at  sin- 
gularly short  intervals. 

Mary  labored  honestly  and  arduously  to 
iislike  him — to  hold  a  repellent  attitude 
coward  him.  But  he  was  too  much  for  her. 
it  was  easy  enough  when  he  was  absent; 
)ut  one  look  at  his  handsome  face,  so  rife 
vith  animal  innocence,  and  despite  herself 
;he  was  ready  to  reward  his  displays  of  sen- 
iment  and  erudition  with  laughter  that,  mean 
vhat  it  might,  always  pleased  and  flattered 
lim. 

"  Can  you  help  liking  him  ?  "  she  would 
;.sk  John.    "  I  can't,  to  save  my  life !  " 
!   Had  the  treasure  been  earnings,  Richling 
aid, —  and  believed, — he  could  firmly  have 
epelled  Narcisse's  importunities.    But  coldly 
o  withhold  an  occasional  modest  heave-of- 
pring  of  that  which  was  the  free  bounty  of 
jnother  to  him,  was  more  than  he  could  do. 
j  "  But,"  said  Mary,  straightening  his  cravat, 


"  you  intend  to  pay  up,  and  he  —  you  don't 
think  I'm  uncharitable,  do  you  ?  " 

"I'd  rather  give  my  last  cent  than  think 
you  so;"  replied  John.  "  Still," —  laying  the 
matter  before  her  with  both  open  hands, — 
"  if  you  say  plainly  not  to  give  him  another 
cent,  I'll  do  as  you  say.  The  money's  no 
more  mine  than  yours." 

"Well,  you  can  have  all  my  share,"  said 
Mary,  pleasantly. 

So  the  weeks  passed  and  the  hoard  dwindled. 

"  What  has  it  got  down  to,  now  ?  "  asked 
John,  frowningly,  on  more  than  one  morning 
as  he  was  preparing  to  go  out.  And  Mary, 
who  had  been  made  treasurer,  could  count  it 
at  a  glance  without  taking  it  out  of  her  purse. 

One  evening,  when  Narcisse  called,  he 
found  no  one  at  home  but  Mrs.  Riley.  The 
infant  Mike  had  been  stuffed  with  rice  and 
milk  and  laid  away  to  slumber.  The  Rich- 
lings  would  hardly  be  back  in  less  than  an 
hour. 

"  I'm  so'y,"  said  Narcisse,  with  a  baffled 
frown,  as  he  sat  down  and  Mrs.  Riley  took 
her  seat  opposite.  "  I  came  to  'epay  'em 
some  moneys  which  he  made  me  the  loan  — 
juz  in  a  fwenly  way.  And  I  came  to  'epay 

'im.  The  sum-total,  in  fact I  suppose 

he  nevva  mentioned  you  about  that,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  but,  still,  if " 

"  No,  and  so  I  can't  pay  it  .to  you.  I'm 
so'y.  Because  I  know  he  woon  like  it,  I 
know,  if  he  fine  that  you  know  he's  been 
bawing  money  to  me.  Well,  Misses  Wiley,  in 
fact,  thass  a  ve'y  fine  gentleman  and  lady  — 
that  Mistoo  and  Misses  Witchlin,  in  fact  ?  " 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  Narcisse,  yeV  about 
right  I  She's  just  too  good  to  live  —  and  he's 
not  much  better  —  ha !  ha  !  "  She  checked 
her  jesting  mood.  "  Yes,  sur,  they're  very 
peaceable,  quiet  people.  They're  jist  simply 
ferst  tlass !  " 

"  'Tis  t'ue,"  rejoined  the  Creole,  fanning 
himself  with  his  straw  hat  and  looking  at  the 
Pope.  "  And  they'  handsome  and  genial,  as 
the  lite'ati  say  on  the  noozpapeh.  Seem  like 
they  almoze  wedded  to  each  otheh." 

"  Well,  now,  sur,  that's  the  ttrooth  !  "  She 
threw  her  open  hand  down  with  emphasis. 
"And  isn't  that  as  man  and  wife  should  be?" 


VOL.  XXVII.— 73. 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  George  W.  Cable.    All  rights  reserved. 


754 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"  You'  mighty  co'-ect,  Misses  Wiley !  " 
Narcisse  gave  his  pretty  head  a  little  shake 
from  side  to  side  as  he  spoke. 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Narcisse,"  she  pointed  at  her- 
self, "  haven't  I  been  a  wife  ?  The  husband 
and  wife  —  they'd  aht  to  jist  be  each  other's 
guairdjian  angels  !  Hairt  to  hairt,  sur;  spent 
to  sperit.  All  the  rist  is  nawthing,  Mister 
Narcisse."  She  waved  her  hands.  "  Min  is 
different  from  women,  sur."  She  looked  about 
on  the  ceiling.  Her  foot  noiselessly  patted 
the  floor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Narcisse,  "  and  thass  the  cause 
that  they  dwess  them  dif'ent.  To  show  the 
dif'ence,  you  know." 

"Ah!  no.  It's  not  the  mortial  frame, 
sur;  it's  the  sperit.  The  sperit  of  man  is  not 
the  sperit  of  woman.  The  sperit  of  woman 
is  not  the  sperit  of  man.  Each  one  needs 
the  other,  sur.  They  needs  each  other,  sur, 
to  purify  and  strinthen  and  enlairge  each 
other's  speritu'l  life.  Ah!  sur.  Doo  not  I 
feel  those  things,  sur?"  She  touched  her 
heart  with  one  backward-pointed  finger.  "/ 
doo.  It  isn't  good  for  min  to  bt  alone — 
much  liss  for  women.  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,  sur;  I  speak  as  a  widder,  sur — and  who 
always  will  be — ah!  yes,  I  will — ha,  ha, 
ha!"  She  hushed  her  laugh  as  if  this  were 
going  too  far,  tossed  her  head,  and  continued 
smiling. 

So  they  talked  on.  Narcisse  did  not  stay 
an  hour,  but  there  was  little  of  the  hour  left 
when  he  rose  to  go.  They  had  passed  a 
pleasant  time.  The  Creole,  it  is  true,  tried 
and  failed  to  take  the  helm  of  conversation. 
Mrs.  Riley  held  it.  But  she  steered  well. 
She  was  still  expatiating  on  the  "strinthenin"' 
spiritual  value  of  the  marriage  relation  when 
she,  too,  stood  up. 

"  And  that's  what  Mr.  and  Madam  Rich- 
lin's  a-doin'  all  the  time.  And  they  do  ut  to 
perfiction,  sur — jist  to  perfiction !  " 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  Misses  Wiley.  Well,  Mis- 
ses Wiley,  I  bid  you  au  'evoi'.  I  dunno  if 
you'll  pummit  me,  but  I  am  compel  to  tell 
you,  Misses  Wiley,  I  nevva  yeh  anybody  in 
my  life  with  such  a  educated  and  talented 
conve'sation  like  yo'seff.  Misses  Wiley,  at 
what  univussity  did  you  gwaduate  ?  " 

"Well,  reely,  Mister— eh  — "  She  fanned 
herself  with  broad  sweeps  of  her  purple-bor- 
dered palm-leaf — "  reely,  sur,  if  I  don't  fur- 
git  the  name  I  —  I  —  I'll  be  switched!  ha, 
ha,  ha!" 

Narcisse  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"Thaz  the  way,  sometime,"  he  said,  and 
then  with  sudden  gravity:  "And,  by  the 
by,  Misses  Wiley,  speakin'  of  Mistoo  Ttchlin', 
—if  you  could  baw  me  two  dollahs  an'  a  half 
juz  till  tomaw  mawnin — till  I  kin  sen'  it  you 


fum  the  office — ?  Because  that  money  I've 
got  faw  Mistoo  Ttchlin'  is  in  the  shape  of  a 
check,  and  I'm  c'owding  me  a  little  to  pay  that 
whole  sum-total  to  Mistoo  Ttchlin'.  I  kin  sen'it 
you  firs'  thing  my  bank  open  tomaw  mawnin'." 
Do  you  think  he  didn't  get  it  ? 

"  WHAT  has  it  got  down  to  now  ?  "  John 
asked  again,  a  few  mornings  after  Narcisse's 
last  visit.  Mary  told  him.  He  stepped  a  little 
way  aside,  averting  his  face,  dropped  his  fore- 
head into  his  hand,  and  returned. 

"  I  don't  see— I  don't  see,  Mary— I 

"  Darling,"  she  replied,  reaching  and  capt- 
uring both  his  hands,  "who  does  see? 
The  rich  think  they  see ;  but  do  they,  John  ? 
Now,  do  they  ?  " 

The  frown  did  not  go  quite  off  his  face,j 
but  he  took  her  head  between  his  hands  and 
kissed  her  temple. 

"  You're  always  trying  to  lift  me,"  he  said.f 

"  Don't  you  lift  me  ?  "  she  replied,  looking 
up  between  his  hands  and  smiling. 

"  Do  I  ?  " 

"  You  know  you  do.  Don't  you  remem-J 
ber  the  day  we  took  that  walk,  and  you  said 
that  after  all  it  never  is  we  who  provide  ? "  j 
She  looked  at  the  button  of  his  coat  which/ 
she  twirled  in  her  fingers.  "  That  word  lifted 
me." 

"  But  suppose  I  can't  practice  the  trust  I 
preach  ?  "  he  said. 

"  You  do  trust,  though.   You  have  trusted." 

"Past  tense,"  said  John.  He  lifted  hen 
hands  slowly  away  from  him,  and  moved 
toward  the  door  of  their  chamber.  He  could, 
not  help  looking  back  at  the  eyes  that  fol- 
lowed him,  and  then  he  could  not  bear  theii 
look.  "I  —  I  suppose  a  man  mustn't  trust 
too  much,"  he  said. 

"  Can  he  ?  "  asked  Mary,  leaning  against  a 
table. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  can,"  replied  John ;  but  hisj 
tone  lacked  conviction. 

"If  it's  the  right  kind?" 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  I'm  afraid  mine's  not  the  right  kindj 
then,"  said  John,  and  passed  out  into  anc,; 
down  the  street. 

But  what   a   mind  he    took  with   him— 
what    torture    of  questions.    Was  he    behi£ 
lifted   or  pulled  down?     His   tastes  —  wen 
they  rising   or  sinking  ?     Were  little  negli  ! 
gences    of    dress    and   bearing   and    in-doo: 
attitude    creeping    into    his    habits  ?     W^J 
he  losing  his  discriminative  sense  of  quart 
tity,   time,  distance?    Did  he   talk  of  smaljj 
achievements,  small  gains,  and   small  trutha 
as  though  they  were  great  ?    Had  he  learne(|| 
to  carp    at  the  rich,  and    to  make  honest; 
the   excuse  for  all  penury  ?    Had   he 


lie  thes'il 


DR.    SEVIER. 


755 


various  poverty  marks  ?  He  looked  at  him- 
self outside  and  inside,  and  feared  to  answer. 
One  thing  he  knew — that  he  was  having 
great  wrestlings. 

He  turned  his  thoughts  to  Ristofalo.  This 
was  a  common  habit  with  him.  Not  only  in 
thought,  but  in  person,  he  hovered  with  a 
positive  infatuation  about  this  man  of  per- 
petual success. 

Lately  the  Italian  had  gone  out  of  town, 
into  the  country  of  La  Fourche,  to  buy  stand- 
ing crops  of  oranges.    Richling  fed  his  hope 
on  the  possibilities  that  might  follow  Risto- 
falo's  return.    His  friend  would  want  him  to 
|  superintend  the  gathering  and  shipment  of 
(those   crops — when  they  should  be  ripe  — 
I  away  yonder  in  November.    Frantic  thought ! 
A  man  and  his  wife  could  starve  to  death 
(twenty  times  before  then. 

Mrs.  Riley's  high  esteem  for  John  and 
|  Mary  had  risen  from  the  date  of  the  Doctor's 
|  visit,  and  the  good  woman  thought  it  but 
i right  somewhat  to  increase  the  figures  of  their 
i  room-rent  to  others  more  in  keeping  with 
jsuch  high  gentility.  How  fast  the  little  hoard 
melted  away ! 

And  the  summer  continued  on —  the  long, 
beautiful,    glaring,   implacable   summer;   its 
heat  quaking  on  the  low  roofs;  its  fig-trees 
(dropping  their  shriveled  and  blackened  leaves 
land  writhing  their  weird,  bare  branches  under 
(the  scorching  sun ;  the  long-drawn,  frying  note 
of  its  cicada  throbbing  through  the  midday 
jheat  from  the  depths  of  the  becalmed  oak ;  its 
universal  pall  of  dust   on  the   myriad  red, 
sleep-heavy  blossoms  of  the  oleander  and  the 
jwhite  tulips  of^  the  lofty  magnolia ;  its  twink- 
ling  pomegranates  hanging  their  apples  of 
scarlet  and  gold  over  the  garden  wall ;  its  little 
chameleons  darting  along  the  hot  fence-tops; 
its  far-stretching,  empty  streets;  its  wide  hush 
lof  idleness ;  its  solitary  vultures  sailing  in  the 
upper  blue ;  its  grateful  clouds ;  its  hot  north 
jwinds,  its  cool  south  winds ;  its  gasping  twi- 
light calms;  its  gorgeous  nights, —  the  long, 
jong  summer  lingered  on  into  September. 
|    One  evening,  as  the  sun  was  sinking  below 
:he  broad,  flat  land,  its  burning  disk  reddened 
3y  a  low  golden  haze  of  suspended  dust, 
Richling   passed    slowly   toward   his   home, 
:oming  from  a  lower  part  of  the  town  by 
,vay  of  the  quadroon  quarter.    He  was  pay- 
ng  little  notice,  or  none,  to  his  whereabouts, 
-vending  his  way  mechanically,  in   the  de- 
jected   reverie    of    weary    disappointment, 
md  with  voiceless  inward   screamings  and 
'roanings  under  the  weight  of  those  thoughts 
vhich  had  lately  taken  up  their  stay  in  his 
lismayed  mind.    But  all  at  once  his  attention 
ivas  challenged  by  a  strange,  offensive  odor, 
tie   looked   up   and   around,   saw   nothing, 


turned  a  corner,  and  found  himself  at  the 
intersection  of  Treme  and  St.  Anne  streets, 
just  behind  the  great  central  prison  of  New 
Orleans. 

The  "  Parish  Prison  "  was  then  only  about 
twenty-five  years  old ;  but  it  had  made  haste 
to  become  offensive  to  every  sense  and  senti- 
ment of  reasonable  man.  It  had  been  built 
in  the  Spanish  style, — a  massive,  dark,  grim, 
huge, four-sided  block,  the  fissure-like  windows 
of  its  cells  looking  down  into  the  four  public 
streets  which  ran  immediately  under  its  walls. 
Dilapidation  had  followed  hard  behind  ill- 
building  contractors.  Down  its  frowning  ma- 
sonry ran  grimy  streaks  of  leakage  over  peel- 
ing stucco  and  mold-covered  brick.  Weeds 
bloomed  high  aloft  in  the  broken  gutters 
under  the  scant  and  ragged  eaves.  Here  and 
there  the  pale,  debauched  face  of  a  prisoner 
peered  shamelessly  down  through  shattered 
glass  or  rusted  grating;  and  everywhere  in 
the  still  atmosphere  floated  the  stifling  smell 
of  the  unseen  loathsomeness  within. 

Richling  paused.  As  he  looked  up,  he 
noticed  a  bat  dart  out  from  a  long  crevice 
under  the  eaves.  Two  others  followed.  Then 
three — a  dozen  —  a  hundred — a  thousand — 
millions.  All  along  the  two  sides  of  the  prison 
in  view  they  poured  forth  in  a  horrid  black 
torrent, — myriads  upon  myriads.  They  filled 
the  air.  They  came  and  came.  Richling  stood 
and  gazed ;  and  still  they  streamed  out  in  gib- 
bering waves,  until  the  wonder  was  that  any- 
thing but  a  witch's  dream  could  contain  them. 

The  approach  of  another  passer  roused 
him,  and  he  started  on.  The  step  gained 
upon  him  —  closed  up  with  him ;  and  at  the 
moment  when  he  expected  to  see  the  person 
go  by,  a  hand  was  laid  gently  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  I  'ope  you  well,  seh." 


XXIV. 
BROUGHT    TO    BAY. 

ONE  may  take  his  choice  between  the  two, 
but  there  is  no  escaping  both  in  this  life :  the 
creditor — the  borrower.  Either,  but  never 
neither.  Narcisse  caught  step  with  Richling, 
and  they  walked  side  by  side. 

"  How  I  learned  to  mawch,  I  billong  with 
a  fiah  comp'ny,"  said  the  Creole.  "  We  mawch 
eve'y  yeah  on  the  fou'th  of  Mawch."  He 
laughed  heartily.  "  Thass  a  'ime  !  —  Mawch 
on  the  fou'th  of  Mawch !  Thass  poetwy,  in 
fact,  as  you  may  say  in  a  jesting  way — ha,- 
ha,  ha !  " 

"  Yes,  and  it's  truth,  besides,"  responded  the 
drearier  man. 

"  Yes  !  "  exclaimed  Narcisse,  delighted  at 


756  -DR-    SEVIER. 

the  unusual  coincidence,  "  at  the  same  time  down  by  the  dreadful  shadow  of  the  Parish 
'tis  the  t'ooth !  In  fact,  why  should  I  tell  a  Prison,  left  it  behind  him  as  he  walked  and 
lie  about  such  a  thing  like  that?  'T would  be  laughed  and  chatted  with  his  borrower.  He 
useless.  Pe'haps  you  may  'ave  notiz,  Mistoo  felt  very  free  with  Narcisse,  for  the  reason 
'Itchlin',  thad  the  noozepapehs  opine  us  fiah-  that  would  have  made  a  wiser  person  con- 
men  to  be  the  gaudians  of  the  city."  strained — lack  of  respect  for  him. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Richling.   "  I  think  Dr.  "  Mistoo   Tchlin',   you    know,"   said    the 

Sevier  calls  you  the  Mamelukes,  doesn't  he  ?  Creole,  "  I  like  you  to  call  me  Narcisse  ?    But 

But  that's  much  the  same,  I  suppose."  at  the  same  time  my  las'  name  is  Savillot." 

"  Same  thing,"  replied  the  Creole.   "  We  He   pronounced   it   Sav-zw/-yo.    "  Thass  a 

combad  the  fiah  fiend.   You  fine  that  build-  somewot  Spanish  name.   That  double  1  got  a 

ing  ve'y  pitto'esque,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'  ?  "    He  twis'  in  it." 

jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  prison,  that  "  Oh,  call  it  Papilio ! "  laughed  Richling. 
was  still  pouring  forth  its  clouds  of  impish  "  Papillon !  "  exclaimed  Narcisse,  with  de- 
wings.  "Yes?  'Tis  the  same  with  me.  But  I  light.  "The  buttehfly !  All  a-'ight;  you  kin 
tell  you  one  thing,  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  I  assu'  juz  style  me  that!  'Cause  thass  my  natu'e, 
you,  and  you  will  believe  me,  I  would  'atheh  Mistoo  'Itchlin' ;  I  gatheh  honey  eve'y  day 
be  lock'  tfz//side  of  that  building  than  to  be  fum  eve'y  opening  floweh,  as  the  bahd  of 
lock'  inside  of  the  same.  'Cause — you  know  A-von  wemawk." 
why  ?  'Tis  ve'y  'umid  in  that  building.  An  So  they  went  on. 

thass  a  thing  w'at  I  believe,  Mistoo  Ttchlin' ;  Ad  infinitum  ?   Ah,  no !   The  end  was  just 

I  believe  w'en  a  building  is  ve'y  'umid  it  is  as  plainly  in  view  to  both  from   the  begin- 

:not   ve'y  'ealthsome.    What   is   yo'   opinion  ning  as  it  was  when,  at  length,  the  two  step- 

consunning  that,  Mistoo  'Itchlin'  ?  "  ping  across  the  street-gutter  at  the  last  cor- 

"  My   opinion  ? "   said    Richling,   with   a  ner  between    Richling   and  home,  Narcisse 

smile.  "  My  opinion  -is  that  the  Parish  Prison  laid  his  open  hand  in  his  companion's  elbow 

would  not  be  a  good  place  to  raise  a  family."  and  stopped,  saying,  as  Richling  turned  and 

Narcisse  laughed.  halted  with  a  sudden  frown  of  unwillingness : 

"  I  think  yo'  opinion   is   co'ect,"  he  said,  "  I  tell  you  'ow  'tis  with  me,  Mistoo  Ttch- 

flatteringly;  then  growing  instantly  serious,  he  lin',   I  've  p'oject   that  manneh  myseff;   in* 

added,  "  Yesseh,  I  think  you'  about  a-'ight,  weading  a  book — w'en  I  see  a  beaucheouz 

Mistoo  Ttchlin' ;  faw  even  if  'twas  not  too  idee,  I  juz  take  a  pencil " — he  drew  one  from 

'umid,  'twould  be  too  confining,  in   fact, —  his  pocket — "check!  I  check  it.     So  w'en  I 

speshly  faw  child'en.    I  dunno ;  but  thass  my  wead  the  same  book  again,  then  I  take  notiz 

opinion.    If  you   ah  p'oceeding  at  yo'  resi-  I've  check  that  idee  and  I  look  to  see  what  I 

dence,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  I'll  juz  <wztinue  my  check  it  faw.    'Ow  you  like  that  invention, 

p'omenade   in   yo'    society — if  not   intood-  eh?"                                            • 

ing ?  "  "  Very  simple,"  said  Richling,  with  an  un- 

Richling  smiled  candidly.  "  Your  com-  pleasant  look  of  expectancy, 
pany's  worth  all  it  costs,  Narcisse.  Excuse  "  Mistoo  Ttchlin',"  resumed  the  other,  "do 
me ;  I  always  forget  your  last  name  —  and  you  not  fine  me  impooving  in  my  p'onounce- 
your  first  is  so  appropriate."  It  was  worth  ment  of  yo'  lang-widge  ?  I  fine  I  don't  use 
all  it  cost,  though  Richling  could  ill  afford  such  bad  lang-widge  like  biffo.  I  am  shoe 
the  purchase.  The  young  Latin's  sweet,  you  muz  'ave  notiz  since  some  time  I  always 
abysmal  ignorance,  his  infantile  amiability,  soun'  that  awe  in  yo'  name.  Mistoo  Ttchlin', 
his  artless  ambition,  and  heathenish  innocence  will  you  'ave  that  kine'ness  to  baw  me  two- 
started  the  natural  gladness  of  Richling's  an'-a-'alf  till  the  lass  of  that  month  ?  " 
blood  to  effervescing  anew  every  time  they  Richling  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  si- 
met,  and,  through  the  sheer  impossibility  of  lence  and  then  broke  into  a  short,  grim 
confiding  any  of  his  troubles  to  the  Creole,  laugh. 

made   him   think  them   smaller  and  lighter  "  It's  all  gone.    There's  no  more  honey  in 

than  they  had  just  before  appeared.   The  very  this  flower."    He   set  his  jaw  as  he  ceased 

light  of  Narcisse's  countenance  and  beauty  speaking.    There  was  a  warm  red  place  on 

of  his  form  —  his  smooth,  low  forehead,  his  either  cheek. 

thick,  abundant  locks,  his  faintly  up-tipped  "  Mistoo  Ttchlin',"  said  Narcisse,  with  sud- 

nose  and  expanded  nostrils,  his  sweet,  weak  den,  quavering  fervor,  "  you  kin  len'  me  two 

mouth  with  its  impending  smile,  his  beautiful  dollahs !    I    gi'e   you   my   honoh   the   moze 

chin  and  bird's  throat,  his  almond  eyes,  his  sacwed   of  a   gen'leman,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  1 

full,  round  arm,  and  strong  thigh  —  had  their  nevveh  hass  you  agin  so  long  I  live!  " 

emphatic  value.  extended  a  pacifying  hand.   "  One  mom< 

So  now,  Richling,  a  moment  earlier  borne  Mistoo  Ttchlin', —  one   moment, —  I    imj 


DR.    SEVIER. 


757 


you,  seh  !  I  assu'  you,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  I  pay 
you  eve'y  cent  in  the  worP  on  the  laz  of  that 
month !  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  I  am  in  indignan' 
circumstan's.  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  if  you  know  the 
distwess  —  ^listoo  'Itchlin',  if  you  know — 'ow 
bad  I  'ate  to  baw !  "  The  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes.  "  Id  nea'ly  kill  me  to  b "  Utter- 
ance failed  him. 

"  My  friend,"  began  Richling. 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin',"  exclaimed  Narcisse, 
dashing  away  the  tears  and  striking  his  hand 
on  his  heart,  "  I  am  yo'  fwend,  seh ! " 

Richling  smiled  scornfully.  "  Well,  my 
good  friend,  if  you  had  ever  kept  a  single 
promise  made  to  me,  I  need  not  have  gone 
since  yesterday  without  a  morsel  of  food." 

Narcisse  tried  to  respond 

"  Hush  "  said  Richling,  and  Narcisse  bowed 
while  Richling  spoke  on.  "  I  haven't  a  cent 
to  buy  bread  with  to  carry  home.  And  whose 
fault  is  it  ?  Is  it  my  fault — or  is  it  yours  ?  " 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  seh " 

"  Hush  !  "  cried  Richling  again ;  "  if  you 
try  to  speak  again  before  I  finish,  I'll  thrash 
you  right  here  in  the  street !  " 

Narcisse  folded  his  arms.  Richling  flushed 
and  flashed  with  the  mortifying  knowledge 
that  his  companion's  behavior  was  better 
than  his  own. 

"  If  you  want  to  borrow  more  money  of 
me,"  he  cried,  "find me  a  chance  to  earn  it !  " 
He  glanced  so  suddenly  at  two  or  three 
street  lads,  who  were  the  only  on-lookers, 
that  they  shrank  back  a  step. 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin',"  began  Narcisse  once 
more,  in  a  tone  of  polite  dismay,  "  you  azton- 
izh  me.  I  assu'  you,  Mistoo  'Itchlin' " 

Richling  lifted  his  finger  and  shook  it. 
"  Don't  you  tell  me  that,  sir !  I  will  not  be 
an  object  of  astonishment  to  you !  Not  to  you, 
sir !  Not  to  you !  "  He  paused,  trembling, 
his  anger  and  his  shame  rising  together. 

Narcisse  stood  for  a  moment,  silent,  un- 
daunted, the  picture  of  amazed  friendship  and 
injured  dignity,  then  raised  his  hat  with  the 
solemnity  of  affronted  patience  and  said : 

"  Mistoo  'Itchlin',  seein'  as  'tis  you, — a 
puffic  gen'leman,  'oo  is  not  goin'  to  'efuse 
that  satisfagtion  w'at  a  gen'leman  always 
a-'eady  to  give  a  gen'leman, —  I  bid  you — 
faw  the  pwesen' — good-evenin',  seh!  "  He 
walked  away. 

Richling  stood  in  his  tracks  dumfounded, 
crushed.  His  eyes  followed  the  receding 
form  of  the  borrower  until  it  disappeared 
around  a  distant  corner,  while  the  eye  of  his 
mind  looked  in  upon  himself  and  beheld,  with 
a  shame  that  overwhelmed  anger,  the  folly 
and  the  puerility  of  his  outburst.  The  ner- 
vous strain  of  twenty-four  hours'  fast,  without 
which  he  might  not  have  slipped  at  all,  only 


sharpened  his  self-condemnation.  He  turned 
and  walked  to  his  house,  and  all  the  misery 
that  had  oppressed  him  before  he  had  seen 
the  prison,  and  all  that  had  come  with  that 
sight,  and  all  this  new  shame,  sank  down 
upon  his  heart  at  once.  "  I  am  not  a  man ! 
I  am  not  a  whole  man  !  "  he  suddenly  moaned 
to  himself.  "Something  is  wanting — oh! 
what  is  it  ?  "  He  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  sky 
— "  What  is  it  ?  " — when,  in  truth,  there  was 
little  wanting  just  then  besides  food. 

He  passed  in  at  the  narrow  gate  and  up 
the  slippery  alley.  Nearly  at  its  end  was  the 
one  window  of  the  room  he  called  home. 
Just  under  it — it  was  somewhat  above  his 
head — he  stopped  and  listened.  A  step 
within  was  moving  busily  here  and  there, 
now  fainter  and  now  plainer ;  and  a  voice, 
the  sweetest  on  earth  to  him,  was  singing  to 
itself  in  its  soft,  habitual  way. 

He  started  around  to  the  door  with  a 
firmer  tread.  It  stood  open.  He  halted  on 
the  threshold.  There  was  a  small  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  there  was  food 
on  it.  A  petty  reward  of  his  wife's  labor  had 
brought  it  there. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  holding  her  off  a  little, 
"  don't  kiss  me  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  with  consternation.  He 
sat  down,  drew  her  upon  his  lap,  and  told 
her,  in  plain,  quiet  voice,  the  whole  matter. 

"  Don't  look  so,  Mary." 

"  How  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  husky  voice  and 
with  flashing  eye. 

"  Don't  breathe  so  short  and  set  your  lips. 
I  never  saw  you  look  so,  Mary,  darling." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  her  eyes  filled.  9 

"  If  you  had  been  with  me,"  said  John, 
musingly,  "  it  wouldn't  have  happened." 

"  If — if — "  Mary  sat  up  as  straight  as  a 
dart,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitching  so 
that  she  could  scarcely  shape  a  word — "  if — 
if  I'd  been  there,  I'd  have  made  you  whip 
him!"  She  flouted  her  handkerchief  out  of 
her  pocket,  buried  her  face  in  his  neck,  and 
sobbed  like  a  child. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  the  tearful  John,  hold- 
ing her  away  by  both  shoulders,  tossing  back 
his  hair  and  laughing  as  she  laughed, — "  Oh ! 
you  women!  You're  all  of  a  sort!  You 
want  us  men  to  carry  your  hymn-books  and 
your  iniquities,  too !  " 

She  laughed  again. 

"  Well,  of  course !  " 

And  they  rose  and  drew  up  to  the  board. 

XXV. 
THE   DOCTOR   DINES   OUT. 

ON  the  third  day  after  these  incidents, 
again  at  the  sunset  hour,  but  in  a  very  differ- 


DR.    SEVIER. 


ent  part  of  the  town,  Dr.  Sevier  sat  down,  a 
guest,  at  dinner.  There  were  flowers ;  there 
was  painted  and  monogrammed  china ;  there 
was  Bohemian  glass ;  there  was  silver  of  cun- 
ning work  with  linings  of  gold,  and  dam- 
asked linen,  and  oak  of  fantastic  carving. 
There  were  ladies  in  summer  silks  and  elab- 
orate coiffures;  the  hostess,  small,  slender, 
gentle,  alert;  another,  dark,  flashing,  Roman, 
tall ;  another,  ripe  but  not  drooping,  who  had 
been  beautiful,  now,  for  thirty  years;  and  one 
or  two  others.  There  were  jewels-  there 
were  sweet  odors.  And  there  were,  also,  some 
good  masculine  heads :  Dr.  Sevier's,  for  in- 
stance ;  and  the  chief  guest's  —  an  iron-gray, 
with  hard  lines  in  the  face,  and  a  scar  on  the 
near  cheek,  a  colonel  of  the  regular  army 
passing  through  from  Florida;  and  one 
crown,  bald,  pink,  and  shining,  encircled  by 
a  silken  fringe  of  very  white  hair;  it  was  the 
banker  who  lived  in  St.  Mary  street.  His 
wife  was  opposite.  And  there  was  much  high- 
bred grace.  There  were  tall  windows  thrown 
wide  to  make  the  blaze  of  gas  bearable,  and 
two  tall  mulattoes  in  the  middle  distance 
bringing  in  and  bearing  out  viands  too  sumpt- 
uous for  any  but  a  French  nomenclature. 

It  was  what  you  would  call  a  quiet  affair ; 
quite  out  of  season,  and  difficult  to  furnish  with 
even  this  little  handful  of  guests,  but  it  was  a 
proper  and  necessary  attention  to  the  colonel ; 
conversation  not  too  dull,  nor  yet  too  bright 
for  ease,  but  passing  gracefully  from  one 
agreeable  topic  to  another  without  earnest- 
ness, a  restless  virtue,  or  frivolity,  which 
also  goes  against  serenity.  Now  it  touched 
upon  the  prospects  of  young  A.  B.  in  the  de- 
mise of  his  uncle;  now  upon  the  probable 
seriousness  of  C.  D.  in  his  attentions  to  E. 
F. ;  now  upon  G.'s  amusing  mishaps  during  a 
late  tour  in  Switzerland,  which  had — "  how 
unfortunately!" — got  into  the  papers.  Now 
it  was  concerning  the  admirable  pulpit  man- 
ners and  easily  pardoned  vocal  defects  of  a 
certain  new  rector.  Now  it  turned  upon 
Stephen  A.  Douglas's  last  speech ;  passed  to 
the  questionable  merits  of  a  new-fangled 
punch ;  and  now,  assuming  a  slightly  explan- 
atory form  from  the  gentlemen  to  the  ladies, 
showed  why  there  was  no  need  whatever  to 
fear  a  financial  crisis — which  came  soon 
afterward. 

The  colonel  inquired  after  an  old  gentle- 
man whom  he  had  known  in  earlier  days  in 
Kentucky. 

"  It's  many  a  year  since  I  met  him,"  he 
said.  "  The  proudest  man  I  ever  saw.  I  un- 
derstand he  was  down  here  last  season." 

"  He  was,"  replied  the  host,  in  a  voice  of 
native  kindness,  and  with  a  smile  on  his  high- 
fed  face.  "  He  was ;  but  only  for  a  short  time. 


He  went  back  to  his  estate.   That  is  his  world. 
He's  there  now." 

"  It  used  to  be  considered  one  of  the  finest 
places  in  the  State,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  It  is  still,"  rejoined  the  host.    "  Doctor,  .' 
you  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Dr.  Sevier ;  but  some- 
how he  recalled  the  old  gentleman  in  button 
gaiters,  who  had  called  on  him  one  evening 
to  consult  him  about  his  sick  wife. 

"  A  good  man,"  said  the  colonel,  looking 
amused ;  "  and  a  superb  gentleman.  Is  he  as 
great  a  partisan  of  the  church  as  he  used  to 
be?" 

"  Greater  !  Favors  an  established  church 
of  America." 

The  ladies  were  much  amused.  The  host's 
son,  a  young  fellow  with  sprouting  side- 
whiskers,  said  he  thought  he  could  be  quite 
happy  with  one  of  the  finest  plantations  in 
Kentucky,  and  let  the  church  go  its  own  gait. 

"  Humph !  "  said  the  father ;  "  I  doubt  if  . 
there's  ever  a  happy  breath  drawn  on  the 
place." 

"  Why,  how  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  colonel, 
in  a  cautious  tone. 

"  Hadn't  he  heard  ?  "   The  host  was  sur-  \ 
prised,  but  spoke  low.    "  Hadn't  heard  about  , 
the  trouble  with  their  only  son  ?    Why,  he 
went  abroad  and  never  came  back." 

Every  one  listened. 

"  It's  a  terrible  thing,"  said  the  hostess  to  ji 
the  ladies  nearest  her ;  "  no  one  ever  dares 
ask  the  family  what  the  trouble  is, — they  have  1 
such  odd,  exclusive  ideas  about  their  matters 
being  nobody's   business.    All  that  can   be 
known  is  that  they  look  upon  him  as  worse 
than  dead  and  gone  forever.'3 

"  And  who  will  get  the  estate  ?  "  asked  the 
banker. 

"  The  two  girls.    They're  both  married." 

"  They're  very  much  like  their  father,"  said 
the  hostess,  smiling  with  gentle  significance. 

"  Very  much,"  echoed  the  host,  with  less 
delicacy.  "  Their  mother  is  one  of  those 
women  who  stand  in  terror  of  their  husband's 
will.  Now,  if  he  were  to  die  and  leave  her . 
with  a  will  of  her  own  she  would  hardly  know 
what  to  do  with  it — I  mean  with  her  will— 
or  the  property  either." 

The  hostess  protested  softly  against  so 
harsh  a  speech,  and  the  son,  after  one  or  two 
failures,  got  in  his  remark  : 

"May  be  the  prodigal  would  come  back 
and  be  taken  in." 

But  nobody  gave  this  conjecture  much 
tention.  The  host  was  still  talking  of  the " 
without  a  will. 

"  Isn't  she  an  invalid  ?  "  Dr.  Sevier 
asked. 

"Yes;  the  trip  down  here  last  season  wa: 


DR.    SEVIER. 


759 


on  her  account — for  change  of  scene.  Her 
health  is  wretched." 

"  I'm  distressed  that  I  didn't  call  on  her," 
said  the  hostess ;  "  but  they  went  away  sud- 
denly. My  dear,  I  wonder  if  they  really  did 
encounter  the  young  man  here  ?  " 

"  Pshaw,"  said  the  husband,  softly,  smiling 
and  shaking  his  head,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation. 

In  time  it  settled  down  with  something 
like  earnestness  for  a  few  minutes  upon  a  sub- 
ject which  the  rich  find  it  easy  to  discuss 
without  the  least  risk  of  undue  warmth.  It 
was  about  the  time  when  one  of  the  graciously 
murmuring  mulattoes  was  replenishing  the 
glasses,  that  remark  in  some  way  found  utter- 
ance to  this  effect  —  that  the  company  present 
could  congratulate  themselves  on  living  in  a 
community  where  there  was  no  poor  class. 

"  Poverty,  of  course,  we  see ;  but  there  is 
no  misery,  or  nearly  none,"  said  the  ambitious 
son  of  the  host. 

Dr.  Sevier  differed  with  him.  That  was 
one  of  the  Doctor's  blemishes  as  a  table 
guest :  he  would  differ  with  people. 

"  There  is  misery,"  he  said ;  "  may  be  not 
the  gaunt  squalor  and  starvation  of  London 
or  Paris  or  New  York ;  the  climate  does  not 
tolerate  that — stamps  it  out  before  it  can  as- 
i  sume  dimensions ;  but  there  is  at  least  misery 
of  that  sort  that  needs  recognition  and  aid 
from  the  well-fed." 

The  lady  who  had  been  beautiful  so  many 
years  had  somewhat  to  say ;  the  physician 
gave  attention,  and  she  spoke  : 

"If  sister  Jane  were  here,  she  would  be 

\  perfectly  triumphant  to  hear  you  speak  so, 

Doctor."    She  turned  to  the  hostess  and  con- 

|  tinued :  "  Jane  is   quite   an    enthusiast,  you 

I  know ;  a  sort  of  Dorcas,  as  husband  says, 

modified  and  readapted.    Yes,  she  is  for  help- 

I  ing  everybody." 

"  Whether  help  is  good  for  them  or  not," 
said  the  lady's  husband,  a  very  straight  and 
wiry  man  with  a  garrote  collar. 

"  It's  all  one,"  laughed  the  lady.  "  Our  new 
\  rector  told  her  plainly,  the  other  day,  that  she 
I  was  making  a  great  mistake ;  that  she  ought 
'  to  consider  whether  assistance  assists.  It  was 
.really  amusing.  Out  of  the  pulpit  and  off  his 
i  guard,  you  know,  he  lisps  a  little ;  and  he  said 
,she  ought  to  consider  whether  '  aththithtanth 
aththithtth.'" 

There  was  a  gay  laugh  at  this,  and  the  lady 
iwas  called  a  perfect  and  cruel  mimic. 

"  'Aththithtanth  aththithtth  ! '  "  said  two  or 
'three  to  their  neighbors,  and  laughed  again. 

"  What  did  your  sister  say  to  that  ?  "  asked 
the  banker,  bending  forward  his  white,  ton- 
,sured  head,  and  smiling  down  the  board. 

"  She  said  she  didn't  care ;  that  it  kept  her 


own  heart  tender,  anyhow.  '  My  dear  madam,' 
said  he,  *  your  heart  wants  strengthening  more 
than  softening.'  He  told  her  a  pound  of  inner 
resource  was  more  true  help  to  any  poor  per- 
son than  a  ton  of  assistance." 

The  banker  commended  the  rector.  The 
hostess,  very  sweetly,  offered  her  guarantee 
that  Jane  took  the  rebuke  in  good  part. 

"She  did," replied  the  time-honored  beauty; 
"  she  tried  to  profit  by  it.  But  husband,  here, 
has  offered  her  a  wager  of  a  bonnet  against  a 
hat  that  the  rector  will  upset  her  new  schemes. 
Her  idea  now  is  to  make  work  for  those  whom 
nobody  will  employ." 

"  Jane,"  said  the  kind-faced  host,  "  really 
wants  to  do  good  for  its  own  sake." 

"  I  think  she's  even  a  little  Romish  in  her 
notions,"  said  Jane's  wiry  brother-in-law.  "  I 
talked  to  her  as  plainly  as  the  rector.  I  told 
her :  *  Jane,  my  dear,  all  this  making  of  work 
for  the  helpless  poor  is  not  worth  one-fiftieth 
part  of  the  same  amount  of  effort  spent  in 
teaching  and  training  those  same  poor  to 
make  their  labor  intrinsically  marketable." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  hostess, "  but  while  we  are 
philosophizing  and  offering  advice  so  wisely, 
Jane  is  at  work  —  doing  the  best  she  knows 
how.  We  can't  claim  the  honor  even  of  mak- 
ing her  mistakes." 

"'T  isn't  a  question  of  honors  to  us,  madam," 
said  Dr.  Sevier ;  "  it's  a  question  of  results  to 
the  poor." 

The  brother-in-law  had  not  finished.  He 
turned  to  the  Doctor  : 

"  Poverty,  Doctor,  is  an  inner  condition — " 

"  Sometimes,"  interposed  the  Doctor. 

"  Yes,  generally,"  continued  the  brother- 
in-law,  with  some  emphasis.  "And  to  give 
help  you  must,  first  of  all,  *  inquire  within ' — 
within  your  beneficiary." 

"  Not  always,  sir,"  replied  the  Doctor; 
"  not  if  they're  sick,  for  instance."  The  ladies 
bowed  briskly  and  applauded  with  their  eyes. 
"  And  not  always  if  they're  well,"  he  added. 
His  last  words  softened  off  almost  into  so- 
liloquy. 

The  banker  spoke  forcibly : 

"  Yes,  there  are  two  quite  distinct  kinds  of 
poverty.  One  is  an  accident  of  the  moment ; 
the  other  is  an  inner  condition  of  the  indi- 
vidual  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  sister  Jane's  brother- 
in-law,  who  felt  it  a  little  to  have  been  con- 
tradicted on  the  side  of  kindness  by  the  hard- 
spoken  Doctor.  "  Certainly !  it's  a  deficiency 
of  inner  resources  or  character,  and  what  to 
do  with  it  is  no  simple  question." 

"That's  what  I  was  about  to  say,"  re- 
sumed the  banker;  "  at  least,  when  the  pov- 
erty is  of  that  sort.  And  what  discourages 
kind  people  is  that  that's  the  sort  we  com- 


760 


DR.    SEVIER. 


monly  see.  It's  a  relief  to  meet  the  other, 
Doctor,  just  as  it's  a  relief  to  a  physician  to 
encounter  a  case  of  simple  surgery." 

"And  —  and,"  said  the  brother-in-law, 
"  what  is  your  rule  about  plain  alms-giving 
to  the  difficult  sort  ?  " 

"  My  rule,"  replied  the  banker,  "  is,  don't 
do  it.  Debt  is  slavery,  and  there  is  an  ugly 
kink  in  human  nature  that  disposes  it  to  be 
content  with  slavery.  No,  sir;  gift-making 
and  gift-taking  are  twins  of  a  bad  blood." 
The  speaker  turned  to  Dr.  Sevier  for  ap- 
proval; but  though  the  Doctor  could  not  gain- 
say the  fraction  of  a  point,  he  was  silent.  A 
lady  near  the  hostess  stirred  softly  both  under 
and  above  the  board.  In  her  private  chamber 
she  would  have  yawned.  Yet  the  banker 
spoke  again : 

"  Help  the  old,  I  say.  You  are  pretty  safe 
there.  Help  the  sick.  But  as  for  the  young 
and  strong, — now,  no  man  could  be  any 
poorer  than  I  was  at  twenty-one, — and  I  say 
be  cautious  how  you  smooth  that  hard  road 
which  is  the  finest  discipline  the  young  can 
possibly  get." 

"  If  it  isn't  too  hard,"  chirped  the  son  of 
the  host. 

"  Too  hard  ?  Well,  yes,  if  it  isn't  too  hard. 
Still  I  say,  hands  off.  You  needn't  turn  your 
back,  however."  Here  the  speaker  again 
singled  out  Dr.  Sevier.  "Watch  the  young 
man  out  of  one  corner  of  your  eye;  but  make 
him  swim !" 

"  Ah-h  !  "  said  the  ladies. 

"  No,  no,"  continued  the  banker ;  "  I  don't 
say  let  him  drown ;  but  I  take  it,  Doctor,  that 
your  alms,  for  instance,  are  no  alms  if  they 
put  the  poor  fellow  into  your  debt  and  at 
your  back." 

"  To  whom  do  you  refer  ? "  asked  Dr. 
Sevier.  Whereat  there  was  a  burst  of  laughter, 
which  was  renewed  when  the  banker  charged 
the  physician  with  helping  so  many  per- 
sons, "  on  the  sly,"  that  he  couldn't  tell 
which  one  was  alluded  to  unless  the  name 
were  given. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  hostess,  seeing  it  was 
high  time  the  conversation  should  take  a  new 
direction, "  they  tell  me  you  have  closed  your 
house  and  taken  rooms  at  the  St.  Charles." 

"  For  the  summer,"  said  the  physician. 

As,  later,  he  walked  toward  that  hotel,  he 
went  resolving  to  look  up  the  Richlings  again 
without  delay.  The  banker's  words  rang  in 
his  ears  like  an  overdose  of  quinine :  "  Watch 
the  young  man  out  of  one  corner  of  your  eye. 
Make  him  swim.  I  don't  say  let  him  drown." 
"  Well,  I  do  watch  him,"  thought  the  Doctor. 
"  I've  only  lost  sight  of  him  once  in  awhile." 
But  the  thought  seemed  to  find  an  echo 
against  his  conscience,  and  when  it  floated 


back  it  was :  "  I've  only  caught  sight  of  him 
once  in  awhile."  The  banker's  words  came 
up  again :  "  Don't  put  the  poor  fellow  into 
your  debt  and  at  your  back."  "Just  what 
you've  done,"  said  conscience.  "  How  do 
you  know  he  isn't  drowned  ?  "  He  would  see 
to  it. 

While  he  was  still  on  his  way  to  the  hotel, 
he  fell  in  with  an  acquaintance,  a  Judge 
Somebody  or  other,  lately  from  Washington 
City.  He,  also,  lodged  at  the  St.  Charles. 
They  went  together.  As  they  approached  the 
majestic  porch  of  the  edifice,  they  noticed 
some  confusion  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs 
that  led  up  to  the  rotunda;  cabmen  and  boys 
were  running  to  a  common  point,  where,  in 
the  midst  of  a  small,  compact  crowd,  two  or 
three  pairs  of  arms  were  being  alternately 
thrown  aloft  and  brought  down.  Presently 
the  mass  took  a  rapid  movement  up  St. 
Charles  street. 

The  judge  gave  his  conjecture :  "  Some 
poor  devil  resisting  arrest." 

Before  he  and  the  Doctor  parted  for  the 
night,  they  went  to  the  clerk's  counter. 

"  No  letters  for  you,  Judge ;  mail  failed. 
Here  is  a  card  for  you,  Doctor." 

The  Doctor  received  it.  It  had  been  fur- 
nished, blank,  by  the  clerk,  to  its  writer. 


JOHN  RICHLING. 


At  the  door  of  his  own  room,  with  one 
hand  on  the  unturned  knob  and  one  holding 
the  card,  the  Doctor  stopped  and  reflected. 
The  card  gave  no  indication  of  urgency. 
Did  it  ?  It  was  hard  to  tell.  He  didn't  want 
to  look  foolish ;  morning  would  be  time 
enough ;  he  would  go  early  next  morning. 

But  at  day- break  he  was  summoned  post- 
haste to  the  bedside  of  a  lady  who  had  staid 
ail  summer  in  New  Orleans,  so  as  not  to  be 
out  of  this  good  doctor's  reach  at  this  junct- 
ure. She  counted  him  a  dear  friend,  and  in 
similar  trials  had  always  required  close  and 
continual  attention.  It  was  the  same  now. 

Dr.  Sevier  scrawled  and  sent  to  the  Rich- 
lings  a  line  saying  that,  if  either  of  them  was 
sick,  he  would  come  at  their  call.  When  the 
messenger  returned  with  word  from  Mrs. 
Riley  that  both  of  them  were  out,  the 
Doctor's  mind  was  much  relieved.  So  a  da 
and  a  night  passed,  in  which  he  did  not  cl 
his  eyes. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  stood  in  his  o 
hat  in  hand,  and  a  finger  pointing  to  a 
scription  on  his  desk,  which  he  was  directing 


DR.   SEVIER. 


761 


Narcisse  to  give  to  some  one  who  would  call 
for  it,  there  came  a  sudden  hurried  pounding 
of  feminine  feet  on  the  stairs,  a  whiff  of  robes 
in  the  corridor,  and  Mary  Richling  rushed 

i  into  his  presence  all  tears  and  cries. 

"O  Doctor!  —  O  Doctor!  O  God,  my 
husband  !  my  husband  !  O  Doctor,  my  hus- 
band is  in  the  Parish  Prison !"  She  sank  to 

I  the  floor. 

The  Doctor  raised  her  up.  Narcisse  hurried 

I  forward  with  his  hands  full  of  restoratives. 

"Take  away  those  things,"  said  the  Doctor, 
resentfully.  "  Here !  —  Mrs.  Richling,  take 
Narcisse's  arm  and  go  down  and  get  into  my 
carriage.  I  must  write  a  short  note  excusing 
myself  from  an  appointment,  and  then  I  will 

I  join  you." 

Mary  stood  alone,  turned,  and  passed  out 

i  of  the  office  beside  the  young  Creole,  but 
without  taking  his  proffered  arm.  Did  she 
suspect  him  of  having  something  to  do  with 
this  dreadful  affair  ? 

"  Missez  Witchlin',"  said  he,  as  soon  as 

i  they  were  out  in  the  corridor,  "  I  dunno  if 

|  you  goin'  to  billiv  me,  but  I  boun'  to  tell  you 

!  that  nodwithstanning  that  yo'  'uzban'  is  dis- 

I  please'  with  me,  an'  nodwithstanning  'e's  in 
that  calaboose,  I  h'always  fine  'im  a  puffic 

I  gen'leman — that    Mistoo  'Itchlin', — an'  I'll 

i  sweah  'e  is  a  gen'leman  !  " 

She  lifted  her  anguished  eyes  and  looked 

!  into  his  beautiful  face.  Could  she  trust  him  ? 
His  little  forehead  was  as  hard  as  a  goat's, 
but  his  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears,  and 

I  his  chin  quivered.   As  they  reached  the  head 

I  of  the  stairs  he  again  offered  his  arm,  and  she 

|  took  it,  moaning,  as  they  descended : 

"Oh,  John !    Oh,  John  !    Oh,  my  husband, 

!  my  husband !  " 

XXVI. 
THE   TROUGH    OF    THE    SEA. 

NARCISSE,  on  receiving  his  scolding  from 
|  Richling,  had  gone  to  his  home  in  Casa 
Calvo  street,  a  much  greater  sufferer  than  he 
had  appeared  to  be.  While  he  was  confront- 
ing his  abaser,  there  had  been  a  momentary 
comfort  in  the  contrast  between  Richling's 
ill  behavior  and  his  own  self-control.  It  had 
stayed  his  spirit  and  turned  the  edge  of  Rich- 
ling's  sharp  denunciations.  But,  as  he  moved 
off  the  field,  he  found  himself,  at  every  step, 
more  deeply  wounded  than  even  he  had  sup- 
posed. He  began  to  suffocate  with  chagrin, 
land  hurried  his  steps  in  sheer  distress.  He 
|  did  not  experience  that  dull,  vacant  accep- 
tance of  universal  scorn  which  an  unresentful 
icoward  feels.  His  pangs  were  all  the  more 
poignant  because  he  knew  his  own  courage. 


In  his  home  he  went  so  straight  up  to  the 
withered  little  old  lady  in  the  dingiest  of 
flimsy  black,  who  was  his  aunt,  and  kissed 
her  so  passionately,  that  she  asked  at  once 
-what  was  the  matter.  He  recounted  the  facts, 
shedding  tears  of  mortification.  Her  feeling, 
by  the  time  he  had  finished  the  account,  was 
a  more  unmixed  wrath  than  his,  and,  harm- 
less as  she  was,  and  wrapped  up  in  her  dear, 
pretty  nephew  as  she  was,  she  yet  demanded 
to  know  why  such  a  man  shouldn't  be  called 
out  upon  the  field  of  honor. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Narcisse,  shrinkingly.  She 
had  touched  the  core  of  the  tumor.  One  gets 
a  public  tongue-lashing  from  a  man  concern- 
ing money  borrowed :  well,  how  is  one  going 
to  challenge  him  without  first  handing  back 
the  borrowed  money?  It  was  a  scalding 
thought !  The  rotten  joists  beneath  the  bare, 
scrubbed-to-death  floor  quaked  under  Nar- 
cisse's to-and-fro  stride. 

"  —  And  then,  anyhow!" — he  stopped 
and  extended  both  hands,  speaking,  of  course, 
in  French, — "  anyhow,  he  is  the  favored  friend 
of  Dr.  Sevier.  If  I  hurt  him  —  I  lose  my 
situation!  If  he  hurts  me — I  lose  my  situa- 
tion!" 

He  dried  his  eyes.  His  aunt  saw  the  in- 
surmountability of  the  difficulty,  and  they 
drowned  feeling  in  an  affectionate  glass  of 
green-orangeade. 

"  But  never  mind  !  "  Narcisse  set  his  glass 
down  and  drew  out  his  tobacco.  He  laughed 
spasmodically  as  he  rolled  his  cigarette.  "You 
shall  see.  The  game  is  not  finished  yet." 

Yet  Richling  passed  the  next  day  and  night 
without  assassination,  and  on  the  second 
morning  afterward,  as  on  the  first,  went  out 
in  quest  of  employment.  He  and  Mary  had 
eaten  bread,  and  it  had  gone  into  their  life 
without  a  remainder  either  in  larder  or  purse. 
Richling  was  all  aimless. 

"  I  do  wish  I  had  the  art  of  finding  work," 
said  he.  He  smiled.  "  I'll  get  it,"  he  added, 
breaking  their  last  crust  in  two.  "  I  have 
the  science  already.  Why,  look  you,  Mary, 
the  quiet,  amiable,  imperturbable,  dignified, 
diurnal,  inexorable  haunting  of  men  of  in- 
fluence will  get  you  whatever  you  want." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  do  it,  dear  ?  Is  there 
any  harm  in  it  ?  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  it. 
Why  don't  you  do  that  very  thing  ?  " 

"  I'm  telling  you  the  truth,"  answered  he, 
ignoring  her  question.  "  Nothing  else  short 
of  overtowering  merit  will  get  you  what  you 
want  half  so  surely." 

"  Well,  why  not  do  it  ?  Why  not  ?  "  A 
fresh,  glad  courage  sparkled  in  the  wife's 
eyes. 

"  Why,  Mary,"  said  John,  "  I  never  in  my 
life  tried  so  hard  to  do  anything  else  as  I've 


: 


762 


DR.    SEVIER. 


tried  to  do  that !  It  sounds  easy ;  but  try  it ! 
You  can't  conceive  how  hard  it  is  till  you  try 
it.  I  can't  do\\.\  I  can't  do  it !  " 

"  I'd  do  it ! "  cried  Mary.  Her  face  shone. 
"  Pd  do  it!  You'd  see  if  I  didn't!  Why, 
John " 

"  All  right !  "  exclaimed  he ;  "  you  sha'n't 
talk  that  way  to  me  for  nothing.  I'll  try  it 
again  !  I'll  begin  to-day  !  " 

"  Good-bye,'7  he  said.  He  reached  an  arm 
over  one  of  her  shoulders  and  around  under 
the  other  and  drew  her  up  on  tiptoe.  She 
threw  both  hers  about  his  neck.  A  long  kiss 
—  then  a  short  one. 

"  John,  something  tells  me  we're  near  the 
end  of  our  troubles." 

John  laughed  grimly.  "  Ristofalo  was  to 
get  back  to  the  city  to-day;  may  be  he's  go- 
ing to  put  us  out  of  our  misery.  There  are 
two  ways  for  troubles  to  end."  He  walked 
away  as  he  spoke.  As  he  passed  under  the 
window  in  the  alley,  its  sash  was  thrown  up 
and  Mary  leaned  out  on  her  elbows. 

"  John." 

"  Well  ?  " 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  with 
the  quiet  pleasure  of  tried  lovers,  and  were 
silent  a  moment.  She  leaned  a  little  farther 
down,  and  said,  softly : 

"  You  mustn't  mind  what  I  said  just  now." 

"  Why,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  That  if  it  were  I,  I'd  do  it.  I  know  you 
can  do  anything  I  can  do,  and  a  hundred 
better  things  besides." 

He  lifted  his  hand  to  her  cheek.  "  We'll 
see,"  he  whispered.  She  drew  in,  and  he 
moved  on. 

Morning  passed.  Noon  came.  From  ho- 
rizon to  horizon,  the  sky  was  one  unbroken 
blue.  The  sun  spread  its  bright,  hot  rays 
down  upon  the  town  and  far  beyond,  ripen- 
ing the  distant,  countless  fields  of  the  great 
delta,  which  by  and  by  were  to  empty  their 
abundance  into  the  city's  lap  for  the  employ- 
ment, the  nourishing,  the  clothing  of  thou- 
sands. But  in  the  dusty  streets,  along  the 
ill-kept  fences  and  shadowless  walls  of  the 
quiet  districts,  and  on  the  glaring  fagades  and 
heated  pavements  of  the  commercial  quarters, 
it  seemed  only  as  though  the  slowly  retreat- 
ing summer  struck  with  the  fury  of  a  wounded 
Amazon.  Richling  was  soon  dust-covered  and 
weary.  He  had  gone  his  round.  There  were 
not  many  men  whom  he  could  even  propose 
to  haunt.  He  had  been  to  all  of  them.  Dr. 
Sevier  was  not  one.  "  Not  to-day,"  said 
Richling. 

"  It  all  depends  on  the  way  it's  done," 
he  said  to  himself;  "  it  needn't  degrade  a 
man  if  it's  done  the  right  way."  It  was  only 
by  such  philosophy  he  had  done  it  at  all. 


Ristofalo  he  could  have  haunted  without 
effort ;  but  Ristofalo  was  not  to  be  found. 
Richling  tramped  in  vain.  It  may  be  that  all 
plans  were  of  equal  merit  just  then.  The 
summers  of  New  Orleans  in  those  times 
were,  as  to  commerce,  an  utter  torpor,  and 
the  autumn  re-awakening  was  very  tardy.  It 
was  still  too  early  for  the  stirrings  of  general 
mercantile  life.  The  movement  of  the  cotton 
crop  was  just  beginning  to  be  perceptible; 
but  otherwise  almost  the  only  sounds  were 
from  the  hammers  of  craftsmen  making  the 
town  larger  and  preparing  it  for  the  activities 
of  days  to  come. 

The  afternoon  wore  along.  Not  a  cent  yet 
to  carry  home  !  Men  began  to  shut  their  idle 
shops  and  go  to  meet  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren about  their  comfortable  dinner-tables. 
The  sun  dipped  low.  Hammers  and  saws 
were  dropped  into  tool-boxes,  and  painters 
pulled  themselves  out  of  their  overalls.  The 
mechanic's  rank,  hot  supper  began  to  smoke 
on  its  bare  board ;  but  there  was  one  board 
that  was  still  altogether  bare  and  to  which 
no  one  hastened.  Another  day  and  another 
chance  of  life  were  gone. 

Some  men  at  a  warehouse  door,  the  only 
opening  in  the  building  left  unclosed,  were 
hurrying  in  a  few  bags  of  shelled  corn.  Night 
was  falling.  At  an  earlier  hour  Richling  had 
offered  the  labor  of  his  hands  at  this  very 
door  and  had  been  rejected.  Now,  as  they 
rolled  in  the  last  truck-load,  they  began  to 
ask  for  rest  with  all  the  gladness  he  would 
have  felt  to  be  offered  toil,  singing, 

"To  blow,  to  blow,  some  time  for  to  blow." 

They  swung  the  great  leaves  of  the  door 
together  as  they  finished  their  chorus,  stood 
grouped  outside  a  moment  while  the  ware- 
houseman turned  the  resounding  lock,  and 
then  went  away.  Richling,  who  had  moved 
on,  watched  them  over  his  shoulder,  and  as 
they  left  turned  back.  He  was  about  to  do 
what  he  had  never  done  before.  He  went 
back  to  the  door  where  the  bags  of  grain  had 
stood.  A  drunken  sailor  came  swinging  along. 
He  stood  still  and  let  him  pass ;  there  must 
be  no  witnesses.  The  sailor  turned  the  next 
corner.  Neither  up  nor  down  nor  across  the 
street,  nor  at  dust-begrimed,  cobwebbed  win- 
dow, was  there  any  sound  or  motion.  Rich- 
ling  dropped  quickly  on  one  knee  and  gath- 
ered hastily  into  his  pocket  a  little  pile  of 
shelled  corn  that  had  leaked  from  one  of  the 
bags. 

That  was  all.    No  harm  to  a  living 
no  theft ;  no  wrong ;  but  ah !  as  he  rose 
felt  a  sudden  inward  lesion.    Somethin  g  bi 


DR.    SEVIER. 


763 


It  was  like  a  ship,  in  a  dream,  noiselessly 
striking  a  rock  where  no  rock  is.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  very  next  thing  was  to  begin 
going  to  pieces.  He  walked  off  in  the  dark 
shadow  of  the  warehouse,  half  lifted  from  his 
feet  by  a  vague,  wide  dismay.  And  yet  he  felt 
no  greatness  of  emotion,  but  rather  a  pain- 
ful want  of  it,  as  if  he  were  here  and  emo- 
tion were  yonder,  down-street  or  up-street  or 
around  the  corner.  The  ground  seemed  slip- 
ping from  under  him.  He  appeared  to  have 
all  at  once  melted  away  to  nothing.  He 
stopped.  He  even  turned  to  go  back.  He 
felt  that  if  he  should  go  and  put  that  corn 
down  where  he  had  found  it,  he  should  feel 
himself  once  more  a  living  thing  of  substance 
and  emotions.  Then  it  occurred  to  him — no, 
he  would  keep  it ;  he  would  take  it  to  Mary  ; 
but  himself —  he  would  not  touch  it ;  and  so 
he  went  home. 

Mary  parched  the  corn,  ground  it  fine  in 
the  coffee-mill,  and  salted  and  served  it  close 
beside  the  candle.  "  It's  good  white  corn," 
she  said,  laughing.  "  Many  a  time  when  I 
was  a  child  I  used  to  eat  this  in  my  play- 
house and  thought  it  delicious.  Didn't  you  ? 
What !  not  going  to  eat  ?  " 

Richling  had  told  her  how  he  got  the  corn. 
Now  he  told  his  sensations.  "You  eat  it, 
Mary,"  he  said  at  the  end ;  "  you  needn't  feel 
so  about  it ;  but  if  I  should  eat  it,  I  should 
feel  myself  a  vagabond.  It  may  be  foolish, 
but  I  wouldn't  touch  it  for  a  hundred  dol- 
lars." A  hundred  dollars  had  come  to  be 
his  synonym  for  infinity. 

Mary  gazed  at  him  a  moment  tearfully, 
and  rose  with  the  dish  in  her  hand,  saying 
with  a  smile,  "  I'd  look  pretty,  wouldn't  I !  " 
ishe  set  it  aside  and  came  and  kissed  his  fore 
jhead.    By  and  by  she  asked  : 

"  And  so  you  saw  no  work,  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  replied  in  a  tone  almost  free 
jfrom  dejection,  "  I  saw  any  amount  of  work 

—  preparations  for  a  big  season.    I  think  I 
certainly  shall  pick  up  something  to-morrow 

—  enough,  anyhow,  to  buy  something  to  eat 
with.    If  we  only  can  hold  out  a  little  longer 
—just  a  little — I  am  sure  there'll  be  plenty 
to  do  —  for  everybody."   Then  he  began  to 
jshow  distress  again.   "  I  could  have  got  work 
jto-day  if  I  had  been  a  carpenter,  or  if  I'd 
jbeen    a  joiner,  or  a  slater,  or  a  bricklayer, 
!or  a  plasterer,  or  a  painter,  or  a  hod-carrier. 
'Didn't  I  try  that  and  was  refused  ?  " 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  Mary. 

" '  Show  me  your  hands,'  said  the  man  to 
'me.  I  showed  them.  'You  wont  do,'  said 
Ihe." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it !  "  said  Mary,  again. 

"  No,"  continued  Richling ;  "  or  if  I'd  been 
ja  glazier,  or  a  whitewasher,  or  a  wood-sawyer, 


or 


- "  he  began  to  smile  in  a  hard,  un- 
pleasant way, — "  or  if  I'd  been  anything  but 
an  American  gentleman.  But  I  wasn't,  and  I 
didn't  get  the  work  !  " 

Mary  sank  into  his  lap,  with  her  very  best 
smile. 

"John,  if  you  hadn't  been  an  American 
gentleman " 

"  We  should  never  have  met,"  said  John. 

"  That's  true ;  that's  true."  They  looked  at 
each  other,  rejoicing  in  mutual  ownership. 

"  But,"  said  John,  "  I  needn't  have  been 
the  typical  American  gentleman — completely 
outfitted  for  prosperity  and  totally  unequipped 
for  adversity." 

"  That's  not  your  fault,"  said  Mary. 

"  No,  not  entirely ;  but  it's  your  calamity, 
Mary.  Oh,  Mary  !  I  little  thought " 

She  put  her  hand  quickly  upon  his  mouth. 
His  eye  flashed  and  he  frowned. 

"  Don't  do  so  !  "  he  exclaimed,  putting  the 
hand  away;  then  blushed  for  shame,  and 
kissed  away  her  tear. 

They  went  to  bed.  Bread  would  have  put 
them  to  sleep.  But  after  a  long  time — 

"John,"  said  one  voice  in  the  darkness,  "do 
you  remember  what  Dr.  Sevier  told  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  said  we  had  no  right  to  commit 
suicide  by  starvation." 

"  If  you  don't  get  work  to-morrow,  are  you 
going  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  am." 

In  the  morning  they  rose  early. 

During  these  hard  days  Mary  was  now 
and  then  conscious  of  one  feeling  which  she 
never  expressed,  and  was  always  a  little  more 
ashamed  of  than  probably  she  need  have 
been,  but  which,  stifle  it  as  she  would,  would 
recur  in  moments  of  stress.  Mrs.  Riley — 
such  was  the  thought — need  not  be  quite  so 
blind.  It  came  to  her  as  John  once  more 
took  his  good-bye,  the  long  kiss  and  the 
short  one,  and  went  breakfastless  away.  But 
was  Mrs.  Riley  as  blind  as  she  seemed?  She 
had  vision  enough  to  observe  that  the  Rich- 
lings  had  bought  no  bread  the  day  before, 
though  she  did  overlook  the  fact  that  empti- 
ness would  set  them  astir  before  their  usual 
hour  of  rising.  She  knocked  at  Mary's  inner 
door.  As  it  opened  a  quick  glance  showed 
the  little  table  that  occupied  the  center  of 
the  room  standing  clean  and  idle. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Riley  ! "  cried  Mary;  for  on 
one  of  Mrs.  Riley's  large  hands  there  rested 
a  blue-edged  soup-plate,  heaping  full  of  the 
food  that  goes  nearest  to  the  Creole  heart — 
jambolaya.  There  it  was,  steaming  and  smell- 
ing.—  a  delicious  confusion  of  rice  and  red 
pepper,  chicken  legs,  ham,  and  tomatoes. 
Mike,  on  her  opposite  arm,  was  struggling  to 
lave  his  socks  in  it. 


764 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"Ah !"  said  Mrs.  Riley,  with  a  disappointed 
lift  of  the  head,  "  ye're  after  eating  breakfast 
already  !  And  the  plates  all  tleared  off.  Well, 
ye  air  smairt !  I  knowed  Mr.  Richlin's  taste 
for  jumbalie " 

Mary  smote  her  hands  together.  "  And 
he's  just  this  instant  gone !  John !  John  ! 

Why,  he's  hardly "  She  vanished  through 

the  door,  glided  down  the  alley,  leaned  out 
the  gate,  looking  this  way  and  that,  tripped 
down  to  this  corner  and  looked  — "  Oh !  oh  !  " 

—  no  John  there  —  back  and  up  to  the  other 
corner  — "  Oh  !  which  way  did  John  go  ?  " 
There  was  none  to  answer. 

Hours  passed ;  the  shadows  shortened  and 
shrunk  under  their  objects,  crawled  around 
stealthily  behind  them  as  the  sun  swung 
through  the  south,  and  presently  began  to 
steal  away  eastward,  long  and  slender.  This 
was  the  day  that  Dr.  Sevier  dined  out,  as 
hereinbefore  set  forth. 

The  sun  set.  Carondelet  street  was  de- 
serted. You  could  hear  your  own  footstep  on 
its  flags.  In  St.  Charles  street,  the  drinking- 
saloons  and  gamblers'  drawing-rooms,  and  the 
barber  shops,  and  the  show-cases  full  of  shirt- 
bosoms  and  walking-canes,  Were  lighted  up. 
The  smell  of  lemons  and  mint  grew  finer  than 
ever.  Wide  Canal  street,  out  under  the  dark- 
ling crimson  sky,  was  resplendent  with  count- 
less many-colored  lamps.  From  the  river  the 
air  came  softly,  cool  and  sweet.  The  tele- 
scope man  set  up  his  skyward-pointing 
cylinder  hard  by  the  dark  statue  of  Henry 
Clay,  the  confectioneries  were  ablaze  and  full 
of  beautiful  life,  and  every  little  while  a  great, 
empty  cotton-float  or  two  went  thundering 
homeward  over  the  stony  pavements  until  the 
earth  shook,  and  speech  for  the  moment  was 
drowned.  The  St.  Charles,  such  a  glittering 
mass  in  winter  nights,  stood  out  high  and 
dark  under  the  summer  stars,  with  no  glow 
except  just  in  its  midst,  in  the  rotunda  :  and 
even  the  rotunda  was  well-nigh  deserted. 
The  clerk  at  his  counter  saw  a  young  man 
enter  the  great  door  opposite,  and  quietly 
marked  him  as  he  drew  near. 

Let  us  not  draw  the  stranger's  portrait. 
If  that  were  a  pleasant  task,  the  clerk  would 
not  have  watched  him.  What  caught  and 
kept  that  functionary's  eye  was  that,  whatever 
else  might  be  revealed  by  the  stranger's 
aspect, —  weariness,  sickness,  hardship,  pain, 

—  the  confession  was  written  all  over  him, 
on  his  face,  on  his  garb,  from  his  hat's  crown 
to  his  shoe's  sole,  Penniless,  Penniless.    Only 
when  he  had  come  quite  up  to  the  counter 
the  clerk  did  not  see  him  at  all. 

"  Is  Dr.  Sevier  in  ?  " 

"  Gone  out  to  dine,"  said  the  clerk,  looking 
over  the  inquirer's  head  as  if  occupied  with 


all  the  world's  affairs  except   the  subject  in 
hand. 

"  Do  you  know  when  he  will  be  back  ?  " 

"  Ten  o'clock." 

The  visitor  repeated  the  hour  murmur- 
ously  and  looked  something  dismayed.  He 
tarried. 

"  Hem ! 1  will  leave  my  card,  if  you 

please." 

The  clerk  shoved  a  little  box  of  cards  to- 
ward him,  from  which  a  pencil  dangled  by  a 
string.  The  penniless  wrote  his  name  and 
handed  it  in.  Then  he  moved  away,  went 
down  the  tortuous  granite  stair,  and  waited 
in  the  obscurity  of  the  dimly  lighted  porch 
below.  The  card  was  to  meet  the  contin- 
gency of  the  Doctor's  coming  in  by  some  other 
entrance.  He  would  watch  for  him  here. 

By  and  by  —  he  was  very  weary  —  he  sat 
down  on  the  stairs.  But  a  porter  with  a 
huge  trunk  on  his  back  told  him  very  dis- 
tinctly that  he  was  in  the  way  there,  and  he 
rose  and  stood  aside.  Soon  he  looked  for 
another  resting-place.  He  must  get  off  of 
his  feet  somewhere,  if  only  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. He  moved  back  into  the  deep  gloom 
of  the  stair- way  shadow  and  sank  down  upon 
the  pavement.  In  a  moment  he  was  fast 
asleep. 

He  dreamed  that  he,  too,  was  dining  out. 
Laughter  and  merry-making  were  on  every 
side.  The  dishes  of  steaming  viands  were 
grotesque  in  bulk.  There  were  mountains  of 
fruit  and  torrents  of  wine.  Strange  people  of 
no  identity  spoke  in  senseless  vaporings  that 
passed  for  side-splitting  wit,  and  friends 
whom  he  had  not  seen  since  childhood  ap- 
peared in  ludicrously  altered  forms  and  an- 
nounced impossible  events.  Every  one  ate 
like  a  Cossack.  One  of  the  party,  champing 
like  a  boar,  pushed  him  angrily,  and  when 
he,  eating  like  the  rest,  would  have  turned 
fiercely  on  the  aggressor,  he  awoke. 

A  man  standing  over  him  struck  him 
smartly  with  his  foot. 

"  Get  up  out  o'  this ;  get  up,  get  up." 

The  sleeper  bounded  to  his  feet.  The  man 
who  had  waked  him  grasped  him  by  the  lapel 
of  his  coat. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  the 
awakened  man,  throwing  the  other  off  vio- 
lently. 

"  I'll  show  you !  "  replied  the  other,  return- 
ing with  a  rush ;  but  he  was  thrown  off  again, 
this  time  with  a  blow  of  the  fist. 

"  You    scoundrel ! "    cried    the    pennilc 
man,  in  a  rage ;  "  if  you  touch  me  again 
kill  you!" 

They  leaped  together.     The  one  who 
proposed  to  show  what  he  meant  was  km 
flat  upon  the  stones.     The  crowd  that 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


765 


run  into  the  porch  made  room  for  him  to  across  Poydras  street  into  the  dim  openness 

fall.     A  leather  helmet  rolled  from  his  head,  beyond,  where  glimmer  the  lamps  of  Lafay- 

and  the  silver  crescent  of  the  police  flashed  ette  Square  and  the  white  marble  of  the  mu- 

on   his   breast.     The   police  were   not   uni-  nicipal  hall,  and  just  on  the  farther  side  of 

formed  in  those  days.  this,  with  a  sudden  wheel  to  the  right  into 

But  he  is  up  in  an  instant  and  his  adversary  Hevia  street,  a  few  strides  there,  a  turn  to 

is  down  —  backward,  on  his  elbows.    Then  the  left,  stumbling  across  a  stone  step  and 

the  penniless  man  is  up  again;  they  close  and  wooden  sill  into  a  narrow,  lighted  hall,  and 

struggle,  the  night-watchman's  club  falls  across  turning  and  entering  an  apartment  here  again 

his  enemy's  head  blow  upon  blow,  while  the  at  the  right.     The  door  is  shut ;  the  name 

sufferer   grasps   him  desperately,  with   both  is  written  down;   the  charge  is  made:   Va- 

hands,  by  the  throat.    They  tug,  they  snuffle,  grancy,  assaulting  an  officer,  resisting  arrest, 

they  reel  to  and  fro  in  the  yielding  crowd;  An  inner  door  is  opened, 

the  blows  grow  fainter,  fainter;    the  grip  is  "What  have  you  got  in  number  nine?" 

terrible ;    when   suddenly  there   is  a  violent  asks  the  captain  in  charge, 

rupture  of  the  crowd,  it  closes  again,  and  then  "  Chuck-full,"  replies  the  turnkey, 

there  are  two  against  one,  and  up  sparkling  "  Well,  number  seven  ?  "     These  were  the 

j  St.   Charles    street,  the   street  of  all  streets  numbers  of  cells. 

for  flagrant,  unmolested,  well-dressed  crime,  "  The  rats  '11  eat  him  up  in  number  seven." 

moves  a  sight  so  exhilarating  that  a  score  "  How  about  number  ten  ?  " 

of  street  lads   follow  behind  and   a   dozen  "  Two  drunk-and-disorderlies,  one  petty  lar- 

trip  along  in  front  with  frequent  backward  ceny,  and  one  embezzlement  and  breach  of 

glances;  two  officers  of  justice  walking  in  grim  trust." 

silence  abreast,  and  between   them  a  limp,  "  Put  him  in  there." 

torn,  hatless,  bloody  figure,  partly   walking,  ....... 

partly  lifted,  partly   dragged,  past   the   the-  And  this  explains  what  the  watchman  in 

aters,  past  the  lawyers' rookeries  of  Commer-  Marais   street   could   not  understand — why 

cial  Place,  the  ten-pin  alleys,  the  chop-houses,  Mary   Richling's    window   shone   all    night 

I  the  bunko  shows  and  shooting  galleries,  on  long. 

(To  be  continued.) 


MRS.  FINLAY'S   ELIZABETHAN    CHAIR. 


"  WHAT  do  they  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Finlay. 
*  A  sunbeam,  reflected  from  the  burnished  sil- 
;ver  of  the  urn,  flicked  athwart  his  face,  to 
i  emphasize  his  smile.    Mr.  Finlay  smiled  often, 
for  he  was  not  only  a  good-tempered  man, 
but  a   man  keenly  susceptible  to  humorous 
;  impressions.    He  was  a  type  of  domestic  hap- 
jpiness   this  morning,  seated   in   that  family 
!  temple,  the  dining-room,  his  two  handsome 
|  boys  on   his   knees  and  the  breakfast-table 
I  before  him.    It  was  a  table   glittering  with 
i  silver    and    cut-glass,  and   it  wore   that  air 
!  of  elegant   antiquity  which  pertained  to  all 
Mrs.  Finlay's  house-furnishing,  being  further 
adorned  with  the  shell-like  blue  china  brought 
from  over  the  seas   by  Mrs.  Finlay's  great- 
i  uncle,  old  Captain  Crowninshield.  The  room 
was  ample  and  lofty,  fitted  up  in  oak.  which 
had  gleams  of  red  and  gold  in  the  sunken 
carvings,  to  match  the  red  and  gold  stamped 
'leather  on  the  walls.    There  were  no  plaques, 
no  pictures,  unless   that  were  a  picture  re- 
vealed by  the  wide  glass  doors, —  a  glimpse  of 
tropical  foliage   and   falling  water   and   the 
: white  Diana  lifting  her  lovely  arms  above  the 


green.  Only  a  glimpse  it  was ;  but  it  supplied 
an  effect  of  repose  and  mystery  that  the 
sunshiny  room  must  have  lacked  else,  and 
added  a  light  touch  to  the  half  foreign  pict.ur- 
esqueness  everywhere,  the  rows  of  Venetian 
glass  on  the  sideboard,  the  Persian  rug  on 
the  floor,  the  fire-place,  with  its  quaint 
Flemish  tiles,  the  dim  and  heavy  folds  of 
old  Italian  tapestry  draping  the  windows. 
Framed  by  these  folds  were  two  more  pict- 
ures :  on  one  side,  an  undulating  sweep  of 
hills  in  the  fresh  beauty  of  June,  brightly 
painted  wooden  houses  showing  through  the 
trees ;  on  the  other,  a  long  street,  ending  in  a 
huddle  of  factory  chimneys  and  the  Missis- 
sippi quivering  and  glittering  below.  Mrs. 
Finlay  was  gazing  absently  at  the  river.  Her 
smooth,  low  brow  was  darkened  by  a  rare 
cloud. 

"  Want  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Oh,  everything ; 
a  museum  in  a  country  town  is  such  an  elas- 
tic affair.  Mrs.  Cody  says  they  don't  want  to 
confine  it  to  pictures.  They  were  all  here, 
the  entire  committee,  Mrs.  Cody,  Mrs.  Hub- 
bard,  and  Miss  Durham." 


;66 


MJZS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


11  Violet  ?"  said  Mr.  Finlay,  looking  inter- 
ested. "  I  wish  I  had  seen  her ;  it  is  an  age 
since  I  have  seen  Violet." 

"  She  was  looking  extremely  pretty,"  said 
Mrs.  Finlay,  who  had  been  told  long  ago 
that  her  husband  had  once  wanted  to  marry 
Violet  Durham.  "  She  picked  out  most  of  my 
Meissen  plates ;  she  knew  the  King's  Period 
at  a  glance.  And  they  want  my  old  Flemish 
lace  and  most  of  the  pictures,  and  the  old 
sword  and  the  screens,  and — oh,  yes,  they 
want  the  chair !  " 

"  Well,  you  will  let  them  have  the  things, 
wont  you  ?  " 

"  Everything  but  the  chair.  There  is  a 
limit,  Tom." 

"Why  not  the  chair?  They  wont  hurt  it; 
and  here's  a  chance  for  you  to  educate  the 
Wrenham  taste." 

Mrs.  Finlay  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders, 
and  said  that  she  had  no  such  ambition. 

"  Milly,"  said  Tom  Finlay,  looking  at  his 
wife  over  his  son's  curly  head,  "  don't  you 
think  you  are  just  the  least  bit  hard  on 
Wrenham  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  answered  coldly, 
"  it  is  they  who  are  hard  on  me.  They  quite 
disapprove  of  me,  Tom.  I  have  wine  at  din- 
ner, with  my  two  boys  growing  up ;  I  have 
a  butler  and  a  coachman;  hence  I  am  a  snob 
and  ape  the  English.  Don't  you  remember, 
Tom,  how  the  boys  used  to  shout  after  poor 
John  Rogers,  whenever  he  drove  out,  '  Hi, 
where's  the  circus  ?  '  I  shall  be  contented  if 
the  museum  cultivates  the  Wrenham  taste  up 
to  the  point  of  tolerating  my  liveries." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  the  liveries  that  makes 
the  trouble,  Milly,"  said  Mr.  Finlay,  gravely ; 
"  it's  a  notion  they  have  here  that  you  look 
down  on  them  as  uncouth  and  provincial. 
Perhaps  we  are,  but  we  don't  like  to  be  de- 
spised for  it,  all  the  same.  I'm  not  complain- 
ing, you  know.  I  realize  that  it  is  a  bore  for 
you  to  have  to  live  in  Wrenham ;  but  it  would 
really  be  so  much  less  of  a  bore  if  you  could 
like  the  people,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  in 
them  to  like  when  you  get  at  them." 

"  Probably  I  have  never  got  at  them,"  said 
Mrs.  'Finlay. 

Then  she  was  silent.  The  Finlays  were 
rich  enough  to  have  made  a  figure  in  New 
York  or  Boston,  and  it  was  the  skeleton  in 
Emily  Finlay's  closet  that  she  must  live  in 
Wrenham,  a  stupid,  censorious,  provincial 
town,  where  one  couldn't  even  get  ice-cream 
in  bricks. 

Too  well  bred  to  exhibit  the  skeleton,  pos- 
sibly she  did  not  lock  it  up  securely,  since  the 
Wrenham  people  knew  quite  well  that  she 
never  staid  a  day  longer  there  than  she  could 
help.  On  their  side,  they  repaid  this  passive 


and  unexpressed  dislike  with  indignant  criti- 
cism. They  mimicked  her  accent,  ridiculed 
her  hospitality,  mocked  at  her  housekeeping,  j 

It  was  a  pity,  too,  for  Mrs.  Finlay  was  a 
charming  woman.     She  had  vivacity  as  well   i 
as  repose,  and  such  exquisite  taste  in  dress   i 
that  she  passed  for  a  beauty ;  although,  to  be   • 
frank,  she  was  simply  a  graceful  creature  with 
a  Greek  forehead,  most  beautiful  brown  eyes,   '; 
and  a  delicate  mouth  a  trifle  too  large  for  her 
face. 

But  grace  and  charm — both  were  wasted  ; 
on  Wrenham.     Indeed,  that  the  criticism  was 
not  more  bluntly  expressed  she  owed  to  her 
husband.     Tom  Finlay — so  every  one  called 
him — was  the  most  popular  man  in  all  the 
country  round  about;   he  was  liked  by  the  , 
towns-people  and  the  farmers,  by  the  workmen 
in  his  coal  mines  and  the  clerks  in  his  rail- 
road office ;  by  women  and  children,  for  that 
matter ;  by  the  very  dogs  on  the  street  and 
the  horses  in  his  stable.     Nor  was  such  uni- 
versal affection  strange.     Tom  Finlay  was  a  ,' 
man  at  once  upright  and  genial,  and  he  had 
a  singularly  gentle  and  modest  manner.     He 
was  the  descendant   of  an   ancient    Scotch 
family,  whose    three   centuries    in   America 
had   obliterated    their   national    characteris-  ! 
tics.     The   three   centuries   had   been  spent  j. 
in  Philadelphia ;  but  Tom's  father  had  gone  I 
to  Illinois  for  his  health,  and  there  in  Wren- 
ham  Tom  was  born.    Inheriting  a  fortune,  he  \ 
had  been  rather  elaborately  educated;   but  ( 
Harvard   and   Heidelberg    could   not   quite  i 
brush  away  the  flavor  of  the  prairies ;  to  the  ; 
end  he  was  a  Westerner;  he  had  a  dash  of  » 
the   Western   unconventionality    and  all  the 
Western  energy ;  and  there  was  in  him  a  pe- 
culiarly Western  blending  of  sympathy  and  ' 
shrewdness.     Nothing  human  was  foreign  to 
him,  yet  he  rarely   threw   away    either  his  • 
money  or  his  emotions.     His  attachment  to 
the  soil  certainly  was  not  Western ;  it  must 
have  come  to  him  from  his  Scotch  ancestors. 
The  original  family  of  Finlays  had  it  also. 
They  abode  in  Philadelphia  still,  cherishing 
the  family  traditions  and  the  old  portraits  by  ' 
Peale  and  Copley.  They  mourned  over  Tom,  ' 
"  who  was  not  like  the  Finlays."     His  choice 
of  a  wife,  they  felt,  was  a  direct  interposition 
of    Providence.     "A    Massachusetts    Endi- 
cott !  "  they  said  under  their  breath,  and  they 
welcomed  Emily  with  open  arms.     She  justi- 
fied their  confidence,  taking  the  liveliest  in- 
terest in  Tom's  ancestors  and  reverently  ad- 
miring  the   family  relics.     As  for   Tom,  he 
laughed   openly  at   the   illustrious  house  of 
Finlay.     The  glories  of  a  race,  tracing  the 
roots  of  its  ancestral  tree  down  to  the  stone 
coffins  of  the  early  Scottish  kings,  were  only 
a  joke   to   this  irreverent  descendant. 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


767 


was  his  horrid  Western  humor,"  his  wife  sup- 
posed. She  dreaded  Tom's  humor,  which 
found  its  food  everywhere,  quiet  as  it  was. 
Though  he  was  the  most  generous  and  tol- 
erant of  husbands,  she  sometimes  had  the 


Mrs.  Finlay  considered. 

Now,  the  chair  was  the  delight  of  her  eyes 
— the  darling  of  her  pride;  a  genuine  Eliza- 
bethan chair  of  age-blackened  oak,  given  her 
by  the  chief  of  the  Finlay  clan,  who  still 


lands.     Originally  it  was  an  English  chair, 
coming  north  as  part  of  the  bridal  portion 


strangest,  chilliest  sensation  of  serving  as  the    maintained  a  faded  magnificence  in  the  High- 
butt  of  his  silent  and  secret  wit.     He  never    ' 
ridiculed  her;  he  was  only  amused  by  her, 

which  was  worse.  Her  fears  did  her  husband    of  the  English  wife  of  one  of  the  Finlays ; 

and  tradition  declared  that  the  hapless  Queen 
of  Scots,  while  visiting  her  loyal  follower,  the 
then  Sir  Fergus,  had  made  the  chair  her 
throne.  The  Finlay  arms  were  carved  on  the 


injustice,  but  they  were  so  undemonstrative 
that  he  never  had  a  chance  to  dispel  them. 
All  the  same  they  did  their  work  well.  They 
cut  off  the  natural  simple  confidences  between 


husband  and  wife.  They  made  Emily  shy  back  and  the  date, — a  sight  to  awe  caviling 
of  any  vivid  expression  of  feeling.  They  re-  skeptics.  Very  dear  to  Mrs.  Finlay  was  the 
pressed  the  very  evidences  of  her  affection  for  chair ;  dearer  than  her  pictures  or  her  rare 


Tom,  while  they  made  it  out  of  the  question 
for  her  to  confess  those  vague  and  passing 
doubts  which  trouble  the  serenest  love  when 
the  lover  is  a  woman.  Besides,  she  was  a 
New  England  woman,  trained  to  exaggerate 
her  conscience  and  underrate  her  emotions. 
|  Therefore,  she  tried  on  honest,  unworldly 
Tom  tactics  which  had  been  better  suited  to 


old  engravings  or  her  fragile  treasures  from 
Venice,  or  even  the  wonderful  vase  which 
was  possibly  "  Henri  Deux  " ;  dearer  by  far 
than  her  own  family  heir-looms  of  sword  and 
clock  and  china.  There  was  another  sword, 
a  Scottish  claymore,  as  well  as  a  battered 
buckler,  further  gifts  of  Sir  Fergus;  but  a 
haze  hung  over  their  history,  and  Mrs.  Finlay, 


a  worn-out  man  of  pleasure.    She  gave  him  a    alluding  to  them,  simply  gave  them  the  gen- 
|beautiful  and  harmonious  home;  she  won  ad-    eral   title  of  honor,  "  in   the  family."      ^f 


eral   title  of  honor,  "in   the  family."      Of 

miration  everywhere  —  except  in   Wrenham;    course,  there  could  be.no  comparison  of  such 
she  never  let  him  see  her  out   of  temper; 
in  short,  she  made  him  delightfully  comfort- 


able.   When  they  were  away  from  Wrenham, 


as  these  with  the  chair.  This  was  why  Mrs. 
Finlay  considered.  The  children  thought  it 
time  to  join  in  the  conversation.  Fergus,  the 


— and  they  were  away  from  Wrenham  a  great    elder,  who  was  nine,  wanted  to  know  what 

kind  of  a  show  an  art  museum  was;  "  did  it 
have  an  elephant  ?  " 

"  They  only  have  pictures  and  things,"  said 


deal, — Tom  was  told  on  all  sides  how  fortu- 
nate he  was  in  his  wife*  He  agreed  heartily; 
yet,  in  truth,  he  was  not  more  satisfied  with 
his  married  happiness  than  was  she.  He 
would  have  liked  Emily  to  be  more  expan- 
,sive ;  he  longed  for  those  trivial  confidences 
which  she  withheld  as  bores ;  and,  on  many 
accounts,  it  would  have  gratified  him  to  have 
'had  his  wife  fond  of  his  native  town.  But, 


his  mother ;  "  you  may  go,  if  we  are  here." 


"  I'd  rather  go  to  Barnum's,"  said  Fergus, 
thoughtfully.  "  Say,  mamma,  let's  stay  and 
go  to  Barnum's ;  you  take  me.  Lots  of  boys' 
mammas  take  them  to  the  circus  !  " 

_ 7        "  Francis  will  take  you,  brother,  and  you 

jbeing  so  tolerant,  he  reasoned  that  he  could    may  ask  that  boy  you  like  so  much — Jimmy 
not    expect    everything   from    one   woman.    Hubbard,  isn't  it  ? " 


"  Milly  is  the  most  charming  and  sweetest- 
itempered  woman  in  the  world,  and  the  best 
jmother,"  thought  Tom,  stroking  a  rather  mel- 
(ancholy  smile  with  his  big  hand;  "and  I'm 
[much  too  ugly  and  tame  for  a  beautiful  wo- 
man to  fall  desperately  in  love  with  me.  Very 
likely  I'm  a  trifle  provincial  in  the  bargain. 
Wrenham  and  I  suit  each  other.  It  isn't  odd 
we  don't  just  suit  her."  Therefore,  he  said 
nothing  of  his  feelings.  To-day,  for  the  first 
time  in  years,  he  had  spoken.  Now,  he  was 
'blaming  himself  for  his  speech.  What  was 


"  I'm  'fraid  he  wouldn't  want  to  go  with 
me,  he's  so  big,"  Fergus  replied,  despond- 
ently. Jimmy  Hubbard  was  his  boy  hero, 
but  he  was  fifteen,  and  Fergus  worshiped 
him  from  afar.  '"  Maybe,  though,"  he  con- 
tinued, brightening,  "he  might  if  I  had  on 
long  pants ;  I  wouldn't  look  so  little  then ; 
and,  mamma,  honest,  there  aint  another 
boy  in  Wrenham,  big  as  me,  wears  short 
pants ! " 

"  Do  say  trowsers,  Fergus.  Anyhow,  we 
shan't  be  in  Wrenham  much  more  than  a 


the  use  ?  He  had  merely  bothered  Milly.  Mrs.    week.   You  shall  see  Jumbo,  East ; 


Finlay,  on  her  part,  was  disgusted  with  herself 
(because  she  had  shown  a  tinge  of  irritability. 
"You  see,  Tom,"  she  said  after  a  pause, 
r  that  chair  is  my  pet  weakness." 
i  "  Well,  I  wouldn't  send  it  then,"  answered 
Tom,  easily. 


Oh,  mamma ! "  said  Fergus,  reproach- 
fully ;  and,  "  Oh,  mamma !  "  echoed  little 
four-year-old  Tom. 

"  My  very  children  desert  me  and  like  the 
place,"  thought  Mrs.  Finlay. 

"  Better  stay  till  this  fandango  is  over,  don't 


768 


MRS.  FINLAY' S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


you  think,  Milly  ?  "  said  Tom ;  "  it  looks  more 
neighborly." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  said  Emily,  with  a 
smile  which,  under  the  circumstances,  was 
heroic.  She  turned  the  talk  lightly  to  some- 
thing else ;  but  when  Tom  and  the  children 
were  gone,  and  she  was  alone  in  the  pretty 
dining-room,  she  sighed. 

Tom  Finlay  came  home  to  luncheon  that 
day,  and  ran  in  upon  the  "  soliciting  com- 
mittee "  of  the  Wrenham  Art  Museum.  They 
were  standing  in  the  hall,  around  the  chair, 
all  three,  Mrs.  Hubbard,  Mrs.  Cody,  and 
Violet  Durham.  Mrs.  Hubbard  was  the 
president  of  the  library,  for  the  benefit  of 
which  the  museum  was  to  be.  She  was  a 
tall  woman,  with  winning  manners,  and  a 
handsome,  care-worn  face.  Her  husband  was 
a  district  judge.  His  salary  was  small,  and 
they  had  six  children;  but  Mrs.  Hubbard 
was  always  pressed  to  serve  on  church  com- 
mittees and  to  aid  charitable  undertakings, 
because  she  had  so  much  tact  and  was  "  such 
a  worker."  Mrs.  Cody,  the  second  member, 
had  a  more  brilliant  worldly  lot,  being  the  wife 
of  a  rich  grocer.  She  was  large,  florid,  and 
sprightly,  and  her  gleaming  black  satin  gown 
rattled  and  sparkled  with  jet  pendants.  Violet 
Durham,  the  remaining  member,  leaned  over 
the  high  chair-back,  her  pretty  face  upraised. 
The  wind  had  roughened  her  smooth,  black 
braids ;  one  loosened  lock  curled  against  her 
white  neck ;  under  the  shadow  of  her  hat 
her  great,  dark  eyes  were  shining.  She  wore 
a  simple  cambric  gown,  which  had  brown 
figures  on  a  yellowish  background,  and  there 
were  bows  of  brown  ribbon  about  it,  with 
long  ends  to  flutter  when  she  moved;  and 
a  careless  bunch  of  Jacqueminot  roses  was 
stuck  in  her  belt.  In  the  light  poise  of  her 
figure,  in  the  expression  of  her  face,  even  in 
the  arrangement  of  her  daintily  fresh  dress, 
there  was  an  air  of  cheerful  animation ;  she 
made  one  think  of  prairie  flowers  when  the 
breeze  shakes  the  dew  from  them.  Tom  Fin- 
lay  gave  her  a  glance  of  admiration  and  a 
half  wistful  smile.  He  had  known  Violet  all 
his  life.  Her  only  brother,  who  died  at  col- 
lege, had  been  his  most  intimate  friend;  Mrs. 
Durham  used  to  call  Tom  "  her  other  boy  "  ; 
he  was  always  at  their  house.  Naturally,  he 
fell  in  love  with  Violet.  It  was  a  boyish 
passion,  never  avowed  and  soon  cured ;  and 
he  married  Emily  Finlay  with  no  disturbing 
memories.  He  did  more;  he  gave  substantial 
aid  to  the  young  lawyer  whom  Violet  had 
preferred  to  him.  She  was  on  the  eve  of 
marrying  this  man  when  both  her  father  and 
he  were  killed  in  a  dreadful  railway  accident. 
Colonel  Durham  left  a  large  property  in  such 
a  state  of  confusion  that  it  was  feared  there 


would   be   nothing   left   for  Violet   and   her 
mother.    Then  Tom   Finlay  came  forward; 
his  advice  and  energy,  and  the  loan  he  in-  ' 
sisted  upon  making  them,  rescued  a  modest  , 
independence  from  the  tangle.   Mrs.  Durham  ' 
and  Violet  went  abroad,  and  were  gone  five 
years.    Tom  wanted  his  wife'  to  take  these 
good  friends  of  his  to  her  heart ;  therefore, 
praising   himself  for   Machiavelian  wile,  he 
was  very  reticent  about  them,  and  said  not  a 
word  of  his  little  romance.  So  the  story  came 
to  Mrs.  Finlay  in  bits,  to  be  pieced  together 
by  her  fancy.   She  did  not  take  the  Durhams 
to  her  heart.   She  was  perfectly  courteous; 
she  asked  them  to  the  house  whenever  Tom 
suggested;  but  the  pleasant,  informal  inter- 
course that  he  had  planned  never  came.    He 
did  not   complain ;  indeed,  what   cause  for 
complaint  had  he  ?    Mrs.  Finlay  did  all  he  ' 
asked ;  but  there  was  a  sore  spot  in  his  re- 
gret.  To-day,  as  he  greeted  Violet,  he  was 
thinking  how  seldom  he  saw  the  Durhams  in 
his  home,  and  how  welcome  he  had  always  , 
been   made   to   theirs.     A   hundred    trivial, 
touching  recollections  of  his  childhood  helped 
to  bring  that  wistful  curve  to  his  lips.    In- 
stantly it  was  gone,  and  he  was  greeting  the  ^ 
ladies  with   most   commonplace   politeness ; 
but  his  wife  had  seen  it  before  it  went. 

The   moment   the   salutations   were   over, 
Mrs.    Cody,  who  had   been   speaking,  con- ' 
tinued : 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  know  your  feeling,  Mrs. 
Finlay.  When  they  asked  me  for  my  Jack- 
son chair, —  it  was  given  to  Mr.  Cody  by  the 
General  himself,  you  know,  and  he  said  it 
was  a  hundred  years  old, — well,  when  they 
asked  for  that,  it  didn't  seem  as  though  I 
could  let  it  go.  But  we're  so  interested  in  the 
library,  and  of  course  it's  different  with  you ; ' 
you  can't  be  expected,  as  I  told  the  ladies, 
to  feel  an  interest.  It  aint  as  though  you  be- 
longed to  the  town." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  of  us  as  not 
belonging  to  Wrenham,"  said  Tom ;  "  I'm  a 
regular  Wrenham  boy." 

Mrs.  Cody  waved  her  plump  hand.  "  Oh, 
you,  of  course,  Mr.  Finlay ;  but  gentlemen 
are  different;  you  have  your  business  here. 
But  we  see  so  little  of  Mrs.  Finlay,  we  feel 
she  is  quite  a  stranger." 

Mrs.  Cody  had  a  marvelous  faculty  for 
saying  stinging  things.  Charitable  people 
held  that  she  was  simply  heedless ;  the  less 
charitable  said  her  shafts  were  too  well  aimed 
for  shots  in  the  air.  Mrs.  Hubbard  hurried 
into  the  conversation. 

"  Mrs.  Finlay  always  shows  she  is  not  i 
stranger  by  her  kindness,"  she  said;  "sh> 
has  let  us  have  such  a  quantity  of  beautiful 
things." 


MRS.  FINLAY' S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


769 


«  That's  right,"  said  Tom,  cordially ;  "  can't 
you  think  of  something,  else  ?  " 

"  Only  the  chair,"  Mrs.  Cody  replied,  sol- 
emnly. 

Mrs.  Finlay  looked  from  the  speaker  to 
her  husband. 

"  If  you  really  think  the  chair  will  help  the 
museum,  you  are  quite  welcome  to  it,"  she  said. 

The  visitors  broke  into  a  confusion  of  thanks. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Finlay,"  cried 
Violet  Durham.  "  I  will  look  after  the  chair 
myself." 

"  We  will  all  look  after  it,"  said  Mrs.  Cody. 
"  And  now,  Mrs.  Finlay,  you  encourage  us  to 
ask  one  favor  more:  wont  you  come  on  to 
our  general  committee  ?  " 

Again  Emily  glanced  at  her  husband;  there 
was  a  familiar  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  I  fear  I  shan't  be  any  help  to  you,"  she 
answered,  gravely,  "but — yes,  certainly,  if 
you  wish  it." 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  though  the  com- 
imittee  professed  unbounded  gratitude  and 
satisfaction  over  this  last  boon,  they  looked 
Irather  blank ;  Mrs.  Finlay  guessed  that  they 
|had  expected  a  refusal.  She  urged  them  to  stay 
to  luncheon,  a  courtesy  which  had  its  natural 
leffect,  the  hastening  of  their  departure. 

After  they  were  gone,  Tom  Finlay  said: 
|"  You  were  very  good-natured,  Milly." 
|    "  It  was  not  good  nature,  Tom,"  she  an- 
swered; "  it  was — well,  I  am  not  sure  I  know 
what  it  was  myself." 

She  walked  upstairs,  leaving  him  whistling 
softly. 

The  Wrenham  Art  Museum  opened  its 
loors  two  weeks  later.  For  days  the  workers 
aad  toiled  over  a  chaos  of  old  books,  pict- 
ares,  and  bric-a-brac.  The  result  exceeded 
their  hopes.  But  even  in  riches  there  is  em- 
3arrassment.  The  usual  procession  of  petty 
:rials  had  filed  through  the  days.  A  sad 
amount  of  ill-feeling  was  caused  by  a  few 
slips  of  memory,  some  ladies  not  being  asked 
[o  help  at  all,  and  others  being  asked  too  late. 
Careless  remarks  about  the  objects  of  art  had 
vounded  sensitive  souls.  Disputes  had  arisen 
n  the  committees.  There  was  the  quarrel 
•ibout  the  building,  happily  settled  at  last  by 
VIr.  Cody's  generous  offer  of  his  late  grocery 
hop,  free  of  rent.  To  be  sure,  the  vigilant 
;iose  could  still  sniff  odors  of  salt  fish,  kero- 
ene  oil,  and  molasses,  despite  the  labors  of 
he  scrub-women  ;  and  it  never  had  been  con- 
jidered  a  well-lighted  shop.  But  a  gift  horse 
'hould  not  be  looked  in  the  mouth ;  it  was  a 
large,  convenient,  inexpensive  museum  hall, 
:.nd  the  committee  accepted  it  gratefully,  as 
?as  their  duty. 

;  The   selection    of    a  janitor   was   not    so 
VOL.  XXVIL— 74. 


easily  made.  Mrs.  Cody  proposed  a  retain- 
er of  her  own,  an  old  fellow  named  Jud- 
son,  who  picked  up  a  precarious  livelihood, 
mowing  lawns,  running  of  errands,  and  work- 
ing out  poll-taxes,  while  his  wife  made  up 
the  deficiencies  in  the  family  income  by  tak- 
ing in  washing.  Judson  had  lately  joined  a 
temperance  society,  but  a  particularly  un- 
savory past  marred  his  reputation. 

This  was  Miss  Durham's  objection  to  him. 

"He  may  get  drunk  and  burn  us  all  up," 
said  she ;  "  besides,  he  is  a  weak  old  man, 
and  couldn't  fight  a  burglar  !  " 

"  He  belongs  to  the  Sons  of  Temperance," 
Mrs.  Cody  returned  stiffly;  "  he  don't  drink  a 
drop,  and  he  will  have  a  pistol." 

A  mild  little  woman  here  said  that  she 
guessed  he  did  need  the  place ;  his  wife  had 
been  sick  most  of  the  winter. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Mrs.  Cody  warmly, 
"  /  think  that  when  anybody  repents  and  is 
struggling  to  do  better,  they  ought  to  be  en- 
couraged and  not  trampled  on  !  " 

"  That's  so"  another  member  of  the  com- 
mittee agreed.  "  Besides,  we  want  to  have 
Mrs.  Judson  to  clean,  and  it  will  be  much  more 
convenient.  She  can  come  in  the  mornings, 
too,  and  sweep  and  dust.  She  oughtn't  to 
charge  much,  if  we  have  him.  We  can  make 
all  the  cleaning  part  of  his  business;  then 
she'll  come  and  do  it." 

In  vain  Violet  pleaded  the  danger  of  Jud- 
son's  relapsing  into  his  old  habits ;  mercy  and 
thrift  combined  carried  the  day ;  Mrs.  Finlay 
was  the  single  member  voting  with  her. 

Mrs.  Finlay  came  to  most  of  the  meetings. 
She  said  little  and  noticed  much.  Mrs.  Hub- 
bard,  "  for  her  sins,"  Violet  said,  was  the 
chief  ruler  of  the  artistic  council.  Mrs.  Fin- 
lay  used  to  marvel  at  her  unfailing  patience. 
She  thought  her  own  politeness,  well  trained 
as  it  was,  would  have  trembled  beneath  the 
awful  responsibilities  of  china,  the  charges  of 
express  companies,  the  delays  of  printers,  the 
assaults  of  irate  owners  of  pictures  which  were 
not  hung  to  their  taste,  and  of  distracted 
hanging  committees  and  amateur  artists  with 
pictures  of  their  own  to  show,  who  had  the 
"  artistic  temperament "  to  such  a  degree  that 
they  could  scarcely  be  trusted  in  the  same  room 
together.  But  Mrs.  Hubbard  never  winced, 
she  only  looked  rather  more  tired  at  times. 
Her  son  and  Violet  were  her  great  helpers. 
Jimmy  Hubbard  was  young  Fergus  Finlay's 
hero,  a  tall  lad  of  fifteen,  whose  wrists  were 
always  growing  out  of  his  jacket  sleeves. 
He  was  devoted  to  Violet,  and  Violet  was 
devoted  to  Jimmy's  handsome,  overworked 
mother.  They  did  a  little  of  nearly  every- 
thing that  was  to  be  done,  from  scrubbing 
show-cases  to  writing  advertisements. 


770 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


"  Only,"  said  Violet,  "  I  trust  a  confiding 
public  doesn't  believe  the  wild  tales  owners 
of  antiquities  tell  about  their  things.  If  this 
exhibition  lasts  much  longer,  I  shall  lose  my 
soul  — I've  got  into  such  a  way  of  lying!" 
Jimmy's  specialty  was  painting  placards.  He 
made  beautiful  letters,  but  his  spelling  was  not 
beyond  reproach.  He  enjoyed  the  museum 
immensely.  "  Such  fun  !  "  said  Jimmy;  "those 
people  in  the  picture-room  are  just  going  it ! 
Mrs.  Cody  had  somebody's  picture  took  down 
and  hers  hung  in  the  same  place ;  said  her 
picture  needed  that  light  and  t'other  one 
didn't.  And  now  the  other  woman,  she's 
come  back,  and — oh,  aint  they  having  a 
circus,  though !  And  up  in  the  room  where 
they  have  the  Japanese  things,  they've  lost 
all  the  labels;  they  tumbled  off  and  got  mixed 
up,  and  they're  putting  'em  back  by  guess. 
Folks  '11  open  their  eyes  when  they  see  the 
catalogue.  And  down-stairs  in  the  china- 
room,  somebody's  hooked  their  show-case, 
so  the  china's  standing  round  on  the  floor; 
and  they  say  they  can't  do  nothing  till  they 
get  another  show-case,  so  they've  gone  off 
to  dinner,  and  there  aint  nobody  in  the  room 
'cept  a  dog !  " 

"  A  dog!"  cried  Mrs.  Hubbard,  while  Mrs. 
Finlay  turned  pale ;  "I  must  go  this  in- 
stant   " 

"  Oh,  I  coaxed  him  out,"  said  Jimmy ;  "  I 
thought  it  didn't  look  just  healthy  for  the 
china.  Guess  he  hadn't  broke  much;  some 
of  it  was  broke  to  start  with,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Hubbard  hurried  away.  Violet 
laughed. 

"  I  think  I  must  hunt  them  up  a  show- 
case," said  she.  "  Take  our  old  books  out, 
Jimmy,  and  let  us  give  them  that." 

"  But  you  spent  all  the  morning  arranging 
them,"  said  Mrs.  Finlay ;  "  and  you  brought 
the  show-case  yourself.  It  is  quite  too 
bad!" 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  answered  Violet, 
gayly ;  "  it's  all  for  the  public  good."  She  was 
always  cheerful.  "  I  suppose  I  have  no  proper 
pride,"  she  said  once ;  "  nobody  wants  me  to 
be  chairman  of  anything ;  my  valuable  sug- 
gestions have  been  uniformly  rejected  *  and 
still,  Jimmy,  we  are  happy  !  " 

"  I  wish  that  Mrs.  Cody  wasn't  chairman 
of  our  committee,  though,"  said  Jimmy ;  "  she 
never  does  a  thing— just  sails  round  and 
bosses ! " 

"  But  she  has  been  very  liberal.  Think  of 
the  things  she  has  sent  us;  think  of  the  Jack- 
son chair ! " 

"  It  aint  half  as  pretty  as  Mrs.  Finlay's," 
said  Jimmy,  unwitting  that  Mrs.  Finlay  stood 
behind  him ;  "  and  she  makes  ten  times  as 
much  fuss.  No  Cody  in  mine,  thank  you." 


Mrs.  Finlay  smiled  as  she  walked  away, 
feeling  more  friendly  than  she  would  have 
believed  possible  toward  Violet  and  Jimmy. 
She  had  been  as  good  as  her  word  and  sent 
the  chair.  Francis,  the  butler,  attended  to  its 
safe  delivery.  He  remained  while  Violet  re- 
moved the  wrappings. 

"  Mrs.  Finlay  said  as  how  you  would  look 
after  it  yourself,  Miss,"  he  remarked,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  solemnity,  adding,  as  if  from  the 
imperious  promptings  of  his  own  conscience, 
"  She  sets  the  world  by  that  chair,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  it  hurt  for  nothing  whatso- 
ever!" 

"  It  shan't  be  my  fault  if  it  gets  hurt,  Fran- 
cis," Violet  answered. 

On  the   appointed  day  the   museum  was 
opened.   The  Cody  chair  stood  beside  Mrs. 
Finlay's  on  a  kind  of  dais  of  honor,  and  to  - 
many  minds  was  the  nobler  chair  of  the  two. 
Like  the    Finlay  chair,  it  was  of  imposing 
proportions.    Its   substance  was   mahogany, 
and — again   like   the  Finlay  chair — it  had 
arms.  Indeed,  at  first  view  there  was  a  gen-  4 
eral   resemblance  of  form,  if  not  of  color, 
between  the  two  chairs,  although  that  of  Mrs. 
Finlay  was  ornamented  with  florid  carving  as  i 
behooved  an  Elizabethan  chair,  while  the  lines 
of  the  other  were  chastely  plain. 

From  the  first  the  exhibition  was  a  triumph.  ;' 
It  went  victoriously  on  to  its  close.    One  day, 
somewhere  near  the  middle  of  its  career,  Vio-  ; 
let  Durham  walked  through  it  with  her  mother,  i 
The  rooms  were  almost  empty,  for  the  time 
was  early  in  the  morning.    The  two  women 
paused  before  a  screen  of  Mrs.  Finlay's,  a 
marvel  of  embroidery  on  dull  gold  plush. 

"  Hasn't  she  ravishing  taste  ?  "  said  Violet; 
"  all  her  things  are  so  lovely.  Why  did  fate 
direct  Mrs.  Cody  to  hang  that  horror  of  a 
crazy- quilt  directly  over  it  ?    Mrs.  Finlay  will  • 
faint   when   she  sees  it;  it  will  be  the  last 
straw.    I  wish  you  could  see  her  in  the  com- 
mittees, so  disgusted  with  our  vulgarities,  but 
so  invincibly  polite.   She  never  says  a  word, 
but  anything  more  deadly  superior  than  her , 
silence  I  never  did  encounter.    I  never  am  , 
with  her,  anyhow,  that  I  don't   feel   myself 
so  hopelessly  provincial  that  I  almost  don't 
want  to  live." 

"  You  are  unjust,  Violet,"  said  Mrs.  Dur- 
ham, a  placid  gentlewoman,  with  soft  gray 
hair  and  a  grave  sweet  smile;  "  Mrs.  Finlay 
isn't  a  bit  of  a  snob ." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  she  is.  What  I  do 
think  is  that  she  is  rather  narrow-minded. 
She  can't  conceive  of  people  being  nice  who 
aren't  nice  in  just  her  way,  who  haven't  just 
such  manners,  for  instance,  and  just  such 
ways  of  thinking,  and  haven't  been  to  Eui 
just  so  many  times.  Tom  deserves  a  woi 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


771 


|:ut  on  a  larger  pattern.  It  makes  it  hard  for 
lim." 

He  seems  perfectly  satisfied,"  said  Mrs. 
Durham,  smiling.  And  then  they  passed  on. 
Now,  Mrs.  Finlay  was  behind  the  screen. 
[t  was  purely  an  accident.  She  happened  to 
)e  standing  there  looking  at  some  articles  on 
he  wall.  She  did  not  think  of  their  discuss- 
ng  any  personal  matter,  and  after  they  had 
>egun  to  speak  and  she  understood,  she  was 

00  surprised  and  embarrassed  to  go  forward. 
The  conversation  was    a  revelation.    Her 

irst  emotion  was  a  shock.  She  felt  as  though 
;;he  had  been  shown  to  be  brutally  rude. 
True,  she  did  believe  her  ways  of  living  and 
pinking  vastly  better  than  those  of  a  country 
!own;  but  her  sense  of  superiority  was  so 
lleeply  rooted  that  it  was  hardly  visible  to 
'ier  own  consciousness;  to  manifest  it  to  its 
Objects  seemed  to  her  unutterably  indelicate. 
Ser  cheeks  were  burning  as  she  stepped 
brth  from  her  involuntary  hiding-place. 

1  Was  she  narrow-minded,  she  who  prided 
lerself  upon    her   cosmopolitan   toleration  ? 
lad  her  distaste  for  life  in  Wrenham  made 
t  hard  for  Tom  ?    Did  he  think  her  narrow- 
ainded  ?   Such  thoughts  made  her  miserable 
or  days.  "  The  worst  of  it,  too,"  she  said  to 
erself,  "is  that  it  is  no  use  my  trying  to 

|>acify  them.  Whatever  I  do,  they  are  bound 
b  misunderstand  me!"  Nevertheless,  she 
[pent  again  and  still  another  time  to  the  mu- 
ieum.  The  children  went,  and  Tom  and 
fYancis,  and  John  Rogers  (who  was  very 
huch  bored),  and  Elise,  Mrs.  Finlay's  maid, 
|.nd  the  cook,  and  the  other  maids,  and  the 
|;ardener  with  all  his  family.  "  I  will  say  she 
pends  her  money  on  us,"  said  Mrs.  Cody. 

To  the  very  end  the  weather  was  propi- 
ous ;  but  the  day  after,  the  clouds  distilled  a 
entle,  unremitting  drizzle.  Most  of  the  own- 
rs  of  articles  sent  for  them  notwithstanding, 
"rancis  and  John  Rogers  appeared  at  five 
clock,  having  waited  until  then  in  the  vain 
ope  of  sunshine.  They  took  the  pictures  and 
le  china,  but  there  was  not  room  for  the 
hair.  Therefore  they  wrapped  it  in  the  tar- 
jaulin  they  had  brought  and  left  it  in  Violet's 
jharge — Francis  saying,  with  his  air  of  decent 
[loom,  "  Mrs.  Finlay  told  me  to  bring  the 
jictures  first  and  take  the  chair  on  another 
pad.  I'll  be  back  to-night  if  I  can.  K^Q  you 
loing  to  stay  here,  may  I  ask,  Miss  ?  " 

"  I  shall  stay  until  dark,  Francis ;  but  Jud- 
>n  will  be  here  all  night." 
j  Francis  turned   a   gloomy  eye   upon    old 
udson,  who  was   shambling   about,  getting 
frs.  Cody's  property  together. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss ;  but  I'd  rather  come 
ack  if  I  can,"  said  he. 
I  "  Now,  I  wonder,"  said  Violet  to  Jimmy 


Hubbard,  later,  "  I  wonder  what  he  meant 
by  that. " 

Old  Judson  had  gone  upstairs,  the  other 
people  had  gone  home,  and  they  were  alone 
in  the  room. 

"  Ask  me  an  easier  one,"  said  Jimmy. 

_"  He  is  sober  enough  to-night,  isn't  he  ?  " 
Violet  asked,  looking  up  into  Jimmy's  face 
with  that  anxious  reliance  on  the  masculine 
judgment  in  such  matters  which  confirms  a 
boy's  opinion  of  his  sex. 

"  Oh,  straight  as  a  string,"  said  Jimmy, 
re-assuringly ;  "  but  he  was  on  a  toot  Thurs- 
day, if  you  want  to  know.  Say,  Judson, 
come  down  and  light  up." 

Judson  lighted  a  single  burner,  and  listened 
silently  to  Violet's  warnings  and  injunctions, 
scowling  to  himself.  Then  Jimmy  and  she 
went  home.  The  last  thing  they  noticed  in 
the  room  was  a  group  of  the  two  chairs, 
standing  on  their  dais,  island-wise,  amid  a 
sea  of  crumpled  wrapping-paper.  Mrs.  Cody's 
chair  was  undraped,  but  Mrs.  Finlay's,  in  its 
white  tarpaulin,  looked  like  a  clumsy  ghost. 

By  this  time  the  rain  had  ceased  and  the 
stars  were  shining.  They  walked  to  Mrs. 
Durham's  house  very  cheerfully.  Jimmy  was 
prevailed  upon  to  enter  and  be  refreshed 
with  tea.  Perhaps  an  hour  had  passed  before 
they  were  startled  by  the  clangor  of  bells. 

"  Fire !  "  cried  Violet. 

"  Hope  it  aint  us  /  "  said  Jimmy,  with  more 
good-will  than  grammar. 

The  Wrenham  fire-bells  rang  in  a  startling 
but  not  systematic  fashion,  as  fast  as  they 
could  go ;  and  the  fire  companies — volun- 
teers, mostly  of  tender  years — assembled  in 
their  respective  engine-houses,  and  ran  about 
the  streets  inquiring  for  the  fire  until  it  made 
enough  headway  to  be  seen.  The  bells  them- 
selves afforded  no  clew.  Jimmy  ran  out  into  the 
street  for  information,  at  the  same  time  yell- 
ing "  Fire !  "  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "  Fire ! 
fire  !  Say,  Mister,  where's  the  fire  ?  " 

"  Cass  street,"  yelled  back  a  running  boy ; 
"  Cody's  old  grocery  store." 

"  Mercy  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Durham  from  the 
door- way,  "  the  museum  !  Violet " 

But  Violet  was  gone.  With  the  first  word 
she  had  sped  swiftly  after  Jimmy,  nor  did  she 
stop  until  they  saw  the  smoke  pouring  out  of 
the  museum  windows. 

"  Mrs.  Finlay's  chair !  "  she  gasped ;  "  Jim- 
my, we  must  save  it !  " 

"All  right,"  said  Jimmy;  "just  you  wait!  " 
He  dashed  through  the  crowd  that  shouted 
after  him:  "Come  back!"  "The  door's 
locked !  "  "  It's  all  afire !  "  Unheeding,  he 
unlocked  the  door — he  had  his  mother's  key 
with  him — and  ran  into  the  smoke.  Horrible 
smoke  it  was — dense,  blinding,  stifling.  His 


772 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


eyes  were  stung;  his  ears  stunned;  the 
murky  air  seemed  to  roar  all  about  him. 
But  he  saw  the  white  tarpaulin  through  his 
smoky  tears,  and  staggered  up  to  it.  Some- 
body caught  the  other  side  :  they  dragged 
the  chair  out  together — not  a  second  too 
soon,  for  the  wainscoting  of  the  room  was 
blazing.  Safe  on  the  sidewalk,  he  saw  that 
his  unknown  helper  was  Violet,  who  said  : 

"  We're  a  couple  of  fools,  but  we've  saved 
the  chair.  Now,  let  us  get  it  out  of  the 
way !  " 

They  carried  it  across  the  street  just  in 
time  to  avoid  the  charge  of  a  fire  company. 
They  came  with  a  rush  and  a  cheer,  and 
with  their  coming  the  whole  street  brightened 
into  a  kind  of  lurid  gayety.  The  flames  leaped 
up  in  the  museum  windows.  Upstairs,  where 
the  fire  had  started,  they  were  all  aglow.  In 
the  street,  the  boys  were  shouting,  the  water 
splashing,  the  firemen  swearing,  and  appar- 
ently everybody  ordering  somebody  else  to 
do  something.  Violet  scanned  the  crowd, 
trying  to  discover  old  Judson;  but  she  saw 
no  sign  of  that  aged  reprobate,  and  began  to 
fear  he  was  burning  up  in  the  building.  Sud- 
denly, two  men  laid  hands  on  the  chair.  One 
of  them  spoke — roughly,  but  not  unkindly: 

"  You'll  have  to  get  outer  this,  ma'am : 
they  want  to  lay  the  hose  here.  Here,  hurry 
up  !  This  way  !  " 

Resolutely  clinging  to  the  chair,  Violet 
and  Jimmy  were  pushed  down  the  street. 

"  We'll  have  to  carry  the  chair  home  our- 
selves, Jimmy,"  said  Violet ;  "  there's  no  use 
trying  to  look  for  a  wagon  —  good  gracious !" 

"  What's  the  matter?"  cried  Jimmy.  "Con- 
found the  fools !" 

It  was  only  that  some  sportive  souls  among 
the  firemen  had  turned  the  hose  on  their 
comrades  over  the  street;  Violet  and  Jim- 
my, being  in  a  direct  line  with  the  comrades, 
were  drenched  to  the  skin. 

"  Nothing  but  water !  "  said  Violet ;  "  but 
I  never  did  fancy  shower-baths.  Jimmy,  the 
man  was  right;  we'd  better  get  away  from 
here." 

Jimmy  looked  at  the  chair.  "  It's  awful 
heavy;  let's  leave  it  in  a  saloon;  they're 
open." 

"  Never,''  said  Violet ;  "  it's  not  going  out 
of  my  sight  again.  Here,  boy,"  addressing  a 
stout  lad  in  the  crowd,  "  I'll  give  you  a  dol- 
lar if  you'll  help  us  carry  this  chair  home." 

"  All  right !  "  said  the  boy. 

He  grinned  at  Jimmy,  whom  he  knew,  and 
took  the  chair  by  the  arm.  They  forced  their 
way  to  the  corner.  The  boy's  stout  lungs 
and  ready  profanity  cleared  a  passage,  as- 
sisted as  they  were  by  his  skillful  use  of  the 
chair  corners  as  a  battering-ram.  Violet  was 


a  devout  churchwoman,  but  she  did  not  tell 
him  not  to  swear ;  she  had  a  desperate  feeling 
that  anything  was  allowable,  in  the  present 
crisis,  to  rescue  the  chair.  Torn,  disheveled, 
dripping  with  muddy  water,  the  three  —  say 
rather  the  four,  for  does  not  the  chair  count 
as  one  ? —  emerged  from  the  din  into  the 
quiet  and  star-lit  streets  where  there  was 
no  fire.  Violet's  own  plight  was  deplorable. 
Little  streams  of  water  drained  from  her 
soaked  skirts;  her  hat  was  crushed  into  a 
shapeless  bunch,  through  an  unintentional 
collision  with  a  hook-and-ladder  company. 
She  had  a  great  bruise  on  her  cheek  (side 
lunge  of  the  chair),  and  a  never  explained 
scratch  across  her  nose.  But  she  was  in  high 
spirits — her  wooden  ward  was  safe  !  Almost 
jubilantly  she  paid  the  boy  at  Mrs.  Durham's 
gate ;  she  answered  her  mother's  anxious  in- 
quiries  with  a  kiss  and  a  laugh. 

"  Fve  been  a  fireman,  mamma ;  I've  helped- 
save  portable  property.  Jimmy,  take  off  the 
tarpaulin,  please." 

Jimmy  pulled  it  off  with  a  flourish ;  then 
he  gave  a  shout :  "  Oh,  thunder !  " 

Violet  uttered  a  deep  groan.  She  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  house  like  one  about, 
to  faint.  Poor  Mrs.  Durham  caught  her  in  her 
arms. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,  mamma,"  said  Violet,  im] 
a  hollow  voice;  "only,  we've  made  a  mis- 
take, and  saved  the  wrong  chair !  " 

I  draw  a  veil  over  the  remainder  of  the 
night. 

THE  explanation  is  simple  enough.  Old 
Judson  had  beguiled  the  tedium  of  the  night- 
watches  with  whisky.  After  he  had  pretty 
well  drowned  his  feeble  wits,  he  took  a  no- 
tion to  inspect  the  chairs,  and  put  the  tarpau- 
lin on  Mrs.  Cody's  chair.  Then  he  departed 
to  get  more  whisky,  leaving  his  lighted  pipe 
upstairs,  among  the  wrapping-papers.  And 
Mrs.  Finlay's  idol  was  ashes ! 

MRS.  FINLAY  had  a  headache  the  night  of 
the  fire,  and  slept  undisturbed  through  the 
fire-bells.  Languid  but  unsuspecting,  she 
came  down  to  a  late  breakfast.  Tom  anc 
the  boys  were  gone,  but  Francis  was  in  wait- 
ing, looking  absolutely  tragic  in  his  solem- 
nity. Mrs.  Finlay  took  up  the  Wrenhair 
paper.  Francis,  with  a  plate  of  oatmeal  ir 
one  hand  and  the  cream-jug  in  the  other 
stood  watching  her.  "  Ah  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Fin 
lay.  She  held  the  paper  higher;  Franci 
could  not  see  her  face.  He  made  a  ges 
of  despair  with  the  cream-jug. 

"Were   you   at   the  fire  last  night, 
cis  ?  "  came  from  behind  the  paper. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  was,  ma'am,"  said 


MRS.  FINLAY' S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 


773 


is  pent-up  feelings  relieving  themselves  in  a 
heavy  and  irrepressible  sigh.  "It  aint  no 
use,  ma'am;  it's  all  gone!  When  I  got 
there,  everything  was  blazing.  And  they  say, 
ma'am,  the  janitor  set  it  afire  hisself.  He 
was  a-reeling  round  there  drunk's  a  lord — 
begging  your  pardon,  ma'am ;  and  he  locked 
the  door,  so  they  couldn't  get  in ! " 

Mrs.  Finlay  put  the  paper  down.  She 
might  have  been  a  shade  paler,  but  Francis 
icould  see  no  change  in  her  expression.  Yet, 
'behind  this  calm  mask  a  sharp  struggle  was 
going  on.  This  stupid  and  barbarous  town, 
after  railing  at  her  and  slandering  her  for 
years,  had  capped  its  exasperations  by  de- 
stroying her  most  precious  possession !  Her 
nerves  tingled  with  irritation.  But  the  blood 
of  generations  of  Puritans  did  not  flow  in 
Emily  Finlay's  veins  for  nothing.  She  had 
as  robust  a  conscience  as  the  best  of  them, 
although  it  was  illumined  by  most  unpuri- 
tanic  lights.  After  all,  she  reasoned,  the 
jWrenham  people  had  burned  up  their  own 
(treasures  as  well  as  hers ;  certainly,  they  had 
[intended  no  harm. 

"  Miss  Durham,"  announced  Francis,  in- 
terrupting the  inward  colloquy  between  anger 
and  justice. 

"  Show  her  in  here,"  said  Mrs.  Finlay.  She 
(remembered  that  Violet  had  opposed  old 
jjudson's  appointment,  and  greeted  her  with 
actual  warmth. 

"  You  see,  I  know  all,"  she  said,  touching 
the  newspaper.  "  I  am  so  very  sorry  for  you." 

Violet  looked  pale  and  dejected;  she  did 
not  lift  her  eyes ;  her  voice  trembled  as  she 
answered : 

"  But  your  chair  is  gone ;  I  was  down  there 
this  morning,  and  couldn't  find  even  a  piece 
lof  it.  And  we  persuaded  you  to  send  it !  " 

"  But  you  couldn't  know  what  was  to 
happen,"  said  Mrs.  Finlay,  gently;  "  it  wasn't 
jyour  fault " 

"  Master  James  Hubbard,"  said  Francis, 
jappearing  again  in1  the  door- way.  Jimmy  had 
(unceremoniously  followed  the  butler,  and  was 
at  his  heels.  He  began  a  carefully  conned 
speech  in  breathless  haste.  He  was  sorry  to 
come  so  early  in  the  morning ;  but  he  saw 
Miss  Durham  and  wanted  to  come,  also  "  be- 
cause," cried  Master  Jimmy,  growing  red  in 
the  face  and  forgetting  his  speech,  "  I  knew 
she  wouldn't  say  anything  about  what  she 
did,  and  it  was  all  old  Judson's  fault,  'cause 
he  changed  the  tarpaulin,  and  we  couldn't 

E  through  the  smoke,  and  we  hauled  it  out, 
1  she  got  wet  through,  and  the  hose-cart 
ashed  her  hat,  and  Fritz  Miiller  and  she 
'and  me,  we  carried  it  to  her  house,  and  then, 
;after  all,  it  was  Mrs.  Cody's  chair !  " 

Mrs.  Finlay  listened  with  evident  emotion. 


"  Do  you  mean  you  ran  into  the  burning 
building  for  my  chair  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Risked 
your  lives  ?  " 

"  That's  about  the  size  of  it,"  said  Jimmy. 
Then  more  in  detail  he  recounted  the  night's 
adventures.  When  he  finished,  Mrs.  Finlay 
turned  to  Violet. 

"  How  brave  you  were  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  promised  to  take  care  of  the  chair,"  said 
Violet,  with  a  little  rueful  smile,  "and  you  see 
I  failed,  after  all." 

"  What  could  you  have  done  more  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  might  have  picked  out  the  right 
chair,  you  know,"  said  Jimmy,  impartially;. 
"  but  it  was  so  smoky." 

"  You  took  the  one  with  the  tarpaulin;  you 
couldn't  know.  Believe  me,  I  am  most  grate- 
ful for — why,  Miss  Durham  !  " 

For  Violet,  overcome  by  the  long  strain  on 
her  nerves,  and  the  reaction  after  a  night 
spent  in  picturing  her  reception,  each  picture 
portraying  more  humiliating  explanations  than 
the  last,  had  sunk  into  a  chair  and  turned  very 
white.  Jimmy,  in  distress,  threw  the  contents 
of  the  cream-jug  in  her  face;  happily  the  jug 
was  almost  empty,  and  Mrs.  Finlay  instantly 
repaired  damages  with  a  finger-bowl. 

"  Don't — bother,"  implored  Violet  faintly; 
"  I'm  not  going  to — do  anything.  But  I  was 
so  sorry,  and  you  are  so  kind,  and  it  is  all  so 
—different!" 

"  We  thought  you'd  be  awful  mad,"  Jimmy 
explained,  with  calm  suavity. 

"  We  were  unjust  to  you,"  said  Violet ;  "  I 
—  I  think  I  have  always  been  unjust  to 
you." 

"  We  have  been  unjust  to  each  other,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Finlay.  "  Can't  we  try  all  our 
acquaintance  over  again,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

She  looked  up  into  Violet's  face  with  a 
charming  smile,  but  her  eyes  were  wet ;  and 
when  Violet  took  the  hand  that  was  extended 
to  her,  she  could  not  speak  because  of  the 
lump  in  her  throat. 

Then  Jimmy,  who  had  been  absorbed  in 
meditation,  remarked : 

"  Well,  I  guess  there  wont  be  any  trouble 
'bout  getting  the  insurance ;  that's  one  good 
thing." 

Violet  must  either  laugh  or  cry;  it  was  just 
as  well  she  should  laugh.  Mrs.  Finlay  laughed 
with  her.  "  And  then,"  said  Jimmy,  describ- 
ing the  interview  to  his  mother  afterward, 
"  then  Mr.  Finlay  came  in,  and  they  wanted 
us  to  sit  down  and  have  breakfast;  but,  of 
course,  I  wouldn't.  And,  mother,  I'm  going 
there  to  luncheon  to-morrow.  And  I  don't 
believe  Mrs.  Finlay  cared  much  about  the 
chair,  'cause  she  didn't  say  another  word 
about  it." 

When  they  were  all  gone,  Tom  Finlay  put 


774 


A   HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


his  arm  around  his  wife's  waist.  He  was 
smiling;  but,  for  once,  she  found  nothing  to 
quarrel  with  in  his  smile.  He  only  said : 

"  Milly,  I  was  in  the  conservatory,  and 
heard  it  all.  I  am  tremendously  proud  of  you." 

"  Because  I  wasn't  cross  ? "  said  Emily. 
"  But  I  had  no  right  to  be  cross." 

"  Milly,  you  are  a  very  just  woman." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Tom,"  cried  his  wife,  with 
a  quick  movement ;  "  I  have  been  horrid  about 
Wrenham  and  about  —  about  Miss  Durham. 
Tom,  I  wish  you  had  told  me  that  you  asked 
her  to  marry  you." 

Tom  opened  his  eyes. 

"  But  I  never  did,  Milly.  I  thought  of  do- 
ing it  once ;  but  I  found  out  she  liked  some- 
body else  better,  so  I  held  my  tongue.  Then 
I  saw  you,  and  was  glad  enough  I  had. 
Milly,  you  weren't " 

"  Yes,  I  was,  Tom,"  murmured  Emily,  hid- 
ing her  head  on  his  shoulder;  "  I  was  just  so 
stupid." 

Tom  held  her  close ;  she  felt  the  quickened 
beating  of  his  heart,  and  she  said : 

"  I   shall   never    be — stupid   about   Miss 


Durham  again.  She  is  so  nice,  and  she  was 
so  brave  about  the  chair." 

"  The  poor  chair !  "  said  Tom.  "  Milly,  I 
am  sorry." 

Mrs.  Finlay  pulled  her  husband's  head' 
down  to  her  own  level  and  kissed  his  hair. 

"  If  you  are  sorry,  Tom,"  she  whispered, 
"  then  I  do  not  mind." 

Nevertheless,  she  is  not  ungrateful  to  the 
chair's  memory.  It  is  perhaps  a  fanciful 
notion,  but  she  feels  as  though  the  chair  died 
for  her  happiness.  A  water-color  sketch  of 
it  hangs  in  her  chamber,  and  she  has,  when 
she  looks  at  it,  an  emotion  of  almost  personal 
gratitude.  She  returned  the  insurance  money 
(which  duly  came  to  her)  to  the  managers  of 
the  museum,  accompanying  the  money  with 
a  sympathetic  note.  The  note  made  a  favor- 
able impression.  Wrenham  has  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Mrs.  Finlay  has  her  good 
points.  It  only  remains  to  add  that  Tom 
Finlay  has  no  cause  to  complain  of  his  wife's 
coolness  to  the  Durhams ;  and  that  James 
Hubbard  is  the  proud  possessor  of  a  new  and 
most  gorgeous  gold  watch. 

Octave  Thanct. 


A   HUNT   FOR  THE   NIGHTINGALE. 


WHILE  I  lingered  away  the  latter  half  of 
May  in  Scotland,  and  the  first  half  of  June 
in  northern  England  and  finally  in  London, 
intent  on  seeing  the  land  leisurely  and  as  the 
mood  suited,  the  thought  never  occurred  to 
me  that  I  was  in  danger  of  missing  one  of 
the  chief  pleasures  I  had  promised  myself  in 
crossing  the  Atlantic,  namely,  the  hearing  of 
the  song  of  the  nightingale.  Hence,  when  on 
the  i  yth  of  June  I  found  myself  down  among 
the  copses  near  Hazlemere  on  the  borders  of 
Surrey  and  Sussex,  and  was  told  by  the  old 
farmer  to  whose  house  I  had  been  recom- 
mended by  friends  in  London  that  I  was  too 
late,  that  the  season  of  the  nightingale  was 
over,  I  was  a  good  deal  disturbed. 

"  I  think  she  be  done  singing  now,  sir ;  I 
aint  heered  her  in  some  time,  sir,"  said  my 
farmer,  as  we  sat  down  to  get  acquainted 
over  a  mug  of  the  hardest  cider  I  ever  at- 
tempted to  drink. 

"  Too  late  !  "  I  said  in  deep  chagrin,  "  and 
I  might  have  been  here  weeks  ago." 

"  Yeas,  sir,  she  be  done  now ;  May  is  the 
time  to  hear  her.  The  cuckoo  is  done  too, 
sir;  and  you  don't  hear  the  nightingale  after 
the  cuckoo  is  gone,  sir." 

(The  country  people  in  this  part  of  England 
sir  one  at  the  end  of  every  sentence,  and  talk 
with  an  indescribable  drawl.) 


But  I  had  heard  a  cuckoo  that  very  after- 
noon, and  I  took  heart  from  the  fact.  I 
afterward  learned  that  the  country  people 
everywhere  associate  these  two  birds  in  this 
way ;  you  will  not  hear  the  one  after  the 
other  has  ceased.  But  I  heard  the  cuckoo 
almost  daily  till  the  middle  of  July.  Matthew 
Arnold  reflects  the  popular  opinion,  when  in 
one  of  his  poems  ("Thyrsis")  he  makes  the 
cuckoo  say  in  early  June, 

"  The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I ! ' 

The   explanation   is   to  be  found  in   Shaks- 
pere,  who  says, 

" the  cuckoo  is  in  June 

Heard,  not  regarded," 

as  the  bird  really  does  not  go  till  August.  I 
got  out  my  Gilbert  White,  as  I  should  have 
done  at  an  earlier  day,  and  was  still  more 
disturbed  to  find  that  he  limited  the  singing 
of  the  nightingale  to  June  i5th.  But  seasons 
differ,  I  thought,  and  it  can't  be  possible  that 
any  class  of  feathered  songsters  all  stop  on  a 
given  day.  Then,  when  I  looked  further,  and 
found  that  White  says  the  chaffinch  ceases 
to  sing  the  beginning  of  June,  I  took  more 
courage,  for  I  had  that  day  heard  the  chaffinch 
also.  But  it  was  evident  I  had  no  time  to  lose ; 
I  was  just  on  the  dividing  line,  and  any 
might  witness  the  cessation  of  the  last  sonj 


A   HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


775 


For  it  seems  that  the  nightingale  ceases 
singing  the  moment  her  brood  is  hatched. 
After  that  event,  you  hear  only  a  harsh  chid- 
ing or  anxious  note.  Hence  the  poets,  who 
attribute  her  melancholy  strains  to  sorrow  for 
the  loss  of  her  young,  are  entirely  at  fault. 
Virgil,  portraying  the  grief  of  Orpheus  after 
the  loss  of  Eurydice,  says : 

"  So  Philomela,  'mid  the  poplar  shade, 

Bemoans  her  captive  brood ;  the  cruel  hind 

Saw  them  unplumed,  and  took  them ;  but  all   night 

Grieves  she,  and,  sitting  on  a  bough,  runs  o'er 

Her  wretched  tale,  and  fills  the  woods  with  woe." 

But  she  probably  does  nothing  of  the  kind. 
The  song  of  a  bird  is  not  a  reminiscence, 
but  an  anticipation,  and  expresses  happiness 
or  joy  only,  except  in  those  cases  where  the 
male  bird,  having  lost  its  mate,  sings  for  a  few 
days  as  if  to  call  the  lost  one  back.  When  the 
male  renews  his  powers  of  song,  after  the 
young  brood  has  been  destroyed,  or  after  it 
has  flown  away,  it  is  a  sign  that  a  new  brood 
is  contemplated.  The  song  is,  as  it  were,  the 
magic  note  that  calls  it  forth.  At  least,  this 
is  the  habit  with  other  song-birds,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  it  holds  good  with  the  nightingale. 
Destroy  the  nest  or  brood  of  the  wood- 
thrush,  and  if  the  season  is  not  too  far  ad- 
vanced, after  a  week  or  ten  days  of  silence, 
during  which  the  parent  birds,  by  their  man- 
ner, seem  to  bemoan  their  loss  and  to  take 
counsel  together,  the  male  breaks  forth  with 
a  new  song,  and  the  female  begins  to  con- 
struct a  new  nest.  The  poets,  therefore,  in 
depicting  the  bird  on  such  occasions  as  be- 
wailing the  lost  brood,  are  wide  of  the  mark ; 
he  is  invoking  and  celebrating  a  new  brood. 

As  it  was  mid-afternoon,  I  could  only  com- 
pose myself  till  night-fall.  I  accompanied  the 
farmer  to  the  hay-field  and  saw  the  working 
f  his  mowing-machine,  a  rare  implement  in 
gland,  as  most  of  the  grass  is  still  cut  by 
nd,  and  raked  by  hand  also.  The  disturbed 
y-larks  were  hovering  above  the  falling 
ss,  full  of  anxiety  for  their  nests,  as  one 
may  note  the  bobolinks  on  like  occasions  at 
home.  The  weather  is  so  uncertain  in  England, 
and  it  is  so  impossible  to  predict  its  complex- 
ion, not  only  from  day  to  day  but  from  hour  to 
hour,  that  the  farmers  appear  to  consider  it  a 
suitable  time  to  cut  grass  when  it  is  not  actually 
raining.  They  slash  away  without  reference 
to  the  aspects  of  the  sky,  and  when  the  field 
is  down  trust  to  luck  to  be  able  to  cure 
the  hay,  or  get  it  ready  to  "carry"  between 
the  showers.  The  clouds  were  lowering  and 
the  air  was  damp  now,  and  it  was  Saturday 
afternoon;  but  the  farmer  said  they  would 
never  get  their  hay  if  they  minded  such  things. 
The  farm  had  seen  better  days ;  so  had  the 


farmer ;  both  were  slightly  down  at  the  heel. 
Too  high  rent  and  too  much  hard  cider 
were  working  their  effects  upon  both.  The 
farm  had  been  in  the  family  many  genera- 
tions, but  it  was  now  about  to  be  sold  and 
to  pass  into  other  hands,  and  my  host  said 
he  was  glad  of  it.  There  was  no  money  in 
farming  any  more;  no  money  in  anything. 
I  asked  him  what  were  the  main  sources  of 
profit  on  such  a  farm. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  sometimes  the  wheat 
pops  up,  and  the  barley  drops  in,  and  the 
pigs  come  on,  and  we  picks  up  a  little  money, 
sir,  but  not  much,  sir.  Pigs  is  doing  well 
naow.  But  they  brings  so  much  wheat  from 
Ameriky,  and  our  weather  is  so  bad  that  we 
can't  get  a  good  sample,  sir,  one  year  in  three, 
that  there  is  no  money  made  in  growing 
wheat,  sir."  And  the  "  wuts "  (oats)  were 
not  much  better.  "Theys  as  would  buy 
haint  got  no  money,  sir."  "  Up  to  the  top  of 
the  nip,"  for  hill,  was  one  of  his  expressions. 
Tennyson  had  a  summer  residence  at  Black- 
down  not  far  off.  "  One  of  the  Queen's  poets, 
I  believe,  sir."  "  Yes,  I  often  see  him  riding 
about,  sir." 

After  an  hour  or  two  with  the  farmer,  I 
walked  out  to  take  a  survey  of  the  surround- 
ing country.  It  was  quite  wild  and  irregular, 
full  of  bushy  fields  and  overgrown  hedge-rows, 
and  looked  to  me  very  nightingaly.  I  fol- 
lowed for  a  mile  or  two  a  road  that  led  by 
tangled  groves  and  woods  and  copses,  with  a 
still  meadow  trout-stream  in  the  gentle  valley 
below.  I  inquired  for  nightingales  of  every 
boy  and  laboring  man  I  met  or  saw.  I  got 
but  little  encouragement;  it  was  too  late. 
"  She  be  about  done  singing  now,  sir."  A 
boy  whom  I  met  in  a  foot-path  that  ran 
through  a  pasture  beside  a  copse  said,  after 
reflecting  a  moment,  that  he  had  heard  one 
in  that  very  copse  two  mornings  before  — 
"  about  seven  o'clock,  sir,  while  I  was  on 
my  way  to  my  work,  sir."  Then  I  would  try 
my  luck  in  said  copse  and  in  the  adjoining 
thickets  that  night  and  the  next  morning. 
The  railway  ran  near,  but  perhaps  that  might 
serve  to  keep  the  birds  awake.  These  copses 
in  this  part  of  England  look  strange  enough 
to  American  eyes.  What  thriftless  farming! 
the  first  thought  is ;  behold  the  fields  grown 
up  to  bushes,  as  if  the  land  had  relapsed  to  a 
state  of  nature  again.  Adjoining  meadows  and 
grain-fields  there  will  be  an  inclosure  of  many 
acres  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  oak  and 
chestnut  sprouts,  six,  or  eight,  or  twelve  feet 
high.  These  are  the  copses  one  has  so  often 
heard  about,  and  they  are  a  valuable  and  pro- 
ductive part  of  the  farm.  They  are  planted 
and  preserved  as  carefully  as  we  plant  an 
orchard  or  a  vineyard.  Once  in  so  many 


776 


A   HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


years,  perhaps  five  or  six,  the  copse  is  cut 
and  every  twig  is  saved ;  it  is  a  woodland 
harvest  that  in  this  country  is  gathered  in  the 
forest  itself.  The  larger  poles  are  tied  up  in 
bundles  and  sold  for  hoop-poles ;  the  fine 
branches  and  shoots  are  made  into  brooms 
in  the  neighboring  cottages  and  hamlets,  or 
used  as  material  for  thatching.  The  refuse  is 
used  as  wood. 

About  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  sallied 
forth,  taking  my  way  over  the  ground  I  had 
explored  a  few  hours  before.  The  gloaming, 
which  at  this  season  lasts  till  after  ten  o'clock, 
dragged  its  slow  length  along.  Nine  o'clock 
came,  and,  though  my  ear  was  attuned,  the 
songster  was  tardy.  I  hovered  about  the  copses 
and  hedge- rows  like  one  meditating  some  dark 
deed;  I  lingered  in  a  grove  and  about  an  over- 
grown garden  and  a  neglected  orchard;  I 
sat  on  stiles  and  leaned  on  wickets,  mentally 
speeding  the  darkness  that  should  bring  my 
singer  out.  The  weather  was  damp  and  chilly, 
and  the  tryst  grew  tiresome.  I  had  brought  a 
rubber  water-proof,  but  not  an  overcoat.  Lin- 
ing the  back  of  the  rubber  with  a  newspaper, 
I  wrapped  it  about  me  and  sat  down,  deter- 
mined to  lay  siege  to  my  bird.  A  foot-path 
that  ran  along  the  fields  and  bushes  on  the 
other  side  of  the  little  valley  showed  every 
few  minutes  a  woman,  or  girl,  or  boy,  or 
^laborer,  passing  along  it.  A  path  near  me 
also  had  its  frequent  figures  moving  along  in 
the  dusk.  In  this  country  people  travel  in 
foot-paths  as  much  as  in  highways.  The  paths 
give  a  private,  human  touch  to  the  landscape 
that  the  roads  do  not.  They  are  sacred  to 
the  human  foot.  They  have  the  sentiment  of 
domesticity,  and  suggest  the  way  to  cottage 
doors  and  to  simple,  primitive  times. 

Presently  a  man  with  a  fishing-rod,  and 
capped,  coated,  and  booted  for  the  work, 
came  through  the  meadow,  and  began  cast- 
ing for  trout  in  the  stream  below  me.  How 
he  gave  himself  to  the  work !  how  oblivious 
he  was  of  everything  but  the  one  matter  in 
hand !  I  doubt  if  he  was  conscious  of  the 
train  that  passed  within  a  few  rods  of  him. 
Your  born  angler  is  like  a  hound  that  scents 
no  game  but  that  which  he  is  in  pursuit  of. 
Every  sense  and  faculty  were  concentrated 
upon  that  hovering  fly.  This  man  wooed  the 
stream,  quivering  with  pleasure  and  expecta- 
tion. Every  foot  of  it  he  tickled  with  his  decoy. 
His  close  was  evidently  a  short  one,  and  he 
made  the  most  of  it.  He  lingered  over  every 
cast,  and  repeated  it  again  and  again.  An 
American  angler  would  have  been  out  of 
sight  down  stream  long  ago.  But  this  man 
was  not  going  to  bolt  his  preserve ;  his  line 
should  taste  every  drop  of  it.  His  eager, 
stealthy  movements  denoted  his  enjoyment 


and  his  absorption.    When  a  trout  was  caught, 
it  was  quickly  rapped  on  the  head  and  slipped 
into  his  basket,   as  if  in  punishment  for  its 
tardiness  in  jumping.    "  Be  quicker  next  time,  |i 
will  you."    (British  trout,  by  the  way,  are  not  i 
so  beautiful  as  our  own.    They  have  more  of 
a  domesticated  look.   They  are  less  brilliantly 
marked,  and  have  much  coarser  scales.    There 
is  no  gold  or  vermilion  in  their  coloring.) 

Presently  there  arose  from  a  bushy  corner 
of  a  near  field  a  low,  peculiar  purring  or  hum- 
ming sound,  that  sent  a  thrill  through  me ;  of  \ 
course,  I  thought  my  bird  was  inflating  her 
throat.    Then  the  sound  increased,  and  was 
answered  or  repeated  in  various  other  direc- 
tions.   It  had  a  curious  ventriloquial  effect.  «• 
I  presently  knew  it  to  be  the  night-jar  or  goat-  J 
sucker,  a  bird  that  answers  to  our  whip-poor-  j 
will.    Very   soon   the   sound   seemed   to   be 
floating  all  about  me  — Jr-r-r-r-r,or  Chr-r-r-r-r^ 
slightly  suggesting  the  call  of  our  toads,  but 
more  vague  as  to  direction.   Then  as  it  grew 
darker  they  ceased ;  the  fisherman  reeled  up 
and  left.  No  sound  was  now  heard — not  even  . 
the   voice    of  a   solitary   frog   anywhere.    I 
never    heard    a    frog    in    England.    About 
eleven  o'clock  I  moved  down  by  a  wood  and  . 
stood  for  an  hour  on  a  bridge  over  the  rail-  , 
road.    No  voice  of  bird  greeted  me  till  the  j 
sedge -warbler  struck  up  her  curious  nocturne  ] 
in  a  hedge  near  by.    It  was  a  singular  medley 
of  notes,  hurried  chirps,  trills,  calls,  warbles,  ( 
snatched  from  the  songs  of  other  birds,  with 
a  half-chiding,  remonstrating  tone  or  air  run- 
ning through  it  all.   As  there  was  no  other 
sound  to  be  heard,  and  as  the  darkness  was  ( 
complete,  it  had  the  effect  of  a  very  private 
and  whimsical  performance — as  if  the  little  ; 
bird  had  secluded  herself  there,  and  was  giv-  < 
ing  vent  to  its  emotions  in  the  most  copious  • 
and  vehement  manner.    I  listened  till  after 
midnight,  and  till  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  < 
the  vivacious  warbler  never  ceased  for  a  mo-  j 
ment.   White  says  that,  if  it  stops,  a  stone 
tossed  into  the  bush  near  it  will  set  it  going 
again.    Its  voice  is  not  musical;  the  quality 
of  it  is  like  that  of  the  loquacious  English  , 
house  sparrows;  but  its  song  or  medley  is  so  j 
persistently  animated,  and  in  such  contrast  , 
to  the  gloom  and  the  darkness,  that  the  effect  ,- 
is  decidedly  pleasing. 

This   and   the    night-jar    were    the    only  , 
nightingales  I  heard  that  night.    I  returned 
home,  a  good  deal   disappointed,   but  slept 
upon    my  arms,    as    it    were,  and  was    out  \ 
upon  the  chase  again  at  four  o'clock  in  the  , 
morning.     I    passed   down   a   lane    by   the  1 
neglected  garden  and  orchard,  where  I  was 
told   the  birds   had   sung   for  weeks    past; 
then   under    the    railroad  by   a   cluster 
laborers'  cottages,  and   along   a   road 


, 


A   HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


777 


many  copses  and  bushy  fence-corners  on 
either  hand,  for  two  miles,  but  I  heard  no 
nightingales.  A  boy  of  whom  I  inquired 
seemed  half  frightened,  and  went  into  the 
house  without  answering. 

After  a  late  breakfast  I  sallied  out  again, 
going  farther  in  the  same  direction,  and  was 
overtaken  by  frequent  showers.   I  heard  many 
and  frequent  bird  songs, — the  lark,  the  wren, 
the  thrush,  the   blackbird,  the  white-throat, 
the  greenfinch,  and  the  hoarse,  guttural  coo- 
ling of  the  wood-pigeons,  but  not  the  note  I 
was  in  quest  of.    I  passed  up  a  road  that  was 
|a  deep  trench  in  the  side  of  a  hill  overgrown 
Iwith   low  beeches.   The  roots   of  the   trees 
prmed  a  net- work  on  the  side  of  the  bank, 
ks  their  branches  did  above.    In  a  frame-work 
of  roots,  within  reach  of  my  hand,  I  spied 
i  wren's  nest,  a  round  hole  leading  to  the 
nterior  of  a  large  mass  of  soft  green  moss, 
|i  structure  displaying  the  taste  and  neatness 
>f  the  daintiest  of  bird  architects,  and  the 
iepth  and  warmth  and  snugness  of  the  most 
ingenious  mouse  habitation.   While  lingering 
iiere,  a  young  countryman  came  along  whom 
~  engaged  in  conversation.    No,  he  had  not 
icard  the  nightingale  for  a  few  days;  but  the 
hrevious  week  he  had  been  in  camp  with  the 
Inilitia  near  Guildford,  and  while  on  picket 
luty  had  heard  her  nearly  all  night.    " '  Don't 
he  sing  splendid  to-night  ? '  the  boys  would 
ay."    This   was   tantalizing;    Guildford  was 
/ithin  easy  reach,  but  the  previous  week — 
hat  could  not  be  reached.    However,  he  en- 
couraged me  by  saying  he  did  not  think  they 
,rere  done  singing  yet,  as  he  had  often  heard 
hem  during  haying-time.    I  inquired  for  the 
lack-cap,  but  saw  he  did  not  know  this  bird, 
nd  thought  I  referred  to  a  species  of  tomtit, 
Vhich  also  has  a  black  cap.    The  wood-lark 
was  also  on  the  lookout  for,  but  he  did  not 
now  this  bird  either,  and  during  my  various 
imbles  in  England  I  could  find  no  person 
;  rho  did.  In  Scotland  it  was  confounded  with 
ic  titlark  or  pipit. 

I  I  next  met  a  man  and  boy,  a  villager  with 
stove-pipe  hat  on — and,  as  it  turned  out,  a 
!ian  of  many  trades,  tailor,  barber,  painter, 
'  iic.,  from  Hazlemere.  The  absorbing  inquiry 
;as  put  to  him  also.  No,  not  that  day,  but 
jfew  mornings  before  he  had.  But  he  could 
jisily  call  one  out,  if  there  were  any  about, 
?.•  P  he  could  imitate  them.  Plucking  a  spear 
:  grass,  he  adjusted  it  behind  his  teeth  and 
artled  me  with  the  shrill,  rapid  notes  he 
pured  forth.  I  at  once  recognized  its  re- 
imblance  to  the  descriptions  I  had  read  of 
fe  opening  part  of  the  nightingale  song,  what 
1  called  the  "  challenge."  The  boy  said,  and 
5  himself  averred,  that  it  was  an  exact  imi- 
jtion.  The  chew,  chew,  chew,  and  some  other 


parts,  were  very  bird-like,  and  I  had  no  doubt 
were  correct.  I  was  astonished  at  the  strong, 
piercing  quality  of  the  strain.  It  echoed  in 
the  woods  and  copses  about,  but,  though  oft 
repeated,  brought  forth  no  response.  With 
this  man  I  made  an  engagement  to  take  a 
walk  that  evening  at  eight  o'clock  along  a 
certain  route  where  he  had  heard  plenty  of 
nightingales  but  a  few  days  before.  He  was 
confident  he  could  call  them  out;  so  was  I. 

In  the  afternoon,  which  had  gleams  of 
warm  sunshine,  I  made  another  excursion, 
less  in  hopes  of  hearing  my  bird  than  of 
finding  some  one  who  could  direct  me  to  the 
right  spot.  Once  I  thought  the  game  was 
very  near.  I  met  a  boy  who  told  me  he  had 
heard  a  nightingale  only  fifteen  minutes  be- 
fore, "  on  Polecat  Hill,  sir,  just  this  side  the 
Devil's  Punch-bowl,  sir !  "  I  had  heard  of  his 
majesty's  punch-bowl  before,  and  of  the  gib- 
bets near  it  where  three  murderers  were  exe- 
cuted nearly  a  hundred  years  ago,  but  Polecat 
Hill  was  a  new  name  to  me.  The  combina- 
tion did  not  seem  a  likely  place  for  nightin- 
gales, but  I  walked  rapidly  thitherward;  I 
heard  several  warblers,  but  not  Philomel,  and 
was  forced  to  conclude  that  probably  I  had 
crossed  the  sea  to  miss  my  bird  by  just  fifteen 
minutes.  I  met  many  other  boys  (is  there 
any  country  where  boys  do  not  prowl  about 
in  small  bands  of  a  Sunday  ?)  and  advertised 
the  object  of  my  search  freely  among  them, 
offering  a  reward  that  made  their  eyes  glisten 
for  the  bird  in  song ;  but  nothing  ever  came 
of  it.  In  my  desperation,  I  even  presented 
a  letter  I  had  brought  to  the  village  squire, 
just  as,  in  company  with  his  wife,  he  was 
about  to  leave  his  door  for  church.  He  turned 
back,  and,  hearing  my  quest,  volunteered  to 
take  me  on  a  long  walk  through  the  wet 
grass  and  bushes  of  his  fields  and  copses, 
where  he  knew  the  birds  were  wont  to  sing. 
"  Too  late,"  he  said,  and  so  it  did  appear. 
He  showed  me  a  fine  old  edition  of  White's 
"  Selborne,"  with  notes  by  some  editor  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten.  This  editor  had  ex- 
tended White's  date  of  June  i5th  to  July  ist, 
as  the  time  to  which  the  nightingale  contin- 
ues in  song,  and  I  felt  like  thanking  him  for 
it,  as  it  gave  me  renewed  hope.  The  squire 
thought  there  was  a  chance  yet;  and  in  case 
my  man  with  the  spear  of  grass  behind  his 
teeth  failed  me,  he  gave  me  a  card  to  an  old 
naturalist  and  taxidermist  at  Godalming,  a 
town  nine  miles  above,  who,  he  felt  sure,  could 
put  me  on  the  right  track  if  anybody  could. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  sun  yet  some  dis* 
tance  above  the  horizon,  I  was  at  the  door 
of  the  barber  in  Hazlemere.  He  led  the 
way  along  one  of  those  delightful  foot-paths 
with  which  this  country  is  threaded,  extend- 


A   HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


ing  to  a  neighboring  village  several  miles 
distant.  It  left  the  street  at  Hazlemere,  cut- 
ting through  the  houses  diagonally,  as  if  the 
brick  walls  'had  made  way  for  it,  passed  be- 
tween gardens,  through  wickets,  over  stiles, 
across  the  highway  and  railroad,  through 
cultivated  fields  and  a  gentleman's  park,  and 
on  toward  its  destination, — a  broad,  well-kept 
path,  that  seemed  to  have  the  same  inevitable 
right  of  way  as  a  brook.  I  was  told  that  it 
was  repaired  and  looked  after  the  same  as 
the  highway.  Indeed,  it  was  a  public  way, 
public  to  pedestrians  only,  and  no  man  could 
stop  or  turn  it  aside.  We  followed  it  along 
the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  with  copses  and 
groves  sweeping  down  into  the  valley  below 
us.  It  was  as  wild  and  picturesque  a  spot  as  I 
had  seen  in  England.  The  foxglove  pierced 
the  lower  foliage  and  wild  growths  every- 
where with  its  tall  spires  of  purple  flowers ; 
the  wild  honeysuckle,  with  a  ranker  and 
coarser  fragrance  than  our  cultivated  species, 
was  just  opening  along  the  hedges.  We  paused 
here,  and  my  guide  blew  his  shrill  call ;  he  blew 
it  again  and  again.  How  it  awoke  the  echoes, 
and  how  it  awoke  all  the  other  songsters! 
The  valley  below  us  and  the  slope  beyond, 
which  before  were  silent,  were  soon  musical. 
The  chaffinch,  the  robin,  the  blackbird,  the 
thrush — the  last  the  loudest  and  most  co- 
pious—  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  and 
with  the  loud  whistler  above  them.  But  we 
listened  in  vain  for  the  nightingale's  note. 
Twice  my  guide  struck  an  attitude  and  said, 
impressively,  "  There !  I  believe  I  'erd  Jer." 
But  we  were  obliged  to  give  it  up.  A  shower 
came  on,  and  after  it  had  passed  we  moved 
to  another  part  of  the  landscape  and  re- 
peated our  call,  but  got  no  response,  and  as 
darkness  set  in  we  returned  to  the  village. 

The  situation  began  to  look  serious.  I 
knew  there  was  a  nightingale  somewhere 
whose  brood  had  been  delayed  from  some 
cause  or  other,  and  who  was  therefore  still  in 
song,  but  I  could  not  get  a  clew  to  the  spot. 
I  renewed  the  search  late  that  night  and 
again  the  next  morning ;  I  inquired  of  every 
man  and  boy  I  saw. 

"  I  met  many  travelers, 

Who  the  road  had  surely  kept; 
They  saw  not  my  fine  revelers, — 

These  had  crossed  them  while  they  slept; 
Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 
In  the  country  or  the  court." 

I  soon  learned  to  distrust  young  fellows 
and  their  girls  who  had  heard  nightingales 
in  the  gloaming.  I  knew  one's  ears  could  not 
always  be  depended  upon  on  such  occasions, 
nor  his  eyes  either.  Larks  are  seen  in  bunt- 
ings, and  a  wren's  song  entrances  like  Philo- 
mel's. A  young  couple  of  whom  I  inquired  in 


the  train,  on  my  way  to  Godalming,  said  yes, 
they  had  heard  nightingales  just  a  few  mo- 
ments before  on  their  way  to  the  station,  and 
described  the  spot,  so  I  could  find  it  if  I  re- 
turned that  way.   They  left  the  train  at  the 
same  point  I  did,  and  walked  up  the  street  in 
advance  of  me.    I  had  not  noticed  them  till 
they  beckoned  to  me  from  the  corner  of  the 
street,  near  the  church,  where  the  prospect 
opens  with  a  view  of  a  near  meadow  and 
a  stream  shaded  by  pollard  willows.    "We 
heard  one  now,  just  there,"  they  said,  as  I 
came  up.  They  passed  on,  and  I  bent  my  ear 
eagerly  in  the  direction  indicated.   Then   I 
walked  farther  on,  following  one  of  those  in- 
evitable foot-paths  to  where   it   cuts  diago- 
nally through  the  cemetery  behind  the  old 
church,  but  I  heard  nothing  save  a  few  notes 
of  the  thrush.    My  ear  was  too  critical  and 
exacting.   Then  I  sought  out  the  old  natural- 
ist and  taxidermist  to  whom  I  had  a  card  from 
the  squire.    He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  racy 
both  in  look  and  speech,  and  kindly.   He  had 
a  fine  collection   of  birds   and   animals,  in 
which  he  took  great  pride.    He  pointed  out 
the  wood-lark  and  the  blackcap  to  me,  and 
told    me.  where    he   had    seen    and    heard 
them.    He  said  I  was  too  late  for  the  night- 
ingale, though  I  might  possibly  find  one  yel 
in  song.    But  he  said  she  grew  hoarse  late 
in  the  season,  and  did  not  sing  as  a  few  weeks 
earlier.    He  thought  our  cardinal   grosbeak 
which  he  called  the  Virginia  nightingale,  a: 
fine  a  whistler  as  the  nightingale  herself.    H< 
could  not  go  with  me  that  day,  but  he  wouk 
send  his  boy.    Summoning  the  lad,  he  gav< 
him   minute    directions   where   to    take   m< 
— over  by  Easing,  around   by  Shackerfon 
church,  etc.,  a  circuit  of  four  or  five  miles  i 
Leaving  the  picturesque  old  town,  \ve  took  j  i 
road  over  a  broad,  gentle  hill,  lined  with  grea  i 
trees,  beeches,  elms,  oaks,  with  rich  cultivated! 
fields  beyond.   The  air  of  peaceful  and  pros  i 
perous   human  occupancy  which   this   lan< 
everywhere  has  seemed  especially  pronounce<  \ 
through  all  this  section.    The  sentiment  o 
parks  and  lawns,  easy,  large,  basking,  indil, 
ferent  of  admiration,  self-sufficing,  and  full 
everywhere  prevailed.   The  road  was  like  th 
most  perfect  private  carriage-way.    Homeli 
ness,  in  its  true  sense,  is  a  word  that  applie 
to  nearly  all  English  country  scenes ;  home   , 
like,  redolent  of  affectionate  care  and  toil,  sat  J 
urated  with  rural  and  domestic  contentment  i 
beauty  without  pride,  order  without  stiffness  I 
age   without   decay,   etc.   This   people  lovj 
the  country,  because  it  would  seem  as  if  th  I 
country  must   first  have   loved  them.     In 
field  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  new  spec  e 
of  clover,  much  grown  in  parts  of  Englanc 
green  fodder  for  horses.   The  farmers 


and  2 


A    HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


779 


trefolium,  probably  trefolium  incarnatum.  The 
head  is  two  or  three  inches  long,  and  as  red  as 
blood.    A  field  of  it  under  the  sunlight  presents 
a  most  brilliant  appearance.    As  we  walked 
along,  I  got  also  my  first  view  of  the  British 
blue-jay — a  slightly  larger  bird  than  ours,  with 
a  hoarser  voice  and   much  duller  plumage. 
Blue,  the  tint  of  the  sky,  is  not  so  common  and 
is  not  found  in  any  such  perfection  among  the 
British  birds  as  among  the  American.    My  boy 
companion  was  worthy  of  observation  also.  He 
was  a  curious  specimen,  ready  and  officious, 
but,  as  one  soon  found  out,  full  of  duplicity. 
I  questioned  him  about  himself.   "  I  helps  he, 
sir ;  sometimes   I  shows  people  about,  and 
sometimes   I  does  errands.    I   gets   three  a 
week,  sir,  and  lunch  and  tea.    I  lives  with  my 
grandmother,  but  I  calls  her  mother,  sir.    The 
master  and  the  rector  they  gives  me  a  char- 
acter, says  I  am  a  good,  honest  boy,  and  that 
it  is  well  I  went  to  school  in  my  youth.    I  am 
ten,  sir.    Last  year  I  had  the  measles,  sir,  and 
I  thought  I  should  die;  but  I  got  hold  of  a 
bottle  of  medicine,  and  it  tasted  like  honey, 
and  I  takes  the  whole  of  it,  and  it  made  me 
well,  sir.  I  never  lies,  sir.  It  is  good  to  tell  the 
truth."   And  yet  he  would  slide  off  into  a  lie 
as  if  the  track  in  that  direction  was  always 
greased.    Indeed,  there  was  a  kind  of  fluent, 
unctuous  obsequious  effrontery  in  all  he  said 
and  did.  As  the  day  was  warm  for  that  climate, 
he  soon  grew  tired  of  the  chase.   At  one  point 
we  skirted  the  grounds  of  a  large  house,  as 
thickly  planted  with  trees  and  shrubs  as  a 
forest;   many  birds  were  singing  there,  and 
for  a  moment   my  guide  made  me  believe 
i    that  among  them  he  recognized  the  notes  of 
the  nightingale.    Failing   in  this,   he    coolly 
j    assured  me  that  the  swallow  that  skimmed 
along  the  road  in  front  of  us  was  the  night- 
ingale !    We  presently  left  the  highway  and 
took  a  foot-path.    It  led   along   the  margin 
j    of  a  large  plowed  field,  shut  in  by  rows  of 
noble  trees,  the  soil  of  which  looked  as  if  it 
might  have  been  a  garden  for  untold  genera- 
tions.   Then  the  path  led  through  a  wicket, 
|    and  down  the  side  of  a  wooded  hill  to  a  large 
j    stream   and    to    the   hamlet   of    Easing.   A 
boy   fishing   said   indifferently   that   he   had 
heard  nightingales  there  that  morning.    He 
had  caught  a  little  fish  which  he  said  was  a 
i    gudgeon,    "  Yes,"  said  my  companion  in  re- 
I    sponse  to  a  remark  of  mine,  "  theys  little;  but 
i    you  can  eat  they  if  they  is  little."   Then  we 
went  toward  Shackerford  church.    The  road, 
I    like  most  roads  in  the  south  of  England,  was 
i    a  deep  trench.    The  banks  on  either  side  rose 
\    fifteen  feet,  covered  with  ivy,  moss,  wild  flow- 
j    ers,  and  the  roots  of  trees.    England's  best 
i    defense  against  an  invading  foe  is  her  sunken 
i    roads.    Whole  armies  might  be  ambushed  in 


these  trenches,  while  an  enemy  moving  across 
the  open  plain  would  very  often  find  himself 
plunging  headlong  into  these  hidden  pitfalls. 
Indeed,  between  the  subterranean  character 
of  the  roads  in  some  places  and  the  high- 
walled  or  high-hedged  character  of  it  in 
others,  the  pedestrian  about  England  is  shut 
out  from  much  he  would  like  to  see.  I  used 
to  envy  the  bicyclists,  perched  high  upon  their 
rolling  stilts.  But  the  foot-paths  escape  the 
barriers,  and  one  need  walk  nowhere  else  if 
he  choose. 

Around  Shackerford  church  are  copses, 
and  large  pine  and  fir  woods.  The  place  was 
full  of  birds.  My  guide  threw  a  stone  at  a 
small  bird  which  he  declared  was  a  nightin- 
gale; and  though  the  missile  did  not  come 
within  three  yards  of  it,  yet  he  said  he  had 
hit  it,  and  pretended  to  search  for  it  on  the 
ground.  He  must  needs  invent  an  oppor- 
tunity for  lying.  I  told  him  here  I  had  no 
further  use  for  him,  and  he  turned  cheer- 
fully back,  with  my  shilling  in  his  pocket.  I 
spent  the  afternoon  about  the  woods  and 
copses  near  Shackerford.  The  day  was  bright 
and  the  air  balmy.  I  heard  the  cuckoo 
call,  and  the  chaffinch  sing,  both  of  which  I 
considered  good  omens.  The  little  chifchaff 
was  chifchaffing  in  the  pine  woods.  The 
white-throat,  with  his  quick,  emphatic  Chew- 
che-rick  or  Che-rick-a-rew ,  flitted  and  ducked 
and  hid  among  the  low  bushes  by  the  road- 
side. A  girl  told  me  she  had  heard  the 
nightingale  yesterday  on  her  way  to  Sunday- 
school,  and  pointed  out  the  spot.  It  was  in 
some  bushes  near  a  house.  I  hovered  about 
this  place  till  I  was  afraid  the  woman,  who 
saw  me  from  the  window,  would  think  I  had 
some  designs  upon  her  premises.  But  I  man- 
aged to  look  very  indifferent  or  abstracted 
when  I  passed.  I  am  quite  sure  I  heard  the 
chiding,  guttural  note  of  the  bird  I  was  after. 
Doubtless  her  brood  had  come  out  that  very 
day.  Another  girl  had  heard  a  nightingale 
on  her  way  to  school  that  morning  and 
directed  me  to  the  road;  still  another  pointed 
out  to  me  the  white-throat  and  said  that  was 
my  bird.  This  last  was  a  rude  shock  to  my 
faith  in  the  ornithology  of  school-girls.  Final- 
ly, I  found  a  laborer  pounding  stone  by  the 
road-side, — a  serious,  honest-faced  man,  who 
said  he  had  heard  my  bird  that  morning  on 
his  way  to  work ;  he  heard  her  every  morn- 
ing, and  nearly  every  night  too.  He  heard 
her  last  night  after  the  shower  (just  at  the 
hour  when  my  barber  and  I  were  trying  to 
awaken  her  near  Hazlemere),  and  she  sang  as 
finely  as  ever  she  did.  This  was  a  great  lift. 
I  felt  that  I  could  trust  this  man.  He  said 
that  after  his  day's  work  was  done,  that  is,  at 
five  o'clock,  if  I  chose  to  accompany  him  on 


A  HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


his  way  home,  he  would  show  me  where  he 
had  heard  the  bird.  This  I  gladly  agreed  to; 
and  remembering  that  I  had  had  no  dinner, 
I  sought  out  the  inn  in  the  village  and  asked 
for  something  to  eat.  This  unwonted  request 
so  astonished  the  landlord  that  he  came  out 
from  behind  his  inclosed  bar,  and  confronted 
me  with  good-humored  curiosity.  These  back- 
country  English  inns,  as  I  several  times  found 
to  my  discomfiture,  are  only  drinking  places 
for  the  accommodation  of  local  customers, 
mainly  of  the  laboring  class.  Instead  of 
standing  conspicuously  on  some  street  corner, 
as  with  us,  they  usually  stand  on  some  by- 
way, or  some  little  paved  court  away  from 
the  main  thoroughfare.  I  could  have  plenty 
of  beer,  said  the  landlord,  but  he  had  not  a 
mouthful  of  meat  in  the  house.  I  urged  my 
needs,  and  finally  got  some  rye  bread  and 
cheese.  With  this  and  a  glass  of  home- 
brewed beer  I  was  fairly  well  fortified.  At 
the  appointed  time  I  met  the  cottager  and 
went  with  him  on  his  way  home.  We  walked 
two  miles  or  more  along  a  charming  road, 
full  of  wooded  nooks  and  arbor-like  vistas. 
Why  do  English  trees  always  look  so  sturdy, 
and  exhibit  such  massive  repose,  so  unlike,  in 
this  latter  respect,  to  the  nervous  and  agitated 
expression  of  most  of  our  own  foliage  ?  Prob- 
ably because  they  have  been  a  long  time  out 
of  the  woods  and  have  had  plenty  of  room 
in  which  to  develop  individual  traits  and  pe- 
culiarities ;  then  in  a  deep  fertile  soil,  and  a 
climate  that  does  not  hurry  or  overtax,  they 
grow  slow  and  last  long,  and  come  to  have 
the  picturesqueness  of  age  without  its  infirm- 
ities. The  oak,  the  elm,  the  beech,  all  have 
more  striking  profiles  than  in  our  country. 

Presently  my  companion  pointed  out  to 
me  a  small  wood  below  the  road  that  had  a 
wide  fringe  of  bushes  and  saplings  connect- 
ing it  with  a  meadow,  amid  which  stood  the 
tree-embowered  house  of  a  city  man,  where 
he  had  heard  the  nightingale  in  the  morning ; 
and  then,  further  along,  showed  me  near  his 
own  cottage  where  he  had  heard  one  the  even- 
ing before.  It  was  now  only  six  o'clock,  and  I 
had  two  or  three  hours  to  wait  before  I  could 
reasonably  expect  to  hear  her.  "  It  gets  to 
be  into  the  hevening,"  said  my  new  friend, 
"when  she  sings  the  most,  you  know."  I 
whiled  away  the  time  as  best  I  could.  If  I 
had  been  an  artist,  I  should  have  brought 
away  a  sketch  of  a  picturesque  old  cottage, 
near  by,  that  bore  the  date  of  1688  on  its  wall. 
I  was  obliged  to  keep  moving  most  of  the 
time  to  keep  warm.  Yet  the  "  nosee-'ems,"  or 
midges,  annoyed  me,  in  a  temperature  which  at 
home  would  have  chilled  them  speechless  and 
biteless.  Finally,  I  leapt  the  smooth  masonry 
of  the  stone  wall  and  ambushed  myself  amid 


the  tall  ferns  under  a  pine-tree,  where  the 
nightingale  had  been  heard  in  the  morning. 
If  the  keeper  had  seen  me,  he  would  probably 
have  taken  me  for  a  poacher.  I  sat  shiver- 
ing there  till  nine  o'clock,  listening  to  the 
cooing  of  the  wood-pigeons,  watching  the 
motions  of  a  jay  that,  I  suspect,  had  a  nest 
near  by,  and  taking  note  of  various  other 
birds.  The  song-thrush  and  the  robins  soon 
made  such  a  musical  uproar  along  the  bor- 
ders of  a  grove,  across  an  adjoining  field,  as 
quite  put  me  out.  It  might  veil  and  obscure 
the  one  voice  I  wanted  to  hear.  The  robin 
continued  to  sing  quite  into  the  darkness. 
This  bird  is  related  to  the  nightingale,  and 
looks  and  acts  like  it  at  a  little  distance ;  and 
some  of  its  notes  are  remarkably  piercing  and 
musical.  When  my  patience  was  about  ex- 
hausted, I  was  startled  by  a  quick,  brilliant 
call  or  whistle,  a  few  rods  from  me,  that  at 
once  recalled  my  barber  with  his  blade  of 
grass ;  and  I  knew  my  long-sought  bird  was 
inflating  her  throat.  How  it  woke  me  up! 
It  had  the  quality  that  startles ;  it  pierced  the 
gathering  gloom  like  a  rocket.  Then  it 
ceased.  Suspecting  I  was  too  near  the  singer, 
I  moved  away  cautiously  and  stood  in  a  lane 
beside  the  wood,  where  a  loping  hare  regarded 
me  a  few  paces  away.  Then  my  singer 
struck  up  again,  but  I  could  see  did  not  let 
herself  out;  just  tuning  her  instrument,  I 
thought,  and  getting  ready  to  transfix  the  si- 
lence and  the  darkness.  A  little  later,  a  man 
and  boy  came  up  the  lane.  I  asked  them  if 
that  was  the  nightingale  singing;  they  list- 
ened, and  assured  me  it  was  none  other. 
"  Now  she's  on,  sir ;  now  she's  on.  Ah ! 
but  she  don't  stick.  In  May,  sir,  they  makes 
the  woods  all  heccho  about  here.  Now  she's 
on  again ;  that's  her,  sir ;  now  she's  off;  she 
won't  stick."  And  stick  she  would  not.  I 
could  hear  a  hoarse  wheezing  and  cluckinj 
sound  beneath  her  notes,  when  I  listenec 
intently.  The  man  and  boy  moved  on.  I 
stood  mutely  invoking  all  the  gentle  divinities 
to  spur  the  bird  on.  Just  then  a  bird  like 
our  hermit- thrush  came  quickly  over  the 
hedge  a  few  yards  below  me,  swept  close 
past  my  face,  and  back  into  the  thicket,  I 
had  been  caught  listening ;  the  offended  bird 
had  found  me  taking  notes  of  her  dry  and 
worn-out  pipe  there  behind  the  hedge,  and 
the  concert  abruptly  ended;  not  another 
note;  not  a  whisper.  I  waited  a  long  time 
and  then  moved  off;  then  came  back,  im- 
plored the  outraged  bird  to  resume;  then 
rushed  off,  and,  as  it  were,  slammed  the  door 
indignantly  behind  me.  I  paused  by  other 
shrines,  but  not  a  sound.  The  cottager  had 
told  me  of  a  little  village  three  miles  beyon< 
where  there  were  three  inns,  and  where 


nd 


A   HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


781 


could  probably  get  lodgings  for  the  night.  I 
walked  rapidly  in  that  direction ;  committed 
myself  to  a  foot-path;  lost  the  trail,  and 
brought  up  at  a  little  cottage  in  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  field  or  common,  and  by  the  good 
woman,  with  a  babe  in  her  arms,  was  set 
right  again.  I  soon  struck  the  highway  by 
the  bridge,  as  I  had  been  told,  and  a  few 
paces  brought  me  to  the  first  inn.  It  was  ten 
o'clock,  and  the  lights  were  just  about  to  be 
put  out,  as  the  law  or  custom  is  in  country 
inns.  The  landlady  said  she  could  not  give 
me  a  bed,  she  had  only  one  spare  room,  and 
that  was  not  in  order;  and  she  should  not 
set  about  putting  it  in  shape  at  that  hour; 
and  she  was  short  and  sharp  about  it,  too. 
1  hastened  on  to  the  next  one.  The  landlady 
said  she  had  no  sheets,  and  the  bed  was 
damp  and  unfit  to  sleep  in.  I  protested  that 
I  thought  an  inn  was  an  inn  and  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  travelers.  But  she  referred 
me  to  the  next  house.  Here  were  more 
people  and  more  the  look  and  air  of  a  public 
house.  But  the  wife  (the  man  does  not  show 
himself  on  such  occasions)  said  her  daughter 
had  just  got  married  and  come  home,  and 
she  had  much  company  and  could  not  keep 
me.  In  vain  I  urged  my  extremity;  there 
was  no  room.  Could  I  have  something  to 
eat,  then  ?  This  seemed  doubtful,  and  led. 
to  consultations  in  the  kitchen;  but,  finally, 
some  bread  and  cold  meat  were  produced. 
The  nearest  hotel  was  Godalming,  seven 
miles  distant ;  and  I  knew  all  the  inns  would 
be  shut  up  before  I  could  get  there.  So  I 
munched  my  bread  and  meat,  consoling  my- 
self with  the  thought  that  perhaps  this  was 
just  the  ill  wind  that  would  blow  me  the  good 
I 1  was  in  quest  of.  I  saw  no  alternative  but 
|  to  spend  a  night  under  the  trees  with  the 
nightingales;  and  I  might  surprise  them  at 
I  their  revels  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ling.  Just  as  I  was  ready  to  congratulate 
I  my  self  on  the  richness  of  my  experience,  the 
llandlady  came  in  and  said  there  was  a  young 
man  there  going  with  a  "trap"  to  Godal- 
;ming,  and  he  had  offered  to  take  me  in.  I 
ifeared  I  should  pass  for  an  escaped  lunatic 
!if  I  declined  the  offer;  so  I  reluctantly 
(assented,  and  we  were  presently  whirling 
jthrough  the  darkness,  along  a  smooth,  wind- 
ing road,  toward  town.  The  young  man  was 
ia  drummer;  was  from  Lincolnshire,  and  said 
|I  spoke  like  a  Lincolnshire  man.  I  could 
believe  it,  for  I  told  him  he  talked  more 
like  an  American  than  any  native  I  had 
tmet.  The  hotels  in  the  larger  towns  close  at 
jeleven,  and  I  was  set  down  in  front  of  one 
ljust  as  the  clock  was  striking  that  hour.  I 
asked  to  be  conducted  to  a  room  at  once. 
Just  as  I  was  about  getting  in  bed  there  was 


a  rap  at  the  door,  and  a  waiter  presented  me 
my  bill  on  a  tray.  "  Gentlemen  as  have  no 
luggage,  etc.,"  he  explained;  and  pretend 
to  be  looking  for  nightingales,  too  !  Three- 
and-sixpence ;  two  shillings  for  the  bed  and 
one-and-six  for  service.  I  was  out  at  five  in 
the  morning,  before  any  one  inside  was  astir. 
After  much  trying  of  bars  and  doors,  I  made 
my  exit  into  a  paved  court,  from  which  a  cov- 
ered way  led  into  the  street.  A  man  opened 
a  window  and  directed  me  how  to  undo  the 
great  door,  and  forth  I  started,  still  hoping  to 
catch  my  bird  at  her  matins.  I  took  the  route 
of  the  day  before.  On  the  edge  of  the  beauti- 
ful plowed  field,  looking  down  through  the 
trees  and  bushes  into  the  gleam  of  the  river 
twenty  rods  below,  I  was  arrested  by  the  note 
I  longed  to  hear.  It  came  up  from  near  the 
water,  and  made  my  ears  tingle.  I  folded 
up  my  rubber  coat  and  sat  down  upon  it, 
saying,  Now  we  will  take  our  fill.  But  —  the 
bird  ceased,  and,  tarry  though  I  did  for  an 
hour,  not  another  note  reached  me.  The 
prize  seemed  destined  to  elude  me  each  time 
just  as  I  thought  it  mine.  Still,  I  treasured 
what  little  I  had  heard.  I  perceived  clearly 
the  surprising  quality  of  this  bird's  song. 

It  was  enough  to  satisfy  me  of  its  superior 
quality,  and  make  me  more  desirous  than  ever 
to  hear  the  complete  strain.  I  continued  my 
rambles,  and  in  the  early  morning  once  more 
hung  about  the  Shackerford  copses  and  loit- 
ered along  the  highways.  Two  school-boys 
pointed  out  a  tree  to  me  in  which  they  had 
heard  the  nightingale,  on  their  way  for  milk, 
two  hours  before.  But  1  could  only  repeat 
Emerson's  lines : 

"  Right  good  will  my  sinews  strung, 

But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 

To  hunt  up  their  shining  trails." 

At  nine  o'clock  I  gave  over  the  pursuit 
and  returned  to  Easing  in  quest  of  breakfast. 
The  landlady  and  her  daughter,  of  the  only 
large  and  comfortable-looking  inn,  were  wash- 
ing windows,  and  would  not  listen  to  my  re- 
quest for  breakfast.  The  fires  were  out  and 
I  could  not  be  served.  So  I  must  continue 
my  walk  back  to  Godalming ;  and  in  doing 
so,  I  found  that  one  may  walk  three  miles  on 
indignation  quite  as  easily  as  upon  bread. 

In  the  afternoon  I  returned  to  my  lodgings 
at  Shotter  Mill,  and  made  ready  for  a  walk 
to  Selborne,  twelve  miles  distant,  part  of  the 
way  to  be  accomplished  that  night  in  the 
gloaming,  and  the  rest  early  on  the  following 
morning  to  give  the  nightingales  a  chance  to 
make  any  reparation  they  might  feel  inclined  to 
for  the  neglect  with  which  they  had  treated  me. 
There  was  a  foot-path  over  the  hill  and  through 
Lechmere  bottom  to  Liphook,  and  to  this, 


782 


A  HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


with  the  sun  half  an  hour  high,  I  committed 
myself.  The  feature  in  this  hill  scenery  of  Sur- 
rey and  Sussex  that  is  new  to  American  eyes 

»       .  11,  IT  1111 


was  a  nightingale,  was  it  not, 
I  inquired  for 


ingales.    "  It 

Charley  ?  " 

If  all  the  people  of  whom 

is  given  by  the  furze  and  heather,  broad  black  nightingales  in  England  could  have  been 
or  dark-brown  patches  of  which  sweep  over  together  and  compared  notes,  they  probably 
the  high  rolling  surfaces,  like  sable  mantles,  would  not  have  been  long  in  deciding  that 
Tennyson's  house  stands  amid  this  dusky  there  was  at  least  one  crazy  American  abroad, 
scenery,  at  a  place  east  of  Hazlemere  called  I  proposed  to  be  up  and  off  at  five  o'clock 
Blackdown.  The  path  led  through  a  large  in  the  morning,  which  seemed  greatly  to  puz- 
common,  partly  covered  with  grass  and  partly  ,zle  mine  host.  At  first  he  thought  it  could 
grown  up  to  furze  —  another  un-American  not  be  done,  but  finally  saw  his  way  out  of  the 
feature.  So  precious  as  land  is  in  England,  dilemma  and  said  he  would  get  up  and  undo 
and  yet  so  much  of  it  given  to  parks  and  the  door  for  me  himself.  The  morning  was 


pleasure-grounds,  and  so  much  of  it  left  un- 
reclaimed in  commons !  These  commons  are 
frequently  met  with  ;  about  Selborne  they  are 
miles  in  extent,  and  embrace  the  Hanger 
and  other  woods.  No  one  can  inclose  them 


cloudy  and  misty,  though  the  previous  night 
had  been  of  the  fairest.  There  is. one  thing 
they  do  not  have  in  England  that  we  can 
boast  of  at  home,  and  that  is  a  good  mascu- 
line type  of  weather ;  it  is  not  even  feminine ; 


or  appropriate  them  to   his  own   use.   The  it  is  childish  and  puerile,  though  I  am  told 

landed  proprietor  of  whose  estates  they  form  that  occasionally  there  is  a  full-grown  storm, 

a  part  cannot ;  they  belong  to  the  people,  to  But  I  saw  nothing  but  petulant  little  show- 

the   leaseholders.   The  villagers   and  others  ers  and  prolonged  juvenile  sulks.  The  clouds 

who  own  houses  on  leased  land  pasture  their  have  no  reserve,  no  dignity;  if  there  is  a  drop 

cows  upon  them,  gather  the  furze,  and  cut  of  water  in  them  (and  there  generally  are  sev- 

the 


the  wood.  In  some  places  the  commons 
belong  to  the  crown  and  are  crown  lands. 
These  large  uninclosed  spaces  often  give  a 
free  and  easy  air  to  the  landscape  that  is  very 
welcome.  On  the  border  of  Lechmere  bottom 
I  sat  down  above  a  straggling  copse,  aflame 
as  usual  with  the  foxglove,  and  gave  eye 
and  ear  to  the  scene.  While  sitting  here,  I 
saw  and  heard  for  the  first  time  the  black- 
capped  warbler.  I  recognized  the  note  at 
once  by  its  brightness  and  strength  and  a 
faint  suggestion  in  it  of  the  nightingale's. 
But  it  was  disappointing :  I  had  expected  a 
nearer  approach  to  its  great  rival.  The  bird 
was  very  shy,  but  did  finally  show  herself 
fairly  several  times,  as  she  did  also  near  Sel- 
borne, where  I  heard  the  song  oft  repeated 
and  prolonged.  It  is  a  ringing,  animated  strain, 
but  as  a  whole  seemed  to  me  crude,  not 
smoothly  and  finely  modulated.  I  could  name 
several  of  our  own  birds  that  surpass  it  in 
pure  music.  Like  its  congeners,  the  garden 
warbler  and  the  white-throat,  it  sings  with 


eral  drops),  out  it  comes.  The  prettiest  little 
showers  march  across  the  country  in  summer, 
scarcely  bigger  than  a  street  watering-cart ; 
sometimes  by  getting  over  the  fence  one  can 
avoid  them,  but  they  keep  the  hay-makers  in 
a  perpetual  flurry.  There  is  no  cloud  scenery, 
as  with  us,  no  mass  and  solidity,  no  height 
nor  depth.  The  clouds  seem  low,  vague  and 
vapory, —  immature,  indefinite,  inconsequen- 
tial, like  youth. 

The  walk  to  Selborne  was  through  mist 
and  light  rain.  Few  bird-voices,  save  the  cry 
of  the  lapwing  and  the  curlew,  were  heard. 
Shortly  after  leaving  Liphook  the  road  takes 
a  straight  cut  for  three  or  four  miles  through 
a  level,  black,  barren,  peaty  stretch  of  coun- 
try, with  Wolmer  Forest  a  short  distance  on 
the  right.  Under  the  low,  hanging  clouds  the 
scene  was  a  dismal  one — a  black  earth  be- 
neath and  a  gloomy  sky  above.  For  miles  the 
only  sign  of  life  was  a  baker's  cart  rattling 
along  the  smooth,  white  road.  At  the  end  of 
this  solitude  I  came  to  cultivated  fields  and 


great  emphasis  and  strength,  but  its  song  is  a  little  hamlet  and  an  inn.   At  this  inn  (for  a 

silvern,  not  golden.    "  Little  birds  with  big  wonder ! )  I  got  some  breakfast.    I  sat  at  the 

voices."  one  says  to  himself  after  having  heard  table  with  the  family,  and  had  substantial  fare, 

most  of  the  British  songsters.    My  path  led  From  this    point   I  followed   a  foot-path  a 

me  an  adventurous  course  through  the  copses  couple  of  miles  through   fields   and   parks, 

and  bottoms  and  open  commons,  in  the  long  The  highways  for  the  most  part  seem  so  nar- 

twilight,  but  brought  me  safely  to  Liphook  row  and  exclusive,  or  inclusive,  such  penalties 

at  ten  o'clock.    I  expected  and  half  hoped  seem  to  attach  to  a  view  over  the  high  walls 

the  inn  would  turn  its  back  upon  me  again,  and  hedges  that  shut  you  in,  that  a  foot-path 
in  which  case  I  proposed  to  make  for  Wol- 
mer  Forest  a  few  miles  distant,  but  it  did 
not.  Before  going  to  bed,  I  took  a  short  and 
hasty  walk  down  a  promising-looking  lane, 

and  again  met  a  couple  who  had  heard  night-  flank  of  an'  enemy.  These  well-kept  fields  anc 


was  always  a  welcome  escape  to  me.  I  opened 
the  wicket  or  mounted  the  stile  without  much 
concern  as  to  whether  it  would  further  me 
on  my  way  or  not.  It  was  like  turning  the 


A   HUNT  FOR    THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


783 


I  lawns,  these  cozy  nooks,  these  stately  and  ex- 
i  elusive  houses  that  had  taken  such  pains  to 
(shut  out  the  public  gaze — from  the  foot-path 
ione   had   them  at  an  advantage,  and  could 
I  pluck  out  their  mystery.   On  striking  the  high- 
tway  again,  I  met  the  postmistress,  stepping 
jbriskly  along  with  the   morning   mail.    Her 
I  husband   had  died,  and  she  had   taken  his 
'place  as  mail-carrier.    England  is  so  densely 
ipopulated,  the  country  is  so  like  a  great  city 
suburb,  that   your  mail   is   brought  to   your 
door   everywhere,  the  same  as   in  town.    I 
walked  a  distance  with  a  boy  driving  a  little 
iold  white  horse  with  a  cart-load  of  brick.    He 
lived  at  Hedleigh,  six  miles  distant ;  he  had 
left  there  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
!had  heard  a  nightingale.    He  was  sure ;  as  I 
pressed  him,  he  described  the  place  minutely. 
'"  She  was  in  the  large  fir-tree  by  Tom  An- 
thony's gate,  at  the  south  end  of  the  village." 
Then,  I  said,  doubtless  I  shall  find  one  in 
some  of  Gilbert  White's  haunts;  but  I  did  not. 
I  spent  two  rainy  days  at  Selborne ;  I  passed 
many  chilly  and   cheerless    hours    loitering 
along  those  wet  lanes  and  dells  and  dripping 
hangers,  wooing  both  my  bird  and  the  spirit 
of  the  gentle  parson,  but  apparently  without 
getting  very  near  to  either.    When  I  think  of 
the  place  now,  I  see  its  hurrying  and  anxious 
lay-makers  in  the  field  of  mown  grass,  and 
lear  the  cry  of  a  child  that  sat  in  the  hay 
Dack  of  the  old  church,  and  cried  by  the  hour, 
while  its  mother  was  busy  with  her  rake  not 
iar  off.    The  rain  had  ceased,  the  hay  had  dried 
off  a  little,  and  scores  of   men,  women,  and 
children,  but   mostly  women,  had  flocked  to 
;he   fields   to   rake   it   up.   The   hay  is   got 
together    inch   by  inch,  and  every  inch    is 
"ought  for.    They  first  rake  it  up  into  narrow 
swaths,  each  person  taking  a  strip  about  a 
I  yard  wide.    If  they  hold   the    ground  thus 
I  rained,  when  the  hay  dries  an  hour  or  two 
•onger,  they  take  another  hitch,  and  thus  on 
I  Jill  they  get  it  into  the  cock  or  "  carry  "  it  from 
I  he  windrow.    It  is  usually  nearly  worn  out 
'  |vith  handling  before  they  get  it  into  the  rick. 
i   From  Selborne  I  went  to  Alton,  along  a 
•load  that   was   one  prolonged  rifle-pit,  but 
at  Smooth  and  hard  as  a  rock ;  thence  by  train 
;  pack  to  London.    To  leave  no  ground  for  self- 
ii  ',ccusation  in  future,  on  the  score  of  not  having 
bade  a  thorough  effort  to  hear  my  songster, 
|   the  next   day  made    a  trip  north  toward 
Cambridge,  leaving   the  train  at    Hitchin,  a 
irge  picturesque  old  town,  and  thought  my- 
;elf  in  just  the  right  place  at  last.    I  found  a 
load  between  the  station  and  the  town  proper, 
tailed  Nightingale  Lane,  famous  for  its  song- 


sters.  A  man  who  kept  a  thrifty  looking  inn 
on  the  corner  (where,  by  the  way,  I  was  again 
refused  both  bed  and  food)  said  they  sang 
night  and  morning  in  the  trees  opposite.  He 
had  heard  them  the  night  before,  but  had 
not  noticed  them  that  morning.  He  often  sat 
at  night  with  his  friends,  with  open  windows, 
listening  to  the  strain.  He  said  he  had  tried 
several  times  to  hold  his  breath  as  long  as  the 
bird  did  in  uttering  certain  notes,  but  could 
not  do  it.  This,  I  knew,  was  an  exaggeration; 
but  I  waited  eagerly  for  night-fall,  and  when 
it  came  paced  the  street  like  a  patrolman,  and 
paced  other  streets,  and  lingered  about  other 
likely  localities,  but  caught  nothing  but  neu- 
ralgic pains  in  my  shoulder.  I  had  no  better 
success  in  the  morning,  and  here  gave  over 
the  pursuit,  saying  to  myself,  It  matters  little, 
after  all ;  I  have  seen  the  country  and  had 
some  object  for  a  walk,  and  that  is  enough. 

Altogether  I  heard  the  bird  less  than  five 
minutes,  and  only  a  few  bars  of  its  song,  but 
enough  to  satisfy  me  of  the  surprising  quality 
of  the  strain. 

It  had  the  master  tone  as  clearly  as  Ten- 
nyson, or  any  great  prima  donna,  or  famous 
orator  has  it.  Indeed,  it  was  just  the  same. 
Here  is  the  complete  artist,  of  whom  all 
these  other  birds  are  but  hints  and  studies. 
Bright,  startling,  assured,  of  great  compass 
and  power,  it  easily  dominates  all  other  notes ; 
the  harsher  chur-r-r-r-rg  notes  serve  as  foil  to 
her  surpassing  brilliancy.  Wordsworth,  among 
the  poets,  has  hit  off  the  song  nearest : 

"  Those  notes  of  thine  —  they  pierce  and  pierce ; 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce !  " 

I  could  easily  understand  that  this  bird 
might  keep  people  awake  at  night  by  sing- 
ing near  their  houses,  as  I  was  assured  it  fre- 
quently does  :  there  is  something  in  the  strain 
so  startling  and  awakening.  Its  start  is  a 
vivid  flash  of  sound.  On  the  whole,  a  high- 
bred, courtly,  chivalrous  song;  a  song  for 
ladies  to  hear  leaning  from  embowered  win- 
dows on  moonlight  nights ;  a  song  for  royal 
parks  and  groves — and  easeful  but  impas- 
sioned life.  We  have  no  bird -voice  so  piercing 
and  loud,  with  such  flexibility  and  compass, 
such  full-throated  harmony  and  long-drawn 
cadences;  though  we  have  songs  of  more 
melody,  tenderness,  and  plaintiveness.  None 
but  the  nightingale  could  have  inspired 
Keats's  ode —that  longing  for  self-forgetful- 
ness  and  for  the  oblivion  of  the  world,  to 
escape  the  fret  and  fever  of  life, 

"And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim." 
John  Burroughs. 


TOPICS   OF   THE   TIME. 


A  Chinese  Wall  for  American  Art. 

THE  advocates  of  a  tariff  on  the  works  of  foreign  art- 
ists are,  at  least,  not  without  consistency.  They  regard 
art  as  a  mercantile  commodity,  which  must  be  "  pro- 
tected "  in  order  to  thrive  at  home ;  and  furthermore, 
when  they  are  told  that  American  art-students  and 
artists  residing  abroad  are  suffering  socially  from  the 
action  of  Congress  in  increasing  the  tariff,  and  are  also 
in  peril  of  being  turned  out  of  the  art-schools  where 
they  are  being  freely  educated  at  the  cost  of  foreign 
governments,  they  retort  that  it  is  all  the  better  for 
American  art  that  they  should  be  turned  out. 

But  we  think  that  Congress  takes  a  great  respon- 
sibility when  it  virtually  legislates  American  art-stu- 
dents out  of  their  present  privilege  of  studying  their 
profession  where  it  can  best  be  studied  —  namely,  in 
foreign  schools  and  museums.  From  the  time  that 
the  young  Longfellow  went  to  Europe  for  travel 
and  study,  before  assuming  a  professorship  at  Bow- 
doin,  American  advanced  students  of  all  the  arts  and 
sciences  have  generally  found  it  convenient  to  gain 
some  part  of  their  instruction  in  the  Old  World. 
Even  when  the  time  arrives  that  American  students 
of  medicine,  of  philosophy,  of  all  the  various  sciences, 
strictly  so  called,  will  not  need  to  study  abroad,  it 
will  still  be  necessary  that  some  part  of  the  student  life 
of  artists  shall  be  spent  in  the  galleries,  museums,  and 
schools  of  the  Old  World.  Shakspere  can  be  read 
nearly  if  not  quite  as  intelligently  in  New  York  as  in 
London ;  a  student  of  anatomy  can  find  as  good  a 
subject  to  dissect  in  Philadelphia  as  in  Paris.  But 
a  student  of  art  can  find  not  one  Greek  statue  in 
America;  not  one  work  of  Michael  Angelo;  not  one 
supreme  example  of  any  of  the  great  periods  of  artis- 
tic production  !  Even  when  our  art-schools  and  mu- 
seums are  improved  in  the  matter  of  apparatus  and 
examples,  it  will  still  be  always  desirable  for  the  art- 
student  and  archaeologist  to  spend  a  certain  proportion 
of  his  time  among  the  art  monuments  of  the  Old  World. 

Any  one  who  does  not  comprehend  these  considera- 
tions does  not  understand  the  essentials  of  art,  and  is 
therefore  incompetent  to  discuss  wisely  any  aesthetic 
question, —  much  less  to  legislate,  or  to  intelligently 
influence  legislation,  concerning  art.  It  is  true  that 
art  should,  in  a  certain  sense,  be  national ;  but  before 
being  national,  it  must  first  be  art.  The  art  of  the 
American  savage  was  protected  by  the  laws  of  nature 
for  many  thousand  years,  and  yet  the  painting  and 
sculpture  of  the  Indians  can  hardly  compete  with  those 
of  Italy.  And  if  Italian  art  had  been  "  protected " 
against  that  of  Greece,  where  would  have  been  the 
Renaissance  ?  We  get  our  language,  our  religion, 
our  ancestors  (some  of  the  most  patriotic  among  us 
get  even  ourselves),  from  abroad.  Why  should  we 
be  ashamed  to  receive  instruction  in  art  from  the  same 
quarter  ?  The  gentlemen,  or  gentleman,  who  sprang 
the  thirty-per-cent.  Chinese  Wall  tariff  on  the  country 
should,  in  order  to  be  ideally  consistent,  eschew  the 


European  coat  and  trowsers  so  prevalent  in  our  East- 
ern States  especially,  and  return  to  the  native  Ameri- 
can garb  of  the  Indian  Territory. 

The  tariff  on  art  is  legislation  that  discriminates 
against  the  poor  man.  The  rich  man  can  afford  to  have 
the  picture  of  his  choice,  no  matter  what  the  tariff  may 
be;  in  fact,  the  higher  the  tariff  the  rarer  the  gem  with 
which  his  wall  is  adorned.  The  free  admission  of  pict- 
ures intended  for  public  galleries,  in  a  law  which  taxes 
all  other  picture  importations,  is  a  delusion.  The  pub- 
lic galleries,  by  means  of  loans  and  bequests,  are  con- 
stantly benefited  by  the  treasures  of  art  owned  by 
private  individuals  ;  and,  besides,  a  good  picture  hung 
upon  a  poor  man's  wall,  or  in  any  private  gallery,  has 
an  influence  that  cannot  be  measured. 

There  are  some  who  would  like  to  arrange  the  tariff 
so  as  to  exclude  "bad  pictures."  What  nonsense! 
Who  is  to  judge  whether  or  not  a  picture  is  "  bad  "  ? 
Your  "  bad  "  may  be  my  "  good."  If  you  pick  up  a 
Millet  in  Paris  while  Millet  is  comparatively  un- 
known, has  the  cheapness  of  the  purchase  anything 
to  do  with  the  art-value  of  the  painting  ? 

The  fact  is,  art  should  be  free  —  free  as  air,  free 
as  sympathy,  free  as  thought  and  imagination. 
Art  should  be  fostered, —  not  "protected"  by  the! 
clumsy  devices  of  a  tariff, — and  the  way  to  foster  arl 
is  to  give  it  liberty.  Any  attempt  to  restrict  the  free 
interchange  of  art  throughout  the  world  is  an  attempl 
to  impede  its  development.  As  we  have  said  above, 
the  aboriginals  had  this  country  a  good  while  tc 
themselves :  what  did  they  do  for  American  art  i 
Unless  we  are  to  go  back  to  savagery,  we  must  admii 
no  impediment  to  the  free  and  stimulating  entrance 
into  America  of  the  art  of  the  Old  World. 


"The  Christian -League  of  Connecticut." 

DR.  GLADDEN'S  "Christian  League  of  Connecti 
cut,"  both  in  magazine  and  book  form,  has  been  re- 
ceived with  a  welcome  that  is  one  of  the  healthies 
signs  of  the  times.  It  has  often  been  charged  tha 
the  churches  are  responsible  for  sectarian  division  anc 
strife;  in  these  chapters  Dr.  Gladden  proves  the 
charge,  and  that  his  words  have  been  so  well  receivec 
indicates  in  the  churches  a  mind  ready  for  repentance 
even  if  not  quite  ready  yet  to  do  the  works  that  ar< 
meet  for  repentance. 

The  evils  of  sectarianism,  foretold  by  the  prophet: 
of  the  New  Testament,  forewarned  against  by  Chris 
himself,  are  so  great  and  so  apparent  that  the  mos 
enthusiastic  sectary  seldom  ventures  to  deny  or  evei 
to  belittle  them.  The  energies  of  the  church  of  Christ 
which  should  be  wholly  devoted  to  battling  agairs 
superstition,  ignorance,  intemperance,  covetousness 
lust,  and  all  forms  of  selfishness  and  worldliness,  £r> 
diverted  into  controversies  about  forms,  symbols 
rites,  and  formularies  of  doctrine.  While  Hercule-' 
right  hand  is  busy  contending  with  his  left,  the  s«:r 


TOPICS  OF  THE   TIME. 


785 


pents  threaten  to  destroy  him;  to  destroy  them  he 
needs  all  the  strength  of  both  his  hands.  This  spirit 
of  sectarianism  is,  by  the  confession  of  all  missionary 
workers,  the  greatest  obstacle  to  successful  Christian 
work  in  our  own  land,  and  to  missionary  work  abroad. 
The  rival  sects  compete  for  congregations  in  the 
new  towns  of  the  West  with  a  rivalry  as  intense 
and  sometimes  almost  as  unscrupulous  as  that  of 
trade.  In  a  single  village  in  Kansas,  numbering  not 
over  a  thousand  souls  all  told,  there  are,  or  were 
a  few  years  ago,  three  Presbyterian  churches, —  a 
Northern,  a  Southern,  and  a  Cumberland  Presby- 
terian. Of  course,  other  denominations  were  also 
represented  in  this  very  churchly  but  very  unsanctified 
community.  At  the  same  time  there  are,  or  were,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  .of  railroad,  with  small  villages 
scattered  along  its  line,  and  not  a  single  Protestant 
meeting-house  of  any  description  from  one  end  to  the 
I  other.  Mormondom  is  an  army ;  Romanism  is  an 
army  ;  the  liquor  traffic  is  an  army ;  all  three  are  well 
organized  and  officered.  That  Protestantism,  broken  up 
into  independent  companies  of  minute-men,  produces 
any  effect  whatever  in  checking  the  advance  of  these 
three  great  armies,  is  due  not  to  the  miserable  meth- 
ods which  it  employs,  but  to  the  magnificent  divine 
endowment  of  truth  with  which  it  has  been  intrusted, 
land  which  it  cannot  utterly  despoil  of  its  power. 
Abroad,  the  effect  of  sectarianism  on  Christian  prog- 
ress is  less  disastrous,  because  the  foreign  missionary 
is  rarely,  if  ever,  a  sectary,  and  pays  as  little  attention 
to  sectarian  distinctions  as  he  can  do  and  avoid 
conflict  with  the  churches  from  which  he  draws  his 
(support  at  home.  But  in  spite  of  this  fact,  sectarian- 
ism is  the  chief  obstacle  to  the  progress  of  foreign 
missions.  Mr.  Mazoomdar,  being  told  that  he  is 
anly  in  the  vestibule  of  Christianity,  replies  with  a 
sarcasm,  which,  despite  its  exaggeration,  has  enough 
truth  in  it  to  be  humiliating  to  the  Christian,  that, 
(when  he  looks  within  the  open  door  and  sees  the 
gladiators  fighting  with  one  another  in  the  arena,  he 
|.s  more  inclined  to  flee  from  the  vestibule  than  to 
oass  within  the  amphitheater  of  the  church  itself. 
',  When  these  evils  of  sectarianism  have  been  brought 
before  the  Christian  public  in  the  press  or  on  the  plat- 
form, the  answer  of  the  sectary  has,  at  least  of  late, 
oeen  in  the  nature  of  what  the  lawyers  call  a  demurrer. 
i'l  grant,"  he  has  said,  "  that  all  you  say  is  true ;  still, 
here  is  no  cause  of  complaint  and  no  ground  of  con- 
demnation. If  you  allow  that  right  of  private  judg- 
jnent  which  is  our  inheritance  from  the  Reformation, 
7ou  must  accept  the  evil  with  the  good,  in  the  faith 
jhat  the  evil  will  prove  temporary  and  the  good  per- 


the  abandonment  of  the  right  of  private  judgment  or  the 
disregard  of  those  conscientious  conclusions  to  which 
the  exercise  of  that  right  brings  each  individual  soul  ?  " 
To  this  question  Dr.  Gladden,  in  "  The  Christian 
League  of  Connecticut,"  has  furnished  a  reply.  He 
shows  how  the  Christian  churches  in  any  town  can 
unite  their  forces  for  a  common  work  against  a  com- 
mon enemy  without  abandoning  the  right  of  private 
judgment,  without  violating  the  conscientious  con- 
victions to  which  it  has  brought  them,  and  without 
destroying  or  even  weakening  their  respective  church 
organizations.  He  does  this  by  a  story  which  is  so 
common-sense  in  its  principles  and  so  realistic  in  its  art 
that  it  is  not  strange  that  many  readers  took  it  to  be 
history.  It  ought  to  be  history.  Indeed,  the  only 
criticism  which  the  sectary  makes  on  Dr.  Gladden's 
plan  for  a  community  of  Christian  work  is  that  it  is 
ideal  and  impracticable,  and  to  the  average  sectary 
this  criticism  seems  entirely  conclusive.  In  fact,  the 
first  epithet  is  one  only  of  praise;  and  the  second, 
though  it  is  a  severe  criticism,  is  a  criticism  on  the 
sectary  himself  and  not  on  the  book  which  he  criti- 
cises. The  function  of  the  minister  of  Christ  is  to 
hold  up  ideals  of  life.  He  is  appointed  to  do  this 
very  work  for  the  community ;  to  set  over  against  the 
average  home,  with  its  petty  ways,  its  selfishnesses,  its 
drudgery,  and  its  bickerings,  the  ideal  home  inspired 
by  hope  and  radiated  by  love ;  to  set  over  against  the 
actual  state,  with  all  the  jealousies  and  the  mean  am- 
bitions of  practical  politicians,  the  kingdom  of  God — 
the  ideal  democracy  in  which  he  only  is  accounted  great 
who  is  the  servant  of  all ;  to  set  over  against  the  com- 
mon industries  of  life,  with  all  their  grasping  and  their 
greed,  the  un  selfish  industry  whose  motto  is, "  My  father 
worketh  hitherto,  and  I  work";  to  set  over  against 
the  actual  church  of  Christ,  with  its  strife  and  debate, 
the  united  church  of  Christ — many  members,  but  one 
body.  To  say,  as  some  do,  that  Dr.  Gladden  has 
painted  in  "  The  Christian  League  of  Connecticut " 
an  ideal  Christianity,  is  to  give  him  the  highest 
praise.  It  is  to  say  that  he  has  done  for  Protestant 
Christianity  in  America  what  Moses  did  for  the  ethi- 
cal life  of  all  times  when  he  preserved  in  the  tables 
of  stone  the  Ten  Commandments,  and  what  Jesus 
Christ  did  for  the  spiritual  life  of  the  individual  of  all 
times  when  he  gave  to  his  apostles  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount.  We  should  not  ourselves  agree  to  so  high 
a  praise  as  this.  Dr.  Gladden's  Christian  League  falls 
short  of  our  ideal,  and  we  venture  to  think  that  it  falls 
considerably  short  of  Dr.  Gladden's  own  ideal;  but  it 
is  one  step  toward  an  ideal,  and  toward  one  which  is 
not  necessarily  impracticable ;  that  is,  there  is  nothing 


nanent.    The  Baptist  cannot  abandon  his  immersion,    in  it  which  violates   the   essential   and  ineradicable 


lor  the  Episcopalian  his  orders,  nor  the  Presbyterian 
jiis  organization,  nor  the  Congregationalist  his  inde- 
pendency, nor  the  Methodist  his  Arminianism,  nor 
the  Calvinist  his  doctrine  of  decrees.  These  are  mat- 
brs  of  conscience  with  each  of  us,  and  we  must  hold 
fist  to  them.  We  cannot  abandon  our  church  organ- 
izations ;  we  must  work  within  our  church  lines  ;  and 
fe  must  be  content  to  wait  until  free  discussion  and 
Hendly  fellowship,  in  Evangelical  Alliance  meetings 


principles  of  human  nature.  If  it  is  impracticable,  we 
may  well  ask  whether  this  is  not  because  the  pride, 
and  petty  ambitions,  and  mean  jealousy,  and  ignoble 
self-will,  in  a  word,  the  unchristian  selfishness  of 
the  Christian  churches  and  the  Christian  ministry, 
make  it  so.  If  all  ministers  and  all  churches  were  as 
Christian  in  spirit  as  the  ministers  and  churches  of 
New  Albion,  there  is  no  reason  why  Protestantism 
should  not  unite  in  a  Christian  League  for  its  common 


jnd  the  like,  shall,  in  some  far  remote  period  of  time,     Christian  work  by  methods  which  undoubtedly  would 


'bliterate  our  differences  and  bring  us  to  see  and  to 
,:el  alike.    What  would  you  have  ?    What  practical 
pmedy  can  you  propose  which  does  not  involve  either 
VOL.  XXVI I.— 75. 


differ  from,  but  on  principles  which  would  as  certainly 
be  essentially  like,  those  of  Dr.  Gladden's  "  Christian 
League  of  Connecticut." 


786 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


The  Independent  Voter  in  the  Next  Campaign. 

IN  his  paper  on  "The  Next  Presidency,"  in  the 
present  issue  of  THE  CENTURY,  Mr.  Wayne  Mac- 
Veagh  has  presented  some  general  considerations  con- 
cerning the  approaching  political  contest  which  are 
likely  to  outlast  in  usefulness  the  important  occasion 
which  gives  them  reason  for  existence.  It  will  belong 
before  such  suggestive  writing  will  cease  to  have 
proper  interest  for  intelligent  Americans  of  either  party 
or  of  none.  But  it  remains  to  make  a  little  closer  ap- 
plication of  those  excellent  principles  of  political  action 
which  are  held  by  Mr.  MacVeagh  in  common  with  a 
large  and  increasing  minority  of  voters  ;  in  short,  to 
make  more  account  of  the  personal  equation  in  the 
political  problem.  In  what  we  venture  to  say  on  this 
head  below,  we  must  not,  however,  be  understood 
as  advocating  any  one  of  the  gentlemen  named  as  a 
candidate.  There  is  no  public  exigency  that  would 
warrant  any  such  expression  of  preference  in  these 
columns  at  this  time.  We  have  simply  chosen  two 
well-known  public  men,  of  two  well-defined  classes, 
as  types  of  the  tendencies  which  are  at  work  to  shape 
the  nominations. 

We  think  it  is  quite  safe  to  assume  that  Mr.  Mac- 
Veagh is  right  in  his  belief  that  neither  party  will 
nominate  anybody  whose  record  or  opinions  would 
put  his  party  on  the  defensive  and  require  an  apolo- 
getic or  explanatory  canvass  in  his  behalf.  The 
Democrats  will  not  be  foolish  enough  to  name  a  man 
whose  disloyalty  during  the  war  was  sufficiently  fla- 
grant to  offend  the  loyalty  of  the  North,  and  revive  the 
sectional  issue ;  nor  will  they  nominate  a  free-trader, 
as  such  a  nomination,  it  is  now  clear,  would  inevitably 
split  the  party  into  two  factions,  and  leave  it  as  hope- 
less in  the  approaching  contest  as  it  was  in  that  of 
1860.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Republicans  will  not  be 
foolish  enough  to  name  a  man  of  the  high  protectionist 
school,  so  as  to  drive  off  the  North-west ;  nor  will  they 
split  themselves  into  two  factions  by  reviving,  in  the 
person  of  their  candidate,  the  fierce  animosities  which 
divided  them  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1881. 
What  preceded  the  assassin's  pistol-shot,  and  the  pro- 
longed sufferings  of  Garfield  which  followed  it,  will  be 
allowed  to  rest  as  they  now  are  —  not  talked  about, 
but  not  forgotten.  It  is  quite  evident,  therefore,  that 
a  good  many  men  whose  names  are  now  frequently 
mentioned  in  connection  with  the  Presidency  will  not 
be  seriously  considered  when  the  necessity  of  an  elec- 
tion as  well  as  of  a  nomination  is  taken  into  account. 
The  politicians  composing  the  conventions  may  be 
trusted  to  avoid  blunders  which  would  be  equivalent 
to  suicide. 

The  Democrats  will  probably  be  reduced  to  choose 
between  the  two  classes  of  public  men  represented, 
let  us  say,  in  the  Democratic  party  by  Judge  Thur- 
man  and  by  Mr.  Bayard,  and  the  Republicans  will 
probably  be  reduced  to  choose  between  the  two  classes 
of  public  men  represented,  let  us  say,  in  the  Repub- 
lican party  by  General  Logan  and  by  Mr.  Edmunds. 
We  do  not  mean  that  either  party  will  restrict  itself  to 
these  individuals;  but  we  do  believe  that  when  the 
conventions  face  the  responsibility  of  naming  a  man 
likely  to  be  elected,  they  will  be  restricted  to  the  two 
classes  represented  fairly  enough  by  these  names. 

Judge  Thurman  and  General  Logan  are  both  reliable 


partisans  of  their  respective  parties,  and  both,  we  be- 
lieve, possess  records  untarnished  with  any  suspicion  of 
corruption.  They  were  both  unsound  on  the  currency 
question ;  but  so  were  a  great  many  other  public  men, 
and  their  unsoundness  was,  no  doubt,  due  as  much  to 
their  desire  to  keep  their  party  on  what  was  supposed 
to  be  the  popular  side  as  to  their  ignorance  of  the 
merits  of  the  question.  Neither  of  them  occupies 
a  radical  position  on  the  question  of  the  tariff;  and 
they  both  believe  in  "  taking  the  boys  in  out  of 
the  cold  and  warming  their  toes."  They  are  honest 
but  unintelligent  political  partisans ;  and  if  either  party 
could  this  year  elect  a  man  who  was  an  honest  but 
unintelligent  political  partisan,  there  is  no  reason  why 
either  or  both  of  them  should  not  be  put  in  nomina- 
tion. 

Mr.  Bayard  and  Mr.  Edmunds,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  statesmen  of  whom  the  best  portion  of  the  Ameri- 
can people,  without  regard  to  party,  are  justly  proud. 
This  pride  is  not  due  to  the  fact  that  they  are  more 
free  from  suspicion  of  conscious  wrong-doing  than 
Judge  Thurman  or  General  Logan ;  but  it  is  because 
they  are  really  high-minded,  able,  and  pure  statesmen 
who  are  always  reasonably  sure  to  be  found  on  the 
right  side  of  every  non-partisan  question.  They  stooc 
shoulder  to  shoulder  fighting  for  honest  money,  yeai 
after  year,  when  it  seemed  a  losing  and  hopeless  battle. 
They  have  always  been  recognized  as  the  relentless 
opponents  of  bad  men  and  bad  measures.  The  "  spoils ' 
system  did  not  defile  them  in  the  days  of  its  power: 
they  never  set  up  as  "bosses,"  and  everybody  kne\i 
in  advance  that  any  practical  movement  for  the  reforn 
of  the  civil  service  of  the  country  would  find  in  then 
ardent  and  resolute  advocates.  The  simple  truth  i: 
that  these  two  men  represent  the  high-water  marl 
in  American  public  life  at  present,  and  it  is  from  thi: 
class  or  from  the  other  that  the  candidates  will  b< 
taken. 

One  thing  more  is  sure :  The  independent  vote 
will  be  "abroad"  in  1884  as  he  never  was  before 
Now,  suppose  the  Republican  party  nominates  a  mai 
like  Mr.  Edmunds,  and  the  Democratic  party  nomi 
nates  a  man  like  Judge  Thurman, —  on  which  sid 
will  the  independent  voter  be  found  ?  Or  suppose  th 
Republican  party  nominates  a  man  like  Genera 
Logan  and  the  Democratic  party  nominates  a  mai 
like  Mr.  Bayard, —  on  which  side  will  the  independen 
voter  be  found  ? 

We  wish  it  distinctly  understood,  and  we  here  re  < 
peat,  that  the  names  of  the  four  gentlemen  mentione* 
are  used  merely  as  types,  and  not  to  advance  or  retar , 
any  movements  or  influences  concerned  merely  wit 
them  as  individuals.    This  is  especially  to  be  remem 
bered  in  respect  to  the  two  names  here  most  favorabl 
mentioned.    There  are  other  public  men  who  woul 
represent  the  principles  of  the  "  independent  voter 
equally  well  with  Messrs.  Bayard  and  Edmunds,  and  i 
some  ways  perhaps  even  more  satisfactorily  than  eithe 
of  them.   But  we  venture,  thus  early,  two  predictions  I 
One  is  that  the  independent  voter  will  be  found  o 
the  side  of  the  candidate  whose  past  life  gives   .h 
best  guarantee  that  he  is  in  sympathy  with  the  comi< 
tions  and   aims  of  the   independent   voter,  and    .1 
other  is  that  the  candidate  supported  by  the  indepe:u  j 
ent  voter  will  be  the  next  President  of  the  Uni  e 
States. 


me  uin  t 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


787 


"The  American  Copyright  League." 

"  THE  American  Copyright  League  is  an  association 
organized  by  American  authors,  the  object  of  which 
is  to  urge  a  reform  of  American  copyright  law,  and, 
primarily,  the  abolition,  so  far  as  possible,  of  all  dis- 
criminations between  the  American  and  the  foreign 
author." 

The  above  is  the  brief  but  satisfactory  platform  of 

!  what  we  believe  to  be  the  largest  association  of  Ameri- 

I  can  writers  yet  formed  in  furtherance  of  the  principle 

\  of  international  copyright.    It   will  be   remembered 

that  Dr.  Edward  Eggleston,  in  an  article  on  "The 

Blessings  of  Piracy,"  in  THE  CENTURY  for   April, 

1882,  wrote:  "If  the  present  movement  should  fail,  the 

next  will  probably  be  a  far  more  comprehensive  one, 

made  by  men  of  letters  themselves,  who  are  the  real 


principals  in  the  case.  It  is  hard  to  organize  authors  as 
such ;  there  are  too  many  questions  of  literary  position 
involved.  But  we  can  readily  organize,  on  a  business 
basis,  an  association  of  producers  of  literary  property." 
The  prophesied  movement  of  "  producers  of  literary 
property  "  has  begun.  American  authors,  in  demand- 
ing justice  for  'the  pillaged  foreigner,  are  incidentally 
asserting  their  own  rights  at  home  and  abroad  in  the 
products  of  their  brains.  Through  its  executive  com- 
mittee, the  American  Copyright  League  is  now  be- 
sieging both  Congress  and  the  State  Department.  All 
writers  and  others  who  wish  to  help  on  this  good  cause 
are  requested  to  write  to  their  representatives  in  both 
branches  of  Congress,  and  also  to  send  their  names 
to  the  secretary  of  the  Executive  Council,  Mr.  G.  P. 
Lathrop,  The  Benedick,  80  Washington  Square,  New 
York. 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


Organs  and  Orchestras  in  Church. 

GAVAZZI  is  reported  as  having  once  said :  "  The 
best  music  in  the  world  is  in  Scotland,  and  without 
embarrassment  of  organs."  Now,  this  deliverance 
of  the  great  orator  would  not  of  itself  establish  the 
fact  it  seems  to  assert ;  for  taste  does  not  always  bend 
to  logic,  and  never  yields  to  the  authority  of  a  mere 
opinion.  As  an  offset  to  such  a  remark  of  the  old 
patriot,  which  was  forced  to  play  a  conspicuous  part 
in  the  rather  tumultuous  discussions  of  the  recent  anti- 
jorgan  convention  at  Allegheny  City,  it  is  amusing  to 
(recall  a  remark  of  one  of  our  tourist  party  in  1877,  a 
[typical  Scotchman  in  every  feature  of  his  enthusiasm. 
(He  was  sitting  with  us  to  listen  to  a  congregation  of  the 
JFree  Italian  Church  in  Genoa, —  the  body  of  Christians 
|whose  cause  Father  Gavazzi  pleads, —  and  while  they 
isang,  with  the  accompaniment  of  an  organ,  "  Safe  in 
-the  arms  of  Jesus,"  to  our  American  tune,  his  emo- 
tion kept  gathering  head,  until,  when  the  pathetic 
strain  ceased,  he  wiped  the  tears  from  his  eyes  and 
exclaimed,  "  That  is  the  most  effective  music  I  ever 
heard  in  any  church.  How  finely  Italians  sing ;  what 
sweet  melodies  they  have  !  " 

I  It  is  evident  that  a  prejudice  is  growing  up  on  both 
sides  of  this  question  concerning  the  use  of  organs 
and  orchestras  in  the  public  services  of  the  Lord's 
Day.  The  debate  is  sometimes  too  violent  for  edifi- 
cation. A  party  in  the  Scotch  churches  is  fairly  de- 
termined to  bring  in  the  despised  "  chests  of  whistles  " 
o  help  in  the  rendering  of  even  Rouse's  psalms. 
There  are  some  also  who  are  not  in  such  a  religious 
connection,  but  dwelling  among  others  who  tolerate 
nstruments  clear  to  the  verge  of  uttermost  charity, 
vho  wish  the  trustees  had  the  money  back  which,  in 
,he  early  days,  they  paid  for  the  swell  and  the  pedal, 
"he  great  diapason,  the  vox  humana,  and  the  bells. 
j  Now,  most  musical  people  like  organs ;  some  like 
j)ther  combinations  of  instrumental  helps  in  the  sing- 
ing. One  would  imagine  the  cornet  had  become  a  means 
>f  grace.  When  I  was  only  a  boy  of  seventeen,  I  my- 


self became  a  member  of  a  village  group  of  players, 
which  sat  for  years  in  what  we  appropriately  called 
the  orchestra  of  the  church.  We  had  two  flutes,  two 
violins,  a  bass-viol,  a  double-bass,  a  tenor  trombone, 
and  an  ophicleide.  It  would  not  be  of  any  use  at  this 
late  day  for  artists  to  laugh  at  that  kind  of  accompani- 
ment in  divine  service;  the  sounds  we  made  were 
well  enough  in  their  way,  and  most  of  those  musicians 
are  out  of  reach  of  criticism  long  ago.  The  beloved 
conductor  of  the  volunteer  choir  was  the  leader  of  a 
military  band  to  which  some  of  us  belonged,  and  was 
no  mean  musician  for  those  simple-hearted  times ; 
but  he  had  weaknesses.  He  often  composed  our  piece 
of  music  during  "the  long  prayer,"  and  handed  it 
around  in  penciled  parts  for  us  to  render  at  the  reg- 
ular time  for  the  hymns.  Of  course,  we,  by  instinct, 
kept  all  this  part  of  the  service  as  far  as  possible  away 
from  the  congregation ;  for  they  were  likely  to  inter- 
fere with  what  we  considered  artistic  if  they  should 
try  to  sing.  When  I  recall  this  impertinent  wicked- 
ness,—  I  recognize  it  now,  we  did  not  know  it  then, — 
it  seems  to  me  I  can  understand  why  some  of  those  de- 
vout people  in  the  recent  convention  hated  instruments 
so  violently  :  they  felt  in  danger  of  being  deprived  of 
their  rights.  So  they  spoke  out  in  terms  unmistaka- 
ble :  "  We  must  withhold  fellowship  from  those  who 
use  organs;  if  organs  come  in,  we  must  go  out." 
They  gave  what  they  considered  reasons  for  a  con- 
clusion so  revolutionary.  "  We  charge  that  the  use  of 
instruments  is  at  the  expense  of  spirituality,"  so  said 
one  of  the  speakers,  according  to  the  printed  report 
of  the  proceedings.  "  If  I  can  make  or  find  a  church 
of  a  better  kind,  I  will  not  stay  in  a  church  that  sanc- 
tions instrumental  music,"  so  said  another,  with  equal 
frankness  and  force. 

These  Christian  men  were  in  earnest.  Is  there  any 
ground  for  the  sober  apprehensions  with  which  they 
regard  instruments  in  church  ?  It  is  of  no  use  to 
argue  the  case ;  taste  is  out  of  the  reach  of  ordinary 
logic  ;  this  is  a  question  of  fact,  and  of  taste  too.  Let 
us  draw  upon  the  experience  of  those  who  are  ac- 


788 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


quainted  with  music  as  it  is  now  managed  in  modern 
•congregations.  How  does  this  plan  of  ours  work  ?  Do 
organs  destroy  spirituality  in  worship  ? 

Everybody  would  have  some  story  to  tell,  if  he  had 
a  chance  to  ease  his  feelings  on  this  point.  I  have 
many  to  choose  from.  Once  I  preached  on  exchange 
for  a  neighboring  minister.  In  that  congregation  the 
organist  was  the  leader  of  the  choir,  and  hence  was 


It  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  break  the  force  of  the  argu- 
ment in  this  illustration  by  asserting  that  this  per- 
son was  positively  an  exception  in  the  profession. 
It  is  to  be  admitted  in  all  charity  that  he  combined 
more  of  the  offensive  characteristics  of  modern  organ- 
ists in  his  own  person  than  any  man  of  his  class  who 
ever  came  within  my  observation.  But  he  was  repre- 
sentative of  possibilities  which  our  Scotch  friends  have 


responsible  for  the   music   altogether ;    and   he   had    reason  to  dread.    In  the  utter  disregard  of  the  congre- 

ordinarily  his  way.    The  opening  piece  occupied,  by     ~- *-~-  u~ ^  :-  *' *--: »  — J— ' c  **-- 

the  time-piece  directly  fronting  me  on  the  organ  case, 
seventeen  minutes.  During  this  performance  we  all 
sat  and  patiently  listened,  or  watched  each  other  im- 
patiently ;  we  had  nothing  to  do  with  selecting  it,  with 
singing  it,  or  with  understanding  it.  Then  I  was  at 
liberty  to  commence  divine  worship  with  the  custom- 
ary prayers  of  the  people.  After  this  a  hymn  was 
offered  to  the  congregation,  the  verses  of  which  were 
driven  hopelessly  apart  by  an  interlude  of  wonderful 
construction  on  the  instrument.  The  organist  paused 
deliberately  after  each  stanza,  leaving  us  to  stand  and 
watch  him,  while  in  leisurely  silence  he  contemplated 
the  position,  decided  what,  under  the  circumstances, 
he  would  do,  then  pulled  out  such  stops  as  he  deemed 
the  fittest  for  his  present  venturous  undertaking,  and, 
when  he  got  ready,  went  on  to  play  a  strain  of  inter- 
lude as  far  away  as  perverse  ingenuity  could  invent 
from  the  chosen  music  which  was  printed  before  us 
in  the  book.  When  he  came  home  from  his  wander- 
ing, he  quirked  up  a  little  sharp  note,  to  start  the 
choir  out  of  inattention,  and  gave  us  another  verse. 
So  the  hymn  was  jerked  through  eight  minutes  of  ups 
and  downs  and  offs  and  ons.  By  and  by  I  gave  out 
the  second  one,  which  was  to  be  sung  by  the  quartet 
alone.  I  shortened  it  to  four  stanzas,  in  a  sort  of  trep- 
idation ;  but  they  spent  twelve  minutes  on  it,  and  I 
never  heard  such  full  ranges  of  a  church  organ  before. 
Those  singers  waited  at  each  vacancy  until  their 
leader  had,  by  every  imaginable  dexterity  on  the  key- 
board, settled  the  Sunday-school  question,  "  Oh,  what 
can  little  hands  do  ?  "  Then  a  finale  of  orchestral  in- 
tricacy wound  up  the  performances,  and  the  stillness 
gave  us  a  season  of  peace.  At  the  close  of  the  services 
I  used  the  Doxology,  as  the  safest  relief  to  my  appre- 
hensions; and  then  we  were  stunned  out  of  church 
with  nothing  less  than  violence. 

This  is  no  caricature.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  I 
felt  indignant ;  I  was  hindered,  embarrassed,  annoyed. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  congregation  would  be  de- 
stroyed by  such  a  parade  of  amazing  and  insufferable 
conceit.  Does  any  one  imagine  that  that  man  had  the 
least  reference  conceivable  to  the  wants  and  purposes 
of  the  worshiping  assembly  by  whom  he  was  trusted  ? 
I  was  truly  saddened  to  see  how  he  betrayed  them  in 
order  to  display  himself.  And  now  I  have  to  add  that 
the  next  day  I  received  a  letter  early  in  the  morning 
from  this  very  organist.  He  said  he  would  be  pleased 
to  secure  an  engagement  as  leader  in  our  church ;  for 
although  some  particulars  pleased  him  in  the  place  he 
was  filling,  he  desired  a  position  where  he  "  could 
have  more  liberty  " !  With  such  a  reminiscence  in 
my  mind,  I  think  I  can  understand  why  an  exasper- 
ated president  of  a  college  should  exclaim  in  the  con- 
vention :  "  We  are  commanded  to  sing  with  the  spirit 
and  with  the  understanding ;  and  an  organ  is  incapa- 
ble of  either." 


gation,  both  in  the  choice  and  rendering  of  the  music; 
in  the  interminable  prolongation  of  the  services  for 
the  sake  of  personal  display ;  in  the  hopeless  heart- 
lessness  of  the  whole  performance  as  a  mockery  of 
what  was  put  forward  as  the  worship  of  God ;  in  these 
things  that  choir-leader  was  a  representative  of  many, 
many,  in  his  profession. 

There  are  other  infelicities  more  common  still.  Not 
long  ago  I  was  walking  out  of  a  neighboring  church, 
into  which,  in  one  of  my  rare  chances  of  worshiping 
without  officiating,  I  had  found  my  way.  A  gentleman 
whom  I  met  there  was  speaking  to  me  kindly,  giving 
me  cordial  welcome.  I  tried  to  listen,  but  the  roar  of 
the  organ  drowned  his  voice.  "  Oh,  I  wish  you  would 
stop  the  awful  noise  up  there  !  "  I  said ;  for  the  racket 
of  tubes  shook  a  chandelier  over  our  heads,  and  rat- 
tied  the  glass  in  the  windows.  And  my  friend  an- 
swered :  "  Well,  he  is  in  one  of  his  loud  moods  now, 
that  is  a  fact;  but  he  is  a  splendid  player.  He  is  a  little 
funny  sometimes  when  he  sends  us  home  good-nat- 
ured ;  very  adroit  and  careful,  but  he  makes  me  laugh 
now  and  then.  He  will  begin  an  opera  air,  and  go  on 
with  it  half  a  dozen  notes,  until  you  are  scared  a  little ; 
he  just  touches  it  and  leaves  it,  and,  before  he  gets 
caught,  away  he  goes  off  into  something  else.  He  is  at 
'  Lohengrin  '  now,  he  will  be  in  '  Lucia  '  in  a  minute, 
and  will  end  up  in  some  solemn  old  oratorio ;  and  the 
elders  never  seem  aware  of  what  he  is  giving  the  con- 
gregation !  " 

Unfortunately,  some  of  them  do  know  it  by  thf 
smirk  which  they  see  on  the  faces  of  the  ribald  ones 
who  laugh  at  their  innocence  ;  and  the  minister  knows 
it  also ;  but  what  can  they  do  ?  The  chief  trouble  i.' 
not  in  the  tubes  and  the  reeds,  nor  even  in  th< 
whistles,  but  in  the  living  human  being  who  sit; 
responsibly  in  the  throne  to  manage  them,  and  i: 
himself  unmanageable. 

Here,  again,  we  are  interrupted  by  the  asseveratioi 
that  a  man  who  will  do  such  things  is  a  charlatan  ;  hi 
ought  to  be  cashiered  ;  the  profession  are  not  respon  • 
sible  for  him.    Let  us  see.    The  question  is  concernhij 
voluntaries  with  which  to  open  or  to  close  the  servj  i 
ices,  concerning  choice  of  tunes  for  singing,  and  con   , 
cerning  interludes  between  the  stanzas.    Charles  Fo: 
used  to  say,  "  Great  authorities  are  arguments."  I 
may  be  helpful  to  quote  from  Mr.    Richard  Storr 
Willis,  to  whom  the  musical  profession  have  been  ac 
customed  to  look  with  deference : 

"  The  artist  has  his  own  sphere, —  an  art-sphere,- 
into  which  neither   clergyman  nor  people  have  anjl 
right  to  intrude.    For  instance,  the  question  of  a  voij  j 
untary  being  decided,  and  its  length,  if  you  will,  n,  I 
one  has  a  right  to  dictate  what  the  quality  or  style  Cj 
that  voluntary  shall  be.    If  the  musical  taste  of  '1 
artist  do  not  suit  the  society,  let  them  dismiss  h  n   I 
and  get  another ;  he  is  master  in  his  own  field,  anc 
right  in  rebelling  against  all  dictation  as  to  the  man  n 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


789 


of  managing  an  organ.    When  a  society  engage  an     A  church  which  I  have  served  as  pastor  once  turned 


artist  they  run  this  musical  risk.  And  thus,  after  the 
number  of  hymns  is  decided,  the  number  of  verses  to 
be  sung,  and  where  the  hymns  are  to  be  introduced, 
no  one  has  a  right  to  dictate  what  music  shall  be  sung 
or  how  it  shall  be  sung.  Here,  again,  the  artist  is 


a  drunken  organist  out  of  his  seat  before  the  end  of 
the  year,  and  the  earth  did  not  give  signs  of  woe  that 
all  was  lost ;  and  once  afterward  they  dismissed  an 
organist  who  grew  disagreeable,  and  paid  him  his 


master  in  his  own  field.    The  only  proper  redress  for  salary  to  the  end  of  the  engagement.    It  is  not  always 

dissatisfaction  is  dismissal.    Again,  the  question   of  necessary,  therefore,  to  endure  tortures  and  stunnings 

interludes  being  decided,—  how  many  and  of  what  and  rattlings  still  in  possible  reserve 

length,-  the  quality  and  style  of  those  interludes  are  Up  to  this  st        of  discussion   l  confess  all              s 

sole  y  at  the  discretion  of  the  artist;  and  he  may  stun  frt  i/        ,       ,    ,                            ' 

with  sub-bass;  he  may  torture  with  fancy-  s  tops  ;  he  °  be  melancholy  and  looks  unfair.    But  why  do  not 

may  rattle  on  without  the  slightest  reference  to  the  the  noble  men  and  true>  who  are  Christian  worshipers 

sense  of  the  preceding  or  succeeding  verse  ;  and  no  themselves,  and  serve  God  with  highest  acceptable- 

one  in  the  church  has  any  official  right  to  interfere,  ness  in  praise  with  their  instruments,  come  forth  and 

If  the  music  committee  have  hired  so  crude  an  organ-  restate  the  doctrine  of  relations  between  people  and 

ist,  it  devolves  upon  them  and  the  society  patiently  to  players  ?    There  are  organists  who  preach  as  well  as 

bear  with  the  same,  until  they  can  procure  a  better.  a  ministe     in  their  own           and  accordm     to  their 

-  '    . 


It  is  as  well  to  have  this  subject  understood ;  for  noth- 
ing, perhaps,  has  been  the  cause  of  so  much  dissonant 
feeling  in  the  church  as  the'  church's  harmony  —  gen- 

Jerally  arising  from  trespass  on  the  one  part  or  the 

!  other." 


,  .  r  ., 

chrances'  Not  one  of  them  doubts  the  confidence  and 
affection  with  which  we  in  the  pulpits  turn  to  them 
for  their  aid  and  guidance.  At  the  funeral  of  our  dear 
old  friend  George  B.  Bacon,  there  was  one  organist  who 
took  the  service  into  his  own  hands,  while  the  minis- 
ter was  content  to  be  silent  for  a  space.  William 
Mason  made  that  dumb  instrument  speak  as  (so  it 
seemed  to  me,  and  not  to  me  alone)  no  articulate  voice 


Let  us  assume,  therefore,  that  the  subject  is  at  last 
j"  understood. "  Some  of  us  have  understood  a  good 
ideal  of  it  for  quite  a  long  time;  but  let  us  put  our 

'information  into  form.    An  organist  may  construct  his    could  have  spoken.    Some  hearts  which  heard  that 
[voluntaries  out  of  operatic  snatches  in  the  slyest  sort    dirge,  that  comfort,  that  triumph,  that  celestial  song 
of  way,  he  may  choose  his  tunes  from  unfamiliar  col-    from  the  keys,  forgot  the  player,  and  the  playing,  and 
lections  or  compose  them  in  prayer-time,  and  in  his 
interludes  he  is  specially  to  be  allowed  to  "  stun,"  to 
"torture,"  and   to  "rattle   on   without  the  slightest 
reference  to  sense."  And  all  we  can  do  to  relieve  so 


(excruciating  a  position  is  to  give  him  warning  of  dis- 


the  instrument,  only  to  recall  them  afterward  —  as  I  do 
now — with  a  wondering,  grateful,  glad  sense  of  help 
in  an  hour  of  trial.  Sometimes  clear,  sweet,  gentle 
music,  all  alone,  can  lift  mourners'  sadness  better  than 
words.  It  is  a  pity  that  cheats  and  charlatans  should 


[missal  at  the  end  of  his  fiscal  year,  or  wait  for  him  to    prejudice  a  profession  which  has  its  promised  place 


(lose  his  health.  We  cannot  even  arrest  him  by  the 
police,  as  we  could  any  other  disturber  of  divine  wor- 
jship.  If  we  interfere  before  his  time  is  out,  he  will  sue 
|the  church  in  a  justice's  court  for  heavy  damages  for 


even  in  God's  sanctuary  above :  "  the  players  on  in- 
struments shall  be  there." 

George  Macdonald,  in  one  of  his  best  stories,  makes 
David  Elginbrod  say :  "  I  always  think  that  if  I  could 


dues  and  defamation ;  we  had  better  bear  patiently,  hear  Milton  playing  on  his  organ,  it  would  be  more 

IMK!  not  trespass  on  his  rights.  like  the  sound  of  many  waters  than  anything  else  I 

j    Well,  "Art  is  long;  life  is  short."     But  it  strikes  can  think  of."     It  would  seem  as  if  an  instrument 

prdinary  thinkers,  especially  Scotchmen,  that  art  is  which,  if  properly  managed,   could   prove   itself  so 

getting  too  long,  slightly  tedious,  perhaps ;  and  life  is  capable  for  good,  ought  to  receive  a  brighter  welcome 

vanishing  swiftly  amid  so  much  stunning  and  tortur-  and  a  more   charitable  judgment  than  is  implied  in 

ing  and  rattling  clear  down  to  the  end  of  the  twelve-  those  closing  resolutions  of  the  convention  to  which 

jmonth —  which  is  the  shortest  engagement  that  even  we  have  referred  so  pleasantly:  "According  to  the 

!i  "  crude  "  organist  will  make  with  a  modern  music  standards  of  our  church,  the  use  of  instrumental  music 

committee.    If  these  be  the  acknowledged  principles  is  unlawful."    Pity  'tis,  'tis  true.    Madame  de  Stae'l 

upon  which  the  "  artist  "  proceeds,  who  is  to  say  that  suffers  her  Corinne  to  say,  what  has  been  actually  sup- 

me  profession  is  not  responsible  for  much  of  what  op-  posed  to  be  the  fact  by  many  of  the  most  devout  peo- 

bresses   the  worshiping  people   of  God  ?     Can  any  pie  that  ever  lived  :  "  Among  all  arts  music  alone  can 


)ne  blame    the    gentlemanly    Christian   pastor    who 
n    the    convention    said:     "If   my  brother   insists 
(;hat  I  must  part  with  my  convictions,  I   must   part 
rom  him." 
i   Is  this  declaration  of  Mr.  Willis  the  "  common  law  " 


be  purely  religious." 

There  was  once  such  fear  of  mere  aesthetic  feeling 
in  divine  worship,  that  at  the  Council  of  Trent  it  was 
fiercely  debated  whether  any  music,  other  than  the 
simplest  Gregorian  chants,  should  be  permitted  in  the 


>f  the  musicians  ?   This  utterance  which  I  have  quoted    house  of  God.    It  is  curious  to  note   that   the  next 


vas  published  as  admirable  and  authoritative  in  one 
>f  the  chief  musical  periodicals ;  and  it  now  stands  at 
he  conclusion  of  an  argument  in  the  volume,  "Our 
Church  Music :  a  Book  for  Pastors  and  People,"  long 
>efore  the  public  under  his  name.  If  it  has  ever 
peen  challenged,  I  do  not  know  it,  and  I  am  perfectly 
ure  no  modern  organist  ever  dreamed  it  ought  to  be ; 
tvhy  should  he  ? 

I  would  like  to  state  two  facts,  however,  before  I 
eave  the  point ;  I  think  I  shall  feel  easier  afterward  : 


religious  convention  to  discuss  a  similar  prohibition 
is  a  denomination  of  Protestant  Christians  in  the  nine- 
teenth century. 

If  the  vexation  proceeds  from  the  man  who  manages 
the  instrument,  would  it  not  be  better  to  suppress  the 
vexation  than  to  banish  the  instrument  he  abuses  ? 
If  helps  hinder,  is  it  an  impossible  thing  to  hinder  the 
helps  from  hindering  ? 

Charles  S.  Robinson. 


\ 


79° 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


National  Aid  to  Education. 


tion  on  which  the  advocates  of  the  measure  rely  is 
that  about  promoting  the  general  welfare,  which,  it  is 
contended,  will  justify  Congress  in  granting  the  aid 
proposed ;  and  we  must  therefore  examine  the  provi- 
sion in  question  to  see  if  this  interpretation  is  correct. 
The  expression  about  the  general  welfare  occurs  in 
the  Constitution  twice.  The  first  occurrence  is  in  the 


THE  vast  amount  of  illiteracy  in  the  country  has 
attracted  much  attention  of  late,  and  has  led  to  the 
proposal  that  national  aid  shall  be  given  to  the  public 
schools  of  the  States.  The  census  of  1880  shows  that 
there  were  in  the  country  at  that  time  nearly  five  mill- 
ion persons  over  ten  years  of  age  who  were  unable  to  preamble,  which  declares  that  one  of  the  objects  for 
read,  and  six  and  a  quarter  millions  unable  to  write,  which  the  Constitution  is  established  is  to  "  promote 
The  chief  centers  of  illiteracy  are  in  the  Southern  the  general  welfare."  The  preamble,  however,  would 
States,  in  some  of  which  the  proportion  of  illiterate  not  be  cited  by  any  one  as  containing  a  grant  of 
persons  is  over  forty  per  cent,  and  among  the  Irish,  power,  it  being,  in  fact,  a  mere  rhetorical  introduction 
the  French-Canadians,  and  some  other  foreign-born  to  the  Constitution,  and  of  no  binding  force  whatever, 
inhabitants  of  the  North.  But  a  similar  expression  occurs  in  section  eight  of  the 

The  existence  among  us  of  such  a  mass  ot  igno-  first  article,  which  contains  an  express  grant  of  power 
ranee  is  a  very  unpleasant  fact,  and  the  illiterate  vote  to  Congress ;  and  it  is  this  clause  that  is  relied  upon 
is  justly  regarded  as  dangerous  to  the  political  well-  by  the  advocates  of  national  aid  to  education  as  a  jus- 
being  of  the  country.  The  ease  with  which  ignorant  tification  of  the  measure.  The  clause  in  question 
voters  can  be  corrupted  and  led  astray  has  often  been  reads  as  follows  :  "  Congress  shall  have  power  to 


illustrated  in  our  political  history,  and  is  sure  to  re 
ceive  further  illustration  hereafter,  unless  effective 
means  are  taken  to  prevent  it ;  and  no  means  will  be 
effective  except  the  public  education  of  the  whole  peo- 
ple. As  the  maintenance  of  schools,  however,  re- 
quires large  sums  of  money,  and  as  many  of  the  States 
are  slack  in  appropriating  it,  it  is  proposed  that  the 
national  government  shall  assist  in  the  work ;  and  a 
bill  for  this  purpose  was  introduced  into  Congress 
last  winter.  By  this  bill  it  was  provided  that  the  na- 
tional government  should  give  to  the  States  several 
million  dollars  a  year  for  a  series  of  years,  for  the 
support  of  public  schools,  distributing  it  among  the 
several  States  in  proportion  to  the  numbers  of  their 
illiterate  population,  the  expenditure  and  application  of 
the  money  being  left  to  the  States  themselves.  The 
bill  was  not  acted  upon  last  winter ;  but  as  it  will  prob- 
ably be  brought  forward  again,  it  ought  to  receive  at 
once  such  consideration  as  the  importance  of  the  sub- 
ject demands.  • 

That  something  ought  to  be  done  to  remove  the 
ignorance  of  the  people  and  its  attendant  dangers  is 
certain ;  but  there  is  grave  reason  to  doubt  whether 
the  proposed  scheme  for  national  aid  to  the  public 
schools  is  either  a  lawful  or  a  wise  measure  for  attain- 
ing this  end.  An  obvious  objection  to  the  bill,  and 
one  that  has  already  been  urged,  is  its  doubtful  con- 
stitutionality; and  unless  this  point  can  be  settled  in 
favor  of  the  bill,  the  question  of  its  expediency  and 
adaptability  to  its  purpose  is  of  little  importance.  The 
Constitution  nowhere  authorizes  the  national  govern- 
ment to  make  provision  for  education ;  and  unless  the 
power  to  do  so  can  be  inferred  from  some  authority 
that  is  given,  it  does  not  exist  at  all.  The  govern- 
ment of  the  United  States  is  not  a  government  of 
naturally  unlimited  powers  restricted  by  constitutional 
provisions ;  it  has  no  powers  at  all  except  such  as  the 
Constitution  expressly  gives  it;  for  the  Constitution 


lay  and  collect  taxes,  duties,  imposts,  and  excises,  to 
pay  the  debts  and  provide  for  the  common  defense 
and  general  welfare  of  the  United  States."  The  first 
part  of  this  clause  empowers  Congress  to  lay  and  col- 
lect taxes,  while  the  second  part  specifies  the  purposes 
for  which  the  money  so  obtained  may  be  used.  Now, 
it  is  contended  that  Congress  is  here  authorized  to  ap- 
propriate money  to  promote  the  general  welfare  of 
the  people,  and  that  in  virtue  of  this  authority  it  may 
make  an  appropriation  in  aid  of  public  schools ;  and 
on  the  correctness  of  this  interpretation  the  constitu- 
tionality of  the  proposed  measure  must  rest. 

In  considering  this  question,  I  remark  in  the  first 
place  that,  if  the  clause  here  cited  really  means  what  it 
is  said  to  mean,  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  we 
should  know  it;  for  such  an  interpretation  leads  to 
some  rather  startling  conclusions,  and,  if  generally 
adopted,  may  lead  to  startling  political  action.  If 
Congress  has  unlimited  power  to  spend  money  in  pro- 
viding for  the  welfare  of  the  people,  we  may  expect  to 
see  before  long  the  reign  of  paternal  government  fully 
inaugurated.  Public  schools  are  not  the  only  means 
of  promoting  the .  general  welfare,  and  if  one  such 
means  may  be  lawfully  used  without  express  authority 
to  do  so,  it  is  hard  to  see  how  the  use  of  others  can 
be  objected  to  as  unconstitutional.  If  Congress  may 
appropriate  money  for  public  schools  in  the  States, 
why  not  for  public  libraries  also?  nay,  why  may  it 
not  give  every  citizen  a  private  library  of  his  own, 
which  would  be  even  more  conducive  to  the  general 
welfare  than  public  ones  would  be  ?  Then  the  na- 
tional treasury  might  be  drawn  upon  for  the  support 
of  paupers  in  the  States,  and  in  times  of  commercial 
distress  national  workshops  might  be  established,  like 
those  that  were  opened  in  France  after  the  revolution 
of  1848.  It  is  obvious,  also,  what  demands  might  be 
made  for  national  aid  to  commercial  and  manufactur- 
ing enterprises ;  and  it  is  hard  to  see  what  objection 


itself  declares  that  "  the  powers  not  delegated  to  the  could  be  made  on  constitutional  grounds  to  any  of 

United  States  by  the  Constitution,  nor  prohibited  by  it  these  projects,  if  the  bill  for  national  aid  to  education 

to  the  States,  are  reserved  to  the  States  respectively  or  is  constitutional.     Indeed,  if  Congress  has  unlimited 

to  the  people."     Unless,  therefore,  authority  to  use  power  to  spend  money  in  promoting  the  general  wel- 


the  national  money  for  educational  purposes  is  im- 
plicitly contained  in  some  express  grant  of  power  to 
Congress,  no  such  authority  exists,  and  national  aid  to 
education  cannot  be  lawfully  given. 

Now,  I  believe  the  only  provision  of  the  Constitu- 


fare  of  the  people,  there  is   not   one  of  the  many 
schemes  now  in  the  air  for  making  everybody  rich  at 
the  public  expense  that  it  may  not  be  asked  to  adopt. 
If,  however,  we  read  the  clause  under  discussion 
with  proper  care,  we  shall  see  that  no  such  interpre  - 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


791 


tation  is  admissible.  It  authorizes  Congress  to  "  pro- 
vide for  the  general  welfare,"  not  of  the  people,  but 
"of  the  United  States."  Now  the  term  "United 
States  "  has  a  very  definite  meaning ;  it  denotes  a 
body  politic,  a  federal  union  of  States,  and  it  is  the 
welfare  of  this  body  politic,  and  not  that  of  its  citizens, 
that  Congress  is  authorized  to  provide  for.  That  this 
is  the  true  meaning  is  evident  from  the  context.  The 
clause,  as  a  whole,  empowers  Congress  to  lay  and 
collect  taxes  "  to  pay  the  debts  and  provide  for  the 
common  defense  and  general  welfare  of  the  United 
States."  Here  it  is  clear  that  the  term  "United 
States  "  qualifies  all  three  of  the  preceding  terms  in 
the  same  member  of  the  sentence ;  and,  therefore,  if 
the  general  welfare  referred  to  is  the  welfare  of  the 
citizens,  the  debts  referred  to  are  the  debts  of  the 
citizens,  and  Congress  may  appropriate  money  to  pay 
all  our  private  debts.  But  such  an  interpretation  is 
absurd;  equally  absurd,  then,  is  the  doctrine  that 
money  may  be  appropriated  to  provide  for  the  general 
welfare  of  the  people. 

The  object  of  this  constitutional  provision  undoubt- 
edly is  to  provide  for  all  the  financial  requirements  of 
the  national  government,  chief  among  which  are  the 
payment  of  its  obligations  and  the  necessary  expendi- 
tures for  the  national  defense;  but  as  these  two  objects 
are  not  the  only  ones  for  which  money  is  required, 
the  others,  instead  of  being  specified,  are  grouped 
together  under  the  provision  for  the  general  welfare 
of  the  United  States.  As  for  the  welfare  of  the  people, 
the  national  government  does,  of  course,  promote  it 
in  various  ways,  but  only  by  discharging  the  specific 
functions  imposed  upon  it  by  the  Constitution ;  and  it 
is  in  the  discharge  of  these  functions  alone  that  the 
national  money  may  be  lawfully  employed.  To  my 
mind,  at  least,  this  interpretation  is  the  only  one  con- 
sistent with  the  rules  of  the  English  language  or  with 
the  general  spirit  of  the  Constitution. 

Nor  will  it  avail  to  say  that  a  grant  of  money  in  aid 
of  education  would  be  a  grant  to  the  States  and  not  to 
individual  citizens ;  for  Congress  may  not  lawfully  give 
money  to  the  States.  The  national  government  did, 
indeed,  soon  after  the  Constitution  was  adopted,  assume 
the  debts  of  the  States,  which  was  equivalent  to  giving 
them  money;  but  these  debts  had  been  incurred  in 
defense  of  the  Union,  and  it  was  therefore  eminently 
proper  that  the  Government  of  the  Union  should 
assume  and  pay  them.  But  Congress  has  no  right 
whatever  to  give  money  or  money's  worth  to  the 
States  for  State  purposes ;  and  though  the  Constitution 
has  in  this  respect  been  violated,  that  is  not  an  excuse 
for  violating  it  again.  Under  the  administration  of  Presi- 
dent Jackson,  the  sum  of  thirty-seven  million  dollars 
was  distributed  among  the  States,  ostensibly  as  a 
"deposit,"  but  really  as  a  free  gift;  but  by  what 
authority  this  was  done  I  am  unable  to  see.  Surely  it 
is  not  lawful  to  use  the  national  money  except  for 
national  purposes,  and  Congress  has  no  more  right  to 
give  it  away  to  New  York,  Virginia,  and  the  rest, 
than  it  would  have  to  give  it  to  Great  Britain  or  to 
France.  Congress  did,  indeed,  in  1812,  give  a  sum  of 
money  to  "  promote  the  general  welfare  "  of  Venezuela, 
which  country  had  lately  suffered  from  an  earthquake; 
and  there  is  no  knowing  what  extravagances  may  not 
be  committed  unless  strict  regard  is  paid  to  the  funda- 
mental law. 


We  conclude,  then,  that  there  is  no  constitutional 
authority  for  using  the  national  money  to  assist  the 
States  in  their  proper  business,  nor  to  provide  for  the 
general  welfare  of  the  people,  save  only  so  far  as  this 
object  is  effected  by  the  performance  of  the  specific 
duties  of  the  national  government.  But  here,  perhaps, 
the  friends  of  the  measure  may  present  a  new.  argu- 
ment. Suppose  it  granted,  they  may  say,  that  Con- 
gress may  not  lawfully  use  the  national  money  except 
for  national  purposes,  and  that  among  these  purposes 
the  promotion  of  the  general  welfare  of  the  citizens  is 
not  included ;  yet  we  maintain  that  the  education  of 
the  people  is  a  matter  of  national  importance,  and 
that  the  welfare  of  the  United  States,  as  a  body 
politic,  depends  in  no  slight  degree  upon  it.  In  a  free 
country,  where  the  people  in  the  last  resort  are  the 
rulers,  the  security  and  good  conduct  of  the  govern- 
ment itself  are  dependent  on  the  wisdom  and  morality 
of  the  voters;  and  we,  therefore,  maintain  that  in 
giving  money  for  the  support  of  public  schools,  Con- 
gress is  promoting  the  welfare  of  the  Union  itself. 

To  this  I  reply,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  Constitu- 
tion gives  both  the  control  of  education  and  the  regu- 
lation of  the  suffrage  to  the  States,  and  by  so  doing 
deprives  the  national  authorities  of  all  voice  in  the 
matter.  In  regard  to  the  suffrage,  it  provides  that 
those  persons  may  vote  for  Presidential  electors  and 
members  of  the  House  of  Representatives  who  are 
permitted  to  vote  for  members  of  the  most  numerous 
branch  of  the  State  Legislature,  thus  leaving  it  for 
the  States  to  say  who  shall  vote  in  national  affairs. 
Having  thus  deprived  itself  of  all  control  of  the  suf- 
frage, and  of  education  too,  the  nation  has  no  right  to 
complain  if  the  voters  furnished  by  the  State  are  not 
to  its  liking ;  and  if  it  wishes  to  remove  the  difficulty, 
it  must  do  it  by  amending  its  own  Constitution,  and 
not  by  appropriating  money  in  violation  of  it.  But, 
secondly,  if  the  promotion  of  education  is  a  national 
object,  and  the  appropriation  of  money  for  that  pur- 
pose is  for  the  benefit  of  the  United  States,  the 
money  must  be  expended  and  applied  by  the  Presi- 
dent. The  Constitution  places  the  whole  executive 
power  in  the  hands  of  the  President  and  his  subor- 
dinates, and  neither  he  himself  nor  Congress  may  dele- 
gate his  authority  to  the  officers  of  the  States.  If, 
therefore,  the  national  money  is  to  be  appropriated 
for  the  support  of  public  schools,  on  the  ground  that 
this  is  a  national  object,  then  the  entire  control  of  that 
money  and  its  application  to  its  purpose  must  be  in 
the  hands  of  the  President.  But  this  would  involve 
the  assumption  by  the  President  of  the  general  man- 
agement of  the  public  schools  all  over  the  country, 
which  is  obviously  impossible.  It  follows,  therefore, 
that  so  long  as  the  Constitution  gives  the  national 
government  no  control  over  education,  the  national 
money  may  not  lawfully  be  employed  for  educational 
purposes,  and  that  whatever  is  done  toward  removing 
illiteracy  must  be  done  in  other  ways. 

If,  then,  the  proposed  measure  is  unconstitutional, 
it  ought  to  be  abandoned,  and  the  question  of  its  ex- 
pediency becomes  of  little  importance.  To  my  mind, 
however,  its  expediency  is  only  less  doubtful  th"an  its 
constitutionality.  The  bill  proposed  last  winter  pro- 
vided no  guarantees  for  the  faithful  use  of  the  money 
by  the  States ;  and  though  the  measure  may  be 
amended  in  this  respect,  it  is  hard  to  see  how  any 


792 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


effectual  guarantees  can  be  obtained  without  national 
supervision  of  the  schools  themselves.  Moreover,  if 
national  aid  is  to  be  given,  it  would  seem  that  it  ought 
to  be  distributed  among  the  States  in  some  proportion 
to  merit.  It  might  be  well  to  give  some  preference  to 
those  States  in  which  illiteracy  most  abounds,  since 
the  removal  of  illiteracy  is  the  object  in  view ;  but 
surely  some  preference  should  also  be  given  to  those 
that  are  most  earnest  in  the  work  themselves,  and 
prove  their  earnestness  by  the  liberality  of  their 
appropriations  and  the  efficiency  of  their  schools. 
But,  under  the  measure  that  has  been  proposed,  the 
States  that  do  the  least  for  education,  and  have  in  con- 
sequence the  largest  illiterate  population,  would  re- 
ceive the  largest  share  of  the  national  bounty,  and  the 
longer  they  allowed  their  people  to  remain  illiterate 
the  more  money  they  would  receive.  In  short,  the 
effect  of  the  measure  would  be  to  put  a  premium  on 
ignorance;  and  it  is  hard  to  see  how  the  cause  of 
popular  education  can  be  subserved  by  such  means 
as  that. 

Meanwhile,  if  the  nation  at  large  wishes  to  do 
something  for  the  removal  of  illiteracy,  there  are  va- 
rious legitimate  ways  in  which  it  may  do  so.  One  of 
the  best  would  be  to  amend  the  Constitution  so  as  to 
prohibit  any  person  from  voting,  either  in  national  or 
in  State  affairs,  unless  he  can  read  and  write.  Another 
and  equally  useful  amendment  would  be  one  provid- 
ing that  members  of  the  House  of  Representatives 
should  be  apportioned  among  the  States,  not,  as  at 
present,  in  proportion  to  their  whole  population,  but 
in  proportion  to  that  part  of  their  population  that  can 
read  and  write.  A  third  measure,  no  less  useful  than 
either  of  these,  and  not  requiring  a  change  in  the 
Constitution,  would  be  a  law  prohibiting  the  natural- 
ization of  any  person  that  cannot  read  and  write.  It 
may  be  well  that  our  country  should  be  a  refuge  for 
the  oppressed  of  all  lands  ;  but  there  is  no  good 
reason  why  it  should  be  the  refuge  of  the  ignorant 
and  worthless  of  all  lands,  as  it  practically  is  to-day. 
By  such  measures  as  these  the  cause  of  popular  edu- 
cation would  be  far  more  effectually  promoted  than 
by  gifts  of  money  from  the  national  treasury ;  for  they 
would  compel  both  the  States  themselves  and  their 
illiterate  population  to  do  their  best  to  remove  the 
ignorance  that  now  so  widely  prevails. 

J.  B.  Peterson. 
The    Temperance    Question. 

SUGGESTIONS     REGARDING     TEMPERANCE     WORK. 

ONE  of  the  greatest  hinderances  in  the  way  of  our 
temperance  reform  is  the  indifference  of  those  whom 
we  are  pleased  to  call  our  "  reputable  citizens."  This 
sin  of  indifference,  for  it  may  be  characterized  by  such 
a  grave  term,  cannot  be  placed  at  the  door  of  saloon- 
keepers and  politicians.  They  are  ever  watching  their 
interests,  and  pushing  them  with  all  their  powers. 
We  sincerely  hope  that  the  discussion  of  the  various 
phases  of  the  temperance  reform  now  going  on 
throughout  our  country  will  awaken  the  sluggish  and 
indifferent  among  our  better  classes  to  action,  and 
create  enough  public  sentiment  to  establish  in  all 
parts  of  the  land  associations  with  the  specific  object 
of  enforcing  the  laws. 


The  liquor  business,  like  a  huge  giant,  comes  out 
with  his  heavy  coat  of  mail  —  political  influence  — and 
defies  the  arms  of  virtue  and  of  right.  Who  shall  dare 
to  resist  this  modern  Goliath  ?  He  sends  out  his 
challenge,  and  we  must  either  find  a  David  to  oppose 
him  or  be  overcome.  Suppose  we  believe  that  we 
have  at  last  found  our  David.  The  next  point  is, 
how  shall  David  fight,  and  what  shall  constitute  his 
armor  ?  Some  will  say,  "  Let  religion  be  his  coat  of 
mail";  others,  "moral  suasion";  and  others,  "pro- 
hibition." But  David  declines  all  this  cumbrous 
armor  for  his  first  venture,  strong  and  invincible  as 
it  may  be  under  some  circumstances.  So,  taking  his 
sling,  he  selects  five  smooth  stones  from  the  brook 
Experience,  and,  thus  armed,  goes  to  meet  the  foe. 
But  now  for  a  moment  he  hesitates.  Which  stone 
shall  he  throw  first?  The  first  stroke  must  not  fail; 
else  the  giant  may  cast  his  spear  in  contempt,  and 
David  and  his  cause  be  overthrown  at  the  very  outset. 
At  length  he  resolves  to  throw  first  his  smallest  stone, 
No  sale  of  liquor  to  minors.  His  practice  with  this 
insures  his  lodging  it  somewhere  in  his  enemy.  A 
fair  blow  with  this  stone  will  sink  it  so  deep  that  the 
giant  will  lose  most  of  his  blood ;  and  while  he  is  falling, 
David  will  throw  his  second  stone,  No  sale  of  liquor 
to  ^drunkards.  This,  will  draw  more  life-blood.  Then 
No  sale  of  adulterated  liquors  will  bring  the  haughty 
giant  to  his  knees.  Quickly  following  up  these  strokes 
with  No  music  in  saloons  and  High  license,  and  Goliath 
is  forsooth  ready  to  die.  Then  will  David  advance, 
and  with  the  sword  of  Prohibition  cut  off  the  dying 
monster's  head. 

Some  will  say  the  sword  should  be  used  first. 
But  the  reply  comes  :  It  has  been  tried ;  but  the 
attempts  only  wounded  instead  of  killing,  and  the 
giant  hid  away  for  a  time  in  the  dark,  feigning  to  be 
dead,  only  to  make  his  appearance  again  when  his 
strength  returned. 

Prohibition,  to  be  successful,  must  take  away  the 
demand  for  liquor.  The  Women's  Christian  Temper- 
ance Union,  of  Chicago,  in  a  recent  call,  acknowledge 
that,  after  nine  years  of  reform  work,  they  are  con- 
vinced that  the  only  means  of  stopping  intemperance 
is  by  educating  the  young ;  and  to  this  end  they  urge 
the  organization  of  Bands  of  Hope  all  over  the  country. 
Keep  the  growing  youth  out  of  the  saloons,  and  the 
demand  for  liquor  in  a  very  few  years  must  cease. 

There  is  no  community  that  will  not  support  or- 
ganizations that  seek  to  enforce  the  law  against  the 
sale  of  liquor  to  minors  and  drunkards.  When  this 
is  done,  you  have  taken  away  from  the  liquor-dealers 
four-fifths  of  their  customers.  If  you,  then,  enforce 
the  law  against  selling  adulterated  liquors,  you  take 
away  nearly  all  their  profits,  as  well  as  all  their  liquors. 
Then  enforce  the  law  against  music  and  stage  per- 
formances in  saloons,  and  you  will  drive  away  most 
of  the  remaining  fifth  of  their  patrons. 

There  will  be  a  few  saloon-keepers  who  may  live 
off  the  moderate  drinker's  appetite ;  but  the  number 
will  be  so  small  that  their  influence  in  politics  w 
count  for  naught,  and  your  mayor  will  close  them 
quickly  when  requested  by  the  reputable  citiz 
whose  favor  and  influence  he  will  then  court. 

One  of  the  great  mistakes  of  the  temperance  ref< 
to-day  is,  that  we  try  to  accomplish  too  much  at 
time.      The    liquor    business   did    not    grow   up 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


793 


a  night.  Neither  can  it  be  put  down  in  a  night. 
"Nothing  wins  like  success."  It  does  not  pay 
to  risk  all  in  a  first  encounter  with  the  enemy. 
Hence  it  is  better  to  gain  some  little  vantage-ground 
by  light  skirmishing  before  attempting  the  "  grand 
assault."  Our  cause  may  be  just,  but  the  means  to 
accomplish  the  end  still  remains  a  hard  problem  to 
solve. 

The  Citizens'  Law-and-Order  Leagues  have  done 
much  toward  the  solution  of  this  problem.  We  have 
reason  to  hope  that  the  battles  they  are  now  fighting 
in  the  enforcement  of  the  laws,  together  with  the 
education  of  the  young  in  temperance  principles,  may 
lead  before  long  to  the  grand  Prohibition  assault  upon 
the  forces  of  Intemperance. 

Permit  a  word  as  to  the  kind  of  men  needed  in 
the  carrying  on  of  a  Law-and-Order  League.  If 
possible,  you  should  find  such  a  man  for  president 
as  Mr.  Franklin,  in  Dr.  Gladden's  "  Christian  League 
of  Connecticut,"  a  man  of  enthusiasm,  but  neither 
rash  nor  impracticable.  Then  you  want,  as  his 
associates,  the  men  described  by  Dr.  Holland, — 

"  Men  whom  the  spoils  of  office  cannot  buy; 

Men  who  can  stand  before  a  demagogue, 

And  damn  his  treacherous  flatteries  without  winking  ! 

Tall  men,  sun-crowned,  who  live  above  the  fog 

In  public  duty  and  in  private  thinking : 

For  while  the  rabble,  with  their  thumb-worn  creeds, 

Their  large  professions  and  their  little  deeds, 

Mingle  in  selfish  strife,  lo !  Freedom  weeps, 

Wrong  rules  the  land,  and  waiting  Justice  sleeps  ! 

J.  C.  Shaffer, 

Sec.  Nat.  Law-and-Order  League. 
126  WASHINGTON  STREET, 
CHICAGO,  ILL. 

HIGH     LICENSE. 

j  No  SERVICE  could  be  more  valuable,  or  contribute 
imore  to  the  solution  of  the  temperance  question, 
ithan  the  discussions  of  its  many  phases  now  carried 
jon  in  the  "  Open  Letters  "  department  of  THE  CENT- 
URY MAGAZINE.  But  the  article  entitled  "  More 
about  Law-and-Order  Leagues  "  closes  with  a  sentence 
which  seems  to  me  misleading,  though  unintentionally 
po,  I  doubt  not,  in  that  it  conveys  the  impression  of 
the  vigorous  efficiency  of  the  high  license  law  now 
aperative  in  Illinois.  The  sentence  reads  as  follows  : 
rThis  law  is  now  being  vigorously  enforced."  That 
t  is  not  being  vigorously  enforced  in  Chicago  may  be 
[discovered  any  day  at  the  City  Hall,  where  the  books 
will  show  that  nearly  four  thousand  saloons  are  paying 
nto  the  city  treasury  one  hundred  and  three  dollars 
iach  for  the  year  ending  April  i,  1884.  The  City 
Council  took  pains  before  the  law  came  into  effect 
July  i,  1883)  to  issue  these  licenses  for  the  period 
lamed  at  double  the  old  municipal  rates,  and  the 
Attorney-General  of  the  State  has  given  an  opinion 
avorable  to  this  evasion  of  the  intent  and  purposes 
)f  the  act. 

At  least  a  dozen  other  towns  and  cities  whose 
>perations  have  come  under  my  own  observation 
aave  adopted  the  same  device  for  making  the  law  of 
kone  effect,  and  probably  this  number  might  be  mul- 


That  it  has  been  and  is  in  many  places  enforced,  as 
well  as  the  laws  it  has  superseded,  will  doubtless  be 
conceded  by  all ;  but  this  is  a  weak  recommendation 
surely,  when  Law-and-Order  Leagues  have  been  found 
necessary  to  secure  this  enforcement.  In  a  few  con- 
spicuous instances  it  has  considerably  diminished  the 
number  of  the  saloons ;  but  it  is  nowhere  claimed,  to 
my  knowledge, —  and  I  have  been  at  much  pains  to  ar- 
rive at  the  truth, —  that  it  has  lessened  drunkenness  or 
the  sales  of  liquor. 

The  high  license  law  is  regarded  by  the  Women's 
Christian  Temperance  Union,  first,  as  unjust,  because 
tending  to  create  a  monopoly  in  liquor-selling  —  to 
build  up  the  powerful  dealers  who  already  do  the 
most  harm,  and  to  crush  out  the  weak  ones  who  do 
the  least ;  secondly,  as  unwise  financially,  because  if 
the  dealer  pays  $500,  instead  of  $100,  for  his  permit 
to  engage  in  the  business,  he  must  certainly  prosecute 
his  trade  more  vigorously  to  win  back  the  extra  $400 
which  has  gone  into  the  city's  coffers,  thus  producing 
more  misery,  poverty,  and  crime ;  thirdly,  as  unwise 
morally,  since  it  lends  respectability  and  tone  to  the 
dealers  who  can  afford  the  tax,  and  increases  their 
ability  to  lure  "  the  weak  brother  "  and  the  sons  of 
respectable  homes  and  parentage;  fourthly,  as  un- 
christian, because  it  is,  like  all  license  laws,  a  recogni- 
tion and  permission  of  a  traffic  which  is  a  crime 
against  civil  and  a  sin  against  divine  government. 
It  is  also  such  a  recognition  and  indorsement  as  tends 
to  perpetuate  rather  than  weaken  or  overthrow  the 
system. 

These  are  the  views  of  nearly  one  hundred  thousand 
mothers  of  our  land.  The  palace  saloon  is  our  terror. 
Make  the  dens  of  sorrow,  vice,  and  shame  less  respect- 
able if  you  can,  rather  than  raise  their  level  to  the 
pathway  where  our  sons  -vralk  unsuspecting  and 
guarded  by  every  device  which  a  mother's  love  can 
suggest. 

Mary  B.  Willard. 


PROHIBITION     IN     KANSAS. 


I  HAVE  read  with  some  interest  the  articles  which 
have  appeared  in  late  numbers  of  THE  CENTURY 
on  the  temperance  question,  and  I  have  wondered  if 
the  editor,  or  Mr.  Walter  Farrington,  or  the  Rev. 
Washington  Gladden,  had  any  direct  knowledge  of 
the  workings  of  constitutional  prohibition  in  Kansas. 
It  would  not  be  an  easy  task  to  the  thoughtful  ob- 
server, denied  personal  contact  with  citizens  of  this 
State,  to  explain  satisfactorily  why  a  public  sentiment 
which  was  strong  enough  in  1879  to  force  constitu- 
tional prohibition  on  the  State  of  Kansas  is  so  shame- 
fully weak  and  impotent  to-day.  But,  in  mingling 
with  the  people,  one  readily  finds  a  solution  to  the 
moral  problem. 

One  citizen,  seemingly  and  presumably  intelligent 
as  regards  most  questions  of  State  or  national  interest, 
admits  that  he  did  not  fully  understand  the  magnitude 
of  the  question  nor  its  vital  relation  to  society ;  but  he 
voted  for  constitutional  prohibition  because,  in  the 
abstract,  it  was  desirable;  and  another  citizen,  repre- 

,  r j  & senting  another  class,  reckless  of  the  great  responsi- 

tiplied  tenfold  by  persons  equally  cognizant  of  the  facts  bility  which  would  be  thrown  upon  the  State,  voted 
n  the  case.  All  of  which  must  be  considered  a  large  for  the  amendment  because  he  "  wanted  to  see  it  tried." 
•batement  in  the  vigorous  enforcement  of  the  law.  To  these  two  classes,  more  criminally  careless,  it  may 


; 


794 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


be,  in  the  handling  of  their  suffrage,  than  wanting  in 
intelligence,  Kansas  owes  its  present  constitutional 
amendment  prohibiting  the  manufacture,  sale,  or  bar- 
ter of  intoxicating  liquors. 

The  amendment,  then,  does  not  owe  its  existence  to 


"The  Bread-Winners." 
A   LETTER    FROM   THE   AUTHOR. 


FOR  several  months  I  have  listened  in  silence  to  a 
chorus    of  vituperation  which  seems    to  me  unjust 

a  strong,  healthy  public  sentiment,  but  to  the  careless-  and  unfounded,  until  my  original  purpose  of  reply- 
ness  of  easy-going,  experiment-loving  citizens.  As  a  ing  to  no  form  of  misrepresentation  has  been  so  far 
consequence,  when  the  extreme  difficulty  of  its  en-  shaken  that  I  beg  for  a  little  space  to  correct  some 
forcement  first  began  to  be  apparent,  we  found  these  errors  and  to  justify  at  least  my  intentions, 
two  classes  of  citizens  (the  classes  which  gave  the 
amendment  its  majority)  the  first  to  drop  the  measure 
and  inveigh  against  its  practicability. 

And  as  a  further  consequence  of  this  heavy  deser- 
tion from  Prohibition  ranks,  the  law  has  never  been 
seriously  enforced  in  any  part  of  the  State,  if  we  may  agant  and  untrue  to  nature. 

except  those  communities  where  public  sentiment  is        3.  It  is  a  base  and  craven  thing  to  publish  a  book 
really  opposed  to  liquor;  and  in  those  communities    anonymously. 


The  charges  of  my  critics  may  be  divided  into  three 
heads : 

1.  "The    Bread-Winners"  is  conceived  from   an 
aristocratic  point  of  view. 

2.  It  is  not  well  written.    The  incidents  are  extrav- 


practical  prohibition  would  be  a  fact  under  any  law. 

Here  in  Abilene,  a  town  of  some  four  thousand  in- 
habitants and  one  of  the  most  thriving,  intelligent, 
and  moral  communities  in  the  State,  we  have  six 
saloons  and  one  wholesale  liquor  house.  They  are 


The  first  charge  seems  to  me  too  absurd  to  be  con- 
sidered seriously.  I  hardly  know  what  is  meant  by  an 
aristocratic  point  of  view.  I  am  myself  a  working 
man,  with  a  lineage  of  decent  working  men ;  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  earning  my  own  living  all  my 


run  in  open  defiance  of  the  law  and  in  spite  of  the  life,  with  rare  and  brief  holidays.    I  have  always  been 

opposition  of  the  radical  Prohibitionists.    Practically,  in  intimate  personal  relations  with  artisans  and  with 

there  is  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  authorities  or  citi-  men  engaged  in  trade.    I  do  not  see  how  it  is  possible 

zens  to  close  these  saloons,  and  free  beer  and  whisky  for  an  American  to  be  an  aristocrat ;  if  such  a  thing 

are  sold  ad  libitum.    A  similar  condition  of  affairs  ex-  exists,  I  have  never  met  it.    But  because,  in  my  little 

ists  in  all  parts  of  the  State,  and  this  utter  disregard  of  book,  more  attention  is  bestowed  upon  certain  danger- 

law  must  of  necessity  bring  shame  and  reproach  upon  ous  or  vicious  tendencies  among  the  poor  than  upon 

the  Commonwealth,  and  be  an  active  source  of  danger  the  faults  incident  to  wealth,  I  am  called  an  aristocrat 

to  its  integrity  and  authority.    And  instead  of  getting  or  a  snob, — a  name  equally  vague  and  senseless,  which, 


better,  the  condition  of  things  is  growing  worse. 

The  most  unfortunate  thing  which  has  happened  to 
this  question  is  the  dragging  of  it  into  politics,  and  no 
one  can  fully  understand  the  situation  unless  he  is 
found  in  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  conflict.  Political 
questions  are  subordinated  to  this  Prohibition  and 
anti-Prohibition  craze,  and  men  are  elected  or  defeated 
according  to  their  expressed  views  on  this  one  subject. 
Even  those  prosecutions  which  we  do  have  are  started 
through  party  interests  and  exigencies,  and  it  is  fre- 
quently the  case  that  saloon  men  who  "  stand  in  "  with 
the  dominant  local  party  are.  protected,  while  others,who 
happen  to  be  on  the  "  wrong  side  of  the  fence,"  suffer 
from  a  discriminating  and  therefore  unjust  prosecution. 

So  far  has  this  intolerant  spirit  been  carried,  that 
Prohibition  in  Kansas  has  become  nothing  more  than 
a  screaming  farce,  and  it  would  seem  that  the  quicker 
the  amendment  is  resubmitted  to  the  people  and  re- 
pealed, the  better  it  will  be  for  the  morals  and  peace 
of  mind  of  the  State.  Fancy  a  condition  of  things 


so  far  as  I  can  discover,  merely  denotes  that  the  man 
using  it  does  not  like  the  man  to  whom  it  is  applied. 
The  question  may  be  asked,  Why  do  I  talk  more 
about  the  failings  of  the  poor  than  about  those  of  the 
rich  ?  Simply  because  I  know  more  about  them. 

The  germ  of  "The  Bread-Winners  "  was  a  remarks 
made  to  me  by  a  friend  of  mine,  a  carpenter  of  De- 
troit. He  said  one  day,  when  we  were  walking  past 
the  High  School  and  talking  of  social  matters,  "There 
is  hardly  a  carpenter's  daughter  in  this  town  who  will 
marry  a  carpenter."  The  image  of  Miss  Maud  Matchin 
then  formed  itself  in  my  mind.  A  few  days  later  I; 
met  Mr.  Offitt  in  a  railway  train,  and  afterward,  I  came 
to  know  him  well  in  a  boarding-house  we  both  fre- \ 
quented.  Almost  without  my  consciousness  the  story 
took  shape  as  it  was  written.  The  hero  of  the  tale  is, 
Offitt,  not  Farnham ;  the  heroine  is  Maud,  and  not 
Alice.  I  care  little  about  Farnham.  It  is  true  I  gave 
him  a  fine  house  and  a  lot  of  money, —  which  cost  mCj 
nothing, — but  that  was  only  because  Miss  Matchin 


which  impels  the  thirsty  resident   of  Kansas   City,    would  never  have  looked  at  him  otherwise.     He 


suffering  from  the  Downing  law  which  closes  Missouri 
saloons  on  Sundays,  to  cross  the  State  line  into  Pro- 


commonplace  soldier,  with  a  large  property ;  he  pre- 
tends to  be  nothing  else.    Some  of  my  critics,  to  my 


hibition  Kansas  for  the  purpose  of  supplying  himself    amazement,  have  said,  as  if  they  were  making  a  great 


with  all  the  liquor  he  wants !  In  an  article  of  this 
kind  it  is  impossible  to  speak  of  the  strife  between 
neighbor  and  neighbor,  the  perjuries  of  the  witness- 
box,  and  the  disregard  of  official  oaths,  which  are 
directly  traceable  to  the  Prohibition  amendment. 


discovery,  that  there  is  nothing  remarkable  about  him. 
I  never  intended  there  should  be.  I  probably  coulc 
not  have  made  him  wise  or  learned  or  witty  if  I  hac 
tried, —  but  I  certainly  never  tried.  I  wanted  hinr 
to  be  a  gentleman,  and  I  think  he  is ;  but  that  I  can 


It  is   the   candid  opinion  of  your   correspondent,    not  discuss,  for  I  have  never  known  two  people  t< 
considering  the  present  state  of  public  morals  and    agree  upon  a  definition  of  a  gentleman. 


public  appetite,  that  the  liquor  question  is  to  be  suc- 
cessfully handled  only  by  high  license  and  local  option. 

S.  K.  Strother. 


The  only  other  rich  people  at  all  kindly  treated  iij 
the  book  are  Mrs.  Belding  and  her  daughter.    Aw 
here  another  astonishing  criticism  has   been   mace 
This  comes  from  the  Boston  "  Transcript. ' '   The  writ  e 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


795 


j  rebukes  me  for  aristocratic  leanings,  and  then  goes  on 

i  to  discover  a  glaring  inconsistency  in  the  fact  that 

Miss  Belding  is  a  nice  sort  of  person,  while  her  mother 

is  not  especially  refined,  and  her  father  was  a  success- 

I  ful  mechanic.    My  gentle,  though  wabbling  critic,  was 

!  it  not  I  who  decided  that  this  nice  young  person  should 

be  a  daughter  of  the  people  as  well  as  Miss  Matchin  ? 

i  and  is  it  not  possible  that  I  knew  what  I  was  about  as 

well  as  you  ?   The  same  critic,  whom  I  cite  more  than 

I  once  because  he  is  more  than  usually  comic,  decides 

I  that  I  am  a  Western  man,  because  of  a  certain  "  raw 

I  Americanism  "  he  sees  in  me,  and  because  my  person- 

i  ages  lack  grandfathers,  as  a  rule.    An  Eastern  man's 

j  personages,  he  says,  "  would  have  a  more  remote  tra- 

i  ditional  background."    If  I  shared  his  interest  in  the 

habitat  of  authors,  I  should  say  his  ancestral  home 

was   in    Connaught.    The   brain   that   evolved   these 

I  startling  syllogisms  has  been  nourished  by  the  potato 

and  not  by  the  bean. 

I  find  that  in  Ohio  the  book  has  given  deep  offense 
!  because  of  a  supposed  unfairness  to  the  laboring  class. 
One  editor   says  —  and  seems  to  think  my  work  is 
condemned  by  that  sentence  — "  There  are  five  thou- 
jsand  men  in  Springfield  to-day,  honest,  industrious, 
I  intelligent  toilers,  who  earn  their  bread  by  the  sweat 
i  of  their  faces,  but  who  move  in  the  very  best  social 
[circles,  and  are  as  highly  esteemed  as  any  class  of 
I  people  we  have  among  us."    Because  I  have  not  de- 
!  scribed  these  five  thousand  honest  working  men,  who 
move  in  the  best  social  circles,  I  am  anathematized  as 
Ja  libeler  of  the  poor.    Because  I  choose  to  talk  about 
!  Miss  Matchin,  to  whom  the  High  School  was  of  little 
(service,  I  am  unjust  to  the  thousands  of  girls  who  get 
|  great  advantage  from  our  public  schools.    I  am  told 
'my  picture  is  one-sided.    Of  course  it  is  —  most  pict- 
jures  are.    If  I  paint  your  face  well,  you  do  not  com- 
plain that  I  have  not  done  justice  to  your  back.    A 
|  man  says  he  met  a  viper  in  the  woods.    You  do  not 
Icall  him  a  liar  because  he  says  nothing  about  the  sing- 
ing birds  which   are  there.    I  attempted  to  describe 
Certain  types  of  moral  perversion  which  I  have  found 
among  our  working  people,  and  I  am  denounced  for 
.not  having  filled  my  book  with  praises  of  the  virtues 
which  also  abound  among  them.    This  is  certainly  a 
Inew  canon  of  literature.     May  I  not  speak  of  Nero 
without  writing  the  life  of  Brutus  ?    Is  it  not  legiti- 
mate for  me  to  describe  Justus  Schwab  without  con- 
trasting him  with  Peter  Cooper  ?    I  have  been  unjust, 
! Jit   seems,  to  the  labor  unions.    This  is  a  gratuitous 
(assumption.     I    have    expressed   no   opinions   about 
labor  unions.    I  have  told  about  a  little  society,  or- 
ganized for  his  own  ends  by  a  criminal,  who  uses  the 
labor  reformers'  slang  and  something  of  their  meth- 
ods to  swindle  a  few  workmen  out  of  their  money.    If 
any  one  says  this  is  not  true,  he  simply  shows  his 
'ignorance  of  what  is  going  on  about  him  in  every  city 
of  considerable  size.    I  have  not  discussed  the  Labor 
'problem  at  all.   It  was  not  in  my  province.    A  news- 
paper  in   Western    Massachusetts,   once    edited    by 
Samuel  Bowles  and  now  carried  on  by  I  know  not 
what  hysterical  person,  says  I  have  left  that  question 
i"  without  a  word  of  sympathy  or  even  pity  "  for  the 
(toilers.    I  can  inform  my  falsetto  deemster  that  the 
robust  toilers   of  this  country  care  as  little  for  my 
sympathy  as  for  his.     The  most  intelligent  and  most 
prosperous  laboring  class  in  the  world  can  live  and 


flourish  without  the  patronage  of  novelists  or  larmoy- 
ant  journalists. 

2.  I  can  defend  myself  but  feebly  against  the  charge 
that  my  book  is  ill  written.    I  have  little  technical  skill 
in  writing,  and  no  experience  whatever  in  writing  of 
this  kind.    The  fact  that  my  purpose  and  feeling  have 
been  so  widely  misunderstood  is  itself  the  condemna- 
tion of  my  style  and  method.    If  people  think  I  meant 
to  represent  Arthur  Farnham  as  an  ideal  hero,  or  that 
I  have  any  sentiment  but  profound  admiration  and 
respect  for  the  great  mass  of  American  working  men, 
I  admit  that  I  have  expressed  myself  with  singular 
and  lamentable  awkwardness.    If  it  be  true  also  that 
what  I  have  written  has  seemed  in  any  point  exag- 
gerated or  untrue,  then  I  have  fallen  again  far  wide 
of  the  mark.    I  had  but  one  thought  in  writing  "  The 
Bread -Winners  " — to  give  an  absolutely  truthful  pict- 
ure of  certain  phases  of  our  social  life  which  I  had 
never  seen  in  print.    The  method  by  which  I  proposed 
to  attain  this  end  was  perhaps  faulty  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view,  but  it  was  the  only  one  I  knew.    I 
determined  not  to  put  a  trait  nor  an  incident  into  my 
story  which  was  not  strictly  true — of  which  I  was 
not  clearly  certain  of  my  own  knowledge.    The  per- 
sonages, with  the  exception  of  Offitt,  are  not  portraits 
of  real  people.     But  every  trait  I  have  described  I 
have  myself  encountered,  and  a  life-long  observation 
of  a  good  many  kinds  of  society  has,  I  think,  kept  me 
from  mingling  discordant  traits  in  the  same  character. 
As  to  the  incidents   of  the  story  which  have  been 
called   overcharged,  they  have  all  been  read  in   the 
daily  papers  and  forgotten,  and  some  of  them  narrated 
by  the  very  editors  who  now  call  them  impossible. 
For  instance,  the  speech  of  Bott  inciting  the  mob  to 
sack  Algonquin  Avenue  I  took  almost  word  for  word 
from  a  Cleveland  paper  of  July,  1877.    The  escape  of 
Sleeny  from  jail  I  found  in  the  same  paper.   The  scene 
of  the  mob  at  Farnham's  house  was  closely  paralleled 
during  the  strikes  of  1877  at  Louisville,  Kentucky; 
and  far  more  tragic  horrors  than  anything  I  have  vent- 
ured upon  were  repeated  over  and  over  at  Pittsburg. 
The  sketch  of  the  Mayor  of  Buffland  has  been  called 
a  malignant  caricature.    I  do  not  know  who  held  that 
office  at  the  time  of  the  riots,  and  I  meant  no  personal 
allusion.    But  in  a  Cleveland  paper,  which  I  have  begun 
of  late  to  read  with  diligence  if  not  with  edification, 
I  have  found  this  paragraph,  which  shows  what  sort 
of  a  chief  magistrate  they  now  possess  in  that  city : 

"  A  special  meeting  of  the  Police  Board  was  held 
yesterday  afternoon.  In  the  course  of  a  general  dis- 
cussion, street  beggars  and  tramps  were  referred  to. 

Mayor  F made  a  remark  to  the  effect  that  the 

poor  fellows  ought  not  to  be  molested.  '  Are  you  in 
favor  of  street-begging,  your  honor  ?  '  asked  Mr. 

B .  '  If  I  was  hungry,'  was  the  reply,  '  and  had 

no  money  with  which  to  buy  bread,  I  would  beg  for 
it ;  and  if  nobody  would  give  me  anything,  I  would 
knock  down  some  fellow  who  was  smaller  than  I, 
and  get  some  money.  An  empty  stomach  knows  no 
law.'" 

All  this,  I  admit,  is  a  very  inadequate  defense  against 
the  charge  that  I  have  written  an  inartistic  book.  No 
matter  how  true  it  is,  if  the  effect  is  untrue,  the  book 
has  been  badly  written ;  but  I,  at  least,  contend  that 
the  book  is  true,  and  written  with  an  honest  purpose. 

3.  The  idea  that  there  is  anything  morally  wrong 
in  publishing  a  novel  anonymously  is  entirely  new 


796 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


to  me.   I  had  never  heard  it  advanced  until  it  was  at  Lorillard  City,  ana  the  impressions  of  inscriptions 

made  the  basis  of  censure  upon  me  in  several  news-  and  mural  ornaments  which  he  made  there,  he  says  : 

papers.    I  will  not  refer  to  the  numerous  instances  of  "  We   have  taken   casts  of  some  superb  bas-reliefs, 

reputable  men  and  women  who  have  committed  this  and  when  they  are  put  on  exhibition  in  Washington 

sin  without  loss  of  character  in  past  and  present  times,  and   Paris  they  will  excite  no  little   astonishment.'* 

I  will  simply  leave  it  to  the  common  sense  of  readers  The    collection   which   has   recently   arrived    at    the 

to  say  whether  there  is  anything  flagitious  in  with-  National  Museum  arouses  not  only  the  astonishment 

holding  one's  name  from  an  entirely  impersonal  work  but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  archaeologists  of  Washing, 

of  fiction.    It  was  hard  for  me  to  understand  why  there  ton,  as  it  will  of  all  intelligent  beholders  when  the 

should  be  such  a  feeling  about  so  trifling  a  matter,  hall  shall  be  thrown  open  to  the  public, 
until  I  saw  an  elaborate  article  on  the  subject  in  "The        M.  Charnay  first  visited  Central  America  in  1857, 

Critic."    One  phrase  I  will  quote,  showing  with  what  under  authority  of  the  French  Government,  and,  in 

gentle  persuasion  the  writer,  in  the  words  of  the  nur-  1863,  published  the  results  of  his  investigations,  in  his 

sery  song,  woos  anonymous  authors  who  write  poor  work  upon  the  "  Che's   et   Ruines  Americaines,"  to- 

books"  to  come  and  be  killed."     "  The  whole  world,"  gether  with  a  large  series  of  photographs.    In  1880 

he  says,  "  calls  upon  you  for  your  name,  that  it  may  he  was  made  chief  of  a  much  more  elaborate  expedi- 

avoid,  condemn,  mistrust,  destroy  you."    Even  this  tion,  undertaken  at  the  instance  of  Mr.  Pierre  Lor- 


appeal,  I  think,  will  not  be  sufficient  to  tempt  me  out 
of  my  incognito. 

My  motive  in  withholding  my  name  is  simple 
enough.  I  am  engaged  in  business  in  which  my  stand- 
ing would  be  seriously  compromised  if  it  were  known 
that  I  had  written  a  novel.  I  am  sure  that  my  prac- 
tical efficiency  is  not  lessened  by  this  act;  but  I  am 
equally  sure  that  I  could  never  recover  from  the  injury 
it  would  occasion  me  if  known  among  my  own  col- 
leagues. For  that  positive  reason,  and  for  the  negative 
one  that  I  do  not  care  for  publicity,  I  resolved  to 
keep  the  knowledge  of  my  little  venture  in  authorship 
restricted  to  as  small  a  circle  as  possible.  Only  two 
persons  besides  myself  know  who  wrote  "  The  Bread- 
Winners. "  One  of  these  is  an  eminent  man  of  letters, 
who  had  the  kindness  to  read  my  manuscript,  and 
whose  approval  encouraged  me  to  print  it.  I  am  abso- 
lutely sure  of  the  discretion  of  both  these  gentlemen, 
and,  I  hope  I  may  add,  of  my  own.  I  offered  to  give 
my  name  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  who  have 
published  the  story  in  book-form,  if  they  should  require 
it,  but  they  had  the  kindness  and  consideration  to 
decline.  I  am  aware  that  this  assertion  is  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  current  rumors.  I  have  met  several 
persons  who  tell  me  they  have  talked  with  the  author 
about  the  book,  and  two  who  gave  me  to  understand, 
in  the  strictest  confidence,  that  they  wrote  it  them- 
selves. But  the  unimportant  truth  is  as  I  have  stated 
it.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  so  much  about  a  matter  of 
such  infinite  insignificance,  but  I  would  like,  if  pos- 
sible, to  put  a  stop  to  a  discussion-which  has  become 
ridiculous. 

In  conclusion,  I  beg  to  offer  my  sincere  apologies 
to  two  or  three  distinguished  writers  who  have  been 
compelled  to  defend  themselves  against  the  accusation 
of  having  written  "The  Bread -Winners."  Perhaps  it 
may  please  them,  hereafter,  when  suffering  under  un- 
deserved strictures,  to  reflect  upon  the  absurdity  of 
this  charge  and  the  worthlessness  of  criticism  which 
could  ever  have  ascribed  such  a  book  to  such  names. 

The  Author  of  "  The  Bread -Winners." 
NEW  YORK,  February  i,  1884. 

The  Lorillard-Charnay  Collection  of  Central   American 
Antiquities. 

M.  DESIRE  CHARNAY'S  words,  written  in  the 
"North  American  Review  "  in  1882,  have  come  true. 
Speaking  of  his  labors  in  Central  America,  particularly 


illard,  and  sustained  by  the  munificence  of  that  gentle- 
man  and  of  the  governments  of  France  and  the  United 
States.  He  has  visited  in  succession  the  antique  cities 
of  Mexico,  Guatemala,  and  Yucatan,  everywhere  tak- 
ing casts  of  inscriptions  and  carvings,  photographing 
temples  and  statues,  making  measurements  and  notes, 
and  submitting  all  things  to  the  closest  scientific  scru- 
tiny. With  the  aid  of  a  force  of  twenty  or  thirty  hired 
laborers,  supplemented  by  others  liberally  furnished 
at  various  times  by  the  Mexican  Government,  tem- 
ples and  palaces  were  exhumed,  tombs  explored,  fallen 
columns  reerected,  inscriptions  cleansed,  and  all  the 
details  of  a  rigorous  survey  carefully  attended  to. 

The  collection  which  is  now  being  installed  in  the 
National  Museum  represents  the  first-fruits  of  his  en- 
deavors. It  consists  of  a  series  of  casts  of  some  of 
the  most  interesting  stone  carvings  which  adorn  the 
ruined  antique  palaces  and  temples  of  the  Toltecs. 
They  are  from  Palenque  and  Mexico,  from  Chichen- 
Itza  and  Merida  and  Lorillard  City,  and  from  other 
noted  localities.  There  are  in  all  eighty-two  pieces 
of  various  shapes  and  sizes,  the  majority  being  in 
the  form  of  rectangular  tablets  of  inscriptions.  The 
remainder  are  walls  and  altars,  columns  and  capitals, 
door-ways  and  steps,  and  other  similar  objects.  To 
describe  them  all  would  be  impossible  in  this  com- 
munication, but  the  reader  may  not  weary  if  the 
salient  features  of  a  few  are1  pointed  out.  Perhaps  the 
richest  part  of  the  collection  is  from  Palenque.  Among 
the  casts  from  this  locality  we  find  the  altar  of  the 
famous  Temple  of  the  Cross,  regarding  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  central  emblem  of  which  so  much  dis- 
cussion has  been  aroused.  This  altar,  which  is  now 
being  restored  in  the  Museum  to  conform  as  nearly 
as  possible  to  the  original,  is  not  easily  described. 
For  those  who  have  glanced  at  the  figures  in  Waldeck 
or  Rau  or  Bancroft  it  is  unnecessary.  In  the  center 
is  a  cross  of  almost  Latin  proportions,  surrounded  by 
a  variety  of  irregular  and  fantastic  ornaments,  and 
surmounted  by  a  large  bird,  whose  head  is  also  wrapped 
in  an  unintelligible  mass  of  plumes  and  pendants. 
This  bird  is  believed  to  be  the  royal  trogon,  or  "quet- 
zal," although  I  have  heard  it  facetiously  termed  the 
"  old  rooster."  On  the  right  of  and  facing  the  cross  i> 
the  figure  of  a  priest,  in  scant  clothing  and  ponderous 
head-dress,  who  holds  in  his  outstretched  arms  a  curi- 
ous, elongate,  bird-like  object.  On  the  opposite  sid<: 
of  the  cross  is  a  shorter  person  of  self-possessed  mien, 
who  stands  on  a  small,  square  block,  and  holds  loosely 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


797 


in  his  hand,  in  a  vertical  position,  a  short,  irregularly 
shaped  rod.  Behind  each  figure  is  a  tablet  covered 
with  elaborate  inscriptions  in  large  hieroglyphics. 
These,  as  well  as  all  the  other  inscriptions  in  the  col- 
lection, are  undecipherable  at  the  present  time,  al- 
though several  archaeologists  in  Washington  and  Paris 
believe  themselves  far  on  the  road  toward  the  discovery 
of  their  true  meaning.  *  It  is  probably  well  known  that 
the  original  right-hand  tablet  of  this  celebrated  altar 
has  been  in  the  National  Museum  for  many  years. 
On  the  front  face  of  the  two  side  walls,  wrhich  stand 


height  and  more  in  length.  There  are  five  rows  of 
warriors,  one  above  another,  many  carrying  in  the 
one  hand  three  or  more  arrows  or  rods,  and  in  the 
other  a  curiously  formed  object,  believed  by  M. 
Charnay  to  be  a  sacrificial  knife. 

The  columns  and  capitals  of  Chichen-Itza  look  heavy 
and  unskillfully  formed,  when  we  remember  the  fair 
proportions  of  those  of  Greece,  but  we  must  not  be 
too  ungracious  in  our  comparisons. 

A  curious  small  bas-relief  from  Lorillard  City  rep- 
resents two  persons  approaching  each  other,  each 


out  at  right  angles  from  the  back  of  the  altar,  are  two    bearing  in  his  outstretched  hand  a  large  cross  of  pecu- 


1 1  additional  nearly  life-size  figures,  known  as  the  "  old 
1 1  man  "and  the  "  young  man  " — names  which  are  sig- 
i  nificant  of  their  attitudes  and  bearing. 

A  second  altar,  having  a  remarkable  resemblance  to 

!   the  preceding,  but  in  which  the  positions  of  the  large 

\\  and  small  human   figures  and   of  the   bird   are   re- 

|  versed,  was  described  by  a  traveler  in  1879  as  having 

been   discovered   by  him  in   a   small   building   at  a 

i  stone's  throw  from  the  well-known  temple.   His  story 

found  little  credence  among  archaeologists ;  but  to-day 

there  stands    in  the  National  Museum  a  cast  which 

H  is  undoubtedly  that  of  the  group  which  he  described 

|  and  the  truthfulness  of  his  narrative  is  confirmed. 

Another  very  similar  altar  with  inscriptions  is  that  of 
!J  the  so-called  "  Temple  of  the  Sun."  The  sun  takes  the 
place  of  the  cross  of  the  preceding  shrines,  and  is  rep- 
resented by  a  rotund  face,  hung  like  a  shield  at  the 
intersection  of  two  spears  which  cross. 

The  carvings  from  the  circumference  of  the  "  sun 
i  stone  "  of  Mexico   City,  which  so  narrowly  escaped 
being  pounded  into   paving-stones  not  many   years 
ago,  form  an  interesting  object.    Fifteen  men  of  about 
i  half  natural  size  hold  fifteen  others  of  equal  propor- 
tions by  the  hair.    Gama  would  have  us  believe  that 
j  they  represent  religious  dancers  ;  but  the  mind  at  once 
recognizes  in  the  attitudes  of  the  figures  the  probable 
correctness  of  Berra's  view,  that  they  depict  the  con- 
!  querors  and  the  conquered.  "  The  central  cavity  in  the 
I  center  of  this  stone  (at  the  top),"  says  Charnay,  "  which 
I  formerly  received  the  hearts  of  the  victims  offered  to 
|  the  sun  god,  is  now  used  as  a  bath  by  the  doves  which 
I  frequent  the  court-yard  of  the  Museum  (of  Mexico)." 
Another  procession  of  warriors  is  from  the  walls  of 
j  one  of  the  great  chambers  of  the  "  Tennis-court "  at 
:  Chichen-Itza  in  Yucatan.   The  wall  is  sixteen  feet  in 


liar  shape.  The  arms  of  the  crosses  end  in  round  knobs, 
and  from  the  summit  of  each  extends  a  long  curved 
feather.  The  significance  of  the  group  is  unknown. 

A  vein  of  resemblance  runs  through  all  the  sculpt- 
ures. There  are  warriors  and  priests,  conquerors 
and  slaves,  spears  and  arrows  and  feathers.  The  pro- 
files of  all  the  faces  show  much  similarity,  the  features 
having  a  strong  Semitic  cast. 

But  the  interest  of  the  observer  centers  at  last  in  the 
odd  hieroglyphics  of  the  inscriptions.  Their  very  in- 
scrutability arouses  in  the  mindan  ardent  desire  to  know 
their  meaning.  The  mysterious  dots  and  bars,  the  rudely 
carved  faces  and  circles,  provoke  profound  meditation. 

Who  shall  say  what  new  light  may  be  thrown  upon 
the  history  of  American  civilization  when  the  in- 
scribed tablets,  now  mute,  shall  be  made  to  speak  ? 
Perhaps  we  shall  learn  only  of  names  of  gods  and  of 
seasons  and  feast  days  ;  but  we  hope  for  more.  If  the 
conjectures  of  M.  Charnay  should  be  established  as 
facts,  we  must  bring  the  period  of  the  rise  and  down- 
fall of  the  Toltec  civilization  in  Central  America  within 
seven  centuries.  It  may  be  childish  to  desire  a  thought- 
confounding  antiquity.  The  tendency  to-day,  among 
the  leading  students  of  India  and  Egypt  and  China, 
and  even  among  geologists,  is  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. The  doctrine  of  the  slow  development  of  a 
people  is  no  dogma ;  but  to  ascribe  to  works  of  human 
art  an  antiquity,  in  comparison  with  which  the  hills 
are  young,  would  seem  to  be  a  manifest  absurdity. 

The  hall  in  which  the  casts  are  now  being  arranged 
is  scarcely  suited  for  exhibiting  them  properly,  and  it 
is  probable  that  in  course  of  the  winter  they  will  be 
transferred  to  another  room. 

Frederick  W.  True. 

SMITHSONIAN  INSTITUTION. 


*  The  reader  who  is  interested  in  this  subject  is  referred  to  a  paper  by  Prof.  Edward  S.  Holden,  in  this  magazine  for  Decem- 
I  ber,  1881,  entitled  "The  Hieroglyphs  of  Central  America,"  in  which  the  writer  lays  down  principles  for  the  study  of  these  inscrip- 
j  tions.  The  illustrations  of  that  paper  include  cuts  of  several  of  the  pieces  now  in  the  National  Museum.  It  should  be  borne  in 
!  mind,  however,  that,  although  the  majority  of  them  are  from  the  drawings  of  a  no  less  skillful  artist  than  Catherwood,  they  do 
i  not  represent  the  originals  with  photographic  accuracy.  A  number  of  important  errors  occur  in  the  delineations  of  the  glyphs 
'  of  the  inscriptions. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


A  Seville   Love-Song. 


(BY  THE   AUTHOR   OF    "THE   DANUBE   RIVER.") 
I. 

LOOK  down  from  your  window,  dearest 

The  mists  of  night  are  fled, 
Venus,  of  stars  the  clearest, 

Burns  just  above  your  head. 
I  am  not  at  your  sweet  eyes'  level, 

Nor  above,  where  the  jasmines  blow 
Round  the  golden  towers  of  Seville, — 

I  am  here,  at  your  feet,  below  ! 


II. 


Send  me  a  flower,  dearest, 

A  word  from  that  common  speech, 
To  all  mankind  the  clearest, 

Which  peasant,  like  king,  may  reach. 
I  am  here,  as  it  were,  in  December, 

And  you  are  in  May,  up  above  — 
Oh !  send  me  a  bud  to  remember 

The  spring's  first  promise  of  love ! 

Hamilton  Aide. 


798 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


Nocturne. 


I  LOVE  thee  as  the  steeple  loves  the  star 
Above  it,  wooing  in  the  sparkling  night, 
When  the  duenna  moon  is  out  of  sight, 
And  gossip  planets  wend  their  course  afar. 

So  worship  I,  though  frowns  thy  beauty  mar, 
Like  clouds  wind-strewn  between  me  and  thy  height, 
As  on  poor  earth  fair  heaven  would  put  a  slight, 
While  yet  I  gaze  unceasing  where  you  are. 

Hath  Love  no  bow  can  fling  a  shaft  to  scar 
Thy  calm  heart,  skied  in  maiden  constancy  — 
Mocking  the  archer  with  its  flashing  light? 

Ah,  this  I  know:  Thou  art  the  zenith  star 

Of  a  celestial  sphere  whose  canopy 

Covers  a  heart  that's  in  the  old,  old  plight. 

Clarence  Clough  Buel. 


The  Fault-Demon. 

I'VE  seen  a  white-robed  maiden 

With  flowing  gold  hair  laden, 
As  heavy- burdened  body  as  she  could  bear, 

And  there  came  a  wild  black  raven, 

So  eager  and  so  craven, 
And  hid  himself  all  silent  in  her  fair  gold  hair. 

When  she  cried,  "Thou  misbehaven!" 

"  Caw !  "  said  the  wild  dark  raven, 
And  all  her  tedious  life  he  only  said  "  Caw  !  " 

Yet  sate  he  on  her  shoulder, 

This  heavy  black  bird-bowlder, 
And  moved  not,  would  not  leave  her,  for  patience 

or  for  law. 

Now,  on  her  tomb  was  graven 

"  The  Maiden  of  the  Raven, 
Who  peered  from  her  long  tresses  for  all  to  see : — 

Some  said  that  it  was  pride 

Gave  the  bird  so  long  a  ride." 
But  he  left  her  when  the  church-bell  rang  sonorously. 

Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop. 


Uncle  Esek's  Wisdom.     (New  Series.) 

WHAT  the  country  wants  the  most  just  now  is  less 
religion  and  more  piety,  less  advice  and  more  exam- 
ple, less  politics  and  more  patriotism,  and  less  pedi- 
gree and  more  pluck. 

A  very  stubborn  man  is  often  wrong,  but  seldom 
dishonest. 

A  strong  intimacy  may  exist  between  two  fools,  but 
friendship  never. 

Let  us  be  kind  to  each  other  here  on  earth ;  it  will 
save  us  much  confusion  when  we  meet  in  heaven. 

Silence  is  a  good  place  to  hide,  but  fools  can't  find 
the  place. 

There  are  many  people  who  have  got  a  great  deal 
more  religion  than  common  sense.  Religion  is  excel- 
lent, but  it  is  n't  a  substitute  for  common  sense. 

There  are  plenty  of  people  who  know  how  to  make 
money,  and  how  to  waste  it,  but  few  who  know  how 
to  spend  it. 

The  symptoms  of  patience  and  laziness  are  so  near 
alike  that  it  would  bother  many  people  to  tell  which 
disease  they  have  the  more  of. 

If  there  were  no  fools,  this  world  would  be  a  dreary 
place  to  live  in. 


One  enemy  can  work  you  more  of  evil  than  two 
friends  can  do  you  of  good. 

There  is  nothing  that  shows  strength  of  character 
more  than  eccentricity  if  it  is  natural,  and  nothing 
that  shows  weakness  more  if  it  is  artificial. 

A  crank  is  a  fool,  with  more  brains  than  he  knows 
what  to  do  with. 

There  is  wisdom  even  in  the  crooks  of  a  dog's  tail, 
though  sometimes  we  can  see  the  crooks  plain  enough, 
but  can't  see  the  wisdom. 

Take  all  the  luck  there  is  in  the  world,  and  you 
couldn't  make  a  half  dozen  genuine  successes  out  of 
it. 

The  man  who  is  always  anxious  to  take  the  chances, 
invariably  takes  one  chance  too  many. 

Aphorisms  from  the  Quarters. 

DE  candy -pullin'  kin  call  louder  dan  de  log-rollin'. 

De  bes'  apples  float  on  de  top  o'  de  peck  medjer. 

De  steel-trap  know  when  to  talk. 

Hailstones  don't  pick  hard  heads  to  drap  on. 

De  young  rooster  dat  crow  too  loud  is  'lectioneerin* 
for  a  lickin'. 

Tall  tree  make  de  squ'el  sassy. 

De  redbird  lub  to  drink  whar  he  kin  see  hisse'f  in 
de  water. 

De  top  o'  de  hill  is  harder  to  find  dan  de  bottom. 

De  wood-pile  'fraid  o'  de  norf  wind. 

De  s'ingle-tree  got  to  stan'  heap  o'  kickin'. 

Dus'  don't  settle  on  de  meal-box. 

A  shot-gun  kin  outvote  a  good-size'  cump'ny  o* 
watermilion  hunters. 

A  man  dat  cut  his  finger  don't  brag  on  his  knife 
while  de  blood  runnin'. 

De  rabbit  kin  make  de  bes'  time  when  he  trabblin' 
for  his  health. 

Dar's  a  bad  streak  in  folks  dat  think  de  whole  wulr 
is  a  pen'tench'ry. 

One  dead  bee-martin  is  wuf  a  hundred  live  ones. 

De  shirt-buttons  he'p  de  looks  o'  things,  but  de  gal- 
lus-buttons  do  de  solid  wuk. 

De  right  sort  o'  'ligion  heaps  de  half-bushel. 

De  steel  hoe  dat  laughs  at  de  iron  one  is  like  de 
man  dat  is  'shamed  o'  his  grand-daddy. 

'Taint  wuf  findin'  out  who  gits  de  bes'  of  a  goat  swap. 

When  de  bait  is  wuf  mo'  an'  de  fish,'  tis  time  to  stop 
fishin'. 

Old  Satan  couldn't  git  'long  widout  plenty  o'  he'p. 

De  buggy  whip  can't  make  up  for  light  feed  in  de 
horse  trough. 

A  mule  kin  tote  so  much  goodness  in  his  face  dat  he 
don't  hab  none  lef  for  his  hind  legs. 

De  price  o'  tame  coons  don't  pester  many  folks. 

Some  grabble  walks  may  lead  to  de  jail. 

De  bes'  bravery  is  de  sort  dat  aint  skeered  o'  de  hot 
sun. 

De  lead  steer  know  when  de  whip-cracker  mended. 

De  billy-goat  gits  in  his  hardes'  licks  when  he  look 
like  he  gwine  to  back  out  o'  de  fight. 

Better  not  pull  down  de  empty  jail. 

Little  hole  in  your  pocket  is  wusser'n  a  big 
de  knee. 

Gap  in  de  ax  show  itse'f  in  de  chip. 

De  dog  on  three  legs  aint  always  lame. 

'Tis  mighty  easy  to  run  de  track  ob  a  roasted  possur  i 


ossuri. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


Appetite  don't  reggerlate  de  time  o'  day. 
Some  smart  folks  don't  know  how  de  fros'  git  on  de 
X)ttom  o'  de  chip. 

De  quagmire  don't  hang  out  no  sign. 
One  pusson  kin  th'ead  a  needle  better'n  two. 
De  pint  o'  de  pin  is  de  easiest  en'  to  find. 
De  green  top  don't  medjer  de  price  o'  de  turnup. 
Muzzle  on  de  yard  dog  unlocks  de  smoke  'ouse. 

J.  A.  Macon. 


That  she  knows  not  of  their  coming; 

Like  the  roaming 
Of  the  winds  that  fan  her  softly. 

Vaguely  questioning,  ne'er  replying, 

Vaguely  sighing, 

Fears  and  smiles  are  mingled  ever; 
Smiles  as  sweet  as  summer  gladness, 

Shades  of  sadness, 
Never  bitter,  darkening  never. 


799 


"Something  Humorous." 

IT'S  a  terrible  temptation,  for  of  course  I  need  the 

money, 

But,  take  it  altogether,  can  I  possibly  be  funny  ? 
Oh,  I  need  not  sit  and  meditate  —  he'd  not  have  had 

to  urge, 
If  he'd  asked  me  for  an  epitaph,  or  begged  me  for  a 

dirge ! 

The  house-maid  leaves  next  Monday,  the  cook  week 

after  next, 
After  all  my  frantic  struggles  to  prevent  their  being 

vexed ; 
And    Augustus  —  once   he   fancied   that   I   could  do 

nothing  wrong  — 
Went  sulking  off,  because,  forsooth,  the  coffee  was  not 

strong ! 

The  plumbers  come  to-morrow;  an  important  pipe 
has  burst. 

Of  the  sum  of  human  miseries,  are  plumbers  not  the 
worst  ? 

I  found  two  moths  this  morning  on  the  largest  easy- 
chair, 

And  another  on  the  sofa — I  am  sure  they're  in  the 
hair. 

Talk  of  "little"  cares  and  worries  —  why,  there  are 

no  little  things; 
A  wasp  is  not  a  large  affair,  but  patience  !   how  he 

stings  ! 
Yet  the  world,  which  likes  to  laugh  with  us,  or  at  us, 

gives  a  growl, 
And  hasn't  time  to  listen  if  one  ventures  on  a  howl. 

Yet  there  is  a  way  of  howling  which  the  public  likes 

to  hear  — 
|  Yes,  I'll  seize  my  opportunity,  the  whole  affair  grows 

clear ; 

1 1  will  tell  my  tribulations  as  if  each  one  were  a  joke, 
i  And  my  welcome,  like  the  house-maid's  young  affec- 
tions, is  "bespoke." 

Margaret  Vandegrift. 


Where  the  beach  is  wide  and  dreary, 

Solitary, 

Comes  she  daily,  fancy-driven ; 
There  the  sea-waves,  almost  sleeping, 

Softly  creeping, 
Moan  along  the  sands  at  even. 


Now,  as  ever,  slowly  wandering, 

Vaguely  pondering, 
Buried  in  her  dreamings  vagrant, 
She  has  placed  upon  her  bosom 

One  fair  blossom, 
One  moss-rose,  bedewed  and  fragrant. 


In  her  careless  walk,  the  maiden — 

Fancy-laden  — 

Drops  the  rose  from  out  her  bosom; 
And  the  ripples,  ever  wayward, 

Draw  it  seaward, 
Bear  away  with  them  the  blossom. 


On  the  blue  waves  gleaming  whitely 
The  rose  floats  lightly, 

Washed  about  in  the  ebb  and  flow; 

And  the  maid,  with  softest  laughter, 
Follows  after, 

Close  to  the  fearful  undertow ! 


Now  the  wave  comes  laughing  nearer, 

Quick  to  bear  her 
Once  again  her  stolen  treasure ; 
Now  it  flies  her  eager  fingers ; 

And  she  lingers  — 
Will  not  cease  her  vain  endeavor. 


Many  times  the  rose  deceives  her — 

Ever  leaves  her — 
Yet  she  will  not  give  it  over; 
Chasing  nearer,  and  more  fearless  — 

Growing  careless 
Of  the  sea  that  bears  her  rover. 


Rosa  no  Mar! 

(FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE   OF   A.    GONfALVES   BIAS.) 

Rosa,  rosa  de  amor  purpurea  e  bella, 
Quem  entre  os  goivos  te  esfolhan  da  campa! 

ON  the  sand-beach  gray  and  lonely 

Wanders  only 

One  fair  maid,  with  dreamy  paces; 
Wanton  winds  come  laughing,  playing, 

Loosely  straying 
Through  her  unbound  raven  tresses. 

Shadows  light  as  fairy  lightness 

Dim  the  brightness 
Of  her  brow,  and  pass  so  swiftly 


In  the  hateful  water  gleaming, 

Backward  streaming, 
White  robes  float  an  instant  only; 
Then  the  sea,  all  smooth  and  smiling, 

Fear  beguiling, 
Plays  along  the  sand-beach  lonely. 

And  they  sought  her,  hoping,  fearing, 

Yet  despairing, 

All  the  night  with  footsteps  weary; — 
Only  found  the  moss-rose  lying, 

Crushed  and  dying, 
On  the  sand-beach  gray  and  dreary. 

Herbert  H.  Smith. 


8oo 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


The  Rhyme  of  the  Hercules  Club. 


BEING  A   BALLAD   OF   TO-DAY,    DESIGNED   TO   ILLUSTRATE   THE 

PRINCIPLE  OF  REACTION,  AND  TO   SET  FORTH  HOW 

THERE   MAY  BE  TOO   MUCH  OF  AN 

EXCELLENT   THING. 

THERE  was  once  a  young  man  of  the  medium  size, 
Who,  by  keeping  a  ledger,  himself  kept  likewise. 
In  the  matter  of  lunch  he'd  a  leaning  to  pies, 
And  his  chronic  dyspepsia  will  hence  not  surprise ; 
And  his  friends  often  told  him,  with  tears  in  their 

eyes, 
Which    they   did  not   disguise,  that   a  person   who 

tries 

To  live  without  exercise  generally  dies, 
And  declared,  for  the  sake  of  his  family  ties, 
He  should  enter  the  Hercules  Club. 

Tom  Box  and  Dick  Dumbell  would  suasively  say, 
If  they  met  him  by  chance  in  the  roar  of  Broadway, 
"  It's  bad  for  a  fellow,  all  work  and  no  play ; 
Come,  let  us  propose  you  !     You'll  find  it  will  pay 
To  belong  to  the  Hercules  Club !  " 

And  he  yielded  at  last,  and  they  put  up  his  name, 
Which  was  found  without  blame ;  and  they  put  down 

the  same 

In  a  roll-book  tremendous ;  and  straight  he  became 
A  Samson,  regarding  his  tame  past  with  shame ; 
Called  for  "  Beef,  lean  and  rare  !  "  and  cut  off  all  his 

hair, 

Had  his  shoulders  constructed  abnormally  square, 
And  walked  out  with  an  air  that  made  people  declare, 
"  He  belongs  to  the  Hercules  Club !  " 

And  he  often  remarked,  in  original  way: 
"  It's  bad  for  a  fellow,  all  work  and  no  play ; 
Without  recreation,  sir,  life  doesn't  pay ! 
And  I  for  my  part  am  most  happy  to  say 
I  belong  to  the  Hercules  Club." 

And  frequently,  during  a  very  hot  "  spell," 
In  thick  woolen  garments  clad  closely  and  well, 
"  Reducing," — for  he  was  resolved  to  excel, — 
He  rowed  in  the  sun  at  full  speed,  in  a  shell 
That  belonged  to  the  Hercules  Club. 

And  for  weeks,  while  the  dew  on   the   racing-track 

lay, 

He  ran  before  breakfast  a  half  mile  a  day, 
Improving  his  style  and  increasing  his  "  stay  "  ; 
And  was  first  at 'the  finish,  and  fainted  away, 
At  the  games  of  the  Hercules  Club. 

Six  nights  in  succession  he  sat  up  to  pore 
"  The  Laws  of  Athletics  "  devotedly  o'er 
(Which  number  ten  thousand  and  seventy-four), 
With  a  view  to  proposing  a  very  few  more 
In  a  speech  to  the  Hercules  Club. 

And  his  coat  upon  festal  occasions  was  gay 
With  medals  on  medals,  marked  «  H.  A.  A.  A.,"  * 
With  a  motto  in  Greek  (which,  my  lore  to  display, 
Means  "  Pleasure  is  business  "),  a  splendid  array 
Of  the  spoils  of  the  Hercules  Club. 

But  acquaintances  not  of  the  muscular  kind 
Began  to  observe  that  his  brow  was  deep-lined, 
Too  brilliant  his  eye,  and  to  wander  inclined; 
He    appeared,    in   a   word    (early   English),   "fore- 
pined  "  ; 

*  "  H.  A.  A.  A.  " :  Hercules  Amateur  Athletic  Association. 


And  one  morning  his  ledger  and  desk  he  resigned, 
Explaining,  "  I  can't  have  my  health  undermined 
By  this  '  demnition  grind  ' ;  and  I'm  getting  behind 
In  my  duties  as  Captain  "  (an  office  defined, 
Page  hundred  and  two,  in  the  by-laws  that  bind 
With  red  tape  the  great  Hercules  Club). 


And  he  further  remarked,  in  most  serious  way : 
"  Give  it  up,  did   you  say  ?      'Twill   be   frigid,  that 

day !  t 

Why,  without  relaxation,  sir,  life  wouldn't  pay! 
And  I,  for  my  part,  will  remain  till  I'm  gray 
On  the  roll  of  the  Hercules  Club !  " 


You  perceive,  gentle  reader,  the  rub. 
Is  it  nobler  to  suffer  those  arrows  and  slings 
Lack  of  exercise  brings  —  or  take  clubs,  and  let  things 
Unconnected  with  matters  athletic  take  wings; 
Till  all  interests  beside,  like  the  Arabs,  shall  glide 
From  the  landscape   of  life,  once  a  plain   free  and 

wide, 
But  now  fenced  for  the  "  Games  "  which  we  lightly 

began, 

Grown  our  serious  aims  and  the  chief  end  of  Man  ? 
There's  an  aureate  mean  these  two  courses  between, 
But  I  humbly  submit  that  it  seldom  is  seen, 
With  all  proper  respect  for  that  organization 
Of  benevolent  purpose  and  high  reputation, 
b! 


The  excellent  Hercules  Clu 


Helen  Gray  Cone. 


To  My  Love. 

(BALLADE.) 

OUTSIDE,  the  blasts  of  winter  blow 

Across  the  city  clad  in  white  ; 
Each  flake  of  madly  driven  snow 

A  demon  seems,  with  teeth   that  bite; 

The  windows  rattle  as  with  fright, 
And  winds  the  chimney  whistle  through  : 

Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you. 

Within,  I  watch  the  embers   glow, 

The  slender  flames  in  sudden  flight 
Leap  from  the  crackling  logs,  and  throw 

Around  the  room  a  golden  light; 

Romantic  tales  their  tongues  recite, 
And  mellow  songs,  as  if  they  knew, 

Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you. 

From  Dreamland  all  my  fancies  flow; 

My  friendly  books,  with  faces  bright, 
Return  my  listless  gaze,  and  show 

No  sign  of  sorrow  at   the  slight. 

Hark!  from  the   steeple's  dizzy  height 
The  bells  the  air  with  echoes  strew: 

"  Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you." 


ENVOY. 

Love,  let  this  valentine  invite 
Your  sweeter  voice  to  echo  too: 

"Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 

I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you." 

Frank  Dempster  SI 

t  Frigid  day,  or  day  of  low  temperature :  A  singular 
the  American  language,  expressing  grave  improbability. 


THE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  XXVII. 


APRIL,   1884. 


No.  6. 


THE   WHITE    HOUSE. 


THERE  is  a  deal  of  architecture  in  Wash- 
ington—  Doric,  Ionic,  Corinthian,  Composite, 
!  Elizabethan,  Gothic,  Norman,  African  too, — 
:  an  amazing  jumble  of  styles  borrowed  from 
I  all   nations  and   all  ages;    but  among  it  all 
there  is  no  building  quite  as  satisfying  to  my 
eye  as  the  White  House,  with  a  reservation 
to  the  prejudice  of  the  northern  portico,  which 
I  was  added  when  the  structure  was  repaired 
I  after  the  British  invasion  of  1814;  but  hap- 
|  pily  the  portico  is  half  hidden  by  the  foliage 
|  of  noble  trees. 

There  is   no  sham  or  pretense  about  the 
house;    none  of  the  straining  after  striking 
effects,  which  is  the  fault  of  so  many  of  our 
modern  constructions ;  no  effort  to  look  like 
a  temple,  or  a  cathedral,  or  a  castle.    It  tries 
to  be  a  spacious  and  dignified  dwelling  and 
nothing  more,  and  in  this  it  is  entirely  suc- 
cessful.   The  public-office  feature,  which  has 
i  converted  many  of  its  rooms  into  tramping 
j  and  lounging   places   for   office-seekers   and 
I  political  plotters,  was  no  part  of  the  original 
*  plan,  but  has  come  from  the  modern  system, 
|  introduced  in  a  small  way  by  President  Jack- 
!  son,  and  since  grown  to  .monstrous  dimen- 
i  sions,  under  which  nine-tenths  of  a  President's 
working  hours  are  devoted  to  hearing  and 
considering  the  applications  of  place-hunters. 
The  mansion  would  now  be  adequate  to  all 
the  domestic  and  social  uses  of  a  republican 
chief  magistrate,  if  other  quarters  were  found 
for  the  business  of  the  Executive  office. 

When  James  Hoban,  the  Irish  architect, 
who  had  established  himself  in  Charleston, 
and  was  building  substantial  houses  on  the 
Battery  for  South  Carolina  planters  and 
tradesmen  of  that  town,  received  notice  that 
his  plan  for  the  President's  house  had  been 
adopted,  he  hastened  to  Washington  to  claim 
the  prize  of  five  hundred  dollars,  and  to  take 


charge  of  the  erection  of  the  building.  Hoban 
had  not  seen  much  of  the  world,  and  had 
modeled  his  plan  pretty  closely  upon  one  of 
the  best  houses  he  knew — that  of  the  Duke 
of  Leinster,  in  Dublin.  The  Duke's  house 
was  in  imitation  of  one  of  those  spacious  and 
stately  villas  which  the  Italians  learned  to 
build  when  the  rest  of  Europe  was  living  in 
uncouth  piles  of  brick  or  gloomy  fortified 
castles.  Indeed,  the  world  has  not  improved 
much  to  this  day  on  the  Italian  house  of  the 
middle  ages,  save  in  inventions  for  water- 
pipes,  warming,  and  lighting.  Thick  walls 
secured  warmth  in  winter  and  coolness  in 
summer;  the  windows  were  made  to  admit 
plenty  of  air  and  sunlight,  the  wide  doors  for 
ingress  and  egress,  without  jostling,  of  people 
walking  by  twos  or  threes;  the  stairs  were 
easy  to  climb,  the  rooms  high,  well-propor- 
tioned, and  of  a  size  fitted  for  their  several 
uses.  Thus  was  the  White  House  built.  The 
corner-stone  was  laid  in  1792.  in  a  bare  field 
sloping  to  the  Potomac,  the  Masons  conduct- 
ing the  ceremonial  and  George  Washington 
gracing  the  occasion.  At  first  it  was  proposed 
to  call  it  the  Palace,  but  against  this  sugges- 
tion a  lively  protest  was  made  by  people  who 
feared  the  young  Republic  would  be  governed 
by  an  aristocracy  aping  the  ways  of  courts 
and  kings ;  so  it  was  determined  by  Congress 
that  the  building  should  be  officially  named 
the  "Executive  Mansion" — mansion  being 
then  a  term  of  common  use  for  the  better- 
class  dwellings  of  the  gentry  in  Virginia-  and 
Maryland.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  when  the 
name  White  House  was  first  applied  to  it, 
but  it  did  not,  probably,  gain  currency  until 
the  edifice  was  rebuilt  after  the  British  soldiers 
had  partly  destroyed  it,  and  was  painted 
white  to  hide  the  black  traces  of  smoke  and 
flame  upon  the  freestone  walls. 


[Copyright,  1884,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.     All  rights  reserved.] 


804 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


President  John  Adams,  Washington's  im- 
mediate successor,  was  the  first  occupant  of 
the  Mansion ;  and  everybody  has  read,  in 
Mrs.  Adams's  letters,  how  she  used  the  un- 
finished East  Room  for  drying  clothes,  and  of 
the  literal  "  house-warming  "  she  made  to  take 
the  dampness  out  of  the  walls,  with  no  end 
of  trouble  to  obtain  fire-wood  enough  for  the 
purpose.  This  East  Room,  by  the  way,  was 
intended  for  a  banqueting  hall;  and  here 
we  have  a  souvenir  of  the  aristocratic  notions 
of  the  Virginians  and  South  Carolinians  of 
that  day.  Hoban  must  have  been  encouraged 
in  his  idea  that  a  President  of  the  United 
States  would  occasionally  give  a  mighty  feast, 
like  those  given  by  kings  and  princes  and 
powerful  noblemen  in  the  Old  World.  Prob- 
ably neither  he  nor  Washington,  whom  he 
must  have  consulted,  imagined  that  the  room 
would  be  needed,  and  besides  be  much  too 
small,  for  the  miscellaneous  crowd  which,  in 
another  generation,  would  overflow  the  Man- 
sion at  public  receptions. 

When  the  British  army,  under  General  Ross 
and  Admiral  Cockburn,  came  marching 
across  the  country  from  the  Patuxent  River,  in 
August,  1814,  scattering  like  sheep  the  militia 
drawn  up  at  Bladensburg,  and  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  raw,  rambling,  uncouth  village  of 
Washington,  the  White  House  was  still  un- 
finished— an  unsightly  pile  standing  in  the 
midst  of  ill-kept  grounds,  surrounded  by  a 
cheap  paling  fence.  After  the  soldiers  had 
burned  the  Capitol,  and  just  as  they  were 
about  to  countermarch  to  their  ships,  having 


pillaged  the  house  quite  at  their  leisure  for 
twenty-four  hours,  they  brought  fire  from  a 
beer  shop  and  set  it  ablaze,  and  then  trudged 
off  quite  merrily  in  the  light  of  the  confla- 
gration till  caught  in  the  historic  thunder- 
storm of  that  summer  night,  which  so  pelted 
and  battered  them  that  they  thought  it  was 
the  wrath  of  Heaven  upon  their  vandalism. 
There  is  only  one  memento  of  the  fire  in  the 
House  to-day — the  picture  of  Washington 
which  hangs  in  the  East  Room — once  called 
a  Gilbert  Stuart,  but  now  known  to  be  the 
work  of  an  English  artist  of  no  fame,  who 
copied  faithfully  Stuart's  style.  The  fraud  was 
not  discovered  until  some  time  after  the  orig- 
inal had  been  shipped  to  England — too  late 
to  recover  it.  Every  visitor  is  told  that  Mrs. 
Madison  cut  this  painting  out  of  its  frame 
with  a  pair  of  shears,  to  save  it  from  the 
enemy  when  she  fled  from  the  town ;  but  in 
her  own  letter  describing  the  hasty  flight,  she 
says  that  Mr.  Custis,  the  nephew  of  Mrs. 
Washington,  hastened  over  from  Arlington  to 
rescue  the  precious  portrait,  and  that  a  ser- 
vant cut  the  outer  frame  with  an  axe,  so  that 
the  canvas  could  be  removed,  stretched  on 
the  inner  frame.  The  story  of  the  shears 
is  a  pretty  one,  but,  like  so  many  othe 
entertaining  historical  anecdotes,  is  a  fie 
tion. 

There  is  probably  no  building  in  the  worl 
where,  in  less  than  a  century,  more  of  hi 
tory  has  centered  than  in  this  shining,  whit 
mansion,  screened  by  trees  on  the  city  sid 
and  looking  out  from  its  southern  window 


REAR    VIEW    OF 


:AR    THE    GREENHOUSE  — TREASURY    BUILDING    IN     THE    DISTANCE 


THE    WHITE   HOUSE. 


805 


THE    WHITE     HOUSE,    FROM    THE     FRONT. 


cross  the  placid  Potomac  to  the  red  Virginian 
nils.  Twenty-one  Presidents  have  lived  in  it, 
nd  two  have  died  in  it.  One  went  from  its 
ed  Room  with  a  group  of  friends,  at  the 
close  of  the  four  years'  civil  war,  to  be  struck 
lown  by  an  assassin's  bullet  in  a  theater,  and 
|o  be  carried  unconscious  to  a  death-bed  in  a 
grange  house.  One,  in  full  mid-current  of 
hfe,  sturdy  of  brain  and  body,  and  glowing 
(vith  patriotic  purposes,  was  shot  in  a  railway 
itation  and  carried  up  the  vine-bordered 
teps  shown  in  the  picture,  to  languish  through 
kreeks  of  pain,  struggling  manfully  with  death, 
111  the  world  looking  on  with  a  universal  sym- 
pathy never  before  shown  to  mortal  man,  to 
pe  borne,  as  a  last  hope,  to  the  sea-side,  and 
'here  to  die. 

:  There  have  been  marriages  and  merry- 
jnakings  too,  jovial  feasts,  and  ceremonial 
jianquets ;  grave  councils  of  state  that  shaped 
he  destiny  of  the  nation ;  secret  intrigues  and 
.lidnight  conclaves  that  made  or  unmade  po- 
etical parties ;  war  councils  that  flashed  forth 
irders,  on  telegraphic  wires,  which  moved 
rreat  armies  and  set  lines  of  battle  in  deadly 
font.  The  history  of  the  White  House  is  a 
Wernmental  and  political  history  of  the 
Jnited  States  fro nT  1800  to  this  day;  it  is 
Iso  a  history  of  the  domestic  lives,  the  am- 


bitions, and  the  personal  traits  of  twenty -one 
Presidents,  their  families,  and  their  near 
friends  and  advisers.  I  shall  attempt  no  part 
of  it  here,  and  shall  only  remark,  in  passing 
to  a  survey  of  the  building  itself,  that  it  has  left 
few  traces  behind  in  the  way  of  memories  or 
traditions  in  the  Mansion.  The  history  must 
be  sought  out  piecemeal  in  libraries.  One 
cannot  even  learn  which  was  the  room  where 
Harrison  died,  after  his  brief  four  weeks  of 
power,  or  where  bluff,  honest  Zachary  Taylor, 
the  "  Rough  and  Ready  "  of  the  Mexican 
war,  breathed  his  last.  The  few  traditions 
that  cling  to  the  house  are  incongruous 
mosaics  of  tragedy  and  gayety.  "  Here,"  says 
an  attendant,  pointing  to  a  particular  place 
on  the  carpet  in  the  East  Room,  "  is  where 
Lincoln  lay  in  his  coffin;  and  here" — moving 
a  few  steps  away — "  is  where  Nellie  Grant 
stood  when  she  was  married  to  the  young 
Englishman,  Sartoris."  Your  attention  is 
called  to  the  smoked-blue  color  of  the  fur- 
niture in  the  Blue  Room,  and  you  are  informed 
that  at  such  a  place  the  President  usually 
stands  at  receptions,  and  in  the  next  breath 
are  told  that  "  this  is  the  window  where  they 
brought  poor  Garfield  in  after  he  was  shot, 
taking  him  up  the  back-stairs  because  of  the 
crowd  in  front." 


8o6 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


It  seems  as  if  the  memory  of  the  two 
martyred  Presidents  were  alone  destined  to 
haunt  the  White  House,  all  others  fading 
away  with  the  lapse  of  time.  Indeed,  if  one 
wants  to  find  some  trace  of  the  angular  and 
resolute  personality  of  Jackson,  or  of  the 
polite  and  graceful  Van  Buren,  or  of  that 
hardy  soldier  Zachary  Taylor,  or  even  of 
occupants  as  late  as  the  courtly  Bu- 
chanan, he  will  be  disappointed; 
and  a  still  more  recent  President, 
Grant,  finds  his  permanent 
fame  dependent  far  more  upon 


packing  of  the  effects  of  an  outgoing  Presi- 
dent just  before  the  fateful  fourth  of  March 
whfch  ends  his  power.  After  noon  of  that  day 
the  family  has  no  more  right  there  than  the 
passing  stranger  on  the  street ;  and  while  the 
cannon  are  firing  salvos  of  welcome  to  the 
new  President,  and  the  long  procession  is 
moving  up  Pennsylvania  Avenue  to  the  Capi- 
tol front,  where  he  is  to  be  inaugurated, 
the  White  House  family  are  gath- 
ering their  personal  effects  to- 
gether and  taking  last  looks 
at  the  rooms  where  they  have 


his  career  as  a  general  than 
on  that  as  chief  magistrate, 
and  has  left  in  the  building  he 
occupied  for  eight  years  few 
memories  that  are  still  fresh. 
The  White  House  is,  in  fact, 
an  official  hotel.  The  guests 
come  and  go,  and  when  they  leave  they  take 
with  them,  along  with  their  trunks,  whatever 
of  personality  they  diffused  through  its  stately 
apartments  while  they  remained.  Some  have 
lived  in  the  house  in  the  spirit  of  a  freehold 
owner,  sure  of  undisturbed  possession ;  some, 
like  short-term  tenants,  never  feeling  quite  at 
home.  Of  the  latter  were  the  family  of  Presi- 
dent Johnson,  one  of  whose  daughters  said : 
"  We  are  plain  people  from  the  mountains  of 
Tennessee,  called  here  for  a  time  by  a  great 
national  calamity.  We  hope  too  much  will  not 
be  expected  of  us."  Whether  proud  or  modest 
in  their  temper  or  belongings,  however,  the 
Presidents,  when  once  they  have  surrendered 
the  reins  of  power,  soon  drop  back  into  the  dim 
and  ghostly  procession  of  their  predecessors. 
One  of  the  saddest  spectacles  connected  with 
official  life  in  Washington,  and  one  to  which 
no  pen  has  done  adequate  justice,  is  the  hasty 


GROUND    J'LAN    OF    THE    WHITE    HOUSE. 


been  honored  and  courted  and- 
flattered  for  years,  the  delight-^ 
ful  sense  of  greatness  and  pow-J 
er  they  have  enjoyed  so  long*, 
now  cut  short  in  a  single  dayA 
In  earlier  times  the  hotel; 
character  of  the  Mansion  was> 
well  reflected  in  the  stiff,  formal,  half-fur-J 
nished  appearance  of  the  rooms.  It  was 
thought  enough  to  have  thick  carpets  oni 
the  floors,  and  strong  furniture  and  a  fewl 
decorative  pieces,  too  heavy  to  be  carried  ofll 
by  servants  during  the  quadrennial  migration  1 
but  of  late  Mr.  Louis  C.  Tiffany's  decorative! 
association  has  metamorphosed  the  place,  anc 
made  the  smaller  rooms  look  like  the  abode 
of  people  of  luxurious  tastes.  Perhaps  tht 
most  successful  of  all  this  new  work  is  in  thdj 
long  corridor,  which  leads  from  the  Easflj 
Room  to  the  Conservatory,  and  from  whicrJ 
open  the  Red,  Green,  and  Blue  Rooms* 
The  light  coming  through  the  partition  oljj 
wrinkled  stained-glass  mosaic  makes  a  marjJ 
velously  rich  and  gorgeous  effect,  falling  upoin 
the  gilded  niches  where  stand  dwarf  pjJ|| 
metto  trees,  the  silvery  net-work  of  the  ceil 
ing,  and  the  sumptuous  furniture.  Indeed, 


ecu 


THE    WHITE   HOUSE. 


807 


THE    WAITING-ROOM. 


nly  dark  tints  in  the  apartment  are  found 
Q  the  portraits,  which  become  the  more  con- 
picuous  by  reason  of  their  contrast  with  their 
•rilliant  setting.  Only  one  of  these  need 
rrest  our  attention  now  —  the  full-length 
iortrait  of  Garfield,  by  Andrews.  The  artist, 
eeking  to  give  the  face  the  dignified  states- 
jnan-like  expression  which  is  supposed  to  be 
[ssential  in  Presidential  portraits,  has  almost 
pst  sight  of  the  genial,  buoyant,  warm- 
jearted  character  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
ne  man's  nature.  No  one  looking  at  the  pict- 
Ire  of  Lincoln  in  the  Red  Room  would  gather 
rom  the  face  the  hearty  love  of  jest  and  anec- 
ote,  the  tender  pity  for  suffering  and  distress, 
nd  the  warm  fraternal  sympathy,  which  lit  up 
pe  homely  features  with  the  interior  beauty 
if  a  kindly  soul;  and  I  fear  coming  generations 
jf  visitors  who  pass  through  this  grand  cor- 
dor  will  see  nothing  in  the  stern,  sad  face  of 
jrarfield  to  remind  them  that  here  was  a  man 
rho  loved  to  play  croquet  and  romp  with  his 
ioys  upon  his  lawn  at  Mentor,  who  read 
[ennyson  and  Longfellow  at  fifty  with  as 
luch  enthusiastic  pleasure  as  at  twenty,  who 
ralked  at  evening  with  his  arm  around  the 
jeck  of  a  friend  in  affectionate  conversation, 
pd  whose  sweet,  sunny,  loving  nature  not 
^en  twenty  years  of  political  strife  could 
*rp. 

:  The  Red  Room,  used  as  a  reception  parlor 
hr  the  ladies  of  the   President's  household, 


already  had  a  home-like  look,  from  the  pres- 
ence of  a  piano,  a  handsome  embroidered 
fire-screen  (a  present  from  the  Austrian  com- 
missioners at  the  Centennial  Exhibition),  and 
some  small  adornments ;  and  in  the  recent 
general  renovation  of  the  Mansion,  it  has 
been  given  an  imposing  carved-wood  mantel 
of  thirteenth  century  style,  set  off  with  tiling 
of  tortoise-shell  glass.  Some  beautiful  work 
has  beenMone,  besides,  in  the  ceiling  and  in 
the  walls,  and  the  whole  effect  of  carpet,  fur- 
niture, and  wall-tints  is  exceedingly  rich  and 
warm.  Opening  from  this  room  is  the  State 
Dining-room,  only  used  when  large  companies 
are  entertained  at  dinner  —  a  rather  chilling 
apartment,  in  spite  of  the  glowing  yellows  Mr. 
Tiffany  has  given  to  the  walls.  In  early  times 
this  room  was  called  the  "  company  dining- 
room,"  to  distinguish  it  from  the  family  din- 
ing-room across  the  hall.  The  long  table 
seats  thirty-eight  persons.  In  the  middle  sits 
the  President,  and  opposite  him  the  mistress 
of  the  Mansion.  No  order  of  precedence  is 
observed  in  going  in  to  dinner,  or  in  seating 
the  guests.  Something  of  this  sort  was  at- 
tempted in  early  times,  but  abandoned  as  not 
practicable,  and  perhaps  also  as  not  sensi- 
ble, in  a  country  with  democratic  institutions. 
These  state  dinners  are  rather  dull  affairs. 
The  cold-water  regime  lasted  four  years,  and 
has  left  behind  an  interesting  souvenir  in  the 
fine  portrait  of  Mrs.  Hayes,  by  Huntington, 


8o8 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


which  stands  in  the  Green  Room,  and  was 
presented  to  the  Government  by  the  Women's 
National  Temperance  Association,  the  money 
($3,500)  being  raised  by  a  general  subscrip- 
tion. With  the  exception  of  a  small  picture 
of  Mrs.  Tyler,  which  hangs  in  the  corridor  on 
the  second  floor,  this  is  the  only  portrait  of  a 
President's  wife  to  be  found  in  the  Mansion. 

If  a  description  of  upholstery  were  of  any  in- 
terest, we  might  linger  in  the  Green  and  Blue 
rooms  to  speak  of  the  manner  in  which  their 


preached  by  two  stair- ways,  one  leading  from 
the  grand  corridor,  used  only  by  the  family 
and  their  guests,  and  the  other  coming  down 
from  the  office  part  of  the  building  to  the 
small  hall  between  the  vestibule  and  the  East 
Room,  forming  a  general  passage-way  for  all 
people  having  business  with  the  President  or 
his  secretaries.  A  broad  hall  runs  from  end 
to  end  of  the  second  story,  terminating  in 
semicircular  windows;  but  the  fine  effect  of 
the  ample  length  and  width  of  this  corridor  is- 


THE    WHITE    HOUSE    BY    NIGHT. 


historic  hues  have  been  preserved  in  the  in- 
vasion of  the  modern  zeal  for  decoration.  The 
East  Room  has  not  been  much  changed  since 
President  Grant's  time,  when  the  ceiling  was 
broken  into  three  panels  by  heavy  beams  sup- 
ported by  columns,  and  the  profuse  gilding 
was  done.  The  ebony  and  old-gold  furni- 
ture and  the  "  greenery  yallery "  carpet  are 
new.  Gilding  and  color  have  been  lavished 
of  late  all  over  the  White  House.  Even  the 
heavy  iron  railings  in  front  of  the  house  are 
tipped  with  gold,  and  the  bomb-shells,  sup- 
ported on  iron  tripods,  glisten  like  the  balls 
of  a  pawnbroker's  shop.  In  one  of  these 
bombs,  during  the  war-time,  a  pair  of  birds 
built  a  nest,  and  gave  John  James  Piatt  a 
theme  for  his  well-known  poem. 

The   upper  floor  of  the  Mansion    is  ap- 


spoiled  by  two  low  cross  partitions :  one 
long  ago  put  in  as  a  necessity  to  keep  the 
throng  of  Congressmen  and  place-hunters 
from  blundering  into  the  family  rooms,  the! 
other  a  cheap  affair,  looking  as  if  it  came 
second-hand  from  some  junk-shop,  erected 
lately  to  gain  an  additional  office-room.  It 
was  no  part  of  the  plan  of  the  White  House, 
as  we  have  said,  that  it  should  be  a  public! 
office ;  but  with  the  growth  of  the  country  I 
and  of  the  political  patronage  system,  the] 
proper  use  of  the  building  as  a  dwelling  foil 
the  chief  magistrate  has  been  more  and  mord 
subordinated  to  its  official  use  as  a  bureau! 
of  appointments  and  a  rendezvous  for  thel 
scheming  politicians  of  the  two  Houses  ol| 
Congress,  who  <;laim  the  Government  officta 
in  their  States  as  their  personal  property 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


809 


IN    THE    RED    ROOM. 


be  parceled  out  by  the  President  in  accord- 
ance with  their  wishes.  It  will  doubtless  sur- 
prise many  people  to  learn  that  hospitality, 
save  in  the  restricted  sense  of  giving  dinners, 
is  almost  an  impossibility  to  the  President  of 
the  United  States,  for  the  reason  that  he  has 
no  beds  for  guests.  There  are  only  seven 
sleeping  rooms  in  the  Mansion,  besides  those 
of  the  servants  on  the  basement  floor.  If  a 
President  has  a  moderately  numerous  house- 
hold, as  General  Grant,  Mr.  Hayes,  and  Mr. 
Garfield  had,  he  can  hardly  spare  for  guests 
more  than  the  big  state  bedroom^.  A  Presi- 
dent may  wish  to  invite  an  ambassador  and 
his  family,  or  a  party  of  distinguished  travelers 
from  abroad,  to  spend  a  few  days  at  the 
White  House,  but  he  cannot  do  so  without 
finding  lodgings  elsewhere  for  members  of 
his  own  household.  It  has  been  said  over 
and  over  again,  in  the  press,  that  Congress 
should  either  provide  offices  for  the  Pres- 
ident, or  should  build  for  him  a  new  dwelling, 
and  devote  the  Mansion  exclusively  to  bus- 
iness purposes ;  but  Congress  is  in  no  hurry 
to  do  either. 

"iThe   present    office   system   in    the  White 
House  is   an   affair  of  quite  recent  growth. 
Before  President  Johnson's  time,  no  records 
or  files  were  kept,  and  there  were  no  clerks. 
President   Lincoln  had  two   secretaries,  Mr. 
Nicolay  and  Colonel  Hay ;  but  the  law  rec- 
ognized   only  one,  the   other   being  an 
,army  officer  detailed  for  special  service, 
: — any  extra  clerical  work  being  done  by  " 
jclerks  detailed  from  one  of  the  depart- 
ments.   Now  there  are  four  rooms  occu- 
pied by  the  private  secretary  and  his  staff 
iOf  clerks.    Big  ledgers  of  applications  for 
joffice  are  posted  up  daily,  numerous  pig- 
teon-holes  are  filled  with  letters  and  peti- 
VOL.  XXVIL— 77. 


tions,  the  newspapers  are  read  and 
scrap-books  made,  one  room  is  de- 
voted to  telegraph  and  telephone 
service;  in  short,  here  are  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  a  busy  public  of- 
fice. One  of  the  files  of  letters 
would  furnish  curious  reading  to 
students  of  human  nature.  It  is 
called  the  eccentric  file,  and  con- 
tains the  epistles  of  advice,  warn- 
ing, and  "  gush "  mailed  to  the 
President  by  cranks,  fanatics,  ab- 
surd egotists,  and  would-be  philan- 
thropists ;  and  how  numerous  these 
peculiar  people  are,  only  those  in 
high  station  know.  A  President 
gets  two  or  three  hundred  letters  a 
day,  and  probably  not  one-fourth 
of  them  are  upon  any  subject  that 
can  properly  be  brought  directly  to 
his  personal  notice. 
One  might  well  suppose  that  in 
the  White  House,  where  the  clerks 
and  servants  come  into  close  rela- 
tions with  the  President,  there  would 
be  numerous  changes  with  each  new 
administration ;  indeed,  there 
would  be  more  excuse  for  rota- 
tion in  office  here  than  in  any 
other  branch  of  the  Govern-  < 
ment,  for  a  President  might 
naturally  prefer  to  have 
old  friends  in  whom  he 
had  learned  to  confide 
in  care  of  his  house  and  | 
correspondence ;  but  |  \ 
the  wise  rule  of  service 
during  good  behavior 
obtains  here  to  a  great- 
er extent  than  in  any 
one  of  the  depart- 
ments, except  per- 
haps the  Department 
of  State.  One  of  the 
servants 
dates  back 
to  Fill- 
more's 
adminis- 
tration, 
and  has 
seenthir- 


A    CORNER     OF    THE    STATE     DINING-ROOM. 


8io 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


ty  years  of  service ;  one  of  the  clerks  and 
one  of  the  door-keepers  were  appointed 
by  Lincoln;  others  came  in  under  Grant. 
The  private  secretary  is,  of  course,  always 


warden  of  the  private  secretary's  door.  Th 
business  must  be  explained  to  the  secretary, 
and  few  of  them  ever  get  any  nearer  to  the 
seat  of  power.  The  hours  for  callers  are  from 


the    personal   friend   and    confidant    of  the  ten  to  one,  save  on  the  days  of  regular  Cabi- 

President,  and  goes  out  with  his  chief;  but  net  meetings.    ' 

the  rest  of  the  staff  remains,  as  a  rule,  and  sees   visitors 
constitutes  an  efficient  working  force,  familiar 


In  the  afternoon  the  President 
by   special    appointment,    and 
most  of  his  evenings  are  filled  in  the  same 


with  the  precedents,  customs,  and  etiquette    way, — the  business  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of 


IN    THE    CONSERVATORY. 


of  the  Presidential  office,  and  very  valuable 
on  this  account  to  a  man  entering  upon  its 
trying  duties. 

Visitors  who  have  business  with  the  Presi- 
dent wait  in  the  antechamber,  or  walk  im- 
patiently back  and  forth  in  the  hall.  The 
President  receives  in  the  Cabinet  Room — 
not  the  historic  room  where  Lincoln  signed 
the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation.  Mr. 
Johnson  converted  that  into  the  private 
secretary's  room,  and  took  the  former  ante- 
room for  the  Cabinet  meetings.  At  the  door 
stands  a  quiet,  sagacious,  gray-haired  man, 
who  has  an  instinct  for  distinguishing  people 
of  consequence  from  the  general  multitude. 
Senators,  judges,  governors,  and  other  men 
of  note  find  their  cards  taken  directly  to  the 
President;  persons  of  small  account  are  re- 
ferred to  a  polite  man  of  color,  who  is  the 


a  hundred  concerning  the  disposition  of  offices. 
The  late  President  Garfield  once  said  that  he 
was  obliged  to  see  an  average  of  about  thirty 
persons  for  every  office  to  be  filled.  If  tjie 
question  was  one  of  removal,  the  number  was 
much  greater,  including  the  friends  of  the 
incumbent  as  well  as  the  candidates  for  the 
place.  There  is  an  amusing  story,  not  a  new 
one  by  any  means,  of  the  method  Mr.  Lincoln 
adopted  to  settle  a  contest  over  a  postmaster- 
ship  which  had  greatly  annoyed  him.  There 
were  two  candidates  in  the  field,  and  petition! 
after  petition  had  poured  in  upon  the  weary 
President,  and  delegation  after  delegation 
had  rushed  to  the  White  House  to  argue  the 
claims  of  the  rival  aspirants.  Finally,  after  ri3 
had  been  bored  for  half  an  hour  by  a  fresh 
delegation,  Mr.  Lincoln  said  to  his  secretai 
"  This  matter  has  got  to  end  somehow.  Bf 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


811 


THE     LIBRARY. 


a  pair  of  scales."  The  scales  were  brought. 
r  Now  put  in  all  the  petitions  and  letters  in 
pavor  of  one  man,  and  see  how  much  they 
weigh,  and  then  weigh  the  other  candidate's 
papers."  It  was  found  that  one  bundle  was 
[three-quarters  of  a  pound  heavier  than  the 
[other.  "  Make  out  the  appointment  at  once 
for  the  man  who.  has  the  heaviest  papers,"  or- 
pered  the  President,  and  it  was  done. 

There  is  no  necessity  for  a  President  giv- 
ing up  nine-tenths  of  his  working  hours  to 


the  consideration  of  claims  to  office,  thus 
unfitting  himself  for  the  study  of  public  ques- 
tions, and  depriving  himself  of  time  which 
should  be  given  to  social  intercourse  with 
men  of  ideas  and  high  public  station.  The 
Constitution  says  he  shall  make  appoint- 
ments, but  it  also  says  he  shall  be  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  army.  He  is  no  more 
required  to  examine  petitions  and  hear  appli- 
cations concerning  all  the  post-offices,  consu- 
lates, and  collectorships,  than  he  is  to  buckle 
on  a  saber, 
mount  ahorse, 
and  maneuver 
the  troops.  All 
the  details  of 


THE     WHITE     HOUSE,     FROM     NEAR     THE     TREASURY. 


812 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


THE     PORTICO. 


appointment  business  should  be  left  to  the 
members  of  the  Cabinet,  whose  recommenda- 
tions should  be  final,  except  in  relation  to  a  few 
of  the  most  important  .offices,  such  as  foreign 
missions,  high  posts  in  the  military  and  naval 
service,  and  perhaps  a  few  of  the  great  collect- 
ing agencies  in  the  chief  cities  which  supply 
the  Treasury  with  the  greater  part  of  its  funds. 
Some  day  there  will  come  to  the  White  House 
a  man  of  strong  will  and  of  a  lofty  patriotic 
purpose,  with  no  relish  for  wielding  personal 
power  in  the  distribution  or  refusal  of  official 
favors ;  and  he,  revolutionizing  the  customs  of 
the  Executive  office,  which  are  stronger  than 
law,  will  resolutely  shut  his  door  upon  all 
place-hunters  and  their  advocates  in  Con- 
gress, and  be  the  President  of  the  people  and 
not  the  President  of  the  office-seekers  and 
office-holders. 


SOCIAL  life  at  the  White  House  varies  with 
different  adminstrations.    A  tendency  toward 
making  it  less  public  and  more  discriminating 
is  noticeable  of  late  years.  President  Johnson 
gave  a  public  reception  once  a  week  during 
the  winter  season,  and  even  in  the  stress  and 
agony  of  the  war-time  President  Lincoln  shook 
hands  with  a  mob  of  two  or  three  thousand 
people  surging  through  the  Mansion  as 
often  as    once  a  fortnight.     Now, 
one  or  two  public 
receptions  during  i 
a  session  of  Con- 1 
gress  are  thought  \ 
a  sufficient  con-i 
cession     to     the  i 
democratic  prin-; 
ciple.      A   New-j 
Year's  Day  recep-) 
tion  is  demandedi 
by  the  unbrokeni 
custom  of  three-: 
quarters  of  a  cent-l 
ury.      First,    the) 
members   of  thai 
diplomatic  corpa 
present  them-:| 
selves  in  all  thai 
splendors  of  COUTH 
dress — the   onfl 
occasion    when! 
they  can  displayfl 
the    uniforms^ 
cocked  hats,  golql 
lace,  and  decora-jl 
tions  of  that  cosJ 
tume,  without  bej 
ing  mistaken  foil 
people    on   theal 
way  to  a  masquerjl 
ade   ball ;      therl 
come    the    Sena-l 

tors  and  Congressmen,  officers  of  the  anH 
and  navy,  and  last,  the  public  in  general  anql 
in  mass,  going  in  at  the  door  and  out  of  <l 
window  on  a  temporary  bridge.  Once  ON 
twice  each  season,  a  reception  to  Senator* 
and  Representatives  in  Congress  and  theij| 
families  is  given.  For  these  occasions  carda 
are  usually  sent  out.  Not  long  ago  thifl 
custom  was  disregarded,  and  in  place  o:! 
cards  an  announcement  of  the  event  waw 
published  in  one  of  the  newspapers.  Thfl 
witty  wife  of  an  Eastern  member  of  Congress! 
who  attended  the  reception,  said,  when  preJ 
sented  to  the  host,  "  Mr.  President,  yoJ 
advertised  for  me,  and  I  am  here." 

Formerly  it  was  thought  the  duty  of  till 
President  to  invite  each  Senator  and  membeB 
of  Congress  to  dinner  once  a  year;  but  as  t ifl 
two  Houses  have  grown  in  their  memberships! 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


WEST    WINDOW.       (NEW    DESIGN.) 


this  burdensome  custom  has  fallen  into  dis- 
use. President  Johnson  was  the  last  to  adhere 
jto  it.  If  a  President's  dinner  invitations  in- 
jclude,  in  a  single  season,  the  Senators,  the 
Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  members 
!of  the  Cabinet,  the  foreign  ministers,  and  a 
Sprinkling  of  influential  members  of  the  lower 
|House  and  distinguished  officers  of  the  army 
and  navy,  he  is  now  thought  to  have  done 
his  duty  in  this  direction  with  sufficient  liber- 
ality. Much  the  best  of  White  House  socia- 
bility is  found  at  informal  dinners  and  lunches, 
at  which  only  a  few  guests  are  present  with 
the  President's  family,  and  at  evenings  "  at 
;:iome,"  for  which  no  cards  are  sent  out. 
jThen  there  is  conversation  and  music,  and 


one  may  meet  a  score  of  famous  men  with 
their  wives  and  daughters.  Some  Presidents 
are  remembered  for  the  number  of  their  state 
dinners,  others  for  their  receptions,  and  others 
for  the  cordial  social  tone  they  gave  to  the  life 
of  the  Mansion  by  small  entertainments,  by 
being  accessible  to  all  the  world,  and  by  making 
people  feel  at  home.  Each  Presidential  house- 
hold has  modified  in  some  degree  the  cus- 
toms of  the  place  to  suit  its  own  tastes  and 
habits.  Perhaps  the  most  important  innova- 
tion on1  long-established  precedent  was  made 
by  General  Grant,  who  broke  through  the 
traditional  etiquette  which  forbade  a  President 
to  make  visits.  Formerly  a  President  saw  the 
inside  of  no  house  but  his  own,  and  was  in 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


some  sort  a  prisoner  during  his  term  of  office. 
He  could  drive  out  or  go  to  the  theater,  but 
he  could  not  make  a  social  call,  or  attend  a 
reception  at  a  friend's  house.  Now  he  goes 
to  weddings  and  parties,  makes  calls,  and 
dines  out,  as  freely  as  any  other  citizen.  In- 
deed, the  tendency  of  White  House  customs 
is  toward  less  formality,  and  more  ease  and 
freedom  of  social  intercourse,  rather  than  in 
the  other  direction ;  and  this  is  remarkable  at 


its  coachman  and  footmen  in  powdered  wij 
and  its  white  horses  with  blackened  h( 
would  make  a  sensation  on  Pennsylvai 
Avenue  in  these  modern  times.  It  is  safe 
say  that  no  chief  magistrate  nowadays,  en- 
tertaining any  hope  of  reelection,  would  vent- 
ure to  make  a  display  in  servants,  equipage, 
or  mode  of  living.  The  ado  made  over  Mar- 
tin Van  Buren's  gold  spoons  in  the  political 
campaign  of  1840  has  not  been  forgotten. 


CORNER  OF  THE  EAST  ROOM. 


a  time  when  our  new  moneyed  aristocracy 
is  aping  the  manners  of  courts  and  surround- 
ing itself  with  liveried  flunkies.  No  servant 
at  the  White  House  wears  a  livery,  unless  the 
coachman's  coat  can  be  called  such.  It  is 
often  easier  to  get  an  interview  with  the 
President  of  the  United  States  than  with  the 
editor  of  a  metropolitan  daily  newspaper,  or 
the  president  of  a  great  railroad  company. 
The  ways  of  the  Executive  Mansion  are  much 
simpler  now  than  in  the  days  of  the  first 
Presidents.  Washington's  gilded  coach,  with 


The  country  is  wiser  than  it  was  then,  and 
makes  no  outcry  about  the  sumptuous  deco- 
rations or  elegant  table  furniture  in  the  White 
House;  but  if  the  servants  who  attend  the 
front  door  should  appear  one  day  in  liv- 
ery, the  innovation  would  be  condemned. 
Presidents  no  longer  smoke  corn-cob  pipes 
as  Andrew  Jackson  did,  or  take  whisky  at 
dinner,  or  put  their  feet  on  the  table  while 
talking  with  visitors  —  a  rudeness  I  have  my- 
self seen  within  the  last  twenty  years;  1 
they  are  expected  to  be  quiet,  unpretent' 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


THE     CABINET     ROOM. 


jntlemen  in   their  manners   and    surround- 
igs,  and  nothing  more  nor  less.    Wielding 
lore    real    power    to-day    than    any    sover- 
in  Europe,  save  the  Czar  and  the  Sul- 
they   must   avoid    all    the    pomp    and 
jremony  of  courts,  and  meet  people  face  to 
ice  with  a  shake  of  the  hand  and  a  "  How 
i'ye   do  ?  "  like  plain  citizens.    No  coats  of 
adorn  their  coach  panels,  and  no  soldiers 
ir  the  way  or  ride  at  their  heels.    In  the 
far  period,   when   Lincoln  rode  out  to  his 
mier  residence  on  the  hills  near  the  city, 
was  attended  by  a  cavalry  detachment ;  but 
was  necessary  for  his  protection  in  a  time 
raids,  surprises,  and  murderous  plots.  Since 
war,  no  President  has  had  a  body-guard, 
fven  the  two  cavalrymen  who  used  to  wait 
;  the  White  House  portal,  to  ride  with  mes- 
to  the  Capitol  or  the  departments,  have 
ippeared  since  the  telephone  came  into  use. 
Looking  at  the  portraits  of  the  "  Ladies  of 
White  House  "  in  a  volume  recently  pub- 
shed,  and   reading   the   meager   annals  of 
Sieir  lives,  one  cannot  resist  the  conclusion 
it  Presidents'  wives,  with  few  exceptions, 
ive   been    simple    matrons    who    on    their 
ition   to  the  first   social   station   in    the 
mntry  have  performed  their  duties  credit- 
ly,  with  that  ready  adaptation  to  new  con- 
''  ms  which  is  so  marked  a  peculiarity  of 


American  women.  In  recent  times  there  has 
been  a  mistress  of  the  Mansion  who  taught 
her  boys  Latin  and  Greek  and  read  the  best 
of  current  literature,  and  another  who  is 
remembered  for  her  kindly  and  cordial  ways 
and  earnest  interest  in  charities  and  reforms. 
One  has  left  a  tradition  of  elegant  manners  ; 
one  never  appeared  in  public,  but  lived  in 
seclusion,  devoted  to  domestic  duties,  and 
making  with  her  own  hands  butter  from  the 
milk  of  a  favorite  cow. 

Coming  back  now  from  the  social  life  of 
the  White  House  to  the  house  itself,  let  us 
note  that  the  family  sitting-room  and  parlor 
is  the  oval  library  above  the  Blue  Room  —  a 
spacious  and  comfortable  apartment ;  that  the 
second  room  beyond  is  the  bedroom  occu- 
pied by  Lincoln  and  Grant,  and  the  one  made 
historic  by  Garfield's  long  suffering ;  that  Pres- 
ident Arthur  occupies  as  a  bedroom  a  chamber 
across  the  hall  looking  toward  Pennsylvania 
Avenue,  and  has  fitted  up  for  a  private  office 
one  of  the  adjoining  chambers,  where  he  works 
late  at  night ;  and  that  the  broad  corridor  be- 
tween the  two  lines  of  sleeping-rooms  is  used 
as  picture  gallery,  promenade,  and  smoking- 
room.  The  Executive  Mansion,  in  these  mod- 
ern days  of  wealth,  luxury,  and  display,  appears 
a  small  and  modest  dwelling  for  the  chief 
magistrate  of  fifty  millions  of  people. 


E.  V.  Smalley. 


SIDNEY  LANIER,  POET. 


SIDNEY    LANIER.       (ENGRAVED    BY    H.     VELTEN    FROM    A    PHOTOGRAPH    BY    KUHN    <fe    CUMMINGS.) 


THERE  are  few  to  whom  is  due  the  cre- 
ative name  of  poet.  The  forest  of  newspaper 
and  magazine  is  full  of  birds.  They  chirp  on 
every  bough.  But  the  true  artist-singers  are 
very  rare  and  very  dearly  to  be  prized.  Such 
a  one  was  Sidney  Lanier. 

The  sparrow  and  the  lark  are  both  birds, 
and  both  have  their  song;  and  there  is 
a  sense  in  which  every  writer  who  can 
marry  beautiful  thoughts  to  beautiful  words, 
with  skill  enough  to  please,  is  a  poet,  even 
though  thought  and  form  have  been  heard 
a  thousand  times.  They  sing  with  easy  varia- 
tions the  old  songs  which  we  have  learned  to 
understand,  and  they  give  us  pleasure.  The 
cleverness  is  not  in  the  theme,  but  in  the  va- 
riation ;  and  most  of  us  are  satisfied  with  clev- 


erness. There  is  not  much  else  in  the  lite: 
world.  Literature  comes  chiefly  by  knack  an 
practice  and  facility.  Little  of  it  require 
fresh  eyes,  or  a  passion  for  the  truth  one  sees 
for  himself,  or  a  soul  that  tells  the  world  what 
is  beauty,  and  is  not  content  to  be  told.  And 
so  it  happens  that  pupils  do  not  flock  to  the 
new  teacher.  He  does  well  if  he  finds  twelve 
disciples.  He  must  live  long  enough  to  teach 
a  second  generation,  or  be  content  with  his 
own  silent  confidence  that  the  poetry  is  gooc 
poetry,  the  art  good  art,  and  that  the  worlc 
will  find  it  out  by  and  by.  Is  human  nature 
so  much  more  hospitable  to  the  new,  or  iij 
criticism  so  much  keener-eyed  than  in  tlw 
days  of  Shakspere,  or  Milton,  or 
that  nowadays  the  singer  of  a  new  song 


n 


SIDNEY  LANIER,  POET. 


817 


j  find  room  and  welcome  and  be   heard  ?    I 
am  not  sure. 

I  venture  to  say  that  Sidney  Lanier  was  a 
|  poet;  something  other  than  a  rhymer  of  clever 
!  convention.  While  we  do  not  talk  so  much  now 
(about  genius  as  we  did  thirty  years  ago,  we  can 
yet  recognize  the  difference  between  the  fervor 
of  that  divine  birth  and  the  cantering  of  the 
(common  Pegasus  forth  and  back,  along  the 
I  common  post-roads  over  which  facile  talent 
I  rides  his  daily  hack.  The  poems  on  which 
JLanier's  fame  will  rest  are  not  numerous,  nor 
lare  they  yet  gathered  into  a  volume.  He  is 
.better  known  by  his  two  courses  of  lect- 
ures in  Baltimore,  "The  Science  of  English 
Verse "  and  "  The  English  Novel,"  and  by 
[|"The  Boy's  Froissart,"  "The  Boy's  King 
Arthur,"  and  "  Mabinogion,"  three  books  be- 
longing to  a  series  he  had  planned  which 
Should  teach  again  our  boys  and  girls  the 
bid  tales  of  chivalry.  But  these  were  only  his 
'  (interludes,  tasks  which  he  set  himself, — tasks, 
|  though  done  with  much  love,  for  the  day's 
oread.  His  best  heart  was  put,  as  daily  toil 
jwould  allow,  on  higher  work. 

Sidney  Lanier's  father  was  a  lawyer  in  Ma- 

;  pon,  Georgia,  where  our  poet  was  born,  Feb- 

~uary  3d,  1842.    As  a  child  his  first  passion 

was  for  music,  and  it  was  his  last.    He  never 

[Riite  settled  in  his  own  mind  whether  poetry 

!  pr  music  is  the  higher  art.   While  still  a  boy 

[  fie   played    the    flute,    banjo,    guitar,   violin, 

piano,  and  organ.    On  the  flute  he  was  rec- 

bgnized  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  perform- 

|  fcrs  in  the  country.    The  revelation  of  music 

•lame  to  him  before  that  of  poetry.   It  seemed 

:o  him  the  larger  part  of  life.    How  it  is  to 

<  be  explained  psychologically  I  do  not  pretend 

o  say ;  but  he  seemed  to  hear  music  always 

sounding  in  his  ears,  and  he  had  only  to  with- 

Iraw  his  attention  from  other  thoughts  for  a 

noment,  to  listen  to  strains  that  came  without 

vill  of  his.    In  the  one  novel  that  he  wrote, 

it  the  age  of  twenty-five,  he  makes  one  of  his 

Characters  say : 

"  To  make  a  home  out  of  a  household,  given  the 
aw  materials, —  to  wit,  wife,  children,  a  friend  or  two, 
^.nd  a  house, —  two  other  things  are  necessary.  These 
;  j.re  a  good  fire  and  good  music.  And  inasmuch  as  we 
an  do  without  the  fire  for  half  the  year,  I  may  say 
Kiusicis  the  one  essential."  "  Late  explorers  say  they 
jtave  found  some  nations  that  had  no  God ;  but  I  have 
iot  read  of  any  that  had  no  music."  "  Music  means 
irmony,  harmony  means  love,  love  means  —  God  !  " 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  young  Sidney  entered 
ie  Sophomore  class  of  Oglethorpe  College, 
lid  way,  Ga.,  from  which  he  graduated  with 
ie  valedictory  honors  three  years  later,  in 
1860.     He  was  immediately  called  to  a  tutor- 
i'hip   in   the   same   institution,  where  he  re- 
named during  that  eventful  year  before  the 
VOL.  XXVII.— 78. 

II 


outbreak  of  the  civil  war,  devoting  his  stud- 
ies to  languages  and  philosophy,  and  trying 
his  hand  at  verse.  He  was  a  hungry  student 
.  all  his  life.  He  did  not  believe  that  art 
comes  all  by  instinct  without  work.  In  one 
of  his  keen  criticisms  of  poets,  he  said  of 
Edgar  A.  Poe,  whom  he  esteemed  more  highly 
than  his  countrymen  at  large  are  wont  to  do  : 
"  The  trouble  with  Poe  was  that  he  did  not 
know  enough.  He  needed  to  know  a  great 
many  more  things  in  order  to  be  a  great 
poet."  Lanier  had  a  passion  for  the  exact 
truth,  and  all  of  it.  When  the  opportunity 
came  to  him  at  last  to  study,  and  the  Pea- 
body  library  was  opened  to  him  in  the  winter 
of  1874  and  1875,  he  worked  with  the  eager- 
ness of  a  famished  man ;  and  that  date  formed 
an  epoch  in  his  literary  growth.  Here  he 
made  himself  a  profound  student  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  and  early  and  later  English  poetry,  de- 
veloped his  keen  critical  power,  and  prepared 
himself  for  his  courses  of  lectures  on  the  Sci- 
ence of  English  Verse,  the  English  Novel,  and 
Shakspere,  which  he  delivered  the  three  last 
years  of  his  life  before  the  Peabody  Institute 
and  the  Johns  Hopkins  University. 

The  war  closed  the  colleges  of  the  South, 
and  at  the  age  of  nineteen  Lanier  went 
eagerly  from  the  class-room  to  the  camp. 
When  a  child,  he  had  formed  a  military  com- 
pany of  boys  from  eight  to  twelve  years  old, 
armed  with  bows  and  arrows;  and  so  thor- 
oughly did  he  drill  them  that  they  had  an 
honored  position  assigned  them  in  the  anni- 
versary parades  of  the  city  military  organiza- 
tions. He  served  as  a  private  in  the  Con- 
federate army  through  the  whole  war.  Three 
times  he  was  offered  promotion  and  refused 
it,  because  it  would  separate  him  from  his 
younger  brother,  who  was  his  companion  in 
arms,  as  their  singularly  tender  devotion  to 
each  other  would  not  allow  them  to  be  parted. 
The  first  year  of  service  in  Virginia  was  easy 
and  pleasant,  and  he  spent  his  abundant  leis- 
ure in  music  and  the  study  of  German,  French, 
and  Spanish.  He  was  in  the  battles  of  Seven 
Pines,  Drewry's  Bluff,  and  the  seven  days' 
fighting  about  Richmond,  culminating  in  the 
terrible  struggle  of  Malvern  Hill.  After  this 
campaign  he  was  transferred  with  his  brother 
to  the  signal  service,  the  joke  among  his  less 
fortunate  companions  being  that  he  was  se- 
lected because  he  could  play  the  flute.  His 
head-quarters  were  now  for  a  short  period  at 
Petersburg,  where  he  had  the  advantage  of  a 
small  local  library,  but  where  he  began  to 
feel  the  premonitions  of  that  fatal  disease, 
consumption,  against  which  he  battled  for  fif- 
teen years.  The  regular  full  inspirations  re- 
quired by  the  flute  probably  prolonged  his 
life.  In  1863  his  detachment  was  mounted, 


8i8 


SIDNEY  LANIER,  POET. 


and  did  service  in  Virginia  and  North  Caro-    After  some  months  in  New  York,  he  settled 

down  in  Baltimore  in  1874,  where  he  made 
his  home,  except  for  absences  in  search  of 
health,  until  his  death,  September  yth,  1881. 
If  poetry  is  the  wedding  of  music  and  high 


Una.  At  last  the  two  brothers  were  sepa- 
rated, it  coming  in  the  duty  of  both  of  them 
to  run  the  blockade.  Sidney's  vessel  was 
captured,  and  he  was  for  five  months  in  Point 


Lookout  prison  at  Fortress  Monroe,  until  he    thought,  the  union  of  beautiful  sentiment  and 

beautiful  expression,  not  all  poets  have  had 
the  fine  art  of  marrying  the   two   in   equal 


was  exchanged  (with  his  flute,  for  he  never 
lost   it)    near   the  close  of  the  war.     Those 


were  very  hard  days  for  him,  and  a  picture    wedlock.    The  soul  of  Emerson's  poems  gave 

•  •  •  i  r    i    •        /  /  rr**  o"  J  T  •  *i  i  ,        i      i  •      i     „        .  i 


of  them  is  given  in.  a  chapter  of  his  "  Tiger 
Lilies,"  the  novel  which  he  wrote  two  years 
afterward,  published  by  Kurd  &  Houghton. 
It  is  a  luxuriant  unpruned  work,  written  in 


haste  for  the  press  within  the  space  of  three 
weeks,  but  one  which  gave  rich  promise  of 
the  poet.  A  chapter  in  the  middle  of  the 
book,  introducing  the  scenes  of  these  four 


Sidney  Lanier  the  keenest  delight,  the  purest 
exaltation;  he  called  him  the  wisest  of  his< 
contemporaries ;  but  his  poetic  form  he  found 
very  deficient,  especially  in  the  sense  of  music. 
Our  own  age  is  recovering  in  Tennyson  and 
Swinburne  this  music  of  verse,  almost  lost- 
since  Milton's  youth.  Not  only  did  Lanier 
have  their  keen  sense  of  it,  but  he  made  it: 


years  of  struggle,  is  wholly  devoted  to  a  re-  a  scientific  study,  as  no  other  poet  or  critic 
markable  metaphor  which  becomes  an  alle-  has  ever  done,  and  devoted  to  it  a  whole 
gory  and  a  sermon,  in  which  war  is  pictured  as  course  of  lectures  before  the  Peabody  Institute. 


a  strange,  enormous,  terrible  flower,"  which 
the  early  spring  of  1861  brought  to  bloom, 
besides  innumerable  violets  and  jessamines." 
He  tells  how  the  plant  is  grown ;  what  argu- 
ments the  horticulturists  give  for  cultivating 
it ;  how  Christ  inveighed  against  it,  and  how 
its  shades  are  damp  and  its  odors  unhealthy; 
and  what  a  fine  specimen  was  grown  the 


which  are  published  in  his  "  Science  of  En- 
glish Verse."  It  is  well  within  the  truth  to  say 
that  it  is  the  most  complete  and  thorough! 
original  investigation  of  the  formal  element  m 
poetry  in  existence.  It  breaks  away  from  the1 
classic  grammarian's  tables  of  trochees  and 
anapests,  and  discusses  the  form  of  poetry  in 
terms  of  music,  treating  of  rhythm  as  meas-j 


other  day  in  North  America  by  "  two  wealthy    ured  time,  and  of  feet  as  the  equal  division; 


landed  proprietors,  who  combined  all  their 
resources  of  money,  of  blood,  of  bones,  of 
tears,  of  sulphur,  and  what  not,  to  make  this 
the  grandest  specimen  of  modern  horticult- 
ure." "  It  is  supposed  by  some,"  says  he, 
"  that  seed  of  this  American  specimen  (now 
dead)  yet  remain  in  the  land ;  but  as  for  this 
author  (who,  with  many  friends,  suffered  from 
the  unhealthy  odors  of  the  plant),  he  could 


on  a  bar,  and  showing  how  the  recurrence 
of  euphonic  vowels  and  consonants  secured 
that  rich  variety  of  tone-color  which  music! 
gives  in  orchestration.  I  think  these  inves; 
tigations  in  the  science  of  verse  bore  thed 
fruit  in  the  poems  written  in  the  last  threi] 
or  four  years  of  his  life,  during  which  time  hi  j 
sense  of  the  solemn  sacredness  of  Art  becamJ 
more  profound,  and  he  acquired  a  greater  eas- 


find  it  in  his  heart  to  wish  fervently  that  this    in  putting  into  practice  his  theory  of  verse 


seed,  if  there  be  verily  any,  might  perish  in 
the  germ,  utterly  out  of  sight  and  life  and 
memory,  and  out  of  the  remote  hope  of  resur- 
rection, for  ever  and  ever,  no  matter  in  whose 
granary  they  are  cherished !  " 

When  peace  was  declared,  Mr.  Lanier  re- 
turned to  his  father's  home  in  Macon;  and 
after  nearly  three  years  spent  in  teaching  and 
other  pursuits,  he  entered  upon  the  study  of 
the  law,  and  was  associated  with  his  father 
in  the  practice  of  that  profession  until  Decem- 
ber, 1872. 

It  was  not  merely  because  he  felt  that  his 
sphere  was  something  else  than  law  that  he 
escaped  from  it.  His  health  had  become  ex- 


And  this  made  him  thoroughly  original.  H 
was  no  imitator  either  of  Tennyson  or  o 
Swinburne,  though  musically  he  is  nearer  t« 
them  than  to  any  others  of  his  day.  We  COD! 
stantly  notice  in  his  verse  that  dainty  erTec1 
which  the  ear  loves,  and  which  comes  fror; 
deft  marshaling  of  consonants  and  vowels 
so  that  they  shall  add  their  suppler  and  sufy 
tier  reenforcement  to  the  steady  infantry  tram™ 
of  rhythm.  Of  this  delicate  art,  which  is  muc 
more  than  mere  alliteration,  which  is  conj 
cerned  with  dominant  accented  vowels  a] 
well  as  consonants,  and  with  the  easy  flow  c  ,i 
liquids  and  fricatives,  and  with  the  progresf  j 
ive  opening  or  closing  of  the  organs  of  artk 


ceedmgly  precarious,  and,  leaving  his  wife  and  ulation,  Tennyson's  "Brook"  is  an  examp} 

little  family,  he  went  to  San  Antonio,  Texas,  for  minute  study  perhaps  unequaled  in  Er; 

hoping  to  recover  his  strength  in  an  outdoor  glish  verse,  though  some  verses  in  Milton 

life.    But  he  found  no  benefit  from  it,  and,  youthful  "Hymn  to  the  Nativity"  are  we 

now  fully  determined  to  give  himself  wholly  worthy  to  be  compared  with  it.    Of  the  sain' 

to  music  and  literature  so  long  as  he  could  rare  quality  Lanier  quotes  as  a  brief  illustrati 

keep  death  at  bay,  he  sought  a  land  of  books,  two  wonderful  lines  from  "  The  Princess 


1 


SIDNEY  LANIER,  POET. 


819 


"  The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

As  an  example  of  this  same  merit,  Mr. 
Lanier's  own  "  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee  " 
(deserves  a  place  beside  Tennyson's  "  Brook." 
It  strikes  a  higher  key,  and  is  scarcely  less 
jmusical.  The  river  is  singing  how  it  escaped 
the  luring  dalliance  of  weed  and  pebble  that 
Would  hold  its  streams  as  they  hurried  from 
[their  mountain  sources  to  turn  the  mills  and 
water  the  parched  plains  below  : 

"  All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  '  Abide,  abide,' 
I   The  willful  water-weeds  held  me  thrall, 
I  The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
)  The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  '  Stay,' 
I  The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed,  '  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall.'" 

The  last  poem  he  ever  wrote,  his  "  Sunrise 
I  jm  the  Marshes,"  penciled  while  lying  in  what 

jieemed  the  death-fever  from  which  he  could 
!  [tot  rise,  when  too  weak  to  lift  his  food  to  his 

mouth,  the  largest  and  perhaps  the  greatest 
;  bf  his  mature  poems,  is  full  of  this  elusive 

|>eauty.    Take  these  lines  which  describe  the 

teady  sinking  away  of  the  eastern  horizon  as 

ihe  sun  rises  out  of  the  sea : 

I  Not  slower  than  majesty  moves,  for  a  mean  and  a 

measure 

j)f  motion,  not  faster  than  dateless  Olympian  leisure 
(light    pace    with   unblown    ample    garments   from 

pleasure  to  pleasure, 
she  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks,  unjarring,  unreeling, 

Forever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 
'.dgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise — 'tis  done! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun !  " 

I  As  another  example  of  the  highest  art  in 
Ike  sound-element  of  poetry,  we  may  take 
[om  the  same  poem  the  lines  which  find  the 
I  pet  standing  by  the  open  forest  marshes,  in 
K  tie  overarching  beauty  and  tense  silence  of 
I  starry  morning,  before  a  sign  has  come  of 
i  tie  dawn  which  he  expects  and  awaits  : 

:Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made  ? 
h,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 
ii  jo  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty  and  silence 

a-spring, 
kp  the   bend   of  beauty,  the  bow,  or   the  hold   of 

silence,  the  string! 

•fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam 
[fill  break  as  a  bubble  o'erblown  in  a  dream ; 
K  ;0n  dome  of  too  tenuous   tissues   of  space  and  of 

night, 

iverweighted  with  stars,  overfreighted  with  light, 
jversated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 
|  But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
I  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made." 

[  Mr.   Stedman,  poet  and  critic,  raises  the 
Uestion  whether  Lanier's  extreme  conjunc- 


tion of  the  artistic  with  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment, which  he  says  no  man  more  clearly 
displayed,  did  not  somewhat  hamper  and 
delay  his  power  of  adequate  expression.  Pos- 
sibly; but  he  was  building  not  for  the  day, 
but  for  time.  He  must  work  out  his  laws  of 
poetry,  even  if  he  had  almost  to  invent  its 
language ;  for  to  him  was  given  the  power  of 
analysis  as  well  as  of  construction,  and  he 
was  too  conscientious  to  do  anything  else 
than  to  find  out  first  what  was  best  and  why, 
and  then  tell  and  teach  it  as  he  had  learnt  it, 
even  if  men  said  that  his  late  spring  was  de- 
laying bud  and  blossom.  The  sharp  criticism 
and  unthinking  ridicule  which  his  Centennial 
Cantata  received  from  those  who  did  not  un- 
derstand its  musical  purpose  made  him  be- 
lieve, sometimes,  that  he  could  not  hope  to  be 
understood  generally  without  educating  his 
audience ;  and  the  task  was  irksome  to  him. 
But  so  long  as  "  the  poetic  art  was  suffering 
from  the  shameful  circumstance  that  criticism 
was  without  a  scientific  basis  for  even  the  most 
elementary  of  its  judgments,"  he  believed  his 
study  of  art  and  form  necessary  for  the  world 
if  not  for  himself. 

But  it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  find  in 
Lanier  only,  or  chiefly,  the  artist.  He  had 
the  substance  of  poetry.  He  possessed  both 
elements,  as  Stedman  says,  "  in  extreme  con- 
junction." He  overflowed  with  fancy ;  his 
imagination  needed  to  be  held  in  check.  This 
appeared  in  "  Corn,"  and  still  more  in  "  The 
Symphony,"  the  first  productions  which  gave 
him  wide  recognition  as  a  poet.  Take  these 
chance  lines  from  the  latter  poem : 

"But  presently 

A  velvet  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 
And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 
As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild  rose  blown 
Had  fluttered  down  upon  that  pool  of  tone 
And  boatwise  dropped  o'  the  convex  side, 
And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide, 
And  clarified  and  glorified 
The  solemn  spaces  where  the  shallows  bide. 
From  the  warm  concave  of  that  fluted  note 
Somewhat  half  song,  half  odor,  forth  did  float, 
As  if  a  rose  might  somehow  be  a  throat." 

The  intense  sacredness  with  which  Lanier 
invested  Art  held  him  thrall  to  the  highest 
ethical  ideas.  To  him  the  most  beautiful  thing 
of  all  was  the  Right.  He  loved  the  words, 
"  the  beauty  of  holiness,"  and  it  pleased  him 
to  reverse  the  phrase  and  call  it  "  the  holiness 
of  beauty."  When  I  read  Lanier  I  think  of 
two  writers,  Milton  and  Ruskin.  These  two 
men,  more  than  any  other  great  English  writ- 
ers, are  dominated  by  this  beauty  of  holiness. 
Lanier  was  saturated  with  it.  It  shines  in 
every  line  he  wrote.  It  is  not  that  he  never 
wrote  a  maudlin  line,  but  that  every  thought 


820 


SIDNEY  LANIER,  POET. 


was  lofty.  Hear  his  words  to  the  students  in 
Johns  Hopkins  University : 

"  Cannot  one  say  with  authority  to  the  young  artist, 
— whether  working  in  stone,  in  color,  in  tones,  or  in 
the  character  forms  of  the  novel, —  so  far  from  dreading- 
that  your  moral  purpose  will  interfere  with  your  beau- 
tiful creation,  go  forward  in  the  clear  conviction  that 
unless  you  are  suffused  —  soul  and  body,  one  might 
say  — with  that  moral  purpose  which  finds  its  largest 
expression  in  love  —  that  is,  the  love  of  all  things  in 
their  proper  relation  —  unless  you  are  suffused  with 
this  love,  do  not  dare  to  meddle  with  beauty ;  unless 
you  are  suffused  with  beauty,  do  not  dare  to  meddle 
with  love ;  unless  you  are  suffused  with  truth,  do  not 
dare  to  meddle  with  goodness  ;  in  a  word,  unless  you 
are  suffused  with  beauty,  truth,  wisdom,  goodness,  and 
love,  abandon  the  hope  that  the  ages  will  accept  you 
as  an  artist." 

And  so  it  came  into  his  verse, —  a  solemn, 
reverend,  worshipful  element,  dominating  it 
everywhere,  and  giving  loftiness  to  its  beauty. 
For  he  was  the  democrat  whom  he  described 
in  contrast  to  Whitman's  mere  brawny,  six- 
foot,  open-shirted  hero,  whose  strength  was 
only  that  of  the  biceps : 

"  My  democrat,  the  democrat  whom  I  contemplate 
with  pleasure,  the  democrat  who  is  to  write  or  to  read 
the  poetry  of  the  future,  may  have  a  mere  thread  for 
his  biceps,  yet  he  shall  be  strong  enough  to  handle 
hell ;  he  shall  play  ball  with  the  earth ;  and  albeit  his 
stature  may  be  no  more  than  a  boy's,  he  shall  still  be 
taller  than  the  great  redwoods  of  California ;  his  height 
shall  be  the  height  of  great  resolution,  and  love,  and 
faith,  and  beauty,  and  knowledge,  and  subtle  medita- 
tion ;  his  head  shall  be  forever  among  the  stars." 

Illustrations  could  be  taken  at  random 
from  his  poems.  I  select  the  shortest  I  can 
find,  a  pure  lyric,  the  "  Ballad  of  the  Trees 
and  the  Master,"  intended  first  for  an  inter- 
lude in  his  partly  completed  "  Hymns  of  the 
Marshes."  The  communion  of  the  trees  sug- 
gests their  sympathy  with  the  Master  in  Geth- 
semane : 

"  Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent; 
Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 
But  the  olives,  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 
The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him, 
The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him, 

When  into  the  wood  He  came. 

"  Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content ; 
Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 
When  death  and  shame  would  woo  Him  last, 
From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 
'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  him  —  last 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came." 

Though  not  what  would  be  called  a  relig- 
ious writer,  Lanier's  large  and  deep  thought 
took  him  to  the  deepest  spiritual  faiths,  and 
the  vastnesses  of  Nature  drew  him  to  a  trust 
in  the  Infinite  above  us.  How  naturally  this 


finds  expression  in  his  "  Marshes  of  Glynn,' 
the  "  Marshes  "  being,  as  ever,  the  wide  coast 
marshes  of  Georgia,  with  their  belts  of  live 
oaks  and  their  reaches  of  sand  and  sea- grass : 

"  Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rain  and 

the  sun, 
Yet  spread  and  span  like  the  Catholic  Man  who  hath 

mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge,  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain, 
And  sight  out  of  blindness,  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

"  As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of 

God! 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen 

flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies. 

"  By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God ; 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness 

within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of 

Glynn." 

It  is  this  quality,  high  and  consecrate,  as 
of  a  palmer  with  his  vow,  this  knightly  val- 
iance,  this  constant  San  Grail  quest  after  the! 
lofty  in  character  and  aim,  this  passion  foi 
Good  and  Love,  which  fellows  him  rather 
with  Milton  and  Ruskin  than  with  the  less 
sturdily  built  poets  of  his  day,  and  which  puts 
him  in  sharpest  contrast  with  the  school  lee 
by  Swinburne, — with  Rossetti  and  Morris  a$ 
his  followers  hard  after  him,  and  Oscar  Wild* 
far  behind, —  a  school  whose  reed  has  f 
short  gamut,  and  plays  but  two  notes,  Mon 
and  Eros,  hopeless  death  and  lawless  love 
But  poetry  is  larger  and  finer  than  they  knowj 
Its  face  is  toward  the  world's  future  ;  it  doe  I 
not  maunder  after  the  flower-decked  nymph:! 
and  yellow- skirted  fays  that  have  forever  flee] 
—and  good  riddance — their  haunted  spring  I 
and  tangled  thickets.  It  can  feed  on  its  growl 
ing  sweet  and  fresh  faiths,  but  will  draw  foul 
contagion  from  the  rank  mists  that  float  ovji 
old  and  cold  fables.  For  all  knowledge  ij 
bread  to  a  genius  like  Lanier.  A  poet  geniui 
has  great  common  sense.  He  lives  in  to-dajl 
and  to-morrow,  not  in  yesterday.  Such  rnejl 
were  Shakspere  and  Goethe.  The  age  of  pol 
etry  is  not  past ;  there  is  nothing  in  culture <jl 
science  antagonistic  to  it.  Milton  was  oneol 
the  world's  great  poets,  but  he  was  the  mosl 
cultured  and  scholarly  and  statesmanlike  mail 
of  his  day.  He  was  no  dreamer  of  deatl 
dreams.  Neither  was  Lanier  a  dreamer.  Hi 
came  late  to  the  opportunity  which  he  longCjl 
for,  but  when  he  came  to  it  he  was  a  tremerl 
dous  student,  not  of  music  alone,  but  of  Inol 
guage,  of  science,  and  of  philosophy.  lin 
had  all  the  instincts  and  ambitions  of  ttol 
nineteenth  century.  But  that  only  made  hi 
range  of  poetic  thought  wider,  and  its  succ^B 


SIDNEY  LANIER,  POET. 


821 


deeper.   The  world   is  opening  to  the  poet 

with  every  question  the  crucible  asks  of  the 

t  elements,    with    every   spectrum    the    prism 

j  steals  from  a  star.   The  old  he  has  and  all  the 

!  new. 

But  how  short  was  his  day,  and  how  slight 

his  opportunity !    From  the  time  that  he  was 

of  age  he  waged  a  constant  hopeless  fight  for 

life.    For  months  he  could  do  no  work.    He 

was  driven  to  Texas,  to  Florida,  to  Pennsyl- 

I  vania,  to  North   Carolina,  to  try  to  recover 

I  health  frqm  pine  breaths  and  clover  blossoms. 

He  was  supported  by  the  implicit  faith  of  his 

devoted  wife,  who  fully  believed  in  his  genius, 

and  was  willing   to   suffer  everything  if  he 

could  only  find  his  opportunity ;   but  there 

was,  from  the  time  he  left  Macon,  the  con- 

I  stant  pitiful  struggle  not  for  health  alone,  but 

for  bread  which  he  must  earn  for  his  babes. 

Notwithstanding   the   generous   help  of  his 

father,  which  was  more  than  could  be  asked, 

I  there  were  long  periods  of  the  very  slenderest 

|  support  from  chance  writing  for  a  magazine, 

I  or  a  few  lectures  or  lessons  when  his  strength 

I  would  allow.    But  his  courage  and  that  of  his 

wife  never  failed.    He  still  kept  before  him 

|  first  his  ideal  and  his  mission,  and  he  longed  to 

live  that  he  might  accomplish  them.    It  must 

I  have  been  in  such  a  mood  that  he  wrote  to 

this  wife  in  1874: 

"  So  many  great  ideas  for  art  are  born  to  me  each 
i  day,  I  am  swept  away  into  the  Land  of  All  Delight 
jby  their  strenuous,  sweet  whirlwind ;  and  I  feel  within 
[myself  such  entire,  yet  humble,  confidence  of  possess- 
jing  every  single  element  of  power  to  carry  them  all 
out  save  the  little  paltry  sum  of  money  that  would  suf- 
jfice  to  keep  us  clothed  and  fed  in  the  mean  time. 
j  "  I  do  not  understand  this." 

As  also  the  following  sketch  for  a  poem 
[which  he  never  put  into  rhyme  : 

r  O  Lord,  if  thou  wert  needy  as  I, 

If  thou  shouldst  come  to  my  door  as  I  to  thine, 

If  thou  hungered  so  much  as  I 

[For  that  which  belongs  to  the  spirit, 

[For  that  which  is  fine  and  good, — 


Ah,  Friend,  for  that  which  is  fine  and  good, — 

I  would  give  it  to  thee  if  I  had  power. 

For  that  which  I  want  is  first  bread  — 

Thy  decree,  not  my  choice,  that  bread  must  be  first ; 

Then  music ;  then  some  time  out  of  the  struggle  for 

bread  to  write  my  poems ; 
Then  to  put  out  of  care  Henry  and  Robert,  whom  I 

love. 
O  my  God,  how  little  would  put  them  out  of  care!  " 

At  last,  when  his  strength  was  utterly  gone, 
he  seemed  to  have  conquered  success  enough 
to  assure  him  a  livelihood,  and  a  chance  to 
write  his  poems.  Then  he  died.  It  was  with 
a  terror,  almost,  that  his  friends  listened  to 
the  last  course  of  his  lectures,  fearing  he  might 
not  live  out  the  hour.  He  had  risen  from  the 
sick-bed  which  he  was  not  expected  to  leave, 
and  with  great  pain  and  in  much  weakness 
he  wrote  out  his  notes.  He  was  taken  in 
a  close  carriage  to  the  University,  read  the 
lectures  sitting  in  the  chair,  too  weak  to  rise, 
and  then  suffered  a  chill  of  exhaustion  on  the 
way  home.  Three  months  after,  he  died.  Why 
was  no  Maecenas  found  who  would  gladly  give 
the  cost  of  an  evening's  party  to  supply  him 
the  rest  which  might  prolong  a  life  worth  mill- 
ions of  common  lives  ? 

A  man  with  real  genius  must  know  it,  just 
as  we  know  we  have  talent  or  shiftiness  or 
resource.  In  1874,  at  the  very  time  of  his 
new  baptism  into  art,  he  wrote  to  his  wife : 

"  It  is  of  little  consequence  whether  /  fail ;  the  *  I ' 
in  the  matter  is  a  small  business ;  'Que  mon  nom  soil 
fletri,  que  la  France  soit  libre  ! '  quoth  Dan  ton ;  which  is 
to  say,  interpreted  by  my  environment :  Let  my  name 
perish;  the  poetry  is  good  poetry,  and  the  music  is 
good  music ;  and  beauty  dieth  not,  and  the  heart  that 
needs  it  will  find  it." 

How  many  hearts  need  it  and  will  find  it, 
it  may  be  too  soon  to  guess.  For  my  part,  I 
believe  it  will  find  a  larger  and  a  yet  larger 
audience,  and  that  his  short  half-dozen  years 
of  literary  life,  though  much  hindered,  will  fill 
a  great  space  in  our  history  of  poetry  and  art. 

William  Hayes  Ward. 


\  [As  we  go  to  press,  a  complete  edition  of  the  poems  of  Sidney  Lanier  is  announced  by  his  publishers, 
Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  The  volume  will  be  edited  by  his  wife,  and  Dr.  William  Hayes  Ward  will 
furnish  an  introduction. — EDITOR.] 


HOW   WILKES   BOOTH    CROSSED   THE    POTOMAC. 


THE  most  dramatic  of  historical  assassina- 
tions has  had,  until  now,  an  unrelated  interval. 
The  actor  John  Wilkes  Booth  shot  President 
Abraham  Lincoln  about  ten  o'clock  Friday 
night,  April  i4th,  1865.  Near  midnight  he 
and  his  uninteresting  road  pilot,  David  E. 
Herold,  called  at  Surratt's  tavern,  about  ten 
miles  south-east  of  Washington,  and  obtained 
the  arms,  field  glass,  etc.,  previously  prepared 
for  them  there.  Saturday  morning  they  were 
at  Dr.  Samuel  A.  Mudd's,  twenty  miles  farther 
on,  where  Booth's  broken  ankle  was  set  and 
a  crutch  made  for  him  ;  and  that  evening  the 
two  fugitives  were  guided  in  a  roundabout 
way  to  the  gate  of  Samuel  Cox,  a  prosperous 
Southern  sympathizer,  about  fifteen  miles 
south-west. 

The  last  witness  in  Maryland  ended  here. 
The  Government,  in  its  prosecution  of  the 
conspirators,  took  up  the  fugitive  next  at  the 
crossing  of  the  Rappahannock  River  in  Vir- 
ginia, on  the  24th  of  April,  having  failed  to 
trace  Booth  a  single  step  farther  in  Maryland, 
although  he  did  not  cross  the  Potomac  until 
Saturday  night,  April  226..  A  whole  week  re- 
mains unaccounted  for ;  and  for  the  first  time 
the  missing  links  of  the  connection  are  here 
made  public.  Probably  not  half  a  dozen  peo- 
ple are  alive  who  have  ever  heard  the  narrative 
fully  told. 

When  Annapolis  was  a  greater  place  than 
Baltimore,  and  the  Patuxent  Valley  the  most 
populous  part  of  Maryland,  the  main  roads 
and  ferries  to  all-powerful  Virginia  were  on 
the  lower  Potomac,  instead  of  being,  as  now, 
above  Washington  City.  The  most  important 
of  these  ferries  crossed  at  a  narrow  part  of 
the  river,  where  it  is  from  two  to  three  miles 
wide,  near  a  stream  on  the  Maryland  side 
called  Pope's  Creek.  Just  below  this  spot,  and 
not  far  above  it,  there  are  deep  indentations 
from  the  river  which  narrow  the  open  ground 
over  which  its  banks  are  reached.  A  railroad, 
built  since  the  war,  for  this  reason  has  its 
terminus  at  Pope's  Creek.  About  five  miles 
north  of  the  terminus  is  Cox's  Station,  which 
is  about  six  miles  south  of  the  old  court- 
house village  of  Port  Tobacco.  A  short  dis- 
tance east  of  Cox's  Station  is  Samuel  Cox's 
house ;  a  short  distance  west  of  Cox's  Station, 
perhaps  two  or  three  miles,  is  the  old  Cath- 
olic manor  house  of  St.  Thomas's,  by  an  an- 
cient church  which  gives  the  name  to 
"Chapel"  Point.  Here  the  Potomac  sends 
up  Port  Tobacco  River,  a  broad  tidal  stream, 


naturally  indicated  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war  as  the  nearest  safe  point  for  spies  and 
go-betweens  to  reach  broad  water  from  Wash- 
ington. Mathias  Point,  on  the  Virginia  side, 
makes  a  high  salient  angle  into  the  waters  of 
Maryland  here,  and  is  almost  in  the  direct 
line  from  Washington  to  Richmond. 

In  this  old  region  of  the  Calvert  Catholics,  j 
a  civilization  existed  at  the  close  of  the  last 
century  probably  comparable  with  that  of 
tide-water  Virginia.  The  Episcopal  Church, 
tobacco,  and  large  landed  estates,  with  slaves, 
were  features  of  the  high  bluff  country,  which 
was  plentifully  watered  with  running  streams 
amidst  the  hills  of  clay  and  gravel.  But  the 
Revolution  emancipated  the  Catholic  wor- 
ship originally  planted  on  the  lower  Poto- 
mac by  the  founders  of  Maryland,  and  a 
curious  English  society  took  root,  with  its 
little  churches  surmounted  by  the  cross,  its 
slaves  attendants  upon  mass  and  confession; 
and  much  of  the  country,  originally  poor,  was 
covered  with  decaying  estates,  old  fields 
grown  up  in  small  pines,  and  deep  gullies 
penetrating  to  the  heart  of  the  hills.  The 
malaria  almost  depopulated  the  little  towns 
and  hamlets,  tobacco  became  an  uncertain 
crop,  slavery  kept  the  people  poor,  and  inter- 
course fell  off  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  pos- 
sibly excepting  some  of  the  old  counties  in 
Virginia  in  Washington's  "  Northern  Neck." 

Soon  after  the  year  1820  Mr.  Cox  wasi 
born  in  the  district  below  Port  Tobacco,  and 
his  mother  dying,  he  was  put  to  nurse  with  a 
Mrs.  Jones,  the  wife  of  a  plain  man,  possibly 
an  overseer,  who  inhabited  the  house.  She 
had  a  son,  Thomas  A.  Jones,  who  grew  up 
with  young  Cox;  they  were  playmates  and 
attended  the  same  log  school-house,  and  Cox,- 
as  life  progressed,  had  the  ruling  influence 
over  Jones,  who  was  a  cool,  brave  man,  but : 
without  the  self-assertion  of  his  comrade,  who ' 
soon  developed  into  one  of  the  most  ener-j 
getic  men  in  that  region. 

A  portrait  of  Samuel  Cox  shows  him  to  have! 
been  of  an  indomitable  will,  strengthened  by 
that  consumptive  tendency  which  often  gives  i 
desperation  to  men  fond  of  life.  At  the  break- 1 
ing  out  of  the  war  Mr.  Cox  had  thirty  to  I 
forty  slaves,  plenty  of  land,  a  large  housefl 
with  out-buildings,  negro  quarters,  woodlands,! 
and  a  superior  appearance  for  those  parts.  Hei 
became  the  captain  of  a  volunteer  company,! 
which  he  drilled  at  Bryantown,  a  small 
tlement  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  coi 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


823 


where  the  lands  were  unusually  good  and  the 
neighbors  plentiful  in  slaves.  Hardly  one  of 
them  an  original  secessionist,  the  course  of 
events  forced  most  of  those  slave-holders  into 
sympathy  with  the  South,  if  not  through  their 
sensitiveness  about  their  slave  property,  yet 
from  the  fact  that  their  sons  often  hastened 
to  cross  the  river  into  the  Confederate  army, 
while  in  many  cases  their  negroes  slipped  off 
in  the  opposite  direction  within  the  Federal 
lines.  The  responsibility  for  disloyalty  did 
not  rest  with  these  humble  people  off  the 
great  highways  of  life,  but  followed  from  the 
political  consequences  of  breaking  the  Union 
asunder,  and  leaving  them  on  the  Union 
frontier  with  all  the  necessities  and  traditions 
of  slavery.  The  Government  paid  but  little 
attention  to  them,  seeing  that  they  were  be- 
low the  line  of  military  operations,  divided 
by  a  broad  river  from  the  ragged  peninsulas 
of  the  rebellion ;  and,  therefore,  there  almost 
immediately  sprang  up  in  lower  Maryland,  a 
system  of  contraband  travel  and  traffic  which 
soon  demoralized  nearly  everybody. 

Thomas  A.  Jones,  who  had  somewhat  risen 
in  the  world  and  had  a  few  slaves,  sympa- 
thized warmly  with  the  South ;  he  owned  a 
farm  right  at  Pope's  Creek,  the  most  eligible 
I  situation  of  all  for  easy  intercourse  with  Vir- 
[ginia.  His  house  was  on  a  bluff  eighty 
to  one  hundred  feet  high,  from  which  he 
I  could  look  up  the  Potomac  to  the  west,  across 
I  Mathias  Point,  and  see  at  least  seven  miles  of 
the  river- way,  while  his  view  down  the  Poto- 
mac was  fully  nine  miles. 

The  moment  actual  war  broke  out,  and 
)  intercourse  ceased  at  Washington  and  above 
it  with  Virginia,  great  numbers  of  people 
|  came  to  the  house  of  Jones  and  to  that  of  his 
jnext  neighbor  on  the  bluff,  Major  Roderick 
G.  Watson,  asking  to  be  sent  across  the  Po- 
|tomac.  These  fugitives  were  of  all  descrip- 
:  tions :  lawyers,  business  men,  women,  resigned 
j  army  officers,  adventurers,  suspected  persons, 
— even  the  agents  of  foreign  bankers  and  of 
[foreign  countries. 

Major  Watson  had  a  large  frame  house, 
[relatively  new,  two  stories  high,  with  dormer 
[windows  in  the  high  roof,  and  with  a  servants' 
wing.  He  had  a  son  in  the  Confederate  army, 
land  grown-up  daughters;  and  his  house  be- 
jcame  the  signal  station  for  the  Confederates 
across  the  river,  one  of  his  daughters  setting 
ithe  signal,  which  consisted  of  a  shawl  or  other 
black  object,  put  up  at  the  dormer  window, 
iwhenever  it  was  not  safe  to  send  the  boat 
jacross  from  Virginia.  This  window  was  kept 
f  in  focus  from  Grimes's  house  on  the  other 
iside,  about  two  miles  and  a  half  distant, — a 
small  low  house,  planted  at  the  water's  edge, 
from  which  the  glass  could  read  the  signal, 


which  no  Federal  officer,  whether  in  his  gun- 
boat or  ashore,  could  suspect.  Major  Watson 
was  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  and  died 
while  his  neighbor  Jones  was  serving  an  im- 
prisonment in  the  Old  Capitol  prison. 

On  Jones's  return  to  his  home,  he  there- 
fore became  the  most  trusted  neighbor  of 
the  Watson  family,  and  they  accommodated 
him  as  he  assisted  them.  The  young  lady 
in  the  family  was  as  enthusiastic  for  the 
Confederate  cause,  and  as  discreet  in  all  her 
talks  and  walks  as  Jones  himself,  on  whose 
countenance  no  human  being  could  ever  read 
what  was  passing  within  his  mind.  He  had 
attended  to  his  fishery  and  his  farm  until  the 
war  broke  out,  without  having  had  an  inci- 
dent to  mark  his  life ;  but  suddenly  there  was 
an  incursion  of  strangers  to  whose  needs  his 
rooted  ideas  of  hospitality,  no  less  than  his 
sympathy  for  the  Confederates,  led  him  to 
hearken.  His  farming  was  almost  broken  up, 
and  he  took  to  crossing  the  river  nearly 
every  night,  and  sometimes  twice  or  more 
of  a  night,  with  boats,  sometimes  rowed 
by  two  pairs  of  oars,  at  others  by  three, 
while  he  steered  with  an  oar  in  the  stern. 
The  interlopers  could  ride  down  from  Wash- 
ington to  Pope's  Creek  in  six  or  seven  hours, 
and  Jones  could  put  them  at  Grimes's  house 
opposite  in  less  than  an  hour.  The  idea  of 
making  money  in  this  traffic  never  seems  to 
have  occurred  to  the  man  at  all :  he  regarded 
these  strangers  as  intrusted  to  his  care  by 
Providence  or  pity;  and  although  his  liberty 
was  constantly  in  danger,  he  seldom  received 
more  than  a  dollar  or  two  for  taking  anybody 
across.  Some  persons  argued  with  him  that 
he  did  not  charge  enough,  and  told  him  to 
look  out  for  his  family  and  the  future;  but,  as 
the  sequel  will  show,  he  did  a  vast  amount 
of  hard  and  dangerous  labor  for  next  to  noth- 
ing, and  in  the  end  the  Confederate  Govern- 
ment also  left  him  unpaid. 

The  original  rebel  route  from  Pope's  Creek 
to  Richmond  was  through  Fredericksburg ; 
but  this  being  considerably  to  the  west,  a  new 
route  was  opened  over  the  old  road  to  Port 
Royal  on  the  Rappahannock  River.  Advent- 
urers were  taken  by  Jones  or  his  neighbors 
across  to  Grimes's,  who,  assisted  by  one  or 
two  of  his  neighbors,  carried  them  by  vehi- 
cles in  three  or  four  hours  to  Port  Conway, 
where  a  ferry  was  maintained  across  the  Rap- 
pahannock River  to  Port  Royal,  and  eighteen 
miles  beyond  it  the  high  road  from  Washing- 
ton to  Richmond  was  open.  Mr.  Jones  says 
that  he  may  have  crossed  the  Potomac  one 
hundred  times  before  he  was  arrested,  but 
has  no  record  of  the  days. 

In  the  latter  part  of  June,  1861,  General 
Sickles  came  with  troops  to  the  lower  Po- 


824 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


tomac  to  keep  a  watch  on  the  contraband 
intercourse.  Grimes  was  found  on  the  Mary- 
land shore  and  sent  to  Fort  Delaware.  Jones 
was  arrested  when  he  returned  from  his  sec- 
ond visit  to  Richmond  and  sent  to  the  Old 
Capitol  prison  at  Washington,  and  kept  there 
six  months.  He  was  allowed  to  write  to  his 
family,  subject  to  the  inspection  of  his  letters, 
and  to  talk  to  any  of  them  when  an  officer 
was  by.  This  imprisonment,  together  with  his 
adventurous  cruises  previously,  sharpened  his 
wits,  increased  his  knowledge  of  men  and  the 
world,  and  educated  him  for  the  official  posi- 
tion he  was  soon  afterward  to  occupy  of 
chief  signal  agent  of  the  Confederacy  north 
of  the  Potomac.  Misfortunes,  however,  at- 
tended his  affairs.  His  wife,  who  had  a  large 
family  of  children,  was  taken  sick  through  care 
and  confinement  while  he  was  absent,  and  died. 
His  farm  was  mortgaged,  and,  not  pursuing 
the  regular  vocations  of  peace,  the  mortgage 
slowly  ate  up  the  farm,  and  near  the  close  of 
the  war  he  had  to  remove  from  his  river-side 
residence  to  an  old  place  called  Huckleberry, 
about  two  miles  and  a  half  inland. 

Mr.  Jones  was  released  in  March,  1862,  by 
a  general  jail  delivery  ordered  by  Congress 
under  the  belief  that  the  prisons  were  full  of 
innocent  men.  He  took  an  oath  that  he  would 
not  communicate  with  the  enemy  again,  and 
was  informed  of  the  penalty  of  breaking  it.  He 
returned  to  his  house  on  the  river  bluff,  and 
soon  an  armed  patrol  and  steam  vessels  were 
maintained  on  the  river,  and  the  Federal  offi- 
cers boasted  that  they  had  a  spy  on  every  farm. 
One  of  the  fine  old  mansions  on  the  river, 
Hooe's  house,  which  had  been  the  almost  im- 
memorial ferry-house,  was  set  on  fire  by  the 
Federal  flotilla  and  burnt,  for  having  given 
harborage  to  one  of  Grimes's  boat  parties. 

Grimes  again  communicated  with  Jones, 
and  asked  him  to  go  into  an  undertaking  to 
carry  the  Confederate  mail  from  Canada  and 
the  United  States  to  Richmond.  Jones  replied 
that  the  risk  was  too  great,  and  that  his  duty 
to  his  children  required  him  to  stay  at  home,  al- 
though his  heart  was  in  the  Confederate  cause, 
and  he  would  give  it  any  assistance  possible. 
Upon  this,  the  Confederate  signal  officer, 
Major  William  N orris,  who  had  been  a  Mary- 
land man  and  is  still  alive,  held  an  interview 
with  Jones,  and  asked  him  to  take  charge  of 
the  rebel  communications,  stating  that  they 
were  of  the  utmost  consequence  to  the  man- 
agement of  the  Confederate  cause  and  its 
intercourse  with  the  outer  world,  the  Federal 
blockade  now  being  well  maintained  and  every 
portion  of  the  border  closely  watched,  while 
the  broad  Potomac  River  and  the  pine-covered 
hills  of  lower  Maryland  afforded  almost  a  sure 
crossing-place.  Finally,  Jones  said  that  if  he 


were  given  absolute  control,  not  only  over  the 
ferry,  but  overall  agents  to  be  retained  in  Mary- 
land, the  names  of  none  of  whom  he  should  be 
called  upon  ever  to  mention,  he  would  under- 
take the  work.  He  said  to  the  Confederate 
agent :  "  It  is  useless  to  expect  me  to  main- 
tain a  boat  service  with  you.  You  must  keep 
the  boat  on  the  Virginia  side,  cross  to  my 
beach,  and  bring  and  take  the  mail  there,  so 
that  I  cannot  be  suspected."  He  then  indi- 
cated a  post-office  in  the  hollow  of  an  old  tree 
which  grew  near  the  foot  of  his  bluff. 

His  previous  observations  on  the  river  had 
shown  him  that  toward  evening,  when  the 
sun  had  fallen  below  the  Virginia  woods, 
there  was  a  certain  grayness  on  the  surface  of 
the  water,  increased  by  the  shadows  from  the 
high  bluffs,  which  nearly  erased  the  mark  of 
a  boat  floating  on  the  Potomac.  The  pickets 
that  were  now  maintained  along  the  bluffs 
were  not  set  till  toward  night.  Therefore  it 
was  arranged  that  the  Virginia  boat  should 
come  in  just  before  the  pickets  were  set,  and 
its  navigator  noiselessly  take  out  the  mail 
from  the  old  tree  and  deposit  the  Virginia 
packet,  and  then,  with  scarcely  a  word  whis- 
pered or  a  sign  given,  slip  back  again  to 
his  Virginia  cove.  Generally  the  boat  was 
hauled  ashore  in  Virginia  out  of  the  observa- 
tion of  the  patrol  gun-boats  and  their  launch- 
es, and  sometimes  it  was  kept  back  of  Grimes's 
house,  but  sometimes  back  of  Upper  Macho- 
doc  Creek,  which  is  six  miles  due  south  of 
Pope's  Creek,  and  only  about  twelve  miles 
from  Port  Royal. 

When  the  rebel  mail  had  been  left  in  the 
stump,  Jones  obtained  it,  either  in  person  or 
by  one  of  his  faithful  slaves.    It  is  a  singular 
fact  that  not  only  were  women  the  best  co- 
operative agents  in  this  spy  system,  but  the 
slaves,  whose  interests  might  be  considered 
as  opposed  to  a  Southern  triumph,  frequently 
adhered  to  their  masters  from  discipline  or 
affection.   Jones  had  a  slave  named  Henry 
Woodland,  still  alive,  who  not  only  pulled  in  i 
his  boat  to  Virginia  during  the  early  months 
of  the  war,  but,  imitating  the  habits  of  his 
master,  was  discreet  down  to  the  time  that 
Booth  escaped,  while  probably  suspecting,  if  i 
he   did   not   know,  all   that  was   going   on. 
He   and   his   master  seldom  informed  each 
other  upon  anything,  and  did  not  need  even 
to  exchange  glances,  so  well  did  they  know 
each  other's  ways.    The  negro  was  nearly  a » 
duplicate  of  his   master    in    methods,  went : 
about  his  work  without  speech,  and  asked  no 
questions.   Two  other  negroes,  named  John  ' 
Swan   and    George  Murray,  pulled   oars   in  \ 
Jones's  boats  in  the  early  part  of  the  war.   One 
of  these,  it  is  believed,  turned  spy  upon  hi.'. 
master,and  finally  ran  away, but  was  sent  bad 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


825 


to  Jones  by  the  commandant  of  the  camp,  re- 
ceived a  flogging,  and  some  time  afterward 
deserted  to  a  vessel  in  the  river. 

When  the  rebel  mail  had  been  put  ashore, 
Jones  would  sometimes  get  it  by  slipping 
down  through  some  of  the  wooded  gullies 
cutting  the  bluff.  The  Federal  patrol  walked 
on  the  top  of  the  bluff,  and  as  the  night  grew 
dark  would  be  apt  to  avoid  these  dark  places, 
from  which  a  shot  might  be  fired  or  an  assas- 
sin spring.  Jones  sometimes  ran  risks  getting 
down  the  bluff,  which  was  almost  perpen- 
dicular, and  after  a  time  he  constructed  a  sort 
of  stairs  or  steps  down  one  portion  of  it.  His 
foster-brother  Cox,  who  was  more  noisy  and 
expressive,  had  contrived  early  in  the  war  a 
set  of  post-offices  for  the  deposit  of  the  mail 
as  it  came  up  from  the  river,  in  stumps,  etc. 
One  of  these  post-offices  was  pointed  out  to 
me  where  the  railroad  now  goes  through  a 
cutting  below  Cox's  Station.  The  Maryland 
neighbors,  however,  became  so  careless  about 
sending  their  letters  through  these  stump  post- 
I  offices,  that  when  Jones  made  his  agreement 
I  with  the  Confederate  Government,  he  dis- 
Ipensed  with  that  system  altogether,  and  re- 
ified upon  more  ordinary  methods.  Having 
no  passion  for  mere  glory  or  praise,  content- 
ed to  do  his  work  according  to  his  own  ideas 
of  right  and  expediency,  he  merely  made  use 
j  of  substantial,  plain  people,  whose  hearts 
were  in  the  Confederate  cause,  but  whose 
!  methods  were  all  discreet.  Thus  he  had  a 
j  young  woman  to  hoist  his  signal  of  black,  and 
it  never  was  hoisted  if  the  course  was  open 
(and  clear  on  the  river.  He  arranged  that  no 
imail  matter  should  come  close  to  his  home, 
not  even  to  Port  Tobacco,  which  was  perhaps 
iten  miles  distant.  It  was  generally  sent  to  Bry- 
iantown,  fifteen  to  twenty  miles  distant,  and  col- 
lected there,  or  dispatched  from  that  office,  and 
jit  was  carried  by  such  neighbors  as  Dr.  Stowten 
S.  Dent,  who  died  in  1883,  at  the  age  of  eighty. 
jThis  old  gentleman  had  two  sons  in  the  Con- 
federate army,  and  was  a  practicing  physi- 
cian, riding  on  his  horse  from  place  to  place, 
'and  it  seemed  to  be  the  case  that  some  per- 
ison  in  Major  Watson's  family  was  generally 
sick.  There  the  good  old  doctor  would  go, 
wearing  a  big  overcoat  with  immense  pockets, 
and  big  boots  coming  high  toward  his  knees. 
Everybody  liked  him,  the  Federal  officers  and 
soldiers  as  well  as  the  negroes  and  neighbors, 
|for  he  was  impartial  in  his  cures.  At  the 
greatest  risk,  even  of  his  neck,  the  old  man 
carried  the  rebel  mail  which  Jones  had  de- 
livered to  him,  and  frequently  went  all  the 
(way  to  Bryantown  with  it.  He  would  stuff  his 
Dockets,  and  sometimes  his  boots,  with  letters 
and  newspapers. 

There  were  one  or  two  other  persons  some- 


times made  available  as  mail-carriers.  Per- 
haps Mr.  Cox  himself  would  do  a  little  work 
of  this  kind.  A  man  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river,  by  the  name  of  Thomas  H.  Harbin, 
who  now  lives  in  Washington,  was  a  sort  of 
general  voluntary  agerit  for  the  Confederacy, 
making  his  head-quarters  now  in  Washington 
and  now  in  Richmond,  and  again  on  the  river 
bank.  In  his  desire  to  accommodate  every- 
body, Harbin  sometimes  put  too  much  matter 
in  the  mail ;  and  Jones's  cautious  soul  was  much 
disturbed  to  find,  on  one  occasion,  two  large 
satchels  filled  with  stuff  not  pertinent  to  the 
Confederate  Government.  He  sent  word  over 
that  there  must  be  more  sense  in  the  putting 
up  of  that  mail,  as  it  would  be  impossible  to 
get  it  off  if  it  grew  larger. 

Jones's  house  at  this  time  was  of  dark, 
rain-washed  plank,  one  story  high,  with  a 
door  in  the  middle,  an  outside  chimney 
at  each  end,  and  a  small  kitchen  and  inter- 
vening colonnade  which  he  added  himself. 
The  house  was  about  thirty  yards  from 
the  edge  of  the  bluff.  His  farm  contained 
five  hundred  and  forty  acres.  Besides  his 
neighbors  the  Watsons  below,  Mr.  Thomas 
Stone  had  a  place  just  above  him,  across 
Pope's  Creek,  on  a  high  hill,  called  "  Ellen- 
borough,"  the  mansion  of  which  was  one  of 
the  largest  brick  buildings  in  this  region. 
Next  above  Stone's,  on  Port  Tobacco  River, 
was  George  Dent,  who  also  had  an  interest- 
ing mansion.  The  third  farm  to  the  north 
was  Brentfield,  and  back  of  it  Huckleberry, 
from  which  Booth  departed. 

Mr.  Jones  himself  is  a  man  of  hardly 
medium  height,  slim  and  wiry,  with  one  of 
those  thin,  mournful  faces  common  to  tide- 
water Maryland,  with  high  cheek-bones,  gray- 
blue  eyes,  no  great  height  or  breadth  of  fore- 
head, and  thick,  strong  hair.  The  tone  of  his 
mind  and  intercourse  is  slow  and  mournful, 
somewhat  complaining,  as  if  the  summer 
heats  had  given  a  nervous  tone  to  his  views, 
which  are  generally  instinctive  and  kind. 
Judge  Frederick  Stone  told  me  that  he 
once  crossed  the  river  with  Jones,  when  a 
Federal  vessel  suddenly  loomed  up,  appar- 
ently right  above  them,  and  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  the  passenger  said,  he  could  see  the 
interior  of  the  Old  Capitol  prison  for  himself 
and  all  his  companions ;  but  at  that  moment 
Jones  was  as  cool  as  if  he  had  not  noticed  the 
vessel  at  all,  and  extricated  them  in  an  in- 
stant from  the  danger.  Jones's  education  is 
small.  He  does  not  swear,  does  not  smoke, 
and  does  not  drink.  When  he  was  exposed 
on  the  river,  he  says,  he  sometimes  took  a 
little  spirits  to  drive  away  the  cold  and  wet; 
but  he  has  few  needs,  and  probably  has 
not  changed  any  of  his  habits  since  early  life. 


826 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


Born  poor,  somewhat  of  the  overseer  class, 
and  struggling  toward  independence  without 
greed  enough  ever  to  accomplish  it,  he  was 
eminently  made  to  obey  instructions  and  to 
keep  faith.  His  neighbor  Cox  was  more 
subtle  and  influential,  and,  although  he  was 
rough  and  domineering,  seldom  failed  to 
bring  any  man  to  his  views  by  magnetism  or 
persuasion.  Jones's  judgment  often  differed 
from  Cox's,  and  in  the  end  his  courage  was 
altogether  superior;  but  still,  from  early  habits, 
the  humble  farmer  and  fisherman  always 
yielded  at  last  to  what  Cox  insisted  upon. 

Mr.  Jones  was  not  alone  in  his  operations 
during  the  war,  but  he  was  the  only  trusted 
man  in  Maryland  with  whom  the  Confederate 
Government  had  an  official  relation.  His  very 
humility  was  his  protection.  He  impressed  the 
Federal  officers  and  Union  men  generally  as 
a  man  of  rather  slow  wits,  of  an  indolent  mind, 
with  but  little  intelligence  or  interest  in  what 
was  going  on  around  him.  Yet  a  cunning  which 
had  no  expression  but  acts,  a  devotion  which 
never  asked  to  be  appreciated,  and  persever- 
ance to  this  day  remarkable,  were  his.  Some 
of  his  neighbors  were  running  boats  across 
the  river  for  hire  or  gain.  In  the  little  village 
of  Port  Tobacco  most  of  the  mechanics  and 
loungers  had  become  demoralized  by  this 
traffic,  and  among  these  was  George  A.  Atze- 
rodt,  a  coach-maker,  of  but  little  moral  or 
physical  stamina,  who  was  afterward  hanged 
among  the  conspirators.  This  man  left  his 
work  after  the  war  began,  and  took  to  the 
business  of  pulling  a  boat  down  Port  Tobacco 
River  to  Virginia.  Among  the  persons  who 
occasionally  crossed  the  river  was  John  H. 
Surratt,  a  country  boy  of  respectable  aspira- 
tions until  some  time  after  the  breaking  out  of 
the  war,  when  he,  too,  was  caught  in  the 
meshes  of  the  contraband  trade,  and,  pos- 
sessing but  little  mind  and  too  much  van- 
ity, was  carried  away  with  his  importance. 
Jones  went  to  Richmond  once  or  twice  to- 
ward the  close  of  the  war,  and  on  one  of 
these  occasions  Surratt  and  a  woman  under 
his  care  crossed  in  the  same  boat.  Some- 
times these  boats  would  go  so  heavily  laden 
that  a  gale  on  the  broad  river  would  almost 
capsize  them.  One  portion  of  Jones's  busi- 
ness was  to  put  the  New  York  and  North- 
ern newspapers  every  day  into  Richmond. 
These  newspapers  would  go  to  Bryantown 
post-office,  or  sometimes  to  Charlotte  Hall 
post-office,  and  would  generally  reach  the  Po- 
tomac near  dusk,  and  being  conveyed  all  night 
by  the  Confederate  mail-carriers,  by  way  of 
Port  Royal,  would  be  in  the  hands  of  the 
rebel  Cabinet  next  morning,  twenty-four  hours 
only  after  the  people  in  New  York  were  read- 
ing them;  and  Jones  says  that  there  was 


hardly  a  failure  one  day  in  the  year  to  take 
them  through. 

The  Federal  authorities  never  had  a  tithe 
of  the  thoroughness  of  suspicion  and  violation 
of  personal  liberty  which  the  Confederates  al- 
ways exercised.  Hence  the  doom  of  Abraham 
Lincoln  was  slowly  coming  onward  through 
these  little  country-side  beginnings,  starting 
without  origin  andending  in  appalling  calamity. 

About  the  third  year  of  the  war,  Jonesi 
understood  that  a  very  important  act  had 
been  agreed  upon,  namely,  to  seize  the  Pres- 
ident of  the  United  States  in  the  city  of 
Washington,  and  by  relays  and  forced  horses 
take  him  to  the  west  side  of  Port  Tobacco 
Creek,  about  four  miles  below  the  town  of 
that  name,  and  dispatch  him  across  the  Poto- 
mac a  prisoner  of  war.  I  possess  the  names 
of  the  two  persons  on  Port  Tobacco  Creek 
who,  with  their  sons,  were  prominent  in  this 
scheme ;  but  the  frankness  with  which  the  in- 
formation was  given  to  me  persuades  me  not 
to  print  them.  A  person  already  named,  in 
Washington,  was  in  the  conspiracy;  and  it 
was  given  out  that  "  the  big  actor,  Booth," 
was  also  "  in  it."  Jones  heard  of  this  about 
December,  1864.  It  was  not  designed  that 
he  should  take  any  part  in  the  scheme,  though 
he  regarded  it  as  a  proper  undertaking  in 
time  of  war.  From  the  time  this  scheme 
was  proposed  until  the  very  end  of  the  war, 
the  bateau  which  was  to  carry  Mr.  Lincoln 
off  was  kept  ready,  and  the  oars  and  men  were'j 
ever  near  at  hand,  to  dispatch  the  illustrious 
captive. 

That  winter  was  unusually  mild,  and  there- 
fore the  roads  were  particularly  bad  in  this 
region  of  clay  and  marsh,  and  did  not  harden 
with  the  frost  —  a  circumstance  which  per-, 
haps  spared  Mr.  Lincoln  the  terrors  of  such 
a  desperate  expedition.  Inquiries  were  made 
from  time  to  time  as  to  when  the  thing  was 
to  be  done,  and  it  was  generally  answered 
that  the  roads  were  too  heavy  to  give  the 
opportunity.  The  idea  Jones  has  of  this 
matter  is  that  Mr.  Lincoln  was  to  be  seized, 
not  on  his  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home,  but, 
near  the  Navy  Yard,  and  gagged  quietly, 
and  the  carriage  then  driven  across  the  Navy 
Yard  bridge  or  the  next  bridge  above,  while 
the  captors  were  to  point  to  the  President 
and  wave  their  hands  to  the  guards  on 
the  bridge,  saying,  "The  President  of  the 
United  States."  When  we  consider  that  he 
was  finally  killed  in  the  presence  of  a  vast 
audience,  and  that  his  captors  then  crossed 
the  same  bridge  without  opposition  and  with- 
out passes,  the  original  scheme  does  not  seem 
extraordinary.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  in 
this  original  scheme  the  late  Dr.  Samuel  A. 
Mudd  was  to  play  some  part.  Booth 


HOW   WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED   THE  POTOMAC. 


827 


made  his  acquaintance  during  that  fall  or 
winter  on  his  first  visit  to  the  country,  and 
some  of  Dr.  Mudd's  relatives  admit  that  he 
knew  Booth  well,  and  probably  was  in  the 
abduction  scheme.  The  calculation  of  the 
conspirators  was  that  the  pursuers  would 
have  no  opportunity  to  change  horses  on  the 
way,  while  the  captors  would  have  fresh 
horses  every  few  miles  and  drive  them  to  the 
top  of  their  speed,  and  all  they  required  was 
to  get  to  the  Potomac  River,  seven  hours 
distant,  a  very  little  in  advance.  The  distance 
was  from  thirty-six  to  thirty -eight  miles,  and 
the  river  could  be  passed  in  half  an  hour  or  lit- 
tle more  with  the  boat  all  ready.  Jones  thinks 
that  this  scheme  never  was  given  up,  until 
suddenly  information  came  that  Booth  had 
killed  the  President  instead  of  capturing  him, 
and  was  supposed  to  be  in  that  region  of 
country.  Jones  had  never  seen  Booth,  and 
had  scarcely  any  knowledge  of  him. 

When  Jones  went  to  Richmond,  just  before 
the  assassination,  it  was  to  collect  his  stipend, 
which  he  had  confidingly  allowed  to  accumu- 
late until  it  amounted  to  almost  twenty-three 
hundred  dollars,  presumably  for  three  years' 
work.  He  reached  Richmond  Friday,  and 
called  on  Charles  Caywood,  the  same  who 
kept  the  signal  camp  in  the  swampy  woods 
back  of  Grimes's  house.  The  chief  signal  offi- 
cer said  he  would  pay  five  hundred  dollars  on 
Saturday,  but  if  Jones  would  wait  till  Tues- 
day the  whole  amount  would  be  paid  him. 
Jones  waited.  Sunday  night  Petersburg  fell, 
and  on  Monday  Richmond  was  evacuated,  so 
the  Confederacy  expired  without  paying  him 
a  cent.  Moreover,  he  had  invested  three  thou- 
sand dollars  in  Confederate  bonds  earlier  in  the 
war,  paying  for  them  sixty-five  cents  on  the 
dollar,  and  keeping  them  till  they  were  mere 
brown  paper  in  his  hands. 

Jones  heard  of  the  murder  of  Lincoln  on 
Saturday  afternoon,  April  i$th,  at  or  near  his 
own  farm  of  Huckleberry.  Two  Federal  offi- 
cers or  cavalrymen  came  by  on  horseback, 
and  one  of  them  said  to  Jones,  "  Is  that 
your  boat  a  piece  above  here  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said 
Jones.  "  Then  you  had  better  take  good  care 
i  of  it,  because  there  are  dangerous  people 
around  here  who  might  take  it  to  cross  the 
(river."  "That  is  just  what  I  am  thinking 
i  about,"  said  Jones,  "  and  I  have  had  it  pulled 
I  up  to  let  my  black  man  go  fishing  for  the 
shad  which  are  now  running."  The  two 
horsemen  conferred  together  a  minute  or 
two,  and  one  of  them  said  : 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  from  Washing- 
ton ?  "  "  No."  "  Our  President  has  been 
I  murdered."  "Indeed!"  said  Jones,  with  a 
melancholy  face,  as  if  he  had  no  friend  left 
:in  the  world.  "Yes,"  said  the  horseman; 


"  President  Lincoln  was  killed  last  night,  and 
we  are  looking  out  for  the  men,  who,  we  think, 
escaped  this  way." 

On  Sunday  morning,  the  i6th  of  April, 
about  nine  o'clock,  a  young  white  man  came 
from  Samuel  Cox's  to  Jones's  second  farm, 
called  Huckleberry,  which  has  been  already 
described  as  about  two  and  a  half  miles  back 
from  the  old  river  residence,  which  Jones 
had  been  forced  to  give  up  when  it  appeared 
probable  that  the  Confederate  cause  was  lost. 
The  Huckleberry  farm  consisted  of  about 
five  hundred  acres,  and  had  on  it  a  one- 
story  and  garret  house,  with  a  low-pitched 
roof,  end  chimneys,  and  door  in  the  middle. 
There  was  a  stable  north  of  the  house,  and  a 
barn  south  of  it,  and  it  was  only  three-quar- 
ters of  a  mile  from  the  house  to  the  river, 
which  here  runs  to  the  north  to  make  the 
indentation  called  Port  Tobacco  Creek  or 
river.  Although  Jones,  therefore,  had  moved 
some  distance  from  his  former  house,  he  was 
yet  very  near  tide-water.  The  new  farm  was 
much  retired,  was  not  on  the  public  road,  and 
consisted  of  clearings  amidst  rain-washed 
hills  with  deep  gullies,  almost  impenetrable 
short  pines,  and  some  swamp  and  forest  tim- 
ber. Henry  Woodland,  the  black  servant, 
who  was  then  about  twenty-seven  years  old, 
was  still  Jones's  chief  assistant,  and  was  kept 
alternately  farming  and  fishing. 

The  young  man  who  came  from  Cox's  was 
told,  if  stopped  on  the  road,  to  say  that  he  was 
going  to  Jones's  to  ask  if  he  could  let  Cox  have 
some  seed  corn,  which  in  that  climate  is  planted 
early  in  April.  He  told  Jones  that  Colonel  Cox 
wished  him  to  come  immediately  to  his  house, 
about  three  miles  to  the  north.  The  young  man 
mysteriously  intimated  that  there  were  very 
remarkable  visitors  at  Cox's  the  night  before. 
Accustomed  to  obey  the  summons  of  his  old 
friend,  Jones  mounted  his  horse  and  went  to 
Cox's.  The  prosperous  foster-brother  lived 
in  a  large  two-story  house,  with  handsome 
piazzas  front  and  rear,  and  a  tall,  windowless 
roof  with  double  chimneys  at  both  ends; 
and  to  the  right  of  the  house,  which  faced 
west,  was  a  long  one-story  extension,  used  by 
Cox  for  his  bedroom.  The  house  is  on  a 
slight  elevation,  and  has  both  an  outer  and 
inner  yard,  to  both  of  which  are  gates.  With 
its  trellis-work  and  vines,  fruit  and  shade 
trees,  green  shutters  and  dark  red  roofs, 
Cox's  property,  called  Rich  Hill,  made  an 
agreeable  contrast  to  the  somber  short  pines 
which,  at  no  great  distance,  seemed  to  cover 
the  plain  almost  as  thickly  as  wheat  straws  in 
the  grain  field. 

Taking  Jones  aside,  Cox  related  that  on 
the  previous  night  the  assassin  of  President 
Lincoln  had  come  to  his  house  in  company 


828 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


with  another  person,  guided  by  a  negro,  and 
had  asked  for  assistance  to  cross  the  Potomac 
River;  "  and,"  said  Cox  to  Jones,  "you  will 
have  to  get  him  across."  Cox  indicated  where 
the  fugitives  were  concealed,  perhaps  one 
mile  distant,  a  few  rods  west  of  the  present 
railroad  track,  and  just  south  of  Cox's  sta- 
tion. Jones  was  to  give  a  signal  by  whis- 
tling in  a  certain  way  as  he  approached  the 
place,  else  he  might  be  fired  upon  and  killed. 
Nobody,  it  is  believed,  ever  saw  Booth  and 
Herold  after  this  time  in  Maryland,  besides 
Cox's  overseer,  Franklin  Roby,  and  Jones. 
Cox's  family  protest  that  the  fugitives  never 
entered  the  house  at  all;  his  adopted  son,  still 
living,  says  Booth  did  not  come  into  the  house. 
Herold,  who  was  with  Booth,  related  to  his 
counsel,  as  the  latter  thinks,  that  after  they 
left  Mudd's  house  they  never  were  in  any 
house  whatever  in  Maryland.  The  negro 
who  was  employed  to  guide  Booth  from  Dr. 
Mudd's  to  Cox's  testified  that  he  saw  them 
enter  the  house ;  but  as  the  Government  did 
not  use  him  on  the  trial,  it  is  probable  that  he 
related  his  belief  rather  than  what  he  saw 

But  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  fact  that  when 
Dr.  Mudd  found  Booth  on  his  hands  on 
Saturday,  with  a  broken  ankle,  and  the  sol- 
diery already  pouring  into  Bryantown,  he  and 
Booth  and  Herold  became  equally  frightened, 
and  in  the  early  evening  the  two  latter  started 
by  a  road  to  the  east  for  Cox's  house,  turning 
Bryantown  and  leaving  it  to  the  north,  and 
arriving  about  or  before  midnight  at  Cox's. 
There  the  negro  was  sent  back.  Herold  ad- 
vanced to  the  porch  and  communicated  with 
Cox,  and  Booth  sat  on  his  horse  off  toward 
the  outer  gate.  The  two  men  cursed*  Cox 
after  they  backed  out  to  where  the  negro  was, 
— he  remaining  at  the  outer  gate, —  and  said 
that  Cox  was  no  gentleman  and  no  host. 
These  words  were  probably  intended  to  mis- 
lead the  negro  when  they  sent  him  back  to 
Dr.  Mudd's.  This  negro  was  arrested,  as 
was  a  colored  woman  in  Cox's  family,  and, 
with  the  same  remarkable  fidelity  I  have  men- 
tioned, the  woman  confronted  the  i\egro  man 
and  swore  that  what  he  said  was  untrue. 

Nevertheless,  Booth  and  Herold  were  sent 
into  the  short  pines,  and  there  Jones  found 
them.  He  says  that  as  he  was  advancing  into 
the  pines  he  came  upon  a  bay  mare,  with 
black  legs,  mane,  and  tail,  and  a  white  star 
on  the  forehead;  she  was  saddled,  and  roving 
around  in  a  little  cleared  place  as  if  trying  to 
nibble  something  to  eat.  Jones  took  the  mare 
and  tied  her  to  a  tree  or  stump.  He  then 
advanced  and  gave  what  he  calls  the  counter- 
sign, or  whistle,  which  he  does  not  precisely 
remember  now,  though  he  thinks  it  was  two 
whistles  in  a  peculiar  way,  and  a  whistle  after 


an  interval.  The  first  person  he  saw  was 
Herold,  fully  armed,  and  with  a  carbine  in  his 
hand,  coming  out  to  see  who  it  was.  Jones 
explained  that  he  had  been  sent  to  see  them, 
and  was  then  taken  to  Booth,  who  was  but  a 
few  rods  farther  along. 

Booth  was  lying  on  the  ground,  wrapped 
up  in  blankets,  with  his  foot  supported  and 
bandaged,  and  a  crutch  beside  him.  His 
rumpled  dress  looked  respectable  for  that 
country,  and  Jones  says  it  was  of  black 
cloth.  His  face  was  pale  at  all  times,  and 
never  ceased  to  be  so  during  the  several 
days  that  Jones  saw  him.  He  was  in  great 
pain  from  his  broken  ankle,  which  had  suffered 
a  fracture  of  one  of  the  two  bones  in  the  leg, 
down  close  to  the  foot.  It  would  not  have 
given  him  any  very  great  pain  but  for  the  ex- 
ertion of  his  escape,  which  irritated  it  by 
scraping  the  ends  of  the  broken  bone  perhaps 
in  the  flesh ;  it  was  now  highly  irritated,  and 
whichever  way  the  man  moved  he  expressed 
by  a  twitch  or  a  groan  the  pain  he  felt 
Jones  says  that  this  pain  was  more  or  less 
continuous,  and  was  greatly  aggravated  by 
the  peril  of  Booth's  situation — unable  to  cross 
the  river  without  assistance,  and  unable  to 
walk  any  distance  whatever.*  Jones  believes  I 
that  Booth  did  not  rise  from  the  ground  atil 
any  time  until  he  was  finally  put  on  Jones's  I 
horse  to  be  taken  to  the  water-side  some  days 
afterward.  - 

Booth's  first  solicitude  seemed  to  be  to  learn  | 
what  mankind  thought  of  the  crime.    That 
question  he  put  almost  immediately  to  Jones, 
and  continued  to  ask  what  different  classes  of 
people  thought  about  it.   Jones  told  him  that  | 
it  was  gratifying  news  to  most  of  the  men  of  j 
Southern  sympathies.    He  frankly  says  that 
he  himself  at  first  regarded  it  as  good  news; 
but  somewhat  later,  when  he  saw  the  injurious 
consequences  of  the  crime  to  the  South,  he 
changed  his  mind.   Booth  desired  newspapers  \ 
if  they  could  be  had,  which  would  convey  \ 
to  him  an  idea  of  public  feeling.  Jones  soon  ; 
obtained  newspapers  for  him,  and  continued  to  ' 
send  them  in ;  and  Booth  lay  there,  where  \ 
the  pines  were  so  thick  that  one  could  not  I 
see  more  than  thirty  or  forty  feet  into  them,  I 
reading  what  the  world  had  to  say  about  his 
case.    He  seemed  never  tired  of  information  > 
on  this  one  subject,  and  the  only  thing  besides  ' 
he  was  solicitous  about  was  to  get  across  the ' 
river  into  Virginia. 

Jones  says   Booth   admitted   that  he   was*] 
the  man  who  killed  Lincoln,  and  expressed 
no  regret  for  the  act,  knowing  all  the  cor- 
sequences  it  involved.    He  harped  again  anijl 
again  upon  the  necessity  of  his  crossing  the 
river.    He  said  if  he  could  only  get  to  Vir- 
ginia   he    could    have    medical   attendance.'. 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


829 


Jones  told  him  frankly  that  he  would  re- 
ceive no  medical  attendance  in  Maryland. 
Said  he:  "The  country  is  full  of  soldiers, 
and  all  that  I  can  do  for  you  is  to  get  you  off, 
if  I  can,  for  Cox's  protection  and  my  own, 
and  for  your  own  safety.  That  I  will  do  for 
you,  if  there  is  any  way  in  the  world  to  do  it." 

When  I  received  this  account  from  Mr. 
Jones,  I  asked  him  question  after  question  to 
see  if  I  could  extract  any  information  as  to 
what  Booth  inquired  about  while  in  that  wil- 
derness. I  asked  if  he  spoke  of  his  mother, 
of  where  he  was  going  when  he  reached  Vir- 
ginia, of  whether  he  meant  to  act  on  the  stage 
again ;  whether  he  blamed  himself  for  jump- 
ing from  the  theater  box;  whether  he  ex- 
pressed any  apprehensions  for  Mrs.  Surratt 
or  his  friends  in  Washington.  To  these  and 
to  many  other  questions  Jones  uniformly 
replied :  "  No,  he  did  not  speak  about  any 
of  those  things.  He  wanted  food,  and  to 
cross  the  river,  and  to  know  what  was  said 
about  the  deed."  Booth,  he  thinks,  wore  a 
slouched  hat.  At  first  meeting  Booth  in  the 
pines,  he  proved  himself  to  be  the  assassin 
by  showing  upon  his  wrist,  in  India  ink,  the 
initials  J.  W.  B.  He  showed  the  same  to 
Captain  Jett  in  Virginia.  Jones  says  Booth 
was  a  determined  man,  not  boasting,  but 
one  who  would  have  sold  his  life  dear.  He 
said  he  would  not  be  taken  alive. 

Mr.  Jones  went  up  to  Port  Tobacco  in  a  day 
or  two  to  hear  about  the  murder,  and  heard  a 
detective  there  from  Alexandria  say  :  "  I  will 
give  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  guar- 
antee it  to  the  man  who  can  tell  where  Booth 
is."  When  we  consider  that  the  end  of  the 
war  had  come,  and  all  the  Confederate  hopes 
were  blasted  and  every  man's  slaves  set  free, 
we  may  reflect  upon  the  fidelity  of  this  poor 
man,  whose  land  was  not  his  own,  and  with 
inevitable  poverty  before  him  perhaps  for  the 
rest  of  his  days,  when  the  next  morning  he 
was  told  that  to  him  alone  would  be  intrusted 
that  man  for  whom  the  Government  had 
offered  a  fortune,  and  was  increasing  the 
reward.  Mr.  Jones  says  it  never  occurred  to 
him  for  one  moment  that  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  have  that  money.  On  the  contrary, 
his  sympathies  were  enlisted  for  the  pale- 
faced  young  man,  so  ardent  to  get  to  Vir- 
ginia and  have  the  comforts  of  a  doctor. 

Said  he  to  Booth:  "You  must  remain 
right  here,  however  long,  and  wait  till  I  can 
see  some  way  to  get  you  out ;  and  I  do  not 
believe  I  can  get  you  away  from  here  until 
this  hue  and  cry  is  somewhat  over.  Mean- 
time I  will  see  that  you  are  fed."  He  then 
continued  to  visit  them  daily,  generally  about 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  always 
went  alone,  taking  with  him  such  food 


as  the  country  had — ham,  whisky,  bread, 
fish,  and  coffee.  Part  of  the  way  Jones  had 
to  go  by  the  public  road,  but  he  generally 
worked  into  the  pines  as  quickly  as  possible. 
His  intercourse  at  each  visit  with  the  fugi- 
tives was  short,  because  he  was  in  great  per- 
sonal danger  himself,  was  -not  inquisitive, 
and  was  wholly  intent  on  keeping  his  faith 
with  his  old  friend  and  the  new  ones.  He 
says  that  Herold  had  nothing  to  say  of 
the  least  importance,  and  was  nothing  but  a 
pilot  for  Booth.  Not  improbably  Cox  sent  his 
own  overseer  into  the  pines  sometimes  to  see 
these  men  or  to  give  them  something,  but 
he  took  no  active  part  in  their  escape.  The 
blankets  they  possessed  came  either  from  Cox's 
or  from  Dr.  Mudd's. 

Booth,  as  has  been  said,  rode  a  small  bay 
mare  from  the  rear  of  Ford's  Theater  to  Cox's 
pines.  Herold  rode  a  horse  of  another  color. 
These  horses  were  hired  at  different  livery 
stables  in  Washington.  Jones  is  not  con- 
versant with  all  the  facts  about  the  shooting 
of  these  horses,  but  the  testimony  of  Cox 
before  he  died  was  nearly  as  follows :  After 
Booth  entered  the  pines  he  distinctly  heard, 
the  next  day  or  the  day  following,  a  band 
of  cavalry  going  along  the  road  at  no  great 
distance,  and  the  neighing  of  their  horses. 
He  said  to  Herold  :  "  If  we  can  hear  those 
horses,  they  can  certainly  hear  the  neighing 
of  ours,  which  are  uneasy  from  want  of  food 
and  stabling."  When  Jones  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing came  through  the  woods  and  found  one 
of  the  horses  loose,  he  told  Cox,  as  well  as 
Booth,  that  the  horses  ought  to  be  put  out  of 
the  way.  Cox  had  Herold  advised  to  take  the 
horses  down  into  Zekiah  Swamp,  and  shoot 
them  both  with  his  revolver,  which  he  did. 

The  weather  during  those  days  and  nights 
was  of  a  foggy,  misty  character — not  cold,  but 
uncomfortable,  although  there  was  no  rain. 
At  regular  intervals  the  farmer  got  on  his  horse 
and  went  through  the  pines  the  two  or  three 
miles  to  the  spot  where  still  lay  the  yearning 
man  with  the  great  crime  behind  him  and  the 
great  wish  to  see  Virginia.  Booth  had  a  sym- 
pathetic nature,  and  seldom  failed  to  make  a 
good  impression ;  and  that  he  made  this 
impression  on  Jones  will  presently  appear. 
No  incident  broke  the  monotony  of  these 
visits  for  days.  Jones  sent  his  faithful  negro 
out  with  the  boat  to  fish  with  gill-nets,  so  that 
it  should  not  be  broken  up  in  the  precautions 
used  by  the  Federals  to  prevent  Booth's  es- 
cape. Jones  was  now  reduced  to  one  poor 
boat,  which  had  cost  him  eighteen  dollars  in 
Baltimore.  He  had  lost  several  boats  in  the 
war,  costing  him  from  eighty  to  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  dollars  apiece.  This 
little  gray  or  lead- colored  skiff  was  the  only 


830 


HOW   WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED    THE  POTOMAC. 


means  by  which  the  fugitives  could  get  across 
the  river.  Every  evening  the  man  returned  it 
to  the  mouth  of  the  little  gut  or  marsh  called 
Dent's  Meadow,  in  front  of  the  Huckleberry 
farm.  This  is  not  two  miles  north  of  Pope's 
Creek,  and  from  that  spot  Booth  and  Herold 
finally  escaped. 

Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday  and  Thurs- 
day passed  by,  and  more  soldiers  came  in  and 
began  to  ride  hither  and  thither,  and  to  ex- 
amine the  marshes;  but  they  did  not  pene- 
trate the  pines  at  all,  which  at  no  time  were 
visited.  The  houses  were  all  examined, 
and  old  St.  Thomas's  brick  buildings,  of  a 
venerable  and  imposing  appearance,  above 
Chapel  Point,  were  ransacked.  The  story 
went  abroad  that  there  were  vaults  under  the 
priests'  house,  leading  down  to  the  river,  and 
finally  the  soldiers  tore  the  farm  and  terraces 
all  to  pieces.  Yet  for  six  nights  and  days 
Booth  and  Herold  kept  in  the  woods,  and  on 
Friday  Jones  slipped  over  to  a  little  settle- 
ment called  Allen's  Fresh,  two  or  three  miles 
from  his  farm,  to  see  if  he  could  hear  any- 
thing. A  large  body  of  cavalry  were  in  the 
little  town,  guided  by  a  Marylander,  and 
while  Jones  in  his  indifferent  way  was  loiter- 
ing about,  he  heard  the  officer  say :  "  We 
have  just  got  news  that  those  fellows  have 
been  seen  down  in  St.  Mary's  County."  The 
cavalry  were  ordered  to  mount  and  set  out. 
At  that  time  it  was  along  toward  the  gray 
of  the  night,  and  instantly  Jones  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  from  Allen's  Fresh  by  the  road 
and  through  the  woods  to  where  Booth  and 
Herold  were. 

Said  he,  with  decision :  "  Now,  friends,  this 
is  your  only  chance.  The  night  is  pitch  dark 
and  my  boat  is  close  by.  I  will  get  you  some 
supper  at  my  house,  and  send  you  off  if  I  can." 
With  considerable  difficulty,  and  with  sighs 
and  pain,  Booth  was  lifted  on  to  Jones's  horse, 
and  Herold  was  put  at  the  bridle.  "  Now," 
whispered  Jones,  "  as  we  cannot  see  twenty 
yards  before  us,  I  will  go  ahead.  We  must 
not  speak.  When  I  get  to  a  point  where  every- 
thing is  clear  from  me  to  you,  I  will  whistle 
so,"  giving  the  whistle.  In  that  way  he  went 
forward  through  the  blackness,  repeating  the 
signal  now  and  then;  and  although  the  wooded 
paths  are  generally  tortuous  and  obstructed, 
nothing  happened.  For  a  short  distance  they 
were  on  the  public  road ;  they  finally  turned 
into  the  Huckleberry  farm,  and  about  fifty 
yards  from  the  house  the  assassin  and  his  pilot 
stopped  under  two  pear-trees. 

At  this  moment  a  very  pathetic  incident 
took  place.  Jones  whispered  to  Booth :  "  Now 
I  will  go  in  and  get  something  for  you  to  eat, 
and  you  eat  it  here  while  I  get  something  for 
myself."  Booth,  with  a  sudden  longing,  ex- 


claimed :  "  Oh,  can't  I  go  in  the  house  just 
a  moment  and  get  a  little  of  your  warm  cof- 
fee ?  "  Jones  says  that  he  felt  the  tears  come 
to  his  eyes  when  he  replied  :  "  Oh,  my  friend, 
it  would  not  be  safe.  This  is  your  last  chance 
to  get  away.  I  have  negroes  at  the  house ; 
and  if  they  see  you,  you  are  lost  and  so  am  I." 
But  Jones  says,  as  he  went  in,  he  felt  his  throat 
choked.  To  this  day  he  remembers  that  wist- 
ful request  of  the  assassin  to  be  allowed  to 
enter  a  warm  habitation  once  more  before 
embarking  on  the  wide  and  unknown  river. 

The  negro,  Henry  Woodland,  was  in  the 
kitchen  stolidly  taking  his  meal,  and  neither 
looking  nor  asking  any  questions,  though  he 
must  have  suspected  from  the  occurrences 
of  a  few  days  past  that  something  was  in  the 
wind.  "  Henry,"  said  Jones,  "  did  you  bring 
the  boat  back  to  Dent's  meadow  where  I  told 
you  ?  "  "  Yes,  master."  "  How  many  shad 
did  you  catch,  Henry  ?  "  "I  caught  about 
seventy,  master."  "  And  you  brought  them  all 
here  to  the  house,  Henry  ?  "  "  Yes,  master." 

Jones  then  took  his  supper  without  haste, 
and  rejoined  the  two  men.  It  was  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  to  the  water-side,  and,  al- 
though it  was  very  dark,  they  kept  on  picking 
their  way  down  through  the  ravine,  where  a 
little,  almost  dry  stream  ran  off  to  the  marshes. 
Not  far  from  the  water-side  was  a  strong  fence, 
which  they  were  unable  to  take  down. 

Booth  was  now  lifted  from  the  horse  by 
Herold  and  Jones,  and  they  got  under  his 
arms,  he  with  the  crutch  at  hand,  and  so  they 
nearly  carried  him  to  the  water.  The  boat 
could  be  got  by  a  little  wading,  and  Jones 
brought  it  in.  Booth  took  his  place  in  the 
stern.  He  was  heavily  armed,  and  Jones 
says  had  not  only  his  carbine,  as  had  Herold, 
but  revolvers  and  a  knife.  Herold  took  the  oars, 
which  had  been  left  in  the  boat,  and  sat  amid- 
ships. Jones  then  lighted  a  piece  of  candle 
which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  took  a 
compass  which  Booth  had  brought  out  from 
Washington,  and  by  the  aid  of  the  candle  he 
showed  Booth  the  true  direction  to  steer. 
Said  he :  "  Keep  the  course  I  lay  down  for 
you,  and  it  will  bring  you  right  into  Macho- 
doc  Creek.  Row  up  the  creek  to  the  first 
house,  where  you  will  find  Mrs.  Quesen- 
berry,  and  I  think  she  will  take  care  of  you 
if  you  use  my  name." 

They  were  together  at  the  water-side  an 
unknown  time,  from  fifteen  minutes  to  half 
an  hour.  At  last  Booth,  with  his  voice  full 
of  emotion,  said  to  Jones :  "  God  bless  you. 
my  dear  friend,  for  all  you  have  done  for 
me."  The  last  words  Jones  thinks  Booth 
said  were :  "  Good-bye,  old  fellow  !  "  There 
was  a  moment's  sound  of  oars  on  the  water 
and  the  fugitives  were  gone. 


HOW  WILKES  BOOTH  CROSSED   THE  POTOMAC. 


83' 


For  the  danger  and  the  labor  of  those  six 
days  Jones  received  from  Booth  seventeen 
dollars  in  greenbacks,  or  a  little  less  than  the 
cost  of  the  boat  which  Jones  had  to  surrender 
forever.  Booth  had  about  three  hundred  dol- 
lars in  his  possession,  and  he  told  Jones  that 
he  was  poor,  and  intimated  that  he  would  give 
him  a  check  or  draft  on  some  one,  or  on 
some  bank.  "  No,"  said  Jones;  "  I  don't  want 
your  money.  I  want  to  get  you  away  for  your 
own  safety  and  for  ours." 

It  was  not  until  months  after  this  that 
Jones  ascertained  that  the  fugitives  did  not 
succeed  in  crossing  the  river  that  Friday 
night.  They  struck  the  flood  tide  in  a  few 
minutes,  were  inexperienced  in  navigating, 
land  when  they  touched  the  shore  sometime 
i  that  night  and  discovered  a  house  near  by,  to 
which  Herold  made  his  way,  the  latter  saw 
something  familiar  about  the  place,  he  know- 
ing all  that  country  well.  It  was  the  residence 
lof  Colonel  John  J.  Hughes,  near  Nanjemoy 
i  Stores,  in  Maryland,  directly  west  of  Pope's 
i  Creek,  about  eight  or  nine  miles.  The  Poto- 
Imac  is  here  so  wide,  and  has  so  many  broad 
inlets,  that  in  the  darkness  the  Virginia  shore 
and  the  Maryland  shore  seem  the  same.  Her- 
old went  to  the  house  and  asked  for  food, 
and  said  that  Booth  was  in  the  marsh  near 
by,  where  they  had  pulled  up  the  boat  out  of 
observation.  The  good  man  of  the  house  was 
much  disturbed,  but  gave  Herold  food,  and 
it  is  supposed  that  after  lying  concealed  that 
day  they  pushed  off  again  in  the  evening,  and 
jthis  time  successfully  made  the  passage  of  the 
iriver,  though  they  had  to  come  back  twelve 
to  fourteen  miles.  The  keeper  of  the  house  at 
iNanjemoy  became  frightened  after  they  left, 
and  rode  into  Port  Tobacco  and  told  his  law- 
lyer  of  the  circumstance,  who  took  him  at 
once  before  a  Federal  officer. 

Some  time  on  Sunday  morning,  the  ninth 
morning  after  the  assassination,  the  fugitives 
(got  to  Machodoc  Creek,  at  Mrs.  Quesen- 
berry's,  with  whom  they  left  the  boat.  It  is 
mot  sure  that  they  entered  her  house,  but  they 
went  to  the  house  of  a  man  named  Bryan 
ion  the  next  farm,  and  probably  revealed 
themselves.  Bryan  next  day  took  them  to 
the  summer-house  of  Dr.  Richard  Stewart, 
which  is  two  or  three  miles  back  in  the 
country.  This  Dr.  Stewart  was  the  richest 
man  in  King  George  County,  Virginia,  and 
had  a  very  large  brick  house  at  Mathias 
Point  on  the  river;  but  on  account  of  the 
malaria  and  heat  he  went  in  summer  to  a 
large  barn-like  mansion  back  in  the  wood- 
lands, a  queer,  strange  house  two  stories  high, 
with  a  broad  passage.  He  was  entertaining 
some  friends  just  returned  from  the  Confed- 
erate service,  and  was  much  annoyed  to  find 


that  on  his  place  were  the  assassins  of  Pres- 
ident Lincoln,  after  the  war  was  all  over.  The 
men  were  not  invited  into  the  house,  but  were 
sent  to  an  out-building  of  some  kind,  either 
the  negro  quarters  or  the  barn;  and  Booth 
was  so  much  chagrined  at  this  welcome  to 
Virginia  that  he  took  the  diary  which  was 
found  on  his  dead  body  and  wrote  a  letter  in 
lead  p'encil  to  Dr.  Stewart,  sorrowful  rather 
than  angry,  saying  that  he  would  not  take 
hospitality  extended  in  that  way  without  pay- 
ing for  it,  and  sending  three  dollars. 

Booth  procured  a  conveyance,  or  one  was 
procured  for  him,  from  Dr.  Stewart's  to 
Port  Conway :  it  was  driven  by  a  negro 
named  Lucas.  He  probably  spent  Sunday 
in  Bryan's  house,  and  got  to  Dr.  Stewart's 
house,  it  is  said,  on  Monday,  where  he  asked 
for  breakfast,  and  the  same  day  reached  the 
Rappahannock  River  and  went  across  with 
Captain  Jett.  This  crossing  was  made  on 
Monday,  the  twenty-fourth  of  April.  That  af- 
ternoon he  was  lodged  at  Garrett's  farm  three 
miles  back.  He  spent  the  next  day  at  this 
house  and  slept  in  the  barn.  Being  informed 
that  a  large  body  of  Federal  cavalry  had  gone 
up  the  road  this  Tuesday,  he  became  much 
distressed.  On  Wednesday  morning,  soon 
after  midnight,  the  cavalry  returned,  guided 
by  Captain  Jett.  The  barn  was  set  afire  and 
Booth  shot  soon  after  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  He  died  a  little  after  sunrise  on 
Wednesday. 

I  may  recapitulate  Booth's  diary  during 
those  days  as  Jones  has  indicated  it.  At 
ten  o'clock  Friday  night,  April  i4th,  Booth 
shot  the  President.  A  little  after  midnight  he 
was  at  Surratt's  tavern,  where  he  received  his 
jcarbine  and  whisky.  (I  forgot  to  say  that, 
among  the  articles  of  comfort  given  to  Booth 
by  Jones  when  he  went  to  the  boat,  was  a 
bottle  of  whisky.)  In  gray  dawn  of  Saturday 
morning  Booth  was  at  Dr.  Mudd's,  where 
he  had  his  leg  set,  and  a  laboring  white  man 
there  whittled  him  a  crutch.  On  Saturday 
night,  near  midnight,  he  was  at  Cox's  house, 
and  some  time  between  that  and  morning  was 
lodged  in  the  pines,  where  he  remained  Sun- 
day, Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thurs- 
day and  Friday;  and  Friday  night,  between 
eight  and  nine  o'clock,  he  started  on  the  boat, 
spent  Saturday  in  Nanjemoy  Creek,  and  ar- 
rived some  time  Saturday  night  or  before  light 
on  Sunday  at  Mrs.  Quesenberry's.  It  is  un- 
derstood that  on  the  Virginia  side  he  was 
welcomed  by  two  men  named  Harbin  and 
Joseph  Badden,  the  latter  of  whom  is  dead. 
The  boat  in  which  Booth  crossed  the  river 
he  gave  Mrs.  Quesenberry,  who  was  arrested. 
The  boat  was  put  on  a  war  vessel  and  prob- 
ably carried  to  Washington. 


I 


832 


EVENING. 


A  few  days  after  Booth  crossed  the  river 
and  had  been  killed,  suspicion  turned  upon 
both  Jones  and  Cox.  The  negro  who  had 
taken  the  fugitives  to  Cox's  gate  gave  infor- 


Wells :  "  He  were  a  most  bloodthirsty  man, 
and  tried  to  scare  out  of  me  just  what  I'm 
tellin'  of  you  now."  In  eight  days  Jones  was 
sent  to  the  old  Carroll  prison,  Washington. 


mation.    Negroes  near  Jones's  farm  said  he    There  he  contrived  to  communicate  with  Cox, 


had  recently  concealed  men,  and  showed  the 
officers  a  sort  of  litter  or  camp  about  two 
hundred  yards  from  his  house.  Here,  in  real- 
ity, quite  a  different  fugitive  had  hidden  some 
time  before.  Jones  looked  at  it  in  his  mourn- 
ful way,  and  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  was 
nothing  but  where  a  hog  had  been  penned 
up.  He  was  arrested  and  taken  to  Bryantown, 
and  kept  there  eight  days  in  the  second  story 


who  was  completely  broken  in  spirit,  and 
told  him  by  no  means  to  admit  anything ;  and 
when  Jones,  in  about  a  month,  saw  Swan, 
the  negro  witness,  going  past  his  window 
toward  the  Navy  Yard  bridge  with  a  satchel, 
Jones  said  to  Cox :  "  You  have  nothing  to 
fear."  The  Government  soon  released  these 
men,  who  indeed  had  taken  no  part  in  Mr. 
Lincoln's  death,  though  they  may  have  been 


of  the  tavern  where  Booth  had  stopped,  and    accomplices  after  the  fact.   Jones  was  kept 

in  sight  of  the  country  Catholic  church  where 

Booth   first  met  Dr.  Mudd  and  others,  six 

months  before.    Cox  was  there,  but  was  in 

two  or  three  days  sent  to  Washington.    The 

detectives  from  all  the  cities  of  the  East  sat 

in  the  street  under  Jones,  and  described  how 

he  was  to  be  hanged.    He  remarks  of  Colonel 


six  and  Cox  seven  weeks. 

Mr.  Jones  is  married  again,  and  now  has 
ten  children.  He  has  filled  some  places  un- 
der the  Maryland  and  Baltimore  political 
governments,  and  now  keeps  a  coal,  wood, 
and  feed  yard  in  North  Baltimore. 

George  Alfred  Townsend. 


EVENING. 


IT  is  that  pale,  delaying  hour 
When  Nature  closes  like  a  flower, 
And  in  the  spirit  hallowed  lies 
The  silence  of  the  earth  and  skies. 

The  world  has  thoughts  she  will  not  own 
When  shades  and  dreams  with  night  have  flown; 
Bright  overhead,  the  early  star 
Makes  golden  guesses  what  they  are. 


n. 


A  light  lies  here,  a  shadow  there, 
With  little  winds  at  play  between; 
As  though  the  elves  were  delving  where 
The  sunbeams  vanished  in  the  green. 

The  softest  clouds  are  flocking  white 
Among  faint  stars  with  centers  gold, — 
Slowly  from  daisied  fields  of  night, 
Heaven's  shepherd  fills  his  airy  fold. 


John   Vance  Cheney. 


~ 


NOTES   ON    THE    EXILE    OF   DANTE.* 


FROM  HIS  SENTENCE  OF  BANISHMENT  WHILE  IN  ROME,  1302,  TO  HIS  DEATH  IN  RAVENNA,  1321 

II. 


CONVENT  OF  SANTA  CROCE  DI  CORVO 1309. 

To  VISIT  this  ruined  convent,  which  is  situ- 
!  ated  on  the  promontory  that  bounds  the  Gulf 
of  Spezia  on  the  east,  the  best  way  is  to  get 
!  a  carriage  at  Sarzana  and  drive  to  a  point  on 
the  river  Magra  where  a  boat  can  be  taken 
to  its  mouth.     I  had  a  little  basket-carriage, 
I  rough  and  strong,  and  a  sturdy  pony  which 
suited    the  tangled  and  marshy  road.     The 
j  white  and  not  carefully  groomed  pony  was 
called  Nina,  and  she  was  perpetually  appealed 
jto  by  her  driver,  with  every  modulation  of 
which  the  Italian  voice  is  capable.    He  never 
jstruck  Nina,  but  he  spoke  to  her  often,  put- 
ting into  her  name  encouragement,  reproof, 
coaxing,  comforting,  stimulating,  warning, — 
jail    expressed   in    the    one    word    Nina.     It 
(really  appeared  as  if  Nina  paid  very  little  at- 
tention to  the  voice  of  her  mentor,  so  inces- 
santly heard,  but  jogged  on  at  the  pace  she 
jliked  best.     The  drive  must  have  been  three 
ior  four  miles  from  Sarzana  to  the  Magra,  and 
ithen,  following  the  wooded  bank  half  a  mile 
farther,  we  came  upon  a  boat  which  appeared 
to  be  waiting  for  us,  for  up  started  from  the 
hushes    two   boatmen,  and   much  noisy  talk 
ensued.     Meantime  I  settled  myself  in  the 
boat,  and  was  pleased  to  find  the  driver  was 
to  go  with  us,  leaving  a  boy  in  charge  of  the 
-arriage.     Two  miles  of  rowing  brought  us 
to  the  place  where  the  river  opens  into  the 
sea,  and  we  soon  were  on  the  little  path  lead- 
ing up,  under  ilex  trees,  to  the  convent  ter- 


race. Of  the  building  only  a  piece  of  the 
cloister  wall  remains.  The  terrace  is  a  vine- 
yard with  fig-trees,  children  playing,  and 
clothes  hung  to  dry ;  for,  built  into  the  ruin 
is  an  apartment  where  the  guardians  of  this 
interesting  place  have  shelter.  From  here 
came  the  letter,  known  to  Dantean  scholars 
as  the  Ilarian  letter.  In  1759  there  was  dis- 
covered and  published  a  part  of  a  letter  from 
Fra  Ilario,  who  was  prior  of  this  convent  in 
the  time  of  Dante.  It  was  addressed  to  the 
friend  of  the  poet,  Uguccione  da  Faggiuola. 
It  describes  the  visit  of  Dante  to  this  place 
in  1308,  and  relates  that  he  had  consigned 
the  completed  mansucript  of  the  "  Inferno  "  to 
the  prior,  with  direction  that  he  should  read 
it,  and,  after  making  such  notes  as  should 
occur  to  him,  that  he  should  send  it  to  Uguc- 
cione. The  translation  of  this  letter  is  here 
given  as  it  is  found  in  the  Illustrations  to 
Longfellow's  translation  of  the  "  Divina  Corn- 
media."  It  is  taken  from  Arrivabene,  "  Co- 
mento  Storico,"  p.  379  : 

"  Hither  he  came,  passing  through  the  diocese  of 
Luni,  moved  either  by  the  religion  of  the  place,  or  by 
some  other  feeling,  and  seeing  him, as  yet  unknown  to 
me  and  to  all  my  brethren,  I  questioned  him  of  his 
wishings  and  his  seekings  there.  He  moved  not,  but 
stood  silently  contemplating  the  columns  and  arches 
of  the  cloister,  and  again  I  asked  him  what  he  wished 
and  whom  he  sought.  Then,  slowly  turning  his  head, 
and  looking  at  the  friars  and  me,  he  answered: 
'  Peace  !  '  Thence,  kindling  more  and  more  the  wish 
to  know  him  and  who  he  might  be,  I  led  him  aside 
somewhat,  and  having  spoken  a  few  words  with  him 
I  knew  him  ;  for  although  I  had  never  seen  him  till 


*  THESE  notes  with  pen  and  pencil  were  made  to  commemorate  a  pilgrimage  of  the  author  to  the  cities, 
bonvents,  and  castles  that  gave  Dante  refuge  in  exile,  and  to  some  other  places  known  to  have  been  visited  by 
[he  poet,  or  that  are  mentioned  in  his  verses.  The  order  of  his  wanderings  has  been  kept  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble, but  the  notes  are  necessarily  incomplete. —  S.  F.  C. 

The  illustrations   are  nearly  all  from  Miss  Clarke's   drawings,  which  have  been  redrawn  tor  engraving 
py  Mr.  Harry  Fenn. — ED. 
VOL.  XXVI I.— 79. 


NOTES   ON  THE   EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


that  hour,  his  fame  had  long  since  reached  me ;  and 
when  he  saw  that  I  hung  upon  his  countenance,  and 
listened  to  him  with  strange  affection,  he  drew  from 
his  bosom  a  book,  did  gently  open  it,  and  offered  it  to 


This  letter  opens  a  glimpse  into  the  life  of 
Dante,  delightfully  picturesque  and  dramatic. 
We  have  here  the  scene  almost  as  it  existed 


1110      W  OV-/J-J-1     <*     I.*W*»J     v^iv*     ^-^***.-.y       V£~VH  ,  _  JJ  J         /*   /" 

me,  saying :  '  Sir  Friar,  here  is  a  portion  of  my  work,    more  than  five  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  : 
which  peradventure  thou  hast  not  seen.    This  remem-     the    little    terrace,    the    broken   wall    of    the 


CLOISTER     WALL,    CONVENT    OF     ST.    CROCE     DI     CORVO. 


brance  I  leave 
with  thee.  For- 
get me  not.' 
And  when  he 
had  given  me 
the  book,  I 
pressed  it  grate- 
fully to  my  bos- 
om, and  in  his 
presence  fixed 
my  eyes  upon 

it  with  great  love.  But  I,  beholding  there  the  vulgar 
tongue,  and  showing  by  the  fashion  of  my  counte- 
nance my  wonderment  thereat,  he  asked  the  reason 
of  the  same.  I  answered  that  I  marveled  that  he 
should  sing  in  that  language  ;  for  it  seemed  a  diffi- 
cult thing,  nay,  incredible  that  those  most  high  concep- 
tions could  be  expressed  in  common  language;  nor 
did  it  seem  to  me  right  that  such  and  so  worthy  a 
science  should  be  clothed  in  such  plebeian  garments. 
'You  think  aright,'  he  said,  'and  I  myself  have 
thought  so ;  and  when  at  first  the  seeds  of  these  mat- 
ters, perhaps  inspired  by  Heaven,  began  to  bud,  I 
chose  that  language  which  was  most  worthy  of  them ; 
and  not  alone  chose  it,  but  began  forthwith  to  poetize 
therein  after  this  wise  : 

"  Ultime  regna  canam  fluido  contermina  mundo, 
Spiritibus  quae  lata  patent ;  quse  praemia  solvunt 
Pro  meritis  cuicumque  suis." 

But  when  I  recalled  the  condition  of  the  present  age, 
and  saw  the  songs  of  the  illustrious  poets  esteemed  al- 
most as  naught,  and  knew  that  the  generous  men  for 
whom  in  better  days  these  things  were  written  had 
abandoned,  ah,  me  !  the  liberal  arts  into  vulgar  hands, 
I  threw  aside  the  delicate  lyre  which  had  armed  my 
flank,  and  attuned  another  more  befitting  the  ear  of 
moderns ;  for  the  food  that  is  hard,  we  hold  in  vain  to 
the  mouths  of  sucklings.'  Having  said  this,  he  added 
with  emotion  that,  if  the  occasion  served,  I  should 
make  some  brief  annotations  upon  the  work,  and  thus 
appareled  should  forward  it  to  you.  Which  task,  in 
truth,  although  I  may  not  have  extracted  all  the  mar- 
row of  his  words,  I  have,  nevertheless,  performed 
with  fidelity,  and  the  work  required  of  me  I  frankly 
send  you,  as  was  enjoined  upon  me  by  that  most 
friendly  man ;  in  which  work,  if  it  appear  that  any 
ambiguity  still  remains,  you  must  impute  it  to  my  in- 
sufficiency, for  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  text  is  perfect 
in  all  points." 


cloister,  with  its  lancet  windows,  and  the 
blue  Mediterranean  shining  all  around.  We 
can  easily  fancy  the  poet  coming  up  the  wind- 
ing hill-path  and  the  frate  watching  him.  The 
little  ruined  convent  and  the  fragment  of  a 
letter  are  both  infinitely  precious,  each  sus-» 
taining  the  evidence  of  the  other.  Many  Dan- 
tean  scholars  have  doubted  the  authenticity 
of  this  letter,  but  others  believe  in  it,  and  give 
perhaps  as  good  reasons  for  doing  so  as  those 
which  are  brought  against  it. 

CORNICE    ROAD 1309. 

"  'Twixt  Lerici  and  Turbia  the  most  desert, 
The  most  secluded  pathway  is  a  stair, 
Easy  and  open  when  compared  to  this." 
Longfelloiv  Tr.     "  Purg.,"cant.  iii.  ver.  50. 

IT  appears  not  unlikely  that  Dante  passedj 
along  the  Cornice  road  on  his  way  to  Paris. 
This  was  at  that  time  the  most  practicable 
road,  and  when  he  speaks  of  the  way  between 
Lerici  and  Turbia  as  being  rough  and  lonely. 
he  speaks  as  one  who  knows  the  whole  road 
between  the  two  places.  The  "Purgatory"] 
may  have  been  partly  written  in  Paris,  and| 
certain  beautiful  passages  in  the  beginning  of 
that  part  of  the  poem  show  that  his  mind  was 
full  of  the  scenery  and  images  of  the  sea : 

"  The  dawn  had  chased  the  matin  hour  of  prime 

Which  fled  before  it,  so  that  from  afar 

I  spied  the  trembling  of  the  ocean  stream." 

Cary  Tr. 

And  the  exquisitely  touched  sketch  of  a  boat, 
a  few  lines  further  : 

— "and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a  small  vessel  very  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught  thereof.1 

Longfell<nu 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE   OF  DANTE. 


835 


ON    THE    CORNICE    ROAD. 

ien  when  an  angel  comes,  it  is  like  the  sun's 
tight  shining  on  the  water  and  refracted  into 
me's  eyes.  Finding  himself  dazzled,  he  raises 
lis  hands  to  screen  his  eyes : 

[Whereat  toward  the  summit  of  my  brow 

I  raised  my  hands,  and  made  myself  the  visor 

j    Which  the  excessive  glare  diminishes  ; 

JAs  when,  from  off  the  water  or  a  mirror, 
The  sunbeam  leaps  unto  the  opposite  side, 

I    Ascending  upward  in  the  self-same  measure 

[That  it  descends,  and  deviates  as  far 
From  falling  of  a  stone  in  line  direct 

I    (As  demonstrate  experiment  and  art). 

Longfellcnv  Tr. 

'Here  is  a  morning  scene: 

p  When  I,  who  something  had  of  Adam  in  me, 
!    Vanquished  by  sleep,  upon  the  grass  reclined 

There  where  all  five*  of  us  already  sat, 
ifust  at  the  hour  when  her  sad  lay  begins 
I    The  little  swallow,  near  unto  the  morning, 
i    Perchance  in  memory  of  her  former  woes." 

Longfellow  Tr. 

And  what  a  morning  picture  in  few  words 
•s  this  : 

"  I  rose  ;  and  full  already  of  high  day 
!   Were  all  the  circles  of  the  sacred  mountain, 
j   And  with  the  new  sun  at  our  back  we  went!" 

Longfellow  Tr. 


THROUGH 
FRANCE    TO 
PARIS  - 


IT  may  .be    j 
that  there  are 

many  traces  /  :  vyl"ill 
of  this  jour-  | 
ney  through  • 
France.  A  [ 
friend  sends  \ 
me  an  extract  I 
from  Frederic  j 
Mistral  about  ' 

the  grottoes  near  Aries,  called  L'Enfer,  which 
place  is  supposed  to  have  suggested  to  Dante 
the  wild  scenery  described  in  the  "  Inferno." 

It  may  easily  have  been  that  Dante  looked 
on  these  weird  rocks,  and  they  would  natu- 


*  "Virgil,  Sordello,  Dante,  Nino,  and  Conrad.    And  here  Dante  falls  upon  the  grass,  and  sleeps  till  dawn. 
There  is  a  long  pause  of  rest  and  sleep  between  this  line  and  the  next,  which  makes  the  whole  passage  doubly 
beautiful.    The  narrative  recommences  like  the  twitter  of  early  birds  just  beginning  to  stir  in  the  woods." 
Longfellow,  Translator's  Notes. 


836 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


RUE     DU     FOUARRE,    PARIS. 


rally  fascinate  his  somber  imagination ;  but,  as 
the  "  Inferno  "  was  completed  before  he  made 
the  journey  through  France,  it  could  not  be 
that  he  then  and  there  conceived  and  realized 
the  idea  and  plan  of  the  "  Inferno."  Indeed, 
there  is  scarcely  a  wild,  rocky  gorge,  or  chaos 
of  rocks,  that  is  not  called  in  its  neighbor- 
hood by  some  name  that  fixes  its  proprie- 


torship on  his  Satanic  Majesty.  The  devil's 
footstep,  the  devil's  punch-bowl,  his  garder 
his  throne,  his  bridge,  his  castle  are  a  few  oi 
these  tributes  to  his  power.  Many  such  place 
have  the  credit  of  having  suggested  to  Dant 
the  form  and  character  of  his  "  Inferno."  Ba1 
these  conjectures  are  idle.  The  poet's 
is  a  laboratory  where  all  material  is  melt( 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE   OF  DANTE. 


837 


CAPRAIA    AND    GORGONA,    FROM    THE    LEANING    TOWER    OF    PISA. 

the  crucible  of  imagination,  in  which  it  crys- 
tallizes into  new  and  more  imposing  shapes, 
and  is  charged  with  a  new  vitality  from  having 
passed  through  his  mind.  It  should  be  said 
that  Dante  does,  however,  mention  the  tombs 
at  Aries,  "Inf.,"  ix.,  112. 

PARIS 1309. 

"It  is  the  light  eternal  of  Sigieri, 

Who,  reading  lectures  in  the  street  of  straw, 

Did  syllogize  invidious  verities."  * 

Longfellow  Tr,     "  Par.,"  cant.  x.  ver.  136. 

IT  was  much  to  be  feared  that  the  little 
old  street  would  have  been  Haussmanized  or 
j  Prussianized  out  of  existence  before  one  could 
|  reach  Paris  and  make  a  sketch  of  it,  but  I 
!  found  it  quite  uninjured.  One  can  stand 
I  at  one  end  and  see  Notre  Dame  and  its 

*  Or,  as  we  moderns  say,  declared  unpopular  truths. 


great  rose  win- 
dow, through 
the  other  end. 
There  is  no  lack 
of  evidence  that 
Dante  was  here. 
Boccaccio  and 
Villani,  his  ear- 
liest biogra- 
phers, both  at- 
test it,  and  he 
himself  in  the 
"Paradise"  al- 
ludes to  the 
lectures  of  Si- 
gieri, and  to  the 

"  VicodegliStrami"  where  they  were  held.  This 
was  a  straw-market  in  that  time,  and  was  called 
Rue  du  Fouarre,  or  Straw  street.  It  is  said  that 
the  students  of  the  Sorbonne  used  to  buy  here 
bundles  of  straw,  on  which  they  sat  for  lack  of 
benches.  This  street  has  also  been  called  the 
cradle  of  the  university.  Its  houses  are  old,  but 
probably  nothing  is  left  of  the  year  1309.  The 
tall  old  houses  are  occupied  in  their  base- 
ments by  the  small  shops  that  fill  up  the  narrow 
streets  and  passages  of  Paris.  I  sat  in  the  little 
carriage,  looking  through  the  dark  tunnel  of 
the  street  to  Notre  Dame  in  the  light  beyond, 
and  made  my  sketch  undisturbed.  Dante,  so 
far  away  from  Italy,  and  coming  here  like  a 
modern  student  for  the  advantage  of  the  lect- 
ures, seemed  even  nearer  than  in  Italy,  where 
he  stands  like  an  ever-repeated  figure  woven 
into  the  ideal  memorial  tapestry  that  hangs 
about  that  land.  Boccaccio  seems  to  have 
been  of  opinion  that  Dante  went  also  to 
England. 

PISA — 1317. 

"Let  the  Capraia  and  Gorgona  move, 

And  make  a  hedge  across  the  mouth  of  Arno, 

That  every  person  in  thee  it  may  drown." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "  Inferno,"  xxxiii.  v.  82. 

WISHING  to  get  a  sketch  of  the  two  islands 
from  the  top  of  the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa, 
from  which  they  may  easily  be  seen  in  fair 


THE     RAMPARTS     OF     LUCCA. 


838 


NOTES    ON  THE   EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


weather,  and  from  which  point  they  appear 
nearly  close  together,  opposite  "the  month  of 
Arno"  I  went  from  Florence  for  that  special 
purpose.  On  that  day,  however,  there  was 
no  admittance  to  the  tower.  As  this  exclu- 
sion occurs  only  twice  in  a  year,  on  .the 
occasion  of  certain  church  festas,  I  was  much 
annoyed.  Again  I  went  by  the  road  that 
passes  Pisa  on  my  way  to  Rome,  and  on  this 
second  occasion  an  envious  mist  overspread 
the  landscape  and  the  sea,  and  I  saw  noth- 
ing. Only  on  the  third  attempt,  six  months 
later,  was  I  successful ;  and  even  on  that  day 
there  was  a  little  mistiness  in  the  usually 
clear  atmosphere.  But  I  succeeded  in  getting 


THE  railway  from  Leghorn  to  Rome  passes 
Talamone,    the     ancient     Telamon,     where 
Marius  landed  on  his  return  from  Africa.     It 
is  on  the  coast  and  two  miles  from  the  sta- 
tion, where  are  no  houses.    The  first  time  I   \ 
passed  the  spot,  and  heard  the  guard  call  out 
Talamone,  what  a  picture  lay  before  me !     It 
was  just  after  sunset,  and,  breaking  the  shore- 
line, there  were  the  old  towers  and  walls  of  ; 
Telamon.     The   burning   sky   behind    dark- 
ened the  towers  till  they  stood  against  it  in  \ 
beautiful  relief.    The  train  stopped  two  min-  T 
utes,  and  if  I  had  been  prepared   I   might 
have  got  an  outline.  The  next  year,  returning 
to  Rome  by  the  same  road,  and  at  nearly  the 


TALAMONE. 


the  outline  that  I  wanted ;  yet  he  must  have 
seen  the  islands  from  some  other  tower,  since 
from  the  leaning  tower  they  do  not  appear 
near  enough  to  each  other  to  suggest  the 
fancy  of  bringing  them  quite  together,  closing 
up  the  river  and  driving  the  waters  back  to 
destroy  the  city.  This  burst  of  wrath  was  ex- 
cited by  the  cruel  treatment  of  Ugolino  and 
his  innocent  grandchildren.  At  that  time  Pisa 
bristled  with  towers,  now  mostly  removed. 

TALAMONE. 

"  Them  wilt  thou  see  among  that  people  vain, 
Who  hope  in  Talamone,  and  will  lose  there 
More  hope  than  in  discovering  the  Diana; 

But  there  still  more  the  admirals  will  lose." 

"  Purg.,"  cant.  xiii.  ver.  152. 


same  date,  I  took  the  same  train,  hoping  to 
reach  Talamone  at  sunset,  and  having  pencil 
and  sketch-book  ready  to  secure  my  prize. 
All  happened  as  I  had  arranged.  The  train 
stopped  as  before,  just  where  I  caught  the 
old  town  against  the  sunset  sky,  and,  before 
it  moved  on,  the  outline  was  secured,  and  the 
gradations  of  light  noted.  The  station  was 
but  a  grassy  track,  so  that  I  could  not  have 
stopped  longer  there,  yet  I  had  obtained  all 
I  wanted. 

LUCCA — 1317. 

FROM  Paris  Dante  returned  to  Italy,  it  is 
believed,  by  way  of  Milan.  He  made  another 
visit  in  the  Casentino,  and  then  it  is  probable 
that  he  remained  a  long  time  with 


n 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


839 


Grande  at  Verona.  He  is  thought  to  have 
been  at  Lucca  between  1314  and  1317. 

"This  one  appeared  to  me  as  lord  and  master, 
Hunting  the  wolf  and  whelps  upon  the  mountain 
For  which  the  Pis'ans  Lucca  cannot  see." 

Longfellow  Tr.     "Inf.,"  xxxiii.  ver.  28. 

Ampere  says : 

"  To  go  from  Pisa  to  Lucca  you  must  pass  the  foot 
of  Mount  St.  Julien,  that  mountain  which  prevents 
the  two  cities  from  seeing  each  other. 

'Perche  il  Pisan  veder  Lucca  non  ponno/ 

as  Dante  said  with  his  accustomed  geographical  pre- 
cision. Lucca  is  placed  in  the  center  of  a  delicious 
country.  There  is  nothing  fresher,  nothing  more  gra- 
cious than  the  environs  of  Lucca.  It  is  a  lake  of  verd- 
ure incased  in  admirable  mountains.  The  city  rises 
in  the  midst.  The  ancient  ramparts  have  been  changed 
into  a  promenade  that  completely  surrounds  it,  and 
commands  the  elegant  landscape. 

"  Lucca  was  not  so  gracious  in  the  time  of  Dante. 
When  his  protector  and  friend  Uguccione  della  Fag- 
giola,  to  whom  he  wished  to  dedicate  the  '  Inferno,' 
after  having  oppressed  Lucca,  was  driven  from  it  by 
Castracani,  that  Thrasybulus  of  the  middle  ages  of 
whom  Macchiavelli  was  the  Plutarch,  its  fields  were  not 
so  well  cultivated  as  they  are  to-day,  the  vine  did  not 
suspend  its  verdant  draperies  along  both  sides  of  a 
road  which  resembles  the  avenue  of  a  villa.  This  now 
tranquil  promenade  was  a  high  wall  crowned  with 

j  towers  and  flanked  with  bastions.    However,  at  this 

I  epoch  the  industry  of  Lucca  was,  I  believe,  more 
flourishing  than  in  our  century.  The  industrial  activ- 
ity of  this  so  stormy  middle  age  is  a  remarkable  fact. 
The  trades  were  pursued  in  the  midst  of  assaults  and 
civil  wars.  During  the  residence  of  Dante  there  were 

!  three  thousand  weavers  at  Lucca,  and  about  the  same 
epoch  the  wool  merchants  of  Florence  raised  at  their 

(own  expense  the  cathedral  that  Michel  Angelo  emu- 

i  lated. 

"  It  was  probably  here  that  Dante  wrote  his  noble 
answer  to  the  offer  that  was  made  him  in  1317  of 
returning  to  his  country,  which  he  saw  in  his  dreams, 

'if  he  would  submit  to  a  sort  of  amende  honorable  that 

I  custom  sanctioned,  but  to  which  the  lofty  soul  of  the 

jpoet  could  not  bend." 

,  "  Voyage  Dantesque. " 


The  following  is  the  letter  refusing  amnesty 
jon  the  terms  proposed  : 

"  In  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1316  Florence  offered 
>nditions  of  pardon  and  restoration  to  the  exiles  and 
inished  men.     The  conditions  were  these :  To  pay 
certain   sum    of    money,   and   then,   humbled   and 
>ased,  with  paper  miters  on  their  heads  (a  sign  of 
infamy)  and  holding  a  wax  torch,  they  should  walk  in 
ocession  behind  the  car  of  the  mint  to  the  Church 
San  Giovanni,  and  here  make  the  offering  to  the 
lint   in    expiation  of  their    crimes.     It  was    an    an- 
it  custom  of  Florence  to  pardon  certain  malefac- 
tors, offering  them  to  the  saint,  their  patron  ;  but  to 
subject  the   political    exiles  to  conditions,  which  put 
(them  on    a    level  with  robbers   and   homicides,  was 
making    them    pay   too   dearly  for  a   pardon.     Not- 
iwrths  tan  ding  this,  many  of  Dante's  companions  in  ex- 
jle,  such  as  the  Tosenghi,  the  Rinucci,  the   Manelli, 
submitted  to  these  humiliating  conditions,  and  at  the 
Feast  of  St.  John  (June   24th,  1317)  received  their 


enfranchisement.  But  not  so  those  who  prized  their 
own  self-respect,  that  is  to  say,  Dante ;  and  to  a  friar, 
his  relative,  who  sent  him  notice  of  the  decree,  begging 
him  at  the  same  time  to  return,  he  nobly  answered 
as  follows  : 

" '  From  your  letter,  received  by  me  with  reverence 
and  affectionate  thanks,  I  have  with  careful  consider- 
ation and  a  grateful  spirit  learned  how  much  you  de- 
sire my  return  to  my  country ;  for  this  I  am  so  much 
the  more  obliged  to  you  that  it  rarely  happens  to 
exiles  to  find  friends. 

"  '  And  if  my  answer  cannot  be  such  as  the  pusilla- 
nimity of  some  might  wish,  I  beg  of  you  affectionately 
that,  before  condemning,  you  will  maturely  consider 
it.  Behold,  then,  that  which  through  the  letters  of 
your  and  my  nephew,  besides  those  of  other  friends, 
is  made  known  to  me ;  namely,  the  decree  lately  issued 
in  Florence  concerning  the  pardon  offered  to  the  ban- 
ished citizens  :  that  if  I  will  pay  a  certain  quantity  of 
money  and  suffer  public  shame,  I  may  be  absolved  and 
presently  return.  In  which,  O  father,  to  speak  plain- 
ly, there  are  two  ridiculou*  and  ill-considered  things. 
I  mean  ill-considered  by  those  who  so  expressed 
themselves,  since  your  letter,  more  discreetly  and 
wisely  conceived,  contained  nothing  of  the  sort. 

"  '  Is  this,  then,  the  glorious  mode  by  which  Dante 
Alighieri  is  recalled  to  his  country  after  the  anguish 
of  an  exile  of  nearly  three  lusters  ?  Does  his  inno- 
cence, well  known  to  all,  merit  this  ?  Is  this  the 
fruit  of  toil  and  sweat  and  fatigue  in  the  hardest 
studies  ?  Far  from  a  man  familiar  with  philosophy 
be  this  baseness  of  a  heart  of  mud  that  he,  like  a 
certain  Ciolo  and  other  men  of  ill  fame,  should  suffer 
himself,  like  a  criminal  in  chains,  to  be  offered  for 
ransom! 

"  '  Far  be  it  from  the  man  known  as  a  proclaimer  of 
justice,  that  he,  the  injured  one,  should  pay  tribute 
to  his  injurers,  as  if  they  were  his  benefactors  ! 

"  '  Not  this  the  way  to  return  to  my  country,  O  fa- 
ther ;  but  if  another,  through  you  or  through  others, 
can  be  found,  whereby  the  fame  and  honor  of  Dante 
be  not  tarnished,  I  will  promptly  set  out  upon  it.  But 
if  through  an  honorable  road  I  cannot  enter  Florence, 
then  I  will  never  enter  there.  And  why  ?  Can  I  not 
from  any  corner  of  the  earth  behold  the  sun  and  stars  ? 
Can  I  not  under  any  region  of  the  sky  speculate  on 
sweetest  truth,  without  first  showing  myself  as  a  man 
deprived  of  glory  and  ignominious  before  the  people 
and  the  city  of  Florence  ?  Nor  will  bread,  1  trust, 


fail  me. 


Fraticelli  's  Life  of  Dante,  cap.  7. 


The  date  of  Dante's  visit  to  Lucca  being 
known,  Pisa  and  Talamone  may  be  placed 
next  in  order.  When  at  Lucca,  being  near  the 
coast,  he  probably  took  that  time  to  visit 
those  old  cities. 

GUBBIO  — 1318. 

FROM  Perugia  is  but  five  hours  to  Gubbio, 
and  with  a  party  of  friends  I  made  the  ex- 
cursion, engaging  a  carriage  for  a  week.  We 
began  immediately  to  ascend  and  wind 
among  the  mountains  where  Gubbio  is  hid- 
den. At  Fratta,  where  we  stopped  to  rest 
the  horses  and  dine,  we  found  a  cattle  fair, 
and  such  a  show  of  the  beautiful  Umbrian 
oxen  was  well  worth  taking  the  journey  to  see. 
These  cattle  are  white,  short-horned,  compact, 
and  symmetrical.  They  are  like  the  oxen  in  the 


840 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


Greek  sculptures,  and  a  thousand  times  more 
beautiful  than  the  long-horned,  exaggerated 
of  the  Roman  Campagna.  The 


Higher  on  the  hill  we  come  to  a  terrace, 
where  stands  the  wonderful  town-hall  on  one 
side,  on  the  other  the  library.  This  Palazzo 

younger  ones,  hardly  as  yet  full  grown,  show  Pubblico  is  a  most  picturesque  building,  but 
their  pink  skin  under  the  white  hair  as  they  seems  now  to  be  unused.  The  grand  hall 
move.  They  are  beautifully  proportioned,  of  entrance  is  dusty  and  desolate,  and  the 
they  move  gracefully,  and  their  large  and  streams  of  sunshine  that  found  their  way 
liquid  eyes  recall  and  justify  the  Greek  epi-  through  the  side  windows  made  a  ghostly 
thet,  "  ox-eyed  Juno."  It  was  a  great  pleas-  glimmer  on  the  clouds  of  dust  that  our  foot- 
ure  'to  see  so  many  of  them  together,  and  of  steps  raised.  We  went  up  the  grand  stair- 


creatures 


THE    TOWN-HALL    OF    GUBBIO. 


the  large  number  that  filled  the  great  square 
every  one  was  white. 

By  the  rugged  mountain  road  we  reached 
Gubbio  some  time  after  dark.  We  had  wasted 
time  in  the  morning,  as  our  driver  was  late ; 
we  had  wasted  time  at  Fratta  among  the 
white  oxen ;  and  we  had  stopped  along  the 
road  to  sketch,  for  the  mountain  views  and 
blue  distances  were  enticing,  and  we  arrived 
late.  The  town,  like  so  many  others,  hangs  on 
the  side  of  a  steep  hill ;  but  we  did  not  climb  it 
to-night,  for  our  hotel  was  found  in  the  large 
Piazza  di  San  Francesco,  near  the  gate.  There 
is  a  desolation  and  slovenliness  about  these 
old  Italian  cities  rather  depressing  to  the 
traveler,  but  with  a  party  of  gay  friends  one 
soon  laughs  off  the  feeling.  In  the  morning  we 
began  at  once  to  climb  the  steep  streets  and 
seek  for  traces  of  Dante's  residence.  A  street 
bears  his  name,  and  on  a  house  is  a  tablet 
with  this  inscription  : 

HIC    MANSIT 
DANTES    ALEGHIERIUS    POETA, 

Et  carmina  scripsit 

Federicus  Falcutius 

Virtuti  et  Poster.     P. 


case,  as  invited,  and  looked  over  the  city  from 
a  Gothic  loggia.  There  is  something  every- 
where in  this  old  city,  in  its  silent  streets,  its 
few  inhabitants,  and  those  few  looking  like 
strayed  specters  of  the  past,  that  is  inexpres- ; 
sibly  desolate.  It  has  more  remains  of  Etrus- 
can walls  than  even  Perugia.  It  seems  like  ai 
corpse  of  the  old  time,  just  stirring,  but 
neither  alive  nor  yet  quite  dead. 

We  crossed  the  square  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of    the  library,  which  was  opened  for 
us.    This  library  is  of  some  importance,  espe-s 
cially  as  containing  a  piece   asserted  to  be, 
of    Dante's   handwriting.     This  is  a  sonnet' 
addressed  to  his  friend  Bosone,  the  lord  of] 
Gubbio.    This  treasure  is  thoroughly  believed 
in  by  those  who  guard  it,  the   librarian  and1 
his  assistant.    It  is  framed  and  under  glass. \ 
The  writing  is  quite  legible,  and  the  sonnet 
is  usually  found  in  the  collections  of  Dante's) 
minor  poems.    Scholars  do  not  believe  in  id 
nor  do  they  believe  that  any  autograph  cf 
the    poet    exists.    Ampere,   in   his  "Voyage 
Dantesque,"  scoffs  at  its  pretensions,  as  it 
headed  in  this  way: 

DANTI  ALIGHIERI  A  BOSONE  D'AGOBBK 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


841 


THE     CASTLE     OF    COLMOLLARO. 


This  critic  says :  "  It  may  be  supposed  that 
Dante  knew  how  to  write  his  own  name." 
Perhaps  he  did,  and  perhaps  we  do  not.  This 
does  not  seem  a  sufficient  reason  against  the 
authenticity  of  the  document.  We  know  that 
Shakspere  wrote  his  name  in  three  different 
ways  in  his  own  will.  Fraticelli  gives  authori- 
ties for  twenty-two  different  ways  of  writing 
the  name  of  Dante,  one  of  which  is  Danti 
Alegerii.  All  these  different  spellings  are  de- 
rived from  old  documents  referring  to  the 
poet.  The  sonnet  came  into  possession  of  the 
library  from  the  family  of  Bosone  d'Agobbio, 
to  whom  it  was  addressed.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  one  or  two  signatures,  this  sonnet  is 
the  only  autograph  known  remaining  of  the 
man  who  wrote  so  much.  Asking  the 
librarian  where  the  Castle  of  Colmollaro, 
mentioned  as  one  of  the  refuges  of  Dante, 
might  be  found,  to  my  joy  he  told  me  it  was 
the  castle  of  this  very  Bosone,  and  only  seven 
miles  away.  The  next  day  we  visited  Colmol- 
laro. After  a  drive  of  four  miles  we  reached 
a  farm-house,  and  here  the  carriage  road 
ended,  and  we  took  an  ox-cart  to  go  through 
the  woods  to  the  castle.  This  was  not  unwel- 
come. We  liked  the  cart,  which  was  painted 
with  Etruscan  figures,  and  we  liked  the  beau- 
tiful white  oxen,  their  heads  decorated  with 
scarlet  tassels,  which  were  to  draw  us.  The 
forest  was  like  the  beautiful  oak  openings  of 
VOL.  XXVII.— 80. 


Wisconsin,  the  trees  with  plenty  of  space  for 
air  and  sunshine  to  play  among  them.  It 
was  like  America  and  like  Greece.  After  three 
miles  of  this  Arcadian  progress,  we  came  to 
the  edge  of  a  ravine,  into  which  the  road  sank 
and  rose  again,  to  reach  the  castle.  It  is  much 
ruined,  and  is  used  as  a  farm-house.  The 
strong  ivy-clad  tower  still  stands  ;  the  court 
is  entire ;  hay-ricks  are  planted  about  the 
castle,  and  pigs  and  chickens  dispute  the 
way.  The  farm  wife  was  civil,  and  took  us 
up  the  broken  stairs  to  see  the  old  rooms. 
It  is  all  confused  and  infirm,  but  it  is  a 
veritable  Dantean  castle,  and  holds  by  its 
traditions.  Beyond  this  ridge  flows  the  river 
Linci,  and  that  and  the  wooded  hills  both 
appear  in  the  sonnet.  It  seems  that  the 
author  had  been  engaged  in  teaching  the 
son  of  Bosone  Greek  and  French,  and  in 
the  verses  predicts  that  his  pupil  will  be- 
come distinguished. 


DANTE    TO    BOSONE    D'AGOBBIO. 

TRANSLATION,    BY    CHARLES    LYELL,    OF    SONNET    IN 
THE   LIBRARY   OF   GUBBIO. 

O  thou  who  tread'st  the  cool  and  shady  hill 
Skirting  the  river  which  so  softly  glides, 
That  gentle  Linceus  'tis  by  natives  called, 
In  its  Italian,  not  its  German  name, 


842 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


Contented  sit  thee  down  at  morn  and  eve, 
For  thy  beloved  child  already  bears 
The  fruit  desired,  and  his  march  hath  been 
Rapid  in  Grecian  and  in  Gallic  lore. 

Genius,  alas !  no  longer  holds  her  throne 
In  that  Hespera,  now  the  abode  of  woe, 
Whose  gardens  once  such  noble  promise  gave. 

None  fairer  than  thy  Raphael;  then  rejoice, 
For  thou  shalt  see  him  float   amid  the  learned, 
Admired  as  a  galliot  on  the  wave. 

AVELLANA 

FINDING  that  the  convent  of  Avellana, 
where  Dante  passed  several  months,  and 
within  whose  shelter  he  is  supposed  to  have 
written  much  of  the  latter  portion  of  his 
great  work,  could  be  conveniently  visited 
from  Gubbio,  I  persuaded  one  of  my  friends 
to  accompany  me  on  this  rather  difficult 
excursion.  The  carriage  conveyed  us  early 
in  the  morning  to  a  certain  village,  where 
we  were  to  take  asses  and  guides  to  help 
us  to  penetrate  still  deeper  into  the  passes 
of  the  Apennines.  This  village  had  points  of 
interest  which  we  could  not  stop  to  enjoy,  for 
the  five  hours'  ride  before  us  must  be  per- 
formed before  sunset  in  the  shortening  Sep- 
tember day;  we  must  allow  a  little  time  for 
resting  the  asses  and  for  possible  delays,  and 
our  guides  were  impatient  and  spoke  much 
of  the  accidents  that  might  befall  us  on  such 
a  road.  This  was  alarming,  but  our  hearts 
were  firmly  fixed  on  the  adventure ;  and  we 
sent  back  the  carriage  with  messages  to  our 
friends,  and  gave  orders  that  it  should  meet 
us  the  next  day  in  the  afternoon  at  the  same 
place,  and  then  plunged  into  the  wilderness. 
On  these  excursions  much  trust  is  required. 
The  guides  might  be  brigands,  or  the  allies 
of  brigands,  for  aught  we  knew ;  but  we  hoped 
they  were  honest  men,  seeking  only  the  price 
of  the  two  days'  work.  Soon  the  wild  beauty 
of  the  road  occupied  our  attention,  and  we 
put  away  our  doubts  and  fears.  We  passed 
through  two  or  three  mountain  villages,  and 
saw  beautiful  women  and  still  more  beautiful 
children,  who  came  out  to  look  at  the  travel- 
ers. One  boy,  holding  up  a  huge  bunch  of 
grapes,  I  shall  never  forget — he  was  of  such 
superb  beauty,  a  dark  infant  Bacchus.  After 
an  hour  we  came  upon  the  path  which  leads 
along  the  edge  of  a  deep  ravine  all  the  resjt 
of  the  way.  Charcoal-burners  were  at  work 
far  below  us ;  and  if  we  had  fallen,  we  should 
have  rolled  into  their  fires,  for  the  descent 
was  perpendicular.  We  met  vast  flocks  of 
pretty  white  goats,  which  were  scrambling 
along  the  rocks  below;  and  inquiring  of  our 
guides  where  such  multitudes  of  capre.tti 
could  be  bound,  we  were  answered  that  they 
were  all  going  to  Rome.  About  half  way  we 


found   it  convenient  to  dismount   and  walk   I 
awhile,  and  then  had  our  lunch  on  the  grass,   j 
making  a  party  with  our  guides,  and  found   < 
much  refreshment  in  a  few  minutes'  rest.  The  \\ 
guides  would  not  allow  us  much  time,  since  ' 
it  was  necessary  to  reach  the  convent  before  | 
dark,  the  last  part  of  the  road  being  stupendo. 
We  remounted  unwillingly,  and  about  half  an 
hour  before  sunset  came  to  the  end  of  the 
long   ravine,  and   reached   a   plateau,  from   i 
which  we  saw  the  convent,  superbly  seated 
among  the  mountains,  whose   lower  slopes, 
hitherto   bare,  were   suddenly    clothed  with 
large  trees,  oaks  and  chestnuts.    There  was   I 
just  time  for  a  very  hasty  sketch  from  this   j 
point.     We   had   now    to    descend  a  zigzag   j 
path  through  the  woods  to  the  bottom  of  an- 
other ravine,  where  a  small  stream  was  tum- 
bling noisily  along ;  and  then  to  cross  it  and 
climb  the  opposite  steep,  where,  on  a  mount- 
ain terrace,  stood  the  immense  pile  of  con- 
ventual buildings.    As  we  mounted  and  came 
toward  the  level  of  the  terrace,  we  saw  some- 
thing white  moving  among  the  bushes.     "  It   ; 
is  Fra  Ubaldo  trying  to  catch  a  chicken  for  I 
your  supper,"  cried  the,  guide  with  much  in- 
terest.    The   white-robed  figure  came  forth,  j 
but  without  the  chicken,  and  went  toward  the  j 
arched  entrance  to  receive  us.    He  was  quite  j 
alone  in  the  vast  convent,  which  was  dises- 
tablished, and   had   but    two    monks  left  to  '] 
take  care  of  the  buildings.     One  of  these  had  I 
gone  away  on  some  business,  and  Fra  Ubaldo  1 
was  left  to  do  the  best  he  could  for  us,  with- 
out assistance.     The  sun  had  now  set,  and  j 
he  took  us  immediately  to  see  the  cell  once  ] 
occupied  by  Dante.   I  looked  with  deep  inter- 
est  on   this   little   stone  room  where  Dante  j 
lived  seven  months,  and  in  which  it  is  be- 
lieved that  he  wrote  much  of  his  poem.  From 
the   little  window  are   seen  only  mountain  ; 
tops,  now  darkening  in  the  twilight.     Unfort-  j 
unately   the  room,  vaulted  in  stone,  like  all  \ 
the  rooms  of  this  well-built  convent,  has  been 
daubed  with  coarse  fresco  decorations,  mak- 
ing it  look  like  a  fifth-rate  caffe.    Fra  Ubaldo  | 
simply  said  that  this  had  been  done  because  J 
so  many  people  came  to  see  it !     I  made  a  1 
sketch  from  the  window  through  which  the 
poet   must   so    often  have  looked,  and  near  ! 
which  he  must  have  sat  to  write.     We  sa\v 
the  library,  but  the  books  had  all  been  re- 
moved, and  it  had  been  modernized  with  new  j 
shelves.     They  have  here  a  marble  bust  of 
Dante,  and  a  tablet  recording  his  visit.     As 
it  was  now  nearly  dark,  Fra  Ubaldo  invitee 
us  into  the  refectory  to  partake  of  soup  anc 
pigeons.   These  birds  had  not,  like  the  chick- 
ens, been  able  to  avoid  their  fate.     We 
from  the  long  and  broad  carved  oaken 
bles,  sitting  on  the  heavy  oaken  benches, 


I 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


843 


CONVENT    OF     AVELLANA 


wondered  to  find  ourselves  here.  Then  the 
good  friar  took  the  lamp,  and  proposed  to 
show  us  to  our  bedroom.  Passing  through 
corridors  heaped  with  grain,  spread  to  dry, 
he  showed  us  to  a  tiny  cell  which  looked 
very  clean  and  comfortable ;  and  bidding  us 
knock  on  the  wall  if  we  should  want  any- 
thing, he  vanished.  The  strangeness  of  our 
situation  in  that  vast,  lonely  convent,  and 
the  memories  and  almost  the  presence  of 
Dante,  made  sleep  nearly  impossible.  At 
day-break,  Fra  Ubaldo  knocked  and  told  us 
we  would  find  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  refec- 
tory. We  hastily  dressed,  and  already  felt 
much  invigorated  by  the  keen  and  sweet 
mountain  air.  This  convent  stands  on  very 
high  ground,  and  from  the  neighboring  peak 
of  Monte  Catria  you  may  discern  the  sea  on 
both  sides  of  Italy.  I  desired  to  see  the  out- 
side of  Dante's  window,  and  went  by  a  back 
door  to  that  end  of  the  convent  just  on  the 
verge  of  the  ravine.  I  had  difficulty  in  find- 
ing a  spot  far  enough  from  the  wall  to  make 
a  tiny  sketch,  so  closely  did  the  ravine  crowd 
the  convent;  but  at  last  found  a  projection 
that  supported  me.  We  now  bade  good-bye 
to  our  kind  host,  and  had  some  difficulty  in 


persuading  him  to  accept  a  trifle  "  for  the  use 
of  the  convent."  This  man  was  very  kindly 
and  very  modest.  He  could  not  answer  our 
many  questions  about  the  convent,  even  did 
not  know  its  age,  and  lamented  that  he  was 
not  capace  for  those  things,  and  that  the  other 
brother  was  not  at  home,  who  might  have 
satisfied  us.  The  morning  was  brilliant,  the 
air  so  sweet  and  pure  that  we  wished  only  to 
stay  longer  and  enjoy  it.  The  situation  of 
this  convent  is  magnificent,  and  sheltered  on 
the  east,  north,  and  west  by  mountains ;  it  is 
only  open  on  the*  south.  It  was  a  delight, 
this  early  ride,  climbing  and  scrambling 
through  the  forest ;  and  when  we  had  passed 
down  to  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  climbed 
the  opposite  bank,  and  wound  through  the 
forest  pathways  till  we  came  to  the  place 
where  we  must  lose  sight  of  this  wonderful 
old  building,  we  could  hardly  persuade  our- 
selves to  leave  it.  Some  part  of  the  building 
is  very  old ;  all  the  rooms  are  of  stone  and 
vaulted;  no  plaster  or  other  inferior  material 
is  seen.  There  is  no  carriage-road  leading  to 
it.  There  are  but  three  paths  by  which  you 
can  reach  Avellana,  and  one  of  these,  the 
best,  is  a  rough  cart-road.  I  give  the  pas- 
sage in  the  "  Paradiso  "  where  Dante  speaks  of 
this  retreat : 

"Betwixt  two  shores  of  Italy  rise  cliffs, 
And  not  far  distant  from  thy  native  place, 
So  high  the  thunders  far  below  them  sound, 

And  form  a  ridge  that  Catria  is  called, 
'Neath  which  is  consecrate  a  hermitage, 
Wont  to  be  dedicate  to  worship  only." 
Longfellow  Tr.     "Par.,"  cant.  xxi.  106-111. 

DUINO    CASTLE 1319. 

IT  has  been  believed  by  some  that  in  this 
old  castle,  on  the  Adriatic  Sea,  Dante  was  the 
guest  of  Ugone,  Conte  di  Duino.  This  place  is 
not  far  from  the  Venice  and  Trieste  Railway, 
and  Monfalcone  is  the  station  where  one  must 
descend  to  reach  it.  I  came  to  it  from  Gorz 
the  day  after  leaving  Tolmino.  As  it  rained 
when  I  left  Gorz  early  in  the  morning,  I  put 
my  luggage  in  for  Trieste,  and  gave  up  my 
intention  of  visiting  Duino  that  day.  But, 
being  arrived  at  Monfalcone,  I  found  the 
sun  shining,  and  again  I  changed  my  plans 
and  descended.  I  found  at  the  station  one 
carriage,  old  and  dusty,  a  wretched  horse, 
and  a  ragamuffin  driver.  This  man  said  that 
Duino  Castle  was  eight  miles  away,  and 
that  he  could  bring  me  there  in  half  an  hour. 
We  started  and  dragged  over  a  dreary  coun- 
try, very  ridgy  and  stony,  and  without  any 
vegetation.  Had  it  been  more  level,  the  sea 
would  have  been  visible,  for  it  was  all  around 
us ;  but  the  rough  face  of  the  country  im- 
peded the  view  everywhere.  The  driver 


844 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


vexed  me  by  perpetually  teazing  his  wretched  side  of  which  was  a  wall,  pierced  with  arched 

horse  with  the  whip ;  I  assured  him  I  was  in  openings,    with    vines    and   pots    of  flowers 

no   haste,  but  he  only  laughed  stupidly,  as  decorating  them,  and  showing  the  sea  very 

if  he  thought  I  must  be  joking.    Finding  he  near.    Surprised,  I  said  to  the  driver,  "  But 

gave  no  heed  to  what  I  said,  I  remarked :  this  castle  is  inhabited !    Who  lives  here  ? " 


WINDOW     OF     THE     CELL    OCCUPIED     BY    DANTE    IN    THE     CONVENT    OF    AVELLANA. 


"  Take  care,  or  some  fine  morning  you  will 
wake  and  find  yourself  a  horse !  How  would 
you  like  that?  Even  the  Madonna  could 
not  help  you  then."  He  looked  rather  scared, 
laughed  uneasily,  used  the  whip  less  fre- 
quently, and  now  and  then  he  glanced  fur- 
tively at  me,  as  if  to  see  if  I  looked  like  a 
sorceress,  of  which  I  fear  he  found  no  signs. 
After  four  or  five  miles  we  came  to  a  rather 

Eoor-looking  village,  beyond  which  was  a 
irge  and  high  wall  without  windows,  over 
which  peeped  a  tower.  This,  the  driver  said, 
was  Duino  Castle,  and  asked,  "  did  I  want  to 
go  up  to  it  ?  "  Of  course  I  did,  both  to  see 
the  ruin,  and  to  find  a_  good  spot  for  sketch- 
ing it.  Now  the  guide-book  says  there  is 
Duino  Castle  by  the  sea,  and  near  it  a 
modern  chateau.  We  had  already  passed  a 
smart-looking  villa,  which  I  supposed  was  the 
chateau  referred  to,  and  drew  up  to  the  high 
wall  I  have  spoken  of.  As  we  turned  the 
end  of  the  wall  we  came  into  an  avenue,  one 


"The  Princess  H."  Then  I  stopped  the 
carriage  and  walked  into  the  court  of  the 
castle,  where  I  found  flower-beds,  vines,  anc 
sculpture,  and  an  old  Roman  tower  rising  i 
out  of  a  bed  of  ivy.  I  looked  for  a  servant 
and  one  presently  appeared  who  would  not 
take  my  message,  but  went  for  another,  who 
also  declined  to  receive  it  and  called  a  third 
the  lady's  maid.  She  took  my  message  to 
her  mistress,  asking  permission  for  me  to 
make  a  drawing  of  the  old  tower,  and  adding 
that  it  was  because  Dante  had  been  there 
that  I  wished  to  do  it.  The  woman  returnee 
immediately  with  a  cordial  answer.  The 
Princess  begged  me  to  draw  what  I  pleased 
and  said  a  lady  who  spoke  English  woulc 
come  down  immediately.  Just  as  I  hac 
fixed  my  seat  for  making  a  sketch  of  the 
tower,  Madame  de  W.,  the  English  governess 
accompanied  by  her  pupil,  the  young  Prin 
cess,  came  to  me.  They  were  full  of  kindne 
and  interest,  and  presently  the  lady  of 


nes; 

t 


NOTES   ON   THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


845 


castle  herself  appeared.  She  was  very  court- 
eous, and  thought  it  a  charming  work  in  which 
I  was  engaged,  and  inquired  in  perfectly  good 
English  how  I  came  to  think  of  anything  so 
delightful.  I  explained  that  my  interest  in 
Dante,  my  interest  in  Italy,  and  my  love  of 
drawing  had  made  it  quite  natural  for  me  to 
undertake  this  enterprise,  and  that  I  found 
the  quest  more  and  more  interesting.  After 
a  little  conversation,  she  reminded  me  that 
there  was  no  train  to  Trieste  till  evening,  and 
invited  me  very  cordially  to  dine  and  pass 
the  day.  I  then  remembered,  with  dismay, 
my  dusty  traveling  dress,  which  I  had  thought 
quite  suitable  to  meet  the  owls  and  bats  of  a 
ruined  castle,  and  that  I  had  no  means  to 
make  a  decent  toilet  for  the  dinner-table. 
But  the  lady  would  not  admit  my  excuses, 
but  would  have  me  as  I  was,  saying  that  she 
lived  without  ceremony,  dining  at  one  o'clock, 
and  that  she  wished  to  show  me  her  castle, 
Dante's  balcony,  Palladio's  staircase,  the  pict- 
ure gallery,  and  Paul  Veronese's  dome,  and 
kindly  adding,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  enjoy  this 
more  than  sitting  at  the  station  all  day.  You 
must  remain."  And  I  was  easily  conquered 
by  such  sweet  and  cordial  kindness.  The 
governess  and  her  charge  had  returned  to 


Indians,  and  whether  they  were  not  very  beau- 
tiful and  very  good.  I  could  only  say  that  they 
were  sometimes  so  considered,  remembering 
our  own  young  enthusiasms.  I  ought  to  have 
had  my  friend  H.  H.  by  my  side  to  describe 
their  virtues  and  their  wrongs;  she  would 
have  found  a  willing  listener.  I  was  then 
asked  to  name  a  book  that  would  tell  all 
about  these  Indians.  I  could  only  think  of 
Catlin's  work  on  this  subject;  but,  of  course, 
it  could  not  be  procured  at  Duino.  But 
there  was  a  book  that  I  was  sure  might  be 
found  there,  and  mentioned  Longfellow's 
"  Hiawatha,"  though  fearing  it  might  be  some- 
what too  mythical  food  to  offer  to  a  young 
mind  hungry  for  facts.  The  young  lady  de- 
clared that  she  would  read  it'  before  to-mor- 
row. "  And  why  such  haste  ?  Why  before 
to-morrow  ?  "  "  Oh,  because  my  brothers  are 
coming  home  to-morrow,  and  I  want  to  tell 
them  all  about  the  Indians."  My  young  lady 
was  a  charming  enthusiast  of  sixteen,  as  fair 
and  fresh  as  a  wild  rose,  and  full  of  life,  im- 
patience, and  gayety. 

After  dinner  I  was  shown  the  castle.  The 
young  lady  led  me  through  the  darkened 
library,  and  pushed  open  the  shutters  of  a 
window  which  disclosed  a  wide  stone  balcony, 


DOUBLE     CAVE    AT    TOLMINO. 


their  studies,  and  when  my  sketch  was  finished 
the  Princess  came  again,  and  herself  walked 
with  me  through  the  castle,  explaining  its 
points  of  interest,  and  left  me  at  the  room 
where  I  was  to  make  myself  comfortable. 
Presently  came  Madame  de  W.,  who  assisted 
me  to  prepare  for  dinner.  We  were  here 
joined  by  the  French  governess  and  went 
together  to  the  dining-room.  The  young 
Princess  placed  herself  next  to  me,  and  asked 
many  questions  about  the  forests  that  she 
imagined  still  surrounded  New  York,  about 
;the  poet  Longfellow,  and  about  the  American 


still  called  Dante's.  From  it  is  seen  a  most 
enchanting  sea  view.  Something  white  glit- 
ters in  the  blue  distance;  that  is  Trieste. 
Nearer,  a  point  is  shown  as  Miramar.  A  line 
of  cliffs,  beginning  near  the  castle,  marks  the 
shore  till  it  is  lost  in  the  airy  line  of  distance. 
The  sea  had  that  wonderful  glitter,  like  blue 
diamonds,  that  it  often  has  in  hot  and  breezy 
weather;  and  if  Dante  saw  it  softened  by  a 
silvery  mist,  as  it  was  to-day,  it  must  have 
chased  away  even  his  gloom.  Then  came 
the  interior  of  the  castle,  Palladio's  circular 
staircase,  and  a  fresco  by  Paul  Veronese  in 


846 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


the  dome  above  it.  After  this  the  picture 
gallery,  where  were  many  good  Venetian 
pictures,  and  among  them  a  very  precious 
portrait  by  Vandyke.  This  gallery  is  very 
rich  in  good  pictures  for  a  private  collection. 
I  was  then  shown  the  state  apartments  and 
the  chapel,  and,  lastly,  the  boudoir  of  the 
Princess,  with  all  her  favorite  souvenirs,  and 
a  loggia  filled  with  flowers  and  overlooking 
the  beautiful  Adriatic.  There  is  a  ruin  on  the 
shore,  but  it  is  of  a  much  older  castle  than 
this  one,  and  it  must  have  been  a  hopeless 
ruin  even  in  the  time  of  Dante.  This  princess 
is  the  last  of  that  Delia  Torre  family  to  which 
Dante's  hosts  belonged,  and  I  think  the  old 
Roman  tower  in  the  court-yard  must  have 
given  the  name  to  this  family ;  but  this  is  my 
own  conjecture. 

After  this  we  came  into  the  castle  court 
and  had  coffee  under  the  arcade,  and  one 
more  pleasant  hour  was  passed  before  leav- 
ing Duino  ;  and,  with  many  hopes  of  meeting 
again,  I  parted  from  these  kind  hosts,  and 
ended  a  day  which  seemed  as  if  I  had  passed 
it  with  old  friends.  On  turning  to  take  one 
last  look  at  the  castle,  I  noticed  that  it  was 
almost  immediately  hidden  behind  the  high 
wall,  above  which  only  the  Roman  tower  now 
showed  its  head.  This  screen  is  on  the  north 
side  of  the  castle,  as  the  sea  is  on  its  south. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  built  as  a  pro- 
tection against  the  bitter  and  furious  north 
wind  which  sometimes  sweeps  that  region.  It 
is  called  the  Bora,  and  must  come  from  the 
Tyrolese  Alps,  being  drawn  over  the  Adriatic 
as  through  a  tunnel.  The  head  of  the  sea  is 
much  exposed  to  its  fury.  It  is  said  that  it 
can  overthrow  loaded  wagons,  and  that  even 
a  railroad  train  has  been  upset  by  it.  In 
Trieste  some  streets  are  supplied  with  ropes,  by 
means  of  which  pedestrians  are  glad  to  save 
themselves  from  being  blown  away.  At  Duino 
Castle  the  tutor  and  governess  pleased  them- 
selves with  the  notion  that  Dante  studied  the 
horrible  cries  of  the  "  Inferno  "  from  the  sounds 
the  winter  winds  made  in  roaring  through  its 
passages.  They,  at  least,  thought  no  sounds 
could  be  more  infernal. 


VENICE 1320 TOLMINO. 

THERE  does  not  remain  much  in  the  old 
arsenal  of  that  which  kindled  Dante's  imag- 
ination —  the  boiling  pitch,  the  black  smoke, 
the  laboring  artisans.  It  is  now  a  museum  of 
curiosities,  illustrating  the  naval  achievements 
of  Venice  when  she  was  a  great  power  on  the 
sea. 

"As  in  the  Arsenal  of  the  Venetians 
Boils  in  the  winter  the  tenacious  pitch 
To  smear  their  unsound  vessels  o'er  again  : 


For  sail  they  cannot;   and  instead  thereof 
One  makes  his  vessel  new,  and  one  recalks 
The  ribs  of  that  which  many  a  voyage  has  made; 

One  hammers  at  the  prow,  one  at  the    stern, 
This  one  makes  oars,  and  that  one  cordage  twists 
Another  mends  the  mainsail  and  the  mizzen." 
Longfellow  7'r.    "Inf.,"  cant.  xxi.  ver.  7. 

Tolmino,  where  Dante  is  said  to  have  visit( 
Pagano  della  Torre,  is  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol, 
thirty  miles  north  of  the  Venice  and  Trieste  Rail- 
way. At  Gorz  I  took  the  Austrian  mail-coach 
for  Vienna,  which  passes  through  Tolmino.  At 
a  quarter  to  four  A.M.  I  was  at  the  coach  office, 
where  all  was  still  darkness  and  silence.  The 
coach  was  hauled  out,  the  horses  attached, 
the  driver  mounted,  and  the  guard,  helmeted 
and  trumpeted,  placed  himself  on  the  coach. 
Then  at  last  the  door  was  unlocked  and  the 
passengers  permitted  to  enter.  Now  there  ap- 
peared nothing  to  detain  us,  but  still  there 
was  no  movement;  five  minutes  passed  in 
darkness  and  silence.  Then  the  clock  struck 
four,  and  at  the  fourth  stroke  the  horses 
moved.  All  this  system  and  discipline  was 
Austrian,  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  Italian  way 
of  doing  things,  not  many  feet  away  on  the 
southern  side  of  the  same  railway.  We  moved 
on  in  the  darkness.  Soon  a  streak  of  dawn 
gave  a  glimpse  of  the  river  by  which  the  road 
passes.  This  is  the  Isonzo.  In  the  dusky 
morning  it  could  be  seen  rolling  far  below  us, 
and  the  mountains  rising  high  in  air  beyond 
it,  shutting  off  the  eastern  sky.  The  impres- 
sion was  mysterious  and  lonely ;  but  as  the 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


847 


light  stole  softly  into  this  darkness,  the  world 

began   to    awake    and    every  object   to    be 

\  touched  with  a  strange,  fresh  beauty.    I  have 

I   often  had  occasion  to  observe  the  charm  that 

comes  from  a  partial    privation  of  light.    As 

Corot  said  of  his  morning  wanderings  in  the 

I  mist,  "  You  can  see  nothing,  but  everything 

is  there  ;  when  the  sun  comes  up,  you  can  see 

everything,  and  nothing  remains."    That  is  to 

B  say,  the  imagination  has  no  more  interest  in 

I  the  scene.     But  here,  only  when  the  sky  be- 

|  came  full  of  light  could  be  seen  the  wonder- 

i|  ful  beauty  of  this  little  river.    It  rolls  in 'its 

I  rocky  bed  like  a  shining  green  serpent,  and 

its  curves  and  its  surprises  are  endless.     The 

I  color,  a  milky  green,  contrasts  with  the  deep 

1  shadowy  tints  of  the  forest  that  clothes  the 

I  mountains  above  it. 

At  Canale  we  had  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  the 
1  other  passengers  left  the  coach.  Here  the 
I  conductor  entered  and  took  a  seat.  He 
I  seemed  to  be  a  person  of  a  certain  impor- 

I  tance.    He  had  seen  from  the  way-bill  that  I 

II  was  American,  and  had  many  questions  to 
I!  ask  about  my  country.   He  was  very  curious. 
I  After  a  short  silence,  he  would  break  out  with 
I   something  like  this :  "  In  America  people  can 
[I  buy  land,  I  have  heard.    Is  it  so,  madame  ? " 
I  "  Oh,  yes,  as   much    as   they  can  pay  for." 

"  But  you  must  pay  much  for  such  rich,  good 
I  land,  is  it  not  so  ?  "  "  On  the  contrary,  very 
I  little.  And  you  can  take  some  of  the  best 
I  land  and  not  pay  for  it  till  it  is  offered  for  sale 
I  by  the  Government,  so  that  you  can  have  it 

I  two  or  three  years  literally  for  nothing,  while 
B  you  live  upon  it  and  improve  it;  this  gives 

you    the  first   title    to  buy  it.     The  price  is 

I 1  fixed,  and  so  low  that  I  do  not  know  how 
I  to  say  it  in  your  currency ;  but  if  the  settler 
I  has  the  money  ready,  he,  and  no  one  else,  can 

•  (buy  it."   "  And  you  say  he  can  buy  as  much 
I]  as  he  can  pay  for !  "    This  was  what  astonished 
lithe  friendly  conductor,  who  looked  as  if  he 
I  i could  hardly  believe  me.    He  was  accustomed 
llto  see  the  forests   and   large  tracts  of  lands 
I  owned  by  the  crown  and  the  nobles,  and  no 

•  poor  man  allowed  to  buy  more  than  a  small 
holding.  "  In    America,  I    have   heard   that 
'every  man   votes.     Is   that    so,  madame  ? " 
"Oh,  yes;   that  requires  neither   money  nor 
jwisdom."  "  Is  it  possible !  "  The  man  seemed 
|to  have  no  thought  of  going  to  this  wonder- 
ful country — it  seemed  to  him  so  far  off,  so 
'mythical.    It  was  evident  that  he  but  half  be- 
lieved my  assertions  regarding  the  privileges 
enjoyed  by  our  citizens.    He  had  friends  who 
had  gone  to  America,  and  he  had  heard  of 
them  no  more;  and  when  he  mentioned  their 
names  to  me,  an  American,  and  recently  ar- 
rived from  that  country,  I  could  not,  say  that 
!I  had  ever  heard  of  them.    He  was  unsur- 


prised at  this,  not  because  America  is  a  vast 
country,  and  I  could  not  be  expected  to  know 
every  one  there,  but  because  it  confirmed  his 
skepticism  about  a  land  where  such  impossible 
advantages  are  promised  to  any  poor  man. 

The  last  half  of  the  way  was  charming  — 
always  the  same  wild  beauty,  and  the  ser- 
pent river  ever  more  fantastic.  At  eleven  we 
arrived  at  Tolmino.  Here  I  must  remain  till 
the  same  time  to-morrow,  when  the  return 
coach  would  take  me  back  to  Gorz.  I  found  a 
guide  who  spoke  a  little  Italian,  and  ascended 
the  sugar-loaf  shaped  mountain,  where  at  the 
very  top  may  be  seen  the  foundations  *  of 
Pagano  della  Torre's  castle,  where  he  enter- 
tained Dante. 

This  mountain  is  covered  with  trees,  and  a 
pleasant  path  winds  round  and  round  it,  till 
in  about  an  hour  we  reach  the  top.  Here 
one  sees  some  walls  and  one  or  two  chambers 
still  remaining,  and  bits  of  pavement  here 
and  there.  One  chamber  has  in  it  a  hole, 
down  which  it  is  supposed  prisoners  were 
lowered  in  the  olden  time.  I  suppose  that  a 
gentleman  who  owned  a  castle  and  a  wine- 
cellar  also  provided  himself  with  a  private 
dungeon  where  he  could  place  such  unwel- 
come guests  as  he  did  not  choose  to  invite  to 
his  table.  From  this  terrace,  raised  so  high 
above  the  world,  all  the  lower  landscape 
seemed  of  ideal  beauty,  and  I  thought  of 
the  poor  prisoner  in  that  dungeon,  away 
from  the  glimpses  of  the  beautiful  world,  and 
kept  there  at  the  pleasure  of  his  tyrant,  who, 
even  were  he  the  Patriarch  of  Aquileja  and 
the  friend  of  Dante,  might  be  remorselessly 
cruel  even  as  he  was  irresponsibly  powerful. 

Looking  north-east  from  the  mountain,  my 
guide  pointed  out  to  me  a  distant  spot,  where 
he  said  was  a  cave  frequented  by  Dante. 
There  was  not  time  to  go  to  it  and  return  to- 
day, but  I  arranged  with  the  guide  to  come  for 
me  early  in  the  morning,  that  I  might  visit  that 
point  also.  The  morning  proved  fine,  and  I 
had  a  delightful  walk  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
in  a  path  used  by  the  country  people,  winding 
up  and  down,  and  avoiding  all  tameness. 

Near  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  in  the  side 
of  which  is  the  cave,  the  path  sinks  into  a 
rocky  gorge,  crosses  the  stream  by  a  foot- 
bridge, and  then  begins  to  wind  up  to  the 
cave.  It  is  the  tradition  of  the  place  that 
Dante  loved  this  walk,  and  that  he  came 
every  day  from  the  castle  to  sit  in  the  cave. 
The  rock  appears  to  be  of  limestone,  which 
is  so  often  hollowed  into  caves,  and  this  one 
is  double,  one  cave  within  another,  so  that, 
being  in  the  first,  you  look  on  one  side  into  a 
still  darker  cavern,  and  from  the  other  hand 
you  see  through  the  mouth  of  the  cave  the 
world  of  light  and  sunshine. 


848 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


charming  as  the  afternoon  lights  re 
placed  those  of  midday.  Every  objec 
borrowed  momently  new  beauty;  bu 
just  before  we  reached  Gorz  the  sun 
dropped  behind  the  hills,  and  all  was 
cold  and  gray. 


RAVENNA 1320-21. 

"  He  saw  through  life  and  death,  through  gooc 
and  ill, 

He  saw  through  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will 

An  open  scroll 
Before  him  lay." — Tennyson's.   "The  Poet." 


RAVENNA,  apart  from  its  association 
with  the  memories  of  Dante,  has  a  pecu 


PINES     OF     RAVENNA. 


From  here  you  see  the  sugar-loaf  mount- 
ain where  the  castle  stood,  as  well  as  the 
valley  and  range  of  mountains.  Here  I  re- 
joiced in  seeing  what  Dante  loved  to  look 
upon,  and  in  treading  the  pretty  path  he 
daily  trod.  The  drive  to  Gorz  became 


liar  gloom  ever  hanging  over  it,  that  distin 
guishes  it  even  in  that  historic  land  where  eacl 
old  city  has  an  individual  character,  a  characte 
stamped  at  its  origin,  and  that  has  shaped  its 
growth.  Ravenna,  with  its  magnificent  By2 
tine  monuments,  and   its  ancient  and   p( 


NOTES   ON  THE  EXILE    OF  DANTE. 


849 


haunted  pine  forest  by  the  sea,  is  quite  un-  then  resumed  the  work,  and,  through  all  the 
like  any  other  city,  and  was  a  fit  surrounding  weary  vicissitudes  of  his  wandering  years,  he 
for  the  closing  scene  of  a  tragic  and  stormy  continued  to  write,  and  finished  the  "  Para- 
life.  And  here  the  most  Italian  of  poets  came  diso  "  in  his  last  days  at  Ravenna, 
to  rest  and  to  die.  He,  more  than  others,  was  And  here  we  may  fitly  conclude  with  the 
«  Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn,  JtOiy,  related  by  Boccaccio,  of  the  finding  of 
The  love  of  love."  tne  last  cantos  after  the  death  of  Dante: 

He,  more  than  Others,  was  capable  of  joy  and          "And  those  friends  he  left  behind  him,  his  sons 

cnrrnw     nf    f-^nrlfr    iH^nl    Invf    nnrl    nf   hirrpr  anc^  disciples,  having  searched  at  many  times  and  for 

row,  ol    te     ler,  ideal  love    an  ter  seyeral  months  ev     thi       of  his  w'riti  see 

hatred,  of  haughtiest  pride,  and  most  abased  whether  he  had  left  any  conclusion  to  his  work,  could 

humility.    His  fervidly  religious  soul  was  free  find   in  no  wise  any  of  the  remaining  cantos;    his 

from   the  bonds  of  superstition  and  bigotry:  friends  generally  being  much  mortified  that  God  had 

superstition,  indeed,  he  detested  with  a  cor-  ^f^l]^  !Tt  S°  lonf  f to,the  w°fld  that.he 

'  . '  .  i  might  nave  been  able  to  complete  the  small  remaining 

I  dial  hatred.    In  this  fiery  nature  were  bound  part  of  his  work ;  and  having  sought  so  long  and 

together  all   the   elements  that  make   a  man  never  found  it,  they  remained  in  despair.     Jacopo  and 

great.    But  in  him  these  elements  were  war-  piero  were  sons  of  Dante,  and,  each  of  them  being 

Iring  energies  which  the  struggling  soul  must  ferien^to^U^t  c^^Tt fl^ 

by  self-government  fuse  into  harmony.    Only  were  able,  their  father's  work,  in  order  that  it  should 

thus  could  the  great  work  of  life  go   on,  only  not  remain  imperfect ;  when  to  Jacopo,  who  was  more 


thus  could  the  sad  soul  be  saved  from  de- 
Ispair.  His  burning,  baffled  patriotism  must 
jhave  consumed  his  life,  had  it  not  concen- 
jtrated  and  kindled  it  into  poetry. 

The  forest  begins  not  far  from  Ravenna, 
land  follows  the  sea  for  many  miles  along  the 

feouthefn  shore.    It  is  gloomy  and  wild  where     on  the  eighth  month  after  his'  master's  'death,  there 
the  sea-winds  have  tortured  the  trees.    There     came  to  his  house  before  dawn  Jacopo  di  Dante,  who 

-*__1  J    T_"_     i1_  -ijli'fj  I'll  i  -i    •        /•     .1 


eager  about  it  than  his  brother,  there  appeared  a  wonder- 
ful vision  which  not  only  induced  him  to  abandon  such 
presumptuous  folly,  but  showed  him  where  the  thirteen 
cantos  were  which  were  wanting  to  the  *  Divina  Corn- 
media,'  and  which  they  had  not  been  able  to  find.  .  . 
"A  worthy  man  of  Ravenna,  whose  name  was  Pier 


fere  desolate  ravines  formed  by  the  long-con 
Enued  throwing  up  of  sand  by  the  sea,  and 
these  are  often  found  filled  With  a  growth  of 


tld  hin 


'  while  he  ws  aseeP»  his  father 


inary  light;  that  he,  Jacopo,  asked  him  if  he  lived, 


jnormous  pines,  forming  most  inaccessible  soli-  and  that  Dante  replied,  'Yes,  but  in  the  true  life, 

:udes.  Farther  inland,  the  wood  is  full  of  beauty  not  ™\™e''    The,n  he,  Jacopo,  asked  him  if  he  had 

j  ,  TV  n          11    j  «.!./  completed  his  work  before  passing  into  the  true  life, 

md  tender  grace.    Dante  often  alludes  to  this  and|Fif  he  had  done  so>  whatphad  feCOme  of  that  par! 

From  the  "  Purgatory"  I  take  the  fol-     of  it  which  was  missing,  which  they  none  of  them  had 

been  able  to  find.  To  this  Dante  seemed  to  answer, 
'  Yes,  I  finished  it,'  and  then  took  him,  Jacopo,  by 
the  hand,  and  led  him  into  that  chamber  in  which  he, 
Dante,  had  been  accustomed  to  sleep  when  he  lived 
in  this  life,  and,  touching  one  of  the  walls,  he  said : 
'  What  you  have  sought  for  so  much  is  here ; '  and  at 
these  words  both  Dante  and  sleep  fled  from  Jacopo  at 
once.  For  which  reason  Jacopo  said  he  could  not 
rest  without  coming  to  explain  what  he  had  seen  to 
Pier  Giardino,  in  order  that  they  should  go  together 
and  search  out  the  place  thus  pointed  out  to  him, 
which  he  had  retained  excellently  in  his  memory,  and 
to  see  whether  this  had  been  pointed  out  by  a  true 
spirit  or  a  false  delusion.  For  which  purpose, 


lowing  beautiful  lines : 

r  A  softly  breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
I   Had  in  itself,  upon  the  forehead  smote  me 
I  No  heavier  blow  than  of  a  gentle  wind. 
'^Vhereat  the  branches,  lightly  tremulous, 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  toward  that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  holy  mountain ; 
jfet  not  from  their  upright  direction  swayed, 

So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
j  Should  leave  the  practice  of  each  art  of  theirs ; 
3ut  with  full  ravishment  the  hours  of  prime, 
j  Singing,  received  they  in  the  midst  of  leaves, 

That  ever  bore  a  burden  to  their  rhymes, 


uch  as  from  branch  to  branch  goes  gathering  on        although   it  was    still   far  in   the  night,  they  set  off 


Through  the  pine  forest  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
I  When  Eolus  unlooses  the  Scirocco. 
Already  my  slow  steps  had  carried  me 
i  Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
'  Could  not  perceive  where  I  had  entered  it." 

Longfellow  Tr. 


together,  and  went  to  the  house  in  which  Dante 
resided  at  the  time  of  his  death.  Having  called  up 
its  present  owner,  he  admitted  them,  and  they  went 
to  the  place  thus  pointed  out;  there  they  found  a 
blind  fixed  to  the  wall,  as  they  had  always  been  used 
to  see  it  in  past  days ;  they  lifted  it  gently  up,  when 
they  found  a  little  window  in  the  wall,  never  before 


i    rp-i          ,,  -.--.•     .           f^                   -i .      ,,      i             i      i  mcy  iuuiiu.   a.  iiuic    vvmuuw    in    me    wa.ii,  iicvci    uciuxc 

The      Divina  Commedia,"  though  begun  seei  by  any  of  themj  nor  did  they  even  know  it  was 

1  Florence  before  his  banishment,  had  been  there.     In  it  they  found  several  writings,  all  moldy 

Imost    forgotten    by    Dante,    or    perhaps    it  from  the  dampness  of  the  walls,  and,  had  they  remained 

•as  only  that  he  had  abandoned  the  hope  [here  longer,  fa-lM.  whi^they  T^™- 

I  seeing  it  again,  when,  being  in  exile,  he  mold>  they  found  them  to  be  the  thirteen  cantos  that 

pceived  the  manuscript  from  Madonna  Gem-  had  been  wanting  to  complete  the  «  Commedia.'  "  * 
ia,  his  wife,  who  had  found  it  while  searching 

chest  for  some  necessary  law  papers.     He  Sarah  Freeman  Clarke. 

*  From  Ballo's  Life  of  Dante,  Mrs.  Bunbury's  translation.     See  Longfellow's  notes. 
VOL.  XXVII.— 81. 


AN   AVERAGE    MAN.* 


BY    ROBERT    GRANT, 
Author  of  "  The  Little  Tin  Gods  on  Wheels,"  "  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous  Girl,"  etc. 


IX. 


ONE  evening,  within  a  week  after  Reming- 
ton's dismissal,  Woodbury  Stoughton  was 
sitting  on  the  piazza  of  the  Ocean  House  at 
Newport.  He  had  just  lighted  a  cigar,  and, 
having  obtained  a  purchase  with  his  feet 
against  the  solid  railing,  was  gently  tilting  his 
chair  to  the  rhythm  of  his  own  reflections. 
He  was  sufficiently  in  shadow  to  escape  the 
scrutiny  of  those  who  still  strolled  up  and 
down  the  broad  veranda,  listening  to  the 
music  wafted  thither  from  the  not  far  distant 
Casino.  It  was  about  midnight,  but  the  form 
of  entertainment  known  as  a  "  hop  "  was  there  in 
progress,  despite  the  heat  of  the  atmosphere; 
and  the  attendant  carriages  of  the  revelers, 
seen  through  the  foliage,  passing  and  repass- 
ing  each  other,  like  huge  solemn  glow-worms, 
upon  the  avenue  which  fronts  the  hotel,  gave 
a  murmur  to  the  darkness. 

Woodbury  would  on  the  morrow  be  con- 
gratulated as  one  of  the  luckiest  fellows  going. 
Miss  Isabel  Idlewild,  the  only  daughter  of  the 
rich  banker,  had  plighted  him  her  troth  to- 
day, and  he  had  just  returned  from  an  inter- 
view with  the  family,  supplemented  by  a 
passage  with  her  in  the  parlor.  The  old  man, 
as  his  would-be  son-in-law  mentally  styled 
Peter  Idlewild,  had  thrown  no  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  an  immediate  engagement.  Any 
disposition  he  might  have  had  to  complain  at 
Stoughton's  lack  of  means  had  been  silenced 
by  his  wife,  who  took  it  upon  herself  to  ex- 
pound the  advantages  of  the  young  man's 
social  position.  The  lover  had  accordingly 
found  the  interview  less  terrible  than  con- 
vention painted  it.  The  banker  had  declared 
Isabel's  happiness  to  be  his  own. 

"  My  daughter  tells  me,  sir,  that  you  and 
she  have  kind  o'  come  to  terms,"  he  said, 
when  he  had  taken  the  young  man  into  the 
library  and  shut  the  door.  This  kind  of  thing 
was  foreign  to  the  experience  of  the  ex-circus 
manager.  He  felt  all  at  sea,  and  was  doubt- 
ful whether  propriety  demanded  from  him  a 
jocular  or  a  sedate  attitude. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Idlewild,  I  believe  so ;  that  is, 
of  course,  with  your  consent.  I  love  Miss 
Idlewild,  and  I  have  reason  to  think  she  is  not 
indifferent  to  me." 


"  Well,  sir,"  continued  the  father,  with  a; 
curious  smile,  "  I  don't  see  that  my  consent 
has  much  to  do  with  it.  If  you  love  Isabel, 
and  she  loves  you,  you're  bound  to  get  married 
somehow,  aren't  you  ?  That's  the  way  they 
did  things  when  I  was  a  boy.  However,  if 
my  consent  is  all  that  stands  in  the  way,  I 
guess  you  wont  have  much  trouble  ! " 

Stoughton  expressed  his  gratitude  in  anj 
appropriate  word  or  two. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  inquired  the  other,  i 
scrutinizing  the  young  man's  handsome  face 
and  genteel  person. 

"  Just  twenty-six." 

"  Humph !    In  the  law,  aren't  yer  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  have  been  practicing  abouti 
two  years." 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  make  a  very  bigj 
income  yet."  There  was  a  twinkle  in  the 
capitalist's  eye,  and  Stoughton,  in  replying,, 
blushed  with  some  confusion.  This  question 
of  money  was  one  which  he  had  dreaded  to 
touch  upon. 

"  No,  sir,  I  can't  say  the  law  is  very  lucra-j 
tive  just  yet.    It's  rather  hard  sledding  for  a 
young  man  at  first,  but  I'm  beginning  to  seei 
my  way  ahead   a  little.    There's    plenty  of 
room  on  the  top  benches,  they  say,"  he  added 
with  an  effort  to  be  sprightly. 

"  I've  a  small  property  of  my  own,  Mr 
Idlewild,"  he  continued  presently. 

"How  much?" 

"  About  fifteen  thousand  dollars." 

"  Humph  !  Well,"  the  banker  remarked 
after  a  short  pause,  "  I  guess  I  sha'n't  let  m> 
daughter  come  to  want.  How  much  now'l 
you  need  to  set  up  with  ?  I  suppose  a  hun 
dred  thousand  will  keep  you  going  for  a  yea: 
or  two." 

"  You  are  very  liberal,  sir.  I  did  not  expec 
anything  of  the  sort.  I  shall  do  my  best  tomab 
your  daughter  happy,"  Stoughton  went  on  t( 
say,  feeling  perhaps,  in  his  satisfaction,  tha 
something  of  the  sort  was  incumbent  on  him 

"  Very  good,  young  man.  If  she's  happy, ! 
shall  be."  The  millionaire  paused  a  moment 
and  then  with  a  relaxation  of  his  dry  tone,  a 
if  mindful  that,  after  all,  this  was  he  when 
his  child  had  chosen  for  a  husband,  "  She's  . 
good  girl,  Mr.  Stoughton, — a  good  girl.  Ti 
man  who  gets  her,  gets  a  gold  mine.  If  sh<y; 


*  Copyright,  1883,  by  Robert  Grant. 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN 


851 


!  fond  of  you,  that's  all  I  want.  You  have  my  con- 
|  sent,  and  I've  money  enough  for  you  both." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  Peter  Idle- 
I  wild  rose  with  a  quizzical  smile.  "  I  guess  you 
|  don't  want  to  see  me  much  longer,  Mr. 

I  Stoughton  ;  there's  somebody  waiting  for  you 
|  in  the  parlor." 

In  the  parlor  the  successful  suitor  found 

j  his  fiancee.    She  rose  and  stepped  forward  to 

meet  him.    Her  face  was  somewhat  pale,  but 

I 1  her  eyes  sparkled  with  a  happy  brightness. 
"Was  pa  very  terrible?"  she  asked,  with  a 

I  joyous  laugh,  as  he  grasped  her  fingers. 

"  He  made  no  objection.  He  seems  quite 
|  willing  that  we  should  be  married,  Isabel." 

"  Dear  old  pa !    I  knew  he  wouldn't  say  no. 

i  And  are  you  quite  happy  ?  "  she  continued,  as 

(they  sat  down  together  on  the  sofa.    "  It  is  so 

i  I  funny  to  think  we  are  actually  engaged.    Do 

•  you  believe  it  will  surprise  people  ?    Oh,  how 
; (strange  it  all  seems!" 

"  Doesn't  it,  dear  ?  "  and  Stoughton  reached 

I  out  and  took  in  his  the  girl's  dimpled  hand. 
She  turned  her  face  toward  him.    "  Do  you 

!  |  truly,  truly  love   me  ?   And  you  will  never 

j  laugh  at  me  again  ?" 

"  Laugh  at  you  ?  Isabel,  do  you  think  I 
would  laugh  at  you  ?  What  I  told  you  yester- 
|day  was  true,  every  word  of  it.  You  are  dearer 

i  ithan  every  thing  in  the  world  to  me.  I  love  you, 
—  I  worship  you, —  I  adore  you.  Isabel,  Isa- 

j  pel, — look  at  me,  tell  me  you  believe  me." 

There  was  nothing  of  disordered  passion  in 
the  young  man's  manner.  His  words  were 
spoken  in  a  low,  sweet  tone ;  and  as  he  waited 

.  for  a  response,  he  threw  his  arm  around  her 
form  in  a  caressing  fashion.  She  trembled 
convulsively,  and  half  sought  to  elude  his 

i  jembrace ;  but  his  'grasp  detained  her. 
I  She  looked  at  him  with  a  timid  but  fond 
playfulness.  "  Shall  I  believe  you  ?  You  see, 
I  really  know  you  so  little."  She  paused  an 
instant.  "  Yes,  I  believe  you,"  she  said,  softly 
and  shyly. 

He  took  her  face  between  his  palms  with  a 

.  "delighted  air.    "  Repeat  now  after  me,  *  I  love 

,  jyou,  Woodbury.'" 

f  "Oh,  I  couldn't!"  She  disengaged  herself, 
jmd  turned  away  with  an  embarrassment  that 

l.was  charmingly  coy. 

I  "  Yes,  you  can.  Please."  And  the  young 
nan  renewed  his  hold. 

*  "Oh,  I  couldn't ! "  She  trembled  slightly 
igain,  and  for  a  while  was  silent.  Then  at 
'ast,  with  a  downcast  glance  and  a  diffident 
tittle  laugh,  she  said,  so  low  that  it  fell  from 
,ier  lips  like  a  whisper,  "I —  I  like  you  very 

•  |mich, —  Woodbury." 

"  You  darling !  "  and  the  lover  pressed  an 
irdent  kiss  upon  her  lips.  Her  eyes  were 
)ent  upon  her  lap.  Her  breath  came  and 


went  quickly.  She  turned  suddenly,  and, 
shaking  herself  free  from  his  pressure,  bent 
her  gaze  full  upon  him.  There  was  a  strange 
light  of  joy  on  her  face.  He  leaned  forward 
toward  her,  and  with  a  low  cry  she  suffered 
herself  to  be  clasped  in  his  arms. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  as  she  nestled  her  head 
against  his  shoulder,  "  and  you  do  really'love 
me,  don't  you,  dear  ?  For  I  love  you  so, — 
Woodbury,"  and  she  hid  her  shamefaced  eyes 
again  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 

He  patted  her  hair  softly.  "  I  never  thought 
I  should  care  for  any  one  but  pa ;  but  I  do, 
you  find."  And  she  laughed  with  a  happy, 

i    i  *        /-    i         i  •*•  *  J 

blissful  glee. 

These  memories  were  present  to  Stoughton 
as  he  sat  smoking  on  the  hotel  piazza.  He 
had  parted  from  Isabel  an  hour  before.  What 
his  own  sensations  were  he  scarcely  knew.  He 
was  very  fortunate,  and  he  ought  to  feel  very 
happy ;  so  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  watched 
the  wreaths  of  smoke  dissolve  into  the  dark- 
ness. And  yet,  what  meant  this  strange 
weight  about  his  heart,  which  oppressed 
him  ?  Had  he  not  won  what  he  had  •  been 
striving  for,  accomplished  what  he  had  planned 
and  desired  ?  He  was  in  love  with  Isabel,  and 
he  was  going  to  marry  her.  She  would  make 
him  very  happy.  She  was  a  fine  girl.  He 
would  be  well  off,  and  able  to  satisfy  his  am- 
bition. He  ought  to  be  perfectly  contented 
and  happy.  He  was  perfectly  contented. 
Was  he  ?  Why,  then,  did  he  not  feel  a  wild 
transport,  a  desire  to  throw  his  cap  into  the 
air  and  proclaim  his  rapture  to  the  world  ?  A 
man  just  engaged  should  be  bubbling  over 
with  bliss,  and  here  he  was  musing  in  a  cor- 
ner. That  interview  with  Isabel  should  have 
driven  away  the  last  vestige  of  doubt,  she  was 
so  sweet,  so  confiding,  so  full  of  love  for  him. 
Yes,  and  he — he  had  sat  there,  conscious  that 
he  was  kissing  her  as  a  doll,  as  a  beautiful  toy, 
— conscious,  though  he  had  striven  to  banish 
the  impression,  that  he  regarded  her  in  the 
light  of  an  inferior  being.  And  yet  he  had 
acted  with  his  eyes  open  and  of  his  own  free 
will.  Pshaw!  these  repinings  were  but  the 
last  throes  of  his  subdued  romanticism,  re- 
sembling the  muscular  action  which  makes 
hens  run  about  the  barn-yard  after  their  heads 
have  been  cut  off.  If  it  was  to  be  done  over 
again,  would  he  not  do  it  ?  Yes;  and  still  this 
weight  pressed  upon  his  heart  and  numbed 
his  sense  of  happiness. 

Wherefore  was  this  ?  Did  he  love  Dorothy 
Crosby?  Did  he  feel  a  regret  that  he  had 
barred  himself  forever  from  the  chance  of 
making  her  his  wife  ?  Bah  !  He  had  taken 
this  step  with  deliberation.  One  cannot  have 
everything  in  the  world,  and  he  had  made  his 
choice.  No,  he  did  not  love  her ;  he  did  not 


85* 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


wish  to  marry  her.  Why,  in  Heaven's  name, 
should  he  marry  her  ?  What  was  this  tyrant 
that  was  oppressing  his  spirit  with  these  sen- 
timental doubts  ?  He  surely  had  a  right  to  con- 
sult his  own  happiness  in  this  respect  ?  There 
was  no  tangible  reason  why  he  should  wed  a 
penniless  girl  merely  because  she  was  sweet 
and  lovely.  That  might  have  been  the  phi- 
losophy of  his  ancestors,  but  he  could  not 
subscribe  to  it.  But  did  he  not  subscribe  to 
it  in  spite  of  himself? 

He  cast  his  eyes  up  toward  the  sky.  Above 
the  waving  foliage  of  the  trees,  which  the 
night  air  was  now  stirring,  the  stars  were  burn- 
ing calm  and  clear.  Their  orbs,  eloquent  with 
chaste  but  impenetrable  mystery,  embittered, 
even  while  they  softened,  the  young  man's 
spirit.  He  had  gazed  so  often  at  the  stars 
before ;  and  what  had  they  ever  brought  him 
but  thoughts  which  were  not  to  be  fathomed 
and  aspirations  that  could  not  be  fulfilled  ? 
They  had  been  the  bugbear  of  his  days  — 
these  vague,  intangible  yearnings.  They  had 
fettered  the  play  and  scope  of  his  natural 
impulses  and  desires.  Ideals  ?  Aspirations  ? 
What  were  they  but  the  reflex  of  a  craving 
for  self-approbation  based  on  the  approval  of 
his  fellow-men  ?  That  which  was  called  right 
and  that  which  was  called  wrong  were  right 
and  wrong  merely  by  a  reference  to  a  human 
judgment  founded  upon  the  laws  of  nature 
and  the  laws  of  society.  The  latter  varied 
with  every  clime  and  race.  Why  was  it  that 
this  shadow  of  a  curse  should  be  hovering 
about  him,  like  some  pale  specter  ?  There 
were  times  when  men  had  faith  in  ghosts ; 
there  were  times  when  they  believed  in  hell. 
But  those  days  were  past ;  at  least  they  were 
past  for  him.  The  conception  of  an  avenging 
Deity  was  no  longer  tenable  by  thinking 
beings.  He  had  no  more  fear  of  future  pun- 
ishment than  of  a  grave-yard  at  night ;  and 
what  was  there  terrible  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
tombs  of  the  dead,  but  the  damp  and  cold  ? 
What  difference  would  it  make  whether  or 
not  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  this  whispering 
tyrant  ?  Time  reconciles  us  to  all  things. 
Time  had  laid  its  moss  over  his  wounds  be- 
fore, and  would  do  so  again.  He  had  no  fear 
of  remorse.  Remorse  ?  And  wherefore  re- 
morse ?  His  act  was  but  the  selection  of  his 
own  happiness,  a  mere  choice  between  two 
agreeable  methods  of  living.  He  liked  the  girl. 
He  could  get  on  with  her  perfectly, —  and  her 
money  would  be  everything  to  him,  for  the 
last  six  months  had  treated  him  badly.  He  had 
lost  fifteen  thousand  dollars  in  speculation. 

His  thoughts  ran  on  in  a  swift  and  analytic 
vein.  And  yet,  save  for  ideality,  for  the  hope 
of  something  beyond  the  ken  of  man,  the 
animal  pleasures  and  passions  were  the  sweet- 


est. Was  not  all  higher  enjoyment  based 
necessarily  on  an  assumed  or,  at  least,  a 
longed-for  sympathy  between  the  unseen  and 
the  human  ?  What  was  it  that  deterred  him 
from  vice  and  lower  pursuits,  that  spurred 
him  to  intellectual  endeavor,  save  a  sense  of 
kinship  with  something  nobler  ?  If  he  fol- 
lowed out  the  train  of  his  materialistic  logic 
to  the  end,  where  would  it  lead  him  ?  What 
would  become  of  the  race  and  civilization  ? 
The  race  !  Civilization  !  What  was  it  to-day  ?. 
A  surging  mass  of  beings,  each  trying  to  out- 
strip the  other.  And  whither  were  they  tend- 
ing? Who  could  tell  ?  And  here  he  sat — a 
man,  a  human  creature,  one  of  them.  Above 
his  head  the  stars  were  twinkling  with  silent 
poetry.  Before  his  mental  vision  rose  a  pict- 
ure of  the  throbbing  interests  and  ambitions 
of  real  life.  The  unreal  and  the  real,  the 
material  and  the  ideal !  He  was  conscious  of 
a  sense  of  shame  that  he  would  fain  have 
silenced,  of  a  bitter  pang  that  would  not  de- 
part. Cursed  fate,  that  he  must  be  a  victim 
of  the  momentum  of  bygone  ages,  of  the 
superstition  of  the  past !  And  yet,  even  while 
he  murmured,  was  he  not  aware  in  his  heart 
that  in  struggle  and  resistance  lay  the  secret 
of  the  shining  stars  ? 

He  sat  and  pondered.    Presently  he  took 
from  his  pocket  a  letter-case,  out  of  which  he 
extracted  a  tiny  note.    It  had  the  thumbed 
look  which   proceeds  from  frequent  exami-  , 
nation,  and  was  in  a  feminine  hand.    Stough- 
ton  opened  it  and  stared  at  the  white  page. 
Perhaps  by  holding  it  toward  the  adjacent 
gaslight  he  might  have  been  able  to  decipher 
the  writing.    But  this  was  quite  unnecessary, 
for  the   young   man   knew  the  contents  by  ] 
heart.    The  note  was  from  Dorothy  Crosby,  i 
merely  a  few  lines  thanking  him  for  a  book  i 
he  had  lent   her.    He   let  it   remain   for  a 
moment  on  his  knee ;  then,  slowly  folding  it  i 
into  a  narrow  strip,  he  struck  a  match  and  i 
watched  the  flame  eat  its  gradual  way  up  the 
paper.     When  it  was  well  ablaze  he  lit  his  1 
cigar  with  this  preciousaMtmttte.  As  he  tossed 
the  remains,  which  threatened    to    burn  his. 
fingers,  over  the  piazza  rail,  the  hotel  coach  j 
came  bowling  up  to  the  entrance.    It  was  the 
hour  of  arrival  for  those  who  had  left  New  j 
York  that  afternoon  by  the  boat.    There  was 
but   one  passenger,  a  thick-set  young  man.  j 
well  wrapped  in  an  ulster.    As  he  descended! 
from  the  vehicle  the  light  fell  on  his  face  andl 
disclosed  Finchley.    Stoughton  was  standing  1 
close  by  the  steps,  and  the  young  men  reco.g-1 
nized  each  other  simultaneously.    One  whd| 
was  alert  might  have  noticed  a  slight  scowl  ol;  I 
annoyance  flit  across  the  new-comer's  coui-'l 
tenance,  but  he  held  out  his  hand  cordially 

"  Well,  well,  Finchley,  you're  about  the  las  I 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


853 


man  I  expected  to  see  in  this  place.  How  did 
you  leave  them  all  in  New  York  ?  How  are 
stocks  ?  " 

"  Dull,  dull  as  death.  There  was  so  little 
doing  I  thought  I'd  run  down  here  for  Sun- 
day. It  looks  as  if  you  had  it  pretty  much  all 
to  yourself  here,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  the 
wide-stretching  wooden  building,  and  along 
the  broad  piazza,  which  now  lay  silent  and 
deserted. 

"  Yes,  I'm  rather  a  night-owl.  You'll  find 
it  lively  enough  to-morrow,  though.  But  you 
must  be  done  up  with  the  heat.  Come  in  and 
have  something  to  drink." 

Stoughton  led  the  way  into  the  bar. 
While  the  attendant  prepared  their  orders, 
the  young  men  chatted  on  indifferent  topics. 
"  Here's  luck.  Ah,"  said  Finchley,  as  he 
drained  his  glass,  "that  goes  to  the  right 
spot.  Tell  me,"  he  asked  presently,  turning 
toward  the  other,  "  are  the  Idlewilds  still  at 
Newport  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  they  have  a  cottage  for  the 
summer —  Colonel  Patterson's  old  place  on 
Leroy  Avenue.  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  them." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  down  here  ?  " 
inquired  Finchley,  after  a  little. 

"  About  four  weeks.  You  see  there's  some 
compensation  for  being  a  briefless  lawyer ;  we 
get  more  time  to  play  the  butterfly."  Stough- 
ton spoke  jocularly,  but  his  companion  might 
have  noticed  the  confusion  of  his  manner. 

"  I  see,"  said  Finchley,  dryly.  He  changed 
the  subject  to  stocks,  and  for  some  minutes 
discoursed  glibly  on  the  state  of  the  market. 

Stoughton  felt  puzzled  what  to  do.  Here  it 
was  past  midnight.  The  engagement  would 
be  announced  in  the  morning,  and  everybody 
would  know  it.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  tell  Finchley.  It  was  much  more 
natural  he  should.  Finchley  had  been  atten- 
tive to  Miss  Idlewild,  he  knew,  but  he  had 
no  ground  for  suspecting  anything  serious. 
Besides,  if  there  was,  he  must  hear  of  the 
news  sooner  or  later. 

"  Look  here,  old  fellow,  let's  have  another 
drink."  He  had  never  used  such  familiarity 
with  the  broker  before,  but  somehow  his 
spirits  seemed  to  be  effervescing  under  the 
prospect  of  narrating  his  good  fortune. 
There  was  no  question  people  would  think 
him  immensely  to  be  envied.  "  There's  some- 
thing I  want  to  tell  you.  I've  had  a  big  slice 
of  happiness  put  to  my  account  to-day.  The 
same  again,"  he  interjected  to  the  bar-keeper. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  Struck  a  bonanza  ?"  said  the 
other,  with  a  grim  effort  at  humor,  but  with 
his  eyes  fastened  on  the  speaker's  face. 

"  I'm  engaged  to  be  married.  To  Miss 
Idlewild,"  he  added,  by  way  of  explanation. 

"  To  Miss  Idlewild  ?  Well,  you  are  a  lucky 


fellow,"  replied  Finchley,  quietly,  but  without 
flinching.  He  cast  about  his  eyes  as  if  in 
search  of  some  vent  for  his  feelings.  His 
glance  fell  on  the  drinks,  which  were  now  pre- 
pared. He  reached  forward  and  seized  his 
glass.  "  Here's  my  regards,  Stoughton  ;  you're 
a  lucky  fellow,  an  infernal  lucky  fellow,"  he  cried 
with  a  fierce  fervor,  and  he  drained  the  glass 
to  the  bottom.  "  How  much  is  it  ?  "  he  asked 
of  the  bar-tender  with  a  frown,  and  he  tossed 
a  silver  dollar  on  the  counter  so  that  it  rang. 

"  Stop,  stop !  it's  my  treat,  Finchley.  I 
asked  you  to  drink  with  me,"  exclaimed 
Stoughton. 

"  No,  it's  all  right ;  it's  my  affair ;  I  drank 
with  you  before."  But  Finchley  colored  with 
annoyance.  His  mechanical  action  must  have 
betrayed  his  feelings.  "  How  long  have  you 
been  engaged  ?"  he  inquired  abruptly. 

Stoughton  was  a  little  nettled  by  the  im- 
pertinence of  the  question.  He  could  afford, 
however,  to  be  good-natured.  "  Only  a  short 
time.  It  is  to  be  announced  to-morrow,"  he 
replied  quietly. 

"Is  that  so?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  bid  you  good-night,  Finch- 
ley;  it's  rather  late  for  an  engaged  man," 
said  Stoughton  festively,  looking  at  his  watch. 

The  other  had  lighted  a  cigar,  at  which  he 
was  puffing  vigorously.  "  All  right.  I  guess 
I  sha'n't  turn  in  just  yet.  I  want  a  smoke." 
Finchley  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  side- 
table  fronting  the  counter,  which  the  bar- 
tender was  polishing  with  a  cloth.  The  latter 
was  a  sallow,  drawn-out  young  man,  without  a 
shirt-collar,  and  arrayed  in  a  soiled  linen  duster. 
He  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry  to  bring  matters  to 
a  close;  for  after  having  finished  his  occupation, 
he  proceeded  to  pick  his  teeth  reflectively. 

"  Hot  in  New  York,  sir,  I  dare  say,"  he 
observed,  by  way  of  conversation. 

"  Right  you  are,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"  Come  by  boat  to-night,  sir  ?  " 

"  Cor-r-rect ! " 

There  was  something  trenchant  in  the  tone 
of  his  customer  which  doubtless  warned  this 
seeker  after  information  that  a  continuation  of 
his  talkative  vein  might  prove  dangerous.  At 
any  rate  he  relapsed  into  silence,  save  for  a 
consolatory  low  whistle,  to  the  melody  of 
which  he  proceeded  to  put  things  to  rights, 
preparatory  to  closing  up.  He  turned  out  all 
the  lights  except  one  small  gas-jet.  Revenge 
was  here  simple  and  perhaps  justifiable.  "Time 
to  close  the  bar,  sir." 

"  All  right."  Finchley  was  sitting  on  the 
table,  his  legs  hanging  over,  and  his  pursed- 
up  lips  were  sending  forth  now  and  again 
wreaths  of  smoke.  One  foot  swung  nervously 
to  and  fro.  "  I  suppose  there's  no  way  of 
getting  back  to  New  York  to-night  ?  " 


854 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


"  Nothing  till  to-morrow."  The  tables  were 
turned.    The  stranger  was  the   interrogator 
But  the  victor,  either  generously  con- 


now. 


tent  with  a  short  triumph,  or  unable  to  resist 
for  the  sake  of  a  mere  sentimental  con- 
sideration, like  pride — a  chance  of  satisfying 
his  propensity,  asked,  after  a  pause,  "  Expect- 
ing to  make  a  lengthy  stop,  sir  ?  " 

Finchley  made  no  reply.  He  passed  out 
through  the  corridors  on  to  the  piazza  again, 
where  he  walked  up  and  down  with  a  quick 
tread.  He  did  not  know  exactly  what  to 
make  of  his  sensations.  A  feeling  of  utter 
misery,  as  if — in  the  language  of  his  own 
calling — the  bottom  had  dropped  out  of 
everything,  oppressed  him.  Little  accustomed 
to  analyze  his  impressions,  he  simply  gritted 
his  teeth  in  the  ecstasy  of  a  suffering  he  could 
not  quite  understand,  and  paced  the  platform 
much  after  the  method  of  a  wounded  animal 
that  is  ignorant  of  all  save  the  pain.  Life 
seemed  a  void,  a  complete  blank.  There  was 
nothing  worth  having.  The  handsome  profit 
placed  to  his  account  the  past  six  months,  on 
a  lot  of  Western  bonds  which  his  firm  had 
floated  with  success,  no  longer  caused  him  a 
thrill  at  its  remembrance. 

He  stepped  off  the  piazza  and  wandered 
along  Bellevue  Avenue,  which  was  now  wrap- 
ped in  silence.  No  footfall  but  his  own  was 
stirring.  On  either  side  of  the  way,  through 
a  vanguard  of  dusky  trees,  handsome  cottages 
slumbered  on  a  sea  of  glittering  lawn ;  for  the 
moon  had  risen.  He  walked  rapidly,  with 
eyes  cast  on  the  ground.  He  was  scarcely 
aware  of  a  destination,  and  perhaps,  if  he  had 
fully  realized  whither  his  steps  were  tending, 
would  have  rebelled.  He  had  been  to  New- 
port once  or  twice  already  this  summer,  and 
this  walk  was  familiar  to  him.  Upon  reaching 
a  corner  where  one  of  the  side  streets  crosses 
the  main  avenue,  he  turned  down  the  same, 
but  with  a  slackened  pace.  Close  at  hand 
rose,  clear  and  white  in  the  moonshine,  a 
stately  villa,  built  somewhat  in  the  style  of 
an  ancient  castle.  A  grove  of  chestnuts  shut 
in  the  front ;  but  there  was  a  skirting  of  box- 
hedge  upon  the  side  of  the  grounds  that 
bordered  the  cross-road,  over  which  could  be 
seen  fantasticbeds  of  flowers,  and  farther  away  a 
tennis-court.  A  neatly  graveled  avenue  twisted 
its  course  through  the  lawn,  like  a  shining  snake. 

Finchley  stood  still.  The  well-known  sight 
had  brought  him  to  his  senses,  or  rather 
opened  his  eyes  more  significantly  to  the 
sources  of  his  sorrow.  He  sighed  heavily, 
and,  glancing  up  at  the  windows  for  an  in- 
stant, turned  on  his  heel.  As  he  reached  the 
corner  of  the  avenue  again,  he  almost  ran  upon 
a  man  who  was  reeling  along  the  path,  close 
to  the  fence,  in  a  half-inebriated  condition. 


"  G'd  ev'ning.  Say,  boss,  aint  you  got 
something  for  a  poor  feller  ?  " 

Finchley  was  going  to  pass  on;  but  the 
man  ran  out  in  front  of  him  with  a  be- 
seeching, cringing  air.  He  was  a  meager- 
faced,  disheveled-looking  wretch,  with  no 
suggestion  of  the  highwayman  about  him. 
"  Just  a  thrifle,  boss." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  money  this  time- 
of  night?" 

"  Well,  boss,"  said  the  man,  with  a  gaunt 
leer  and  a  huskiness  of  tone  which  he  in- 
tended to  be  wheedling,  "  I  need  a  drink 
awful  bad." 

There  was  something  of  pathos  in  the 
appeal  that  harmonized  with  Finchley's 
mood.  Here  was  another  fellow-being,  as 
miserable  as  himself  perhaps,  whose  sorrows 
could  be  drowned  for  an  hour  by  a  glass  of 
poor  whisky.  He  reached  down  into  his 
pocket  and  drew  forth  a  handful  of  small 
coins.  In  their  midst  glistened  a  five-dollar 
gold  bit,  fresh  from  the  mint.  It  was  a  habit 
with  Finchley  to  carry  a  few  gold  pieces  about 
with  him.  Perhaps  their  daintiness  pleased 
him,  or  he  thought  they  gave  him  an  air  of 
splendor.  He  tossed  the  coin  in  question  to 
the  beggar.  It  fell  on  the  ground  with  a  chink 
and  described  an  arc  into  the  gutter,  from 
which  the  unsteady  fingers  of  the  searcher 
presently  rescued  it. 

"  Heaven  bless  yer,  boss." 

"  That's  all  right.  Go  and  get  drunk  now, 
— roaring,  boiling  drunk,  mind.  Have  an  Ai 
number-one  time  for  once  in  your  life."  He 
felt  at  odds  with  destiny  and  ripe  to  play  the 
social  iconoclast. 

He  strode  on.  His  dream  was  dissipated. 
Not  that  it  had  been  a  soaring  conception,  this 
love  of  his ;  but  the  fervor  had  been  genuine 
of  its  kind.  A  beautiful  girl  at  the  head  of  his 
table,  in  a  snug  little  house  bedizened  with  all 
that  is  pretty  and  cozy, — a  -soft,  plump  cheek, 
and  radiant  eyes  to  be  proud  of  at  the  theater, 
or  the  supper  parties  he  would  give  at  Delmon- 
ico's, — such  was  its  objective  end.  He  had 
money  enough,  and  she  would  have  millions 
some  day.  But  her  wealth  was  by  way  of  an 
after- thought.  What  had  been  ever  present 
to  him  was  the  subtle  tremor  of  excitement 
which  her  presence  evoked,  a  consciousness 
that  was  strange  to  him,  and  delightful  from 
its  very  vagueness.  He  had  lived,  so  to  speak, 
from  hand  to  mouth  through  the  years  of  his 
youth,  with  but  one  idea  as  a  beacon  —  the 
necessity  of  becoming  rich.  He  had  taken 
existence  as  he  found  it.  He  had  practi( 
the  commonplace  virtues  with  the  best 
tention ;  but,  in  his  haste  and  absorptioi 
what  others  did  had  been  good  enough  for 
him.  His  world  had  been  the  streets  of  New 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


York,  and  his  laws  the  laws  of  trade.  His 
knowledge  of  what  was  outside  and  beyond 
was  but  superficial,  and  his  latter-day  efforts 
to  arrive  thereat  had,  as  we  already  know, 
been  stamped  with  an  ostentatious  vulgarity. 

The  advent  of  his  passion  scarcely  altered 
his  habits,  but  a  new  train  of  perceptions  had 
been  awakened  thereby.  A  certain  tenderness 
of  nature,  hitherto  unknown  to  him, — a 
coarse-grained,  clumsy  article,  to  be  sure,  but 
still  a  reality, — had  manifested  itself.  A  grow- 
ing conviction  of  the  grossness  of  his  own 
mode  of  life  had  stirred  under  the  breath  of 
love,  and  been  slowly  fanned  to  a  flame, 
which,  though  not  prodigious,  might  have 
sufficed  in  time  to  keep  the  penates  warm. 
Thoughts  of  public  usefulness,  such  as  a 
career  in  politics,  that  had  been  before  merely 
hazy  conceptions,  assumed  the  form  of  dis- 
tinct ambitions.  This  new  master  of  his  spirit 
demanded  fealty,  and  he  had  been  prepared 
to  ratify  his  claims. 

But  now  it  was  all  over.  The  vision  had 
vanished,  and  he  was  remanded  to  the  society 
of  his  old  companions.  As  the  truth  dawned 
upon  him,  he  experienced  the  repulsion  of  one 
who  comes  out  of  the  sunshine  into  an  apart- 
ment stale  with  smoke  and  lighted  by  gas.  He 
had  never  realized  until  this  moment  the  extent 
to  which  his  interest  in  Isabel  had  separated 
him  from  the  past,  and  a  sense  of  angry  grief, 
mingled  with  despair,  kept  him  tossing  on  his 
couch  until  the  gray  of  morning. 


x. 


ONE  evening,  late  in  the  following  winter, 
Remington  sat  sipping  his  coffee  after  dinner 
at  the  club,  which  had  become  a  favorite 
resort  of  his.  He  met  there  principally  men 
who,  like  himself,  had  enjoyed  the  advantages 
of  a  university  education.  It  was  there  that 
he  had  become  more  alive  to  the  feverish 
energy  of  his  own  generation,  and  had  grown 
to  admire  the  ability  and  information  of  men 
who  were  but  a  few  years  older  than  himself. 
Many,  of  course,  were  to  be  found  there 
who  were  simply  votaries  of  pleasure — mere 
loungers,  who  read  the  newspapers  and  played 
cards  as  an  existence ;  but  the  larger  portion 
were  intelligent,  earnest-minded  men,  who 
came  thither  for  relaxation.  That  they  were 
an  ambitious,  hard-working  set  it  was  easy  to 
see  from  the  expression  of  their  faces,  and 
from  the  supineness  with  which  they  took 
their  ease,  as  if  they  could  not  feel  sure  of 
ever  being  at  leisure  again.  Shrewd  and  in- 
telligent in  matters  of  business,  they  were 
charmingly  versatile  in  moments  of  recreation. 
Many  of  them  had  traveled  abroad,  and  the 
conversation  to  be  heard  often  bore  the  stamp 


of  sense  and  cleverness.  Their  speech  was, 
however,  tinged  with  that  peculiar  ironical 
humor  common  to  all  classes  in  this  country, 
against  which  nothing  is  completely  sacred. 
To  touch  serious  topics  with  a  light  hand  was 
there  a  custom ;  and  yet  they  loved  dearly  to 
philosophize  after  dinner.  For  the  rest,  their 
dress  was  in  excellent  taste ;  they  breakfasted 
very  late  on  Sunday  mornings ;  it  was  uncom- 
mon to  find  one  who  did  not  turn  to  the 
stock  quotations  before  anything  else  in  the 
newspaper;  and,  almost  unanimously,  they 
inveighed  against  the  political  debasement  of 
the  country.  There  were  many  who,  though 
young,  had  already  acquired  reputation  in  their 
callings,  and  yet  who  delighted  in  company 
to  scoff  at  ambition  and  harp  upon  the  omnip- 
otence of  wealth. 

Upon  quitting  Bar  Harbor  eight  months 
before,  life  had  seemed  a  terrible  blank  to 
Remington,  and  the  wound  caused  by  Miss 
Crosby's  refusal  had  smarted  far  into  the 
autumn.  His  love  had  been  thoroughly 
genuine,  and  the  sudden  extinction  of  the 
beacon  upon  which  his  eyes  had  rested  un- 
waveringly for  the  past  two  years  left  him  in 
utter  darkness.  His  catastrophe  with  Miss 
Maud  Bolles  sank  into  insignificance  beside 
the  desperation  of  this  really  heart- felt  grief. 
After  the  edge  of  his  suffering  became  so  far 
blunted  as  to  permit  of  rational  thought,  he 
had  tried  to  analyze  the  situation,  but  without 
much  comfort.  He  was  all  adrift  as  to  Miss 
Crosby's  feelings.  Speculation  as  to  his 
chances  of  success,  in  case  he  were  to  per- 
severe, left  him  at  the  close  precisely  where  he 
started  from. 

There  had  been  a  gradual  sequel  to  this 
frame  of  mind.  Her  refusal  had  been  de- 
cided—  oh,  yes,  perfectly  decided;  still  she 
had  said  there  was  no  one  else.  Perhaps  time 
would  make  a  difference.  If  he  went  to  work 
and  showed  himself  worthy  of  her,  she  might 
come  to  like  him  some  day.  His  best  plan 
undoubtedly  would  be  to  neglect  her  for  a 
while.  He  had  heard  that  girls  miss  attentions 
to  which  they  have  become  accustomed,  and 
that  a  lover  has  much  more  chance  if  he 
fights  shy  of  one  who  has  given  him  the  mit- 
ten. Little  by  little  he  began  to  take  more 
interest  in  his  down-town  work.  He  felt  that 
he  ought  not  to  allow  his  scheme  of  life  to  be 
interfered  with  by  a  disappointment  of  this 
kind.  Marriage  was  only  an  incident  in  a 
man's  career;  and,  however  deplorable  it 
might  be  to  meet  with  disaster  where  hopes 
had  been  garnered  up,  despair  ought  not  to 
be  permitted  to  encroach  too  far.  It  may  be, 
too,  there  was  a  dash  of  vengeance  in  his  in- 
dustry. He  would  like  to  distinguish  himself, 
and  prove  to  Miss  Crosby  how  much  she  had 


856 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


lost  by  throwing  him  overboard.  Girls  do  not 
like  to  see  their  suitors  recover  from  the 
effects  of  a  somersault  too  easily.  If  she 
could  hear  that  he  was  able  to  be  so  diligent, 
would  not  the  sweetness  of  her  triumph  be 
sensibly  diminished  ? 

But  the  concomitant  of  these  resolutions  had 
been  much  thoughtfulness  and  some  cynicism. 
It  pleased  him  to  represent  to  himself  that  a 
material  view  of  existence  was  the  most  satis- 
factory, and  that  love  was  only  a  delusion. 
It  was  more  difficult  to  remain  faithful  to  the 
idealism  which  he  used  to  woo  in  his  younger 
days.  Modern  life,  with  its  whirl  of  prosaic 
business  cares  and  worldly  pleasures,  re- 
minded him  of  a  country  road  in  midsum- 
mer, upon  which  a  pitiless  sun  pours  down, 
where  the  foliage  on  either  side  is  shabby 
with  choking  dust,  and  no  breeze  stirs.  He 
lived  on  from  day  to  day;  he  enjoyed  himself 
in  a  certain  measure,  but  it  was  so  difficult  to 
extract  from  existence  aught  that  was  exhila- 
rating or  refreshing  to  that  inner  sense  of 
aspiration.  The  spiritual  oxygen  of  creation 
seemed  to  have  become  exhausted,  and  the 
world  to  lie,  like  the  landscape  of  his  vision, 
veiled  in  depressing  dust. 

It  was  best  to  take  life  quietly  and  sensibly. 
He  enjoyed  his  profession,  and  he  had  the 
means  to  indulge  in  all  rational  amusements. 
His  bachelor  days  were  lapped  in  comfort,  if 
he  would  but  look  at  the  matter  philosoph- 
ically. Ah,  that  was  just  what  he  did  do — 
look  at  the  matter  philosophically !  There 
was  the  whole  difficulty.  It  was  the  philoso- 
phy of  life  which  lay  at  the  root  of  his  trouble. 
It  was  that  great  enigma  of  the  whence  and 
the  wherefore  and  the  whither,  rising  up  for- 
ever in  his  thoughts,  that  doomed  him  to 
unrest.  Not  purely  selfish  was  his  struggle 
for  the  means  of  living  and  the  meed  of  fame ; 
but  with  his  daily  work  was  mingled  a  desire 
to  do  the  best  he  could,  to  contribute  his  mite 
toward  the  solution  of  that  mystery  which  he 
could  never  expect  to  unravel.  Others  were 
working  around  him  in  the  same  spirit.  They 
toiled  until  the  flesh  was  weary,  and  then 
they  drowned  fatigue  in  full-fledged  pleasure. 
But  still  it  was  a  hard  and  hueless  labor,  like 
that  of  the  mine,  unillumined  by  the  rays  of 
a  warm  and  definite  inspiration.  It  was,  as  it 
were,  a  standing  face  to  face  with  fate,  the 
heart  whispering  the  while,  "  We  will  be  faith- 
ful, but  we  have  no  hope."  Whither  was  this 
strife  of  humanity  tending?  Has  the  world 
advanced  in  the  drift  and  intensity  of  its  as- 
pirations from  what  it  was  a  hundred  years 
ago  ?  Mankind  were  more  comfortable  now, 
doubtless;  they  understood  better  how  to  take 
care  of  themselves,  to  ward  off  disease,  and 
to  abbreviate  suffering;  but  did  the  spirit  that 


animated  men's  breasts  to-day  soar  above  the 
cold  and  leaden  realities  of  material  things  ? 

And  yet,  with  changing  mood,  he  would 
perhaps  oftener  dwell  upon  the  sincerity  of 
modern  labor,  on  the  enthusiastic,  critical, 
and  patient  temper  of  research  in  all  fields, 
the  stern  desire  for  truth  at  every  cost.  This, 
at  least,  was  the  attitude  of  a  vast  contingent 
of  intelligent,  sober-minded  men,  who  neither 
flaunted  in  society  nor  figured  in  the  news- 
papers. The  new  and  marvelous  inventions 
of  science,  the  countless  schemes  and  appli- 
ances for  the  bettering  of  the  condition  of  the 
poor  and  ignorant,  the  vast  foundations  for 
the  spread  of  knowledge,  alike  testified  to 
the  danger  of  judging  the  world's  core  by 
the  pulsation  of  its  extremities.  The  fashion- 
able whirl  and  socialistic  outcries  were  but 
as  the  chaff  upon  the  threshing-floor,  or  the 
sparks  from  the  grindstone. 

On  New  Year's  day  he  called  upon  Dor- 
othy. She  was  not  at  home,  and  so  it  chanced 
that  he  scarcely  saw  her  all  winter.  They  had 
exchanged  a  few  words  at  parties ;  that  was 
all.  But  Remington  rarely  went  to  parties 
now.  Indeed,  it  was  a  matter  of  comment 
that  he  was  completely  changed.  Miss  Law- 
ton  declared,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her  at 
the  last  of  the  "  Late  and  Plentiful  "  germans, 
that  she  had  hardly  laid  eyes  on  him  for  six 
months.  "  I  hear  you  are  blase,  Mr.  Reming- 
ton." 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope ;  call  it  busy." 

The  only  person  of  the  other  sex  with  whom 
Remington  had  cultivated  an  intimacy  of  late 
was  Mrs.  Tom  Fielding.  He  had  got  into  the 
way  of  dropping  in  at  her  house  in  the  even- 
ing. After  coming  up  town  he  would  dress 
himself,  dine  at  the  club,  read  the  papers  for 
half  an  hour,  and  then,  if  he  did  not  play 
whist  or  go  to  the  theater,  would  turn  his 
steps  toward  her  door,  which  was  only  a  block 
distant.  He  had  found  her  an  extremely 
agreeable  companion.  She  was  very  sym- 
pathetic, and  evinced  a  keen  interest  in  liter- 
ary and  artistic  matters. 

The  early  part  of  the  winter,  Remington 
had  flattered  himself  that  male  society  suf- 
ficed for  all  his  needs  in  the  way  of  com- 
panionship. He  had  been  quite  content  to 
establish  himself  with  his  cigar  in  an  easy- 
chair,  and  chat  the  evening  away  with  some 
friend  at  the  club — often  with  Lattimer,  who 
was  a  suggestive  spirit,  and  occasionally  wit 
Ramsay  Whiting.  During  such  hours  til 
took  unto  itself  wings.  The  conversatk 
beginning  with  the  surroundings  and  the  ct 
rent  gossip,  would  branch  off  to  the  sto 
market,  travel  by  short  stages  from  politics 
sociology,  and  finally  arrive  at  immortalit 
At  length  would  come  a  pause, —  a  reflecth 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


857 


I    draining  of  the  last  drops  of  the  beverage,  as 
I    if   there  were   an   expectation  of  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  infinite  at  the  bottom  of  the 
glass, —  and  that  glance  at  the  watch  which 
accompanies  a  return  to  consciousness. 
"  Another  drink  ?  " 
"  Thank  you,  I  believe  not." 
Then  followed  the  struggle  back  into  his 
ulster,  and  the   stroll  in  the  cool  night   air 
along   the    deserted   pavements.     He  would 
I    glance  at  the  chaste  stars,  and  feel  their  in- 
I    fluence  probe,  as  it  were,  his  unhealed  wound. 
He  was  perfectly  happy  in  communion  with 
his  own  sex.  A  fig  for  the  society  of  the  other ! 
That  had  been  two  months  ago;  but  to- 
night he  sat  stirring  his  coffee  in  the  pleasant 
]   consciousness  that  he  was  to  spend  the  even- 
l    ing  with  an  attractive  woman — one  who  was 
intelligent    enough  to  understand  him,  and 
.    clever    on    her    own    account   withal.     He 
glanced  at  the  clock ;  it  was  later  than  usual, 
I   for  he  had  been  detained  at  the  office.    It 
would  be  time  to  go  in  a  few  minutes.    He 
1  took  up  the  evening  paper,  and  came  upon 
Woodbury  Stoughton's  name  as  a  newly  ap- 
pointed director  of  several  important  concerns 
I  in  which  his  father-in-law  held  a  controlling 
interest.    He  had  not  seen  so  much  of  Wood- 
bury  since  his  marriage;  their  pursuits  and 
I  ideas,  too,  seemed  less  in  common  than  for- 
merly ;  though  he  now  and  then  dropped  in 
I  to  dinner  at    his  friend's    beautiful    house. 
Stoughton  was  much  absorbed  in  his  career 
I  at  Albany,  but  he  and  Remington  had  by 
tacit  consent  avoided  conversing  about  poli- 
I  tics.  Isabel  appeared  happy.   She  was  looking 
•    very  handsome  since  her  marriage,  and  had 
been  a  good  deal  in  society. 

Remington  had  the  Stoughtons  in  his  mind 
i  as  he  donned  his  overcoat  and  walked  up  the 
I  street.  There  was  a  tinge  of  envy  to  his 
I  thought  concerning  them.  After  all,  Wood- 
I  bury  had  shown  himself  a  level-headed  fel- 
|  low.  His  friend  seemed  somehow  always  to 
|  fall  on  his  feet.  He  had  married  a  beautiful 
|  girl,  and  acquired  with  her  a  pot  of  money. 
I  That  might  just  as  well  have  happened  to 
:  him.  Why  hadn't  it  ?  He  was  sacrificing  his 
!  welfare  to  a  mere  sentiment.  There  were 
i  plenty  of  girls  in  New  York  just  as  attractive 
!  as  Miss  Crosby,  if  he  would  only  choose  to 
'  look  at  the  matter  without  prejudice. 

And  yet  this  wavering  on  his  own  part  an- 

1  noyed  him.    He  felt  ashamed  of  himself  for 

harboring  the  possibility  of  a  doubt  regarding 

the  wisdom  of  his  choice.    He  had  always 

|  believed   his  attachment  for  Miss  Crosby  to 

I  be  of  the  deepest  kind,  and  yet  of  late  he  had 

I  constantly  caught  himself  putting  his  hand 

on  his  heart,  as  it  were,  to  see  if  it  were  beat- 

:  ing  with  sufficient  intensity ;  which  reminded 


him  of  children  digging  up  seeds  that  they  have 
planted,  to  find  out  whether  they  are  growing. 

Mrs.  Fielding  greeted  him  with  cordiality. 
She  was  very  grateful  to  him  for  coming,  she 
said,  as  she  was  all  alone  and  rather  low- 
spirited.  Her  husband  had  gone  to  the  meet- 
ing of  some  philanthropic  society.  He  was 
wrapped  up  in  model  tenement  houses  and 
other  schemes  to  better  the  condition  of  the 
poor.  She  was  just  reading  the  proofs  of  a 
report  regarding  cooperative  housekeeping 
that  Mr.  Fielding  had  written.  Would  he 
like  to  look  at  them  ? 

Remington  took  the  sheets  from  her  hand 
and  ran  his  eye  over  them.  "  I  often  wonder," 
he  said,  "  if  the  poor  are  really  more  unhappy 
than  the  well-to-do.  Except  in  the  case  of 
actual  suffering  from  cold  or  hunger,  their  very 
necessity  to  work  without  stopping  to  think 
must  be  in  a  certain  sense  a  relief.  The  re- 
sponsibility of  choice  is  removed  from  them ; 
or  rather  their  only  choice  is  between  unceas- 
ing labor  and  starvation." 

"  I  should  prefer  to  starve." 

"  Perhaps,  with  your  experience  of  some- 
thing different.  But  the  sweetness  of  toil  has 
ever  been  proverbial.  I,  for  one,  can  testify  to 
the  gratification  of  feeling  at  night  the  emotion- 
less fatigue  of  the  clown.  Are  you  altogether 
certain  that  the  liberty  to  split  hairs  with  one's 
consciousness  is  to  be  esteemed  a  boon  ?" 

"  That  is,"  she  asked  in  soft  tones,  without 
looking  up  from  her  embroidery,  "  you  regard 
the  problem  of  existence  as  too  complex  for 
the  highly  evolved  brain  ?  It  is  preferable, 
you  think,  to  be  body-tired  than  mind-tired  ?" 

"  My  remark  was  in  the  form  of  a  question 
simply.  Is  it  preferable  to  beat  iron  and  brass 
or  to  beat  the  air  ?  The  artisan  works  for 
bread  and  meat,  but  what  are  you  and  I  work- 
ing for, —  what  are  we  seeking  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  often  thought  of  that." 

"  Look  back  a  thousand,  two  thousand 
years,  and  what  more  do  we  know  to-day 
concerning  the  purpose  of  existence  ?  Cen- 
turies ago,  men  loved  and  laughed,  and  toiled 
and  slept,  and  ate  and  mourned,  and  finally 
they  died.  That  is  what  mankind  is  doing 
now.  The  world  is  a  pleasanter  place  to  live 
in,  perhaps.  We  have  discovered  how  to  exist 
more  comfortably.  We  have  learned,  from  ex- 
perience, that  wars  and  dirt  and  polygamy  and 
unwholesome  food  diminish  the  happiness  of 
the  individual.  We  no  longer  burn  our  breth- 
ren at  the  stake  because  they  do  not  chance  to 
agree  with  us,  and  we  are  able  to  communicate 
by  word  of  mouth  with  those  who  are  hundreds 
of  miles  distant.  But  what  more  have  we 
grasped  concerning  the  mystery  of  life  ?  What 
has  the  nineteenth  century  to  say  to  you  and 
me,who  have  food  to  eat  and  clothes  to  wear  ?  " 


an- 


858 

"  Better  food  and  more  clothes,"  she 
swered,  with  a  laugh.  She  was  silent  a  min- 
ute, and,  taking  from  the  table  a  fan,  moved 
mechanically  to  and  fro  its  mother-of-pearl 
sticks,  which  were  edged  with  white  fluff. 
"You  think,  then,  religion  is  an  excellent 
thing  for  the  masses,  but  that  it  is  out  of  date 
for  you  and  me  ?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  With  the  advent  of 
greater  intelligence  we  have,  to  be  sure,  be- 
come exempt  from  the  delusion  and  super- 
stition which  victimizes  many  others.  We 
know  that  prayer  will  not  save  the  life  of  a 
man  wounded  in  a  particular  spot,  and  that 
human  beings  inherit  their  dispositions.  But 
however  much  we  may  grope  and  wonder, 
every  man  is  forced  at  last  back  upon  himself, 
it  seems  to  me.  We  cannot  escape  our  own 
characters;  and,  despite  logical  demonstra- 
tion to  the  contrary,  we  cling  to  a  belief  that 
we  are  responsible  for  our  actions." 

He  paused  a  moment.    "  Go  on,"  she  said, 
glancing  up  at  him.    "  I  want  to 
through." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  say,"  he  answered ; 
but  he  added  that  one  tired  of  trying  to  un- 
ravel the  mysteries  of  living,  and  sought  refuge 
in  action.  There,  at  least,  however  difficult 
the  path  might  be,  it  was  tolerably  plain.  It 
wras  possible  to  distinguish  between  evil  and 
good,  between  what  is  hurtful  to  society  and 
the  reverse.  Unintelligible  and  bewildering 
as  creation  seemed  as  a  whole,  one  was  never 
at  a  loss  as  to  the  value  of  proximate  con- 
duct. "  There  are  two  things  in  life  that  seem 
to  me  certain,"  he  said;  "one  is,  that  no  man 
can  be  completely  happy ;  the  other,  that  the 
greatest  chance  of  happiness  lies  in  obedience 
to  the  promptings  of  one's  own  conscience. 
The  world  found  that  secret  out  ages  ago, 
and  it  has  outlived  all  philosophies." 

Mrs.  Fielding  was  silent  a  moment. 

"And  you  mean,"  she  said,  "that  it  is 
more  difficult  for  people  who  enjoy  the  so- 
called  advantages  of  life  to  appreciate  this  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  for,  being  free  from  the  superstitions 
that  influence  the  ignorant,  they  are  more 
susceptible  to  the  arguments  of  materialism, 
from  their  very  ability  to  make  discriminations 
and  reason  from  cause  to  effect." 


AN  AVERAGE  MAN. 


up  quickly  as  she  spoke.    "I  mean  —  that  is, 
she  continued,   with   some   confusion,   "  do 
things  affect  you  so  strongly  ?  " 

Remington  smiled.  "  You  think  me,  then, 
incapable  of  intensity  ?  " 

"  No,  not  that.  I  didn't  mean  that,  of 
course."  She  looked  into  distance  a  mo- 
ment, then  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  floor. 
"  I  suppose  I  was  surprised  to  think  any  one 
could  be  as  unhappy  as  I  have  been." 

Remington  was  aware  that  she  was  con- 
scious he  knew  her  story,  and  remained  silent. 
He  knew,  also,  that  they  were  friends,  and 
felt  that  this  confidence  on  her  part  was  some- 
how as  the  act  of  one  who  is  groping  in  the 
dark  and  seeks  a  helping  hand. 

"At  least  you  have  conquered — lived  down 
your  sorrow,"  he  said  presently,  with  the  lack 
of  appositeness  of  one  at  loss  for  a  reply. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  she  replied,  with  a  tremor  of 
the  voice.  She  passed  her  hand  hastily  across 
her  eyes.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  am  happy,  quite  happy, 
hear  you  You  must  not  think  I  am  not,  Mr.  Reming- 
ton. Only,  you  see,"  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  tone  despite  her  effort  to  control  herself, 
"  when  you  spoke  of  it  all  in  such  a  calm, 
analyzing  way,  as  if  faith  were  something  to 
be  accepted  or  not,  just  as  one  preferred,  I 
couldn't  help  wondering  if  you  had  ever 
known  what  it  is  to  care  intensely  for  some- 
thing that  was  forbidden  you.  A  woman 
needs  more  than  a  code  of  morals,  more  than 
the  husk  of  a  belief  to  cling  to.  It  must  be 
real  and  burning,  and  a  part  of  her  life ;  fol 
there  are  moments  when,  if  it  were  otherwise 

"  She  paused  and  covered  her  face  with 

her  hands.    "  And  yet  you  all  say  religion  is 
but  a  convention  —  a  superstition." 

Remington  leaned  forward  and  touched 
her  shoulder.  "  No,  no,  my  friend,  you  mis- 
understood me.  I  did  not  say  that;  I 

The  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  entry  inter- 
rupted his  words,  and  the  young  woman 
scarcely  had  time  to  rouse  herself  from  her 
position  before  the  portiere  was  drawn  aside, 
and  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Woodbury 
Stoughton.  For  an  instant  the  latter  stood  as 
if  surprised  at  the  encounter.  Perhaps,  too, 
through  Remington's  mind  passed  the  thought 
that  the  key  to  the  confession  he  had  just 


"  We  have  to  give  up  more,  too,  if  we  obey    heard  was  at  hand  ;  for  were  not  those  words 


our  consciences,"  she  said.  Remington  no- 
ticed that  she  held  her  lace  handkerchief  by 
the  tips,  and  was  twisting  it  round  and  round. 

"  Indeed  we  do.  The  thing  we  have  to 
renounce  is  often  so  essential  to  happiness  as 
to  make  the  bar  which  separates  us  from  it 
seem  very  shadowy." 

"  Do  you  ever  feel  like  that  ?  "    She  glanced 


"  convention  "  and  "  superstition  "  corner- 
stones in  the  oft-listened-to  philosophy  of  his 
quondam  friend  ?  But  Mrs.  Fielding,  veiling 
her  countenance  behind  the  mask  that  is  part 
of  the  wardrobe  of  every  clever  woman,  ad- 
vanced with  her  head  poised  on  one  side,  and 
a  cordial  greeting. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Stoughton." 

(To  be  continued.) 


UNCLE   TOM    WITHOUT   A   CABIN. 


IN  the  last  year  of  his  life  General  "  Light 
Horse  Harry"  Lee  made  a  visit  to  Dunge- 
ness,*  the  residence  of  General  Nathaniel 
Greene,  on  Cumberland  Island,  Georgia. 
While  there  he  was  attacked  with  a  sickness 
which  in  the  end  proved  fatal.  His  nurse  was 
an  old  negro  woman,  the  "  momma  "  of  the 
household.  One  day,  in  a  paroxysm  of  nerv- 
ous pain,  he  became  enraged  at  her  officious 
benevolence  and  threw  a  slipper  at  the  old 
woman's  head.  There  was  a  skillful  dodge  of 
the  red  bandanna,  and  then  she  deliberately 
picked  up  the  slipper  and  hurled  it  back  at 
him,  with  the  words,  "  Dah,  now !  I  aint 
gwine  to  let  no  white  chile  sass  me;  /aint." 

This  incident,  which  is  historic,  illustrates 
the  position  of  the  "  momma  "  or  "  mammy  " 
in  a  Southern  family  in  the  olden  time.  She 
had  rocked  the  cradle  of  her  young  master 
and  crooned  him  to  sleep  with  those  weird 
melodies  which  are  unsurpassed  in  the  Mother 
Goose  lore  of  any  land.  As  he  grew  to  man- 
hood he  was  still  her  "  chile,"  and  she  be- 
came, in  turn,  a  grandmother  in  affection  to 
the  children  of  his  household.  In  family  af- 
fairs, in  determining  the  components  of  a 
cake,  the  pattern  of  a  garment,  or  some  nice 
question  of  a  neighbor's  social  status,  she 
wielded  that  potent  wand,  "  the  wisdom  of 
ancestors,"  and  quoted  "  ole  marster"  and 
"  ole  missus "  with  oracular  confidence,  in- 
spired by  the  impossibility  of  contradiction. 
Jealous  was  she  for  the  honor  of  "  our  fam- 
ily." The  authority  thus  assumed  was  always 
good-naturedly  acquiesced  in;  and,  when  ig- 
nored, was  overruled  indirectly,  so  as  not  to 
shake  the  old  soul's  self-confidence  in  her  in- 
fallibility or  the  children's  veneration  for  her 
wisdom.  The  latter  was  a  conservative  influ- 
ence too  valuable  to  be  sacrificed. 

Very  similar  was  the  position  of  the  "  old 
uncle."  Even  the  harsh  overseer,  dressed  in 
a  little  brief  authority,  took  counsel  of  his 
weather  wisdom  and  his  "  sperence "  in 
planting  to  suit  the  moon.  Over  the  dwellers 
in  the  quarters  he  was  wont  to  take  a  patri- 
archal jurisdiction.  The  children,  white  and 
black,  revered  him  not  only  for  the  stories  of 
Brer  Fox  and  Brer  Rabbit,  which  a  later  Un- 
cle Remus  has  told  to  all  the  world,  but  for 
the  unexhausted  stores  of  similar  lore  which 

*  General  Greene  and  General  Lee  are  both  buried 
at  Dungeness.  The  place  has  recently  passed  into 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie,  author  of  "  An 
American  Four-in-Hand  in  Britain." 


remained  locked  in  his  venerable  bosom.  He 
always  impressed  the  pickaninnies  with  the 
fact  that  he  only  told  the  half  he  knew.  No 
grandsire  ever  had  a  more  eager  audience  for 
his  garrulity. 

What  element  in  Cicero's  charming  pict- 
ure "  de  Senectute "  was  lacking  to  make 
such  an  old  age  happy  ?  Against  all  care  and 
want  these  old  attaches  of  the  family  were 
insured  in  the  love  of  their  owners,  and,  if 
that  was  not  sufficient,  in  a  legal  obligation 
for  their  support.  Who  have  had,  more  than 
they, 

"  That  which  should  accompany  old  age, 

As,  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends  "  ? 

What  a  change  in  all  this  was  wrought  by 
that  otherwise  beneficent  stroke  of  Abraham 
Lincoln's  pen,  January  ist,  1863.  Its  results 
to  the  aged  and  aging  negroes  are  more  per- 
ceptible to-day  than  just  after  the  close  of  the 
war.  There  is  a  sort  of  conservatism  which 
modifies  the  first  shock  of  a  great  revolution 
in  the  condition  of  a  people.  Because  of  this, 
no  immediate  and  general  breaking  up  of  the 
plantation  system  occurred  in  the  South  in 
1865.  Many  of  the  planters  attempted  to  farm 
their  lands  as  before,  substituting  paid  labor 
for  slave  labor.  In  such  cases,  it  made  little 
difference  to  the  kindly  owner  that  the  old 
negroes  on  the  place  should  be  pensioners  on 
the  supplies  furnished  by  him  for  the  plan- 
tation. But  this  system  is  decaying.  The 
owner  of  broad  acres  finds  it  profitable  to  di- 
vide them  into  "  settlements  "  and  rent  them 
to  the  "  hands."  Small  farms  are  the  order 
of  the  day.  Many  of  the  thrifty  negroes  are 
acquiring  the  ownership  of  the  "  patches " 
they  cultivate.  There  is  no  place  in  these  new 
economies  for  those  who  cannot  take  care 
of  themselves.  "  Every  sun  sets  upon  a 
change  which  strips  them  of  some  refuge." 
Many  of  their  old  masters  have  died,  unable 
to  survive  the  wreck  of  their  hopes  and  their 
fortunes ;  most  of  those  who  survive  are  too 
poor  to  requite  the  faithful  service  of  their 
aged  servants  with  the  bounty  they  would 
gladly  bestow. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  this  class  of  de- 
pendent negroes  have  their  natural  protect- 
ors in  their  children.  But  the  separation  of 
families  which  occurred  during  slavery,  and 
which  was  one  of  its  admitted  evils,  in  most 
cases  left  parents  and  descendants  ignorant 
even  of  each  other's  location.  Many  tenta- 


86o 


UNCLE    TOM   WITHOUT  A    CABIN. 


tive  letters  addressed  to  places  where  a  son 
or  daughter  was  last  heard  from  are  confid- 
ingly intrusted  to  the  detective  agency  of  the 
mails,  and  if  they  come  back  to  the  sender 
from  that  mute  cemetery  at  Washington,  a 
faith  that  is  stronger  than  the  death  of  the 
Dead  Letter  Office  (for  it  has  been  reen- 
forced  by  a  dream)  will  unfailingly  appeal  to 
the  amanuensis  to  write  another  letter  to  the 
same  address,  year  after  year.  There  is  some- 
thing pathetic  in  the  launching  of  these  annual 
missives  into  the  realm  of  the  No -Whither; 
nor  is  the  pathos  destroyed  by  the  clause,  which 
I  have  never  known  omitted,  "  Please  send 
me  a  little  money."  In  the  instances  where 
the  separation  of  families  has  not  occurred, 
it  must  be  owned  that  an  argument  may  be 
found  for  the  development  theory  of  the 
moral  instincts.  During  the  period  of  slavery, 
the  old  were  never  dependent  upon  their  chil- 
dren, and  the  sentiment  which  responds  to 
such  a  dependence  was  never  awakened.  The 
heart  of  the  negro  is  kindly,  and  this  senti- 
ment will  grow  with  time  and  occasion  for 
its  exercise ;  but  meanwhile  the  old  people 
are  generally  left  to  shift  for  themselves. 

It  was  not  long  after  "  freedom  come  "  be- 
fore the  freed  people  saw  that  they  must  find 
some  substitute  for  the  loss  of  the  provision 
which  slavery  made  for  them  in  time  of  sick- 
ness and  death.  The  majority  of  them  were 
not  capable  of  practicing  the  present  self-de- 
nial required  for  "  laying  up  something  for 
a  rainy  day."  But  what  was  hard  to  do  singly 
could  be  easily  done  by  societies.  These  or- 
ganizations for  mutual  help  are  very  numer 
ous  throughout  the  entire  South.  Their  names 
are  startling,  such  as  "  The  Independent  Or- 
der of  Immaculates,"  "  The  Military  Sisters," 
"The  White  Ring  Doves,"  "The  Grand 
Champions  of  Distress,"  "  The  Rising  Stars," 
etc.  There  are  men's  societies  and  women's 
societies,  while  some  are  composed  of  both 
sexes,  as  the  "  Sons  and  Daughters  of  Jacob." 
The  members  contribute  monthly  dues,  usu- 
ally twenty-five  cents,  for  the  following  pur- 
poses :  (i.)  When  any  member  is  sick,  a 
monthly  benefit  is  paid,  and  all  medicines  pre- 
scribed by  a  physician  are  bought  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  society.  (2.)  Upon  the  death  of 
a  member,  the  society  pays  the  funeral  ex- 
penses, which  are  on  a  somewhat  extravagant 
scale,  and  a  small  benefit  fund,  supposed  to 
be  sufficient  for  pressing  necessities  at  that 
time.  The  negroes  pay  a  practical  tribute  to 
the  usefulness  of  these  organizations  by  sus- 
taining them  in  spite  of  frequent  defalcations 
on  the  part  of  their  officers.  The  members 
are  almost  as  loyal  to  them  as  to  their 
churches.  In  all  contracts  for  "  service,"  the 
colored  "  help  "  invariably  stipulates  for  the 


day  of  the  monthly  meeting  and  "  all  de  funer- 
als." It  will  be  seen  from  this  description  that 
these  societies  are  mutual,  and  that,  valuable 
as  they  are  for  their  members,  they  do  not 
admit  to  their  benefits  the  aged  who  are  too 
poor  to  pay  the  dues,  or  who  would  be  likely 
in  a  short  time  to  become  charges  on  the 
treasury.  To  sum  up  the  case :  The  results 
of  emancipation  have  brought  only  distress- 
ing conditions  to  the  negroes  who  were  aged 
at  the  close  of  the  war  (many  of  whom  are 
still  living,  such  is  their  remarkable  longevity) 
and  to  those  who  were  at  that  time  too  far 
advanced  in  years  to  acquire  a  competence 
for  themselves  before  the  feebleness  of  age 
has  come  upon  them.  Deprived  of  the  as- 
sured peace  and  plenty  of  the  old  regime, 
unable  to  reap  any  of  the  benefits  of  the  new, 
they  afford  an  instance  in  human  life  of  the 
truth  so  often  observed  in  geological  history, 
that  types  existing  at  the  close  of  one  era  and 
the  beginning  of  another  bear  the  brunt  of  the 
change  and  struggle  for  existence  in  an  un- 
friendly environment.  The  present  relation  of 
master  and  servant  is  governed  purely  by 
business  principles.  It  is  not  expected  that  the 
employer  will  keep  an  employe  longer  than 
the  latter  can  give  value  received  in  work.  The 
relation  does  not  now  continue  long  enough 
between  the  same  parties  to  create  the  senti- 
ments which  have  been  described.  The  old 
uncle  and  the  old  momma  are  impossibilities 
to  this  generation.  Time  has  broken  the  die 
which  molded  them,  and  we  shall  not  look 
upon  their  like  again. 

The  old  plantation  parceled  out  to  strange 
tenants,  the  old  master  dead,  the  children 
scattered, —  Uncle  Tom  is  left  without 
cabin ! 

What,  then,  is  the  lot  of  the  old  negroes  ? 
The  story  of  my  Uncle  Tom  will  partly  tell. 
In  it  may  be  seen  some  of  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  slavery.  By  the  will  of  his  master, 
who  lived  in  one  of  the  border  States,  he  was 
entitled  to  manumission  upon  his  arrival  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one.  Shortly  before  that 
date  he  was  "  captured  "  by  a  slave-dealer, 
who  paid  a  part  of  the  profits  of  his  sale  to 
the  young  spendthrift  who  had  become  his 
master,  and  who  had  resolved  to  "  set  aside 
the  old  man's  will."  Tom's  story  of  this  out- 
rage, delivered  from  the  auction  block,  was 
regarded  as  the  best  joke  of  the  sale  day. 
No  one  would  put  himself  to  the  inconven- 
ience of  believing  it.  But,  after  all,  the  lines 
fell  to  Tom  in  pleasant  places.  That  such 
was  his  opinion  of  his  lot,  he  had  a  unique 
opportunity  of  testifying.  He  became  the 
body-servant  of  the  gallant  General 
who  had  left  one  leg  in  Mexico  during 
war.  Tom  accompanied  him  in  his  sumi 


UNCLE    TOM   WITHOUT  A    CABIN. 


86 1 


visits  to  Saratoga,  and  on  one  occasion  was 
induced  to  attend  an  abolition  meeting  which 
was  held  at  that  time  with  no  great  publicity. 
A  real  Southern  slave,  a  victim  of  the  atroc- 
ities which  were  rehearsed,  was  an  interest- 
ing figure.  A  kind-hearted  disciple  of  Garri- 
son, a  believer  in  the  "  higher  law,"  was  so 
moved  upon  that  he  offered  Tom  money  with 
which  to  make  his  escape.  To  the  disgust 
and  indignation  of  the  gathering,  Tom  de- 
clined it.  "  I'm  powerful  'bleeged,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  doan'  know  nuthin'  'bout  all  dis !  I 
gits  my  keepin'  at  de  hotel  and  dese  clo'es, 
and  'fore  God  I  doan'  have  nuthin'  to  do  all 
de  'summer  but  shine  one  boot  a  day !  " 

Tom's  master  threw  himself  with  Southern 
ardor  into  the  wild  war  passion  of  1860.  He 
declared  that  he  could  stand  on  his  one  leg 
and  rout  a  Yankee  regiment  with  his  derringer. 
He  offered  to  drink  all  the  blood  that  was 
spilt.  The  death  of  his  gallant  son  was  one 
of  the  first  forms  in  which  his  prophecies  came 
home  to  him.  He  could  not  long  survive  the 
cause  which  seemed  to  him  to  represent  all 
for  which  life  was  worth  living.  Among  the 
mourners  who  followed  his  bier,  no  one  was 
more  sincere  than  Tom,  for  Tom  was  orphaned 
by  his  death.  Since  then,  Tom,  in  his  age  and 
feebleness,  has  maintained  a  precarious  strug- 
gle for  existence,  earning  a  quarter  occasion- 
ally by  working  in  a  garden  or  sawing  wood 
about  town  when  the  "  rheumatics  let  up  " 
on  him.  On  other  days  he  may  be  seen  on  the 
streets,  toiling  painfully  along  with  that  inde- 
scribable motion  made  by  two  inward-curved 
legs,  each  alternately  coming  from  behind, 
alongside  and  in  front  of  the  other.  His  ap- 
peal for  eleemosynary  nickels  is  made  with  a 
removal  of  the  hat — which  serves  at  once  to 
emphasize  his  bow  and  collect  the  coin.  His 
dwelling  is  an  old  freight  box-car,  lifted  from 
its  wheels  and  shoved  aside  from  the  busy 
railroad  track.  There  is  a  subtle  sympathy 
between  the  shattered  tenement  and  its  worn- 
out  occupant,  both  left  superfluous  on  the 
edge  of  the  rushing  life  which  has  cast  them 
aside. 

But  there  are  two  days  on  which  Uncle 
Tom  is  in  his  glory  —  a  sovereign  factor  in 
their  events.  One  is  election  day.  In  the 
Southern  States  poll-taxes  are  required  of  all 
voters  under  the  age  of  sixty.  There  is  no 
way  of  enforcing  the  payment  of  these  taxes 
except  where  the  voters  have  property  out 
of  which  it  may  be  raised  by  levy.  Since  the 
general  ascendancy  acquired  by  the  white 
element  in  the  South,  in  the  years  between 
1872  and  1876,  fully  one-half  of  the  negroes 
have  quit  voting.  Having  no  stimulus  to 
pay  their  annual  poll-taxes,  they  are  in  de- 
fault for  periods  ranging  from  five  to  ten 


years.  To  bring  up  these  arrears  costs  more 
than  most  of  the  negroes  value  the  privilege 
of  the  ballot.  (Thus,  indirectly,  it  is  coming 
to  pass  that  suffrage  rests,  in  the  main,  upon 
a  property  qualification.)  Voters  over  the 
age  of  sixty  are  exempt  from  poll-taxes. 
Hence,  precious  in  the  eye  of  the  candidate 
is  the  aged  negro.  He  is  worth  more  than  a 
score  of  able-bodied  men.  In  the  elections 
frequently  occurring  in  the  South  on  local 
option,  the  liquor  men,  who  receive  aid  from 
the  West,  pay  the  taxes  of  their  colored 
allies  in  order  that  their  votes  may  be 
counted;  but  in  other  campaigns  the  election 
funds  are  not  adequate  to  such  outlays.  In 
the  ordinary  State  and  county  elections,  in 
which  the  rival  candidates  bid  for  the  colored 
vote,  the  venerable  sovereigns  are  always  in 
demand.  They  are  treated  to  free  rides  to 
the  polls  in  the  "  phaetons  "  which,  after  they 
have  been  worn  out  by  the  gentry,  are  used 
as  hacks.  Under  shrewd  management  they 
are  voted,  with  perfect  innocence  on  their 
part,  early  and  often.  In  the  elections  on  the 
liquor  question  Uncle  Tom  is  always  solid 
for  license.  "  Whisky  was  here  when  I  come," 
says  he,  "  and  I  want  it  to  stay  till  I  go." 
"  But,  Uncle  Tom,  slavery  was  here  when 
you  came,  and  you  didn't  want  that  to  stay." 
The  argument  had  no  force.  Uncle  Tom  had 
evidently  extracted  some  good  out  of  both 
evils,  and  was  as  unsound  on  abolition  as  on 
prohibition. 

The  reference  to  elections  brings  up  the 
negro  problem.  In  a  memorable  interview 
with  Mason  and  Vallandigham,  John  Brown 
said  in  1859:  "This  question  is  still  to  be 
settled;  this  negro  question,  I  mean.  The 
end  of  that  is  not  yet."  This  is  as  true  to- 
day as  when  it  was  uttered.  Immediately 
after  the  war,  the  bummers  who  followed 
the  rear  of  the  Federal  armies,  firing  only 
with  the  torch,  capturing  only  the  jewelry  of 
women,  domiciled  themselves  in  the  land 
whose  plunder  had  been  their  fatness.  They 
became  the  controlling  politicians  of  the  era. 
They  organized  the  negroes  into  leagues,  and 
on  election  days  marshaled  these  solid  masses 
of  ignorance  with  military  discipline.  Upon 
their  votes  these  adventurers  hoisted  them- 
selves and  the  worst  types  of  their  dusky- 
confederates  into  power,  and  played  such 
fantastic  tricks  as  the  world  has  never  seen 
since  the  days  of  Masaniello.  It  was  the 
period  of  negro  supremacy — the  reign  of 
terror.  The  "  mud-sills  "  of  the  social  fabric 
were  the  pillars  of  state.  "  The  bottom  rail 
was  on  top."  In  the  nature  of  things,  this 
could  not  last.  During  the  years  already 
mentioned,  the  white  race  in  the  various 
Southern  States,  by  a  desperate  struggle,  threw 


862 


UNCLE    TOM   WITHOUT  A    CABIN. 


off  the  intolerable  yoke.  Their  former  "  gov- 
ernors "  returned  to  the  North,  one  or  two  of 
them  to  figure  in  records  of  crime  and  thus 
furnished  some  testimony  of  the  grievousness 
of  the  infliction  which  the  South  had  borne. 
The  means  by  which  this  revolution  was  ac- 
complished are  not  to  be  apologized  for: 
they  can  only  be  explained. 

The  instincts  are  regarded  as  outside  of  the 
region  of  ethics.  The  methods  which  over- 
turned the  carpet-bag  and  negro  dynasties 
find  their  justification,  if  anywhere,  in  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  which  is  a  primary 
law  of  social  as  well  as  individual  life.  Of 
course,  the  high-souled  men,  whose  simple 
faith  in  principle  would  prefer  eternal  mar- 
tyrdom to  expediency,  protested  against  this 
phase  of  higher  law.  One  of  the  greatest  men 
in  the  South  said  in  an  address,  frankly  rec- 
ognizing the  state  of  public  opinion  : 

"  I  will  add,  at  the  risk  of  meeting  with  some  dis- 
sent possibly  in  my  audience,  certainly  beyond  it,  that 
there  is  the  same  reason  for  rigid  honesty  in  politics 
and  public  life,  in  elections  and  with  electors  and 
elected,  as  in  ordinary  private  business  or  personal 
conduct.  The  political  devil  is  no  more  to  be  fought 
with  fire,  without  terrible  consequences  to  the  best 
interest  of  the  community,  than  is  the  devil  of  avarice, 
or  of  envy,  or  of  ambition,  or  any  other  of  the  numer- 
ous devils  which  infest  society." 

But  the  masses  of  the  whites  could  see  no 
consequences  in  any  mode  of  riddance  so 
terrible  as  the  political  devil  of  negro  domi- 
nation. When  public  opinion  is  practically  a 
unit,  there  is  no  dearth  of  hands  ready  to 
execute  its  decrees. 

Since  this  result  has  been  accomplished, 
the  rights  of  the  colored  population  have  been 
generally  respected  by  the  dominant  element. 
A  ruling  race  may  in  one  day  nominally  ac- 
cept its  former  slaves  as  its  equals  before  the 
law;  but  the  real  adjustments  in  habits  of 
thought  and  conduct  must  inevitably  be  grad- 
ual. Making  allowance  for  this,  it  may  be 
affirmed  that,  as  a  rule,  justice  is  impartially 
administered.  The  purpose  is  to  do  that; 
failures  come  from  the  unconscious  operation 
of  past  influences.  The  whites  tax  their  prop- 
erty to  maintain  schools  for  the  colored  youth. 
The  negro  votes  without  molestation,  and  his 
vote  is  counted.  General  Toombs,  the  "  old 
man  terrible  "  of  the  South,  declares,  when- 
ever an  interviewer  is  within  range,  that  every 
election  in  the  South  for  ten  years  has  been 
carried  by  fraud,  intimidation,  and  violence. 
But  the  exaggeration  of  this  statement  is 
obvious  from  the  fact  that  since  the  politi- 
cal "redemption"  of  1872-6,  these  methods 
have  been  wholly  unnecessary.  The  power  of 
the  negro  organization  has  been  effectually 
broken ;  no  attempt  to  rally  its  forces  on  the 


color  line  has  had  any  approach  to  success. 
Many  of  the  colored  people  see  that  the 
whites  of  the  South  have  done  as  well  for 
them  as  the  rulers  they  themselves  set  up. 
They  never  got  from  the  latter  the  promised 
forty  acres  and  a  mule.  They  realize  that 
they  are  to  stay  among  the  Southern  white 
people,  and  must  earn  a  living  chiefly  through 
their  employment  and  patronage.  Political 
gratitude  is  a  lively  sense  of  future  favors, 
and  it  is  not  a  special  wonder  when  a  "  sov- 
ereign "  who  owes  his  ballot  to  one  political 
party  casts  it  in  favor  of  the  other. 

The  strongest  sentiment  among  the  South- 
ern whites  is  the  determination  to  maintain 
their  present  supremacy.  This  is  the  mean- 
ing of  the  Solid  South — solidarity  in  favor  of 
home  rule,  and  the  domination  of  her  intelli- 
gence in  public  affairs.  She  is  not  to  be  ruled 
by  the  blacks,  nor  by  white  men  at  home  or 
from  abroad  who  owe  their  election  exclu- 
sively to  the  blacks.  On  other  questions  there 
are  divergences  of  opinion,  but  on  the  color 
line  the  unity  of  public  feeling  is  complete. 
In  such  a  platform  there  is  nothing  of  hostility 
to  the  African  per  se  ;  no  unwillingness  to  ac- 
cept him  as  a  citizen  with  rights  which  the 
white  man  is  bound  to  respect.  Indeed,  it 
may  be  safely  said  that  the  temporary  reign 
of  the  negro  was  submitted  to  with  more  for- 
bearance, and  its  overthrow  accomplished 
with  less  of  passion  and  violence,  than  if  the 
Caucasian  and  the  Chinese  had  been  the 
parties  to  the  issue.  The  purpose  to  retain 
the  political  mastery  does  not  rest  upon  dread 
of  "  social  equality."  Amalgamation  of  races 
is  too  abhorrent  to  the  Southern  mind  to 
seem  a  threatening  probability.  It  has  a  natu- 
ral barrier  in  the  instinct  of  race,  and  is  pro- 
hibited by  enactments  which  have  been  up- 
held as  constitutional  in  the  United  States 
courts.  It  has  been  plausibly  suggested  that 
the  intermingling  will  begin  along  the  line  of 
the  highest  development  of  the  black  and  the 
lowest  of  the  white;  but  this  is  opposed  by 
two  facts,  (i.)  The  sporadic  cases  of  misce- 
genation have  occurred  among  the  lowest 
types  of  both  races.  (2.)  The  highest  develop- 
ments of  the  negro  type  scorn  such  inter- 
marriage with  whites  as  is  possible  to  them. 
In  this  fact  lies  a  centrifugal  force  acting  upon 
the  negroes  themselves.  Of  course,  so  long 
as  there  are  gradations  in  society,  we  shall 
see  exhibitions  of  that  spirit  which  a  French 
writer  has  defined  "  a  desire  to  be  equal  to 
one's  superiors  and  superior  to  one's  equals." 
But  among  the  negroes  of  intelligence 
character,  who  believe  they  are  as  gooo^ 
the  white  people  because  they  are  what 
made  them,  there  is  growing  up  a  self-resp( 
and  pride  of  race  which  forbids  a  pretentic 


UNCLE    TOM    WITHOUT  A    CABIN. 


863 


intrusion  upon  the  social  privileges  of  the 
whites.  If  the  public  carrier  provides  equal 
but  separate  accommodations  for  whites  and 
blacks,  it  would  be  felt  as  a  confession  of  per- 
sonal inferiority,  and  an  affront  to  their  color, 
to  insist  upon  mixing  with  the  other  race. 
When  this  view  becomes  general,  as  it  must 
with  increasing  intelligence,  the  colored 
flunkey  will  be  outlawed  by  the  contempt  of 
both  races.  The  united  feeling  which  keeps 
the  South  together  is  not  founded  upon  op- 
position to  the  social  or  civil  rights  of  the 
negro.  It  rests  wholly  upon  the  well-remem- 
bered horrors  of  a  former  experience,  and 
the  profound  conviction  that  neither  life,  lib- 
erty, nor  property  is  safe  when  it  is  in  the 
power  of  the  ignorant  negro  masses.  The 
white  element  is  solid  politically  simply 
through  fear  of  a  solid  black  element.  No 
wedge  can  split  the  former  until  one  has  first 
penetrated  the  latter. 

Where,  then,  lies  the  hope  for  the  political 
education  which  the  negro  can  acquire  only 
by  the  use  of  the  ballot  ?  Obviously,  it  is  to 
be  found  only  in  a  state  of  political  parties 
which  will  permit  the  white  voters  to  divide, 
and,  by  their  division,  enable  them  to  divide 
the  four  millions  of  enfranchised  blacks. 

In  the  minds  of  a  majority,  as  I  believe,  of 
the  Southern  people,  such  a  consummation  is 
devoutly  wished.  The  desire  for  it  is  based 
on  many  grounds,  (i.)  The  danger  is  recog- 
nized of  having  a  party  in  power  without  an 
opposition  whose  criticism  and  rivalry  are 
sufficient  to  inspire  a  wholesome  fear.  The 
recent  careers  of  several  State  treasurers  in 
the  South  would  have  been  impossible  with 
an  alert  and  vigilant  opposition  to  scrutinize 
the  administration  of  the  public  business.  But 
the  national  office-holders  and  their  small 
following  have  not  the  number  or  influence 
to  make  the  dominant  party  watchful  of  its 
own  rascals.  (2.)  The  interest  felt  by  the 
Southern  people  in  politics  is  far  more  gen- 
eral than  at  the  North.  This  results  from  the 
general  cast  and  tendency  of  the  Southern 
mind.  "  Its  activity  ran  after  affairs.  It  loved 
questions  at  issue.  Contest  was  its  delight. 
This  mental  predilection  found  its  field  of  ex- 
ploit in  the  twin  sciences,  politics  and  juris- 
prudence. Politics  was  the  science  of  sciences, 
the  art  of  arts,  the  absorbing  popular  study. 
Every  hotel  corridor  was  an  open  lyceum, 
every  fireside  an  embryonic  school  of  state- 
craft, every  dinner-party  a  meeting  of  politi- 
cal scientists."  These  words  explain  why  the 
South  filled  so  large  a  place  in  politics  before 
the  war,  but  no  place  in  literature.  The  tend- 
ency to  political  activity  is  as  strong  as  it  ever 
was,  but  it  is  cramped  by  the  existing  con- 
dition of  affairs.  There  is  but  one  side  in  pol- 


itics, and  many  are  beginning  to  chafe  at  its 
procrustean  bed.  The  State  offices  within  the 
gift  of  party  are  too  few  to  "  go  around."  Of- 
fice-getting is  coming  more  and  more  into  the 
control  of  rings.  In  the  "  good  old  times  " 
the  party  put  forward  its  candidate,  fought  his 
battles,  gave  his  barbecues,  and  paid  the 
campaign  expenses.  Now  all  the  candidates 
must  enter  into  a  "  scramble  "  for  the  nom- 
ination (which  is  equivalent  to  election),  and 
to  secure  it  must  ply  their  own  resources. 
This  has  brought  about  a  stagnation  of  politi- 
cal energy  which  is  wholly  unnatural  to  the 
people.  Much  of  the  seeming  quietude  is 
only  the  eager  waiting  for  the  stirring  of  the 
waters.  (3.)  Many  persons  are  acting  with 
the  dominant  party  both  in  the  North  and 
South  simply  because  they  desire  to  ally 
themselves  with  the  virtue  and  intelligence 
of  their  respective  sections.  This  principle 
of  political  affinity  allows  no  opportunity  for 
the  expression  of  individual  opinion  on  the 
tariff,  civil-service  reform,  or  any  of  the  ques- 
tions of  the  time ;  yet  such  differences  exist 
among  the  Southern  people,  and  are  increas- 
ing every  day.  Some  of  these  may  be  here 
pointed  out. 

While  the  South  is  solid  in  its  purpose  to 
prevent  a  recurrence  of  negro  control,  yet 
there  is  a  wide  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the 
method  by  which  this  is  to  be  done.  One  view 
of  this  question  has  already  been  indicated  — 
that  it  would  be  fortunate  if  the  whites  and 
blacks  could  be  divided  on  issues  which 
would  divide  both  classes,  and  thus  eliminate 
the  race  issue.  But  there  is  a  strong  senti- 
ment which  would  crystallize  into  perpetuity 
the  present  condition  of  absolute  white  rule 
and  negro  subjection  in  political  affairs.  Its 
advocates  see  a  menace  to  their  policy  in  the 
education  of  the  negro,  and  they  are  out- 
spoken in  their  opposition  to  it.  They  claim 
that  the  experiment  has  been  tried  and  failed; 
that  education  has  had  no  effect  but  to  make 
those  who  have  been  educated  too  conceited 
to  work;  that  in  most  cases  the  educated 
negroes  have  simply  used  their  advantages  to 
prey  on  the  ignorance  of  their  fellow-men ; 
and  that  no  real  progress  has  been  made  by 
the  race  since  the  war.  It  is  frequently  un- 
charitable to  charge  those  who  hold  a  doc- 
trine with  its  logical  consequences ;  yet,  while 
admitting  that  those  who  entertain  the  views 
just  stated  would  disclaim  such  an  inference, 
it  must  be  said  that  the  inevitable  sequence 
of  their  opinions  is  the  reestablishment  of 
slavery.  They  are,  in  the  main,  the  old  men, 
whose  opinions  are  too  stiff  with  the  fixity  of 
age  to  bend  to  any  pressure  of  truth.  But  it 
must  also  be  owned  that,  even  in  the  rising 
generation,  there  are  young  leaders  who  have 


864 


UNCLE    TOM   WITHOUT  A    CABIN. 


received  no  light  from  the  past  but  the  torch 
of  its  hatreds,  and  who  flourish  that  as  the 
only  beacon  of  the  future.  Opposed  to  these 
errors  is  the  spirit  of  the  New  South,  a  phrase 
which  this  magazine  first  made  current.  Its 
creed  is  found  in  Macaulay's  words  :  "  There 
is  only  one  cure  for  the  evils  which  a  newly 
acquired  freedom  produces,  and  that  is  free- 
dom." The  negro  must  be  educated  in  the 
responsibilities  of  citizenship,  and  this  train- 
ing must  be  made  practical  by  the  use  of  the 
ballot.  Irrespective  of  the  interests  of  the 
black  race,  the  general  welfare  does  not  per- 
mit a  mass  of  ignorant,  easily  duped  voters 
in  the  nation's  midst.  The  work  of  removing 
illiteracy  which  the  Southern  States  have  un- 
dertaken, but  which  they  are  without  re- 
sources to  accomplish,  should  be  generously 
aided  by  the  large  hand  of  the  Nation.  The 
vanity  and  want  of  principle  exhibited  by  a 
few  educated  negroes  are  not  arguments  for 
keeping  millions  in  ignorance,  but  rather  for 
removing  the  ground  of  conceit  and  the  op- 
portunity for  knavery  by  making  education 
common.  Nothing  is  more  beautiful  than  the 
zeal  of  these  darkened  people  for  enlighten- 
ment for  themselves  and  their  children.  They 
have  made,  since  the  war,  a  general  improve- 
ment, intellectually  and  morally.  It  was  not  to 
be  expected  that,  in  two  decades,  a  nation  could 
rise  from  a  bondage  preceded  by  barbarism 
to  a  high  plane  of  development ;  but  the  steps 
of  Providence  are  measured  not  by  years,  but 
centuries.  In  holding  to  a  faith  like  this,  the 
New  South  sees  no  treason  to  the  Old.  Slav- 
ery, it  holds,  was  founded  on  clear  constitu- 
tional right.  "  Every  man  who  helped  to 
make  the  Constitution  was  responsible  for  it." 
The  sincerity  of  its  defenders  can  never  be 
questioned,  since  they  sealed  it  with  their 
blood.  In  its  tutelage  of  a  barbarous  race, 
the  New  South  sees  Providence  as  clearly  as 
in  the  freedom  for  which  that  made  them 
ready ;  but  she  rejoices  that  slavery  has  been 
destroyed  and  the  Union  preserved. 

The  tariff  also  causes  a  division  of  public 
opinion ;  and  the  line  of  intersection  on  this 
subject  is  naturally  coincident  with  that  al- 
ready drawn.  The  Old  South,  exclusively 
agricultural,  was  a  unit  for  free  trade ;  while 
the  New,  turning  its  attention  to  cotton- 
spinning  and  mining,  favors  a  policy  which 
will  foster  these  interests.  She  sees  in  the 
tariff  a  temporary  but  necessary  expedient 
for  the  upbuilding  of  new  industries,  and  is 
naturally  unwilling,  after  her  section  has  paid 
tribute  for  a  century  to  that  policy,  to  aban- 
don it  at  the  very  moment  when  it  is  begin- 
ning to  aid  in  the  development  of  her  resources. 


Another  issue  which  is  deeply  agitating  the 
Southern  States  is  the  liquor  question.  It 
has  leaped  from  Maine  to  Georgia  and  from 
Iowa  to  Texas.  It  would  seem  that  the  next 
step  which  organized  society  is  preparing  to 
take  toward  the  improvement  of  its  conditions 
is  in  some  way  to  abate  the  liquor  nuisance 
as  it  now  exists.  This  is  a  social  question ; 
yet  the  fact  that  it  must  be  settled  by  elec- 
tion gives  it  a  quasi-political  character.  Its 
introduction  into  party  politics  is  to  be  dep- 
recated ;  but  if  it  should  force  its  way  there, 
the  party  which  favored  the  suppression  of 
the  traffic  as  it  is  now  carried  on,  or  such 
taxation  as  would  secure  from  it  an  indem- 
nity against  the  cost  of  its  evils,  would  carry 
more  than  half  of  the  Southern  States  and 
heavy  votes  in  all  of  them. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  questions  which, 
if  the  danger  of  negro  ascendancy  could  be 
removed,  would  cleave  asunder  the  "  Solid 
South."  If  sectionalism  could  only  be  allayed 
in  the  North,  if  the  handful  of  federal  office- 
holders in  the  Southern  States  would  cease 
their  futile  efforts  to  rally  the  negroes  against 
the  whites  in  general  elections,  there  are 
thousands  of  white  men  ready  to  vote  with 
those  at  the  North  in  whom  they  recognize 
their  natural  allies  in  patriotism  and  principle. 
Until  this  is  done,  the  ghost  of  negro  suprem- 
acy will  not  down,  and  the  friends  of  the 
negro  at  the  South  will  be  powerless  to  aid 
his  sympathizers  at  the  North.  The  sooner 
these  facts  are  recognized,  the  better  for 
those  whose  welfare  they  affect. 

But  there  is  another  day  besides  that  of  an 
election  when  Uncle  Tom  will  be  a  great 
hero.  It  is  the  day  (may  it  not  hasten!)  of 
his  funeral.  In  the  negro  mind,  Death  is  a 
wonder-worker.  The  proverb  that  a  living 
dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion  is,  with  them, 
exactly  reversed.  When  one  of  them  dies, 
has  not  his  spirit  passed  at  once  to  the  "  halle- 
lujah land,"  and  is  not  his  body  to  be  treated 
with  a  reverence  befitting  so  grand  a  transi- 
tion ?  At  any  rate,  on  that  morning  when 
the  news  is  whispered  on  ashen  lips  that  Un- 
cle Tom  is  dead,  all  his  neighbors  who  are 
none  too  kindly  now,  and  all  who  ever  knew 
him,  and  all  who  know  that  "  they're  gwine 
to  have  a  funeralizin',"  will  vie  with  each 
other  in  the  mournful  solemnities  of  the  occa- 
sion. The  brass  band  will  play  the  Portuguese 
hymn  as  the  procession  moves  on  to  the 
church ;  the  preacher  will  "  hold  his  ear  to 
the  harp  of  heaven,"  and  with  ecstatic  elo- 
quence portray  the  bliss  of  "  our  bereave 
brother."  And  we  may  be  sure  that  the  sii 
pie,  faithful  soul  deserves  it  all. 


Walter  B.  Hill. 


THE    NEW   YORK    CITY    HALL. 


GENERAL    VIEW    OF    THE    NEW    YORK    CITY    HALL. 


AT  this  time,  when  architecture  is  being  re- 
vived in  America  as  an  art,  rather  than  practiced 
as  a  trade,  attention  is  being  drawn  to  the 
excellence  of  some  of  our  public  buildings 
erected  in  the  last  century  or  about  the  begin- 
ning of  this, — when,  fortunately,  the  purity  of 
style  in  architecture  maintained  in  England, 
especially  by  Sir  William  Chambers  and  cer- 
tain of  his  pupils,  and  others,  was  gaining  a 
footing  in  this  country,  and  was  taking 
shape  in  the  New  York  City  Hall  and  some 
other  buildings  of  the  time. ,  If  what  is  said 
here  helps  to  fix  attention  upon  these  old 
buildings,  and  to  stimulate  efforts  for  their 
preservation,  the  object  of  the  writer  will  have 
been  attained. 

When  the  City  Hall  was  first  occupied,  in 
1811,  it  had  for  its  nearest  neighbors  the 
bridewell  close  by  on  the  west,  the  alms- 
house  behind  it,  and  the  jail,  which  was 
made  over  into  the  present  Hall  of  Records. 
From  the  portico  of  the  City  Hall  there  was 
an  unbroken  view  down  Broadway,  including 
St.  Paul's,  the  odd  little  shops  that  occupied 
the  site  of  the  "  Herald  "  building,  the  wooden 
spire  of  Trinity,  and  the  cupola  of  Grace 
Church.  Now  the  post-office  shows  its  ugly 
back  to  its  classic  neighbor,  and,  on  the 
VOL.  XXVII.— 82. 


northern  side,  the  new  court  house  has  been 
built  on  the  site  of  the  almshouse. 

To  tell  the  story  of  the  building  of  the  City 
Hall  in  all  its  details  would  be  impossible 
here.  From  corner-stone  to  parapet  it  was 
more  than  ten  years  under  way.  Many  a  mod- 
ern settlement  has  grown  to  city  hood  in  less 
time.  The  labors  and  dangers,  constructive 
and  financial,  connected  with  it,  rivaled  those 
of  carrying  the  gods  to  Latium.  May  26, 
1803,  the  corner-stone  was  laid  in  the  south- 
east corner  by  Edward  Livingston,  then 
Mayor  of  the  city. 

The  preceding  three  years  had  been  spent 
by  the  corporation  in  the  endeavor  to  settle 
upon  a  plan  that  would  be  acceptable  to  all. 
On  March  24, 1800,  they  had  appointed  a  com- 
mittee to  consider  the  expediency  of  erecting 
a  new  Hall,  and  to  report  their  opinion  as  to 
the  proper  place,  with  a  plan  of  the  building, 
an  estimate  of  the  expense,  and  suggestions 
for  the  disposal  of  the  old  City  Hall.  In 
accordance  with  this  resolution,  the  commit- 
tee offered  a  premium  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  for  a  plan  and  elevations  of  the 
four  facades.  From  among  the  plans  so  ob- 
tained one  was  selected  and  adopted  by  the 
Aldermen,  October  4,  1802.  On  the  nth 


866 


THE  NEW   YORK  CITY  HALL. 


of  the  same  month  the  Common  Council  by  the  late  committee  were  discharged,  and 
appropriated  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  the  moneys  remaining  in  their  hands  were 
toward  carrying  it  out,  and  appointed  a  paid  over  to  the  city  treasurer.  The  new  corn- 
building  committee.  Opposition  to  the  un-  mittee  immediately  reappointed  Mr.  McComb 
dertaking  now  developed  itself  through  a  architect,  and  fixed  his  pay  at  six  dollars  a 


THE    NEW     YORK    CITY    HALL,    FROM     DRAWING    BY    W.    G.    WALL,    PUBLISHED     DECEMBER     2O,    1826. 


dilatory  resolution  offered  in  the  Common 
Council,  December  27.  It  was  ingenuously 
worded  and  called  for  much  detailed  infor- 
mation. The  hope  of  its  promoter  was  to 
create  dissatisfaction  with  the  adopted  plan 
as  being  too  ornate,  too  expensive,  and  larger 
than  the  city  required.  Under  the  pressure 
thus  brought  to  bear,  the  committee,  al- 
though fully  intent  upon  the  use  of  marble,  on 
February  21,  1803,  reported  estimates  of  the 
cost  of  using  marble  and  of  using  stone  for 
the  front  of  the  building. 

They  advised  the  Common  Council  that 
the  plan  might  be  somewhat  curtailed,  es- 
pecially in  the  projecting  wings,  but  were 
unanimously  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  advis- 
able that  the  Hall  should  be  built  in  accord- 
ance with  the  adopted  plans,  with  the  exception 
mentioned;  that  the  front  should  be  of  Stock- 
bridge  marble,  the  sides  of  Morrisania  or 
Verplanck  marble,  and  the  rear  of  brown 
stone. 

This  report  was  rejected,  and  at  the  meeting 
of  the  Common  Council  a  week  later  it  was 
ordered  that  the  committee  should  be  dis- 
charged and  a  new  one  named,  to  consist 
of  a  member  from  each  ward  of  the  city. 
Aldermen  Oothout,  Van  Zandt,  Brasher,  Bar- 
ker, Minthorne,  Le  Roy,  and  Bogardus  were 
accordingly  appointed.  All  persons  employed 


day  for  each  and  every  day  he  should  be  en- 
gaged upon  the  building. 

I  have  had  access  to  Mr.  McComb's  papers, 
which  still  remain  in  his  family,  and  which 
include  the  original  designs,  a  great  part  of 
the  working  drawings,  the  diary  that  he  kept 
pertaining  to  the  building,  his  accounts  of  mar- 
ble, correspondence,  etc.  Many  of  the  books 
of  his  library  also  remain,  and  through  them 
one  may  trace  the  sources  from  which  he 
had  collected  much  of  the  information  that 
enabled  him  to  execute  a  work  which,  so 
long  as  it  stands,  will  continue  to  be  admired 
for  the  purity  of  the  design  and  the  elegance 
of  its  execution.  It  was  probably  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  change  which  was  to  take  place 
in  the  committee  that  the  architect  had  been 
instructed  on  March  10  to  make  out  a  plan 
on  a  reduced  scale,  by  taking  away  three  win- 
dows from  the  extreme  depth  of  the  building, 
two  of  them  to  come  away  from  the  depth  of 
the  end  projections  of  the  main  front ;  and  by 
shortening  the  length  of  the  building  by  tak- 
ing out  two  windows,  and  to  make  estimates 
accordingly.  The  reduced  plan  and  estimates 
were  at  once  furnished,  with  the  information 
that,  should  brown  stone  be  used,  the  cost, 
exclusive  of  statuary  and  bas-relief,  would 
not  exceed  $200,000.  On  the  i8th  of  the 
same  month  the  new  Building  Commi 


, 


THE  NEW  YORK  CITY  HALL. 


867 


met  at  the  almshouse,  and  determined  "  that 
the  reduced  plan  for  building  the  new  City 
Hall  presented  by  Mr.  John  McComb  should 
be  adopted ;  that  the  front,  rear,  and  ends  be 
built  of  brown  freestone ;  that  the  said  build- 
ing be  erected  on  the  vacant  ground  between 
the  jail  and  bridewell;  that  the  wings,  in 
front,  range  with  Murray  street,  on  a  parallel 
line  with  the  fence  in  front  of  the  almshouse." 
On  the  2ist  the  committee  reported  their 
action  to  the  Common  Council,  and  the  plan 
and  estimates  above  referred  to,  with  the  assur- 
ance that  they  had  "  endeavored  to  combine 
durability,  convenience,  and  elegance  with  as 
much  economy  as  the  importance  of  the  object 
will  possibly  admit  of."  This  report  was  at  once 
confirmed,  and  $25,000  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  committee,  with  in- 
structions to  proceed  with  the  con- 
struction of  the  Hall  with  all  expe- 
dition. During  this  time  Mr.  McComb 
had  been  indefatigable  in  his  efforts  to 
induce  the  committee  to  return  to  the 
original  plan  with  the  use  of  marble  as 
^e  building  material ;  and  on  April  4 
GINAL  they  so  far  relented  as  to  express  to  the 
DESIGN.  Common  Council  their  doubts  as  to  the 
propriety  of  diminishing  the  length  by  leaving 
out  two  windows  of  the  front.  Fortunately, 
the  Common  Council  seems  to  have  been 
similarly  impressed,  and  ordered  the  original 
dimensions  of  the  front  to  be  restored.  Dis- 
cussion as  to  the  dimensions  of  the  plan 
then  ceased,  for  under  date  of  the  following 
day  Mr.  McComb's  diary  contains  this  entry : 


"  April  5. —  I  marked  out  the 
j  ground  for  the  building,  and  the 
[cart-men  began  to  dig  for  the 
j  foundation.  Previous  to  this, 
the  Corporation  resolved  to  have 
the  length  of  the  building  agree- 
able to  the  original  design  of  215 


c 


BIT     OF     DETAIL     OF     THE     MAIN     STAIR-WAY. 
(FROM     THE     ORIGINAL     DRAWING.) 


feet  and  9  inches,  but  insisted  on  its  being  reduced  in 
depth  as  they  had  directed  in  March.  Reducing  the 
(projections  in  front,  I  readily  agreed  to  ;  but  cutting 
-'off  the  depth  of  the  building,  I  contended,  was  a  very 
(bad  plan,  as  it  spoils  the  proportion  of  the  large  court- 
jrooms  and  cramps  the  whole  of  the  work, —  but  no 


THE    CUPOLA,  PRIOR    TO    1830.     (FROM    THE    ORIGINAL    DRAWING.) 

arguments  could  prevail.  Several  wished  to  cut  off  the 
projection  in  the  rear,  and  two  of  the  committee  in- 
sisted.;that  the  north  front  had  better  be  built  of  blue 
stone." 

Steps  were  taken  to  procure  the  brown 
stone  determined  on  as  the  material  to  be 
used  from  New  Jersey.  A  quarry  at  Newark 
was  leased,  and  arrangements  were  made  to 
procure  more  from  Second  River.  Notwith- 
standing the  unhealthfulness  of  the  city,  the 
construction  does  not  seem  to  have  been  re- 
tarded, for  in  the  fall  of  the  same  year  the 
foundation  had  been  carried  to  the  top  of  the 
basement  window  arches,  at  a  cost  of  some 
$46,000.  Meanwhile  the  views  of  the  commit- 
tee seem  to  have  been  again  enlarged,  for  on 
September  3  Mr.  McComb  records  that  he 
found  some  of  the  members  of  the  Common 
Council  in  favor  of  white  stone  for  the  prin- 
cipal fronts,  and  that  he  was  then  requested 


868 


THE  NEW   YORK  CITY  HALL. 


JOHN    MCCOMB,    ARCHITECT    OF    NEW    YORK    CITY    HALL.     (FROM    A    PAINTING    BY    WALDO,    IN    POSSESSION    OF    THE     FAMILY.) 


to  estimate  the  additional  cost  of  the  use  of 
marble  for  the  three  fronts.  The  estimate 
was  furnished  and  reported  to  the  Common 
Council.  The  report  was  made  in  October, 
and  included  the  following  argument  in  favor 
of  a  more  liberal  expenditure  : 

"  It  appears  from  this  [the  architect's]  estimate, 
that  the  difference  of  expense  between  marble  and 
brown  stone  will  not  exceed  the  sum  of  forty-three 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  including 
every  contingent  charge.  When  it  is  considered  that 
the  city  of  New  York,  from  its  inviting  situation  and 
increasing  opulence,  stands  unrivaled ;  when  we  re- 
flect that  as  a  commercial  city  we  claim  a  superior 
standing,  our  imports  and  exports  exceeding  any  other 
in  the  United  States,  we  certainly  ought,  in  this  pleas- 
ing state  of  things,  to  possess  at  least  one  public  edi- 
fice which  shall  vie  with  the  many  now  erected  in 
Philadelphia  and  elsewhere.  It  should  be  remembered 
that  this  building  is  intended  to  endure  for  ages  ;  that 
it  is  to  be  narrowly  inspected,  not  only  by  the  scruti- 
nizing eyes  of  our  own  citizens,  but  of  every  scientific 
stranger,  and  in  an  architectural  point  of  view  it,  in 
fact,  is  to  give  a  character  to  our  city.  The  additional  ex- 
pense of  marble  will  be  fully  counterbalanced  when  we 
recollect  that,  from  the  elegance  and  situation  of  this 


building,  the  public  property  on  the  Broadway  and 
Collect  will  much  increase  in  value,  and  that  the  same 
influence  will  be  extended  to  property  far  beyond  these 
limits,  and  that  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  years  it  is 
destined  to  be  in  the  center  of  the  wealth  and  popu- 
lation of  this  city.  A  building  so  constructed  will  do 
honor  to  its  founders,  and  be  commensurate  with  our 
flourishing  situation.  Under  these  impressions,  the 
Building  Committee  strongly  recommend  that  the 
front  and  two  end  views  of  the  new  Hall  be  built  with 
marble." 

The  report  is  in  Mr.  McComb's  handwrit- 
ing, but  is  signed  by  Wynant  Van  Zandt,  Jr. 

In  accordance  with   this  report,  the  Cor-: 
poration  authorized  the  use  of  marble  in  the  ( 
"three   fronts,"  and  on  November  14   con-| 
eluded    a    contract    for   marble    from   West 
Stockbridge,  Mass.;  the  price  was  $1.06  per 
cubic  foot,  delivered  in  New  York.    Under, 
this   contract   33,274  feet  and  10  inches  of 
marble  were  delivered.    In  1808    the   same 
contractors  furnished  2000  feet  more,  at  $3 
a   foot.    The    aggregate  of  these  two  bil  s 
gives   us   the   amount  used   in   the 


THE   NEW  YORK  CITY  HALL. 


869 


VIEW    OF    PORTICO. 


Nearly  all  the  building  material  was  fur- 
nished by  contract.  The  labor  was  by  day's 
work.  By  December  i,  1807,  the  amount  ex- 
pended had  reached  $207,000,  and  the  walls 
were  built  up  to  the  under  side  of  the  second 
story  window-sills.  The  expenditures  were 
always  in  excess  of  the  appropriations,  and 
the  slowness  with  which  the  work  was  carried 
on  is  attributable  probably  to  the  reluctance 
of  the  Corporation  to  increase  the  burdens  of 
taxation.  The  stirring  political  contests  of  the 
day  induced  both  parties  to  act  with  great 
caution.  At  the  same  time,  apart  from  the 
question  of  expediency,  the  ability  of  the  city 
to  raise  money  for  extraordinary  purposes  was 
circumscribed. 

In  1808  the  wages  of  the  stone-cutters  was 
reduced  from  $1.25  to  $i  a  day,  and  many 
were  given  employment  who  would  other- 
wise have  become  a  charge  upon  the  city. 
The  building  was  then  retarded  on  account  of 


hard  times,  for  the  appropriation  was  small. 
In  the  spring  of  1810  it  was  impossible  to 
obtain  workmen  enough,  and  delay  was 
caused  by  the  return  of  prosperity.  In  the 
fall  of  this  year,  however,  the  interior  walls 
had  been  carried  up  to  their  full  height,  and 
the  interior  roof  of  the  wings  in  part  slated. 
The  copper  for  the  upper  roof,  which  was  im- 
ported at  a  cost  of  ^2425  13^.  yd.  sterling,  was 
daily  expected.  It  did  not  arrive,  however, 
in  time  to  be  used  before  the  following  spring. 
Considerable  progress  had  been  made  toward 
finishing  rooms  for  the  accommodation  of 
the  Common  Council,  Mayor,  Clerk,  and 
Comptroller;  and  in  1811  the  city  fathers 
celebrated  the  Fourth  of  July  in  the  new 
Hall. 

On  the  second  Monday  in  August  the  Al- 
dermen bade  adieu  to  their  old  quarters,  and 
met  for  the  first  time  in  the  room  intended 
for  the  Mayor.  The  Comptroller  and  Street 


PROPOSED     FOIL     TO    THE     BASE     OF     THE     CUPOLA.      (FROM     ORIGINAL     DRAWING.) 


THE   NEW   YORK   CITY  HALL. 


IONIC    ORDER  —  FIRST     STORY. 


Commissioner  moved  in  at  the  same  time.  In 
October  the  roof  was  complete,  the  window- 
sashes  were  about  to  be  put  in,  and  they  were 
waiting  for  the  capitals  and  statue  to  complete 
the  cupola.  The  interior  of  the  west  wing, 
with  the  housekeeper's  apartments,  were  fin- 
ished that  fall,  and  the  east  wing  put  under 
scratch-coat.  The  largest  annual  outlay  was 
made  in  1812,  running  well  up  to  $100,000, 
expended  mostly  upon  the  inside  finish  and 
embellishment.  The  center  columns  over  the 
main  stairs  were  put  up,  and  the  front  steps 
were  cut  and  set.  During  the  next  two 

years    $26,000  was    added    to    the      ( 

outlay.      On   May    5    the  Common 
Council   declared  "that  the  build- 
ing   fronting   the    Park,    lately 
erected    for   that    purpose    by 


the  corporation,  shall  be  the  City  Hall  of  the 
City  of  New  York" 

On  the  corner-stone  the  building  is  called 
the  "Hall  of  the  City  of  New  York";  but 
in  1831  by  legislative  enactment  the  designa- 
tion of  1812  was  adhered  to.  Early  in  May  the 
old  City  Hall  and  grounds  were  ordered  to  be 
sold  at  auction,  and  the  proceeds  devoted  to 
the  new  building.  The  old  Hall  stood  nearly 
upon  the  present  site  of  the  Sub-Treasury  at 
the  corner  of  Wall  and  Nassau  streets,  op- 
posite Broad  street. 

The  only  notable  change  that  has  been  made 
in  the  exterior  of  the  building  was  not  accom- 
plished without  opposition.    In  the  original  de- 
sign, a  clock  was  to  have  been  placed  in  the 
middle  window  of  the  attic-story  front ;  and 
when  in  1828  the  Common  Council  ordered 
one  to  be  made,  it  was  at  first  proposed  to 
place  it  there.    But  the  Committees  on  Re- 
pairs and  Arts  and  Sciences,  to  whom   the 
matter  had  been  referred,  recommended  "  that 
it  is  altogether  practicable  to  alter  the  pres- 
ent cupola,  by  cutting  it  off  near  the  bottom 
of  the  round  part  and  raising  it  up  to  receive 
an  octagonal  section  to  show  four  dials.    The 
proposed  alterations,  in  the  opinion  of  your 
committee,  will  not  cost  more  than  five  o 
six  hundred  dollars,  and  will  add  materially  to 
the  usefulness  and  beauty  of  the  building. 
In  the  spring  of  1830  this  change  was  made 
and  a  clock  was  placed  in  the  cupola.    In 
August,  1858,  a  spark  from  the  fireworks  dis 
played  from  the  roof,  at  the  celebration  of  th 
successful  laying  of  the  first  Atlantic  telegrap 
cable,  set  fire  to  some  inflammabl 
material  stored  near  the  base  of  th 
cupola,  which  was  entirely  destroy 
ed;  while  the  low  dome  ove 
the  great  stairs  was  seriously 


PLAN    OF    PRINCIPAL    FLOOR    AS     FINALLY    ADOPTED,    APRIL    4,    1803.     (FROM     THE    ORIGINAL    DRAWING.) 


THE  NEW  YORK  CITY  HALL. 


871 


damaged.  Wall's  drawing  exhibits  the  cupola 
as  it  stood  prior  to  the  insertion  of  the  clock, 
and  the  cut  showing  it  detached  is  from  the 
architect's  original  design.  It  appears  that 
some  slight  changes  were  made  during  con- 
struction. In  rebuilding  the  cupola  and  the 
dome  over  the  stairs,  but  little  effort  was  made 
to  restore  more  than  the  general  appearance 
of  the  originals,  which  accounts  for  the  present 
deformity  of  both. 

Notwithstanding  this  change,  and  the  dam- 
age done   less    by    time    than   by  stupidity, 
the  Hall  stands  to-day  unsurpassed  by  any 
I  structure  of  the  kind  in  ^  the  country.    The 
design   is  pure.    No   pains    or   research  was 
spared.    The  capitals  of  the  first  and  second 
orders  are  marvels  of  execution.    When  some 
fault  seems  to  have  been  found  during  the 
progress  of  the  work  by  a  competitor  of  the 
sculptor,  in  a  communication  upon  that  sub- 
ject to  the  Building  Committee  Mr.  McComb 
remarked  :  "  I  have  visited  the  carvers'  shop 
almost  daily,  and  have  been  always  pleased 
with  Mr.  Lemair's  attention,  mode  of  working, 
and  finishing  the  capitals, — work    which   is 
not  surpassed  by  any  in  the  United  States, 
and   but    seldom    seen    better    executed   in 
Europe,  and  which  for  proportion  and  neat- 
ness of  workmanship  will  serve  as  models  for 
carvers  in  future."    The  name  of  Mr.  John 
jLemair,  to    whom   this  compliment  was  so 
deservedly  paid,  will  be  found  cut  in  the  top 
of  the  blocking  course  over  the  front  attic 
Istory,  together  with  the  names  of  the  Build- 
ing Committee,  architect,  and  master  mechan- 
ics.   The  Ionic  columns  and  pilasters,   with 
their  capitals,  are  remarkably  like  those  in 
khe  portico  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  New  York. 
'The  latter,  however,  are  fluted  and  cabled, 
and   in   turn   resemble   those   by   Ripley  in 
fthe  Admiralty  Office,  London.    The  second 
order  is  designed  after  Sir  William  Chambers, 
jwhose  work  on  civil  architecture  had  made 
its  appearance  a  few  years  prior  to  the  be- 
ginning of  the  century.    The  entablature  of 
[this  order,  however,  after  the  Greek,  is  com- 
Hposed  without  the  dentil,  which  gives  promi- 
pence  to  the  modillion  and  lightens  up  the 
ncornice,  the  dentil  being  introduced  in  the 
•Ionic  order  of  the  first  story,  where  the  soffit 
|)f  the  corona  is  worked  into  a  plain  drip  with 
strong  effect.    The  classic  detail  throughout 
BS  admirably  wrought.    There  is  a  touch  of 
[[the  Adam  Brothers  in  the  leaves  of  the  capi- 
tals to  the  pilasters  of  the  attic-story  front 
•hat  is  not  unpleasing.    This  part  of  the  build- 
ing has,  in  fact,  never  been  finished.  The  un- 
jiefined  want  was  supplied  in  the  design  by  a 
oedimental    foil  to  the   base  of  the  cupola, 
jspomposed  of  statuary  representing  the  city 
firms  as  shown  in  the  illustration,  which  was 


CORINTHIAN    ORDER  —  SECOND    STORY.     (FROM     ORIGINAL 
DRAWING.) 

simply  intended  to  convey  the  architect's  idea. 
This  was  to  have  covered  the  middle  block, 
while  the  blocks  at  either  end  were  to  have 
held  respectively  the  arms  of  the  United 
States  and  those  of  the  State  of  New  York. 
In  1817  Mr.  McComb,  then  Street  Commis- 
sioner, endeavored  to  have  this  carried  out, 
and  stated,  in  a  communication  to  the  Com- 
mon Council,  that  it  had  not  been  done 
before  for  the  want  of  a  sufficiently  skilled 
resident  artist;  that  a  highly  recommended 
sculptor  having  recently  settled  here,  the 
difficulty  no  longer  existed.  He  therefore 
recommended  the  subject  to  the  consideration 
of  the  Board.  The  Committee  on  Arts  reported 
adversely,  the  estimated  cost  being  $8,556. 
The  outlay  was  considered  too  great.  It  was 
the  same  committee  that  in  1830  expended 
about  $6,500  in  providing  a  bell  and  placing 
a  clock  in  the  cupola.  The  clock  was  destroyed 
in  the  fire  of  1858,-  and  the  bell  has  been 
removed.  In  removing  the  bell,  the  cornice 
of  the  rear  was  damaged,  and  the  decorative 
parts  that  were  set  aside  have  never  been 
replaced,  but  still  lie  upon  the  roof.  The 
scales  have  fallen  from  the  hand  of  the  statue 
of  Justice,  and  the  birds  have  built  a  nest  in 
a  break  in  her  side.  Heaven  benignly  wards 
the  lightning  from  the  broken  rod  on  the 
cupola,  but  seems  powerless  to  prevent  the 
heavy  telegraph  cables  from  tugging  at  the 
chimneys.  One  of  these  wires  stretches,  other- 


872 


THE   NEW   YORK  CITY  HALL. 


wise  unsupported,  to  the  roof  of  the  Tract 
House.  Holes  for  rain-water  leaders  have 
been  hacked  through  the  cornice,  and  on  the 
west  side  the  iron  rust  from  a  neglected  chim- 
ney-top has  discolored  the  marble,  well  down 
the  building. 

A  glance  at  the  plan  of  the  main  floor  will 
serve  to  show  the  uses  to  which  the  different 
rooms  were  at  first  put.  The  Mayor's  office  is 
the  only  apartment  that  has  been  continu- 
ously occupied  for  the  same  purpose,  and  the 
room  over  it,  which  was  the  original  Common 
Council  Chamber,  is  the  only  one  that  retains 
much  of  its  former  appearance.  The  mantels 
of  this  room  have  been  torn  out,  and  the  mag- 
nificent glass  chandelier  that  hung  from  its 
ceiling  has  disappeared.  But  despite  foreign 
paint,  and  dirty  and  dingy  as  it  is,  enough 
remains  and  can  be  retained  to  give  some 
idea  of  its  former  beauty.  The  original  Ionic 
pillars  also  remain  in  the  present  Aldermen's 
room,  bedizened  with  color  and  gilt,  but  the 
doors  and  doorways  throughout  the  building 
are  fairly  intact.  The  Governor's  room  has 
been  lengthened  by  including  the  rooms  for- 
merly occupied  by  the  Comptroller  and  grand 
jury.  The  portrait  of  Lafayette,  together  with 
some  others,  remain  in  this  room,  but  several 
good  portraits  have  been  removed  to  glorify 
other  walls.  Of  the  present  City  Library, 
located  in  the  south-east  wing  on  the  main 
floor,  it  were  charity  to  say  nothing.  A  com- 
parison of  the  Hall  of  to-day  with  the  Hall 
of  1814  is  unsatisfactory.  Yet  it  would  not  be 
difficult  to  restore  much  of  the  original  appear- 
ance, and  the  building  is  as  solid  as  ever. 

Of  the  original  plan,  as  reference  has  been 
made  to  the  existing  evidences  of  its  origin,  a 
word  should  be  said.  Cross-sectioned  north 
and  south,  it  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the 
Register  Office  erected,  in  1774,111  Edinburgh 
by  the  Adam  Brothers;  the  main  stair-way  is 
very  like  that  in  the  new  Assembly  Rooms  at 
Glasgow,  built  about  that  time  by  the  same 
architects,  but  is  superior  in  grace  and  pro- 
portion. Much  of  the  interior  detail  shows 
a  careful  study  of  these  architects;  but  the 


whole  was  most  influenced  by  the  genius 
of  Sir  William  Chambers,  whose  works  and 
productions  Mr.  McComb  admired  and  fol-< 
lowed  above  all  others. 

The  principal  elevations  were  undoubtedly* 
suggested  by  Inigo  Jones's  design  for  the 
Palace  at  Whitehall,  of  which  only  the  Ban- 
queting House  was  built. 

In  fact,  it  may  be  said  that,  in  the  detail  of] 
the  exterior  and  of  the  marble  of  the  inside, 
Sir  William  Chambers  was  closely  imitated; 
while  in  the  plan  and  wood-work  the  Adams, 
Richardson,  and  Soane,  and  the  examples  in 
the  "  Vitruvius  Britannicus  "  of  both  Campbell 
and  Richardson,  were  followed  to  a  certain 
degree.  The  execution  of  the  wood-carving 
is  inferior  to  the  work  done  by  Mr.  Lemair. 
for  great  difficulty  was  experienced  in  ob- 
taining competent  workmen  in  this  depart- 
ment. The  aggregate  cost  of  the  building, 
exclusive  of  furniture,  did  not  exceed  half  a 
million  of  dollars,  a  generous  sum  for  those 
days,  while  some  twelve  millions  are  said  to 
have  been  expended  upon  the  New  Courts 
house. 

John  McComb,  the  architect  of  the  Cityj 
Hall,  was  born  in  this  city  October  17,  1763.1 
His  grandfather  was  a  Malcolm  of  Scot- 
land, and  first  settled  in  Maryland.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  Revolutionary  war  the  fam- 
ily removed  to  Princeton,  but  at  its  close 
returned  to  New  York,  where  he  pursued  his 
studies,  and  was  very  successful  in  his  pro- 
fession. He  furnished  the  designs  for  the 
front  of  the  Government  House  in  New  York.< 
which  was  executed  in  1790,  and  for  St. 
John's  Church,  the  Murray  and  Bleecker 
Street  churches,  Washington  Hall,  and  many 
other  public  and  private  buildings  in  New 
York,  Philadelphia,  and  throughout  the  East-? 
ern  States.  He  was  a  governor  of  the  hos- 
pital, "  a  strong  supporter  of  Fulton,  andj 
shared  with  Clinton  the  obloquy  of  the  day''. 
for  his  determined  advocacy  of  the  Eriej 
Canal."  He  filled  many  positions  of  honoif 
and  trust,  and  died  in  New  York  May  25th.;. 

1853- 

Edward  S.  Wilde. 


WINDOW  HEAD MAIN  FRONT. 


DR.    SEVIERJ 


BY    GEORGE    W.    CABLE, 
Author  of  "  Old  Creole  Days,"  "  The  Grandissimes,"  "  Madame  Delphine,"  etc. 


XXVI. 
OUT    OF    THE    FRYING-PAN. 

ROUND  goes  the  wheel  forever.  Another 
sun  rose  up,  not  a  moment  hurried  or  belated 
by  the  myriads  of  life-and-death  issues  that 
cover  the  earth  and  wait  in  ecstasies  of  hope 
I  or  dread  the  passage  of  time.  Punctually  at 
I  ten  Justice-in-the-rough  takes  its  seat  in  the 
Recorder's  Court,  and  a  moment  of  silent 
preparation  at  the  desks  follows  the  loud  an- 
nouncement that  its  session  has  begun.  The 
perky  clerks  and  smirking  pettifoggers  move 
[apart  on  tiptoe,  those  to  their  respective  sta- 
tions, these  to  their  privileged  seats  facing  the 
high  dais.  The  lounging  police  slip  down 
from  their  reclining  attitudes  on  the  heel- 
scraped  and  whittled  window-sills.  The  hum 
of  voices  among  the  forlorn  humanity  that 
jhalf  fills  the  gradually  rising,  greasy  benches 
behind,  allotted  to  witnesses  and  prisoners' 
|friends,  is  hushed.  In  a  little  square,  railed 
ispace,  here  at  the  left,  the  reporters  tip  their 
piairs  against  the  hair-greased  wall,  and 
sharpen  their  pencils.  A  few  tardy  visitors 
(familiar  with  the  place,  tiptoe  in  through  the 
jgrimy  doors,  ducking  and  winking,  and  softly 
lifting  and  placing  their  chairs,  with  a  mock- 
timorous  upward  glance  toward  the  long,  un- 
gainly personage  who,  under  a  faded  and 
;attered  crimson  canopy,  fills  the  august 
bench  of  magistracy  with  its  high  oaken  back. 
|0n  the  right,  behind  a  rude  wooden  paling 
|that  rises  from  the  floor  to  the  smoke-stained 
ceiling,  are  the  peering,  bloated  faces  of  the 
bight's  prisoners. 

The  recorder  utters  a  name.  The  clerk 
down  in  front  of  him  calls  it  aloud.  A  door 
[in  the  palings  opens,  and  one  of  the  captives 
tpomes  forth  and  stands  before  the  rail.  The 
foresting  officer  mounts  to  the  witness-stand 
[pud  confronts  him.  The  oath  is  rattled  and 
[turned  out  like  dice  from  a  box,  and  the 
Accusing  testimony  is  heard.  It  maybe  that 
ihounsel  rises  and  cross-examines,  if  there  are 
witnesses  for  the  defense.  Strange  and  far- 
|etched  questions,  from  beginners  at  the  law 
J>r  from  old  blunderers,  provoke  now  laugh- 
ter and  now  the  peremptory  protestations  of 
he  court  against  the  waste  of  time.  Yet,  in 


general,  a  few  minutes  suffices  for  the  whole 
trial  of  a  case. 

"  You  are  sure  she  picked  the  handsaw  up 
by  the  handle,  are  you  ?  "  says  the  questioner, 
frowning  with  the  importance  of  the  point. 

1  Yes." 

'  And  that  she  coughed  as  she  did  so  ?  " 
Well,  you  see,  she  kind  o'" — 
Yes,  or  no!" 
No." 

That's  all."  He  waives  the  prisoner  down 
with  an  air  of  mighty  triumph,  turns  to  the 
recorder,  "  trusts  it  is  not  necessary  to,"  etc., 
and  the  accused  passes  this  way  or  that, 
according  to  the  fate  decreed, — discharged, 
sentenced  to  fine  and  imprisonment,  or 
committed  for  trial  before  the  courts  of  the 
State. 

"  Order  in  court ! "  There  is  too  much 
talking.  Another  comes  and  stands  before 
the  rail,  and  goes  his  way.  Another,  and 
another;  now  a  ragged  boy,  now  a  half- 
sobered  crone,  now  a  battered  ruffian,  and 
now  a  painted  girl  of  the  street,  and  at  length 
one  who  starts  when  his  name  is  called,  as 
though  something  had  exploded. 

"John  Richling!" 

He  came. 

"  Stand  there ! " 

Some  one  is  in  the  witness-stand,  speaking. 
The  prisoner  partly  hears,  but  does  not  see. 
He  stands  and  holds  the  rail,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  vacantly  on  the  clerk,  who  bends  over 
his  desk  under  the  seat  of  justice,  writing. 
The  lawyers  notice  him.  His  dress  has  been 
laboriously  genteel,  but  is  torn  and  soiled. 
A  detective  with  small  eyes  set  close  to- 
gether, and  a  nose  like  a  yacht's  rudder, 
whisperingly  calls  the  notice  of  one  of  these 
spectators  who  can  see  the  prisoner's  face  to 
the  fact  that,  for  all  its  thinness  and  bruises, 
it  is  not  a  bad  one.  All  can  see  that  the  man's 
hair  is  fine  and  waving  where  it  is  not  matted 
with  blood. 

The  testifying  officer  had  moved  as  if  to 
leave  the  witness-stand,  when  the  recorder 
restrained  him  by  a  gesture,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward and  looking  down  upon  the  prisoner, 
asked : 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  this  ?  " 

The  prisoner  lifted  his  eyes,  bowed  affirm- 


VOL.  XXVII.— 83. 


Copyright,  1883,  by  George  W.  Cable.    All  rights  reserved. 


874 


DR.    SEVIER. 


"May 


atively,  and  spoke  in  a  low,  timid  tone. 
I  say  a  few  words  to  you  privately  ?  " 

"  No." 

He  dropped  his  eyes,  fumbled  with  the  rail, 
and,  looking  up  suddenly,  said  in  a  stronger 
voice,  "  I  want  somebody  to  go  to  my  wife 

in   Prieur  street.    She's  starving.    This  is 

the  third  day  " 

"  We're  not  talking  about  that,"  said  the 
Recorder.  "  Have  you  anything  to  say  against 
this  witness's  statement  ?  " 

The  prisoner  looked  upon  the  floor  and 
slowly  shook  his  head.  "I  never  meant  to 
break  the  law.  I  never  expected  to  stand 
here.  It's  like  an  awful  dream.  Yesterday, 
at  this  time,  I  had  no  more  idea  of  this — I 
didn't  think  I  was  so  near  it.  It's  like  getting 
caught  in  machinery."  He  looked  up  at  the 
recorder  again.  "  I'm  so  confused " —  he 
frowned  and  drew  his  hand  slowly  across  his 
brow — "  I  can  hardly — put  my  words  to- 
gether. I  was  hunting  for  work.  There  is  no 
man  in  this  city  who  wants  to  earn  an  honest 
living  more  than  I  do." 

"  What's  your  trade  ?  " 

"  I  have  none." 

"  I  supposed  not.  But  you  profess  to  have 
some  occupation,  I  dare  say.  What's  your 
occupation  ?  " 

"  Accountant." 

"  Hum ;  you're  all  accountants.  How  long 
have  you  been  out  of  employment  ?  " 

"  Six  months." 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  sleep  under  those 
steps?" 

"  I  didn't  intend  to  go  to  sleep.  I  was 
waiting  for  a  friend  to  come  in  who  boards 
at  the  St.  Charles." 

A  sudden  laugh  ran  through  the  room. 
"  Silence  in  court ! "  cried  a  deputy. 

"  Who  is  your  friend  ?  "  asked  the  Recorder. 

The  prisoner  was  silent. 

"  What  is  your  friend's  name  ?  " 

Still  the  prisoner  did  not  reply.  One  of 
the  group  of  pettifoggers  sitting  behind  him 
leaned  forward,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  murmured :  "  You'd  better  tell  his  name. 
It  wont  hurt  him,  and  it  may  help  you."  The 
prisoner  looked  back  at  the  man  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  Did  you  strike  this  officer  ? "  asked  the 
Recorder,  touching  the  witness,  who  was  rest- 
ing on  both  elbows  in  the  light  arm-chair  on 
the  right. 

The  prisoner  made  a  low  response. 

"  I  don't  hear  you,"  said  the  Recorder. 

"  I  struck  him,"  replied  the  prisoner  ;  "  I 
knocked  him  down."  The  court  officers  below 
the  dais  smiled.  "  I  woke  and  found  him 
spurning  me  with  his  foot,  and  I  resented  it. 
I  never  had  expected  to  be  a  law-breaker. 


I — "  He  pressed  his  temples  between  his 
hands  and  was  silent.  The  men  of  the  law  at 
his  back  exchanged  glances  of  approval.  The 
case  was,  to  some  extent,  interesting. 

"  May  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  man 
who  had  before  addressed  the  prisoner  over 
his  shoulder,  stepping  out  on  the  right  and 
speaking  very  softly  and  graciously,  "  I  ask 
that  this  man  be  discharged.  His  fault  seems 
so  much  more  to  be  accident  than  intention, 
and  his  suffering  so  much  more  than  his 
fault " 

The  Recorder  interrupted  by  a  wave  of  the; 
hand  and  a  preconvinced  smile.  "  Why,  ac- 
cording to  the  evidence,  the  prisoner  was 
noisy  and  troublesome  in  his  cell  all  night."  \ 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  "  I  was 
thrown  in  with  thieves  and  drunkards !  It 
was  unbearable  in  that  hole.  We  were  right 
on  the  damp  and  slimy  bricks.  The  smell  was 
dreadful.  A  woman  in  the  cell  opposite 
screamed  the  whole  night.  One  of  the  men 
in  the  cell  tried  to  take  my  coat  from  me, 
and  I  beat  him  !" 

"  It  seems   to   me,  your  honor,"  said  the 
volunteer   advocate,  lt  the    prisoner    is    still 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning.    This  is  : 
evidently  his  first  offense,  and " 

"  Do  you  know  even  that  ? "  asked  the 
Recorder. 

"  I  do  not  believe  his  name  can  be  founc 
on  any  criminal  record.  I " 

The  Recorder  interrupted  once  more.  H 
leaned  toward  the  prisoner. 

"  Did  you  ever  go  by  any  other  name  ?" 

The  prisoner  was  dumb. 

"Isn't  John  Richling  the  only  name  yot 
have  ever  gone  by  ?  "  said  his  new  friend 
but  the  prisoner  silently  blushed  to  the  root 
of  his  hair  and  remained  motionless. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  send  you  t< 
prison,"  said  the  Recorder,  preparing  to 
write.  A  low  groan  was  the  prisoner's  only 
response. 

"  May  it  please  your  honor,"  began  the 
lawyer,  taking  a  step  forward;  but  the  re 
corder  waved  his  pen  impatiently. 

"  Why,  the  more  is  said  the  worse  his  case 
gets ;  he's  guilty  of  the  offense  charged,  by 
his  own  confession." 

"  I  am  guilty  and  not  guilty,"  said  the 
prisoner,  slowly.  "  I  never  intended  to  be  i 
criminal.  I  intended  to  be  a  good  and  usefu 
member  of  society;  but  I've  somehow  go 
under  its  wheels.  I've  missed  the  whole  secre 
of  living."  He  dropped  his  face  into  hi 
hands.  "  O  Mary,  Mary,  why  are  you  m; 
wife  ?  "  He  beckoned  to  his  counsel.  "  Com 
here ;  come  here."  His  manner  was  wild  an< 
nervous.  "  I  want  you — I  want  you  to  go 
Prieur  street,  to  my  wife.  You  know  — 


5 


DR.    SEVIER. 


875 


know  the  place,  don't  you  ?    Prieur  street. 
Ask  for  Mrs.  Riley " 

"  Richling,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  No,  no !  you  ask  for  Mrs.  Riley  !  Ask 
her  —  ask  her  —  oh  !  where  are  my  senses 
gone?  Ask " 

"  May  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  lawyer, 
turning  once  more  to  the  magistrate  and 
drawing  a  limp  handkerchief  from  the  skirt  of 
his  dingy  alpaca,  with  a  reviving  confidence, 
"  I  ask  that  the  accused  be  discharged ;  he  is 
evidently  insane." 

The  prisoner  looked  rapidly  from  counsel 
to  magistrate,  and  back  again,  saying  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Oh,  no !  not  that !  Oh,  no  !  not  that! 
not  that ! " 

The  Recorder  dropped  his  eyes  upon  a 
paper  on  the  desk  before  him,  and,  beginning 
to  write,  said,  without  looking  up  : 

"  Parish  Prison — to  be  examined  for  in- 
sanity." 

A  cry  of  remonstrance  broke  so  sharply 
from  the  prisoner  that  even  the  reporters  in 
;  their  corner  checked  their  energetic  streams 
of  lead-pencil  rhetoric  and  looked  up. 

"  You  cannot  do  that ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
am  not  insane  !  I'm  not  even  confused  now! 
It  was  only  for  a  minute!  I'm  not  even 
[confused !" 

An  officer  of  the  court  laid  his  hand  quick- 
ly and  sternly  upon  his  arm ;  but  the  re- 
Icorder  leaned  forward  and  motioned  him  off. 
The  prisoner  darted  a  single  flash  of  anger 
[at  the  officer,  and  then  met  the  eye  of  the 
justice. 

"If  I  am  a  vagrant,  commit  me  for 
i  vagrancy  !  I  expect  no  mercy  here !  I  ex- 
Ipect  no  justice!  You  punish  me  first  and 
|try  me  afterward,  and  now  you  can  punish 
me  again ;  but  you  can't  do  that ! " 

"  Order  in  court !  Sit  down  in  those 
(benches ! "  cried  the  deputies.  The  lawyers 
jnodded  darkly  or  blandly,  each  to  each.  The 
pne  who  had  volunteered  his  counsel  wiped 
pis  bald  Gothic  brow.  On  the  recorder's  lips 
|an  austere  satire  played  as  he  said  to  the 
panting  prisoner: 

"  You  are  showing  not  only  your  sanity, 
{but  your  contempt  of  court  also." 

The  prisoner's  eyes  shot  back  a  fierce  light 
jas  he  retorted: 

"  I  have  no  object  in  concealing  either ! " 

The  Recorder  answered  with  a  quick,  angry 
ook;  but  instantly  restraining  himself,  dropped 
lis  glance  upon  his  desk  as  before,  began 
igain  to  write,  and  said  with  his  eyes  follow- 
tng  his  pen  : 

"  Parish  Prison,  for  thirty  days." 

The  officer  grasped  the  prisoner  again  and 
loointed  him  to  the  door  in  the  palings  whence 
le  had  come,  and  whither  he  now  returned, 


moaning  as  he  went,  "  O  my  wife !  my  wife ! 
O  Mary,  my  wife  !  my  wife !" 

Half  an  hour  later  the  dark  omnibus  with- 
out windows,  that  went  by  the  facetious  name 
of  the  "  Black  Maria,"  received  the  convicted 
ones  from  the  same  street  door  by  which  they 
had  been  brought  in  out  of  the  world  the 
night  before.  The  waifs  and  vagabonds  of 
the  town  gleefully  formed  a  line  across  the 
sidewalk  from  the  station-house  to  the  van, 
and  counted  with  zest  the  abundant  number 
of  passengers  that  were  ushered  into  it  one 
by  one.  Heigh  ho  !  In  they  went.  All  ages 
and  sorts;  both  sexes;  tried  and  untried, 
drunk  and  sober,  new  faces  and  old  acquaint- 
ances ;  a  man  who  had  been  counterfeiting, 
his  wife  who  had  been  helping  him,  and  their 
little  girl  of  twelve  who  had  done  nothing. 
Ho,  ho !  Bridget  Fury  !  Ha,  ha  !  Howling 
Lou !  In  they  go ;  the  passive,  the  violent, 
all  kinds ;  filling  the  two  benches  against  the 
sides,  and  then  the  standing  room ;  crowding 
and  packing,  until  the  officer  can  shut  the 
door  only  by  throwing  his  weight  against  it. 

"  Officer,"  said  one,  whose  volunteer  coun- 
sel had  persuaded  the  reporters  not  to  men- 
tion him  by  name  in  their  thrilling  account, 
— "  Officer,"  said  this  one,  trying  to  pause  an 
instant  before  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  "is 
there  no  other  possible  way  to " 

"  Get  in,  get  in !  " 

Two  hands  spread  against  his  back  did  the 
rest;  the  door  clapped  to  like  the  lid  of  a 
bursting  trunk,  the  padlock  rattled,  away  they 
went! 

XXVII. 
"  OH,    WHERE    IS    MY    LOVE  ?  " 

AT  the  prison  the  scene  is  repeated  in  re- 
verse, and  the  Black  Maria  presently  rumbles 
away,  empty.  In  that  building,  whose  exterior 
Narcisse  found  so  picturesque,  the  vagrant  at 
length  finds  food.  In  that  question  of  food, 
by  the  way,  another  question  arose,  not  as  to 
any  degree  of  criminality  past  or  present,  nor 
as  to  age,  or  sex,  or  race,  or  station;  but  as 
to  the  having  or  lacking  fifty  cents.  "  Four 
bits  "  a  day  was  the  open  sesame  to  a  depart- 
ment where  one  could  have  bedstead  and 
ragged  bedding  and  dirty  mosquito-bar,  a  cell 
whose  window  looked  down  into  the  front 
street,  food  in  variety,  and  a  seat  at  table 
with  the  officers  of  the  prison.  But  those  who 
could  not  pay  were  conducted  past  all  these 
delights,  along  one  of  several  dark  galleries, 
the  turnkeys  of  which  were  themselves  con- 
victs who,  by  a  process  of  reasoning  best 
understood  among  the  harvesters  of  perqui- 
sites, were  assumed  to  be  undergoing  sentence. 


876 


DR.    SEVIER. 


The  vagrant  stood  at  length  before  a  grated 
iron  gate  while  its  bolts  were  thrown  back 
and  it  growled  on  its  hinges.  What  he  saw 
within  needs  no  minute  description ;  it  may 
be  seen  there  still,  any  day :  a  large,  flagged 
court,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  two  stories 
of  cells  with  heavy,  black,  square  doors  all 
arow  and  mostly  open ;  about  a  hundred  men 
sitting,  lying,  or  lounging  about  in  scanty 
ragSj — some  gaunt  and  feeble,  some  burly  and 
alert,  some  scarred  and  maimed,  some  sallow, 
some  red,  some  grizzled,  some  mere  lads, 
some  old  and  bowed, —  the  sentenced,  the  un- 
tried, men  there  for  the  first  time,  men  who 
were  oftener  in  than  out, — burglars,  smugglers, 
house-burners,  highwaymen,  wife-beaters, 
wharf-rats,  common  "  drunks,"  pickpockets, 
shop-lifters,  stealers  of  bread,  garroters,  mur- 
derers,— in  common  equality  and  fraternity. 
In  this  resting  and  refreshing  place  for  vice, 
this  caucus  for  the  projection  of  future  crime, 
this  ghastly  burlesque  of  justice  and  the  pro- 
tection of  society,  there  was  a  man  who  had 
been  convicted  of  a  dreadful  murder  a  year 
or  two  before,  and  sentenced  to  twenty-one 
years'  labor  in  the  State  penitentiary.  He  had 
got  his  sentence  commuted  to  confinement  in 
this  prison  for  twenty-one  years  of  idleness. 
The  captain  of  the  prison  had  made  him 
"  captain  of  the  yard."  Strength,  ferocity, 
and  a  terrific  record  were  the  qualifications 
for  this  honorary  office. 

The  gate  opened.  A  howl  of  welcome 
came  from  those  within,  and  the  new  batch, 
the  vagrant  among  them,  entered  the  yard. 
He  passed,  in  his  turn,  to  a  tank  of  muddy 
water  in  this  yard,  washed  away  the  soil  and 
blood  of  the  night,  and  so  to  the  cell  assigned 
him.  He  was  lying  face  downward  on  its 
pavement,  when  a  man  with  a  cudgel  ordered 
him  to  rise.  The  vagrant  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  confronted  the  captain  of  the  yard,  a 
giant  in  breadth  and  stature,  with  no  clothing 
but  a  ragged  undershirt  and  pantaloons. 

"  Get  a  bucket  and  rag  and  scrub  out  this 
cell !  " 

He  flourished  his  cudgel.  The  vagrant  cast 
a  quick  glance  at  him,  and  answered  quietly, 
but  with  burning  face  : 

"  I'll  die  first." 

A  blow  with  the  cudgel,  a  cry  of  rage,  a 
clash  together,  a  push,  a  sledge-hammer  fist 
in  the  side,  another  on  the  head,  a  fall  out 
into  the  yard,  and  the  vagrant  lay  senseless 
on  the  flags. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  and  strug- 
gled to  his  feet,  a  gentle  grasp  was  on  his 
arm.  Somebody  was  steadying  him.  He 
turned  his  eyes.  Ah !  who  is  this  ?  A  short, 
heavy,  close-shaven  man,  with  a  woolen  jacket 
thrown  over  one  shoulder  and  its  sleeves  tied 


together  in   a  knot   under    the   other.    He 
speaks  in  a  low,  kind  tone  : 

"  Steady,  Mr.  Richling." 

Richling  supported  himself  by  a  hand  on  I 
the  man's  arm,  gazed  in  bewilderment  at  the 
gentle  eyes  that  met  his,  and  with  a  slow 
gesture  of  astonishment  murmured,  "  Risto- 
falo  ! "  and  dropped  his  head. 

The  Italian  had  just  entered  the  prison! 
from  another  station-house.  With  his  hand 
still  on  Richling's  shoulder,  and  Richling's  on 
his,  he  caught  the  eye  of  the  captain  of  the 
yard,  who  was  striding  quietly  up  and  down 
near  by,  and  gave  him  a  nod  to  indicate  that 
he  would  soon  adjust  everything  to  that 
autocrat's  satisfaction.  Richling,  dazed  and 
trembling,  kept  his  eyes  still  on  the  ground, 
while  Ristofalo  moved  with  him  slowly  away 
from  the  squalid  group  that  gazed  after  them. 
They  went  toward  the  Italian's  cell. 

"  How  are  you  in  prison  ? "  asked  the 
vagrant,  feebly. 

"Oh,  nothin'  much — witness  in  shootin* 
scrape  —  talk  'bout  aft'  while." 

"  Oh,  Ristofalo,"  groaned  Richling,  as  they 
entered,  "  my  wife !  my  wife  !  Send  some 
bread  to  my  wife !  " 

"  Lay  down,"  said  the  Italian,  pressing 
softly  on  his  shoulders;  but  Richling  OS] 
quietly  resisted. 

"  She  is  near  here,  Ristofalo.  You  can  send 
with  the  greatest  ease !  You  can  do  any- , 
thing,  Ristofalo, — if  you  only  choose !  " 

"Lay  down,"  said  the  Italian,  again,  and 
pressed  more  heavily.  The  vagrant  sank 
limply  to  the  pavement,  his  companion 
quickly  untying  the  jacket-sleeves  from  under 
his  own  arms  and  wadding  the  garment  under 
Richling's  head. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I'm  in  here  for,  Ris- 
tofalo ?  "  moaned  Richling. 

"  Don't  know,  don't  care.    Yo'  wife  knowj 
you  here?" 

Richling  shook  his  head  on  the  jacket. 
The  Italian  asked  her  address,  and  Richling 
gave  it. 

"  Coin'  tell  her  come  and  see  you,"  said, 
the  Italian.  "Now,  you  lay  still  little  while; 
I  be  back  t'reckly."  He  went  out  into  the 
yard  again,  pushing  the  heavy  door  after  him 
till  it  stood  only  slightly  ajar,  sauntered  easily 
around  till  he  caught  sight  of  the  captain  of 
the  yard,  and  was  presently  standing  before 
him  in  the  same  immovable  way  in  which  he 
had  stood  before  Richling  in  Tchoupitouks 
street,  on  the  day  he  had  borrowed  the  dol- 
lar. Those  who  idly  drew  around  could  notjj 
hear  his  words,  but  the  "captain's"  answers' 
were  intentionally  audible.  He  shook  hs 
head  in  rejection  of  a  proposal.  "  No,  nobod) 
but  the  prisoner  himself  should  scrub  01 


DR.    SEVIER. 


877 


cell.  No,  the  Italian  should  not  do  it  for 
him.  The  prisoner's  refusal  and  resistance 
had  settled  that  question.  No,  the  knocking 
down  had  not  balanced  accounts  at  all. 
There  was  more  scrubbing  to  be  done.  It 
was  scrubbing  day.  Others  might  scrub  the 
yard  and  the  galleries,  but  he  should  scrub 
out  the  tank.  And  there  were  other  things, 
and  worse — menial  services  of  the  lowest 
kind.  He  should  do  them  when  the  time 
came,  and  the  Italian  would  have  to  help 
him  too.  Never  mind  about  the  law  or  the 
terms  of  his  sentence.  Those  counted  for 
nothing  there."  Such  was  the  sense  of  the 
decrees;  the  words  were  such  as  may  be 
guessed  or  left  unguessed.  The  scrubbing 
of  the  cell  must  commence  at  once.  The 
vagrant  must  make  up  his  mind  to  suffer.  "  He 
had  served  on  jury ! "  said  the  man  in  the 
undershirt,  with  a  final  flourish  of  his  stick. 
"  He's  got  to  pay  dear  for  it ! " 

When  Ristofalo  returned  to  his  cell,  its 
inmate,  after  many  upstartings  from  terrible 
dreams,  that  seemed  to  guard  the  threshold 
of  slumber,  had  fallen  asleep.  The  Italian 
touched  him  gently,  but  he  roused  with  a  wild 
[  start  and  stare. 

"  Ristofalo,"  he  said,  and  fell  a-staring 
again. 

"  You  had  some  sleep,"  said  the  Italian. 

"  It'-s  worse  than  being  awake,"  said  Rich- 
ling.  He  passed  his  hands  across  his  face. 
"  Has  my  wife  been  here  ?  " 

"  No.  Haven't  sent  yet.  Must  watch  good 
I  chance.  Git  captain  yard  in  good  humor  first, 
I  or  else  do  on  sly."  The  cunning  Italian  saw 
;that  anything  looking  like  early  extrication 
i  would  bring  new  fury  upon  Richling.  He 
;  knew  all  the  values  of  time.  "  Come,"  he 
I  added,  "must  scrub  out  cell,  now."  He 
I  ignored  the  heat  that  kindled  in  Richling's 
i  eyes,  and  added,  smiling,  "  You  don't  do  it, 
;I  got  to  do  it." 

With  a  little  more  of  the  like  kindly  guile, 
land  some  wise  and  simple  reasoning,  the 
|  Italian  prevailed.  Together,  without  objection 
;from  the  captain  of  the  yard,  with  many  un- 
;  availing  protests  from  Richling,  who  would 
tnow  do  it  alone,  and  with  Ristofalo  smiling 
ilike  a  Chinaman  at  the  obscene  ribaldry  of 
the  spectators  in  the  yard,  they  scrubbed  the 
cell.  Then  came  the  tank.  They  had  to 
'.stand  in  it  with  the  water  up  to  their  knees, 
and  rub  its  sides  with  brickbats.  Richling 
fell  down  twice  in  the  water,  to  the  uproarious 
delight  of  the  yard ;  but  his  companion  helped 
|him  up,  and  they  both  agreed  it  was  the  slimi- 
,ness  of  the  tank's  bottom  that  was  to  blame. 

"Soon  we  get  through  we  goin'  to  buy 
drink  o'  whisky  from  jailer,"  said  Ristofalo; 
i"  he  keep  it  for  sale.  Then,  after  that,  kin 


hire  somebody  to  go  to  your  house ;  captain 
yard  think  we  gittin'  mo'  whisky." 

"  Hire  ?"  said  Richling.  "  I  haven't  a  cent 
in  the  world.  " 

"  I  got  a  little — few  dimes,"  rejoined  the 
other. 

"  Then  why  are  you*  here  ?  Why  are  you 
in  this  part  of  the  prison  ?  " 

"  Oh,  'fraid  to  spend  it.  On'y  got  few 
dimes.  Broke  ag'in." 

Richling  stopped  still  with  astonishment, 
brickbat  in  hand.  The  Italian  met  his  gaze 
with  an  illuminated  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  took  all  I  had  with  me  to  bayou  La  Fourche. 
Coming  back,  slept  with  some  men,  in  boat. 
One  git  up  in  night  time  and  steal  everything. 
Then  was  a  big  fight.  Think  that  what  fight 
was  about — about  dividing  the  money.  Don't 
know  sure.  One  man  git  killed.  Rest  run 
into  the  swamp  and  prairie.  Officer  arrested 
me  for  witness.  Couldn't  trust  me  to  stay  in 
the  city." 

"  Do  you  think  the  one  who  was  killed  was 
the  thief?" 

"  Don't  know  sure,"  said  the  Italian,  with 
the  same  sweet  face,  and  falling  to  again  with 
his  brick  bat, — "  hope  so." 

"  Strange  place  to  confine  a  witness !  "  said 
Richling,  holding  his  hand  to  his  bruised 
side  and  slowly  straightening  his  back. 

"  Oh,  yes,  good  place,"  replied  the 'other, 
scrubbing  away ;  "  git  him,  in  short  time,  so 
he  swear  to  anything." 

It  was  far  on  in  the  afternoon  before  the 
wary  Ristofalo  ventured  to  offer  all  he  had  in 
his  pocket  to  a  hanger-on  of  the  prison  office, 
to  go  first  to  Richling's  house,  and  then  to 
an  acquaintance  of  his  own,  with  messages 
looking  to  the  procuring  of  their  release.  The 
messenger  chose  to  go  first  to  Ristofalo's 
friend,  and  afterward  to  Mrs.  Riley's.  It  was 
growing  dark  when  he  reached  the  latter 
place.  Mary  was  out  in  the  city  somewhere, 
wandering  about,  aimless  and  distracted,  in 
search  of  Richling.  The  messenger  left  word 
with  Mrs.  Riley.  Richling  had  all  along 
hoped  that  that  good  friend,  doubtless  ac- 
quainted with  the  most  approved  methods 
of  finding  a  missing  man,  would  direct  Mary 
to  the  police  stations  at  the  earliest  prac- 
ticable hour.  But  time  had  shown  that  she 
had  not  done  so.  No,  indeed!  Mrs.  Riley 
counted  herself  too  benevolently  shrewd  for 
that.  While  she  had  made  Mary's  suspense 
of  the  night  less  frightful  than  it  might  have 
been,  by  surmises  that  Mr.  Richling  had 
found  some  form  of  night-work, —  watching 
some  pile  of  freight  or  some  unfinished 
building, —  she  had  come,  secretly,  to  a  dif- 
ferent conviction  predicated  on  her  own 
married  experiences;  and  if  Mr.  Richling 


DR.    SEVIER. 


had,  in  a  moment  of  gloom,  tipped  the  bowl 
a  little  too  high,  as  her  dear  lost  husband, 
the  best  man  that  ever  walked,  had  often 
done,  and  had  been  locked  up  at  night  to  be 
let  out  in  the  morning,  why,  give  him  a 
chance !  Let  him  invent  his  own  little  fault- 
hiding  romance  and  come  home  with  it. 
Mary  was  frantic.  She  could  not  be  kept  in ; 
but  Mrs.  Riley,  by  prolonged  effort,  con- 
vinced her  it  was  best  not  to  call  upon  Dr. 
Sevier  until  she  could  be  sure  some  disaster 
had  actually  occurred,  and  sent  her  among 
the  fruiterers  and  oystermen  in  vain  search 
for  Raphael  Ristofalo.  Thus  it  was  that  the 
Doctor's  morning  messenger  to  the  Richlings, 
bearing  word  that  if  any  one  were  sick  he 
would  call  without  delay,  was  met  by  Mrs. 
Riley  only,  and  by  the  reassuring  statement 
that  both  of  them  were  out.  The  later  mes- 
senger, from  the  two  men  in  prison,  brought 
back  word  of  Mary's  absence  from  the  house, 
of  her  physical  welfare,  and  Mrs.  Riley's  prom- 
ise that  Mary  should  visit  the  prison  at  the 
earliest  hour  possible.  This  would  not  be  till 
the  next  morning. 

While  Mrs.  Riley  was  sending  this  mes- 
sage, Mary,  a  great  distance  away,  was  emerg- 
ing from  the  -darkening  and  silent  streets  of 
the  river  front  and  moving  with  timid  haste 
across  the  broad  levee  toward  the  edge  of 
the  water  at  the  steam-boat  landing.  In  this 
season  of  depleted  streams  and  idle  waiting, 
only  an  occasional  boat  lifted  its  lofty,  black, 
double  funnels  against  the  sky  here  and  there, 
leaving  wide  stretches  of  unoccupied  wharf- 
front  between.  Mary  hurried  on,  clear  out 
to  the  great  wharf's  edge  and  looked  forth 
upon  the  broad,  softly  moving  harbor.  The 
low  waters  spread  out  and  away,  to  and 
around  the  opposite  point,  in  wide  surfaces 
of  glassy  purples  and  wrinkled  bronze.  Beauty, 
that  joy  forever,  is  sometimes  a  terror.  Was 
the  end  of  her  search  somewhere  underneath 
that  fearful  glory  ?  She  clasped  her  hands, 
bent  down  with  dry,  staring  eyes,  then  turned 
again  and  fled  homeward.  She  swerved  once 
toward  Dr.  Sevier's  quarters,  but  soon  de- 
cided to  see  first  if  there  were  any  tidings 
with  Mrs.  Riley,  and  so  resumed  her  course. 
Night  overtook  her  in  streets  where  every 
footstep  before  or  behind  her  made  her  trem- 
ble ;  but  at  length  she  crossed  the  threshold 
of  Mrs.  Riley's  little  parlor.  Mrs.  Riley  was 
standing  in  the  door,  and  retreated  a  step  or 
two  backward  as  Mary  entered  with  a  look 
of  wild  inquiry. 

"  Not  come  ?  "  cried  the  wife. 

"  Mrs.  Richlin',"  said  the  widow,  hurriedly, 
"  yer  husband's  alive  and  found." 

Mary  seized  her  frantically  by  the  shoul- 
ders, crying  with  high-pitched  voice : 


"  Where  is  he  ?  —  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Ye  can't  see  um  till  marning,  Mrs.  Rich- 
lin'." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  cried  Mary,  louder  than 
before. 

"  Me  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Riley,  "  ye  kin  easy* 
git  him  out  in  the  marning." 

"  Mrs.  Riley,"  said  Mary,  holding  her  with 
her  eye,  "is  my  husband  in  prison?  —  O  Lord 
God!  O  God,  my  God!" 

Mrs.  Riley  wept.    She  clasped  the  moaning, 
sobbing  wife  to  her  bosom,  and  with  stream-  | 
ing  eyes  said: 

"  Mrs.  Richlin',  me  dear,  Mrs.  Richlin',  me 
dear,  what  wad  I  give  to  have  my  husband 
this  night  where  your  husband  is  ! " 


XXVIII. 
RELEASE. NARCISSE. 

As  SOME  children  were  playing  in  the  street 
before  the  Parish  Prison  next  morning,  they 
suddenly  started  and  scampered  toward  the 
prison's  black  entrance.    A  physician's   car- 
riage had  driven  briskly  up  to  it,  ground  its 
wheels   against   the    curbstone,   and   halted. 
If  any  fresh  crumbs  of  horror  were  about  to 
be  dropped,  the  children  must  be  there  to 
feast  on  them.    Dr.  Sevier  stepped  out,  gave  i 
Mary  his  hand  and  then  his  arm,  and  went  ; 
in  with  her.    A  question  or  two  in  the  prison  ' 
office,  a  reference  to  the  rolls,  and  a  turnkey 
led  the  way  through  a  dark  gallery  lighted 
with  dimly  burning  gas.    The  stench  was  suf- 
focating.   They  stopped  at  the  inner  gate. 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  to  us?"  asked 
the  doctor,  scowling  resentfully  at  the  facetious 
drawings  and  legends  on  the  walls,  where  the 
dampness  glistened  in  the  sickly  light. 

The  keeper  made  a  low  reply  as  he  shot 
the  bolts. 

"  What  ?  "  quickly  asked  Mary. 

"  He's  not  well,"  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

The  gate  swung  open.  They  stepped  into 
the  yard  and  across  it.  The  prisoners  paused 
in  a  game  of  ball.  Others,  who  were  playing 
cards,  merely  glanced  up  and  went  on.  The 
jailer  pointed  with  his  bunch  of  keys  to  a  cell 
before  him.  Mary  glided  away  from  the 
doctor  and  darted  in.  There  was  a  cry  and  !? 
a  wail. 

The  doctor  followed  quickly.  Ristofalo 
passed  out  as  he  entered.  Richling  lay  on  a 
rough  gray  blanket  spread  on  the  pavement 
with  the  Italian's  jacket  under  his  head. 
Mary  had  thrown  herself  down  beside  him 
upon  her  knees,  and  their  arms  were  aroi 
each  other's  neck. 

"  Let  me  see,   Mrs.   Richling,"  said 


DR.    SEVIER. 


879 


physician,  touching  her  on  the  shoulder.  She 
drew  back.  Richling  lifted  a  hand  jn  wel- 
come. The  doctor  pressed  it. 

"  Mrs.  Richling,"  he  said,  as  they  faced 
each  other,  he  on  one  knee,  she  on  both. — 
He  gave  her  a  few  laconic  directions  for  the 
sick  man's  better  comfort. — "You  must  stay 
here,  madam,"  he  said  at  length  ;  "  this  man 
Ristofalo  will  be  ample  protection  for  you; 
and  I  will  go  at  once  and  get  your  husband's 
discharge."  He  went  out. 

In  the  office  he  asked  for  a  seat  at  a  desk. 
As  he  finished  using  it  he  turned  to  the  keeper 
and  asked,  with  severe  face : 

"  What  do  you  do  with  sick  prisoners  here, 
anyway  ?  " 

The  keeper  smiled. 

"  Why,  if  they  gits  right  sick,  the  hospital 
wagon  comes  and  takes  'em  to  the  Charity 
Hospital." 

"  Umhum !  "  replied  the  doctor,  unpleas- 
antly, —  "  in  the  same  wagon  they  use  for  a 
case  of  scarlet  fever  or  small-pox,  eh  ?  " 

The  keeper,  with  a  little  resentment  in  his 
laugh,  stated  that  he  would  be  eternally  lost 
if  he  knew. 

"  /  know,"  remarked  the  doctor.  "  But 
when  a  man  is  only  a  little  sick, —  according 
to  your  judgment, — like  that  one  in  there 
now,  he  is  treated  here,  eh  ?  " 

The  keeper  swelled  with  a  little  official 
pride.  His  tone  was  boastful. 

"  We  has  a  complete  dispenisary  in  the 
prison,"  he  said. 

"  Yes  ?  Who's  your  druggist  ?  "  Dr.  Sevier 
was  in  his  worst  inquisitorial  mood. 

"  One  of  the  prisoners,"  said  the  keeper. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  steadily.  The 
man,  in  the  blackness  of  his  ignorance,  was 
visibly  proud  of  this  bit  of  economy  and  con- 
venience. 

"  How  long  has  he  held  this  position  ?  " 
asked  the  physician. 

"  Oh,  a  right  smart  while.  He  was  sen- 
tenced for  murder,  but  he's  waiting  for  a  new 
trial." 

"  And  he  has  full  charge  of  all  the  drugs  ?  " 
asked  the  doctor,  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"  Yes,  sir."   The  keeper  was  flattered. 

"  Poisons  and  all,  I  suppose,  eh  ?  "  pursued 
the  doctor. 

"  Everything." 

The  doctor  looked  steadily  and  silently 
upon  the  officer,  and  tore  and  folded  and  tore 
again  into  small  bits  the  prescription  he  had 
written.  A  moment  later  the  door  of  his  car- 
riage shut  with  a  smart  clap  and  its  wheels 
rattled  away.  There  was  a  general  laugh  in 
the  office,  heavily  spiced  with  maledictions. 

"  I  say,  Cap',  what  d'you  reckon  he'd  'a' 
said  if  he'd  a  seen  the  women's  department  ?" 


IN  those  days  recorders  had  the  power  to 
release  prisoners  sentenced  by  them,  when 
in  their  judgment  new  information  justified 
such  action.  Yet  Dr.  Sevier  had  a  hard  day's 
work  to  procure  Richling's  liberty.  The  sun 
was  declining  once  more  when  a  hack  drove 
up  to  Mrs.  Riley's  dodr  with  John  and  Mary 
in  it,  and  Mrs.  Riley  was  restrained  from 
laughing  and  crying  only  by  the  presence  of 
the  great  Dr.  Sevier  and  a  romantic  Italian 
stranger  by  the  captivating  name  of  Ristofalo.. 
Richling,  with  repeated,  avowals  of  his  abil- 
ity to  walk  alone,  was  helped  into  the  house 
between  these  two  illustrious  visitors,  Mary 
hurrying  in  ahead,  and  Mrs.  Riley  shutting 
the  street  door  with  some  resentment  of  man- 
ner toward  the  staring  children  who  gathered 
without.  Was  there  anything  surprising  in  the 
fact  that  eminent  persons  should  call  at  her 
house  ? 

When  there  was  time  for  greetings  she  gave 
her  hand  to  Dr.  Sevier  and  asked  him  how 
he  found  himself.  To  Ristofalo  she  bowed 
majestically.  She  noticed  that  he  was  hand- 
some and  muscular. 

At  different  hours  the  next  day  the  same 
two  visitors  called.  Also  the  second  day 
after.  And  the  third.  And  frequently  after- 
ward. 

RISTOFALO  regained  his  financial  feet  al- 
most, as  one  might  say,  at  a  single  hand-spring. 
He  amused  Mary  and  John  and  Mrs.  Riley 
almost  beyond  limit  with  his  simple  story  of 
how  he  did  it. 

"  Ye'd  better  hurry  and  be  getting  up  out 
o'  that  sick  bed,  Mr.  Ritchlin',"  said  the  widow 
in  Ristofalo's  absence,  "  or  that  I-talian  ras- 
cal '11  be  making  himself  entirely  too  agree- 
'ble  to  yer  lady  here,  ha,  hai  It's  she  that 
he's  a-comin'  here  to  see." 

Mrs.  Riley  laughed  again,  and  pointed  at 
Mary  and  tossed  her  head,  not  knowing  that 
Mary  went  through  it  all  over  again  as  soon 
as  Mrs.  Riley  was  out  of  the  room,  to  the 
immense  delight  of  John. 

"  And  now,  madam,"  said  Dr.  Sevier  to 
Mary,  by  and  by,  "  let  it  be  understood  once 
more  that  even  independence  may  be  carried 
to  a  vicious  extreme,  and  that" — he  turned  to 
Richling,  by  whose  bed  he  stood  —  "you 
and  your  wife  will  not  do  it  again.  You've 
had  a  narrow  escape.  Is  it  understood  ?  " 

"  We'll  try  to  be  moderate,"  replied  the 
invalid,  playfully. 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  said  the  Doctor. 

And  his  skepticism  was  wise.  He  continued 
to  watch  them,  and  at  length  enjoyed  the 
sight  of  John  up  and  out  again  with  color  in 
his  cheeks  and  the  old  courage — nay,  a  new 
and  a  better  courage — in  his  eyes. 


88o 


DR.    SEVIER. 


Said  the  doctor  on  his  last  visit,  "  Take 
good  care  of  your  husband,  my  child."  He 
held  the  little  wife's  hand  a  moment,  and 
gazed  out  of  Mrs.  Riley's  front  door,  upon 
the  western  sky.  Then  he  transferred  his 
gaze  to  John,  who  stood,  with  his  knee  in  a 
chair,  just  behind  her.  He  looked  at  the  con- 
valescent with  solemn  steadfastness.  The 
husband  smiled  broadly. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  I'll  try  to  de- 
serve her." 

The  doctor  Iooke4  again  into  the  west. 

"  Good-bye." 

Mary  tried  playfully  to  retort,  but  John 
restrained  her,  and  when  she  contrived  to 
utter  something  absurdly  complimentary  of 
her  husband,  he  was  her  only  hearer. 

They  went  back  into  the  house,  talking  of 
other  matters.  Something  turned  the  con- 
versation upon  Mrs.  Riley,  and  from  that 
subject  it  seemed  to  pass  naturally  to  Risto- 
falo.  Mary,  laughing  and  talking  softly  as 
they  entered  their  room,  called  to  John's  rec- 
ollection the  Italian's  account  of  how  he  had 
once  bought  a  tarpaulin  hat  and  a  cottonade 
shirt  of  the  pattern  called  a  "jumper,"  and 
had  worked  as  a  deck-hand  in  loading  and 
unloading  steam-boats.  It  was  so  amusingly 
sensible  to  put  on  the  proper  badge  for  the 
kind  of  wrork  sought.  Richling  mused.  Many 
a  dollar  he  might  have  earned  the  past  sum- 
mer, had  he  been  as  ingeniously  wise,  he 
thought. 

"  Ristofalo  is  coming  here  this  evening," 
said  he,  taking  a  seat  in  the  alley  window. 

Mary  looked  at  him  with  sidelong  merri- 
ment. The  Italian  was  coming  to  see  Mrs. 
Riley. 

"  Why,  John,"  whispered  Mary,  standing 
beside  him,  "  she's  nearly  ten  years  older  than 
he  is !  " 

But  John  quoted  the  old  saying  about  a 
man's  age  being  what  he  feels,  and  a  woman's 
what  she  looks. 

"Why  —  but — dear,  it  is  scarcely  a  fort- 
night since  she  declared  nothing  could  ever 
induce " 

"  Let  her  alone,"  said  John,  indulgently. 
•"  Hasn't  she  said  half  a  dozen  times  that 
it  isn't  good  for  woman  to  be  alone  ?  A 
widow's  a  woman — and  you  never  disputed 
it." 

"  Oh,  John,"  laughed  Mary,  "  for  shame ! 
You  know  I  didn't  mean  that.  You  know  I 
never  could  mean  that." 

And  when  John  would  have  maintained 
his  ground,  she  besought  him  not  to  jest  in 
that  direction,  with  eyes  so  ready  for  tears 
that  he  desisted. 

"  I  only  meant  to  be  generous  to  Mrs. 
Riley,"  he  said. 


"  I    know    it,"    said    Mary,    caressingly ;  , 
"you're  always  on  the  generous  side  of  every- 
thing." 

She  rested  her  hand  fondly  on  his  arm,  and  j 
he  took  it  into  his  own. 

One  evening  the  pair  were  out  for  that  sun-  : 
set  walk  which  their  young  blood  so  relished, 
and  which  often  led  them,  as  it  did  this  time, 
across  the  wide,  open  commons  behind  the  \ 
town,  where  the  unsettled  streets  were  turf- 
grown,    and    toppling    wooden    lamp-posts  > 
threatened  to  fall  into  the  wide,  cattle-trodden 
ditches. 

"  Fall  is  coming,"  said  Mary. 

"  Let   it  come  !  "  exclaimed  John  ;   "  it's 
hung  back  long  enough." 

He  looked  about  with  pleasure.    On  every  .i 
hand  the  advancing  season  was  giving  prom- 
ise of  heightened  activity.    The  dark,  plumy 
foliage  of  the  china  trees  was  getting  a  golden 
edge.    The   burnished   green    of   the    great 
magnolias  was  spotted  brilliantly  with  hun- 
dreds of  bursting  cones,  red  with  their  pendent 
seeds.    Here  and  there  as  the  sauntering  pair  : 
came  again  into  the  region  of  brick  sidewalks, 
a  falling  cone  would  now  and  then  scatter  its 
polished  coral  over  the  pavement,  to  be  gath-  : 
ered  by  little  girls  for  necklaces,  or  bruised 
under  foot,  staining  the  walk  with  its  fra-  i 
grant  oil.    The  ligustrums  bent  low  under  the  I 
dragging   weight    of   their  small,    clustered 
berries.   The  oranges  were   turning.    In  the 
wet,  choked  ditches  along  the  interruptions  * 
of  pavement,  where  John  followed  Mary  on 
narrow  plank  footways,  bloomed  thousands 
of  little  unrenowned   asteroid  flowers,   blue 
and  yellow,  and  the  small,  pink  spikes  of  the  < 
water-pepper.    It  wasn't  the  fashionable  habit 
in  those  days,  but  Mary  had  John  gather  big 
bunches  of  this  pretty  floral  mob,  and  filled 
her  room  with  them — not  Mrs.  Riley's  parlor 
— whoop,  no!   Weeds?    Not  if  Mrs.  Riley 
knew  herself. 

So  ran  time  apace.  The  morning  skies  were 
gray  monotones,  and  the  evening  gorgeous 
reds.  The  birds  had  finished  their  summer 
singing.  Sometimes  the  alert  chirp  of  the 
cardinal  suddenly  smote  the  ear  from  some  ( 
neighboring  tree ;  but  he  would  pass,  a  flash 
of  crimson,  from  one  garden  to  the  next,  and 
with  another  chirp  or  two  be  gone  for  days. 
The  nervy,  unmusical  waking  cry  of  the 
mocking-bird  was  often  the  first  daybreak 
sound.  At  times  a  myriad  downy  seeds  floated 
everywhere,  now  softly  upward,  now  gently 
downward,  and  the  mellow  rays  of  sunse: 
turned  it  into  a  warm,  golden  snow-fall.  By 
night  a  soft  glow  from  distant  burning  prairie.'; 
showed  the  hunters  were  afield.  The  call 
unseen  wild  fowl  was  heard  overhead,  am 
finer  to  the  waiting  poor  man's  ear  than 


DR.    SEVIER. 


88 1 


other  sounds — came  at  regular  intervals,  now 
from  this  quarter  and  now  from  that,  the  heavy, 
rushing  blast  of  the  cotton  compress,  telling 
that  the  flood  tide  of  commerce  was  setting  in. 

Narcisse  surprised  the  Richlings  one  even- 
ing with  a  call.  They  tried  very  hard  to  be 
reserved,  but  they  were  too  young  for  that 
task  to  be  easy.  The  Creole  had  evidently 
come  with  his  mind  made  up  to  take  unre- 
sentfully  and  override  all  the  unfriendliness 
they  might  choose  to  show.  His  conversa- 
tion never  ceased,  but  flitted  from  subject  to 
subject  with  the  swift  waywardness  of  a  hum- 
ming-bird. It  was  remarked  by  Mary,  leaning 
back  in  one  end  of  Mrs.  Riley's  little  sofa, 
that  "  summer  dresses  were  disappearing,  but 
that  the  girls  looked  just  as  sweet  in  their 
idarker  colors  as  they  had  appeared  in  mid- 
bummer  white.  Had  Narcisse  noticed?  Prob- 
ably he  didn't  care  for " 

"  Ho!  I  notiz  them  an'  they  notiz  me  !  An' 
Ithass  one  thing  I  'ave  notiz  about  young 
ladies;  they  ah  juz  like  those  bird' ;  in  sum- 
|meh  lookin'  cool,  in  winteh  waum.  I  'ave 
Inotiz  that.  An'  I've  notiz  anotheh  thing 
(which  make  them  juz  like  those  bird'.  They 
lalways  know  if  a  man  is  lookin',  an'  they 
mlways  make  like  they  don't  see  'im !  I 
would  like  to  'ite  an  i'ony  about  that  —  a  lill 
ony — in  the  he'oic  measuh.  You  like  that 
le'oic  measuh,  Mizzez  Witchlin'  ?  " 

As  he  rose  to  go  he  rolled  a  cigarette,  and 
bided  the  end  in  with  the  long  nail  of  his 
ittle  finger. 

"  Mizzez  Witchlin',  if  you  will  allow  me  to 

ight  my  ciga'ette  fum  yo'  lamp ?    I  can't 

ise  my  sun-glass  at  night,  because  the  sun  is 
jiod  theh.  But,  the  sun  shining,  I  use  it.  I 
ave  adop'  that  method  since  lately." 

"  You  borrow  the  sun's  rays,"  said  Mary, 
jvith  wicked  sweetness. 

"  Yes ;  'tis  cheapeh  than  matches  in  the 
ongue  'un." 

"You  have  discovered  that,  I  suppose," 
lemarked  John. 

"Me?  The  sun-glass?  No.  I  believe 
Uichimides  invend  that,  in  fact.  An'  yet, 
>ut  of  ten  thousan'  who  use  the  sun-glass  only 

few  can  account  'ow  'tis  done.  'Ow  did  you 
hink  that  that's  my  invention,  Mistoo  'Itch- 
n'  ?  Did  you  know  that  I  am  something  of 

chimist  ?  I  can  tu'n  litmus  papeh  'ed  by 
uz  dipping  it  in  803 HO.  Yesseh." 

"Yes,"  said  Richling,  "that's  one  thing 
lat  /have  noticed,  that  you're  very  fertile  in 
evices." 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Mary,  "  I  noticed  that,  the 
irst  time  you  ever  came  to  see  us.    I  only 
fish  Mr.  Richling  was  half  as  much  so." 
;  She  beamed  upon  her  husband.    Narcisse 
lughed  with  pure  pleasure. 


"  Well,  I  am  compel'  to  say  you  ah  co'ect. 
I  am  continually  makin'  some  discove'ies. 
1  Necessity's  the  motheh  of  inventions.'  Now 
thass  anotheh  thing  I  'ave  notiz  —  about  that 
month  of  Octobeh :  it  always  come  befo'  you 
think  it's  comin'.  I  'ave  notiz  that  about  eve'y 
month.  Now,  to-day  weah  the  twennieth  Oc- 
tobeh !  Is  it  not  so  ?  "  He  lighted  his  cigar- 
ette. "  You  ah  compel'  to  co'obo'ate  me." 

XXIX. 
LIGHTING    SHIP. 

YES,  the  tide  was  coming  in.  The  Rich- 
lings'  bark  was  still  on  the  sands,  but  every 
now  and  then  a  wave  of  promise  glided  under 
her.  She  might  float,  now,  any  day.  Mean- 
time, as  has  no  doubt  been  guessed,  she  was 
held  on  an  even  keel  by  loans  from  the  doctor. 

"  Why  you  don't  advertise  in  papers  ?  " 
asked  Ristofalo. 

"  Advertise  ?  Oh,  I  didn't  think  it  would 
be  of  any  use.  I  advertised  a  whole  week, 
last  summer." 

"  You  put  advertisement  in  wrong  time  and 
keep  it  out  wrong  time,"  said  the  Italian. 

"  I  have  a  place  in  prospect,  now,  without 
advertising,"  said  Richling  with  an  elated 
look. 

It  was  just  here  that  a  new  mistake  of 
Richling's  emerged.  He  had  come  into  contact 
with  two  or  three  men  of  that  wretched  sort 
that  indulge  the  strange  vanity  of  keeping 
others  waiting  upon  them  by  promises  of 
employment.  He  believed  them,  liked  them 
heartily  because  they  said  nothing  about  ref- 
erences, and  gratefully  distended  himself  with 
their  husks,  until  Ristofalo  opened  his  eyes 
by  saying,  when  one  of  these  men  had  disap- 
pointed Richling  the  third  time : 

"  Business  man  don't  promise  but  once." 

"  You  lookin'  for  book-keeper's  place  ?  " 
asked  the  Italian  at  another  time.  "  Why  don't 
dress  like  a  book-keeper  ?  " 

"  On  borrowed  money  ?  "  asked  Richling, 
evidently  looking  upon  that  question  as  a  poser. 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Richling,  with  a  smile  of 
superiority ;  but  the  other  one  smiled  too,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  Borrow  mo',  if  you  don't." 

Richling's  heart  flinched  at  the  word.  He 
had  thought  he  was  giving  his  true  reason, 
but  he  was  not.  A  foolish  notion  had  floated, 
like  a  grain  of  dust,  into  the  over-delicate 
wheels  of  his  thought, — that  men  would  em- 
ploy him  the  more  readily  if  he  looked  needy. 
His  hat  was  unbrushed,  his  shoes  unpolished ; 
he  had  let  his  beard  come  out,  thin  and  un- 
trimmed;  his  necktie  was  faded.  He  looked 
battered.  When  the  Italian's  gentle  warning 


! 


882 


DR.    SEVIER. 


showed  him  this  additional  mistake  on  top 
of  all  his  others,  he  was  dismayed  at  him- 
self; and  when  he  sat  down  in  his  room 
and  counted  the  cost  of  an  accountant's  uni- 
form, so  to  speak,  the  remains  of  Dr.  Sevier's 
last  loan  to  him  was  too  small  for  it.  There- 
upon he  committed  one  error  more, — but  it 
was  the  last.  He  sunk  his  standard  and 
began  again  to  look  for  service  among  indus- 
tries that  could  offer  employment  only  to 
manual  labor.  He  crossed  the  river  and 
stirred  about  among  the  dry-docks  and  ship- 
carpenters'  yards  of  the  suburb  Algiers.  But 
he  could  neither  hew  spars,  nor  paint,  nor 
splice  ropes.  He  watched  a  man  half  a  day 
calking  a  boat;  then  he  offered  himself  for 
the  same  work,  did  it  fairly,  and  earned  half  a 
day's  wages.  But  then  the  boat  was  done, 
and  there  was  no  other  calking  at  the  moment 
along  the  whole  harbor  front,  except  some  that 
was  being  done  on  a  ship  by  her  own  sailors. 

"  John,"  said  Mary,  dropping  into  her  lap 
the  sewing  that  hardly  paid  for  her  candle, 
"isn't  it  hard  to  realize  that  it  isn't  twelve 
months  since  your  hardships  commenced? 
They  can't  last  much  longer,  darling." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  John.  "  And  I  know 
I'll  find  a  place  presently,  and  then  we'll  wake 
up  to  the  fact  that  this  was  actually  less  than 
a  year  of  trouble  in  a  lifetime  of  love." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Mary,  "  I  know  your  pa- 
tience will  be  rewarded." 

"  But  what  I  want  is  work  now,  Mary. 
The  bread  of  idleness  is  getting  too  bitter.  But 
never  mind ;  I'm  going  to  work  to-morrow ; — 
never  mind  where.  It's  all  right.  You'll  see." 

She  smiled,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  again 
with  an  unreserved  confession  of  trust.  The 
next  day  he  reached  the  —  what  shall  we 
say  ?  —  big  end  of  his  last  mistake.  What  it 
was  came  out  a  few  mornings  after,  when  he 
called  at  Number  5  Carondelet  street. 

"  The  Doctah  is  not  in  pwesently,"  said 
Narcisse.  "  He  ve'y  hawdly  comes  in  so  soon 
as  that.  He's  living  home  again,  once  mo', 
now.  He's  ve'y  un'estless.  I  tole  'im  yes- 
tiddy,  <  Doctah,  I  know  juz  'ow  you  feel,  seh; 
'tis  the  same  way  with  mieseff.  You  ought 
to  git  ma'ied ! " 

"  Did  he  say  he  would  ?"  asked  Richling. 

"Well,  you  know,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',  so  the 
povub  says,  '  Silent  give  consense.'  He  juz 
look  at  me  —  nevveh  said  a  word  —  ha !  he 
couldn' !  You  not  lookin'  ve'y  well,  Mistoo 
Ttchlin'.  I  suppose  'tis  that  waum  weatheh." 

"  I  suppose  it  is;  at  least,  partly,"  said 
Richling,  and  added  nothing  more,  but  looked 
along  and  across  the  ceiling,  and  down  at 
a  skeleton,  in  a  corner,  that  was  offering  to 
shake  hands  with  him.  He  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  talk  to  Narcisse.  Both  Mary  and  he  had 


grown  a  little  ashamed  of  their  covert  sari 
casms,  and  yet  to  leave  them  out  was  breac 
without  yeast,  meat  without  salt,  as  far  ai. 
their  own  powers  of  speech  were  concerned.] 

"  I  thought  the  other  day,"  he  began  again 
with  an  effort,  "  when  it  blew  up  cool,  tha 
the  warm  weather  was  over.*' 

"  It  seem  to  be  fmishin'  ad  the  end,  '. 
think,"  responded  the  Creole.  "  I  think,  lib 
you,  that  we  'ave  'ad  too  waum  weatheh 
Me,  I  like  that  weatheh  to  be  cole,  me.  ! 
halways  weigh  the  mose  in  cole  weatheb 
I  gain  flesh,  in  fact.  But  so  soon  'tis  summe] 
something  become  of  it.  I  dunno  if  'tis  thj 
fault  of  my  close,  but  I  always  reduct  i 
summeh.  Speakin'  of  close,  Mistoo  Ttchlin',—, 
egscuse  me  if  'tis  a  fair  question, — w'at  wa« 
yo'  objec'  in  buyin'  that  tawpaulin  hat  ar 
jacket  lass  week  ad  that  sto'  on  the  levee1 
You  din  know  I  saw  you,  but  I  juz  'appen  t 
see  you,  in  fact."  (  The  color  rose  in  Rich 
ling's  face,  and  Narcisse  pressed  on  withou 
allowing  an  answer.)  "  Well,  thass  none  o' mi 
bizness,  of  co'se,  but  I  think  you  lookin'  ve'<| 

bad,  Mistoo  Ttchlin' "   He  stopped  vera 

short  and  stepped  with  dignified  alacrity  to  hi 
desk,  for  Dr.  Sevier's  step  was  on  the  stair.  ( 

The  doctor  shook  hands  with  Richling  an ' 
sank  into  the  chair  at  his  desk.  "Anything 
turned  up  yet,  Richling  ?  " 

"Doctor,"  began  Richling,  drawing  hi? 
chair  near  and  speaking  low 

"Good  mawnin',  Doctah,"  said  Narcisst 
showing  himself  with  a  graceful  flourish. 

The    doctor    nodded,    "Narcisse,"    the 
turned  again  to  Richling.    "  You  were  sa>| 
ing " 

"  I  'ope  you  well,  seh,"  insisted  the  Creol< 
and  as  the  doctor  glanced  toward  him  in 
patiently,  repeated  the  sentiment,  "  'Ope  yo'' 
well,  seh." 

The  doctor  said  he  was,  and  turned  onci 
more   to   Richling.     Narcisse    bowed   awaJ 
backward  and  went  to  his  desk,  filled  to  tbl 
eyes  with  fierce  satisfaction.   He  had  mad 
himself  felt.    Richling  drew  his  chair  near* 
and  spoke  low. 

"  If  I  don't  get  work  within  a  day  or  tw<' 
I  shall  have  to  come  to  you  for  money." 

"That's  all  right,  Richling."  The  docfc 
spoke  aloud ;  Richling  answered  low. 

"  Oh,  no,  Doctor,  it's  all  wrong !  Indee< 
I  can't  do  it  any  more  unless  you  will  let  IE' 
earn  the  money." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  would  most  gladly 
but  I  have  nothing  that  you  can  do." 

"  Yes,  you  have,  Doctor." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  this :    you   have   a  slave 
driving  your  carriage." 

"Well?" 


DR.    SEVIER. 


883 


sorry 

foolish  and  weak. 


"  Give  him  some  other  work  and  let  me  do 
that." 

Dr.  Sevier  started  in  his  seat.  "  Richling, 
I  can't  do  that.  I  should  ruin  you.  If  you 
drive  my  carriage " 

"  Just  for  a  time,  Doctor,  till  I  find  some- 
thing else." 

"  No,  no  !  If  you  drive  my  carriage  in  New 
Orleans,  you'll  never  do  anything  else." 

"  Why,  Doctor,  there  are  men  standing  in 
the  front  ranks  to-day,  who " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  impatiently, 
"I  know, —  who  began  with  menial  labor; 
but  —  I  can't  explain  it  to  you,  Richling,  but 
you're  not  of  the  same  sort ;  that's  all.  I  say 
it  without  praise  or  blame ;  you  must  have 
work  adapted  to  your  abilities." 

"  My  abilities ! "  softly  echoed  Richling. 
Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  He  held  out  his 
open  palms, — "  Doctor,  look  there."  They 
were  lacerated.  He  started  to  rise,  but  the 
doctor  prevented  him. 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  Richling,  pleadingly, 
and  with  averted  face.  "  Let  me  go.  I'm 
I  showed  them.  It  was  mean  and 
Let  me  go." 

But  Dr.  Sevier  kept  a  hand  on  him,  and  he 
did  not  resist.  The  doctor  took  one  of  the 
I  hands  and  examined  it  "  Why,  Richling, 
i  you've  been  handling  freight." 

"  There  was  nothing  else." 

"Oh,  bah!" 

"  Let  me  go,"  whispered  Richling.  But 
I  the  doctor  held  him. 

"  You  didn't  do  this  on  the  steam-boat 
(landing,  did  you,  Richling?" 

The  young  man  nodded.  The  doctor 
I  dropped  the  hand  and  looked  upon  its 
|  owner  with  set  lips  and  steady  severity. 
i  When  he  spoke,  he  said  : 

"  Among  the  negro  and  green  Irish  deck- 
I  hands,  and  under  the  oaths  and  blows  of 
I  steam-boat  mates!  —  Why,  Richling  !  " — He 
I  turned  half  away  in  his  rotary  chair  with  an 
I  air  of  patience  worn  out. 

"  You  thought  I  had  more  sense,"  said 
i  Richling. 

The  doctor  put  his  elbows  upon  his  desk 
and  slowly  drew  his  face  upward  through  his 
hands.  "  Mr.  Richling,  what  is  the  matter 
|  with  you  ?  "  They  gazed  at  each  other  a  long 
I  moment,  and  then  Dr.  Sevier  continued : 
"  Your  trouble  isn't  want  of  sense.  I  know 
that  very  well,  Richling."  His  voice  was  low 
and  became  kind.  "  But  you  don't  get  the 
use  of  the  sense  you  have.  It  isn't  available." 
He  bent  forward:  "Some  men,  Richling, 
carry  their  folly  on  the  surface  and  their  good 
'sense  at  the  bottom," — he  jerked  his  thumb 
backward  toward  the  distant  Narcisse  and 
added,  with  a  stealthy  frown, — "like  that 


little  fool  in  yonder.  He's  got  plenty  of  sense, 
but  he  doesn't  load  any  of  it  on  deck.  Some 
men  carry  their  sense  on  top  and  their  folly 
down  below " 

Richling  smiled  broadly  through  his  dejec- 
tion, and  touched  his  own  chest.  "  Like  this 
big  fool  here,"  he  said. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Dr.  Sevier.  "  Now  you've 
developed  a  defect  of  the  memory.  Your  few 
merchantable  qualities  have  been  so  long  out 
of  the  market,  and  you've  suffered  such  hu- 
miliation under  the  pressure  of  adversity,  that 
you've — you've  done  a  very  bad  thing." 

"  Say  a  dozen,"  responded  Richling,  with 
bitter  humor.  But  the  doctor  swung  his  head 
in  resentment  of  the  levity. 

"  One's  enough.  You've  allowed  yourself 
to  forget  your  true  value." 

"  I'm  worth  whatever  I'll  bring." 

The  doctor  tossed  his  head  in  impatient 
disdain. 

"  Pshaw  >  You'll  never  bring  what  you're 
worth,  any  more  than  some  men  are  worth 
what  they  bring.  You  don't  know  how.  You 
never  will  know." 

"Well,  Doctor,  I  do  know  that  I'm  worth 
more  than  I  ever  was  before.  I've  learned  a 
thousand  things  in  the  last  twelvemonth.  If  I 
can  only  get  a  chance  to  prove  it ! "  Richling 
turned  red  and  struck  his  knee  with  his  fist. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Dr.  Sevier ;  "  that's  your 
sense,  on  top.  And  then  you  go — in  a  fit  of 
the  merest  impatience,  as  I  do  suspect — and 
offer  yourself  as  a  deck-hand  and  as  a  carriage- 
driver.  That's  your  folly,  at  the  bottom. 
What  ought  to  be  done  to  such  a  man  ?  "  He 
gave  a  low,  harsh  laugh.  Richling  dropped 
his  eyes.  A  silence  followed. 

"  You  say  all  you  want  is  a  chance,"  re- 
sumed the  doctor. 

"  Yes,"  quickly  answered  Richling,  look- 
ing up. 

"  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  you."  They 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  The  doctor 
nodded.  "  Yes,  sir."  He  nodded  again. 

"Where  did  you  come  from,  Richling  — 
when  you  came  to  New  Orleans — you  and 
your  wife  ?  Milwaukee  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Do  your  relatives  know  of  your  present 
condition  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Is  your  wife's  mother  comfortably  situ- 
ated?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  you  must  do." 

"  The  only  thing  I  can't  do,"  said  Richling. 

"  Yes,  you  can.  You  must.  You  must  send 
Mrs.  Richling  back  to  her  mother." 

Richling  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  warmly,    "  I  say 


884 


DR.    SEVIER. 


you  must.  I  will  lend  you  the  passage 
money." 

Richling's  eye  kindled  an  instant  at  the 
doctor's  compulsory  tone,  but  he  said, 
gently : 

"  Why,  Doctor,  Mary  will  never  consent  to 
leave  me." 

"  Of  course  she  will  not.  But  you  must 
make  her  do  it !  That's  what  you  must  do. 
And  when  that's  done,  then  you  must  start 
out  and  go  systematically  from  door  to  door 
—  of  business  houses,  I  mean, — offering  your- 
self for  work  befitting  your  station  —  ahem  ! 
— station,  I  say — and  qualifications.  I  will 
lend  you  money  to  live  on  until  you  find  per- 
manent employment.  Now,  now,  don't  get 
alarmed !  I'm  not  going  to  help  you  any 
more  than  I  absolutely  must !  " 

"But,  Doctor,  how  can  you  expect " 

But  the  doctor  interrupted. 

"  Come,  now,  none  of  that !  You  and 
your  wife  are  brave ;  I  must  say  that  for  you. 
She  has  the  courage  of  a  gladiator.  You  can 
do  this  if  you  will." 

"  Doctor,"  said  Richling,  "  you  are  the 
best  of  friends ;  but,  you  know,  the  fact  is, 
Mary  and  I  —  well,  we're  still  lovers." 

"  Oh !  "  The  doctor  turned  away  his  head 
with  fresh  impatience.  Richling  bit  his  lip, 
but  went  on  : 

"  We  can  bear  anything  on  earth  together ; 
but  we  have  sworn  to  stay  together  through 
better  and  worse " 

"  Oh,  pf-f-f-f !"  said  the  doctor,  closing  his 
eyes  and  swinging  his  head  away  again. 

" — And  we're  going  to  do  it,"  concluded 
Richling. 

"  But  you  can't  do  it  ! "  cried  the  doctor, 
so  loudly  that  Narcisse  stood  up  on  the 
rungs  of  his  stool  and  peered. 

"  We  can't  separate." 

Dr.  Sevier  smote  the  desk  and  sprang  to 
his  feet : 

"  Sir,  you've  got  to  do  it !  If  you  continue 
in  this  way,  you'll  die  !  You'll  die,  Mr.  Rich- 
ling — both  of  you  !  You'll  die !  Are  you  going 
to  let  Mary  die  just  because  she's  brave  enough 
to  do  it  ?  "  He  sat  down  again  and  busied 
himself  nervously  placing  pens  on  the  pen- 
rack,  the  stopper  in  the  inkstand,  and  the  like. 

Many  thoughts  ran  through  Richling's 
mind  in  the  ensuing  silence.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  floor.  Visions  of  parting, — of  the 
great  emptiness  that  would  be  left  behind, — 
the  pangs  and  yearnings  that  must  follow, — 
crowded  one  upon  another.  One  torturing 
realization  kept  ever  in  the  front — that  the 
doctor  had  a  well-earned  right  to  advise,  and 
that,  if  his  advice  was  to  be  rejected,  one 
must  show  good  and  sufficient  cause  for  re- 
jecting it,  both  in  present  resources  and  in 


expectations.  The  truth  leaped  upon  him 
and  bore  him  down  as  it  never  had  done 
before — the  truth  which  he  had  heard  this 
very  Dr.  Sevier  proclaim — that  debt  is  bond- 
age. For  a  moment  he  rebelled  against  it ;  but  | 
shame  soon  displaced  mutiny,  and  he  accepted 
this  part,  also,  of  his  lot.  At  length  he  rose. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

"  May  I  ask  Mary  ?  " 

"  You  will  do  what  you  please,  Mr.  Rich- 
ling."  And  then,  in  a  kinder  voice,  the  doc- 
tor added,  "  Yes ;  ask  her." 

They  moved  together  to  the  office  door. 
The  doctor  opened  it,  and  they  said  good- 
bye, Richling  trying  to  drop  a  word  of  grati- 
tude, and  the  doctor  hurriedly  ignoring  it. 

The  next  half  hour  or  more  was  spent  by  1 
the  physician  in  receiving,  hearing,  and  dis- 
missing patients  and  their  messengers.    By 
and  by  no  others   came.   The  only  audible 
sound  was  that  of  the  doctor's  paper-knife 
as  it  parted  the  leaves  of  a  pamphlet.    He 
was  thinking   over  the   late   interview  with 
Richling,  and  knew  that,  if  this  silence  were  not 
soon  interrupted  from  without,  he  would  have 
to  encounter  his  book-keeper,  who  had  not  : 
spoken  since  Richling  had  left.   Presently  the  -( 
issue  came. 

"  Dr.  Seveeah," —  Narcisse  came  forward,  , 
hat  in  hand, — "  I  dunno  'ow  'tis,  but  Mistoo  ; 
Ttchlin'  always  wemine  me  of  that  povvub, 
'  Ully  to  bed,  ully  to  'ise,  make  a  pusson  to  j 
be  'ealthy  an'  wealthy  an'  wise.' " 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  either,"  grumbled 
the  doctor. 

"  I  believe  thass  not  the  povvub  I  was 
thinking.  I  am  acquainting  myseff  with  those 
povvubs;  but  I'm  somewhat  gween  in  that 
light,  in  fact.  Well,  Doctah,  I'm  goin'  ad  the 
— shoemakeh.  I  burs'  my  shoe  yistiddy.  I 
was  juz " 

"  Very  well,  go." 

"Yesseh;  and  from  the  shoemakeh  I'll 
go " 

The  doctor   glanced  darkly  over  the  topi 
of  the  pamphlet. 

" — Ad  the  bank;  yesseh,"  said  Narcissc,J 
and  went. 

XXX. 

AT    LAST. 

MARY,  cooking  supper,  uttered  a  soft  ex- 
clamation of  pleasure  and  relief  as  she  heard 
John's  step  under  the  alley  window  and  then 
at  the  door.  She  turned,  with  an  iron  spoon  ,j 
in  one  hand  and  a  candlestick  in  the  other,. 
from  the  little  old  stove  with  two  pot-hole 5, 
where  she  had  been  stirring  some  mess  in 
tin  pan. 


DR.    SEVIER. 


885 


"  Why  you're" — she  reached  for  a  kiss  — 
j "  real  late  !  " 

"  I    could    not    come    any   sooner."    He 
dropped  into  a  chair  at  the  table. 
"  Busy  ?  " 

"  No ;  no  work  to-day." 
Mary  lifted  the  pan  from  the  stove,  whisked 
I  it  to  the  table,  and  blew  her  ringers. 

"  Same  subject  continued,"  she  said  laugh- 
I  ingly,  pointing  with  her  spoon  to  the  warmed- 
i  over  food.  • 

Richling  smiled  and  nodded,  and  then  flat- 
tened his  elbows  out  on  the  table  and  hid  his 
I  face  in  them. 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  lingered 
I  away  from  his  wife  when  he  need  not  have 
done  so.     It   was   the   doctor's   proposition 
|  that  had  kept  him  back.    All  day  long  it  had 
filled  his  thoughts.    He  felt  its  wisdom.    Its 
sheer  practical  value  had   pierced  remorse- 
lessly  into   the   deepest   convictions   of  his 
mind.    But  his  heart  could  not  receive  it. 

"  Well,"   said   Mary,  brightly,   as  she  sat 

down  at  the  table, "  may  be  you'll  have  better 

luck  to-morrow.    Don't  you  think  you  may?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  John,  straightening 

up  and  tossing  back  his  hair.    He  pushed  a 

plate  up  to  the  pan,  supplied  and  passed  it. 

(Then  he  helped  himself  and  fell  to  eating. 

"  Have   you   seen    Dr.    Sevier    to-day  ? " 
asked  Mary,  cautiously,  seeing  her  husband 
!  pause  and  fall  into  distraction. 

He  pushed  his  plate  away  and  rose.    She 

met   him   in   the   middle  of  the  room.    He 

extended  bofh  hands,  took  hers,  and  gazed 

I  upon  her.    How  could  he  tell  ?   Would  she 

;cry  and  lament,  and  spurn  the  proposition, 

and  fall  upon  him  with  a  hundred  kisses  ?  Ah, 

I  if  she  would!    But  he  saw  that  Dr.  Sevier, 

I  at  least,  was  confident  she  would  not ;  that 

she  would  have,  instead,  what  the  wife  so 

>  often  has  in  such  cases,  the  strongest  love,  it 

i  may  be,  but  also  the  strongest  wisdom  for 

|  that  particular  sort  of  issue.    Which  would 

i  she  do  ?    Would  she  go  or  would  she  not  ? 

He  tried  to  withdraw  his  hands,  but  she 
:  looked  beseechingly  into  his  eyes  and  knit 
;  her  fingers  into  his.    The  question  stuck  upon 
his  lips  and  would  not  be  uttered.    And  why 
;  should  it  be  ?    Was  it  not  cowardice  to  leave 
i  the  decision  to  her  ?    Should  not  he  decide  ? 
i  Oh !  if  she  would  only  rebel !    But  would  she  ? 
I  Would  not  her  utmost  be  to  give  good  rea- 
sons in  her  gentle,    inquiring   way  why  he 
should  not  require  her  to  leave  him  ?    And 
i  were  there  any  such  ?    No,  no.  He  had  racked 
his   brain    to  find   so  much  as  one,  all  day 
long. 

"  John,"    said    Mary,    "  Dr.   Sevier's  been 
talking  to  you." 
"  Yes." 


"  And  he  wants  you  to  send  me  back  home 
for  a  while." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  John,  with 
a  start. 

"  I  can  read  it  in  your  face."  She  loosed 
one  hand  and  laid  it  upon  his  brow. 

"What — what  do  you  think  about  it, 
Mary  ?  " 

Mary  looking  into  his  eyes  with  the  face  of 
one  who  pleads  for  mercy,  whispered,  "  He's 
right,"  then  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom  and 
wept  like  a  babe. 

"  I  felt  it  six  months  ago,"  she  said  later, 
sitting  on  her  husband's  knee  and  holding  his 
folded  hands  tightly  in  hers. 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  so  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  I  was  too  selfish,"  was  her  reply. 

When  on  the  second  day  afterward  they 
entered  the  doctor's  office,  Richling  was 
bright  with  that  new  hope  which  always  rises 
up  beside  a  new  expedient,  and  Mary  looked 
well  and  happy.  The  doctor  wrote  them  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  steam-boat  agent. 

"  You're  taking  a  very  sensible  course,"  he 
said,  smoothing  the  blotting-paper  heavily 
over  the  letter.  "  Of  course,  you  think  it's 
hard.  It  is  hard.  But  distance  needn't  sepa- 
rate you." 

"  It  can't,"  said  Richling. 

"Time,"  continued  the  doctor  —  "may  be 
a  few  months  —  will  bring  you  together  again, 
prepared  for  a  long  life  of  secure  union ;  and 
then,  when  you  look  back  upon  this,  you'll 
be  proud  of  your  courage  and  good  sense. 

And  you'll  be "  He  inclosed  the  note, 

directed  the  envelope,  and,  pausing  with  it 
still  in  his  hand,  turned  toward  the  pair.  They 
rose  up.  His  rare,  sick-room  smile  hovered 
about  his  mouth,  and  he  said : 

"You'll  be  all  the  happier  —  all  three  of 
you." 

The  husband  smiled.  Mary  colored  down 
to  the  throat  and  looked  up  on  the  wall, 
where  Harvey  was  explaining  to  his  king  the 
circulation  of  the  blood.  There  was  quite  a 
pause,  neither  side  caring  to  utter  the  first 
adieu. 

"  If  a  physician  could  call  any  hour  his 
own,"  presently  said  the  doctor,  "I  should 
say  I  would  come  down  to  the  boat  and  see 
you  off.  But  I  might  fail  in  that.  —  Good- 
bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Doctor."  —  A  little  tremor  in 
the  voice.  —  "  Take  care  of  John." 

The  tall  man  looked  down  into  the  upturned 
blue  eyes. 

"  Good-bye ! "  He  stooped  toward  her 
forehead,  but  she  lifted  her  lips  and  he  kissed 
them.  So  they  parted. 

The  farewell  with  Mrs.  Riley  was  mainly 
characterized  by  a  generous  and  sincere  ex- 


886  "  THY  KINGDOM  COME/" 

change  of  compliments  and  promises  of  re-  ing  the  doctor,  going  into  the  breakfast  room, 

membrance.    Some  tears  rose  up ;  a  few  ran  met  Richling  just  risen  from  his  earlier  and 

over.  hastier  meal. 

At  the  steam-boat  wharf  there  were  only  "  Well  ?   Anything  yet  ?  " 

the  pair  themselves  to  cling  one  moment  to  "  Nothing  yet." 

each  other  and  then  wave  that  mute  farewell  And   unless   there   was   some   word  from 

that  looks  through  watery  eyes  and  sticks  in  Mary,  nothing  more  would  be  said.     So  went 

the  choking  throat.   Who  ever  knows  what  the  month  of  November, 

good-bye  means  ?  But  at  length,  one  day  toward  the  close  of 

the  doctor's  office  hours,  he  noticed  the  sound 

"  DOCTOR,"  said  Richling  when  he  came  of  an  agile  foot  springing  up  his  stairs  three 

to  accept  those  terms  $n  the  doctor's  prop-  steps  at  a  stride,  and  Richling  entered,  pant- 

osition    which   applied  more   exclusively  to  ing  and  radiant, 

himself,  —  "no,  Doctor,  not  that  way,  please."  "  Doctor,  at  last !    At  last ! " 

He  put  aside  the  money  proffered  him.    "  This  "  At  last,  what  ?  " 

is  what  I  want  to  do :  I  will  come  to  your  "I've  found  employment!    I  have,  indeed, 

house  every  morning  and  get  enough  to  eat  One  line  from  you,  and  the  place  is  mine ! 

to  sustain  me  through  the  day,  and  will  con-  A  good  place,  Doctor,  and  one  that  I  can  fill, 

tinue  to  do  so  till  I  find  work."  The  very   thing   for  me !    Adapted   to   my 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  doctor.  abilities  !  "   He  laughed  so  that  he  coughed, 

The  arrangement  went  into  effect.    They  was  still,  and  laughed  again.    "  Just  a  line,  if 

never  met  at  dinner ;  but  almost  every  morn-  you  please,  Doctor." 

(To  be  continued.) 


"THY   KINGDOM    COME!" 

BATTLE'S  red  banner  frights  the  shrinking  sky,  • 

His  fierce  foot  tramples  earth's  prone,  rended  heart; 

But  some  time  will  be  hushed  his  orphan's  cry, 
And  Peace  rejoice  in  meadow  and  in  mart. 

Wrong  throttles  Right,  Injustice  reigns  in  guile, 

Self,  the  base  robber,  riots  mid  his  gains; 
But  some  time  Right  will  come  with  golden  smile, 

Victorious  virtue  spread  its  heavenly  reign. 

Genius,  unnoticed,  shrinks  at  jest  and  sneer; 

Wealth,  Rank  combine  to  blight  his  glorious  life; 
But  some  time  up  his  bay-wreathed  brow  will  rear, 

And  his  keen  sword  hew  way  amid  the  strife. 

Money  reigns  king:  its  slaves  cheat,  lie,  and  steal, 
Mean  flatterers  bow  the  kne€^  and  bare  the  head; 

But  some  time  Worth  his  presence  will  reveal 
And  spurn  the  spaniels  with  his  stately  tread. 

Hail  the  blest  time !  'twill  not  be  alway  night ! 

Earth's  sounding  song  will  not  be  ever  dumb! 
Hasten,  O  Thou,  Thy  grand   Millennial  light! 

Sovereign  and  Father !  "  Let  Thy  Kingdom  Come !  " 

Alfred  B.  Street. 


AMONG   THE    MAGDALEN    ISLANDS. 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    "  ALICE    MAY."     III. 


HAVING  arrived  at  the  Magdalen  Islands, 

1  we  anchored  at  Havre  Aubert,  the  chief  town. 

There  is  a  small,  snug  port  here,  but  difficult 

!  to  enter,  and  the  channel  is  narrow  and  only 

good  for  small  vessels.   The  roads  are  formed 

by  the  bight  inside  of  the  group,  which  are 

so  situated  as  to  resemble  a  boot.   This  an- 

I  chorage  is  reasonably  secure  in  good  weather, 

but  is  open  to  northerly  and  easterly  winds. 

I  Vessels  caught  there  in  a  gale  of  wind  dodge 

!  around   the  islands,   unless   the   wind  shifts 

too  rapidly  for  this  manoeuvre  to  be  accom- 

j  plished. 

In  the  memorable  cyclone  of  1873  a  large 
;  fleet  of  American  mackerel  schooners  were 
',  making  a  lee  at  Amherst,  when  the  storm 
;  suddenly  shifted  from  south-west  to  north- 
least.  Thirty-one  schooners  were  driven  on 
1  shore  at  their  anchors  in  an  hour,  and  proved 
i  a  total  loss. 

There  is  nothing  very  inspiring  about  the 
S  insular  metropolis  called  Havre  Aubert.  It 
|  receives  character  from  the  lofty  eminence 
j  called  Demoiselle  Hill,  which  springs  verti- 
ically  from  the  sea.  But  there  is  an  extraor- 
idinary  air  of  solitude  and  woe-begoneness 
jover  the  place,  which  grows  on  one,  because 
I  there  are  no  trees  or  shrubs,  and  the  wrecks 
'bleaching  in  the  slime  or  on  the  beach  seem  to 
I  suggest  that  this  is  the  grand  central  spot  to 
'which  decayed  vessels  come,  a  sort  of  hospital 
:for  disabled  and  superannuated  ships.  And 
!  indeed,  no  place  in  the  world  is  responsi- 
jble  for  more  shipwrecks  than  this  savage,  soli- 
Itary  cluster  of  sand  dunes  in  the  Gulf  of  St. 
I  Lawrence. 

The  Magdalen  Islands  extend  about  sixty 
;  miles  north  and  south.  The  main  group  is  prac- 
tically one  island ;  that  is,  it  consists  of  several 
islands  composed  of  real  soil  and  rocks  more 
or  less  covered  with  trees,  connected  by  long 
stretches  of  sand  which  are  broken  at  inter- 
vals by  inlets.  Between  are  shallow  lagoons, 
generally  not  deep  enough  for  a  boat.  Thus 
Amherst  is  connected  with  Grindstone  Island, 
and  Grindstone  and  Alright  are  connected 
with  Coffin  Island.  Were  it  not  for  the  inlet^, 
one  might  go  continuously  dry-shod  from  Am- 
herst to  Coffin  Island.  But  the  water  in  the 
inlets  is  so  shoal  that  in  places  they  can  be 
iforded  —  not,  however,  without  some  danger, 
'as  quicksands  abound.  Several  detached 
islands  lie  outside  of  the  main  group.  These 
;are  Deadman  Island,  Entry,  Bird  Rock. 


and  Bryon  islands.  The  last  is  a  great  resort 
of  sea-birds,  and  offers  manifold  attractions 
to  naturalists  and  sportsmen. 

These  islands  were  a  royal  grant  to  Ad- 
miral Coffin  in  the  last  century.  They  are 
peopled,  with  the  exception  of  Entry  Island, 
by  Acadian  French,  who  retain  all  the  charac- 
teristics of  their  race.  The  present  population 
is  4,316.  It  is  curious  that,  although  the 
French  were  but  a  short  time  in  Acadie,  yet 
the  impression  of  the  life  there  and  their  sub- 
sequent expulsion  is  yet  so  vivid  that  the 
good  people  of  these  islands  visit  Canada  as 
an  American  returns  to  England,  as  though 
it  were  the  old  home.  They  are  a  quiet,  well- 
behaved  folk,  somewhat  inclined  to  indolence. 
But  they  can  hardly  be  blamed  for  lack  of 
enterprise  and  spirit  when  the  circumstances 
in  which  their  lives  have  been  cast  are  so 
forbidding.  For  six  months  in  the  year  they^ 
are  shut  out  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  the* 
ice  which  incloses  the  islands.  They  might 
as  well  be  at  the  south  pole.  Two  years  ago 
a  cable  was  laid  to  Prince  Edward  Island, 
but  it  does  not  extend  to  the  detached  islands, 
and  does  not  appear  to  be  of  much  use  to 
any  of  them.  When  we  were  there,  the  oper- 
ator at  Havre  Aubert  was  absent ;  he  had 
actually  left  for  the  main-land,  to  be  gone 
several  weeks.  During  the  summer  a  steamer 
runs  from  Pictou  to  Amherst.  She  is  old  as 
the  "  remainder  biscuit  after  a  voyage,"  and 
plies  twice  monthly  on  this  course  when  really 
unfit  for  service,  probably  because  the  good 
people  of  these  islands  are  charitably  sup- 
posed to  be  more  ready  to  go  to  heaven  by 
sea  than  most  travelers.  Almost  the  sole 
means  of  livelihood  is  found  in  the  fisheries, 
and  when  these  fail,  which  is  nbt  rarely,  life 
becomes  a  burden.  Last  year  a  famine  oc- 
curred which  came  within  an  ace  of  decimat- 
ing the  population.  The  fisheries  had  been 
a  failure ;  then  the  ship  which  was  expected 
to  bring  the  winter's  supply  of  flour  before 
the  ice  formed  foundered  in  a  storm.  By  the 
time  spring  came,  starvation  stared  the  peo- 
ple in  the  face.  Many  would  have  died  if  it 
had  not  been  that  a  large  ship  with  produce 
was  wrecked  on  the  ice  off  Coffin  Island. 
The  news  spread  like  wild-fire.  The  whole 
population  turned  out,  and  from  the  cargo  of 
a  shipwrecked  vessel  drew  a  new  lease  of  life. 
But  these  repeated  calamities  are  at  last  hav- 
ing their  effect.  The  people  are  attached  to 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 

these  naked  isles,  for  here  is  their  home.    But    which  give  employment  to  a  number ;  434,758 
fate  is  against  them,  and,  scraping  together  a    lobsters  were  exported  in  1881.    But  the  con- 


few  dollars,  they  are  gradually  emigrating  to 
Labrador  or  Canada.  During  the  long  win- 
ters they  sometimes  catch  seals  on  the  ice 


tinuance  of  even  this  business  is  precanous, 
as  it  depends  upon  the  lobsters,  which  are  lia- 
ble to  take  a  sudden  whim,  like  the  mackerel, 


occasionally  upwards  of  30,000  in  one  sea-  and  leave  for  other  parts.  The  cannery  of 
son^  The  hunt  after  seals  is  one  of  the  most  our  courteous  consular  agent,  Mr.  Ogilby,  at 
exciting  incidents  of  winter-life  at  these  des-  Amherst,  is  a  very  well  regulated  establish- 


olate-  isles.  The  ice  forms  for  several  miles 
entirely  around  the  group,  besides  welding 
them  fast  together  with  its  iron-like  grip. 


MAP    OF    THE    CRUISE    FROM    THE    MAGDALEN     ISLANDS    TO    CAPE 
ST.    GEORGE. 

The  seals  have  no  regular  haunt,  but  are 
liable  to  appear  at  any  spot.  A  keen  look- 
out is  kept  for  them,  and  from  the  hills 
their  dark  forms  can  be  discerned  for  a  long 
distance  away  on  the  ice.  When  they  are 
discovered  the  news  spreads  rapidly.  From 
every  quarter  the  people  hasten  toward  the 
prey  in  feverish  excitement,  armed  with 
knives,  clubs,  and  spears.  In  their  eagerness 
these  sportsmen  often  forget  all  caution,  and 
venture  out  a  long  distance  from  the  shore. 
But  this  is  attended  with  great  hazard,  as  a 
sudden  wind  is  liable  to  break  up  the  ice, 


ment,  and  due  regard  seems  to  be  given  to 
the  condition  and  cleanliness  of  the  lobster 
before  it  is  canned,  which  is  a  matter  very 
little  considered  at  some  lobster  factories 
which   we  might  name.    Capitalists   have 
repeatedly  offered  to  purchase  the    Mag- 
dalen   Islands    of    Colonel    Coffin,   their 
present  owner.  There  is  considerable  color- 
ing matter  in  the  soil,  which  it  is  thought 
might  be  turned  to  account  for  pigments. 
But  the  proprietor  justly  reasons  that,  if 
any  one  is  willing  to  give  $30,000,  the  sum 
offered,  the  islands  must   undoubtedly  be 
worth  more.  The  revenue  from  the  islands  is 
trifling ;  but  to  a  man  of  large  fortune  like 
him,   it   is  interesting  to  be   called   Lord 
of  the  Magdalen  Islands,  and  to  hold  them, 
as  it  were,  in  fief  to  the  Crown.  He  charges 
a  mere  nominal  annual  rent  of  one  shilling 
the  acre,  and  does  not  press  his  tenants  for 
immediate  payment.    It  would,  therefore, 
be  difficult  to  foment  rebellion  here. 
The  Magdalen  Islands  were  a  few  years 
ago  one  of  the  most  frequented  resorts  of  the 
Gloucester  fishermen.   Sometimes  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  sail  might  be  seen  fishing  there 
at  one  time.   At  night  or  in  foul  weather  they 
would  run  in  and  make  a  lee  in  the  bight  of 
the  islands.   At  such  times  there  have  been 
upward  of  ten  hundred  fishermen  on  shore, 
Often   they  were   noisy  and   "flown"  with 
liquor,  and  great  merriment  and  rioting,  as 
one  might  easily  imagine,  was  the  result,  fre- 
quently to  the  annoyance  of  the  inhabitants, 
among  whom  there  were  not  all   told   that 


which  is,  in  any  case,  brittle  along  its  outside    number  of  male  adults.    But  these  fishermen 

were,  on  the  other  hand,  an  appreciable  source 
of  revenue,  the  loss  of  which  is  greatly  felt 
since  our  schooners  ceased  to  frequent  the 
Gulf.  The  great  storm  previously  alluded  to 
appears  to  have  had  a  depressing  influence 
on  the  mackerel. 

Havre  aux  Maisons,  or  House  Harbor,  is 
next  in  size  to  Havre  Aubert,  and  the  only 


barrier.  Every  winter  one  or  two  men  are 
lost  in  the  seal  hunt.  A  year  or  two  ago 
three  poor  fellows  were  carried  off  on  a  cake 
of  floating  ice  before  the  eyes  of  their  neigh- 
bors, who  were  helpless  to  aid. 

Another  winter  occupation  here  is  to  go 
to  the  forests  of  dwarf  spruce  at  Amherst  and 
Grindstone  Islands  and  build  fishing  boats 


and  small  schooners.   When  the  vessel  is  com-'  x)ther  inclosed  port  in  the  group.    But  the  en- 
pleted,  the  owner  invites  his  neighbors  to  help    trance  is  tortuous  and  difficult ;  and  in  order  to 

avoid  getting  the  Alice  May  again  aground,  we 
decided  to  leave  her  at  Amherst,  with  directions 
to  run  her  into  the  inner  harbor  in  case  it  cam  3 
on  to  blow  from  the  north-east,  while  we  pro- 
ceeded to  Grindstone  Island  in  one  of  th? 


him  haul  her  to  the  beach;  she  is  drawn 
thither  on  rollers  and  launched  on  the  ice. 
After  that  follows  a  dance,  for  which  he  pro- 
vides simple  refreshments.  Liquors,  it  may 
be  added,  are  little  drunk  here,  chiefly  be- 
cause of  a  prohibitory  law.  Seven  lobster 
canneries  have  been  established  quite  recently 


large  schooner-rigged  fishing-boats  of 
herst.    It  was  thirty  feet  long   and   sha 


.tt-iu- 

*'" 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


889 


THE    DASH     TO    AMHERST. 


somewhat  like  a  whale-boat.    She  was  manned 

I  by  a  highly  respectable  old  French  fisherman, 

whose  hair  was  grizzled,  and  whose  features 

were  seamed  and  bronzed  by  a  life  of  hardship 

and  danger.    His  son  accompanied  us.    We 

were  privately  informed  that  they  belonged  to 

upper  society  at  Amherst,  for  the  sister  of  the 

|  old  man  lived  in  one  of  the  best  houses  there, 

j  and  kept  a  boarding-house,  although  boarders 

must  be  rather  scarce.    There  was  much  quiet 

1  dignity    in    the    bearing    of   this   venerable 

I  habitant,   albeit  he    wore    a   sou'wester   and 

smoked  a  spliced  clay  pipe.    The  crow's  feet 

in  the  corners  of  his  dimmed  eyes,  the  hard 

I  look  as  he  gazed  over  the  sea,  and  the  pursed- 

!  up  mouth  indicated  the  struggles  of  a  long 

;  life   of  sea   toil    and   suffering.    We    started 

i  with  a   strong  breeze  at  early  morning.    It 

was  blowing  half  a  gale,  and  our  sails  were 

reefed  down.    But  the  wind  moderated  as  the 

sun   rose  higher,  and  the    distance   of  nine 

miles    across    the    bay    was   made   in    good 

season. 

Things  were  apparently  more  quiet  at  Havre 
jaux  Maisons  than  at  Amherst.  The  liveliest 
'object  there  was  the  sail-boat  which  ferried 
I  across  the  inlet  from  Grindstone  to  Alright. 
'But  in  reality  there  is  more  commercial  activ- 
ity here  than  at  any  other  port  in  the  Mag- 
dalens.  This  is  due,  in  part,  to  the  energy 
VOL.  XX VI I.— 84. 


of  M.  Nelson  Arseneaux,  who  owns  several 
schooners  and  a  trading  establishment,  be- 
sides vats  for  trying  out  seal  oil.  He  is  a 
man  of  frank  and  hearty  disposition  and  of 
hospitable  bent.  He  is  ever  ready  to  extend 
a  welcome  to  travelers ;  and  those  who  have 
experienced  his  courtesy  will  always  remem- 
ber him  and  his  amiable  family  with  lively 
interest. 

We  found  a  comfortable  lodging  and  capi- 
tal board  at  the  house  of  Madame  Baudreau, 
a  native  of  Nova  Scotia,  whose  Highland 
origin  is  unmistakably  evident  in  her  ma- 
tronly features,  her  galliard  manner,  ready 
wit,  and  keen  intelligence.  If  a  beneficent 
Providence  had  placed  her  in  a  more  active 
society,  she  would  have  been  a  woman  of 
affairs.  Her  husband,  superintended  a  lobster 
cannery  at  Grand  Entry  Island,  while  she  re- 
mained at  home  and  gave  a  lodging  to  such 
stray  wanderers  as  might  come  there  during 
the  summer.  She  had  the  history  of  the 
island  and  its  every  inhabitant  at  her  fingers' 
ends.  Excellent,  also,  were  the  meals  she 
served.  It  is  a  fact  worth  remembering  that 
women  of  masculine  strength  of  character 
are  generally  good  cooks.  The  islands  are  so 
poor  that  any  attempt  at  an  elaborate  menu 
must  prove  a  failure  there.  There  is  much, 
however,  in  cooking  well  what  is  at  hand, 


890 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


THE    OLD    SKIPPER. 


and  in  this  quality  our  hostess  excelled.  The 
chops  were  admirable ;  the  wild  strawberries 
and  cream  were  delicious ;  the  tea  was  steeped 
just  enough,  and  the  potatoes  were  mealy  and 
toothsome. 

To  cap  the  climax,  Madame  gave  us  at 
breakfast  trout  that  Lucullus  might  have 
envied.  Noble  three-  and  four-pound  trout 
they  were,  and  cooked  as  if  Izaak  Walton 
himself  had  been  there  to  give  directions. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  swallowing  these 
beautiful  fish  ;  but  when  it  came  to  swallow- 
ing the  account  of  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  caught,  there  was  some  demur.  I  tell 
the  story,  but  do  not  vouch  for  it;  although, 
as  I  heard  it  elsewhere  also,  without  any 
collusion  between  the  narrators,  it  would 
seem  to  have  some  basis  in  fact.  These  fish 
were  caught  by  hand ;  not  with  a  net  or  a 
gaff,  but  actually  by  grasping  them  with  the 
bare  hand,  and  taking  them  out  of  the  water ! 
No  fly-makers  or  rod-fashioners  need  expect 
custom  for  their  wares  in  places  where  trout 
are  caught  by  hand.  The  explanation  given  is 
that  the  streams  are  very  small,  which  is  per- 
fectly true ;  and  that,  when  the  fish  get  up 
near  the  head  of  the  brook,  it  becomes  so 
narrow  and  shallow  that  a  three-pound  trout 
finds  it  hard  work  to  turn  around.  While  the 
fish  are  in  this  predicament,  an  active  lad  can 
get  a  fast  hold  of  them  and  land  them  on  the 
grass. 


After  returning  from  mass,  Madame  Bau- 
dreau  placed  her  carriage  at  our  disposal.  It 
was  after  the  latest  style  of  phaeton  in  use  at 
the  islands ;  to  be  sure,  it  looked  like  a  very 
primitive  sort  of  a  cart,  but  it  was  the  only 
sort  of  vehicle  to  be  had;  and  although  its 
jolting  made  our  teeth  chatter,  we  had  a  very 
jolly  ride  to  the  fishing  village  of  Etang  du 
Nord.  The  distance  was  five  miles  over  a 
very  broken  country.  This  village  is  by  far 
the  most  bustling  of  any  settlement  in  the 
group.  It  appears  even  more  populous  than  | 
it  is,  because  the  shore  of  the  semicircular 
harbor  is  lined  with  fish-houses  built  on  piles, 
which  look  very  much  like  the  huts  of  the 
lake-dwellers  of  Switzerland.  A  large  fleet  of 
fishing-boats  belong  to  this  place,  and  when  | 
they  are  at  anchor  on  a  holiday,  or  during  a 
westerly  gale,  the  little  port  has  a  most  ani- 
mated appearance. 

At  a  cost  which  it  would  seem  must  be 
altogether  beyond  the  means  of  the  poverty- 
stricken  people,  a  breakwater  is  in  course 
of  construction  across  the  mouth  of  the 
harbor,  which  lies  exposed  to  north^  and 
west  winds.  The  great  drawback  to  Etang  \ 
du  Nord  is  the  unspeakable  filth  around 
the  fish-houses.  The  stench  of  decaying; 
fish  exceeds  belief.  A  board  of  health 
would  seem  a  prime  requisite  at  thij> 
place. 

It  was  pleasant  to    turn  from  these 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


891 


houses  to  a  characteristic  scene,  to  which  we  scouring  theneighborhood,we  succeeded  in  ob- 

were  attracted  by  the  sweet  strains  of  a  violin  taining  two  carts  and  a  guide,  who  would  also 

floating  on  the  calm  summer  air.    On  proceed-  bring  back  the  vehicles.  Passing  again  through 

ing  in   the  direction  from  which  it  came,  we  £tang  du  Nord,  we  entered  on  the  dunes,  and 

discovered  the  village  musician  seated  bare-  for  some   ten  miles  the  course    lay  along  a 

headed   on   the  door-step  of  a  small  house,  beach  of  sand,  through  which  the  wheels  were 

absorbed  in  the  harmonies  of  the  fiddle-bow,  dragged  with  difficulty.    The   strong  north - 


£TANG  DU   NORD. 

He  was  a  character  whose  fine  cranial  devel-  west  wind  drove  the  great  breakers  shoreward 

opment  and  sapient  eye  might  have  enabled  on  our  right  with  deafening  thunder.    At  times 

him  easily  to  pass  himself  off  for  a  philosopher,  the  surf  encroached  on  our  path  and  splashed 

We  set  him  down  as  the  village  pedagogue,  over  the  wheels.    Wrecks,  or  the  skeletons  of 

if  there  be  one —  a  question  we  did  not  ask.  ill-fated  vessels,  were  seen   frequently,  either 
Around  him  a  group  of  eager  listeners   had 


a 

collected.  Some  were  seated  on  chairs  or 
stools  ;  others  had  planted  themselves  on  the 
ground;  while  the  younger  members  of  this 
rustic  audience  lay  on  their  stomachs,  sup- 

§orting  their  faces  on  their  elbows  and 
ourishing  their  feet  in  the  air.  It  was  a 
delicious  bit  of  nature,  unaffected  by  the  re- 
straints of  city  life.  A  far  greater  musician 
might  envy  the  uncritical  delight  with  whidi 
the  audience  testified  their  appreciation  of  the 
pleasure  afforded  them. 


entirely  exposed  or  deeply  embedded  in  the 
sand.  Many  a  poor  ship  has  been  picked  up 
by  these  dunes  at  night,  or  driven  on  them 
by  the  fury  of  irresistible  tempests.  Water 
was  on  either  hand — the  open  sea  on  the 
right  and  a  great  lagoon  on  the  left.  The 
gusts  swept  furiously  over  that  scene  of  soli- 
tude and  desolation.  The  air  was  misty  with 
spray,  and  the  screaming  fish-hawks  and  cor- 
morants wheeled  past  us  like  lightning  borne 
down  on  the  wind.  Like  a  gray  cloud,  Dead- 
man  Island  loomed  faintly  in"the  southern 


The  following  day  opened  witho  a  gale  ,0{2-<hQig£on.   Not  a  soul  was  in  sight  on  that  deso- 


wind,  which  sang  wildly  over  the  lonely  wolds 
of  Grindstone  Island.  As  it  was  blowing  too 
hard  for  the  boat,  and  we  had  no  time  to  lose, 
we  decided  to  return  to  Havre  Aubert  by  land 
along  the  sand  dunes.  The  fords  had  been 
shifted  by  recent  storms,  and  we  were  told 
that  the  passage  was  more  hazardous  than  it 
had  been  for  years.  But  a  man  had  been 
( over  the  road  the  previous  week  without  ac- 
cident, and  we  decided  to  take  the  risk.  After 


late  sh^rev  Alone,  we  labored  slowly  over 
the  sand  toward  Amherst,  which  looked  far 
enough  away  directly  ahead.  At  last  we  ar- 
rived at  a  place  where  a  long  break  occurred 
in  the  beach  on  which  we  were  traveling. 
Before  us  rolled  the  sea.  We  could  reach  the 
opposite  shore  only  by  venturing  to  try  a  shoal 
which  lay  across  the  inlet,  curving  inward, 
and  somewhat  removed  from  direct  exposure 
to  the  surf,  or  it  would  have  been  impassable. 


892 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


THE    FIDDLER. 


The  ford  was  marked  by  twigs  fixed  in  the 
bottom  at  rare  intervals,  and  also  by  land 
bearings  known  to  the  guide.  But  it  was  nar- 
row, and  great  care  was  necessary  to  avoid 
getting  into  deep  water.  The  water  came  up 
repeatedly  over  the  hubs  into  the  bottom  of 
the  carts.  The  poor  horses  panted  with  the 
exertion.  The  passage  was  successfully  ac- 
complished after  we  had  proceeded  a  distance 
of  a  mile  through  the  water.  From  that  point 
there  were  no  further  difficulties  to  encounter, 
and  we  stopped  to  rest  the  horses  and  partake 
of  the  lunch  we  had  brought.  What  we  had 
most  apprehended  was  the  quicksands,  ex- 
ceedingly subtle  foes,  which  take  one  un- 
awares, and  out  of  which  there  is  no  escape. 
Having  passed  this  danger,  we  were  able  to 
enjoy  our  sandwiches  and  pipes  with  unusual 
zest,  as  we  sat  under  the  lee  of  a  great  white 
sand-hill,  over  which  the  wind  whistled  with 
a  shrill  wail. 

The  shores  of  Amherst  Island,  to  which  we 
had  crossed,  were  quite  different  from  those 
of  Grindstone  Island.  There  we  traversed  a 
bare  beach  of  fine  sand;  but  here  we  found 
a  line  of  high  and  very  picturesque  sand-hills, 
covered  with  long  salt  grass,  running  along  the 
coast  like  a  breastwork  erected  to  protect 
the  land  from  the  ravages  of  the  sea.  Many 
highly  pictorial  effects,  replete  with  sentiment, 
presented  themselves  as  we  slowly  rode  to- 


ward the  hills  of  Amherst.  When  we  reachec 
there  we  found  a  soil  sufficiently  rich  to  sup 
port  forests  of  dwarf  spruce  and  pine,  and 
farther  on,  to  yield  potatoes  and  cabbages. 
From  these  spruce  trees  the  islanders  brew 
spruce  beer,  which  is  the  chief  beverage  in 
the  Magdalen  Islands. 

At  Anse  aux  Cabanes  the  cliffs  became  ab- 
rupt, and  we  found  a  small  cove  where  a 
group  of  fishing-boats  were  drawn  up  on  the 
beach.  A  little  beyond  this  we  came  to  a 
lake  forming  the  foreground  of  a  very  agree- 
able landscape,  whose  features  were  so  com- 
bined as  to  suggest  some  fair  prospect  in 
southern  seas  instead  of  an  actual  scene  in 
the  bleak  Magdalen  Isles.  In  the  extreme 
distance  the  noble  outline  of  Entry  Island 
loomed  up  beyond  the  blue  sea,  suffused 
with  a  deep,  warm  lilac  hue;  the  water  was 
of  a  superb  azure,  like  amethyst  and  tur- 
quoise. Demoiselle  Hill  gave  emphasis  to 
the  middle  distance,  and  a  lawn-like  slope, 
clothed  in  verdure,  encircled  the  small  lake 
which  formed  the  foreground  of  an  exquisite 
natural  composition. 

We  reached  Havre  Aubert  without  further 
incident,  and  went  on  board  our  schooner 
hungry  as  wolves.  We  found  calkers  in  pos- 
session of  the  deck.  The  heat  at  Gaspe  had 
melted  the  tar  out  of  the  seams,  and  01 
cabin  had  for  several  days  leaked  badl] 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


893 


Captain  Welsh  had  succeeded  in   engaging    tinted  red  and  brown,  are  to  be  seen  in  its 


calkers  when  at  mass  on  the  previous  Sab- 
bath. It  was  difficult  to  get  them  at  this  sea- 
son, as  it  was  the  time  for  making  hay  at  the 


entire  circuit,  which,  at  the  eastern  end,  are 
over  four  hundred  feet  high.  A  most  beauti- 
ful undulating  plateau,  covered  with  long 


Magdalen  Islands— that  is,  for  catching  fish,  waving  grass,  breast  high,  on  the  western  half 

which  is  the  chief  harvest  of  the  people.  of  the  island,  rises,  first  gradually,  then  rapid- 

On  the  following  day  the  sky  was  reason-  ly,  into  a  central  range,  terminating  in  twin 

ably  clear,  but  looked  smoky  in   the  south-  peaks,  the  loftiest  of  which  is  called  St.  Law- 


CROSSING    THE     FORD    TO     AMHERST. 


west,  and  the  glass  was  falling;  but  we  con- 
cluded to  run  over  to  Entry  Island  at  least, 
where  we  could  make  a  lee  if  it  should  blow 
hard.  Before  starting,  we  laid  in  a  supply  of 
eggs  and  salt  herrings,  and  were  lucky 
enough  to  meet  a  woman  with  a  bucket  full 
of  wild  strawberries.  They  were  so  ridicu- 
lously cheap,  that  for  two  days  all  on  board 
luxuriated  on  the  berry  of  which  Walton  said, 
"  Doubtless  God  might  have  made  a  better 
berry,  but  doubtless  He  never  did." 

A  boat  having  come  over  from  Entry 
Island  to' trade,  we  secured  one  of  her  crew 
to  pilot  us  to  a  good  anchorage  there,  and 
made  sail.  A  very  fresh  breeze  of  wind  drove 
us  rapidly  across  the  bay.  We  came  to 
anchor  under  the  lee  of  a  sandy  point  and 
bar.  The  appearance  of  Entry  Island  is  very 
impressive,  differing  altogether  from  that  of  the 
islands  already  described.  It  stands  entirely 
isolated,  ten  miles  from  Havre  Aubert.  It  is 
about  three  miles  long,  and  in  proportion  to 
its  size~as  mountainous  as  Madeira.  Abrupt 
and  magnificently  shaped  cliffs,  beautifully 


rence  Hill,  and  is  about  six  hundred  feet 
high.  The  adjoining  height  is  absurdly  called 
Pig  Hill.  The  slopes  are  partly  covered  by  a 
miniature  forest  of  dwarf  cedars  and  spruces, 
which  look  like  forest  trees  of  larger  growth. 
The  soil  is  arable,  and  affords  fine  grazing. 
The  summit  of  St.  Lawrence  Hill  was  whit- 
ened by  a  flock  of  nibbling  sheep. 

We  landed  on  a  sand  beach  near  two  lofty 
columnar  red  rocks,  grotesquely  shaped  and 
called  the  Old  Man  and  Old  Woman.  These 
names  frequently  occur  in  the  nomenclature 
of  those  waters.  From  the  frequent  repetition 
of  geographical  epithets  in  the  Gulf  of  St. 
Lawrence,  one  has  a  right  to  infer  paucity  of 
invention  or  verbal  weakness  among  the  early 
navigators  who  opened  those  regions.  It  was 
a  good  two  miles'  walk  to  the  settlement, 
which  is  near  the  center  of  the  island.  The 
general  aspect  of  things  at  Entry  seemed 
like  Pitcairn's  Island,  and  I  was  constantly 
haunted  by  the  idea  that  I  was  there.  Entry 
Island  is  shaped  something  like  a  tadpole, 
a  long  point  running  out  toward  the  west. 


894 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


We  first  went  to  the  light-house.  It  is  kept 
by  Mr.  James  Cassidy,  a  very  civil  and  in- 
telligent man,  who  has  been  there  since  the 
light  was  first  erected.  He  invited  us  into 
his  house,  which  adjoins  the  tower.  Mrs. 
Cassidy  also  received  us  with  refined  affa- 
bility. Books  and  magazines  were  abund- 
ant on  the  tables,  and  there  was  a  true 
home-like  aspect  to  everything  about  the 
house,  which  seemed  very  attractive,  and  was 
almost  unexpected  in  that  solitary  spot.  Mrs. 
Cassidy  lamented  the  lack  of  educational  ad- 
vantages at  Entry  Island,  and  said  she  had 
been  obliged  to  send  her  children  to  Nova 
Scotia  for  a  schooling.  She  seemed  to  oc- 
cupy an  unusually  lonely  position,  because 
the  house  is  a  mile  from  any  other  and  the 
Cassidys  are  entirely  unrelated  to  the  other 
residents  at  Entry. 

After  buying  a  sheep  from  Mr.  Cassidy, 
we  rambled  over  to  Mrs.  Dixon's  house. 
This  is  the  oldest  of  the  ten  dwellings  on 
the  islet,  and  she  is  both  the  oldest  inhab- 
itant and  the  first  settler.  Mrs.  Dixon  is 
now  eighty-eight  years  of  age,  and  came 
to  Entry  Island  with  her  husband  in  1822, 
sixty  years  ago.  Still  hale  and  hearty,  she 
is  full  of  animation  and  keen  observation, 
and  is  virtually  the  queen  of  Entry  Island, 
for  she  has  twelve  children  and  forty-seven 
grandchildren,  besides  a  number  of  great- 
grandchildren, all  of  whom,  with  one  or  two 
exceptions,  live  there.  There  are  ten  families 
at  Entry,  all  but  one  of  whom  are  related  to 
her;  she  is  looked  up  to  by  all  with  reverence; 
her  advice  is  asked  and  her  counsels  are  fol- 
lowed, and  she  rules  by  a  sort  of  mild  patri 
archal  sway. 

On  reaching  Mrs.  Dixon's,  we  were  cor- 
dially invited  to  enter,  and  bowls  of  fresh 
milk  were  brought  to  us.  A  flock  of  rosy, 
barefooted  grandchildren  clustered  by  the 
door  and  gazed  at  the  strangers,  until  grad- 
ually they  gathered  courage  to  come  in  and 
talk  with  us.  Mrs.  Dixon  welcomed  us  to 
her  old  home  with  a  hearty  cordiality,  in 
which  one  could  discern  a  certain  air  of  au- 
thority natural  to  one  who  was  at  once  an 
uncrowned  sovereign  and  the  progenitor  of 
the  subjects  who  peopled  her  insular  realm. 
Had  she  ever  wearied  of  such  a  lonely  exist- 
ence ?  we  asked.  Oh,  no,  she  replied.  She 
had  been  once  off  the  island  in  sixty  years ; 
but  there  was  always  plenty  to  do,  and  with 
her  children  about  her  she  was  content.  Dur- 
ing the  long  winters  they  threshed  grain,  or 
made  butter,  or  spun  yarn,  and  wove  the 
cloth  they  wore.  Sometimes  they  had  a  fiddle 
And  a  dance,  and  at  any  rate  there  was  al- 
/  ways  something  to  be  done.  She  regretted 
(  that  only  during  the  summer  could  they  have 


religious  services,  when  a  clergyman  would 
come  over  two  or  three  times  and  baptize 
the  babies  or  confirm  the  young.  From  De- 
cember to  February  Entry  Island  is  cut  off 
from  all  communication  with  the  other  isles 
of  the  group.  In  February  or  March  the 
broken  ice  generally  becomes  solid,  and  peo- 
ple can  then  cross  over  to  Grindstone  Island 
until  May,  when  the  ice  disappears. 

The  old  lady  sat  in  the  ample  smoke-black- 
ened chimney  corner  of  her  kitchen,  while 
entertaining  us,  knitting  a  stocking.  There  was 
no  dimness  in  her  eyes,  no  quavering  in  her 
utterance.  Her  voice  was  clear  and  strong, 
and  her  speech  was  spiced  with  shrewd  and 
witty  remarks.  She  was  evidently  a  woman 
of  remarkable  strength  of  character.  It  was 
with  great  interest  that  I  heard  her  talk,  for 
it  is  not  often  in  this  age  that  a  woman  is 
found  occupying  such  a  position,  the  virtual 
sovereign  of  an  island  which  for  six  months 
in  the  year  is  shut  out  from  the  world.  It 
was  interesting  to  see  the  deference  shown  to 
the  old  lady  by  her  sons  when  they  entered 
the  room  where  she  was  seated.  A  large 
family  Bible  was  a  prominent  object  in 
the  best  room ;  and  from  all  we  could 
gather,  these  people  are  honest  and  piously 
inclined. 

From  Mrs.  Dixon's  we  made  our  way 
through  the  long  grass  to  the  grand  precipices 
at  the  eastern  end  of  the  island.  These  cliffs 
are  upward  of  four  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea,  and  are  remarkable  for  their  color  and 
form.  At  the  extreme  easterly  point  there  is  a 
small  inaccessible  peninsula  connected  with 
the  main  island  by  a  narrow  curtain  of  rock, 
which  comes  up  into  a  very  sharp  edge,  four 
hundred  feet  high.  A  few  foxes  hide  on  this 
point,  and  at  night  creep  over  on  this  sharp  ^ 
edge,  and  make  a  raid  on  the  hen-roosts. 
There  seems  to  be  no  way  of  reaching  these 
stealthy  rogues,  without  great  risk  of  destruc- 
tion to  the  hunter. 

The  highest  of  the  Entry  Island  cliffs  is 
four  hundred  and  forty  feet  high,  and  comes 
to  a  point  like  a  turret  erected  to  watch  the 
coast.  It  is,  in  fact,  called  the  Watch  Tower. 
As  we  gazed  over  the  edge  of  the  precipices 
on  the  sea  side  of  these  cliffs,  I  was  vividly 
reminded  of  the  celebrated  rocks  of  the  Chan- 
nel Islands. 

There  is  great  beauty  and  variety  in  the 
formation  of  Entry  Island.  Its  surface  is  so 
broken  into  miniature  valleys,  gorges,  and 
plateaus,  that  it  seems  very  much  larger  than 
it  is.  There  are  several  deep  pits  near  the 
east  end,  to  which  one  must  give  a  wide 
berth,  for  they  contain  water  to  an  unknown 
depth,  while  the  mouths  are  almost  conceal( 
by  a  growth  of  rank  grass.  Everything  aboi 


led 

s 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS, 


895 


A    FEW    OF    THE     NATIVES. 


the  interior  of  Entry  Island  suggested  pas- 
toral ease  and  happiness.  The  flocks  and 
herds  grazed  on  the  hills.  Healthy  children, 
fowls,  calves,  geese,  and  pigs  jostled  together 
before  the  farm-houses  in  good-natured  rivalry 
of  friendship.  If  there  were  no  evidences  of 
wealth  among  the  good  people,  there  were 
also  no  signs  of  squalor  or  discontent.  As  the 
day  declined,  and  the  shadows  grew  long,  the 
cattle  from  all  parts  of  the  island  gathered  to  a 
common  stock-yard  or  byre.  It  was  pleasing 
to  hear  the  bells  tinkling  as  the  cattle  wended 
home.  When  they  had  all  come,  the  milk- 
maids entered  the  inclosure  with'  their  pails. 
After  purchasing  a  supply  of  eggs,  we 
turned  our  faces  toward  our  floating  home 
riding  in  the  bay.  The  ramble  of  the  after- 
noon and  the  keen  sea-wind  had  whetted 
our  appetites.  But  the  state  of  the  weather 
also  warned  us  to  hasten  on  board  without 
further  delay.  All  the  afternoon  the  wind 
had  been  rising,  until  now  it  blew  a  gale 
from  the  south-west,  with  every  prospect 
of  increasing  in  violence.  It  swept  over 
the  hills  in  shrill  blasts,  and  the  reefs  were 


white  with  the  foam  of  the  beating 
surges.  Vessels  could  also  be  dis- 
cerned putting  back  to  make  a  lee 
behind  the  island.  A  great  bank  of 
cloud  had  gathered  in  the  west  like  a 
smoke,  and  fully  an  hour  before  sun- 
down the  sun  had  buried  itself  in  this 
cloud,  and  an  early  and  ominous  twi- 
light came  on  apace.  Hastening  our 
steps,  we  at  last  reached  the  boat.  Mr. 
Cassidy  was  waiting  there  with  the 
sheep.  He  advised  us  to  remain  on 
shore,  and  offered  us  a  lodging  at  his 
house.  Although  protected  from  the 
direct  force  of  the  waves,  the  cove 
where  the  Alice  May  was  anchored 
showed  the  influence  of  the  under-tow 
escaping  around  the  bar.  She  was  roll- 
ing heavily,  surrounded  by  a  fleet 
of  schooners  which  had  collected 
there  during  our  absence,  seeking  a 
shelter. 

We  found  our  boat's  crew  in  bad 
humor,  because  they  had  been  de- 
tained so  long  after  eight  bells,  or 
supper-time.  Punctuality  at  meals 
is  one  of  the  important  points  in  a 
sailor's  life ;  his  fare  may  be  poor, 
but  it  is  the  best  he  has,  and 
he  looks  forward  to  it.  Nothing 
irritates  Jack  more  than  to  be 
late  to  meals.  We  desired  to  go 
aboard  without  delay.  The  fury 
of  the  wind  soon  drove  the  boat 
out  to  the  vessel,  but  it  required 
great  caution  to  round  to  and 
get  aboard  without  swamping  the  boat.  As 
we  had  but  one  boat,  and  it  was  now  dark, 
it  would  be  all  up  with  us  if  the  yawl  cap- 
sized. To  make  matters  worse,  the  men  were 
scared  as  well  as  cross,  and  I  found  it  no 
small  matter  tp  bring  her  to  with  the  steering 
oar. 

"  Keep  cool ;  one  at  a  time,  boys,"  was  the 
word  as  we  lay  alongside  and  grasped  the 
line  which  was  thrown  to  us.   As  the  schooner 
rolled  her  side  down  toward  us,  there  was  a 
general  scramble,  and  we  all  grasped  the  rail 
at  once  and  leaped  safely  on  board. 
"  Well,  Henry,  is  supper  ready  yet  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir,  all  ready ;  it's  waiting  for  you 
below,  sir," 

The  faithful  fellow  had  kept  the  supper 
warm,  and,  as  soon  as  he  saw  us  coming  off, 
knowing  our  eagerness  for  something  warm, 
he  lighted  the  lamp  and  laid  the  dishes  on  the 
table.  Out  from  the  wind,  we  stepped  below 
into  our  homely  but  cozy  cabin,  and  were 
greeted  with  the  grateful  fragrance  of  a  savory 
meal.  Among  other  dishes  was  a  mess  that 
was  new  to  us.  A  ragout  of  lamb,  highly  sea- , 


896 


AMONG    THE   MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


soned,  was  surrounded  by  a  wall  of  potatoes, 
mashed  and  richly  browned. 


The  glass  was  still  falling,  and  if  the  wind 
should  shift  to  the  north-east  or  north-west 


Many  were  the  expressions  of  ecstasy  and  we  were  in  a  nice  box.    But  we  preferred  to 

impatience  with  which  we  hailed  the  supper,  regard  this  as  a  summer  blow  that  would  die 

and  especially  this  dish.    It  was  frequently  en-    —-•  ^™ •'—  — ' •«— 

cored  until  it  was  exhausted.   Whenever  a  new 

dish  appeared,  we  gave  it  an  appropriate  name. 

Bean  soup  we  called  "  Potage  a  la  Pompa-  cant,  with  that  whiffling  uneasiness  of  direc- 

dour";  then,  too,  we  had  a  fricassee  aucheval  tion  which  always  demands  a  sharp  lookout. 

de  maitre  d*  hotel,  which  was  composed  of  salt  It  was   preparing  to    shift.    All   hands  were 


out  before  morning,  and  accordingly  enjoyed 
the  grandeur  of  the  night  without  apprehen- 
About  midnight  the  wind  began  to 


sion. 


OLD     FIRE-PLACE    AT    ENTRY     ISLAND. 


beef.  Our  favorite  dish  was  ceufs  au  dindon  du 
Cap  Cod,  which,  freely  translated,  means  fish- 
balls  garnished  with  poached  eggs.  This  dish 
was,  perhaps,  Henry's  chef  d'tzuvre. 

But  while  we  were  enjoying  our  supper 
with  such  zest,  the  little  schooner  was  roll- 
ing more  heavily,  and  the  hum  of  the  wind 
in  the  rigging  showed  that  the  force  of  the 
gale  was  increasing. 

When  the  moon  rose  it  added  to  the 
wildness  and  splendor  of  the  night.  The  sky 
was  clear  from  clouds,  but  a  thin  haze  slight- 
ly obscured  the  stars.  A  tremendous  surf  was 
breaking  on  the  low  spit  which  protected  us 
from  the  brunt  of  the  gale.  As  the  spray  shot 
high  up  in  vast  sheets  of  foam,  it  caught  the 
light  of  the  moon,  and  was  turned  into  molten 
silver.  Before  us  loomed  the  dark  mass  of 
Entry  Island,  vague  and  mysterious.  From 
time  to  time  the  dark  outline  of  a  schooner 
could  be  seen  coming  around  the  island 
under  short  sail  to  make  a  lee.  Then  would 
be  heard  the  rattle  of  the^  cable,  and  soon  the 
schooner  would  add  the  gleam  of  her  anchor 
light  to  those  already  twinkling  and  bobbing 
in  the  roads. 


called,  close  reefs  were  put  in  the  fore  am 
main  sails,  and  the  crew  manned  the  wine 
lass.    This  preparation    had    come  none  to 
quickly,  for,  with  a  flurry  of  rain  and  severa 
vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  the  wind  suddenl 
came   out    of  the   west-north-west.    Quickl 
hoisting  the  reefed  main  sail  and  jib,  we  has 
tened  away  from  an  anchorage  which,  from 
being  a  safe  lee,  had  become  a  lee  shore.   A 
we  passed  from  the  shelter  of  the  island,  we 
encountered  a  wild,  tumultuous   sea,  whic 
decided  us  to  head  on  our  Original  course 
instead  of  running  to  the  leeward  of  Entry 
Island.    If  it  should  come  on  to  blow  hard,  w 
considered '  that  it  would  beat  down  the  ok 
sea,  and  we  could  then  run  for  the  souther 
side  of  Entry;  while,  if  the  wind  moderatec 
we  were    gaining    in    every  mile  we   sailec 
Cruising  among  the  Magdalen  Islands  is  nc 
a  trifling  sport;  it  requires  judgment  and  can 
tion,  for  there  are  no  harbors  accessible  i 
bad  weather,  and  the  lee  under  the  land  mad 
with  one  wind  may  become  a  deadly  foe  th 
next  hour,  while    the  seas  which   the  wind 
raise  in  the  Gulf  are  exceedingly  dangeroi 
not  because  they  are  unusually  high,  but 


row 

I 


AMONG    THE  MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


897 


THE    GALE    AT    ENTRY    ISLAND. 


cause  they  are  short  and  steep — just  the 
sort  of  waves  which  trip  vessels  rolling  in  a 
calm,  or  cause  them  to  founder  when  hove  to. 
But  the  wind  soon  began  to  moderate, 
and  we  headed  north-east  for  the  Bay  of 
Islands,  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away. 
It  was  with  enthusiasm  that  we  saw  the 
Alice  May  at  last  shaping  a  course  for 
what  promised  to  be  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting points  in  our  cruise.  The  reports 
we  had  heard  regarding  the  grandeur  of  the 
scenery  on  the  west  coast  of  Newfoundland, 
together  with  the  savage  reputation  of  the 
cliffs  and  people,  had  fired  our  imagination. 
Bryon  Island  and  Bird  Rock  bore  about  west 
at  noon;  the  latter  was  only  two  miles  distant. 
It  is  indeed  a  lonely  spot,  entirely  bare,  and 
occupied  only  by  the  three  light-keepers. 
Access  can  be  had  to  it  only  by  a  crane  over- 
hanging the  water  from  the  precipice.  A  chair 
is  lowered,  and  visitors  are  hoisted  from  the 
boat.  The  Rock  has  been  the  scene  of  two 
disasters  within  the  last  fifteen  months.  When 
the  keepers  were  firing  the  fog-gun,  it  ex- 
ploded and  killed  two  of  them  on  the  spot. 
It  was  several  days  before  the  poor  survivor 
could  contrive  to  induce  a  passing  sail  to 
touch  there  and  carry  the  news  to  the  main- 
land. Previous  to  this  sad  event,  Bird  Rock 
was  at  one  time  destitute  of  provisions  after 
a  prevalence  of  long  bad  weather,  and  the 
light-keepers  were  forced  to  consider  seriously 
the  possibility  that  one  of  the  Magdalen 
Islands  might  become  a  cannibal  island. 
But  their  signals  were  finally  seen  when  the 
weather  moderated,  and  a  passing  ship  came 
to  their  aid  at  the  last  moment.  It  is  dread- 
ful that  such  a  condition  of  things  should  be 
VOL.  XXVIL— 85. 


possible  so  near  to  civilized  life.  There  is  not 
the  slightest  excuse  for  a  light-house  to  be  al- 
lowed to  run  out  of  provisions.  In  this  day 
of  canned  and  preserved  meats  and  hard 
bread,  a  supply  sufficient  for  a  year  would 
not  spoil,  and  would  prevent  peril  from  star- 
vation. No  light-house,  difficult  of  access  in 
bad  weather,  should  be  at  any  time  left  with 
less  than  a  double  supply  of  light-keepers, 
and  stores  for  fully  six  months.  The  smaller 
Bird  Rock  lies  about  half  a  mile  distant  from 
the  one  on  which  the  light-house  stands.  It 
is  a  low,  jagged,  dangerous  ledge.  There  is  a 
passage  between  the  two  islands,  or  rocks, 
but  no  vessel  should  try  it,  unless  pressed  by 
the  wind  too  near  the  rocks  without  the 
ability  to  tack  or  claw  off  from  such  perilous 
proximity.  Although  the  wind  was  light, 
there  was  still  such  a  high  swell  that  we  did 
not  think  it  expedient  to  attempt  to  try  land- 
ing on  Bird  Rock.  Bryon  Island  resembles 
Entry  Island,  being  well  fitted  for  pasturage ; 
it  is  occupied  by  several  English  farmers. 
But  it  is  more  flat  than  Entry  Island,  and 
every  way  less  interesting,  except  for  its  large 
variety  of  sea-fowl.  Owing  to  its  distance 
from  the  other  islands  of  the  group,  and  the 
entire  absence  of  harbors,  Bryon  Island  is 
rarely  visited  by  boats  or  ships.  A  party  of 
naturalists,  and  sportsmen  from  Boston  were 
there  du/mg  our  visit  to  the  Magdalen  Islands. 
Tru^sunset  was  superb,  the  colors  being 
brilliant,  but  tender,  and  finally  merging  in  a 
deep  orange  hue,  lasting  for  hours,  until  im- 
perceptibly absorbed  in  the  purple  veil  of 
night.  It  was  emphatically  a  fair-weather 
sky,  which  was  exactly  what  we  hoped  for 
when  cruising  along  the  tremendous  coast  of 


898 


AMONG    THE   MAGDALEN  ISLANDS. 


the  west  of  Newfoundland.  A  light  wind 
fanned  the  schooner  on  her  course  all  night, 
and  at  sunrise  land  was  made  out  on  the  lee 
bow.  Never  does  the  first  sight  of  a  new 
coast,  or  in  fact  of  any  coast,  become  a  com- 
monplace event,  even  to  the  most  experienced 
old  salt.  All  the  senses  seem  at  once  on  the 
alert  to  ascertain  what  point  it  can  be.  The 
various  bearings  are  considered,  the  chart  is 
studied  afresh,  and  each  one  has  his  own 
opinion  to  express.  Of  course  there  are  times 
when  the  characteristics  of  the  land  are  so 
salient,  or  so  well  known,  that  there  can  be 
no  question  as  to  its  identity.  But,  as  a  rule, 
when  land  is  first  descried  at  sea,  its  where- 
abouts continues  for  a  while  a  matter  of  specu- 
lation. Then,  too,  the  imagination  is  stimu- 
lated, and  actively  surmises  the  nature  of  the 
country,  its  people,  and  special  peculiarities. 
Particularly  is  this  the  case  when  one  ap- 
proaches an  island  he  has  not  seen  before. 
When  one  travels  by  rail,  the  social  or  topo- 
graphical changes  come*  by  gradation,  and 
there  is  rarely  a  striking  contrast  apparent  at 
any  one  point.  But  when  one  arrives  in  sight 
of  a  new  country  by  sea,  the  transition  from 
the  one  to  the  other  is  rapid,  and  often  violent. 
When  he  lands  on  the  new  shore,  it  seems  to 
be  like  coming  to  another  planet,  and  he  is 
constantly  saying  to  himself,  "  How  strange 
it  appears  to  see  these  people.  Here  they 
have  been  existing  for  ages ;  they  are  real 
human  beings,  marrying  and  giving  in  mar- 
riage, and  engaged  in  human  pursuits,  and 
going  through  the  endless  round  of  destiny  like 
my  own  people,  and  yet  I  never  saw  them  or 
heard  of  them  before.  They  seem  quite  able 
to  do  without  the  rest  of  the  world !  " 

We  made  out  the  land  in  sight  to  be  Cape 
St.  George.  It  was  yet  very  distant,  and 
loomed  like  a  gray  cloud  in  the  offing.  A 
long  and  lofty  and  forbidding  coast-line  grad- 
ually came  into  view,  trending  north  and 
south  for  a  great  distance.  The  larger  part 
of  the  day  a  calm  prevailed.  Numerous 
whales  were  to  be  seen  sporting  in  schools, 
their  smoke-like  spouting  suggesting  the  firing 
of  muskets.  One  of  these  unwieldy  levia- 
thans passed  under  our  stern  near  enough 
to  strike  the  schooner  with  a  stroke  of  the 
tail,  if  he  had  so  chosen.  The  high  westerly 
swell  drifted  the  vessel  shoreward  quite  near 
to  the  inaccessible  precipices  of  Cape  St 
George.  This  is  a  terrible  coast  in  stormy 
weather.  For  sixty  miles  there  is  not  a  place 
where  a  ship  attacked  by  westerly  gales  could 
make  a  lee  or  get  an  anchorage.  The  coast 
is  many  hundreds  of  feet  high,  without  any 
beach  at  the  foot  except  at  rare  intervals. 
When  south  of  Cape  St.  George,  a  ship  can 
make  a  lee  of  it  in  a  nor'wester  or  run  into 


Georgetown.  A  lee  can  also  be  made  in  the 
bight  of  the  cape,  which  is  shaped  not  un- 
like a  fish-hook.  But  this  bight,  or  bay,  is 
dangerous  in  a  north-east  wind,  and  the  en- 
trance is  at  best  hazardous,  as  it  is  beset 
with  reefs  which  are  not  buoyed.  A  very  pre- 
carious lee  resembling  a  forlorn  hope  may  be 
made  behind  Red  Island,  a  rock  near  the 
outer  angle  of  Cape  St.  George.  Red  Island, 
by  the  way,  is  a  summer  station  of  the  large 
French  cod-fishing  firm  of  Camolet  Freres  et 
les  Fils  de  1'aine,  whose  head-quarters  are  at 
St.  Pierre. 

What  adds  to  the  perils  of  this  coast  is  the 
scarcity  of  the  population  and  the  desperate 
character  of  those  who  live  there,  occupying 
rough  shanties  among  the  rocks.  It  is  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  and  not  of  rumor  that,  when  a 
shipwrecked  vessel  happens  to  be  so  situated 
that  the  crew  can  not  escape,  they  are  in 
great  danger  from  these  ruffians  of  the  sea, 
whose  object  is  to  plunder  the  ship.  It  is  most 
disgraceful  that  such  miscreants  should  be 
permitted  to  live  on  any  part  of  the  British 
or  French  dominions.  The  perils  of  the  sea 
are  already  sufficient  without  adding  to  them, 
by  allowing  the  coast  to  be  infested  with  sea- 
pirates.  Probably  each  government  would 
shirk  the  responsibility  on  the  other,  because 
the  western  and  southern  shores  of  New- 
foundland are  debatable  ground,  where  each 
claims,  but  fails  to  obtain,  unrestricted  juris- 
diction. 

It  is  also  very  discreditable  to  somebody  that 
there  is  no  light-house  between  Cape  Ray  and 
the  straits  of  Belle  Isle,  a  distance  of  four  hun- 
dred miles,  on  a  coast  passed  by  many  vessels 
during  six  months  of  the  year.  Some  would  re- 
ply to  this  that  the  coast  is  high,  and  is  easily 
discernible  in  all  weathers,  and  that  the  en- 
trances to  the  bays  are  free  from  shoals.  This 
is  true  enough;  but  this  very  boldness  of 
the  coast  makes  it  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
ports  until  a  ship  is  very  close  in,  while  it 
is  quite  impossible  at  night.  The  few  ports 
are  likewise  so  very  far  apart  that  it  is 
highly  dangerous  for  a  ship  to  make  a  mis- 
take in  a  gale  of  wind,  for  she  is  sure  to  be 
driven  on  shore  before  she  can  make  the  next 
port;  whereas, , with  four  or  five  prominent 
light-houses,  this  danger  might  be  mitigated 
to  a  considerable  degree.  Two  years  ago  a 
fleet  of  six  schooners  came  out  of  the  Bay  of 
Islands  in  the  afternoon.  As  it  was  late  in 
the  season,  there  were  many  passengers  on 
board  who  were  leaving  the  bay  before  the 
inclemency  of  the  season  should  close  naviga- 
tion. It  came  on  to  blow  hard  from  the  west- 
ward during  the  night.  The  schooners  could 
not  carry  sail  against  the  savage  wind  am 
sea ;  under  their  lee  was  a  pitiless  coast  withe 


THE   MASTER. 


899 


anchorage  or  harbor,  and  haunted  by  demons 
in  human  shape.  Before  morning  every  one 
of  this  fleet  had  struck  on  the  rocks  and  all 
hands  perished ;  whether  any  of  them  came 
to  land  and  were  murdered  remains  a  matter 
of  conjecture. 

Three  winters  ago  a  square-rigged  vessel 
struck  on  the  coast  north  of  the  Bay  of 
Islands  and  lodged  high  up  in  a  hollow  of  the 
cliff.  All  the  crew  but  two  were  lost  in  trying 
to  get  to  land.  The  survivors  lingered  on 
board,  looking  for  a  chance  to  get  off  safely 
or  to  be  rescued  by  the  inhabitants.  After 
some  weeks  the  fuel  gave  out,  or  at  least  the 
means  for  kindling  a  fire.  Then  one  of  the 
men  died.  For  two  months  the  single  sur- 
vivor lived  in  this  appalling  situation,  with 


only  a  frozen  corpse  for  companionship  and 
without  fire,  while  the  deafening  din  of  the 
breakers  constantly  reminded  him  of  his  own 
impending  doom.  In  the  spring,  when  nav- 
igation opened,  the  wreck  was  discovered  by 
some  fishermen.  They  boarded  her,  and  found 
a  man  alive  lying  by  the  side  of  a  corpse,  and 
in  the  last  stages  of  despair  and  glimmering 
vitality.  After  receiving  sustenance  he  re- 
vived, and  was  able  to  narrate  the  details  of 
an  experience  never  surpassed  by  the  most 
harrowing  tales  of  suffering  at  sea. 

It  was  a.  fact  attracting  attention  that,  al- 
though the  weather  was  fine,  we  saw  no  sea- 
birds  in  this  region  excepting  Mother  Carey's 
chickens.  Even  the  noisy  and  ubiquitous 
gull  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance. 

S.  G.  W.  Benjamin. 


OFF     DEADMAN     ISLAND. 


THE    MASTER. 

AN    IMITATION. 

Q.  TELL  me,  O  Sage!     What  is  the  true  ideal? 

A.  A  man  I  knew,  —  a  living  soul  and  real. 

Q.  Tell  me,  my  friend!     Who  was  this  mighty  master? 

A.  The  child  of  wrong,  the  pupil  of  disaster. 

Q.  Under  what  training  grew  his  lofty  mind  ? 

A.  In  cold  neglect  and  poverty  combined. 

Q.  What  honors  crowned  his  works  with  wealth  and  praise  ? 

A.  Patience  and  faith  and  love  filled  all  his  days. 

Q.  And  when  he  died  what  victories  had  he  won  ? 

A.  Humbly  to  live  and  hope — his  work  was  done. 

Q.  What  mourning  nations  grieved  above  his  bier? 

A.  A  loving  eye  dropped  there  a  sorrowing  tear. 

Q.  But  History,  then,  will  consecrate  his  sleep  ? 

A.  His  name  is  lost;  angels  his  record  keep. 


William  Preston  Johnston. 


PROGRESS   IN   FISH-CULTURE. 


ATKINS'S  METHOD  OF  PENNING  SALMON. 


FEW  persons  not  specially  interested  in  fish- 
culture  are  aware  of  the  rapid  advance  made 
in  the  last  ten  years.  It  seems  but  a  short 
time  ago  when  fish-culture  was  regarded 
merely  as  a  curious  discovery,  or,  at  best, 
a  plaything  for  people  of  means  to  amuse 
themselves  with ;  and  from  the  time  of  its 
discovery  by  the  German,  Jacoby  in  1741,  and 
the  publication  of  the  fact  in  France  in  1770, 
and  in  England  eight  years  later,  down  to 
the  middle  of  the  present  century,  little  or 
nothing  had  been  done  in  a  practical  way, 
although  John  Shaw,  of  England,  began 
hatching  a  few  salmon  in  1837.  Even  the 
successful  rearing  of  brook-trout  in  America 
by  Dr.  Theodatus  Garlick  and  his  partner, 
Professor  Ackley,  in  1853,  was  not  at  that 
time  regarded  as  having  any  bearing  on  the 
question  of  the  food  supply  of  the  people. 
And  the  publication  of  a  treatise  on  the  sub- 
ject by  the  former,  in  the  proceedings  of 
the  Cleveland  Academy  of  Natural  Science, 
in  the  following  year,  failed  to  awaken  inter- 
est in  it  in  this  country  outside  of  scientific  cir- 
cles. Two  years  after  Drs.  Ackley  and  Garlick 
began  their  work  they  published  an  account 
of  it,  and  thereupon  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bachman 
made  the  claim  that  he  had  hatched  trout  in 
Charleston  in  1804.  The  governments  of  Bel- 
gium, Holland,  and  Russia  began,  in  a  small 


way,  to  cultivate  fish  about  the  year  1853.  Pub 
lie  attention  in  America  was  first  called  to  th 
subject,  as  one  which  promised  to  be  of  futur 
benefit,  by  an  act  of  the  Massachusetts  Legis 
lature  in  1856,  appointing  three  commission 
ers  to  report  such  facts  concerning  the  artificia 
propagation  of  fish  as  might  tend  to  show  th 
practicability  and  expediency  of  introducin 
the  same  into  the  Commonwealth,  under  th 
protection  of  law.  Three  years  later,  Stephen 
H.  Ainsworth  began  trout-breeding  in  th 
State  of  New  York,  at  West  Bloomfielc 
Monroe  County,  and  achieved  a  limited  sue 
cess  with  a  scant  supply  of  water. 

With  the  creation  by  Congress  of  a  Com 
mission  of  Fisheries  for  the  United  States,  in 
1871,  and  the  appointment  of  Professor  Spen 
cer  F.  Baird  as  Commissioner,  fish-cultur 
began  to  extend  its  usefulness;  and  from 
means  of  growing  a  few  brook-trout  for  th 
angler,  or  of  increasing  in  a  small  way  th 
food  fishes  of  a  few  rivers,  it  has  become 
system  of  propagating  both  sea  and  fresh 
water  fishes,  of  introducing  the  best  nativ 
and  foreign  species,  and  also  of  investigatin 
the  food  and  habits  of  those  fishes  which  ar 
inhabitants  of  our  coasts  during  a  part  of  th 
year  only,  and  whose  migrations  and  life  hi.1 
tory  can  be  worked  out  by  trained  scientifi 
observers  alone.  From  the  beginning  of  th 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH-CULTURE. 


901 


work  on  this  extended  scale  dates  the  great 
improvement  in  apparatus,  which  has  made 


GREEN  S     SHAD-BOX. 


the  past  ten  years  a  period  of  constant  prog- 
ress in  methods  and  in  knowledge,  and 
which  has  stimulated  the  work,  not  only 
in  America  but  throughout  the  civilized 
world,  by  the  very  complete  manner  in  which 
the  results  have  been  accomplished  and  pub- 
lished. Previously,  the  introduction  of  salmon 
into  Tasmania,  from  England,  by  Mr.  Francis 
Francis,  was  the  only  attempt  at  sending  the 
eggs  of  fishes  long  distances,  while  now  each 
season  sees  millions  of  eggs  of  different 
species  crossing  the  ocean. 

The  very  important  discovery  was  made  by 
the  Russian  Vrasski  that  the  best  mode  of 
fertilizing  the  eggs  of  the  salmon  family  was 
by  the  dry  method,  or  without  the  use  of 
water  at  first;  this  was  translated  by  Mr.  G.  S. 
Page  some  years  after,  and  was  found  to  have 
been  also  an  original  discovery  of  Mr.  At- 
kins, of  Maine,  who  had  written  of  it  pre- 
vious to  Mr.  Page's  translation.  These,  and 
the  invention  of  Mr.  Seth  Green's  floating 
shad-hatching  box,  were  really  all  the  im- 
portant improvements  or  experiments  made 
previous  to^the  formation  of  the  United 
States  Fish  Commission.  Since  that  time  the 
numerous  labor-saving  devices,  the  extensive 
operations  undertaken,  as  well  as  the  impor- 
tant discoveries  made,  have  placed  the  United 
I  States  far  in  advance  in  both  the  science  and 
[practice  of  fish-culture.  There  are  but  few 
States  in  the  Union  which  have  not  their 
fishery  commissioners,  and  the  present  meth- 
[ods  enable  one  man  to  do  the  work  that  for- 
|merly  required  several  persons.  In  the  mode 
!of  obtaining  salmon  eggs,  a  great  step  in 
[advance  was  made  by  Mr.  Atkins,  on  the 
Penobscot,  when,  instead  of  depending  on 
I  the  accidental  capture  of  salmon  with  ripe 
[eggs,  he  found  that  he  could  keep  the  fish 
[in  pens,  in  fresh  water,  until  their  spawn 
|  ripened,  and  thus  could  obtain  a  hundred- 
ifold  more  than  had  been  got  before.  At 
[Bucksport,  Maine,  after  the  eggs  are  taken 
Ifrom  the  salmon,  a  metal  tag  with  a  number 
ion  it  is  attached  to  the  posterior  part  of  the 
jfirst  dorsal  fin.  A  record  is  kept  of  the  sex, 
length,  and  weight  of  each  fish,  and  the  date 
of  its  liberation,  thereby  showing  what  growth 
(is  made  up  to  the  time  of  its  second  capture. 
A  reward  is  offered  for  the  return  of  these 
jtags  accompanied  by  statements  of  the  time 
VOL.  XXVII.— 86. 


and  place  of  capture,  the  weight  of  the  fish, 
and  other  information.  A  female  salmon, 
liberated  at  Bucksport,  November  10,  1875, 
which  weighed  sixteen  pounds  after  spawn- 
ing, was  captured  two  years  later,  and  was 
found  to  have  grown  a  foot  in  length,  and  to 
have  increased  eight  and  a  half  pounds  in 
weight.  Mr.  Buckland  also  marked  salmon  by 
punching  holes  in  the  second  dorsal  fin  with  a 
conductor's  punch,  but  we  have  no  records  of 
their  subsequent  capture  and  rate  of  growth. 
Mr.  Stone,  also,  corralled  the  salmon  on  the 
McCloud  River,  California,  and  thereby  ob- 
tained enormous  quantities  of  the  eggs  of 
the  salmon  of  the  Sacramento.  Thus  at 
Bucksport,  Maine,  and  at  Baird,  Shasta 
County,  California,  the  supply  of  salmon 
eggs  on  our  eastern  and  western  coasts  was 
surprisingly  increased.  This  increase  natu- 
rally resulted  in  taxing  the  working  force  of 
these  hatcheries  beyond  their  capacity,  which 
led  to  the  discarding  of  the  old  system  of 
hatching  on  gravel  as  too  laborious,  and  as 
requiring  too  much  work  to  keep  the  dead 
eggs  from  destroying  the  living  ones.  Then 
the  Brackett  trays  came  into  use.  Similar 
trays  had  been  used  before,  but  they  were  of 
glass  grilles,  easily  broken,  and  expensive. 


TAGGING    SALMON. 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


The  new  trays  were  of  iron  wire 
coated  with  asphaltum;    and  the 
ease  with  which  they  were  handled, 
and  the  facility  with 
which  they  and 


theircontents    * 

were  removed  while  a  trough  was 

cleaned,  commended  them  above 

all   other  apparatus.    For   bringing  forward 

eggs  to  the  point  where  the  eyes  were  vis- 


that  England  will  soon  take  rank  beside  other 
nations  in  the  art  of  cultivating  the  waters 
arid  of  producing  food  from  them.  Hungary 
has  an  influential  society  for  fish-culture. 
Sweden  sustains  a  school  wherein  pupils  are 
taught,  and  salmon  culture  is  fostered  by 
sending  men  to  the  different  fisheries  to  in- 
struct the  fishermen  how  to  take  and  hatch 
the  eggs  of  their  fish. 

The  first  hatching  of  fish  in  all  countries,, 
excepting  China,  was  begun  by  propagating 
the  brook  trout,  and  in  all  cases  the  work 
was  done  on  gravel  until  the  invention  of 


ible,  and  the  eggs  ready  for  shipment,  they  Coste's  glass  grilles  and   the  improved  sys- 

were  placed  in  the  troughs,  five  or  six  trays  on  tern  of  wire  trays,  which  rendered  it  possible 

top  of  each  other,  and  thus  the  capacity  of  the  to  remove  the  eggs  and  clean  the  trough, 

hatching-troughs  was  increased  many  times,  China  was  said  by  missionaries  and  travelers, 


and  the  labor  much  simplified.  This  has  been 
the  great  object  of  American  fish-culturists — 


who  knew  nothing  of  fish-culture,  to  be  far 
advanced  in  the  art  and  to  have  practiced  it: 


to  get  the  maximum  of  results  with  the  mini-    for  an  indefinite  number  of  years.    Inquiry 
mum  of  labor,  a  most  important  thing  in  our    has  shown  that  there  is  nothing  done  in  that 


country,  and  one  which  the  fish-culturists  of 
Europe,  on  account  of  the  cheapness  of  labor 
there,  do  not  strive  for  as  we  do. 

Germany  is  far  in  advance  of  any  other 
European  country  in  the  propagation  of  fishes, 
and  is  second  only  to  the  United  States  and 
Canada ;  but  their  apparatus  is  bulky,  even 
when  made  after  American  models,  and  the 
fish-breeders  of  that  country  seem  to  care  lit- 
tle about  economizing  either  space  or  labor. 
France  has  done  something,  and  so  has  Eng- 
land. The  latter  has  been  far  behind  without 
knowing  it,  and  is  now  awakening  to  the  fact. 
At  a  recent  meeting  to  organize  a  national 
fish-cultural  association,  Lord  Exeter  plainly 
told  the  English  fish-culturists  that  they  were 
not  up  to  the  times ;  and  this  statement  has 
been  seconded  by  such  able  men  as  Mr.  R.  B. 
Marston  and  Mr.  W.  O.  Chambers,  who  have 
been  foremost  in  promoting  the  above-men- 
tioned society.  The  late  Mr.  Frank  Buck- 
land  was  regarded  as  the  fountain-head  of 
all  piscicultural  knowledge  in  England,  but 
he  really  made  little  progress  in  a  matter 
affecting  the  people  at  large,  and  which  had 
no  public  recognition.  With  the  forming  of 
the  new  association,  and  the  clamor  for  gov- 
ernmental aid,  it  may  safely  be  prophesied 


country  in  the  way  of  multiplying: 
fish  except  to  place  twigs 
in  the  water,  and,  when, 
the  spawn  of  the  carp 


FERGUSON'S  HATCHING-JARS. 


BELL     AND    MATHER    SHAD-HATCHING    CONE. 

is  found  to  be  deposited  upon  them,  to  remove 
them  to  other  waters  and  allow  them  to  hatch. 
How  long  the  Chinese  have  done  this  is  not 
known,  but  they  have  never  made  any  im- 
provement upon  it. 

The  difficulties  that  beset  the  fish-culturistl 
in  dealing  with  a  fish  whose  breeding  habits- 
are  unknown  are  many.  His  former  experi- 
ence is  often  of  little  value,  because  the  eggs 
of  different  fishes  usually  require  different 
treatment.  The  eggs  of  the  salmon  family, 
except  those  of  the  smelt,  are  comparatively 
large  and  considerably  heavier  than  water; 
the  eggs  of  the  shad  have  little  specific  grav- 
ity and  will  sink  in  perfectly  still  water  and  die. 
The  salmon  eggs  may  lie  in  a  trough  and  a 
strong  current  be  passed  over  them,  while  | 
under  the  same  conditions  the  shad  eggs 
would  be  washed  down  stream.  The  ova  of 
the  shad  require  a  buoying  current  which 
forms  an  eddy,  while  the  eggs  of  the  smeltr 
herring,  carp,  and  some  other  fishes  are  c( 
ered  by  a  glutinous  coating  which  adhere 
twigs,  stones,  etc.  Again,  the  eggs  of 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


9°3 


MCDONALD  JARS. 

common  yellow  perch  are  in  a  ribbon-like 
mass  which  is  hung  over  twigs  but  does  not 
adhere  to  them,  and  the  small  egg  of  the  cod- 
fish follows  a  slight  current.  These  varying 
conditions  have  tasked  the  ingenuity  of  fish- 
culturists  to  devise  means  to  develop  the  dif- 
ferent eggs ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  those 
of  the  cod,  they  have  been  successful  with 
all.  A  perfect  arrangement  for  the  eggs  of 
the  cod  has  not  yet  been  found,  unless 
the  new  McDonald  jar  should  prove  to  be 
the  proper  one.  This  apparatus,  the  latest 
fish-hatching  device,  will  be  referred  to  again. 
One  of  the  first  improvements  on  the  old 
methods  with  which  the  public  are  familiar 
was  the  use  of  glass  jars  by  Major  T.  B.  Fer- 
guson, then  of  the  Maryland  Commission, 
but  now  of  the  United  States  Fishery  Com- 
mission ;  his  jar  allowed  the  different  layers 
of  eggs  to  be  inspected  without  removal.  The 
same  gentleman  also  devised  a  system  of 
plunging  buckets,  to  be  worked  by  machinery 
on  an  old  scow,  whereby  shad  eggs  might  be 
developed  in  waters  where  neither  tide  nor 
currents  were  available. 

Another  invention,  in  1875,  by  the  writer 
and  his  assistant,  C.  F.  Bell,  known  as  the 
Bell  and  Mather  hatching  cones,  superseded 
the  hatching  of  shad  in  floating  boxes.    The 
eggs  were  placed  in  a  conical  vessel,  with  the 
water   entering  from   below  and   sustaining 
them  in   mass   with   a    gentle   motion.    The 
Chase  jar,  for  whitefish  eggs,  and  its  modi- 
fication by  Mr.  Clark,  in  both  of  which  the 
water  is  delivered  at  the  bottom  by  a  glass 
I  tube,  followed,  and  in  the  hatching  of  white- 
|  fish  eggs  seemed  perfection  until  McDonald 
!  improved  upon    it   by   sealing   the  jar   and 
f  drawing  out  the  dead  eggs  through  a  sliding 
!  tube   let   down   through   the   stopper.    This 


latest  improvement  is  adapted  to  hatching 
the  eggs  of  shad,  whitefish,  and  perhaps  cod ; 
and  these  glass  jars  have,  in  most  large  hatch- 
eries, superseded  the  earlier  troughs  and 
boxes  of  Williamson,  Holton,  Clark,  Green, 
and  others.  Their  simplicity,  the  perfect  in- 
spection of  the  eggs  through  the  glass,  and 
the  great  saving  of  labor,  commend  them  to 
all.  All  these  improvements  are  of  American 
invention.  To  them  we  should  add  the  Mc- 
Donald fish-way,  a  device  for  permitting  the 
ascent  of  fishes  to  upper  waters,  which  per- 
mits of  a  steeper  incline  and  more  perfect 
checking  of  the  down-flow  than  any  other 
form  of  fish-ladder.  These  fish-ways  are  now 
in  operation  on  the  Rappahannock,  Savan- 
nah, and  Oswego  rivers,  and  another  will 
be  built  at  the  Great  Falls  of  the  Potomac. 
Thus  we  have  a  record  showing  that  our 
specialists  have  been  busy  with  their  brains 
as  well  as  with  their  hands. 

From  a  meeting  of  a  few  trout-breeders 
in  Albany,  nearly  twelve  years  ago,  to  arrange 
a  tariff  to  regulate  the  sale  of  their  products, 
has  sprung  the  American  Fish-cultural  Asso- 
ciation —  a  society  which  holds  annual  meet- 
ings and  listens  to  papers  from  experts  and 
scientists  from  all  parts,  and  which  num- 
bers among  its  members  the  Crown  Prince 
of  Germany  and  many  gentlemen  from  other 
lands.  This  association  is  only  second  in 
importance  and  influence  to  the  powerful 
Deutsche  Fischereiverein  of  Germany,  which, 
under  its  President,  the  Hon.  Herr  von 
Behr,  has  organized  societies  for  fish-cult- 
ure in  all  parts  of  Germany,  and  has  ex- 
changed valuable  species  of  food  fishes  with 
the  United  States.  Within  the  past  six  years 
many  kinds  of  adult  fish  and  eggs  have 
passed  between  this  German  society  and 
the  United  States  Commission  of  Fish  and 
Fisheries.  The  Germans  have  thus  received 
six  species  of  American  Salmonidae,  viz. :  the 
eastern  brook  trout,  the  rainbow  trout  of 
California,  the  quinnat  or  California  salmon, 


HOLTON  S    BOX. 


904 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  CARP-PONDS  AT  WASHINGTON. 


the  lake  trout,  the  land-locked  salmon  of 
Maine,  and  the  whitefish  of  the  great  lakes. 
They  have  also  received  our  black  bass.  In 
return,  Professor  Baird  has  received  the  salb- 
ling,  Salmo  salvelinus,  a  large  lake  char 
which  grows  to  a  weight  of  fifteen  to  twenty 
pounds,  and  is  as  bright  and  beautiful  as  our 
brook  trout;  the  common  trout  of  Europe, 
Salmo  fario  ;  the  gold-orfe  or  golden-ide,  a 
fish  bred  for  both  ornament  and  the  table ; 
and  the  more  useful  carp,  which  has  been 
bred  in  such  numbers  in  the  national  carp 
ponds  as  to  allow  thousands  of  the  young  to 
be  sent  to  the  different  States,  and  which  will 
prove  of  incalculable  value  to  those  parts  of 
the  country  which  have  no  running  streams, 
and  consequently  no  good  table  fish.  This 
exchange  of  the  best  things  in  each  country 
has  not  been  confined  to  Germany  and  Amer- 
ica, although  they  have  led  in  the  matter  of 
important  exchanges  of  the  greatest  number 
of  species  and  of  specimens.  Two  years  ago 
some  South  American  gentlemen  residing  in 
Ecuador  wished  to  introduce  the  German 
carp  from  America  to  the  vicinity  of  Quito, 
and  Professor  Baird  left  the  details  of  ship- 
ment to  Mr.  E.  G.  Blackford,  of  Fulton  Mar- 
ket, who  is  also  a  member  of  the  New  York 
Fishery  Commission.  Cans  were  made  to  fit 
the  backs  of  peons,  or  burden-bearers,  who 
were  to  carry  the  fish  over  the  mountains — a 
journey  occupying  a  week  or  more  under  a 


Egg  transportation  crate  . 


in  shipping'  shcui  eggs  from* 
the  fishing  shores  to  central  station,* 


tropical  sun.  The  cans  were  protected  from 
the  heat  by  a  covering  of  felt,  and  arranged 
with  the  necessary  straps  to  enable  the  toil- 
ing peon  to  grope  his  way  with  his  alpenstock 
up  the  wearisome  mountain-paths  and  down 
the  other  side.  The  fish  arrived  safely,  pauses 
having  been  frequently  made  to  aerate  the 
water  by  means  of  dippers ;  and  they  are  re-, 
ported  as  doing  well  in  their  new  home.  Last 
January,  a  lot  of  trout  eggs  and  young  carp,  the 
former  from  the  United  States  Fish  Commission 
station  at  Northville,  Michigan,  in  charge  of 
Mr.  Frank  N.  Clark,  and  the  latter  from  Mr. 
Blackford's  stock,  were  taken  by  Mr.  Decerro 
to  Bogota,  Colombia,  also  a  mountainous 
journey,  on  the  backs  of  men  and  mules; 
and,  while  the  carp  may  thrive,  it  is  doubtful 
if  the  trout  will  find  there  the  necessary  cool 
and  congenial  waters.  In  sending  eggs  to 
foreign  countries,  the  writer  has  been  intrusted 
with  their  repacking  for  the  warm  ocean 
voyage.  A  package  has  been  devised  wherein 
the  eggs  are  surrounded  by  ice,  which  retards 
the  development  of  the  embryo  and  prevents 
premature  hatching.  Most  of  the  eggs  are 
received  in  living  moss,  which  retains  moist- 
ure and  gives  off  oxygen.  From  this  they  are 
transferred  to  wooden  frames  with  a  bottom 
of  canton  flannel,  and  the  frames  are  packed 
in  a  box  of  ice.  The  success  of  this  mode  has 
been  such  that  the  average  loss  in  transporta-! 
tion  has  not  been  greater  than  if  the  eggs  had 
remained  in  the  hatching- troughs. 
In  the  distribution  of  fishes  within 
our  own  borders,  the  most  notable 
events  are :  the  introduction  of 
shad  into  California,  at  different 
times,  by  Messrs.  Green  and  Stone ; 
the  taking  of  eels,  lobsters,  and 
oysters  to  the  same  State  by  Mr. 
Stone ;  and  the  accidental  stocking 
of  the  Elkhorn  River,  a  tributary 
of  the  Missouri,  with  black  bass 
and  other  fish,  through  the  break- 
ing of  a  bridge  and  the  upsetting 
of  a  car  in  which  Mr.  Stone  had 
an  assortment  of  fishes  destined 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


9°S 


California.  Eels  have  been  planted  by  the 
Michigan  Fish  Commission  in  the  great  lakes 
above  Niagara,  with  what  result  is  not  yet 
known ;  black  bass  have  been  introduced  into 
eastern  New  York  and  the  New  England 
States,  to  which  they  are  not  native;  and  the 
rainbow  trout  has  been  brought  east  from 
California  by  both  Mr.  Clark  and  Mr.  Green. 
The  quick  growth  of  this  fish  indicates  a  vora- 
cious appetite,  which  may  result  in  depriving 
our  native  species  of  food.  Like  the  English 
sparrow,  they  may  be  more  easily  introduced 
than  banished.  The  land-locked  salmon, 
called  in  its  Maine  habitat,  from  the  lakes 
to  which  it  is  indigenous,  the  "  Schoodic  sal- 
mon "  and  the 
"  Sebago  sal- 
mon," is  a  fish 
that,  to  the  eye 
of  the  angler, 
is  readily  dis- 


took  specimens  of  five  pounds  weight.  He 
regards  this  valuable  fish  as  peculiarly  fitted 
for  those  waters,  and  intends  to  stock  many 
other  lakes  of  that  elevated  region  with 
it.  The  New  York  Fish  Commission  has 
been  a  most  useful  one,  and,  with  the  com- 
missions of  the  New  England  States,  the 
most  promi- 
nent among  vA,  ^ 
State  com- 
missions in 
the  work  x\^: 


THE    MCDONALD     FISH-WAY    AT 
RAPPAHANNOCK,    VA. 


tinguisha- 
ble  from  the  sea- 
going salmon, 
Salmo  safar,but 
it  has  no  struct- 
ural difference 
that  warrants 
the  ichthyblo- 
jgist  in  classing  it  as  a  different  species.  It 
|  appears  to  be  a  salmon  whose  ancestors  have 
ibeen  cut  off  from  access  to  the  sea  and  obliged 
|  to  live  and  breed  in  fresh  water.  Their  de- 
[scendants  have  lost  the  migratory  instinct, 
[and,  although  the  obstruction  to  their  descent 
j  to  salt  water  has  been  removed  by  some  con- 
vulsion of  nature,  they  are  content  to  remain 
in  the  lakes  throughout  the  year.  This  fish 
[has  been  in  great  demand,  and  Mr.  Atkins, 
of  the  United  States  Fish  Commission,  has 
ipaid  great  attention  to  it;  he  has  gathered 
!  the  eggs  for  several  years  in  increasing  num- 
jbers,  and  the  fish  has  been  introduced  into 
(many  new  waters.  They  love  deep,  cool  lakes, 
land  General  R.  U.  Sherman,  of  the  New 
iYork  Fish  Commission,  has  planted  them  in 
;Woodhull  Lake,  Oneida  County,  New  York, 
land  other  Adirondack  lakes,  and  last  year 


"  of  restocking 
the  waters  with  both 
the  food  fishes  and  the  species 
which  the  angler  most  values.  This  is  a 
natural  consequence  of  their  having  been  fore- 
most in  the  work,  and  in  having  legislative  aid 
to  carry  it  on.  At  the  same  time  there  are  vari- 
ous local  organizations,  to  which  belong  a  great 
deal  of  credit.  Among  these  are  the  salmon- 
canners  on  the  Clackamas  River,  a  tributary 
of  the  Columbia,  in  Oregon,  who,  seeing  that 
their  work  would  in  time  deplete  the  waters 
and  ruin  the  industry  that  they  had  estab- 
lished, concluded  to  build  a  hatchery  there 
and  keep  up  the  supply ;  and  to  this  end  they 
sent  for  Mr.  Stone,  who  established  such  a 
hatchery  for  them,  which  is  now  in  running 
order,  turning  out  as  many  fish  as  possible  in 
the  hope  of  keeping  the  stream  up  to  its  full 
salmon-bearing  capacity, —  a  prevision  so  rare 
among  fishermen  as  to  be  worthy  of  special 
note. 

The  United  States  Commission  of  Fish  and 
Fisheries  was  created  for  the  purpose  of  in- 
vestigating the  cause  of  the  decrease  of  our 
marine  food  fishes^  and  afterward  devoted 
much  attention  to  fish-culture  as  a  means  of 
increasing  the  food  resources  of  the  country. 
It  keeps  up  the  annual  scientific  investiga- 
tions on  the  coast,  and  has  added  much  to 
our  knowledge  of  the  life  history  of  fishes. 
Stations  have  been  established  for  the  season 
at  Noank,  Conn. ;  Eastport,  Me. ;  Wood's 


906 


PJtOGXESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


Holl,  Gloucester,  and  Provincetown,  Mass.,    upper   deck,  and  a   cam  on  a  shaft  works 
and  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  where  valuable  col-    the  Ferguson  plunging  buckets  on  her  sides. 

fitted 


lections  of  marine  fauna  have  been  made,  the 
food,  habits,  and  migrations  of  fishes  studied, 
and  testimony  taken  from  the  best  informed 
fishermen.  Besides  these  stations  for  scien- 
tific observation,  hatcheries  for  different  x 
fishes  have  been  built  at  Bucksport  and 
Grand  Lake  Stream,  Maine ;  at  Baird, 
Shasta  County,  California;  at  North- 
ville  and  Alpena,  Michigan ;  at  Wythe- 


The  other  steamer,  the  Albatross,  is 
with  machinery  for  deep-sea  soundings,  taking 
^^^  temperatures,  dredging,  etc.,  and  a 
naturalist's  room  with  micro- 
scopes, ice-chests,  and  al- 
cohol tanks  for  pre- 
serving speci- 
mens. The 
Commission 
has  also  two 
transportation 
//  cars  fitted  with 
ice-chests  and  fans, 
to  convey  cold  air 
over  the  cans,  worked 


ville,  Virginia,  in  conjunction  with  the  Fish 
Commission  of  that  State ;  and  at  Raleigh, 
North  Carolina,  and  much  support  has  been 
given  the  station  of  the  New  York  Commission 
at  Cold  Spring  Harbor,  Long  Island.  At  first,  a 
small  tug-boat,  the  Bluelight,  was  borrowed 
from  the  Navy  Department,  and  most  efficient 
aid  has  been  rendered  by  Captains  Beardslee 
and  Tanner,  of  the  navy,  who  volunteered  for 
this  service.  Following  the  Bluelight,  the  yacht 
Lookout  was  fitted  up  for  river  work.  Two  new 
steamers  have  since  been  built  by  the  Govern- 
ment especially  for  the  work  of  the  Commission. 
The  Fish- Hawk  is  a  flat-bottomed  vessel  with 
twin  screws,  designed  to  go  up  the  rivers, 
and  fitted  with  the  most  approved  apparatus 
for  hatching  shad  wherever  caught.  Her 
pumps  supply  a  copious  flow  of  water  to 
the  Bell  and  Mather  hatching  cones  on  her 


by  the  axles  when  the  car  is  in  motion,  bunks 
and  kitchen  for  the  men,  and  all  that  is  neces- 
sary to  transport  live  shad,  carp,  or  other  fish 
anywhere  by  rail,  with  only  the  labor  of  tak- 
ing on  water  where  the  engines  are  supplied. 
These  cars  have  taken  fish  from  Washington 
to  Texas  and  California,  in  the  most  perfect 


manner. 


Within  the  past  two  years  the  propagation 
of  oysters  has  received  attention,  and,  while 
not  yet  a  complete  success,  approaches  have 
been  made  toward  it  that  give  promise  of! 
future  benefit.  Professors  Brooks,  Rice,  and 
Ryder,  and  Lieutenant  Winslow,  U.  S.  N., 
have  all  made  valuable  experiments  in  th  s 
line,  and  we  at  least  know  more  of  the  life 


PXOGXESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


907 


MCDONALD  JARS  ON  THE  "  LOOK- 
OUT." 


I  history     of     the 

i  toothsome    mol- 

I  lusk     than     for- 

[  merly.     Abroad, 

i  oyster-culture  is 

i  practiced  to  the 

:  extent  of  placing 

I  twigs,  shells,  and 

other       objects, 

in     the      water, 

to      arrest      the 

free  -  swimming 

"  spat "    until    it 

fastens  itself  and 

settles  down  to  steady  habits  and  the  accu- 
mulation of  a  sufficient  amount  of  succulent 
protoplasm  to  entitle  it  to  the  honor  of  being 
laid  on  the  "half  shell."  In  the  Poquonnock 
River,  near  New  London,  Connecticut,  the 
tops  of  trees  are  placed  in  the  water  at  the 
proper  season,  and  when  loaded  with  oyster 
spat  are  hauled  out  by  oxen,  when  the  twigs 
with  the  juvenile  "  East  Rivers  "  are  scattered 
on  the  beds.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  Commission 
to  be  able  to  express  the  eggs  and  milt  from 
oysters,  and  fertilize  the  eggs  and  grow  them, 
as  is  done  with  the  fishes.  Professor  Ryder 
has  also  experimented  with  clams. 

It  is  only  within  a  few  years  that  the  prop- 
agation of  the  cod  has  been  attempted. 
While  the  Commission  was  at  Gloucester, 
Massachusetts,  some  three  years  ago,  the  eggs 
of  the  cod  were  taken  and  hatched.  The 
young  fish  were  turned  out  in  the  harbor,  and 
now  they  are  taken  by  boys  from  the  docks. 
When  it  is  remembered  that  the  inshore  cod 
are  small  and  red  in  color,  and  the  same  fish 
from  the  different  "banks  "  are  gray  and  more 
slender,  with  shorter  fins  and  clear-cut  forms, 
it  will  readily  be  seen  that  it  does  not  require 
an  ichthyologist  to  determine  whether  a  cod- 
fish comes  from  the  banks  or  is  a  "  rock 
cod,"  and  no  gray  fish  were  ever  taken  in 
Gloucester  harbor  before.  This  fact  has  been 


so  encouraging,  that  efforts  toward  a  per- 
fect hatching  apparatus  for  the  delicate  eggs 
of  the  cod-fish  have  been  made  by  several 
persons.  Captain  H.  C.  Chester,  formerly  of 
the  Polaris  expedition,  but  now  with  the 
United  States  Fish  Commission,  made  a 
semi-rotary  vessel  which  promised  fairly ;  but 
last  year  Colonel  McDonald  devised  the 
closed  hatching-jar,  already  referred  to, 
which  has  its  inlet  and  outlet  below  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  and  this  promises  to  do 
the  work  without  danger  that  the  almost 
floating  eggs  will  escape  with  the  outflow. 
The  suggestion  of  Mr.  E.  G.  Blackford,  that 
millions  of  cod  eggs  could  be  obtained  from 
the  fish  brought  alive  in  the  well-smacks  to 
Fulton  Market,  has  been  acted  upon,  and  eggs 
were  gathered  there  last  year  and  sent  to 
the  old  Armory  at  Washington,  which  has 
been  turned  into  a  hatchery.  It  had  been  de- 
cided to  turn  the  eggs  loose  in  the  waters  about 


SECTION     OF 


'FISH     HAWK,        SHOWING     FERGUSONS     PLUNGING 
BUCKETS. 


PART    OF    THE    INTERIOR    OF    THE     "FISH -HAWK." 

New  York;  but  in  December,  1882,  just  at  the 
spawning  season,  the  severe  weather  prevented 
the  arrival  of  many  ripe  fish. 

The  introduction  of  the  improved  German 
carp,  which  has  been  of  great  value  to  warm 
inland  waters  where  no  good  food  fish  was 
before  found,  has  been  a  boon  to  those  living 
far  from  the  sea-coast  These  fish  have  made 
most  wonderful  growth  in  many  states,  es- 
pecially in  the  South,  and  their  progeny  have 
even  been  asked  for  by  the  Germans  who 
sent  the  original  stock. 

One  of  the  amusing  phases  of  fish-culture 
is  the  numerous  specimens  of  small,  indige- 
nous species  which  are  sent  to  the  National 
Museum  on  the  supposition  that  they  are  the 
newly  planted  shad,  trout,  carp,  or  salmon. 
They  are  generally  some  small  cyprinoids 
which  never  grow  to  large  size,  and  conse- 
quently have  hitherto  escaped  the  observation 
of  the  sender.  This,  and  the  confusion  of  the 
names  of  fishes  in  different  localities,  tend  to 
mislead  those  whose  desire  for  knowledge 


908 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


UNITED    STATES    FISH    COMMISSION     STEAMER     "FISH-HAWK." 


and  new  fishes  is  but  just  awakened.  The 
fish  which  is  most  commonly  known  as  a 
black  bass  in  the  North  and  West  becomes  a 
"  chub  "  in  Virginia,  a  "  Welshman  "  in  North 
Carolina,  and  a  "  trout "  farther  south.  The 
name  of  "  trout "  is  also  applied  in  the  South 
to  a  salt-water  fish  called  "  squeteague  "  and 
other  names  in  the  New  England  States,  and 
"  weak-fish  "  in  New  York ;  while  the  pike- 
perch  becomes  a  "  salmon  "  in  the  Susque- 
hanna,  Ohio,  and  Mississippi  rivers.  Old 
names  were  applied  by  the  early  settlers  to 
new  fishes,  and,  as  a  consequence,  each  state 
has  certain  misnomers  for  its  fishes  and  birds, 
which  errors  are  persistent,  and  often  lead  to 


misunderstandings.  Among  the  new  fishes 
lately  brought  to  yield  their  eggs  to  the  fish- 
culturist,  in  addition  to  those  mentioned,  are 
the  Spanish  mackerel  (which  were  discovered 
at  the  spawning  season  in  Chesapeake  Bay 
by  Mr.  R.  E.  Earll),  the  haddock,  and  moon- 
fish, — the  last  being  a  valuable  food  fish,  but 
little  known,  and  sometimes  appearing  on 
the  bill  of  fare  in  New  York  as  "  angel-fish." 
A  few  turbot  and  soles  have  been  brought 
over  from  England  and  released  on  our 
coasts,  but  not  in  numbers  sufficient  to  hope 
for  important  results;  but  from  the  intro- 
duction into  New  Hampshire  lakes  of  the 
German  salbling,  Salmo  salvelinus,  a  large 


Canning  of  sluui .fry  far  transportation 


Receiving the  eggs  a-n3l  tra-nsfernttg  totJielutickittg  jot 
CENTRAL    STATION     UNITED    STATES    FISH    COMMISSION. 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH-CULTURE. 


909 


lake  char,  or   trout  of  high  color  and  fine  have  their  waters  stocked  and  for  protection 

flesh,  much  may  be  expected.  of  the  fish  during  the  spawning  seasons    The 

The  general  awakening  of  the  people  of  the  different  townships  on  Cape  Cod  protect  the 

United  States  to  the  benefits  of  fish-culture  has  alewife,  or  "  river  herring,"  and  only  allow  each 

been  a  source  of  gratification  to  the  pioneers  inhabitant  to  take  two  or  three  barrels  of  them 


<r  -^?^s=-     \,  '*'<siv^\ 


HATCHERIES     AND     REARING     PONDS     AT     COLD     SPRING     HARBOR,     N.     Y. 


in  the  art,  whose  early  enthusiasm  was  occasion- 
I  ally  ridiculed,  but  many  of  whose  prophecies 
have  been  fulfilled.  The  fishermen  have  been 
the  last  ones  to  see  its  benefits,  for  they  seem  to 
i  have  a  firm  faith  in  the  inexhaustibility  of  the 
[waters,  even  though  they  acknowledge  that 
the  supply  of  fish  has  rapidly  decreased  in 
the  past  twenty  years.  A  few  of  them  have 
begun  to  look  favorably  upon  pisciculture, 
land  the  first  indication  of  it  is  a  desire  to 
VOL.  XXVII.— 87. 


from  the  artificial  run- ways,  constructed  of 
three  planks,  which  sometimes  extend  for  five 
or  six  miles.  Each  one  pays  a  certain  sum  for 
his  fish,  and  the  money  is  applied  to  the  school 
fund.  The  remainder  of  the  alewives  are 
allowed  to  spawn,  in  order  to  keep  up  the 
stock.  The  number  of  private  and  public  fish- 
cultural  establishments  in  America  is  aston- 
ishing to  one  who  has  but  recently  looked 
into  the  subject.  The  number  of  them  sixteen 


910 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


NEW     YORK     STATE     HATCHERIES    AT     CALEUQNIA. 


years  ago,  when  the  writer  first  engaged  in 
fish-culture  as  a  private  enterprise,  could  be 
almost  numbered  on  the  fingers  of  one's  hand ; 
while  to-day  it  would  take  many  pages  of  this, 
magazine  to  record  them.  Of  the  different 
States  and  Territories,  thirty-seven  have  ap- 
pointed fishery  commissioners,  and  the  private 
hatcheries  and  ponds  are  almost  innumer- 
able. Among  the  latter  may  be  mentioned 
the  South  Side  Sportsmen's  Club,  of  Long 
Island,  which  has  over  five  miles  of  trout 
streams  and  more  than  a  hundred  acres  in 
ponds.  This  club  keeps  a  fish-culturist,  who 
takes  the  eggs  from  the  fish  and  hatches  them; 
and  while  its  members  have  all  the  fishing 
which  they  allow  themselves,  they  sent  a 
surplus  of  a  ton  of  trout,  alive  and  dead, 
to  Fulton  Market  in  1882.  The  Blooming 
Grove  Park  Association,  of  Pennsylvania,  is 
now  building  a  hatchery  to  replenish  their 


streams  and  lakes,  which  once  abounded 
with  trout.  Among  the  notable  private  fish- 
cultural  establishments  are  the  trout  ponds  of 
Mr.  James  Annin,  at  Caledonia,  New  York; 
Mr.  Livingston  Stone,  Charlestown,  New 
Hampshire ;  Messrs.  Eddy  and  Mosher,  Ran- 
dolph, New  York;  Mr.  Geo.  F.  Parlow,  New 
Bedford,  Massachusetts;  Mr.  W.  H.  Furman, 
Smithtown,  New  York;  and  Mr.  A.  R.  Ful- 
ler, of  Malone,  Franklin  County,  New  York. 
Mr.  Fuller  is  deserving  of  especial  mention 
from  the  fact  that  his  work  has  been  directed 
toward  stocking  the  waters  of  the  Adiron- 
dack region  in  the  vicinity  of  Meacham 
Lake,  which  are  open  to  public  fishing.  He 
has  stocked  Clear  Pond,  where  trout  were 
before  unknown,  and  are  now  found  of  five 
pounds  weight,  the  largest  brook  trout  found 
wild  in  the  State  of  New  York ;  and  this  has ; 
been  done  without  public  assistance,  or  even 


SHAD-HATCHING     STATION     AT     HAVRE     DE     GRACE. 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH- CULTURE. 


911 


X  ..-<-.. M 


STRIPPING    SHAD. 


recognition.  The  New  York  Fish  Commis- 
sion, in  addition  to  its  well-known  hatchery 
at  Caledonia,  has,  since  the  appointment  of 
Mr.  Blackford  as  a  member  of  its  board, 
established  a  supplemental  hatchery  on  Long 
Island,  at  Cold  Spring  Harbor,  where  salt 
water  is  pumped  into  an  elevated  reservoir 
and  brought  into  the  hatchery,  and  fresh  and 
salt  water  fishes  may  be  hatched  side  by  side, 
and  where  it  is  easy  to  make  preserves  for 
either  native  or  foreign  marine  fishes.  To 
this  station  ProfessorBairdhas  sent  many  thou- 
sand eggs  of  both  the  Atlantic  and  land-lock- 
ed salmon,  for  distribution  in  the  Adirondack 
waters,  he  having  previously  used  the  private 
hatchery  of  Mr.  Thomas  Clapham,  at  Roslyn, 
Long  Island,  for  the  same  purpose.  The 
land-locked  salmon  of  Maine  is  especially 
valuable  for  deep,  cool  lakes,  and  therefore 
the  Adirondack  waters  are  suited  to  them,  as 
has  been  proved  by  the  few  specimens  which 
were  planted  in  the  Bisby  Lakes  a  few  years 
ago.  The  new  hatching  station  at  Cold 
Spring  Harbor  has  distributed  many  of  these 
fish,  and  its  proximity  to  salt  water  will  give 
it  great  facilities  for  storing  foreign  marine 
fishes  or  hatching  native  ones.  The  work  of 
taking,  hatching,  and  distributing  the  eggs  of 
the  lake  whitefish  has  been  most  successfully 
done  in  Michigan,  both  by  the  Fishery  Com- 
mission of  that  State  at  its  Detroit  hatchery, 
and  by  the  United  States  Commission  at  its 
stations  at  Northville  and  Alpena,  under  Mr. 
F.  N.  Clark,  a  fish-culturist  of  much  experience 
and  good  judgment.  This  fish  and  the  shad  are 
the  most  important  of  the  commercial  fishes 
which  are  propagated;  the  former  spawning  in 


the  fall,  and  the  latter  in  early  summer.  At- 
tempts have  been  made  to  introduce  the  shad 
into  Europe,  but  have  not  been  successful. 
Mather  and  Anderson  took  100,000  fry  as  far 


FIRST     PRIZE     AT'   BERLIN,     AWARDED     TO     PROFESSOR     SPENCER 
F.     BAIRD. 


9I2 


PROGRESS  IN  FISH-CULTURE. 


as  Southampton  in  1874,  and  the  next  year 
Mr.  M.  A.  Green  and  Mr.  H.  W.  Welsher 
started  with  eggs,  which  died  outside  Sandy 
Hook.  Both  Rice  and  McDonald  have  since 
made  experiments  on  the  retardation  of  the  de- 
velopment of  the  embryo  which  promise  good 
results.  The  Germans,  becoming  impatient 
at  the  delay  in  sending  them  this  fish,  point  to 
the  fact  that  Meyer,  of  Kiel,  retarded  the  eggs 
of  the  herring  for  nearly  a  month  by  means  of 
ice ;  overlooking  the  fact  that  fishes  like  the 
winter  spawners  will  bear  to  have  their  eggs 
retarded  by  cold,  because  they  develop  them 
on  a  falling  temperature,  while  the  eggs  of 
fishes  which  spawn  in  spring,  on  a  rising 


A  great  breeding  ground  was  discovered 
Chesapeake  Bay,  and  at  Havre  de  Grace  a 
station  was  established  which  yielded  great 
numbers  of  eggs.  The  process  of  stripping 
the  shad  is  similar  to  that  of  other  fishes,  but 
the  impregnation  requires  less  time  to  become 
apparent  than  with  species  which  spawn  in 
colder  waters. 

Progress  in  fish-culture  may  be  noted  not 
alone  in  the  multiplication  of  hatcheries,  the 
creation  of  fish  commissions,  and  the  publi- 
cation of  journals  like  "  Forest  and  Stream  " 
and  the  reports  of  the  fish  commissioners. 
Public  interest  in  it  is  shown  by  the  recent 
exhibitions  of  fisheries  and  their  products  in 


CARP    POND    AT    WASHINGTON. 


thermometer,  are  killed  by  a  lowering  of  the 
temperature.  The  fact  is,  that  fishes  of  some 
kind  are  spawning  during  every  month  in  the 
year,  and  their  eggs  require  to  be  hatched,  or 
kept,  under  natural  conditions.  This  makes  it 
possible  to  ship  the  eggs  of  the  fall  and  win- 
ter spawning  fishes  any  distance,  if  kept  cold 
and  not  allowed  to  freeze;  while  the  quick- 
hatching  eggs  of  summer  spawners  will  not 
bear  to  be  retarded  in  their  development  by 
ice  to  any  great  extent,  although  the  experi- 
ments of  Rice  and  McDonald  seem  to  point 
to  a  different  conclusion.  In  the  propagation 
of  shad,  the  main  difficulty  in  producing  great 
numbers  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  ripe  fish 
could  not  be  obtained  in  sufficient  quantities. 


Germany,  England,  and  Scotland.  One  of 
the  first  and  largest  of  these  was  the  great  In- 
ternational Fisheries  Exhibition  at  Berlin,  in 
1880.  At  this  exhibition,  all  the  countries 
except  France  made  more  or  less  of  a 
display  of  their  fishery  resources  and  prod- 
ucts. The  exhibition  was  a  complete  suc- 
cess, both  from  a  utilitarian  point  of  view 
and  financially.  It  became  the  fashion; 
ladies  flocked  there  to  see  not  only  the  dis- 
plays of  pearls  and  amber,  but  the  fountains 
and  the  decorations.  On  some  days  as  man) 
as  twenty  thousand  persons  visited  it. 
American  exhibit  was  prepared,  under  dii 
tion  of  Professor  Baird,  by  Professor  G.  Broi 
Goode,  who  accompanied  it  to  Berlin 


WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  POEMS. 


9*3 


remained  in  charge,  with  a  staff  of  assistants,  at  Berlin,  owing  to  greater  facilities  and  the 
It  included  everything,  from  the  knives  used  longer  time  allowed  for  preparation, 
by  fishermen  to  their  clothing,  boats,  appara-  The  day  when  fish-culture  was  regarded  as 
tus  of  all  kinds,  and  even  their  food ;  models  an  experiment  passed  several  years  ago,  and 
of  fish-curing  houses,  the  hooks  of  bone,  wood,  it  is  now  one  of  the  recognized  industries  in 
or  iron  of  the  inhabitants  of  Greenland  and  Europe  and  America.  Its  results  in  restoring 
Alaska,  as  well  as  the  appliances  of  the  mod-  food  fishes  to  depleted  waters,  and  the  introduc- 
ern  angler.  Fish-culture  in  all  its  branches  tion  of  new  fishes,  have  popularized  it,  until  the 
was  illustrated,  and  a  majority  of  the  awards  supply  of  young  fish  and  eggs  cannot  keep  pace 
in  this  class  came  to  America.  At  the  distri-  with  the  demand.  It  has  not  cheapened  fish 
bution  of  awards  by  the  Crown  Prince  of  food  to  any  extent,  owing  to  the  growth 
Germany,  no  surprise  was  shown  when  the  of  population,  but  it  has  increased  the  sup- 
grand  prize  of  honor  offered  by  the  Emperor  ply  in  American  waters,  which  were  becoming 
for  the  best  collective  exhibit  was  given  to  exhausted  in  both  the  older  and  some  of  the 
Professor  Baird.  A  National  Fisheries  Ex-  newer  States,  and  promised  to  become  entirely 
hibition  was  held  the  next  year  in  England,  barren.  It  restored  the  salmon  to  the  Con- 
at  Norfolk,  and  another  the  year  following  necticut  River,  where  they  were  taken  and 
at  Edinburgh,  Scotland.  The  great  interest  sent  to  market  for  three  years,  until  the  ra- 
manifested  in  these  displays  led  to  a  grand  pacity  of  the  fishermen  exhausted  the  supply 
International  Exhibition  in  London,  which  by  cutting  off  the  fish  from  their  spawning 
opened  in  May  of  last  year,  and  which  grounds.  It  has  placed  shad  in  San  Francisco 
eclipsed  all  others  in  the  size  and  character  markets,  where  they  were  before  unknown, 
of  the  exhibits.  The  American  exhibit  by  and  has  materially  added  to  the  supply  of 
Professor  Baird  was  again  in  charge  of  Pro-  our  lake  and  river  fishes,  and  now  promises 
fessor  Goode,  and  was  more  extensive  than  to  increase  those  of  the  sea-coast. 

Fred  Mather. 


WRITTEN    IN    EMERSON'S   POEMS. 


FOR   A    CHILD. 


[MIDNIGHT  or  morning,  eve  or  noon, 
rn  March  or  clover-scented  June, — 
Whene'er  you  stand  before  this  gate, 
will  open — if  but  not  too  soon 
You  knock,  if  only  not  too  late. 

rell  shall  it  be  if,  boyhood  gone, 
boy's  delight  you  still  may  own 
To  play  the  dawn-new  game  of  life, — 
[f  what  is  dreamed  and  what  is  known 
In  your  still  startled  heart  have  strife. 


Ere  you  have  banished  Mystery, 
Or  throned  Distrust,  or  less  shall  be 

Stirred  by  the  deep  and  fervent  line 
Which  is  the  poet's  sign  and  fee: 

Be  this  your  joy  that  now  is  mine. 

When  comes  the  hour,  be  full  and  bright 
Your  lamp,  as  the  wiser  virgins^  light! 

Choose  some  familiar  shrine-like  nook, 
And  offer  up  in  prayer  the  night 

Upon  the  altar  of  this  book. 


Always  new  earth,  new  heavens  lie 
The  apocalyptic  spirit  nigh  : 

If  such  be  yours,  oh,  while  you  can, 
Bid  unregretted  Youth  good-bye, 

For  morning  shall  proclaim  you  Man. 


Robert   Underwood  Johnson. 


VOL.  XXVII.— 88. 


THE    DESTINY    OF   THE    UNIVERSE. 


EVERY  night  there  glides  along  above  us  in 
the  sky  the  corpse  of  a  dead  world.  Some- 
times shrouded  in  the  glare  of  sunshine,  she 
dimly  appears  in  the  sky  of  day ;  sometimes 
full  and  round,  she  is  bright  with  a  cold  splen- 
dor ;  sometimes  wan  and  shorn  of  her  beams, 
she  rises  late  and  chill,  forerunning  the  sun ; 
sometimes  following  his  departing  light,  she 
delights  us  with  the  graceful  crescent  and  its 
nightly  growing  radiance ;  sometimes  coming 
between  earth  and  sun,  she  casts  that  baleful 
shade  which  made  the  heart  of  the  elder 
world  to  quake,  and  still  smites  uncultured 
nations  with  fear.  To  the  eye  of  the  poet  the 
very  type  and  emblem  of  inconstancy,  she  is 
to  the  thought  of  the  astronomer  only  the 
dead- world  satellite,  the  airless,  waterless,  life- 
less mass  of  rock  that  swings  slowly  along  the 
orbit  of  the  earth,  swaying  mundane  tides, 
and,  by  the  aid  of  science,  helping  the  sailor 
to  find  his  way  upon  the  trackless  ocean. 

But  we  know  she  was  not  always  such  as 
she  now  is.  Rugged  with  mountains  like 
earth's  loftiest,  and  with  volcanic  craters  of 
vast  diameter  and  depth,  her  surface  shows 
that  the  elemen  tal  war  of  fire  and  earth  raged 
here  most  fiercely ;  that  she  was  once  hot  and 
flaming ;  and  that  from  this  state  of  ignition 
and  self-shining  she  has  become  dark  and 
cold ;  whatever  of  atmosphere  and  water  she 
may  have  had  has  retired  deep  into  her  sub- 
stance ;  and  in  the  long  presences  and  ab- 
sences of  the  sun's  heat  she  is  alternately 
parched  and  frozen.  Life,  either  vegetable  or 
animal,  is  impossible ;  for  to  life,  as  we  know 
it,  there  are  necessary  water  and  air,  and  such 
temperance  of  temperature  as  finds  no  place 
in  the  moon. 

But  the  earth,  too,  is  cooling.  The  geolo- 
gists tell  us  of  the  time  when  it  was  a  molten 
mass.  Professor  Newcomb,  in  his  "  Popular 
Astronomy,"  says  that  water  may  have  ex- 
isted upon  the  earth  in  a  fluid  state  ten  mill- 
ions of  years,  but  no  longer;  it  is  probable 
that  this  period  is  much  too  long.  Our 
mountains  have  become  so  cold,  though  some 
were  thrown  up  hot  from  the  flaming  bowels 
of  the  earth,  that  everlasting  snow  lies  on 
their  summits,  and  glaciers  creep  down  to 
their  feet.  The  cooling  of  the  earth  has 
reached  the  point  at  which  the  influence  of 
the  sun  not  only  antagonizes  it,  but  furnishes 
the  surplus  of  heat  which  makes  life  on  the 
earth  a  possibility. 

But  modern  science  tells  us  that  the  sun 


himself  must  fade;  that  his  brightness  mus 
pale  and  his  heat  exhaust  itself;  that  his 
brilliance  and  beauty,  measured  by  ages  and 
aeons,  is  at  last  transitory,  and  must  end  in 
darkness  and  frost;  and  that  causes  are  per- 
petually at  work  to  produce  this  result.  And 
what  then  shall  become  of  the  sun,  and  of  all 
the  myriads  of  suns  that  bedeck  the  firma- 
ment and  are  to  us  the  purest,  grandest  em- 
blems of  ineffable  beauty  ?  What  shall  be  the 
End  of  the  World,  the  Destiny  of  the  Cosmos  ? 

Science  teaches  us  to  trace  causes  forward 
to  their  results  and  backward  to  their  ante- 
cedents. Before  we  come  to  the  final  end  of 
the  cosmos,  let  us  follow  the  chain  of  mighty 
links  and  vast  induction  back  through  thou- 
sands and  millions  of  years,  and  see  how  the 
world  was  made,  so  far  as  this  same  science 
can  show  us  by  reasoning  from  the  facts  she 
has  to  those  she  infers.  We  find  ourselves  ini 
a  stream  of  causes  and  effects  of  which  we< 
know  not  the  extremes,  but  may  infer  them; 
there  are  stairs  above  and  below  like  those  on, 
which  we  tread. 

Emerson  says : 

"The  astronomers  said,  '  Give  us  matter  and  a  little 
motion,  and  we  will  construct  the  universe.  It  is  not 
enough  that  we  have  matter:  we  must  also  have  a 
single  impulse:  one  shove  to  launch  the  mass  and 
generate  the  harmony  of  the  centrifugal  and  centripetal 
forces.  Once  heave  the  ball  from  the  hand,  and  we 
can  show  how  all  this  mighty  order  grew.'  'A  very 
unreasonable  postulate,'  said  the  metaphysicians, 
'and  a  plain  begging  of  the  question.  Could  you  not 
prevail  to  know  the  genesis  of  projection,  as  well  as 
the  continuation  of  it  ?  '  Nature  meanwhile  had  not 
waited  for  the  discussion,  but,  right  or  wrong,  bestowed  | 
the  impulse;  and  the  balls  rolled." 

This  is  Emerson's  pregnant  comment  on  I 
world-making  as  practiced  by  the  astronomers. 
The  seer  has  put  his  finger  on  the  heart  of 
the  question.  We  must  have  matter  and  mo- 
tion to  begin  with,  and  for  the  present  ask  noj 
further  questions. 

The  current  theory  of  world-making  is  the] 
famous  Nebular  Hypothesis,  to  which  have 
contributed  one  of  the  greatest  philosophers 
of  modern  times,  Immanuel  Kant;  the  greatest  i 
astronomical  observer,  Sir  William  Herschel; 
and  the  greatest  mathematician  and  physicist,] 
Laplace.    Kant,  getting  a  hint  from  an  0)3 
scure  English  writer  named  Wright  (Thoma 
Wright,  of  Durham,  whose  astronomical  works 
were  published  about  the  middle  of  the  las 
century),  developed  the  notion  of  the  shape 
of  the  universe  which   Herschel  adopte 


THE  DESTINY  OF  THE    UNIVERSE. 


namely,  that  it  is  a  host  of  stellar  bodies  oc- 
cupying a  portion  of  space  in  the  shape  of 
two  dinner  plates  placed  with  their  faces 
toward  each  other ;  so  that  as  we  look  in  one 
direction,  into  the  Milky  Way,  we  look  into 
the  vast  mass  of  heavenly  bodies ;  but  as  we 
look  another  way,  we  see  fewer,  because  we 
look  out  of  the  mass.  Kant,  whose  earlier  works 
were  on  physics,  mathematics,  and  astronomy, 
set  himself  to  world-making,  and  calculated 
what  would  be  the  result  of  motion  in  a  mass 
of  tenuous  matter,  nebulous  matter,  filling  the 
space  of  the  physical  universe.  Herschel's 
adoption  and  development  of  the  theory  arose 
from  his  observations,  and  especially  from  his 
study  of  the  nebulas,  of  which  there  are  over 
four  thousand  in  our  sky.  Laplace  tock  up 
the  matter  as  Kant  had  done ;  and  assuming 
a  condition  of  the  solar  system  in  which  the 
matter  of  the  sun  and  planets  should  be  dif- 
fused through  the  whole  space  of  the  solar 
system,  forming  an  orb  surpassing  the  limits 
of  the  present  orbit  of  Neptune,  he  calculated 
the  results  of  a  gradual  condensation  and 
cooling  of  this  vast  mass  of  star-mist,  and  in 
theory  produced  the  existing  system. 

Since  this  development  of  the  scheme,  it 
has  received  constant  accessory  support  from 
i  later  discoveries  in  physics.  Indeed,  it  seems 
to  be  certain  now  that  some  of -the  nebulae  in 
our  sky  are  masses  of  glowing  gas,  shreds  of 
the  original  material  of  the  universe  that  have 
survived  in  this  shape,  and  that  are  now  in 
the  very  process  of  world-making.  The  phys- 
icists say  that  a  nebulous  body,  in  order  to 
shine  by  its  own  light,  as  these  do,  must  have 
heat,  and  must  be  losing  heat  through  the 
very  radiation  by  which  it  becomes  visible. 
[As  it  loses  heat,  it  must  undergo  successive 
changes,  among  which  will  be  contraction; 
and  this  contraction  cannot  cease  until  it  be- 
comes either  a  solid  body  or  a  system  of  such 
[bodies  revolving  around  each  other  or  around 
ia  central  body.  The  nebular  hypothesis  was 
popularly  set  forth  in  the  "  Vestiges  of  Crea- 
tion "  about  forty  years  ago ;  and  it  is  given 
,  in  all  astronomies.  It  was  elaborated  in  the 
"Westminster  Review"  in  1858,  by  Herbert 
[Spencer,  whose  statement  may  be  condensed 
|  thus  : 

I  Assuming,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument,  a  rare 
momogeneous  nebulous  matter  widely  diffused  through 
•space,  certain  changes  will,  on  physical  principles, 
pake  place  in  it :  (i)  mutual  gravitation  of  its  atoms ; 
K2)  atomic  repulsion  5(3)  evolution  of  heat  by  overcom- 
ing this  repulsion.  [Right  at  this  point  it  is  easy  to  see 
Ithat  this  theorist  has  by  this  time  assumed  the  whole 
•latter  and  introduced  that  push  of  which  Emerson 
•peaks,  for  there  is  no  proof  of  any  necessity  for  over- 
fcoming  atomic  repulsion  except  this,  that  the  world 
i  tons t  be  made  by  a  theory,  and  this  is  necessary  for  the 
Rheory,  and  thus  vortices  can  be  started  in  this  star- 
Imist.]  There  will  be  after  this  push  is  given:  (4) 


molecular  combination,  followed  by  (5)  sudden  disen- 
gagement of  heat ;  (6)  lowering  of  temperature  by  ra- 
diation; (7)  consequent  precipitation  of  binary  atoms 
aggregating  into  irregular  flocculi,  floating  in  a  rarer 
medium,  as  water  precipitated  from  clouds  floats  in  air ; 
(8)  motion  of  the  flocculi  toward  a  common  center  of 
gravity ;  but  as  these  are  irregular  masses  in  a  resist- 
ing medium,  it  follows  (9)  that  the  mot;on  will  not  be 
rectilinear,  but  spiral;  (10)  the  rarer  medium  will  be 
involved  in  this  motion,  and  thus  at  last  comes  (u) 
the  grand  rotation  of  the  whole  mass  of  the  universe, 
the  balanced  whirl  of  the  cosmos. 

But  this  form  of  the  nebular  hypothesis 
has  not  been  accepted  by  physicists.  It  is  at 
fault  in  several  points;  but  most  of  all,  and 
most  fatally,  in  the  very  part  of  it  which  is 
original  with  Spencer,  in  the  attempt  to  de- 
velop a  rotary  motion  of  the  system  from 
the  mutual  action  of  the  parts  upon  each 
other,  gravitation  and  the  qualities  of  matter 
only  being  assumed.  This  is  as  contrary  to 
the  accepted  laws  of  physics  as  would  be  a 
theory  that  motion  in  a  wheel  may  arise  by 
the  attraction  of  the  rim  for  the  hub.  The 
spiral  movement  which  is  needed  cannot  be 
generated  by  simple  gravitation,  as  Laplace 
showed  in  proving  that  any  system  left  to 
itself  will  always  have  the  same  amount  of 
rotary  motion.  Physicists  now  claim  as  nec- 
essary fundamental  assumptions  for  a  nebular 
hypothesis,  first,  dissemination  of  matter;  and 
second,  rotary  motion  of  the  mass.  From 
these  two  conditions  will  flow  everything  else 
that  is  needed  for  the  development  of  sys- 
tems. No  discovery  since  Laplace's  time 
has  done  away  with  the  need  of  the  original 
impulse,  as  stated  by  Emerson. 

The  nebular  hypothesis  has  sundry  great 
advantages  in  elucidating  very  many  of  the 
existing  arrangements  of  the  stellar  universe, 
but  it  fails  to  accord  with  all  of  them.  To 
account  for  the  existing  order,  it  must  be  as- 
sumed that  there  were  many  independent 
centers  of  movement  and  system-making ;  for 
if  there  were  but  one,  there  would  be  a  similar 
motion  of  all  the  stars,  or,  as  said  above,  a 
balanced  whirl  of  the  cosmos,  a  grand  rota- 
tion of  the  whole  mass  of  the  universe.  In 
this  case,  Madler's  speculation  that  the  uni- 
verse revolves  around  the  star  Alcyone,  one 
of  the  Pleiades, —  this,  or  something  like  it, 
would  be  true.  But  this  has  met  with  no  favor 
from  astronomers,  and  is  deemed  a  baseless 
imagination.  Proctor  has  given  the  name 
"  star-drift "  to  the  special  and  proper  move- 
ment of  groups  of  stars  in  certain  regions,  as 
of  groups  in  Taurus  and  in  Ursa  Major  which 
have  motions  not  shared  by  other  stars.  Says 
Professor  Newcomb :  "So  far  as  our  observa- 
tion can  inform  us,  there  is  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  the  stars  are  severally  moving  in 
definite  orbits  of  any  kind.  ...  If  the 
stars  were  moving  in  any  regular  circular 


916 


THE  DESTINY  OF  THE    UNIVERSE. 


orbits  whatever,  having  a  common  center, 
we  could  trace  some  regularity  among  their 
proper  motions.  But  no  such  regularity  can  be 
seen."  If  the  Kantian  galaxy-theory  were  true, 
the  motions  of  the  stars  should  be  in  lines 
nearly  parallel  to  the  Milky  Way;  but  they 
do  not  so  move.  There  is  one  star,  known  as 
"Groombridge  1830"  in  the  catalogues,  whose 
motions  are  inconsistent  with  any  theory  that 
can  be  devised  to  make  it  a  part*  of  any  sys- 
tem. Its  velocity  is  certainly  over  two  hun- 
dred miles  a  second,  and  is  probably  much 
more ;  and  this  speed  is  such  as  to  counter- 
vail the  attractive  force  of  all  the  stars  in  the 
known  universe,  since  it  is  greater  than  such 
attractive  force  can  produce.  Its  erratic 
course  must  carry  it  out  of  the  stellar  universe, 
according  to  all  known  laws. 

The  nebular  hypothesis,  then,  while  admira- 
bly fitting  our  solar  system  and  several  systems 
of  similar  motion,  does  not  fit  the  total  cos- 
mos. It  may  be  true  that  some  systems  are  so 
formed,  but  not  the  universe  as  a  whole :  ap- 
plied to  this,  it  becomes,  not  the  nebular,  but 
the  nebulous  hypothesis. 

Approaching  now  again  the  question  of  the 
duration  of  the  universe,  we  find  ourselves  de- 
prived of  the  centrifugal  force  which  might  be 
asserted  if  the  whole  cosmos  were  in  a  well- 
balanced  rotation.  To  keep  up  a  stable  sys- 
tem, it  is  almost  imperatively  necessary  that 
there  should  be  a  central  body  vastly  greater 
in  mass  than  all  the  outlying  bodies,  just  as 
our  sun  vastly  outweighs  all  the  planets. 
Hence  the  stars  do  not  form  a  stable  system 
in  the  same  sense  of  the  term  as  when  we  say 
that  the  solar  system  is  stable,  with  recurring 
and  nearly  compensating  revolutions.  Such 
a  central  body  could  be  dispensed  with  only 
if  the  separate  stars  should  have  a  regularity 
of  motion  and  arrangement  which  does  not 
exist  in  the  present  stellar  system.  And  a 
most  conclusive  proof  that  the  stars  do  not 
revolve  around  definite  attracting  centers  is 
found  in  the  variety  and  irregularity  of  their 
observed  movements. 

Assuming  that  the  law  of  gravitation  is  uni- 
versal throughout  the  cosmos  and  extends  to 
all  bodies,  we  can  foretell  "  the  wrecks  of 
matter  and  the  crush  of  worlds  "  remote  from 
us,  says  Professor  Newcomb,  by  millions  of 
years,  but  inevitable.  To  quote  his  language : 

"All  modern  science  seems  to  point  to  the  finite 
duration  of  our  system  in  its  present  form,  and  to  carry 
us  back  to  the  time  when  neither  sun  nor  planet  ex- 
isted, save  as  a  mass  of  glowing  gas.  How  far  back  that 
was  it  cannot  tell  us  with  certainty ;  it  can  only  say  that 
the  period  is  counted  by  millions  of  years,  but  probably 
not  by  hundreds  of  millions.  It  also  points  forward  to 
the  time  when  the  sun  and  stars  shall  fade  away,  and 
Nature  shall  be  enshrouded  in  darkness  and  death,  un- 
less some  power  unseen  shall  uphold  or  restore  her." 


Some  of  the  causes  tending  to  produce  this 
latter  result  are  to  be  considered.  The  revolu- 
tion of  the  earth  around  the  sun  is  what  now 
prevents  its  falling  straightway  and  directly  into 
the  sun.  It  is  a  yet  unsettled  question  whether 
the  planets  and  the  sun  move  in  a  resisting 
medium ;  the  nebular  hypothesis  of  Mr.  Spen- 
cer evidently  assumes  such  a  medium  for  a 
part  of  the  world-formation  ;  certain  phenom- 
ena of  Encke's  comet  during  this  century  gave 
considerable  reason  to  suspect  that  the  ether 
which  the  physicists  postulate  is  dense  enough 
to  have  a  perceptible  effect  upon  at  least  the 
light  bodies  of  the  solar  system.  But  at  pres- 
ent a  resisting  medium  is  not  asserted  asi 
verified  by  observation.  Yet,  if  light  and 
heat  are  ether-waves,  as  is  now  universally 
held,  there  is  something  to  be  thrown  into 
waves;  this  something  is  a  resisting  me-j 
dium, — for  only  something  capable  of  resist- 
ance can  be  moved, — and  to  some  extent, 
the  movements  of  the  stars  must  be  affected 
by  it. 

Another  fact  to  be  noted  is  that  space  is  full 
of  meteoric  bodies  which  retard  the  planets 
as  they  fall  upon  them.    They  increase  thei 
weight  of  the  earth  thousands  of  tons  every* 
year,  and   all  increase  of  weight  diminished 
speed  of  motion  in  the  orbit.  The  same  cause 
is  increasing  the  weight  and  attractive  powen 
of  the  sun.    These  are  but  small  matters,  it  is 
true;   but  small  matters  acting  constantly  in 
the  eternities,  or  in  the  vast  tracts  of  space 
and  periods  of  time,  produce  great  effects.' 
Even  the  works  of  man  may  affect  the  rota- 
tion of  the  planet.    From  the  substance  of 
the  earth  men  make  bricks,  dig  rocks,  bring 
up  heavy  metals ;  and  these  are  spread  on  its 
surface  or  put  up  in  buildings,  so  that  the 
crust  of  the  earth  is  made  relatively  heavier: 
that  is,  the  average  distance  of  the  crust  of 
the  earth  from  the  axis  of  revolution  is  made| 
greater.    In   effect,  this    diminishes  rotation 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  some  of  man's  worksj 
have  an  opposite  tendency.  He  cuts  down  the 
forests  and  hastens  the  wash  from  the  mount- 
ains; he  levels  and  cuts  through  hills,  ancj 
makes  embankments  for  his  railroads.    Ericsi 
son  has  shown  that  a  diminution  of  speed  m 
resulting  from  the  deposits  made  by  the  grea  j 
rivers,  varying  in  influence  according  to  th(| 
latitude  of  their  mouths,  as  well  as  the  amoulj 
of  their  debris.    He  calculates  that  the  effec- 
of  these  upon  the  earth  will  be  enough  til 
alter  the  length  of  the  day.   But  Ericsson  maj 
be  wrong,  for  all  this  debris  is  brought  froBJ 
the  mountains,  producing  another  counteract  j 
ing  influence.   Observations  do  not  yet 
the  influence  of  these  causes,  because  only  iij 
recent  times  have  instruments  and  calcula] 
tions  been  able  to  cope  with  such  a  probl 


THE  DESTINY  OF  THE    UNIVERSE. 


917 


I  A  thousand  years  hence,  the  variations,  if  any, 
I  may  be  distinctly  stated. 

But  another  running  down  of  the  stellar 
I  system  must  be  noted.  According  to  modem 
I  science,  radiant  heat  and  light  are  forms  of 
I  energy ;  they  are  a  real  expenditure  of  work ; 
1  they  can  be  changed  into  other  forms  of  mo- 
Ition,  and  vice  versa.  Now  all  the  stars  and 
ii  our  sun  are  bodies  radiating  heat ;  they  are 
||  putting  forth  energy  and  producing  effects 
I  by  it.  But  what  is  the  source  of  their  heat? 
land  can  they  continue  to  give  it  out  without 
I  exhausting  themselves  ?  There  is  a  perpetual 
•radiation  of  heat  from  all  visible  objects, 
•  which  is  to  some  extent  an  interchange ;  and 
•this  has  been  going  on  from  the  beginning. 
•There  has  been  forever  a  transformation  of 
•motion  into  heat,  and  a  radiation  of  heat 
•into  space.  This  heat  and  heat-energy  is 
•wasted,  because  it  is  never  returned ;  radiated 
•in  every  direction,  only  a  small  part  of  it  is 
•caught  by  any  body  and  thrown  back.  For 
•example,  the  sun  gives  out  two  thousand  one 
•hundred  and  seventy  million  times  as  much 
beat  as  the  earth  receives ;  and  very  little  of 
•that  is  ever  returned  to  him.  As  Sir  William 
iThompson  expresses  it,  "  There  is  a  constant 
•dissipation  of  energy  going  on  in  nature." 
•The  stars,  on  the  average,  give  each  more 
Bight  than  the  sun ;  hence,  they  lose  more  heat. 
•This  cannot  go  on  forever.  The  sun  cannot 
•have  been  radiating  at  his  present  rate  for 
Jmore  than  eighteen  millions  of  years ;  and  as 
•he  continues  to  give  out  heat,  he  must  con- 
•tract,  grow  smaller  and  denser  and  less  lumi- 
•QOUS.  In  twelve  million  years  more  he  will, 
(changing  at  the  present  rate,  become  as  dense 
Jas  the  earth,  and  his  fires  will  have  paled  or 
ill  have  been  quenched. 
Science  is  here  confronted  with  a  great 
lifficulty.  Is  this  heat  annihilated  ?  Science 
may  not  say  "  Yes  "  to  this  question  without 
i  denial  of  one  of  her  fundamental  doctrines. 
5he  cannot  admit  that  heat,  which  is  one  of 
he  forms  in  which  energy  is  manifested,  is 
innihilated,  for  she  holds  that  neither  motion 
lor  matter  is  either  created  or  destroyed. 
But  this  doctrine  itself  is  one  which  can 
leither  be  proved  nor  disproved  experiment- 
illy  ;  it  is  one  which,  however  verified  by  its 
eading'  on  to  discoveries,  and  however  un- 
;ontradicted  by  experience,  runs  nevertheless 
ipon  the  verge  of  metaphysics;  it  rests  mainly 
ipon  the  impossibility  of  our  conceiving  of 
iither  creation  or  annihilation,  and  upon  the 
iietaphysical  necessity  which  scientists  feel 
hat  the  substances  or  realities  with  which 
science  deals,  namely,  matter  and  motion, 
shall  remain  constant.  But  scientists  gener- 
illy,  while  ready  to  make  sport  of  the  meta- 
physics of  other  people,  in  which  they  have 


no  interest,  vigorously  defend  their  own  meta- 
physics, and  contend  for  their  own  notions 
of  atoms  and  molecules  with  their  interspaces, 
vortices,  attractions,  and  repulsions,  which 
are  mere  products  of  the  scientific  imagination, 
and  not  of  scientific  knowledge. 

Or  does  heat  go  on  traveling  forever  into 
space,  beyond  all  ponderable  matter  ?  As  heat 
is  a  mode  of  motion  of  ponderable  matter,  or 
of  the  ether  which  is  conceived  of  as  the 
medium  of  transmitting  it,  we  must  say  that 
the  radiated  heat  is  lost  to  ponderable  matter, 
but  produces  endless  agitation  in  the  illimit- 
able ether.  To  space  we  can  set  no  limit; 
the  human  power  of  conception  finds  equal 
difficulty  in  limited  or  unlimited  space ;  one 
is  inconceivable  because  absurd,  the  other 
because  it  eludes  our  grasp.  Is  the  ether 
limited  or  unlimited  ?  As  this  question  can- 
not be  answered,  all  the  result  we  reach  is 
this,  that  the  vibrations  of  heat  go  out  into 
ether  of  which  we  know  no  limit;  and  as 
there  is  no  boundary  of  ponderable  matter  to 
reflect  it  back,  it  is  practically  lost ;  it  does 
work  only  as  it  encounters  ponderable  mat- 
ter. There  is  but  one  alternative,  and  that 
is  suicidal.  If  'science  could  only  affirm  that 
a  straight  line  is  in  fact  a  curve,  and  that  the 
outgoing  heat  radiating  in  straight  lines  really 
moves  on  a  curve  of  infinite  radius  and  comes 
back  again,  she  might  save  the  vital  warmth 
and  the  universe.  But  this  would  upset  the 
whole  Euclidian  geometry,  as  well  as  belie  the 
fundamental  conceptions  of  mankind,  and  set 
all  science  itself  afloat ;  for  that  is  founded 
upon  the  common  experience,  necessary  proc- 
esses of  thought,  and  fundamental  concep- 
tions of  men.  Science  must  therefore  admit 
a  never-ending  dissipation  of  energy;  all 
forms  of  energy  tend  to  fritter  away  into  heat, 
and  to  disappear  in  an  objectless  radiation. 

We  may,  therefore,  as  taught  by  modern 
science,  picture  the  long  agony  and  dissolu- 
tion of  the  cosmos.  The  planets  lose  their 
heat  and  life ;  all  animals  and  then  all  plants 
die ;  the  globes  slacken  their  speed ;  they  ap- 
proach the  sun  in  a  gradually  narrowing 
spiral,  drawn  out  through  millions  of  years ; 
but,  as  fast  as  one  after  another  touches  the 
sun  and  becomes  a  part  of  its  mass,  the  pre- 
dominating centripetal  attraction  of  the  cen- 
tral globe  increases;  and,  the  perturbations 
which  arise  from  planetary  attractions  ceasing, 
the  rest  more  easily  yield  to  his  overpowering 
sway.  These  collisions  for  a  time  light  up  his 
fires  ;  but  when,  Kronos-like,  he  has  devoured 
all  his  children,  like  Kronos  he  too  shall  begin 
to  fail.  The  same  process  is  meanwhile  going 
on  in  other  systems,  and  now  the  overgrown 
suns  become  planets  to  each  other ;  vortices 
of  suns  take  the  place  of  solar  systems ;  and 


918 


THE   SOUL'S  REFLECTION. 


suns  fall  into  suns,  till  all  are  united  into  one 
vast  glowing  mass  containing  all  the  matter 
of  the  universe,  from  which  much  of  the  en- 
ergy that  once  animated  and  vivified  it  has 
departed  by  the  infinite  and  eternal  radiation. 
Else  we  might  say  that  the  crash  of  worlds 
had  generated  heat  to  rehabilitate  the  star- 
mist  and  inaugurate  a  new  nebular  globe  or 
disk,  to  repeat  the  long  formation  of  the 
worlds  and  the  procession  of  the  ages;  but 
Science  herself  has  shown  this  cannot  be. 

And  now  the  central  mass  is  cooling  for 
thousands  of  centuries ;  from  the  bright  white 
heat  and  light  which  no  nerve  feels  and  no  eye 
sees,  it  fades  away  to  a  bright  red,  a  dull  red, 
and  finally  the  last  ray  of  light,  the  last  life- 
producing  quiver  of  the  ether,  has  gone  out 
into  the  void  of  boundless  space,  pursued  by 
the  swift-flying  darkness.  But  the  heat-waves 
continue  in  the  everlasting  night;  these  too 
spread  vainly  out  into  space,  growing  fainter 
and  fainter,  until  the  absolute  zero  of  cold  is 
reached ;  there  is  the  faint  shudder  of  an  eternal 
chill ;  heat  too  has  perished ;  the  last  throb  of 
the  ether  has  passed,  and  the  universe  is  dead. 

This  is  the  funeral  to  which  modern  Science 
invites  us ;  foi  I  have  but  followed  out  legiti- 
mately her  teachings  to  their  acknowledged 
ultimate  results.  We  have  been  told  that  the 
universal  star-mist,  in  whose  nebulous  bosom 
arose  the  first  vortices  and  chance  movements 
that  built  a  cosmos  of  order  and  beauty,  con- 
tained the  promise  and  potency  of  all  things — 

"  Of  Caesar's  hand  and  Plato's  brain, 

Of  Lord  Christ's  heart  and  Shakspeare's  strain." 

But  I  submit  that,  if  this  is  the  result  of 
science,  the  physicists  need  not  wonder  that 


men  turn  rather  to  theology  and  to  poetry. 
If  the  system  of  nature,  running  with  matter 
and  motion  or  force  for  an  eternity  of  time 
in  an  infinity  of  space,  results  in  everlasting 
death  and  nothingness,  we  must  believe  that 
the    motion   was   created   by   some   greater 
power  extraneous  to  matter,  and  superior  to  i 
the  sum  of  cosmic  motion.    The  powers  and  ! 
potencies  of  matter  are  evidently  not  inherent  ! 
in  it ;  if  they  were,  they  could  not  be  wasted  ; 
and  lost ;  they  must  have  been  communicated 
to  it.    Whatever  be  said  of  matter,  whether 
matter  was  created  or  not,  motion  must  have  ] 
come  from  some  unseen  Power  behind  the 
cosmos.    Whatever  difficulties  there  may  be  in 
theories  of  creation  and  in  doctrines  of  tele- 
ology or  final  causes,  they  are  no  greater  than 
those  which  belong  inevitably  to  the  assump- 
tions of  modern  science;   and  the  doctrines  | 
of  creation  and  of  purpose  in  creation  accord 
better  with  human  reason,  with  the  impulses 
of  the  heart,  and  with  the  imperative  demands  • 
of  the  conscience.    With  Fichte  and  Schopen- 
hauer, two  very  different  men,  agreeing  in 
one  fundamental  doctrine,  we  may  recognize 
an  Infinite  Will  as  the  substratum  and  sub- , 
stance  of  the  universe,  behind  and  under  an< 
over  all  phenomena,  into  which  it  can  flow 
with  renewing  life  and  energy;   with   Kan 
and  Fichte  we  may  assert  the  "  Emphasis  o 
the   Moral   Ego,"  the   supremacy  of  mora 
laws,  which   afford  a  final   end  to   accoun 
for  the  existence  of  the  universe;  and  wit! 
the  author  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews  we 
must    say,    "The    worlds   were    framed    by 
the  word  of  God,  so  that  the  things  whid 
are  seen  were  not  made  of  things  which  do 
appear." 

Samuel  Willard. 


THE   SOUL'S   REFLECTION. 

ONCE  in  the  night-time  I  was  looking  up, 

And  saw  the  stars  slow  circling  'round  the  pole, — 

Orbs  that  through  endless  epicycles  roll 

And  worlds  on  worlds.   Lo,  in  a  daisy's  cup 

A  tiny  dew-drop  did  reflect  the  whole, 

And  all  the  azure  sky  and  countless  spheres 

That  gleam  in   Heaven,  through  the  varied  years, 

Lay  in  this  tiny  globule.     Oh!  my  soul, 

Thou  mote  in  Nature,  is  f  not  this  to  thee 

An  image  of  thyself?    Ere  thou  hast  passed 

Beyond  Time's  threshold,  and  God's  purpose  vast 

Breaks  on  thy  sight,  yet  canst  thou  clearly  see 

The  one  great  goal  man  must  attain  at  last, 

And  mirror  in  thyself  Eternity. 

R.  T.  IV.  Duke,  Jr 


NEW   ZEALAND    IN    BLOOMING    DECEMBER. 


IT  was  midsummer  —  in  other  words,  the 
last  week  of  December — when  we  reached  the 
shores  of  New  Zealand,  whither  we  had  fled 
from  Fiji  and  the  steaming  heat  of  stifling 
summer  days. 

We  were  more  fortunate  than  we  at  first 
realized  in  the  time  of  our  arrival ;  for,  being 
Christmas  week,  there  was  unwonted  stir  in 
the  quiet  city  of  Auckland,  and  crowds  of 
Maoris,  laughing  girls  and  stalwart  men, 
thronged  the  streets,  this  being  the  only  sea- 
son when  they  assemble  in  any  number  in  the 
white  man's  town,  drawn  thither  by  the  an- 
nual gifts  which  have  hitherto  been  so  freely 
dispensed  by  the  English  Government,  in 
carrying  out  what  is  commonly  called  the 
sugar-and-blanket  policy. 

Never  in  our  previous  wanderings  had  we 
met  with  a  colored  race  who  could  assume 
the  broadcloth  of  civilization  without  being 
thereby  hopelessly  vulgarized;  but  here  we 
found  splendid  fellows,  who  in  their  European 
clothes  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from 
well-bronzed  whites,  while  some  occasional 
touch  of  color,  such  as  a  brilliant  scarf  around 
the  hat  or  thrown  over  the  shoulders,  lent 
something  of  Spanish  grace  to  the  wearer. 
Only  on  a  few  of  the  older  men  did  the  deep 
lines  of  blue  tattooing  over  nose  and  cheeks 
appear  in  curious  contrast  with  the  adopted 
dress.  On  the  girls,  however,  the  arts  of 
millinery  were  less  successful,  and  hats  trimmed 
with  artificial  flowers  scarcely  looked  in  keep- 
ing with  the  wild  shock  of  unkempt  hair, 
overhanging  the  great  dark  eyes  and  long  ear- 
rings of  greenstone,  and  the  lips  and  chin 
disfigured  by  curves  of  blue  tattooing.  It  also 
struck  us  strangely  to  observe  a  casual  meet- 
ing of  friends,  when  the  ceremony  of  pressing 
noses  together  (not  sniffing  each  other,  as 
in  Fiji)  was  substituted  for  the  kiss,  which  to 
our  notion  seems  the  natural  form  of  greeting. 

Many  of  the  girls  wore  bright  tartan  shawls, 
for  all  the  race  are  extremely  sensitive  to 
cold,  and  even  on  these  hot  summer  days 
both  men  and  women  apparently  delight  in 
warm  clothing,  and  like  to  exclude  every 
breath  of  air  from  their  wretched,  stuffy  little 
cottages.  The  inferiority,  dirt,  and  discomfort 
of  these,  and  their  total  lack  of  drainage, 
struck  ifs  all  the  more  from  contrast  with  the 
cleanliness,  comfort,  and  well-raised  founda- 
tion of  the  Fijian  houses  with  which  we  had 
become  familiar.  As  a  general  rule,  a  traveler 
would  find  the  prospect  of  claiming  a  night's 


shelter  in  a  Maori  wharre  quite  as  uninviting 
as  being  driven  to  accept  the  hospitality  of  a 
very  poor  Highland  bothie.  A  certain  number 
of  the  chiefs,  however,  now  own  good  houses 
(in  most  instances  built  for  them  by  Govern- 
ment as  rewards,  or  bribes  for  good  behavior), 
and  pride  themselves  on  their  excellent  car- 
riages and  furniture,  even  adopting  such  effem- 
inacies as  white  muslin  covers  for  dressing- 
tables,  with  dandy  pink  trimmings. 

Much  as  we  admired  the  Maori  race,  we 
were  even  more  struck  by  the  half-castes,  all 
our  previous  experience  in  other  lands  hav- 
ing led  us  in  a  great  measure  to  sympathize 
with  the  aversion  commonly  felt  toward  mixed 
races,  which  generally  seem  to  unite  the  worst 
characteristics  of  both.  Here,  however,  this 
rule  is  reversed,  and  the  most  casual  observer 
can  scarcely  fail  to  note  the  physical  and  in- 
tellectual superiority  of  the  Anglo-Maori.  I  am 
told,  however,  that  the  physique  is  not  in  real- 
ity so  good  as  at  first  sight  appears,  and  that 
the  tendency  to  consumption  is  even  greater 
than  in  the  pure  Maori,  whose  ranks  have 
been  so  terribly  thinned  by  this  insidious  foe. 

Next  in  interest  to  the  old  lords  of  the 
land  are  the  geological  surroundings  of  the 
city  of  Auckland,  which  is  situated  in  the 
midst  of  a  cluster  of  extinct  volcanoes.  The 
largest  and  most  perfect  specimen  of  these 
retains  its  true  native  name,  Rangi-Toto,  but 
the  principal  crater  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  the  town  has  had  to  submit  to 
the  common  custom  of  colonies,  where  old 
places  must  perforce  receive  new  names ;  so 
it  is  now  known  as  Mount  Eden,  and  its 
grassy  slopes  are  dotted  with  pleasant  homes. 
Only  its  summit  retains  traces  of  the  old 
Maori  fortifications,  in  artificially  leveled  ter- 
races surrounding  the  deep  crater,  wherein, 
in  case  of  dire  attack,  a  whole  tribe  might 
have  taken  refuge.  Every  green  hillock,  far 
and  near,  p'artakes  of  the  same  character. 

I  cannot  say  we  were  much  struck  by  the 
beauty  of  Auckland,  though  there  are  some  fine 
views,  such  as  that  from  the  cemetery,  looking 
across  the  blue  waters  of  the  harbor  to  the  great 
triple  cone  of  Rangi-Toto,  which  rises  from 
a  base  of  black,  broken  volcanic  refuse, — a  sug- 
gestive contrast  to  the  foreground  of  beautiful 
tree  ferns,  which  have  been  suffered  still  to  sur- 
vive in  the  valley  just  before  us.  But.  the  noble 
primeval  forest  which  formerly  clothed  this  dis- 
trict has  almost  entirely  been  swept  ruthlessly 
away,  and  wholesale  burning  has  destroyed 


920 


NEW  ZEALAND  IN  BLOOMING  DECEMBER. 


what  the  woodman's  axe  had  spared,  so  that 
there  now  remains  literally  no  shelter  from  the 
summer  sun,  save  such  English  oak  and  other 
trees  as  have  been  planted  by  the  settlers. 

It  was  not  till  we  found  ourselves  on  Kawau, 
Sir  George  Grey's  fascinating  island  home, 
that  we  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some- 
thing of  a  carefully  preserved  New  Zealand 
bush.  Here  every  headland  is  crowned  with 
magnificent  pohutukawa  trees  ( ' Metrosideros 
tomentosus),  literally  rendered,  "the  brine- 
sprinkled," — so  called  by  the  Maoris,  because 
they  are  said  only  to  flourish  close  to  the 
sea;  but  known  to  the  settlers  as  the  Christ- 
mas tree,  since  it  invariably  blossoms  in 
Christmas  week,  when  boughs  of  its  glossy 
green  and  scarlet  are  used  in  church  decora- 
tion as  a  substitute  for  the  holly  berries  of 
Old  England.  Like  many  of  the  flowering 
trees  of  the  Pacific,  its  blossom  when  gathered 
possesses  small  attraction,  its  brilliant  color 
being  derived  solely  from  the  clusters  of  bright 
scarlet  stamens,  which,  however,  when  seen 
in  masses,  produce  such  an  effect  of  intense 
color  that  the  whole  tree  appears  aflame, 
and  the  overhanging  boughs  seem  to  be  drip- 
ping fire  into  the  clear  blue  water,  while  the 
ground  on  every  side  appears  as  if  tinged  with 
blood,  the  grass  being  fairly  hidden  by  the 
showers  of  constantly  falling  stamens. 

To  us,  so  long  wanderers  in  tropical  isles, 
where  a  grassy  meadow  is  a  thing  unknown, 
and  the  most  inviting  green  hill-side  invaria- 
bly proves  to  be  a  matted  sea  of  tall  reeds,  it 
was  a  positive  delight  to  find  ourselves  once 
more  rambling  over  grassy  downs,  where 
sheep  and  cattle  pasture  peacefully  and 
mushrooms  grow  abundantly,  and  where  a 
multitude  of  English  sky-larks  make  their 
homes  and  fill  the  air  with  their  thrilling 
warblings.  The  larks,  the  bees,  and  the  this- 
tles are  alike  imported,  and  all  equally  thriv- 
ing. As  to  the  thistles,  the  size  and  beauty 
of  their  purple  blossoms  must  gladden  the 
heart  of  every  true  Scot,  especially  as  the 
farmers  praise  them  and  vow  that  they  ac- 
tually improve  the  new  soil. 

Even  the  grass  itself  is  not  indigenous,  all 
these  hills  having  till  recently  been  densely 
clothed  with  a  thicket  of  tea-tree,  which  is 
a  shrub  somewhat  resembling  juniper  or  .a 
gigantic  heather-bush,  its  foliage  consisting  of 
tiny  needles,  while  its  delicate  white  blossoms 
resemble  myrtle.  It  is  called  by  the  Maoris 
manakau,  but  the  settlers  have  a  tradition 
that  Captain  Cook  and  his  men  once  made 
tea  of  its  twigs ;  hence,  they  say,  the  name. 
It  is,  however,  noteworthy  that  this  plant  is 
called  ti  by  the  Australian  blacks,  so  it  is 
probable  that  the  name  was  brought  thither 
by  some  colonist  from  the  sister  isle.  Curi- 


ously enough,  the  Maoris  give  this  same 
name,  ti-tree,  to  the  Cordyline  indivisa,  a 
kind  of  dragon-tree,  which  here  flourishes  on 
all  moist  soils.  The  settlers  with  strange  per- 
versity have  dubbed  this  the  cabbage-tree, 
though  its  cluster  of  handsome  long  leaves, 
crowning  a  tall  stem,  is  nowise  suggestive  of 
that  familiar  vegetable. 

New  Zealand  seems  to  be  the  very  paradise 
of  acclimatization,  so  readily  does  she  accept 
the  office  of  foster-mother  to  the  products 
of  other  lands.  Though  the  combinations 
did  not  appear  to  me  so  startling  as  some  in 
Queensland  and  New  South  Wales, —  where  I 
first  saw  holly-trees  (with  wealth  of  crimson 
berries)  overshadowed  by  tall  palms,  and  lux- 
uriant camellias  loaded  with  blossoms  grow- 
ing side  by  side  with  broad-leaved  plantains 
and  tree  ferns,  beneath  the  shelter  of  great 
pines  from  Norfolk  Island,  with  a  carpet  of 
mignonette  and  violets, —  I  believe  the  kindly 
soil  and  climate  of  New  Zealand  can  nurture 
almost  any  plant  that  finds  its  way  thither. 

Here  and  there  the  banks  are  clothed  with 
a  handsome  green  flag,  the  precious  New 
Zealand  flax  (Phormium  tenax),  whose  tall, 
red,  honey-laden  blossoms,  growing  on  a  stem 
fully  ten  feet  high,  offer  special  attractions  to 
the  bees ;  and  great  are  the  treasures  of  wild 
honey  to  be  found  in  these  parts,  where  the 
busy  creatures  apparently  do  not  learn  the 
idle  habits  attributed  by  some  to  their  breth- 
ren when  imported  to  tropical  isles,  where  the 
supply  of  flowers  never  fails  through  all  the 
circling  year.  For  the  first  season  the  new- 
comers work  diligently;  but,  after  having 
made  the  pleasant  discovery  that  they  have 
no  need  to  gather  a  winter  store,  they  are 
said  to  abstain  from  useless  toil  and  thence- 
forth live  a  life  as  careless  and  idle  as  any 
butterfly.  I  am,  however,  inclined  to  look 
upon  this  story  as  savoring  of  bee  calumny. 

The  long  leaves  of  the  flax  are  nature's 
ready-made  cords  and  straps,  so  strong  is  the 
fiber  and  so  readily  do  the  leaves  split  into  the 
narrowest  strips,  while  at  the  base  of  each  lies 
a  thick  coating  of  strong  gum.  This,  I  believe, 
is  the  chief  difficulty  in  employing  machinery 
in  the  manufacture  of  this  flax  so  as  to  render 
it  a  profitable  article  of  commerce. 

With  all  this  natural  vegetation  the  foliage 
of  other  lands  mingles  so  freely  that  in  a  very 
few  years  it  will  be  hard  to  guess  what  is  in- 
digenous '  and  what  imported.  For  here  we 
find  pines  and  cypresses  from  every  corner 
of  the  globe,  oaks  and  willows,  Australia 
gums,  and  all  manner  of  fruit-trees,  more 
pecially  apples  and  pears,  peaches,  apria 
and  figs,  which  grow  in  luxuriant  thicke 
wherever  they  are  once  planted,  and 
fruit  abundantly.  And  after  feasting  on  th( 


NEW  ZEALAND  IN  BLOOMING  DECEMBER. 


921 


we  may  pass  through  some  romantic  glen, 
where  the  sunlight  flickers  through  the  delicate 
tracery  of  tall  tree  ferns,  and  thence  emerge 
where  some  quiet  brook,  fringed  with  water- 
cresses,  flows  sparkling  through  the  meadow. 

As  with  the  vegetable  world,  so  with  the 
animal.  Though  New  Zealand,  in  common 
with  other  isles  of  the  South  Pacific,  could 
originally  boast  of  literally  no  four-footed 
creature  save  a  small  rat,  she  gives  such  cor- 
dial welcome  to  all  new-comers,  that  all  liv- 
ing things  imported  seem  certain  to  increase 
and  multiply  to  any  extent.  Already,  in  this 
island  home,  large  herds  of  fallow  deer  and 
Indian  elk  roam  at  large;  pheasants  are 
abundant,  and  a  good  day's  sport  may  be  had 
in  pursuit  of  wild  cattle ;  while  kangaroos,  or 
wallabies,  as  they  are  commonly  called,  are 
so  numerous  and  such  easy  prey  as  to  be 
almost  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  true  sports- 
man, so  very  deliberate  is  their  strange  leap- 
ing retreat,  and  so  frequently  do  they  pause 
to  gaze  wistfully  at  the  intruder.  A  rare  and 
beautiful  variety  of  kangaroo,  called  the  tree 
wallaby,  because  of  its  squirrel- like  habits, 
has  been  imported  from  New  Guinea,  and  is 
already  so  abundant  on  this  island  of  Kawau 
that  a  very  large  number  annually  have  to  be 
shot.  It  is  a  small  animal,  with  the  richest 
brown  fur,  and  when  feeding  in  the  grassy 
glades  might  at  first  sight  be  mistaken  for  a 
hare,  till  at  the  faintest  sound  of  danger  it  sits 
upright;  then,  standing  on  its  long  hind  legs,  it 
bounds  away  with  a  succession  of  leaps,  and 
reappears  springing  from  branch  to  branch, 
and  peering  cautiously  from  among  the  dark 
foliage  of  the  pohutukawa. 

But  if  tree  wallabies  sound's  strange  to 
Australian  ears,  what  would  a  Londoner  think 
of  gathering  oysters  from  the  lower  branches 
of  the  same  "brine-sprinkled"  trees?  Here, 
however,  he  will  find  them  abundantly  and 
of  excellent  flavor ;  for  these  branches  literally 
dip  in  to  the  water,  and  overshadow  rocks,  all  of 
which  are  oyster-beds  extending  entirely  round 
the  island,  a  coast-line  of  perhaps  thirty  miles. 
Indeed  the  oysters  seem  equally  abundant  in 
all  the  neighborhood  of  Auckland,  and  here,  as 
at  Sydney,  we  found  a  simple  and  enticing  form 
of  afternoon  picnic  greatly  in  favor,  where  bread 
and  butter  and  a  hammer  were  the  only  accesso- 
ries carried  to  the  feast.  True  gourmets  brought 
lemons  and  spoons.  I  confess  to  having  fre- 
quently dispensed  with  all  these  superfluities, 
and  to  have  greatly  enjoyed  the  simple  pro- 
cess of  knocking  my  oysters  on  the  hinge 
with  a  stone,  thereby  removing  the  upper 
shell,  and  leaving  the  dainty  morsel  unpro- 
tected. This  did  at  first  sight  appear  a  very 
savage  feast,  and  for  awhile  I  stood  aloof  in 
some  disgust ;  but  ce  riest  que  le  premier  pas 


qui  cofite,  and,  having  once  overcome  this 
natural  repugnance  so  far  as  to  try  (as  the 
colonials  say)  just  one,  I  plead  guilty  to  hav- 
ing thenceforth  been  foremost  at  every  oyster 
festival. 

The  island  being  now  simply  the  private 
estate  of  an  English  gentleman,  its  inhabi- 
tants are  all  his  comfortable  and  well-cared-for 
dependents,  if  such  a  word  can  possibly  be 
applied  to  a  race  so  thoroughly  independent, 
and  who  require  to  be  humored  to  an  extent 
that  would  greatly  astonish  land-owners  and 
housekeepers  in  the  old  country. 

Only  once  a  year  do  the  Maoris  return  to 
this  coast  to  fish  for  sharks ;  not  the  dreaded 
white  sharks,  though  these  also  are  frequent 
visitors,  but  a  hideous  creature  resembling  a 
dog-fish,  and  from  four  to  six  feet  in  length, 
which  the  Maoris  split  and  dry  for  winter 
fare.  One  day  a  large  party  of  natives  ar- 
rived in  half  a  dozen  good  English  boats. 
We  rowed  out  to  join  them,  and  they  invited 
us  on  board  the  largest  boat,  in  the  hold  of 
which  were  already  stowed  about  fifty  of 
these  small  sharks.  They  caught  ten  more 
while  we  were  watching, — fishing  with  line 
and  bait.  Each  shark,  as  it  was  drawn  up, 
received  a  severe  blow  on  the  nose,  which 
was  then  cut  off,  and  the  sufferer  apparently 
died  at  once.  When  the  fishing  was  over  the 
boats  departed  to  a  small  island,  where  the 
sharks  are  hung  up  to  dry,  and  horrible 
must  be  the  effluvia.  A  gentleman  who  ac- 
companied us  told  me  that  in  one  season 
they  had  'caught  fifteen  thousand  off  this 
island,  and  that  he  had  himself  seen  a  pile 
of  dried  fish  three  hundred  feet  long  by  six 
deep,  ready  for  winter  use.  One  of  the  fish- 
ers was  introduced  to  me  as  the  Queen's  god- 
son, a  fine,  stalwart  fellow.  His  father,  having 
visited  England,  and  having  been  honored  by 
presentation  to  her  Majesty,  was  granted  this 
further  privilege  on  behalf  of  his  son,  together 
with  the  accustomed  christening  cup. 

While  looking  down  from  my  window  to 
the  lovely  little  bay — a  beautiful  scene,  framed 
by  large  trees  and  tall,  flowering  aloes —  I  saw 
on  two  different  occasions  a  wonderful  effect 
of  phosphorescence.  The  nth  of  February 
had  been  marked  by  violent  thunder-storms, 
vivid  lightning,  and  downpours  of  rain,  leaden 
skies,  and  a  bright  green  sea.  I  chanced  to 
look  out  about  eleven  p.  M.,  and  saw  the  whole 
bay  glowing  with  pale  white  light,  and  fiery 
waves  rolling  right  up  beneath  the  trees  and 
around  the  rocks,  which  stood  out  sharp  and 
black.  The  effect  was  as  of  a  sea  of  living 
light.  For  about  ten  minutes  I  watched  it, 
entranced ;  then  it  slowly  faded  away,  and  the 
scene  was  changed  to  dense  obscurity.  Next 
night  I  looked  out  at  the  same  hour,  and  be- 


NEW  ZEALAND  IN  BLOOMING  DECEMBER. 


held  only  darkness  ;  but  about  midnight  I  was 
awakened  by  a  deafening  crash  of  thunder, 
followed  by  heavy  rain.  I  guessed  this  would 
stir  up  whatever  creatures  caused  the  strange, 
weird  light;  perhaps  they  are  disturbed  by 
the  electricity-laden  rain-drops,  and  seek 
safety  in  flight,  or  it  may  be  that  they  receive 
a  small  electric  shock  which  starts  them  all 
dancing.  Whatever  be  the  cause,  the  result 
proved  as  I  expected.  Ere  I  could  reach  the 
window,  the  bay  was  illuminated  by  tiny  rip- 
ples of  fire,  which  gradually  increased  in  size 
and  number  till  all  was  a  blaze  of  glowing, 
dazzling  light.  This  lasted  for  about  five  min- 
utes, and  then  died  completely  away. 

Returning  to  Auckland,  our  next  expedi- 
tion was  a  five-hours'  trip  by  steamer  to  Gra- 
hamstown — in  other  words,  the  Thames  Gold 
Fields.  We  sailed  at  sunset,  with  a  good 
three-quarter  moon.  This  was  obscured  for  a 
few  minutes  by  a  slight  shower,  which  was 
followed  by  a  very  beautiful  lunar  rainbow — 
a  phenomenon  which  must  surely  be  more 
common  in  the  southern  hemisphere  than 
with  us,  for  the  ship's  officers  spoke  of  it  as  by 
no  means  rare,  whereas  this  was  my  first  sight 
of  the  ghostly,  pallid  rainbow  of  the  night. 

Ere  midnight  we  were  luxuriously  housed 
near  the  great  baby  town,  where,  till  about 
ten  years  ago,  not  a  sound  disturbed  the  deep 
stillness,  save  the  ripple  of  the  sea  around 
the  steep,  richly  wooded  shores.  But  swift 
change  followed  the  discovery  of  gold.  Too 
quickly  the  hills  were  denuded  of  all  their 
timber,  arid  left  bare,  and  red,  and  ugly. 
Adventurers  poured  in  and  burrowed  for  the 
precious  ore,  till  the  hills  now  resemble  one 
vast  rabbit-warren.  So  great  is  the  amount 
of  refuse  thus  cast  out  that  it  has  served  to 
reclaim  a  tract  of  land  from  the  sea,  thus  con- 
siderably enlarging  the  site  for  building  pur- 
poses, which,  even  thus,  is  but  a  narrow 
strip  between  the  sea  and  the  steep  hills. 
Here  a  large,  straggling  town  has  sprung  up, 
and  mighty  batteries,  whose  tall  chimneys 
darken  the  air  with  black  smoke,  work  with 
deafening  noise,  crushing  the  auriferous 
quartz;  for  you  must  not  confuse  the  gold 
fields  with  "  diggings "  where  the  precious 
nuggets  lie  embedded  in  alluvial  deposit,  and 
entail^  only  digging  and  washing.  Here  the 
gold  is  traced  to  its  original  home,*  where  it 
forms  part  of  the  quartz  veins  which  traverse 
the  hard  rock,  and  has  to  be  sought  by  tunnel- 
ing and  by  the  pickaxe  with  patient  toil.  Truth 
to  say,  a  few  days'  acquaintance  with  Gra- 
hamstown  greatly  disturbed  my  preconceived 
ideas  of  life  at  the  diggings.  Here  I  found  a 
large,  scattered  town,  peopled  wholly  by  min- 
ers, but  nowhere  have  I  seen  a  more  orderly 
and  respectable  community.  Every  miner 


has  his  tidy  house  and  garden ;  most  have 
a  wife  and  children.  On  Sunday  all  work 
save  that  of  the  great  pump  ceases,  and  the 
large  churches  of  every  denomination  are 
crowded  by  congregations  who  certainly  re- 
tain no  trace  of  having  been  working  in 
mines  all  the  week.  Various  volunteer  corps, 
including  a  fine  force  of  Naval  Reserve,  a 
large  regiment  of  Scotch  volunteers,  and  one 
of  cadets,  turn  out  in  excellent  order,  and 
march  to  one  or  other  of  the  places  of  wor- 
ship. The  law  of  order  prevails  here  as  thor- 
oughly as  in  any  quiet  English  village.  All 
matters  relating  to  the  mines  are  regulated 
by  a  printed  code  of  rules,  and  inspectors 
are  appointed,  whose  duty  it  is  continually 
to  visit  every  corner  of  the  mines,  and  who, 
in  their  turn,  are  responsible  to  the  Warden 
of  the  .Gold  Fields.  The  great  pump  is  one 
of  the  marvels  of  the  place.  Its  shaft  is  six 
hundred  and  ninety  feet  deep,  and  it  drains 
the  whole  neighborhood.  The  water  pumped 
up  deposits  silica  in  such  quantities  that  the 
great  tubes  through  which  it  passes  are  coated 
every  few  days  with  an  incrustation  about  an 
inch  thick,  which  has  to  be  removed  with  a 
chisel.  Small  objects,  such  as  wicker  baskets, 
are  occasionally  left  to  soak  for  a  short 
period,  and  re- appear  apparently  carved  in 
white  stone. 

We  were  fortunate  in  the  time  of  our  ar- 
rival, as  large  quantities  of  gold  had  just  been 
discovered  in  the  Moanitairi  mine,  hitherto 
considered  almost  worthless.  Of  course  the 
shares  flew  up,  and  the  excitement  was  tre- 
mendous. We  saw  fortunate  holders  of  old 
shares  who,  a  few  days  previously,  had  been 
poor  men,  suddenly  transformed  into  men  of 
large  capital.  Indeed,  we  ourselves  were 
sorely  exasperated  by  the  persistency  with 
which  our  friends  in  Auckland  and  elsewhere 
would  congratulate  us  on  the  successful  spec- 
ulation which  they  assumed  we  must  have 
made.  Unfortunately  our  sole  acquaintance 
with  the  gold  was  as  sight-seers;  and  first  of 
all  we  were  taken  along  the  great  main  tunnel 
whence  the  side-drives  diverge  in  all  direc- 
tions, following  the  lead  of  the  quartz  veins. 

The  great  tunnel  extends  three-quarters  of 
a  mile,  and  is  lighted  by  gas,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  tiny  green  lamps  of  multitudinous  glow- 
worms, which,  together  with  a  fluffy  white 
fungus,  cover  the  sides  and  roof.  On  reach- 
ing the  far  end,  we  came  to  the  shaft  lead- 
ing down  to  the  lucky  Moanitairi,  and  were 
urged  to  descend  and  have  a  look  at  the 
gold;  but  the  journey  appeared  so  uninviting 
that  we  contented  ourselves  with  exploring 
some  of  the  side- drives,  where  we  foun( 
the  men,  generally  in  couples,  working  hi 
with  pickaxe  and  shovel,  each  in  his  own  bi 


s 


NEW  ZEALAND  IN  BLOOMING  DECEMBER. 


923 


row,  like  so  many  rabbits.  On  our  appear- 
ing they  worked  with  renewed  energy,  that 
they  might  "show  us  the  color";  and  though 
the  particles  thus  revealed  were  infinitesimal, 
we  had  the  satisfaction  of  having  ourselves 
seen  them  brought  to  light. 

Next  we  were  taken  to  see  the  huge  bat- 
teries, where  the  quartz  is  pounded  into  white 
mud,  through  which  quicksilver  is  run  to 
amalgamate  the  gold.  The  mixture  is  then 
distilled,  when  the  quicksilver  evaporates,  and 
is  again  condensed,  ready  for  use,  leaving 
the  gold  comparatively  pure.  The  refuse  from 
the  batteries,  known  as  tailings,  is  heaped  up 
to  be  eventually  subjected  to  closer  scrutiny. 

Our  last  visit  was  to  the  bank,  to  see  the 
process  of  making  golden  bricks.  Twelve  thou- 
sand ounces  of  Moanitairi  gold  was  brought 
in,  already  roughly  run  into  lumps  the. size  of 
a  man's  head.  These  had  to  be  broken  up 
with  wedge  and  sledge-hammer  into  pieces 
sufficiently  small  to  find  room  in  the  melting 
pots  which  stood  ready  on  the  furnace.  I 
confess  the  use  of  such  tools  in  working 
gold  was  to  me  quite  a  new  impression !  The 
molds  were  then  well  oiled,  and  into  them 
was  poured  the  liquid  ore,  which,  being  cooled 
with  water,  soon  formed  a  heap  of  solid 
golden  bricks,  bearing  the  bank  stamp — very 
pale  gold,  however,  the  proportion  of  silver 
therein  contained  being  about  thirty  per  cenj:. 

Leaving  Grahamstown  one  lovely  afternoon 
in  the  comfortable  little  steamer  Te  Aroha, 
we  proceeded  up  the  river  Thames  to  Paeroa, 
where  we  arrived  at  sunset.  It  is  a  most 
beautiful  river,  flowing  sometimes  through 
rich  pasture  land,  alternating  with  large  forests 
of  white  pine,  called  by  the  Maoris  kakikatea, 
while  here  and  there  the  banks  are  fringed  with 
graceful  weeping-willows,  which  were  imported 
not  many  years  ago  from  Britain,  and  have 
already  attained  a  larger  growth  than  is  often 
to  be  seen  there,  showing  that,  like  the  sweet- 
brier  and  peach-trees,  they  take  kindly  to  their 
adopted  land.  The  latter  have  already  over- 
spread the  country,  forming  thickets  where 
the  traveler  may  halt  and  feast  to  his  heart's 
content,  while  his  horse  munches  the  red  ber- 
ries of  the  sweet-brier  which  covers  large  tracts 
of  land,  filling  the  air  with  fragrance. 

As  we  neared  our  destination,  we  had  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  a  Maori  pah  in  full  fight- 
ing condition,  two  of  the  neighboring  tribes 
being  at  variance.  It  did  not  appear  very  im- 
posing, its  fortifications  consisting  of  the  usual 
reed  fences.  Nevertheless,  its  defenders  were 
all  on  the  alert  to  prevent  the  passage  of  any 
foe,  for  which  purpose  the  river  was  barred,  only 
leaving  space  enough  for  the  steamer  to  pass. 

At  Paeroa  we  found  horses  awaiting  us, 
and  a  lovely  moonlight  ride  brought  us  to 


Mackaytown,  where  we  were  gladdened  by  a 
bright  fire  and  a  cordial  welcome.  Sorely  did 
we  regret  that  we  had  not  so  planned  our 
days  as  to  allow  time  to  see  something  more 
of  this  beautiful  district  of  Ohinimuri  and  its 
gold-fields,  where  life  in  the  heart  of  wild 
forests  and  mountains  must  necessarily  be  of 
a^far  more  primitive  stamp  than  in  the  orderly 
city  of  Grahamstown — perhaps  more  like  our 
ideal,  derived  from  Bret  Harte  and  kindred 
writers.  But  ruthless  fate  urged  us  on,  and  at 
the  first  peep  of  day  we  started,  having  before 
us  a  twenty-five  miles'  ride,  which  was  consid- 
erably prolonged  by  the  necessity  of  making 
wide  circuits  to  head  treacherous  swamps. 

Our  first  mile  lay  through  the  most  exqui- 
site tract  of  bush  it  has  ever  been  my  good 
fortune  to  behold  in  any  land ;  groups  of  tall 
red  or  black  pine  (native  names,  rimu  and 
matai)  mingled  with  fine  trees  of  various 
sorts,  matted  by  luxuriant  creepers,  through 
which  the  sunlight  stole  tenderly,  to  reveal  the 
treasures  of  beauty  below.  For  the  glory  of 
this  fairy  dell  lay  in  its  tree  ferns,  no  new  de- 
light to  me,  for  I  have  seen  such  wealth  of 
these  in  the  various  isles  of  the  Pacific  as  I 
thought  could  never  be  excelled.  But  in  this 
one  tract  of  New  Zealand  bush  it  seemed  to 
me  that  Nature  had  surpassed  herself,  that  she 
might  revel  in  her  own  loveliness,  so  artistic 
was  the  grouping  of  each  several  cluster  of 
these  dainty  trees,  some  of  them  towering 
above  their  fellows,  with  foliage  crowning 
stems  from  twenty  to  thirty  feet  high,  and  so 
rich  was  the  undergrowth  of  all  manner  of 
humbler  ferns.  Imagine  my  feelings  of  disgust 
when,  on  alluding  to  this  dream  of  beauty  to 
a  practical  settler,  he  at  once  recognized  the 
spot,  saying :  "  Oh,  yes  !  that  block  has  been 
reserved  for  fire-wood !  " 

Above  us  lay  a  magnificent  forest  of  the 
giant  kauri  pine,  which  is  found  only  in  this 
northern  part  of  the  North  Island.  It  is  a 
noble  tree,  and  the  tall,  upright  stems  were 
ranged  like  the  pillars  of  some  mighty 
cathedral ;  and  so  highly  is  it  prized  as  timber 
that  it  is  largely  exported  both  to  the  South 
Island  and  to  Australia.  So  extensive  a  de- 
mand has  already  well-nigh  denuded  many 
vast  tracts,  which  but  a  few  years  ago 
were  clothed  with  primeval  forest.  Hence 
the  necessity  which  has  caused  Government 
to  take  what  remains  under  its  special  pro- 
tection. It  is  from  the  scrub-land  which  was 
formerly  occupied  by  kauri  forests  that  are 
dug  the  large,  amber-like  lumps  of  gum  which 
are  so  valuable  in  commerce.  They  are  found 
within  two  feet  of  the  surface,  and  are  by  some 
supposed  to  have  been  formed  by  the  melting 
of  the  resin  when  the  forests  were  burned. 
The  industry  affords  a  livelihood  to  a  large 


924 


NEW  ZEALAND  IN  BLOOMING  DECEMBER. 


class  of  men,  both  Maori  and  European,  known 
as  gum-diggers. 

Beyond  the  dark  forest  we  could  see  the 
tiny  tents  of  the  gold-miners  gleaming  like 
white  specks,  high  on  the  mountain  side, — a 
most  romantic  site  for  a  camp,  and  one  which 
we  would  fain  have  visited,  had  time  allowed. 
We  found  no  cool  shade  inviting  us  to  halt, 
till  we  reached  a  Maori  village  on  the  shore. 
Thence  our  route  lay  for  some  miles  along 
the  hard,  yellow  sands,  with  the  wavelets  rip- 
pling right  up  to  the  horses'  feet, — a  beautiful 
ride,  had  there  been  leisure  to  enjoy  it;  but 
before  us  lay  a  wide  tidal  creek  which  it  be- 
hooved us  to  cross  before  the  waters  should 
rise,  so  we  had  to  get  over  the  ground  at  a 
swinging  pace,  wrhich,  however  pleasant  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  is  scarcely  so  enjoy- 
able when  you  are  holding  on  to  a  large  um- 
brella, with  opera-glasses  flying  and  bumping 
on  one  side,  and  a  large  traveling-bag,  contain- 
ing night-gear  and  sketching  materials,  some- 
what insecurely  strapped  to  the  pommel,  and  all 
beneath  a  burning  sun.  I  was  a  novice  at  bush 
travel,  and  had  not  yet  learned  how  little  can  be 
carried  in  lands  where  no  patient  and  much-en- 
during coolies  await  the  white  man's  pleasure. 

After  all,  we  reached  the  ford  too  late,  and 
had  to  wait  a  couple  of  hours  at  a  lonely  little 
telegraph  station  till  a  boat  was  ready  to  take 
us  across ;  a  circumstance  which,  in  my  secret 
heart,  I  did  not  much  regret ;  for,  under  any 
circumstances,  the  creek  is  very  wide  and 
muddy,  and  the  ford  difficult  and  insecure. 
So  we  left  the  horses  to  enjoy  their  supper, 
while  we  found  friendly  shelter  at  Kati  Kati, 
a  district  inhabited  solely  by  settlers  from  Bel- 
fast. The  next  afternoon  we  rowed  down  the 
lake  to  Tauranga  in  a  small  boat,  a  distance 
of  about  twenty-five  miles.  It  was  midnight  be- 
fore we  arrived,  and  bitterly  cold,  but  all  weari- 
ness was  soon  forgotten  in  the  cordial  kindness 
of  our  reception  by  total  strangers,  previously 
known  to  us  only  by  name,  as  friend's  friends, 
— a  title,  however,  which  we  found  in  every 
case  to  be  a  sure  passport  in  this  genial  land. 

The  interest  of  Tauranga  centers  around  the 
Gate  Pah,  in  the  capture  of  which  so  many 
brave  English  soldiers  and  officers  were  slain 
during  the  Maori  war  in  1864.  They  were 
buried  (together  with  many  others,  including 
sailors  and  marines,  who  perished  in  the  same 
useless  strife)  on  a  green  headland  beside  the 
sea, — a  lovely  spot,  and  lovingly  cared  for, 
where  bright  blossoms  bloom  beneath  the 
shelter  of  weeping- willows,  and  scented  gera- 
niums grow  in  wild  profusion  among  the  rocks. 
On  the  many  head-stones  and  crosses  are  in- 
scribed names  still  precious  to  many  a  home 


in  Britain.  The  Gate  Pah  itself,  despite  its  his- 
toric interest,  has  been  leveled  with  the  ground 
and  nothing  now  remains  to  mark  its  site. 

Of  the  unsatisfactory  results  obtained  at 
the  cost  of  so  much  bloodshed  there  can,  I 
suppose,  be  no  doubt.  It  seems  as  if  it  had 
but  taught  the  Maoris  their  own  strength, 
and  left  them  in  a  position  which,  to  the  set- 
tlers, must  be  galling  indeed,  they  being  often 
compelled  to  submit  patiently  to  overbearing 
insolence  on  the  part  of  the  natives,  who 
know  full  well  that  their  white  neighbors  are 
practically  without  redress  in  a  land  where 
the  Queen's  writ  does  not  run.  Imagine  that, 
within  twenty  miles  of  Auckland  itself,  a 
murderer  is  safe  from  British  law,  no  officer 
of  justice  daring  to  pursue  him  into  "  the  King 
Country,"  where  no  white  man  may  travel, 
save  by  special  permission  of  the  chiefs — a 
permission  often  withheld,  even  when  the 
traveler  carries  letters  of  introduction  from 
their  oldest  and  long-tried  friends,  as  one  of 
our  party  proved,  much  to  his  annoyance. 

Even  the  white  man's  religion  has  fallen 
into  contempt  with  a  vast  multitude,  who 
previous  to  the  war  were  apparently  most 
reverent  and  devout  Christians,  but  who  at 
that  time  either  banished  or  murdered  their 
teachers,  and  invented  new  religions  for  them- 
selves— strange  compounds  of  many  creeds, 
rningled  with  the  most  utter  absurdities.  One 
sect  has  retained  the  custom  of  reading  daily 
lessons,  but  the  Scriptures  from  which  they 
are  drawn  are  the  ancient  Maori  legends  col- 
lected and  published  by  Sir  George  Grey, 
which  the  natives  consider  on  the  whole  more 
edifying  than  those  of  Syria  and  Palestine. 
Many  of  the  once  flourishing  mission  stations 
are  now  deserted,  and  the  churches  stand  silent 
and  forsaken. 

As  regards  the  future,  there  are  many  who 
consider  that  the  attitude  of  the  Maoris  is 
decidedly  hostile,  and  that  a  fresh  war  may 
even  now  be  imminent.  Should  this  prove  to 
be  the  case,  the  whites  would  now  fight  at  a 
greater  disadvantage  than  ever,  both  owing 
to  the  loss  of  prestige  due  to  over-familiarity 
and  to  the  fact  that  the  natives  have  now  ac- 
cumulated such  stores  of  fire-arms  as  they 
formerly  could  never  have  hoped  for.  But, 
after  all,  it  is  only  within  their  own  reserved 
lands  that  they  show  so  firm  a  front,  and 
perhaps  we  have  small  right  to  blame  their 
determination  to  resist  further  aggression. 
Undoubtedly,  their  dealings  with  white  men 
have,  on  the  whole,  been  just  and  honorable  ; 
and,  possibly,  had  their  positions  been 
versed,  we  might  be  disposed  to  view  matt* 
very  differently. 


Constance  F.   Gordon   dimming. 


ARNOLD    ON    EMERSON   AND    CARLYLE. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  lecture  upon  Emerson 
was  also  incidentally  a  lecture  upon  Carlyle, 
with  glances  at  Cardinal  Newman  and  at 
Benjamin  Franklin.  The  gist  of  the  speaker's 
view  of  Emerson  was  briefly  as  follows : 
Emerson  was  not  a  great  poet,  was  not  to  be 
ranked  among  the  legitimate  poets,  because 
his  poetry  had  not  the  Miltonic  requirements 
of  simplicity,  sensuousness,  and  passion.  He 
was  not  even  a  great  man  of  letters,  because 
he  had  not  a  genius  and  instinct  for  style ;  his 
style  had  not  the  requisite  wholeness  of  good 
tissue.  Who  were  the  great  men  of  letters  ? 
They  were  Plato,  Cicero,  Voltaire,  La  Bruyere, 
Milton,  Addison,  Swift, — men  whose  prose  is 
by  a  kind  of  native  necessity  true  and  sound. 
Emerson  was  not  a  great  philosopher,  because 
he  had  no  constructive  talent, — he  could  not 
build  a  system  of  philosophy.  What  then 
was  his  merit  ?  He  was  to  be  classed  with 
Marcus  Aurelius,  who  was  "the  friend  and 
aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit." 
This  was  Emerson's  chief  merit  and  serv- 
ice :  he  was  the  friend  and  aider  of  those 
who  would  live  in  the  spirit.  The  secret  of 
his  influence  was  not  in  his  thought ;  it  was 
in  his  temper,  his  unfaltering  spirit  of  cheer- 
fulness and  hope. 

In  the  opinion  of  the  speaker,  even  Carlyle 
was  not  a  great  writer,  and  his  work  was  of 
much  less  importance  than  Emerson's.  As 
Wordsworth's  poetry  was  the  most  important 
work  done  in  verse  in  our  language  during 
the  nineteenth  century,  so  Emerson's  essays 
were,  in  the  lecturer's  view,  the  most  impor- 
tant work  done  in  prose.  Carlyle  was  not  a 
great  writer,  because  he  was  too  impatient, 
too  willful,  too  vehement ;  he  did  not  work 
his  material  up  into  good  literary  form. 

It  will  be  seen  that  this  criticism  of  these 
eminent  men  is  wholly  with  reference  to  what 
many  of  us  consider  of  secondary  importance, 
namely,  their  style,  or  manner  of  delivery; 
a  criticism  from  the  technical  and  academic 
side  of  literature,  which  makes  little  account  of 
their  intrinsic  quality  of  genius  and  of  the 
real  force  and  stimulus  they  left  embodied  in 
literary  forms, — imperfect  or  inadequate  forms 
if  you  will,  but  still  literary  forms.  Did  the 
speaker  disengage  for  us  and  impart  to  us 
what  of  worth  and  significance  there  was  in 
these  men  ?  Did  he  convey  to  us  a  lively  im- 
pression of  their  genius  ?  I  think  not.  And 
yet  he  has  told  us  in  his  essay  on  Joubert 
that  this  is  the  main  matter;  he  asks  "What  is 


really  precious  and  inspiring,  in  all  that  we 
get  from  literature,  except  this  sense  of  an 
immediate  contact  with  genius  itself  and  the 
stimulus  toward  what  is  true  and  excellent 
which  we  derive  from  it?"  Like  all  other 
writers,  when  Arnold  speaks  from  the  tradi- 
tions of  his  culture  and  the  influence  of  his 
environment  he  is  far  less  helpful  and  satis- 
factory than  when  he  speaks  from  his  native 
genius  and  insight,  and  gives  free  play  to  that 
wonderfully  clear,  sensitive,  flexible,  poetic 
mind  of  his.  And  in  this  verdict  upon  Emer- 
son and  Carlyle,  it  seems  to  me,  he  speaks 
more  from  his  bias,  more  from  his  dislike  of 
nonconformists,  than  from  his  genius.  I  read 
in  it  something  that  we  might  almost  call  the 
provincialism  of  the  academy. 

We  have  had  much  needed  service  from 
Arnold;  he  has  taught  his  generation  the 
higher  criticism,  as  Sainte-Beuve  taught  it  to 
his.  A  singularly  logical  and  constructive 
mind,  yet  a  singularly  fluid  and  interpretive 
one,  giving  to  his  criticism  charm,  as  well  as 
force  and  penetration. 

All  readers  of  his  know  how  free  he  is 
from  anything  strained  or  fantastic  or  para- 
doxical, and  how  absolutely  single  his  eye  is. 
His  page  flows  as  limpid  and  tranquil  as  a 
meadow  brook,  loitering  under  this  bank  and 
under  that,  but  yet  really  flowing,  really 
abounding  in  continuous  currents  of  ideas 
that  lead  to  large  and  definite  results.  His 
works  furnish  abundant  illustrations  of  the 
principle  of  evolution  in  literature,  which  he 
demands  of  others.  He  makes  no  use  of  the 
Emersonian  method  of  surprise;  his  ideas 
never  suddenly  leap  out  full-grown  from  his 
brain,  but  slowly  develop  and  unfold  before 
you,  and  there  are  no  missing  links.  Any 
given  thought  is  continuous  with  him,  and 
grows  and  expands -with  new  ramifications 
and  radiations,  from  year  to  year.  This  gives 
a  wonderful  consecutiveness  and  wholeness 
to  his  work,  as  well  as  great  clearness  and 
simplicity.  Yet  one  sometimes  feels  as  if  he 
were  the  victim  of  his  own  admirable  method, 
as  if  his  keen  sense  of  form  and  order  some- 
times stood  between  him  and  the  highest 
truths.  I  believe  the  notions  we  get  from 
him  of  the  scope  and  function  of  poetry,  and 
of  the  value  and  significance  of  style,  are 
capable  of  revision. 

Less  stringency  of  form  is  to  be  insisted 
upon,  less  servility  to  the  classic  standards. 
We  live  in  an  age  of  expansion,  not  of  con- 


926 


ARNOLD    ON  EMERSON  AND    CARLYLE. 


centration,  as  Arnold  long  ago  said ;  "  like 
the  traveler  in  the  fable,  therefore,  we  begin 
to  wear  our  cloak  a  little  more  loosely."  In 


greatness  of  intellect ;  a  new  style  of  man 
writing  poems,  essays,  criticisms,  histories, 
and  filling  these  forms  with  a  spirit  and  a 


literature,  we  are  coming  more  and  more  to    suggestiveness  far  more  needful  and  helpful 


to  us  than  the  mere  spirit  of  perfection  in 
letters — the  classic  spirit,  which  Mr.  Arnold 
himself  so  assiduously  cultivates. 

To  say  that  Carlyle  is  not  a  great  writer,  or, 
more  than  that,  a  supreme  literary  artist,  is  to 
brings  to  the  observation  o'f  humanity  and    me  like  denying  that  Angelo  and  Rembrandt 


look  beyond  the  form  into  the  substance;  yea, 
into  the  mood  and  temper  that  begat  the 
substance. 

"  The  chief  trait  of  any  given  poet,"  says  a 
recent   authority,    "is   always  the   spirit  he 


nature — the  mood  out  of  which  he  contem- 
plates his  subject.  What  kind  of  temper  and 
what  amount  of  faith  reports  these  things  ?  " 

Of  like  purport  is  the  well-known  passage 
of  Sainte-Beuve,  wherein,  after  referring  to 
the  demands  and  standards  of  the  classic  age, 
he  says  that  for  us,  to-day, "  the  greatest  poet 
is  not  he  who  has  done  the  best" — that  is, 
written  the  most  perfect  poem  from  the  classic 
standpoint;  "it  is  he  who  suggests  the  most, — 
he,  not  all  of  whose  meaning  is  at  first  obvi- 
ous, and  who  leaves  you  much  to  desire,  to 
explain,  to  study,  much  to  complete  in  your 
turn." 

In  the  decay  of  old  traditions,  and  in  the 
huge  aggrandizement  of  physical  science, 
the  refuge  and  consolation  of  serious  and 
truly  religious  minds  is  more  and  more  in  lit- 
erature, and  in  the  free  escapes  and  outlooks 
which  it  supplies.  The  best  modern  poetry,  and 
the  best  modern  prose,  takes  down  the  bars  for 
us  and  admits  us  to  new  and  large  fields  of 


were  great  painters,  or  that  the  sea  is  a  great 
body  of  water.  His  life  of  Herculean  labor 
was  entirely  given  to  letters,  and  he  un- 
doubtedly brought  to  his  tasks  the  greatest 
single  equipment  of  pure  literary  power  Eng- 
lish prose  has  ever  received.  Beside  some 
of  the  men  named  by  the  lecturer,  his  illumi- 
nating power  is  like  the  electric  light  beside 
a  tallow  dip.  Not  a  perfect  writer  certainly, 
nor  always  an  agreeable  one ;  but  he  exhib- 
ited at  all  times  the  traits  which  the  world 
has  consented  to  call  great.  He  bequeathed 
to  mankind  an  enormous  intellectual  force 
and  weight  of  character,  embodied  in  endur- 
ing literary  forms. 

I  know  it  has  become  the  fashion  to  dispar- 
age Carlyle's  histories ;  it  is  said  he  has  been 
superseded  by  the  more  scientific  historians. 
When  the  scientific  artist  supersedes  Michael 
Angelo,  and  the  scientific  poet  supersedes 
Shakspere,  then  probably  the  scientific  his- 
torian will  supersede  Carlyle.  The  scientific 


moral  and  intellectual  conquest  in  a  way  the  spirit,  when  applied  to  historical  research,  is — 
antique  authors  could  not  and  did  not  aim  to 
do.  New  wants,  and  therefore  new  stand- 
ards, have  arisen.  It  were  far  better  for  us  to 
have  Wordsworth  without  style  (Arnold  says 
Wordsworth  has  no  style,  but  at  best  plain 
force  of  expression)  than  Milton  with  his  un- 
failing style,  because  the  intrinsic  purity  and 
force  of  the  poetic  inspiration,  though  it  come 
rarely,  is  of  more  value  to  us  than  any  grand- 
eur of  extrinsic  form  and  movement  Milton 
ever  attained  to.  Of  Milton's  style  I  think 
one  is  justified  in  saying  that  it  is  like  the 
finest  and  most  aristocratic  china,  but  that  the 
refection  itself  few  modern  readers  can  face. 
A  dinner  of  game  and  wild  fruits  and  herbs, 
served  upon  birch  chips,  as  in  Wordsworth,  is 
far  more  in  keeping  with  the  modern  taste. 
If  we  must  have  partial  men,  let  their  parti- 
ality be  toward  the  intrinsic,  not  toward  the 
extrinsic,  in  literature,  as  well  as  in  other 
things. 

^  The  type  of  men  of  which  Emerson  and 
Carlyle  are  the  most  pronounced  and  influen- 
tial examples  in  our  time,  it  must  be  owned,  are 
comparatively  a  new  turn-up  in  literature, — 
men  whose  highest  distinction  is  the  depth 


like  chemistry  applied  to  agriculture — valu- 
able, but  good  crops  have  been  and  can 
be  grown  without  it.  Scientific  method  can 
exhume  the  past,  but  cannot  breathe  the 
breath  of  life  into  it,  as  Carlyle  did.  Your 
scientific  critic  is  usually  a  wearisome  creat- 
ure. We  do  not  so  much  want  history  ex- 
plained after  the  manner  of  science  as  we 
want  it  portrayed  and  interpreted  after  the 
manner  of  literature.  And  the  explanations 
of  these  experts  is  usually  only  clever  thim- 
ble-rigging. If  they  ferret  the  mystery  out 
of  one  hole,  they  run  it  to  cover  in  another. 
How  clever,  for  instance,  is  Taine's  explana- 
tion of  those  brilliant  epochs  in  the  history 
of  nations  when  groups  of  great  men  are  pro- 
duced, and  literatures  and  arts  get  founded. 
Why,  it  is  only  the  result  of  a  "  hidden  con- 
cord of  creative  forces";  and  the  opposite 
periods,  the  periods  of  sterility,  are  the  result 
of  "  inward  contrarieties."  Truly,  a  rose  by 
any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet.  What 
causes  the  hidden  concord,  etc.,  so  that  we 
can  lay  our  hand  upon  the  lever  and  bring 
about  the  splendid  epochs  at  a  given  time 
the  astute  Frenchman  does  not  tell  us. 


and  fervor  of  their  moral  conviction,  whose    like  better  the  explanation  of  the  old  Rom; 
greatness  of  character  is  on  a  par  with  their    Paterculus,  namely,  emulation  among  m 


ARNOLD    ON  EMERSON  AND    CARLYLE. 


927 


yes,  and  emulation  in  Nature  herself.  One  work — perfect  from  the  standpoint  of  extrin- 
great  orator,  or  poet,  will  make  others.  Or  sic  form,  argument,  logic,  evolution.  His  pur- 
Emerson's  suggestion,  which  is  just  as  near  pose  did  not  require  it,  his  genius  did  not 
the  truth,  and  much  more  taking  to  the  im-  demand  it.  He  was  to  scatter  the  seed-germs 

of  nobler  thinking  and  living,  not  to  rear  a 
temple  to  the  Muses ;  and  from  our  point  of 
view  the  former  is  by  far  the  more  important 
service.  To  get  at  the  full  worth  of  Emerson, 
I  say,  we  must  appraise  him  for  his  new  and 
fundamental  quality  of  genius,  not  for  his 
mere  literary  accomplishments,  great  as  these 
were. 

If  it  is  replied  that  this  is  just  what  the 


agination  : 

"  Heats  or  genial  periods  arrive  in  history,  or,  shall 
we  say,  plenitudes  of  Divine  Presence,  by  which 
high  tides  are  caused  in  the  human  spirit,  and  great 
virtues  and  talents  appear,  as  in  the  eleventh,  twelfth, 
thirteenth,  and  again  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  when  the  nation  (England)  was  full  of  genius 
and  piety." 

Carlyle's  bias  does  not,  in  my  opinion,  mar 

his  histories  at  all,  and  we  can  always  allow    lecturer  did,  I  say  the  word  of  highest  praise, 

all  through  the  discourse,  was  given  to  the 
master  of  mere  literary  form.  There  was  a 
tone  of  disparagement  toward  Emerson  as  a 
man  of  letters,  when  there  should  have  been 
generous  approval  of  the  quickening  and  lib- 
erating spirit  he  brought  to  letters.  But  in 
saying  he  was  not  a  true  man  of  letters,  the 
emphasis  of  the  criticism,  if  there  be  criticism, 
really  falls  upon  the  men  of  letters,  not  upon 
Emerson. 

Of  a  writer  of  the  order  of  Emerson  or  Car- 
lyle, we  shall  only  demand  that  he  have  some- 
thing of  the  first  importance  to  say,  and  that 
he  say  it  with  force  and  felicity.  Emerson's 
message  is  of  the  highest  importance,  and  he 
renders  it  with  rare  effectiveness  and  charm. 
His  page  is  an  enticement  to  the  aesthetic 
sense  of  the  intellect,  and  a  stimulus  and 
tonic  to  the  ethical  sense  of  the  moral  nature. 

But  let  us  see  the  extent  of  Emerson's  offend- 
ing against  this  divinity  called  style,  a  divinity 
of  whom  Mr.  Arnold  is  the  prophet,  and  the 
best  she  has  had  for  this  long  time,  it  must  be 
admitted, — perhaps  the  best  she  ever  had 
among  the  English-speaking  people. 

The  masters  of  literary  art,  like  the  masters 
of  sculpture,  of  painting,  of  music,  of  architect- 
ure, exhibit  style  in  two  ways :  in  design  or 
conception,  and  in  finish  or  treatment.  Now 
the  larger  style  of  design,  it  is  to  be  admitted, 
Emerson  did  not  possess.  There  is  no  artistic 
conception  that  runs  the  length  and  breadth 
of  any  of  his  works ;  no  unity  of  scheme  or 


for  it  when  he  writes  upon  any  subject,  —  upon 
America,  for  instance,  or  "  Shooting  Niagara." 
It  does  not  mar  his  "  Cromwell,"  but  lends 
zest  to  it.  He  was  himself  the  fiery  partisan 
he  was  portraying.  It  does  not  mar  "  Fred- 
eric," though  the  author's  partialities  and  pre- 
possessions crop  out  on  every  page.  What 
vivid  portraiture,  what  rapid  grouping,  what 
reality  ',  what  exhaustless  wit  and  humor,  what 
entertainment  for  both  heart  and  head  this 
book  holds  ! 

It  was  unworthy  of  Arnold  to  try  to  twist 
Carlyle  up  on  the  subject  of  happiness,  as  if 
his  casual  utterance  on  this  subject  formed 
the  measure  of  his  merit  as  a  writer.  Carlyle 
simply  taught  that  there  was  a  higher  happi- 
ness, namely,  blessedness  —  the  spiritual  frui- 
tion that  comes  through  renunciation  of  self, 
the  happiness  of  heroes  that  comes  from  put- 
ting thoughts  of  happiness  out  of  sight;  and 
that  the  direct  and  persistent  wooing  of  for- 
tune for  her  good  gifts  was  selfish  and  un- 
manly, —  a  timely  lesson  at  all  seasons. 

Emerson,  too,  is  a  great  figure  in  modern 
literary  history,  and  to  his  worth  and  sig- 
nificance, in  this  connection,  the  speaker  did 
very  inadequate  justice.  We  know  there  is 
much  in  Emerson's  works  that  will  not  stand 
rigid  literary  tests  ;  much  that  is  too  fanciful 
and  ethereal,  too  curious  and  paradoxical,  — 
not  real  or  true,  but  only  seemingly  so,  or  so 
by  a  kind  of  violence  and  disruption.  The 
weak  place  in  him  as  a  literary  artist  is  prob- 


ably his  want  of  continuity  and  the  tie  of    plan  like  that  of  an  architect,  or  of  a  composer, 


association  —  a  want  which,  as  he  grew  old, 
became  a  disease,  and  led  to  a  break  in  his 
mind  like  that  of  a  bridge  with  one  of  the 
piers  gone,  and  his  power  of  communication 
was  nearly  or  quite  lost.  The  greatness  of  his 
work  consists  in  the  measure  of  pure  genius 
and  of  inspiration  to  noble  and  heroic  conduct 


that  makes  an  inevitable  whole  of  any  of  his 
books  or  essays  ;  seldom  a  central  and  leading 
idea  of  which  the  rest  are  but  radiations  and 
unfoldings.  His  essays  are  fragmentary,  suc- 
cessions of  brilliant  and  startling  affirmations, 
or  vaticinations,  with  little  or  no  logical  se- 
quence. In  other  words,  there  are  seldom 


which  it  holds.    As  a  writer  he  had  but  one    any  currents  of  ideas  in  Emerson's  essays,  but 


aim,  namely,  to  inspire,  to  wake  up  his  reader 
or  hearer  to  the  noblest  and  the  highest  there 
was  in  him  ;  and  it  was  no  part  of  his  plan  to 
enter  into  competition  with  the  Addisonian 
writers  for  the  production  of  perfect  literary 


sallies  and  excursions  of  the  mind,  as  if  to  get 
beyond  the  region  of  rational  thinking  into 
the  region  of  surmise  and  prophecy,  —  jets  and 
projectiles  of  thought  under  great  pressure, 
the  pressure  of  the  moral  genius.  He  says, 


928 


ARNOLD    ON  EMERSON  AND    CARLYLE. 


speaking  more  for  himself  than  for  others: 
"  We  learn  to  prefer  imperfect  theories  and 
sentences,  which  contain  glimpses  of  the  truth, 
to  digested  systems,  which  have  no  one  valu- 
able suggestion."  It  would  be  almost  impos- 
sible to  condense  any  of  his  essays ;  they  are 
the  last  results  of  condensation  ;  we  can  only 
cut  them  up  and  abridge  them.  So  far  as  this 
criticism  tells  against  Emerson  as  a  literary 
artist,  it  must  be  allowed. 

But  of  style  in  treatment,  in  finish,  the  per- 
fection of  paragraph,  felicity  of  utterance,  he 
is  the  consummate  master.  How  vital  and 
flexible  his  sentences  are ;  how  instinct  with 
life  and  music ;  how  genial,  lucid,  and  flowing 
are  many  whole  chapters,  filling  the  spirit 
with  a  fine  excitement,  elation,  and  joy. 

The  logical  texture  of  the  sentences  in 
"  English  Traits,"  and  in  "  Representative 
Men,"  and  in  all  his  historical  and  biograph- 
ical sketches,  and  political  tracts  and  speeches, 
lately  published,  seems  to  me  to  have  unques- 
tionably "  the  requisite  wholeness  of  good 
tissue  " ;  it  is  true  and  sound  prose,  and,  as  a 
specimen  of  the  free  play  of  the  mind  upon 
ideas  and  traits  of  character,  is  far  enough 
above  the  tame  pages  of  Addison. 

The  essay,  I  say,  makes  no  unit  of  impres- 
sion, though  undoubtedly  the  personality  of 
the  writer  does ;  and  this,  I  think,  largely 
makes  up,  in  such  a  writer  as  Emerson,  for 
the  want  of  inclosing  design  to  which  I  have 
referred.  The  design  that  gives  unity  and 
relevancy  to  these  isolated  paragraphs  is  the 
personality  of  Emerson,  his  peculiar  type  and 
idiosyncrasy.  This  is  the  plan,  the  theme 
which  these  musical  periods  illustrate.  The 
artist,  says  Goethe,  "  make  what  contortions 
he  will,  can  only  bring  to  light  his  own  indi- 
viduality." Of  men  of  the  Emersonian  and 
Wordsworthian  stamp,  this  is  preeminently 
true ;  and  it  is  this  which  finally  interests  us 
and  gives  the  totality  of  impression  in  their 
works.  The  flavor  of  character  is  over  all; 
the  features  of  the  man  are  stamped  upon 
every  word.  From  this  point  of  view,  much 
faultless  and  forcible  writing — the  writer 
always  under  the  sway  of  Arnold's  law  of 
pure  and  flawless  workmanship — is  destitute 
of  intrinsic  style,  because  it  is  destitute  of  in- 
dividuality. I  should  say  that  such  a  writer 
as  Gladstone,  for  instance,  had  no  style ;  such 
a  man  as  Edward  Everett,  very  little,  though 
he  had  logic  and  plenty  of  verbal  grace  and 
finish.  In  the  case  of  Emerson,  the  only  new 
thing  in  the  book  is  the  man  ;  this  is  the  sur- 
prising discovery;  but  this  makes  all  things 
new ;  we  see  the  world  through  a  new  per- 
sonal medium. 

Everything  Emerson  wrote  belongs  to  lit- 
erature, and  to  literature  in  its  highest  and 


most  serious  mood.  If  not  a  great  man  of 
letters,  then  a  great  man  speaking  through 
letters,  and  delivering  himself  with  a  charm 
and  a  dignity  few  have  equaled.  We  cannot 
deny  him  literary  honors,  though  we  honor 
him  for  much  more  than  his  literary  accom- 
plishments. No  more  could  a  bird  fly  with- 
out wings,  than  could  Emerson's  thought 
have  reached  and  moved  Arnold  in  his  early 
Oxford  days,  as  the  latter  said  it  did,  without 
rare  qualities  of  literary  style. 

All  Emerson's  aspirations  were  toward 
greatness  of  character,  greatness  of  wisdom, 
nobility  of  soul.  Hence,  in  all  his  writings 
and  speakings  the  great  man  shines  through 
and  eclipses  the  great  writer.  The  flavor  of 
character  is  stronger  than  the  flavor  of  letters, 
and  dominates  the  pages. 

If  he  is  "  the  friend  and  aider  of  those  who 
would  live  in  the  spirit,"  he  is  equally  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  found  a 
great  state,  a  great  literature,  a  great  art. 
The  spirit  he  brought  to  his  task,  and  which 
he  displayed  through  his  life,  is  a  stimulus 
and  a  support  to  all  noble  endeavor,  of  what- 
ever kind  or  in  whatever  field. 

Yet  it  is  to  be  said  that  neither  Emerson 
nor  Carlyle  was  a  typical  literary  man.  They 
both  had  too  great  moral  vehemence,  or  bent, 
to  be  th€  doctors  and  professors  of  mere  lit- 
erature for  and  of  itself.  And  this  brings  us 
to  one  of  Arnold's  test  words,  disinterestedness. 
The  great  writer  is  disinterested  ;  his  interest 
is  to  be  in  truth  alone,  severed  from  all  prac- 
tical considerations.  True,  certainly,  and  true 
when  applied  to  the  writers  named.  In  the 
American  phrase,  neither  of  them  had  "  an 
axe  to  grind,"  and  yet  they  were  interested  in 
certain  phases  or  kinds  of  truth  over  certain 
other  kinds  —  moral  truth  above  all  others. 
In  this  sense  they  were  not  disinterested  writ- 
ers ;  and  may  not  this  kind  of  bias  or  prefer- 
ence be  consistent  with  the  work  of  a  true 
literary  artist,  though  a  hinderance  to  the  dis- 
charge of  the  functions  of  a  scientific  critic  ? 
Are  there  not  cases  in  which  we  may  go  be- 
hind the  disinterestedness  of  the  poet  or  art- 
ists, and  condemn,  not  the  work,  but  the 
spirit  of  the  work  ?  I  have  heard  it  said  that 
the  "  mood  of  the  poet  is  always  to  be  ac- 
cepted." But  if  the  mood  of  the  poet  is  like 
the  breath  of  the  upas,  it  is  to  be  condemned ; 
if  it  is  subversive  of  life  and  of  the  perpetuity 
of  the  race,  there  is  no  second  question  to  be 
asked.  If  the  air  of  the  place  is  rotten  and 
pestilential,  no  beauty  of  scenery  can  save  it. 
If  this  is  not  in  accordance  with  "  art  for 
art's  sake,"  it  is  in  accordance  with  life  for 
life's  sake.  The  artist  holds  the  mirror  up  to 
nature,  but  it  is  the  Claude  Lorraine  mirror. 
He  takes  liberties  with  the  facts;  he  is  not  a 


ARNOLD    ON  EMERSON  AND    CARLYLE. 


929 


mere  reporter ;  he  idealizes  the  fact  and  gives 
it  his  own  coloring.  The  critic  does  not  in 
the  same  measure  do  this.  He  is  the  ap- 
praiser, the  distributor  of  the  honors,  and  his 
scale  must  be  nicely  poised.  That  all  poetry 
and  all  good  literature  is,  in  a  measure,  a 
criticism  of  life  —  some  more,  some  less — is 
a  valuable  suggestion,  almost  discovery,  of 
Arnold's  own ;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  there 
is  a  class  of  imaginative  writers  who  are 
more  properly  feeders  and  reenforcers  of  life 
itself;  who  gather  in  from  wide-lying  realms, 
not  always  with  nice  judgment  or  wise  selec- 
tion, but  always  with  bold,  strong  hands, 
much  that  nourishes  and  fertilizes  the  very 
roots  of  the  tree  Igdrasil.  Such  writers  were 
Emerson  and  Carlyle.  Such  a  writer  is  not 
Mr.  Arnold,  though  his  function  as  pruner 
and  cultivator  of  the  tree  is  scarcely  less  in 
importance. 

Disinterestedness,  then,  is  to  be  demanded 
of  the  critic,  but  the  creative  imagination 
may  have  free  play  within  the  limits  of  a 
strong  intellectual  bias.  The  charm  and  value 
of  Darwin  is  his  disinterestedness,  but  Darwin 
is  a  critic  of  the  scheme  of  creation:  he  is 
interested  only  in  finding  and  stating  the 
largest  truth,  in  outlining  the  theory  that  will 
cover  the  greatest  multitude  and  the  widest 
diversity  of  facts.  But  the  charm  and  value 
of  such  a  writer  as  Abram  Cowley,  or  Mr. 
Ruskin,  or'  our  Thoreau,  is  largely  given  by 
a  peculiar  moral  and  mental  bias.  It  is  Tho- 
reau's  stoicism  and  vehement  partiality  to  nat- 
ure that  gives  his  page  such  a  fillip  and  genial 
provocation.  And  what  would  Mr.  Ruskin 
be  without  his  delightful  one-sidedness  and 
bright  unreasonableness  ? 

Few  men  eminent  in  literature  have  been 
free  from  some  sort  of  bias.  Arnold  himself 
has  the  academic  bias.  There  is  in  him  a 
slight  collegiate  contemptuousness  and  aloof- 
ness which  stands  a  little  in  the  way  of  his 
doing  full  justice,  say,  to  the  nonconformist, 
and  to  the  bereaved  mortal  who  wants  to 
marry  his  deceased  wife's  sister,  and  in  the 
way  of  his  full  acceptance  by  his  countrymen, 
to  which  he  is  justly  entitled.  Was  he  not  also 
just  a  little  interested  in  giving  our  pride  in 
Emerson  a  fall,  at  least  a  shaking  up  ?  Milton 
is  biased  by  his  Puritanism ;  his  "  Paradise 
Lost "  is  the  pageant  or  drama  of  the  Puritan 
theology ;  but  he  is  undoubtedly  best  as  a 
poet  when  he  forgets  his  Puritanism.  Words- 
worth has  the  didactic  bias ;  his  steed  of  the 
empyrean  is  yoked  with  another  of  much 
commoner  clay.  Carlyle's  bias  is  an  over- 
weening partiality  for  heroes ;  he  cuts  all  his 
cloth  to  this  one  pattern.  Among  our  own 
writers,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Irving  has  little 
or  no  bias ;  they  are  disinterested  witnesses, 
VOL.  XXVII.— 89. 


but  they  are  not  men  of  the  first  order.  Our 
younger  corps  of  writers  are  free  from  bias, 
which  is  less  a  merit  than  their  want  of  ear- 
nestness is  a  defect. 

Arnold's  view  of  Emerson  as  a  poet  is  not 
entirely  new,  though  perhaps  it  has  never 
before  been  set  forth  in  quite  so  telling  and 
authoritative  a  form.  The  British  literary 
journals  have  been  in  the  habit  of  saying  for 
years,  whenever  the  subject  was  up,  that  Emer- 
son was  not  a  poet.  An  able  London  critic 
likened  him  to  a  Druid  who  wanders  among  the 
bards,  and  smites  the  harp  with  even  more  than 
bardic  stress.  And  a  poet  on  the  usual  terms 
we  must  admit  Emerson  was  not.  He  truly 
had  a  druidical  cast.  His  song  is  an  incanta- 
tion. Not  a  minstrel  at  the  feast  of  life  is  he, 
but  a  chanter  of  runes  at  life's  shrine.  Arnold 
gave  us  the  worst  that  could  be  said  of  Emer- 
son as  a  poet,  namely,  that  he  lacked  con- 
creteness,  sensuousness,  and  passion.  Perhaps 
the  best  that  can  be  said  of  him  as  a  poet  is 
that,  notwithstanding  these  deficiencies,  there  is 
usually  a  poetic  stress  in  his  verse,  a  burden 
and  an  intensity  of  poetic  appeal,  that  would 
be  hard  to  match  in  any  other  poet.  He  had 
the  eye  and  ear  of  the  poet  preternaturally 
sharpened,  but  lacked  the  full  poetic  utter- 
ance. It  would  seem  as  if  he  besieged  the 
Muses  with  all  the  more  seriousness  and  elo- 
quence, because  of  the  gifts  that  had  been 
denied  him.  His  verse  is  full  of  disembodied 
poetic  values,  of  "  melody  born  of  melody." 
Compared  with  the  other  poets,  he  is  like  an 
essence  compared  to  fruits  or  flowers.  He 
pierced  the  symbol,  he  discarded  the  corpo- 
real ;  his  science  savors  of  magic,  his  power 
of  some  mysterious  occult  force.  Yet  to  say 
he  is  not  a  true  poet  implies  too  much;  he 
does  not  stop  short  of  the  achievements  of 
other  poets,  but  goes  beyond  them.  He 
would  get  rid  of  the  bulk,  the  mass,  and  save 
the  poetry ;  get  rid  of  the  concrete  and  catch 
the  ideal ;  in  other  words,  turn  your  mount- 
ain of  carbon  into  diamonds. 

As  a  rule,  the  qualities  we  miss  from  his 
verse,  he  did  not  aim  to  put  there ;  he  did 
not  himself  value  them  in  poetry.  He  knew 
the  classic  models  were  not  for  him.  He  valued 
only  the  memorable  passages,  the  lightning 
strokes  of  genius,  the  line  that 


and 


overleapt  the  horizon's  edge," 


"Searched  with  Apollo's  privilege." 
He  hung  his  verses  in  the  wind  : 

"  All  were  winnowed  through  and  through, 

Five  lines  lasted  sound  and  true; 

Five  men  smelted  in  a  pot 

Than  the  South  more  fierce  and  hot; 


93° 


ARNOLD    ON  EMERSON  AND    CARLYLE. 


These  the  siroc  could  not  melt, 
Fire  their  fiercer  flaming  felt, 
And  the  meaning  was  more  white 
Than  July's  meridian  light. 
Sunshine  cannot  bleach  the  snow, 
Nor  time  unmake  what  poets  know. 
Have  you  eyes  to  find  the  five 
Which  five  hundred  did  survive  ?  " 

This  was  Emerson's  method, — not  to  write 


live  in  a  sick  age,  and  he  has  saved  the  lives 
of  many  of  us.  So  precious  has  his  service 
been,  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  mere  litera- 
ture, that  we  are  irritated,  I  say,  when  we 
hear  the  regular  literary  men  placed  above 
him.  When  I  think  of  Emerson,  I  think  of 
him  as  a  man,  not  as  an  author ;  it  was  his 
rare  and  charming  personality  that  healed  us 


a  perfect  poem,  a  poem  that  should  be  an  in-  and  kindled  our  love.  When  he  died,  it  was 
evitable  whole,  as  Arnold  would  have  him,  but  not  as  a  sweet  singer,  like  Longfellow,  who 
to  write  the  perfect  line,  to  set  the  imagina-  had  gone  silent ;  but  something  precious  and 
tion  ablaze  with  a  single  verse,  leaving  the  paternal  had  departed  out  of  nature ;  a  voice 
effects  of  form,  of  proportion,  to  be  achieved  of  hope  and  courage,  and  inspiration  to  all 
by  those  who  were  equipped  for  it.  His  noble  endeavor,  had  ceased  to  speak. 

As  a  prose  writer  there  is  one  note  in  Emer- 
son which  we  get  with  the  same  emphasis 


poetry  is  undoubtedly  best  when  it  is  most 
concrete,  as  in  the  "Humblebee,"  "Rhodora," 


"Seashore,"  "The  Snow  Storm,"  "The  Prob- 
lem," "  The  Titmouse,"  and  like  poems,  and 
poorest  in  "Wood  Notes,"  "  Celestial  Love," 
etc.  "  Unless  the  heart  is  shook,"  says  Lan- 
dor,  "  the  gods  thunder  and  stride  in  vain" ; 
and  the  heart  is  seldom  shook  by  Emerson's 
poetry.  It  has  heat,  but  it  is  not  that  of  Eng- 
lish poetical  literature,  the  heat  of  the  blood, 
of  the  affections,  the  emotions;  but  arises 
from  the  ecstasy  of  contemplation  of  the 
universality  of  the  moral  law. 

It  is  hard  to  reconcile  Arnold's  criticism 
of  Emerson's  poetry  with  what  many  of  us 
feel  to  be  its  beauty  and  value.  It  is  irritat- 
ing to  Emersonians  to  be  compelled  to  admit 
that  his  strain  lacks  any  essential  quality.  It 
is  irritating  to  me.  I  confess  that  I  would 
rather  have  his  poetry  than  all  Milton,  Cowper, 
Gray,  Byron,  and  many  others  ever  wrote.  I 
see  the  grounds  upon  which  Milton's  poetry 
is  considered  greater,  but  I  do  not  care  for  it, 
all  the  same.  Emerson's  poetry  does  not  di- 
late me,  as  Wordsworth's  does,  because  the 
human  emotional  element  in  it  is  weaker.  It 
has  not  the  same  touch  of  nature  that  makes 


and  clearness  in  no  other  writer.  I  mean  the 
heroic  note,  the  note  of  manhood  rising  above 
the  accidents  of  fortune  and  the  tyranny  of 
circumstances,  the  inspiration  of  courage  and 
self-reliance.  It  is  in  Carlyle,  but  is  often 
touched  by  his  ill-humor.  When  Teufelsdrockh 
fulminates  his  "  Everlasting  No "  in  "Sar- 
tor," it  rings  out  like  a  thunder-peal;  this  is 
the  wrath  and  invincibility  of  the  hero  at  bay. 
If,  in  Emerson's  earlier  essays,  this  note  seems 
to  us  now  a  little  too  pronounced,  savoring 
just  a  little  of  "  tall  talk,"  it  did  not  seem  so 
when  we  first  read  them,  but  was  as  clear,  and 
frank,  and  sweet  as  the  note  of  a  bugle.  Car- 
lyle once  defined  poetry  as  the  "  heroic  of 
speech,"  a  definition  that  probably  would  not 
suit  Mr.  Arnold,  but  which  describes  much 
of  Emerson's  verse,  and  many  of  those  brave 
sentences  in  his  essays. 

If  in  Addison  the  note  is  that  of  genial 
urbanity,  in  Franklin  that  of  worldly  pru- 
dence ("There  is  a  flower  of  religion,  a  flower 
of  honor,  a  flower  of  chivalry,"  says  Sainte- 
Beuve,  "  which  must  not  be  required  from 
Franklin  "),  in  Bacon  of  large  wisdom,  in  Pope 


the  whole  world  kin,  the  touch  of  commonalty    of  polished  common  sense,  in  Arnold  himself 


heightened  and  vivified. 

Whether  we  know  it  or  not,  we  doubtless 
love  Emerson  all  the  more  because  he  is  not 
a  legitimate  poet  or  the  usual  man  of  letters, 
but  an  exceptional  one.  We  do  not  love 


the  classical  note  or  note  of  perfection,  in 
Emerson  we  come  at  once  upon  the  chiv- 
alrous, heroic  attitude  and  temper.  No  scorn, 
no  contempt,  no  defiance,  but  a  bright  and 
cheerful  confronting  of  immense  odds.  In 


Shakspere  in  the  same  way,  because  he  is  of  other  writers  there  are  words  of  prudence, 

no  special  and  peculiar  service  to  us  as  men  words  of  enlightenment,  words  of  grave  coun- 

and  moral  beings ;  he  is  not  dear  to  any  man,  sel,  words  that  divide  one  thing  from  another 

but  generously  beloved  by  all  men.    He  is  in  like  a  blade,  words  of  sympathy  and  love  ; 

the  midst  of  the  great  currents  of  life  and  nat-  but  in  Emerson  more  than  in  any  other  there 

ure.    'Tis  the  universal  air,  the  universal  water  are  words  that  are  like  banners  leading  to 


we  get  here.    But  Emerson  stands  apart. 
We  go  to  him  as  we  go  to  a  fountain  to 


victory,  symbolical,  inspiring,  rallying,  second- 
ing, and  pointing  the  way  to  your  best  en- 


drink,  and  to  a  fountain  of  peculiar  virtues,  a  deavor.  "  Self-trust,"  he  says,  "  is  the  essen 

fountain   that   contains   iron,  or  sulphur,  or  of  heroism,"    and   this   martial   note   pul 

some    other    medicinal    property.      Hence,  through    all   his  utterances.     It   is  found 

while  to  criticism  Emerson  is  less  than  Gray  others,  too,  but  it  is  the  leading  note  in  hii 

or  Milton,  to  us  who  need  his  moral  and  spir-  In  others  it  is  oftener  the  inspiration  of  coi 

itual  tonics  he  is   more,  vastly  more.     We  duct ;  in  him  it  is  the  inspiration  of  morals. 


ARNOLD    ON  EMERSON  AND    CARLYLE. 


The  quality  I  refer  to  is  in  this  passage 
from  Marcus  Aurelius : 

"  Suppose  that  men  kill  thee  —  cut  thee  in  pieces  — 
curse  thee.  What,  then,  can  these  things  do  to  pre- 
vent thy  mind  from  remaining  pure,  wise,  sober,  just  ?  " 

It  is  in  these  lines  from  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  "  Sea  Voyage,"  quoted  by  Emer- 
son himself: 

"  Julietta.  Why,  slaves,  'tis  in  our  power  to  hang 
ye. 

Master.  Very  likely.  'Tis  in  our  power,  then,  to  be 
hanged,  and  scorn  ye." 

It  is  the  salt  of  this  passage  of  another 
poet: 

"  How  beggarly   appear  arguments  before  a  defiant 

deed! 
How  the  floridness  of  the  materials  of  cities  shrivels 

before  a  man's  or  woman's  look !  " 

It  is  in  the  reply  of  the  Spartan  soldier 
who,  when  the  threatening  Persian  told  him 
their  arrows  would  darken  the  sun,  answered  : 
"  Very  well,  then ;  we  will  fight  in  the  shade." 
Emerson  sounds  the  same  note  throughout 
his  essays,  takes  the  same  attitude  toward 
circumstances,  toward  conventions,  toward 
tradition,  toward  theological  dogma,  toward 
everything  that  would  hamper  and  limit  him. 
It  shines  in  his  famous  boast : 

"  Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make  the 
pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous." 

There  is  a  glint  of  it  in  this  passage,  which 
might  have  been  written  to  comfort  John 
Brown,  or  re-assure  a  certain  much-abused 
poet,  had  it  not  been  before  the  fact,  a  proph- 
ecy and  not  a  counsel : 

"  Adhere  to  your  own  act,  and  congratulate  your- 
self if  you  have  done  something  strange  and  extrav- 
agant, and  broken  the  monotony  of  a  decorous  age." 

Here  it  takes  another  key  : 

"  If  we  dilate  on  beholding  the  Greek  energy,  the 
Roman  pride,  it  is  that  we  are  already  domesticating 
the  same  sentiment.  Let  us  find  room  for  this  great 
guest  in  our  small  houses.  The  first  step  of  worthiness 
will  be  to  disabuse  us  of  our  superstitious  associations 
with  places  and  times,  with  number  and  size.  Why 
should  these  words  Athenian,  Roman,  Asia,  and  Eng- 
land so  tingle  in  the  ear  ?  Where  the  heart  is,  there 
the  muses  —  there  the  gods  sojourn,  and  not  in  any 
geography  of  fame.  Massachusetts,  Connecticut  River, 
and  Boston  Bay,  you  think  paltry  places,  and  the  ear 
loves  names  of  foreign  and  classical  topography.  But 
here  we  are,  and  if  we  will  tarry  a  little,  we  may  come 
to  learn  that  here  is  best.  See  to  it  only  that  thyself  is 
here  —  and  art  and  nature,  hope  and  fate,  friends  and 
angels,  and  the  Supreme  Being,  shall  not  be  absent 
from  the  chamber  where  thou  sittest." 

Half  the  essays  are  to  this  tune.  "  Books," 
he  said,  "  are  for  nothing  but  to  inspire  " ;  and 


in  writing  his  own  he  had  but  one  purpose  in 
view,  to  be,  as  Arnold  so  well  says,  "the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in 
the  spirit" — in  the  spirit  of  truth,  in  the  spirit 
of  virtue,  in  the  spirit  of  heroism. 

The  lecturer  was  unfortunate  in  what  he 
said  of  Emerson's  "  Titmouse."  We  do  not 
learn,  he  said,  what  his  titmouse  did  for  him; 
we  are  reduced  to  guessing ;  he  was  not  poet 
enough  to  tell  us.  But  the  bird  sounded  the 
heroic  note  to  the  poet,  and  inspired  him  with 
courage  and  hope  when  he  was  about  to  suc- 
cumb to  the  cold. 

"  Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death." 

"  Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine ; 
Ashes  and  jet  all  hues  outshine." 

"  I  think  old  Caesar  must  have  heard 
In  northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 
And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold." 

"  Poean  /   Veni,  vidi,  viciS"1 

It  is  one  of  Emerson's  most  characteristic 
poems.  Burns,  the  speaker  said,  would  have 
handled  the  subject  differently,  thinking  prob- 
ably of  Burns's  "  Mouse."  Certainly  he  would. 
He  was  pitched  in  a  different  key.  The  mis- 
fortunes of  his  mouse  touched  his  sympathy 
and  love,  appealed  to  his  human  tenderness, 
and  called  up  the  vision  of  his  own  hard  lot. 
Each  poet  gives  us  the  sentiment  proper  to 
him :  the  heroic  from  Emerson,  the  human 
from  Burns.  The  lecturer  was  right  in  saying 
that  the  secret  of  Emerson's  influence  is  his 
temper,  but  it  is  not  merely  his  good  temper, 
his  cheerfulness,  hopefulness,  benevolence, 
etc.  These  he  shared  with  the  mass  of  his 
countrymen.  The  American  temperament  is 
sanguine  and  turns  confidently  to  the  future. 
But  it  is  again  his  heroic  temper,  his  faith  in 
"  the  ideal  tendencies,"  in  the  value  of  per- 
sonal force  and  character,  in  the  grandeur  of 
the  present  moment,  the  present  opportunity ; 
a  temper  he  shares  with  but  few,  but  shares, 
say,  with  his  friend  and  master,  Carlyle  : 

"  One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts," 
and  more  especially  in  Carlyle's  case, 

"  Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield." 

It  has  long  been  clear  to  me  that  Carlyle 
and  Emerson  were  in  many  important  respects 
closely  akin,  notwithstanding  the  wrath  and 
melancholy  of  the  one,  and  the  serenity  and 
hopefulness  of  the  other.  Their  main  ground 
of  kinship  is  the  heroic  sentiment  which  they 
share  in  common.  Their  effects  upon  the  mind 


932 


MARSE    CHAN. 


are  essentially  the  same :  both  have  the  "  tart 
cathartic  virtue"  of  courage  and  self-reliance; 
both  nourish  character  and  spur  genius.  Car- 
lyle  does  not  communicate  the  gloom  he  feels; 
'tis  the  most  tonic  despair  to  be  found  in 
literature.  There  is  a  kind  of  felicity  in  it. 
For  one  thing,  it  sprang  from  no  personal 
disappointment  or  selfishness.  It  always  has 
the  heroic  tinge.  In  a  letter  to  Emerson  he 
refers  to  it  as  a  "  kind  of  imperial  sorrow  that 
is  almost  like  felicity, — so  completely  and 
composedly  wretched,  one  is  equal  to  the  very 
gods."  His  wretchedness  was  a  kind  of  sor- 
row; that  is  always  its  saving  feature.  One's 
unhappiness  may  be  selfish  and  ignoble,  or  it 
may  be  noble  and  inspiring ;  all  depends  upon 
the  sentiment  from  which  it  springs.  Men  self- 
ishly wretched  never  laugh,  except  in  derision. 
Carlyle  was  a  man  of  sorrow,  and  sorrow 
springs  from  sympathy  and  love.  A  sorrowing 
man  is  a  loving  man.  His  is  the  Old  World 
sorrow,  the  inheritance  of  ages,  the  grief  of 
justice  and  retribution  over  the  accumulated 
wrongs  and  sufferings  of  centuries.  In  him  it 
became  a  kind  of  poetic  sentiment,  a  fertile 
leaf-mold  that  issued  at  last  in  positive  verd- 
ure and  bloom.  Not  happiness,  but  a  kind 
of  blessedness,  he  aspired  to,  the  satisfaction 
of  suffering  in  well-doing.  How  he  loves  all 
the  battling,  struggling,  heroic  souls !  When- 
ever he  comes  upon  one  such  in  his  his- 
tories, no  matter  how  obscure,  he  turns  aside 
to  lay  a  wreath  upon  his  tomb.  It  was  his 
own  glory  that  he  never  flinched ;  that  his 
despair  only  nerved  him  to  work  the  harder ; 
the  thicker  the  gloom,  the  more  his  light 
shone.  Hope  and  heart  never  left  him ;  they 
were  of  the  unquenchable,  the  inextinguish- 
able kind,  like  those  ragged  jets  of  flame  the 
traveler  used  to  see  above  the  oil  wells  or 
gas  wells  in  Pennsylvania,  which  the  wildest 
tempest  could  not  blow  out,  so  tenaciously 
and  desperately  did  the  flame  cling. 


Carlyle's  lamentations  are  loud  ;  a  little  of 
his  own  doctrine  of  silence  would  have  come 
in  well  here.  What  he  said  of  Voltaire,  the 
world  is  bound  to  say  of  himself:  "Truly  M. 
de  Voltaire  had  a  talent  for  speech,  but  la- 
mentably wanted  that  of  silence."  But  he 
worked  like  a  Hercules.  He  does  not  charm 
the  demons  away  like  Emerson,  but  he  defies 
them.  Emerson  wins  them  over,  but  Carlyle  ex- 
plodes them  with  their  own  sulphur.  Both  men 
rendered  their  age  and  country  a  signal  serv- 
ice, and  to  rule  them  out  of  the  company  of  the 
great  authors  is  to  rob  that  company  of  the  two 
names  of  this  century  it  can  least  afford  to  lose. 

In  his  essay  on  Joubert,  Arnold  says,  follow- 
ing a  remark  of  Sainte-Beuve,that  as  to  the  esti- 
mate of  its  own  authors  every  nation  is  the  best 
judge  (the  positive  estimate,  not  the  compara- 
tive as  regards  the  authors  of  other  countries), 
and  that,  therefore,  a  foreigner's  judgments 
about  the  intrinsic  merits  of  a  nation's  authors 
will  generally,  when  at  complete  variance 
with  that  nation's  own,  be  wrong.  Arnold's 
verdict  upon  Emerson's  intrinsic  merits  was 
certainly  at  variance  with  that  of  the  best 
judges  among  Emerson's  countrymen,  and  is 
likely,  therefore,  according  to  the  above  dic- 
tum, to  be  wrong.  But  whether  it  was  or  not, 
it  is  no  doubt  true  that  every  people  possesses 
a  key  to  its  own  great  men,  or  to  those  who 
share  its  tendencies  and  hopes,  that  a  for- 
eigner cannot  possess,  whatsoever  keys  of 
another  sort  he  may  bring  with  him. 

From  Arnold's  point  of  view,  his  criticism 
of  Emerson  was  just  and  consistent ;  but  he 
said  he  spoke  not  of  himself,  but  assumed  to 
anticipate  the  verdict  of  time  and  fate  upon 
this  man.  But  time  and  fate  have  ways  of 
their  own  in  dealing -with  reputations,  and 
the  point  of  view  of  the  future  with  reference 
to  this  subject  is,  I  imagine,  as  likely  to  be 
different  from  Mr.  Arnold's  as  it  is  to  be  one 
with  it. 

John  Burroughs. 


MARSE    CHAN. 


A     TALE     OF     OLD     VIRGINIA. 


ONE  afternoon,  in  the  autumn  of  1872,  I 
was  riding  leisurely  down  the  sandy  road  that 
winds  along  the  top  of  the  water-shed  be- 
tween two  of  the  smaller  rivers  of  eastern 
Virginia.  The  road  I  was  traveling,  follow- 
ing "  the  ridge"  for  miles,  had  just  struck  me 
as  most  significant  of  the  character  of  the 
race  whose  only  avenue  of  communication 
with  the  outside  world  it  had  formerly  been. 
Their  once  splendid  mansions,  now  fast  fall- 


ing to  decay,  appeared  to  view  from  time  to 
time,  set  back  far  from  the  road,  in  proud 
seclusion  among  groves  of  oak  and  hickory 
now  scarlet  and  gold  with  the  early  frost. 
Distance  was  nothing  to  this  people;  time 
was  of  no  consequence  to  them.  They  de- 
sired but  a  level  path  in  life,  and  that  the) 
had,  though  the  way  was  longer  and  the  out( 
world  strode  by  them  as  they  dreamed. 
I  was  aroused  from  my  reflections  by  hear- 


MARSE    CHAN. 


933 


ing  some  one  ahead  of  me  calling,  "  Heah  !  — 
heah, — whoo-oop,  heah  !" 

Turning  the  curve  in  the  road,  I  saw  just 
before  me  a  negro  standing,  with  a  hoe  and 
a  watering-pot  in  his  hand.  He  had  evidently 
just  gotten  over  the  "  worm-fence  "  into  the 
road,  out  of  the  path  which  led  zigzag  across 
the  "  old  field  "  and  was  lost  to  sight  in  the 
dense  growth  of  sassafras.  When  I  rode  up, 
he  was  looking  anxiously  back  down  this  path 
for  his  dog.  So  engrossed  was  he  that  he  did 
not  even  hear  my  horse,  and  I  reined  in  to 
wait  until  he  should  turn  around  and  satisfy 
my  curiosity  as  to  the  handsome  old  place 
half  a  mile  off  from  the  road. 

The  numerous  out-buildings  and  the  large 
barns  and  stables  told  that  it  had  once  been 
the  seat  of  wealth,  and  the  wild  waste  of  sas- 
safras that  covered  the  broad  fields  gave  it  an 
air  of  desolation  that  greatly  excited  my  in- 
terest. Entirely  oblivious  of  my  proximity, 
the  negro  went  on  calling,  'Whoo-oop,  heah ! " 
until  along  the  path,  walking  very  slowly  and 
with  great  dignity,  appeared  a  noble-looking 
old  orange  and  white  setter,  gray  with  age, 
and  corpulent  with  excessive  feeding.  As  soon 
as  he  came  in  sight,  his  master  began : 

"  Yes,  dat  you !  You  gittin'  deaf  as  well 
as  bline,  I  s'pose !  Kyarnt  heah  me  callin',  I 
reckon  ?  W.hyn't  yo'  come  on,  dawg  ?" 

The  setter  sauntered  slowly  up  to  the  fence 
and  stopped  without  even  deigning  a  look  at 
the  speaker,  who  immediately  proceeded  to 
take  the  rails  down,  talking  meanwhile : 

"  Now,  I  got  to  pull  down  de  gap,  I 
s'pose  !  Yo'  so  sp'ilt  yo'  kyahn'  hardly  walk. 
Jes'  ez  able  to  git  over  it  as  I  is !  Jes'  like 
white  folks — think  'cuz  you's  white  and  I's 
black,  I  got  to  wait  on  yo'  all  de  time.  Ne'm 
mine,  I  ain'  gwi'  do  it ! " 

The  fence  having  been  pulled  down  suffi- 
ciently low  to  suit  his  dogship,  he  marched 
sedately  through,  and,  with  a  hardly  percep- 
tible lateral  movement  of  his  tail,  walked  on 
down  the  road.  Putting  up  the  rails  carefully, 
the  negro  turned  and  saw  me. 

"  Sarvent,  marster,"  he  said,  taking  his  hat 
off.  Then,  as  if  apologetically  for  having  per- 
mitted a  stranger  to  witness  what  was  merely 
a  family  affair,  he  added :  "  He  know  I  don' 
mean  nothin'by  what  I  sez.  He's  Marse  Chan's 
dawg,  an'  he's  so  ole  he  kyahn  git'  long  no 
pearter.  He  know  I'se  jes'  prodjickin'  wid  'im." 

"Who  is  Marse  Chan?"  I  asked;  "and 
whose  place  is  that  over  there, — and  the  one 
a  mile  or  two  back, —  the  place  with  the  big 
gate  and  the  carved  stone  pillars  ?  " 

"Marse  Chan,"  said  the  darkey,  "he's 
Marse  Channin' — my  young  marster;  an'  dem 
places, —  dis  one's  Weall's,  an'  de  one  back 
dyar  wid  de  rock  gate-pos's  is  ole  Cun'l 


Chahmb'lin's.  Dey  don'  nobody  live  dyar 
now,  'cep'  niggers.  Arfter  de  war  some  one 
or  nudder  bought  our  place,  but  his  name 
done  kind  o'  slipped  me.  I  nuvver  hearn  on 
'im  befo' ;  I  think  dey's  half-strainers.  I  don' 
ax  none  on  'em  no  odds.  I  lives  down  de 
road  heah,  a  little  piece,  an'  I  jes'  steps  down 
of  a  evenin'  and  looks  arfter  de  graves." 

"  Well,  where  is  Marse  Chan  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  Hi !  don'  you  know  ?  Marse  Chan,  he 
went  in  de  army.  I  wuz  wid  'im.  Yo'  know 
he  warn'  gwine  an'  lef  Sam." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  all  about  it  ? "  I  said, 
dismounting. 

Instantly,  and  as  if  by  instinct,  the  darky 
stepped  forward  and  took  my  bridle.  I  de- 
murred a  little ;  but  with  a  bow  that  would  have 
honored  old  Sir  Roger,  he  shortened  the  reins, 
and  taking  my  horse  from  me,  led  him  along.. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  Marse  Chan,"  I  said.. 

"  Lawd,  marster,  hit's  so  long  ago,  I'd 
a'mos'  forgit  all  about  it,  ef  I  hedn'  been  wid 
him  ever  sence  he  wuz  born.  Ez  'tis,  I  re- 
members it  jes'  like'  twuz  yistiddy.  Yo'  know 
Marse  Chan  an'  me — we  wuz  boys  togedder. 
I  wuz  older'n  he  wuz,  jes'  de  same  ez  he  wuz 
whiter'n  me.  I  wuz  born  plantin'  corn  time, 
de  spring  arfter  big  Jim  an'  de  six  steers  got 
washed  away  at  de  upper  ford  right  down 
dyar  b'low  de  quarters  ez  he  wuz  a  bringin' 
de  Chris'mas  things  home;  an'  Marse  Chan, 
he  warn'  born  tell  mos'  to  der  harves'  arfter 
my  sister  Nancy  married  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's 
Torm,  'bout  eight  years  arfterwoods. 

"  Well,  when  Marse  Chan  wuz  born  dey 
wuz  de  grettes'  doin's  at  home  you  ever  did 
see.  De  folks  all  hed  holiday,  jes'  like  in  de 
Chris'mas.  Ole  marster  (we  didn'  call  'im 
ole  marster  tell  arfter  Marse  Chan  wuz  born, 
— befo'  dat  he  wuz  jes'  de  marster,  so) — well, 
ole  marster,  his  face  fyar  shine  wid  pleasure, 
an'  all  de  folks  wuz  mighty  glad,  too,  'cause 
dey  all  loved  ole  marster,  and  aldo'  dey  did 
step  aroun'  right  peart  when  ole  marster  wuz 
lookin'  at  'em,  dyar  warn'  nyar  han'  on  de 
place  but  what,  ef  he  wanted  anythin',  would 
walk  up  to  de  back  poach,  an'  say  he  warn* 
to  see  de  marster.  An'  ev'ybody  wuz  talkin* 
'bout  de  young  marster,  an'  de  maids  an'  de 
wimmens  'bout  de  kitchen  wuz  sayin'  how 
'twuz  de  purties'  chile  dey  ever  see;  an'  at 
dinner-time  de  mens  (all  on  'em  hed  holiday) 
come  roun'  de  poach  an'  ax  how  de  missis 
an'  de  young  marster  wuz,  an'  ole  marster 
come  out  on  de  poach  an'  smile  wus  'n  a 
'possum,  an'  sez,  '  Thankee !  Bofe  doin'  fust 
rate,  boys ' ;  an'  den  he  stepped  back  in  de 
house,  sort  o'  laughin'  to  hisse'f,  an'  in  a  min- 
ute he  come  out  agin  wid  de  baby  in  he 
arms,  all  wropped  up  in  flannens  an'  things, 
an'  sez,  '  Heah  he  is,  boys.'  All  de  folks 


934 


MARSE    CHAN. 


den,  dey  went  up  on  de  poach  to  look  at 
him,  drappin'  dey  hats  on  de  steps,  an'  scrap- 
in'  dey  feets  ez  dey  went  up.  An'  pres'n'y  ole 
marster,  lookin'  down  at  we  all  chil'en  all 
packed  togedder  down  deah  like  a  parecel  o' 
sheep-burrs,  cotch  sight  o'  me  (he  knowed 
my  name,  'cause  I  use'  to  hole  he  hoss  fur 
'im  sometimes;  but  he  didn'  know  all  de  chil- 
'en by  name,  dey  wuz  so  many  on  'em),  an' 
he  sez, '  Come  up  heah.'  So  up  I  goes  tippin', 
skeered  like,  an'  ole  marster  sez,  '  Ain'  you 
Mymie's  son  ?  '  '  Yass,  seh,'  sez  I.  '  Well,'  sez 
he,  'I'm  gwine  to  give  you  to  yo'  young 
Marse  Channin'  to  be  his  body-servant,'  an' 
he  put  de  baby  right  in  my  arms  (it's  de 
truth  I'm  tellin'  you !),  an'  yo'  jes'  ought  to 
a-heard  de  folks  sayin',  «  Lawd !  marster,  dat 
boy'll  drap  dat  chile ! '  *  Naw,  he  wont,'  sez 
marster;  'I  kin  trust  'im.'  And  den  he  sez: 
1  Now,  Sam,  from  dis  time  you  belong  to 
yo'  young  Marse  Channin' ;  I  wan'  you  to 
tek  keer  on  him  ez  long  ez  he  lives.  You  are 
to  be  his  boy  from  dis  time.  An'  now,'  he 
sez,  '  carry  him  in  de  house.'  An'  he  walks 
arfter  me  an'  opens  de  do's  fur  me,  an'  I 
kyars  him  in  my  arms,  an'  lays  'im  down  on 
de  bed.  An'  from  dat  time  I  wuz  tooken  in  de 
house  to  be  Marse  Channin's  body-servant. 

"Well,  you  nuvver  see  a  chile  grow  so. 
Pres'n'y  he  growed  up  right  big,  an'  ole 
marster  sez  he  must  have  some  edication.  So 
he  sont  him  to  school  to  ole  Miss  Lawry 
down  dyar,  dis  side  o'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's, 
an'  I  use'  to  go  'long  wid  him  an'  tote  he 
books  an'  we  all's  snacks ;  an'  when  he  larnt 
to  read  an'  spell  right  good,  an'  got  'bout  so-o 
big,  ole  Miss  Lawry  she  died,  an'  ole  mars- 
ter said  he  mus'  have  a  man  to  teach  him 
an'  trounce  him.  So  we  all  went  to  Mr.  Hall, 
whar  kep'  de  school-house  beyant  de  creek, 
an'  dyar  we  went  ev'y  day,  'cep'  Sat'd'ys  of 
co'se,  an'  sich  days  ez  Marse  Chan  din'  warn' 
go,  an'  ole  missis  begged  him  off. 

"  Hit  wuz  down  dyar  Marse  Chan  fust 
took  notice  o'  Miss  Anne.  Mr.  Hall,  he 
taught  gals  ez  well  ez  boys,  an'  Cun'l  Chahm- 
b'lin he  sont  his  daughter  (dat's  Miss  Anne 
I'm  talkin'  about).  She  wuz  a  leetle  bit  o'  gal 
when  she  fust  come.  Yo'  see,  her  ma  wuz 
dead,  an'  ole  Miss  Lucy  Chahmb'lin,  she 
lived  wid  her  brudder  an'  kep'  house  for  him ; 
an'  he  wuz  so  busy  wid  politics,  he  didn'  have 
much  time  to  spyar,  so  he  sont  Miss  Anne  to 
Mr.  Hall's  by  a  'ooman  wid  a  note.  When  she 
come  dat  day  in  de  school-house,  an'  all  de 
chil'en  looked  at  her  so  hard,  she  tu'n  right 
red,  an'  tried  to  pull  her  long  curls  over  her 
eyes,  an'  den  put  bofe  de  backs  of  her  little 
han's  in  her  two  eyes,  an'  begin  to  cry  to  her- 
se'f.  Marse  Chan  he  was  settin'  on  de  een  o' 
de  bench  nigh  de  do',  an'  he  jes'  reached  out 


an'  put  he  arm  roun'  her  an'  drawed  her  up 
to  him.  An'  he  kep'  whisperin'  to  her,  an'  call- 
in'  her  name,  an'  coddlin'  her;  an'  pres'n'y  she 
took  her  han's  down  an'  begin  to  laugh. 

"  Well,  dey  'peared  to  tek'  a  gret  fancy  to 
each  udder  from  dat  time.  Miss  Anne  she 
warn'  nothin'  but  a  baby  hardly,  an'  Marse 
Chan  he  wuz  a  good  big  boy  'bout  mos' 
thirteen  years  ole,  I  reckon.  Hows'ever,  dey 
sut'n'y  wuz  sot  on  each  other,  an'  (yo'  heah 
me!)  ole  marster  an'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  dey 
'peared  to  like  it  'bout  well  ez  de  chil'en. 
Yo'  see  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  place  jined  ourn, 
an'  it  looked  jes'  ez  natural  fur  dem  two  chil- 
'en to  marry  an'  meek  it  one  plantation,  ez  it 
did  fur  de  creek  to  run  down  de  bottom  from 
our  place  into  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  I  don' 
rightly  think  de  chil'en  thought  'bout  gitten 
married,  not  den,  no  mo'n  I  thought  'bout 
marryin'  Judy  when  she  was  a  little  gal  at 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,  runnin'  'bout  de  house, 
huntin'  fur  Miss  Lucy's  spectacles;  but  dey 
wuz  good  frien's  from  de  start.  Marse  Chan 
he  use'  to  kyar  Miss  Anne's  books  fur  her 
ev'y  day,  an'  ef  de  road  wuz  muddy  or  she 
wuz  tired,  he  use'  to  tote  her;  an'  'twarn' 
hardly  a  day  passed  dat  he  didn'  kyar  her 
some'n'  to  school — apples  or  hick'y  nuts,  or 
some'n'.  He  wouldn'  let  none  o'  de  chil'en  tease 
her,  nudder.  Heh !  One  day,  one  o'  de  boys 
poked  he  finger  at  Miss  Anne,  an'  arfter  school 
Marse  Chan  he  axed  him  'roun'hine  de  school- 
house  out  o'  sight,  an'  ef  he  didn'  whop  'im ! 

"  Marse  Chan,  he  wuz  de  peartes'  scholar 
ole  Mr.  Hall  hed,  an'  Mr.  Hall  he  wuz 
mighty  proud  o'  him.  I  don'  think  he  use' 
to  beat  'im  ez  much  ez  he  did  de  udders,  aldo' 
he  wuz  de  head  in  all  debilment  dat  went 
on,  jes'  ez  he  wuz  in  sayin'  he  lessons. 

"  Heh !  one  day  in  summer,  jes'  'fo'  de 
school  broke  up,  dyah  come  up  a  storm  right 
sudden,  an'  riz  de  creek  (dat  one  yo'  cross' 
back  yonder),  an'  Marse  Chan  he  toted  Miss 
Anne  home  on  he  back.  He  ve'y  off'n  did 
dat  when  de  parf  wuz  muddy.  But  dis  day 
when  dey  come  to  de  creek,  it  had  done 
washed  all  de  logs  'way.  'Twuz  still  mighty 
high,  so  Marse  Chan  he  put  Miss  Anne  down, 
an'  he  took  a  pole  an'  waded  right  in.  Hit 
took  him  long  up  to  de  shoulders.  Den  he 
waded  back,  an'  took  Miss  Anne  up  on  his 
head  an'  kyared  her  right  over.  At  first  she 
wuz  skeered ;  but  he  toP  her  he  could  swim  an' 
wouldn'  let  her  git  hu't,  an'  den  she  let  him 
kyar  her  'cross,  she  hol'in'  his  han's.  I  warn' 
'long  dat  day,  but  he  sut'n'y  did  dat  thing. 

"  Ole  marster  he  wuz  so  pleased  'bout  it, 
he  giv'  Marse  Chan  a  pony ;  an'  Marse  Chan 
rode  him  to  school  de  day  arfter  he  come,  so 
proud,  an'  sayin'  how  he  wuz  gwine  to  let 
Anne  ride  behine  him;  an'  when  he  come 


MARSE    CHAN. 


935 


home  dat  evenin'  he  wuz  walkin'.  « Hi ! 
where's  yo'  pony  ?  '  said  ole  marster.  *  I  give 
him  to  Anne,'  says  Marse  Chan.  '  She  liked 
him,  an' — I  kin  walk.'  *  Yes,'  sez  ole  marster, 
laughin',  '  I  s'pose  you's  already  done  giv' 
her  yo'se'f,  an'  nex'  thing  I  know  you'll  be 
givin'  her  this  plantation  and  all  my  niggers.' 

"  Well,  about  a  fortnight  or  sich  a  matter 
arfter  that,  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  sont  over  an' 
invited  all  o'  we  all  over  to  dinner,  an'  Marse 
Chan  wuz  'spressly  named  in  de  note  whar 
Ned  brought ;  an'  arfter  dinner  he  made  ole 
Phil,  whar  wuz  his  ker'ige-driver,  bring  roun' 
Marse  Chan's  pony  wid  a  little  side-saddle 
on  'im,  an'  a  beautiful  little  hoss  wid  a  bran' 
new  saddle  an'  bridle  on  him ;  an'  he  gits  up 
an'  mecks  Marse  Chan  a  gret  speech,  an'  pre- 
sents him  de  little  hoss ;  an'  den  he  calls  Miss 
Anne,  an'  she  comes  out  on  de  poach  in  a  lit- 
tle ridin'  frock,  an'  dey  puts  her  on  her  pony, 
an'  Marse  Chan  mounts  his  hoss,  an'  dey  goes 
to  ride,  while  de  grown  folks  is  a  laughin'  an' 
chattin'  an'  smokin'  dey  cigars. 

"  Dem  wuz  good  ole  times,  marster, —  de 
bes'  Sam  ever  see !  Dey  wuz,  in  fac' !  Nig- 
gers didn'  hed  nothin'  't  all  to  do, — jes'  hed 
to  'ten'  to  de  feedin',  an'  cleanin'  de  hosses, 
an'  doin'  what  de  marster  tell  'em  to  do ;  an' 
when  dey  wuz  sick,  dey  had  things  sont  'em 
out  de  house,  an'  de  same  doctor  come  to 
see  'em  whar  'ten'  to  de  white  folks  when 
dey  wuz  po'ly.  Dyar  warn'  no  trouble  nor 
nothin'. 

"  Well,  things  tuk  a  change  arfter  dat. 
Marse  Chan  he  went  to  de  bo'din'  school, 
whar  he  use'  to  write  to  me  constant.  Ole 
missis  use'  to  read  me  de  letters,  an'  den  I'd 
git  Miss  Anne  to  read  'em  agin  to  me  when 
I'd  see  her.  He  use'  to  write  to  her  too,  an' 
she  use'  to  write  to  him  too.  Den  Miss  Anne 
she  wuz  sont  off  to  school  too.  An'  in  de 
summer  time  dey'd  bofe  come  home,  an'  yo' 
hardly  knowed  whether  Marse  Chan  lived  at 
home  or  over  at  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  He 
wuz  over  dyah  constant.  'Twuz  always  rid- 
in'  or  fishin'  down  dyah  in  de  river ;  or  some- 
times he'd  go  over  dyah,  an'  him  an'  she'd  go 
out  an'  set  in  de  yard  onder  de  trees ;  she  set- 
tin'  up  meckin'  out  she  wuz  knittin'  some  sort 
o'  bright-cullored  some'n,  wid  de  grarss  grow- 
in'  all  up  'g'inst  her,  an'  her  hat  th'owed  back 
on  her  neck,  an'  he  readin'  to  her  out  books ; 
an'  sometimes  dey'd  bofe  read  out  de  same 
book,  fust  one  an'  den  todder.  I  use'  to  see 
'em  !  Dat  wuz  when  dey  wuz  growin'  up  like. 

"  Den  ole  marster  he  run  for  Congress, 
an'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  wuz  put  up  to 
run  'ginst  ole  marster  by  de  Dimicrats ;  but 
old  marster  he  beat  'im.  Yo'  know  he  wuz 
gwine  do  dat !  Co'se  he  wuz  !  Dat  made  ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  mighty  mad,  and  dey  stopt 


visitin'  each  udder  reg'lar,  like  dey  had  been 
doin'  all  'long.  Den  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he 
sort  o'  got  in  debt,  an'  sell  some  o'  he  nig- 
gers, an'  dat's  de  way  de  fuss  begun.  Dat's 
whar  de  lawsuit  cum  from.  Ole  marster  he 
didn'  like  nobody  to  sell  niggers,  an'  knowin' 
dat  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  wuz  sellin'  o'  his,  he 
writ  an'  offered  to  buy  his  M'ria  an'  all  her 
childen,  'cause  she  hed  married  our  Zeek'yel. 
An'  don'  yo'  t'ink,  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  axed 
ole  marster  mo'  'n  three  niggers  wuz  wuth 
fur  M'ria.  Befo'  ole  marster  bought  her, 
dough,  de  sheriff  cum  an'  leveled  on  M'ria 
an'  a  whole  parcel  o'  udder  niggers.  Ole 
marster  he  went  to  de  sale,  an'  bid  for  'em ; 
but  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  got  some  one  to  bid 
'ginst  ole  marster.  Dey  wuz  knocked  out  to 
ole  marster  dough,  and  den  dey  hed  a  big 
lawsuit,  an'  ole  marster  wuz  agwine  to  co't, 
off  an'  on,  fur  some  years,  till  at  lars'  de 
co't  decided  dat  M'ria  belonged  to  ole  mars- 
ter. Ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  den  wuz  so  mad 
he  sued  ole  marster  for  a  little  strip  o'  Ian' 
down  dyah  on  de  line  fence,  whar  he  said  be- 
longed to  him.  Ev'ybody  know'd  hit  belonged 
to  ole  marster.  Ef  yo'  go  down  dyah  now,  I 
kin  show  it  to  yo',  inside  de  line  fence,  whar 
it  hed  done  bin  ever  since  long  befo'  ole  mars- 
ter wuz  born.  But  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  wuz  a 
mons'us  perse verin'  man,  an'  ole  marster  he 
wouldn'  let  nobody  run  over  him.  No,  dat 
he  wouldn' !  So  dey  wuz  agwine  down  to 
co't  about  dat,  fur  I  don'  know  how  long, 
till  ole  marster  beat  him. 

"  All  dis  time,  yo'  know,  Marse  Chan  wuz 
agoin'  backa'ds  an'  fora'ds  to  college,  an'  wuz 
growed  up  a  ve'y  fine  young  man.  He  wuz 
a  ve'y  likely  gent'man !  Miss  Anne  she  hed 
done  mos'  growed  up,  too, — wuz  puttin'  her 
hyar  up  like  ole  missis  use'  to  put  hers  up, 
an'  't  wuz  jes'  ez  bright  ez  de  sorrel's  mane 
when  de  sun  cotch  on  it,  an'  her  eyes  wuz 
gre't  big  dark  eyes,  like  her  pa's,  on'y  bigger 
an'  not  so  fierce,  an'  'twarn  none  o'  de 
young  ladies  ez  purty  ez  she  wuz.  She  an' 
Marse  Chan  still  set  a  heap  o'  sto'  by  one 
'nudder,  but  I  don'  t'ink  dey  wuz  easy  wid 
each  udder  ez  when  he  used  to  tote  her  home 
from  school  on  his  back.  Marse  Chan  he  use' 
to  love  de  ve'y  groun'  she  walked  on,  dough, 
in  my  'pinion.  Heh  !  His  face  'twould  light 
up  whenever  she  come  into  chu'ch,  or  any- 
where, jes'  like  de  sun  hed  come  th'oo  a  chink 
on  it  suddenly. 

"  Den  ole  marster  lost  he  eyes.  D'  yo' 
ever  hyah  'bout  dat  ?  Heish  !  Didn'  yo'  ? 
Well,  one  night  de  big  barn  cotch  fire.  De 
stables,  yo'  know,  wuz  under  de  big  barn,  an' 
all  de  hosses  wuz  in  dyah.  Hit  'peared  to  me 
like  'twarn'  no  time  befo'  all  de  folks  an'  de 
neighbors  dey  come,  an'  dey  wuz  a-totin' 


936 


MARSE   CHAN. 


water,  an'  a-tryin'  to  save  de  po'  critters,  an 
dey  got  a  heap  on  'em  out ;  but  de  ke'idge- 
hosses  dey  wouldn'  come  out,  an'  dey  wuz 
a-runnin'  back'ads  an'  for'ads  inside  de  stalls, 
a-nickerin'  an'  a-screamin',  like  dey  know'd 
dey  time  hed  come.  Yo'  could  heah  'em  so 
pitiful,  an'  pres'n'y  ole  marster  said  to  Ham 
Fisher  (he  wuz  de  ke'idge-driver),  'Go  in 
dyah  an'  try  to  save  'em ;  don'  let  'em  bu'n 
to  death.'  An'  Ham  he  went  right  in.  An' 
jes'  arfter  he  got  in,  de  shed  whar  it  hed  fus' 
cotch  fell  in,  an'  de  sparks  shot  'way  up  in 
de  air;  an'  Ham  didn'  come  back,  an'  de  fire 
begun  to  lick  out  under  de  eaves  over  whar  de 
ke'idge  hosses'  stalls  wuz,  an'  all  of-  a  sudden 
ole  marster  tunned  and  kissed  ole  missis,  who 
wuz  stan'in'  nigh  him,  wid  her  face  jest  ez 
white  ez  a  sperit's,  an',  befo'  anybody  know'd 
what  he  wuz  gwine  do,  jumped  right  in  de 
do',  an'  de  smoke  come  po'in'  out  behine 
'im.  Well,  seh,  I  nuvver  'specks  to  hyah  tell 
Judgment  sich  a  soun'  ez  de  folks  set  up.  Ole 
missis  she  jes'  drapt  down  on  her  knees  in  de 
mud  an'  prayed  out  loud.  Hit  'peared  like 
her  pra'r  wuz  heard  ;  for  in  a  minit,  right  out 
de  same  do',  kyarin'  Ham  Fisher  in  his  arms, 
come  ole  marster,  wid  his  clo'es  all  blazin'. 
Dey  flung  water  on  him,  an'  put  him  out ; 
an',  ef  you  b'lieve  me,  yo'  wouldn'  a-knowed 
'twuz  ole  marster.  Yo'  see,  he  hed  find  Ham 
Fisher  done  fall  down  in  de  smoke  right  by 
de  ke'idge-hoss'  stalls,  whar  he  sont  him,  an' 
he  hed  to  tote  him  back  in  his  arms  th'oo 
de  fire  what  hed  done  cotch  de  front  part 
o'  de  stable,  an'  to  keep  de  flame  from 
gittin'  down  Ham  Fisher's  th'ote  he  hed  tuk 
off  his  own  hat  and  mashed  it  all  over  Ham 
Fisher's  face,  an'  he  hed  kep'  Ham  Fisher 
from  bein'  so  much  bu'nt ;  but  he  wuz  bu'nt 
dreadful!  His  beard  an'  hyarwuz  all  nyawed 
off,  an'  his  face  an'  han's  an'  neck  wuz  scori- 
fied terrible.  Well,  he  jes'  laid  Ham  Fisher 
down,  an'  then  he  kind  o'  staggered  for'ad, 
an'  ole  missis  ketch'  him  in  her  arms.  Ham 
Fisher,  he  warnt  bu'nt  so  bad,  an'  he  got  out 
iii  a  month  or  two ;  an'  arfter  a  long  time,  ole 
marster  he  got  well,  too ;  but  he  wuz  always 
stone  blind  arfter  dat.  He  nuvver  could  see 
none  from  dat  night. 

"  Marse  Chan  he  corned  home  from  college 
toreckly,  an'  he  cert'n'y  did  nuss  ole  marster 
faithful, — jes'  like  a  'ooman.  Den  he  took 
charge  o'  de  plantation  arfter  dat ;  an'  I  use' 
to  wait  on  him  jes'  like  when  we  wuz  boys 
togedder;  an'  sometimes  we'd  slip  off  an' 
have  a  fox  hunt,  an'  he'd  be  jes'  like  he  wuz 
in  pie  times,  befo'  ole  marster  got  bline,  an' 
Miss  Anne  Chahmb'lin  stopt  comin'  over  to 
our  house,  an'  settin'  onder  de  trees,  readin' 
out  de  same  book. 

"  He  sut'n'y  wuz  good  to  me.  Nothin'  never 


made  no  diffunce  'bout  dat.  He  never  hit  me 
a  lick  in  his  life  —  an*  never  let  nobody  else 
do  it,  nudder. 

"  I  'members  one  day,  when  he  wuz  a  leetle 
bit  o'  boy,  ole  marster  hed  done  tole  we  all 
chil'en  not  to  slide  on  de  straw-stacks;  an' 
one  day  me  an'  Marse  Chan  thought  ole 
marster  hed  done  gone  'way  from  home.  We 
watched  him  git  on  he  hoss  an'  ride  up  de 
road  out  o'  sight,  an'  we  wuz  out  in  de  field 
a-slidin'  an'  a-slidin',  when  up  comes  ole 
marster.  We  started  to  run  ;  but  he  hed  done 
see  us,  an'  he  called  us  to  come  back ;  an* 
sich  a  whoppin'  ez  he  did  gi'  us  ! 

"  Fust  he  took  Marse  Chan,  an'  den  he 
teched  me  up.  He  never  hu't  me,  but  in  co'se 
I  wuz  a-hollerin'  ez  hard  ez  I  could  stave  it, 
'cause  I  knowed  dat  wuz  gwi'  mek  him  stop. 
Marse  Chan  he  hed'n  open  he  mouf  long 
ez  ole  marster  wuz  tunin'  him ;  but  soon  ez  he 
commence  warmin'  me  an'  I  begin  to  holler, 
Marse  Chan  he  bust  out  cryin',  an'  stept 
right  in  befo'  ole  marster,  an'  ketchin'  de 
whop,  sed  : 

"  '  Stop,  seh !  Yo'  sha'n't  whop  him ;  he 
b'longs  to  me,  an'  ef  you  hit  him  another  lick 
I'll  set  him  free  ! ' 

"  I  wish  yo'  hed  see  ole  marster.  Marse 
Chan  he  warn'  mo'n  eight  years  ole,  an'  dyah 
dey  wuz — ole  marster  stan'in'  wid  he  whop 
raised  up,  an'  Marse  Chan  red  an'  cryin', 
hol'in'  on  to  it,  an'  sayin'  I  b'longst  to  him. 

"  Ole  marster,  he  raise'  de  whop,  an'  den 
he  drapt  it,  an'  broke  out  in  a  smile  over  he 
face,  an'  he  chuck'  Marse  Chan  onder  der 
chin,  an'  tu'n  right  roun'  an'  went  away, 
laughin'  to  hissef,  an'  I  heah'  'im  tellin'  ole 
missis  dat  evenin',  an'  laughin'  'bout  it. 

"  'Twan'  so  mighty  long  arfter  dat  when 
dey  fust  got  to  talkin'  'bout  de  war.  Dey  wuz 
a-dictatin'  backa'ds  an'  forra'ds  'bout  it  fur 
two  or  three  years  'fo'  it  come  sho'  nuff,  you 
know.  Ole  marster,  he  wuz  a  Whig,  an'  of 
co'se  Marse  Chan  he  tuk  after  he  pa.  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin,  he  wuz  a  Dimicrat.  He  wuz  in 
favor  of  de  war,  an'  ole  marster  and  Marse 
Chan  dey  wuz  agin'  it.  Dey  wuz  a-talkin' 
'bout  it  all  de  time,  an'  purty  soon  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  he  went  about  ev'vywhar  speakin' 
an'  noratin'  'bout  Ferginia  ought  to  secede; 
an'  Marse  Chan  he  wuz  picked  up  to  talk 
agin'  'im.  Dat  wuz  de  way  dey  come  to 
fight  de  duil.  I  sut'n'y  wuz  skeered  fur 
Marse  Chan  dat  mawnin',  an'  he  wuz  jes'  ez 
cool !  Yo'  see,  hit  happen  so  :  Marse  Chan 
he  wuz  a-speakin'  down  at  de  Deep  Creek 
Tavern,  an'  he  kind  o'  got  de  bes'  of  ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin.  All  de  white  folks  laughed 
an'  hoorawed,  an'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  —  m 
Lawd  !  I  t'ought  he'd  'a'  bu'st,  he  wuz  so  m 
Well,  when  it  come  to  his  time  to  speak, 


i 


MARSE    CffAN. 


937 


jes'  light  into  Marse  Chan.  He  call  'im  a 
traitor,  an'  a  ab'litionis',  an'  I  don'  know  what 
all.  Marse  Chan,  he  jes'  kep'  cool  till  de  ole 
Cun'l  light  into  he  pa.  Ez  soon  ez  he  name 
ole  marster,  I  seen  Marse  Chan  sort  o'  lif  up 
he  head.  D'  yo'  ever  see  a  hoss  rar  he  head 
up  right  sudden  at  night  when  he  see  some- 
thin'  comin'  to'ds  'im  from  de  side  an'  he 
don'  know  what  'tis  ?  Ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin, 
he  went  right  on.  He  said  ole  marster  hed 
taught  Marse  Chan ;  dat  ole  marster  wuz  a 
wuss  ab'litionis'  dan  he  son.  I  looked  at 
Marse  Chan,  an'  sez  to  mysef :  '  Fo'  Gord ! 
old  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  better  min','  an  I 
hedn't  got  de  wuds  out,  when  ole  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin  'cuse'  ole  marster  o'  cheatin' 
'im  out  o'  he  niggers,  an'  stealin'  piece  o'  he 
Ian' — dat's  de  Ian'  I  tole  you  'bout.  Well, 
seh,  nex'  thing  I  knowed,  I  heahed  Marse 
Chan  —  hit  all  happen  right  'long  togedder, 
like  lightnin'  an'  thunder  when  dey  hit  right 
at  you  — I  heah  'im  say : 

"  '  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  what  you  say  is  false, 
an'  you  know  it  to  be  so.  You  have  willfully 
slandered  one  of  the  pures'  an'  nobles'  men 
God  ever  made,  an'  nothin'  but  yo'  gray  hyars 
protects  you.' 

"  Well,  ole  Cun'l  Chamb'lin,  he  ra'ed  an' 
he  pitch'd.  He  said  he  wan'  too  ole,  an'  he'd 
show  'im  so. 

"  <  Ve'y  well,'  says  Marse  Chan. 

"  De  meetin'  broke  up  den.  I  wuz  hol'in 
de  hosses  out  dyar  in  de  road  by  de  een'  o'  de 
poach,  an'  I  see  Marse  Chan  talkin'  an  'talkin' 
to  Mr.  Gordon  and  anudder  gent'man,  an' 
den  he  come  out  an'  got  on  de  sorrel  an'  gal- 
loped off.  Soon  ez  he  got  out  out  o'  sight,  he 
pulled  up,  an'  we  walked  along  tell  we  come 
to  de  road  whar  leads  off  to'ds  Mr.  Bar- 
bour's.  He  wuz  de  big  lawyer  o'  de  country. 
Dar  he  tu'ned  off.  All  dis  time  he  hed'n  sed 
a  wud,  'cep'  to  kind  o'  mumble  to  hissef  now 
and  den.  When  we  got  to  Mr.  Barbour's,  he 
got  down  an'  went  in.  Dat  wuz  in  de  late 
winter;  de  folks  wuz  jes'  beginnin'  to  plow 
fur  corn.  He  staid  dyar  'bout  two  hours,  an' 
when  he  come  out  Mr.  Barbour  come  out  to 
de  gate  wid  'im  an'  shake  han's  arfter  he  got 
up  in  de  saddle.  Den  we  all  rode  off.  'Twuz 
late  den  —  good  dark;  an'  we  rid  ez  hard  ez 
we  could,  tell  we  come  to  de  ole  school-house 
at  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  gate.  When  we  got 
dar  Marse  Chan  got  down  an'  walked  right 
slow  'roun'  de  house.  Arfter  lookin'  'roun'  a 
little  while  an'  tryin'  de  do'  to  see  ef  it  wuz 
shet,  he  walked  down  de  road  tell  he  got  to 
de  creek.  He  stop'  dyar  a  little  while  an' 
picked  up  two  or  three  little  rocks  an'  frowed 
'em  in,  an'  pres'n'y  he  got  up  an'  we  come  on 
home.  Ez  he  got  down,  he  tu'ned  to  me  an', 
rubbin'  de  sorrel's  nose,  said :  '  Have  'em 


well   fed,    Sam;   I'll   want  'em   early  in   de 
mawninV 

"  Dat  night  at  supper  he  laugh  an'  talk,  an' 
he  set  at  de  table  a  long  time.  Arfter  ole 
marster  went  to  bed,  he  went  in  de  charmber 
an'  set  on  de  bed  by  'im  talkin'  to  'im  an  'tellin' 
'im  'bout  de  meetin'  an'  ev'ything ;  but  he 
never  mention  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's  name. 
When  he  got  up  to  come  out  to  de  of- 
fice in  de  yard,  whar  he  slept,  he  stooped 
down  an'  kissed  'im  jes'  like  he  wuz  a  baby 
layin'  dyar  in  de  bed,  an'  he'd  hardly  let  ole 
missis  go  at  all.  I  knowed  some'n  wuz  up, 
an'  nex'  mornin'  I  called  'im  early  befo'  light, 
like  he  tole  me,  an'  he  dressed  an'  come  out 
pres'n'y  jes'  like  he  wuz  going  to  chu'ch.  I  had 
de  hosses  ready,  an'  we  went  out  de  back 
way  to'ds  de  river.  Ez  we  rode  along,  he 
said : 

"  '  Sam,  you  an'  I  wuz  boys  togedder,  wa'n't 
we  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  sez  I,  '  Marse  Chan,  dat  we  wuz.' 

"  '  You  have  been  ve'y  faithful  to  me,'  sez 
he,  «  an'  I  have  seen  to  it  that  you  are  well 
provided  for.  You  wan'  to  marry  Judy,  I 
know,  an'  you'll  be  able  to  buy  her  ef  you 
want  to.' 

"  Den  he  tole  me  he  wuz  goin'  to  fight  a  duil, 
an'  in  case  he  should  git  shot,  he  had  set  me 
free  an'  giv'  me  nuff  to  tek  keer  o'  me  an' 
my  wife  ez  long  ez  we  lived.  He  said  he'd 
Tike  me  to  stay  an  tek  keer  o'  ole  marster  an' 
ole  missis  ez  long  ez  dey  lived,  an'  he  said  it 
wouldn'  be  very  long,  he  reckoned.  Dat  wuz 
de  on'y  time  he  voice  broke — when  he  said 
dat ;  an'  I  couldn'  speak  a  wud,  my  th'oat 
choked  me  so. 

"  When  we  come  to  de  river,  we  tu'ned  right 
up  de  bank,  an'  arfter  ridin'  'bout  a  mile  or 
sich  a  matter,  we  stopped  whar  dey  wuz  a 
little  clearin'  wid  elder  bushes  on  one  side  an' 
two  big  gum  trees  on  de  udder,  an'  de  sky  wuz 
all  red,  an'  de  water  down  todes  whar  de  sun 
wuz  comin'  wuz  jes'  like  de  sky. 

"  Pres'n'y  Mr.  Gordon  he  come  wid  a  'hog- 
any  box  'bout  so  big  'fore  'im,  an'  he  got 
down,  an'  Marse  Chan  tole  me  to  tek  all  de 
hosses  an'  go  'roun'  behin'  de  bushes  whar  I 
tell  you  'bout,  —  off  to  one  side ;  an'  'fore  I 
got  'roun'  dar,  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  an'  Mr. 
Hennin  an'  Dr.  Call  come  ridin'  from  tudder 
way,  to'ds  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's.  When 
dey  hed  tied  dey  hosses,  de  udder  gent'mens 
went  up  to  whar  Mr.  Gordon  wuz,  an'  arfter 
some  chattin'  Mr.  Hennin  step'  off  'bout  fur 
ez  'cross  dis  road,  or  mebbe  it  mout  be  a  little 
furder;  an'  den  I  seed  'em  th'oo  de  bushes 
loadin'  de  pistils,  an'  talk'  a  little  while;  an' 
den  Marse  Chan  an'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin 
walked  up  wid  de  pistils  in  dey  han's,  an' 
Marse  Chan  he  stood  wid  his  face  right  to'ds 


MARSE    CHAN. 


de  sun.  I  seen  it  shine  on  'im  jes'  ez  it  come 
up  over  de  low  groun's,  an'  he  look'  like  he 
did  sometimes  when  he  come  out  of  chu'ch. 
I  wuz  so  skeered  I  couldn'  say  nuthin'.  Ole 
Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  could  shoot  fust  rate,  an' 
Marse  Chan  he  never  missed. 

"  Den  I  heared  Mr.  Gordon  say,  '  Gent'- 
mens,  is  yo'  ready?'  and  bofe  of  'em  sez, 
1  Ready,'  jes'  so. 

"An' he  sez,  *  Fire,  one,  two,' — an'ez  he  said 
1  one,'  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  raised  he  pistil  an' 
shot  right  at  Marse  Chan.  De  ball  went  th'oo 
his  hat.  I  seen  he  hat  sort  o'  settle  on  he 
head  ez  de  bullit  hit  it,  an'  he  jes'  tilted  his 
pistil  up  in  de  a'r  an'  shot — bang;  an'  ez  de 
pistil  went  bang,  he  sez  to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin, 
«  I  mek  you  a  present  to  yo'  fam'ly,  seh ! ' 

"  Well,  dey  had  some  talkin'  arfter  dat.  I 
didn'  git  rightly  what  it  wuz ;  but  it  'peared 
like  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  warn't  satisfied,  an' 
wanted  to  have  anudder  shot.  De  seconds 
dey  wuz  talkin',  an'  pres'n'y  dey  put  de  pistils 
up,  an'  Marse  Chan  an'  Mr.  Gordon  shook 
han's  wid  Mr.  Hennin  an'  Dr.  Call,  an'  come 
an'  got  on  dey  hosses.  An'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin 
he  got  on  his  horse  an'  rode  away  wid  de 
udder  gent'mens,  lookin'  like  he  did  de  day 
befo'  when  all  de  people  laughed  at  'im. 

"  I  b'lieve  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  wan'  to 
shoot  Marse  Chan,  anyway  ! 

"  We  come  on  home  to  breakfast,  I  totin' 
de  box  wid  de  pistils  befo'  me  on  de  roan. 
Would  you  b'lieve  me,  seh,  Marse  Chan  he 
never  said  a  wud  'bout  it  to  ole  marster  or 
nobody.  Ole  missis  didn'  fin'  out  'bout  it  for 
mo'  'n  a  month,  an'  den,  Lawd !  how  she  did 
cry  and  kiss  Marse  Chan ;  an'  ole  marster, 
aldo'  he  never  say  much,  he  wuz  jes'  ez 
please'  ez  ole  missis.  He  call'  me  in  de  room 
an'  made  me  tole  'im  all  'bout  it,  an*  when  I 
got  th'oo  he  gi'  me  five  dollars  an'  a  pyar  of 
breeches. 

"  But  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  he  nebber  did 
furgive  Marse  Chan,  and  Miss  Anne  she  got 
mad  too.  Wimmens  is  mons'sus  onreasonable 
nohow.  Dey's  jes'  like  a  catfish :  you  can  n' 
tek'  hole  on  'em  like  udder  folks,  an'  when 
you  gits  'em  yo'  can  n'  always  hole  'em. 

"  What  meks  me  think  so  ?  Heaps  o' 
things, — dis  :  Marse  Chan  he  done  gi'  Miss 
Anne  her  pa  jes'  ez  good  ez  I  gi'  Marse 
Chan's  dawg  sweet  'taters,  an'  she  git  mad 
wid  'im  ez  if  he  hed  kill  'im  'stid  o'  sen'in' 
'im  back  to  her  dat  mawnin'  whole  an'  soun'. 
B'lieve  me !  she  wouldn'  even  speak  to  'im 
arter  dat ! 

"  Don'  I  'member  dat  mawnin' ! 

"We  wuz  gwine  fox-huntin',  'bout  six 
weeks  or  sich  a  matter  arfter  de  duil,  an'  we 
met  Miss.  Anne  ridin'  'long  wid  anudder  lady 
an'  two  gent'mens  whar  wuz  stayin'  at  her 


house.  Dyar  wuz  always  some  one  or  nudder 
dyar  co'ting  her.  Well,  dat  mawnin'  we  meet 
'em  right  in  de  road.  'Twuz  de  fust  time 
Marse  Chan  had  see  her  sence  de  duil,  an' 
he  raises  he  hat  ez  he  pahss,  an'  she  looks 
right  at  'im  wid  her  head  up  in  de  yair  like 
she  nuver  see  'im  befo'  in  her  born  days ;  an' 
when  she  comes  by  me,  she  sez,  «  Good 
mawnin',  Sam ! '  Gawd !  I  nuvver  see  nuthin' 
like  de  look  dat  come  on  Marse  Chan's  face 
when  she  parss  'im  like  dat.  He  gi'  de  sorrel 
a  pull  dat  fotch  'im  back  settin'  down  in  de 
san'  on  he  hanches.  He  ve'y  lips  wuz  white. 
I  tried  to  keep  up  wid  'im,  but  'twarn'  no  use. 
He  sont  me  back  home  pres'n'y,  an'  he  rid 
on.  I  sez  to  myself,  '  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  don' 
you  meet  Marse  Chan  dis  mawnin'.  He  ain' 
bin  lookin'  'roun'  de  ole  school-house,  whar 
he  an'  Miss  Anne  use'  to  go  to  school  to  ole 
Mr.  Hall  together,  fur  nuffin.  He  won'  stan' 
no  prodgikin'  to-day.' 

"  He  nuvver  come  home  dat  night  tell  'way 
late,  an'  ef  he'd  been  fox-huntin'  it  mus'  ha' 
been  de  ole  red  whar  lives  down  in  de  green- 
scum  mashes  he'd  been  chasin'.  De  way  de 
sorrel  wuz  gormed  up  wid  sweat  an'  mire 
sut'n'y  did  hu't  me.  He  walked  up  to  de 
stable  wid  he  head  down  all  de  way,  an'  I'se 
seen  'im  go  eighty  miles  of  a  winter  day,  an' 
prance  into  de  stable  at  night  ez  fresh  ez  ef 
he  hed  jes'  cantered  over  to  ole  Cun'l  Chahm- 
b'lin's  to  supper.  I  nuvver  seen  a  hoss  beat  so 
sence  I  knowed  de  fetlock  from  de  fo'lock, 
an'  bad  ez  he  was  he  wan'  ez  bad  ez  Marse 
Chan. 

"  Whew !  he  didn'  git  over  dat  thing,  seh, — 
he  nuvver  did  git  over  it. 

"  De  war  come  on  jes'  den,  an'  Marse  Chan 
wuz  elected  cap'n;  but  he  wouldn'  tek  it. 
He  said  Firginia  hadn'  seceded,  an'  he  wuz 
gwine  stan'  by  her.  Den  dey  'lected  Mr.  Gor- 
don cap?n. 

"  I  sut'n'y  did  wan'  Marse  Chan  to  tek  de 
place,  cuz  I  knowed  he  wuz  gwine  tek  me 
wid  'im.  He  wan'  gwine  widout  Sam.  An* 
beside,  he  look  so  po'  an'  thin,  I  thought  he 
wuz  gwine  die. 

"  Of  co'se,  ole  missis  she  heard  'bout  it,  an* 
she  met  Miss  Anne  in  de  road,  an'  cut  her  jes' 
like  Miss  Anne  cut  Marse  Chan. 

"Ole  missis,  she  wuz  proud  ez  anybody!  So 
we  wuz  mo'  strangers  dan  ef  we  hadn'  live' 
in  a  hunderd  miles  of  each  udder.  An'  Marse 
Chan  he  wuz  gittin'  thinner  an'  thinner,  an' 
Firginia  she  come  out,  an'  den  Marse  Chan 
he  went  to  Richmond  an'  listed,  an'  come 
back  an'  sey  he  wuz  a  private,  an'  he  didn' 
know  whe'r  he  could  tek  me  or  not.  He  writ; 
to  Mr.  Gordon,  hows'ever,  and  'twuz  decided 
that  when  he  went  I  wuz  to  go  'long  an'  wait 
on  him,  an'  de  cap'n  too.  I  didn'  min' 


MARSE    CHAN. 


939 


yo'  know,  long  ez  I  could  go  wid  Marse  Chan, 
an'  I  like'  Mr.  Gordon,  anyways. 

"  Well,  one  night  Marse  Chan  come  back 
from  de  offis  wid  a  telegram  dat  say,  *  Come  at 
once,'  so  he  wuz  to  start  next  mawnin'.  He 
uniform  wuz  all  ready,  gray  wid  yaller  trim- 
min's,  an'  mine  wuz  ready  too,  an'  he  had  ole 
marster's  sword,  whar  de  State  gi'  'im  in  de 
Mexikin  war ;  an'  he  trunks  wuz  all  packed 
wid  ev'rything  in  'em,  an'  my  chist  wuz 
packed  too,  an'  Jim  Rasher  he  druv  'em  over 
to  de  depo'  in  de  waggin,  an'  we  wuz  to  start 
nex'  mawnin'  'bout  light.  Dis  wuz  'bout  de 
las'  o'  spring,  you  know.  Dat  night  ole  mis- 
sis made  Marse  Chan  dress  up  in  he  uniform, 
an'  he  sut'n'y  did  look  splendid  wid  he  long 
mustache  an'  he  wavin'  hyar  and  he  tall  figger. 

"Arfter  supper  he  come  down  an'  sez: 
1  Sam,  I  wan'  you  to  tek  dis  note  an'  kyar  it 
over  to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,  an'  gi'  it  to  Miss 
Anne  wid  yo'  own  han's,  an'  bring  me  wud 
what  she  sez.  Don*  let  any  one  know  'bout 
it,  or  know  why  you've  gone.'  *  Yes,seh,'  sez  I. 

"  You  see,  I  knowed  Miss  Anne's  maid  over 
at  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's, — dat  wuz  Judy 
whar  is  my  wife  now, —  an'  I  knowed  I  could 
wuk  it.  So  I  tuk  de  roan  an'  rid  over,  an' 
tied  'im  down  de  hill  in  de  cedars,  an'  I  wen' 
'roun'  to  de  back  yard.  'Twuz  a  right  blowy 
sort  o'  night ;  de  moon  wuz  jes'  risin',  but  de 
clouds  wuz  so  big  it  didn'  shine  'cep'  th'oo  a 
crack  now  an'  den.  I  soon  foun'  my  gal,  an' 
arfter  tellin'  her  two  or  three  lies  'bout  her- 
se'f,  I  got  her  to  go  in  an'  ax  Miss  Anne  to 
come  to  de  do'.  When  she  come,  I  gi'  her  de 
note,  an'  arfter  a  little  while  she  bro't  me  an- 
udder,  an'  I  tole  her  good-bye,  an'  she  gi'  me 
|  a  dollar,  an'  I  come  home  an'  gi'  de  letter  to 
i  Marse  Chan.  He  read  it,  an'  tole  me  to  have 
de  hosses  ready  at  twenty  minits  to  twelve  at 
de  corner  of  de  garden.  An'  jes'  befo'  dat  he 
come  out  ez  ef  he  wuz  gwine  to  bed,  but  instid 
he  come,  an'  we  all  struck  out  to'ds  Cun'l 
[Chahmb'lin's.  When  we  got  mos'  to  de  gate, 
le  hosses  got  sort  o'  skeered,  an'  I  see  dey 
|wuz  some'n  or  somebody  standin'  jes'  inside ; 
in'  Marse  Chan  he  jumpt  off  de  sorrel  an' 
[flung  me  de  bridle  and  he  walked  up. 

"  She  spoke  fust  ('twuz  Miss  Anne  had 
lone  come  out  dyar  to  meet  Marse  Chan), 

i'  she  sez,  jes'  ez  cold  ez  a  chill,  '  Well,  seh, 
[1  granted  your  favor.  I  wished  to  relieve 
lyself  of  de  obligations  you  placed  me  under 

few  months  ago,  when  you  made  me  a  pres- 
;nt  of  my  father,  whom  you  first  insulted  an' 
"len  prevented  from  gittin'  satisfaction.' 

"  Marse  Chan  he  didn'  speak  fur  a  minit, 

i'  den  he  said :  '  Who  is  with  you  ?  '  (Dat 
ruz  ev'y  wu'd.) 

" '  No  one,'  sez  she ;  '  I  came  alone. 

"  '  My  God ! '  sez  he,  '  you  didn'  come  all 


through  those  woods  by  yourself  at  this  time 
o'  night  ? ' 

"  *  Yes,  I'm  not  afraid,'  sez  she.  (An'  heah 
dis  nigger !  I  don'  b'lieve  she  wuz.) 

"  De  moon  come  out,  an'  I  cotch  sight  o' 
her  stan'in'  dyar  in  her  white  dress,  wid  de 
cloak  she  had  wrapped  herse'f  up  in  drapped 
off  on  de  groun',  an'  she  didn'  look  like  she 
wuz  'feared  o'  nuthin'.  She  wuz  mons'us  pur- 
ty  ez  she  stood  dyar  wid  de  green  bushes 
behine  'er,  an'  she  hed  jes'  a  few  flowers  in 
her  breas', — right  hyah, — and  some  leaves  in 
her  sorrel  hyar ;  an'  de  moon  come  out  an' 
shined  down  on  her  hyar  an'  her  frock,  an' 
'peared  like  de  light  wuz  jes'  stan'in'  off  it  ez 
she  stood  dyar  lookin'  at  Marse  Chan  wid 
her  head  tho'd  back,  jes'  like  dat  mawnin' 
when  she  pahss  Marse  Chan  in  de  road  wid- 
out  speakin'  to  'im,  an'  sez  to  me,  *  Good 
mawnin',  Sam.' 

"  Marse  Chan,  he  den  tole  her  he  had 
come  to  say  good-bye  to  her,  ez  he  wuz 
gwine  'way  to  de  war  nex'  mawnin'.  I  wuz 
watchin'  on  her,  an'  I  tho't  when  Marse 
Chan  tole  her  dat,  she  sort  o'  started  an' 
looked  up  at  'im  like  she  wuz  mighty  sorry, 
an"peared  like  she  didn'  stan'  quite  so  straight 
arfter  dat.  Den  Marse  Chan  he  went  on  talk- 
in'  right  fars'  to  her ;  an'  he  tole  her  how  he 
had  loved  her  ever  sense  she  wuz  a  little  bit 
o'  baby  mos',  an'  how  he  nebber  'membered 
de  time  when  he  hadn't  'spected  to  marry  her. 
He  tole  her  it  wuz  his  love  for  her  dat  had 
made  'im  stan'  fust  at  school  an'  collige,  an' 
hed  kep'  'im  good  an'  pure ;  an'  now  he  wuz 
gwine  'way,  wouldn'  she  let  it  be  like  'twuz  in 
ole  times,  an'  ef  he  come  back  from  de  war 
wouldn'  she  try  to  think  on  him  ez  she  use' 
to  do  when  she  wuz  a  little  guirl  ? 

"  Marse  Chan  he  had  done  been  talkin'  so 
serious,  he  hed  done  tuk  Miss  Anne's  han', 
an'  wuz  lookin'  down  in  her  face  like  he  wuz 
list'nin'  wid  his  eyes. 

"  Arfter  a  minit  Miss  Anne  she  said  some- 
thing, an'  Marse  Chan  he  cotch  her  udder 
han'  an'  sez : 

"  '  But  if  you  love  me,  Anne  ?  ' 

"When  he  sed  dat,  she  tu'ned  her  head 
'way  from  'im,  an'  wait'  a  minit,  an'  den  she 
sed — right  clear : 

" « But  I  don'  love  yo'.'  (Jes'  dem  th'ee 
wuds !)  De  wuds  fall  right  slow, — like  dirt 
falls  out  a  spade  on  a  coffin  when  you's  bury- 
in'  anybody  an'  seys,  *  Uth  to  uth.'  Marse 
Chan  he  jes'  let  her  hand  drap,  an'  he  stiddy 
hisse'f  'ginst  de  gate-pos',  an'  he  didn'  speak 
torekly.  When  he  did  speak,  all  he  sez  wuz : 

"  « I  mus'  see  you  home  safe.' 

"  I  'clar,  marster,  I  didn'  know  'twuz 
Marse  Chan's  voice  tell  I  look  at  'im  right 
good.  Well,  she  wouldn'  let  'im  go  wid  her. 


94° 


MARSE   CHAN. 


She  jes'  wrap'  her  cloak  'roun'  her  shoulders, 
an'  wen'  'long  back  by  herse'f,  widout  doin' 
more'n  jes'  look  up  once  at  Marse  Chan 
leanin'  dyah  'ginst  de  gate-pos'  in  he  sodger 
clo'es,  wid  he  eyes  on  de  groun'.  She  said 
'  Good-bye '  sort  o'  sorf,  an'  Marse  Chan, 
widout  lookin'  up,  shake  han's  wid  her,  an' 
she  wuz  done  gone  down  de  road.  Soon  ez 
she  got  'mos'  'roun'  de  curve,  Marse  Chan 
he  followed  her,  keepin'  under  de  trees  so  ez 
not  to  be  seen,  an'  I  led  de  hosses  on  down 
de  road  behine  'im.  He  kep'  'long  behine  her 
tell  she  wuz  safe  in  de  house,  an'  den  he  come 
an'  got  on  he  hdss,  an'  we  all  come  home. 

"  Nex'  mawnin'  we  all  come  off  to  jine  de 
army.  An'  dey  wuz  a-drillin'  an'  a-drillin'  all 
'bout  for  a  while  an'  dey  went  'long  wid  all  de 
res'  o'  de  army,  an'  I  went  wid  Marse  Chan  an' 
clean  he  boots,  an'  look  arfter  de  tent,  an'  tek 
keer  o'  him  an'  de  hosses.  An'  Marse  Chan, 
he  wan'  a  bit  like  he  use'  to  be.  He  wuz  so 
solum  an'  moanful  all  de  time,  at  leas'  'cep' 
when  dyah  wuz  gwine  to  be  a  fight.  Den  he'd 
peartin'  up,  an'  he  alwuz  rode  at  de  head  o' 
de  company  'cause  he  wuz  tall ;  an'  hit  wan' 
on'y  in  battles  whar  all  his  company  wuz  dat 
he  went,  but  he  use'  to  volunteer  whenever 
de  cun'l  wanted  anybody  to  fine  out  anythin', 
an'  'twuz  so  dangersome  he  didn'  like  to  mek 
one  man  go  no  sooner'n  anudder,  yo'  know, 
an'  ax'd  who'd  volunteer.  He  'peared  to  like 
to  go  prowlin'  aroun'  'mong  dem  Yankees,  an' 
he  use'  to  tek  me  wid  'im  whenever  he  could. 
Yes,  seh,  he  sut'n'y  wuz  a  good  sodger !  He 
didn'  mine  bullets  no  more'n  he  did  so  many 
draps  o'  rain.  But  I  used  to  be  pow'ful 
skeered  sometimes.  It  jes'  use'  to  'pear  like 
fun  to  him.  In  camp  he  use'  to  be  so  sorrer- 
ful  he'd  hardly  open  he  mouf.  You'd  'a'  tho't 
he  wuz  seekin',  he  use'  to  look  so  moanful ; 
but  jes'  le'  'im  git  into  danger,  an'  he  use' to  be 
like  ole  times — jolly  an'  laughin'  like  when 
he  wuz  a  boy. 

"  When  Cap'n  Gordon  got  he  leg  shot  off, 
dey  mek  Marse  Chan  cap'n  on  de  spot, 
'cause  one  o'  de  lieutenants  got  kilt  de  same 
day,  an'  tor'er  one  (named  Mr.  Ronny)  wan' 
no  'count,  an'  all  de  company  sed  Marse 
Chan  wuz  de  man. 

"An'  Marse  Chan  he  wuz  jes'  de  same. 
He  didn'  never  mention  Miss  Anne's  name, 
but  I  knowed  he  wuz  thinkin'  on  her  con- 
stant. One  night  he  wuz  settin'  by  de  fire  in 
camp,  an'  Mr.  Ronny  —  he  wuz  de  secon' 
lieutenant — got  to  talkin'  'bout  ladies,  an' 
he  say  all  sorts  o'  things  'bout  'em,  an'  I  see 
Marse  Chan  kinder  lookin'  mad ;  an'  de  lieu- 
tenant mention  Miss  Anne'  name.  He  hed 
been  courtin'  Miss  Anne  'bout  de  time  Marse 
Chan  fit  de  duil  wid  her  pa,  an'  Miss  Anne 
hed  kicked  'im,  dough  he  wuz  mighty  rich, 


'cause  he  warn'  nothin'  but  a  half-strainer,  an' 
'cause  she  like  Marse  Chan,  I  believe,  dough 
she  didn'  speak  to  'im ;  an'  Mr.  Ronny  he  got 
drunk,  an'  'coz'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  tole  'im  not 
to  come  dyah  no  more,  he  got  mighty  mad. 
An'  dat  evenin'  I'se  tellin'  yo'  'bout,  he  wuz 
talkin',  an'  he  mention'  Miss  Anne'  name.    I 
see  Marse  Chan  tu'n  he  eye  'roun'  on  'im  an* 
keep  it  on  he  face,  an'  pres'n'y  Mr.  Ronn 
said  he  wuz  gwine  hev  some  fun  dyah  yi 
He  didn'  mention  her  name  dat  time  ;  but  h 
said  dey  wuz  all  on  'em  a  parecel  of  stuck-u 
'risticrats,  an'  her  pa  wan'  no  gent'man  any 

way,  an  she I  don'  know  what  he  wu 

gwine  say  (he  nuvver  said  it),  fur  ez  he  go 
dat  far  Marse  Chan  riz  up  an'  hit  'im  a  cracl 
an'  he  fall  like  he  hed  been  hit  wid  a  fence 
rail.  He  challenged  Marse  Chan  to  fight 
duil,  an'  Marse  Chan  he  excepted  de  cha 
lenge,  an'  dey  wuz  gwine  fight ;  but  some  o 
'em  tole  'im  Marse  Chan  wan'  gwine  mek 
present  o'  him  to  his  fam'ly,  an'  he  got  som< 
body  to  brek  up  de  duil;  'twan'  nuthii 
dough,  but  he  wuz  'fred  to  fight  Marse  Chai 
An'  purty  soon  he  lef  de  comp'ny. 

"Well,  I  got  one  o'  de  gent'mens 
write  Judy  a  letter  for  me,  an'  I  tole  her  a 
'bout  de  fight,  an'  how  Marse  Chan  knoc 
Mr.  Ronny  over  fur  speakin'  discontemp 
uous  o'  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin,  an'  I  tole  her  ho 
Marse  Chan  wuz  a-dyin'  fur  love  o'  Mi 
Anne.  An  Judy  she  gits  Miss  Anne  to  read  ( 
letter  fur  her.  Den  Miss  Anne  she  tells  h< 
pa,  an' — you  mind,  Judy  tells  me  all  d 
arfterwards,  an'  she  say  when  Cun'l  Chahml 
'lin  hear  'bout  it,  he  wuz  settin'  on  de  poacl 
an'  he  set  still  a  good  while,  an'  den  he  sey  tt 
hisse'f: 

<  Well,  he  earn'  he'p  bein'  a  Whig.' 

"  An'  den  he  gits  up  an'  walks  up  to  Mis 
Anne  an'  looks  at  her  right  hard ;  an'  Mis 
Anne  she  hed  done  tu'n  away  her  head  an 
wuz  makin'  out  she  wuz  fixin'  a  rose  bus 
'ginst  de  poach ;  an'  when  her  pa  kep'  looku 
at  her,  her  face  got  jes'  de  color  o'  de  roses  o 
de  bush,  an'  pres'n'y  her  pa  sez  : 

"  l  Anne ! ' 

"  An'  she  tu'n'd  'roun',  an'  he  sez  : 

"  « Do  yo'  want  'im  ?  ' 

"  An'  she  sez,  '  Yes,'  an'  put  her  head  o 
he  shoulder  an'  begin  to  cry ;  an'  he  sez : 

"  '  Well,  I  won'  stan'  between  yo'  no  longer 
Write  to  'im  an'  say  so.' 

"We  didn'  know  nuthin'  'bout  dis  deoj 
We  wuz  a-fightin'  an'  a-fightin'  all  dat  time 
an'  come  one  day  a  letter  to  Marse  Chan,  at 
I  see  'im  start  to  read  it  in  his  tent,  an'  h 
face  hit  look  so  cu'ious,  an'  he  han's  tremble 
so  I  couldn'  mek  out  what  wuz  de  mattx 
wid  'im.  An'  he  fold'  de  letter  up  an'  wen'  01 
an'  wen'  'way  down  'nine  de  camp,  an'  stai 


MARSE    CHAN. 


941 


dyah  'bout  nigh  an  hour.  Well,  seh,  I  wuz 
on  de  lookout  for  'im  when  he  come  back,  an', 
fo'  Gord,  ef  he  face  didn'  shine  like  a  angel's. 

say  to  mysef,  '  Um'm !  ef  de  glory  o' 
Gord  am'  done  shine  on  'im  ! '  An'  what  yo' 
spose  'twuz  ? 

"  He  tuk  me  wid  'im  dat  evenin',  an'  he  tell 
me  he  hed  done  git  a  letter  from  Miss  Anne, 
an'  Marse  Chan  he  eyes  look  like  great  big 
stars,  an'  he  face  wuz  jes' like 'twuz  datmawn- 
in'  when  de  sun  riz  up  over  de  low  groun's, 
an'  I  see  'im  stan'in'  dyah  wid  de  pistil  in  he 
han',  lookin'  at  it,  an'  not  knowin'  but  what  it 
mout  be  de  lars'  time,  an'  he  done  mek  up  he 
mine  not  to  shoot  ole  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  fur 
Miss  Anne's  sake,  what  writ  'im  de  letter. 

"  He  fold'  de  letter  wha'  was  in  his  han'  up, 
an'  put  it  in  he  inside  pocket, — right  dyar  on 
de  lef '  side ;  an'  den  he  tole  me  he  tho't  meb- 
be  we  wuz  gwine  hev  some  warm  wu'k  in  de 
nex'  two  or  three  days,  an  arfter  dat  ef  Gord 
speared  'im  he'd  git  a  leave  o'  absence  fur  a 
few  days,  an'  we'd  go  home. 

"  Well,  dat  night  de  orders  come,  an'  we  all 
hed  to  git  over  to'ds  Romney;  an'  we  rid  all 
night  till  'bout  light ;  an'  we  halted  right  on  a 
little  creek,  an'  we  staid  dyah  till  mos'  break- 
fas'  time,  an  I  see  Marse  Chan  set  down  on 
de  groun'  'nine  a  bush  an7  read  dat  letter  over 
an'  over.  I  watch  'im,  an'  de  battle  wuz  a-go- 
in'  on,  but  we  hed  orders  to  stay  behine  de 
hill,  an'  ev'y  now  an'  den  de  bullets  would 
cut  de  limbs  o'  de  trees  right  over  us,  an'  one 
o'  dem  big  shells  what  goes  iAwhar — awhar — 
awhar.f  would  fall  right  'mong  us;  but  Marse 
Chan  he  didn'  mine  it  no  mo'n  nuthin !  Den 
it  'peared  to  git  closer  an'  thicker,  an'  Marse 
Chan  he  calls  me,  an'  I  crep'  up,  an'  he  sez : 

"  *  Sam,  we'se  goin'  to  win  in  dis  battle,  an' 
den  we'll  go  home  an'  git  married;  an'  I'se 
goin'  home  wid  a  star  on  my  collar.'  An'  den 
he  sez,  '  Ef  I'm  wounded,  kyar  me  home,  yo' 
hear  ?  '  An'  I  sez,  « Yes,  Marse  Chan.' 

"  Well,  jes'  den  dey  bio  wed  boots  an'  saddles 
an'  we  mounted;  an'  de  orders  come  to  ride 
roun'  de  slope,  an'  Marse  Chan's  company 
wuz  de  secon' ;  an'  when  we  got  'roun'  dyah, 
we  wuz  right  in  it.  Hit  wuz  de  wust  place 
ever  dis  nigger  got  in.  An'  dey  said,  '  Charge 
'em ! '  an'  my  king !  ef  ever  you  see  bullets 
fly,  dey  did  dat  day.  Hit  wuz  jes'  like  hail; 
an'  we  wen'  down  de  slope  (I  'long  wid  de 
res')  an'  up  de  hill  right  todes  de  cannons, 
an'  de  fire  wuz  so  strong  dyar  (dey  hed  a 
whole  rigiment  o'  infintrys  layin'  down  dyar 
onder  de  cannons),  our  lines  sort  o'  broke  an' 
stop ;  de  cun'l  was  kilt,  an'  I  b'lieve  dey  wuz 
jes'  'bout  to  brek  all  to  pieces,  when  Marse 
Chan  rid  up  an'  cotch  hoi'  de  flag  an'  hollers, 
Foller  me ! '  an'  rid  strainin'  up  de  hill  'mong 
de  cannons.  I  seen  'im  when  he  went,  de 


sorrel  four  good  lengths  ahead  o'  ev'y  udder 
hoss,  jes'  like  he  use'  to  be  in  a  fox-hunt,  an' 
de  whole  regiment  right  arfter  'im.  Yo'  ain' 
nuver  hear  thunder !  Fus'  thing  I  knowed, 
de  roan  roll'  head  over  heels  an'  flung  me  up 
'ginst  de  bank,  like  yo'  chuck  a  nubbin  over 
'ginst  de  foot  o'  de  corn  pile.  An'  dat's  what 
kep'  me  from  bein'  kilt,  I  'specks.  Judy  she 
say  she  think  'twuz  Providence,  but  I  think 
'twuz  de  bank.  Of  co'se,  Providence  put  de 
bank  dyar,  but  how  come  Providence  nuvver 
saved  Marse  Chan !  When  I  look'  'roun',  de 
roan  wuz  layin'  dyah  by  me,  stone  dead,  wid 
a  cannon-ball  gone  'mos'  th'oo  him,  an'  our 
men  hed  done  swep'  dem  on  t'udder  side  from 
de  top  o'  de  hill.  'Twan'  mo'n  a  minit,  de 
sorrel  come  gallupin'  back  wid  his  mane  fly- 
in',  an'  de  rein  hangin'  down  on  one  side  to 
his  knee.  '  Dyar !  '  says  I,  '  fo'  Gord  !  I 
'specks  dey  done  kill  Marse  Chan,  an'  I 
promised  to  tek  care  on  him.' 

"  I  jumped  up  an'  run  over  de  bank,  an'  dyar 
wid  a  whole  lot  o'  dead  men,  an'  some  not 
dead  yit,  onder  one  o'  de  guns  wid  de  fleg 
still  in  he  han',  an'  a  bullet  right  th'oo  he 
body,  lay  Marse  Chan.  I  tu'n'  'im  over  an' 
call  'im  '  Marse  Chan !  '  but  'twan'  no  use, 
he  wuz  done  gone  home,  sho'  'nuff.  I  pick' 
'im  up  in  my  arms  wid  de  fleg  still  in  he 
han's,  an'  toted  him  back  jes'  like  I  did  dat 
day  when  he  wuz  a  baby,  an'  ole  marster 
gin  him  to  me  in  my  arms,  an'  sez  he  could 
ttus'  me,  an'  tell  me  to  tek  keer  on  him  long 
ez  he  lived.  I  kyar'd  him  'way  off  de  battle- 
fieF  out  de  way  o'  de  balls,  an'  I  laid  him 
down  onder  a  big  tree  till  I  could  git  some- 
body to  ketch  de  sorrel  for  me.  He  wuz 
cotched  arfter  a  while,  an'  I  hed  some  money, 
so  I  got  some  pine  plank  an'  made  a  coffin 
dat  evenin',  an'  wrapt  Marse  Chan's  body  up 
in  de  fleg,  an'  put  him  in  de  coffin;  but  I 
didn'  nail  de  top  on  strong,  'cause  I  knowed 
ole  missis  wan'  see  'im ;  an'  I  got  a'  ambu- 
lance an'  set  out  for  home  dat  night.  We 
reached  dyar  de  next  evenin',  arfter  travelin' 
all  dat  night  an'  all  next  day. 

"  Hit  'peared  like  something  hed  tole  ole 
missis  we  wuz  comin'  so;  for  when  we  got 
home  she  wuz  waitin'  for  us, —  done  drest  up 
in  her  best  Sunday-clo'es,  an'  stan'in'  at  de 
head  o'  de  big  steps,  an'  ole  marster  settin' 
in  his  big  cheer, — ez  we  druv  up  de  hill  to'ds 
de  house,  I  drivin'  de  ambulance  an'  de  sor- 
rel leadin'  'long  behine  wid  de  stirrups  crost 
over  de  saddle. 

"  She  come  down  to  de  gate  to  meet  us. 
We  took  de  coffin  out  de  ambulance  an' 
kyar'd  it  right  into  de  big  parlor  wid  de  pict- 
ures in  it,  whar  dey  use'  to  dance  in  ole  times 
when  Marse  Chan  wuz  a  school-boy,  an' 
Miss  Anne  Chahmb'lin  use'  to  come  over,  an' 


942 


MARSE    CHAN. 


go  wid  ole  missis  into  her  charmber  an'  tek 
her  things  off.  In  dyar  we  laid  de  coffin  on 
two  o'  de  cheers,  an'  ole  missis  nuvver  said  a 
wud;  she  jes'  looked  so  ole  an'  white. 

"  When  I  had  tell'  em  all  'bout  it,  I  tu'ned 
right  roun'  an'  rid  over  to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's, 
'cause  I  knowed  dat  wuz  what  Marse  Chan 
he'd  'a'  wanted  me  to  do.  I  didn'  tell  no- 
body whar  I  wuz  gwine,  'cause  yo'  know 
none  on  'em  hadn'  nuvver  speak  to  Miss 
Anne,  not  sence  de  duil,  an'  dey  didn'  know 
'bout  de  letter. 

"  When  I  rid  up  in  de  yard,  dyar  wuz  Miss 
Anne  a-stan'in'  on  de  poach  watchin'  me  ez 
I  rid  up.  I  tied  my  hoss  to  de  fence,  an' 
walked  up  de  parf.  She  knowed  by  de  way 
I  walked  dyar  wuz  somethin'  de  m otter,  an' 
she  wuz  mighty  pale.  I  drapt  my  cap  down 
on  de  een'  o'  de  steps  an'  went  up.  She 
nuvver  opened  her  mouf ;  jes'  stan'  right  still 
an'  keep  her  eyes  on  my  face.  Fust,  I  couldn' 
speak;  den  I  cotch  my  voice,  an'  I  say, '  Marse 
Chan,  he  done  got  he  furlough.' 

"  Her  face  wuz  mighty  ashy,  an'  she  sort  o' 
shook,  but  she  didn'  fall.  She  tu'ned  roun' 
an'  said,  *  Git  me  de  ke'idge ! '  Dat  wuz  all. 

"  When  de  ke'idge  come  'roun',  she  hed 
put  on  her  bonnet,  an'  wuz  ready.  Ez  she  got 
in,  she  sey  to  me,  '  Have  yo'  brought  him 
home  ?'  an'  we  drove  'long,  I  ridin'  behine. 

"  When  we  got  home,  she  got  out,  an' 
walked  up  de  big  walk — up  to  de  poach  by 
herse'f.  Ole  missis  hed  done  fin'  de  letter 
in  Marse  Chan's  pocket,  wid  de  love  in  it, 
while  I  wuz  'way,  an'  she  wuz  awaitin'  on  de 
poach.  Dey  sey  dat  wuz  de  fust  time  ole 
missis  cry  when  she  find  de  letter,  an'  dat  she 
sut'n'y  did  cry  over  it,  pintedly. 

"  Well,  seh,  Miss  Anne  she  walks  right  up 
de  steps,  mos'  up  to  ole  missis  stan'in'  dyar 
on  de  poach,  an'  jes'  falls  right  down  mos' 
to  her,  on  her  knees  fust,  an'  den  flat  on  her 
face  right  on  de  flo',  ketchin'  at  ole  missis' 
dress  wid  her  two  han's — so. 

"  Ole  missis  stood  for  'bout  a  minit  lookin' 
down  at  her,  an'  den  she  dropt  down  on  de 
flo'  by  her,  an'  took  her  in  bofe  her  arms. 

"  I  couldn'  see,  I  wuz  cryin'  so  myse'f,  an' 
ev'ybody  wuz  cryin'.  But  dey  went  in  arfter 
a  while  in  de  parlor,  an'  shet  de  do' ;  an'  I 
hyard  'em  say,  Miss  Anne  she  tuk  de  coffin 
in  her  arms  an'  kissed  it,  an'  kissed  Marse 
Chan,  an'  call  'im  by  his  name,  and  her  dar- 


lin',  an'  ole  missis  lef  her  cryin'  in  dyar  tell 
some  on  'em  went  in,  an'  found  her  done 
faint  on  de  flo'. 

"  Judy  ( she's  my  wife)  she  tell  me  she  heah 
Miss  Anne  when  she  axed  ole  missis  mout 
she  wear  mo'nin'  fur  him.  I  don't  know  how 
dat  is ;  but  when  we  buried  him  next  day,  she 
wuz  de  one  whar  walked  arfter  de  coffin,  hold- 
in'  ole  marster,  an'  ole  missis  she  walked  next 
to  'em." 

"  Well,  we  buried  Marse  Chan  dyar  in  de 
ole  grabeyard,  wid  de  fleg  wrapped  roun'  'im, 
an'  he  face  lookin'  like  it  did  dat  mawnin' 
down  in  de  lowgroun's,  wid  de  new  sun  shinin' 
on  it  so  peaceful. 

"  Miss  Anne  she  nuvver  went  home  arfter 
dat;  she  stay  wid  ole  marster  an'  ole  missis 
ez  long  ez  dey  lived.  Dat  warn'  so  mighty 
long,  'cause  ole  marster  he  died  dat  fall,  when 
dey  wuz  fallerin'  fur  wheat, —  I  had  jes'  mar- 
ried Judy  den, — an'  ole  missis  she  warn'  long 
behine  him.  We  buried  her  by  him  next  sum- 
mer. Miss  Anne  she  went  in  de  hospitals  to- 
reckly  arfter  ole  missis  died ;  an'  jes'  fo'  Rich- 
mond fell  she  come  home  sick  wid  de  fever. 
Yo'  nuvver  would  'a'  knowed  her  fur  de 
same  ole  Miss  Anne.  She  wuz  light  ez  a  piece 
o'  peth,  an'  so  white,  'cep'  her  eyes  an'  her 
sorrel  hyar,  an'  she  kep'  on  gittin'  whiter  an' 
weaker.  Judy  she  sut'n'y  did  nuss  her  faithful. 
But  she  nuvver  got  no  betterment !  De  fever 
an'  Marse  Chan's  bein'  kilt  hed  done  strain 
her,  an'  she  died  jes'  'fo'  de  folks  wuz  sot  free. 

"  So  we  buried  Miss  Anne  right  by  Marse 
Chan,  in  a  place  whar  ole  missis  hed  tole  us 
to  leave,  an'  dey's  bofe  on  'em  sleep  side  by 
side  over  in  de  old  grabeyard  at  home. 

"An'  will  you  please  tell  me,  marster? 
Dey  tells  me  dat  de  Bible  say  dyar  won'  be 
marryin'  nor  givin'  in  marriage  in  heaven, 
but  I  don'  b'lieve  it  signifies  dat, —  does  you  ? '" 

I  gave  him  the  comfort  of  my  earnest  be- 
lief in  some  other  interpretation,  together 
with  several  spare  "  eighteen-pences,"  as  he 
called  them,  for  which  he  seemed  humbly 
grateful.  And  as  I  rode  away  I  heard  him 
calling  across  the  fence  to  his  wife,  who  was 
standing  in  the  door  of  a  small  whitewashed 
cabin,  near  which  we  had  been  standing  for 
some  time : 

"Judy,  have  Marse  Chan's  dawg  got 
home  ?" 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 


TOPICS   OF   THE   TIME. 


The   Future   of  the  Metropolitan   Museum. 

WHILE  we  do  not  purpose  to  discuss  the  recent 
protracted  libel  suit  of  Feuardent  vs.  Cesnola  (pro- 
ceedings in  which  are  indeed  still  pending  in  the 
courts),  nor  the  collateral  issues  involved  therein,  we 
desire  to  "  improve  the  occasion  "  by  some  general 
suggestions  based  upon  the  experience  of  the  past, 
and  having  regard  solely  to  the  future  well-being  of 
an  institution  whose  objects  command  the  deepest  sym- 
pathy of  every  intelligent  member  of  the  community. 

Suppose  the  gentlemen  composing  the  Board  of 
Trustees  had  to  establish  in  this  country  a  branch 
of  manufacture  new  to  us,  but  which  had  been  carried 
on  successfully  elsewhere,  would  not  their  first  step  be 
to  procure  the  best-trained  ability  that  money  could  buy 
in  that  special  branch  ?  Could  they  afford  to  take  any. 
other  course  under  penalty  of  certain  failure  ?  So  here 
it  would  seem  that  the  thing  of  first  importance  would 
be  to  find  the  men  who  know  best,  and  in  a  strictly 
professional  and  practical  way,  what  the  Museum 
should  be,  what  the  objects  to  be  accomplished  are, 
what  classes  of  exhibits  are  of  the  first  importance, 
how  they  can  be  procured,  what  they  should  cost, 
and  especially  what  relative  importance  should  be 
given  to  the  departments  of  which  a  museum  must  be 
made  up.  In  a  word,  every  man  of  business  is  aware 
that  the  first  essential  in  any  enterprise  is  a  person 
who  actually  knows  how  to  do  the  thing,  and  that  for 
practical  purposes  amateur  knowledge  is  worse  than 
no  knowledge. 

To  carry  on  a  Museum  of  Art  is,  indeed,  a  very  com- 
plicated business.  First,  as  to  its  uses  and  objects, — 
above  all,  the  educational  (in  the  highest  sense),  which 
in  this  country  is  the  first  object.  It  is  to  teach  some- 
thing, the  importance  of  which  is  felt,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  which  does  not  exist  among  us  except  in  the 
vaguest  sense.  There  is  no  greater  or  more  common 
fallacy  than  the  idea  that  this  knowledge  is  of  easy 
attainment.  Every  one  who  goes  to  an  art  gallery  feels 
the  right  to  pronounce  as  to  the  value  of  the  works 
before  him,  when,  in  fact,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
his  judgment  shows  nothing  at  all  except  his  own 
stage  of  culture.  The  man  who  has  a  gallery  of 
fashionable  pictures  never  doubts  that  he  sees  in 
his  Meissoniers  or  Millets  or  Boughtons  all  there 
is  in  them,  just  as  he  knows  the  qualities  of  the 
horses  in  his  stables.  In  fact,  the  commonest  error 
among  the  uneducated  in  art  is  that  the  difference  in 
pictures  is  in  the  degree  of  skill  with  which  nature  is 
photographed ;  while  the  real  value,  the  new  aspect  of 
the  world,  or  of  nature,  or  of  thought  which  they  un- 
fold, is  unsuspected  and  invisible  to  the  untaught  eye. 

The  true  value  of  art  consists  in  this,  that  it  is  a  lan- 
guage embodying  those  high  ideas  of  the  finest  races, 
which  could  be  expressed  and  recorded  in  no  other 
way.  Apply  this  definition,  for  instance,  to  the  music 
of  the  Germans,  which  is  their  art.  Suppose  that  we 
knew  about  them  all  that  we  now  know  except  their 


music ;  and  then  consider  what  a  new  light  on  Ger- 
man character  would  be  thrown  by  its  revelation,  and 
what  a  treasury  of  new  thought  and  feeling  for  us 
would  be  opened.  Now  Greek  sculpture  not  only  re- 
veals the  Greek  spirit  to  us  as  nothing  else  could,  but 
has  been  a  legacy  out  of  which  all  subsequent  ideas  of 
the  human  form  as  a  type  of  ideal  beauty  are  derived ; 
so  that  now  no  picture  is  painted,  no  statue  molded, 
which  does  not  trace  back  to  it.  For,  though  all  orig- 
inal artistic  nations  —the  Egyptians,  the  Indians,  the 
Chinese,  the  Japanese  —  have  represented  the  human 
form  under  various  aspects,  hieratic,  characteristic,  or 
grotesque,  the  Greeks  first  presented  it  as  pure  beauty 
and  ideal  humanity. 

So  of  Greek  architecture,  and  so  of  Italian  painting. 
All  these  great  arts  are  languages  which  are  speaking 
to  us  all  the  time.  They  are  languages  we  have  barely 
begun  to  speak,  hardly  begun  to  understand;  not 
understanding  them,  we  cannot  rightly  understand 
modern  art,  which  has  its  root  in  the  ancient;  nor 
those  numerous  subordinate  arts  growing  out  of 
them,  and  appropriated  by  the  different  nations  to 
express  their  national  spirit  or  ideals  of  grace.  In 
this  country  it  is  only  through  great  museums 
that  these  monuments  of  art  can  be  brought  before 
us.  Individuals  may  be  trusted  to  ornament  their 
houses  with  (and  lend  or  give  to  museums)  specimens 
of  the  smaller  and  simply  decorative  arts,  with  blue 
china,  and  Capo-di-Monte  and  Limoges  enamel,  all 
of  which  have  their  great  but  subordinate  value ;  but 
no  American  millionaire  is  going  to  compete  with  the 
museums  of  Europe  for  the  rare  and  fragmentary 
specimens  of  Greek  art  that  come  to  light.  Even 
Italian  pictures  are  so  far  beyond  the  common  appre 
ciation,  that  if  a  single  specimen  of  acknowledged  first- 
rate  Italian  work  exists  in  this,  one  of  the  very  richest 
countries  in  the  world,  the  public  does  not  know  of  it. 

It  would  seem  natural  that  the  first  attention  of 
a  great  American  museum  should  be  directed  to 
such  things  as  these ;  that  one  of  the  first  acquisi- 
tions should  be  a  collection  of  casts  of  all  the 
great  Greek  sculptures.  Sculpture  has  the  immense 
advantage  that  it  can  be  more  adequately  represented 
by  copies  than  any  other  art.  An  ample  Architectural 
Museum  or  Department  would  be  of  first-rate  im- 
portance in  a  country  and  city  where  more  bad  ar- 
chitecture has  been  perpetrated  in  the  last  thirty 
years  than  was  perhaps  ever  accomplished  elsewhere. 
Some  masterpieces  of  Italian  painting  might  still  be 
procured.  A  full  Art  Library  for  students  would  be  of 
inestimable  value ;  and,  above  all,  a  trained  corps 
of  genuine  experts. 

Few  know  how  far  from  easy  it  is  to  acquire  a 
"  knowledge  of  art,"  as  it  is  called,  and  to  have  an 
authoritative  judgment ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
how  superficial  amateur  proficiency  mostly  is.  Mrs. 
Mitchell  (a  writer  well  known  to  our  readers, 
who  has  just  published  her  "  History  of  Ancient 
Sculpture  ")  might  tell  us  something  about  it.  Prob- 


944 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


ably  she  would  say  that  to  be  a  good  expert  one 
should  have  seen  in  their  originals  most  of  the 
extant  specimens  of  pure  Greek  art,  all  the  good 
Roman  reproductions,  all  the  important  collections 
of  Greek  vases;  should  know  Greek  architecture, 
mythology,  poetry;  and  that  only  by  degrees  would 
its  wonderful  lesson  be  learned,  and  its  perfection 
revealed;  that  to  know  Greek  sculpture  is  an  edu- 
cation in  itself.  What  is  true  of  Greek  sculpture 
is  true  of  every  great  branch  of  art.  This  is  what 
it  is  to  be  an  expert,  this  along  with  rare  natural 
aptitude,  and  this  is  what  "  expert "  means  in  the  great 
European  museums.  This  is  what  we  shall  have  a 
class  of  young  men  growing  up  to  be,  to  take  charge 
of  our  museums,  when  once  we  have  the  right  man 
to  show  us  the  way.  But  let  us  not  be  misunderstood. 
There  have  always  been  men  of  special  acquirements 
and  scholarly  and  artistic  tastes  connected  with  the 
Museum,  and  devoted  to  its  interests.  But  these  very 
men  have  been  hampered  for  lack  of  experience  of  a 
practical  kind  close  at  hand  and  always  available. 

We  refer  to  the  Cesnola  collection  merely  by  way 
of  illustration.  Gathered  not  only  without  sufficient 
means  but  without  sufficient  scientific  knowledge; 
bought,  as  should  never  be  forgotten,  in  the  most  gen- 
erous and  commendable  spirit,  but  hurriedly;  prepared 
for  exhibition  by  men  without  museum  experience, — 
the  controversy  and  annoyance  it  has  occasioned  have 
been  largely  owing  to  a  lack  of  expert  knowledge  in 
every  stage  of  its  history.  And  yet  the  very  controversy 
that  has  been  wagedover  the  manner  in  which  it  should 
be  exhibited  may  be  taken  as  an  evidence  of  the  unique 
value  of  the  collection.  This  value,  which  is  mainly 
historical,  so  far  from  desiring  to  underrate,  we  wish 
rather  to  insist  upon.  We  wish,  in  fact,  to  see  the 
collection  so  carefully  studied  and  sifted  and  scientifi- 
cally guaranteed,  that  this  value  will  be  everywhere  ac- 
knowledged ;  while  the  collection  itself  will  be  made  to 
take  its  proportionate  place  in  the  work  of  public 
information  and  instruction.  If,  in  this  sifting  proc- 
ess, however,  a  part  of  the  collection  should  be  either 
set  aside  as  artistically  so  much  incumbrance,  or  sold 
to,  or  exchanged  with,  other  museums,  we  should  not 
be  surprised ;  for  it  will  be  admitted  that  a  large  part 
of  it  is  fatally  lacking  in  artistic  value,  and  that  owing 
to  its  very  magnitude  and  repetition  there  is  danger 
lest  it  should  be  actually  misleading  in  a  museum 
whose  main  object  is  to  educate  the  public  in  art,  that 
is,  in  the  best  and  truest  artistic  expression. 

There  is  a  homely  maxim  that  "  hindsight  is  better 
than  foresight."  What  has  been  said  is  to  hint  at 
the  future  that  is  open  to  the  Museum  rather  than  to 
criticise  the  past.  Those  who  are  old  enough  to  re- 
member the  greatness  of  the  impulse  given  to  the 
study  of  natural  science  when  Agassiz  was  brought  to 
this  country,  can  appreciate  the  force  of  the  argu- 
ment. The  Museum  needs,  and  should  have,  a  munifi- 
cent endowment ;  then,  with  the  constant  presence  and 
advice  of  experts  of  the  character  described, —  men  of 
acknowledged  authority  in  the  realm  of  art,  command- 
ing the  confidence  of  the  entire  public, — its  present 
collections  would  form  a  valuable  nucleus  for  the 
systematic  building  up  of  a  truly  educational  museum. 

The  Metropolitan  Museum  conducted  in  this  spirit 
would  itself  be  an  unrivaled  center  of  artistic  in- 
fluence ;  but  the  time,  we  trust,  is  coming  when  its 


treasures  and  resources  will  be  reduplicated  in  value 
by  an  intimate  connection  with  other  of  our  large 
educational  institutions ;  which  institutions  will  per- 
haps yet  be  a  part,  more  or  less  formal  and  official,  of 
the  great  Metropolitan  University  of  the  future. 

Mob    or    Magistrate. 

DURING  the  year  which  has  just  closed,  the  tele- 
graph has  reported  fifteen  hundred  and  seventeen 
murders  in  the  United  States.  This  record  is  not 
supposed  to  be  complete,  but  it  is  nearly  so.  The 
cases  of  capital  crime  are  few  which  the  enterprising 
reporter  does  not  drag  to  light  and  publish  to  the 
world.  The  reader  of  any  daily  journal  connected  with 
the  Associated  Press  is  speedily  informed  of  nearly 
all  the  desperate  deeds  that  are  done  in  the  dark  or 
by  daylight  upon  this  continent.  The  fullness  with 
which  crime  is  reported  gives  an  impression  of  the  in- 
crease of  crime  stronger  than  the  facts  will  warrant ; 
yet  the  facts  are  bad  enough.  During  the  year  1882 
twelve  hundred  and  sixty-six  murders  were  reported. 
A  comparison  of  two  years  is  not  conclusive,  for  there 
is  considerable  fluctuation  in  the  number  of  crimes ; 
ij  is  only  from  comparison  of  periods  of  five  or  ten 
years  that  any  trustworthy  inferences  can  be  drawn. 
But  there  is  no  dispute  concerning  the  rapid  increase 
of  capital  crime,  and  the  fact  is  ominous. 

Over  against  the  fifteen  hundred  murders  of  the 
last  year,  we  have  the  report  of  barely  ninety-three  le- 
gal executions.  Many  of  these  must  have  been  cases 
in  which  the  crime  had  been  committed  during  1882, 
while  many  of  the  criminals  of  1883  had  not  yet  been 
brought  to  trial.  It  is  not,  however,  far  from  the  truth 
to  say  that,  while  thirteen  or  fourteen  hundred  mur- 
ders are  committed  in  this  country  every  year,  fewer 
than  a  hundred  of  the  murderers  suffer  the  extreme 
penalty  of  the  law.  When  the  willful  slayer  knows 
that  he  has  thirteen  chances  out  of  fourteen  of  escap- 
ing the  full  penalty  of  the  law,  the  deterrent  influence 
of  punishment  cannot  be  said  to  be  very  powerful. 

What  the  law  could  not  do,  or  has  not  done,  law- 
lessness has  undertaken  to  accomplish.  The  failure 
of  judge  and  jury  has  let  loose  the  private  avenger 
and  the  mob.  Quite  a  number  of  these  fifteen  hun- 
dred murders,  as  every  reader  of  the  newspapers  will 
easily  remember,  were  committed  in  obedience  to  the 
lex  talionis,  to  expiate  some  previous  crime.  The  Ori- 
ental avenger  and  the  frontier  lyncher  join  hands  in  this 
mad  dance  of  anarchy.  The  same  year  that  witnessed 
ninety-three  legal  executions  witnessed  one  hundred 
and  eighteen  lynchings.  The  lawless  executions  out- 
number the  lawful  ones  by  twenty-five  per  cent. 

No  very  profound  philosophy  is  required  to  explain 
the  relation  of  these  facts.  The  inefficiency  of  the  ma- 
chinery of  justice  has  led  to  the  introduction  of  these 
barbarous  methods.  In  some  of  the  States  adultery 
is  regarded  by  the  law  not  even  as  a  misdemeanor. 
What  wonder  that  private  vengeance  sometimes 
rushes  in  to  redress  a  mortal  injury  of  which  the  law 
refuses  to  take  cognizance.  But  it  is  not  so  much  de- 
fective legislation  as  inefficient  administration  that 
produces  lawlessness.  The  laws  against  murder  are 
strong  enough;  but  when  the  people  know  that  not 
one  in  a  dozen  of  the  willful  murderers  receives  the 
just  recompense  of  his  deeds,  and  that  technicalities 
and  quibbles  are  constantly  allowed  to  shelter 


TOPICS   OF  THE    TIME. 


945 


worst  criminals,  they  themselves  become  desperate ; 
and,  breaking  through  the  just  and  salutary  restraints 
of  law,  they  deal  vengeance  right  and  left  in  a  bloody 
and  turbulent  fashion. 

It  cannot  be  too  often  nor  too  strongly  proclaimed 
that  these  lynchings  themselves  are  crimes ;  that  they 
are  utterly  without  excuse ;  that  they  furnish  a  rem- 
edy which  is  worse  than  the  disease.  When  a  score 
of  men  can  find  no  better  way  of  expressing  their  de- 
testation of  murder  than  by  becoming  murderers 
themselves,  our  civilization  seems  to  have  reduced  it- 
self to  an  absurdity.  Moreover,  lynch  law  is  not 
much  more  accurate  in  its  measurement  and  dispen- 
sation of  justice  than  the  lax  administration  against 
which  it  protests.  The  mob  is  neither  judicial  nor 
chivalrous ;  the  weak  and  defenseless  are  far  more 
likely  to  suffer  at  its  hands  than  the  strong  and  pros- 
perous, as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  victims  of 
more  than  half  the  lynchings  reported  last  year  were 
Southern  negroes. 

Nevertheless,  the  failure  of  criminal  justice,  which 
makes  room  for  mobs  and  lynching,  is  a  greater  dis- 
grace than  the  savagery  of  the  mobs.  The  fact  that 
thirteen  out  of  fourteen  murderers  escape  the  gallows 
is  the  one  damning  fact  that  blackens  the  record  of 
our  criminal  jurisprudence.  No  American  ought  to 
indulge  in  any  boasting  about  his  native  land,  while 
the  evidence  remains  that  the  laws  made  for  the  pro- 
tection of  human  life  are  thus  shamelessly  trampled 
under  foot.  No  occupant  of  the  bench  and  no  mem- 
ber of  the  bar  ought  to  rest  until  those  monstrous 
abuses  which  result  in  the  utter  defeat  of  justice  are 
thoroughly  corrected.  • 

It  is  often  alleged  that  the  failure  of  juries  to  con- 
vict murderers  is  due  to  their  unwillingness  to  inflict 
capital  punishment;  and  it  is  argued  that  if  the  ex- 
treme penalty  were  imprisonment  for  life  a  much 
smaller  number  would  escape.  It  is  possible  that  this 
reasoning  may  explain  some  cases  of  disagreement  or 
acquittal,  but  the  real  difficulty  is  much  more  seri- 
ous. It  arises,  in  part,  from  the  exaggeration  of  the 
rights  of  the  individual  as  compared  with  those  of  so- 
ciety. The  tendency  of  our  jurisprudence  is  all  in 
this  direction.  The  protection  of  the  individual  is  the 
one  great  achievement  of  modern  criminal  practice. 
It  is  a  noble  achievement,  and  Anglo-Saxon  legists 
are  justly  proud  of  it.  But  a  principle  as  good  as  this 
may  be  over-developed.  The  rights  of  the  individual 
must  be  protected ;  but  society  also  has  rights,  and 
these  must  not  be  sacrificed.  And  the  question  often 
arises  in  the  mind  of  the  layman,  whether  our  judges, 
in  their  carefulness  to  guard  the  criminal,  do  not  often 
expose  and  jeopardize  the  lives  of  honest  and  law- 
abiding  citizens.  That  the  rules  of  the  courts  should 
be  modified  is  a  suggestion  which  no  well-instructed 
layman  would  have  the  temerity  to  make;  but  it  is 
easy  for  any  one  to  see  that  the  spirit  of  the  laws  is 
of  more  importance  than  the  letter,  and  that,  if  the 
court  is  under  the  influence  of  a  tradition  or  a  spirit 
which  makes  rather  more  of  protecting  the  criminal 
from  the  vengeance  of  society  than  of  protecting  so- 
ciety from  the  violence  of  criminals,  much  mischief 
will  result,  no  matter  what  the  rules  may  be. 

Out  of  this  exaggerated  estimate  of  the  criminal's 
rights  have  arisen  those  methods  of  legal  procedure 
which  so  disgrace  our  criminal  courts,  under  which 
VOL.  XXVII.— 90. 


crafty  lawyers  are  permitted  the  use  of  all  manner  of 
ridiculous  quibbles  and  technicalities  for  the  sake  of 
defeating  the  ends  of  justice.  The  fact  that  the  Ameri- 
can bar  is  distinguished  for  its  fertility  in  the  inven- 
tion of  these  vicious  expedients,  by  which  trials  are 
endlessly  protracted,  and  the  processes  of  the  law  are 
fatally  entangled,  and  the  minds  of  jurors  are  hope- 
lessly confused,  is  a  fact  not  greatly  to  our  credit,  but 
it  throws  a  flood  of  light  on  the  figures  we  are  studying. 
The  Guiteau  trial  and  the  trial  of  the  Star  Route  con- 
spirators in  Washington  furnish  illustrious  instances 
of  the  way  in  which  criminal  trials  in  this  country 
are  often  managed.  It  is  through  the  use  of  such 
methods  that  the  best  laws  are  nullified,  and  the 
magistrate,  ceasing  to  be  a  terror  to  evil-doers,  be- 
comes their  laughing-stock. 

The  small  number  of  murderers  hanged  by  the  sher- 
iffs, and  the  greater  number  hanged  by  the  mobs, 
should  be  evidence  enough  that  the  administration  of 
our  criminal  courts  in  many  quarters  is  fatally  defect- 
ive, and  needs  reforming.  The  only  classes  of  per- 
sons interested  in  maintaining  the  present  state  of 
things  are  the  criminals  and  the  criminal  lawyers; 
and  it  is  not  for  their  exclusive  benefit  that  society  is 
organized.  The  contrast  between  the  swift,  firm,  and 
sure  methods  of  English  and  Continental  courts  in 
dealing  with  great  criminals,  and  the  tardy,  feeble,  and 
abortive  methods  of  our  own,  should  sting  our  na- 
tional pride  to  some  energetic  measures  of  reform. 
The  people  must  rouse  themselves  to  demand  a  more 
vigorous  enforcement  of  the  laws,  and  they  must  see 
to  it  that  judges  and  prosecuting  attorneys  are 
chosen  who  have  the  ability  and  the  will  to  bring 
evil-doers  to  justice.  The  judges  on  the  bench  may 
well  inquire  whether  the  protection  of  the  criminal  has 
not  assumed  disproportionate  importance  in  our  crim- 
inal procedure.  If,  in  our  fear  lest  an  innocent  man 
may  suffer,  the  law  itself,  which  is  the  only  protection 
of  innocent  men,  becomes  utterly  paralyzed,  then  there 
is  a  call  for  a  revision  of  our  methods  and  our  max- 
ims, and  the  infusion  of  a  new  spirit  into  our  laws. 
Every  judge  who  will  brush  aside  the  hair-splitting 
devices  of  the  lawyers,  and  insist  that  criminal  trials 
shall  be  conducted  with  rigor  and  directness  of  pur- 
pose, will  deserve,  and  will  be  likely  to  win.  the  ap- 
proval of  his  fellow-citizens. 

When  it  shall  become  evident  that  the  notorious 
and  willful  murderer  generally  receives  a  speedy  and 
impartial  trial  and  suffers  the  just  penalty  of  his  crime, 
the  day  of  the  lynchers  will  soon  come  to  an  end. 
This  is  not  conjecture ;  the  experience  of  many  a  fron- 
tier community  illustrates  our  proposition.  Out  of  a 
lax  administration  of  criminal  law  a  crop  of  vigilance 
committees  and  regulators  has  often  sprung,  spread- 
ing terror  and  anarchy  on  every  hand,  until  the  elec- 
tion of  some  stern  judge  or  some  courageous  prose- 
cuting officer  has  restored  to  the  law  its  rightful 
majesty  and  supremacy,  and  restrained  the  lawlessness 
of  both  criminals  and  lynchers.  What  has  so  often 
been  done  in  different  localities  may  well  be  under- 
taken with  resolute  purpose  in  all  parts  of  the  country 
where  these  evils  now  prevail.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
the  record  of  the  current  year  will  show  that  the  ma- 
jority of  those  who  have  died  for  crime  have  met  their 
fate  at  the  hands  of  the  magistrate,  rather  than  at  the 
hands  of  the  mob. 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


Worshiping  by  Proxy. 

IF  there  be  any  hope  of  reaching  an  agreement  in 
the  discussion  of  such  vexed  questions  as  those  con- 
cerning the  musical  performances  in  our  modern 
churches,  it  is  evident  there  ought  to  be  settled  at  once 
some  point  of  departure  or  some  point  of  approach. 
What  purpose  is  expected  to  be  served  by  singing  as  a 
stated  exercise  in  the  service  of  the  house  of  God  ? 
The  answer,  which  is  ready  on  the  instant,  is  that  it  is 
part  of  divine  worship.  But  do  we  adhere  to  that  in 
our  further  argument  ? 

They  tell  a  story  hereabouts,  for  the  first  part  of 
which  I  can,  as  usual  with  my  illustrations  on  these 
themes,  vouch  as  a  fact ;  but  I  am  not  sure  whether  I 
rehearse  the  conversation  that  follows  with  exactness 
in  choice  of  terms,  though  accurately  enough,  I 
presume,  for  all  needs.  A  clergyman  gave  out  his 
morning  selection  from  the  hymn-book,  as  was 
customary,  for  the  congregation  to  sing.  The  organ- 
ist-leader peremptorily  and  perversely  changed  the 
music,  and  set  the  words  to  a  tune  of  unfamiliar 
and  highly  artistic  character,  through  which  the  will- 
ing quartette,  with  due  sense  of  the  fun,  wound  their 
intricate  way  on  to  the  end.  Then  the  minister  calmly 
rose,  and  with  proper  dignity  said:  "We  will  now 
commence  divine  worship  by  singing  the  same  hymn 
I  gave  before,  and  we  will  use  the  tune  which  is  very 
appropriately  set  to  it  for  our  help. "  And  without  even 
a  moment's  pause  he  started  the  strain  himself  with 
his  clear  tenor  voice,  before  the  choir  had  recovered 
from  their  positive  consternation.  As  if  by  instinct, 
the  people  rose  on  their  feet,  showing  that  they  com- 
prehended the  posture  of  affairs,  and  unaccompanied 
joined  in  the  song. 

When  the  services  were  over,  the  chorister  de- 
scended from  the  gallery,  and  marched  up  the  aisle 
to  the  pulpit  platform,  where  the  preacher  was  wait- 
ing. He  was  angry  to  the  supreme  verge  of  imperti- 
nence. "  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  he  asked.  "  If  you 
will  attend  to  your  end  of  the  church,  I  will  attend  to 
mine !  "  Quietly  enough  the  clergyman  replied :  "  You 
make  me  think  of  an  old  story  my  father  used  to  tell 
when  I  was  a  child.  A  mate  was  frightened  at  the 
ship's  nearness  to  a  rocky  shore,  and  went  aft  to« 
inform  the  captain  that  he  thought  the  course  should 
be  changed.  '  You  attend  to  your  end  of  the  ship, 
and  I  will  attend  to  mine,'  was  the  answer.  The 
mate  went  back  to  his  place,  but  in  five  minutes  more 
the  captain  heard  the  rattle  of  a  chain,  and  the  splash 
of  iron  in  the  water.  <  What  are  you  doing  ?  '  he 
thundered ;  and  the  mate  said :  *  Only  what  you  told 
me,  sir.  I  have  anchored  my  end  of  the  vessel ;  you 
may  do  as  you  please  with  yours.'  And  so,"  con- 
tinued the  undisturbed  pastor,  "  I  have  anchored 
my  end  of  the  church,  as  you  call  it,  in  the  -worship  of 
Almighty  God,  which  is  what  we  came  here  for. 
What  do  you  propose  to  do  with  yours  ?  " 

It  would  astonish  many  quite  belligerent  disputants 
in  ordinary  congregations  to  observe  how  quietly  a 


vessel  of  discussion  rides,  the  moment  the  anchorage 
of  a  definition  is  attained.  All  this  cant  about  "  good 
music "  and  "artistic  execution  "  and  "soprano  solos  " 
would  be  banished  into  thin  air,  if  agreement  were 
reached  that  the  worship  of  God  was  the  purpose 
to  be  served  by  the  performances  in  the  gallery.  It  is 
not  unkind  or  ungracious  to  inform  many  of  our  mu- 
sical friends  that  the  usual  assemblies  of  religious 
people  do  not  have  any  sympathy  with  artists  in  their 
rivalries  for  place  or  emolument.  They  come  to  the 
house  of  prayer  for  other  reasons  than  to  listen  to 
trills  of  a  voice  or  tremolos  of  an  organ.  They  do  not 
converse  about  the  merits  of  the  performers  half  so 
much  as  some  suppose.  For  many  years  it  has  been 
deemed  quite  witty  to  fasten  upon  clergymen  the 
brunt  of  a  well-remembered  couplet;  but  the  facts 
point  to  another  application.  Bononcini  was  a  fierce 
rival  of  Handel  in  the  city  of  London.  Dean  Swift- 
sided  with  the  former,  which  of  course  made  Handel 
angry,  and  he  cut  Dean  Swift  in  the  public  street;  and 
then  Swift  wrote  his  now-  famous  epigram  : 

"  Some  say  that  Signer  Bononcini, 
Compared  to  Handel,  is  a  ninny; 
While  others  vow  that  to  him  Handel 
Is  hardly  fit  to  hold  a  candle. 
Strange  such  a  difference  should  be 
'Twixt  tweedle-dum  and  tweedle-dee." 

Very  quickly  also  would  this  consideration  settle 
the  worrying  differences  about  worshiping  by  proxy. 
One  of  our  preachers  has  lately  declared  that  he 
would  as  soon  accept  four  people  to  write  his  love- 
letters  for  him  as  to  do  his  singing  for  him  in  the 
house  of  God.  But  suppose  one  should  accept  the  four 
ready- writers,  not  being  up  in  penmanship,  or  in  good 
form,  you  know,  and  then  discover  afterward  that  his 
damsel  adored  was  only  being  mocked  by  those  who 
were  competing  for  custom,  and  his  affection  was  not  in 
the  epistles  at  all :  what  then  ?  A  bass  singer,  who  knows 
the  facts  if  they  can  be  known,  himself  an  artist  of  the 
highest  character,  told  me  frankly  five  years  ago  that 
the  relations  of  quartette  choirs  to  congregations  were, 
in  the  majority  of  cases,  purely  mercenary.  Sweet 
tones,  and  finished  execution,  and  wonderful  compass, 
all  may  be  bought  for  money,  no  doubt,  but  can  we  buy 
worship  from  ungodly  and  mercenary  people  ?  And  if 
one  proposes  to  worship  by  proxy,  does  he  imagine  God 
is  ignorant  of  the  difference  between  aesthetics  and 
devotion  ?  A  friend  of  mine,  perfectly  trustworthy  as 
to  facts,  told  me  that  while  he  was  in  one  of  the 
churches  of  New  York  City  the  book  lay  in  the  rack 
before  him,  and  he  took  it  up  mechanically,  as  he  was 
wont  at  home.  Finding  the  hymn,  and  noticing  that 
the  music  was  familiar,  he  began  to  sing  quietly 
with  the  voices  he  heard,  when  suddenly  the  sexton 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  deftly  whispers 
"  It  is  expected  that  the  singing  in  this  congrej 
will  be  performed  by  the  choir." 

It  might  be  to  edification  sometimes  to  look  up 
proxies  when  off  duty  during  the  sermon  or  prayers. 
A  few  years  ago  we  had  a  soprano  who  used  to  sj 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


947 


the  spare  time  in  the  lecture-room,  where  her  husband 
kept  his  tobacco  for  a  smoke.  Once  a  German  among 
the  bass  went  regularly  off  for  lager  for  months,  to  our 


singing  from  as  it  was  in  the  hymn-book  which  the 
people  had  before  them  in  their  hands.  He  was  not 
surprised,  but  rather  pleased,  I  conjectured,  at  the 


discredit,  for  he  always  kept  looking  at  the  clock  so  chance  I  gave  him  to  say  that  the  words  were  always 

softer  in  properly  prepared  music,  for  "  a  true  artist 
liked  them  liquid  and  flowing  "  ;  and  he  added  gently 
that  he  wished  all  the  hymns  were  in  Italian  or  Latin. 

That  is  to  say,  the  purpose  of  singing  in  church  is 
simply  ignored ;  we  drag  our  anchor  the  moment  we 
begin  to  discuss.  But  common  law  speaks  of"  congre- 
gations for  public  worship"  in  the  provisions  of  the 
statutes  ;  and  presidents'  proclamations  are  addressed 
to  the  "  assemblies  for  the  worship  of  God."  What  do 
we  come  together  for,  unless  it  is  for  the  purpose  of 
worship  ?  And  is  all  this  artistic  parade  of  style  the 
worship  of  God  ? 

Now,  I  am  exceedingly  anxious,  in  bringing  these 
"  open  letters  "  to  a  close,  to  show  the  friends  to  whom 
I  am  writing  them  how  amiable  I  am  in  the  discus- 
sion. I  cannot  deny,  that  I  have  had  serious  thoughts 
all  along  in  my  mind.  But  I  desire  to  leave  off  in  good 
humor ;  and  I  think  I  see  the  way  out,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  to  mention  one  particular  more. 

It  is  this,  likewise,  which  introduces  so  many  Ger- 
mans and  Italians  into  our  organ-lofts.  These  people 
are  declared  to  be  the  natural  singers  of  the  world, 
and  so  are  engaged  as  musical  performers.  It  is  not 
rare  that  members  of  the  opera  troupes  and  attaches 
of  the  minstrel  companies  are  put  into  our  churches 
to  order  the  worship  of  God's  pious  people.  It  is 
enough  to  speak  at  present  about  the  effect  of  their 
poor  knowledge  of  intelligible  English  pronunciation. 
Once  a  choir-leader  asked  me  as  a  favor  if  I  would 
criticise  the  singing  at  his  rehearsal.  I  willingly  con- 
sented, and  gave  my  whole  patient  attention  to  the  two 
anthems  which  the  choir  practiced.  I  was  obliged  in 
candor  to  tell  him  that,  though  I  was  somewhat  well 
acquainted  with  ordinary  canticles,  and  might  per- 
haps be  permitted  to  say  I  could  recognize  a  song  of 
the  Psalter  if  I  could  get  a  little  started  in  on  it,  I  had 
not  been  able  to  guess  or  surmise  what  these  two 
"  opening  pieces  "  were  about ;  I  had  no  clew  what- 
soever. Not  one  in  a  score  of  our  trained  singers  can 
be  understood  through  a  verse  in  the  hymns  which 
are  travestied  just  to  get  sounds  to  suit  taste.  And, 
generally  speaking,  I  think  it  will  be  found  that  pro- 
fessional "  artists  "  pride  themselves  upon  the  success 
achieved  when  their  consonants  are  not  suffered  to  be 
heard. 

Here  comes  in  another  incident  in  my  observation ; 
I  would  rather  not  name  the  church  in  which  it  oc- 
curred. Glorious  Easter  was  at  hand  and  great  prep- 
arations were  made  in  the  rural  parish  for  its  celebra- 
tion ;  boughs  were  twined  in  the  arches  of  the  build- 
ing; flowers  swung  in  wreaths  overhead  and  shone  in 
beautiful  baskets  among  the  aisles ;  children  had 
been  rehearsing  carols.  All  the  town  came  in 
on  that  notable  morning.  It  was  a  scene  never  to 
be  forgotten.  The  minister  was  radiant ;  his  eyes 
beamed  with  delight.  But  a  thought  struck  him: 
this  audience,  so  happy,  so  generous,  so  enthusiastic, 
—  would  they  not  hear  him  a  moment  for  a  stroke  of 
business  ?  After  the  invocation  and  the  first  song,  he 


as  to  get  back  before  the  doxology,  and  the  topers 
knew  he  was  doing  a  job  of  "  worship  "  over  at  the 
church  for  us.  Close  by  us,  in  a  neighboring  congre- 
gation, the  choir  used  to  have  lemons  or  lemonade  be- 
hind the  curtains,  in  the  intervals  of  worship.  Once  the 
bass,  handing  a  slice  to  the  alto,  overset  the  pitcher 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  desecration  became  known  to 
the  rector  by  an  awkward  trickling  down  of  wetness 
on  his  surplice.  Is  it  harsh  for  me  to  go  on  with  these 
stories  ?  Believe  me,  I  have  preferred  to  keep  within 
the  limits  of  what  might  be  considered  playful,  rather 
than  tragic ;  most  of  us  could  speak  more  to  the  point 
in  sterner  facts,  if  we  were  not  ashamed  of  our  arraign- 
ment. For  all  this  goes  to  show  that  in  many  in- 
stances, our  music  committees  are  to  blame  as  well 
as  the  hired  creatures  under  them. 

The  principle  which  vitiates  all  this  form  of  service 
is  found  in  the  acceptance  of  mere  tones  of  one's  voice 
as  church  music,  and  of  swift  and  delicate  execution 
of  syllables  as  intelligent  psalmody.  This  betrays  our 
committees  into  indiscretion;  they  listen  only  to 
sounds,  and  care  less  for  characters,  for  behaviors,  and 
for  devotion,  than  they  do  for  flats,  sharps,  and  un- 
naturals.  So  some  churches  are  betrayed  into  most 
embarrassing  complications  by  the  headlong  enthusi- 
asm of  a  few  musical  men  who  never  professed  to 
have  much  worship  to  let  out  into  the  hands  of  the 
proxies  whom  they  engage  prematurely. 

There  was  once  a  congregation  in  Albany  whose 
pastor  felt  himself  obliged  to  clear  the  gallery  of  a 
choir  which  was  turning  his  Sabbath  services  into  a 
young  people's  visiting  resort.  Just  so  a  church  in 
New  York,  whose  committee  hired  a  choir  for  twenty 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  Eight  singers  gave  an  enter- 
tainment in  the  sanctuary  for  six  months,  which  was 
the  talk  of  the  town  as  the  wonder  of  excellence.  The 
chief  soprano  received  four  thousand  dollars ;  one  of 
the  bassos  traveled  from  Boston  every  week.  But  the 
religious  authorities  were  constrained  to  interfere  in 
the  middle  of  the  engagement :  they  dismissed  the 
whole  train  during  the  summer  vacation.  They  paid 
the  remaining  ten  thousand  dollars  without  a  grimace 
j  rather  than  worship  by  proxy  in  such  a  concert-room 
j  style  clear  on  to  the  end  of  the  year. 

In  this  subordination  of  sense  to  sound,  this  grading 
I  of  musical  effects  above  intelligent  worship,  is  found 
the  reason  why  choirs  claim  the  liberty  of  reconstruct- 
ing hymns  for  their  own  convenience.  A  chorister 
lonce  told  me  without  any  hesitation,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
[matter  of  perfectly  accepted  principle  between  his 
fession  and  the  public :  "  We  always  shorten  or 

igthen  the  number  of  stanzas  according  to  the  ne- 

ssities  of  the  music.  How  could  we  do  otherwise  ? 
[f  the  tune  is  double,  we  can  sing  but  four  verses." 

it  when  I  inquired  how  such  frightful  cases  as  three 
stanzas  could  be  managed,  he  answered,  as  if  he  took 
ic  in  dead  earnest,  and  deemed  me  rather  sympa- 

itic  on  the  whole  :    "  Oh,  repeat  the  last  one ;  that  is 

>y  enough  !  Indeed,  we  always  give  them  four  verses ; 


at  is  all  they  need."    I  once  called  the  attention  of    surprised  them  with  a  proposition  to  bring  "  Easter 
lother  leader  to  the  fact  that  the  hymn  I  gave  out    offerings  "  now  at  once  to  God's  altar,  and  lift  the  dear 
not  the  same  in  the  sheet-music  he  had  been     old  church  out  of  debt :   oh,  then  there  would  be  a 


948 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


resurrection  !  The  congregation  would  come  up  from 
under  its  great  stone  into  a  new  life,  if  they  would  roll 
it  away  !  Then  the  plates  went  their  course,  and  hearts 
were  touched,  and  purses  were  emptied,  and  the  heaps 
of  money  lay  before  the  moistened  eyes  of  the  relieved 
pastor  as  he  tremulously  thanked  a  good  God  for  his 
people's  fidelity  in  response.  "  The  money  is  here,  I 
am  sure  it  is,"  he  exclaimed.  "  If  there  be  a  little  in 
arrears,  it  can  be  made  up  in  a  day,  and  now  we  are 
ready  heartily  to  go  on  with  the  worship  of  our  risen 
Lord."  So  the  fixed  programme  proceeded.  A  little 
German  had  been  procured  from  the  metropolis  for  an 
annex  to  the  tenor;  his  solo  came  in  at  this  exact 
crisis  of  grateful  emotion ;  he  rendered  it  with  a  fresh 
aplomb,  though  the  consonants  were  awkward  :  "  An' 
de  det  sail  be  raised  —  de  det  sail  be  raised  —  an'  de 
fat —  an'  de  det — sail  be  raised — sail  be  raised — in  de 
twinkling  of  an  ay-ee  !  " 

Now  it  is  quite  safe  to  say  that  after  the  congre- 
gation went  home,  the  theme  of  the  day  was  dissipated, 
and  the  two  events  uppermost  in  everybody's  mind 
were  the  surprise  which  the  eager  minister  had  sprung 
upon  the  people,  and  the  ridiculous  appropriateness 
of  the  declamatory  solo  which  followed  it.  On  general 


place  (as  my  visitor  insisted),  I  was  the  only  man  of 
letters  who  was  a  musician  and  who  had  the  requisite 
knowledge  of  the  facts  and  of  the  country ;  and  next, 
because  another  man  who  was  quite  incompetent  to 
the  task  was  about  to  undertake  it,  and  would  do  so 
unless  some  one  "  headed  him  off."  This  office  I  was 
obliged  to  decline  undertaking :  partly  for  the  con 
siderations  I  have  already  mentioned;  and  partly 
because  the  office  was  not  to  my  taste.  However,  I 
promised  my  earnest  and  urgent  friend  that  I  would 
as  soon  as  possible  do  something  of  the  sort  that  he 
desired ;  and  thereupon  we  parted. 

A  few  weeks  after  this  unexpected  interview,  I 
received  from  the  conductors  of  THE  CENTURY  an 
equally  unexpected  proposal  to  write  a  History  of  the 
Opera  in  New  York.  They  were  entirely  ignorant  of 
the  suggestion  which  had  already  been  made  to  me, 
and,  indeed,  knew  not  of  the  existence  of  the  maker. 
The  result  was  the  series  of  articles  on  this  subject 
which  appeared  in  THE  CENTURY  in  March,  April, 
May,  and  June,  1882.  I  was  able  to  prepare  them  so 
quickly,  because  I  had  most  of  the  requisite  material 
at  command,  either  in  contemporary  records  which 
had  in  one  way  or  another  come  into  my  possession, 


principles,  we  have  no  objection  to  the  collection  of    or  in  the  recollections  of  friends  of  an  elder  genera- 


money  to  discharge  religious  obligation,  even  in  divine 
service ;  but  it  does  seem  a  pity  that  a  humorous 
episode  should  be  the  chief  reminiscence  of  such  a 
solemn  occasion. 

Charles  S.  Robinson. 

"  Music  in   America." 

SOME  two  or  three  years  ago,  a  much-respected 
musician,  whom  I  had  seen  very  rarely  during  an  ac- 
quaintance which  dated  from  my  boyhood,  came  to 
me  with  the  proposal  that  I  should  write  a  history  of 
music  in  America.  He  urged  this  upon  me,  and  kindly 
offered  me  all  the  help  that  he  could  give.  My  reply 
was  that,  although  I  should  probably  write  something 
in  regard  to  the  art  in  which  I  had  been  so  much  in- 
terested, and  with  the  professors  of  which  I  had  been 
more  or  less  acquainted  all  my  life,  I  could  not  under- 
take a  history  of  music  in  America ;  and  for  these 
reasons :  First,  that  I  was  already  committed  to  the 
assertion  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  American 
music,  nor,  indeed,  such  a  thing  as  English  music 
since  the  days  of  Henry  Purcell  *  ;  and  second  and 
last,  that  there  were  no  efforts  in  musical  composition 
and  no  public  performances  here  worthy  of  historical 
record  or  critical  examination  until  the  beginning  of 
this  century;  since  which  time  what  has  been  done 
here  publicly  is  mere  repetition  of  what  had  been  done 
before  in  Europe,  the  performers  as  well  as  the  music 
being  in  both  cases  European.  The  subject  must  neces- 
sarily prove  somewhat  like  that  of  the  snakes  in  Ireland. 
To  write  a  history  of  music  —  of  that  which  is  worthy 
to  be  called  music  —  in  America  would  be  mostly  to 
record  the  performance  here,  from  time  to  time,  and 
here  or  there,  giving  dates  and  places,  of  music  writ- 
ten in  Europe  by  artists  born  and  bred  in  Europe, —  a 


tion,  or  in  the  memory  of  my  own  personal  experience. 
No  inaccuracy  or  omission  of  moment  has  been 
pointed  out  in  these  articles ;  and  the  conductors  of 
THE  CENTURY  and  the  writer  personally  have  re- 
ceived from  long-retired  artists  and  from  competent 
critics,  public  and  private,  in  Europe  as  well  as  in 
America,  testimony,  tinged  with  surprise,  to  their 
remarkable  accuracy, —  surprise  for  which  there  was 
really  little  occasion ;  for  the  writer  simply  related 
what  he  knew  upon  the  best  evidence. 

A  day  or  two  ago  I  bought  Professor  Frederic 
Louis  Ritter's  "  Music  in  England  "  and  "  Music  in 
America,"  recently  published,  but  announced  some 
months  ago.  Passing  quickly  over  his  long  discussions, 
in  the  latter  volume,  of  New  England  psalm-singing 
and  of  psalm-book  makers  and  country  singing-school 
teachers,  which  seemed  to  me  about  as  much  in  place 
in  the  history  of  musical  art  as  a  critical  discussion  of 
the  whooping  of  Indians  would  be,  or  as  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  battles  of  kites  and  crows  in  a  history  of  the 
art  of  war  (not  because  their  labors  were  simple  and! 
unpretentious,  but  because  they  were  the  development 
of  no  germ,  and  themselves  produced  no  fruit,  except 
some  chorus  material),  I  reached  the  pages  where  true 
music  begins  to  receive  the  writer's  attention.  Dipping 
into  his  book,  back  and  forth,  I  found  here  and  there 
inaccuracy,  erroneous  statement,  and  evidence  both  of 
ignorance  and  of  insufficient  and  perfunctorily  ac- 
quired information;  and  some  of  this  it  was  my  pur- 
pose to  correct,  not  publicly,  but,  as  I  have  done 
before  in  such  cases,  by  letter  to  the  writer,  that  he 
himself  might  set  himself  right.  Soon,  however,  I 
came  upon  a  misstatement  of  such  a  character  that  it 
changed  at  once  my  point  of  view  and  my  pur 
I  read  it  with  mingled  wonder  and  resentme 
wonder  and  resentment  which  were  enhanced  by 


sort  of  literary  work  for  which  I  had  little  liking.    To    fact  that,  even  if  it  had  not  been  a  misstatemen 
this  the  rejoinder  was  that  the  thing  would  surely  be    elaborate  and  carefully  made  misstatement,  it  was 


done,  and  that  I  ought  to  do  it,  because,  in  the  first 
*See  "National  Hymns,"  1861  ;  Part  II. 


tirely  superfluous,  supererogatory,  of  not  the  slight 
importance  or  interest  to  any  intelligent  reader 
Professor  Ritter's  book,  and  having  for  its  only 


I 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


949 


sible  purpose  the  impeachment  of  my  correctness,  and 
more,  of  my  good  faith. 

Professor  Ritter,  in  his  record  of  the  first  appear- 
ance of  Malibran  in  New  York,  presents  his  readers  a 
long  contemporary  criticism  or  report  of  that  perform- 
ance, and  to  this  he  appends  the  following  note : 

"  The  above  criticism  is  copied  from  Ireland. 
White,  in  his  article,  '  Opera  in  New  York,'  in  THE 
CENTURY  MAGAZINE  for  March,  1882,  gives  the  same  criticism, 
although  somewhat  altered  and  mixed  with  other  matter,  saying 
'  it  is  from  the  "  Evening  Post "  of  the  3oth  November,  1825.'  Ire- 
land did  not  say  from  what  paper  he  copied  the  article.  I  have 
looked  carefully  through  the  files  of  the  '  Evening  Post,'  and  have 
not  been  able  to  find  it  there." 

The  assertion  concerning  me  in  the  second  sentence 


first  chapter  of  Genesis  and  the  first  chapter  of  John. 
They  bring  to  mind  Fluellen's  famous  river  in  Mace- 
don  and  river  in  Wye  —  of  which  it  was  true  that 
there  was  "  salmons  in  both,"  as  it  is  of  these  articles 
that  there  is  a  Malibran  in  both  ;  which,  it  seems,  was 
enough  for  the  Fluellen  of  musical  history. 

One  cause  of  all  this  confusion  and  misstatement 
Mr.  R.  Grant  on  the  part  of  Professor  Ritter  is  that,  while  my  quo- 
tations are  in  every  sentence  and  every  phrase  copied 
exactly,  word  for  word  and  letter  for  letter,  from  the 
"  Evening  Post,"  the  so-called  article  which  he  presents 
is  made  up  from  two  articles  in  that  paper ;  the  first 
six  lines  and  a  half  being  from  the  article  of  Novem- 
ber 30th,  1825,  already  specified,  and  the  rest,  making 
nearly  a  full  page  of  his  book,  from  another  article  in 
the  same  journal  of  December  6th.  These  are  welded 


of  this  passage  is  absolutely  untrue  ;  untrue  in  every    together  as  if  they  were  one  article,  although  they  are 

particular;   without  the  semblance  of  foundation  in    plainly  by  different  writers.    Moreover  —  must  it  be 

truth.    It  is  not  true  that  I  gave  the  same  criticism    said !  —  the  greater  part  of  our  censor's  quotation  is 

which  Professor  Ritter  gives ;  it  is  not  true  that  I  said    much  garbled  not  only  by  omission,  but  by  alteration 

that  that  criticism  is  from  the  •"  Evening  Post "  of  the    and  insertion  of  words  and  phrases.     Of  this,  see  the 

3oth  November,  1825,  or  of  any  other  date;  above    following  evidence : 

all,  it  is  not  true  that  I  garbled  what  I  did  give  by 

altering  it  and  mixing  it  with  other  matter.    Finally 

and  moreover,  all  the  criticisms  in  question  are  from 

the  "Evening  Post." 

I  cannot,  of  course,  produce  here  the  criticisms  which 

I  cite  and  that  cited  by  Professor  Ritter;  but  they 

may  be  easily  collated  by  those  who  desire  to  do  so. 

The   former  are   on  p.  693   of  THE   CENTURY  for 

March,  1882;  the  latter  on  p.  187  of  Professor  Rit- 

ters  book.    The  truth  of  the  case  will  be  difficult  of 

belief  to  those  who  do  not  make  the  collation  ;   as, 

indeed,  it  was  Somewhat  perplexing  to  me  until  I  had     whole  performance.  entire  performance. 

compared  the  two  pages.     It  is  this  :  After  the  first        In  one  respect  the  exhibition       In  one  respect  ^  exhibition 

[  ]  excelled  all  that  we  ever 
witnessed  in  any  of  our  theaters 
—  the  whole  troupe  were  almost 
equally  excellent 


From  the  "article"  in  Rater's 
"  Music  in  America." 

The  [  ]  signorina  [  ]  seems  to 
us  as  being  a  new  creation,  etc. 


From  the  "  Evening  Post," 
November  joth,  1823. 

The  daughter,  Signorina  Gar- 
cia, seems  to  us  as  being  a  new 
creation,  etc. 

From  the  "  Evening  Post," 
December  6th,  1823. 

The  best  compliment  that  The  best  compliment  that  caw 
could  be  paid  to  the  merit  of  the  be  paid  to  the  merit  of  the  corn- 
acting  was  the  unbroken  atten-  pany  was  the  unbroken  atten- 
tion that  was  yielded  during  the  tion  that  was  yielded  during  the 


six  lines  and  a  half  of  the  long  article  given  by  Pro-    far  excelled  all  that  we  ever 


fessor  Ritter,  there  is,  in  the  two  short  paragraphs 
which  I  give,  not  one  sentence,  not  one  phrase,  which 
appears  in  the  former ;  and,  although  he  asserts  they 
are  the  same  (after  comparison,  for  he  pronounces 
mine  altered  and  mixed  with  other  matter),  there  is 
not  one  sentence,  not  one  phrase,  in  either  which  has 
even  a  likeness  to  a  sentence  or  a  phrase  in  the  other. 
The  two  criticisms  quoted  by  me  and  that  quoted  by 
Professor  Ritter  are  wholly  different,  and  are  clearly 
from  three  different  sources.  The  historian  of  Music 
in  America  (who  goes  to  Ireland  for  his  facts,  and 
therefore  not  strangely  finds  blunders)  is  plainly  igno- 
rant of  their  origin.  I  will  tell  it  to  him. 

The  first  passage  quoted  by  me,  beginning,  "  An 
assemblage  of  ladies  so  fashionable,"  etc.,  is  from  the 
"  Evening  Post "  of  the  3Oth  November,  1825,  second 
page,  fifth  and  sixth  columns.  The  next,  beginning, 
"  But  how,  or  in  what  terms,"  etc.,  is  from  the  same 
journal  of  the  2Oth  December,  1825,  second  page, 
third  and  fourth  columns,  and  is  copied  by  the  editor, 
as  I  mention,  from  another  publication,  the  "New  York 
Review."  On  the  other  hand,  the  criticism  which  Pro- 
fessor Ritter  quotes  from  Ireland,  and  which  he  says 
I  garbled,  was  taken  (that  is,  the  most  of  it)  from 
I  the  "  Evening  Post "  of  the  6th  December,  1825,  where 


witnessed  in  any  of  our  theaters 
—  the  whole  troupe  were  [  ] 
equally  excellent. 


Signer  Garcia  indulge; 
florid  style  of  singing ;  but  with    florid  style  of  singing ;  But 


Signor  Garcia  indulges  in  a 
•' ith 


his  fine  voice,  fine  taste,  admi-    his  fine  voice,  fine  taste,  admi- 
rable ear,  and  brilliancy  of  exe-    rable  ear,  and  brilliancy  of  exe- 
cution, we  could  not  be  other-    cution,  we  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  delighted,  nor  wished    wise  than  delighted,  [  ] .   We  [  ] 
to  curtail  this  exuberance,  if  it    cannot  [  ]  avoid  expressing  our 
deserves  such  a  term.     *    *    *    wonder  and  delight,  etc. 
We  will  not  particularize  where 
all  was  so  admirable,  but  can- 
not, if  we  would,  avoid  express- 
ing our  wonder  and  delight,  etc. 


How  shall  "we  speak  in  suit- 


of  the   enchanting 
Jarcia?   Her  voice, 


[  ]  Signorina  Garcia"  s  voice  [  ] 
is  what  is  denominated  in  the 


able  terms   _  _ 

Signorina  Garcia?   Her  voice,     Italian  a  fine  contra-alto  [  ]  ; 
which  is  the  first  requisite  in  a    and  her  science  and  skill  in  its 
singer,  is  what  is  denominated    management,  etc. 
in  the  Italian  a  fine  contralto, 
—  that  is,  one  with  a  good  top 
and  bottom  to  it,  but  in  which 
its  principal  excellence  lies  in 
the    middle    tones ;    and     her 
science  and  skill  in  its  manage- 
ment, etc. 


The  facts  of  the  case,  therefore,  are  that,  while  the 
writer  of  the  article  in  THE  CENTURY  on  Opera  in 
New  York,  going  to  the  original  authority,  set  forth 
the  criticism  of  the  day,  as  represented  in  the  "  Even- 


the  historian  of  Music  in  America  may  find  it  on  the    ing  Post  "  (eminent  then,  as  now,  in  all  the  depart- 


second  page,  last  two  columns.    I  was  well  acquainted 

I  with  it,  but  the  other  articles  in  the  "  Post"  served  my 

irpose  better.  The  two  (after  the  six  and  a  half  lines 

[already  excepted)  are  about  as  like  each  other  as  the 


ments  of  higher  culture),  verbatim  et  literatim,  it  was 
the  historian  of  Music  in  America  who,  quoting  at 
second  hand,  gave  a  hodge-podge  made  up  of  an 
article  "  somewhat  altered  "  and  also  "  mixed  up  with 


95° 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


other  matter"  from  another  article.  His  assertion 
that  he  "  looked  carefully  through  the  files  of  the 
'Evening  Post'"  without  being  "able  to  find  it 
there  "  does  not  raise  our  estimation  of  the  value  of 
his  testimony,  whether  we  take  "  it  "  as  referring  to 
his  article  or  to  my  two  paragraphs ;  for  all  are  very 
prominent  in  the  pages  of  the  journal  in  question, 
within  a  few  days  of  each  other,  in  the  places  to  which 
I  have  referred. 

My  musico-critical  censor  is,  however,  not  content 
with  this  exhibition  of  sagacity  and  accuracy.  He  can- 
not resist  the  temptation  to  turn  the  light  of  his  dark 
lantern  upon  another  grievous  error  of  mine — my  re- 
mark that  in  1825  there  was  but  one  theater  in  New 
York.  He  finds  that  Ireland  and  Wemyss  (com- 
pilers to  whom  properly  informed  persons  do  not  look 
for  instruction,  much  less  for  correction)  both  say 
that  the  Chatham  Garden  Theater  was  built  in  1824 
and  occupied  by  theatrical  troupes;  and  as  in  1831  a 
French  opera  company  gave  representations  there, 
"  consequently  there  must  have  been  two  theaters  in 
New  York  in  1825."  Truly  a  grievous  error !  But, 
indeed,  I  would  rather  have  made  it  a  dozen  times 
over  than  have  been  guilty  of  such  a  petty  piece  of 
fault-finding.  Of  what  appreciable  consequence  or 
interest  is  it  in  the  history  of  Music  in  America, 
whether  New  York  had  two  theaters  or  one  in  1825, 
or  what  is  said  on  such  a  point  in  a  magazine  article  ? 
But,  again,  our  historian  is  all  abroad.  I  cannot  go 
into  full  explanation  in  this  brief  and  hurried  commu- 
nication ;  but  my  readers  may  find  that  Professor 
Ritter  was  in  a  fog  (or  something  worse),  by  simply 
turning  the  leaf  of  the  article  in  question  and  finding 
on  p.  694  this  paragraph  : 

"Nor  did  New  Yorkers  at  this  time  (1825)  fail  to  offer  encour- 
agement to  other  musical  artists,  or  to  enjoy  other  operatic  music 
and  Italian  singing.  Signora  Bartolini,  an  artist  of  fair  European 
repute,  was  engaged  at  the  Chatham  Garden  Theater,  —  a  place 
in  Chatham  street,  not  far  from  the  City  Hall,  and  something  like 
Niblo's  Garden  of  after  years, —  where  she  sang  operatic  airs 
between  the  two  or  three  plays  which  at  that  time  almost  always 
made  up  an  evening's  theatrical  entertainment." 

THE  CENTURY,  March,  1882,  p.  694. 

And  if  the  historian  will  consult  the  list  of  public 
buildings,  churches,  etc.,  in  the  New  York  Directory 
for  1825,  he  will  find  only  one  theater  mentioned, 
and  simply  as  the  "theatre."  It  is  not  until  1827 
that  it  becomes  necessary  to  give  it  the  name  Park 
Theater,  to  distinguish  it  from  any  other  like  place  of 
amusement.  On  one  momentous  point  I  confess,  with 
becoming  humiliation,  the  historian  has  detected  me  in 
error  —  that  of  saying  that  the  English  version  of  "  Der 
Freyschutz  "  was  performed  at  the  Park  Theater  in 
1823  instead  of  1825.  My  error  was  due  to  the  very 
easy  and  very  common  mistake  of  a  5  for  the  3  of  my  au- 
thority ;  and  I  thus  grievously  gave  "  Der  Freyschutz  " 
eighteen  months'  instead  of  six  months'  precedence 
of  Italian  opera  in  New  York.  But  in  the  opera 
articles  in  THE  CENTURY  I  distinctly  announced  that 
I  did  not  profess  or  even  desire  particular  accuracy  in 
dates, and  often  I  did  not  give  them  at  all, — "before" 
or  "  after  "  such  or  such  a  musical  event  being  suffi- 
cient for  my  purpose,  which  was  not  that  of  a 
musical  annalist.  Professor  Ritter,  however,  as  be- 
comes the  dignity  of  a  historian,  is  very  strong,  as 


we  have  seen,  on  this  point,  and  very  captious  upon 
it  as  to  others.    But,  alas,  alas  ! 


"The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 
Gang  aft  agley  "  ; 

and  our  historian  is  wrong  upon  the  very  point  on  which 
he  holds  me  up  for  correction.  "  Der  Freyschutz  " 
was  produced  not  on  "  March  3d,  1825,"  as  he  says, 
but  on  March  2d:  see  the  New  York  newspapers 
of  that  time. 

Nor  is  other  more  important  evidence  lacking  that 
Professor  Ritter  should  be  the  last  person  to  point  out 
errors  that  may  be  the  result  of  misprints  or  of  moment- 
ary inadvertence,  as  even  my  hasty  examination  of  his 
book  discovered  before  I  found  myself  called  up  for 
discipline.  He  tells  us,  for  example,  that  Theodore 
Eisfeld  "was  born  in  1616  in  Wolfenbuttel."  That 
good  man  and  good  musician  must,  therefore,  have 
attained  the  ripe  age  of  two  hundred  and  sixty-six 
years  before  he  departed  to  his  place  in  the  heavenly 
choir.  And  (on  p.  288)  we  are  told  of  a  tenor  at 
Palmo's  named  "  Ambogini."  No  such  tenor  was  ever 
heard  in  this  country.  Perhaps  Professor  Ritter  con- 
fused the  name  of  that  admirable  tenor  Antognini 
with  that  of  the  buffo  Ambrogetti,  and  so  "made 
a  mess  of  it " ;  or  perhaps  his  copy  was  not  clear 
and  his  proof  not  carefully  corrected.  He  tells  us, 
too  (p.  232),  of  the  musical  doings  of  a  Mr. 
"  Kirchhoefer,"  and  with  clear  intention,  for  the  name 
is  thus  repeated  (p.  274).  Now,  no  such  person  is 
known  in  our  musical  annals.  Mr.  Kieckhoefer,  a 
foreign  amateur  once  resident  in  New  York,  is  the 
person  whom  he  is  groping  for.  Some  of  the  music 
used  on  the  occasions  to  which  he  refers  (p.  232)  is 
in  my  possession.  We  find,  too,  the  somewhat  aston- 
ishing assertion  that  a  concert  of  the  Musical  Fund 
Society  (regarded  by  him  as  important)  was  given  "  at 
the  City  Hall,  May  loth,  1830."  The  City  Hall  has, 
indeed,  been  the  scene  of  various  performances  not 
quite  so  harmonious  as  the  one  in  question,  but  it  was 
hardly  ever  put  to  that  use.  The  concert  was  given, 
he  may  be  sure,  at  the  City  Hotel,  in  the  lower  part 
of  Broadway,  which  had  a  large  assembly-room,  that 
was  frequently  at  that  time  used  for  public  musical 
performances.  These  are  characteristic  examples  of 
the  accuracy  of  Prof.  Ritter's  book.  There  are  more 
of  the  same  sort.  I  hope  he  will  be  becomingly  self- 
abased  and  repentant.  As  for  me,  I  say  plainly  that 
under  other  circumstances  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
point  out  publicly  such  slips  upon  unessential  points 
in  his  work  or  that  of  any  other  man.  To  do  so  has 
always  seemed  to  me  the  most  contemptible  business 
in  which  a  critic  can  be  engaged. 

It  is  not  the  fault  of  a  foreigner  like  Professor 
Ritter  that  he  knows  nothing  of  the  society  of  New 
York  and  "America"  at  the  times  of  which  he  writes, 
and  that  he  has,  as  we  shall  soon  see,  a  very  confused 
notion  even  of  our  public  musical  performances.  But 
his  ignorance  leads  him  into  some  very  queer  mis- 
takes. For  example,  he  gives  (p.  186)  Mr.  Lynch  as 
the  "manager  "  of  the  Garcia  company  at  the  Park 
Theater  in  1825.  Shade  of  Brummel,  the  elegant 
Dominick  Lynch !  Professor  Ritter's  Mr.  Lynch  was 
a  prominent  leader  of  the  gayest  set  of  New  York 
fashionable  society  at  that  time ;  a  distinguis 


1 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


951 


musical  connoisseur  and  amateur,  a  great  promoter 
and  patron  of  the  opera,  and  doubtless  an  adviser  of 
Garcia,  but  hardly  his  "manager."  He  lived  then 
in  Greenwich  street,  directly  upon  the  Battery  —  the 
most  desirable  site  in  the  then  most  fashionable 
quarter  of  the  town.  He  was  one  of  the  directors 
of  the  old  Philharmonic  Society,  whose  officers  were : 
Wright  Post,  president;  Augustus  Brevoort,  Dominick 
Lynch,  Daniel  Oakey,  Fanning  C.  Tucker,*  Henry 
Carey,  Robert  Ray,  Ab'm  Schermerhorn,  Robert 
Emmett,  James  I.  Jones,  H.  F.  Rogers,  B.  W. 
Rogers,  I.  Delafield,  directors.  All  these  gentlemen 
were  then  prominent  in  society ;  all  were  connois- 
seurs, and  some  of  them  amateurs  of  music.  But  in 
this  respect,  as  in  others,  Mr.  Lynch  was  the  most 


nings  of  a  taste  for  this  music  in  the  following  pass- 
age : 

"  Thus,  about  1848,  a  Mr.  Pirsson,  who  lived  in  Leonard  street, 
had  regular  quartette  playing  at  his  house.  He  was  then  almost 
the  only  amateur  in  New  York  who  appreciated  chamber  music. 
In  1849  Saroni's  "  Musical  Times  "  arranged  four  con- 
certs of  classical  music,  to  be  given  by  subscription.  .  .  . 
These  concerts  appear  to  have  been  tolerably  well  patronized. 
They,  at  any  rate,  proved  that  there  was  a  small  public  that 
began  to  take  delight  in  that  style  of  music." 

There  is  more  of  such  assertion  and  remark  which 
need  not  be  specified.  Surely,  thorough  ignorance 
was  never  more  elaborately  set  forth.  The  Mr.  Pirs- 
son here  set  up  as  an  "  amateur,"  whose  tastes  were  in- 
dicative of  the  musical  cultivation  of  the  New  Yorkers, 


distinguished.     Of  him,  of  course,  I  never  saw  any-    was  a  humble  English  professional  musician,  a  John 


thing  more  than  his  portrait;  but  his  daughter  and 
his  niece,  one  of  whom  became  Mrs.  Nicholas 
Luqueer,  of  Long  Island,  and  the  other,  Mrs.  Julius 
Pringle,  of  South  Carolina,  were .  as  matrons  my 
gracious  friends  in  my  days  of  hobbledehoydom.  The 
latter  distinguished  herself  in  connection  with  our 
subject  by  a  strange  freak.  She  appeared  in-  her 
father's  box  at  the  opera  ( Rivafanoli's,  I  believe)  with 
the  most  extraordinary  bracelet  ever  worn  by  woman, 
at  least  in  this  country — a  small  living  green  snake, 
which  she  kept  as  a  pet,  and  which  was  seen  not  only 
winding  itself  around  her  beautiful  arm,  but  (fashion- 
able women  went  to  the  opera  then  always  in  full 
evening  dress)  over  her  shoulders  and  around  her 
neck.  This  snake  was  her  constant  companion,  even 
in  bed.  It  was  venomous,  but  had  been  deprived  of 
its  poison -glands  ;  and  she  was  told  by  the  person  of 
whom  it  was  bought  that  if  it  were  allowed  to  eat 
milk  these  glands  would  be  reproduced.  One  morn- 
ing, as  she  was  dawdling  over  breakfast  in  bed,  she 
looked  up  from  a  book  that  she  was  reading,  and  saw 
her  pet  with  its  head  plunged  into  the  milk-jug.  It 
was  killed  immediately.  A  strange  story  this  ;  but  my 
authority  for  it  is  the  lady's  sister  and  my  own  uncle, 
a  frequenter  of  the  opera  and  familiar  with  New  York 
society  at  that  time.t 

Let  us  now  consider,  as  briefly  as  the  subject  will 
admit,  a  few  of  the  examples  which  my  hasty  examina- 
tion of  "  Music  in  America  "  has  thus  far  discovered 
of  the  author's  knowledge  of  his  subject.  The  lack 
of  a  taste  for  good  music  in  America  is  insisted  upon 
strongly,  again  and  again  (see  pp.  189-  194,  214,  215, 
etc. ),  and  an  especial  point  is  made  in  this  respect  in 
regard  to  chamber  music,  which  is  regarded  by  the 
writer  (correctly,  it  need  hardly  be  said)  as  an  eminent 
form  of  the  highest  style  of  music.  Professor  Ritter 
is  very  particular  upon  this  point ;  he  refers  us  back  and 
forth  to  his  assertions  and  opinions  in  regard  to  it;  and 
we  may  justly  assume  this  part  of  his  book  as  a  test  of 
the  value  of  t-he  whole.  He  tells  us  (p.  232)  that  the 
playing  of  pianoforte  trios  in  private  by  two  profes- 
sional musicians  and  an  amateur,  in  1838,  was  the 
"beginning  of  the  cultivation  of  chamber  music  in 
New  York."  Then,  under  the  special  head  "  Chamber 
Music"  (p.  274),  he  indicates  the  first  feeble  begin- 

*  Major  Tucker  was  also  president  of  the  St.  Cecilia  Society, 
which  is  referred  to  on  page  952,  and  leader  of  the  notably  fine 
choir  of  St.  Anne's  Church,  Brooklyn. 

t  Mr.  Chandler  White,  of  the  Narrows,  L.  I.  who  was  the  first 
vice-president  of  the  Atlantic  Telegraph  Company. 


Bull  of  the  bulliest  sort,  and  a  very  second-rate 
double-bass  player.  His  position  our  historian  might 
have  easily  discovered  by  examining  any  one  of  the 
early  programmes  of  the  Philharmonic  Society,  on 
which,  in  the  list  of  performers,  we  find  :  "  Double 
basses  —  Jacobi,  Loder,  Pirsson,  Rosier."  The  idea 
of  old  "Jim  "  Pirsson  being  set  up  as  a  salient  type 
of  the  most  cultivated  "  American "  amateurs  of 
thirty-five  years  ago  will  be  sufficiently  amusing  to 
those  who  know  anything  of  our  musical  annals.  He 
was  not  only  a  British  professional  musician,  but  one 
of  a  family  of  professional  musicians.  Father  and 
sons  played  in  the  orchestra  (!)  of  the  Albany  The- 
ater ;  one  of  his  brothers  taught  the  pianoforte ; 
another  was  a  pianoforte  maker  in  a  humble  way. 
And  this  is  our  historian's  acquaintance  with  the  culti- 
vated amateurs  of  New  York  society  and  their  tastes. 

The  performances  to  which  he  refers  were  wholly 
without  significance,  the  players  being  all  foreigners 
and  professional  musicians.  I  could  give  their  names  : 
Timm,  Boucher,  and  Loder  were  among  them.  These 
Germans,  Frenchmen,  etc.,  might  just  as  well  have 
played  their  trios  and  quartettes  in  a  private  room  in 
one  of  their  own  native  towns.  But  it  is  significant 
and  important  in  connection  with  Professor  Ritter's 
subject  that  eight  years  before  this  time  —  in  1840  — 
there  was  in  New  York  a  chamber  music  club  of 
"American"  amateurs,  who  met  weekly  throughout 
the  year  (excepting  July  and  August),  and  who  played 
only  Haydn,  Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  Mendelssohn. 
Of  this  I  have  written  evidence.  Their  meetings  con- 
tinued regularly  for  many  years. 

Of  public  performances  of  classical  chamber  music 
he  shows  a  like  ignorance.  He  gives  an  elaborate 
"  notice  "  of  that  enthusiastic  and  enterprising  musi- 
cian, Mr.  U.  C.  Hill,  with  a  "  record  of  his  labors  "  ;  * 
and  yet  he  can  set  forth  the  Saroni  quartette  concerts 
as  our  first  public  classical  chamber  music,  and  say 
that  they  were  a  sign  that  there  was  in  1849  a  small 
public  that  began  to  take  delight  in  that  style  of 
music!  Now  the  fact  is,  that  six  years  before  this 
date,  and  five  years  before  that  wonderful  New  York 
amateur,  "a  Mr.  Pirsson,"  had  quartette  playing  at 
his  house,  the  best  classical  chamber  music  ever  writ- 
ten had  been  publicly  and  successfully  performed  in 

*  Mr.  Hill  was  so  constant  a  factor  in  the  public  musical  enter- 
tainments of  New  York  thirty  years  ago  that  a  musical  amateur 
(I  believe  he  was  the  same  who  gave  Bosio  her  sobriquet  of 
Madame  Beaux  Yeux),  being  asked  who  was  the  conductor  at 
a  certain  concert,  answered,  "  Well,  if  you  go  into  almost  any 
concert-room  and  look  for  the  conductor,  you  sec  Hill.' 


952 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


New  York.  In  1843,  a  series  of  "  quartette  soirees  " 
was  given  at  the  Apollo  Rooms.  The  performers  were  : 
U.  C.  Hill  (violin),  Apelles  (violin  and  clarinet), 
Lehmann  (violin),  Derwort  (viola),  and  Hegelund 
(violoncello).  The  soirees  were  given  on  the  4th  and 
1 5th  of  March  and  the  ist  and  I5th  of  April  of  that 
year.  The  programmes  are  before  me,  and  what  their 
character  was  may  be  gathered  from  the  first  and  the 
last,  which  I  quote.  First  soiree:  Quartette  No.  I, 
op.  18,  Beethoven;  quintette  (clarinet  and  strings), 
op.  34,  Von  Weber ;  quartette  No.  2,  op.  59,  Spohr  ; 
quintette,  op.  4,  Beethoven.  Fourth  soiree :  Double 


or  at  least  leaves  his  readers  there,  as  to  the  old  St. 
Cecilia  Society,  although  it  was  the  first  to  perform  or- 
chestral music  in  this  country  (its  elegant  certificate  of 
membership,  showing  St.  Cecilia  surrounded  by  angels, 
which  was  engraved  in  New  York  in  1791,  is  interest- 
ing), and  also  as  to  the  Arion  Club  of  Brooklyn,  and  the 
Church  Music  Society,  all  of  them  much  more  impor- 
tant as  signs  of  the  condition  of  music  in  America  than 
a  great  number  of  the  professional  companies  or  asso- 
ciations on  which  he  wastes  many  words,  and  the  last 
of  which  had  for  its  conductors,  first  that  able  musician 
Dr.  Pech,  and  last  the  gifted  Charles  Horseley,  the 


quartette  op.  65,  Spohr ;  septette,  Beethoven.   When    hero  of   "  Counterparts,"  neither  of   whom  is  men- 

••  9        r  <J  1  . I     •_       T> f T»?I_A J_     _  T»t_  •  _  -•      A" 


the  fact  that  these  soirees  were  well  attended  and  sue 
cessful  is  considered,  and  that  at  least  one  chamber 
music  club  of  "American"  amateurs  had  been  estab- 
lished in  New  York  three  years  previously,  it  will 


tioned  in  Professor  Ritter's  pages.  This  association, 
the  performing  members  of  which  were  amateurs  from 
the  more  cultivated  circles  of  New  York  society, 
among  its  notable  achievements  coped  creditably  with 


probably  be  thought  somewhat  inconsistent  with  the    that  musical  crux,   Beethoven's    Mass   in   D 


assertions  that  "  a  Mr.  Pirsson  "  was  almost  the  only 
"  amateur  "  in  New  York  who  had  a  taste  for  classical 
chamber  music,  and  that  the  first  concerts  of  such 
music  were  given  in  1849,  and  showed  that  there  was 
a  small  public  which  then  began  to  take  delight  in 
that  style  of  music. 

Whether  there  were  chamber  music  concerts  before 
Hill's  in  1843,  I  do  not  know.  No  evidence  of  it  is  in 
my  hands.  But  I  do  know,  upon  very  trustworthy 
testimony,  that  the  assumption  that  the  playing  of 
pianoforte  trios  by  two  professional  musicians  and  an 
amateur,  all  foreigners,  in  1838,  was  the  beginning  of 
the  cultivation  of  chamber  music  in  New  York,  is 
laughably  inconsistent  with  the  facts.  Long  before 
that  time,  and  then,  there  were  performances  of  cham- 
ber music  in  private  by  amateurs.  Some  of  the  per- 
formers I  knew  personally  in  my  youth  and  their  old 
or  middle  age.  I  could  name  more  whom  I  did  not 
know.  There  are  now  in  the  country  pianofortes  and 
violins  and  'cellos  which  were  used  in  such  private 
concerts  three-quarters  of  a  century  ago.  I  have 
had  them  under  my  hands,  and  have  seen  the  old 
music  books  that  were  used.  I  have  some  of  them 
myself;  among  them,  a  set  of  Boccherini's  quintettes, 
with  two  violoncellos,  which  were  used  here  by  native 
amateurs  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago,  and  which 
show  evidence  of  their  use.  One  friend  of  mine  has  a 
'cello  which  has  been  in  his  family  more  than  a 
hundred  years,  and  during  most  of  that  time  has  been 
used  in  the  performance  of  classical  chamber  music. 
Our  author  is  lamentably  ignorant  of  the  musical 
taste  and  experience  of  the  people  whose  musical 
history  he  has  assumed  to  write. 

And  even  as  to  public  performances,  and  of  another 
sort,  what  shall  we  say  of  a  historian  of  Music  in 
America  who  asserts,  positively  and  without  qualifica- 
tion, that  in  1848  "  Mr.  Timm  also  brought  Rossini's 
Stabat  Mater  out  for  the  first  time  in  America,"  when 
it  was  performed  by  eminent  vocalists  no  less  than  six 
years  before,  on  the  2d  October,  1842,  within  a  few 
months  of  its  completion  and  first  performance  at  Paris ! 
The  programme  is  in  my  possession  and  is  before  me. 
The  solo  parts  were  sung  by  Mrs.  Seguin,  Madame 
Spohr-Zahn,  Mrs.  Morley,  Signor  Antognini,  and  Mr. 
E.  Seguin.  The  conductor  of  the  orchestra  was  Mr. 
Pearson.  Our  author  seems  to  be  in  like  ignorance 
as  to  the  first  performance  of  Beethoven's  Ninth  Sym- 
phony in  this  country.  In  like  manner,  he  is  in  the  dark, 


minor, 

rarely  heard  even  in  Europe.  And  in  his  special 
chapter  on  "  Musical  Theory,  Musical  Grammars, 
Dictionaries,  etc. /"'between  1771  and  1815,"  he  seems 
unaware  of  the  existence  of  Pilkington's  "  Musical  Dic- 
tionary," published  at  Boston  in  1812;  a  manual  so  thor- 
ough and  so  sound  that  (although  it  has  no  biographies 
or  histories  of  inventions)  it  is  all-sufficient  for  gen- 
eral purposes  at  the  present  day.  It  is  not  a  reprint, 
nor  composed  of  selections,  but  is  an  original  work, 
wrought  out  of  the  general  mass  of  musical  literature, 
supplemented  by  the  author's  own  knowledge.  Its 
author  was,  or  soon  afterward  became,  one  of  New 
York's  many  resident  professors  of  music. 

In  like  manner,  writing  in  this  third  period,  of  the 
time  between  1815  and  1825,  he  says  (p.  142)  :  "  In 
order  to  give  my  readers  an  idea  of  the  style  of  music 
cultivated  by  the  American  amateur  at  this  epoch,  I 
will  copy  the  titles  of  some  of  the  pieces  then  adver- 
tised by  music-sellers  "  ;  whereupon  we  are  furnished 
with  the  general  announcement  of  a  Boston  music- 
seller,  who  (wonderful  tradesman!)  calls  his  stock 
"fashionable,"  that  he  has  overtures,  battles,  songs, 
glees,  catches,  little  ballads,  waltzes,  dances,  Mozart's 
songs,  etc.  ;  and  we  are  told  that  "  the  dance-pieces 
and  the  ballads  sold  best."  How  does  our  historian 
know  which  sold  best  ?  What  possible  authority  can 
he  have  for  this  positive  historical  assertion  ?  How- 
ever, he  is  probably  right.  It  is  true  that  music-sellers 
in  Boston  and  in  New  York  did  at  that  time  sell  and 
advertise  glees,  catches,  dance-pieces,  and  ballads.  But 
so  at  the  same  time  did  the  music-sellers  in  London. 
It  maybe  assumed  that  they  sold  better  (/'.  e.  in  greater 
numbers)  in  New  York  and  Boston  than  at  that  time 
sonatas  and  Mozart's  songs  did ;  for  so  they  did  in 
London ;  and  so  they  do  in  Boston,  New  York,  and 
London  to  this  day.  That  a  historian  of  music  should 
gravely  utter  such  a  platitude  as  a  criticism  of  social  and 
musical  culture  !  Why,  so  far  is  this  advertisement  and 
others  like  it  (which  might  be  found  by  the  score  now- 
adays in  London  and  New  York)  from  giving  an  idea 
of  the  style  of  music  cultivated  by  the  American  ama- 
teur (worthy  the  name)  of  the  period  in  question,  that 
it  is  exactly  the  sort  of  announcement  in  which  that 
typical  person  took  no  interest.  Many  years  before 
the  coming  of  Malibran  (in  1825)  American  amateurs 
had  collections  not  only  of  pianoforte  sonatas  and 
other  chamber  music,  but  of  all  the  celebrated  operas 
in  (so-called)  pianoforte  score.  My  first  boyish 


1 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


953 


quaintance  with  Cimarosa's  beautiful  "  Matrimonio 
Segreto,"  with  "  Don  Giovanni,"  and  with  Rossini's 
operas  was  made  through  a  collection  of  this  kind, 
formed  early  in  the  century,  and  showing,  when  I 
first  saw  the  books,  evidence  of  long  use.  And  in  the 
decade  in  question  (1815-1825)  Messrs.  Dubois  and 
Stodardt,  126  Broadway,  then  the  fashionable  music- 
sellers  of  New  York,  advertise  that  they  have  received 
among  other  music  Mozart's  and  Rossini's  operas. 
One  advertisement  before  me  mentions  " '  Mose  in 
Egitto,'  '  La  Donna  del  Lago,'  '  La  Cenerentola,'  and 
*  Ricciardo  e  Zoraide.'  "  This  is  done  without  any 
fuss,  but  as  a  mere  matter  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  business ;  and  these  then-fresh  works  (as  well  as 
the  Stabat  Mater  seventeen  years  later)  came  here 
promptly,  it  would  seem,  in  those  slow-going,  slow-sail- 
ing times.  It  would  have  been  well  for  a  historian 
to  know  all  this  before  he  undertook  to  give  an  idea 
of  the  style  of  music  cultivated  by  American  amateurs 
at  this  epoch,  and  to  do  this  by  copying  advertisements 
of  dance-pieces  and  ballads. 

Desultory  as  these  remarks  upon  "  Music  in  Amer- 
ica "  have  necessarily  been,  they  point  in  the  latter 
part  of  my  letter  to  one  conspicuous  deficiency  in 
that  book  —  an  entire  lack  of  knowledge  of  our  society, 
and  of  the  condition  and  the  influence  of  cultivated 
American  amateurs.  The  author,  it  would  seem,  has 
been  dependent,  in  regard  to  New  York  at  least,  al- 
most entirely  (and  how  could  it  be  otherwise?)  upon 
what  he  could  (or  could  not)  find  in  newspapers,  and 
upon  the  personal  communications  of  foreign  profes- 
sional musicians,  most  of  them  Germans  of  late  im- 
portation. Now  all  this  has  its  place,  although  sub- 
ordinate, and  its  value ;  but  it  does  not  tell  of  the 
condition  of  musical  culture  among  cultivated  Ameri- 
cans. This  is  indicated  by  a  phenomenon  which  has 
not  escaped  Professor  Ritter's  eye,  which  he  mentions 
frequently,  and  which,  as  he  lacks  the  knowledge  that 
is  the  key  to  it,  seems  to  puzzle  him.  It  is  that  the 
earliest  performances  of  the  several  styles  of  the  higher 
music  were  invariably  of  the  greatest  and,  so  to  speak, 
the  profoundest,  compositions  in  each  style.  In  regard 
to  this  our  historian  says,  commenting  upon  a  concert 
given  in  1831  : 

"  In  the  face  of  such  a  programme  at  so  early  a 
period  of  American  musical  culture  [ignorance  here], 
we  are  scarcely  justified  in  speaking  of  our  present 
progress  [who  are '  we '  and '  our ' — Professor  Ritter's 
countrymen  or  mine?]  in  musical  taste." 

And  again,  remarking  upon  the  Eisfeld  quartettes, 
given  in  1851,  he  says  : 

"  Here  again  a  commencement  at  the  top  of  the 
ladder.  Musical  progress  in  the  city  of  New  York  for 
the  last  thirty  years — in  fact  from  1825  up  to  our 
time  —  witness  the  first  introduction  of  Italian  opera, 
the  first  concerts  of  the  Philharmonic  Society,  the  above 
first  regular  series  of  quartette  concerts  —  has  been 
marked  by  its  horizontal  and  its  upward  direction." 

We  have  already  seen  that  what  our  historian  calls 
the  first  regular  series  of  quartette  concerts,  which 
awakens  in  him  so  much  admiration,  was  preceded 
(eight  years  before)  by  a  regular  series  of  higher  — 
of  the  highest  possible  grade. 


The  cause  of  this  general  starting  at  the  top  is  simply 
the  influence  of  the  amateurs  in  cultivated  circles  of  so- 
ciety. These  are  naturally  appealed  to  by  professional 
musicians  at  such  times ;  they  naturally  take  the  lead 
in  the  promotion  of  such  enterprises;  their  tastes 
naturally  are  consulted.  But  they  are  not,  and  espe- 
cially they  were  not,  able  to  support  these  undertak- 
ings ;  and  the  professional  musicians  who  entered  upon 
them  were  soon  obliged  to  lower  their  standard  and 
appeal  to  the  general  public,  or  to  abandon  them 
altogether.  Moreover,  the  cultivated  amateur  is  not  in 
this  country  the  freest  patron  of  public  musical  per- 
formances. This  is  true  even  as  to  opera ;  and  as  to 
classical  chamber  music  it  is  notably  true.  I  may 
venture  to  say  that  I  have  had  an  unusually  large 
acquaintance  among  amateur  students  of  classical 
chamber  music;  and  I  know  that  they  are  not  fre- 
quenters of  concerts  of  that  music.  Indeed,  I  know 
those  who  for  many  years  have  met  weekly  for  the 
enjoyment  of  that  music,  who  not  only  will  not  buy 
tickets  for  concerts,  but  will  not  use  those  that  are 
presented  to  them.  They  enjoy  the  musical  ideas 
in  the  compositions  which  they  perform,  and  the  social 
pleasure  which  attends  their  gatherings.  They  don't 
care  to  go  and  sit  in  rows  on  benches  in  a  big  hall 
(not  a  fit  place  for  chamber  music)  and  listen  to 
quartette  playing,  be  it  ever  so  good.  The  apathetic 
colored  gentleman  who  was  slow  to  respond  to  de- 
mands for  his  admiration  of  a  reverend  sable  Boan- 
erges suddenly  accounted  for  his  reluctance  by  the 
remark,  "I'se  a  preacher  myself."  Cultivated  taste 
corresponding  in  degree  to  that  of  London  or  any 
town  in  England  has  not  been  lacking  here ;  but  it  is 
only  of  late  years  (if  indeed  even  now)  that  our  town 
populations  have  been  large  enough  and  rich  enough 
to  furnish  a  public  which  could  and  would  support 
musical  performances  of  a  high  order  at  the  prices 
which  prima  donnas,  virtuosos,  and  professional  musi- 
cians generally  have  demanded  (out  of  Germany  and 
Italy  )»within  the  last  half-century.*  We  have  grown 
bigger  and  richer,  and  there  are  more  of  us  to  go  to 
theater  and  opera,  and  more  dollars  to  spend;  but  we 
can  hardly  be  said  to  have  advanced  in  taste  or  in  the 
quality  of  our  amusements  very  far  beyond  our  fathers 
and  grandfathers,  who  used  to  go  one  night  to  hear 
Edmund  Kean  in  "  Othello  "  or  "  King  Lear,"  the 
next  to  hear  Malibran  in  "  II  Barbiere,"  and  the  next 
to  hear  the  elder  Wallack  in  old  English  comedy; 
which  was  actually  the  case  in  1825. 

A  year,  however,  before  the  latter  date — in  1824 — 
a  concert  was  given  in  New  York,  the  high  quality  of 
which  extorts  the  manifestly  puzzled  admiration  of 
Professor  Ritter;  and  considering  his  necessarily 
slight  and  scrappy  information  as  to  the  people  about 
whom  he  is  writing,  this  is  not  surprising.  For  the 
programme  of  the  concert  (which  was  given  at  St. 
George's  Church  by  the  New  York  Choral  Society) 

*  Apropos  of  this  slowness  of  cultivated  amateurs  to  give 
pecuniary  support  to  musical  entertainments,  see  the  following 
remarks  by  a  writer  of  fifty-seven  years  ago  in  regard  to  the  old 
Philharmonic  Society: 

"  By  an  unanimous  vote  passed  this  season,  a  subscription  was 
to  have  been  raised  .  .  .  which  would  have  established  it  on 
a  solid  foundation.  However,  although  all  the  members  were 
present  at  those  expensive  concerts,  although  the  vote  was 
passed,  although  the  list  of  members  comprehends  a  large 
number  of  our  richest  citizens  (and  most  of  the  fashionable 
world),  not  more  than  half  have  paid  their  subscriptions."— 
"  New  York  American,"  Feb.  8,  1827. 


954 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


was  composed  entirely  of  selections  from  the  finest 
sacred  compositions  of  Handel,  Mozart,  and  Beethoven. 
Of  this  programme  Professor  Ritter  says,  and  rightly, 
"  Many  [he  might  well  have  said  any]  of  our  present 
societies  might  be  proud  of  such  a  one."  Now  this 
concert  was  not  only  given  with  amateur  performers 
in  the  chorus,  and  even  in  some  of  the  solo  concerted 
pieces,  but  it  was  planned  and  managed  entirely  by 
amateurs,  as  I  happen  to  know ;  'for  my  father,  al- 
though then  only  twenty-six  years  old,  was  a  promi- 
nent member  of  St.  George's  parish,  and  an  amateur 
of  acknowledged  taste  and  a  fine  voice ;  and  he  was 
one  of  the  chief  promoters  of  this  admirable  concert, 
of  which  I  remember  hearing  him  speak  often  in  after 
years,  he  saying  then  that  the  professional  people 
would  find  it  hard  to  beat  "  our  great  concert."  The 
programme  of  this  concert  which  so  impresses  Pro- 
fessor Ritter  was  only  a  fair  representation  of  the 
taste  of  the  cultivated  amateurs  of  sacred  music  in 
New  York  sixty  years  ago. 

The  relation  of  a  remarkable  musical  feat  incident 
to  this  concert  shall  bring  my  letter  to  an  end.  Dur- 
ing one  of  the  last  rehearsals  it  was  suddenly  discov- 
ered that  the  music  of  one  of  the  solo  parts  of  a 
concerted  piece  was  missing.  Search  for  it  was  in 
vain.  Whereupon  a  Mr.  Sage,  who  had  an  important 
part  himself  in  other  pieces,  undertook  and  suc- 
cessfully performed  this  feat:  While  he  sang  his 
own  part  sufficiently  for  purposes  of  rehearsal,  he 
wrote  out  the  music  of  the  missing  part.  I  admit  that 
the  story  is  almost  beyond  belief.  The  mental  process 
by  which  it  was  accomplished  is  far  past  my  compre- 
hension—  to  me  quite  inconceivable.  For  it  must  be 
considered  that  it  was  a  double  process  of  memory 
and  of  execution.  Mr.  Sage  remembered  and  sang 
one  part  while  he  wrote  down  the  other  also  from  mem- 
ory (perhaps  foreshadowing  the  process  by  which  a 
man  may  sagely  chew  up  one  railway  while  he  is 
swallowing  another);  but  none  the  less  the  feat  is 
astounding  and  incomprehensible,  and  I  should  not 
believe  it  upon  less  unimpeachable  evidence.  My 
informant  was  one  of  those  men  who  not  only  shun 
exaggeration  and  even  hyperbole,  but  who  watch 
their  lips  that  no  idle  word  may  pass  them ;  and  he 
told  me,  as  I  have  heard  him  tell  others,  that  he  stood 
by  Mr.  Sage's  side  and  heard  him  sing  one  part  and 
saw  him  at  the  same  time  write  down  the  other. 
Here  is  a  psychological  problem  worthy  of  the  study 
of  Henry  Maudsley ;  but  unless  he  is  a  musician  he 
cannot  apprehend  its  perplexity.  This  first  really 
great  classical  concert  given  in  America  sixty  years 
ago  has  never  yet  been  surpassed  in  the  quality  of 


in  the  garbling  of  quotations  and  the  falsification  of 
evidence,  the  highest  literary  crime,  has  made  it  neces- 
sary for  me  to  write  thus  of  an  author  whose  previous 
writings  I  have  read  with  interest. 

Richard  Grant  White. 


NEW  YORK,  2pth  December,  1883. 

P.  S. — The  necessary  delay  in  the  publication  of 
this  letter  has  enabled  Professor  Ritter  to  publish  a 
declaration  that  errors  and  misstatements  "  crowd  the 
pages  "  of  my  musical  writings.  Of  the  value  of  any 
assertion  of  Professor  Ritter's  as  to  matter  of  fact,  the 
reader  is  now  able  to  judge.  This  one  I  pronounce 
absolutely  untrue,  like  his  previous  charges.  I  stop 
at  no  labor  of  research  to  get  at  essential  truth.  When, 
without  a  "perhaps  "  or  "probably"  or  "about"  or 
equivalent  phrase,'!  say  that  a  thing  is  or  was,  I  do  so 
on  contemporary  evidence,  on  the  testimony  of  trust- 
worthy witnesses  of  the  past  generation,  or  of  my 
own  personal  knowledge,  of  which  I  have  contempo- 
rary record.  Consequently,  the  coming  of  a  gentleman 
from  Alsatia  to  correct  me  as  to  matters  of  fact,  and 
his  calling  in  the  aid  of  two  such  book-making  com- 
pilers as  Ireland  and  Wemyss,  is  amusing  —  when  it 
is  not  intended  otherwise. 


29th  January,  1884. 


R.  G. 


Lawrence   Barrett   and   his   Plays. 

MR.  LAWRENCE  BARRETT  will  begin  an  important 
engagement  in  London  on  April  I4th.  He  will  appear 
at  Mr.  Irving's  Lyceum  Theater.  Not  long  ago — it 
was  during  the  last  performance  of  Mr.  Boker's  play, 
"  Francesca  da  Rimini,"  at  the  Star  Theater,  New 
York, —  Mr.  Barrett  made  a  brief  speech,  in  which 
he  laid  stress  upon  the  fact  that  he  had  done  something 
to  encourage  the  American  drama.  That  is  perfectly 
true,  and  it  is  also  noteworthy.  Mr.  Barrett  has 
helped  forward  the  drama  and  the  dramatists  of  our 
country,  just  as  Mr.  Forrest  helped  them  years  ago. 
This  is  noteworthy,  because  Mr.  Barrett  is  quite  alone 
in  what  I  may  be  permitted  to  call  his  literary  work. 
Mr.  Edwin  Booth  apparently  cares  nothing  for  new 
plays,  nor  for  the  American  play-writers.  Mr.  Mc- 
Cullough  uses  the  American  plays  that  Forrest  used, 
and  other  plays  by  Payne,  Sheridan  Knowles,  and 
Shakspere ;  he  has,  I  believe,  purchased  two  or  three 
American  dramas,  but  only  to  send  them  back  to  their 


the  music  performed,— a  point  very  significant  to  a    authors.     Both  Mr.  Booth  and  Mr.  McCullough  lack, 
historian  of  Music  in  America,  and  one  quite  incon- 
sistent with  our  present  historian's  estimate  of  the 
taste  of  American  amateurs  of  music  at  that  period, 
or  even  in  later  years. 

I  could  say  much  more  to  the  same  effect  even  now, 
but  I  must  stay  my  hand.  A  very  hasty  examination 
of  Professor  Ritter's  work  has  revealed  to  me  these 
striking  misstatements  and  deficiencies.  I  have  not 
time  at  present  to  look  at  it  more  carefully;  but  it 
would  seem  necessary  that  some  competent  person 
should  do  so  hereafter.  I  regret  that  self-defense 
against  the  wrongful  public  imputation  of  careless 
work  and,  more,  of  a  violation  of  literary  good  faith 


apparently,  a  certain  creative  instinct, —  the  desire  to 
bring  fresh  and  salient  characters  upon  the  stage. 
Mr.  Barrett,  happily,  does  not  lack  this  instinct. 
He  is  even  a  much  more  potent  force  among  the 
American  dramatists  than  Mr.  Irving  is  among  the 
English  dramatists.  Mr.  Irving  is  not  afraid  to 
produce,  occasionally,  a  play  by  Mr.  Wills,  or  by  the 
Laureate ;  yet  he  has  given,  after  all,  little  encourage- 
ment to  the  English  writers  of  drama.  Mr.  Barrett, 
on  the  other  hand,  has  taken  pains  to  establish  his 
reputation  in  novel  and  experimental  works,  like  "  The 
Man  o'  Airlie,"  "Dan'l  Druce,"  "Yorick's  Love 
"  Pendragon,"  and  "Francesca  da  Rimini."  Thr 


I 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


955 


of  these  dramas  were  written  by  Americans,  and 
all  three  are  worthy  of  more  respect  than  one  is 
inclined  to  offer  to  many  new  plays  which  are  now 


are  in  characters  like  Richelieu,  Cassius,  Yorick,  Pen- 
dragon,  and  Lanciotto.  He  carries  some  of  these 
characters  with  singular  spirit  and  intensity,  and  his 


popular.     The  selection  and  the  production  of  such    bursts  of  power  are  occasionally  real  bursts  of  power. 

Hramni     <;}ir>w-    liirirHv.    that     Mr.     Rarrpft    Vine;    t*    finp  "  Vnt-iVl-'e    T  /-»-.«»  "  I™  •,,,!,,',-!,    AT-     T>~ —  .:n i__ 


dramas  show,  lucidly,  that  Mr.  Barrett  has  a  fine 
literary  sense,  a  proper  regard  for  the  duty  that  an 
actor  of  distinction  owes  to  contemporary  writers,  and 
a  moral  courage  with  which  actors  are  not  commonly 
gifted. 

It  must  not  be  thought,  however,  that  Mr.  Barrett's 
reputation  was  made  altogether  in  the  plays  that  he 
has  had  the  taste  and  the  courage  to  produce.  Mr. 
Barrett  is  an  old  and  tried  actor.  For  thirty  years  he 
has  been  known  in  the  theaters.  He  was  born  in 
April,  1838,  so  he  is  now  about  forty-five  years 
old.  He  began  to  act  during  1853  at  Detroit,  Mich- 
igan. His  career  has  been  eventful  and  labori- 
ous. At  the  beginning  of  his  stage  life  he  acted  with 
persons  like  C.  W.  Couldock,  Edmund  Conner,  Eliza 
Logan,  and  Julia  Dean.  When  he  came  to  New  York 
for  the  first  time,  the  chief  theaters  in  the  city  were 
directed  by  famous  actors  —  by  Blake,  Burton,  J.  W. 
Wallack,  and  Laura  Keene.  Mr.  'Barrett  joined  Mr. 
Burton's  company.  But  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  follow 
Mr.  Barrett  through  the  thirty  years  of  his  career.  I 
wish  to  point  out,  simply,  that  he  has  had  unusual 
opportunities  to  observe  various  schools  of  acting.  He 
has  been  a  good  observer  from  this  side  of  the  foot- 
lights,—  his  "Life  of  Edwin  Forrest "  demonstrates 
so  much, —  and  he  has  acted  with  Forrest,  Burton, 
E.  L.  Davenport,  Edwin  Booth,  John  McCullough, 
Charlotte  Cushman,  and  with  most  of  the  distinguished 
players  of  the  last  quarter-century.  In  1869  he  began 
his  brilliant  management  of  the  California  Theater. 
In  1870  he  acted  Cassius, —  one  of  his  most  remarka- 
ble performances, —  with  Davenport  as  Brutus  and 
Walter  Montgomery  as  Antony.  In  the  same  year  he 
Vent  to  Booth's  Theater.  The  first  production  effected 
independently  by  Mr.  Barrett  was  a  magnificent  re- 
vival at  Booth's  Theater  of  "  A  Winter's  Tale,"  in 
which  he  and  Mark  Smith  and  other  well-known 
actors  had  parts.  "The  Man  o'  Airlie"  followed  "A 
Winter's  Tale."  It  was  in  1871  that  Mr.  Barrett 
appeared  as  Cassius,  in  the  splendid  revival  of  "  Julius 
Caesar  "  at  Booth's  Theater,  with  Mr.  Booth  as  Brutus, 
and  Mr.  Bangs  as  Antony.  At  the  sad  period  of  the 
Brooklyn  Theater  fire,  Mr.  Barrett  produced  Mr. 
Gilbert's  play,  "  Dan'l  Druce."  Thenceforward  he 
branched  in  a  new  direction,  and  sought  to  win  popu- 
larity in  well-written  American  dramas. 

Mr.  Barrett  has,  it  is  needless  to  say,  acted  in  many 
Shaksperean  characters ;  for  example,  in  Hamlet, 
Shy  lock,  Richard  III.,  and  Lear.  His  Cassius,  how- 
ever, is  the  most  truthful  and  impressive  Shaksperean 
performance  that  he  has  given  us.  Mr.  Barrett,  the 
actor,  may  be  described  in  a  few  words.  He  has  quick 
dramatic  instinct,  a  passionate  intensity,  which  goes 
high  and  deep  at  moments,  a  noble  sincerity,  and  a 
bright  intelligence.  His  faults  are  more  conspicuous 
and  irritating  than  the  faults  either  of  Mr.  Booth 
or  of  Mr.  McCullough.  He  has  a  stiff,  hard  man- 
ner, a  droning  voice,  and  an  unfortunate  habit  of 
putting  noise  in  the  place  of  strong  feeling  and  in- 
spiration. He  is,  therefore,  a  particularly  uneven  actor. 
Of  late,  it  is  noticeable,  he  has  made  a  serious  effort  to 
overcome  his  worst  faults.  His  finest  performances 


Yorick's  Love,"  in  which  Mr.  Barrett  will  make  * 
his  first  appearance  before  the  public  of  London,  is  a 
play  of  uncommon  beauty  and  vigor.  It  is  not,  I  am 
sorry  to  add,  an  American  play  from  top  to  toe.  It 
has  a  Spanish  body.  The  author  of  the  work  upon 
which  "  Yorick's  Love  "  is  based  is  Senor  Estebanez. 
The  American  writer  who  fitted  it  to  our  stage,  and 
whose  fine  and  subtle  talent  added  an  unexpected 
beauty  to  it,  is  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells,  the  novelist.  Mr. 
Howells  has  not  altered  in  any  marked  degree  the  pur- 
pose and  the  action  of  Joaquin  Estebanez's  drama.  A 
few  new  scenes  have  been  furnished  by  him,  certain 
details  of  the  play  have  been  dispensed  with,  and  the 
characters  have  been  retouched  here  and  there.  Mr. 
Howells  has  handled  this  charming  work  with  the 
taste  and  the  feeling  of  an  artist.  His  dialogue  is 
fresh,  unconventional,  and  convincing.  "  Yorick's 
Love  "  is  a  play  of  direct  and  simple  emotion.  It  is 
not  one  of  those  ingenious  and  extravagant  theatrical 
intrigues  which  have  so  much  popularity  upon  the 
stage,  chiefly  because  the  public  confounds  movement 
in  the  theater  with  the  pathos  and  the  passion  of  life. 
The  chief  character  of  this  play  is  Yorick,  a  comedian 
of  the  Globe  Theater.  The  scene  is  laid,  therefore,  in 
Shakspere's  time.  .  His  wife,  Mistress  Alice,  is  a 
young  and  beautiful  actress,  who  loves  Master  Ed- 
mund, a  friend  and  foster-son  of  Yorick.  In  the 
beginning  of  the  drama,  a  new  play  by  Master  Wood- 
ford  is  about  to  be  produced  at  the  Globe  Theater, 
and  the  story  of  this  new  play  deals  with  an  illicit  love 
and  with  the  betrayal  of  the  woman's  husband.  Master 
Woodford^s  play  is,  it  is  evident,  a  mimic  representa- 
tion of  the  real  drama  at  the  hearthstone  of  Yorick. 
The  three  persons  in  the  real  drama  are  chosen  for  the 
corresponding  parts  in  the  play.  This  is  an  essentially 
dramatic  conception,  and  it  is  treated  with  breadth  and 
strength  in  the  last  act,  which  occurs  on  the  stage  of 
the  Globe  Theater.  It  is  here,  while  Master  Wood- 
ford' 's  play  is  on  the  stage,  that  Yorick  learns  the 
truth :  himself,  who  is  acting  the  character  of  a 
wronged  husband,  has  been  betrayed  by  his  own  wife 
and  by  his  foster-son.  This  knowledge  once  clear  to 
him,  he  makes  ready  for  a  speedy  and  terrible  revenge. 
The  play  within  a  play  develops  his  purpose,  and  he 
kills  Edmund  \>ztore  the  audience  at  the  Globe  Theater. 
There  is  a  weakness,  however,  in  "  Yorick's  Love," 
for  which  I  can  hardly  account.  Unlike  those  lovers 
of  the  sturdy  and  frank  Elizabethan  drama,  the  lovers 
in  "Yorick's  Love  "  are  guiltless;  that  is  to  say,  they 
have  not  done  a  criminal  action,  though  they  have 
confessed  their  passion  to  one  another.  The  play 
lacks,  therefore,  a  needful  element  of  reality.  It  is 
not  felt  that  Yorick  has  justification  for  his  tragic 
vengeance. 

"  Pendragon  "  is  the  work  of  a  young  poet  and 
dramatist,  Mr.  William  Young.  "  Francesca  da 
Rimini  "  is  the  work  of  an  old  poet  and  dramatist,  Mr. 
George  H.  Boker,  and  was  written  more  than  two 
decades  ago.  Both  plays  have  a  serious  tragic  interest, 
and  are  seriously  treated,  though  in  a  somewhat  old- 
fashioned  and  artificial  manner.  Both  are  versions 
of  the  sweet  and  melancholy  tale  of  Lancelot  and 


956 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


Guinevere.  There  is  a  picturesque  simplicity  through- 
out Mr.  Young's  drama  that  touches  and  holds  the 
imagination.  The  play  has  good  diction,  and  deserves 
attention.  Mr.  Boker's  drama  is  more  theatrical  and 
•showy,  and  less  poetically  written;  yet  "  Francesca 
j.  r>:_~:~:  »  js  conceived  in  the  right  tragic  spirit. 


da  Rimini 


George  Edgar  Montgomery. 


Dante's    Portrait    in    the    Bargello. 

IN  her  paper  on  the  portraits  of  Dante,  in  the  num- 
ber of  THE  CENTURY  for  the  current  month,  Miss 
Clarke  has  done  me  the  honor  to  cite  a  description  of 
the  portrait  of  Dante  in  the  Bargello  at  Florence,  from 
a  tract  of  mine  printed  in  1865.  At  that  time,  relying 
upon  the  authority  of  Vasari,  as  others  had  done,  I 
ascribed  the  portrait  to  Giotto.  But  there  was  a  diffi- 
culty, which  seemed  to  be  insoluble,  in  assigning  a 
date  to  the  picture  in  accordance  with  the  known  facts 
of  the  lives  of  the  poet  and  of  the  painter.  In  any 
case,  the  picture  could  not  have  been  painted  before 
1301,  when  Dante  was  thirty-six  years  old.  He  is 
represented,  however,  much  younger  than  this,  and  in 
a  sentence,  not  cited  by  Miss  Clarke,  I  said :  "  The 
date  when  this  picture  was  painted  is  uncertain,  but 
Giotto  represented  his  friend  in  it  as  a  youth,  such  as 
he  may  have  been  ...  at  the  season  of  the  be- 
ginning of  their  memorable  friendship."  Miss  Clarke 
says  :  "  The  picture  is  supposed  to  have  been  painted 
when  Dante  was  about  twenty  years  old."  She  has 
inadvertently  fallen  into  error,  in  stating  that  this  had 
been  supposed ;  for,  if  so,  the  picture  must  have  been 
painted,  if  we  accept  the  common  chronology,  which 
there  seems  no  sufficient  reason  to  doubt,  when  Giotto 
was  but  nine  years  old. 

At  the  time  when  I  was  preparing  my  little  work  as 
a  contribution  to  the  celebration  of  the  six  hundredth 
anniversary  of  Dante's  birth,  a  commission  appointed 
by  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  in  Florence  was 
engaged  in  examining  the  question  as  to  what  was  the 
oldest  and  most  trustworthy  portrait  of  Dante.  The 
members  of  this  commission  were  the  late  Count 
Luigi  Passerini,  one  of  the  most  learned  and  thorough 
students  of  Florentine  antiquities,  and  Signer  Gaetano 
Milanesi,  the  well-known  editor  of  the  best  edition  of 
"Vasari's  Lives,"  and  versed  beyond  other  men  in 
the  story  of  Tuscan  art  and  artists.  The  report  of 
this  committee  was  published  in  1864,  in  the  seven- 
teenth number  of  the  journal  entitled  //  Centenario 
di  Dante,  and  was  followed  by  a  supplementary  report 
later  in  the  year.  The  first  report  was  reprinted  in 
l875>  by  Count  Passerini,  in  his  Curiosita  Storico-Ar- 
tistiche  Florentine,  Seconda  Serie ;  and  the  substance 
of  both  reports  is  embodied  by  Milanesi  in  an  appen- 
dix to  the  "  Life  of  Giotto,"  in  the  first  volume  of  his 
new  edition  of  the  works  of  Vasari,  Florence,  1878. 

The  conclusion  reached  by  the  commission  concern- 
ing the  picture  in  the  Bargello  is  that  it  is  not  the  work 
of  Giotto,  but  of  one  of  his  scholars,  and  that  it  was 
probably  painted  in  1337.  A  conclusion  so  far  at 
variance  with  the  statements  of  Vasari  and  other  early 
writers,  as  well  as  with  popular  tradition,  has  natur- 
ally been  warmly  disputed.  It  is  not  established  by 
positive  documentary  evidence.  But  the.  force  of  the 
cumulative  argument  by  which  it  is  supported  is  in* 


creased  by  the  difficulties,  both  chronological  and  his- 
torical, that  attend  the  ascription  of  the  picture  to 
Giotto.  The  details  of  the  controversy  are  hardly  of 
interest,  except  to  special  students. 

That  the  portrait  of  Dante,  whether  painted  by 
Giotto  or  by  one  of  his  pupils,  was  derived  from  a 
sketch  by  the  great  master,  seems  altogether  prob- 
able. It  is  the  most  interesting  portrait  that  has  come 
to  us  from  the  middle  ages.  In  the  dignity,  refine- 
ment, sweetness,  and  strength  of  its  traits  it  is  a  worthy 
likeness  of  the  poet  of  the  New  Life,  and  as  such  it 
is  a  work  worthy  of  the  most  poetically  imaginative 
of  Florentine  painters. 


C.  E.  Norton. 


CAMBRIDGE,  January  23,  1884. 


The    Proposed    Congressional   Library  —  A   Reply. 

WE  notice  in  the  February  number  of  THE  CENTURY 
some  remarks  with  regard  to  the  proposed  Congres- 
sional Library  building,  in  Washington,  which  seem 
to  us  calculated  to  mislead  the  public.  It  is  impor- 
tant, of  course,  that  all  should  be  correctly  informed 
of  a  matter  of  such  great  public  interest,  but  we  sub- 
mit that  the  proper  method  of  doing  this  is  not  by  al- 
lowing an  anonymous  writer  to  shoot  at  random  the 
arrows  of  crude  and  uninformed  criticism. 

The  plan  which  has  been  offered  for  the  Library  is 
the  matured  result  of  upward  of  twelve  years'  study 
of  this  special  branch  of  architecture,  including  a  per- 
sonal and  exhaustive  examination  of  the  arrangements 
of  all  the  principal  libraries  in  this  country  and  in  Eu- 
rope. No  labor  has  been  spared  to  master  thoroughly 
this  very  difficult  problem  of  architectural  science. 
The  plan  does  not  come  from  a  clique  or  from  favor 
shown  to  a  "  local  practitioner,"  as  your  correspond- 
ent sneeringly  insinuates,  but  is  the  result  of  a  victory 
won  after  the  keenest  public  competition  in  which 
twenty-eight  competitors  participated,  and  a  running 
competition  extending  over  eight  and  a  half  years,  one 
of  the  competitors  being  Mr.  Clark,  who  is  officially 
known  as  the  Architect  of  the  Capitol,  and  whom  your 
correspondent  suggests  as  eminently  qualified  to  se- 
lect an  architect,  and  another  being  Mr.  T.  U.  Wal- 
ter, who  designed  the  Capitol  and  the  building  gener- 
ally known  as  the  Patent  Office,  more  properly  the 
Interior  Department.  In  what  sense  the  victors  in 
the  competition  can  be  called  "  local  practitioners  "  is 
not  understood,  unless  to  reside  at  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment be  considered  a  sin  against  architectural  canons, 
as  their  work  appears  in  nearly  every  State  from  Vir- 
ginia westward  to  Colorado. 

That  plans  made  under  such  circumstances,  and 
fully  approved  by  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  who  has 
also  specially  studied  the  subject,  deserve  more  con- 
sideration than  to  be  relegated  to  the  waste-basket  at 
the  behest  of  an  anonymous  writer,  seems  obvious 
enough ;  and  we  may  add  that  in  the  only  forum  where 
the  subject  can  be  properly  judged,  that  is  to  say,  in 
the  professional  periodicals  devoted  to  architecture, 
the  excellence  of  the  designs  is  not  questioned. 

Various   modifications  of  architectural  detail  have 
been  shown  in  the  elevations  submitted  from  time 
time,  at  the  desire  or  for  the  information  of  the  C 
gressional  committee,  and  further  changes  will  pr 


-: 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


957 


ably  be  found  necessary  before  the  final  execution  of 
the  plans.  The  architects  are  willing  to  receive  sug- 
gestions from  any  competent  source,  but  it  is  not 
likely  that  any  large  amount  of  benefit  can  be  de- 
rived from  a  writer  who  is  not  aware  that  a  round- 
arched  window,  surmounted  by  a  triangular  pediment 
for  "  ornament,"  is  a  feature  frequently  found  in  the 
best  Renaissance  architecture. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  to  criticise  a  work  of  art 
which  those  addressed  have  not  seen;  it  is  like  de- 
faming the  absent,  and  is  especially  unworthy  when 
the  attempt  is  made  before  a  non-professional  audi- 
ence, unaware  of  the  facts  and  difficulties  of  the  case. 
Very  respectfully, 

J  L   Smithmeyer,   ?Architect 
Paul  J.  Pelz.  > 

authors  of  the  design  for  the  proposed  Congres- 
sional Library  Building  at  Washington,  D.  C. 

[We  gladly  give  place  to  the  above  communication 
in  reply  to  a  statement  of  the  situation  in  "  Topics  of 
the  Time  "  for  February.  The  well-considered  opinion 
expressed  in  our  editorial  department  is  not,  however, 
correctly  described  in  the  language  used  by  the  archi- 
tects whose  work  we  felt  compelled  to  criticise,  in  the 
interests  of  the  public. — -ED.] 

Sidney    Lanier    on    the    English    Novel. 

IT  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  late  Sidney 
Lanier  did  not  live  long  enough  at  least  to  have  re- 
vised the  course  of  public  lectures  on  the  "  English 
Novel "  delivered  by  him  at  Johns  Hopkins  University 
in  1 88 1.  The  lectures  now  published  lack  not  a  little 
in  symmetry  and  finish.  There  are  rough  breaks  and 
repetitions,  and  an  unfortunate  survival  of  marks  of 
the  original  oral  delivery.  But  all  unpolished  as  the 
book  is,  it  is  a  work  to  be  thankful  for.  Like  all 
Lanier 's  writing,  it  is  rich  in  thought  —  in  that  combi- 
nation always  rare  and  remarkable  of  the  new  and  the 
true.  In  the  "  English  Novel  and  the  Principle  of  its 
Development,"  as  in  the  earlier  "  Science  of  English 
Verse,"  the  author  is  deeply  philosophic ;  he  seeks  to 
go  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  Highly  interesting,  in- 
deed, the  present  volume  must  be  even  to  the  most 
cursory  of  general  readers,  for  it  abounds  in  apt 
quotation,  searching  comment  and  vigorous  expres- 
sion of  personal  opinion ;  and,  as  we  turn  its  pages, 
we  find  ourselves  face  to  face  with  one  of  the  freshest 
and  most  acute  of  the  writers  who  have  discussed  lit- 
erary problems  from  a  scientific  point  of  view. 

At  first  glance  the  scheme  of  this  study  seems 
ill-balanced.  Of  the  twelve  lectures,  as  originally 
delivered,  seven  are  occupied  with  philosophic  disqui- 
sition not  at  once  seen  to  be  pertinent ;  and  the  re- 
maining five  are  chiefly  a  discussion  of  the  novels  of 
George  Eliot.  Richardson,  Fielding,  Smollett,  and 
Sterne  are  dismissed  hastily  and  together.  "  I  protest 
that  I  can  read  none  of  these  books,"  said  Lanier, 
"  without  feeling  as  if  my  soul  had  been  in  the  rain, — 
draggled,  muddy,  miserable."  Goldsmith's  "Vicar  of 
Wakefield  "  is  called  "a  snow-drop  springing  from 
the  muck  of  the  classics  " ;  but  no  space  is  spared  for 
Goldsmith,  nor  for  Scott's  novels,  "  which  we  have  all 
known  from  our  childhood  as  among  the  most  hale 
and  strengthening  waters  in  which  the  young  sou] 


ever  bathed."  A  few  words  of  commendation  are 
given  to  Bulwer,  and  a  few  more  and  warmer  to  Dick- 
ens. Thackeray  fares  worse.  "  Under  this  yearning  of 
Thackeray's  after  the  supposed  freedom  of  Fielding's 
time  lie  at  once  a  shortcoming  of  love,  a  limitation  of 
view,  and  an  actual  fallacy  of  logic,  which  always  kept 
Thackeray's  work  below  the  highest,  and  which 
formed  the  chief  reason  why  I  have  been  unable  to 
place  him  here,  along  with  Dickens  and  George  Eliot " 
(p.  204).  Of  minor  English  novelists  Lanier  says 
little,  and  of  any  American  novelists  he  says  nothing. 
Now,  there  is  no  use  in  discussing  these  opinions 
here,  or  in  offering  any  defense  of  Fielding  or  of 
Thackeray :  if  Lanier  could  not  get  high  pleasure  out 
of  their  manly  pictures  of  life  —  so  much  the  worse 
for  him.  What  gives  value  to  Lanier's  book  is  not  these 
heretical  views ;  it  is  his  philosophic  idea  of  the  par- 
allel development  of  prose  fiction  and  the  idea  of  per- 
sonality. This  it  is  which  gives  unity  and  value  to 
this  book  far  beyond  that  of  more  symmetrical  vol- 
umes of  literary  criticism,  only  too  often  as  bare  and 
sterile  as  this  is  full  and  fertile.  Lanier  declares  that 
"  the  modern  novel  is  itself  the  expression  of  this  in- 
tensified personality,  and  an  expression  which  could 
only  be  made  by  greatly  extending  the  form  of  the 
Greek  drama"  (p.  75).  In  other  words,  he  holds 
that  it  is  the  expression  of  man's  individuality,  and  of 
his  personal  responsibility,  as  opposed  to  the  idea  of 
Fate.  The  old  theological  antithesis  between  fore- 
ordination  and  free-will  represents  fairly  enough  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  artistic  curve.  Mr. 
Lanier  shows  us  successive  stages  of  the  evolution 
by  concrete  examples.  In  the  "  Prometheus  Bound  " 
of  ^schylus  we  see  the  individual  full  of  the  desire 
for  improvement,  but  helpless  in  the  hands  of  F'ate ; 
even  the  mighty  Jove  himself,  with  all  his  illimit- 
able force,  is  powerless  against  the  decree;  and  on 
this  point  the  Greek  audience  was  at  one  with  the 
Greek  poet.  But  when  in  the  course  of  two  thou- 
sand years  Shelley  takes  up  the  same  myth,  the  poet 
cannot  but  feel  that  the  attitude  of  his  audience  has 
completely  changed ;  and  so  there  comes  a  tang  of 
insincerity  into  his  work,  and  a  sense  of  self-conscious 
effort  in  his  attempt  to  handle  Jove's  thunderbolts. 
"We — we  moderns  —  cannot  for  our  lives  help  see- 
ing the  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  who  is  turning  the 
crank  of  the  thunder-mill  behind  the  scenes ;  nay,  we 
are  inclined  to  ask,  with  a  certain  proud  indignation : 
How  is  it  that  you  wish  us  to  tremble  at  this  mere 
resinous  lightning,  when  we  have  seen  a  man  (not  a 
Titan,  nor  a  god),  one  of  ourselves,  go  forth  into  a 
thunder-storm  and  send  his  kite  up  into  the  very 
bosom  thereof,  and  fairly  entice  the  lightning  by  his 
wit  to  come  and  perch  upon  his  finger,  and  be  the 
tame  bird  of  him  and  his  fellows  thereafter  and  for- 
ever ?  "  (p.  96).  And  it  is  no  far  cry  from  Shelley, 
with  this  conscious  handling  of  an  old  myth,  to  George 
Eliot,  whose  work  is  the  most  modern  yet  vouchsafed 
us,  in  that  it  deals  almost  altogether  with  the  develop- 
ment and  the  action  of  the  moral  responsibility  of  the 
individual.  When  we  have  thus  seized  the  sequence 
of  Lanier's  argument,  most  of  the  apparent  want  of 
proportion  disappears,  and  the  treatise  is  seen  to  pos- 
sess essential  unity.  That  the  idea  which  gives  this 
coherence  is  more  philosophic  and  nearer  the  truth  than 
we  can  find  in  the  work  of  any  one  who  has  hitherto 


958 


OPEN  LETTERS. 


considered  the  history  of  fiction,  is  indisputable.  And 
it  is  equally  indisputable  that  no  one  can  afford  here- 
after to  write  of  the  evolution  of  the  novel,  or,  indeed, 
of  any  important  department  of  literature,  without 
taking  account  of  this  book. 

Arthur  Penn. 

Central  Park  as  a   Botanical  Garden. 

THE  timely  comment  in  THE  CENTURY  and  else- 
where on  the  proposed  removal  of  the  caged  ani- 
mals now  located  around  the  old  Arsenal  building 
at  Sixty-fourth  street  to  the  South  Meadow  of  Central 
Park,  and  the  subsequent  assurance  in  the  daily  news- 
papers of  the  abandonment  of  that  scheme  by  the  Park 
Commissioners,  must  have  given  great  satisfaction  to 
all  who  have  New  York's  beautiful  pleasure-ground 
at  heart.  If  the  animals  are  to  have  a  place  anywhere 
in  the  Park,  by  all  means  let  them  remain  where  they 
are. 

It  is  a  disgrace  to  this  great  city  that  we  have  here 
neither  a  zoological  nor  a  botanical  garden  —  both  so 
generally  regarded  as  valuable  agents  of  popular  ed- 
ucation in  Europe.  While  the  Central  Park  is  no 
place  for  a  zoological  collection,  it  might  easily  be 
made  useful,  to  some  extent  at  least,  as  a  botanical 
garden ;  *  and  to  bring  this  idea  before  the  public  is 
my  object  in  writing  this  letter. 

In  walking  through  any  part  of  the  Park,  a  person 
at  all  familiar  with  plants  remarks  at  once  the  number 
and  variety  of  rare  and  interesting  trees  and  shrubs,  both 
native  and  exotic,  and  notices  also  that  kinds  before 
unrepresented  are  occasionally  added ;  there  is  abun- 
dance of  room  for  many  more  of  these.  The  number 
of  common  indigenous  species  is  also  noticeable.  At 
present,  however,  other  than  as  mere  objects  of  beauty, 
their  value  to  the  non-botanical  public  is  lost  from  the 
fact  that  none  of  them  are  named,  and  the  same  is  true 
of  the  herbaceous  plants  and  tender  shrubs  which  are 
placed  along  the  walks  in  summer,  and  in  winter  re- 
moved to  the  conservatories  at  Mount  St.  Vincent. 
It  would  be  an  easy  and  inexpensive  undertaking  to 
affix  painted  metallic  labels  bearing  the  scientific  and 
popular  names  and  habitats  to  the  trees  themselves, 
and  to  stakes  driven  in  the  ground  alongside  of  the 
shrubs  and  herbs,  adopting  one  of  the  many  methods 
employed  in  the  popular  botanical  gardens  of  the  Old 
World.  This  would  afford  a  source  of  great  satisfac- 
tion and  useful  instruction  to  the  thousands  who  daily 
visit  New  York's  great  breathing-place. 

The  Torrey  Botanical  Club  and  a  prominent  pub- 
lishing house  of  this  city  are  now  considering  the 
feasibility  of  preparing  a  complete  catalogue  of  the 
plants  in  the  Park,  this  catalogue  to  indicate  the  posi- 
tion of  the  rarer  species  along  the  walks  and  drives ; 
and  as  the  consent  and  cooperation  of  the  Commission- 
ers and  gardeners  has  been  obtained,  this  desirable 
work  will  doubtless  be  accomplished.  If  the  plants 
could  also  be  labeled,  a  very  valuable  addition  would 
be  made  to  the  Park's  usefulness. 

In  Europe  every  city  of  considerable  size  has  a  bo- 
tanical garden,  in  some  cases  owned  by  societies,  in 

*  A  century  ago  there  was  such  an  institution  in  the  city,  the 
Hosack  Botanic  Garden. 


others  under  government  control. 
York  not  follow  their  example  ? 


COLUMBIA  COLLEGE. 


Why  should  New 


N.  L.  Britton. 


I  HAVE  read  the  letter  from  Professor  Britton  with 
much  interest.  In  regard  to  his  plan  for  labeling  the 
most  choice  and  noteworthy  specimens  of  trees  along 
the  walks  and  drives  of  Central  Park,  I  would  like 
to  make  the  following  comment. 

Several  years  ago  I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  "  Tribune," 
which  was  published  at  the  time,  proposing  a  plan  of 
labeling  the  trees  of  Central  Park,  similar  to  that  of 
Professor  Britton.  During  the  past  year,  while  acting 
as  Superintendent  of  Planting  in  the  Park,  I  undertook 
and  carried  out  such  a  plan  of  labeling  to  the  extent 
of  importing  from  Smith's  well-known  label  manufac- 
tories, at  Stratford-on-Avon,  England,  samples  and 
price  lists  of  galvanized  iron  labels,  with  the  names  in 
raised  letters. 

Unfortunately,  however,  I  was  forced  to  leave  the 
Park  at  this  juncture,  when,  of  course,  my  plan  of 
labeling  trees  fell  to  the  ground. 

Samuel  Parsons,  Jr. 
A  Practical  Suggestion. 

NOTHING  has  been  published  in  THE  CENTURY 
of  late  that  has  commended  itself  more  pointedly  to 
the  religious,  or  even  semi-religious,  portion  of  your 
readers  than  Dr.  Gladden's  "  Christian  League " 
articles;  and  as  you  have  kindly  offered  an  "  open  " 
space  in  your  magazine  for  the  benefit  of  readers 
who  do  not  pretend  to  be  -writers,  permit  me  to  ex- 
press my  own  view,  as  well  as  that  of  many  who  have, 
in  a  large  sense,  the  solution  of  this  great  question 
in  their  hands. 

Many  of  the  calls  made  in  behalf  of  destitute  churches 
are  for  aid  to  a  feeble,  struggling  congregation  in  some 
Western  village  where  there  are  already  one  or  more 
churches,  and  they  but  feeble.  But  there  are  two  or 
more  families  that  are  starving  for  a  Presbyterian, 
Congregationalist,  Methodist,  etc.,  gospel,  and  it  is 
our  duty  to  help  start  another  weakling.  What  is  the 
plain  duty  of  the  Christian  business  men  on  whom 
rests  the  responsibility  of  determining  how  long  this 
waste  of  money,  energy,  and  charity  shall  continue? 
Evidently  to  refuse  to  give,  except  when  the  condi- 
tions are  in  accord  with  common-sense  business  prin- 
ciples. Denominational  boards,  enthusiastic  agents, 
and  sentimental  namby-pamby  peripatetics  will  plead ; 
but  pay  no  attention.  Carry  out  this  programme 
consistently.  Consolidate  at  home  as  far  as  possible  ; 
where  that  is  impracticable,  adopt  the  League ;  but  in. 
any  case  put  the  cause  first,  methods  second.  For  many 
years  I  have  felt  Dr.  Gladden's  plan,  and  have  finally 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  if  our  money  must  be  so 
scattered  to  sustain  such  un-Christian  methods,  I 
would  withhold.  Praying  is  a  burlesque,  in  the  face 
of  such  misapplication  of  our  Christian  principles. 

When  my  brother  banker  Franklin  returns  from 
England,  if  he  will  visit  us  I  will  give  him  hearty 
come. 

Again  I  express  my  gratitude  to  Dr.  Gladden 


,,, 

1 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


959 


his  timely  and  sensible  contribution,  and  assure  him 
of  the  hearty  indorsement  of  many  others. 


JACKSONVILLE,  ILLINOIS. 


M.  P.  Ayers. 


"  High   License." 

To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  CENTURY: 

SIR  :  SINCE  writing  of  the  working  of  high  license 
in  Chicago,  I  have  learned  that  since  July  I,  the  date 
on  which  the  law  went  into  effect,  some  eighteen 
saloons  have  taken  out  licenses  in  accordance  with  the 


law,  four  paying  $500  each,  and  fourteen  paying  $150 
each,  for  the  privilege  of  selling  wine  and  beer  only. 
I  make  this  statement  in  justice  to  Mr.  Schaffer,  whose 
statement  that  the  law  is  being  vigorously  enforced 
refers  only  to  the  period  following  July  I. 

The  Citizens'  League  is,  however,  the  only  vigorous 
law-enforcer,  and  has  now  several  suits  against  the 
wine  and  beer  sellers  who  have  been  selling  spirits  as 
well,  but  without  the  spirit  license. 

Mary  B.  Willard, 

Editor  "  Union  Signal." 
161  LA  SALLE  STREET,  CHICAGO,  Feb.  13,  1884. 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


Epigram    on    an    Epigram. 

You  recollect  there  has  been  sung 
A  proverb,  famous  in  our  tongue, 
That  he  who  fights  and  runs  away 
May  live  to  fight  another  day. 


Methinks  the  witty  adage  erred, 
And  needs  a  substituted  word, — 
For  he  who  fights  and  runs  away 
May  live  to  run  another  day. 

Ben   Wood  Davis. 


Love's  Heritage. 

BEND  o'er  me,  blue  as  summer  skies, 
The  azure  splendor  of  thine  eyes, 
And  smile  with  lips  whose  murmur  tells, 
Like  lingering  sound  of  far-off  bells 
O'er  shining  seas,  that  thou  for  me 
Art  skies  and  sound  and  summer  sea ! 


Skies  that  contain  the  sun,  the  moon, 
The  stars,  the  birds,  the  winds  of  June; 
And  tones  that,  swelling  far  and  near, 
Bear  more  than  music  to  mine  ear; 
And  sea,  above  whose  changeless  hue 
The  sun  is  bright,  the  sky  is  blue ! 


Art  thou  my  star  ?     Sweet  Love,  thou'rt  more 

Than  all  that  ever  twilight  bore. 

Art  thou  my  song?     Dear  Love,  from  thee 

The  whole  world  takes  its  melody. 

Art  thou  —  nay  !  what  can  words  impart 

To  tell  one  dream  of  what  thou  art! 


Thou  art  my  all :  I  know  that  Love 
Rains  from  the  deepening  dome  above 
In  silver  dew-drops,  that  the  earth 
Receives  with  hushed  and  solemn  mirth  : 
So  thou  —  all  seasons  linked  in  one  — 
Art  flower  and  bird  and  breeze  and  sun  ! 


Aphorisms    from    the    Quarters. 

'TAINT  no  consolation  to  git  chewed  up  by  a  fus'- 
class  dog. 

De  bobbykew  takes  'way  heap  o'  bad  feelin's. 

When  a  man  gits  too  keerful  to  was'e  his  'tater- 
peelin's,  he'  runnin'  de  thing  in  de  groun'. 

Sunday  breeches  fit  bes'  when  dey  been  paid  for. 

De  dog-chain  tromples  on  ekal  rights. 

A  po'  man  out  o'  wuk  is  wus  orf  dan  a  stray  dog, 
'cause  he  got  to  keep  on  explainin'  his  sitivation. 

'Tis  dangerous  to  hab  de  rotten  round  ob  de  ladder 
on  top. 

De  norf  wind  hollers  'fo'  it  hit  you. 

De  quicksand  don't  fool  you  but  once. 

De  rabbit  aint  per  tickler  'bout  holes  when  dehoun's 
git  in  sight. 

J.  A.  Macon. 


It    'Was    a    Lass. 

IT  was  a  lass,  for  love  a-seeking, 
In  every  heavy  red  rose  peeking  — 

Ah,  well-a-day !  — 
To  see  if  there  he  might  be  hiding ; 
And  all  the  while  herself  a-chiding 
For  shame,  that  she  desired  him  so, 
And  sought  him  if  she  would  or  no. 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 

And  when  by  chance  a  laddie  meeting, 
She'd  blush,  and  give  him  trembling  greeting 

Ah,  well-a-day !  — 
And  shyly  in  his  eyes  be  peeping, 
To  see  if  Love  lay  in  them  sleeping ; 
And  if  to  wake  he  'gan  to  stir, 
And  dazzle  at  the  sight  of  her  — 

Ah,  well-a-day  ! 

It  was  a  lass,  for  love  a-hunting, 
So  still,  for  fear  of  him  affronting  — 

Ah,  well-a-day! 

At  last,  one  eve,  with  tears  and  sighing, 
She  spied  him  in  her  own  heart  lying, 
And  nowhere  else,  fore'er  and  aye  — 
Ah,  well-a-day, 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 


William  M.  Briggs. 


Mary  E.  Wilkins. 


960 


BRIC-A-BRAC. 


Eheu  !  Fugaces. 

SWEET  sixteen  is  shy  and  cold, 
Calls  me  "  sir,"  and  thinks  me  old ; 
Hears  in  an  embarrassed  way 
All  the  compliments  I  pay; 

Finds  my  homage  quite  a  bore, 
Will  not  smile  on  me,  and  more 
To  her  taste  she  finds  the  noise 
And  the  chat  of  callow  boys. 

Not  the  lines  around  my  eye, 
Deepening  as  the  years  go  by; 
Not  white  hairs  that  strew  my  head, 
Nor  my  less  elastic  tread; 

Cares  I  find,  nor  joys  I  miss, 
Make  me  feel  my  years  like  this :  — 
Sweet  sixteen  is  shy  and  cold, 
Calls  me  "sir,"  and  thinks  me  old. 

Walter  Learned. 
A  Cheerful  Spirit. 

I'M  a  hopeless,  unfortunate  creature, 
I'm  tortured  with  sorrow  and  pain, 

I'm  twisted  in  figure  and  feature ; 
However,  I  never  complain. 

My  wife  is  a  termagant  truly, 

She  treats  me  with  scorn  and  disdain, 

My  children  are  bad  and  unruly; 
However,  I  never  complain. 

My  business  is  sadly  declining, 
My  efforts  to  prosper  are  vain, 

I've  reason  for  constant  repining; 
However,  I  never  complain. 

I'm  neglected  by  friends  and  relations, 
The  snubs  which  I  oft  entertain 

Might  justify  loud  protestations; 
However,  I  never  complain. 

This  fact  will  attract  your  attention, 
And  this  I  will  always  maintain, 

Of  my  woes  I  make  casual  mention ; 
However,  I  never  complain. 


Stanley   Wood. 


The   Quatrain. 


THE  world   is  wide,  and    thronged  with  books  and 
men; 

What  will  it  be  a  thousand  years  from  this? 
Round  a  great  thought  in  four  strokes  of  thy  pen, 

If  thou  wouldst  have  thy  fame,  cross  that  abyss. 

The  Couplet. 

SMALL  as  I  am,  it  may  be  just  my  strength 
Shall  keep  thy  name  from  perishing  at  length. 

A  Dumb  Beauty. 

HERE  is  a  woman  peerless  in  repose ; 

All  gaze  at  her,  and  yet  she  speaks  to  none, 
bcent  is  the  voice  of  flowers  —  lo !  a  rose 

Perfect  in  shape  and  color,  lacking  one. 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


The   Lion's   Government. 


A    RUSSIAN    FABLE. 


A  LION,  who  on  state  affairs  was  set, 
Looked  round  about  to  form  his  cabinet. 
A  court,  and  legislature  too,  was  sought, 
For  which  the  elephants  to  him  were  brought; 
But,  finding  them  so  few  and  incomplete, 
The  asses  too  were  summoned  to  a  seat, 
By  which  the  government,  as  it  appears, 
Found  its  majority  in  donkeys'  ears  ! 

The  lion-king  was  foolish,  one  would  say, 

To  scatter  offices  in  such  a  way ; 

For  no  one,  surely,  knew  so  well  as  he 

That  strength  goes  not  with  mere  majority. 

But  in  this  way  his  fathers  ruled  before, 

And  what  had  been  must  be  for  evermore; 

The  heresy  he  hated  to  incur 

Was  to  be  wiser  than  his  fathers  were. 

If  folly  in  numbers  wisdom  far  surpasses, 

He  would  have  folly  and  the  herd  of  asses ! 

And  then,  thought  he,  the  elephants'  discourse 

Will  neutralize  the  stupid  asininity, 

For  wisdom  is,  of  course,  superior  force, 

And  with  such  denseness  has  no  true  affinity; 

But,  oh  !  the  asses'  folly  took  the  lead, 

The  elephants  nobody  cared  to  heed. 

This  shows  how  such  a  rule  all  hope  harasses- 

The  elephants  themselves  grew  dull  as  asses  / 


Joel  Ben  ton. 


Ballade  of  a  Swell. 


His  forehead  he  fringes  and  decks 

With  carefully  cut  Montagues ; 
He  angles  his  arms  semi-X, 

And  dresses  in  delicate  hues ; 

His  haunts  are  the  rich  avenues ; 
Staccato  is  somewhat  his  gait ; 

It  takes  but  a  wink  to  amuse 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate. 

His  costumes  are  covered  with  checks; 

He  travels  in  taper-toed  shoes 
Through  Vanity  Fair,  there  to  vex 

The  silly  young  heart  that  he  woos ; 

He's  clever  with  cards  and  with  cues, 
And  banters  with  Fortune  and  Fate: 

Alas,  that  the  lad  cannot  lose 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate! 

He's  fond  of  the  frivolous  sex ; 

His  light  conversation  he  strews 
With  "  toffy  " ;  aught  else  would  perplex 

The  topic  his  fancy  pursues ; 

The  cud  of  contentment  he  chews, 
While  women  and  wealth  on  him  wait; 

And  nature  with  nothing  endues 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate. 


ENVOY. 

Fair  princesses,  all  who  peruse 
This  ballade,  beware  ere  too  late, 

Lest  Opulence  hear  you  abuse 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate  ! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


BINDING  SZCT.  AUG  1 2 1966 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
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